She was found dead in the morning: that midget of a woman with the ghastly teeth and the swollen knees. The one named Grunke. Her landlord found her bent, like a pretzel of twigs, half in bed, half out, like a bristly bush wound up in sheets. When he found her, he laughed in relief. When her neighbors heard, they decided they didn't care.

But two hundred and three mourners attended her funeral, and like me, they were all crying.

Afternoon was the mortuary. There was a hole in the ground, twig-filled. And before it, a humble wooden stage. The undertaker nodded his head (it was shining, shining bald in the wind-liquefied light of the falling sun) and I climbed up to face the mourners. The names of two hundred and two persons trembled on my tongue but only one was quivering over and over in my head. I could not speak. Pale and empty, I stood on the stage, as the undertaker smiled. Then I felt Death wind a hand through my guts and I screamed: “Weep!

Weep for Rohavaria, my love! That girl who never was, but was always better than me, wiser, kinder, and more good. Rohavaria, in whose arms you sought solace whenever my flaws became bloated and took over everything in your sight. Weep for her mind-soothing song—she has been silenced forever!

Now her bones have been ground to dust and her tender breasts burned away to ash. Time eats the skull which had housed her eyes. Weep for her, as I weep through my jealousy, because losing her has made you desolate and your desolation is a stab to my heart.

Oh little tatter-clothed girlchild, weep for your Kedony, your three-bit fancy. Weep for the bell-toned hooves that never touched the ground. Weep for the dusky mane that you wet with your tears when the other girls laughed and laughed... That velvet mane through which you threaded flowers and coins and candies, delights. Weep for the trembling, velvet nose that warmed your cheek in welcome when you ran naked into the cold (coins death-clenched in your hand) just to find him, girl-darling.

Now Kedony lies dead, his flanks still with unbreathing. His eyes are glazed over and his tongue is swollen purple. Weep for him, because there will be no other horse quite like him, never, even if you drown the world in bits and shakes.

Weep for Taninka, dear old sir. Fairy-queen of the night, gold-skinned and gold-bought. She lit the streets with her beauty, the delicacy of her dragonfly wings, the shy step of her bare feet. Weep for the smell of her hair, old sir, that perfume of dusty flowers and musk and lonely childhood. Weep for the shards in her eyes which crystallized your will.

The wind has blown Taninka away, and all that is left is the strand of shining hair wound around the branches of your soul.

Weep for Cholahantia, young man, that castle of spires and gargoyle haunts. You reigned as king on the great, iron throne. Dragons ate from your hand and even their thoufling heights were dwarfed by the immensity of your halls. New echoes lived in Cholahantia for tens of days before vanishing, and the deepest ones sang in the corridors for tens of years.

But mud has swallowed Cholahantia, dear boy-king, and the echoes have been stifled with groaning, moist earth.

And you, sweet nagwoman. Weep for your masked lover in the black cloak. Weep for the stolen kisses, the feasts of melted chocolate you passed between each other's mouths on slippery, scarlet sheets. Oh, how he made you forget what your mother did to you, what your daughter is doing to herself—

but he is gone! Reality is a slap, a whip. Oh weep, that his words of comfort have vanished into his throat, and his throat has dissolved into darkness. Nagwoman, sadwoman, now no arms embrace you, but your own.”

On, I continued, until the crowd swayed with impatient terror, until my voice began to rasp. Even then, I could not stop. I had two hundred and two stories to tell my audience, two hundred and two lives to remember for my audience.

The undertaker commanded me to leave off. But though I wanted to, I knew and he didn't know that I could not. He dragged me off the stage when I refused. I forgave him.

Then he motioned for the ritual of the ten beats of silence to begin, and we all counted our breaths. No sooner was this finished than I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It was a man who dreamed of mountains and naked angels.

“Mistress,” he said. “I cannot go for longer without flight with my brothers. Come with me to my home tonight and sing to me. I am a shadow of a man.”

With a voice hoarse not only from weariness, I said, “Sir, allow me a moment. I am grieving.”

A barren woman clutched at my arm. “Mistress, I know you've had precious little experience, but I need a song tonight. My arms ache to hold my babe again. I am a monster without her.”

“Madam,” I replied, “allow me a moment. I am grieving.”

“Mistress,” the child who loved a horse mumbled against my skirts. “Please, oh please, I need you tonight. Nobody loves me but horsie, give him back to me, please, oh please.” She wet my skirt with her tears and mucus. “My heart is small and cowardly without horsie.”

I ran my hand through her stiff, wiry hair and I could not say a word.

My love came to me, saying, “Silly girl, stop whining. You are the delusionary's replacement, aren't you? You must do her job, your job now. I'll want a delusional tonight, and if you don't give me one, I swear I'll never—!”

I chose not to hear his voice, but my hands continued to caress the child’s hair and other voices welled up like a tide. My ears drowned in voices begging for forgetfulness, for forgiveness, for love, for power, for friends, for parents, for delusionals, delusion. They all knew the taste and smell and sound would never be the same again, but they had to pretend.

I could not refuse them. Yes, my hands said, on the little girl’s cheek. I will give you back your braveself when Kedony was with you. I cast my gaze over them all, like a net. Yes, I shall raise you all from the dead.

The undertaker called me back up the stage. “Burn the woman,” he said. “And we shall pray the final prayer and be done with this!” He handed me the torch, which crackled with silver magnesium sparks and copper-green.

I did not hold the torch aloft, the way a greater delusionary would have. I did not declare myself. I did not tell the world: Here I am. I am alive even though my master is dead. I am myself, as I have always been and always will be! because that would have been a lie. The torch slid from the undertaker's hand and into the hole of anonymous twigs as if my hands were nothing.

The body burned quickly.

With the smoke rose the names, the final prayer for dust. Two hundred and two names rose up, amidst wailing and love and regret and hope, because two hundred and three had died that day, and two hundred and two hoped to be reborn in me:

Rohavaria, Kedony, Taninka, Cholahantia, Indoha, Aggovi, Samada, Gratiatielne, Balrhf, Viv, Acun, Alleyre, Nsiue...

For there is something that dies in everyone, when their delusions die.

I was the two hundred and third mourner, and I whispered the two hundred and third name:

Grunke.

She was found dead in the morning: midget-woman with ghastly teeth and swollen knees. Nobody remembered her name but me, because nobody else realized that they had died when she did.

“Grunke,” I whispered, praying for the dust of what I had been.

If I had been a greater delusionary, I would have lifted my voice, loud unto being heard and even louder. I would have blasted the ears of all these petty people. I would have screamed until they understood in their souls who Grunke was, what she was, how the being of her, the all-giving of her, dwarfed their small, selfish dreams. Then I would have said: Here I am. I am alive even though my world is dead. I am myself.

I would have shown them that I had more substance than a nothing-thought, if I had been a greater delusionary. I would have done true magic and become more real than Grunke's shadow, which had been swallowing my mind since I was a child.

But I was just Grunke's daughter: twig-child, badtooth, uglygirl filled with mute love. With that, I was content.

“Mother,” I whispered, as its own smoke smothered the fire in the twig-filled hole.

I came down from the stage, un-happy and un-sad. I took the little girl's hand into my nothing-hands. We walked away together, with our skin aprickle with each other's life.

And Kedony lived again.

- - - - -

AN: The awkwardness of the prose is deliberate. Aside from that, make as many criticisms as you please.