Engines of the Broken World by Jason Vanhee Read Free Book Online

the back door, eager to be about the sacred work of a burial. It had a prayer for that sort of thing—or rather, a number of them—that it would lead us in, depending on the situation. I wondered, as I ate, if it knew one that fit for when the world was ending and you had to bury your mama in a temporary hole with just one mourner from outside the family and maybe the body doesn’t even want to be down yet. I suspected not.
    When we had washed up in water that was icy cold, Gospel went to get his winter clothes on while I sat with the Widow. I should’ve gotten dressed too, I knew that, but I was strangely comfortable in her son’s shoes—even with my socks still wet—and the old coat, which was warm enough, though probably not for outside. Maybe I didn’t want anyone left alone with Mama’s body, just in case. When Gospel came back, in a sweater with a wool coat over it, and his big boots that were actually Papa’s and had extra socks stuck in the toes, and with a hat and two scarves because it was truly growing cold outside, well, I realized I needed more than I had and went to go get dressed.
    First off I changed out of them soggy socks and into a fat woolly pair that I figured would give me the best chance against all this winter cold. As for the rest, I had more to choose from now than before, because I had set aside the few of Mama’s clothes that would work for me, and so I pulled on a lovely blue and green sweater that she had made long ago, maybe before I was born, when you could still get such bright colors for the wool. Over that was her good winter coat, which hung down to my knees whereas it had sat on her waist, but then, she was tall, tall like the Widow, which was part of the reason they had been such good friends, tall women who had felt strange always and with each other at least felt more ordinary. I wrapped a massively long scarf over and around my head and neck before putting a big cap that had been my papa’s atop it all and setting out, mittens tucked into a pocket, back to the rest of the house.
    Gospel was drinking tea in the kitchen, staring at the Widow Cally as she darned a sock, the very sock that had been on my mother’s left foot, which now jutted out naked as a jaybird from under the table. I felt a little shock to see that, almost as much as seeing the different towel over her face (and had Gospel noticed that, I wondered?), but then realized it was only respectful that we not send her to the afterlife with a hole in her sock like a beggar. The Minister seemed right happy with what the Widow was up to, rubbing itself around her legs like a real creature might, and murmuring a satisfied little prayer that I could barely hear, so quiet was its already soft voice.
    “Soon as I’ve got this done, you two can carry her over. I’ll get the barn door open somehow, and then we can say a little prayer with the Minister and see her to her rest, for now. It shouldn’t take but an hour or so; we don’t need to put her too deep in the ground or anything. I do wish we had a coffin, but I suppose there’s nothing for it, as it’d take days to get one ready even if it weren’t snowing. But, Merciful, you go fetch an old sheet or somesuch, and we’ll wrap her up in a shroud. If it was good enough for the Lord, I suppose it’ll do just fine for your mama.”
    Gospel snorted into his teacup, which earned him a harsh look from the Minister but not so much as a glance from Esmeralda Cally, who I suppose had decided to simply forgive everything he did today, in light of circumstances. I nodded and went to the chest in the sitting room, where I dug out the second spare sheets, the fine ones that Mama didn’t ever use and I couldn’t see us needing.
    I carried a sheet back in, and me and Gospel dragged Mama’s stiff body out from under the table. It was a clumsy job. I felt like we weren’t being very respectful, but then, we were just kids after all and couldn’t do it any better. After