Coffins & Roses

The gaunt, auburn-haired girl easily stood out in the small seaside village of Drumliffey, almost at the tip of the Irish mainland's southernmost point. She kept her head bent while she walked along the street, as though she was looking for something but wanted to pretend she wasn't. Everyone recognised her as a city girl. Only Dublin girls wore powder blue suits with short skirts and double collars. Only Dublin girls would totter along the cobbled street in six inch heels. Drumliffey women were stout with heavy boots on their feet and wore cardigans high around their necks, even in summer.

The girl had stood for some time in the light drizzle staring at the faded sign on the front door of the last shop in the High Street.

O'BRIEN'S FUNERAL PARLOUR.

FINEST HANDMADE COFFINS IN THE

WORLD FOR YOUR LOVED ONE.

ATTENTION TO DETAIL

GUARANTEED.

If anyone thought it morbid to see the girl standing there transfixed, they didn't attempt to interfere. The people of Drumliffey knew that Dubliners were a strange lot.

"Can I help you there?"

The girl leapt backwards, clutching her chest as the door to the shop swung open. A burly, handsome man in his forties with a shock of curly, black hair stepped into the rain and gently nudged her inside. He placed a coffee in her hands almost immediately and watched her with twinkling, concerned eyes as she took in her surroundings. The room was like a workshop. Around the walls were dozens of polished coffins, standing upright, their lids set aside to reveal the silken linings. In the centre of the room was a workbench where a coffin lid lay surrounded by dozens of tiny chisels, each of slightly different thickness. The lid was partially carved with the intricate initials of the soon-to-be-owner.

"My name is Damask," the girl said at length.

"I'm Tom," replied the man. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Damask replied. "I have leukemia. It's terminal."

"I have a daughter your age," responded Tom in measured tones as he prepared her another cup of coffee at the tiny sink in the corner of the room.

If Tom wondered why a Dublin girl dying from leukemia was visiting his shop, he didn't show it. He knew that she would tell him in time, if she saw fit. People from Drumliffey were patient like that. He had lived here his entire life, having inherited the business from his father. He still ran the business in the traditional way, making the coffins, preparing the corpses, arranging every detail of the funeral. In the big cities, he understood, funeral directors employed an army of workers, each with specialised skills. There would be a mortician, an accountant, a legal secretary, and the coffins were bought in bulk from a manufacturing company in England. He couldn't understand why anyone would want such an impersonal burial but then he didn't understand much about the world outside Drumliffey.

"There's a ruined church around here somewhere apparently. My family has a plot there." Damask spoke softly, almost in a whisper.

A realisation came upon Tom. Like so many Dubliners, her ancestors had actually originated elsewhere. Long after the original churches where their families had bought plots had become dilapidated and abandoned, family members continued to be buried in the surrounding graveyard.

"I'll take you to see it," smiled Tom as he collected his coat and led the girl back out the door. His arm was intertwined firmly with hers. Damask did not object. She felt a certain security in his confident, dominant manner. Some people turned their heads momentarily as they watched Tom and the beautiful, delicate girl struggling up the windswept cliff to 'St. Michael's By The Sea'. A few cows were grazing near the old stone church, its roof and one of the side walls now non-existent. The gravestones had been well tended, apparently by local schoolchildren as part of a community effort to preserve history.

Damask searched quietly, till at length, she stood before one particular grave. The name O'Flaherty could still be seen in the weather beaten stone.

"Damask O'Flaherty," smiled Tom. "An exquisite name if ever I heard one. Damask is the most ancient of roses in Europe. It has lived forever."

Damask walked until she reached the edge of the cliff and watched the waves breaking on the rocky crags below. She shivered, not so much because of the cold, but due to a sudden overwhelming sense of her own vulnerability. Tom stepped up behind and placed his arms around her waist as if reading her thoughts.

"God takes us all in his own time," he muttered. "It is not for us to choose."

Damask spun around to face him then, a certain fire in her eyes that had not been there earlier. She stared at him for a long time with anger or fear, he couldn't be sure which. Perhaps it was a little of both. He knew how volatile teenage girls could be. His own daughter had inherited his wife's gentle disposition, yet, at times, Tom still found himself at a loss to read her emotions.

Tom stared back. The skin on Damask's face was almost transparent, like glass. It seemed the tiniest touch would cause it to shatter into a thousand shards. Without thinking, his hand caressed her left cheek. It was cold and soft but it did not break. He realised it had been a long time since he had stood this close to a woman other than his daughter Evelyn. His wife had died five years ago. He had accepted his lot and continued to run the business whilst raising his daughter. She was studying in Cork now. Each visit she became a little more like a stranger.

Tom allowed his fingers to wander over Damask's lips. Their coldness burnt his fingertips like dry ice. He bent down and gently blew on her lips, checking now and then with his fingers as he felt some warmth return. At one point, her lips parted ever so slightly and he allowed his thumb to circle the dewy moistness on the inside of her mouth. For a moment, he slid his thumb between her teeth and flicked it against her tongue. Her eyes never left his.

There was no sense of guilt or lack of propriety as he finally lowered his head and pressed his lips insistently against hers. Damask did not really yield to his advance. It seemed rather that she complied, her already frail body collapsing like a rag doll against him as she obediently opened her mouth wider. Attempts to engage her tongue in a playful duel with his own were futile, yet her honey-sweet taste stirred a long forgotten hunger. Damask's own body shook with a desire she did not understand.

Tom took his moistened thumb and searched beneath her trim, neat skirt. In contrast to the rest of her body, her quim radiated a subtle heat. His hand crept slowly, finding her magic nub which he massaged languidly. His lips continued to meld with hers, soliciting a sign that she wanted this too. His answer came when she swooned for a moment and moaned slightly. He had not taken Damask to dizzying heights but she seemed overwhelmed all the same. She clung to him like he might save her from all harm. Tom knew it was in vain. He had been unable to save his wife. The doctor had made a diagnosis and she had faded before his eyes, no matter how tightly he held her. At length, he released Damask and placed her head against his chest.

"You'd best be going," he said, "if you are to drive home before twilight."

"I've never been touched. I didn't think it would happen before..." Her voice trailed off.

"I'm sorry I'm so old," he sighed, running his fingers nervously through her wispy hair.

"To be sure, I don't mind you being old," she said.

They had walked down the hill in silence. Tom had offered her another cup of coffee but she had refused. He had stood for a long time as he watched her tiny coupe fade into the distance.

If anyone from Drumliffey had seen Tom kissing a girl the same age as his daughter, they did not mention it. In fact, as the heart of winter set in, people became concerned with Christmas preparations and protecting their pipes from bursting in the cold. No one wandered near the church in the bitter winds that accompanied the heaviest December snowfalls recorded. Anyone who had paid the vaguest attention to the girl forgot about her. Everyone that is, except Tom.

Tom's daughter had come home for Christmas and they had celebrated around the hearth at Murphy's pub as they had done for many years. A large percentage of the Drumliffey population were old and business had been brisk for Tom in recent months. It made Tom feel good to dance with Evelyn, his hands around her strong hips, and marvel at the bright, warm, healthy glow of her skin.

It was not unheard of in Drumliffey for men to lie with their daughters after their wives had passed away. Evelyn had always been a quiet, obedient girl who constantly reminded him of his wife. It would have been so easy for him to cave to temptation as he watched her voluptuous curves develop. Somehow, he had been unable to violate the memory of his good wife and his ravishing of Evelyn had only occurred in sordid masturbatory efforts in the bathroom late at night.

The spring which followed the harsh winter was a miracle. As if in atonement for having sent such cruel Christmas weather, God rewarded Drumliffey with mild, sunny spring days which allowed the wildlife to flourish. Tom tended his garden and thanked the Lord that it had been several weeks since he had buried someone he had known since birth.

Damask brought Spring to his doorway. She wore a pink, gingham, off-the-shoulder frock and frivolous sandals decorated with plastic daisies. Her body seemed translucent, like even the friendly spring breeze might cause her to disappear.

"I've expected you," Tom smiled as he led her into the workshop.

Damask's eyes opened wide. There, sitting on the floor was a coffin that stood out from the rest. It had been stained in the palest of pinks with tiny roses painstakingly carved over its entire surface.

"I-It's a strange, foolish gift. I know it," sighed Tom.

Damask remained silent, running her hands admiringly over every inch of the box. Eventually, she raised the lid, till it rested on its hinges. Inside, scattered across the silky, white lining was a bed of fresh, fragrant, rose petals. She breathed deeply, willing the antiseptic hospital smell to leave her senses. If she wondered whether he replaced the petals every day, or if he had some premonition that she would visit on this particular day, Damask didn't ask.

"These would the roses that have lived forever then?" she inquired.

"Indeed. The Damask Roses are even older than me," he mocked.

She came to him then and collapsed against his chest, just as she had that day on the cliff.

"I'm afraid to die," she said. "You must know how it can be easier."

"I have no secrets," replied Tom, brushing his hands across her bare shoulders. "It's always hard to die."

He kissed her shoulders then, tiny ripples of contact that left goose bumps in their wake. She closed her eyes as his lips moved along her throat and playfully explored her chest. The frock was as flimsy as her body and he reverently slid the top part down so that he might nibble on her tiny, limpid breasts. He watched her chest heave with effort at his touch, yet her grip around the back of his neck was astonishingly strong. He kissed her eyelids, so that she would be forced to open them and he could lose himself in their brown, misty reflections.

Her dress slid with shocking ease over her body and puddled on the floor to reveal her brittle nakedness. She surprised him again with her strength as she tugged determinedly at the studs on his jeans. He had forgotten about young girls and their delightful clumsiness. He indulged her, keeping his desires in check while she made her own voyage of discovery. When he was finally exposed, her hesitant, bony hands prodded his proud erection causing his entire body to stiffen with desperate longing. Her lack of experience actually heightened the sensations because she would touch for a moment, then withdraw as though bitten, forcing him to hold his breath till he felt her hands once more fondling him.

Tom had known his share of women. Women who knew their craft and brought him on hard and fast. None could compare to the slow, creeping charge that built up in his loins at the hands of this frail teenager. When she squatted before him and brought her face towards his crotch, he tried to gently push her away. This was an act that even his dear wife had been unwilling to perform. Damask insistently pulled his thighs towards her. The first cautious lick of her tongue sent his mind into an unparalleled frenzy.

Years of lonely nights caused his reason to dissipate. He pistoned forward, burying the entirety of his tool in her pliant, liquid throat. It did not matter that she lacked technique. He simply held her head steady for a few barbaric thrusts, then squirted his pleasure into her bewildered mouth. Tom watched with grim satisfaction as she gulped his seed till his lust gradually eased into a deep shame.

Tom pulled the girl to her feet, burying her face in his chest as he held back tears. Damask however, looked at him with a new depth in her eyes. It was a look he recognised. Her body was weak and wasted, his was fit and hearty, yet she had discovered a power that had nothing to do with strength. For the first time, he saw the corners of her mouth curl in a momentary smile.

The beast in him quelled, Tom could afford to be tender now. He lifted her in a wild embrace, kissing her with abandon as he spun her around the room. She laughed now - a girlish giggle that resonated and took away the ghosts who had been there through winter. He carried her reverently to the coffin and placed her on the rose petals. He thought she might flinch or consider him disturbed, but she just smiled encouragingly.

Tom leaned over the coffin and stroked the length of her velvety down with his fingers, overwhelmed by the splendid sight of her little quim parting to reveal beads of moist excitement. His thumb played with her nub, just as he had that day on the hill and he watched her transported to a place which had no fear.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered, certain that she would be unable to answer.

"Tall, green grass," came the choked reply. "Tall, green grass where I run and run and run."

Her hips looked like they could crumple beneath his weight and he cursed himself for this madness. However, Damask begged in a breathy, lilting whine as she squirmed on the petals causing pink stains to seep into the silk.

There was just enough room for him to stand above her, legs astride, in the coffin, his tool blazing purple and savage above her. He searched for the fright in her eyes. There was none - just a stubborn resilience and even perhaps relief. Tom lowered himself till his body weight did indeed crush her but she did not protest. Her sleek pussy lips engulfed him, even as he sought to move slowly within her luscious depths. There was little resistance, no sign of pain.

Damask's pathetic, little frame tried to thrust upwards, to entice him deeper but with no success. She was clearly tiring now. He brushed her hair reassuringly, till she lay still beneath him. Tom moved then in long, slow strokes that allowed every nerve in her tight, delicious walls to feel his journey. Her nub would be caressed by the base of his tool on each upstroke as he leaned forward. Damask's body became rigid as stone, then pulsed in a series of vibrations that sent him over the edge. A better man would have pounded relentlessly, causing her to cry for release from the agonising pleasure. Instead, he came quickly and quietly while her pussy walls quivered around him. In the blink of a falling star, it was over. She was smiling.

"I want to be the one who takes care of you when it happens," he had said.

Damask simply nodded.

It was a clear, summer's day when the small procession of mourners gathered on the cliff beside the old church. A few curious locals stood at a respectful distance to watch proceedings. An outsider burial was always cause for some interest. If any of them thought the extravagant coffin was a strange sight, they did not discuss it. Long after the funeral, Tom remained staring out into the ocean. An overwhelming aroma of roses seemed to be travelling on the breeze, pervading every fibre of his being. Down in the valley, the locals too could smell rose petal scent in the air. If they thought this unusual, nobody bothered to comment. The people of Drumliffey knew that some things don't need to be explained.