Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

The Problem of a Eulogy

Tuesday, 16 Nisan, 5693

Francis was working on writing his answer to Freitag's new non-Indo-Yeropian laws when the telephone rang, disturbing his thought with the clamor of the black metal as it did. He had been feverishly penning words at his desk by candlelight, and he removed his glasses for a moment to rub his weary eyes before turning his attention fully to the demand of the stick phone in the corner. Again the phone rang, and with it the flames of the candles flickered, blown by the chilling draft which entered through the latched window of the small room in the attic where he sat. Francis adjusted his gaze back to the phone and returned the glasses to his face, rising from the chair to grab it. It wasn't a promising thing to have someone calling so late.

"Hello?" he said as he answered the call, holding the cold metal receiver anxiously to his ear.

"Hello, Francis. It's Gerd," replied the voice on the line. It was the voice of his brother-in-law, but it wasn't the voice which Francis expected of him. Instead of the usual optimism and wit for which Gerard was known, his voice was somber, quiet, and trembling.

"Gerd? My, it's good to hear from you!" Francis replied, feeling a sense of discomfort which settled at his core; "I've been thinking of you quite a bit today, actually. But you don't sound yourself. Is everything all right?"

"I'm afraid not, Francis," Gerard said sadly; "My father died today, apart from everything." He choked out those final words as if tears were somehow inappropriate, but how could they have been when everything had become so hard for them so quickly, especially for Gerd.

"My!" Francis sighed, feeling the burden of his dear friend's heart. "That's quite a lot. You have my deepest sympathies, of course. Your father was a very special sort of person, always optimistic. I always thought very highly of him, as I'm sure that you're aware."

"And he of you, Francis," Gerard replied quickly, almost desperately. "That's actually why I'm calling. I know my father wasn't a religious man, but I still need someone to preform the ceremony for him, and being as he thought so well of you, I hoped that you might..." his words trailed off with the request, and Francis froze at the question.

He closed his eyes tight and tried to organize his thoughts. This was not a simple request, certainly not at this time.

"May I have some time to think about it?" he asked him quietly. It wasn't the kind of request that he would normally make, but these were exceptional circumstances.

Gerard was quiet for a moment, the sound of silence over the telephone deafening Francis's ear with the loud pronunciation of his guilt.

"Of course," Gerd answered softly. "You will get back to me when you know?" he asked to reconfirm. His voice betrayed his feelings, hopeful and hurting, and Francis's heart tore at the sound of his brother's agony.

"Of course," Francis promised; "I need only to consult my bishop, and you will have your answer."

"Very well," Gerd said breathily as though he may sob. "Thank you, Francis."

Francis replaced the receiver gently on the fork of the switch hook with a frown and a sudden wave of weakness hit him. He grabbed the small wooden stand on which the dark phone sat and fell upon it with the weight of his upper body, too weak to support himself. He began to cry, his glasses misting with his tears. How could this have happened?

The next day, Francis went to go see Bishop Ian DelMore, who was the Kingsmen overseer of the Lütarian churches in Bevel and the surrounding area.

He hesitated when he came to the threshold of the office of the churchman and paused, standing awkwardly in the doorway as he attempted to recall his courage.

"Francis, my boy!" said the man with a pipe in his hand, his white hair combed especially badly.

Francis held his hat in his hands, squeezing the brim as he glanced over at the man who carried such authority. The air of the small office, which was relatively under-furnished for a man of his rank in the Kingsmen Order, was laced with wisps of fine smoke.

"Come, sit down!" the bishop invited with a broad grin of skepticism spread across his wrinkled face.

Francis approached his superior with careful, quiet steps, each stride evenly measured, and an unsettled feeling in his stomach. DelMore's pale-green eyes followed him to the chair across his desk where the young man sat.

"You had wanted to talk?" DelMore reminded him, waiting for a statement of purpose.

Francis stared down at his hat with wrinkled brow in silence, his fingers still clutching at the edges and his nails cutting into the fine brown velvet.

"You said it was something about this trouble with the Altruites," the bishop reminded him.

Francis nodded despondently before raising his blue eyes, burdened. His heart was aching increasingly badly. "Bishop DelMore," he said, and he wondered what force compelled him as he spoke from depths of his mourning, "my sister's husband is an Altruite by heritage, and yesterday, his father died. He had no church or place of worship, so there is no one whom the family may call to conduct a proper funeral for him." Francis paused, the words becoming much too much for him, and he drew a deep breath in before he ventured to continue. "Last night, my brother-in-law called me. They would like me to conduct the service. Forgive me. Normally, this wouldn't be a question for me, but with everything going on..."

"Is your brother-in-law a Kingsman?" DelMore asked him, interrupting his trailing thoughts.

"Yes," Francis replied softly.

"His father?"

"Unconverted."

"Religious?" the bishop pressed.

"Non-practicing," Francis replied, fighting the catch in his throat. "We had frequent discussions, all of them amiable. Gred always said that he liked me quite a bit," again, he paused. "He had a lot of questions."

Bishop DelMore leaned back in his chair and shifted his eyes as he puffed on his pipe. "What, you want my advise?" he pondered with his lips closed round his pipe, and he let out a deep breath of smoke. "I wouldn't do it, and, as your bishop, I would have to advise you against it. Such a thing is not expedient at this time."

Francis hesitated. Something about the conversation didn't sit well with his conscience, and he felt it, the cold guilt growing inside of him, spreading through the depths of his churning gut. Still, if all the time he knew the answer, why had he come at all? Why had he requested a meeting with DelMore or sought any advise at all? Why had he not simply agreed to do it when Gerard had asked him over the phone? There was, of course, an answer, but... what that answer was, he was too afraid to say.

"Francis, I'm asking that you not," the bishop added firmly, as if he knew the young man's thoughts, and he looked at him with eyes of warning. "Is that understood?"