The Death Mask

‘Let’s have a look inside.’

 ‘That would be profoundly inappropriate.’

‘Why?  We’re priests.  We have the right.  As entrusted by God.’

‘Not to desecrate graves.’

‘It’s not a grave yet.  Anyway, He wouldn’t object.  He has our backs.’

‘I’m sure Katrine and Walter would object.  Not to mention the poor woman herself who I guarantee you is right this instant looking down from above with a scowl on her face.’

‘There’s plenty up there with scowls on their faces.  Being dead and all.  Let them scowl.’

The wind began to trumpet around them as though tangoing with the dervishes in their minds; and Stinson, newly bibulous as he was, hurled a load of caution back and told Masterson: ‘It’s up to you.  I want no part of it.  But if you are going to do it, I will stand by in case you cause a right mess of it.’

‘Rubbish.  You’re just after a bit of the gold too.  Don’t lie, ya bastard.’

‘Would you ever give over about gold?  There is no gold in there.  It’s a woman, I tell you.  It’s Mrs. Juhl.’

‘You have a real lack of ambition, young Father Stinson – not to mention a suspicious shortage of the avarice one requires in this life.’

‘Go on then.  Up the garden path with ya.’

Masterson raised high his beaker of whiskey and necked it for the old Dutch courage; he then moved to the coffin and stood over it with the moonlight making him a total bloody nightmare to behold.

‘Is it not nailed shut?’ asked Stinson.  ‘You probably won’t be able to open it at all.’

‘No,’ replied Masterson.  ‘I ran a probe on it a few days ago.  Just need a good hook in it.  It’s sealed hard for sure.’ 

Masterson slid his hands under the furrows of the coffin lid, his fingernails shovelling up a large amount of sludge in the process; the box had been severely hit since leaving the Faroes, be that from ocean spray or the periodic rains, so it looked, and felt, even less funerary now than before.

After some pulling, coughing, and tugging and spitting, Masterson managed to get the lid open – a splinter entered his right thumb in the throes of accomplishment and he swore out his big boss in the sky; and the rain and wind responded in kind.  However mighty the cloudburst was, it didn’t hold back Stinson, who edged in closer to have a look inside the coffin.  Masterson’s derangement rushed the angel-faced priest’s fortress of sense temporarily and he really believed his eyes were about to swell with all he knew of earthly opulence. 

Gold. 

The rain battered down on his eyelids to no avail; his eyes remonstrated, expanding.  

Gold.  A bundle of it. 

Stinson’s excitement was of such intensity he knew it would cause the bars to melt – turn to liquid and bubble hot – and rising out of the coffin, a thick lusty nectar, spilling out and flooding Dolores’ upper deck.  But, oh lord, what to do?  What to do? That sparkling aureate pile represents the folly of all human direction – and he rejects it, oh lord, oh he does, he rejects it, Father Stinson rejects the gold, oh –

‘It’s a body – Damn!’ said Masterson, holding the coffin lid up; inside was not gold bullion, nor indeed the body of the Danish prime minister; it was of course Mrs. Juhl, her body gently covered with a thin transparent veil.  Under the veil, they could see she was wearing a white afternoon dress with a modest daffodil laid on her chest, the only gold to reflect in their piratic eyes.  Were it not for the artless leathery straps which tethered her body down in the box, she would have certainly been a picture of elevated grace.   She had evidently been embalmed and it was a fine job as her skin-tone was pale, but not sallow.  Organic white.  It was an impressive face, proud – spoke of an unswervable character when she was alive.  Stinson thought he could see something of Katrine in there, but whatever it was, it kept slipping from his grasp.  He’d observed many reposing faces before.  They were always so blank and dusty.  Always the same.  If he was honest with himself, they all looked proud, unswervable.  But what did he really know about any of them?  What could he know unless he had known them in life?  All one could say of the death mask, in his position, was translatable by conjecture alone.  He was used to studying the divine mysteries, interpreting their glorious messages through the signs offered by faith, but he struggled more and more with the human face these days; he was given to blame the confession box, where secrets had no face; but even so, those sinners didn’t stay anonymous for long as he could easily pick them out when they stepped before him for communion – that big nose of his could smell a sinner a mile away. 

It alarmed Stinson now looking at Mrs. Juhl’s peaceful face that he could not unearth what it was that made her who she was.  Would he be able to sing In Paradisum with honour in his voice ever again?

‘Well, we’ll have to wait a bit more for our riches to come,’ said Masterson, mournfully, like a thwarted bank robber.

‘Close it,’ said Stinson, with embarrassment in his voice. ‘Let’s go back inside.’

Masterson sighed and closed the coffin; the rain eased off as they were going back to the cabin, the wind receded, and the moon showered Mrs. Juhl’s coffin with its magic vapour.