Tin Tipping

The Escape

In a past, too distant to remember, there was Nothing; an all-consuming emptiness that held within it everything that wasn’t. For a long time, Nothing slept, changelessly.

Then, quietly, carefully, something smaller than a spark, slipped through the skin of Nothing and into existence. Oh, the terror, exhilaration, disgust, wonder, embarrassment, joy, and anguish of existence! In a fit of emotion, the something took off across the void, leaping like a rabbit. As the something fled, it pulled behind it a tangle of other somethings, unspooling like viscera. Suddenly facts, instead of hypotheticals, all of these new somethings were forced to confront their abrupt entry into existence. They all started to panic, and rejoice, and grieve, and laugh, and vomit, and sing, and scream, and yawn. All understandable reactions, really.

Nothing awoke. Floating in its own gore, Nothing surveyed the chaos expanding around it. Then, it turned and swallowed a small cluster of worlds at its flank. Nothing shook itself and began its hunt for the other escapees, following the pulled thread of the first something and moving just slightly faster than any of its children could manage.

A man died. That's how it began. A long time ago, in a place far away, a man died. He was an important man; a respectable, serious man who’d lived a respectable, serious life. He was a priest or a politician or something. Maybe a king, even. In any case, he died, and a small swarm of other important, respectable, serious men made plans to attend his funeral. Which would have been fine, if not for the inherent nature of important, respectable, serious men.

For you see, whenever one important, respectable, serious man heard that another of his station was going to the funeral, he would inevitably decide to attend as well. His connection to the deceased (or lack thereof) being beside the point. Then, naturally, he would force his family to go with him, because, "What would people think, otherwise?"

Thus, the building was far overcrowded before the service even began. It was a long service, as was befitting of such an important man, but nobody remembered much of what was said. As time dragged on, the room grew warmer and more suffocating, until everything was too hot, and too loud, and too old, and it smelled funny, and no one had eaten properly that morning, and a toddler burst into tears.

At first, the toddler’s important, serious, respectable father did his best to mitigate the situation by clenching his jaw and slowly growing red. When that proved ineffective, he scolded the child. “You must stop crying!” he said. “Crying at a funeral! How unbecoming!" The child remained unconvinced, however, and new sobs began trickling from other corners of the room. Then, half the crowd was weeping. None were crying for the dead important man, exactly, but some were crying for him inexactly. Maybe that was enough for him.

For just as the heat, and the wailing, and the crush of bodies grew unbearable, the dead, important man opened his respectable, serious mouth and sang. He sang a song so joyful that all those weeping began to laugh, and all those silent began to dance, and they all burst out into the street as one great mass, shouting, and twirling, and carrying the coffin with them. They became a parade gamboling down the street. That’s how The Funeral began its journey.

If The Funeral comes to your town, you will know before it arrives. You can hear it miles away and feel it further. Some people make their children stay inside when it comes. Some people hide in basements and attics and plug their ears until it has passed. This is unnecessary in addition to being ineffective.

If The Funeral is in you, it has always been there.

You may hear its music from your desk, and hum softly while you work. You may pause at your window and watch as it dances down the street. You may wander out of your building and stand, staring, beside your neighbors. You may marvel at the flags and the dazzling colors, and the murmuration of bodies spinning like pinwheels. You may even cheer and run alongside them. Most of you will. And for most, that's as far as it will go.

But for others, a shell will crack inside them, and something will spill out in a torrent. They will stand up in their starched suits, or uniforms, or modest dresses, and they will know where they need to go.