ARRIVAL (ERA 1)

13 | First Ceremony

            "It will commence in another twenty minutes," Tria says.

"We can head up now if you'd like to see it. The ceremony shouldn't take longer than a half hour; we won't be missed here," Adara says. I guess even she can't be rude when it comes to the dead.

"Alright." I say, keeping my eyes on Anna. "I'm just about finished."

There's a ceremony at noon for the deceased refugee the Garners brought in this morning –the only wash-up this entire week and he wasn't even alive. Neither are you. These words echo in the empty space that's seized my mind.

I haven't been to a commemorate ceremony yet, though I remember one happening. It was my first day in the Refinery, after my resurface. I still can hear the loud cannons echoing around the drafty hall.

I return my thoughts to the little girl on the cot in front of me. I finish reapplying the ointment and wrap the wound in a gauzy bandage. Anna whimpers as I guide her back to her bed. I smile softly and promise to see her before I leave for the night.

Anna and I have a connection. Of all the refusals, Anna is unique. She will only allow me to dress her wounds and cleanse her in the washroom. A sneaking suspicion lead me to believe the bond is solely an outcome of the first memory Anna has in this world. We resurfaced on the same day after all, and we were assigned to the same C.R.I.S. board members.

"Are you almost done there, Ev?" Tria calls across the room. "Adara and I are going to head up. Michael will watch the floor while we are absent," she adds.

"Yes, I'm coming," I croak, and finish tucking Anna back under her covers.

A wind rips through the Square, crawling in and out around the uneven buildings. William told me the first snowfall marks the official beginning of winter. Once the snow starts, an incessant sprinkling lasts until springtime.

"Come on, over here. Most people watch from the sides." Adara points in the direction a small crowd gathering out front the Ash House.

"We can move closer if you want to get a better look," Tria adds as we climb the hill.

"Okay."

I follow Tria and Adara to the stone tower. The lackluster burning pan lies on a raised wooden plank and is surrounded by a bed of ornate greens. The small outline of a school-age boy is barely visible under rust-colored leaves.

"It's always so ceremonial," Tria sniffles.

"I believe that's the point," says Adara stiffly.

Tucked behind the wagon are two iron cannons on wheels. Their cheeks are rusty and weathered, their muzzles pointed in the direction of the forest. They look centuries old and they probably are, their necks draped with wreaths of foliage.

The spectators gather in a crescent-shape crowd and face the deceased refugee. An elderly woman in front of me sways mindlessly back and forth. A taller civil, one that I do not recognize, unravels a parchment and hands it to Garner Brynne.

"I offer my gratitude an' thanks to each of you." Brynne raises his hands to include the audience before him.

"As we commemorate the lost souls who have resurfaced in Kemper, we are reminded that life is a gift –one to be valued an' cherished..."

Garner Brynne carries on about the unfortunate and unfair circumstances that prohibit certain wash-ups from successfully passing through the portal to this era's land.