Chapter 74: Who Killed the Mockingbird?

Chapter 74 Who Killed the Mockingbird?
At night in the outskirts of London, a bright moon hung in the sky, which wore clouds as thin as muslin, and sowed light to the earth through the gaps in the thick forest.

The lonely looming of the forest church, with its gothic spire as sharp as a sword, seemed to pierce the moon’s breast.

It was midnight, and the night was deepening, just as everything was falling asleep.

And in the graveyard, not far from the church, there was a busy dark figure.

He had a shovel in his hand and a sack on his back.

Shovel by shovel, sweating.

He grinned and muttered to himself as he did his work.

“Those two idiots, Acheson and Ackerman, they actually believed me when I said I was going home to visit my family.

Without the two of them splitting the bill, this cemetery, which hasn’t been excavated yet, would be all mine. The risk of killing is still too high, where is it better than a steady stream of digging up graveyards?

It’s ten pounds if you can dig up a fresh body, and you can get half price for a slightly decomposed one.”

The gravedigger straightened his back covering his aching back, he raised his hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then let out a long breath with a huff.

He fished his pipe out of his pocket and lit it, taking a sharp sip before slowly exhaling the smoke ring and beginning to think of a better life ahead.

“If I can earn enough to make a few hundred pounds here, I can take a ship to North America, buy a farm there, get a few working slaves, and live as a decent person from then on.”

The forest was overcast and a cold breeze blew through, freezing the gravedigger so much that he couldn’t help but shiver.

He looked down at the half-ploughed grave and felt a little balky in his heart, so he opened the white wax wine pot hanging on his belt and spilled a little towards the ground.

“Alright, alright, I know I’m sorry for you guys. But it can’t be helped, if there are other ways to make money fast, why would I bother to kill people and steal corpses?”

His words had just fallen, when suddenly, a clear, melodious eight-tone box melody rang out among the trees.

Accompanied by the sound of the wind whistling in the forest, it sounded cold and eerie in the stillness.

The gravedigger’s eyes widened in horror, his cloudy pupils swaying like the hazy moon in the night.

He saw countless dodos with crimson eyes standing on the treetops of the branches in the forest, and they were cocking their heads to look at the half-rotted corpse he had put in a sack.

Scarlet saliva was secreted from the crows’ beaks, little by little, drop by drop.

The saliva all landed in the soft soil, but did not penetrate.

Instead, it converged into a slowly flowing stream.

From the forest floor, it converged towards the gravedigger’s feet.

The eerie sound of a nursery rhyme whispered like a ghost; it sounded far away and as if it were close.

A hoarse voice sang as it drank in the melody.

“Who killed the robin?
It was I, said the sparrow.
With my bow and arrow.

I killed the mockingbird.

Who saw her die?

It was I, the fly said.

With my little eyes.

I saw her die.

Who took her blood?

It was I, the fish said.
With my little saucer.

I took her blood.

Who makes her birthday suit?

It’s me, says the beetle.

With my needle and thread.

I’ll make the birthday suit.

Who will dig her grave?

It’s me, says the owl.
With my chisel and shovel.

I will come and dig the grave.

Who will come to be the priest?

It’s me, says the raven.

With my little book.

I’ll come and be the priest.

Who will come to be a deacon?

It’s me, said the lark.
If not in the darkness.

I will be deacon.

Who will hold the torch?

It is I, said the cardinal.
I’ll bring it at once.

I’ll hold the torch.

Who will be the chief priest? It is I, said the dove.

I will mourn my beloved.
I’ll be the one to do the honors.

Who will carry the coffin?

It’s me, Iris said.
If there’s no night walk.

I will come to carry the coffin.

Who will carry the coffin?

It’s us, says the wren.
Together, as a couple.
We’ll hold the coffin.

Who will sing the hymn?

It’s me, the painted lady says.

Standing on the bush.

I’ll sing the hymn.

Who will ring the knell?
It’s me, says the cow.
Because I can pull the yak.

I’ll ring the knell.

So long, robin.

All the birds in the air
All sighing and weeping.

“When they hear the death knell
“For the poor robin.”

Here the song suddenly stopped.

The gravedigger sat down with weak legs and threw down the tools at hand.

On his face, the light brought by the moonlight was fading, replaced by a shadow that swallowed the light.

He wanted to scream, but realized that he could no longer make any sound out of fear.

He was shaking and trembling as he raised his head.

In the last moments of his life, he finally saw what kind of object was standing before him.

It didn’t look like a human being, nor did it look like God who had sent down divine punishment.

It was merely a magnificent figure wearing a raven mask as deep as the night, covered with a pitch-black cloak as wide as the night, and carrying a cream-colored coffin behind him.

He gently tied the noose in his hand around the gravedigger’s neck loop after loop, a dark red light emitting from the eye sockets of his raven mask.

The song resounded once more in the silent, raw, cold graveyard.

“The Enlightenment.

To all concerned.
This enlightening notice.

Next time in the court of birds, the

Sparrows will be tried.”

Only a hoot was heard, and the body of the gravedigger rose like a flag.

His body hung from the crooked-necked tree, shaking like a broken kite.

Nay, the moonlight was so bright that it was impossible to see the expression on the gravedigger’s face, and one could only vaguely see that he had a cardboard card with a drawn design stuck in his pocket.

The drawing on the cardboard was a small bird cloaked in a brown-green-olive-colored coat, and the crimson feathers on the bird’s chest seemed to be as scarlet as blood, as if it had been shot through the chest with a bow and arrow.

The cardboard was labeled with the bird’s name, Mockingbird.

Written Robin, pronounced Robin.

……

In the woods, Agareth was still recalling the party’s lilting nursery rhyme.

He looked at the flickering red dot beside him; it was Arthur, who was smoking vigorously.

The red devil grinned and asked, “So, it was the sparrow that killed the robin?”

Arthur was silent for a moment; he did not answer.

The Red Devil smiled playfully and raised an eyebrow, “Then it was the fly that killed the mockingbird; after all, the fly knew that the sparrow killed, but hid it from him.”

Agareth waited a moment, he saw that Arthur still didn’t answer, so he asked again.

“Then it was the fish that killed the mockingbird; after all, the fish enjoyed the mockingbird’s blood, and he can be even more hypocritical than the sparrow ……”

Here, Agareth suddenly paused, “Or maybe ……”

He picked up the shimmering soul-colored ball and aimed it at the moon in the sky, the colorful light spilling over Agares’ face, setting off his sharp fangs and malice aimed at the whole world in an unmistakable shine.

“It is clear that all were involved in the killing of the mockingbird, it is clear that all were accomplices, and yet only the sparrow is being judged. Arthur, is this the justice you want, is this the justice you seek?”

Agareth sat down next to the cream-colored coffin, and he smiled as he rubbed the coffin’s exterior, polishing it to a polished shine.

The devil’s whisper exploded in Arthur’s ears.

“Arthur, silence means, perhaps, that you killed the mockingbird as well?”

(End of chapter)