13 Mink Street

The hearse rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the house on Mink Street, the engine fading into silence. Karon kept a hand on the steering wheel for a moment longer, feeling a surprising wave of fondness. The family had spent a small fortune on this car, and its quality was undeniable.

Mina pushed the gate open as Aunt Mary stepped out to greet them. “Have you eaten?”

“Mom, we ate at Sara’s house.”

“You could’ve called,” Aunt Mary muttered.

“Sara’s house doesn’t have a phone.”

Aunt Mary’s attention shifted to the jar in Karon’s hands. “What’s in the jar?”

“Pickled cucumbers. They’re quite refreshing.”

“Are they? I’ll try them tomorrow.”

Karon climbed to the third floor and went straight to the washroom. Even in winter, he maintained his ritual of a daily shower, an old habit that had carried over from his previous life. He was truly thankful that he could preserve it in this one as well. Every evening, Aunt Mary left a clean set of pajamas on the counter, while the next day’s clothes would be folded and waiting on his bed. Such silent gestures offered him an unexpected sense of warmth.

After a hot shower and putting on his pajamas, he planned to head back down for a glass of ice water, but hesitated. He decided to enter his bedroom first.

Lent was reclining on his own bed, idly flipping a deck of cards in his hands. Karon settled at the desk. As if suddenly remembering something, he turned and called to Lent over his shoulder, “I almost forgot; Lent, could you go get me a glass of ice water?”

“Okay.” The boy slid off his bed, put on his slippers, and left to fetch the water.

Karon stretched to reach for General History of Swillenian Religions that Mina had borrowed from the library for him, but he paused upon seeing several new books in a stack on the desk. Each one was about religion.

“Karon, here’s your water.”

“Thanks. Lent, who put these books here?”

“Oh, I got them from Grandfather’s study.”

“You got them from Grandpa’s study?” Did Lent really have the courage to sneak books away from Tiz?

“Grandfather told me to bring them to you.”

“Oh. Alright then.” That explained it.

Lent flopped back onto his bed, tucking his head into the pillow, but then glanced at Karon. “Aren’t you going to sleep yet, Big Brother?”

“I’m going to stay up a bit to read.”

“Karon, are you really not planning to go back to school?” Lent’s curiosity was gentle. The old Karon had had never fit in, but Lent believed things might be different now. In fact, he almost looked forward to the day his cousin’s desk drawer would overflow with love letters, as then he would be able to help open them each night. It was an exciting prospect.

“We’ll see. You should go to sleep early.” Karon had once longed to return to school, just to get away and leave Tiz behind, breathing in air that felt new and free, but now, having been branded a heretical god, he understood that freedom was not meant for people like him.

He switched the desk lamp on and picked up one of the new books. The brown cover read: The Light of Order. No publisher named, though the binding was sturdy. An internal publication of the Church of Order, then. A glance at the contents confirmed that. The book was an introduction to the Church of Order.

The tone was familiar, much like the introduction packets given out to fresh corporate recruits. Always included were tales of the organization’s origins, the paths of development it had taken, its proud achievements, and above all, visions of a glorious future. The more dubious the organization, the more dazzling the promises. However, when compared to a fraudulent enterprise, a church’s internal works were different. The outlook for the future always remained fixed, often forming phrases that were whispered daily in the congregation’s prayers. Over time, as years built up and the legacy settled, even a pyramid scheme, after surviving centuries or an epoch, could not quite shake that structure, though the patina of nobility might stubbornly cling to it.

Most of the book detailed the history of the Church of Order, beginning with mythic tales. Once those faded away, the writing shifted to more specific, dated history: who had done what and in which country. Milestone after milestone was recorded, unfolding in a manner similar to a nation’s annals.

Of the myths, Karon lingered on the account of the awakening of the God of Order. In the book’s telling, the god had withdrawn, exiling Himself for an entire epoch, leaving behind a maze of teachings that, once stripped to the bone, were essentially the enlightenment of an ascetic, only stretched into an endless solitude. When the hermit finally stepped forth, so did the God of Order, stirring from His long slumber.. In this tale, the “awakening” was not just a moment, but an Art. It was the ritual of revival that every Order Inquisitor was trained to wield.

Karon remembered Pu’er once sharing with him the church’s original version of the myth. According to that story, it had the God of Light who had awakened the God of Order, and yet there was not a single mention in the pages of the book before Karon that even hinted at such a thing. Pu’er had lived a long life, long enough, as Tiz liked to remind her, and had been a fixture in the Immers household even before Tiz had been born. For that, as well as other reasons, Karon found that he trusted Pu’er’s memories more than the official records before him. Documents could be rewritten, but what reason did a cat have to spin tales for a dropout like him?

Why had the God of Light vanished from the modern retelling? The reason was readily found: the Church of Light itself was gone. In the Church of Order’s early years, it was possible that borrowing the God of Light in the Order’s myths had been a means of riding the other church’s popularity. However, as soon as the Church of Light had fallen, Order wasted no time in pruning the official accounts, scrubbing out whatever was possible. After all, what faith would want its patron to appear as the lesser of some faded rival, not to mention a rival who had become nothing more than a memory in the weeds? Once Light was gone, Order alone remained in the sun, always and forever preeminent. Not just that, claiming the God of Order’s exile had lasted for an entire epoch indicated that He was even older than the God of Light: older, higher, more sovereign.

Where once Light had been said to “awaken” Order, like a mentor nudging a student, the myth had shifted. Instead, Light’s prayers merely had stirred Order to descend. They were no longer peers, but an idol and their followers. Karon skimmed the remaining myths, and the following church records, but without much interest.

The last portion of the book offered information regarding the current state of affairs for the Church of Order: which nations the church had spread to, which territories, how many branches, and how many statues. Nothing was said of what lay beneath the surface, but even so, there was one section that held Karon’s attention. It was a passage with an oddness that only appeared during a second reading:

“The gods entered into a pact. By its terms, they willingly stepped back, entrusting the order of the heavens to the care of the God of Order.

“The Church of Order exists to uphold Order. Under the Light of Order, all are treated the same.”

Karon would hardly accept the account of gods’ pact at face value, unless the chronicler had personally been present as table or ink for that original signing. It had to be a fable rather than history that a multitude of orthodox churches had simply ceded their authority to make space for Order to maintain a system that they all depended on.

Why would the other orthodox churches be so accommodating, so willing to consider the greater good? Had it truly been a friendly negotiation, concessions offered freely and in good faith? Not to mention that the phrase “equal under the Light of Order” only invited closer scrutiny.

Once Karon pieced it all together, a picture formed in his mind: that of a street thug gripping a cleaver, a grin on his face as he laid down the rules.

These are my terms. Do you accept them? Don’t be afraid. I prefer to convince people with virtue.

He took a long drink of water. The Church of Order held enough power, at present, to have its way.

After a quick reading, Karon felt his limbs growing heavy. He set the rest aside for another day and got in bed, switched off the lamp, and let sleep take him.

***

By half past seven the next morning, Karon was up and washed. He made his way downstairs. Breakfast was milk, bread with sausage, and a handful of pickled cucumbers. He wondered how he was supposed to eat cucumbers with bread, unless Aunt Mary believed him to be especially fond of them. Why else would he have brought home an entire jar from someone else’s kitchen? With a piece of bread in his right hand and the milk he intended to dip it in, Karon reached for the Roja Daily lying on the table.

The paper’s headline was a notice: in five days, voting would take place for the mayoral election. The second page was filled with a special interview. Some of the leaders from the workers’ protest had answered a reporter’s questions. The layout was a simple exchange, question and answer, and yet the responses rang with resignation and gloom. One of the men, sick with black lung, said, “Sigran has already betrayed us; He’s betrayed the East District.”

Such bitterness was nothing like the tone Lot had used when speaking with Karon the previous night. In Lot’s eyes, Old Mayor Sigran remained a strong point of pride for the East District.

Nothing that he read surprised Karon. Since the start of the elections, the Roja Daily had never wavered in its opposition to the incumbent mayor. It was as if the editors, certain of the mayor’s impending defeat, felt safe choosing another side, even if doing so meant courting later reprisals.

He took another bite of milk-soaked bread, only noticing midway down that that Lot was named as one of the interviewees.

***

Reporter: Do you feel that the way that the city government handled the workers’ demonstration was appropriate?

Lot: No. They just brushed us off. When they want us, they give us grand speeches to get us to work for them. When we lose our worth, like me, after I lost a leg, we’re tossed aside. Us disabled? They throw us out like garbage, leaving us to rot in the filth and flies.

Reporter: What of your expectations for the future?

Lot: None, honestly. The sky above Roja City feels ominous. My family and I have grown numb with hopelessness. All I want is to keep my family alive, but even that feels impossible now. Sigran has betrayed the East District. He’s no better than those factory bosses; using us up just to discard us.

Sir, I feel like I can’t go on. My family and I are close to not being able to make it through. This winter is so terribly cold.

There was a photograph included at the bottom of the column. A man stood in the foreground, his back to the camera. A crutch propped him up, one of his pant legs hanging empty. Behind him stood Lot’s house, a low, crumbling place with a puddle of standing water ringing the entrance.

Karon scowled as he read. He reached for a pickle and bit into it, allowing the sour taste to stoke his annoyance.

“Utterly shameless,” he muttered. He knew he wasn’t reading Lot’s own words; There was no reason for the man to have lied the night before. The Immers family ran a funeral home, not the mayor’s office.

“You can’t trust newspapers anymore,” Uncle Mason remarked while passing through. “Ever since the start of these elections, I’ve given up on reading with breakfast.” He circled his hand in the air. “Who wants a stamped arse in their face while they eat?”

“Maybe we ought to switch papers,” Karon said.

“That’ll only swap the red stamp for a black stamp. Subscribe to a few, and all you get is more arses. Still, each one will insist that they stand for freedom of the press, but that just means that their boss’s backside is free to plant itself under your nose.”

“You’re absolutely right, Uncle.” Karon put the paper aside. “Wise words.”

Mason let out a laugh. “So, are these cucumbers any good?” He picked one up and took a bite. “Mmph... I—”

He downed a large glass of milk. “God, that’s the devil’s food!”

He wiped his mouth, tore another bit of bread, and grumbled, “Still, it cuts through grease. It would go well with noodles.”

Karon felt a flicker of satisfaction. After so many failed attempts, Uncle Mason was finally coming around to the kind of food that helped to deal with fat.

The Immers family had old habits that hadn’t changed in years. Swillenian middle-class cooking could be reduced to two questions: would the food kill you with sugar, or would it kill you with fat?

“What’s the date?” Uncle Mason asked suddenly.

“The sixteenth,” Karon replied.

“Good. If nothing turns up today, we get that deposit for nothing.”

At that moment, the phone began ringing downstairs. Aunt Winnie answered. Crumbs spilling from his mouth, Mason mumbled, “Don’t let it be a dead one.”

A moment later, Aunt Winnie’s voice rose from the lower floor, urgent and insistent. “Mason! Mason!”

It was a shout that could only mean one thing: a call-out. Uncle Mason slipped his coat on without a word, and Karon followed him down the stairs.

”Winnie, it can’t be, can it?” Mason called as he came down the stairs. He already knew the answer. According to the contract, the Immers family weren’t allowed to accept any new jobs for one more day. Even for the eighteenth, they had only scheduled a single charity order, rather than a regular client. It was necessary to allow others their turn; There was no room for greed in this business.

”It’s that family, the ones who left the deposit,” Winnie confirmed.

Mason just shrugged. ”Alright then, time to get busy.”

A deposit was a deposit. When the job came in, it had to be done.

”Alf, Ron!” Mason shouted for help. Alfred’s name was a mouthful for them, so, like most things, it had been shortened. There were times when a friend’s name would be just a syllable, or less. Mason had tried calling for ”Alfred,” letting the name roll slowly off his tongue, but it had still come out clipped and soft.[1]

Alfred appeared in the doorway, dust still clinging to his grey work clothes.

”And Ron?” Mason asked.

”He went drinking last night, so he might be running a bit late,” Alfred replied. ”He hasn’t shown up yet.”

Mason muttered a curse and turned back to Winnie. ”Tell Ron to head right over as soon as he gets in. What’s the address?”

”East District. 117 Miner Street.”

”What?” Karon immediately turned to face Winnie, frowning.

”The streets over to Miner Street aren’t easy these days; They’re still working on the repairs,” Mason commented.

Just then, Aunt Mary came up from below. ”Doesn’t Mina’s friend Sara live over on Miner Street? Karon drove her home just yesterday.”

”You did?” Mason turned to Karon, clapping his shoulder. ”Then you’d better drive. Which house is hers?”

Which house indeed? In shanty rows like Miner Street, which had been thrown up between ditches and rainwater, who could even see a number?

”I don’t know,” Karon admitted softly.

”We’ll ask around when we get there,” Mason decided. He turned to Alfred. ”Alf, have you had breakfast?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Good, then let’s go. Karon, you’re driving.”

”Alright.” Karon started the hearse and pulled out onto Mink Street.

No, he told himself. It has to be a coincidence. It’s just a name and address, nothing more.

Still, as they drove, the words from the column in the morning’s Roja Daily swirled through Karon’s mind: I feel like I can’t go on. My family and I are close to not being able to make it through. This winter is so terribly cold.

Other voices echoed too, such as the man in the black coat who had approached during the last funeral service the Immers family had held, saying, “The family cares for one another, very deeply.”

Then there was Lot’s voice, like a whisper beside Karon’s ear: Yes, yes. You are absolutely right, Mr. Karon. Everything will get better.

Karon exhaled, slow and unsteady. Just what was he thinking? It couldn’t be them.

They would turn onto Miner Street soon. Perhaps he could ask Sara’s mother for the recipe for her braised noodles, especially that sauce. The flavor lingered with him.

”Karon, look out!” Mason’s shouted sharply.

Karon violently jerked the wheel, turning the hearse and just barely missing a street lamp.

”Are you sleepwalking? Feeling sick?” Mason demanded, not focusing on the hearse at all, but on Karon.

”I... maybe.”

”I’ll drive. You sit in the back and tell me the way.”

”Alright, Uncle.”

The hearse’s cabin was wide, closer to being a small bus than a car. Karon climbed into the back without needing to step outside, allowing Mason to take the wheel.

Why was he so anxious? What was he afraid of? Sara’s family would be fine. Later, he would tell her grandmother how good her pickles had tasted.

In front of Karon, Alfred observed in silence, studying the young man’s withdrawn expression. Alfred looked like he wanted to say something, but he held himself back. The apprehension in the air wasn’t comforting.

Finally, they turned onto Miner Street.

”So many people; Is it market day?” Mason asked from the front. ”Oh, and there’s two police cars parked over there.”

Karon glanced out the window. The police stood about in clusters, their uniforms stark in the crowd.

”The hearse is here, the hearse is here.” The words moved through the crowd, blurred among prayers and soft laments.

”Poor family, may they find peace soon,” a woman close by murmured.

”Such a pity. That little girl died with her schoolbag still on. Her mother tricked her, saying she’d take her to school early...”

***

”Out you get, Karon,” Mason called. ”Unload the gurney.”

Karon moved to stand, only for his foot to slip into a hollow in the floor. Alfred caught him before he fell. The man managed a grin. ”Young Master, this isn’t the place for lying down.”

”Mhm, but you could sleep anywhere in here,” Karon muttered.

”Maybe,” Alfred quietly agreed. ”But you shouldn’t lie down in a car like this.”

Karon climbed out. Alfred, wearing overalls, hauled out a gurney in each hand. Uncle Mason stopped short at the sight. “I think I have to fire Ron.”

A gaunt police captain hurried over. “Get inside and remove those bodies. There are too many people watching.”

Uncle Mason looked uncertain. “Is all of the paperwork already finished?”

Given the size of the crowd, there was no chance that this was a natural death. Normally, only the death of a wealthy man would cause half of a street to be blocked off.

“Suicides, the whole family. There are notes. One took poison. One hanged herself. The mother jumped off the building with her daughter.”

“So many, all at once?” Mason drew a sharp breath.

“We need to keep moving. The sooner you’re done here, the better.”

“This way, you two,” Mason called to Alfred and Karon.

There were still lingering traces of last night’s rain, and the puddles made each step become a careful dance. Everyone tiptoed across the wet bricks.

It was a familiar street, with familiar paving stones and familiar buildings.

Up ahead, Mason quietly conferred with the police captain, but their voices drifted back to Karon. “The man joined that protest a few days ago. When nothing changed, he must have lost hope; took poison and left a note damning the mayor, blaming him and calling it a betrayal. A real shame. The man was disabled, yet not even the able-bodied can find work to support a family, let alone someone with those kinds of injuries.”

“That’s true,” Mason agreed.

“His mother found him. The shock of it was just too much for her, and she hanged herself inside. We’ve already cut her down. Her suicide note was just one line: ‘My son needs my care.’” The captain let out a long sigh. “The man and his mother both died in their home without anyone knowing about it. At dawn, the wife left with their daughter. The neighbors asked where she was headed, but she told them that her husband had arranged for a taxi to take the girl to school. The child was thrilled that she wouldn’t need to walk to the tram. Everyone wondered how they could afford a taxi? A day’s wages don’t cover the fare. But then...”

“The mother and daughter—” Mason began.

“They went to the rooftop, looking for their husband and father. Then, they jumped. It was a bad fall. I’ve heard your funeral home can make the dead look like they’re only sleeping. Will that be possible with this case?”

“No problem,” Mason replied, offering his card out of habit.

“Impressive. The father’s body is outside, his mother’s inside. Take care of those, and then I’ll lead you to the mother and daughter. Mink Street, Immers Funeral Home. It’s strange; Nobody here ever has a proper funeral. They’re all just sent straight to the crematorium, leaving nothing behind but ash. Who holds a wake anymore?”

“We actually...” Mason started, but his words faltered.

Behind him, Karon’s lips parted. The same words were echoing in his mind, the ones he had heard the previous night.

“Young Master?” Alfred whispered. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

The captain’s voice snapped, rough and impatient, “Push those reporters back! Don’t let them near the suicide notes! Keep them away, damn it! Move the bodies, quickly! The reporters here are like sharks after blood. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Yes, sir.”

Uncle Mason moved to a body with a white sheet draped over it, and he gestured for Karon and Alfred to help him. Karon stared at the corpse. His mind went blank.

‘Thank you, madam.’ Hehe. Madam! Did you hear that? He called you madam!

Poisoned.

Make sure you eat your fill. Don’t be shy.

Hanged.

They seemed to suit your taste. Take these home to let your family try them too.

I massage my dad’s leg every day.”

Jumped.

Memories swept over Karon. The glance in the rearview mirror at that family standing by the curb, waving him off.

How could this happen?

Could it really be? They had been poor, but they had always faced life with courage, striving on, cheerful even in their hardship. He could not believe they would choose to die.

No. It can’t be.

Mason called again. “Alf, help me lift him. Karon, hold the gurney.”

Mason and Alfred got the corpse into position, but as they set it down, the wheels slipped. Karon reached out to steady the gurney, only for his foot to end up in a puddle. He slipped, and nearly fell. At the last moment, a hand from someone behind caught him.

Karon’s slip pulled the white shroud off of the corpse, exposing an empty shirt sleeve. He stared at it. The dead man was missing an arm. Shouldn’t it be a leg?

Behind him, a voice spoke, soft but strained, “Mr. Karon, please stand up. My crutch won’t hold much longer.”

1. Alfred’s name contains five syllables in the local spoken form, which makes it cumbersome in everyday use. Long names are commonly shortened to a single clipped syllable for convenience. ☜