Underhanded Apostasy

The crackling of twigs disintegrating beneath staggering soles has never sounded so morose. The wind howls among men whose faces are shadowed akin to the sky, where clouds gather to block cascades of sunlight upon the lowering of a casket. No snark nor discourtesy is going to be acted upon on this occasion. Both the spiteful and the vengeful, the desolate and the wearisome, put up a respectful disposition in the face of grief. Parting words are too easily shared. A farewell prayer said by kinfolks of the dead sounds like marriage vows of the divorced, nothing but a failing, pathetic mime that attempts to imitate an honorable tradition. Their intricate yet empty commiseration can’t fool anyone. Clarison knows exactly where to find the faces of the liar and the honest, whose cries are born out of pretense and whose are born out of pain. Aunt Morissette, for example, is still fanning her crocodile tears with a passé brisé fan she seems to favor excessively. The black veil of her attire covers half of her face, partly hiding the angular structure Clarison has always associated with a borzoi. She’s been expressing sympathy to anyone who is oblivious enough to be fed up with her lies. If not for the boredom showing in her wet eyes, he would’ve commended his father’s in-law for her near impeccable effort at acting so unusually deferent. On the other hand, a loyal comrade named Ivander Yanua and his wife Helen, position themselves closer to the rim of the gathering. Like their gazes, their shoulders are also lowered as if oppressed by an invisible burden. Nothing has ever left their mouth since the start of the procession, when the hearse delivered the wooden casket to the gates of the memorial park, or even when the priest last gave his blessings before piles of dirt were returned to the earth. They are quiet and composed, almost deceivingly stoic, but Clarison knows better than to put them on the same pedestal as the likes of his aunt. Respect is supposed to be given only to those who deserve it. The Yanuas gracefully fit into the category. As night draws closer, the guests begin to scatter one by one. Aunt Morisette is unsurprisingly among those who leave the earliest. Her spindly shanks must’ve gotten wobbly from having to stand for such an elongated period of time. That, Clarison could understand. But the blatant relief she shows tempts the young man to snap the heels of her Weitzman in half, if only to see her snobbish frown get lowered to the ground for once. “Reign your temper, boy. Don’t disturb your father’s rest.” His disdain must’ve been plain as day for a previously ignored presence sternly apprehends him. His posh tone was unmistakable for anyone else but his incessant confidant. Clarison reluctantly inhales the cool air to bring back a sense of calm. The scent of rain is getting more palpable the darker it gets. He ignores the uncanny sound of a crow cawing from the branch of a cedar tree. When the last pair of steps have departed to leave the two men alone, Clarison is finally able to loosen his bearings as his shoulders start to slump. No more inconspicuously prying glances, masked with false grief, that patiently wait for any sign of vulnerability Clarison would never grant them the pleasure of witnessing. He runs a gloved hand through neatly combed hair, allowing raven strands to fall on his forehead in tresses. His silver eyes are pinned onto the gold-lacquered engraving of yarrows that marks the emblem of a tombstone. Beneath it the casket of a Belgamont resides. The last of his closest kin. His father. Clarison can’t help but snort rather derisively. The man has finally left him to stand alone in a world he barely lives in. Clarison had been groomed to be the proper successor since his first breath after birth. People used to agree that the golden child of Rhadid Belgamont would one day inherit his father’s massive empire. But, boy, do the Gods like to joke sometimes. Twenty three years isn’t exactly enough to teach an insolent the way of becoming a master conglomerate. However many times Clarison expressed his unwillingness to fill the role he’d been given, his father still put faith in his only child until the end, to the surprise of those who knew of Clarison’s indolence. His plenty aunts and uncles of another branch of the family question the legitimacy of the senior Belgamont’s will. If the exact order to make him the head of the company hadn’t been written down, Clarison would’ve immediately appointed Callio Pixys, his late father’s confidant that has been turned into his, the head instead. Sadly, nothing is ever that simple. Be it sense of obligation or remaining affection and respect for his deceased parent’s wish, Clarison has decided to carry the burden after evading it for more than two decades. Now, a fresh graduate with the pretty embellishment of an MBA title, but mind you, with no initial interest whatsoever in the art of trade itself, Clarison is legally inaugurated as his father’s successor. “We better head home before it rains.” Pixys breaks the silence with a careful, flat intonation. Clarison agrees. The young man steps forward to remove a stray leaf that has flown onto his father’s resting place. Even through the warming layer of his leather glove, the tombstone still feels as cold as the resignation in his heart. There’s not that wide of a space for him to grieve, not that much time either. Such emotions are better draped rather than be regaled. The only day when he’d shed tears for the loss of his loved ones would probably be the day of his own passing as well. Hopefully a day that will visit him not within the foreseeable future. After bidding his silent farewell, Clarison walks away with Pixys on his tail. He has an entire business waiting ahead of him. Today, the board of directors might show some semblance of leniency if he decides to seclude himself in honor of his father, but there will be no such thing once the sun rises tomorrow.