Page 47 of Reckless

Everything important on Dauntless happened in the old church. It wasn’t a proper church and hadn’t been in over a hundred years. It had no priest or anything. But the little stone building itself was the heart of the island. It was where we gathered every week to drink and dance. It was where we went when the bell rang out telling us there was an emergency. It was where people got married, and new babies got welcomed, and where, in the end, everyone met to say goodbye to one of our own.

I told Alastair about funerals on the island. How they were like celebrations of the person’s life. Everyone on the island would come to the church and bring food and sing and dance and talk and tell stories. It seemed to make him feel better. I hoped it did. Death was horrible no matter what, but it seemed like it’d be worse if you were a mainlander. If you didn’t have the island for support. I knew people on the mainland had communities, support networks, but…I just thought it must be hard not to have the island, is all. Though I guess for people who didn’t live on Dauntless, they wouldn’t even know what they were missing.

I met Alastair at the old mill house on the day of Anna’s funeral, so we could walk to the church together. Before we’d even stepped out of Alastair’s house, we heard lively music from up the path and saw the overflow from the church assembled outside. As we got closer, Alastair seemed even more nervous than I was at the prospect of spending an afternoon with everyone from Dauntless.

“It’s alright,” I told him quietly, taking a stab at what might be going through his head. “You belong here as much as anyone.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when he took my hand and squeezed it. But I liked it.

We reached the churchyard, which was in constant flux—people going into the church, people coming out of the church with plates heaped with food.

There was no formal service to speak of. Anna Hooper had wanted a burial at sea, so her body had been sent to the mainland for cremation, and then in another couple of days, Archie Hooper would go out on the boat with her and say a last goodbye. Today was about celebrating her life. After everyone had had a chance to eat, Red Joe would say a few words, and then anyone who wanted to could join in and say what they needed to say. I explained all this to Alastair as best I could over the sounds of a warring banjo and accordion.

“I don’t think I want to say anything.” He chewed his bottom lip.

“It’s okay. No one’s gonna force you.”

“I just…it doesn’t sound awful? Like I don’t really care about her? I didn’t speak at Neal’s funeral either. I just…sometimes it seems like the more I’m feeling, the harder it is to put words to it.”

I understood that well enough. And I hoped that once Alastair saw what the memorial was like, he’d relax a little. And that seemed to be the case. Lots of people talked to him. He got way fewer icy stares than Dominic the copper, who, despite having swapped his uniform for a very nonthreatening black polo and slacks, was still making some of the islanders hiss like cats when he got too close. The eulogies, which ranged from Elias Dinmore’s sharp nod and muttered declaration that Anna “was a good one,” to Sarah Hooper’s rambling speech about the time Anna helped her get a frog out of her toilet, got to me even more than I’d expected. They were touching in their simplicity, their honesty. Nothing flowery or over-the-top. A few sniffles and wet eyes, but no sobbing or wailing. Just the plain truth of who Anna had been and what she’d meant to the island. Alastair looked spellbound by every word spoken.

As dusk fell and another round of dancing was set to begin, I could tell he was exhausted. I was too, and my head was starting to throb near the site of the gash. I found Alastair being urged to try his hand at the banjo and said, softly, “Wanna take a walk?”

His relief was so obvious, I nearly laughed. He followed me away from the crowd and onto the path leading to the harbour.

We ended up sitting at the end of the jetty, watching the last of the sunlight fade away, the music still audible in the distance. The waves washed in and out. A few gulls still circled, calling, and the air tasted like salt.

Alastair spoke first. “It’s nice, how things are done here. I wish I’d thought to do something more like this for Neal when he died.”

I didn’t know if it was weird to be talking to Alastair about his husband. I felt a little nervous, like it reminded me that Alastair might be comparing me to Neal sometimes. And then I felt stupid for imagining Alastair would ever think of me on the same level as Neal. But maybe he would, if we took this thing between us further. I figured this was part of getting to know each other, like Alastair said we should do.

“What was his funeral like?” I asked.

“Strange. Neal was very open in some ways. Adventurous. And very traditional in others. He was buried in a cemetery in his hometown. There was a service in a church, which I wasn't expecting. He certainly wasn’t religious, and so at first I suspected his parents of undermining his wishes and giving him the service they wanted. But it was all there, in the letter of wishes.”

“And you never talked about it?”

“Not really, no. We’d make jokes: ‘If you die before me, I’m burying you with that hideous vase,’ that sort of thing. But we didn’t talk about it seriously. I didn’t even make a letter of wishes until after he died. And I saw death all the time at my job, knew how suddenly it could happen.” He paused. “I think maybe we can live our lives one way, but once we start thinking about death—really thinking about it—we want to hedge our bets. We’re less sure of what comes next than we pretend to be.”

I cast a look at him just in time to catch the wry twist of his mouth.

“He wanted to get right with God or something in the end, just in case?” I ventured.

“Maybe not God, exactly. But the rituals we have in place, they mean something. Even if we try to convince ourselves they don't. Maybe he thought a traditional burial would help ensure he didn’t get lost on his way to the afterlife.” He shrugged. “Or maybe he wanted any rough edges smoothed between him and his family members, if he were to go first.”

I nodded, thinking about this island and its people, stubbornly rooted in our traditions. “I barely remember my mum’s funeral. I mean, it was a lot like this. But…” I trailed off, not sure how to explain. “I wasn’t really there. Mentally, I mean. I think…you can call something a celebration of life, you can play music and tell stories and make each other laugh, but...”

“But it's still death.” Alastair supplied the part I shied away from saying.

“Yeah.” I looked out at the waves.

“And you were so young.” His voice was gentle, sympathetic.

It made me bristle. “I was old enough.”

He didn't reply for a while. Then finally he said, “I didn't know age had any bearing on how much it hurts.”

I started to feel strange, my heart beating too fast, my gut queasy. I thought of Tall Tom Finch telling me I was head of the family now, which was bullshit, just because I was the boy in the family. If anyone was in charge of the farm, it was Kat, that was clear enough. But I remembered that feeling like there was something I was meant to be doing, but I couldn’t see my way to it. Like I was drowning in my own silence, my own anger and uncertainty. Like I couldn’t figure out the words that would make things better for Kat. Couldn’t look out for her the way the island expected me to.