Deadly Communion

27

FROM EARLIEST TIMES MEN have known her. In the Sumerian and Babylonian myths she is called Ereshkigal. In Ancient Rome she was known as Naenia or Libitina, and was said to fall upon the living like a great bird of prey. The Etruscans called her Tulchulcha. To the Hindus she is Kali, the Black Mother. In Japan, she comes as the Snow Queen, who chills the dying with her cold breath and removes all suffering. In Norse mythology she is Hela and in Finnish folktales she is Kalma. The Poles call her the Bone Lady and the Celts call her the Morrigan.

I will not try to describe her. No purpose is served by attempting the impossible; however, I will make an observation that has not, to my knowledge, been recorded by others. When she appears she is enfolded by a dancing, purplish light. Her dark wings, which rise from her shoulders and curve forward, are bathed in an aurora of amethyst.

What is it like to be in the presence of such perfection?

I will tell you.

It is unbearable torment.

Her terrible beauty creates such yearning, such longing, that the soul immediately struggles to escape from its prison. In the throes of a strange ecstasy, it twists and turns within the heavy flesh — striving, desperately, to be free.

I reached out to her, lifted my wasted arms, and begged her to take me. But it was not my time. She began to fade, leaving only an afterglow. It was as if some alien sun had set, leaving in its wake a flush of colour on the low-lying clouds of the night sky, a vestigial trace of heliotrope — gentian violet.

Perhaps I cried out, because my father came into the room. I can remember his hand on my forehead, his hatchet face. He asked me what was the matter, but I could not reply. I closed my eyes against the candlelight, which seemed intolerably harsh and bright. I wanted to see her again: I wanted to follow her ghostly train into perpetual darkness.

The world was never the same thereafter. It seemed counterfeit — a hollow sham. When I recovered from my illness it was like waking up from a long sleep, in a foreign land. Everything had become flat — a crudely painted backdrop in a cheap theatre. Only things relating to Her were meaningful. The graveyard next to the church; the mummies of ancient Egypt; myths and legends of the underworld.

I remember little of that time. No, that is not quite true. What I mean to say is that I remember little of what was happening around me. My inner life I can remember very well. I reflected on my experiences. She had made herself known to me as I stood by the open caskets of Netti and Gerda. Then she had revealed herself to me — when I was close to death.

Why?

I was chosen.

There is nothing more to tell of my life in the village. I grew up. I left and came to Vienna. I lived in warming-up rooms and hostels — and tried to find work. I visited the Kunsthistorisches Museum and admired Canova’s Theseus. I went to the Natural History Museum and studied the mummies that I had longed to see as a child. I found Herr Griesser’s prehistoric axe-head displayed in a case with others from the Wachau.

Now, let me tell you something. Not about me — but about you.

You are obsessed with death.

You Viennese relish a good funeral: the pallbearers, with their splendid outfits; the liveries worn by the horses; the hearses; the sashes, lanterns and black flags. And where else in the world can one find a necropolis like the Zentralfriedhof? It is bigger than the entire Innere Stadt. Did you know that? Imagine, building a cemetery bigger than a town! It is a wonderful place.

I have fond memories of that first winter, in spite of the hardship, exploring the endless avenues of the Zentralfriedhof. I had never seen anything like it. Under the arcade I found the tomb of the miner, August Zang, with its fierce dwarves standing on roughly hewn pedestals, raising their torches, guarding the portal with sturdy shields. It was like a scene from the Norse legends. All of the statuary had been carved with such care. I remember a female figure — as large as life — with long slender arms and fingers of exquisite delicacy. The sculptor had worked a small miracle with his material, creating a gown for her that appeared to be semi-transparent. It was remarkable how a substance like marble could be made to suggest a garment that adhered to her curves like silk and collected in soft folds between her thighs. Sphinxes, lyres, urns and swans and, of course, pale imitations of Her — those great angelic wings open and ready for flight.

And did I feel her presence there, in the Zentralfriedhof?

I did — but only as a husband might feel closer to his wife when he contemplates a photograph. There was, however, one exception. Whenever I saw a funeral she seemed to come closer.

On rainy afternoons I would loiter by the open graves, in readiness. Then I would join the mourners as they arrived. No one noticed me or challenged me. I would close my eyes and be rewarded by a faint sense of her presence. And once or twice my heart leaped at a flicker of purple light.

It was after one of these funerals that I fell into conversation with an undertaker’s assistant. He was very sanguine about his profession. Business was good. The population of Vienna was growing and, with it, increasing demand for his services: he mentioned that there had been talk of building a high-speed pipeline, running from the Innere Stadt to the Zentralfriedhof, for the purpose of transporting the great number of corpses. I asked him if he could offer me a job. He gave me his card and said that I should visit the company premises the following morning as they had a vacancy for a junior member of staff. I went and was interviewed by the funeral director who said that I could start work there the following day.