Primus
The body was laid on the worn wood table with slow and careful reverence by the Hawthorne priests, who stood two on each side of the stiff and lifeless body. Strong, firm hands under the neck, with forearms braced under each shoulder blade, while another hand in the curve of the leg under the kneecap. The illusion of a person resting perhaps, reclined in reflection. Or from a particular angle, of a child being cradled in the arms of a parent, carried to bed with loving tenderness.

When Winter comes, the World holds its breath, and when death arrives, a person’s Spirit holds its breath as well.  A pause. A moment we have all experienced. When you lay your head on a pillow, and your mind wanders, then suddenly you start awake. No recollection of falling asleep. Those seconds, minutes, or sometimes hours are lost like moonbeams in an evening fog. We experience death in those moments. A Spirit holding its breath until it is reborn in a new body. That exultant cry when a newborn is coaxed into taking a shuddering painful breath. The Spirit breathes again.

As the Spirit once named Lily held her breath, waiting for the decomposition of her body into the constituent matter that will become part of the damp dark soil, the swirling humid air, the bright sparkling sap and thick protective bark of the Hawthorn Tree, she let her mind wander over the events of her life, caressing each memory slowly and lovingly, with infinite joy and patience. She felt no pain, only a detached sense of connection, like your foot falling asleep after being tucked under your body when you are in a comfortable chair. She was keenly aware of what was happening to her body, and with each dissolution of the tissue, sinew, and liquids that made up this earthly existence, she felt “Lily” fading away, leaving her Spirits purest essence. Bright, curious, and eager to learn another life, to learn another experience, and to love again.

“Lily” was collected and distilled into the bright clear memory jewel laid on the fragile chest of the slowly consumed body. Each memory, each joy, and sorrow absorbed into the Sap, turned the clear Sap a glowing gold color. When the Spirit was pure and was released by the Botflies into the swirling air of the Hawthorn Tree, the Jewel was wrapped by a close relative in Hawthorne twigs, sealing the memories into the Jewel, forever preserving the essence of the life left behind by the ascending Spirit. 

Secundus
As the botflies circled, swooped, and swarmed incessantly in the tightly sealed bottle on the wooden bench next to the Transition table, there was a sense of anticipation in the air. Each short-lived generation of Botflies had a single purpose. And that task’s arrival set the Botfly host buzzing with anticipation. Each Botfly had a role; to consume the succulent flesh, to gather the Spirit in the flesh, and release the Spirit into the In-Between. Consume, consume, consume. Never was there a stray thought or errant idea. For it was well known that in rest and repose Botflies could wax for hours about the succulence of various flesh and not much else. The elegance of thought was as foreign to a Botfly as an economy of motion to a fluttering moth. As the body was carried to the Transition Table, each Botfly paused to look in multi-faceted vision distorted by the curvature of the thick glass upon the task that would take their life, but also give their life meaning and purpose. 

As the Botflies were released, a great sigh of joy was released, a cacophony of celebration that rang in the heads of the Botfly community, to others a rising sigh that felt like a gentle wind brushing against exposed skin. As each Botfly fed upon the body, its abdomen grew larger and larger, releasing egg-like pods into the damp earth that the body lay on. After a dozen or so eggs were released from the swelling bodies of each Botfly, they would fly feebly to a dish of honey where they would refresh themselves before laying on a finely woven silk cloth placed next to the honey dish. 

This is where the Botfly would spend its last moments. When the great purpose was done, thousands of Botflies would be laid in the damp soil on the westernmost side of the Hawthorn Tree. Botflies would gather to buzz the farewell song, which was long, subtle, and moving in the dark humming of the Hawthorne dialect of Botfly. Wings pulsating and bodies swaying side to side on thin hairy legs as the humming grew louder and louder. Then at the crescendo of the song, abrupt silence, as if cut off by a sudden awareness of the agony of this expression of grief.

And then, life continued.

Tertium
As Sorrel lay in the diffused sunlight, basking contentedly in the moist heat while waiting for the great ceremony of Renewal to end, Sorrel flexed his hands to loosen the stiff muscles and prepared himself to gather the botfly eggs that would release his daughters Spirit into the In-Between. Sorrel didn’t dread this task, nor did he look forward to it either. He felt numb, both physically and emotionally. Physically from the burns that still had not healed from the ferocity of The Sadness and emotionally from the Renewals of Lily, and her children, Calla and Gymea. 

All three were caught out of the Elder Tree’s thick branches’ shelter when the Sadness descended upon them. The heat searing the thin branches and the horrible vibrations as the full moon’s gentle singing hum turned to a discordant howl that shook the whole world. The Sadness descended early, some say by several years. All the preparation was focused too far in the future and there was a heavy price to be paid. Paid in blood, tears, Sap, and Spirit. His eldest, Poppy, had finished her apprenticeship in the Jewels Conservatory and dutifully preserved the memories of Lily and her children. Sorrel was worried for her, as would any father be, but not in a physical sense, Poppy seemed wounded to her very core at the loss of her sister. 

And as he knew, some wounds that deep poisoned the heart. And poisoned hearts would rarely find love or happiness. A sensation broke Sorrel out of his increasingly dark thoughts and he was aware of the feathery lightness of a Beetle’s feet as it crawled up his leg and proceeded to move purposely towards his hip. Upon reaching Sorrels’s upper thigh, the Beetle settled itself on the thick carapace on its backside and started nibbling contentedly on a branch of Birch in the bundle of nine kinds of wood he had prepared for the Kinfire this evening. Sorrel dared not move, for Beetles were not known to interact with any creatures besides other Beetles.

The turmoil in his head and heart must have attracted the Beetle, and lacking the ability to understand the harsh chattering of Beetle Tongue, Sorrel could only surmise that the Beetle had chosen the Birch as a message. Birch was first in the Kinfire, a tribute to the Mother and the wisdom she carried. The mother knew all and taught only what we could understand. And this gentle Beetle carried this message to Sorrel. As a crystalline tear fell from Sorrels’s clear eyes, the Beetle stopped and extended a thin leg towards Sorrel. Sorrel touched the Beetle’s extended leg with his fingertip, and after a fleeting connection, the Beetle’s back split to reveal dark diaphanous wings that spread to catch the wind and carry the Beetle away.

His heart a little lighter, Sorrel rose shakily and after briefly leaning against the solid bulk of the Hawthorn Tree, walked towards the clearing where the Kinfire would be lit to consume the remains of his youngest child. He was looking forward to the Botfly eggs slowly heating up and then being consumed by white flames, the wood from the nine sacred trees of the Garden creating ribbons of colors that danced above Lily’s remains. Her spirit rising and coalescing into a glowing sphere of pure light, and rising into the In-Between to rest and be reborn.

As he sat in the glow of the Kinfires embers later that evening. He heard the skittering of a Beetle’s feet as it traversed the hard ground with serious intent in its destination. Sorrel could not see the Beetle clearly, but he could have sworn the Beetle paused for a moment to look at Sorrel in acknowledgment. But it was a brief moment if it wasn’t imagined, so Sorrel dismissed it as an indulgent fantasy. For when do Beetles intercede in the affairs of the living?

And then, Death continued.