Two Funerals

"John Howlett was an honest, loyal companion of ours."

"He lived his life with the greatest kindness toward his family, his friends, and everyone he met. Now his life has been poured out, and the time has come for him to depart. He embraced that good life with all his love. He has finished the race set before him and kept the faith. From now on, a crown of righteousness is laid up for him, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award 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 solemn compassion. A few crows in the rose bushes cawed without a shred of decorum, keeping time to the priest's long-winded words. Elizabeth Howlett's face was deathly pale, her features veiled beneath layers of black gauze. The stark contrast of black and white was painfully striking.

James pressed his lips tightly together in her arms, his little face tensed with effort. He didn't cry, but that only made the sight all the more heartbreaking to everyone who saw it. The sight of such a young child losing his father and trying so hard to appear strong made the mourners hate the demonlike Gardener even more.

After the service, James was the first to approach the coffin before it was lowered into the ground. He laid down a white chrysanthemum, then picked up a handful of loose earth beside him and scattered it over the coffin. One by one, the others came forward to say their final goodbyes.

Mr. Howlett stood far off to one side. After everyone had left, the old man picked up the shovel beside him and slowly made his way to the grave, filling it in one shovelful at a time.

His once-graying hair and beard had turned completely silver. The touch of kindness and warmth that years of peaceful living had brought him was gone without a trace. It was as if, overnight, he had become the man called Blood Mane once more—only this time, his own son's blood had been spilled.

Rose O'Hara watched James trudging along ahead. She left his mother's side, hurried forward, and took his hand. James turned to her with a strained smile, but didn't pull away.

He felt remorseful and guilty. He hadn't had any particularly deep feelings for John, but he could feel the simple, fatherly love John Howlett had for him. Perhaps after a few more years, once he had truly merged all his emotions and consciousness with this world, he would sincerely accept this man—even though, deep down, he knew John wasn't his "biological father."

More importantly, John was a good man, and the most innocent person in all this. He had always believed that his former brother had fallen apart and become a drunk and a bastard only because his wife had died in childbirth. His hatred and disgust toward Thomas Logan had perhaps been more about being angry that Thomas had wasted away. Even in the instant the bullet entered his body, John might not have been able to believe that Thomas Logan would do such a thing to him.

James's own carelessness had led to consequences he could never have predicted. An undeserved death was the greatest tragedy of all.

The neighboring ranch owners seemed to think that losing his son in his old age would break Mr. Howlett. Ever since they heard the news, they had grown bolder, making provocative moves along the boundaries of the pastureland they had already staked out. Mr. Howlett did nothing, even when John Howlett was laid to rest, and that only emboldened more of them.

That very night, after the funeral, Mr. Howlett rode Black Mountain with little James seated in front of him. Before them stretched the entire estate, lit by torches. More than three hundred riflemen stood at attention—a force far beyond what anyone had estimated he could muster.

So many of the faces were familiar: the ranch hands, the servants, the field workers, the stablehands. The brothers who had helped Mr. Howlett build his fortune stood by him in a different way now. They had put down their guns and taken up farm tools, raised children, and tended the land. But now they had taken up their guns again and simply become who they had been before.

"I buried my son today. Now I have time to deal with a few things. It's a terrible thing to lose a child at my age. A lot of people probably think I'm lying in bed right now, calling out my beloved son's childhood nickname as I cling to life. They might even want to come see for themselves how I'll follow John to the grave. But they don't have the guts. They don't have the guts to stand before William Howlett! So let's go find them. Let's show them whether I'm still the man I used to be—and whether you're still the Wolf Pack you used to be!"

He tightened his grip on the reins and lashed Black Mountain hard, galloping out of the estate. The riders behind him followed like a fire dragon, a blazing, scorching blade cutting through the night...

After a night of relentless riding, they had crossed three towns and seven estates. Two hundred and sixteen lives. For this, Mr. Howlett had lost thirty-four of his old brothers. But he hadn't hesitated for a single moment from beginning to end. Even James, who had been in his arms the entire time, hadn't shown the slightest resistance.

He could feel how terribly still his little grandson's body was in his arms. He had thought the child would tremble the whole time, or even beg him to go home and find his mother. But James kept his eyes wide open as he watched one scene after another pass before him. Even when a boy who looked about his age was shot clean through the chest, he didn't react.

Dawn was nearly upon them when the party finally turned back, weary. Suddenly, Mr. Howlett was inexplicably afraid that his grandson might have been frightened out of his wits. He bitterly regretted what he had done, gripped by a terrible fear. The boy was not yet twelve. He had just lost his father and had witnessed a night of slaughter. Mr. Howlett couldn't bear to think any further.

"J-Jamie?" Mr. Howlett asked in a trembling voice. It was the first time he had spoken to James all night.

"What is it, Grandfather?" James turned to look at him. Though his grandson had been awake all night and looked exhausted, his eyes were bright. Mr. Howlett felt his heart sink with relief. The moment he heard James answer, Mr. Howlett seemed to age rapidly, as if in an instant. His back, which had remained straight these past few days, finally began to sag.

"I'm sorry, Jamie."

James looked at his grandfather in confusion.

"I didn't keep my promise to you. I couldn't manage one little thing, something that should have been so easy..." At that moment, James's heart seemed to ache. He took Mr. Howlett's rough hand, smeared with blood and gun oil, and gently shook it. "Grandfather, it really wasn't your fault. It really wasn't." Mr. Howlett ruffled James's soft, thick black hair. "Remember all of this. Remember it well."

"I will, Grandfather."

It wasn't until just before dawn that Victor Logan found a corpse covered in crows and unfamiliar birds in a wild ravine at the eastern edge of the ranch.

His approach startled the little creatures as they ate their breakfast. The corpse was already horribly mangled. Its entire face had been pecked beyond recognition, and the empty eye sockets dangled with bits of rotting flesh and sinew. Victor hoisted the corpse, which was far taller than he was, and strode toward the hillside.

The red sun was rising by the time he reached the cliff at the top. He tossed the corpse from his shoulder and began digging in the loose rocks and dirt right there.

He dug quickly and with all his strength. His fingers were torn up after only a few strokes, but his thick, long nails didn't seem affected at all. If anything, they appeared to have grown a little longer.

Blood still flowed from his fingertips. Victor himself didn't notice that, though his fingers kept getting scraped and split, they healed little by little each time, never growing worse. With nothing but his bare hands, he soon dug a hole big enough for a person to lie in.

Victor picked up the corpse beside him and tossed it neatly into the hole, then covered it with dirt. He picked out a few stones nearby and stacked them one by one on the mound.

"I'm not putting up a headstone for you, in case someone digs up your grave. A bastard like you doesn't deserve a cross. I'm not going to give you any of that priestly babbling, either. So that's that. Don't ask for too much. I've done what I came to do. Father."

Victor turned and walked down the hill without looking back.