Chapter 4

Funeral Oration

Hands locked, the three of us stood in solidarity before the clergyman. Beside the grand mausoleum of our noble family, far away from our true country of residence, we were then on our ancestral land, which those of our line claimed divine right to. We listened to the cleric’s stirring tale of the grandeur of death. We were beyond the realm of exhaustion, though we knew we had to carry on. Our example would make pages the world over, as the photographers shooting with their high-power lenses at the cemetery gates were a constant reminder.

Identical triplets universally exhibit much greater resilience to psychic stresses then a single person does, the unity inherent in us a superhuman support system of a kind. This was the case for us, of course, even much more so then other sets. However, even we had to dig deep for strength, for it was the culmination of nearly a week of unrelenting trial and hardship. It was the day that my sisters and I had to bury our own parents.

The tears no longer came, our ducts swollen dry and our will nearly broken. The service, in the early morning mists of that day, was only the beginning. How would we pretend to cry in the unrelenting hours ahead?

As is the tradition with my family, the previous day was one of continuous religious service and wake. We were considered children, girls barely eleven. Our parents were tragically lost. It had to look good. This day would be marked by one funerary social gathering after another, bringing the entire A to D list of allies, celebrities, dignitaries, and family aristocracy to bear upon our piteous, and woefully fragile selves.

What can possibly inspire more tears, I thought. My repertoire of imaginary sorrows was nearly exhausted, and I was beginning to feel stress.

The cleric was saying, “ … and do not think, as we commit their bodies … to history … that they … their love in life, and their presence, in fact, … shall … end . . . ”

I thought, “Fuck, what must I do then?

Pastor, old boy, what’s the easiest way to obliterate an immortal soul? An Afterlife Assassin™? Vengeful rival god for hire? Yes, that could take some effort. Hard chore for sure if a soul, in fact, existed. Let us think more … current. Space-Time machine to erase them from history then? No, antimatter. Wait … think more practically – book burning. A good, old fashioned, historical record-modifying, or eliminating for that matter, media erasure party. You never existed see because everyone says you didn’t. How many people would I have to kill before both of your names have no meaning at all?

My sister Athena squeezed my hand, immediately sensing the unrest in my thoughts. She moved close to my ear, our doll-like black veils touching. “Why don’t you take a walk, Aurora? You have not slept, people will understand. I’ll deliver the oration. ”

I whispered, “Don’t forget to hit the themes I suggested. ” Without the need for words or movement, she agreed.

I broke from the ceremony, shaking my head and holding out my hand to keep the sea of consolatory interest at bay. Wandering among the other mausoleums, all with the ‘Vitellius’ name upon them, I eventually found one in a far corner, near the woods and safe from prying eyes, its iron door ajar.

Creeping cautiously inside, the movement of the door encouraged a discarded liqueur bottle to roll, but otherwise the interior was free of debris and was in fact very clean, obviously swept and maintained. That is, prior to the intrusion by some assumed drunken townie.

In the center of the space was a relatively plain stone sarcophagus, the light from colorful stained glass paintings shining respectfully upon it. The somewhat modest nature of the interior, along with the peaceful posture and expression in the glass, suggested that this was our physician-philosopher ancestor, Esculapiusa. This was probably a token shrine, possibly containing a famous piece of him, removed from his main resting place far away.

I felt immediately at ease, as if all the prophylactic symbolism could act instantly to generate a pocket of tranquility, diametric from a universe which sought to charge us with a destiny of such import. Jumping up upon the flat stone, the metal hieroglyphics etched into the stone sent chills as the cold easily penetrated my clothes. Laying down as if I was putting myself to rest, I stared at the ceiling reliefs whilst removing my pipe from the interior of my black dress.

The smoke filled the captured air, rolling slowly as it reflected the sunlight, lending the simple act the weight of a religious ritual. It was most appropriate, though this day no one could understand that there was a deeper, more meaningful ceremony at work.

Doing my best to remain in the moment, I allowed myself to feel a bit of the resolution of so much pain. I tried not just to savor our victory over that vile fiend and the ineffectual consort of his, once laughably called a mother by us. I banished the machinations of the future that obsessed me. I attempted not to dwell on all the work my sisters and I had ahead of us.

Really feel this, I thought. This is our turning point, our ascension, our ritual coming of age. Already emancipated from our parents in the eyes of the world, now we emancipate from puberty itself, the natural order is lost. We are above it. This is the bequeathing bang in which our new universe is born. One event, instantaneously setting into motion the space needed to create … everything.

We … we have the power to wrangle every little subatomic piece of our destiny into place. What a … party.

Daydreaming for a time, I drifted on the currents of imagination, feeling my place in history, as my smoke danced across a depiction of my ‘noble’ relative. The scene depicted him pretending to care as he ‘labored’ to build a sewer aqueduct for nearly revolting serfs, dying of their own living conditions, brutal my mediaeval standards, imposed on them by Esculapiusa himself.

The sound of a chirping bird echoed through the crypt. I looked around for a nest or lost wings and then caught myself. Gets me every time.

I removed my small disc and pressed its face. It glowed to life as the programmed bird ring faded. Before I could speak, I could hear that Arnika was covertly piping Athena’s oratory through her phone to me. I looked at the LCD on the disc, a small text message attached to the message, “Zzzzz. ”

Turning up the volume, I let the speech play alongside my chuckles as it reverberated through the chamber. Far too platitudinous, Ena, even for a prodigy, I thought.

Before returning to the services, I amusingly mixed more sound into the soundtrack of this momentous event, as I squatted behind the sarcophagus to avail myself of a relieving pee. My delicate pink panties, personally approved by a cartoon personality, were left behind with some trickles I wiped for the drunkard, after finding their own place of prominence on a rather phallic wall decoration.

Outside, there were no spies to witness my egress from the mausoleum, and I enjoyed the cemetery silence all the way back to the burial, feeling truly refreshed.