Gray clouds swirl, but never part, in the sky above Death’s land. Sunlight never touches the bones strewn across the countryside. Soft snow falls to blanket the gentle hills and valleys, copses and dales. Bitter wind creeps through walls and flesh just the same, sowing ice and salt as it goes. Despite the lack of sunlight, blighted stalks of arctic willow grow from shallow tundra soil, up through ribs and mandibles, up through eye sockets and collarbones, straining above the snow cover. After all, Death’s herd must eat.
The kerberoxen move in small groups, shaggy, gray-brown, and asymmetrical. They mar the bleached landscape: hot tears on blotter paper. Their hooves punch down through snow and bone, raking and scraping to reveal willow, or crowberries, or lichen that has managed to take hold on a half-buried cranial plane. When a kerberox finds food, its central head lowers to eat, while the head on each side either rises: to keep watch for competition if the patch is small, or to call out to neighbors in a low baritone if the food source is large enough for other members of the herd to eat.
Some of the kerberoxen are molting. On Sundays, Death walks the estate, inspecting the animals, checking to see which are ready for combing. Because there are no changes to the weather, there is no molting season. Each animal molts regularly, but not en masse. Death combs all the qiviut– the fine, downy woolen underhair– by hand, and works it with thin quick phalanges, keeping only the softest and finest fibers.
Each kerberox only molts once a year, but Death is nothing if not patient.
Death lives in an old wooden house in the center of the estate. The house is very warm. It’s connected to Death’s hothouse mulberry grove, where Death raises silkworms. Death knows the precise moment when each silkworm is ready to hatch, and is prepared. One eyedropper of warm water, squeezed onto the cocoon; nimble slender fingerbones, spinning the silk thread off in one single long strand; spindles, to collect the silk. The cocoon turns quickly in Death’s deft hands, until the last of the thread winds off, and the new moths– heritage Bombyx mandarina– fly off in little circles, dizzy but unharmed.
Death is a vegetarian.
The house creaks and moans in the wind, which Death finds to be a comfort. Sometimes late at night, lying in an old wooden bed, Death relaxes and allows the clouds to dissipate. Moonlight performs a slow dappled waltz across the walls and ceilings of Death’s home, diffused by empty trees and reflected by snow, and the sound of a steam train engine calls across the grange, though there is no outbound traffic. Death’s angora rabbits shiver in their sleep on the quilted bedspread, and Death knows peace.
Death combines the kerberox qiviut with the rabbit angora and fine silk to make thread. Death alone spins this thread, and then, in the evenings, Death knits. A single kerberox combing can be used to knit enough thread to make seven square feet of cabled cloth, but Death is nothing if not persistent.
Sometimes at night Death lies covered by the quilt in the moonlight, surrounded by small warm sleeping rabbits. Death remembers what it was like to have been alive. Remembers the fear of abandoning one’s body, the dreaded impending revelation of the mystery. If Death had eyebrows, they would raise in sympathy; if Death had lips, they would curl up in a small smile: recognition of shared experience; remembrance of crossing universal thresholds.
For Death knows: we are all ghosts temporarily thrust into living bodies. There is evidence in every coffin, every x-ray, every sugar skull, every Halloween night. When we go, everything that we are– every intention, every desire, every love, every hate– is woven into Death’s great darkness. Death gathers it all. Death remembers. And Death will knit until all of the knitting is done.
Art courtesy of the excellent Randy Ortiz.
Mawingu ya kijivu huzunguka, lakini hayagawanyiki kamwe, angani juu ya nchi ya Kifo. Nuru ya jua haigusi kamwe mifupa iliyotawanyika kotekote mashambani. Theluji laini huanguka na kufunika vilima na mabonde laini, vilima na mabonde. Upepo mkali hupenya kuta na nyama kwa njia ileile, ukitangaza barafu na chumvi. Licha ya ukosefu wa mwangaza wa jua, shina la mti wa willow wa kaskazini huongezeka kutoka kwenye udongo wa chini wa tundra, kupitia mbavu na mandibula, kupitia vifuko vya macho na mifupa ya mgongo, na kusonga juu ya kifuniko cha theluji. Baada ya yote, kundi la Kifo lazima kula. Kerberoxen husafiri katika vikundi vidogo, vyenye manyoya mengi, vyenye rangi ya kijivu-kahawia, na visivyo sawa. Wao huharibu mandhari iliyopakwa rangi: machozi yenye joto kwenye karatasi ya kufuta. Vipande vya miguu yao huchimba theluji na mifupa, na kufunua miiba, au mikapi, au lichen ambayo imeweza kushikilia juu ya ndege ya fuvu la kichwa iliyochimbwa nusu. Wakati kerberos hupata chakula, kichwa chake cha kati hupungua ili kula, wakati kichwa cha kila upande kinapanda: ili kuangalia kwa mashindano ikiwa patch ni ndogo, au kupiga kelele kwa majirani kwa baritone ya chini ikiwa chanzo cha chakula ni kikubwa vya kutosha kwa wanachama wengine wa kundi kula. Baadhi ya kerberoxen zinabadilika umbo. Jumapili, Kifo hutembea katika shamba hilo, akichunguza wanyama, akichunguza ni nani aliye tayari kuchungwa. Kwa sababu hakuna mabadiliko ya hali ya hewa, hakuna msimu wa kugeuza manyoya. Kila mnyama hujipinda-pinda kwa ukawaida, lakini si kwa wingi. Kifo huchonga qiviut yote - nywele nzuri za chini za sufu - kwa mkono, na kuifanya kwa nyuzinyuzi nyembamba za haraka, na kuweka tu nyuzi laini na nzuri zaidi. Kila kerberox hujipinda mara moja tu kwa mwaka, lakini Kifo si kitu isipokuwa ni mstahimilivu. Kifo huishi katika nyumba ya zamani ya mbao katikati ya shamba hilo. Nyumba hiyo ni yenye joto sana. Ni kushikamana na kifo cha chafu mulberry grove, ambapo kifo huongeza silkworms. Kifo hujua wakati hususa ambapo kila minyoo wa hariri yuko tayari kuanguliwa, na ni tayari. Dropsper ya maji ya joto, iliyofungwa kwenye kamba; mifupa ya vidole nyembamba, inayozunguka nyuzi za hariri katika kamba moja ndefu; spindles, kukusanya hariri. Kamba hiyo inageuka haraka mikononi mwa Kifo, mpaka nyuzi ya mwisho ikitoweka, na nondo wapya - urithi wa Bombyx mandarina - wanaruka kwa mzunguko mdogo, wakiwa na kizunguzungu lakini bila kujeruhiwa. Kifo ni mboga. Nyumba hiyo hupiga kelele na kuugua kwa upepo, jambo ambalo Kifo hupata kuwa faraja. Wakati mwingine usiku wa manane, akiwa amelala kwenye kitanda cha zamani cha mbao, Kifo hupumzika na kuruhusu mawingu yatoweke. Mwanga wa mwezi unafanya waltz ya polepole kwenye kuta na dari za nyumba ya Kifo, unaenea na miti tupu na kuonyeshwa na theluji, na sauti ya injini ya gari-moshi la mvuke inaita kwenye shamba, ingawa hakuna trafiki ya nje. Sungura wa Angora wa Kifo hutetemeka wanapolala juu ya kitambaa cha kitanda, na Kifo hujua amani. Kifo huchanganya kerberox qiviut na angora ya sungura na hariri nzuri ili kutengeneza kamba. Kifo pekee hutengeneza kamba hii, na kisha, jioni, Kifo hutengeneza kamba. "Kerberos moja inaweza kutumika kwa kamba ya kutosha kutengeneza nyuzi za kutosha kutengeneza ""sabafu saba za mraba za kitambaa cha waya,"" lakini kifo ni kitu ikiwa sio kuendelea." Wakati mwingine usiku Kifo kiko kando ya kitambaa katika mwangaza wa mwezi, kikiwa kimezungukwa na sungura wadogo wenye joto wanaolala. Kifo kinakumbuka jinsi ilivyokuwa kuwa hai. Anakumbuka hofu ya kuacha mwili wa mtu, kufunuliwa kwa siri hiyo yenye kuogopesha. Kama kifo alikuwa eyebrows, wao itabidi kuinua katika huruma; kama kifo alikuwa midomo, wao curl juu katika tabasamu ndogo: kutambua ya uzoefu pamoja; kumbukumbu ya kuvuka mipaka ya ulimwengu. Kwa maana Kifo kinajua: sisi sote ni roho waliopigwa kwa muda katika miili iliyo hai. Kuna ushahidi katika kila sanduku, kila X-ray, kila fuvu la sukari, kila usiku wa Halloween. Tunapoondoka, kila kitu tulicho, kila nia, kila tamaa, kila upendo, kila chuki, hufanyiwa uvutano katika giza kubwa la Kifo. Kifo hukusanya yote. Kifo hukumbuka. Na kifo kitashikilia mpaka kushikilia kumekamilika. Ufundi kwa heshima ya Randy Ortiz bora.