by Joe Stanley

I had scarcely drawn the sheet over him when well-wishers arrived. This knowledge, that villagers expected me to have no more success than their former physician, was a sting atop that of my failure. They came with condolences and food, two things which are useless to those who grieve. But they lingered on as if waiting to see more and this was a ghastly thing to me.

In short order, I was joined by the Sheriff, Mayor, and Reverend. Naturally, we all had some business to see to in this matter. The Sheriff asked for an official cause of death to which I could only answer, “by unknown disease.” The reverend led us in prayer, but I confess that I found such to be as useless as sympathy for the grieving and as useless as all my education had proved to be.

The widow and family were led away to stay with relatives in their time of sadness, a tradition among the people of that place. When the four of us stood alone, my companions shared again the glances that bespoke a silent conversation. It was then that I learned of another tradition, this one more peculiar, that the body be removed from the dwelling and placed elsewhere, in this case in the barn. I saw that the anticipation of William’s demise was so sure that a coffin ready made was waiting when we brought him inside.

I could not help but feel insulted, though decency made me acknowledge to myself, that I lived and that the dead had surely lost and suffered more than I.

And as in our first meeting it was the mayor who spoke and broke the silence. He tried to comfort me, and expressed his admiration for my efforts.

“But… unfortunately, even after all you have done, there is something more, something rather difficult that we must ask.”
“But something necessary…” added the Reverend, and the notion of a man of his profession discussing such a thing as necessity, nearly made me laugh.

For at the moment the best I could think of him was that at least he brought some hope and comfort to those too weak-minded and simple to deal with the harsh realities of our fragile and temporary lives. At the worst I could observe that the hope and comfort he sold was false and that he was but an enabler of delusion. Still, I cannot choose for others that they place value on what is real. His lies were far prettier to most than the awful truth I could offer.

“What more do you need from me?” I asked, “What else can there be? An autopsy?”
“Yes!” said the mayor, his excitement confusing and sickening me, “I should like to call it that rather than what we have formerly called it, that is, a funerary ritual.”
“Steel yourself,” the sheriff warned me, “This ain’t gonna be easy to hear.”
“Think of the Lord,” added the reverend, “Think of the eternal soul of the one who has passed.”
In the moment of silence that preceded their request, I knew not what to think or expect.
“We…” the Mayor began, but choked and swallowed before he going on, “We need you to do something to the corpse…”
When I said nothing the Sheriff prodded the Mayor, “Ain’t nothing to do but tell him now.”
“What is it?” I asked, exhaustion, impatience, and contempt fused in my voice.
“We need you…” he squeaked, “to drive a stake into his heart.”
“What?!”
“And cut off his head… You see…”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” I bellowed and stormed to the door.
“Wait! Please hold on! You don’t understand…”
“You have just asked me to mutilate a corpse!”
“Please! It’s a tradition that we must…”
“Damn your traditions!” I spat and mounted my horse, “Gentleman, and I use that word perhaps for the final time, if you want such things done, you will have to undertake them yourself. I shall not.”
And with this, I spurred my mount and rode off, thinking the entire world had gone mad.

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