Two Funerals

"John Howlett was our upright and loyal companion."

"Throughout his life, he treated his family, his friends, and everyone he met with the greatest kindness. He has now been laid to rest; the time for his departure has come. He experienced that beautiful life with the greatest love. He has finished the race he was meant to run and kept the faith he held. From now on, a crown of righteousness is reserved for him, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to John on that day. And not only to him, but also to all who have longed for His appearing. Amen."

Father Hans delivered the eulogy with solemnity and compassion, while a few crows on the rose bushes cawed tactlessly, keeping time to the priest's long-winded cadence. Elizabeth Howlett's face was deathly pale, her features obscured by layers of black veils; the stark contrast of black and white was blinding.

James, held in her arms, pressed his lips tightly together, his small face set in a rigid mask. He did not cry, but this only made the sight more heartbreaking for all who witnessed it. Such a young child had lost his father, yet he was trying so hard to appear strong, making the mourners present despise the demonic gardener even more.

After the ceremony, James was the first to walk toward the coffin about to be buried. He placed a sprig of white chrysanthemum down and scooped up a handful of loose soil to scatter over it, after which the others stepped forward in turn to offer their final farewells.

Mr. Howlett stood far off to the side. Once everyone had departed, the old man picked up a shovel, walked slowly to the grave, and filled it in, shovelful by shovelful.

His originally graying hair and beard had turned completely silver, and the touch of kindness and gentleness brought by a few years of peaceful life had vanished entirely. It was as if, overnight, he had become the man known as "Blood Mane" once again, only this time, the blood-red stain was one his own son had left behind.

Rose O'Hara watched James, who was following a few paces behind, move away from his mother to walk a little faster, taking his hand. James turned his head and offered a forced smile, not pulling away.

His heart was filled with regret and guilt. He could not claim to have had deep feelings for John, but he could feel the simple, paternal love John Howlett had held for him. Perhaps in a few years, when he had truly integrated all his emotions and consciousness into this time and space, he would sincerely accept this man, even if he knew deep down that this was not his "biological father."

More importantly, John was a kind man, and the most innocent of them all. He had always firmly believed that his former brother had only spiraled into a drunkard and a bastard because of the death of his wife during childbirth. His own disgust and hatred for the man were perhaps fueled more by frustration at his wasted potential; he might not have even believed that Thomas Logan would do such a thing to him the moment the bullet entered his body.

James's own careless actions had brought about unpredictable consequences, and a senseless death was the greatest tragedy.

The surrounding landowners seemed to think that losing a son in his twilight years would break Mr. Howlett. They had become restless since hearing the news, beginning to make provocative moves along the demarcated pasture boundaries. Until John Howlett was laid to rest, Mr. Howlett had shown no reaction, which emboldened more people to become active.

On the very night the funeral ended, Mr. Howlett rode Black Mountain with little James sitting in front of him. Before him lay the entire estate, illuminated by torches, with over three hundred mounted gunmen standing in solemn silence—a force far exceeding anyone's estimation of his strength.

Many of the faces were familiar: the estate's night watchmen, servants, farmhands, and stable boys. These brothers who had helped Mr. Howlett build his foundation were accompanying him in a different way. They had put down their guns to pick up farm tools, raise children, and tend the land, but by picking up their guns once more, they were simply returning to who they really were.

"I buried my son today, and now I have the time to handle a few things. It is a misfortune for a man of my age to encounter such a thing, and many likely assume I am currently lying in bed, whimpering my beloved son's name and clinging to life. They even wanted to come and see for themselves how I would follow John to the grave. But they lacked the guts—they lacked the guts to stand before William Howlett! So, let us go find them and show them whether I am still the man I once was, and whether you! Whether you are still the 'Wolf Pack'!"

He tightened the reins and whipped Black Mountain hard, galloping out of the estate with the riders following behind like a river of fire. They were like a scorching, blinding blade cutting through the night...

They rode hard all night without stopping, hitting three towns and seven estates, claiming two hundred and sixteen lives. For this, Mr. Howlett paid the price of thirty-four of his old brothers. Yet, he never hesitated for a moment from start to finish, and even James, who remained in his arms the entire time, showed no resistance.

He could feel his grandson's small body in his arms, steady to a terrifying degree. He had expected the child to tremble constantly, perhaps even begging to go home to his mother. Instead, James kept his large eyes wide open, watching every scene pass before him. Even when a boy who looked to be his own age had his chest blown open, he did not flinch.

As dawn approached, the party finally returned, weary. Mr. Howlett suddenly felt an inexplicable fear that his grandson might have been frightened out of his wits. He was filled with immense, regretful horror at what he had done; a child not yet twelve had just lost his father and then witnessed a night of slaughter. He dared not think any further.

"Ja—Jamie?" Mr. Howlett asked, his voice trembling. It was the first time he had spoken to James all night.

"What is it, Grandfather?" James turned his head to look at Mr. Howlett. Although his grandson was clearly exhausted from the sleepless night, his eyes were bright. Mr. Howlett's heart sank with relief. The moment he heard the response, Mr. Howlett felt as if he had aged rapidly, and the spine that had remained straight for days finally slumped.

"I'm sorry, Jamie."

James looked at his grandfather with a puzzled expression.

"I didn't keep the promise I made to you earlier—a very, very small thing that I failed to do..." James's heart seemed to ache at that moment. He grabbed Mr. Howlett's rough, blood-stained, and gun-oil-covered hand and shook it gently: "Grandfather, it really isn't your fault, it really isn't." Mr. Howlett stroked James's soft, thick black hair and said, "Remember all of this. Remember it deeply."

"I will, Grandfather."

It wasn't until dawn that Victor Logan found a corpse covered in crows and other unknown birds in the wild valley at the far east of the ranch.

His approach startled the little scavengers away from their breakfast. The body was already mangled beyond recognition, especially the face, which had been pecked away until no features remained; the two eye sockets hung empty, filled with rotting flesh and fibers. Victor hoisted the corpse, which was much larger than himself, and walked toward the hillside with a steady, vigorous gait.

By the time the red sun rose, he had climbed to the edge of the cliff at the summit. He threw the body off his shoulder and began digging into the gravel and dirt right there.

He dug quickly and with great force; within a few moments, his fingers were raw, yet his thick, long nails seemed unaffected, appearing to grow even longer.

His fingertips were still bleeding, though Victor didn't even notice that while his fingers were constantly being worn down and torn, they were always healing just as quickly, never getting worse. Relying on nothing but his hands, he soon dug a pit deep enough for a man to lie in.

Victor picked up the body, tossed it in without ceremony, and filled the hole. He scavenged for stones nearby and piled them one by one over the dirt.

"I won't put up a tombstone for you, lest someone digs up your grave. A bastard like you doesn't deserve a cross, and I don't know that mumbo-jumbo the priest talks about, so this will have to do. Don't ask for too much; my business is finished. Father."

Victor turned and walked down the mountain without looking back.