The Burial Ritual
by Jonathan Worlde
My general sense of gloom is lightened by the expectation that I’m about to experience the locals’ burial rituals. Having visited several star systems, it always fascinates me how different peoples and cultures approach the practice of saying goodbye to loved ones. Here on Centauri 22-M41, due to our colonizing mission, which admittedly has involved some coercive techniques, the indigenous habits might now be on the brink of extinction; all the more reason to check them out, especially since today I am an honored invitee. I put on my finest vestments for the occasion.
My hosts come for me at midday. I am escorted in a ceremonial coach drawn by two beasts the size of oxen, each with four protruding eyes and elephant trunk-like noses. The coach is laden with black and red flowers. Here, the planet’s humanoid inhabitants have large heads that resemble bluish pumpkins, endowed with two eyes at the end of stalks that rotate freely. I wonder whether their vision apprehends colors in the same way as mine, or is my red their black and my black their…purple? A guard rides on either side of me, although I am not aware of any external danger in this area meriting such a precaution. I, of course, am unarmed.
The day is overcast and cool. The unpaved road takes us through fallow agricultural fields. The people here are vegetarians, subsisting primarily on a tuber similar to our sweet potato and a green vegetable resembling spinach, but we are months away from their growing season.
I have dispensed with my breather. In spite of the planet’s atmosphere being very similar to that back home, mission control strongly urges that all team members forego the risk of long-term exposure, but under the circumstances, I don’t feel the need to take precautions.
Just a short distance outside of town, we approach a large stand of tall trees in a barren field. As we draw nearer, I see the trees’ foliage consists of single needles similar to those of our white pines. Among the trees are distinct impressions of burial mounds. There are no markers, no fencing, just grass and bare ground among the pine needles.
I am greeted by two dignitaries, dressed in flowing white gowns, who open the coach door and bow, inviting me to step out. The rich pine aroma mixed with a cloying scent of decay assails my senses. I am escorted to a spot where some laborers are working on a new grave. We pass by a large container, made of stone and wood, which, upon closer inspection, holds dozens of skulls and bones of earlier departed—a charnel house.
The laborers work with sticks and large blades similar to machetes, breaking the soil and digging ultimately with their hands to remove the loosened soil. They don’t seem to have one of our most basic tools, the shovel. But I note a large metal blade with a serrated edge leaning close by against a tree. While observing their efforts, I hear the impact of metal upon bone. The laborers meticulously dig out the remains of a current occupant of that very grave. Holding up a skull so the others can see, one of the workers pauses to examine it before tossing it irreverently into the container with the other abandoned bones. As they pull out more partially decayed bones, it is unsettling to see dried skin and strands of hair still clinging to some of the bone fragments.
My AI implant translates their ruminations. One of the laborers informs the older of my two hosts that the bones belong to the deceased wife of one of those present, who apparently has lain in this space for some five years. Convicted of crimes against the state, she was placed in this unmarked grave after her execution by starvation. My host explains that this graveyard is a repository for criminals and outcasts.
I inquire, “Which ‘crime against the state’ was she found guilty of?”
“Disobeying and then abandoning her husband.”
Although I am appalled to hear of such a primitive and heartbreaking attitude toward the women of these people, I must remain mindful that I am not here to judge.
Glancing around at other mounds in the vicinity, it appears their practice is to supplant the older dead with the bodies of the recently deceased, collecting the unearthed bones and remnants in the charnel house, to what end I cannot tell. All around me, newer mounds of earth are intermixed with older ones suffering the effects of weather and time. The team leader explains that it is only when a new burial is imminent that room will be made for the anticipated corpse by disinterring one of those poor, forgotten who already repose there.
I ask whether they have a cemetery designated for fallen soldiers.
“Yes, on the opposite side of town, we have both civilian heroes and combatants. It dates back to the last conflict six cycles before your people came to subjugate us. This cemetery is for outcasts such as this woman.”
“I wonder how she expressed her resistance to the marriage?”
“Her husband, who is here among the laborers, informs me he provided her with all the usual necessities expected of their class, but she eventually refused to submit to his demands for procreation.”
From his remark, I realize he and the others are communicating telepathically, and our verbal interactions are merely for my benefit.
“On my planet, we display markers or memorials commemorating the deceased.”
“And so, it is in our other burial places. It is only the outcasts who suffer the indignity of having their bones displaced.”
“And what becomes of those collected, the remains of outcasts?”
“They will be recycled for fertilizer, once the aging process underground has cleansed them of flesh.”
I know I am treading lightly with my line of questioning, as our colonization of the planet is causing great hardship to the natives. Whole towns have been obliterated, the inhabitants either decimated or forced to flee into the wilderness for shelter. But I have nothing to lose at this point.
“Where are the dead from the current conflict buried?”
“They are dispersed around in makeshift arrangements. We are still mounting a resistance against your people’s barbarism; other traditions can wait.”
I am offended by his choice of words but choose not to react. As we speak, the sky has turned darker, and the wind is picking up
“If you hadn’t so foolishly resisted, far fewer of your people would have died, and your society would already be back on the mend and prospering.”
I can’t tell whether his face reflects a grimace or a smile, as his mouth is a reptilian slit which seems incapable of conveying emotion. “We will never willingly bend to the unprovoked aggression of any colonizers.”
“But surely you must realize that in the long-term, resistance is futile; our technology makes a mockery of your resistance.”
The laborers step back from the grave, signaling they are finished with their task. Perhaps he is considering the irony of my remarks, given the circumstances I find myself in, so I volunteer: “Just because the energy source of my blaster malfunctioned and your soldiers managed to corner me, that is no exception to the rule that superior technology will always prevail on the battlefield.”
A number of large birds with extended beaks and bat-like wings have assembled in the branches above, as if awaiting a signal. It impresses me how similar in many ways our two planets’ ecosystems function, with predators, prey, and scavengers working in perfect harmony and symbiosis.
His voice sounds a bit agitated now. “You commit a serious error when you reduce your comparison of our two species to a matter of technological development, while remaining blind to the moral rot your empire provokes in the very fiber of your existence.”
I shake my head.
“In nature, it is always the strong that overcomes the weak. Surely you don’t think there is any chance you can still prevail in this fight?”
“It is not our custom to focus on the short term. Other empires have risen and fallen here. Our people remain and will be here when yours have withdrawn in defeat.”
I see no further use in trying to persuade this relic of the fallacy of his reasoning, and so I dispense with the diplomatic niceties.
“Perhaps one day you might understand our moral imperative to advance all of the system’s civilizations, no matter how seemingly primitive or irrelevant, such as yours.”
He emits an odd barking sound, which might be a laugh. The wind is now rather brisk. I know it is time.
“Nevertheless, I wish to thank you for this chance to observe your burial rites.”
I glance at the empty grave awaiting its next occupant. His tone softens.
“You are quite welcome; it has been our privilege to spend this time with you.”
As if on cue, the large carrion birds above begin a clacking sound with their beaks and take to the air, circling our position. A soft light seems to caress every living thing in my field of vision. I close my eyes and sing a short prayer, our traditional way of greeting the next stage. As I finish, my whole body shivers in unanticipated ecstasy.
With that, he glances behind me, making a signal with his hand. The back of my neck feels the blow of that sharp serrated tool as it severs my flesh and cervical vertebrae. I last feel my body striking the moist clay of the grave.
Jonathan Worlde’s Latino-noir novel Latex Monkey with Banana was the winner of the Hollywood Discovery Award. He has over thirty short genre stories published in various journals, including Trembling with Fear, Cirque Journal, The Raven Review, Stupefying Stories, Daily SF, Flash Phantom, Metastellar, and, most recently, Mystery Tribune, Issue 22-23. He is a current nominee for Best of the Net. In his spare time, he performs blues as Paul the Resonator; his CD is Soul of a Man.