Chapter 263: The Straw Stalks

Chapter 263: The Straw Stalks

At the place where Ince Zangwill had vanished, the light suddenly disappeared, dyed over by the richest, deepest darkness.

Within the darkness, the sound of chanting poetry drifted out, peaceful and tranquil, urging one to sleep. Even the countless pale arms constantly reaching upward beneath the pitch-black water slowed because of it. They were no longer frenzied, as if they had received redemption of the soul.

Inside this “night,” a figure walked out. It was none other than Ince Zangwill, who had just been dragged into the spirit world.

Compared to earlier, he had lost the soft hat atop his head. The clothing over his left shoulder was torn, and a chunk of flesh had been ripped off by force. Pale-yellow pustules bubbled out one after another with gurgling sounds.

His gaze was no longer indifferent. It was filled with pain, as if he were enduring suffering beyond others’ imagination.

The feather pen “0-08” continued writing:

“Some will regret it. Some will feel relieved. Ince Zangwill possessed an ‘evil god’s umbilical cord.’ It came from the baby in Megose’s stomach, from the ‘True Creator.’ By using that ‘umbilical cord,’ he successfully escaped the unknown existence’s imprisonment and forcefully returned to the real world. But he also completely lost that wondrous item and will, for a short period of time, endure the resentment of an evil god’s child that could not be born.

“This reduces his strength to 55% of its original level, just like certain goods in a department store during the change of seasons. Mm, that figure is extremely precise.”

…

On a street deep inside the East Borough.

Old Kohler hugged the ham wrapped in a paper bag and hurried back toward the apartment he rented.

He vigilantly looked around, afraid that those fellows, whose eyes shone with wolf-like light from hunger, would pounce on him and snatch away his “New Year’s gift.”

When he had still been in the countryside, he had once seen wolves. But he had never expected that, in Backlund, he would experience that familiar feeling again.

“It was still too expensive and too large. I could only buy one with others and saw it into several portions… This is enough for me to eat through the New Year holiday. Every meal can have two slices—three slices, no, at least five slices of ham. I can even cut some off and stew it with potatoes, without needing to add salt…” Thinking up to this point, Old Kohler looked down at the ham in his arms, at the red meat interlaced with plenty of white, and his throat could not help moving as he swallowed.

As he walked, he felt that the fog around him had thickened considerably. The church clock tower in the distance, which had originally been fairly clear, was gradually swallowed by colors mingling pale yellow and iron black. Even the pedestrians around him, once they went more than ten paces away, were reduced to blurry shadows.

Old Kohler instantly felt as though he had been forgotten by the world. He raised a hand and covered his mouth and nose.

“Why does today’s fog smell so awful?” he muttered, quickening his pace.

One step, two steps, three steps. Old Kohler felt his face burning, and his forehead seemed to be heating up.

His chest tightened, his throat grew uncomfortable, and soon symptoms of difficulty breathing appeared.

“Am I sick? Damn it. I still wanted to have a wonderful New Year. Now I’ll have to send my savings to a clinic, to a hospital… No, perhaps I’ll be fine after sleeping. I’ll be fine after sleeping under my blanket!” Old Kohler silently muttered to himself. His head grew hotter and hotter, more and more muddled.

Hah. Hah. Hah. He heard the sound of his own labored breathing. His hands weakened, and the paper bag holding the ham fell heavily to the ground.

Old Kohler instinctively crouched to pick it up, only to collapse there all at once.

He pressed down on the bag holding the ham and tried hard to pull it back into his arms.

At that moment, he felt thick phlegm rising, blocking his throat. So he struggled desperately, making sounds like a bellows being pulled.

Thud! Through his increasingly blurry vision, Old Kohler saw someone several steps away fall as well, unable to breathe. That person was about the same age as him, in his fifties, with graying temples.

All of a sudden, understanding dawned upon him. He knew that he was about to die.

This made him think of his wife and children. They too had suddenly contracted plague like this and died soon after.

It made him think of the period when he had been hospitalized for treatment. The patient sharing his room had still been laughing and chatting that night, but by morning had already been sent to the morgue.

It made him think of the friends he had met when he was a vagrant. After one winter passed, many of them had disappeared, eventually found stiff beneath bridges or in street corners that could block the wind. A small number had died from suddenly obtaining food.

It made him think of the time when he had still been a decent worker. The neighbors in his district would also die suddenly in this way. Some died from headaches and convulsions. Some carelessly fell into freshly poured molten steel. Some died with aching bones throughout their bodies, swollen all over. Some even collapsed silently inside the factory, batch after batch.

It made him think of the words a drunkard had once spoken in a bar when he had been gathering information:

“People like us are like straw stalks in the fields. Once the wind blows, we fall. Even if there’s no wind, we may fall on our own…”

The wind has come… Such a thought flashed through Old Kohler’s mind.

As he held tightly to the paper bag containing the ham, he groped inside the pocket of his old jacket, wanting to take out that cigarette he had always been reluctant to smoke, now already crumpled.

What he could not understand was why someone healthy like him would suddenly fall ill. It was not as though he had never experienced such heavy fog before.

What he could not understand was why, just when his life had finally gotten back on track and was heading in a direction beautiful enough, just after receiving Detective Moriarty’s wages paid in advance, just after buying a piece of ham he had longed for and preparing to welcome the New Year, looking forward to tasting its deliciousness—why had he suddenly collapsed?

Old Kohler pulled out that crumpled cigarette, but his arm no longer had the strength to lift. It struck the ground heavily.

Using the last of his strength, he wanted to shout out the words accumulated in his heart, yet all he could do was let weak syllables hover around his lips, unable to escape.

He heard his own last words.

He heard himself asking:

“Why?”

…

Inside an apartment at the edge of the East Borough.

Liv hung up the final washed piece of clothing and waited for it to dry.

She looked at the sky outside, but the fog that had thickened at some unknown point made it difficult for her to judge the time.

“In any case, it is still very early, and our laundry work is already all finished…” Liv’s expression gradually became heavy.

Finishing work too early was not a good thing. It did not mean they could rest. It only meant there was not enough work, and not enough income.

Liv drew a breath, turned to Freja—her eldest daughter, who was wiping her hands beside her while her gaze drifted straight toward the word booklet in the next room—and said, “It is almost the New Year. Most of our employers have left Backlund and gone elsewhere for vacation. We cannot continue like this. We must find new work.”

As she spoke, she headed toward the door.

“During such a festival, the rich will hold banquet after banquet. Their servants may not be enough. Perhaps they will hire temporary kitchen dishwashers. I plan to ask around. Freja, you stay at home and pick up Daisy when it is time. We need income, and those sons-of-bitches thieves, robbers, and human traffickers need income to welcome the New Year too.”

In the East Borough, every woman who had not entered a factory needed either skill or fierceness to survive.

Freja replied lightly, “All right.”

Her mind had already drifted to the small table in the next room and the word booklet.

Just as Liv opened the door, she suddenly staggered and fell to the ground.

Cough! Cough! Cough! She let out a violent fit of coughing. Her face flushed red, and every joint in her body ached unbearably.

Freja ran over in panic and crouched down.

“Mother, what’s wrong? Mother, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Cough, cough. I’m fine.” Liv’s breathing gradually became difficult.

“No. You are sick, sick! I’ll take you to the hospital at once!” Freja struggled to help her mother up.

“Too expensive. Too—expensive. Cough. Go—to the charity hospital. Charity hospital. I can wait. It’s nothing, nothing serious.” Liv gasped in reply.

Tears flowed from Freja’s eyes, and her vision swiftly blurred.

Just then, she felt her lungs burn. Her body suddenly went limp, and Liv fell back to the ground with her.

“Freja, what’s wrong? Cough, cough. Are you sick too?” Liv cried out anxiously. “The money is—cough—inside the hole in the wall—cough—blocked by the cabinet. You—hurry, hurry to the hospital! Find a good—good doctor!”

Freja wanted to say something, but no sound came out. Her gaze slanted upward, and she saw the door to the room next door.

That was their bedroom. It had the bunk bed that belonged to them. It had the little table and word booklet she loved.

Her body suddenly convulsed.

Liv’s coughing came to an abrupt stop.

At the public elementary school on the edge of the East Borough, the fog was not especially thick yet, but many students had already begun coughing.

The teacher on duty had received training and immediately ordered, “Quickly, go to the church. Go to the church beside us!”

Daisy stood in terror and panic, following the crowd as they ran toward the school’s neighboring church.

Suddenly, her heart clenched, and she felt a panic as though she had lost something important.

…Mother… Freja… Daisy abruptly turned her head, trying to go against the flow of people and rush back home.

But she was stopped. The teachers grabbed her and forcefully dragged her toward the church.

Daisy struggled with all her strength, screaming as though her heart were being torn apart.

“Mother! Freja!”

“Mother! Freja!”

…

In the East Borough, in the Dock District, in the Factory District, those who were elderly or had hidden illnesses fell one after another inside the fog like trees being cut down. Those who came into contact with them then contracted plague and quickly died, while adults and children with comparatively healthy bodies also began feeling mild discomfort.

In their eyes, the fog woven from pale yellow and iron black was like the descending “Death.”

The final Tuesday of the year 1349: the Great Smog of Backlund.

…

At the corner of the hall, Klein pressed tightly against the stone wall, preventing Mr. A from discovering him.

Very soon, he heard muffled groans one after another and smelled the stench of rotting flesh and blood.

“Offer up your lives for the Lord’s descent,” Mr. A’s voice suddenly sounded.

Thud. Thud. The sounds of people falling heavily reached Klein’s ears. Powerful spiritual fluctuations emerged, rippling constantly.

Mr. A sacrificed his four attendants? Just as that thought surfaced in Klein’s mind, illusory, layered sobbing reached his ears. Some were calling for their mothers, some were coughing violently, and some were groaning in pain.

As half a mysticism expert, Klein seemed to see unwilling grudges turning into illusory, transparent figures one after another, surging forward to enter the ritual. The accumulated numbness, despair, pain, resentment, and other repressed emotions that had settled for years in the Factory District, Dock District, and East Borough also surged over like tidal waves.

Has it officially begun? Klein closed his eyes, his back pressed to the wall. His right hand suddenly clenched, then relaxed.

For him, the best choice at this moment was to slip out of the hall while Mr. A was focused on the ritual and flee far away.

His right hand loosened, then tightened. Tightened, then loosened. It repeated this several times.

Seven or eight seconds later, Klein opened his eyes, and the corners of his mouth rose exaggeratedly.

He reached out and gripped his revolver, abruptly turned, and rushed out.

Dressed in a black double-breasted long formal coat, he raised his right hand and aimed at the altar.