As each of his children emerged from Rhea’s holy womb, Kronos swallowed them one after the other; for he feared that one of them would supplant him as master and ruler of heaven and earth among the immortals. Rhea, his wife, suffered terrible grief.

— Hesiod’s Theogony

The rain came down hard that night as Kat turned the key in the lock and opened the door to her mother’s house. All was dark; all was silent. She turned the lights on and closed the door, locking it and leaving the key in the lock to prevent intruders from breaking in just the way Mother had taught her, so many years ago.

Upon first entering the house after Mother’s passing, some four days ago, the place had felt strangely unfamiliar, almost unrecognizable, as if it had died along with its longtime occupant, undergoing a kind of rigor mortis of its own, slowly stiffening and shrivelling into nothingness. The smell was real and rank. Kat had opened all the windows to air it out, but the street noise was oppressive while the smell clung on like a blood-sucking leech; so, she had closed them all again after only twenty minutes.

In Mother’s will, it was stated she was to be cremated and her ashes scattered upon the tranquil waters of a nearby duck pond. Dad had died years ago, but Mother hated his cemetery and had never visited. She had wanted her final resting place to be somewhere far from the boneyard, as she called it, where the tranquil sounds of the natural world were substituted for the never-ending shuffling of teary-eyed mourners. And so, it was left up to Kat, her only child, to execute those instructions.

The first order of business for Kat was to release Mother’s body from the mortuary. Against her wishes, she was compelled to identify the body (something about preventing an unfortunate case of ‘mistaken identity’). As she expected, this proved to be a significant emotional strain and produced her first real torrent of tears since the entire ordeal had begun. The second logistical hurdle was finding transport for the body and a cremation service that were within her modest budget. Finally, the day had arrived for the trip to the crematorium to collect Mother’s ashes. That was the hardest task of all.

So, she took a train and bus ride that lasted nearly two hours out to the middle of nowhere, some forty miles outside of town. When the bus let her off, she walked for another twenty minutes down a lonely gravel path through desolate farmland. The sky overhead was menacing and pretty soon, it started to rain. She trudged on with her hoodie over her head and an umbrella in her hand, managing to stay mostly dry as she came upon the unassuming brick building. She eyed briefly the large metallic vent spewing black smoke into the dreary sky. Was it Mother’s smoke? She tried to put the question out of her mind, but her eyes started to well up again, and she daubed at them with her pocketed wad of Kleenex.

As she entered, a bell rang over the door signaling her arrival. The room was dimly lit and empty, save for a couple of chairs and a little table with some old magazines. Presently, another door opened, and in walked a large, middle-aged man wearing faded jeans and a plaid shirt that looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. “Hello,” he said in a nasal voice as he approached her. “Can I help you?”

“Hello, Mr. Kasper. I’m Kat Hilbert. We spoke on the phone this morning.”

“Oh, yes. Miss Hilbert… How do you do?”

“I’ve come for my mother’s ashes.”

“Yes. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The wad of Kleenex made another appearance, soaking up more tears. “Thank you,” she said in a choked voice.

“Would you like to sit down? Could I get you something to drink?”

“No, it’s quite all right.”

“Please sit down, Miss Hilbert,” he said again, kindly directing her to a chair with his hand. She took a seat, and he did likewise.

He continued, “I can see your mother meant the world to you. Please believe me when I say I have nothing but sadness in my heart for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kasper. That means a lot to me. My mother and I weren’t always close, but our bond strengthened in her old age. She came to depend on me pretty much for everything.”

He sighed heavily. “This business…” he indicated the room they were in. “It’s a dark business to be in. It’s the business of sorrow. It’s when people are at their lowest point. I’ve seen it too many times, and it never gets easy to deal with.”

She nodded silently.

“But, in a way,” he continued, “it’s also a business of hope. As in, hope that this is as bad as it would get, and that better times are ahead. You know what I mean?”

“Yes,” she said nearly inaudibly. “I think I do.”

“I hope there’s better times ahead for you, Miss Hilbert. I really do.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Kasper. That is very kind of you.”

“Please, call me Jonah.”

“Jonah. You can call me Kat.”

He smiled at her, and for the first time in many days, she smiled back.

“Kat, did you bring a vessel with you?”

“Yes,” she said and unzipped her backpack on the floor. Carefully, she took out an object and held it in her cupped hands.

Jonah didn’t say a word as he gazed at it, his mouth hanging open in wonderment. It was an ornate ceramic urn, with delicate relief carvings around its base and multicolored inlays circling its midsection, creating what looked like writing in an ancient language well beyond Jonah’s ability to decipher. He pursed his lips and let out a short whistle.

“Well, if that isn’t the most beautiful urn I’ve ever laid my eyes on!”

“Isn’t it something?”

“Now, where did you find such a beautiful piece as this?”

“To be honest, I had nothing to do with it. It was my mother’s. She wanted her ashes to be placed in it.”

“You don’t say. Well, she certainly had good taste.”

Kat smiled again. “Mother certainly had her eccentricities, but she was a lovely soul, and I’ll miss her.”

She extended her hands towards Jonah, and he accepted the precious object, holding it carefully with the tips of his fingers. “Don’t you worry, Kat,” he said, “I’ll make sure your mother’s remains are safe and sound inside this urn.”

Then he slowly backtracked to the far door and disappeared through it, closing it behind him. The day was beginning to retreat into early dusk, and the light was fading fast. Nonetheless, she waited patiently for about half an hour, perusing the old magazines, until he reappeared. He carried a small wooden box in his hands, and she knew that the urn, and her mother’s ashes, were inside.

It was well past supper time when she got back home, but she was too tired and emotionally drained to bother with eating. She opened the box, took out the urn, and placed it on the kitchen table. Then she went to Mother’s bedroom, and without so much as changing out of her clothes, curled into bed, wrapping the blanket around herself until it was tight as a cocoon. Jonah’s words about sorrow and hope briefly echoed in her mind as she drifted into a troubled sleep from which she hoped, like a newly formed butterfly breaking out of its cocoon, to emerge upon a new beginning.

It was a few minutes before the witching hour, with the darkness seemingly at its deepest, when Kat was abruptly awoken by a shrill noise. At first, she thought she might have dreamed it. It was a sound akin to breaking glass or china, but louder, as if several of her mother’s china plates had shattered on the floor. But that was a ridiculous notion. All her mother’s fine china was tucked safely inside the cupboards, and, as far as she knew, none had been touched in ages.

Then, she remembered the urn. She had left it sitting on the kitchen table before going to bed. A feeling of cold dread spread through her body like a winter chill. “Oh, God!” she muttered as she kicked the blanket off and swung her feet onto the cold floor. The wooden boards creaked in protest as she raised herself from the bed.

She took small, tentative steps through the darkness, eventually reaching the stairwell. The stairs were dimly lit from the ground floor, and she realized with some annoyance that she had left the kitchen lights on. She quickly descended and approached the kitchen. What she saw there made her freeze dead in her tracks. Upon the kitchen table, where she had left it just hours before, the urn lay in jagged pieces, and its contents, her mother’s ashes, were seemingly gone.

Her mouth hung open as she contemplated the ramifications of what she was seeing. For whatever reason, someone must have broken into the house while she was sleeping to take her mother’s ashes. Kat couldn’t even begin to understand why. Who would do such a thing? Again, her mind drew blanks. Could a stray animal have gotten into the house and broken into the urn to swallow up the ashes inside? Well, she smiled cynically to herself, now there was a ridiculous notion.

She took a closer look at the shattered pieces of the urn, and only then noticed the thin trail of ashes that protruded from the wreckage, extending out like a tentacle as it traveled across the side of the table, down to the floor, and out of the kitchen. Her eyes opened wide, pupils fully dilated; she was terrified to move a muscle. Someone, or something, was in the house with her, that much was crystal clear. She grabbed a large knife from the knife block on the countertop. “I know you’re there,” she called out into the darkness. “You should know I have a knife.”

Brandishing the knife with both hands, pointing the blade out like a dagger, she took a cautious first step, then another. Slowly, she followed the trail of ashes out of the kitchen. It led her to the living room, weaving through the furniture before doubling back, briefly visiting the foyer as if it wanted to leave out the door; finally, the trail of ashes curved towards the stairwell leading down to the basement. The stairs creaked with every step. Kat’s hands shook as they squeezed the knife handle harder and harder, her knuckles becoming white with strain. She could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down her brow, and she paused briefly to wipe them with her forearm. Any moment now, she expected to come face-to-face with the invader.

“I’m coming down, do you hear me? I don’t want violence, but I will defend myself…”

She continued down and stopped at the last step. The basement was enveloped in gloom, and she tried turning on the light, but the switch was unresponsive. The only available light spilled onto the floor from the glow of the TV, muted as it played an old movie, the actors all moving their mouths without making a sound. In front of the television set was a reclining chair angled such that its back faced Kat, allowing her to see only a pair of silhouetted feet resting on the footrest.

Kat swallowed and said in a quivering voice, “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

Presently, nothing happened. The person in the chair didn’t move. As the seconds ticked away, Kat could feel herself getting more and more flustered; she felt as if she was being played in someone’s twisted game, and it both frightened and enraged her. Her grip on the knife tightened with every passing moment. She was about to open her mouth to deliver an escalated warning to the intruder when, all of a sudden, a pale and bony hand appeared on the recliner’s armrest. Instead of speaking, Kat gasped. The hand grasped the armrest, its claw-like fingers digging into the fabric, allowing the person in the recliner to shift their body weight to the side. Slowly, a face emerged into view, gazing at Kat with eyes sunken deep in their sockets, shining like a cat’s, probing her through the darkness.

It was Mother!

The knife slipped out of Kat’s fingers and fell to the floor, its point missing her bare foot as it bounced off the floor and went flying out of sight. Her mouth hung open, but no words came out, only a soft gasp that left her breathless as her throat momentarily locked up. “Mother…” she finally managed to wheeze out. “Is that you?”

She didn’t wait for her mother’s response to lunge forward, her feet moving almost on impulse. She rounded the recliner until she faced its occupant, dropping to her knees to get a better look at her mother’s face. It was a ruined face, with deep crevices extending from chin to forehead. In several places, pustules oozed a dark, thick fluid. Her nose, cheeks and chin were jagged edges. Her hair was white and extremely sparse, exposing large sections of her scalp. But it was her eyes… Those hideous eyes that seemed simultaneously both dead and alive, like tiny mirrors that somehow reflected light rather than absorbing it.

“Mother,” Kat repeated, her voice wavering. “Is it really you?”

Mother looked blankly at Kat, her glazed eyes both seemingly seeing and unseeing. For a brief interval, Kat was certain she was looking at a cadaver, perhaps animated by strings, someone’s cruel joke on her in her time of grief. But slowly, the cadaver’s mouth began to open, exposing rotting, yellowed teeth. A voice, so hoarse and gravelly that it caused Kat to wince, croaked forth from the dark void of that maw, “Yes…. It’s…. I….”

“But how is it possible? You died… I saw your body. For heaven’s sake, you were cremated!”

Mother seemed more animated now, as if her daughter’s proximity infused her with newfound stores of vigor and vitality. Her eyes cleared some, and faint pupils could now be seen. And she smiled at her daughter, a warm, cheerful smile that caused Kat, despite her horror, to smile back.

“I… don’t feel much like myself,” Mother said, her voice now clearer and more robust. She held up her hands, and Kat saw ash residue falling off their backs in large clumps. “It’s a strange feeling,” she continued. “It’s almost as if I’m not really here.”

Kat took her mother’s hands in hers and held them. They were cold to the touch, but she could swear she could feel them move. This was no animated cadaver. This was no trick. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Mommy,” she snivelled. “I don’t know how you came back to me, but I’m so happy you did.”

“Katherine…” Mother said, using her daughter’s full name for the first time in ages. “You were always a good daughter to me. Always loyal and respectful to a fault. I’m lucky to have you by my side.”

“Oh, Mommy!”

“But I need you to do one more thing for me, dear…”

“Anything.”

“I need you to give me a big hug.”

Kat broke down now, the dam bursting, tears coming down in torrents. She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her mother, rested her chin on her shoulder, and squeezed tight. The longing… Oh, the longing! Not just for Mother, but for something else as well; she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Simpler times, perhaps, like a long-lost childhood, when the troubles of midlife seemed so far away. A fit of uncontrollable sobbing ensued, during which she became so overwhelmed with emotion that she nearly lost all connection to time and place. For a brief instant, she even got disoriented enough to lose control of her bladder. “Mommy— Mommy— Mommy—” she kept repeating, a joyous smile on her face, like the little girl she once was who’d been left at daycare for the first time only to be reclaimed hours later.

An unknown amount of time passed before Kat opened her eyes again. Mother was gone—vanished—as though she were nothing but a hallucination all along. Kat looked around in horror, searching for her Mommy, who was in her arms mere moments before. Was it all a dream? A figment of her grief-stricken imagination? The tears kept coming, but now they were tears of heartbreak and sorrow. Her mouth tasted salty with them.

It was then that she noticed the ash, piles of it all around her. Looking at her open palms, she saw them covered thickly with ash, streams of which trickled through her fingers onto the floor. There was ash floating all around her like a mist, causing her eyes to burn and her lungs to seize up. She began to cough in short, violent bursts, quickly directing the hacks into the crook of her elbow in a vain attempt to shield her airways from taking in any more particles. But the more she coughed, the more she seized up until there was no choice but to expel large amounts of mucus from her throat and nostrils. Her eyes became pools of sticky, translucent fluid that constantly overflowed down her cheeks, turning everything around her into a murky blur; which was just as well, as it spared her from noticing the ashen fog around her beginning to gather overhead, expanding and coalescing like a storm cloud about to burst. It continued moving in place, spiralling like a cyclone, gathering more and more ash from the air, sucking it up from the ground, growing by the second. Finally, when it had eaten its fill of the ash, it proceeded to arc down like a single column, quickly changing direction once again, spinning faster and faster while gaining momentum. Before Kat was even aware of what was happening, a torrent of ash surged out of the cyclone with an unnatural ferocity, bursting through her mouth and down her throat with savage force, instantly popping her eyeballs clear out of their sockets.

And even though her lungs were rendered useless, she managed to remain conscious for a few seconds more, as the last of the ash particles entered her mouth. Sightless and breathless, she could nonetheless feel the ash inside of her beginning to enter her bloodstream, spreading through her body like a virus. Oddly, she wasn’t afraid. A strange calmness took hold of her as her brain began to shut down. Her final thought was about Mother. Moments later, Kat disappeared in a violent tempest of dissolution and destruction. All that remained of her former essence were translucent elemental fragments that floated in the air like debris after a volcanic eruption, slowly settling to the floor in an unidentifiable and barely noticeable heap.

For a long time thereafter, the only movement in that darkened room was the mute characters of the movie that continued its silent feature on the television screen. Here and there, a lone spec of ash floated idly through the air. All was calm; the storm had passed.

Hours went by, and the TV broadcast had long ago changed to static. The first light of dawn was beginning to emerge through the ceiling-hugging window, but the near-total gloom would continue to cling to that basement for many hours more. Everything was still, and no one who happened upon that basement would ever guess of the peculiar events that took place there mere hours before. The house was seemingly deserted, its owners long ago departed. And yet, something was beginning to stir down there. A faint rustling sound could be heard, like a mouse braving the open spaces of a slumbering house in search of food to carry back to its hideout. Except, this was no mouse.

At length, the rustling grew stronger, becoming a shuffle. It was almost as if someone or something was attempting to pick itself off the floor. Sure enough, moments later, a bony hand appeared from beneath the recliner, grabbed the armrest, and dug its crooked fingers into the fabric for leverage. Presently, an equally bony elbow worked like an old rusty crank, straining with all its might to hoist the rest of its body off the ground. And just when it seemed as if it would surely buckle under the pressure, a head and torso appeared, partially silhouetted by the glow of the TV, crawling inch by inch, digging the bony fingers of one hand, then the other… up, up, up… pivoting ever so slowly until the entire body was finally in position to sit and rest.

Mary-Ellen Hilbert sat naked on the recliner, bathed in sweat, breathing heavily as if she had just run a marathon, or risen from ashes. As before, she resembled a cadaver, with little more than skin and bones to her body. But despite her heavy breathing and corpse-like appearance, a faint smile began to bloom across her lips.

“I’m back,” she croaked faintly, her smile widening until yellow teeth appeared from behind her scab-encrusted lips.

The midday sun was sticky-hot that day at the little duck pond, known throughout the region as Haskasing Shallows; that name, though informal, partly preserved the place’s history as the site of an old limestone quarry belonging to the long-defunct mining company Haskasing Minerals. The quarry, now decades-abandoned, was reclaimed and repurposed by both nature and nearby municipalities, with its northern edge becoming the Shallows. Back in the day, this place had been wracked by dynamite explosions and heavy machinery, while employing nearly all able-bodied males living within a ten-mile radius. Nowadays, it served as a tranquil retreat for both animals and people, particularly dog walkers.

No one took special notice of Mary-Ellen Hilbert that day as she made her way briskly from her parked car towards the Shallows. She looked just like any other middle-aged woman wearing jeans, sneakers, and a loose-fitting blouse. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and she stopped a couple of times to smell newly-bloomed bright-pink peonies that lined the narrow dirt trail. When she got to the water’s edge, she looked at her reflection in the water. Gone was the cadaverous appearance. In fact, she looked like a woman half her age: her skin smoothed out, and the white of her hair back to its natural auburn. She smiled again as she gazed into the waters, her reflection smiling back. The smile quickly vanished, replaced by a sombre expression. This was not a joyful occasion, she needed to remind herself.

She unzipped her backpack and took out a large Mason jar. Despite its large size, the jar was filled to the brim with a gray substance no one would have guessed to be human ashes. Carefully, she unscrewed the jar’s lid, letting it drop to the ground.

“Well, Katherine,” she said nearly inaudibly. “This is where you and I part ways forever. I wanted to thank you for your gift to me, and promise you it will not be squandered.”

Then she tipped the jar over and watched as its contents burst out and briefly took flight, eventually accumulating on the water. She tapped the bottom of the jar a couple of times, making sure every last speck was gone. Then she dropped the empty vessel to the ground and gazed at the water for a long interval, watching the fluffy material float on the surface and disperse like a layer of pond scum, carried away by the gentle breeze, destined to become fish food.

“Goodbye, my sweet child,” she said. “I will never forget you.”

She lingered a few moments more before turning around and walking back to her car.

“Magnificent piece, isn’t it?”

The male voice briefly surprised Ana, causing her to turn her head sharply to see who was behind her. It was the shopkeeper, a young man wearing a smart apron and sporting a hipster goatee and ponytail. A nametag with ‘Gilberto’ printed across it was pinned to his shirt.

Ana reciprocated his warm smile before turning her head back to eye the object of his remark. She realized then that she must have been standing there for many minutes, transfixed, when she was caught unawares by Gilberto. It was an ornamental ceramic urn, adorned with elaborate carvings around its base, giving an appearance of ancient writing. The urn seemed like a product of master artisans from a time and place far removed from Ana’s present setting, and she estimated it to be an exceedingly expensive piece.

“Yes, it’s absolutely perfect.”

“We get that a lot,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What is its origin?”

Gilberto pinched the tip of his goatee thoughtfully. “Nobody knows its true origin, but we have reason to believe its craftsmanship is Druidic in nature, and its age to be at least three hundred years, perhaps more.”

Ana exhaled through pursed lips. “Wow! I knew it must be rare but nothing like this.”

“It’s rare, alright. In all the years we’ve been here, we’ve only come across this one-of-a-kind item.”

“I’m almost scared to inquire how much it costs,” she said with a coy smile.

“It’s probably our most expensive piece, considering its rarity.”

“Hmm… What kind of damage would I be looking at?”

“I would need to check our inventory logbook, but it would probably be in excess of five hundred thousand pesetas.”

Ana’s face betrayed the unease she experienced at that moment. “That’s way over my budget,” she said with a forlorn shake of her head. “I was hoping to spend no more than thirty thousand pesetas.”

Gilberto nodded. “I understand. Perhaps I can show you something else that’s closer to your budget?”

“Well, the thing is…”

“Yes?” he said after a brief interval of silence.

Ana cleared her throat nervously before continuing, “You see, it’s for my father. He passed away last week.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It was an aggressive cancer. Papa was diagnosed last year, and we knew he didn’t have very long to live.”

Gilberto’s face took on a pained expression. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

“Thank you. He was actually here last year. He told me recently about this particular urn,” she pointed to the urn on the shelf, “and how taken he was with its mysterious beauty.”

Gilberto’s eyes widened. “Now that you mention it, I seem to recall speaking with a gentleman last year about this very urn. I believe he said his name was Andrés.”

“Andrés Hidalgo?” she asked, her eyes moist with longing.

Gilberto beamed at her. “I believe that was his name.”

Ana covered her mouth and nose with her hands, overcome with emotion. At first, Gilberto awkwardly tried to comfort her by tapping his hand on her shoulder; at length, he proved more useful by getting her a box of tissues. “I’m sorry,” she said as she daubed her eyes with tissue. “I get emotional when I think of Papa.”

“I’m getting emotional myself,” Gilberto said. “I have to tell you your father spoke with me a little bit about you.”

“Really?”

“He told me how proud he was of your academic achievements.”

“I graduated last year.”

Gilberto nodded. “He said it was his greatest pleasure in life to live vicariously through you—Ana—and to see his only child achieve what he never did.”

Ana’s eyes began to well up again. “Oh, my…”

“He was extremely proud of you.”

Ana daubed her eyes again, and Gilberto’s hand went back to gently tapping her shoulder. “It’s so sweet of you for telling me this,” she said.

There was a brief pause as Gilberto appeared to be weighing his next words. Finally, he said, “I’m going to do something that’s never been done before in this store.”

“What?”

“I’m going to give you this urn.”

At first, Ana was confused about what Gilberto had said. She furrowed her brow as she tried to process his words. “What do you mean by give?”

“I know it sounds crazy,” he said in a low voice, trying to avoid being heard by other store-goers. “But it’s something I need to do. You should have this urn for your father, and any argument against it seems unnatural.”

“Are you giving me this urn for free?”

“Yes,” he said in a near whisper.

“But what about its rare value?”

“Well, it is my personal belief there are things in this world more valuable than money. You could call it my ideology. All I ask from you is that you keep it our little secret. Is that a fair deal?”

“My God,” she said with a gasp. “I don’t know what to say.”

Gilberto smiled reassuringly. “You don’t have to say anything. Just make sure your father’s wish to be interred in this vessel is fulfilled.” Then he reached for the urn and took it in both hands, holding it carefully. “Come, let’s box it up for you. Okay?”

“I’m grateful.”

Gilberto smiled again. Then, with a nod of his head, he led Ana to the checkout counter.