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October 17th 1782.
Snow started falling yesterday morning and has continued ever since, now lying in a blanket at least 2 ft thick, making the trek down to Harstag a considerable effort. The sky gets ever darker as winter unravels here, and I imagine it will soon be as night all day round. This tedious act of waiting has given me ample time for mental preparation, but I am now beginning to lose patience. When will there be a death? Why do these peasants have such a will to cling to life – I had thought that here, where life is at its hardest, and the small rewards it offers are as nothing to the immense effort of survival; that here in this wilderness I would have many an opportunity to demonstrate my Art, and yet I am still waiting. Is the Good Lord playing some cruel trick on me that I am ever prepared but without opportunity for action? It is unbearable!
Sjöblom is spending much time at the Inn, leaving me ever more alone and restless: though he does indeed return each evening, to bring me wood, candles and food. This evening he told me that there are three now nearing death in the town: the young boy Gunnólfr, and two elderly woman who have both been bedridden for over a month, one of whom has fallen into a quiet delirium. My Dear Sjöblom. I am beginning to have some small degree of respect for him; for his immense inward and outward strength, and his seemingly infinite capacity for loyalty. I might even admit that without him, this, my given task, might be beyond the hope of fulfilment.
October 25th 1782.
At last! At last! All thanks be to God. There has been a death. And from an entirely unexpected source. It seems that Olof Timmerman, the carpenter’s son, was climbing a frozen waterfall in search of winter berries, when he slipped, dashing his head against the rocks as he fell! I must acknowledge considerable excitement when I heard this news. One hundred times at last! And I immediately made the trek down into town to consult with the Elders who, it seems, were expecting me. All has been arranged for this coming Sunday. Only four days to wait! I have given them my full instructions for the execution of my services, and they accepted without argument, so long as a full mass is first performed by Johannis. I feel much like a child anticipating all his birthdays at once. I say again AT LAST!
October 27th 1782.
Thanks be laid upon thanks, praise upon praise: there has been another death! Young Gunnólfr has coughed his last, and I shall have a double funeral! A more fitting opportunity to demonstrate my Art than two young men, both caught unexpectedly by Death in their prime, could not be imagined. I shall become the very high priest of grief; the commander of both trolls and men: my violin shall echo down into the Underworld itself!
October 29th 1782.
A veritable triumph! If only Herr Gratchenfleiss had been there to see me. I performed as a Master, and left them all in no doubt as to the obvious power and commanding spiritual force of my Art. But in my excitement I am jumping ahead of myself. I must record this historic event from the beginning that those that come after me might read of the day that Funerary Violin found its foothold in the North.
For preparation I fasted for a full twelve hours, spending the time in contemplation and mental rehearsal – running through the order of events as I intended them, working out each possible error that I might avoid it, and playing the violin in my mind: repeating each difficult passage until I felt certain that I knew what was coming.
I spent a good hour getting myself dressed in my finest black tweed suit, with gold buckles, and a silk tie, pinned with my grandmothers ruby broach. I painted my face with the vivid white I had purchased in Vienna, carefully placed the beauty spot just below my right eye, and spent much time adjusting my wig, a long one of the old style, in the manner of Herr Gratchenfleiss. I wore my fine soft leather-riding boots, again in black, and to present a perfect finish I hung my dress-sabre at my side. By the time I had finished, and placed my wonderfully warm squirrel-fur-lined cloak around my shoulders I was convinced that no one, save the grand Master himself, had ever looked more the part. Finally, taking my violin case in one hand and my walking staff in the other I headed out towards my destiny.
Outside the world was lit by the cool clean glow of the snow, which now lay a good four-foot thick in many places. Thankfully Sjöblom had kept the path fairly clear during his many journeys back and fourth, making the going somewhat easier than I had imagined, and I must admit that my excitement was so great that I had to remind myself to walk with due dignity. Within half an hour I was standing outside the church whilst the service was enacted within. It had been suggested to me that I should take over as the coffin leaves the church – a polite way of requesting that I stay away from the service as the magic I was bringing was not Christ’s magic – and I was happy to oblige them in this, as I felt it could only add to the enigmatic spirit of the presentation I had planned.
I cannot say how long I had to wait, for however long it may have been it seemed to be considerably longer. Both the moon and the sun’s distant twilight glow lit up the sky, and I watched the silhouetted seagulls wheel and rail in the wind, imagining them to be the very souls of the dead, dancing to the strains of my violin. As I heard the final hymn from within the church I took my fine instrument from its box, checked the tuning, tightened and rosined the bow and I was ready.
I had begun before I even knew it – as the great door of the church swung open I was already playing almost unaware of my own actions as I was swept up in the spirit of the moment. I remember thinking how cold my hands were, though they quickly warmed at the thrill of it all, and also seeing the orange glint of the candles flickering as the two coffins were carried from the church. The peasants were all got up in their ridiculous embroidered fineries, with fur waistcoats and felt hats, looking a little more festive than I had imagined, but that was made up for in the sternly etched sorrow they wore upon their faces.
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