A collection of flash fiction (and non-fiction) tales written for the purpose-designed 'Weekend Writein prompts', challenging writers to produce around 500 word stories each time we choose to join the party.
The subject turned to updating our Wills and Last Wishes, the way conversations have that peculiar way of wandering - after dinner (and a glass or three of red). We couldn't help but reminisce about another time and place; another Wills update; and another solicitor – many years ago. It all started earnestly and respectfully enough until we came to the bit where you need to record your wishes for burial or cremation.
What followed was seriously Kanute's fault – him of the Danish birth, the one who wanted an updated version of the old Viking funeral that took place to honour VIVs – (Very Important Vikings).
In those faraway days, a boat would be made to carry the well-dressed and armed body atop a heap of combustible materials (not to mention all the food and wine he would need for the journey!). The boat would then be launched into the sunset. At a certain distance from shore, 'crack' archers would let loose a veritable bombardment of burning arrows and ignite the boat. The resulting inferno would finally dwindle to nought but a final whisp of smoke gently sliding away.
Kanute's modern-day interpretation was cremation, and his ashes put into a small toy boat and pushed off into Lake Alexandrina, South Australia, where we lived at the time. He felt confident Department of Health laws would be satisfied, but only if he could burn his boat after his bridges were done for. Not a single archer to be found amongst family and friends.
Luckily enough, this tickled the memory and the funny bone of our solicitor, who then made a 'tongue-in-cheek' suggestion of using the antique cannon in the park at Milang to 'blow' the boat out of the water. He proceeded to ask me if I wanted to be blown up, too. When we could stop laughing and mopping our eyes, I could politely refuse, suggesting a simple toss off the jetty would do me.
At the first opportunity we checked said lakeside cannon – and discovered it was just as well we hadn't gotten serious about firing it. That historic weapon was pointed NOT at the lake, but fair and square at the historic stone building that had been the Police Station in the late 1800's. What could possibly have been the significance of that placement, do you think?
But wait. The story's not done. By accident, the solicitor's office door had been left slightly ajar, and it seems this bizarre saga had been avidly listened to by an elderly lady in the waiting room. Quite likely she was there for the same or similar purpose, and to this day, we're not sure if it was horror or disgust reflected in her eyes and tightly screwed-up mouth AND the palpable sounds of silence bouncing off the walls, as we walked out with the solicitor, all three of us still chuckling.
Author's Note:
A postscript to this story is our 'find' of a perfect little plywood replica rowboat, and then, in a charity shop, a small teddy bear with a most mournful face, clutching a tiny bunch of red roses. He fitted so perfectly into the prow of the boat, that he was declared 'Captain of the Ashes'. So the good news is that Kanute (just like a boy-scout) IS prepared – but I'm not. Guess it'll be our best-looking shoebox for me, renamed 'Herbox' to take to shake over lake or sea, with the final farewell – "She'll be Right!".
Author's 'Nother Note:
You maybe doubt the existence of my 'Captain of the Ashes'
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