Sometimes, I feel as if the world has moved on. Not beyond itself, beyond the constant turmoil of nature, but beyond me. The world has moved on and left me to the slow decay of those too weak or apathetic to keep pace. I feel worn, thin, very nearly translucent. The weight of my own bones is almost too much to carry, much less the burdens that drift along behind me, leashed to my waist, pulled through the choking dust of this deserted place. There are corpses alongside the road I walk, dead men in various states of decay. Their bodies tell a story, and each one ends with death most painful. None have starved, none have died of disease. Their bodies, perhaps, were finally brought to heel by these things, but the souls, the essence of these people, died in ways much, much more horrible. Each is stretched, worn, the muscles and ligaments detached where they have not rotted away entirely. Pieces of them lay scattered behind, the souls trudged on forward even as the bodies degenerated. The same way I keep moving across the blasted vista, toward distant mountains as unattainable as the sky above. They all fell, eventually, fell down and never rose, though they continued to claw their way forward. A few feet, a half mile, never any more. Even as I watch them, cautious as I am of the untrustworthy dead, I feel that weakness creep into me. The strength wanes, my steps become staggering, lurching motions, each more trying, more taxing, less rewarding than the last. I am dying, surely, and to you who find me sprawled out on the side of this cracked and broken road, I leave this behind. So that I will not be left this way, forever carrion for the scavengers. Left to wander, unable to understand that what bound me to the world is long since gone.
When I am dead, lay my body in the earth. For three days, let it lie close to the surface, and pray for rain. Sew for me garments of the finest silks, tailored to my limbs, that I will be presentable when I stand before the gods. On the third day, rouse me from the grave at dawn and wash the loose earth from my skin. Dress me, and build for me a pyre.
Let all my clan, my kith and kin, gather together. Let them drink and eat and revel. Let the music of this world lift their spirits, that they do not mourn for me. I will already be far beyond mourning. I will wait and watch and take heart from their joy. Let them pay their last respects and lift me on their hands onto my pyre. Lay my weapons beside me, for the road to On High may hold many dangers, tests to prove my worthiness. I will wait and watch, gathering my strength for the journey.
When I am dead and laid on my pyre, when the days of drink and food and music have passed, and my wepons lay beside me, let the men of my clan build a great fire. Let them feast once more, a beast freshly slain, and let the women take a torch from their flame and set it to my body. Let them shed no tears, but let them tell stories of my past deeds. Let them recall my triumphs. I will wait and watch, recalling the glorious of my life alongside them.
Let them tend the fire until dawn, swapping stories upon stories until, as all things passed from mouth to ear to mouth, they have become legends. When the fire has died, when the last of the smoke drifts up, let them gather my ashes and take them to the sea. I will wait and watch, content in what I have done.
Let them build for me a great burial mound and lay my ashes within. I will be buried near the sea, as my ancestors, that I will always have the clean, salt-tinged air at my back. Let them build themselves another fire, and rejoice that the deed is done. The children of my clan will race among the surf, the women tend the fires, and the men carve a stone for me with all my triumphs. A stone to stand the test of time, as my name will stand, as my memory will stand. I will wait no longer, watch no longer, for now I will walk a different road.
The burial done, let them move on, as I have moved on, as the world has moved on. Let them think, from time to time, of me. Let them visit where I last lay upon this world, and let them smile. I will watch from On High, at the side of the gods, at the great banquets in their greatest Halls. I will watch and wait for them to join me. I will feast and drink and revel with those who came before.
Do this for me, when I am dead, and I will hope to see the same done for you. Too many forgotten corpses lie alongside this road. Too few line those golden halls.
When the end comes, remember that.
Yours,
-S.R.
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