Death Watch

by Berk, Ari

  “Let me take you out of here,” he whispered.

  His mother swept his hand absently from her shoulder.

  “Mom, let me just take you for a walk outside somewhere. You can show me the part of town where you grew up. We can talk. Please.”

  She looked up with anger twisting her face into a snarl. “You keep out of those damn houses, Silas! You hear me? We left for a reason. Your damn father went in ’em, oh, I know that he did. Just to gall me. Well, you stay the hell out of them!”

  “Mom,” Silas said, trying to calm her, “it’s okay. I know what’s in—” But his words were interrupted by a slow, steady bell ringing over the town.

  Raising her head slightly, her eyes still closed, Dolores said through her clenched teeth, “Passing Bell. That’ll be for you.”

  LEDGER

  And it shall come to pass that the soul shalle leave behind its earthly habitations. How long the soule shall remaine neer the corpse varieth accordinge to the nature of the deceased and whether or no the spirit be bound in somewise to a vessel or to some especial chambyre or place. Even so, if it be not so bound, before the spirit goeth forth upon the Road of Mystes, or Lyche Waye, it may wander for a time among its accustomed places and among those persons who once were and remaineth its kin. If then the soul riseth up and appeareth in pleasinge form in the companye of others, this shall be knowne as the Wake, or Wakygne, and during that time, the spirit may disclose very manie things, in speeche or carefulle gesture, to the living. It shall be accordinge to the Undertaker in what manner the soul shalle be Waked, whether through invitation or command, and whether or no the Waters of Lethe shall be administered to the ghost freely, or under compulsion, or not at alle. In anywise, the Wake provideth a moste rare moment wherein all earthly matters of concerne to the spirit or its living relatives may be rendered resolved and brought to their moste righfulle and peaceable conclusion. Gaudeamus igitur.

  —From The Book of Cerements

  SILAS WALKED HOME SLOWLY from Temple Street. All across Lichport, coming up from the Narrows, the bell rang out its doleful song through the air: Death, death, death comes … The slow, deep sound was a stark contrast to his own racing thoughts. Silas could almost hear his name in the bell’s ringing, calling him to a task he knew next to nothing about. His mother had called it a “Passing Bell.” He knew what that was from the ledger, and he knew that what followed the Passing Bell was an important part of the Undertaker’s work. But that was his father’s job, not his. Yet with every ring, he could hear the town’s wish, their unspoken expectation that no matter what had happened to Amos, Silas would step in to fill his father’s shoes.

  He arrived home and hesitantly walked up the steps of the porch. Mrs. Bowe was sitting in his study, brushing her long hair slowly in time with the bell. For the first time since Silas’s arrival, she wore it down. He could see that Mrs. Bowe was lost in her thoughts, and that she was clearly waiting for him. Silas had begun to clear his throat to get her attention when suddenly, the bell stopped ringing.

  “God bless the coming and going of all his children,” said Mrs. Bowe very softly, looking up, becoming increasingly focused. “Now, we wait. Silas, will you take some tea, or a shot of something to calm you? You should have a little bite to eat, some cheese. I think I have some cold roast beef, shall I make you a sandwich? It will likely be a very long couple of nights.” She was speaking as though the two of them had this conversation every day, and her calm was only making him more nervous.

  “And you should get The Book of Cerements. You will, I believe, find it set into the back cover of the town’s death ledger. You may not need it. Your father had a wonderful knack for ritual, and good words often came very naturally to him at such times as they were needed. Perhaps it will be the same with you, but you may feel better just having that text with you.”

  At his father’s desk, Silas opened the Undertaker’s ledger and found the small, thin book, more of a pamphlet, set into the thick boards of the inside back cover. It was about five inches high, with a worn, stiff vellum cover. Here was an old thing, perhaps sixteenth century, written, thankfully, in a bold hand in mostly capital Roman letters. Turning the pages carefully, he saw it was filled with prayers and exhortations, words for waking for the dead, prayers of calling and invitation. Words of passage and parting. Like the little book itself, the words were stiff and very old. Some lines were in Latin, and Silas couldn’t really imagine his father standing up and reading them, but he could see that there were necessities behind such formulas and phrases, despite their antiquated formality. Here were words that could call the dead back into the company of their kin, and words that blessed the ghost and directed it to depart peaceably. And there were more forceful words—injunctions, banishings, and bindings—should the ghost choose to linger. Beneath the florid, ceremonial language, deals were being struck between the living and dead. You shall go, but we shall remember you. These were consensual arrangements. Bargains. From these, Silas began to understand that the Undertaker’s job was part therapist, part lawyer, part travel agent, and perhaps, if things went badly, part deportation officer.

  He was sure he’d been reading at the book for only a few moments, but when he looked up, there was a tray on the table behind him laden with food, and he heard Mrs. Bowe saying, as she passed back into her house, “I need to get ready. You should find your father’s mourning coat in the closet by the door. I’ve taken it in a bit for you, forgive my presumption. And please, be ready to go at a moment’s notice, all right, dear?”

  The mourning coat smelled strongly of tobacco and stale beer, not smells he associated with his father. He put it on, pulling his arms slowly through the sleeves, and then waited for whatever was coming next.

  Three hours later, as the sun set, there was a knock, first on Mrs. Bowe’s front door, then on Silas’s. When Silas opened the door, a boy—from one of the Narrows families, Silas recalled—was standing a few steps back dressed in black clothes, a long coat that trailed on the ground behind him, a tattered scarf wound around his neck, and a vest stitched together out of pieces of dark mismatched tapestry. In one hand he held a burning torch, and with the other, he held a letter out to Silas. He pulled his hand back quickly as though he didn’t want to touch Silas’s hand.

  “Thank you,” Silas said gravely, while pulling his dad’s long coat back up into place on his shoulders. It was still slightly too big on him.

  The child said nothing, but gestured at his mouth and shook his head from side to side, indicating that he would not, or could not, speak. He only bowed a little to Silas and then turned to go, walking quickly away down Main Street, carrying cards to other houses in town. Silas watched the boy’s torch as it bobbed down the street, getting smaller and smaller, finally turning the corner down Coach Street and vanishing in the gloaming.

  The funeral announcement was printed on thick paper and had been made on an old printing press. In bold, ornate letters it announced the passing of John Peale, Mother Peale’s husband. At the bottom, in a thin, uneven hand, Mother Peale had written, “Silas, come to us in the accustomed manner. Be welcome as kin in our home. We ask you, Silas Umber, Undertaker and Janus of the Threshold, to watch over us at this time of passage.”

  A small part of Silas flinched as he read, recoiling slightly at the assumption that he would do his father’s job. He would go, because it was the Peales who were asking, but this was by no means a formal acceptance of any permanent position as Undertaker. Yet some secret sleeping part of him began to rouse itself, and despite everyone’s assumptions, despite his fear of their expectations, he was excited. He thrust the invitation into the coat’s front pocket; there he found a black cravat, which he drew out and wrapped around his throat.

  Since the Passing Bell had ceased ringing, a change had come over Mrs. Bowe. Her usually meticulously styled hair, which she wore wound up every day in a tight bun on top of her head, was now brushed out and hung down in long tendrils, spilling over her shou
lders, flowing down her back and covering part of her face. There was a restless look about her, especially in her eyes, which seemed small, retreating far back into their sockets. It was as though she was grieving already, seeing the world through a veil, or rather, as though a veil had been drawn aside and she was looking into a place no one else could see.

  “I didn’t know you were that close with the Peales,” Silas said, assuming the changes in Mrs. Bowe’s appearance were the trappings of her grief at the death of a friend.

  In a low voice, Mrs. Bowe replied, “My appearance has nothing at all to do with my affection for the family. This is a professional visit.” She had told Silas a while back that by tradition she had an important role to play at funerals, but she had never elaborated. Silas guessed that it must have something to do with his work. Maybe she’d helped his father prepare in just this way, making sure he had everything he needed, making sure he’d eaten.

  Every move Mrs. Bowe now made was deliberate and precise, graceful and fluid—the way she swung her coat about her, a long black robe, much tattered at the hems. She no longer seemed nervous or worried as she often was, and she moved quickly about the house, gathering more things, Silas assumed, for him to take along.

  He asked Mrs. Bowe repeatedly if there was anything else he needed to do. What will be expected of me? How will I know what to say? Where will we go first? How long will I be there? On and on his questions went until, impatient and stern, Mrs. Bowe turned to him, her face flushed with annoyance.

  “Enough. You are as ready as need be. Now, you should begin to think about them, not yourself, do you understand? You are an intermediary and have a job to do, but it’s the deceased who matters, and his family. Not you. You must keep them and their needs foremost in your mind. This is crucial. Not just for their comfort, but for your safety and the safety of all those attending. Even the kindest person may become confused in the moments following their death, and in the dead, confusion is dangerous. Not to mention, when someone passes from one world to another, the mist rises, a door opens; and so, you must be watchful and aware of everything that is happening around you, for you are the Watcher at the Threshold.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You will see soon enough. It is something better experienced than explained. Don’t worry yourself overmuch. I do not anticipate any trouble at all tonight, considering the family, but you must be vigilant and focused and ready to act if something goes awry. Watch and listen. You are more than what you think you know. This business moves in your blood. Listen. The world you’ll be in tonight is full of spectacle, but you will find, I think, that it is through hearing and not sight that you will perceive the deeper mysteries. Times of passage are far more attuned to the other senses—hearing, smell, touch—for they are more keenly tied to the memory than sight. When we arrive in the world and when we depart it, remember, our eyes are closed.”

  “What am I listening for exactly?”

  “No one thing in particular. I am trying to say that the dead manifest and express themselves in more ways than can be merely observed. You must be open to all your senses—but so long as you insist on being centered in your own losses, you may find that difficult.”

  On one level, Silas knew what she said was true. He had himself heard and felt the dead in other ways. More and more, even when he wasn’t using the death watch, he could feel them around him—a brush on his skin, a word out of time on the air. If he were more focused on such things, and less on what he was looking for, what else might he perceive? Could looking for his father actually be hindering him? Could his father be, in some way, standing unseen, behind him even now?

  But Mrs. Bowe’s tone hurt him. She was a different person suddenly, like she could read his mind and feel the particular nature of his selfish thoughts. It was an invasion. Silas could hear in her voice that when she looked at him, she saw only a child who saw himself at the center of the world, and because that was close to the truth, it burned him a little. Since arriving in Lichport, maybe he had been only considering what was happening to him, how everything felt to him. But what did she expect? He’d lost his dad. Surely she understood how painful that was. Of course she knew. She had been so kind. It was just today, the way she was speaking. Harsher, more direct, like she’d forgotten everything that had happened to him.

  But not wanting to argue, and trying to impress her with his maturity, Silas only nodded in agreement at Mrs. Bowe’s words, although he could not pretend to understand everything she said to him. He’d remain quiet and try to summon a professional posture. Rise to the occasion. Play the man. He straightened both his back and the knot of his cravat, trying to convince her and himself that he was up to the task. He took The Book of Cerements and looked at it again, trying desperately to refocus. On the inside of the back cover, he could make out notes in his father’s handwriting, lines of verse and some prose. These were snatches of songs and lines of stories Amos had liked, the kinds of things that might, when read, bring comfort to others. “Bring me my scallop shell of quiet, my staff of faith to walk upon …,” one began, and Silas read those particular lines until he memorized them and found, through concentration, some of his fear and anxiety dissolving.

  Mrs. Bowe returned. She brought a small leather satchel out of one of the drawers of Amos’s desk. She opened it and drew out a vial of crystal half-full of clear liquid, tightly sealed with a deeply engraved silver cap.

  “Spill none of this, and don’t drink from it. Not ever. Even if you should be dying of thirst. Mother of God, never. This is the drink of oblivion, and it must be offered to the dead, though not all will partake of it. That is their own choice. Long ago, the Undertaker would sit in judgment over the soul of the dead and administer the waters of Lethe according to what they saw. Your father did not hold with that practice and always left the matter up to the deceased, if it was possible to do so.”

  Mrs. Bowe checked once more to be sure they had everything they’d need, then told Silas matter-of-factly, “We will leave for the Peales’s directly.” She returned the vial to the satchel and handed the leather bag to Silas, then smoothed his uneven lapels. “It will have to do. Let’s make our way.”

  Silas was surprised by her words. He assumed her role was related to helping him prepare for the wake. He did not think she’d be leaving her house.

  Mrs. Bowe seemed to guess his thoughts. “I am sure I told you that I might venture forth for a funeral.”

  “Oh, so you’ll be coming to help me? That’s great.”

  “It’s all about you, eh? Again? Silas, as much as I am pleased to walk with you, I am not your guest today. Every funeral must have its Scald Crow.” She pulled a large black shawl of homespun wool over her shoulders and drew over it an enormous veil of thin, black, translucent silk. “You will recall my words about the importance of sound at times of transition?”

  Silas nodded.

  “Well, we both have our jobs to do today, and without me, there can be no funeral. I am the Wailing Woman.”

  LEDGER

  A Report upon the Judgment from the Synod of 1621 and a report of the response of many ungodly folk upon its Implementation:

  And the Synod of this yeere adopteth those regulations laid down by the Archbishops and Bishops and so announced that no priest shall attend a wake or funeral at which female keeners or wailers cry, scream, disrupt, annoy, and distract the heart and minds of mourners from the bosom of their Mother Church. Any priest or man of Orders who neglecteth to endeavor to end such unseemly behavior would be removed from his parish. And when the word of the Synod was spread among the people and when the priests refused to attend upon such unseemly rites and likewise refused to attend upon such houses to deliver Last Rites if wailing was also to occur in them, then did many ungodly folk quit this land and take to the sea to finde some other land lesse Godly and more accustomed to savageries suche as these Wailing Women and Peller-Men, or Undertakers as they are somtyme called, do contrive to practice
.

  AS SILAS AND MRS. BOWE SILENTLY LEFT the house and walked toward the Narrows, Silas was thinking about the Passing Bell. A few weeks earlier, Mother Peale had pointed it out to him when he’d asked about the odd old chapel built of slate where it hung.

  “This building?” Mother Peale answered. “This is our own place, not church, but chapel, and upper-town folk almost never come here. Even when their own church closed its doors, they didn’t deign to come down this close to the sea. It’s old, Silas, very old, and in its tower is a bell much older than the old church, much older than the town. Oh, yes!” said Mother Peale knowingly. “It’s an old thing, all right. Brought here from over the sea, but even then it was old. I can’t tell you how old it is, but I can tell you that it was an Umber that brought it here to Lichport. Clever, that Umber was, for those first years were bad ones, and many a soul had to be chimed out of town. It is a soul bell, for it rings out at the passing of a life, rings the soul out of this world and into the next one. That sound, the sound of a bell at death, it’s older than any church, that I can tell you. The soul passes and the bell-song rings up to accompany it. Anyway, there are few folks who call for the bell to be rung nowadays, but we Narrows folk keep it, and ring it for them that ask. Many times your father pulled the bell rope, Silas. Will you rise to the occasion, should you be called? Like your father would have, if he were here?”