Vignette Collection

Deathday

He is slated to die tomorrow.

The date has been tattooed on the inside of his wrist since birth, so it did not come as a surprise, but all the same, of was a sombre event, the passing.

In the olden days, they were told that  once they left the world, their souls would be transported to an eternal utopia above the clouds, as part of the earth's way of thanking them for their worldly services.

These days, however, it was the opposite: they were to be brought down to the depths of a bottomless chasm, an abyss in which they were to drift in solitude forever.

This was told to them by the Oracle, a messenger of the grand universe. The Oracle did not receive otherworldly knowledge often; but when they did it was on a grand and terrible scale.

It was hard, the parting. Even if they were accustomed to it, had been bred with the reality firmly cemented in their minds, there was always that sliver, that tiny bit of sadness, a mourning deep down in their hearts that all felt but never voiced.

After all, the universe did not like complainers, the Oracle said.

And so, they prepared a feast, as was custom: an eight-tiered cake, representative of the heavens, decorated with candied fruits and flowers, spiced nuts and fragrant herbs. There were scrumptious dishes of braised meat glazed in rich, savoury sauce, wild greens roasted to perfection, and delicate sugar sweets made from golden syrup and fresh cream. There were hearty broths and light soups, fresh fruit and strips of salted dried fish.

Everyone pitched in to help, with even the most meagre offerings accepted, preparations extending a week in advance of his due date.

And so, today, they party. As part of the opening ceremony, he is given three cups of water to drink- from the warm spring of birth, the tepid pool of life, the icy stream of death. When he is done, he is given a sharp bone knife to cut the cake into even slices for each member in attendance. The process is long and meticulous, and when he is done, he takes a slice from the seventh layer- the one from their plane of existence, and eats it. The youngest members get the top layer, the oldest the very bottom.

It is delicious, as it always is, but for him each bite weighs heavy on his tongue. How strange it is, to think that he was once the youngster eating from the top slice, without much of a care in the world. Now, as he looks around, he sees the same in the new children, those too young to understand the solemnity of the event. Of course, they were quiet, but their bright eyes and tapping feet  betrayed their eagerness at the feast that awaited them after each sweet bite of cake.

Too sweet, he thinks to himself, as he clears his plate.