Words of love for her that had been coiled down so deep in my heart for so long seemed to spiral upward, rejoicing in their freedom, and I spoke, flitting between French, our unique village dialect, and English.
“Jeanne des Montagnes was nothing short of extraordinary.” I allowed that statement to settle across the crowd, to sink into their flesh so that they would understand that they stood at the funeral of someone who had been legendary whilst she had lived, and would become a folk tale filled with power and intrigue.
“One of my first memories of her was walking through the village as she held my hand. With each couple of steps she took, so she would slow down as someone tugged on her sleeves or needled her side in a bid to gain her attention. Being an impetulant child, I had stamped my feet, wailing for us to keep moving.” A few of the elders chuckled at this, knowing full well exactly how impetulant I had been. “But,” I continued over the soft laughter, “she had simply shushed me, turning towards whoever needed her help to listen to their plight. And once she had reassured them that she would help, we would walk another few steps only for the exact same thing to occur. It took us an hour to walk a few feet.” More chuckles ensued. “But when I asked her why - why do you halt your progress for others? She simply looked at me and said, ‘Marie, to be born of the power that we are means to guide and help others within our fold. It does a leader no good to ignore their people - to turn a blind eye to their plight.” The crowd now remained silent as I surged forward. “And such was the first lesson Jeanne des Montagnes bestowed upon me.”
Many of the elders nodded, whilst Marta simply looked pensive. “There were many lessons she bestowed, and I have a feeling that only as I grow older - wiser - will I come to truly appreciate them. A woman who governed not one village, but three. A woman who maintained good relations with our fellow clans across countries. A woman who understood the Magick of a village, despite all the trappings it may entail. May we bid such a woman farewell as we pay our last respects.”
The crowd rose, lining up haphazardly as they each looked upon her remains, many sliding a golden coin - a cross - a family ring - a photograph, into the casket so that she may know that, even in death, she was treasured.
It was a long, tedious process, and I held my posture, even when I felt the Demon’s gaze take me in. Cortland, my mind seemed to whisper his name, reminding me of the intimacy we had experienced.
Time seemed to simultaneously drag and move too quickly. There were times that I stood before the crowd, my fingers twitching as I fought the urge to scratch my neck; to shift my feet; to simply move. And yet, by the time four young men stepped forward, hoisting her casket on their shoulders, readying themselves for the procession, it somehow seemed too quick.
Once more I was tasked with the job of leading the procession - leading the four men who carried my grandmother as we trailed through the village, stopping at all her favorite spots so that she could bid them farewell.
With the amount of people who were part of the procession, it was slow moving, but we stopped at the windmill where she had been born. It had been abandoned during the year of her birth, a short-loved drought causing the rivers to run dry, making the mill non-functional, and because it was abandoned, it was the perfect spot for some nomads to reside - even momentarily.
We stopped at the fields she had played in as a child, we stopped at the bakery that my grandfather had bought her bread from during their courtship, we even stopped at the bar that formed part of the Inn, where her family had celebrated her wedding.
Every street of the village was crammed with those dressed in our mourning colors, making movement near impossible, and yet still we pushed forward, until finally we crested the hill at the top of the village where our home lay - the same stone cottage that my grandfather had lovingly built with his bare hands before he went off picking goods off other farms and got himself shot.
Some laws were universal.
As we lingered outside her home - the same home she had birthed my mother in, the same roof she had raised me beneath, I too bid the stonework farewell, for once I had tied up all my loose ends in this village, there would be no returning for me. That thought brought about a pang of sadness - a jolt of longing for things that might have been. Nostalgia for something that could have happened was an odd experience.
Our last and final stop was the cemetery that sat deep in the woods - the one solely reserved for our people. Unless you were one of us, you would not even know it existed, but I could have picked my way through the forest blindfolded, and once more I led the procession, apologizing to the river, the trees, and the earth about the sheer number of people that were marching through her shrubbery, until finally my fingers unhooked the metal latch of the gate - the same gate that seemed to blend into the scenery around us.
It opened soundlessly, telling me all there was to know. These people still serviced this area regularly - still maintained the graves of their loved ones, visiting frequently. I didn’t have to strain my gaze to see the wide earthen hole that sat next to my mother’s tombstone. The earthy smell beckoned us forward and once more - even when I didn’t want to - even when the weight of my own grief seemed too much - I still led the way.
On the opposite side of the gaping hole sat my grandfather’s tombstone, and from everything I had been able to piece together, theirs was not a love match, but rather a marriage of convenience - an alliance of sorts, one that my grandmother had still made him work for.
The acid taste of regret burned the back of my throat as I realized that I had never asked her about their relationship - had never sat her down and allowed her to tell me about how their courtship had worked, and now the time for such conversations was long gone.
I watched as the men lowered her casket into the earth, stepping forward to drop my own handful of soil on the polished top. It landed with a thud that somehow seemed too loud for this area, and just as quickly as I threw my dirt in her grave, so I stepped back allowing others to do the same, my gaze lingering on the headstone belonging to my mother. How many times had I come here whilst growing up? To talk to her - sing to her - tell her my woes. It was yet another thing I lost when I fled - another connection, and I was starting to understand that such connection was a privilege not everyone was granted in this life.
As members of the crowd lined up to whisper words of departure and offer her a piece of dirt, essentially returning her to the earth, I began to sing. I sang an old French song about life, love, and the kaleidoscope of experiences in between: Au Clair de la Lune. It didn’t take long for the crowd to join me.
It was a lament of sorts with Marta’s helpers darting through the crowd, handing out white tapered candles for everyone to light. Others dropped floral arrangements against the newly inscripted headstone that had to have been erected within the last day, whilst men all around dug out lighters from deep within their pockets. Within a matter of moments, the candles were lit, a surge of light in the heart of the forest. But I couldn’t focus on that, instead, my gaze was riveted on the headstone - on what it said.
Here lies a fierce woman
Jeanne des Montagnes
Guardian of des Montagnes
Helper of many.
Survived by her granddaughter, Marie des Montagnes.
That last line tugged at me, flaying away all the hardened barriers I had put into place between myself and the village - myself and the people, because staring at her tombstone proves that I was included all along, even if they never spoke the words I craved to hear.