Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 2. Chapter 2: The Cemetery

Chapter 2: The Cemetery

The limousine I'm in is smoothly rolling down High Point Road, which cuts through the heart of the Bridal Path neighbourhood of Toronto.

As I recline against the back seat, I sigh. My eyes are barely able to register the outside world of manicured lawns, mature trees, and French-style chateaux rolling by. Doubly sad is how detached from all of this I feel, for this is the community in which I grew up, the community of gated and walled estates, the community through which my father is making his last trip to be buried, and I do not feel I belong here anymore.

Somewhere out in front of this black Lincoln, I know my father's hearse is leading the way to one of the city's oldest and most venerated graveyards. Yet quite frankly, inside I'm a mess, but I can't show it. I have to be fucking 'brave,' but the truth is a bit more complicated.

Behind the car I am in, only a few more follow with 'family.' For in reality, our blood is a scattered and ragtag affair, what with double and triple marriages producing offspring only in the form of uncaring ex-wives, and ex-gigolo husbands for my cougar aunts to support. I am close to none of them, and none of them seem fond of me, which I guess is to be expected, as I am the latecomer to the family and 'took' their claims to my dad's inheritance.

Funny to think, but I am it. Not only my father's only son and child, but the last of the Corvin men – the last male with a birthright to the name. I will be the last one to pass that same right forward…but, will I want to? Struggle and personal misfortune seems to hound every Corvin man, so why should I consider propagating that misery. In fact, it suddenly makes a bit of sense now, why my father hired a surrogate to carry me to term for him when he was already well into his fifties. I realize the delay may have been his wondering about our family's fate as well.

"Are you all right, Emeric?"

I partially jump, catching my own reaction in the window. Ronald's soft voice had startled me for a moment.

My quick glance over to him lays sight on that odd ring he wears.

"I'm fine. Don’t concern yourself with me."

This older man, my dad's lawyer and investment manager looks stunned.

"Don’t concern myself..?" His silver-white head bobbles a moment; his gold-rimmed glasses glint before disbelieving eyes. "That's my job, especially now that…"

He pauses. He slides forward slightly on the black leather seat to lean away from me. I know. He thinks of me as self-centered and spoiled, Lords knows that's what my father thought of me, and there's also no doubt that that's the opinion he's passed onto this man by my side now.

"I know," I reassure him. "My father relied upon you for many, many things, and he trusted no one in this world the way he did you."

A flash of something mysterious shades the older man's features. Is it pride; is it…gloating? If I take a wild stab and guess, at this moment, I'd have to say it most resembles 'satisfaction,' but soon it leaves him, and a professional-grade 'reserve' replaces it in banal subterfuge. I suddenly realize that large cabochon ring I had always assumed was a gaudy 'old-fashioned' graduation ring from a new world university was actually more like an antique Halloween prop, for it had some sort of design etched on the stone, a sort of…

"Well, young Master Emeric, I hope to function in a way that fulfils your needs from now on."

I nod, feeling quite frankly more than a little uncomfortable. Has he forgotten, my father has just died?

I turn back to the window, hoping not to see myself tear up. Instead of being drawn back out of it and towards the passing sights, my eyes linger a critical focus on my likeness.

It's funny, but I do take after my father – a lot! I've done it to myself, but every time I look in the mirror I am reminded just how much I seem to be the young clone of him.

A couple of years ago I was home alone and looking though his old photo album. I found a picture of my young twenty-something-year-old dad as a 'punk kid,' the picture I now keep on my dresser. He was in a white tee-shirt; faded, worn and tight-fitting jeans; and he was leaning on the hood of a ballsy 1959 Buick that not only had tailfins, but eyebrows and chrome 'teeth' as well. The car's proud owner was so young then! He was a kid, so carefree, and so different from the man I knew, that he pulled at my heartstrings. Strangely, his hair was exactly the same colour as mine – a sort of blondish chestnut – and his late 1950's/early 1960's haircut was a longer version of Elvis; that is, close-cut on the sides by his temples and ears, and long and floppy on top and in front.

I don’t exactly know why, but at that moment of time in my life I was feeling connected and happy, so I snagged the photograph and went to a barbershop. I decided I had to go old school, so on Jarvis Street – somewhere between Dundas and Queen – I tracked down the black barber who had apparently cut Jacky Shane's hair back in the 60's. Shane was major diva, and he almost single handedly made 'the Toronto Sound' an international sensation, although many people never quite forgave him for being born American, in fact as I heard it, it was Canadian immigration that refused to let him back in the country because he was 'a suspected homosexual;' as if being Gay is a crime, the fucking bigots.

Anyway, once I was in the shop, I showed my dad's snapshot, saying I wanted to tribute him, and could the barber do a cut like that.

"A Pompadour?" he had asked with a growing grin.

"Um – if that's what it's called, then yes!"

I had gone to the right source, for not only did he finish up with pride and a glowing "I haven’t done a Pompadour in thirty years," but one glance in the mirror proved I looked as carefree and happy as my old man was back in the day.

Unfortunately, that feeling did not last long, but I forced myself to keep the haircut. It chided me as ruefully in the mirror as my sight did when I looked the old man in the eyes.

My blinking reflection ends my train of thought, and returns me to surface appearances. Some people comment that I have 'smirking good looks,' but I see my flaws – a slightly long nose, not very full lips that are prone to lopsided 'smirks,' and eyes that are set back a bit and look more brooding than compassionate. But nevertheless, my eyes are probably my best feature; they're hazel with an openness to them that makes many people – especially university-age females – think I can be used to satisfy their own selfish wants of manipulation. Those people I know, say on a sixth-sense level, and shut them down before they get too close to 'the real me.'

Oh shit, I try to shake myself out of this. The reason why I am concentrating on my own appearance and on my personal foibles suddenly becomes clear to me. I am refusing to think about my father. It's partially based on a 'don't speak ill of the dead' superstition, and just plain fear. I do not want to consider all that I feel for that man, not now – I can't. Fucking 'bravery,' but it's wrong to force a person's grieving process to match a timeline that's not charted by the personal grief he feels. When the time is right, I will be able to deal with my feelings for my dad, but now is not the right time, I do not want to explode.

Sadness, grief, wailing, these are the stock and trade of the funereal emotions, but who ever thinks rage is appropriate? No one, so I must be brave.

To that end, the visage reflected back to me from the moving sights outside my passenger side window shows me only sadness in my apert gaze. That sucks, because I loved my dad and he loved me, despite all the troubles we've had in the last two years.

˚˚˚˚˚

In the hour before noon, the air of The Necropolis Cemetery is still middling cool. Soon, once my father's coffin is interred, it won't be.

As we approach the impressive complex of Gothic structures along the road, my eye catches a black spot in the sky.

The tree-lined margin steps back to a massive fieldstone church with a single rustic spire. Another building set at a right angle to it that serves as the mortuary chapel, and has since this graveyard was opened in 1850. Between the two buildings is a tall-peaked gateway – an ethereal structure, all in whitewashed wooden arches and the open tracery of 'the stick style' of picturesque architecture.

This is the gate to the cemetery, and up ahead, I can see uniformed and white-gloved attendants opening it and allowing the hearse to pass beneath. The motorized bier only moves at the solemn pace of a snail's crawl.

In that quiet suspense, the thing from the sky alights on the mortuary roof. If folds its wings and caws loudly. My heart sinks, because it is a massive raven.

As the Cadillac hearse passes under the gate's fancy slate roof and iron lightning rods, the raven flies to the ridgeline of that structure.

Our car is next, and the shadow the enclosure casts underneath makes me want to squint. Somewhere above my head, I know that thing is perched and waiting.

As we pass under the gate on the graveyard side, I turn full around in the seat, not really caring that a startled Ronald has to move aside for me to grip onto the flat area before the back window in order to look out of it.

The raven hops with open beak and screeches at me peering towards him.

I turn around feeling like a zombie and watch the funeral procession wind its way on the last leg the journey through the old monuments and broken obelisks of the 19^th century affluent. The hearse out in front is making a path to the newer part of the grounds where the grounds seems more wide open.

Soon, our car stops. My father's lawyer gives me what appears to be but a half-felt smile of encouragement, and we get out.

We pause by our Lincoln and are met by the other pallbearers – the same white-gloved men who are employed by the Necropolis for occasions where a loved-one has a dearth of helping hands.

The other members of our party pull up, park and slowly get out of limousine doors. They reach out and gather into one group to better make a respectful show of 'being there,' and then guide one another across the lawn and to the tent that has been erected over my father's future grave.

They chat unconcernedly, and my fellow pallbearers and I begin walking forward on the cemetery road to the opening back door of the hearse. I fight hard to suppress the rising sense of fear that I have. It is an apprehension really that something is waiting and watching our movements. I glance around trying to lay my raised hackles on what the exact cause of this dread could be.

While my index finger and thumb work to button the black Armani suit coat that Ronald has kindly provided for the occasion, my intent gaze scans the cemetery.

Row upon row of impressive monuments glint a stony brilliance in the sun of a clear summer morning, but farther away, at the tree line, there is movement.

At first I barely register it as more than the relentless animation of the breeze upon the living foliage and branches. But then I am better able to focus. On those branches, hidden within and behind the leaves, are crows.

My feet continue to carry me calmly towards where my father waits, but my head rotates all along the line of the perimeter growth of this burial yard.

Everywhere are crows. Slowly, they show themselves with more apparent boldness. They move at the top of branches, jump down to lower ones, and then slowly, like a trickle of falling autumn leaves, some jump down to the artificially well clipped lawn just in front of the tree line.

By the time I take my rehearsed position – first person nearest the hearse door, so I may lead from my father's right hand side – the crows begin to cackle and chirp in that threatening tone of theirs.

Oddly enough, just as the pneumatic device of the hearse begins to slide my father's coffin out, I think of an old tale I once read. Something about a 'crow court,' where people witnessing the event reported that a group of the birds formed a circle around one of their own. The observers said the central crow appeared to be on a witness stand of sorts, and loud accusations seemed to be hurled at him with great rancour. He was given a chance to explain, and his defensive posture made it sure to the witnesses that he was more than frightened. After a bit, a boisterous consensus arose from the feathered tribunal, and the sentence was immediately carried out. The defendant was set upon by the mob and ripped to pieces.

The mechanical sound of the casket slide ceases.

We pallbearers, with my father's lawyer and investment manager at the head end on the left, raise our hands.

We grip the brass rails to support the weight, and the under carriage begins to retract smoothly.

Slowly the burden of supporting my father's earthy remains transfers to my hands, arms and shoulders. While feeling that, I gaze upon the silver plaque mounted to the coffin lid. It is at the position where his head lies below. It's fancy – a shield of sorts, like an old European coat of arms – and the Corvin men are all buried under this seal of our family crest.

The whir of the mechanism switches off again, and suddenly now that it is quiet, the formerly hidden torrent of crow cawing is all around us.

We begin to move with the coffin. First stepping back away from the vehicle, then rotating so I can lead the way.

I step towards the bier tent, which is about fifty meters away, but immediately my eyes scan the skies. The crows have taken flight.

The flapping of wings emerging from the trees is horrible to see. It is like liquid black falling upside down into the unsullied blue of an innocent sky.

My foot slightly stumbles. I've come to the curb where the paving of the cemetery street ends in the tufted grass of a well-manicured graveyard.

Trepidation grows in me as my shoes sink into the squishy grass. It is more difficult to walk with my heavy load on the ground than the pavement, and selfishly I think how much harder it be to run now.

The mass of flying birds gathers as the edges of a storm might that is about to morph into a tornado under pressure from its own density; it forms a swirling perimeter of blackening sky and fluttering motion.

Apprehension makes me cast my eyes up. The sky-bound eddy of crows circles our pall like raptors over the nearly dead.

I glance around and estimate the meagre shelter of the grave canopy is still about thirty metres ahead of us.

Suddenly, a huge raven appears out of the mass of smaller black feathers and shrieks. He swoops down and begins to cry angrily. I catch its eye for a brief moment, and I swear to God, it's the same pitying eye that stared at me from my bedroom windowsill; the same one from the gatehouse pinnacle only minutes before.

This bird starts to fly higher and dive-bomb our moving pall.

We all intuitively hasten our step, but the raven swoops and seems to focus on the head end of the casket.

Ronald catches my attention by appearing oddly prepared and stoic. A glance to the other men of the group confirms that they are as scared as I am. Their reactions make it clear that the workers of The Necropolis are obviously not harassed by mad flocks of avian spectres on a daily basis.

Suddenly, the raven attacks. With angry screams, its talons dig into the lawyer's scalp, just above his forehead. The casket falters on his end. We stumble, but Ronald re-grips and keeps the coffin from spilling onto the ground.

Blood runs down the older man's face. The bird swoops again and gouges into his scalp at the top of Ronald's skull. Both man and bird scream in hair-raising anger. The lawyer tries to shield himself.

The front end of the coffin falls and digs into the turf with the inevitable momentum for us five other pallbearers. Screams arise from the mourners gathered under the 'safety' of the cemetery tent, but not a one of them stirs out to offer protection or support.

Ronald frantically lashes out for the bird with a guttural torrent of curses as the raven's beak comes close to his face.

The other pallbearers try to shield themselves and take off running. I fall to the grass in total disbelief. From there I watch in a stunned stupor, and I can see blood streaming down between Ronald's glasses and eyes. He seems fiendish fighting off this raven while he stands in one spot and swings his arms wildly overhead.

All the crows in the sky, who are just over our heads in a cyclone of black feathers, cry and screech bloody murder.

Slowly I rise to my feet with uncontrollable anger. "Enough!" I yell at the damn raven; I am surprised at the deep resonance of my own command, for yet still possessed by a budding sense of powerlessness, I must do something.

The raven's mad cawing vibrates to a halt. The other birds continue to cry frantically overhead, into which tumult, the raven re-ascends.

Ronald, blessed with this reprieve, falls to the grass. He fumbles with his suit, and extracts his silk pocket square. He then wipes the blood from his eyes, knocking his glasses down to the ground in the process.

My glance casts itself upwards and latches onto the attacker. The massive raven is not content, for he changes direction, and heads like a broad arc back down to my position from the other side.

The raven slows his descent, and begins to fold his wings. He alights squarely on top of the coffin lid.

Now the creature is panting and distressed, and yet focused.

He stares at me, hops to the silver shield and stands on top of it.

Rage builds in me to see this defiler of memory and honour turn its blood-stained beak and scrape it on the sides of the Corvin family crest. Gore – Ronald's gore – transfers onto the gleaming silver.

It glares at me with ice-cold orbs as deep and foreboding as all of the nightmares humanity has ever had, and screams. It screams at me, and at the same time, my fleeting vision catches an angry-looking Ronald staring at me.

My ears pop all of a sudden, and I perceive something wet stinging my eyes; I smell a faint scent of iron.

My hand goes up to wipe it away, but I pull it back in shocked amazement.

My fingers are coated in blood, my blood.