Ch.8Ch.1 – Execution (7)

As I continued running, I spotted an abandoned orchard. The trees had all been uprooted, but the barn was still usable. There was a small path beside it with no footprints or wheel tracks.

I decided to set up my machine gun, hide and wait, then return the way I came in the middle of the night.

Trees lining both sides of the road grew more numerous. They were like an audience gathering to hear an interesting story.

[I later found out that I had gone in the wrong direction. I had walked into the enemy’s flank rather than toward our rear lines.

But my men didn’t die in vain. After all, I received a medal.]

It was a night with a new moon. As I was about to dismantle the machine gun mount, I heard a sound. I dropped to the ground.

Grumbling voices. Metal clanking against metal. Footsteps. German. There seemed to be at least 100 of them. Their ranks and files were in disarray.

I thought they would pass by if I stayed still, but they didn’t. All of them sat down on the road. An officer was furiously angry, but their protests were louder.

Click. Someone lit a cigarette. They all made noise as they each smoked a cigarette.

They wore worn-out uniforms and were either very young or very old. Replacement troops. As Germany’s defeat became imminent, they were conscripting indiscriminately. They didn’t even have weapons.

Just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, something felt eerie. You know that feeling, right? When something feels off and you turn around to find a cat staring at you.

That’s what happened to me. A young boy, probably needing to urinate, came toward the barn and was pulling down his pants when he saw me. He was so shocked that he could neither pull his pants up nor down.

The trees leaned toward the road, maliciously looking down.

So I shot him.

I fired at where I saw light, where I heard screams, where I heard footsteps.

Over a hundred men were mowed down in an instant. I fired so much that the machine gun barrel overheated, making it difficult to continue shooting.

I drew my pistol and left my position. Something grabbed my ankle. It was an officer whose lower body had been blown off. I fired once, and he released my ankle.

Only then did I see it. I was standing in a puddle filled with blood and corpses.

I hurried back before things got louder. I became a hero. Received a medal. And I quit smoking.

The trees rubbed their hands together with satisfaction, moved by the happy ending.

Eastman said nothing more.

[If I hadn’t taken the wrong path, could my men have survived? Would I still have received a medal?]

As the silence grew awkward, Crayfield stepped on the accelerator.

[It wasn’t my fault. The Germans were the problem. I didn’t lead my men to their deaths. If they hadn’t fired those poison gas shells, none of this would have happened]

The Ford roared as it sped forward.

[I won’t let my men’s deaths be in vain I’ll achieve honor and glory and make my name known to the world you didn’t die like dogs because of my mistake I’ll make you glorious with the medal I received because that’s what I’ll become]

The blazing sunlight that had been beating down finally subsided.

How much time had passed?

The large zelkova tree and the forked road that Graham had mentioned came into view. A police motorcycle was parked beneath it. Crayfield slowed down and eventually stopped in front of the motorcycle.

“Walters!”

Something rose up from under the zelkova tree. It was a young man in a police uniform. He looked disoriented, as if he had just woken up.

“Mr. Crayfield? What brings you here?”

“What’s the investigation department’s rookie doing here?”

“The chief ordered us to patrol. Says it’s Chief Chase’s orders. It’s not just me; rookies from all departments are doing rounds. You know that half-collapsed lighthouse by the pasture? Down to the farm below it, we take turns patrolling three times a day.”

Officer Walters grumbled as he struck the bike’s saddle with his hand.

“It’s crazy. They don’t even reduce our other work. So I decided to just kill time here before heading back. Turns out everyone else is doing the same.”

“How do you know that?”

“You can tell how far someone’s traveled by their motorcycle’s fuel consumption.”

“Investigation department guys, I swear. But why are they making you patrol?”

“No idea. They just want us to report any unusual findings. They want us to patrol around the farm, but only a madman would do that. So what brings you here, Crayfield?”

Walters grinned as he wiped his forehead. His reddish hair gave life to his chubby face.

“I’m giving a tour of Pollard Island to a journalist here. The tourist city of Pollard, isn’t it wonderful?”

“You’re not heading toward the lighthouse, are you?”

“Is there a problem?”

Walters approached Crayfield and whispered quietly in his ear.

“You know there’s a cliff below that lighthouse, right? There are whale carcasses piled up there. The smell is so bad that everyone avoids going near it. The stench seeps into your underwear. The journalist won’t like it either.”

“Isn’t it being managed?”

Walters shook his head. Crayfield started the engine again.

“Walters. You might be young now and not realize, but sleeping just anywhere will ruin your back.”

“I’ll be careful. I use mine more often than you do!”

“You dog.”

Crayfield revved the engine, spewing out exhaust fumes before releasing the brake. The coughing investigation officer waving his hand grew distant.

In the distance, the half-collapsed lighthouse came into view. As the lighthouse grew larger, so did the smell. It was like someone was stabbing rotten meat with a fork and holding it under your nose.

Crayfield increased his speed. The less time spent on the road, the less time they’d have to endure the smell.

Finally, the farm appeared.

* * * * *

March 26, 1929. 2:43 PM

Northern Pasture Farm

Caw. Caw.

Crows and seagulls were flying over the farm. Watching the black and white dots in the sky made me dizzy. Unnatural and awkward. As bizarre as the farm fields that lay sprawled with their crevices exposed, as if soaked in salt.

The main building was a two-story brick house. Next to it was what appeared to be a shed, its door rattling with each gust of wind. By now, the smell had become unbearable, forcing everyone to cover their noses and mouths.

Knock, knock, knock.

Eastman knocked on the wooden door. The door opened to reveal an elderly woman in a maid’s uniform. Her once-blonde hair had turned white, and her skin, which must have once been fresh, was now wrinkled yet still beautiful. She was like a rose blooming shyly at dawn, but there was no vitality or moisture to be found in her. She resembled a dried flower, left to wither without rotting on a pile of garbage.

“Who are you?”

“Are you the caretaker for Elizabeth Ryman?”

“The mistress is resting. If you have no business here, please leave.”

As the maid was about to close the door, Eastman grabbed the doorknob.

“Just a moment, please. I’m Paul Eastman, a journalist from the Massachusetts Express. May I ask you a few questions? Please.”

The maid’s eyes fell on the ring on Eastman’s finger.

“Is that a commissioning ring?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It looks a bit different from the one I know.”

The maid sighed.

“Come in.”

The first-floor reception room was quite spacious, but with the curtains drawn, it was rather dark. No one else was visible.

“Please don’t make loud noises. The mistress is sleeping upstairs.”

“I don’t see any other employees.”

The maid stopped walking.

“They went into town. To buy supplies. You’ve come at a good time. Please sit over there.”

After everyone took their seats, the maid disappeared into the kitchen. There was a clattering sound, and then she returned carrying several teacups and cookies on a plate.

Yet she couldn’t take her eyes off the ring. Not until she noticed people watching her.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Would you like to see it?”

Eastman removed the ring and handed it to her. The maid turned it over in her hands and smiled.

“My fiancé wore a ring like this too. My mistress’s former fiancé, that is. Though its design was different from yours.”

“I’m from the Army. I heard he was a Navy Ensign, is that correct?”

The maid, exhaling a secretive sigh, returned the ring.

“So what would you like to know? I’m sorry, your name was…”

“Eastman. You can call me Paul if you’d like. I have questions about Lawrence Ryman.”

The maid showed no particular reaction. Eastman asked his question slowly, yet in a quiet voice. It was a technique to draw the other person’s focus.

“Was there any grudge or perhaps threats from the mafia?”

“If you’ve come all this way, you must already know the answer.”

“I spoke with the mafia in Pollard Island. They said they wanted him dead, but they claim they didn’t do it.”

“Of course not.”

Crayfield’s eyes narrowed. He was stealing glances at the maid’s lower body. Beneath her long skirt, she was clearly shaking one leg rhythmically. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

“Not them? How can you be so sure?”

“The horseshoe. It’s the symbol of the unicorn.”

[The white, horned unicorn that protects pure maidens]

The maid’s lips twisted. It was spasmodic, temporary, and reflexive. But she quickly regained her composure.

“…Our mistress always said that. The mafia doesn’t know what that is. They don’t care. They’re outsiders. Like that wretched Lawrence Ryman.”

“Outsiders.”

Eastman continued taking notes.

“Yes. Pollard Island has been home to noble families for generations. In the good old days, whaling was done solely by Pollard people. When operations expanded, my father… no, my mistress’s father’s father began accepting outsiders. Still, the captain, navigator, and deck master had to be Pollard people. That was the rule.”

“The bond must have been incredible.”

“The noble families are deeply religious too. It was a strange combination of Puritan fervor and indigenous beliefs, but it wasn’t bad. We’re all connected, after all.”

[O white horned mother whale who protects the pure island]

Click.

The clock struck 5.

Crayfield’s ears perked up. He leaned forward with interest and, pretending to search his inner pocket, unlocked his holster.

“Lawrence Ryman was an outsider, but he was accepted. [Why did Mother Whale embrace such a man as her child?] He was favored by father’s father. Ah… I mean my mistress’s father.”

“Did Ensign Chase believe too?”

“Not deeply. Neither did my mistress. They were forced into the faith from childhood but never truly embraced it. Somehow, they were afraid.”

[Mother mother my mother who punishes me with whip and fire and corpses my mother have mercy have mercy]

Droplets fell onto the back of the maid’s bowed head. Drip. Drip. The maid trembled.

“I’m sorry.”

“You cared deeply for your mistress.”

Eastman offered sincere consolation. *Crayfield is signaling to you.* The maid nodded silently.

“Poor Allen Chase. Poor Elizabeth Black. They were too young. Too innocent. They were deceived by their father’s words. My… my mistress’s father.”

“You mean Isaiah Black?”

Drip. Drip. Drip. Droplets flowed onto the maid’s hands. *There are droplets forming on the ceiling. Somehow, they appear viscous.*

“Before leaving, Allen Chase climbed through my window. He said Isaiah Black had offered him the position of third mate. ‘Trust me, Elizabeth. If I become third mate, my navigation experience will be recognized. With a promotion, I could be assigned to another state. The West. The Northeast. Even Washington. I’m going to the capital, Eliza.'”

The maid reached out and caressed Eastman’s hand. Then, as if fondling it, she stroked his ring.

“I couldn’t bring myself to answer then. Allen, I’m carrying your child. Let’s leave this island, the three of us, and never look back. Far, far away. But Allen?”

Eastman’s face stiffened.

“…Yes?”

“Aren’t you upstairs? Is the grooming all done?”

Drip.

The liquid from the ceiling fell onto Elizabeth Black’s cheek.

What flowed like tears was blood.

The clock struck 6.