It is early in the afternoon when Martin finally gets a cart around to the poor farm. He has bathed again and dressed in a crisp, clean shirt more suited to life in the city than trips up to Haven, and the newest trousers he has, black and well taken care of, as are the boots he dons as well. He's made sure to have a shave, and has basically set out in what, in another time, one would call one's Sunday's best. He has, however, imposed none of this upon Ren. He also loads up the cart with supplies to bring to the farm, and as far as personal possessions go, he's brought his battered black leather book, and he keeps it nearby on the seat. There's enough room for Ren, however, and he's invited to ride alongside Martin. It's just as well, since part of the supplies Martin has decided to bring is half a butchered cow. Riding in the back would be a fragrant experience, despite that the thing has been well packed and kept on ice. The weather is relatively nice as the cart pulls up to the poor farm. The sky is overcast, but there are patches of blue, and the rain doesn't look like it's got the energy to fall today.

Serendipity is in his usual coat, pants, and boots, but following Martin's lead he's somehow found a different nice white shirt to wear, and shaved, although that's not exactly unusual. Or heavily needed. There's really no question as to where Ren sits in the wagon, as the cow corpse is far less attractive than the wagoneer, and less fun to distract along the way, although he does put on Good Behaviour in that respect when the destination comes into sight.

Martin grins wryly as the Good Behavior is donned, and perhaps with a show of faith, he's even let Ren distract him and be his usual kin self without reprimand nor even a stern look. Easy going fellow, Martin is. It's only fair to let Ren get it out of his system if he's going to have to spend the rest of the day being respectful, after all. The farm's occupants greet the pair differently this time. With the warm weather, people are outside. One might notice that atop a small swell of a hill on the property, the green grass is dotted with the dark tones of people in their closest-to-black clothing they own. Garlands of spring wildflowers have been arranged around an area where the earth has been disrupted. Someone is getting buried today. The place just has that feel about it, of death and solemnity. Even the children are subdued as they trot up to surround the wagon, their adolescent caretakers following along. The toddler Ren gave an airplane ride to is right there holding his arms out to the kin, unsubtle in his desire to be picked up.

Serendipity manages to steal a kiss and a final grope in the last moment or two before they begin approaching the farm, and after that is fairly quiet, taking in the tableau as it comes into view. Hopping down from the wagon when they arrive, he scoops up the toddler in a movement that looks surprisingly automatic, giving the kid just a bit more upward swing than strictly necessary before settling him on his hip, what little of that there is.

The toddler clings, and is strangely well behaved, sucking his thumb and looking around from his vantage point with the satisfaction of one who has received his immediate wants without hesitation. As Martin hops down, he scoops up another toddler, a little girl with a battered teddy bear missing an eye. A few of the farm's men come up, and quiet words are exchanged. There's a pall of sobriety that seems to cling to everything. With his un-childed arm, he reaches for his black book, then nods toward Ren and says quietly, "Want to head on up the hill? The boys here will unload everything." The children gather round, and Ren might find a tiny hand tucking itself into his. Apparently, as far as the kids are concerned, he's part of the family.

Serendipity nods to Martin, and accepts the tiny -- and slightly sticky -- hand that seems to have claimed his without protest, leading his small companions up toward the house. A few other youngsters trail along as well, and he chats with them quietly. One in particular seems determined to fill him in on all the news of the day.

Oh and what news there is! Ren is told all about how Missy went in to bring Jake Witlow his breakfast tray, and he was deader than a doornail, and how some people cried. Grown ups! Crying! And then the men went in and came downstairs with something wrapped in a blanket, and there was speculation that it was the body, and there was further speculation on what it looked like under the blanket, but then it was in the foyer all morning laid out in wake -- which was a funny name since he looked like he was sleeping -- while the men built a big box, and it's all very exciting, except everyone is sad. Martin shakes his head wryly as the child offers her rendition of events as they happened. Eventually the herd makes its way toward the hillock, where a grave has been dug and there is a gathering of the farm's residents, who greet Ren and Martin solemnly, with hugs aplenty.

Serendipity grins at the little girl's performance, and intersperses it with a number of quiet questions just this side of good behaviour -- nothing loud enough to be heard by adults or inappropriate enough to be likely to get a kid in trouble, but definitely the sort of thing to encourage young impressionable minds to Think and to whisper among themselves. On arrival at the grave, he returns all hugs as given, careful not to squish his young passenger. He manages to adjust his path through the hugs so that he can end up in the unofficial line passing through to get one from Martin.

Martin gives Ren sly looks the while, seeming amused at the subtle influenced rather than disapproving. When the hugging brings the toddler around to his mother, he holds out his arms and she scoops him up with a quiet word of thanks to Ren, leaving the kin free to receive more hugs. Martin gives him one, along with a wry look as he murmurs, "Ren, it's been ages. How are you?" He seems to have lost his toddler somewhere in transit as well.

Serendipity returns the hug closely (though he does try to be well-behaved about it), tilting his head to inhale by Martin's neck, and then grins. "...Better now. Seems like forever," he murmurs back teasingly, "'bout you?" before releasing the trader to continue the cycle of greetings.

Martin gives Ren a nuzzle, fairly innocently. He's certainly not trying to portray a falsely platonic relationship, however. Just one that can keep its pants on in public. "Nervous," he admits wryly. "But fair." And the greetings continue. Then go quiet and six men exit the house with the hastily constructed box borne between them. It's not a very fancy coffin, just plywood with rope for handles. There are wildflowers heaped upon it though, and ribbons tied with care. People rise, standing somewhat back from the grave, but close enough that it is the center of the gathering. Murmurs circulate, but other than that, people stand quiet and attentive. Martin holds his book to his chest, and his other hand clasps Ren's as he watches the box's slow approach.

Serendipity gives Martin's hand a squeeze, and keeps hold of it, watching the ceremonious approach and the behaviour of the other attendees with interest, though he endeavours not to show it too much. At one point, some thought that would certainly break his promise seems to come to mind; Martin can feel the change in him as he stifles -- quite well -- a laugh, and there are a few moments of tension as he fights whatever the temptation may have been.

Martin glances at Ren sternly, but for him, stern also seems to come off as warm as well, not at all malicious. He gives Ren's hand an encouraging squeeze to show his appreciation for the stifling of those impulses, and then he steps away as the box is brought up and laid with care in the hole prepared for it. Book in hand, he approaches what will be the headstone's place when it comes, and the murmurs stop as everyone looks toward him. Even the fussy children manage to keep mostly quiet. A breeze drifts over the hillock, making Martin's hair flutter, tugging at clothing and cooling the air. He self-consciously clutches his book and looks at the sadly constructed coffin, brow furrowed in thought. Clearly he's expected to do something here. The air is tense with anticipation.

Serendipity's hands slip into the pockets of his coat, and he watches the blond man, expectant as all the rest, though most of them likely have a more precise idea of what's coming.

Martin sighs heavily. He then opens the black book, closing his eyes in a brief moment's thought, or prayer, and then he intones solemnly, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures: he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul: he leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake." Here, he lifts his gaze toward the sky and continues, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for you are with me; you rod and you staff they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies: you anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." Eerily, the gathering of people murmurs, unprompted, "Amen."

Serendipity does not quite jump at the sudden murmur from the crowd, though he does get a briefly wary look at the phenomenon. Since they don't otherwise appear to be behaving as if mind-controlled, he stays where he is.

Martin closes the book and offers it over to an older gentleman, who receives it with a solemn nod and clasps it respectfully in he crook of one arm. Thus freed of burdens, Martin's hands clasp together before him, and he offers a sad little smile to the coffin before glancing up to address the crowd. "Jacob Witlow," he says, his mild voice resonant, rather pleasant to listen to actually, "is a man I will remember for the rest of my life. He was already well into his elder years by the time I met him, just a few months ago. He was one of the original squatters on this land." With a quiet laugh, he adds, "I thought he was going to beat me senseless with his cane the day I came round as a prospective buyer for this place. He wasn't going to leave this land, he said. It was his home, and he would die here one way or another." The smile fades, and Martin regards the coffin again. "I'm glad we made our peace, old friend, and that you lived to see a home for your self-made family. You took an idealistic young man full of good notions but no common sense, and you taught him the principles of perseverance and a willingness to stand up for what is right. For that, I will be ever grateful."

Serendipity listens quietly, focused mainly on Martin, and if he fidgets a bit, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot, it's certainly less than the children, at least. He seems interested enough.

Thank goodness to the spirits of the Son of Man that Coyote's child shows such decorum. Martin offers Ren the entire warmth of his regard as his gaze touches upon the kin. There isn't a smile, not something as flashy as a grin, but there's just something in his eyes, something so open and adoring, with gratitude and pleasure. Soulful eyes, utterly, when he's actually focused on the world around him. "This land is a place of new beginnings," he addresses the crowd, pausing to regard a face here, meet eyes with another there. "A chance for a new family, a new path, for new traditions and a new place in an ever-changing and uncertain world. Unfortunately, with our new holidays and observances, our celebrations and triumphs, there are also traditions steeped in sadness and loss. Jake was a leader in many was and, in this, his final act upon this Earth, he leads us as well, into the contemplation of death, how we will handle it, and where we will go from here. In honor of this man, whose love of life was as passionate as his anger in the face of the injustice that nearly cost his people their home, I think that we should see death as another kind of beginning. For Jake, he has gone to that place from which none return, whose nature we will never fully know, but it is with all the faith in my heart that I say he carries on. That none of us are ever truly gone. So let us not mourn his death, but rather celebrate his life. Let us not say good-bye forever, but merely fare well for now. In time, we are reunited." It's strange, the way even the children seem to listen raptly.

The corners of Ren's mouth turn up just a little at that look, and he keeps it for a moment before his head glances down a touch, seemingly of its own accord. He watches the crowd surreptitiously, taking in their reactions to Martin's speech, or to Martin himself.

There are murmurs, but they're quiet out of respect. There are a few people who looked awed, though most of them are merely paying close attention as though genuinely interested in what the man is saying. As for Martin himself, he does look a little nervous, but nothing in his speech seems practiced. It's a case of opening his mouth and letting the babble flow freely, which speaks of a certain degree of honesty, really. "So though we commit this body to the Earth, from which our mortal bodies come, today will be a celebration of life to honor a man who, in us, found friends and family, and in his convictions left a legacy that will keep us together for years to come." Reaching aside, he takes a modest cluster of bright yellow daffodils from the hands of a sad looking young woman who holds armloads of wildflowers clutched to her chest. He kisses her on the cheek comfortingly, then turns to let the flowers fall from his hand and onto the wooden box. "Good bye, my friend. Until we meet again." He then turns from the grave and walks down the hillock toward the house. The woman with all the flowers offers some to people who have come without their own, and one by one, the residents of the poor farm throw a flower on the coffin and speak a few words, some of remembrance, some of farewell. They then turn to walk toward the house, as Martin has done.

Serendipity, flowerless, is offered one. He accepts it, and considers the hole for a moment before speaking. "I never met you," he says to it, as the flower falls to the wood, "...sounds like I missed out." With that, he follows the trail of people toward the house, not walking particularly fast, but overtaking quite a few of them without meaning to.

A few children who have slipped free of their parents are now running around outside the house in the idiotic and gleeful way children do. A few of the older people sit on the porch, helped to and from the grave site first by younger and stronger people. In their rocking chairs, they watch the kids scamper, and they each have a tall glass of lemonade. Inside the house, there is the sound of chatter from the kitchen and the smell of baking bread. Martin is amidst a growing crowd, sneaking a handful of dried apples while Sarah directs the controlled chaos, apparently trying to get the flow of food and people out the back door and into the yard there. Martin frees himself from the throng as he spies Ren coming toward the house, and he steps out to meet him, offering over a glass of lemonade as he says, "Do you think it was alright? Making the talking part so short?"

Serendipity accepts the glass, and nods, stealing a couple of Martin's dried apples and giving him a quick grin. A boy of about four hurtles past the pair of them, a girl the same age hot on his heels. Ren drops one of the apple bits on her head as she passes, and she stops, startled, a few steps later then it falls off in front of her face. She looks up at the sky suspiciously. "I think it was a good length," he reassures, taking a sip, "...not so long as t' let people get bored, an' not so short as t' sound like he didn't matter t'you." He nods once, emphasising the approval.

Martin laughs despite himself as he watches the girl's confusion. "Well, he did matter to me," Martin replies simply, without a touch of defensiveness, more as though to confirm the sentiment. "It's just, you know, Old Jake wouldn't want people crying and carrying on. He'd want us to be together and to look toward what we've got, not what we don't." He offers his hand to Ren with a wry smile. "What we got is a half-cow in the ground barbecuing and enough food to feed an army. The boys will fill in the grave, and tomorrow we'll worry about the headstone, but today, we're going to remember what it's like to be alive."

Serendipity eats the last stolen bit of apple to free his hand to take Martin's, without hesitation. "'s kinda like how my people do it," he remarks, "...though I think maybe our parties after get a little rowdier'n yours prolly do." He glances around with that, as if assessing, and noting that they have a moment of relative isolation -- no one within five feet, at least -- adds quietly, with a small grin, "One town I went through, their custom for celebratin' life in funerals involved the requirement that a couple had t' have sex in the grave before it could be used. They said otherwise, the area'd never bear life again. Interestin', huh?"

Martin laughs in surprise, which does draw some glances, but he lowers his voice to keep curiosity at bay as he replies, "I don't think I could do that. Mercy." He keeps Ren close at hand, so to speak, leading him out to the back yard, where there are chairs arranged around long makeshift tables, food laid out, teapots aplenty, carafes of lemonade, and even some barrels that looks like it might hold whiskey, beer, or a few of each. Further away, along a pathway leading out of the gated yard, a field has been cleared and stacked high with old dried brush for what looks like an inevitable campfire. "I hope things don't get out of hand," he comments with a glance at the barrels.

"'s not as difficult as y'might think," Ren replies almost sheepishly, and obligingly lets himself be lead wherever Martin seems inclined to take him. He looks the barrels over approvingly, and cocks his head at the trader. "Mmm, think it's likely? Whatcha afraid might happen?"

Martin eyes Ren. "You didn't," he ventures, then adds, "And even if you did, let's just say you didn't." Glancing around, he frets, "I don't suppose there's that much damage that can be done. The bonfire's a good distance from any structures and anything seriously breakable can be replaced. It's not the youngsters I fear with those barrels, it's the older ladies. They get a little feisty."

Serendipity shrugs a little at Martin. "I was the guest, they insisted," he replies, in a what-can-ya-do? kind of tone. Not that he probably put up much of a fight, but still. "...do they?" he inquires to Martin's concern, arching a brow slightly as he imagines this, and then grinning. "Don't worry," he teases, "so do I. Anyway, what trouble could any of us get into, with you watchin' over us, hmm?"

Martin sighs softly and says, "We're doomed." He draws Ren over to a chair in the shade of a big maple, and he takes the chair beside it. Meanwhile, preparations for the feast are forthcoming. While there are nibblies and drinks throughout the afternoon, it isn't until the sun has gone down and the bonfire is in full roar that the half-cow in the ground is finished cooking. Such is the nature of the underground barbecue pit. The wait is worth it, though. Once the roasted beef is ready, it's so tender it falls right off the bone. One wouldn't think this is a sad occasion, what with the drinking, the eating, and later, the dancing as those few lucky residents who actually own musical instruments put them to use with reels and ballads. There is, apparently, both beer and whiskey in those barrels. For all Martin's fretting, he is the one who packed them. He even takes a small dram of the whiskey, though he sips it while old women thrice his age slam it like spring water.

Serendipity partakes of everything, and while he doesn't treat the alcohol like spring water, he doesn't nurse it along like Martin, either. He joins in the dancing, and at one point gets a group of people who're gathered by the barrels to join in song. It's rather amusing to see how raucously a few of the most grandmotherly old ladies belt out "Maids When You're Young" and "The Lusty Young Smith." He gets a good group going on "The Moose Song," too, that with a wicked look to Martin before. Someone drags him off to dance as another reel gets played, and eventually he returns to Martin's side again, giggling a little as he drops into the chair.

Martin sighs, long-suffering, as Ren rejoins his comfortable place, where he's had food brought to him and hasn't had to lift a finger. It's good to be the landlord, or something. "You're incorrigible," he accuses fondly as, by the kegs, another round of a bawdy ballad is belted out. Then again, all on their own they've danced and sung to a song about whiskey in the field. There is laughter, children running amok, and for some of the younger folk, glances exchanged and a few kisses stolen. No doubt there might be people slipping off into the night to celebrate life in their own ways, if not on the actual grave. And in groups, here and there, people recall what they know of the man named Jacob Witlow. That people live on in the memories of those who knew them is doubtless. For a man Ren has never met, he might swear he did by the time the night is over. "So, do you think this is a good tradition?" Martin asks between wimpy little sips of his whiskey.

"I think," Ren replies with the solemnity of the decidedly tipsy, fingers idly making their way up Martin's arm, across his shoulder and the back of his neck, and up into his golden locks, "'s a =lovely= tradition. 's much better'n moping around for weeks an' such." And, speaking of stolen kisses, he leans across to steal one of his own, in some danger of accidentally overbalancing his chair.

Martin leans over quickly to resettle that balance, and he plants a kiss on Ren's lips. Though he's kept things pretty chaste where others might see, he certainly doesn't lend the impression he's all about the chastity. The kiss is tender, warm, and while not blatantly passionate, it's there in an underlying hint. The kiss breaks as he blushes and ducks his head because a few nearby mourners start applauding and giggling.

Serendipity makes a soft noise of complaint as the kiss breaks, but catches on to the reason swiftly enough, flashing the peanut gallery a grin and a mock bow before he turns back to Martin, walking fingers up the blond's chest to play with the collar of his shirt. "...do =you= think it's a good tradition?" he asks.

Martin's cheeks just color darker, and snickers abound, but they are all good-natured. "I think it's what Jake would've wanted," he replies awkwardly, capturing those walking fingers in both his hands. "So yeah, I think it is. I like to see these people having fun."

"'s why I like you," Ren muses cheerfully. "Well, onea the reasons. Like you a lot. You should kiss me s'more," he informs Martin matter-of-factly, and grins again, boyishly. "...are =you= havin' fun? I bet he'd want you t' have fun too..."

Martin rolls his eyes, though he laughs as he does so, looking terribly defeated. The last of his whiskey is knocked back, and he clasps Ren's hand to tug him to his feet as he says, "Dance with me."

Serendipity resists the tug not at all, though he almost missteps as he stands, and laughs, catching himself. He doesn't wait to follow, starting toward the dancing area himself and pulling Martin along.

Martin hurries along as well, and then sweeps Ren up into the circle of dancers reeling in pairs around the cheerily blazing bonfire. The man knows a few moves -- who knew? People are gathered around, clapping their hands in time to the musicians. One of the old men actually has a fiddle, rare and expensive as those are, and he knows how to play like a madman, too. Not a bad way to work up a sweat, though no doubt Ren can think of a dozen others.

Serendipity is a good enough dancer, even if he's less than entirely sober, and his current joy and enthusiasm make up for the occasional misstep now and then. The look in his eyes suggests he's got at least some of that dozen going through his mind, and although he stays perfectly well within the rules of the dance and the bounds of propriety, somehow he's still an ideal illustration for whoever it was that dubbed dancing the vertical expression of a horizontal intention.