5 September 2019
After checking out of hospital a few days ago, Clauzia Sarohart and Immima Magolen had already attended both the funerals of Kiara Lunenburg and Ursula Mayr in their respective towns. This time they were bound for the countryside. They took the newly implemented high-speed rail journey from Karinthus to Rivendale before being stuck for over an hour trying to figure out what next train they were getting. When a steam-train bound for the far-west country arrived, a late 1930s Ethalrian Class 41 locomotive, they giggled. As soon as you leave urbanisation the level of technology nosedives and you feel like you’re back in the pre-Imperial war days. Not that either Magolen or Sarohart would remember that, but the stories passed down from their parents and generations who experienced that made an almost false-memory of times gone by.
They arrived several hours later in the small town of Rerikdale; it really reminded the two that in fact they were back in Silverdale and not over sixteen-hundred miles south. That small, countryside town vibes hit home, the old tradeswomen and men that you’d never see in the bigger towns or cities still remained; butchers, bakers, blacksmiths, and just overall a lot more manual labouring. Wearing plain civilian clothes, they exited the train onto the platform and to their surprise, they weren’t recognised. Nobody batted an eyelid, everyone too busy in their day to day lives to notice that the Prime Minister and Finance Minister of their neighbouring country was here. It was as if they were living in a parallel universe. In fact, Magolen enjoyed the peace and quiet. The two made their way to where they would be sleeping.
Booking their place on bookmyhotel.etl, they were quite surprised when they saw their stay. A bleak comparison to the photos online; the rooms half the size, the bedsheets fifty years older than advertised and a view that showed the brick wall of another house rather than the countryside view they were promised. Sarohart was a little bit ticked off, she turned her head to the ‘hotel’ owner, if you can even call it a hotel, to see the doddery old woman with a large square smile of innocent beckoning over her face. She looked back at Magolen who was already about to make a move.
“We’re not staying here for a hundred kiribs, you must be having a laugh.”
“Oh but,” the old woman hobbled around the room, presenting things. “Television,” the woman hobbled to the other side. “Comfy mattress,” she prodded it. “Three-tone lamp-shade,” she tapped it. “Oh and…”
“I think we get the point. But first, this is not what was advertised, no view, no space… Oh and the website said two rooms, so where’s the second?”
“Oh um, there’s only one room here.”
Magolen looked at Sarohart.
“At least there’s two beds.”
“Mmm…” Sarohart giggled. Magolen returned her gaze over the four and a half foot woman.
“We’ll pay fifty kiribs or we’re out.”
“Oh, um, what about seventy five?”
Immima’s body language showed the old woman that she had not accepted the counter-offer. She began to pick up her suitcase and eyeballed Clauzia to to the same.
“Oh… Alright then! Fifty it is!” the old woman forced a smaller and thinner smile over her face. She left in her own good time.
“Bloody hell,” Clauzia laughed. “this will be cozy.”
[hr]
The next morning,
09:15AM
T’was an early start for Magolen and Sarohart. They were suited and booted for the occasion, Sarohart wore an all black trench-coat suit and Magolen wore just a black suit and tie. They walked a fair while; through the town, over the small stone bridge and through the market. Trading stands were full of colour, some selling shoes, some selling fruit and vegetables. It was quite nice to see. They’d had no breakfast so picking up two fist-sized black pudding scotch eggs for one kirib was an absolute deal. Scoffing their faces, they turned a corner to see the church in the distance. As they got closer, its design could be seen- it was, as most buildings were here, made of clay, its roof an excellent shade of orange-brown tiles. They walked through a fruit orchard of pear-trees and apple trees, very neatly presented which appeared to be owned by the church. They had arrived some five minutes early. Great.
They took their seats within the church. The small ceremony began shortly after, several of her male family members acting as pallbearers carrying the casket down the aisle, a white coffin with a coffin spray of just white Lily. It was a strange atmosphere, everyone inside had not seen their daughter, cousin and sister in so long and the grieving was surreal. It was a sad day. There was this little bit of resentment that was not shown but was definitely in the air towards Clauzia and Immima, who were sat to themselves off to one side, for they were not family and yet they had seen her last and were here.
When the casket was laid to rest, a hymn was sung, followed by a reading of her life. As it was said by the pastor, a woman in her late seventies gave a loud sobbing cry. Sarohart lent over to Magolen.
“I think that is her mother.” she whispered as quietly and respectfully as she could. Magolen made a sort of ‘Mmm’ noise.
For what was over an hour, the pastor and other ministers read out extracts from the Holy Book. For both Clauzia and Immima it was not meaningful as they were irreligious. There was a long moment of respectful silence, although the family was tearing up. A tear rolled down Clauzia’s face too. She was a mother figure to her even if she had only met her once- she was an inspiration to her.
After the silence, it was now the appropriate time for people to say their goodbyes. One after another, men and women made their way and gave their respects in their own ways, some laying flowers down and others simply seeing her for the last time. When her mother saw her face, the face she had not seen in over two years, she cried and broke down in a flood of emotions.
Most of the family had left now, and remained only friends who were saying goodbye and the two Vothetrians. The family went outside, ready for the burial service. Immima said her goodbyes and so did Sarohart. Seeing her face one last time made the tough Clauzia cry. Funerals were like that.
The two joined the audience. The pallbearers carried the casket to the grave. As the coffin was lowered, people began to cry. The coffin was gently laid to rest. People gave speeches that were emotional. During a moment of weakness, Clauzia hugged into the taller Immima.
“…and may her body return to the ground for the rest of time, along with her late husband Bill Jensor. For today, we mourn and grieve for Amalda, but in the times to come, learn to remember the happy memories…”
[hr]
21:17PM
Sarohart and Magolen would remain here until the following morning. They were eating dinner when a call came through on Sarohart’s phone. She was going to ignore it until Magolen pointed out that it was President Augusta.
“This is hardly the right time,” she picked up the phone. “Hello, Sarohart speaking.”
“Hi Clauzia. It’s me, Jane.”
“Hi Jane,” she cleared her throat. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Thalria.”
“Mmm?” Clauzia hummed and she ate some more.
“Ameliadotters’ government has fallen to communist revolutionaries.”
Clauzia spat her food out.
