Sect Year 5 · fourth month · night of day 2 · the forty-eighth life: Kettle Bend, his forty-third year
The walled yard behind the lych gate at Kettle Bend was smaller than Wend remembered from the burials of other years, or else he had grown used to it. The wall was grey stone with moss packed into its cracks. Above the arch hung a bell on an iron bracket, and a rope ran down from it to a hook by the gatepost where a boy could reach it. The bell had rung once already that morning, the first bell, a flat note that rolled over the wall and died in the wet grass. Wend stood at the foot of the open grave with his hands folded in front of his black coat and waited for the next stroke.
The grave was cut square and neat. The house’s men had heaped the earth on a sheet of canvas to one side so the path stayed clear. The new stone at the head of the grave leaned a little on its footing, as if it hadn’t yet decided to stay. The widow stood at the far end under a black veil. Wind came over the wall and lifted the net and set it down again. Behind her a dozen people from the town waited with their hats in their hands. None of them looked at the coffin. They looked at the stone, waiting for it to do something first.
