Beyond (Book Two of The Whispered Tales)

Chapter 1

The heat reigned over the town like a burning cloak. The streets, houses, and people were all bathing in a mixture of smothering haze and dry air. But even so, the people were not looking for shady shelters. With sweaty palms and beads of sweat going down their foreheads, they were gazing at the end of the main street, the only street for that matter that led to the tavern, the church, and... the cemetery.

'They're coming! They're coming!' came the long-awaited shout. A ginger boy was hopping around the hot tiles, in search for one that wouldn't burn his feet.

In the heat waves, a shaky silhouette began to emerge. The hearse. Everyone's hearts skipped a beat at the very sight. The carpenters, with their chisels resting in their deep scarred flesh of their palms. And merchants of all sorts, making their way through the crowd, without even noticing their booths were left unsupervised. And the small petty thieves for whom, suddenly, an unwatched booth wasn't of such interest anymore. And the barrow-women who had put an abrupt end to their deafening cackle. And the ladies who were still, God-knows-why, in the market, that late afternoon.

'And when you think about it, only a few weeks ago I was talking to her' said a portly woman with rosy cheeks, whose hair bun had gone soft under the hat she was now using as a fan. 'She was such a smart and well-behaved girl' she added, breathing heavily. 'And so young...'

The woman she was talking to didn't seem to notice her, rather looking for a better spot. The black horses passed snuffling by the gawking crowd, with their curious eyes carefully inspecting the strange convoy that waddled behind the hearse.

There were just three people, not counting the priest. Their eyes musing and hands quivering. But none shed a tear. They were rather absent than sad. And so different from each other.

The middle-aged woman walked slowly, her head bowed. Her mourning was discreet: a black hat with three small feathers of the same color and a veil covering her face entirely. Her clothes, although old-fashioned, were neat. Her gray skirt with fine tailoring matched perfectly with the white silk blouse with ample chest ruffles. The whole outfit was topped by a lace sun umbrella in the same shade of gray as the skirt.

A couple of steps behind her there was the old lady. Her dress, once black, now a cloth faded in different shades of gray was sweeping the street dust with every move she made. Her hair was hidden under a bonnet, just as faded as her dress. But a couple of silver hair locks had broken free from the velvety imprisonment of the bonnet and were now carelessly caressing her cheek. Her face was ragged, full of wrinkles, deepened in her skin by years and years of storms and winds. Her eyes looked relentless, many looking away from that gaze that seemed to drill deep inside their souls.

Further behind, as if he was afraid to join the two women, a boy whose age was hard to guess, was slogging his feet. His eyes were blue and clear and still had that prankish spark, just like that of a twelve-year-old. But his sunburnt cheek might have very well been that of a twenty-year-old. The boy, who rarely lifted his gaze from the ground, gave the impression that he would have rather been anywhere else but there. His gaze, like a frightened rabbit, gave away a certain awkwardness. His clothes, too big for him, given perhaps by a big-hearted widow, made him look even more solitary. He was wearing clogs that were two sizes too big for him, hence the slogging. He was the only one not in mourning. His clothes, although clean, were old and patchy, better suited for the work in the field. And his worn-down straw hat appeared borrowed from a scarecrow.

'The poor girl...' added the portly woman, not caring that she was talking to herself. 'Yet one thing baffles me: how come her parents aren't here? Has no one told them? What kind of world are we living in?' she nodded.