Rest In Peace

The ceremony is intimate, consisting of only circus folk, predominantly dressed in black and deep blue, save for Paikea, wearing a gown of deep charcoal and a lurid red veil that covers her face from the bottom lashes of her grey-rimmed eyes down.

Tamas arrives in a coal-dark grey suit that looks only slightly too big around the shoulders but is a wonderful shade with his colouring. He hovers at the edge of the crowd, not engaging directly in the mourning, but comforting mourners with salt-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

Many expect the elusive proprietor Sarastro to be in attendance, and despite the morbid excuse, they wait in eager anticipation for his arrival. He does not appear however, and when they discuss it after the fact they believe perhaps he is the anonymous benefactor who contributed to the paying of the expense for the funeral, and that he must currently be orchestrating the business end of the circus at his address in London, as there must be some financial compensation to be made for the time taken up by the company to organize Rose’s funeral.

Paikea welcomes the guests with Farrin at her side, though he occasionally wanders off in the direction of the gardens beyond the cemetery wall, collecting bouquets of fresh flowers to fill crystal bowls and vases stationed at the end of the church pews. Farrin collects bouquets of lilies, carnations and magnolia. While he cannot find any roses there are countless bushels of them, damask roses, dogwood roses, draped over chairs or in crystal vases and bowls.

Though conversation among the sea of dour black dress is subdued, there are remarks about her youth, about her being struck down in her prime. Many sigh and remember her various tricks, their favourite acts of conjuring and transforming. There are quiet tears, murmured condolences to those closest to her, and whispers betraying curiosity as to her family’s whereabouts.

There are whispers about the transience of life, and about how hers came to an end. Few people know, and the answers others are met with prove dissatisfying.

The efforts are dismissed when it is time for the ceremony to take place. Mourners file out in groups and cluster around the grave.

The cemetery is full of mist, the attendees’ boots barely visible on the ground under a layer of white.

The wind carries the scent of wet cemetery loam and lilies and oakmoss that make many funeral goers shiver through the ceremony.

When it is over, the coffin is lowered slowly, and many white roses are tossed onto its lid as it descends.

Tamas tosses a black top hat onto the casket, a cage of black silk obscuring some of the roses. Someone sobs at the sight, though it may also be the sound of the restless wind.

The dirt is piled back in quickly at the sign of an approaching storm.

As the last shovelful of dirt is tipped onto the plot, Pamina steps forward out of the crowd and crouches next to Rose’s headstone. She places a hand against the damp compact earth.

A handful of performers move forward uncertainly, thinking perhaps the fortuneteller has been too overwhelmed by the ordeal, but the earth begins to shift, the dirt moving aside as a bright green shoot rises between her fingers. Other green shoots follow, branching off and turning white, bursting into star-white blossoms.

When Pamina straightens a white rosebush grows across the headstone, obscuring most words save from ‘In Loving Memory of Rose de Laqua’.

Some of the performers linger after the ceremony, looking at the fresh plot of earth and the bush of cloud-white roses.

By the time there is a steady enough drizzle to require an umbrella only a handful of attendees remain, Paikea and Tamas among them. Tamas holds an umbrella over the shorter woman while she does up the topmost buttons of her bolero jacket, meager protection from the increasing wind.

“What have you heard of how she died?” Paikea asks Tamas, her voice wavering slightly. She covers it with a cough and he pretends not to notice.

“Numerous things, none that make much sense. What I have heard most often is it must have been a failure of her heart. Though from what I knew of Miss Rose, she did not have a weak heart,” he replies.

Paikea waves a hand at the headstone. “Heart failure is it? It is the way of things, there is an unexplainable occurrence, and it is explained, in any way that makes sense. Simply pricking her finger on a rose thorn is nonsensical, so they have explained it away with heart failure. Even those who prefer a more romantic death would not believe she pricked her finger and passed away. It is the way of most things,” she pauses and shifts beneath the umbrella. “It is the way of the circus.”

There is something uneasy in her tone; Tamas turns to her, carefully to keep her under the protection of the umbrella, though his left shoulder is beginning to get damp. “May I ask what you mean by that?”

“I mean, Tamas, that we are constantly watched. We are a part of something meant to last forever; this is the first of any injury that has occurred since the inception of the circus. Anything that happens at this point I doubt is accidental.”

Tamas frowns, and turns back to the headstone, now slick with the increasing rain causing a pool of mud beneath their feet. “Do you think someone did this on purpose?”

“I think it cannot be explained as a simple misfortune.”

Tamas does not reply, and Paikea remains silent beside him. When they depart, the last of the crowd to seek shelter within the church, the white roses are bowing in the wind, petals in a flurry like snowflakes, pinned to the mud by the rain.

Text by Lucie MacAulay