The funeral procession followed the dirt road through forests and meadows. The road lazily wound through the countryside, passing farms, rock walls, and orchards. Once in a while, they would pass people too, standing at the edge of the road with musical instruments, and the people would fall in with the marchers as they passed.
The Fool went into a trance. The music was still out of tune and hard to listen to, but after a while it began to make sense, and soon the Fool could only hear a low hum. Step by step became a meditation. The Fool’s eyes got heavy. He watched the head in front of him swaying side to side.
The road bottomed out at a freshly tilled plot. The Fool could smell the rich soil. He didn’t know what crop grew there. The parade spread out on the edge of the field in a straight line, so the Fool followed suit.
The music stopped. They just stood there. The Fool looked out on the field and noticed that there were objects half-buried in the ground. He thought one of the objects looked like a hand, but told himself that the long march and the sun had made him dizzy.
The casket was placed straight up. One of the members of the procession opened the top and the body of a king fell out dead on the field. The parade began bowing towards the field and then turning around and walking back up the road one by one.
The Fool was astounded by the lack of respect for the dead king. No burial, no cremation, no nothing; just thrown into a farm field somewhere on the side of the road. The Fool decided he would stay behind and bury the body of the king and give it the respect it deserved.
He waited for the parade to disappear up the road before finding a long stick that had a wide end to dig a hole with. He walked out onto the field and stuck the makeshift shovel into the earth.
Hey, a voice said. The Fool looked around but saw no one. Down here, the voice said, from directly below the Fool. The Fool looked down and saw a severed head lying in the tilled dirt. You don’t have to do that, said the head. He will be here soon to harvest the body.
Who? asked the Fool.
Oh, he doesn’t have a name, the head said, and it added, Don’t call him by his nickname either.
The sun sat low on the horizon, turning a burnt orange. The shadows were long and the air began to cool. In the distance, a figure appeared, walking stiffly towards the Fool, the severed head, and the body of the king.
As the figure got closer, the Fool could see that it was a skeleton carrying a large scythe.
A shiver ran down the Fool’s spine as he made the connection to this walking skeleton. It was Death.
Don’t even think it, the severed head said.
We should bury the king, the Fool said to the head that was lying at his foot, this is royalty we are talking about.
I am also a king, the head said. I was a pope, another head said. I was a queen, a femur bone exclaimed. I was the conqueror of Asia, a lonely hand whispered. I wasn’t a king or anything, but I tried to hunt a boar with a knife, a third head said. I just got too old, a rib bone sticking straight out of the ground sadly responded. There were body parts everywhere, sticking out of the ground like plants, like crops.
Death came to the body of the king and sliced him up with his scythe, and the earth drank the blood greedily. The king’s head remained, with a crown sitting cocked askew. The neck sank a little in the tilled soil.
Everything dies, the first head said at the foot of the Fool. It doesn’t matter what you are, what you have, or what anyone thinks of you, you die. We all become the earth, a severed ear said. If it can’t be killed, it will just end someday, the new king added. Or you will die, said a knee cap.
Death stood leaning on its scythe, staring. The grin that can’t be hid leered at the Fool. He started hearing his heartbeat, and it didn’t sound right. Was Death taking him away? Why wouldn’t he strike?
He’s not going to kill you, the first head said. You die on your own terms, a spleen lying on a queen’s head said, destiny doesn’t do anything but he makes sure you don’t cheat the system.
Accept death, and life will mean more, a small intestine said wisely.
The Fool and the skeleton stood there for several decades – or maybe it was one hour – before the Fool decided it was time to go. He was scared, and the skeleton wasn’t saying anything, and talking body parts was unsettling.
The Fool walked back to the road, stepping carefully over the body parts as he went. He continued along the field’s edge until the road jogged off into the forest.
The skeleton watched the Fool go. He had seen him stand in this field many times before. He who can’t be named was always disappointed that it wasn’t to stay.
He had been there when they made the Fool. He put the lifespan in. Someday even the Fool would have to be harvested.