165 Somewhere With Flowers (1/2)

The pale moon in the sky illuminated both the quiet cities and the rioting cities. The moonlight shone on the cold white marble palace, as well as the sheds that collapsed in the turbulent flames.

Strands of mist suffused the flames, like living creatures walking through the city. Mist floated above, covering the blood and deaths in cold whiteness.

Deep in the mist came a hoarse yet distant song. It was a mourning song for the sacrifice.

Highgate Cemetery was located in the Whitechapel area of downtown. Mist hung above the quiet and desolate land. The black iron gate of the cemetery was open, revealing the path to the world of the death. Gray-white tombstones stood haphazardly in the ground like tree stumps. Withered trees grew obliquely toward the sky. Everything was deathly silent.

The seabirds had brought seeds here from far away, and countless white flowers grew from the muddy decayed soil. Delicate petals surrounding a yellowish core and stained with dew swayed gently in the cold wind, like the last breath of the dead buried under the earth.

The Shaman, clad in a black ceremonial robe, stood among the tombstones in the mud. He gazed at the tomb before him and the shabby wooden coffin within it.

The corpse in the coffin was already cold, but it seemed to still be alive. The corpse’s eyes were open, glaring at the sky as if he was prepared to pull out a knife and kill his enemy.

But his enemies had cut off his head, and he had died. However his companions had won and brought back his body.

”Everley.” The Shaman pressed on the wooden coffin with a complex look of pity. His hoarse voice echoed in the graveyard, as if he was introducing this new member to the afterlife.

”He was my loyal subordinate and a heinous villain. He followed me until his death and never swayed. He was addicted to alcohol and violence. The man was neither a good husband nor a good father, and definitely not a good man. Now he's dead.”

The Shaman extended his hand. He put the two coins in his hand on the pair of eyes still open in death. He paid the fee to cross the Styx River. Taking one last glance at the dead man's face, he bid farewell quietly. ”Avalon thanks you for your devotion.”

The coffin lid closed. The Shaman nailed it for him and watched as the dead man sank into the darkness to enjoy his eternal peace.

A new wooden coffin was carried up. Neither ferocity nor serenity could be seen from the dead face. He was just sleeping peacefully.

”Eric?” The Shaman looked at that face and said, ”I know you. I can’t believe you’re dead too.”

He wiped the dust off the victim's face in pity, and announced softly, ”He was a small gangster of downtown, someone who played on both sides. He went with the flow and did a lot of things, but never succeeded. He once had the enthusiasm for doing big business. He couldn’t wait to stand out among the people, but he spoiled everything. He achieved nothing in the end.”

The Shaman put the coins on his eyes and whispered goodbye too. ”May you find the meaning of living in your endless rest.”

The coffin lid was closed and the Shaman took the hammer, nailing the ”luggage” marked for the afterlife. The wooden coffin sank into the mire and disappeared.

-

A new coffin was brought in. This time, the Shaman could not help sigh.

”Silo, an Indian.”