It was only neighbourly to bury a family member when they asked you to. And who was Nathaniel to refuse his neighbours when the ask came to the threshold?
The unfortunate event happened upon the Soloveis when the family least expected it, as it always does. The shopkeepers occupied a small space on the same street as Blackwood and son; their business was going steadily slow for as long as Nathaniel remembered them there, and so when Joseph Solovei, their son and the main porter, collapsed on the ground, lifeless and rigid, the grief was immeasurable. And their business's imminent decline now seemed as certain as ever. The young man had always been energetic and full of vigour, sometimes even too much so—until, in an instant, that vitality faltered, his life gone in a puff of London smog.
The day of the funeral Mr Judah Solovei, the father, was stern and stoic, but Nathan could tell it was all but a façade; the mother of the deceased, Rachel Solovei, looked tired and half-drained of life, although she had looked the same even before the funeral, and the probability of her looking exactly like this when her time would come was high.
As the rules declared, the funeral procession set out from the family house in less than twenty-four hours to beat the sunset. Everything that had been organised was heavily discounted in the act of neighbourly magnanimity on the Blackwoods’ insistence, combined with the tradition of abstaining from displaying excessive wealth (which was, in fact, truly absent). The only thing Nathaniel managed (and dared) to talk the family into was a simple safety coffin with a bell attached. You know, just in case.
The procession moved solemnly from the house to the hearse, and further — towards the graveyard on the more suburban scene. They stopped the appropriate amount of times and said the right words. But the air was cold, and nobody was bold enough to speak much during the ride outside of what was necessary. And the words that had been said, Nathaniel did not understand too well.
Although the frozen ground was difficult to break, the job, overall, was an easy one: no priest, eulogy from the closest of kin — a straightforward procedure Nathaniel was content to assist with.
Everything went awry when the mourners and the diggers covered the fresh grave with earth. There was no wind in the air, only light snow and a healthy dose of frost.
And yet, the bell rang.
“Must be the wind,” hesitatingly muttered one of the pall-bearers, who was still circling around the small crowd.
Nathaniel knew perfectly well it couldn’t have been the wind, but maybe there was some small draught circling the Earth closer to the ground?
“Maybe it’s just the grave settling down,” whispered one of the diggers.
But it was way too early for the grave to be doing that — it was way too recent, way too fresh.
And then the bell rang again. Very distinctly.
“Dig him up,” urgently ordered Nathaniel in a low voice. “I’m going to get a doctor.”
Having said that, he turned away from the disgruntled diggers and hurried to get the coachman.
They must have been a vision. Nathaniel did not know the local medical scene too well, but the carriage driver was apparently familiar with a few names around the area. And so, one of the human-carrying hearses from the procession, complete with black drapes and black horses, stopped in front of Dr Vasiliy Soroka’s house.
Nathaniel landed onto the cold ground, leaped up the stairs, and rang the doorbell.
“Good day. May I see Dr Soroka?” asked Nathaniel as soon as the door opened. “My dead client just got better.”
The unfortunate event happened upon the Soloveis when the family least expected it, as it always does. The shopkeepers occupied a small space on the same street as Blackwood and son; their business was going steadily slow for as long as Nathaniel remembered them there, and so when Joseph Solovei, their son and the main porter, collapsed on the ground, lifeless and rigid, the grief was immeasurable. And their business's imminent decline now seemed as certain as ever. The young man had always been energetic and full of vigour, sometimes even too much so—until, in an instant, that vitality faltered, his life gone in a puff of London smog.
The day of the funeral Mr Judah Solovei, the father, was stern and stoic, but Nathan could tell it was all but a façade; the mother of the deceased, Rachel Solovei, looked tired and half-drained of life, although she had looked the same even before the funeral, and the probability of her looking exactly like this when her time would come was high.
As the rules declared, the funeral procession set out from the family house in less than twenty-four hours to beat the sunset. Everything that had been organised was heavily discounted in the act of neighbourly magnanimity on the Blackwoods’ insistence, combined with the tradition of abstaining from displaying excessive wealth (which was, in fact, truly absent). The only thing Nathaniel managed (and dared) to talk the family into was a simple safety coffin with a bell attached. You know, just in case.
The procession moved solemnly from the house to the hearse, and further — towards the graveyard on the more suburban scene. They stopped the appropriate amount of times and said the right words. But the air was cold, and nobody was bold enough to speak much during the ride outside of what was necessary. And the words that had been said, Nathaniel did not understand too well.
Although the frozen ground was difficult to break, the job, overall, was an easy one: no priest, eulogy from the closest of kin — a straightforward procedure Nathaniel was content to assist with.
Everything went awry when the mourners and the diggers covered the fresh grave with earth. There was no wind in the air, only light snow and a healthy dose of frost.
And yet, the bell rang.
“Must be the wind,” hesitatingly muttered one of the pall-bearers, who was still circling around the small crowd.
Nathaniel knew perfectly well it couldn’t have been the wind, but maybe there was some small draught circling the Earth closer to the ground?
“Maybe it’s just the grave settling down,” whispered one of the diggers.
But it was way too early for the grave to be doing that — it was way too recent, way too fresh.
And then the bell rang again. Very distinctly.
“Dig him up,” urgently ordered Nathaniel in a low voice. “I’m going to get a doctor.”
Having said that, he turned away from the disgruntled diggers and hurried to get the coachman.
They must have been a vision. Nathaniel did not know the local medical scene too well, but the carriage driver was apparently familiar with a few names around the area. And so, one of the human-carrying hearses from the procession, complete with black drapes and black horses, stopped in front of Dr Vasiliy Soroka’s house.
Nathaniel landed onto the cold ground, leaped up the stairs, and rang the doorbell.
“Good day. May I see Dr Soroka?” asked Nathaniel as soon as the door opened. “My dead client just got better.”
word count: 633