Chapter 269: Bidding Farewell to the Old, Welcoming the New

Chapter 269: Bidding Farewell to the Old, Welcoming the New

On the morning of December 31st, in the South Borough of the Bridge, Harvest Church.

Emlyn White, wearing a priest’s robe, stood in the kitchen. From time to time, he tossed different herbs into a large iron pot, supplementing the process with a certain amount of stirring.

After all the materials prepared in advance had been added, he patiently waited another ten minutes before using an iron ladle to scoop up the inky-black liquid inside, pouring it separately into the glass bottles and glass cups beside him.

Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty… Emlyn glanced at the emptied iron pot and began counting the potions he had prepared.

After confirming the number, he picked up the large tray and carried bottle after bottle of dark-green liquid into the main hall.

Inside the hall, more than half of the prayer chairs had been dismantled. On the ground lay tattered bedding, in which plague-infected patients either slept unconscious or groaned in pain.

Emlyn and Father Utravsky worked together, each carrying a portion of the potions, distributing them from two different directions.

First in line was a middle-aged man whose face was a sallow yellow. He hurriedly propped himself up halfway, accepted the potion, and gulped it down.

Returning the bottle, he gratefully said to Emlyn, “Father White, thank you so much. I feel much better. I have a little strength again!”

Emlyn lifted his chin and answered disdainfully, “This is only an extremely insignificant matter. It is not worth thanking me for. You people are truly lacking in experience.”

After saying this, he quickened the pace of distributing the potions.

A dozen minutes later, he returned to the altar of Mother Earth and complained to Father Utravsky, “You should find another two volunteers!”

Father Utravsky did not reply. Gazing at those patients, he smiled gently.

“In another two or three days, they should be able to recover.”

“How do you know that?” Emlyn turned his head in surprise.

Father Utravsky, his face benevolent, lowered his head and looked at him.

“Herbs are one of the Mother Goddess’s domains. As one of Her believers, although I am not within the Earth pathway, I must still understand the basic common knowledge.”

Emlyn clicked his tongue.

“I’m not interested in religion. I don’t know much about it.”

Although I’ve been copying Mother Earth’s scriptures often these past few months… he added inwardly, somewhat resentfully. Then he casually said, “Father, I didn’t expect you to accept believers of other faiths. Only two or three of them believe in the Mother Goddess.”

Father Utravsky laughed, not minding in the slightest.

“They are likewise lives. Innocent lives.”

Emlyn froze for several seconds. He exhaled and changed the topic.

“Father, I’ve already found a way to resolve the psychological cue. Perhaps I will leave here soon.”

Wait. Why am I mentioning this? I was actually moved by him for a moment. What if he locks me in the basement again? Emlyn suddenly grew tense.

Father Utravsky’s expression did not change in the slightest. Lowering his head, he looked at Emlyn and said, “In truth, you did not need to search for a method. In a little while longer, the psychological cue would naturally have lifted. You could freely choose whether to come to the church.”

“If I waited a little while longer, I would have become the Mother Goddess’s—no, Mother Earth’s devout believer!” Emlyn blurted out.

Father Utravsky’s brows moved slightly, and he said with some surprise, “I did not force you to change your faith.

“The psychological cue I left only made you return to the church every day. I hoped that through this, you would fully experience the preciousness of life and the joy of harvest.”

“The only effect of that psychological cue was to make me return to the church?” Emlyn’s expression turned blank at once.

Father Utravsky nodded frankly.

“Yes.”

“…” Emlyn’s mouth hung half open. Slowly and mechanically, he turned his head to look toward the altar, toward Mother Earth’s sacred emblem of life, as though he had become a doll in an instant.

…

December 31st, dusk. Tingen City, 2 Daffodil Street.

Benson entered the house, laughing as he removed his hat and took off his coat.

“I’ve already booked the steam train tickets to Backlund for January 3rd. Second-class seats.”

Sitting in the dining room with several newspapers spread before her, Melissa said with some worry, “Benson, Backlund’s air is too awful. Just a few days ago, so many people died from poisoning and disease caused by the great smog…”

“That is truly a regrettable and sorrowful matter.” Benson walked toward the dining room and sighed. “But the upper and lower Houses have already passed the report from the Air Pollution Investigation Committee. Corresponding legislation will soon regulate emissions of smoke and wastewater. What awaits us will be a new Backlund. You don’t need to worry too much.”

At this point, he laughed mockingly.

“When I came back from Iron Cross Street just now, I discovered that many factory owners from Backlund, or their employees, were recruiting there. They said that because of the smog and the plague, the factories there are short of workers, so they are willing to promise that both working hours and minimum pay will be quite a bit better than the current standard. Heh.”

“You think that is impossible to realize?” Melissa keenly asked.

“When more and more people flood toward Backlund, then it is destined to become impossible—unless the upper and lower Houses can pass a corresponding bill and make direct regulations.” Benson spread his hands and pointed at the dining table. “All right. We should welcome the New Year.”

On the dining table were three sets of knives and forks, three empty porcelain plates, and three cups.

Inside the three cups, one held beer, and the other two held ginger beer.

…

December 31st, night.

Dressed in finery, Audrey stood in the lounge, waiting for the New Year’s ball to begin. Yet from her expression, one could not see the excitement, exhilaration, or joy that should have come with her coming-of-age ceremony.

Before her lay a newspaper, on which was written:

“…According to preliminary statistics, more than 21,000 people died directly in that great smog. The plague that subsequently spread went on to take nearly 40,000 lives, among them many young children and healthy young men and women…”

Huff. Audrey could not help closing her eyes.

Just then, her father, Earl Hall, and her mother, Lady Caitlyn, knocked and entered. In unison, they praised her.

“Your beauty surpasses everyone here tonight, darling. It is time to go out. The Queen is waiting for you.”

Audrey slowly breathed out, then bloomed with an elegant, radiant smile. Accompanied by her father and mother, she left the lounge and entered the ballroom.

She walked all the way to the raised platform at the very front. Amid one astonished gaze after another, she offered the hand wearing a white gauze glove that reached her elbow to the Queen.

The Queen took her hand and led her to the edge of the platform, facing all the guests.

After a slight pause, the Queen smiled and said, “Although this is a dark period in Backlund’s history, we still possess a jewel bright enough to illuminate the entire city. Her wisdom, her beauty, her character, and her etiquette are all beyond reproach.

“Today, I formally introduce her to all of you.

“Miss Audrey Hall.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, fireworks rose into the sky, exploding into dreamlike patch after dreamlike patch of light.

On the night of the final day of 1349, Audrey formally came of age in the social sense.

…

January 3rd, 1350, afternoon.

In a newly established cemetery on the outskirts of the East Borough.

Through divination, Klein found Old Kohler’s grave, as well as the graves of Liv and her daughter.

They were not graves in the true sense, but cabinets where urns were stored—one after another, row upon row, layer upon overlapping layer.

Klein stood there and saw that on Old Kohler’s cabinet, not only were there no portrait and epitaph, but even his name was missing.

Similar situations were not rare. There were too many ownerless ashes here whose relatives and friends could not be found. What their names had been in life, what they had looked like, and what kind of experiences they had had—no one knew, and no one was interested. Only the numbers on the cabinets distinguished them.

Klein closed his eyes briefly. He took out a sheet of note paper and shook it into an iron plate, then carved a word on the cabinet door:

“Kohler.”

After that, he added an epitaph:

“He was a decent worker. He once had a wife and two children. He worked hard to live.”

Withdrawing his wrist, he shook it, and the note paper burned in his hand, as though paying tribute to all the souls here.

As for Daisy, who had lost her mother and older sister, he had not stepped forward to help her directly. Instead, he had anonymously written to Reporter Mike Joseph, describing the girl’s situation in detail, to avoid having his own affairs implicate her.

Reporter Mike had met Daisy, knew her circumstances, and had enthusiastically helped establish the corresponding charity foundation. Therefore, Klein believed he would help Daisy obtain more aid, allowing her to complete a basic education and find stable work sufficient to support herself.

Taking two steps back, Klein looked around, taking into his eyes the victims who had only names and photographs left here—or who did not even have those.

He lifted his head, slowly exhaled a breath of white vapor, turned, and left the cemetery.

On the steam train headed for Backlund, Melissa focused on her textbook, while Benson quickly began chatting with the surrounding passengers.

“Too expensive. Far too expensive. A full 10 soli—half a pound!” A strong man under thirty sighed from the bottom of his heart. “If I hadn’t been unable to buy a third-class seat or a boat ticket recently, I never would have spent this money. This is more than half my weekly salary!”

“Indeed. After the New Year, too many people are heading to Backlund,” Benson echoed.

The strong man put away his pained expression and said with anticipation, “Because they promised 21 soli a week. They promised a maximum of no more than twelve hours of work each day. We signed a contract!

“Once I rent a house and get my first wages, I’ll have my wife come to Backlund too. She should be able to find a decent job as well, one that pays 12 or 13 soli a week. I heard Backlund is very short of people! By then—ah—we’ll have more than one and a half pounds in wages combined each week. We’ll be able to eat meat often!”

“Your wish will certainly come true. The King has already signed the order allowing the bill regulating minimum pay and working hours to take effect.” Benson offered his blessing sincerely. Then he smiled. “That place is the Land of Hope, after all.”

Woo!

Carrying countless people filled with hope, the steam train arrived in Backlund. At that moment, the sky was still bright, and the fog in midair had thinned considerably. The gas lamps hanging above the platform were no longer lit early.

Benson, experienced, protected his sister and his wallet, carried his suitcase, and followed the stream of people out of the station.

Suddenly, both of them felt a gaze sweep over them.

Following the trace of that gaze, Benson and Melissa saw a young gentleman with neatly combed black hair and deep-brown eyes.

The gentleman wearing gold-rimmed glasses pressed his top hat, and his gaze passed beyond them toward the distance.

Benson and Melissa also withdrew their gazes, looking toward the pillars in the street garden that were venting smoke, anticipating the experience of seeing Backlund’s underground transportation system.

Carrying his suitcase, Klein passed by them with no expression, body straight. He faced the vast crowd pouring into the “Land of Hope,” faced the people whose unease held beautiful expectation, and entered the departure station.

It was the worst of times. It was the best of times.

(End of Book Two)