The Shadow of Great Britain

78: Chapter 39 Who Killed the Mockingbird?

78: Chapter 39 Who Killed the Mockingbird?

The outskirts of London at night, a bright moon hung in the sky, adorned with clouds as thin as gossamer.

Through the thick gaps in the woods, it scattered light upon the earth.

The lonely spire of the woodland church stood erect, its gothic pinnacles sharp as swords, as if they were about to pierce the heart of the moon.

At midnight, as the darkness deepened, it was the time when all things fell into dream.

Yet not far from the church, in the graveyard, there was a busy shadow.

He held a shovel in his hands, with a sack slung over his back.

With every shovel and dig, sweat poured down like rain.

He worked while he smiled to himself, muttering under his breath.

“Acheson and Ackman, those idiots, they actually believed when I said I was going home to visit family.

Without those two to split the profits, this grave site that has yet to be robbed is all mine.

The risk of murdering is still too high.

Where does that compare to the steady business of digging graves?

So long as I can find a fresh corpse, that’s ten pounds; even a slightly decayed one can fetch half price.”

The Grave Robber rubbed his sore back and straightened up.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and then exhaled a long breath.

He took a pipe out of his pocket, lit it, took a strong draw, then slowly exhaled rings of smoke, starting to fantasize about the good life ahead.

“If I can make a few hundred pounds here, I’ll be able to take a ship to North America, buy a farm there, get some slaves to do the work, and from then on live the life of a respectable man.”

The wind through the woods was chilly, a cold gust swept by, causing the Grave Robber to shiver involuntarily.

He looked down at the half-dug grave and felt a bit uneasy in his heart, so he uncorked the wax-sealed liquor bottle hanging from his belt and sprinkled a little on the ground.

“Alright, alright, I know I’ve wronged you.

But there’s no helping it.

If there were other quick ways to make money, why would I resort to killing and stealing bodies?

No sooner had his words fallen when suddenly, a crisp, melodious music box tune rang out from the woods.

Accompanying the howling of the wind through the woods, the sound was cold and eerie in the quiet atmosphere.

The Grave Robber’s eyes widened in terror.

His murky pupils wobbled like the hazy moon in the night.

In the treetops of the woods, he saw countless ravens with crimson red eyes perched, cocking their heads as they looked at the half-decayed corpse he had stuffed into the sack.

Scarlet saliva secreted from the beaks of the ravens, one drop at a time.

All of it fell into the soft soil but did not seep in.

Instead, it gathered into a slow-flowing stream.

From the land in the woods, it streamed toward the ground at the feet of the Grave Robber.

A ghostly nursery rhyme, like a specter, began to sound softly out of nowhere.

It seemed far away and yet so near.

A hoarse voice sang the melody.

“Who killed the robin?

‘Twas I, the sparrow said,

With my bow and arrow,

I killed the robin.

Who saw her die?

‘Twas I, the fly said,

With my little eye,

I saw her die.

Who caught her blood?

‘Twas I, the fish said,

With my little dish,

I caught her blood.

Who’ll make the shroud?

‘Twas I, the beetle said,

With my thread and needle,

I’ll make the shroud.

Who’ll dig her grave?

‘Twas I, the owl said,

With my pick and shovel,

I will dig her grave.

Who’ll be the parson?

‘Twas I, the raven said,

With my little book,

I’ll be the parson.

Who’ll be the clerk?

‘Twas I, the lark said,

If it’s not in the dark,

I’ll be the clerk.

Who’ll carry the torch?

‘Twas I, the linnet said,

I’ll fetch it and come,

I will carry the torch.

Who’ll be the chief mourner?

“It’s me,” said the dove,

“I will mourn my beloved,

and I shall preside as the chief celebrant.”

“Who will carry the coffin?”

“It’s me,” said the kite,

“If I don’t take the night road,

I will come to carry the coffin.”

“Who will support the coffin?”

“It’s us,” said the wrens,

“Together as a couple,

we will come to support the coffin.”

“Who will sing the hymn of praise?”

“It’s me,” said the thrush,

Standing atop the shrubbery,

I will sing the hymn of praise.”

“Who will toll the death knell?”

“It’s me,” said the ox,

“For I can pull the funeral bell,”

I will toll the death knell.

“So, farewell, redbreast.

All the birds in the sky,

they all sighed and wept,

when they heard the death knell,

ring for the poor redbreast.”

At this point, the singing abruptly stopped.

The Grave Robber’s legs went weak, and he collapsed on the ground, dropping his tools beside him.

The moonlight on his face began to fade away, and was replaced by a shadow that swallowed the light.

He wanted to scream, but found he could not make a sound out of fear.

He shivered, trembling as he lifted his head.

In the last moments of his life, he finally saw clearly what stood before him.

It did not resemble a human, nor did it resemble God descending to deliver divine punishment.

It was merely a towering figure wearing a crow mask as profound as the night, a black cloak wide as the night sky, with a milky-white coffin on his back.

He gently wrapped the noose around the Grave Robber’s neck, loop after loop, the eyes of the crow mask glowing a dark red.

In the silent, cold graveyard, the singing started up again.

“‘Notice’,

Let it be known to all concerned,

this notice serves to inform,

the next avian court will convene,

the sparrow is to stand trial.”

There was a rustling sound, and the Grave Robber’s body rose like a flag.

His body hung from the crooked-neck tree, swaying like a broken kite.

Alas, the moonlight was too bright, preventing a clear view of the expression on the Grave Robber’s face, but one could faintly make out a playing card in his pocket with a pattern drawn on it.

The card bore the image of a little bird in a brown-green olive coat, the bright red feathers on its chest as vivid as blood, as if it had been shot through the heart with an arrow.

The bird’s name was marked on the card; redbreast.

Written as Robin, read as Robin.

…

In the forest, Agares was still savoring the melodious nursery rhyme from just before.

He looked at the flickering red dot beside him, which was Arthur, smoking fiercely.

The Red Devil grinned and asked, “So, was it the sparrow that killed the redbreast?”

Arthur was silent for a while, without answering.

The Red Devil laughed and teased, “Then it was the fly that killed the redbreast, after all, the fly knew the sparrow had killed, but kept silent about it.”

Agares waited, and when Arthur still did not answer, he asked again.

“It was the fish that killed the redbreast, after all, the fish feasted on the redbreast’s blood; it’s even more hypocritical than the sparrow…”

Stopping there, Agares suddenly paused, “Or maybe…”

He picked up the shimmering soul marble and aimed it at the distant moon, its colorful light showered over Agares’s face, highlighting his sharp fangs and the malice directed at the entire world, making everything incredibly shiny.

“When everyone partook in the killing of the redbreast, when all were accomplices, yet only the sparrow was put on trial.

Arthur, is this the justice you sought, the righteousness you pursued?”

Agares sat beside the milky-white coffin, smiling as he stroked its surface, polishing it until it was bright and clear.

The Devil’s low murmuring exploded in Arthur’s ear.

“Arthur, does silence mean, perhaps, you too killed the redbreast?”