One person died, another was born; a baby arrived, an old man departed. Such was the natural order.
Life and death, death and life-this was perfectly normal. That was the logic of it, but what made people human was their capacity for emotion, their ability to give and cherish love. So when that love departed, most people sank into sorrow. Once that sorrow reached a certain threshold, they could no longer control it and instinctively began to sob, venting their unruly emotions through tears, trying to reverse an irreversible departure.
At that moment, Gitton was crying as though the world had gone dark, utterly distraught.
A domed canvas canopy had been erected in the courtyard to keep rain and wind from disturbing the hundred and eight candles burning beneath it. They flickered like stars in the night sky, marking the villagers' tribute to their respected old village chief.
Funerals in Ponta Delgada Village differed somewhat from those elsewhere. When someone here died, all that was required was a simple meal, followed by burial the next morning and a brief memorial ceremony. That concluded the funeral.
To outsiders, this custom seemed terribly cold and overly simple.
Viewed another way, however, it kept people from becoming too immersed in the grief of losing a life. They firmly believed that the dead had not truly died, but had merely gone somewhere else to be born again and begin a new life. That was all, so there was no reason for excessive sorrow.
After the evening meal, the funeral customs of Ponta Delgada Village required children and the elderly to leave, along with unmarried men and women and anyone sick or injured. They had all gone home, leaving only twenty-odd people in the courtyard where the hundred and eight candles burned.
They watched Gitton