Original Syn. Beth Kander
Ere nods, not completely relieved, but somewhat reassured. His mother is steel. She is Ruth Fell, unbreakable. She’ll be all right.
As he knocks a bit of dirt from his leather-clad foot, Ere’s thoughts drift back to the topic that has preoccupied him for the last several years now.
God, please, let there be girls. Or at least just one. No, two—two, God, if you’re listening! There have to be at least two girls, or Cal will make sure I’m overlooked…
Ere knows this isn’t what he should be worried about. He should be mourning the terrible loss of his great-uncle. But Howard was an old man and Ere is a young one, hungry to experience what the older generation took for granted. And seeing a girl might provide consolation at this difficult time. Was a little solace so wrong to hope for?
“There you are, runt.”
Cal elbows him, a friendly gesture that nearly knocks Ere off his feet. Rather than being irritated, Ere actually appreciates the familiar feeling in this strange setting. When Ere shoves him back, Cal doesn’t even wobble.
“See any girls yet?” Ere asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Cal snorts.
“So, no,” Ere says, disappointed and relieved.
Cal does not reply, eying the new arrivals to his tribe’s home with his standard distrust. Ere admires his cousin’s vigilance. Cal has what Ere’s mother proudly calls “a soldier’s mentality.” Ere just… doesn’t.
“You’d tell me if you saw some girls, right?” Ere yanks a few dark wiry hairs from Cal’s arm, a better tactic than his ineffective shove. “If there were two, you’d tell me, right?”
“Ow!” Cal says, swatting at Ere as if at a fly. “Why would I tell you? I could find ways to entertain two girls, all by myself.”
Ere rolls his eyes. “Let’s go over by my mother. The show’s just about to get started.”
“God in Heaven. Don’t call it a show.”
“Fine. The service.”
“And we’re not going to stand with your mother. She’s doing the story-song, remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
And then the funeral is underway. There is no formal call to worship, the service simply begins. A few elders start softly chanting an old prayer, and the sound moves through the crowd, each voice joining in as they hear the familiar words. When the first hymn ends, someone begins reciting a liturgy that all know by heart. Even the spoken prayers have a musicality to them; voices rise and blend, singing sentiments so strong and sincere the sound seems to radiate heat.
“Gone!” A woman moans, grief rising from her and pouring forth, a gush, a geyser.
Rather than interrupting the service, this seems to break it open, make it blossom into what it was always supposed to be. All of the other mourning hearts crack wider in response, as several other voices lift with hers, sobbing and soaring, together.
“Howard Fell is gone! He’s gone!”
Swept up in the emotion surrounding him, all other thoughts leave his head and Ere hears himself join in; the aching loss stops tearing at his edges, and instead cuts right through him.
“Howard Fell!” Ere wails along with the others. “Howard Fell!”
The keening cries rise up like a wave, crests, and gently rolls out like one. The sound slips back into the sea, receding, the crowd fading into a hushed silence. This is a collective confirmation that they are ready for the song of Howard’s life, which will be sung by his niece.
Peering between gaps of shoulders and elbows of the assembled crowd, Ere catches glimpses of his mother making her way to the front of the crowd. Formidable as she is, from far away and with so many people in between them, she seems so small.
Ruth Fell stands alone before the congregation. Closing her eyes, she hums, softly at first, and without lyrics; words will come when the music conjures them. All story-songs are wholly original: Originals sing them for one another, crafting them from memories, setting a life to melody. As is the tradition, before moving into the specifics of Howard’s unique story, Ruth begins with a shared song of the Original resistance, paying homage to the entire community, their collective experience; then the same melody transitions seamlessly into the individual lyrics for the lost loved one:
Standing here, I almost see
The girl I was, the crone I’ll be
Blessing of age, passing of time,
Teaching us all, profane and sublime
We will never relent, we will never rely
Thus we will live. And thus we will die.
Thus Howard Fell lived.
Thus Howard Fell died.
Howard Fell was born in 1962, in a city
Known then as Ann Arbor.
His father was Ernest Fell
His mother, Lila Golden Fell.
He had a brother—
Ere’s ears burn at the mention of Howard’s brother—his mother’s father. His grandfather.
He leans in, craving some scrap, a line of the story-song to shed light on his enigmatic patriarch. Maybe his mother will share something in the song; a name, something? He was Howard’s brother, after all. Surely, his mother will do more than acknowledge his existence; she’ll have to say something about Howard’s brother. But she doesn’t; she sings of Howard, as the day and the crowd demand:
They had a house the family lived in alone,
and a house of worship they shared
and houses of learning that brought together
many different communities of people.
Howard Fell was a student of many teachers,
and a teacher of many students.
He was serious and silly, brilliant and bold
And everyone dreaded the jokes that he told.
At this, a few elders laughed affectionately, wistfully. Howard really had been terrible at telling jokes. And so very fond of telling them anyway.
He loved tame dogs, and the cinema,
The symphony, and meals from other lands
He married his wife Sophie.
And they had six children
Before things took that dreadful turn
Before their world began to burn…
Ere hears it—a catch in his mother’s voice that no one else notices. He closes his eyes and aims his support and strength in her direction. He hears her go on, voice solid, tone pure.
Howard survived Sophie
and all of their six children.
He survived the rebellions.