Hrafspa: A Funeral Revelation

That wasn't his fault, of course. It still hurts to admit your legends are, in the end, only legends, after all.

"We need to get some stuff from this Russian grocery store near here," said Helena. "They make pretty good falafel, if you want some."

"Sure," I said. "Sounds great."

And soon we were eating falafel in a dingy little grocery store with a sandwich counter. We were surrounded by petrushka dolls and imported chocolate, lit up by the store's half-functioning fluorescent lights. I hoped to see something vaguely medieval among the shelves, but there was nothing there.

I bit into my falafel, the cool tang of the cumcumber sauce mixing with the hot chickpea patties, and stared out the window. I could feel the hard August heat even through the store's air conditioning.

Helena set her tray aside and leaned forward on her elbows, as she always does when she's about to probe. "So," she said. "What are you thinking about?"

"Mikal," I said. "Just working out my thoughts."

"And those would be?"

"I don't know. Trying to get my head around the idea that he's gone," I said. That wasn't the truth, really, but it was close enough. I didn't feel like getting into my anxiety about the religious tendencies of the dead over lunch.

"He was in a lot of pain, at the end," said Helena, sipping her soda. "He's in a better place now."

"I'm sure he is," I said. That, perhaps, was a bigger lie.

I would like to say that I pictured Mikal waking up in his hospital bed to find that all his pain was gone, and that he saw a beautiful, winged maiden standing in front of him, so radiant that the light fell off of her in waves. Perhaps she reached her hand to his, and together they walked the rainbow bridge into Asgard. Ahead of them Mikal might have seen an old man with a spear, missing one eye, and Mikal would have known he'd come home, at last.

But I can't say that.

I would like to say that even if he was not the pagan I had wanted him to be, I knew that he had gone on to heaven -- fluffy clouds, mansions, and paved gold streets, whichever one he believed in -- and that he was happy there, had finally gotten all that he deserved, even if it was from a God I didn't worship.

But I can't say that, either.

All I can say is that I miss him. I miss the legend I made him into. I miss the chances I might have had to hear his voice and sing his songs.

I think of Mikal the Ram, who has now shipped off into the dark sea that knows no shore, and I miss him. I miss him, even if I didn't know him. Maybe especially because of that.

This article is reprinted with permission from Killing the Buddha.

Eric Scott is an MFA student at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, focusing in fiction and creative nonfiction writing. He is originally from St. Louis, Missouri, where he grew up in the Wiccan Coven Pleiades. His story "Three Encounters with the Gods" recently appeared in Ashe!: The Journal of Experimental Spirituality.