'We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a most remarkable man, who was to us so many things; musician, artist, designer, scientist, builder and soldier. Most importantly, a husband and father. Sir Fabian Sinclair was all these things and more.'
I looked at the Ebannese Priest as he spread his four arms. The orange lighting of my father's holographic self portrait projected behind, gave the priest a warm and welcoming glow. The image was one of his last holographic paintings and showed him at his final stage in life; high cheekbones and blue eyes, grey thinning hair and beard shrouding his aged features. It was a work of art, reflecting 'Sir Fabian Sinclair at 204' perfectly.
As the priest carried on, his voice became nothing more than an epiphany, while I was distracted by the grandeur of the Phoenix Tower Crematorium. It was father's creation, his final resting place, along with my long deceased mother, Nurea.
The main shape of the Crematorium was a large circle, cut away at one end to allow for the main tower and its furnace. Around the outside of the main crematorium were several upturned arcs imbedded into the ground, forming the main strength of the building. It was a mixture of alien stones, metals and glass, reflecting the diversity of the man who designed it, a homage to the many cultures and races that populated Mars.
At the top of the tower was a symbolic statue sweeping outwards. The more you looked at it, the more it resembled the great bird that inspired my father. The building was of true Fabianism and one of the most influential pieces of Martian Colonial Architecture. Its interior design and structure radiated its own warmth; a creation of post-future design that was shaped from the exterior's interwoven arcs. These arcs swept upwards and framed a transparent painting on the high glass ceiling, which had taken my father over ten years to paint. It was large enough to hold over a million. My father had carefully thought of how much longer people lived. Buildings had to accommodate the masses.
While the funeral progressed, many people moved to the front and spoke about my father. The Prime Minister of Mars talked about when they first met back on Earth during their National Service in the Space Force. A Gatain Auteur shared an amazing tale of when he once played S'ptang with father and how he still won even though the Gatain naturally had eight arms. His best friend Liam, spoke about the day father saved him from a beating due to the colour of his skin.
Racism was one of the main reasons why father left Earth. It had become worse at the end of the 23rd century. My sister talked about the day mother and father told us we were both adopted. It didn't bother us. We later learnt that father couldn't have children. It only proved further to my sisters and I how much our parents loved eachother.
When my time came to conclude the eulogy, I made my way to the stand where father lay in his coffin. The smell of alien flowers and the melodic sound of his musical request; 'Towards the Stars: A Symphony in four parts', was all around me as I walked up to the pew.
Holding back my emotions, I stood in front of well over a million people. It bought home to me not just the size of the Phoenix Crematorium, but how many people looked up to this man.
I nervously cleared my throat.
'My father did not expect to be so successful'' I began, my voice amplified ten fold by the speakers scattered around the tower, 'In fact, he spent the first part of his life anticipating failure after he had recovered from a rare disease, causing a severe case of amnesia. This prevented him from remembering anything before the age of twenty-one, apart from his name. He always planned his life on the assumption that any vision he had, was bound to fail - a true pessimist through and through. He wanted success and worked diligently from twenty one to achieve it. Yet he was never quite able to surrender the notion that his artistic efforts would always be rejected.'
I paused.
Everything reminded me of how far my father had come in his lifetime. I only had to look beyond the glass walls of the tower, taking in the immense cityscape that had grown from several small colonies built over one hundred and fifty years ago. It was a dream accomplished by one man and the people he had inspired.
'Looking at our worlds in wonder, father would write down and draw everything which influenced him in admirable prose. After travelling for three years to off world colonies, he discovered a passion for architecture where he developed his science and artistic skills. While studying at the University of Mars, he developed traditions in 'New World Architecture' and was responsible for some of the most innovative buildings ever to adorn the landscapes of off world colonies, and of course his home planet, Earth.'
'Around the crematorium you will see a presentation of stories, poems, paintings, models and concepts. They show a richness of themes and variety. A stylistic innovation that characterised my father's work. If you wish to see these as realism, all you have to do is look outside at our post-futuristic age and his world of authenticity and originality. We are living in the realism of what was once my fathers dream.' I looked down at the front row where my sister and the rest of my family sat. I smiled for a brief moment - a flash from my past as father, dressed as a clown, entertained his great, great, great grandchildren at their birthday parties.
'I would like to finish my remembrance with an excerpt from one of my father's novels, 'Fear of Flying',' I continued, ''In my dreams I learnt to fly. Once fields of corn, are now glistening chrome'. Father came to terms with what was stopping him from progressing and developed his dreams into what you see all around you today. Sir Fabian's message should be remembered by you all, so we can keep him alive in our hearts. His inspiration will live on'.
I couldn't help but think of my father's stories and his poetry. Aside from his building of worlds, these were his voice for humanity. Even animals. He made sure his ideas were listened to. Whatever he poured onto paper had form. He gave it shape. Fragrance, colour and sound. His soul poured into his work, a true language found.
Picking up the remote control, I pointed it towards the image of my father that stared back at me. As it flickered, the hologram rotated and my father's inventions filled the screen, one after the other. One mans history of 170 years of achievements, presented in montage. As the tribute commenced the lights dimmed and a marble emblem on the tower opened up as the Priest began his funeral speech.
'A time to be born, a time to die''
My fathers coffin closed and then gradually began to move forward into the opening as the final part of 'Towards the Stars' began.
'A time to plant, a time to harvest''
My father's final path was lit up in the colours of the spectrum, giving the alien flowers an artificial quality.
'A time to destroy, a time to rebuild''
The holographic screen showed the falling of the old; dangerous colonial buildings, quickly replaced by father's architecture rapidly growing in time-lapse.
'A time to cry.'
As the prism of light dimmed the coffin moved along and was finally engulfed by the closing marble column.
'Heavenly father, you take your beloved child: Sir Fabian Sinclair, beloved husband of Nurea, father of James and Gwen. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.'
The montage of work faded and the fourth symphony died down as it reached its diminuendo. All of us sat in the darkness while the noise of the furnace heated up. The marble emblem embracing my father, which had previously been split in two, began to glow. What followed was the most spectacular flame forcing its way up the central tower and then out into the Martian sky.
The shadows within the crematorium danced along the walls, as the flames rose above, clearly seen in the night sky. Everyone stared up at the rising orange light as it spread out to resemble a phoenix. Even inside the safety of the crematorium, I could feel the heat tightening my cheeks.
The effect was carried out at every cremation. But my fathers burned the brightest.
*
After the funeral service had concluded, my sister and I made our way out of the phoenix crematorium.
A gala celebration had begun. It was strange, as I took in all the excitement and atmosphere from the celebrations. Noticing the people who had arrived to honour my father, I realised it was something the modest Sir Fabian Sinclair would have actually shied away from.
A statue had been built in honour of my father. It depicted him just before he died, one hand holding his chrome walking stick, the other reaching palm up towards the stars, as if waiting to catch something.
The towering Metropolis of the Mars capital served as the statue's backdrop, awash with hovering parades, confetti, blimps and balloons rising as high as fathers floating cities. People were not glad father was dead, far from it; it was a celebration of his life. I held both my sisters' hands as Gwen, my youngest, wiped a tear from her eye. We all made our way over to the congregation and outdoor buffet.
*
The next day my sister and I arrived back at the phoenix tower crematorium to collect my father's urn. I will never forget the look on the Priest's face. It was cold, as if something was seriously wrong. We were concerned at how unwell he looked. My first thought was that someone else had died.
As we walked through the main crematorium where the service had been held the previous day, there were a large amount of people looking at the exhibition of work. The priest stood at the end of the aisle holding fathers urn with his cold expression.
'My children, I think you should all sit down.' The priest gestured towards the pews.
'What is it Father?' I asked.
The priest said nothing; he didn't know that to say as he held out the urn. I opened the lid and peered inside.
It felt heavier than I was expecting and appeared empty.
Placing my hand inside I also expected it to at least have a tiny portion of ash left inside, but my fingers were stopped by a solid object. It was as if the urn wasn't hollow, but solid instead.
I gave a puzzled look at the priest and my sisters.
'What is it James?' asked Gwen as she looked inside the urn. 'Where are our father's ashes?' she continued looking at the Priest.
'I have no idea my child. The machine placed exactly what was in the coffin into the urn,' he replied.
As I looked back into it, whatever solid substance was inside caught the light.
'I don't understand, was there a fault? It looks like'' I couldn't control myself. I felt angry and upset.
'Calm down James,' said Gwen.
'Calm down? Fathers ashes are missing and you are asking me to calm down?' I stood up shaking the urn.
In my temper I threw it on the floor. The priest didn't have much of a chance to say anything as it shattered and the solid shape inside slid across the floor and spun to a halt. The priest and my sisters were as shocked as myself, not by my temper but by the metallic cast of the urn spinning slowly to a halt on the floor.
I walked over to it as they both stood and watched.
Whatever I was feeling, I was sure my sisters were feeling it too.
As I rotated the metallic cast I noticed the tiny ash particles encased in the solidified chrome. Towards the base was a piece of gold, which had obviously been melted in the process, with the rest of the metal.
His heart of gold, I thought.
Its melted shape resembled that of a phoenix; the metal distortions spread out like wings on the solid piece of ash-speckled chrome.
A Phoenix, rising from the ashes.
I smiled to myself.
Father had ended up as a work of art himself.
I smiled at my sisters.
'Meltings' were not uncommon in our day and age. Robots had lived amongst us for centuries. They could remain undetected for years. In a lot of cases these machines would be reprogrammed with false memories. Their origin would be wiped, as though they were an amnesiac; remembering nothing of their childhood and adolescence.
The robots cybernetic features were that genetically advanced, they aged. Their brains were sometimes the most powerful on the planet. Father never knew himself, why would he? He was never ill and never operated on - he just did what he did, turning dreams into reality.
I made my way outside with my sisters and placed the metal cast that remained of my father into the palm of the statue's raised hand.
Our kind believes it is only the human race that is aware of death. It is this quality that makes us human.
In fathers eyes this was the only thing that was important to him.
Copyright © James Johnson 2006
