It’s always the funeral, that rainy day.   

 Its where my mind goes in those moments when monotony forces your thoughts to wander; or in that slightly delirious moment between sleep and awake where anything can happen, but for me it’s always the same.

For most it was the day the great Eustace Ren’ogra was laid to rest. For my sister and I, it was the day we lost our grandfather, our guardian, our rock, and the only parental figure we have ever known.

I remember Carmine opening the door of our carriage, the rain flooding the air, washing over everything in waves. His hand was gripping an umbrella as I climbed out, shielding me from the falling ocean. He closed the door and took my hand in his. I could feel the hard, slick, cold shell of his fingers. The alabaster shell that he mockingly called skin held a faint buzz as I gripped it tightly.

Carmine is a Coleopt; a massive colony of beetle like creatures, all living inside a human shaped shell. Hundreds of individuals, living and working in this man-vessel. Controlled by one democratically elected prime individual. To me this has always been the most unhuman and disturbing part of a Coleopt; how any collection of individuals could live, work and die for one cause. How one Prime, elected or not, could install such a devoted trust in so many without even a hint of discord or contempt from the masses. Carmine, the current prime was only 5 years into his tenure; and he already shoulders more burden than most adult humans do in their lifetime. Carmine was our caretaker and teacher. I cannot speak for my sister, but I can say, I love him like a brother, like family…like the only family I have now.

We stepped on to the cobblestone streets towards the cathedral, me an immature 11 years old. I remember wanting to step into each of the puddles created from decades of carts grinding up the road but Carmine’s firm hand kept me and my far too fancy shoes as dry as possible.

I could hear and see the shouters from a few streets over, waiving their papers for sale and shouting

“Greatest man of our generation, dead at 71. Tragic, Tragic, Tragic read it for a 5 pin!”

            I remember thinking that people really didn’t know how great he really was, possibly the greatest Grandpa to ever live. He would read us stories from a blank book, making and weaving the tale as he went, pretending to turn the page every now and then. He would get so animated at times that bedtime hardly existed. He could remember every detail of that great unending story, with amazing accuracy as though it was truly written in that blank book. To my young eyes, he was the kindest man to walk this planet. Every year he would rope my sister and I into pretending to leave the manor for a weekend. We would sneak back into our own house in the middle of the night and feverishly complete all the servants’ chores, just to give them a free weekend. He loved the looks on their faces as they came into work the next morning, my sister and I passed out on the couch in his study, him holding a coffee with newly blistered hands sitting by the window, red eyed and exhausted. He would wink and shoo them off to enjoy the days at their leisure.

            We stepped into a side door of the cathedral, old wood creaking as Carmine pushed the door open. The click and whoosh of the collapsing umbrella danced with the creek of the door as it echoed in the massive chamber. The cathedral hall was domed shaped and lit by a chandelier with what I thought at the time was 4 million candles. Every inch of the wall was made from a  glossy grey stone and painted over with mural of some religious freedom battle. The art was astounding and realistic, all life size detail and in some parts with gory precision.

            Rows and rows of pews were filled with silent eyes. There where people and races from all over the known world; even those who lived amongst the shadows were seen in the light of this holy place. Those who ran the great city-states, the shakers and movers, the powerful people that could tare down your life with just a mumble sat elbow to elbow with those who would be thrown into an endless pit by the law. Even those whose only crime was being born a different race or species stood, sat, sprawled or hovered next to the very hunters, who even a sun rise ago, would scalp them for a coffee worth of Pins.

At the front of the cathedral stood a long ornate table, draped with a fine white silken cloth. To one side where two overly decorated chairs; in one sat my sister. Her long straight coal black hair hung down to perfectly match the contours of her plain black dress. She seems to still be wet from the rain. She did not have Carmine anymore to hold an umbrella anymore, I thought. 10 years my senior, she was already an adult, but that day I only saw the numb and emotionless eyes of a child who has seen the wrinkled face of mortality.

Carmine led me to the second chair, I sat facing the rows of silent eyes, so nervous and unsure of what to do. Carmine knelt before me, his alabaster face moved whisper close to mine, its features like a mask carved from fine stone and somewhere deep in his head I heard a faint click, a tick and a slight whirr. The features of face instantly changed to an exaggerated sad expression, and I heard in that low, slightly echoey voice of his.

“Oh Dear Quincy.  I can not imagine the sorrow you are feeling. I wish to tell you that this is the worst of it, but I will not lie to you. I can only be here for you; you must lean on all those you see before you. Share their sadness amongst your colony and brethren. You and your sister will be the anchor for each other.”

He reached for my hand and held it in his. His other reached for my sisters. In what I assumed was to be a moment of togetherness, a shining spotlight of family in this darkness, instead, the moment Carmine touched my sister’s hand, his face whirred and changed in imperceivable speed, from sorry, to worry, to shock then to disappointment. I glanced to her and what I thought was residue from the rain, I now knew to be a small sheen of sweat on her skin. I could feel the heat rising from her, my shoulder almost touching hers as uncomfortably warm.

“Iliana…did you…” Carmine began to whisper only to be cut off sharply by my sister.

“Carmine, sit down. Father Edmund is beginning.” Her voice low, monotoned and emotionless.

Carmine squeezed my hand reassuringly as he stood up. His face ticked to neutral before he turned to face the pews. 

            In the front row sat Mortimer Unger, Moe as he likes to be called, but is better known as Moey Knuckles. Moe’s bulky frame, bordering on rotund, was being held in by a finely made charcoal grey double-breasted vest and matching pant. Gold and green filigree out lined a chaotic pattern from vest to pants. His slick black hair beginning to thin held enough pomade, that even the rain would shed off. His lips held the indent of a lifetime cigar smoker and even at my age I could see the slight twitch was a sign of craving. The need to smoke burning and scratching, its will only being tamed by the sheer respect and memories of the one they are all communally bereaving.

            To the right of Moe was Nigel “The Throat” Blakewell. Nigel was a short man whose feet barely met the stone floor as he sat. He had shaggy brown unkempt hair, piercing brass-colored eyes, black thread warn dress coat and slacks. Undoubtedly the most noticeable feature was from lower jaw to collar bone was a chaotic network of ticking gears, levies, springs, rubber and brass tubes. The bleached bone of his spine could be spotted in sections and two small bellows pulled air in and out as he breathed. I could tell from the pale and slight blue tint of his skin and that he was trying to take small breaths. Every few moments the bellows would pull air in suddenly and a rasping groan could be heard throughout the cathedral. Nigel’s cheeks would flush as he tried to shrink in the pews to be unnoticed and Moe could be seen rolling his eyes. Two weeks prior this would have struck me down into giggle fits; but that day, I found no laughter.

            The front row of the next section of pews was occupied by only one person. High-Chief Isaac Golwin, the most powerful person in the City-states. Elected for 13 consecutive terms as executive officer and High-Chief of the state.  A bald man with a light tan skin and a slightly graying goatee. The hard laughing lines of his face juxtaposed the ever-stern gaze of his light grey eyes. Dressed in fine cloth robes, layered in White and Gold fabric, all adorned with medals, filigree and symbols that I could not begin to decipher the meaning to.

            Carmine slowly walked to the front pew as Moe and Nigel pushed to the side to let him sit. Dressed in a plain black vest and pants, his knee length duster conforming and bending to his perfect posture. He sat inhumanly straight and still. As Moe and Nigel settled into their new spots a small black pearlescent beetle pushed itself out of an unseen hatch in his neck and began to crawl down the pew and into the crowd behind. I saw it only by chance. My eyes locked on Carmine, looking at him to guide me in what ever clues or cues he could send me. An individual Coleopt, most likely scurrying a message from Carmine to what appeared to be another Coleopt many rows behind. This Coleopt appeared to be of a female-vessel, wearing a dark purple, tightly tailored dress with intricate lacy around the neckline she sat just as straight, still and uncanny as Carmine. The color so dark it appeared black except when hit just right by the light. The dresses contrast against her alabaster skin only emphasized the artistry of the lacy. Many long silk ribbons jetted out from the top of her head, dark-blonde in color with some streaks of auburn, it would take a few second glances or an outright stare to rightfully see that it wasn’t truly hair.

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            Father Edmond dressed in long and heavy red robes that dragged on the stone floor. His elderly frame seemingly incapable of carrying the weight of so much fabric, yet he waddled slowly, and with purpose; somewhere behind me. To this day I have no idea what the casket or even the front part of the cathedral looks like. I was terrified to see the casket, the flowers, the marble busts of my grandfather. I was told they were beautiful and tasteful. Even now, 15 years later I don’t even dare imagine what it looked like. It remains a black void in my memory, and I need to keep it that way… or I may break and surrender myself to a life time of melancholy.

He began to speak a ceremonial lecture, practiced words in a language I didn’t recognize. After what seemed hours, Father Edmond finished the ceremony and began speaking legibly about my grandfather. He spoke of his generosity, his love of learning, his passion for invention. He describing the many things my grandfather invented or methods he designed and gave to the people, not for wealth, but for the betterment of all. He spoke of a hole in society, one that no man, beast or thinking entity could replace. Father Edmond then began to preach of my grandfather’s essence being with the one above and that his skills, love and kindness are being used for a higher and more divine purpose.

All the while, as Father Edmond spoke on, I could feel the heat emanating off my sister. I can now plainly see the sweat dripping from her skin. Her black dress was almost soaked though and awkwardly clung to her skin. No sign of discomfort, pain, or emotion from her. She just stared into the rows of people blinking and breathing in a steady rhythm, breathe, breathe blink repeat. I was so lost in her unyielding rhythm and the waves of unnatural heat that I didn’t even notice Father Edmond had placed a massive wicker basket onto the table beside us. The basket was almost as large as Father Edmond. I remember thinking that there must be a god, because Father Edmond would need a miracle just to move around in that outfit, let alone carry a basket heavier than he was.

Father Edmond slowly shuffled before my sister and me. Back to the crowd he spoke to us.

“As he was a pillar to the community and gave his dying wealth to those of need.“ His tone soft and gentle, a tender smile crossed his lips, he turned around to face the people in pews. They all rose to their feet.

“So shall the Community provide for his kin!” His voice changed to a boom that threatened to burst from the building itself.

Row by row the mourners queued in front of the basket. All were present in line except Isaac, who sat silent and still.

 From pockets, coats, bags and places that I couldn’t or want to imagine, envelops, pouches and slips of paper where produced. One by one each put their share into the basket, walked in front of us, say a few polite words of condolences and press on to leave or congregate by the side door. I remember Moe’s envelop. It was made of quality boiled leather and had some fancy embossing. As he put it into the basket he locked eyes on me, winked and whisper

“When your ready”

Nigel wheezed a harumph from behind Moe, having caught his whisper. Moe rolled his eyes and move on as the line pushed him forward. Nigel stepped up and placed two scrolls bound in gold leaf ribbon. He looked to both my sister and I, then to Moe who was now waiting in the mass of congregating people.

“A full ride, for” the bellows in his clockwork throat croaked as it sucked in air “both of you, any major”  Nigel nodded his head and moved on to join Moe and the crowed forming around him. Nigel endured some witty banter at his expense and entered the circle of overly dressed people.

Carmine took a post, standing tall behind me. Hands on my shoulders, reassuring me.  As time moved with the steady pace of envelopes and kind words, I found myself growing tired and emotionally exhausted. The Basket was beginning to  overflowed with all sorts of offering. I could see pouches full of pins, banks notes, vouchers, promise notes, even handwritten poems and works of art. At long last, the final person deposited a modest pouch, said their condolences and left the cathedral. The crowd now gone, the only occupancy of the once packed cathedral was myself, Carmine, my sister, and Isaac Golwin. Father Edmond had long since shuffled to the back room.

Just as the last person left, Carmine turned to my sister.

“Iliana, save me the lie and just tell me you straight that you didn’t take your dose today.” Carmine snapped, his tone hinting of anger. His face clicked into an anger and worried expression

This seemed to awaken my sister and the pattern of, breath breath blink, changed abruptly. She stood quickly and the overly decorated chair croaked against the floor echoing heavily in the grand cathedral.

“Your Grace, High-Chief Golwin, please allow me to walk you to the door” Her voice was dry, cold and lacked any variance except the exact volume needed to ensure the High-Chief Golwin could hear.

Isaac simple nodded and somehow looking even more regal and powerful, he stood. The rich robes could not cover the muscled frame underneath. Although older in years, he still kept his strong physique. He could possibly lift heavier boulders now then he did 30 years ago. He was a man who grab his prime years and would not let go.

My sister looked to the table and grabbed a hand full of envelopes and pouches, She efficiently consolidated them and made her way to High-Chief Golwin. I noticed that each step was almost perfect and even in stride with the last. I could feel Carmine watching her, feel him assessing her, and trying to stretch his compassion and love to smother the anger and disappointment.

She walked with Chief Golwin to the front of the cathedral. Its massive doors adorned with relief carvings that continues the murals story, cast a shadow on the two. I could not hear what my sister was saying to the most powerful person in a thousand miles.

“What is she planning. What demon calculations has she produced” Carmine said in a whisper.

Iliana handed over the envelopes and pouches to Chief Golwin and in return he produced a sizeable stack of papers. He handed the papers to Iliana with a nod and turned to the door. He gently knocked. The door swung open wide and in the torrential rain stood 100 men flanking each side of the walkway down to the street. All in the burgundy and black uniforms of elite guards. Every other solder held up one end of a black covering high above their heads, the other side of the cover was held by their counter part on walkway. This created a 50-yard umbrella, a stretch of perfect dry in what was considered a historic rain fall. The soldiers not holding the rain guard was in parade rest with their flintlock rifles at the ready, equipped with perfectly polished bayonets, they were alert, disciplined and looked ready and willing to die in his defense. As High-Chief Golwin moved down the walkway, the soldiers peeled off in perfect lock step, to take their place further down the line.

The door closed and there stood Iliana, papers in hand.

She walked towards us, with that same inhumanly perfect gate. She placed the stack of papers on the table by the basket, her movements held an uncanny precision.

“Iliana, you need to dose right now!” Carmine said with angered urgency.

“No” her expression flat and cold. She turned to us but didn’t look at us only through us. “I have created a trust for Quincy. All data acquired and calculated shows 87 percent likely hood of a steady financial future for him. I am also giving you, Carmine Qolony rights and privileges as Quincy’s sole and legal guardian.”

“What!?” Carmine’s face clicked from anger, whirred into confusions then to rage then settled on concern.

“Iliana, you haven’t dosed and are thus unable to enter into a legal binding contract”

            “There was a 97 percent likely hood that you would not agree to this arrangement”

            “Iliana, I am not human, I can’t raise Quincy, he needs you, he needs family, he needs your love and guidance; he isn’t a Coleopt egg-ling, he’s human and he’s your brother.”

            “I am leaving, regardless of your irrational decision. I have done the necessary investigation and inquiries of all known data points; this is the only path that will present a net positive.” Iliana swiftly grabbed two pouches, judged their contents, and grabbed an envelope.

There was so much going on so quickly, I didn’t know what to feel, or think or do. No one was telling me what I needed to do, and I had no experience to tell myself how to feel. So my body did what it needed to do and the tears finally began to spill from my eyes.  I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, confused by why I was crying through my sleeve I saw Iliana move in front of me. She knelt and produced a small letter. She held it out to me. I could feel that unnatural heat again, and the letter was beginning to damp with the sweat of her hand. As soon as I grabbed it, she stood and with out word she turned and walked towards the carved front door of the cathedral.

            “Iliana re-think this,” shouted Carmine his tone indicated that he knew it was futile. But it held no sway and didn’t break her perfectly timed steps. She pushed the massive doors open and walked out into that rainy, dark, cold and loveless dusk.

The emptiness of the cathedral amplified the sound of the battering rain, it was almost painfully loud and drowned out the sniffing tears, even from me.  The door groaned as it closed, its sound deep, ethereal, and final.

            Carmine moved to the stack of papers Iliana left and folded them into a pocket of his duster jacket.

            “Let’s go Quincy, Father Edmond will deliver the rest of this to the Manor in the morrow”

We moved to the much smaller and less opulent side door and walked out into that rainy, dark, cold and loveless dusk.

----

Quincy sat on the arms of his thread worn green chair. One long leg draped over the arm of the chair, the other propped on the lip of the of floor to ceiling bay windows. Each pane had a uniqueness of cracks, dirt, and grime that gave each pane a distinct personality. Quincy was wearing only his silver-silk night robe, undone, and barely hanging off his shoulders. Any street goers who dared to look up at his eight-story window would see all that was Quincy Ren’ogra.

The moment of dawn was barely breaking through the sky and a sea of chimneys where springing to life as the city awoke. Soon the people will clog the sky with the smoke of their lives and black out the high-noon sun. Quincy just stared into the oranges and pinks of the sunrise; throat dry from telling his story.

“Oi, Intristin story n’ all but lovey, I just wanted to know what ya thinkin about…you know rheta-torically.” A feminine voice spoke from behind. Her accent leached from generations of life in poverty. “Now, if I was me beinn you, Id give me my deserving Pins, lesst you wan’ta pay for anotha night” She said. Her thoughts teetered from wanting more pay to also wanting to pay her violently insistent employer.

Quincy yanked himself out of the fading memory and closed his eyes and just gave a deep and heavy sigh.