Kate Wilhelm - Funeral

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2024-11-24 0 0 44.65KB 19 页 5.9玖币

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The Funeral

by Kate Wilhelm

No one could say exactly how old Madam Westfall was when she finally died. At least one hundred

twenty, it was estimated. At the very least. For twenty years Madam Westfall had been a shell

containing the very latest products of advances made in gerontology, and now she was dead. What lay

on the viewing dais was merely a painted, funereally garbed husk.

"She isn't real," Carla said to herself. "It's a doll, or something. It isn't really Madam Westfall." She kept

her head bowed, and didn't move her lips, but she said the words over and over. She was afraid to look

at a dead person. The second time they slaughtered all those who bore arms, unguided, mindless now,

but lethal with the arms caches that they used indiscriminately.

Carla felt goose bumps along her arms and legs. She wondered if anyone else had been hearing the old

Teacher's words.

The line moved slowly, all the girls in their long grey skirts had their heads bowed, their hands clasped.

The only sound down the corridor was the sush-sush of slippers on plastic flooring, the occasional rustle

of a skirt.

The viewing room had a pale green plastic floor, frosted-green plastic walls, and floor-to-ceiling

windows that were now slits of brilliant light from a westering sun. All the furniture had been taken from

the room, all the ornamentation. There were no flowers, nothing but the dais, and the bedlike box

covered by a transparent shield. And the Teachers. Two at the dais, others between the light strips, at

the doors. Their white hands clasped against black garb, heads bowed, hair slicked against each head,

straight parts emphasizing bilateral symmetry. The Teachers didn't move, didn't look at the dais, at the

girls parading past it.

Carla kept her head bowed, her chin tucked almost inside the V of her collarbone. The serpentine line

moved steadily, very slowly. "She isn't real," Carla said to herself, desperately now.

She crossed the line that was the cue to raise her head; it felt too heavy to lift, her neck seemed

paralyzed. When she did move, she heard a joint crack, and although her jaws suddenly ached, she

couldn't relax.

The second green line. She turned her eyes to the right and looked at the incredibly shrunken, hardly

human mummy. She felt her stomach lurch and for a moment she thought she was going to vomit. "She

isn't real. It's a doll. She isn't real!" The third line. She bowed her head, pressed her chin hard against her

collarbone, making it hurt. She couldn't swallow now, could hardly breathe. The line proceeded to the

South Door and through it into the corridor.

She turned left at the South Door and, with her eyes downcast, started the walk back to her genetics

class. She looked neither right nor left, but she could hear others moving in the same direction, slippers

on plastic, the swish of a skirt, and when she passed by the door to the garden she heard laughter of

some Ladies who had come to observe the viewing. She slowed down.

She felt the late sun hot on her skin at the open door and with a sideways glance, not moving her head,

she looked quickly into the glaring greenery, but could not see them. Their laughter sounded like music

as she went past the opening.

"That one, the one with the blue eyes and straw-colored hair. Stand up, girl."

Carla didn't move, didn't realize she was being addressed until a Teacher pulled her from her seat.

"Don't hurt her! Turn around, girl. Raise your skirts, higher. Look at me, child. Look up, let me see your

face."

"She's too young for choosing," said the Teacher, examining Carla's bracelet. "Another year, Lady."

"A pity. She'll coarsen in a year's time. The fuzz is so soft right now, the flesh so tender. Oh, well.." She

moved away, flicking a red skirt about her thighs, her red-clad legs narrowing to tiny ankles, flashing

silver slippers with heels that were like icicles. She smelled. Carla didn't know any words to describe

how she smelled. She drank in the fragrance hungrily.

"Look at me, child. Look up, let me see your face.." The words sang through her mind over and over.

At night, falling asleep, she thought of the face, drawing it up from the deep black, trying to hold it in

focus: white skin, pink cheek ridges, silver eyelids, black lashes longer than she had known lashes could

be, silver-pink lips, three silver spots-one at the corner of her left eye, another at the corner of her

mouth, the third like a dimple in the satiny cheek. Silver hair that was loose, in waves about her face, that

rippled with life of its own when she moved. If only she had been allowed to touch the hair, to run her

finger over that cheek. The dream that began with the music of the Lady's laughter ended with the

nightmare of her other words: "She'll coarsen in a year's time.."

After that Carla had watched the changes take place on and within her body, and she understood what

the Lady had meant. Her once smooth legs began to develop hair; it grew under her arms, and, most

shameful, it sprouted as a dark, coarse bush under her belly. She wept. She tried to pull the hairs out,

but it hurt too much, and made her skin sore and raw. Then she started to bleed, and she lay down and

waited to die, and was happy that she would die. Instead, she was ordered to the infirmary and was

forced to attend a lecture on feminine hygiene. She watched in stony-faced silence while the Doctor

added the new information to her bracelet. The Doctor's face was smooth and pink, her eyebrows pale,

her lashes so colorless and stubby that they were almost invisible. On her chin was a brown mole with

two long hairs. She wore a straight blue-grey gown that hung from her shoulders to the floor. Her drab

hair was pulled back tightly from her face, fastened in a hard bun at the back of her neck. Carla hated

her. She hated the Teachers. Most of all she hated herself. She yearned for maturity.

Madam Westfall had written: "Maturity brings grace, beauty, wisdom, happiness. Immaturity means

ugliness, unfinished beings with potential only, wholly dependent upon and subservient to the mature

citizens."

There was a True-False quiz on the master screen in front of the classroom. Carla took her place

quickly and touch-typed her ID number on the small screen of her machine.

She scanned the questions, and saw that they were all simple declarative statements of truth. Her stylus

ran down the True column of her answer screen and it was done. She wondered why they were killing

time like this, what they were waiting for. Madam Westfall's death had thrown everything off schedule.

Paperlike brown skin, wrinkled and hard, with lines crossing lines, vertical, horizontal, diagonal, leaving

little islands of flesh, hardly enough to coat the bones. Cracked voice, incomprehensible: they took away

the music from the air. voices from the skies. erased pictures that move. boxes that sing and sob. Crazy

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