The Pyre

Fifteen year old Berit grieves for her mother whilst trying to help her father rebuild his life.

Olaf forced his aching eyes shut, his face falling into deep wrinkles. The smoke hung in the air, thick and black and greasy. Tears streamed down his cheeks, the heat of the flame turning his face pink in the half light.

“Don’t stand so close,” Berit begged. She squeezed his elbow. He turned, battling to open his eyes through the smog.

Berit choked, gagging, fighting back the vomit which threatened at any moment. “How can you stand the smell?”

Olaf took a step closer to the flames. He took a deep breath, as though inhaling the smoke and the stench might bring her back.

 “Please,” Berit said holding onto her father’s arm. The smell of roasting flesh made her stomach turn. How could her mother’s body smell so much like roast pig? But pork wasn’t the only aroma spreading; she could smell the illness and decay that had set into her mother’s bones before death. “Please Papa, you’ll catch it too. Come away.”

Olaf stayed where he was, staring at the wooden pyre. He’d built it himself. Berit had gone with him to fell the tree, fighting her way through the darkness of the wood, the ticks jumping onto her legs and burrowing through her woollen leggings in search of a meal.

She shook her head at the memory. If only they’d had more snow that year. Maybe there would have been fewer ticks still alive. As though that were the only thing a hard winter would have kept at bay.

A man now stepped forward, placing his hands on Olaf’s shoulders, supporting him. Still he refused to step back. The flames jumped and crackled as the corpse of the woman he’d loved, the woman they all still loved, jolted and twitched.

“You don’t need to hold onto me, son,” Olaf insisted taking another deep breath, another lungful of disease.

Berit’s brother Grum refused to let go of Olaf’s shoulders. “Then step back. Anyone would think you wanted to die too.”

Olaf sighed, “I warned her. I knew where she was going, standing at the door with those candles and blankets. They were good quality too, from the eastern traders. I risked my life at sea for those blankets, only for her to sacrifice them.”

“Come now,” said Grum, “It wouldn’t be mother if she hadn’t gone over to try and ease their suffering. You know she could never see anyone in need and not help them. Tell me that’s not why you loved her so much old man.”

Olaf shook his head. “And didn’t I do the same when it was Sivnne’s turn? I took her to the barn with good clothes and bedding, only the best.  I nursed her. I took her in my arms and loved her, waiting for the goddess of death Hel to claim my bride as her handmaiden.”

Grum wiped a tear away from his own eye. “She should have known you were a lost cause. She told you to keep away.”

“I did as she requested when it came to the rest of you,” Olaf said. “I kept you all away, and then waited for my turn.”

Berit wiped her forehead. She would never forget the day Olaf had come out of the barn, calling for the staff, shouting at her to stay back, keep away. She’d wanted to run to him, hold him, but there was no way he’d risk his daughter’s life. The servants carried Sivnne away and locked Olaf in the barn with a week’s supply of food. And Berit had waited for the day they went back for his corpse.

 “It wasn’t your time,” Grum said. He lifted his hands off Olaf’s shoulders and walked round to stand beside him. His arm locked into his father’s, holding him tight.

“Hel rejected me. She refused me my need to be with my wife.”

“The gods have other plans, you can’t fight fate.”

The wind changed direction, taking the curling smoke along with it. With relief, Berit walked further along the beach and watched the funeral from a distance. The two figures closest to the pyre were silhouetted against the horizon. The orange and yellow flames of the pyre glowed behind them. The dark blue green of the sea met the pink haze of the sky and somewhere many miles in the distance night was falling. But tonight there would be no darkness here, not this far north. Summers were light and hot; winters were dark and cold.

Eventually the wooden structure of the pyre collapsed, red hot embers fizzing as they fell into the gentle tide. Blackened wood and flesh thudded onto the sand as the tides lapped over it, back and forth, in and out. Every wave was a little larger than the last, a little closer to the mourners, covering more of the heap of remains. Sivnne had always loved the sea.

“Papa,” Berit called. “It’s time to go home.”

Olaf turned; his sorrow and grief etched in the lines of his face. “I have no home.”

“Yes you do.”

“I have no life.”

Berit’s sea blue eyes were fierce. “You have me. My life is just beginning, don’t let me down now. I won’t grieve for two parents. I won’t. Don’t leave me too”

Reviews

[Meat of Dog]

This had a good drop-in. I was pulled into the action drop of burning people (who wouldn’t be) but was surprised to realize it was controlled and intentional. Also, I felt the character development pretty quickly; it was interesting Olaf was quarantined and still lived free of whatever disease his wife had. It’s hard to imagine the illogical (but common) guilt which would be associated with that sort of thing. There was a nice little cliffhanger at the end. I felt myself wanting to know more not about what happened, as there was plenty of exposition in the chapter, but where they would go from there and from which direction the plot would develop. Cheers!

Suggestions:
I didn’t see any inconsistencies, grammatical errors, or notable corrections.

[Amelia Birch]

Thanks! I've been working on this book awhile now and it never seems to get any closer to being finished.