“No fire in the open,” I say. “We bury him ourselves. Tonight.”

The birches close back over the mound like they were never disturbed.

The Quiet of It

No fanfare, no outsiders. Just the ones who’d earned the right to be there, and one old woman who decided how the night would go before anyone else got a vote.

What The Earth Takes and Gives

Wolfsbane isn’t decoration. It’s a ward, scattered by hands too old to shake. No priest says a word over what the forest takes back. It doesn’t need one.

The birches don’t ask questions. Neither does anyone standing under them.

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© 2026 I.Ph. de Lange. All rights reserved. Published by CYcrds OÜ.

Author’s Note — Under the Birches

Grief rituals fascinate me anthropologically (personally not so much, had too many for my taste) – how much of them is about the dead, and how much is about giving the living something to do with their hands. No priest, no fire, no announcement. Just people who trusted each other enough to bury someone without asking permission from anyone outside the circle.

That’s not invention. Cultures have been quietly burying their own for as long as there have been outsiders worth hiding from.

I.Ph.