Fiction: The Mourners by Jim Best
- Jim Best
- 30 minutes ago
- 8 min read
Photo Source: Unsplash
Muriel is dead.
Mikhail examined the progress the shaft of light he'd been sleeping in had made across the room as he opened his eyes. Muriel is dead, he thought once more. He didn't know why or how he knew this, nor did he question it. No more than he knew why one breath followed the next. It simply was so.
He rose, arched, stretched, and began to walk towards the window, luxuriating in the warmth of the sunbeam and watching the falling dust particles as he went. He bounded from the floor to the windowsill and settled against the glass pane. His tail curled and straightened as he fixed his gaze on the house next door. It wouldn't be long, he thought. However, it didn't matter if it was. Waiting was all there was. He sighed and closed his eyes. He was patient.
A few minutes later, he opened them again to the sound of an approaching engine. He looked to the road and saw a shimmer of late summer sun on a dusty red car ambling over the hill toward the house. The car seemed to sag beneath its weight, as if its vehicular shoulders were slumped, coming to rest in the driveway that the window overlooked.
The doors opened. The Man got out first, with The Woman a step behind. Resignation etched their drawn faces. The bitter scent of grief, sickness, and sweat floated up to Mikhail on the light breeze through the cracked window, and his nose twitched. The Man closed his door and walked around to the hood of the car. He rested on his fists as he investigated the middle distance. The Woman wiped her tear-rimmed eyes and walked around to The Man.
Wordlessly, she placed her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. Sweetness mixed with bitterness and tickled Mikhail's nose once more as he watched. The Man silently ran his hands up and down The Woman's back. They'll mate tonight, he thought as he watched the pair. Love lay so close beneath the sorrow; they'll be surprised by it.
Then, The Man pressed his lips to the top of The Woman's hair and squeezed her. He spoke to her, and Mikhail understood only a little, as he did with much of the human tongue, though he grasped The Man's meaning all the same. The Woman nodded and turned towards the house. The Man went to the trunk of the car, opened it, and removed a bundle of blankets. A thin scent of the very start of rot wafted through the window, and Mikhail winced. He winced once more when he saw one small gray paw slip from the blankets and dangle limply. The Man gingerly tucked the limb back inside and laid the bundle on the side of the driveway as he walked to the garage. Mikhail purred, his tail curling and straightening. Then Mother called his house name from somewhere within his dwelling and he followed the smell of tuna.
Half an hour later, he returned to the window, licking his chops after the oily fish, and resumed his vigil. From his vantage point at the top of the high Victorian turret, he could see the entirety of the house next door. The Man was in the backyard, at the place where the tree line met the grass. He'd stripped to the waist and stood astride a freshly dug hole. Wiping pungent sweat from his brow, he looked down at his work with satisfaction.
Nodding to himself, he set his spade atop the pile and bent to pick up the body. He laid it, blanket and all, into the grave. Then he took a deep breath and, after a glance around, folded his hands and bent his head. Three heartbeats passed, and he looked up again, a little abashed. His eyes found Mikhail in the window, looking at him. The Man looked away in a hurry, picking up the spade once more. Mikhail closed his eyes. His tail curled and straightened. It had been a busy morning.
He was roused by the grunting, roaring yellow bus arriving in the afternoon. Mikhail watched as The Boy dashed out the door and never once stopped moving as he turned to bid goodbye to the rolling cacophony. He darted up the stairs three at a time and clattered into the house. A breath passed. Then two. Then something changed in the air, and Mikhail closed his eyes a half second before an explosion of pain and anguish rocked the world. The Boy was screaming. The door slammed open, and he ran outside, down the porch steps, and to the base of an oak tree. He flung himself on the ground and wailed.
The Woman came out and called The Boy's house name. The pain on her face was now more for him than herself. The Boy stayed where he was, weeping, unmoved. The Man emerged, now showered and in a fresh shirt, and placed a hand on The Woman's shoulder, speaking quietly to her. She heaved a breath, nodded her ascent, and returned inside. Mikhail looked back to The Boy a moment longer, then relinquished his watch in favor of mousing.
When he came back, The Boy was still beneath the tree, silent now and sitting cross-legged on the roots, one hand mindlessly pushing a tire swing in a back-and-forth arc. His eyes were fixed on a blade of grass. Tears had cut salty canals in the dirt of his cheeks. Beyond him, the sky had faded from blue to dusky purple. The door opened once more, and The Woman called gently. The Boy looked up and nodded. He stood, dusted the dirt from his hands, and started back in. He seemed to be dragged across the lawn by an invisible hand. His head never lifted. The door closed behind him gently. Mikhail's tail curled and straightened.
Dusk turned to night, and night became fully dark. Lights first turned on in the houses along the street, then turned off again. Mikhail ate his dinner and curled at the foot of Mother's chair as she sipped her tea. When it was drained, she laid her book on the table and patted her lap. Mikhail jumped into it eagerly and rubbed his head into her palm. He arched as she scratched the sweet spot of his back. Then she patted his head and said, as always, "Goodnight, Boxer, my love. I'm off to bed. Be a good cat and guard the house for us." Then she trundled herself off to her room. Mikhail understood little of the words but knew it was an invocation of love and duty.
He watched for her light to turn off. Then he slithered out of the house in the secret manner known only by felines. Once outside, he took a long, deep breath of the fresh night air. He could smell moonlight and stars shine. He glanced up and saw the witnesses in the night sky: the Mother and Kitten, the Old Tiger, the Lurking Hound. Beside them all the Great Saucer glimmered, pregnant and ripe. He kneaded the earth, spun three times, then rolled on the dirt.
A voice came from out of the night. "Hail, Mikhail, well met."
Mikhail sprang to his feet and looked to the speaker. He recognized the kitten-faced, tawny-haired tomcat at once and smiled. "Hail, Uriel, well met. Shall we meet the pride together?"
"Pray, let's. We go to bid farewell to Muriel."
"Come, then."
The friends walked into the night, towards the spot in the backyard where The Man had laid Muriel to rest, aware that the night was as awake as the day. The trees rang noisily with frogs and birds. Crickets chirped in an endless chorus in the long grass. On another occasion, it would be a fine night for hunting field mice or shrews. Tonight, however, the two pilgrims walked in silence. They saw others coming as they went. One. Two. Five. A dozen. A score. The entire pride. Old Azrael with his flowing gray fur. Sweet Camiel and her two kittens, not yet named. The proud Haniel. The beautiful Camael. The young. The ancient. The wrathful. The wise. They poured over fences and out of bushes and in between trees.
They reached the spot where Muriel lay and stood in a loose circle around it. The air was rich with the scent of black dirt, worms, and decay. The quiet amongst them was thick and full. Heartbeats came and went. At last, Oria broke the silence with the lamentation song. It poured from her like fresh cream and washed over the pride. The cats all closed their eyes and swayed to the sound. Tails curled and straightened. She sang of the many trails a cat must tread upon the earth. Of the pitfalls of the road and claws and teeth. Of the joys of hunting and the sweet grass and lush beds. She sang of the final journey all cats must take into the dark and the great Unknown Place.
As she finished, Mikhail began to purr. Uriel took it up with him. One by one, they all began to purr as one great voice. Mikhail then sang out, "Farewell, Muriel!"
Others followed him.
"Farewell!"
"We shall remember you!"
"Go lightly!"
"You are not forgotten!"
A light flicked on on the back porch. The pride froze for an instant, turned, and darted back the way they had come over fences and into bushes and between trees. Mikhail ran to a nearby elm and scurried up to a low branch. He curled into a near-invisible ball and watched. The back door opened. The Boy came out, dressed in his night clothes and holding a flashlight in one hand.
The light beam sliced through the gloom and guided The Boy to the grave. It was still for a long, quiet moment. Then Mikhail watched as The Boy got to his knees and set the flashlight down. With both hands, he reverently set something at the head of the mound. It was a food dish made and painted by a loving, though childish hand. The human markings for Muriel's house name were painted in elegant black letters on the side: GRACIE.
Soft, undramatic tears joined the chorus of crickets. A small voice whispered, "Goodbye, Gracie."
Mikhail smelled sorrow again, but it was softer now. Just as bitter but less pungent. There was pain, but the sweetness lay close beneath it as always.
Mikhail crawled to the end of the branch. He dropped down behind The Boy as silently as dandelion fluff on grass and crept up behind him. He called out a tender mew.
The Boy gave a little jump and an undignified yelp as he spun the beam of light around and caught Mikhail in it. The cat shaded his eyes but stood his ground. "Boxer?" Boy asked.
Mikhail walked up beside the kneeling child. He spun three times, kneaded the soft dirt of the grave, and then settled himself down. His head rested on The Boy's thigh, and he began to purr.
"Was she your friend too?"
Mikhail said nothing. The Boy sighed heavily and rested a hand on the cat's back. They sat a long time beneath the stars.
Jim Best is a lifelong reader and writer whose work ranges from highbrow literary fiction to internet fan fiction. An autistic anarchist, he writes stories that explore the strange and the transgressive, play with genre tropes, and aim to entertain. He lives in rural Kentucky with his family and has called many places home. When he’s not writing, he’s listening to podcasts, devouring audiobooks, or trying to impersonate a high-functioning adult. Some of the places you can find his work are Saros Speculative Fiction, Inknest Poetry, and Eggplant Emoji. Recently His story “Haint Seen Nothin’” came in Third in the “Echoes of Appalachia Creative Writing Contest”.