Acknowledgements

I have many people to thank for their support and contributions to Eulogy.

It would be remiss of me to not thank Lauren James for the inspiration found in the pages of The Quiet at the End of the World. The seed for Bryony’s story was planted as I read James’s extraordinary novel, and wrestled with the questions raised there. It would also be remiss of me to not acknowledge Robin Wall Kimmerer for the ways in which her work, particularly Braiding Sweetgrass, helped shape and develop my thinking about the relationship between humanity and nature. The seed that was planted by Lauren James was nurtured from seedling to sapling by Kimmerer’s work. Other authors and their work further contributed to the development of my ideas and the eventual shape the world in this story took. For a more complete list, please visit my Resources page.

I would like to thank my family, my parents and my sisters, for their unwavering support of me and my writing. The deeper I get into the world of writing and publishing, the more I realise how insane I am for choosing this career, and your support makes all the difference.

Further thanks to Jack and Abigail for their enthusiastic response to the first draft of this story. Your belief in this story bolstered by own. Thanks, again, to Jack and also Rachel, for their early critique and feedback. In writing, the line between “solitary activity” and “community activity” is a skipping rope, and the two of you help me keep that rope in motion. Thank you.

I also wish to thank my Patrons. Your support is invaluable. It is thanks to you that I am able to keep this website running, and, like Jack and Rachel, you help me stay connected with the broader community of writers and readers when it could be so easy to become a hermit scribbling her stories by candlelight in a cave. Metaphorically, of course. My eyes could never handle writing by candlelight. I’ve tried.

Finally, I would like to thank my readers. Releasing one of my stories serially online is an experiment for me, so thank you for sticking around for the whole thing. Thank you to everyone who shares Eulogy with their friends. You mean the world to me.

Resources

This story would not have been possible without the work of others far more knowledgeable than myself. Whilst not everything I learnt from the following sources made it’s way into this story explicitly, it did all inform my thinking and the world I created in my mind. Any and all errors in this story are mine.

Books
The Quiet at the End of the World, by Lauren James
Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer
Gathering Moss, by Robin Wall Kimmerer
The Hidden Life of Trees, by Peter Wohlleben
The Secret Network of Nature, by Peter Wohlleben
The Power of Trees, by Peter Wohlleben
The Weather Detective, by Peter Wohlleben
Entangled Life, by Merlin Sheldrake
Soil, by Matthew Evans
Beatrix Potter's Gardening Life, by Marta McDowell
Squirrel Nutkin, by Beatrix Potter
Anne of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery
The Time Machine, by H. G. Wells

Poetry
Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night, by Dylan Thomas

Websites
Natural History Museum (nhm.ac.uk):
A guide to lichens of twigs
Nature and Pollution: What lichens tell us about toxic air
British Trust for Ornithology (www.bto.org)
Wildfowl Journal (wildfowl.wwt.org.uk)
Cumbria Wildlife Trust (cumbriawildlifetrust.org.uk)
The Wildlife Trusts (wildlifetrusts.org)
The Royal Horticultural Society (rhs.org.uk)
Plews Garden Design (plewsgardendesign.co.uk)
BBC Wildlife Magazine (discoverwildlife.com)
The Wolf Watch Sanctuary (wolfwatch.uk)
Wildlife Online (wildlifeonline.me.uk)

Day 75

I’ve made a decision.

I woke up this morning to the smell of snow in the air. I can see the clouds gathering, and I know they will break soon.

So, I have made up my mind.

I will take my favourite of Amy-jie’s blankets up Todrick’s hill. I will light a fire and cook a fish and winter vegetable stew. I will eat it and watch the sun set and the snow fall.

And then I will lie down to sleep.

Let the earth be my final bed. Let the snow be my shroud. Let Vicky feast on my flesh, and the trees on my bones. Let the deer fill their bellies with grass grown in soil enriched by my body. Let Robbie eat the worms that take my place.

The earth has fed me all my life. I intend to feed her in my death.

The breeze is cold and clean. The snow is coming.

I thought accepting death would feel like failure, but it doesn’t.

The end of humanity is not the end of the world.

Day 74

There was a poem my mother loved when I was a child. She quoted it to me regularly, particularly the last two lines. I remember them even now.

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

It’s a sad poem. A son begging his father not to give up, to keep fighting for life.

I know my mother saw me as her way of raging, her refusal “to go gentle into that good night.”

It’s such a burden.

If we are in a fight with nature, with the very passage of time, it’s a fight we started. And I know I’m supposed keep on fighting, to stand tall and declare “I am here! I cannot be moved!”

But the truth is the world took care of us. She took care of us for as long as she could. But we didn’t take care of her, and so poisoned ourselves.

I don’t want my death to be an act of war.

I want it to be an act of peace.

Day 70

There’s a squirrel living in the attic.

It rained today, turning the world into mud, but I couldn’t sit still. So, I explored the house. Again.

I hadn’t been up to the attic for a long time. Why did anyone, ever, need so much stuff?

Still, I picked over things, playing a guessing game with myself. What was this? What was it used for? Whose was it? Eventually, I noticed a pile of twigs and leaves in the rafters.

Curious, I went over to inspect it. It was a squirrel drey! And there was a squirrel curled up in it! Clearly, I was not the only one who didn’t want to venture out in the rain.

The little nutkin chose his home well. It’s in the corner furthest away from the hole in the roof and looks so cozy.

I wonder how many other creatures have turned little nooks and crannies of the house into their homes.

I wonder how many more will after I am gone.

Day 68

The first snowdrops are breaking through. Whole clusters of them.

Snowdrops are my favourite. So small and delicate, but they bloom even in the snow. It leaves me in awe.

My Anne-girl never saw them, but I planted some near her.

The area around her grave is a mess of oak roots, fallen leaves, and shoots of green.

Soon, those shoots will produce tiny white bulbs that open up like a yawn. Around them, more green shoots will start to appear. Daffodils, preparing to announce the warmth of spring with their cheerful yellow.

Life keeps on going.

It’s magical, really.

Day 63

The robin and I are becoming friends. She hops around the grounds while I work in them. Mostly I turn exposed soil and prune overgrown vines. It feels good to be doing something.

She hops, chirps and pecks, especially when my spade turns up a worm.

I try to be careful. I don’t want to disturb the plants too much – they’ll have to make do without human intervention soon. And the ground freezes at night.

I shouldn’t be doing anything at all. Not at this time of year. But the alternative is sitting around doing nothing. Or going on directionless walks. So, I work the ground, take care of the plants, and talk to Robbie, the robin. I don’t think she’s the same one Marie was friends with.

The chickens also enjoy the worms. Sometimes I find myself laughing as Robbie and the chickens quarrel over a patch of earth I’ve just dug up.

I moved some Michaelmas daisies to Freddy’s grave. I should have done it earlier, when the weather was warmer. Or waited. I hope they survive. They’re hardy plants.

Day 56

Vicky let me touch her today! Her fur is so soft. I bet it keeps her so warm.

Day 49

Vicky is definitely my friend.

I was back at the top of Todrick’s hill today, snacking on some nuts and enjoying the sunshine (it’s been so wet, recently) when she arrived. She came over and had a good sniff of me and my nuts, hoping for some more fish. When she found none, she headbutted me before climbing a nearby rock, where she curled up and dozed off.

I think she was enjoying the sunshine as much as I was.

Day 40

I saw a pack of wild dogs today. Or are they feral dogs?

It got me thinking. Will those dogs eventually evolve back into wolves? Will they breed with those wolves that already prowl the forest? They are out there. I think. I saw one once.

I assume most domesticated species will be undergoing a rewilding process. Or going extinct. Domestic crops, for instance, aren’t good at self-seeding. Wild wheat took over domesticated fields decades ago. Without us cultivating them and clearing out the “weeds”, they didn’t stand a chance.

But that’s not the same as a species evolving back into a wild, undomesticated state.

Too bad I won’t be around to see it.

I’d like that. Dropping in on Earth in a thousand years’ time, a million years’ time, and seeing what has become of it.

Maybe everything will be crabs, like in that time machine story.

Day 28

The moon above me is the same as the day Todrick died.

It’s been a month then.

A month since I was left alone. A month closer to winter.

I should prepare. Stuff the cracks. Check the stores. Stockpile extras.

But it’s so much work for one.

Instead, I go walking every day. I’ve learnt to hate being inside. It is impossible to forget my aloneness there. Outside, I can pretend someone is waiting for me. Or forget no one is waiting for me.

The fox and I are becoming friends. I call her Vicky. I’ve seen her almost every day, which is odd. I didn’t think foxes came out in daytime much. Still, I threw her some fish I caught yesterday.

I made sure to check the guts first. You’d think a century after we stopped producing plastic it would be less of an issue, but I still find it tangled in the intestines of animals. Or in their scat. Or caught in the roots of plants or mixed into the soil.

Plastic. That stuff is so ubiquitous. Even this notepad was wrapped in plastic. Admittedly, that’s the only reason the paper is useable, but still…

Todrick found it. A pad of paper, wrapped in plastic, and stored in a plastic box.

We burnt the plastic wrap. The smoke was awful, but we didn’t want to leave it lying around. We once found the corpse of a mouse that been trapped in a plastic bag. We didn’t want to contribute to that. It’s the only thing we can do for the earth now.

The only thing I can do for the earth.

Day 21

I’m 70 now. I think. We haven’t tracked time closely for years. But I know that once the Michaelmas daisies bloom and the oaks start changing colour, it’s not long until my birthday.

So, I’m 70 now. Give or take.

I took my lunch up Todrick’s hill, sat down on one of Amy-jie’s blankets, listened to Marie’s birds, decorated my hair with Freddy’s daisies. It was almost like celebrating with them.

Almost.

The sun was warm.

I saw a fox. She trotted over to me, bold as you please, and studied my lunch. In the old stories, foxes are skittish and sly. I suppose she never learnt to fear humans. My roasted vegetables did not interest her. The chickens might, but, well, they’ll be on their own soon enough.

There were deer in the clearing below me. A doe and her fawn. They nibbled on the grass.

Its strange other animals are coming back, while we dwindle and die. But then, we were always their biggest threat. Take us out of the equation, give the planet a chance to recover, and boom, there they are, waiting to take back their place in the world.

And the squirrels! The “little nutkins”, Amira used to call them. They were everywhere. One even managed to steal some of my nuts! Rascal. Well, he still has his tail, putting him ahead of another Squirrel Nutkin I know.

One day, this will be proper old growth forest. The kind people studied and wrote about. I wish I could see it. Or had descendants who could see it. “Look,” I’d say, “we didn’t screw up completely. The forests are back, ancient and powerful.”

“Make sure you take care of it,” I’d say. “Do better than we did.”

But if we had done better, there would be children. And grandchildren. And great-grandchildren. My warning would not have been necessary.

Instead, I sit on the hill and watch proof of life all alone.

Sometimes, I feel like a ghost, haunting her home, guarding it jealously. And uselessly.

Happy birthday to me.

Day 18

After Marie died, Todrick and I spent hours playing “What if…”.

What if… we could travel back in time? What if… we could speak to the dead? What if… we weren’t the last humans on earth?

That was Todrick’s favourite what if. What if, somewhere, a tribe of people was thriving? What if the pollution never reached them? What if they had no idea about the rest of humanity? What if one day they moved beyond the borders of their homeland? What if they repopulated the earth? What if we were not alone?

Sometimes, I think about that what if. I wonder if it’s possible. If, maybe, somewhere, there are families, people brushing hair off sick foreheads, laughing over hot drinks, racing between trees, cooking over fires.

Sometimes it makes me smile. Brings me comfort. Reassures me to think that when I die, our love won’t leave this earth.

Sometimes it makes me cry. Expands my loneliness. I ache to join these hypothetical people. To not be alone.

And sometimes, sometimes the thought scares me. Because what if they did exist? What if they emerged from the safety of their old home to find the world healing? Maybe even healed? Would they recognise the warnings left on the land? The scars of ancient buildings? The landfills swollen with poison? What would they think of us? Would they understand?

Or would they be doomed to repeat our mistakes?

But mostly I remember it isn’t likely. Our ancestors used drones to search out food in the farthest reaches. Waters rose and swallowed lands. Wildernesses filled with nuclear waste. Lush lands reduced to deserts, or craters. Forests burned.

Our ancestors searched for safe harbour. The closest they found was here, in mountains high enough to not be swallowed, but low enough we could climb them. In ancient farmlands and gardens.

It can be fun to play what if. But when the game is over, I am left with only one question.

What if I am the last human on earth?

Day 10

I released the chickens today.

I don’t have the heart to slaughter them.

They’ll probably hide in the coop when the snows come, but it seems wrong to keep them fenced in. There’s a whole world out there, and only one of me.

One of them made her way inside, scratching at the dirt and worms in the entrance hall. She was put out by the stairs, and I had to laugh.

It’s strange, laughing. It echoes through the halls. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that was my imagination, straining for a response.

Laughter was always meant to be shared, I think. Now I share it with the chicken, the worms, and the wisteria.

Day 6

I went for a walk today. A real one.

I hadn’t left the mansion since burying Todrick. It’s easy to stay here for days at a time, food growing in the hardwood floors. And now there’s no one urging me out, no Todrick lecturing me about how walking is good for one’s health. No Marie calling for me to come see the birds.

She died three years ago.

She made it to 75. Give or take.

We’ve lived longer than the last generations did. Longer hasn’t saved us.

There’s no one to bury me when I die.

I went for a walk today. Under the oaks. They’re starting to turn golden.

It’s beautiful beneath them. There’s a reason I buried my daughter there. She loved them as a baby. I’d sit outside with her, and she’d reach out to them, babbling. If she’d been stronger, if I had been stronger, perhaps she would have grown up running amongst them. Perhaps they would have been friends, like the Anne-girl I named her after. My own dear Anne-girl.

I went for a walk today. The leaves are turning golden, and the birds are beginning to arrive for winter. I saw a flock of geese flying overhead. Brent Geese, I think. Marie would know. A red-breasted robin watched me.

I think it was the robin Marie saved. The one that fell from the nest before she was ready. Marie found her and nursed her back to health. They were friends until the day Marie died. Robin was with her at the end. That’s how we knew something was wrong. She was frantic.

Maybe it’s one of her children. I don’t know how long robins live. Marie would have known.

I went for a walk today. I stopped by the Michaelmas daisies Freddy planted, years and years ago. I’m amazed they’re still there, flowering defiantly.

He loved those flowers. Said they felt like innocence. And determination, flowering like that as the weather gets colder.

I picked some and laid them on his grave. He would have liked that. Maybe I should move some. Maybe he’d like it if they grew right out of the ground above him. Maybe he’d like to feed the flowers that brought him so much joy.

No one has been buried in a coffin for years.

We didn’t know how to make them.

And as we got older, well, it was hard enough for me to move Todrick on my own. A coffin would have been impossible.

I won’t be buried in a coffin.

I won’t be buried at all.

There’s no one left to bury me. No one left to cry.

I went for a walk today. I climbed the hill Todrick loved. I sat on the grass. I cried.

Day 3

The birds woke me this morning, sunlight streaming in through open windows.

“Open windows”. I write as if they can be closed. Here, they are either rotted shut, or the glass was removed to let the air in.

It’s been a decade since anyone had the energy to beat back the outside world as it crept inside. Now, there is almost no difference between the two.

I sometimes wonder if we could have survived. If, instead of killing those the wealthy viewed as less we could have learnt from them. Learnt how to survive off the land. Maybe we would have had a chance.

Instead, we destroyed them, desperate to fill our own bellies.

I used to read the books in the library, before. Before they rotted and became home to fungi and mildew. One of them said “give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, feed him for a life.”

I’d ask what happens if you steal a man’s fish and leave him for dead, but I know the answer. You eat the fish only to realise there is no one left to fish for you, and no one to teach you how to fish for yourself.

We lost so many that way.

We learnt. Learnt how to recognise edible plants, how to slaughter our own meat. But it was still polluted, and people died in the learning.

Things aren’t so polluted now. Lichens are an indicator species. I used to read everything I could about them. When I was younger, most of the lichens I saw were the bright, crusty yellow of golden shield. Too much nitrogen in the air for much else to survive. Now, I walk around and see the frills of old man’s beard and oakmoss. And dozens, hundreds, of others that never received common names. Species I have no chance of identifying based on memories of books read years ago.

If my daughter had been born now, instead of 40, 50 years ago, perhaps she would have lived.

If… perhaps… that’s all that’s left, isn’t it?

If this, perhaps that.

If…

If…

If…

Perhaps.

Day 1

My name is Bryony. Just Bryony. Family names don’t mean anything when you are the last human alive.

And I am. The last human.

Todrick died in the night. It was expected. He was old. I’m old.

I don’t know why I’m writing. No one is going to read this.

Perhaps to make it real.

Speech dies in the air when there is no one to hear. No one to understand. No one to catch it and throw it back to you.

It’s lonely.

Lonelier than I knew it could be, and I’ve spent a lifetime braced for it.

We always knew we’d be the last.

It started with our great-great-grandparents; our air, land and waters so polluted our bodies rejected embryos, and those that survived were often too weak to live. So many dead children. Maybe if the food was clean, they would have made it. Maybe if they had breathed the air I now breathe, they would have had a chance. Maybe if the waters had run pure, they could have drunk it down and strengthened their bodies.

But they couldn’t. Nothing was clean.

My mother thought the infertility started much earlier, warning bells ringing across the earth.

No one listened.

In my grandmother’s generation, only 25% of known pregnancies survived to term. Only 25% of those survived infancy. 6 or 7 children for every 100 pregnancies.

You’d think humanity would realise we must work together to survive.

We did not.

It was the rich who survived. Those who had hoarded wealth.

They didn’t know how to share, only how to steal and plunder. “Our children must survive,” they declared. “The future of humanity rests with the smart, the educated.” They went to war over resources, depleting already depleted lands. And killing.

So much killing.

Of the six children, only 1 survived to adulthood.

20,000 adults on a planet that had once held billions.

The statistics repeated themselves when my mother was born, only with less fighting. My grandparents had learned the lessons of their parents.

It was too late.

The fighting had destroyed so much. Mothers and babies died in childbirth. Some never menstruated at all; their bodies exhausted with the chaos in the world.

My mother was one of about 1000 children who survived infancy, safely cosseted in her ancestral mansion. 400 of them reached adulthood, 210 of them women.

They centralised then, the wealthy survivors of past generations. “We must unite,” they said. “Become as Adam and Eve. Repopulate the earth.”

It was far, far too late for that.

I was one of 30 children who survived infancy. Most of us made it to adulthood.

Our parents were excited. Maybe it would work. Maybe we could recover, save humanity.

I was one of 3 who gave birth to a living child. My daughter rests beneath the oak trees invading my ancestor’s lands.

Eventually, we stopped trying.

The pain was too much.

I was born into death. I was born into grief. I was a desperate shout against the encroaching silence.

Now I am the last, and my voice dies the moment it leaves my mouth.

Dedication

Lynette Louanna Churchyard

1948-2024

Lyn Churchyard was incredibly important to my own writing journey. We met when I was a teenager, and she was the first writer I knew I knew. It was in conversation with her that I began to learn about the work of writing, the industry of it. She read my teenage attempts at novels, encouraged me, and expressed a belief in my abilities which I have carried with me since. Her novel, The Galtimer Conspiracy, was published earlier this year, after years of hardwork.

Sadly, Lyn passed away recently. I do not know that I have a poem in me for her, but it felt a more fitting tribute that I dedicate this, my first published short story, to her.

This one is for you, Lyn.
Thank you for everything.