The Coffin Maker of Cortana by Kate O’Sullivan

No one grows up wanting to build coffins. When she was little, Veralai wanted to be a mage, or as she said as a toddler “make life sparkle.” She was the daughter of a woodcarver, who sometimes helped the local undertaker carve his coffins. When her father’s hands started to quiver, Veralai took his place. Even though it was unintended, Vera fell in love with death. Over time, she became the Coffin Maker of Cortana, renowned for using her crystal ball to peer into the memories of the deceased and create their perfect coffin.

Veralai’s hands ached as she sculpted honey-bee wings into her latest design. It was for a beekeeper, and she was rather proud of this one: smooth alder wood decorated with dozens of amber accents that would dance in sunlight. Once satisfied, she placed it in the “waiting room,” where coffins awaited their still living counterparts. She had grown used to this job, but it remained surreal—knowing who in the village would die next.

It was also lonely. People generally avoided her, whispering amongst themselves on the street when she passed. Some even went as far as to call her an omen of death: the only time people saw her was delivering a coffin.

As usual, she sat before her crystal ball and gazed into the swirling fog as shapes materialized.

First: a boy holding a guppy on a hook.
Second: a couple dancing under a wisteria-covered trellis arch. Strange, it looked a lot like the one she had at home.
Third: a girl giggling as she carved a heart into a wooden plank beside her father.

“No!” Veralai screamed. Soft beads of rain streamed down her face as her boots squished into the muddy road. Her legs burned as she sprinted all the way to her small cottage on the other side of town.

The trellis arch from her vision appeared ahead, wisteria petals dripping dewdrops onto the cobblestone path. Please, don’t be dead yet. Usually her visions were presented before someone died to give her time to build the coffin. But seeing the future is tricky business, and every once in a while, it would show someone after they had died.

She threw open the door. Her father looked up from his tea by the window and chuckled. “Not funny, Dad.”

“A little funny. You look like a wet chihuahua,” he said.

“I thought you were dead.”

“Your crystal ball showed me?” She nodded.

“Consider it a mercy.”

“A mercy?”

“You usually get the visions a couple months out, right? Now we know. We can make the most of it.” Vera’s lower lip trembled as tears began to wet her cheeks.

“Vera,” her father said, cradling her cheek.

“When your mother died, I carved her coffin. She wanted me to. I carved stars into the wood, you know how she loved the stars. She said it helped her feel at peace. I think I’d like that too. If you’ll do it.”

Reluctantly, Vera accepted. They spent months together. Gardening. Crying. Telling stories. Sitting in silence. When she worked on his coffin, he sat beside her, sipping tea. He called his coffin her finest work, and though slow to admit it, she agreed. Vera carved hundreds of individual petals of wisteria, enchanting the wood to be purple, and imbuing the floral smell in the wood itself.

When it was done, they stood over it together. The weight of the moment felt like a mountain on Vera’s chest.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, running his fingers across the carved wood. “But heavy. You’ll need help carrying me.”

They both laughed, but her chest ached. He had never been afraid. Maybe it’s because his wife awaited him in the beyond. Vera knew she’d give anything to see Mom too.

That night, he passed in his sleep. His final words were a request. “Promise me you’ll visit me the next full moon.” Vera didn’t understand it, but she promised all the same.

Weeks passed, but grief lingered. She dragged herself to the mausoleum, fearing she’d fall apart upon seeing his coffin again. Inside, each coffin emitted a colorful aura under the moonlight– one of the tell tale signs that the design she made matched the energy of the deceased. She was happy to see all the coffins she made were glowing brightly.

“Vera?” a voice asked. Vera swirled around to see her father, standing in the middle of the Mausoleum, wispy and white.

“Dad?” she whispered.

He smiled gently, his eyes kind and knowing. “Hi my girl.”

Tears stung her eyes. She reached for him, though she knew it was impossible. “How?”

“A well made coffin usually lets one final conversation pass, and my daughter makes nothing but the finest ones,” he said beaming.

“I miss you,” she said, her heart breaking all over again.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m in every tool you carve with. Every sip of tea you take. Every wisteria petal that falls and moonbeam on your cheek.”

The two spoke for a while before the vision of her father faded, like fog lifting beneath the warmth of the morning sun. Vera stood alone in the mausoleum, her chest tight with both sorrow and a strange sense of peace. As she left, she gazed at the hundreds of coffins before her and smiled softly. In this way, the Mausoleum was sort of Vera’s personal gallery. Her artwork displayed for time immemorial. She may have never expected to work with death, to be an undertaker, but she felt her work was more alive than dead. Her artwork was kept alive by the families visiting their loved ones, able to celebrate their lives, their passions, and their vibrancy.

She returned to her village quietly, her footsteps soft on the stone as the morning light crept up and over the hills. Back in her workshop, she sat before the crystal ball once more.

“Show me,” she whispered. “Let me make life sparkle.”

Kate O’Sullivan

Image: A crystal ball against a natural background and placed on an old wooden surface from Pixabay.com