Thistle Chapter 20 : Trance
Mayfair and her three attendants rose with the pale light of dawn and made their way to the hills. Two men bore the tombstone between them, while the driver carried a wreath of white chrysanthemums, a tray of fruit, candles ,burning paper and other funeral offerings.She carried her aunt’s urn in her arms, treading softly along a path flanked by tall, whispering bamboo. On one side, the dark green fronds rustled in the breeze; on the other, a stream meandered gently, its murmurs weaving through the silence. From time to time, a slant of sunlight pierced the canopy above, casting a shimmer of silver across the water, like starlight scattered on the earth.Where the stream curled beside a cluster of stones, the light fell upon the moss—once a deep, unassuming green—now glowing with a luminous chartreuse hue, as if the earth itself had drawn breath and briefly turned to gold.
They had chosen a quieter path leading into the hidden reaches of the Losthill, where the land folded inward into a narrow, hidden trail. The trail here was scarcely trodden, overgrown with brambles and wild grasses that brushed against their ankles. Rosa xanthina thorn shrubs clung to the slopes.Just two days before, her attendants had come ahead to clear the way, hacking through the tangle of growth. The traces of their work were still raw and visible: pale stumps where young saplings had been felled, bark stripped and limbs sheared away, leaving behind white stems that stood like unfinished sentences among the green.As they climbed deeper into its secluded heart, the air grew stiller, hushed by the thick canopy overhead.Birds called now and then from the shadows, their voices softened by distance, and the soft flutter of wings echoed faintly in the air.
The destination site was enclosed by a stand of young cypress trees—no more than fifty years old—planted long ago by Granny White herself when she interred her husband and son. In those bitter years, when forests were felled for warmth and fuel, and families could manage little more than earthen mounds on empty barren land. Over the years, the old mounds were swallowed by time; new farmers came and sowed groundnuts and sweet potatoes above the forgotten graves in the hills. Along the Porth River village, where floods came with the seasons from time to time, many such burial places vanished altogether.
But Granny White, in her quiet foresight, had preserved this place. Though now overgrown with wild trees, flowering vines, and morning glories in hues of white and tender pink, the graves were still easily found by dint of clumps of cypress trees.There were already two tombs here, unmarked by names but ringed with granite and guarded by stone lions—also commissioned long ago by Granny White. She had chosen the lions for her own resting place, selecting them while still alive.The lions had been placed there in advance, their solemn presence marking the intended boundaries of the grave.It is an ancient custom, passed through generations to guard the dead with such figures. In the prosperous times, the lions’ forms was more vivid with great craftsmanship—some bore brown curling manes, crimson flame shaped hairs, big round eyeballs and solemn countenance, half-lion, half-myth, reminding of diminutive Egyptian sphinxes. For the common folk, no palatial halls or towering tombs were needed. A simple resting place—a modest monument no taller than two or three feet—was considered both fitting and respectful. In life, they asked for little more than comfort and sufficiency; in death, they desired no grandeur, only a quiet corner of earth. Majesty belonged to kings, but peace was enough for those who had toiled humbly through their days.
Mayfair knelt by the open grave and, with quiet reverence, lowered the urn into the hollowed earth. One by one, she placed the offerings around it—gilded bronze ingots, gold rings, and delicate necklaces—arranged with care into a circle.The assistants had been told beforehand that these were not true treasures—only trinkets of industrial gold, thinly plated and hollow within, crafted for ceremony rather than value. Yet as they stood by and watched Mayfair’s hands move with such solemn grace, setting each piece into its place with almost sacred precision, a strange uneasy expression flickered across their faces then immediately replaced with the weight of funeral.
When all was set, the assistants began to seal the grave, layering the earth back over the urn and shaping it into a gentle mound . Then, above this earthen bed, they began the work of fortifying it: heavy slabs of pale granite were fitted and aligned, forming a low, solid cap over the burial mound,a modest seal of permanence against the weathering of time.Upon the newly raised soil, they laid fresh flowers—white, yellow, and pale pink—each bloom a silent farewell. Then came the stonework. The tombstone was lifted and set firmly in place, its base aligned with quiet precision. On either side, the stone lions were positioned, their carved faces turned outward—solemn, still, and ever-watchful.When all was arranged, Mayfair stepped forward. She knelt once more, struck a match, and lit the red candles at the foot of the tomb. Their flames wavered gently in the morning air.Beside them, she laid a peach flower decorated porcelain bowl filled with peaches which required by the deceased's will.Then, with both hands, she unfolded the stack of joss paper.One by one, she fed them to the waiting flame. The paper curled and blackened, sending up slow spirals of grey smoke that drifted skyward, bearing wordless messages to the other side.
Finally, the driver stepped forward and unrolled a coil of red firecrackers, arranging them at the foot of the mound. As flame met fuse, the firecrackers burst into a volley of sharp reports, filling the air with the acrid scent of gunpowder, announcing the soul’s departure to the heavens.When they returning, leaving behind only the fluttering flame of a red candle beside a filled with peaches.Those of money and learning often chose secluded mountain slopes for their eternal rest—places rich with trees, birdsong, and the quiet stirrings of forest life. It was believed that such surroundings would grant peace to the wandering soul, for the mountains, steadfast and ancient, outlasted all sorrow.
As they descended the hills, a hush fell over the group. The path curved gently where she noticed the forest view—cedars and tall pines stood in orderly ranks.Sunlight filtered through the boughs, casting long shadows on the red-brown carpet of fallen pine needles and scattered cones below. Mayfair paused, her eyes lingering on the stretch of old stone ruins half veiled by trees.She spoke softly, almost to herself, “What is that place? It looks like... the remnants of a castle, or something older still.”
The driver, hearing her tone, looked ahead and followed the line of her gaze. “Could be,” he said, after a beat. “If I recall right, your aunt once mentioned it during an afternoon talk, back when your father was occasionally feel dizzy and headache. I overheard them. They said it belonged to the landlord your uncle once served. The wealthiest family in these parts, before the hard years came—before the fighting, reforms, executions and burning...The locals call it Losthills now... I asked about it just a few days ago.”His voice faded, and for a while only the sound of their footsteps stirred the air.
“But those trees,” Mayfair murmured, her brow furrowed. “They’re not like the wild ones that grow unchecked in the countryside. Look at those leaves—plum trees, aren't they? I haven’t seen the fruit leaves in years. In the city, you only catch a glimpse of them—maybe one or two leaves clinging to a stem at the bottom of a fruit stall crate, crushed between the ripe juicy fruits. Never the whole tree, never like this.And the cedars... their branches spread like spider legs.”
The driver nodded slowly. “They say the old landlord traveled far, brought back books and seeds, things no one around here had seen. He had taste, a bit of learning. That’s how your aunt and uncle met—something to do with gathering rare herbs arranged by him.You know your aunt's story.”
“Well.Then someone must have tended the place after,” Mayfair said, scanning the hill. “It’s clean, ordered."
“True. Cedars grow faster than cypress.I think they had a son as a carpenter. Quiet fellow. Still lives nearby.”
Mayfair’s voice dropped. “Did they ever mention the family name?”
The driver hesitated. “Something with... ‘King,’ I think. I remember your aunt saying it, and I thought it sounded odd at first time. Like a title rather than a name.I never heard such a family name.Too brazen. Why? Miss, are you alright?”
A faint tremor passed over Mayfair’s facial muscle , as if a wind had stirred an old curtain inside her,“I’ve been wondering-Why Aunt kept mentioning that carpenter. His work was decent, yes, but she spoke of him far too often for it to be mere praise. And each time, there was a sadness ,nostalgia in her tone.”She fell silent. In truth, Granny White had once tried to tell her more, but Mayfair had no patience for such things. A carpenter—what significance could a man like that hold? She had turned away from the conversation with quiet disdain, shaped by a life spent moving upwards. She knew too well the limitations that marked the lives of the uneducated and the poor: the fear of change, the worship of routine, the quickness to gossip and the slowness to imagine. Though she herself had grown as those who labored with calloused hands, she had no desire to return to it.Even look back too long was to risk being pulled under again.At times,Mayfair felt a quiet envy toward her younger sister—born years later, into a time when the worst of the hardship had already passed.
“So that’s the Keens’ land,” she whispered, as if naming it allowed her to place it in the order of the world. The plum valley was already behind them, the trail now winding once more beside the bamboo and the teal-colored stream.And then she remembered the man's lonely back, his sad and rustic gaze, his posture apart from the rest. She understood now what had given him that particular stillness, that old-world pride decreased towards resigned simplicity.
“Let it be. I have my own life to live.”She scratched at her scalp absently, feeling the weight of three days’ unwashed hair pressing damp against her temples. The sun was climbing, and sweat prickled along her back. The discomfort tugged at her thoughts, stirring impatience. The truths she had uncovered were old, tangled things. She would not carry them with her.
When they returned to the white peaked roof villa, the mood was quiet, almost ceremonial. The team began to clear the house, moving out the furniture piece by piece. The first items they carried out were two large memorial plaques, each shrouded in a red cloth. After that came the heavy wooden red sandalwood cabinet, the carved crystal ornaments ,the big colorful carpet.
"The house transfer needs to be processed in the town across the river," the assistant explained, already aware that Mayfair had little interest in the details. Still, he added, almost as an afterthought, “We’ll pass that woman’s house on the way—we could drop off the floor fan there.”Mayfair’s expression shifted. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. After a moment’s silence, she said with faint distance, “You handle it. I’ll wait at the district office in town. Give her the fan, and the keys too. Whatever remains... let them take what they want.”
That morning, Michael sat at the front of his excessively tall but coarse house on a bench he had crafted himself, holding Matthew quietly in his arms. The radio hummed low in the background, but his mind was elsewhere—still lingering on the sudden, unexpected encounter with Mayfair the day before.
He had seen her the moment she stepped out of the car. His heart had jolted, not with shock, but with a strange, almost instinctive familiarity. There was something fluid and effortless about her—her white, luminous skin, her dark sunglasses, the sheer black organza scarf wrapped around her hair. It reminded him of the women in the books he once read and imagined leaning on the study room's round window —those modern, spirited heroines from another world.When Thessaly had first come to the valley, he had briefly hoped she might carry that kind of modern elegance. But life had shown him otherwise: Thessaly was of the land, hardworking and practical, rooted like the fruit trees she tended. There had been no room for fantasy.But now, watching Mayfair, the old visions stirred again—half-forgotten yearnings rising like dust in sunlight. When she removed her sunglasses and scarf to greet the guests, her voice floated through the air, and it struck him how strangely familiar it was. A memory, perhaps. Or a dream.That day’s sharp sunlight seemed to blur the line between reality and reverie.
Even the next morning, he found himself half in a trance. So when her boxy black car passed again in the golden light, he rose instinctively. A few strands of her jet-black hair, slightly oily from these days's occupying, fluttered in the wind. Yet even that imperfection seemed to lend her a fragile dignity. She sat upright, gaze unwavering, staring ahead through the windshield. The high bridge of her nose cast a refined shadow across her face, and the slight lift of her chin gave her an air of resolve—as if she had decided long ago never to look back.Perhaps she sensed the gaze that followed her, but she gave no indication, only focused more intently on the road ahead.Michael carried Matthew to the roadside all unknowingly.
Michael stood watching as the car roll forward disappeared beyond the camphor trees, its shape fading into the shimmer of heat and mirage. He didn't know why, but as she turned the corner and disappeared from view, the world around him fell into a hush. It was one of those rare pauses, suspended in one of those rare moments when time seems to fold in on itself—silent, weightless, and impossibly slow.Such moments come seldom, and only to those who see beyond the obvious with a heart tuned to the finer sensitive shades of silence, felt it fully.Now, a second engine growled faintly behind him, but he chose not to turn around. For a moment, he preferred to believe it was all just in his mind.
The attendant didn’t wait for Michael to speak. He stepped briskly up and placed the floor fan just inside the wide, four-meter doorway."Miss said to give this to your wife. And here—" he jingled a set of keys before tossing them gently onto the infant’s belly. Matthew blinked, startled. "The villa’s yours to clear. Anything left, take it."Before Michael could react, the attendant was already climbing into the rounded truck, slamming the door shut behind him with a casual finality. Michael watched him leave, the red cloth wrapped around the a board caught his eye-a final ribbon of a bygone ritual.The vehicle pulled away with a low hum.
His mind wandered back to the villa’s living room, to the moment Mayfair stood silently near the window. The peach tree’s leaves outside shifted in the wind, casting dappled shadows on her face—shadows that flickered like soft thoughts across marble. There was something unreachably composed in her presence, something cold and luminous.She had the solemn grace of a statue—like one of those weather-worn Greek goddesses from The Erechtheion he’d once seen in a book. For that moment, he had felt worshipful.When she had turned around her head and at once Michael had dropped his eyes, ashamed of his own bare curiosity. "Michael, meal’s ready!" Thessaly’s voice cut through the trance.
He blinked and looked down. Matthew was staring up at him, one tiny hand clutching the rattle, the other fumbling curiously with the keys, already halfway to his mouth. Michael gently stooped, retrieving the keys before the child could bite down, then grasped the floor fan with one hand and wrap it into the front exhibition room. The fan looked almost comically small beside his broad frame—more like a relic than a machine."Good present," he murmured. "At least now I can work through the stifling afternoons."He didn’t mean just the weather. After such a surreal encounter, Michael longed for weight ,for practical actual wood shavings to return to something his hands could grasp.He needed more actual things to be done to pull him back to reality. On the other hand, he himself would prefer to see the big front house displaying all his wooden works rather than an empty area. "Thessaly, here are the keys to Granny White's villa..."
Near noon, the temperature climbed oppressively high. By two o’clock the sky was bloated with humidity, and the air sagged with tension. Then the clouds burst. A sudden, heavy downpour cracked open above the hills and streets, drenching the thirsty earth with a sound.It was three o'clock when the first dull thunder broke the silence — not a crack, but mostly a slow, rolling murmur that lingered in the humid air like an unspoken thought.Now and then, purple lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a loud, cracking boom.Inside, under the slow whir of the new fan, Michael sat at his workbench. A fresh plank of wood lay before him. He picked up his chisel and began to shape it, each motion slow, steady, deliberate.
That afternoon, after the sudden downpour, a rainbow began to rise across the clearing sky. A firebird-shaped cloud, tinged with radiant colors, unfolded its wings above the hills. Thessaly was in the backyard, wiping down the high tea chairs brought from Granny White’s house. The sun emerged, casting orange-red light along the cloud edges.Thessaly paused, rags made from scraps of unused clothing in her hand, and looked up.Beside her, Matthew sat quietly in his four-wheeled infant chair, his eyes fixed on the sky as well.The clouds, layered and shifting, held their attention in still admiration. "Granny White would have watched them too, sitting silently, letting time pass with the clouds."Thessaly thought herself.
That winter, Michael’s carefully crafted mahogany pieces—benches carved with birds, cabinets adorned with flowering vines—sold swiftly in Leisland. “Edgar, seems like Leisland’s gotten wealthier,” Matthew said, running a hand along the smooth edge of a newly polished cabinet. Edgar chuckled. “Weren’t you worried it was priced too high? I told you—most buyers are town officers now. There’s work everywhere: bridges, roads, houses. They’ve started spending and earning freely. The land sold at good margins too. If transport were better, many would’ve moved to the city by now.” He paused, then added with a sidelong glance, “Heard someone with a car from big cities once came looking for you.”
Michael’s voice grew low. “That was long ago. Those uncles we used to visit as kids—most are gone.”
Edgar nodded, his tone quieting. “I saw it too, when I left Reyden after my father passed. Time closes its chapters. Now it’s our turn to watch over children… Your second child’s due soon, isn’t it?”
Michael gave a slight nod. “Before the new year, most likely.”
“You’re settled now,” Edgar said, watching him.Michael smiled faintly, though a shadow passed through his expression. Edgar divined the delicacy of the change. No words followed, but the silence between them said enough.
Spring brings its blossoms, summer its wind, autumn its moon, and winter its snow—the year’s finest joys meant to be shared. But some joys arrive with no one beside them. They pass softly, lingering in stillness, waiting—or fading.
