Hyssop Grey

[CN: deals with death, funerals and mourning, and themes of guilt and self-sacrifice]

The sun streams down on the gathering crowd, on the day that Hyssop Grey is laid to rest. He is the last of his bloodline. All the lore and sad memories and unshakeable ethical commitments that had been passed on from mother to son over the generations has its end in him.

And yet…

The crowd around the grave is large indeed. From the Forest comes a procession headed by Dearheart, Wendridge perched on her head. From the Shore, Seashell leads a sad throng, among them, many children, to whom Hyssop told stories to soothe them in the darkest depths of Winter. The crowds become one at the ruins of Hyssop’s old hollow. Together, they excavate it, return Hyssop to the place he would come to rest in the short spaces between helping, and re-inter him there, so that he may rest for a longer spell.

“He touched countless lives,” says Dearheart. “He did the work of ten. Without him, I’m certain fewer of us would have survived that terrible Winter. He was filled with compassion, and the Forest is poorer for his loss.”

“His stories brought us joy, when the tentacles drove us from our home,” says Seashell. “We will keep them alive. The tales of his people will not end here. Their kindness will prove an example to every generation to come.”

Something is not being said. A tension, a discomfort. Hyssop helped, yes. But he hurt himself in the helping. Everyone there knows it.

There is a stirring in the crowd. An awe, a murmuring. A figure moving through it, glowing gently, paler than the sun.

“His people knew great sadness,” says the creator of animal-kind, “Which was my mistake, my failure. They blamed themselves for cruelties they had no power over. I think he found a balance, in the end, between sacrificing for others, and finding joy in the world. And he helped me find one too… between guilt and newfound freedom.”

“He told a final tale,” chirps a younger voice, “He said he didn’t want to leave the old stories without an end… the old messages unaltered.”

As the dirt is piled in again, the young one recites the capstone to the Chronicle…

This story is told at a Carnival, many wheel-turns hence.

“This is a tale from the Company of the Greys; from the chronicle that we keep, in remembrance of those who came before. A terrible mistake; a crime to be expunged. This is how the Chronicle began. This is the tragedy of which they sung, the Grey wolves, in their sadness, their mystery and sorrow. Darker tales tell of that; this one tells their brighter end. A conclusion, after Winter’s cold. A learning to love themselves again.”

“There was a young wolf who wandered lone, after his mother’s sacrifice. Wondering what life’s purpose was; his own pleasure tasting meaningless. His legacy hung heavy, a guilty shroud. He helped, and helped, and gave his all. He grew old and frail and could help less and less, but wanted to give more and more. He fought the fiend-friend tentacular, came close to death, and was forced to rest. He felt wrenched from purpose, until the people of the shore asked him to care for their young. He become a sharer of tales; the storehouse he had inherited, which he had already committed to the written page, the stories that shaped his dreams, his sense of purpose. Telling the tales was a healing thing; a way of helping that still brought joy.”

“And, as though stepping from the tales’ first page, hark who trod abroad! The one the Greys had worshipped from the first. The pale raccoon, who birthed our dreams! Whose timing spawned the Grey Ones’ shame. Raccoon and wolf shared much: a guilty past, a drive to aid. A belief in community; a long separation from it, whether imposed or self-enforced. They met, grey and white against the snow, and each, like mirrors, spoke these words: ‘You don’t have to apologise. All the errors are mine to bear.’ The Raccoon felt guilt, for the guilt they’d spawned. Felt guilt, also, for the tricks they’d played. Other Spirits who had been their friends, who in creating us they had betrayed. But those Spirits had betrayed them too, and thus the mirror words were heard again: ‘You don’t have to apologise. All the errors are mine to bear.’ Wolf and Raccoon wandered long, the Raccoon apologising, mending pain. Till the wounds of the dawn time seemed healed up. Till the wolf felt he could rest again.”

“Rest he did, but help still too. A balance struck, a better way. He sat, and watched the new sun glittering in the trees. Watched the snow melt slowly away. He told tales, and heard them too. He gave, and also, he received. Community requires both; from each to each, when each is in need. To be a Grey is no longer to carry the burden of blood through age and age. With this wolf, the bloodline ended, as it finally forgave itself; the old story came to an end. But the wheel still turns; the name of the Greys still exists. The Company remembers the lessons in the tales: to give all we can afford to make the world a brighter place for all who live in it. To remember the stories of the past, and the passed-away people whose souls and voices breathe in them still. And we remember the final lesson, too: that it’s alright to ask for help, when you need it. That it’s alright to forgive yourself when you can’t do everything you’d like to. That those who help need help in turn.”

At the edge of the Carnival, the White Raccoon smiles, sad and fond.