Volume 2 - CH 6.1

—monologue 5—

Every night, memories of blood come flooding back to me.

It happened a long time ago, but night after night, I remember the colors, the sounds, the feel, so vividly.

The dagger, with its brass ornaments, buried up to the hilt.

The setting sun burning like flame outside the glazed window.

The blue velvet curtains rustling faintly in the wind.

The blade gleaming reddish black, protruding from the chest of a man who toppled without so much as a shriek.

How after he drew his last breath, there was an otherworldly silence, a silence so deep and profound.

How I stood there until the sun had sunk completely and darkness blanketed the room.

I remember coming to my senses and returning to my original spot, swallowing the joy slowly welling up inside me.

It was as if it all happened just a few moments ago.

I can’t forget.

Are you trapped?

People call us Gray Wolves. But they are wrong.

Wolves do not kill their own kind. Especially not for a reason like that.

I stood still with a torch in my hand.

The Midsummer Festival was finally coming to an end. I smiled all the while as the unexpected guests killed each other, as the mystery of their murders was unraveled and the foolish culprit was apprehended.

A fool must not commit murder, lest they be caught immediately and judged.

I will never be judged.

I touched my face with my free hand. With the tip of my forefinger, I pulled at my lower eyelid, and scratched my eyeball.

Whenever I felt nervous or angry, my eyes itched. Itched so much. It was the same back then. While I hid in that spot and held my breath, my eyes itched so much that I almost screamed out, but I bore with it. It would be over in a moment, I had thought.

Back then…

Yes, my mind always cast back to that moment—to the night of the murder.

Are you trapped?

In the distance, our ancestors paraded by, torches in their hands, their feet crunching on the gravel. Drums, whips, and fired blanks echoed endlessly in the square in joyous welcome to the spirits of the dead. Whips cracked. Drums rumbled in the chilly air.

The dark night sky seemed to loom closer. I was beginning to feel like I was on stage, and not under starry skies, a feeling I had whenever the festival was entering its climax. Drums reverberated through the night.

The parade of our ancestors was nearing the square. They were dressed in sickening colors of red and black and donned creepy tunics, dancing merrily. Residents of the afterlife looked different from those of the living. Their clothes, their movements, their shrill cries—it was hard to believe that they were once human beings just like us. But we must welcome them, our ancestors, to the Midsummer Festival, and give them a joyous send-off.

They were coming.

In the lead was a man wearing a black mask.

While the other men behind him danced merrily, stamping their feet, jumping up and down, the man in the black mask moved awkwardly. His arms jerked in a strange motion, as though he had not moved his limbs for a long time, his legs jolting forward. Tottering, he led the procession, even when it looked like he would tumble at any moment.

Ambrose had crafted quite the nice mask. The young man must be pleased to be parading around wearing a mask he made himself. He was chosen to play this major role as a reward for his accomplishments as the village chief’s assistant. He must be very proud.

Our ancestors finally stepped into the square.

Greeted by cheers and fired blanks, they paraded around in a most amusing manner. The villagers, eager to show their bountiful harvest, joined the dancing procession, with ripe vegetables, barrels of wine, and lustrous fabrics in hand.

I did not dance with them. I simply stood in a corner of the square and watched.

No one knew that I had committed murder.

Laughter spilled from my lips. It was all too amusing.

The clamor of the festival filled the square. Some villagers were dancing with vegetables in their hands, some with brightly-colored textiles, and some with barrels of wine. Shouts, drums, and the cracking of whips echoed through the air, drowning out my laughter. No one heard me.

Suddenly, the man with the black mask stopped.

I was the only one who noticed.

I swallowed my laughter. For some reason, alarms started ringing in my head. “Run,” said a whisper. I stood there, frozen. My heart pounded in my chest.

A knot formed in my gut.

The masked man stood slouched for a moment.

Then he started advancing in quick, awkward motions.

He raised his head.

Run!

An alarm sounded again. But it was too late. My eyes met with the masked man’s. I could no longer move.

My eyes had locked with the mask’s huge, vacant, uneven eyes.

The masked man mumbled something. The words did not reach my ears; I could not make them out. But I could clearly hear the voice inside of me.

It’s too late. It has found you, Harminia!

Slowly the square grew quieter and darker.

An eerie silence filled the square now. The night sky suddenly became distant, and the stars began to twinkle.

I stood there with a torch in my hand. The masked man was mumbling something. The villagers gathered in the square looked at me and the masked man with bated breath. The flame of the torch crackled.

The masked man’s voice grew louder and louder. But despite his loud voice, I couldn’t make out the words.

I realized then that it was the voice of the dead. He was speaking in a language that was not of this world. The unfamiliar, otherworldly inflection reverberated in the air. Every trot forward, his voice grew louder and louder, the twisted, expressionless black mask bobbing from side to side.

I looked around and spotted Ambrose watching me curiously. I found it odd. If Ambrose was there, then it wasn’t him behind the mask. Who was it, then?

My vision went black for a split-second, and then it came to me.

I realized who the dead man was.

I heard a whisper in the back of my mind.

That’s right. It’s the man you killed, Harminia!

My legs trembled.

Gradually, slowly, I was able to discern the masked man’s words. He was right in front of me now. I shrank back and yelped.

“I found you,” he said. “I found my killer.”

I shrieked. His voice sounded bizarre, like the growling of a beast.

I took a step back.

“Harminia.”

“Elder Theodore,” I called in a shaky voice.

“You killed me.” His voice quivered with rage. “You killed a distinguished man with your young hands. How could you live such a carefree life in the past twenty years? Foolish child!”

I backed away further. “No! It wasn’t me!”

“Gold coins fell.”

My breath seized.

The man giggled under his mask. “Gold coins fell to the floor. I remember it well, Harminia. The glittering gold coins that spilled from the grandfather clock. I remember. It was my last memory, after all. Harminia, the young murderer…”

“G-Gold coins?!”

Only the dead would know that. The dead and me. No one else. The gold coins scattered on the floor…

“Elder Theodore!” I cried out. “No! Please, go back to the afterlife!”

“Do you confess to your crime, Harminia?”

“I do. I confess.” I waved the torch around. Sparks from the flame danced in the air and fell on me like orange dust. “I killed you!”

The square was silent.

The big torch in the middle sputtered. A chilly wind blew, pushing the milky mist softly between me and the dead.

The villagers and guests stared at me in shock. Fear and loathing seeped into glassy, green eyes. They backed away a little.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I groaned.

Right? I thought. The voice inside me was gone now. I was alone.

“I was only a child!” I screamed in fear.

“So you killed him.”

Suddenly, the voice behind the mask took on a normal inflection.

“You really did kill him. You were right, Victorique.”

A little girl appeared from behind the large torch. Cordelia’s daughter. Her clear, green eyes regarded me.

Puzzled, I strode toward the masked man and ripped his mask off.

It was one of the guests—the oriental boy. He was wearing an apologetic look.

There was nothing frightening about him. He was thin and of small build. He was just a normal boy, good-natured but with a somewhat stubborn look to his face. Not one to be feared.

He looked sorry, but he showed no sign of backing down.

“I put on an act so we could hear it from you,” he said meekly.

“So you—”

“Victorique said it was you who killed Theodore.”

I glanced back at Cordelia’s daughter.

Our eyes met. She was staring back at me.

There was quiet determination in her eyes that said she was unshakable.

I stood frozen.

I felt a burning itch in my eyeballs, as though someone poured oil over them and set them on fire.