Something was missing but it was hard to say what. All I knew was that I needed to find the missing piece, and I knew where to go to find it.
Maybe more people are obsessed with death than I realized. For most of my life I believed I was alone in this perseveration, but entering the Mall of Mortuary MacGuffins, I realized I was a member of a tribe whose numbers were untold.
The first shop that called to me was dedicated to urns. Why do humans put so much care into the manufacture of items dedicated to death? And how did they become so skilled at it? I mean, if someone I loved died, the last thing I would want to do is pottery.
No one else in the shop shared my morbid curiosity. In fact, for the hour or so I spent wandering the rows of jars, I didn’t see another living soul. Why do people say that? Do we really need to distinguish that the souls we meet are corporeal? Am I the only mortal unable to commune with the dead, and the rest of humanity pretends to be like me while seeing ghosts? Sorry, I digress.
One urn in particular was fascinating. It was the size of a Doberman, and roughly the same shape. Sort of–you know what I mean–not dog-shaped but with a long skinny neck and a body that was strong and sturdy yet sinewy. Do other people compare inanimate objects to animals? Maybe I should get out more. I don’t for a variety of reasons. I spend all day as a dental hygienist seeing tiny particles of food, bacteria, and plaque on the identifiable remains of people and scraping them off to extend their lives. If I run into one of those people out in the real world, all I can think of is how most people love small talk and I suck at it. I don’t care about the weather, or the state of American politics. It doesn’t matter how many kids you pooped out of your vagina and whether they are marginally intelligent or talented. Unless you understand the difference between the Middle Kingdom and the New Kingdom or the complexities of dynastic bloodlines and polytheism,we have nothing to discuss. So, maybe other people do compare urns to dogs, I wouldn’t know.
This one was made of obsidian but it had insets of quartz, lapis lazuli, emerald, turquoise, and garnet. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. Somehow it entranced me. I felt as though I must own it, but also as though I was inherently unworthy of it. Does that ever happen to anyone else? Meeting something and feeling compelled to possess it but also repelled by self-loathing? Maybe others don’t think of things as meetable. Whatever.
The price for the urn was pretty steep. I make good money, but not that type of money.
After agonizing over whether it was worth sacrificing my annual vacation to the Nile, I forced myself to walk away. If I explored the remainder of the mall and still heard the siren song of the Doberman I would return and buy it.
It took me a while to get the lay of the land, because it was more bazaar than mall. Merchants and shops were set up in every nook and cranny of the infinite complex. But I made my way through coffins and crypts and shabti to a store that specialized in hourglasses. I had never thought of an hourglass as a mortuary object, and I guess that is because they aren’t. They do tend to make you think about the countdown to death. Each grain of sand draining represents proximity to the Grim Reaper. How many more grains are in my hourglass? How would I know? Would knowing change my life in any meaningful way?
But the real question was could I live with myself in whatever version of an afterlife was real if I didn’t buy the Doberman urn? I could not.
I weaved my way with expedience to the shop. Did someone else already buy the urn? If they did, could I get a part-time job at the store to track the receipt and commandeer the object from their home?
Yes, I have an obsessive personality and an unhealthy fixation on objects. My therapist tells me I’m making progress and I really want to believe him.
Fortunately, the Doberman was unclaimed. It took my breath away to stand before it once more. This piece was worth every penny I was about to fork over. It was special. More than that, it was inevitable. Somehow my life was entwined with the life of the funerary object and I knew it.
Once the formalities were complete, I made arrangements for the Doberman to be transported to my apartment. I live on the fourteenth floor of a walk-up, but part of the price of the urn was for the safe transfer and delivery of it to his new home. (The Doberman is very obviously a he–his stature and virility make that obvious to anyone paying attention.)
Then I waited.
A week and a half later, I came home to find the Doberman waiting in a crate at my front door. I thought that when I opened the crate, I might have a sort of spiritual awakening. That maybe the soul of the person who was inside the urn at some point in history would be released and then impart to me the mysteries of the universe.
There was nothing. Not even the absence of something. Feeling the absence of something is a something in that it calls to attention the lack of something and because it is a feeling of absence it is in fact a something. It’s a feeling. This was just void. What could that mean?
What happened to the overwhelming need I felt at the Mall of Mortuary MacGuffins? Maybe there is something wrong with me? Apart from the eccentricities, I mean. Perhaps I was found wanting.
A curious need for meaning drove me to act. The Doberman urn was about six feet tall, and I am barely five. But I have a ladder handy at all times because the world was not made for short people.
As I removed the head of the Doberman, I looked into the gaping mouth of his body. To my horror, I noticed there were ashes inside.
Have you ever stared at a bunch of human ashes and thought, hey I know those? I did. I knew. Not sure how, but I did, even before I read the note that was sitting on top of them. It was written on a very particular type of parchment. Papyri. Not super common paper. Pretty rare actually. And the writing was done with blood ink that is custom mixed. It’s a very particular and proprietary formula. How do I know? I’m the one who developed it. It’s a hobby of mine.
But wait, that’s not all. The hieratic writing contained a message too creepy to comprehend or forget. It said, “These are the mortal remains of Cynthia Vandermoore (minus her teeth). She may never rest in peace, but in part. Which part is the riddle she must solve before the Dawn of Anubis.”
I had questions. Who wrote the note? How did they get my paper and ink? What is the Dawn of Anubis? Why weren’t my teeth included and why point that out? How would someone put part of my remains in this jar without me knowing?
Most importantly, and I hope you’ll agree this is critical, how could part of my remains be in an urn at all? Was I dead but somehow my zombie corpse was walking around believing I’m alive and fooling everyone else?
I looked down at my body and saw I was intact. My flesh was not discolored. I wasn’t missing any limbs. My teeth were still connected by sinew to my skull which was still covered in musculature and soft tissue.
Then I remembered the rituals of Egypt. There was one thing I lacked. It existed as an organ, but was empty and quite dead. If I had it and were Egyptian, it would be removed and placed in a canopic jar, smaller than the Doberman, but no less important. If the ashes inside were of that piece of me, it made sense that I would feel the need to own it. But it did me no good if it was ashes.
I solved the riddle, but it didn’t matter. I’ve always been the walking dead, and nothing but the destruction of the rest of me would reunite me. My only hope was reincarnation, but it meant the hourglass was nearly empty and I wasn’t sure anyone was standing by to turn it over again.
I hugged the Doberman and waited for the fate of all men.