NewlyRisen JordhanaRempel

Jordhana Rempel is from Alberta, Canada andhas been interestedin writingandfiction from a very youngage. She earnedherBA in English before travelingto London forherMA in Creative Writing.

“Ididn'tthinkitwouldlooklikethat,”shesaid,alittleuncertain. “It'sthemummificationprocess,”thedeliverymanexplained. “Theskindarkensfromdehydration. Nothingoutoftheordinary.” “Right,”shesaid.Thedeliverymanfinishedunpackingthesuppliesandhandedheraclipboard. “Justneedyoutosignthis.” Shedid,leavingalong,sweeping‘Mrsvan—’ thatendedinanindecipherablescrawl.The deliverymanbowedunnecessarilyandleft.

Thethingwasleftstandinginthedoorway. Tildawasn'tsurewhattocallit.Itwascertainlymale,soshesupposedshecouldcallit'he,'butit wasn'taperson,wasit?Andshecouldn'tcallit‘it’ either.Shewishedsuchthingshadbeenaroundwhen shewasagirlsotheycouldbecoveredinheretiquetteclasses.Forlackofanyotherideas,shefellback onhertraining. “Hello,”shesaidbrightly.“Welcometomyhome.Makeyourselfcomfortable.Theparlour'sthis way.” Thethingturnedtowardsherwhenshestartedspeaking,butmadenoothermovement.Itsimply stoodthere,thesamemahoganycolourasthecoattrackbesideit,andnearlyastall. “Followme,”shesaid.Thedeliverymanhadsaidsomethingaboutdirectordersforthefirstfew

weeks,untilitgotusedtoaroutine.Thethingtookastepforward. Themanufacturershadfitteditwithlooselinentrousersandalonglinenshirt,butnoshoes.Its bonyfeetclickedagainstthehardwoodasitfollowedher.Itwasabitdisconcerting;shewasn'tsurehow itcouldevensee.Shehadseentheold-fashionedonesattheBritishMuseum,andthoughtthatthey lookedquiteroughandunpleasant. Butthesenewonesweremoreelegant,retainingtheirfacialstructure andteeth.Themanufacturershadmanagedtopreventthelipspullingbackinagrimace,butnottheloss of—sheshuddered—thesoftoculartissue,hencethenecessityoftheclosedeyes. Itstoppedjustinsidethedoortotheparlour.Shegesturedtowardsoneofthearmchairs. “Sit,”shesaid,adding,“please.”

Itwalkedtothechairandsatwithperfectpostureattheedgeofthecushion.Shehadhalf-expected ittocreakattheknees.Shedawdledabit,notknowingwhattodo,beforeshemadeuphermindto simplygetonwithherday. “Stayhere,”shesaid,feelingalittlefoolish.Itgavenosignthatithadheard. Tildaspentthenextfewhourscatchinguponlittlejobsthatneededtobedonebutwerealways

putoff.Shefoundthatshewaspassingbytheparlourwhenevershecould,tomakesurethatithadn't moved.Ithadn'tsomuchastwitchedafinger,asfarasshecouldsee.Itwasassilentandstillasthe furnitureitsaton. Eventually,sheunpackedtheboxthatcamewiththething.Therewasabookletdetailingcare instructionsandsocializationtechniques,aswellasalargebottlelabelled‘skinconditioner’.Attheback ofthebookletwasahandwrittenpagedetailingthething'sformerstate. ‘MrHenry OliverBennett,’ itread,‘diedin 1982 ofmeningitis, aged41. No livingrelatives. Model #C14530.’ Tildawalkedbacktotheparlourandcalledout,“Henry!” Itdidn’tmove.

“C14530!” Nothing. Sheglancedbackthroughthebooklet.Therewasasectioncalled‘Personalisation’ thatgavetips onhowtomakeyourNewlyRisenyourown. ‘Do,’ itinstructed,‘address it clearly andfrequently by name, ifa name you wish to give it. Always couple its name with a commanduntil it responds to the name alone.’ Right.Tildathoughtforamoment.Shedidn’twanttocallitHenry;itwasnolongerthatperson. ShemightaswellcallhercarHenry.Shebrieflyentertainedtheideaofcallingitafterherlatehusband Wilfred,butdecidedthatitwastoomorbid.Peoplemightgetthewrongidea.Sheeventuallysettledon callingitThomasafterthemakerofWilfred’sfavouriteChippendalecabinet.Timetotakeitoutforatest

run. “Thomas,standup,”shesaid.Itroseslowly.“I’mgoingtotheshops,andIwantyouto accompanyme.” Shelookedatitsbarefeetandconsultedthebookletagain.‘Shoes are not necessary as the Newly Risen do not feel pain, but ifyou want to take it over rough terrain, a soft pairofmoccasins will prevent damage.’ TildadoubtedthatthestreetsofKensingtoncountedasroughterrain. “Followme,Thomas.”Shegatheredhercoatandbag,makingsurethatThomaswasbehindher. Shecaughtafewpeoplestaringatthemastheywalked,mostlytourists.Risenweren’tthat commonyet,savefortheintermittentdisplayofextravagance.Occasionallyanactororfootballerwould

bephotographedinpublicwithhisownRisen,aftertheyhadlosttheirghoulishreputation.Newspapers reportedthatwithintwentyyears,themajorityofthepopulationwouldhavetheirownRisen. Tildadidn’tletthestaresbotherher.Shewasnotflauntingheraffluence;simplytakingadvantage ofit.DearWilfredwouldhavewantedhertobecomfortable.Thiswasthesameaswhenhe’dboughtthat faxmachinesolongago.

“Mustkeepupwiththetimes,mydear,”hehadsaid. “Can’tbeseenslippingbehindtheyounger generation.” TildaheldherheadhighanddidnotlookbehindhertoseeifThomaswasstillthere.Shecould hearitsstepsonthepavement;notshufflingorshamblingbutsmoothandfluid.Tildawasstruckbythe thoughtthatitwassimilartotakingadogforawalk,exceptshedidn’thavetostoptoallowittopiddle. Oncetheyreachedthehighstreet,shebegantotalktoit. “Here’sthepostoffice,Thomas,Ihavetodropoffthank-younotestotheWinchestersandthe Turnbulls.” “Totheflorist’s,Thomas.Ineedtorefreshthelilies.” “Here,Thomas,beadearandholdthedrycleaning,don’tletitdragontheground.”

Forthemostpart,noonecommentedonhercompanion;theyonlyflinchedlightlyifthey happenedtotouchitsdarkleatheryskin. Tildawasnearlyfinished,havinggivensomeoftheheaviergrocerybagstoThomas(shehadeyed itsthinarmswithmisgiving,butboththedeliverymanandthebookletpromisedthatitwasstrongerthan itlooked)whenshesawsomeonesherecognized. “Ohno,”shemurmured.TildahadknownMrsBishopsincebeforeshewasMrsBishop,andshe alwaysseemedtobeincompetitionwithTilda.Shewouldtakethisasanattempttoone-upher,and wouldbeinsufferableuntilshefiguredoutawaytobalancethescales. Tildadidn’tcareonetitaboutit,a factthatMrsBishopneverseemedtopickupon. TildawasconsideringduckingintotheW.H. Smithtoavoidher,butMrsBishophadalready

spottedthem. “Tilda!”sheshrilled,lightlyembracingherandgivingherapeckoneachcheek.“Howlovelyto seeyou.” “Yes,youtoo,Betty.Howarethings?” “Oh,youknow,sameasalways.OurJamiegotintoanotherfightatschool,thescamp.Takesafter hergrandfather.Ikeeptellinghermothertoputherintosports,workoffsomeofthataggression,butdoes shelistentome?”MrsBishopthrewherhandsupinadramaticgestureofsurrender.“ButIdon’twantto talkaboutme,what’s this newfeatureyouhave?”SheappraisedThomaslikeatableatanantiqueshop. “Thisis—”Tildafaltered.“Ijustgothim—it.Itarrivedthismorning.”

“Howexciting!”MrsBishopsaid.“Musthavecostyouaprettypenny.Mostofthepeopleyousee withthem,well,theyjustliketoflashtheirmoneylikeit’sanaccessory.Goodtoseethere’sstillsome classleftintheworld.”HersmiletoldTildahowmuch‘class’ shethoughtshehad. “Thankyou,”Tildasaid,unsurewhatshewasthankingherfor.“IthoughtIcouldusemorehelp aroundthehouse,andthisseemedmorefinanciallysecurethanpayingsomeoneweekafterweek.”

“Indeed.”MrsBishopleanedtowhisper;“Iheardtherewasquiteawaitinglistforone.However didyoumanageit?” “Luckofthedraw,Isuppose,”Tildahedged.“Ihopeyoudon’tmind,Betty,butImustbegetting home.Theselilieswon’tkeepintheheat.” “Ofcourse,don’tletmedelayyou.Youmustcomeroundforteaoneday;letuscatchup properly.” “Yes,oneday.Thomas,followme.We’regoingbacktothehouse.”Tildaturnedsharply,ignoring MrsBishop’srathershockedlookthatshehadnameditalready.Shekeptwatchingthemuntiltheyturned thecorner. AllthewayhomeTildamutteredaboutMrsBishop: “...andwhatwassheimplyingwiththat

waitinglistcomment?Somethingsalacious,nodoubt...”anditwasn’tuntiltheyreachedthefrontdoor thatshewonderedhowmuchofthisThomaswastakingin.Sheturnedtofaceitandlookitintheeye,or closeenough. “Thomas,payattention. Thisisveryimportant.Donotleavethehousewithoutme,ever.Doyou understand?”Shesaidthelastwordswithoutmuchhope.ThebookletsaidthatittookweeksforaRisen torespondtoanythingexceptdirectstatements.Butitappearedtoinclineitshead,andthatwasgood enoughforTilda. “Good,”shesaid.“Inyougo.” SheputThomasinthekitchenassheunloadedallthebagsandputtheliliesinavase. Itwas perfectlyattentive,andshefoundherselftalkingtoitagain,notjustaboutMrsBishopbutalsoaboutother

things.Yes,shehadherWomen’sClub,buthalfofthemwereonlytheretobeseenwiththerightpeople andimprovetheirownsocialstanding.Thomaslistened,oratleastappearedto,andneverinterrupted;it wassoothingtotalktohimandnothavetowatchoutforwhooverheardwhat. Tildawasalsogladthatshedidn’thavetoalterherroutinetoomuch.Shedidn’thavetocookfor morethanoneperson,nordidshehavetomakeuptheguestbedroom.Thomasdidn’tcommentonwhat showsshewatchedorwhatsortofwineshedrank.Itwaseasytobecomeaccustomedtoit,evenafterso shortatime.Atonepoint,sheevenreachedouttogingerlytouchitswrist,feelingthedrytightleatherof itsskin.Shehadbecomequitefondofitbytheendofthenight,andsinceithadbeenfollowingherall day,shethoughtnothingofThomasfollowingastepbehindherassheretiredtoherbedroom.Itpausedat

thedoorway,asTildanoticedhadbecomeitshabit,andshethoughtaboutthetwoofthemintownearlier. Itreallywaslikehavingapet,shedecided. “Sitthere,Thomas,”shesaid,pointingtotheflooratthefootofthebed.Itfollowedthedirection (how diditsee?)whileTildagotunderthecovers.ShecouldseethetopofThomas’ baldheadoverthe edgeoftheduvet.Havingspentsomanyyearsonherown,itwascomfortinghavinganotherper—creat—

beinginthehouseagain. PeoplelikeMrsBishopwouldn’tunderstand. TheythoughtthatRisenweretrendy.Shewould showthemhowusefultheycouldbe. “Goodnight,Thomas,”shesaidassheturnedoffthelight.