District of Accraton, Cathedral of Nyargmal
The cathedral was relatively quiet. Any space that held twenty-five thousand Theradactans in it, with broodlings of various ages sprinkled throughout, could never be truly silent. But even the week-old hatchlings in the crowd were subdued today, though they wouldn’t understand the significance of the event until they were reminded of it in their third-year history classes.
In the front of the cathedral’s altar lay the corpse of Habrie Linassil, Sixth President of the Anataki Federation and the last of the nation’s Founders. She was ancient, even for a healthy female Anansi, having reached a hundred and thirty years of age before Madwat Airget had come to claim her. And she had only left broodhood when the Anansi Commonwealth and the exiled Unktomin Chiefdom had merged over a century ago.
The front benches, unlike their contemporaries in Calin or Rathawlin, were just as basic as those in the back, even though their occupants were some of the highest-ranking government officials from four different nations, arranged according to their rank. Just behind the Linassil family sat the head of states, the Sharogu from the Osirigumo and the Miletan President were the minor partners of the Grand Coalition, with the senior partners, the Anataki President Royefo Kwagan and the Queen of Monarchs herself, Shahbasianlipreuss Teàrashi the Fourth of the Robertin Empire.
“I remember meeting Habrie when I was Padikenza, at her second swearing in ceremony,” Teàrashi said quietly, looking at the body of the ancient President, “I remember being in awe of her presence. Her style of governance was so different from the one I grew up in. There was no reliance on the majesty of the crown or a divine mandate. Sure, you have your Articles of Federation, but Habrie lived like she was the soul of the country, driving it through sheer force of will.”
“Have to win an election somehow,” Royefo replied, the male Anansi tapping his pincers in amusement. “But Habrie was always special. Got us through a few shit storms during her terms.”
“The Osirigumo Question was quite entertaining,” the red-chitined Robertin ruler said, nodding in agreement. “Mother let me stay up so I could attend the meetings. There were a number of times that the President was the only spider in the room that wanted to stand up to the Regency. She carried us through it, no doubt about it.”
“Only someone who lived through that as a broodling could call that event entertaining, Shahbasian,” the green-chitined spider said, shaking his head.
“The benefit of being old yourself, Mr. President,” Teàrashi said, looking at Royefo as her thorax hairs gave a bemused ruffle.
“Shahbasianlipreuss,” one of the brown spiders behind her whispered, trying to be heard without adding further noise, “Please, keep it down.”
“Oh, shush,” she said, flicking one of her back legs at the functionary, “I’ll be quiet when the Prophetess shows up.”
Thankfully for the Robertin lackey’s nerves, the Prophetess Goramsa B. Otakley walked into view from behind the vestry. The brown-chitined Anansi’s entrance differed from the usual Orthodox tradition, lacking the procession that always accompanied her Neolathian counterparts. This and Accraton’s temperate climate necessarily changed her clothing as well, consisting of a modest green mantle that covered her abdomen, embroidered with Neolath’s Tree of Creation and Shallimorri’s Black Star. The cathedral became even quieter when she appeared. So quiet in fact that an unconscious ruffle of hair was audible from a stone’s throw away.
The Prophetess stopped by the corpse-laden altar, bowing to it in respect before walking to the podium. “Sisters and brethren,” she said, looking down the cathedral at the assembled masses, “we gather here today, in memory of an old friend, to me personally and to the Federation and the whole world as a whole. Madam President Habrie Linassil has left this mortal coil at the side of Maluk Al-magh, going to Valysallum to sit in the presence of Neolath and Shalug Char and enjoy the bounty that her conduct has so rightfully earned.” She paused in her sermon, to look down at the numerous Linassil family that sat on the front row pews. “You should be proud, Habrie’s progeny, of the life that your Matriarch led. She gave us all an example to live by and will serve us well as we look to the future of our country and species.”
The silence of the cathedral was broken for a few moments, as speculation of what Goramsa was getting at started up. She didn’t leave them waiting though, as she continued. “Yes, sisters and brethren, I speak of the signs of civilization that we’ve seen to our galactic south. An interstellar civilization that is ten or a hundred times more massive then our small pocket. It is only by the will of Neolath herself that we were placed at a safe distance, that we could maintain our own culture, to meet other species on our own terms.”
The Prophetess took a few moments to relax her hairs, the Theradactan equivalent of a breath. It was just long enough for the quiet of the cathedral to come back and settle on the congregation as they absorbed their spiritual leader’s sermon. Then she jumped back in, saying, “Though we have our own internal problems, like the cold war we have between the Coalition and the Regency or the usual domestic bickering that characterizes day to day life, we must overcome all of this. As Habrie showed us how to band together, we must work together as we answer the call of the gods!
“Yes, sisters and brethren,” she said, as her captive audience perked up, “I have received a vision from Cethan Atlenn, showing me the future of our race. We will travel on Shalimorri’s web to meet this other civilization, make both friends and enemies from their various factions, and take our rightful and destined place among the stars!” At that, the more enthusiastic audience members hissed in delight and clicked their pincers together, the spider version of applause echoing in the hall before they were joined by the rest of the congregation, filling the cathedral with the joyful sound.
“Well done, well done,” Teàrashi said, barely audible over the clicking. “Propaganda in a funeral? And here I thought I was in Accraton, not Rathawlin.”
“We’ve learned from the best,” Royefo said, doing his part to add to the applause. “Helps to have your Minister of Information be the leading national religious figure as well. Of course, you know that from personal experience.”
“You could say that,” the Robertin Shahbasian, leader of the Robertin-Neolathianism faith, ruefully replied.
Goramsa let the clicking continue for a minute or more before waving her pincers for silence, which came quickly, though the mood of the hall stayed lighter than the earlier melancholy. “Thank you for your enthusiasm, sisters and brethren. But we must return our attention to the present, to give our dear, departed friend a fond farewell.” At that, she waved a pair of attendants forward, one Anansi and one Unktomin, who brought over a lit brazier while a few representatives of the Linassil family, went up onto the stand.
“As we prepare to partake in the last Founder’s mortal remains,” the Prophetess said as Habrie’s corpse was carefully taken off the altar and placed on the barbeque, “We must take care to keep the next generation strong.”
“Tanedawoq,” she said, gesturing the oldest daughter to come forward as the assistants went off to continue the preparations, “As you are to take up the mantle of Linassil Matriarch, you must choose how to Divide your mother between your family members and the congregation. What do you choose for yourself?”
Tanedawoq stood there for a moment, moisture beading on her eyes as she looked at her dead parent, the smell of roasting flesh starting to permeate the air. “I will take her foremost right eye, a draught of blood, and her rightmost pincer.”
Goramsa nodded in approval, turned slightly as one of the attendants placed a self-standing platter by her, then looked back at the Linassil Matriarch. “Wise choices,” she said, “You will do well with Habrie’s strength and foresight. Hopefully you’ll gain a few of her years as well. Are there further parts you want to distribute?”
“Yes,” Tanedawoq said, before rattling off a list of body parts to distribute. A slice of brain for an aspiring scientist, a cup of blood for an expecting mother, a pincer for a newly promoted (colonel), and more as the corpse cooked and the assistants brought out more platters, a large knife and carving fork, and a cauldron of boiling water.
“All excellent choices,” the Prophetess replied, looking at the green-chitined attendant that had stuck a thermometer into the meat of the dead spider. After a moment, the Anansi nodded in approval and Goramsa nodded in assent before turning back to Tanedawoq. “Is that all?” she asked. “Still quite a bit of Habrie to go around.”
“That’s the idea, Prophetess,” the Linassil Matriarch said, nodding in agreement and giving a politician’s smile in return. “My mother had devoted her life to the Federation and in death she shall strength the nation.”
The congregation’s shock lasted for a few heartbeats, then the cathedral exploded into a thunder of clicking. Most Division ceremonies gave most of the deceased to their family, usually just leaving the exoskeleton, a draught or two of blood, and a few random organs for the congregation to partake in. To have so much of Habrie to go into the communal cauldron was an unheard-of gift. It would still have to be diluted with the characteristic funeral soup, but they would each get more of the Anansi founder than they had expected.
“Then let the Wake begin,” Goramsa replied, raising her pincers to the ceiling and chittering loud enough for even the spiders at the back of the cathedral could hear her. Or would have been able to, if they could hear anything over the deafening cheers of their mourners.
***
“Very well done,” Teàrashi said, absentmindedly stirring her soup as she talked. “Royefo said you were an excellent speaker, Prophetess. I’d say he under sold you.”
Goramsa ruffled her hair in amusement, at ease in her private chambers. “I’m glad you liked the sermon, Shahbasian. And please, it’s Goramsa.”
“In that case, it’s Teàrashi,” the Robertin head of state said, before pouring the remainder of her soup down her maw. “Hmm, rest in peace, Habrie.”
“And compliments to the acolytes,” Royefo said, putting his own bowl down. “They did a great job with the roasting.”
“Anansi ceroptera do have an interesting flavor,” Teàrashi agreed, looking longingly into the bowl.
“That they do,” Tanedawoq replied, ruffling her hair at the Robertin’s antics. “We can have them bring another flank, if you wish, Shahbasian.”
“It’s Teàrashi,” the red-chitined spider repeated, rolling her eyes and clicking her claws in faux annoyance. “And not just yet. Need to conduct our business first.”
“Indeed,” the Anansi President said, pulling a small disc out from his harness, pressed a few buttons and slid it onto the table. It beeped a few times, then a hiss of white noise came out of its speakers as the room was secured from eavesdropping.
“So,” the Shahbasian asked, crossing her pincers as she looked between her hosts, “is there a reason why the Prime Minister couldn’t come?”
“J.E.’s busy herding ant over in the Parliament,” Goramsa said, chittering at the absent Unktomin’s distress. “Trying to pass the bill so we can pay for the new ships and all that. How’s that going on your end, by the way?”
“Well enough,” Teàrashi replied, spreading her pincers in the Theradactan version of a shrug. “Helps that we’re only rolling them out one at a time, unlike you guys. Are you sure that dear J.E. isn’t just skipping the funeral?”
Royefo chittered as well. “Oh, that explains his eagerness to tackle the bill,” he said, joining in the joke.
“Oh, be nice you two,” the Prophetess said, shaking her head despite her failed attempt to still her own hair. “Not everyone is interested in partaking in the flesh of the deceased.”
“Fine, fine,” the Robertin said, “I was mostly bringing that up because I was wondering what reports you were getting on the Neolathian’s production schedules.”
“Ahh, yes,” the Linassil Matriarch replied, nodding as she pulled out a slate from her own harness. “Let me pull up the relevant documents.”
“She’s the head of FIO,” Goramsa explained, as the Shabasian looked at her in question.
“I see,” Teàrashi said, amused as she tapped her pincers together. “Already putting her to work. I approve.”
Tanedawoq shook her head, but didn’t say anything until she had found what she was looking for. “From our sources, it seems like they laid down the keels for their first batch of three ships. They’re expecting them to have some teething issues, so they won’t be fully operational for a while, but they should be built in about four months.”
The room was silent for a moment, before the Shahbasian shook her head. “Great,” she said, “There’s going to be a gap of three months where the Neos have the most powerful ships in the system.”
“Unless they want to start a nuclear war,” Royefo said, patting one of his fellow head of state’s elbows, “They won’t do anything dumb. Even if they do, we’ll stand with you, no matter what.”
The Prophetess nodded in agreement. “Not to mention that they know we have bigger threats out there that we’ll need to face together, no matter the differences between our nations.”
“I hope you are right, Goramsa,” Teàrashi said, whistling her sad acceptance, “I sincerely hope that you’re right.”
“Well,” the Linassil Matriarch said, putting her pad away, “Should I go get that ceroptera flank for you, Shahbasian?”
“Teàrashi,” the Robertin leader said, giving the Anasai a few stink eyes before tapping her pincers together, “Yes, let’s get some more of that meat in here. Can’t end this wake on a sad note.”
“Definitely not,” Royefo replied, ruffling his hair as he settled into his bench, “Definitely not.”
The cathedral was relatively quiet. Any space that held twenty-five thousand Theradactans in it, with broodlings of various ages sprinkled throughout, could never be truly silent. But even the week-old hatchlings in the crowd were subdued today, though they wouldn’t understand the significance of the event until they were reminded of it in their third-year history classes.
In the front of the cathedral’s altar lay the corpse of Habrie Linassil, Sixth President of the Anataki Federation and the last of the nation’s Founders. She was ancient, even for a healthy female Anansi, having reached a hundred and thirty years of age before Madwat Airget had come to claim her. And she had only left broodhood when the Anansi Commonwealth and the exiled Unktomin Chiefdom had merged over a century ago.
The front benches, unlike their contemporaries in Calin or Rathawlin, were just as basic as those in the back, even though their occupants were some of the highest-ranking government officials from four different nations, arranged according to their rank. Just behind the Linassil family sat the head of states, the Sharogu from the Osirigumo and the Miletan President were the minor partners of the Grand Coalition, with the senior partners, the Anataki President Royefo Kwagan and the Queen of Monarchs herself, Shahbasianlipreuss Teàrashi the Fourth of the Robertin Empire.
“I remember meeting Habrie when I was Padikenza, at her second swearing in ceremony,” Teàrashi said quietly, looking at the body of the ancient President, “I remember being in awe of her presence. Her style of governance was so different from the one I grew up in. There was no reliance on the majesty of the crown or a divine mandate. Sure, you have your Articles of Federation, but Habrie lived like she was the soul of the country, driving it through sheer force of will.”
“Have to win an election somehow,” Royefo replied, the male Anansi tapping his pincers in amusement. “But Habrie was always special. Got us through a few shit storms during her terms.”
“The Osirigumo Question was quite entertaining,” the red-chitined Robertin ruler said, nodding in agreement. “Mother let me stay up so I could attend the meetings. There were a number of times that the President was the only spider in the room that wanted to stand up to the Regency. She carried us through it, no doubt about it.”
“Only someone who lived through that as a broodling could call that event entertaining, Shahbasian,” the green-chitined spider said, shaking his head.
“The benefit of being old yourself, Mr. President,” Teàrashi said, looking at Royefo as her thorax hairs gave a bemused ruffle.
“Shahbasianlipreuss,” one of the brown spiders behind her whispered, trying to be heard without adding further noise, “Please, keep it down.”
“Oh, shush,” she said, flicking one of her back legs at the functionary, “I’ll be quiet when the Prophetess shows up.”
Thankfully for the Robertin lackey’s nerves, the Prophetess Goramsa B. Otakley walked into view from behind the vestry. The brown-chitined Anansi’s entrance differed from the usual Orthodox tradition, lacking the procession that always accompanied her Neolathian counterparts. This and Accraton’s temperate climate necessarily changed her clothing as well, consisting of a modest green mantle that covered her abdomen, embroidered with Neolath’s Tree of Creation and Shallimorri’s Black Star. The cathedral became even quieter when she appeared. So quiet in fact that an unconscious ruffle of hair was audible from a stone’s throw away.
The Prophetess stopped by the corpse-laden altar, bowing to it in respect before walking to the podium. “Sisters and brethren,” she said, looking down the cathedral at the assembled masses, “we gather here today, in memory of an old friend, to me personally and to the Federation and the whole world as a whole. Madam President Habrie Linassil has left this mortal coil at the side of Maluk Al-magh, going to Valysallum to sit in the presence of Neolath and Shalug Char and enjoy the bounty that her conduct has so rightfully earned.” She paused in her sermon, to look down at the numerous Linassil family that sat on the front row pews. “You should be proud, Habrie’s progeny, of the life that your Matriarch led. She gave us all an example to live by and will serve us well as we look to the future of our country and species.”
The silence of the cathedral was broken for a few moments, as speculation of what Goramsa was getting at started up. She didn’t leave them waiting though, as she continued. “Yes, sisters and brethren, I speak of the signs of civilization that we’ve seen to our galactic south. An interstellar civilization that is ten or a hundred times more massive then our small pocket. It is only by the will of Neolath herself that we were placed at a safe distance, that we could maintain our own culture, to meet other species on our own terms.”
The Prophetess took a few moments to relax her hairs, the Theradactan equivalent of a breath. It was just long enough for the quiet of the cathedral to come back and settle on the congregation as they absorbed their spiritual leader’s sermon. Then she jumped back in, saying, “Though we have our own internal problems, like the cold war we have between the Coalition and the Regency or the usual domestic bickering that characterizes day to day life, we must overcome all of this. As Habrie showed us how to band together, we must work together as we answer the call of the gods!
“Yes, sisters and brethren,” she said, as her captive audience perked up, “I have received a vision from Cethan Atlenn, showing me the future of our race. We will travel on Shalimorri’s web to meet this other civilization, make both friends and enemies from their various factions, and take our rightful and destined place among the stars!” At that, the more enthusiastic audience members hissed in delight and clicked their pincers together, the spider version of applause echoing in the hall before they were joined by the rest of the congregation, filling the cathedral with the joyful sound.
“Well done, well done,” Teàrashi said, barely audible over the clicking. “Propaganda in a funeral? And here I thought I was in Accraton, not Rathawlin.”
“We’ve learned from the best,” Royefo said, doing his part to add to the applause. “Helps to have your Minister of Information be the leading national religious figure as well. Of course, you know that from personal experience.”
“You could say that,” the Robertin Shahbasian, leader of the Robertin-Neolathianism faith, ruefully replied.
Goramsa let the clicking continue for a minute or more before waving her pincers for silence, which came quickly, though the mood of the hall stayed lighter than the earlier melancholy. “Thank you for your enthusiasm, sisters and brethren. But we must return our attention to the present, to give our dear, departed friend a fond farewell.” At that, she waved a pair of attendants forward, one Anansi and one Unktomin, who brought over a lit brazier while a few representatives of the Linassil family, went up onto the stand.
“As we prepare to partake in the last Founder’s mortal remains,” the Prophetess said as Habrie’s corpse was carefully taken off the altar and placed on the barbeque, “We must take care to keep the next generation strong.”
“Tanedawoq,” she said, gesturing the oldest daughter to come forward as the assistants went off to continue the preparations, “As you are to take up the mantle of Linassil Matriarch, you must choose how to Divide your mother between your family members and the congregation. What do you choose for yourself?”
Tanedawoq stood there for a moment, moisture beading on her eyes as she looked at her dead parent, the smell of roasting flesh starting to permeate the air. “I will take her foremost right eye, a draught of blood, and her rightmost pincer.”
Goramsa nodded in approval, turned slightly as one of the attendants placed a self-standing platter by her, then looked back at the Linassil Matriarch. “Wise choices,” she said, “You will do well with Habrie’s strength and foresight. Hopefully you’ll gain a few of her years as well. Are there further parts you want to distribute?”
“Yes,” Tanedawoq said, before rattling off a list of body parts to distribute. A slice of brain for an aspiring scientist, a cup of blood for an expecting mother, a pincer for a newly promoted (colonel), and more as the corpse cooked and the assistants brought out more platters, a large knife and carving fork, and a cauldron of boiling water.
“All excellent choices,” the Prophetess replied, looking at the green-chitined attendant that had stuck a thermometer into the meat of the dead spider. After a moment, the Anansi nodded in approval and Goramsa nodded in assent before turning back to Tanedawoq. “Is that all?” she asked. “Still quite a bit of Habrie to go around.”
“That’s the idea, Prophetess,” the Linassil Matriarch said, nodding in agreement and giving a politician’s smile in return. “My mother had devoted her life to the Federation and in death she shall strength the nation.”
The congregation’s shock lasted for a few heartbeats, then the cathedral exploded into a thunder of clicking. Most Division ceremonies gave most of the deceased to their family, usually just leaving the exoskeleton, a draught or two of blood, and a few random organs for the congregation to partake in. To have so much of Habrie to go into the communal cauldron was an unheard-of gift. It would still have to be diluted with the characteristic funeral soup, but they would each get more of the Anansi founder than they had expected.
“Then let the Wake begin,” Goramsa replied, raising her pincers to the ceiling and chittering loud enough for even the spiders at the back of the cathedral could hear her. Or would have been able to, if they could hear anything over the deafening cheers of their mourners.
***
“Very well done,” Teàrashi said, absentmindedly stirring her soup as she talked. “Royefo said you were an excellent speaker, Prophetess. I’d say he under sold you.”
Goramsa ruffled her hair in amusement, at ease in her private chambers. “I’m glad you liked the sermon, Shahbasian. And please, it’s Goramsa.”
“In that case, it’s Teàrashi,” the Robertin head of state said, before pouring the remainder of her soup down her maw. “Hmm, rest in peace, Habrie.”
“And compliments to the acolytes,” Royefo said, putting his own bowl down. “They did a great job with the roasting.”
“Anansi ceroptera do have an interesting flavor,” Teàrashi agreed, looking longingly into the bowl.
“That they do,” Tanedawoq replied, ruffling her hair at the Robertin’s antics. “We can have them bring another flank, if you wish, Shahbasian.”
“It’s Teàrashi,” the red-chitined spider repeated, rolling her eyes and clicking her claws in faux annoyance. “And not just yet. Need to conduct our business first.”
“Indeed,” the Anansi President said, pulling a small disc out from his harness, pressed a few buttons and slid it onto the table. It beeped a few times, then a hiss of white noise came out of its speakers as the room was secured from eavesdropping.
“So,” the Shahbasian asked, crossing her pincers as she looked between her hosts, “is there a reason why the Prime Minister couldn’t come?”
“J.E.’s busy herding ant over in the Parliament,” Goramsa said, chittering at the absent Unktomin’s distress. “Trying to pass the bill so we can pay for the new ships and all that. How’s that going on your end, by the way?”
“Well enough,” Teàrashi replied, spreading her pincers in the Theradactan version of a shrug. “Helps that we’re only rolling them out one at a time, unlike you guys. Are you sure that dear J.E. isn’t just skipping the funeral?”
Royefo chittered as well. “Oh, that explains his eagerness to tackle the bill,” he said, joining in the joke.
“Oh, be nice you two,” the Prophetess said, shaking her head despite her failed attempt to still her own hair. “Not everyone is interested in partaking in the flesh of the deceased.”
“Fine, fine,” the Robertin said, “I was mostly bringing that up because I was wondering what reports you were getting on the Neolathian’s production schedules.”
“Ahh, yes,” the Linassil Matriarch replied, nodding as she pulled out a slate from her own harness. “Let me pull up the relevant documents.”
“She’s the head of FIO,” Goramsa explained, as the Shabasian looked at her in question.
“I see,” Teàrashi said, amused as she tapped her pincers together. “Already putting her to work. I approve.”
Tanedawoq shook her head, but didn’t say anything until she had found what she was looking for. “From our sources, it seems like they laid down the keels for their first batch of three ships. They’re expecting them to have some teething issues, so they won’t be fully operational for a while, but they should be built in about four months.”
The room was silent for a moment, before the Shahbasian shook her head. “Great,” she said, “There’s going to be a gap of three months where the Neos have the most powerful ships in the system.”
“Unless they want to start a nuclear war,” Royefo said, patting one of his fellow head of state’s elbows, “They won’t do anything dumb. Even if they do, we’ll stand with you, no matter what.”
The Prophetess nodded in agreement. “Not to mention that they know we have bigger threats out there that we’ll need to face together, no matter the differences between our nations.”
“I hope you are right, Goramsa,” Teàrashi said, whistling her sad acceptance, “I sincerely hope that you’re right.”
“Well,” the Linassil Matriarch said, putting her pad away, “Should I go get that ceroptera flank for you, Shahbasian?”
“Teàrashi,” the Robertin leader said, giving the Anasai a few stink eyes before tapping her pincers together, “Yes, let’s get some more of that meat in here. Can’t end this wake on a sad note.”
“Definitely not,” Royefo replied, ruffling his hair as he settled into his bench, “Definitely not.”
