Chapter twenty-four: Wishu island

Trigger warnings for those who need them

Grief, death and religious imagery, decapitation

It’s the day of the funeral.
I changed clothes about a dozen times. Hoping to nail that balance between neat and proper but not vain.
You must be well-groomed but you cannot stand out.
I wonder if the pants are an issue.
Then remind myself I never bought any dress skirts and all the shimou I used to have I passed on to Hamala.
So it’s pants or nothing.
I powder the silver buttons on my pants and jacket to take away their lustre for the day.
This should suffice right?
I’ve never been to a funeral before.
The closest I ever got was a memorial service father took me to. Honouring the men and women who gave their lives to gift their bosses a new plaything and a bunch of natural resources they were not entitled to. And all I got to do was sit next to father and keep my mouth shut while big men in uniforms kept droning on about ‘the cause’. As if the ‘the cause’ was a noble goal, rather than the subjugation of a nation driven by greed, the lust for power and general disdain for the original population.
Needless to say the experience didn’t teach me much about the proper conduct for attending a funeral.
Instead, I’ve been looking at manuals for guidance but they all involve the death of a relative or friend. Telling me to make little gifts for the burial ‘based around your favourite memories’.
I didn’t know Donna.
I saw her on stage for roughly an hour and then she was dead.
I know I did my best at solving her murder…but I still don’t feel like I really earned the right to attend.
If George didn’t invite me, I’m not sure if I even dared to go.
I’m glad he did.
Because I do want to investigate the claims in the letter ‘a friend’ sent me.
I already have suspicions on who wrote it. I think I know who they are referring to.
I just hope I can make sure the right people are in the right places at the end of the day.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to be there?” Dana asks as we make our way to the door.
I nod. “I don’t want to draw any more attention than necessary. Besides only Hamala and I got invited.” That’s all true right? Of course, no one would be offended if the audience member who jumped onto the stage in an attempt to save Donna’s life turned up at her funeral. But if I’m completely honest, I fear I just can’t focus while she’s around at the moment.
Dana pulls up an eyebrow “But you’re taking Xuiyo as well?”
Xuiyo shrugs. “I wasn’t planning on being visible. Just making sure our detective doesn’t run into trouble, again.” He looks at me meaningfully.
Dana looks from Xuiyo to me, then seemingly decides she doesn’t want to know. “All right. Well, I won’t tell you kids to have fun, because that sounds very unfitting for a funeral but I do hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Thank you Dana”
“And stay safe.” She adds sternly.
“We will.”

It’s still early morning when we arrive at the misty banks on the East-side of the island.
The pale and gaunt-looking boats are waiting for us. They have a low step in the middle but a high tail and head, each ending in a curl. The curl at the head of the boat holds a single candle lantern to light the way. Aside from that, the head and tail are entirely symmetrical. Presumably so you wouldn’t have to turn the boat on your way back.
There’s a boatman, standing silently at the tail end of the ferry. He form is draped in long, pale hooded robes. In his hands he holds a wooden pole.
The rolling mists combined with the candle light dotting the dark waters beyond makes an almost ghostly sight.
I shiver.
Stepping onto the boat I feel that same instability I felt on the zipper but a hundred times worse.
I sit down quickly, then nod politely to the skipper in embarrassment. Hamala and Xuiyo sit down with me.
Behind us, a does a couple wearing wreaths of dried flowers on their heads step onto the boat with us.
I nod politely, afraid ‘good morning’ wouldn’t fit the situation.
They don’t nod back.
The skipper pushes the boat off the bank and starts rowing to the island.
The couple holds hands the whole trip through.
Hamala rests her head on Xuiyo’s shoulder and closes her eyes for a bit.
I stare out over the water. Watching as the dots of light converge on that illusive island, blanketed in morning fog.
The further we go out of the city center the quieter it gets.
Until the only sound that’s left of the sound of the pole hitting the water.
I wonder if we’re still within the confines of the city.
We didn’t pass any gate or tunnel as far as I know. But if people could just row up to the city, surely they’d do that rather than go through the hassle we went through to get in?
Maybe the wall is there but far away, so you cannot see it through the mist.
I think that must be it.
My breath jumps as the boat hits shore.

I thank the boatman and wonder if I was supposed to pay for the trip.
Is this one of those tipping situations?
I pull out a copper to give to him.
He shakes his head then pushes the boat off again, rowing back to the other side to pick up more funeral guests.
Hamala pulls up an eyebrow as I put the coin back in my father’s wallet.
“Just something I picked up from my trip to Charalia, but it looks like it’s not a common practice here.”
Stepping onto the shore I find this island is much bigger than I expected.
I’m not sure what I expected.
A crematory, maybe a vault.
But there are trees here, a whole park dotted with tombstones and statues slowly getting taken over by dark green foliage.
The city of Venusia has no room for the living, but plenty for the dead.
The couple who ferried with us strides away over the white-shell road. I’m not quite sure where they’re going but I assume they’re guests as well so we might as well follow them?
I gesture at the couple, Hamala shrugs, Xuiyo already vanished while I wasn’t looking.
We follow.
The shells crack and crumble under my boots.
It’s odd but somehow I feel the sound of it breaks the tension of being here.
Around us, there are small groups of people among the trees or admiring the statues. They talk in hushed tones but I can hear a laugh occasionally.
This is a place of death.
But it doesn’t feel like one, or at least not like the ones I’ve read about in stories.
The haunted and dark places with a full moon casting suspicious shadows among the tombstones. Where the hero needs to count the shadows for the monsters that cast more than one have taken them with force. And those who cast none are hungry.
Very hungry.
I shudder, then try to push that image from my mind as we arrive at a church?
I think it’s a church.
It’s clad in pale-white marble and colourful stained-glass windows but the sigils and statues that sit atop tiny towers and carved into the rock feel eclectic. I think I recognize a heart and star symbol that I’ve seen dangling around mother’s neck before and the incense that wafts from its open door reminds me of the joulao people make for the dear departed back in Jaobai.
“Remarkable.” Hamala says. “It’s a church for all religions.”
“I guess you can’t really pick a side when everybody dies?” I try.
A tiny smile flashes on her lips. “Yes, I guess death is universal.” She then turns to me with a question in her eyes. “I never asked about your religion.”
“Oh, I don’t have one. My father lost his in the war and my mother didn’t want to tell me what to believe. She made it clear if I had questions I should ask her but then I went to Jaobai and never really did.” I explain nonchalantly.
“I see.” Hamala makes a difficult expression I find hard to place “So what about when people die? Where do you think they go?”
“I don’t know…” I never gave it much thought to be honest. “Where do you think they go?”
“I believe they go to the moon.”
“The moon?” I ask flabbergasted.
“Yes, and there’s a garden on the moon, covered with white flowers and clear streams. And there the dead get to drink tea and look down upon the loved ones who are left behind.”
But the moon is just a rock?
We have telescopes to prove that, there are no streams nor flowers.
It’s just a piece of the planet that broke off in formation and got caught in the main body’s gravity.
And yet…
I think I like her version better.
I don’t believe it, I don’t think I ever could but “That’s a really beautiful image.”
My cynicism wouldn’t add anything of value.
“Thank you. Yaye would tell me stories about the garden when I was missing my parents. I’d ask silly things like whether they wouldn’t get bored of drinking the same tea all day and he’d tell me the tea was special and could taste of anything. And it always tasted like the thing you were craving most.” She smiles widely as her eyes cast upward to the sky and her voice fills with melancholy “I wish I could ask him what it’s like up there right now. I could really use his stories on some nights.”
“Do you want a hug?”
She nods.
We embrace.
Her shoulders tremble as she cries.
“Are you sure you want to be here? If you want to go back that’s okay-“
She shakes her head “No, it’s fine. I want to be here for George. I don’t know him very well but I’m honoured he finds me worthy of inviting and if I can help in any way to help him feel not alone. I’d like to be there and try.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

The inside of the church looks even more like a mishmash of religions and symbolism.
The incense I smelled outside turns out to be spices and herbs smouldering on a cast iron dish.
The rows of seats are already filled up despite there being a good half hour until the ceremony truly takes place.
I also notice a divide in the room. On the one hand there are people dressed like me and on the other side there are people dressed in long black robes, hair decorated with flowers both fresh and dry.
We walk down the path leading up to a set of coffins.
Looks like the ceremony is for both Donna and Darren Johnasson.
I guess that makes practical sense.
The bodies got released at the same time.
And they’ve been in evidence for quite some time so you wouldn’t want to wait too long after that.
The coffins are open. Donna is laying peacefully with her eyes and mouth closed, covered head to toe in orange lilies.
It looks serene.
Elegant.
I then look in the coffin of Darren Johnasson and have to stop myself from letting out a scream in shock.
His head-
His head got cut off.
Why did his head get cut off!?
He wasn’t like that when we found him in the dressing room. I can’t imagine any investigatory reason why you’d want to do that…
I look back at the crowd of flower-people. Assuming they are Darren’s friends and family, expecting some sort of outrage, insult perhaps?
But they just talk softly among themselves, waiting for the ceremony to start.
No one minds this but me?
Really!?
They didn’t even try to hide it. In fact they pull attention to it. The cut has been covered with some black substance to stop it from bleeding all over the coffin’s interior and an inch of space is left between both parts as if to prove it got done.
Hamala puts a hand on my arm “George is over here.” she tells me carefully before taking me away from the coffin and back to the side of the room that marginally makes sense.
George is sitting on a chair, away from the benches and people pass by every couple minutes to give him their condolences.
And then they move on again.
“Hello George.”
“Hello, I’m glad you could come.”
“It’s Hamala.”
“I know, I remember your voice.”
“I brought Alice as well.”
“Yes, hello. Oh. My condolences, again.” I shuffle up to the man and bow to him. Only realizing after that was rather silly.
“Thank you.” The man nods politely in my direction. “I was told the coffin is open but I don’t dare to reach in and check, how is she looking?”
“She’s beautiful, they surrounded her with lilies in the same colour as her hair and her expression in very peaceful.” Hamala confirms gently.
“I’m glad to hear that.” He then gets up. “I’d like to go outside, will you come with me? The church people are very friendly but they set me down on this chair and then went to do their work. I fear they may have forgotten about me and I could use some fresh air by now. I’m also curious about what the island is like.”
“Doesn’t the ceremony start soon?”
“What time is it?”
“Nine thirty five.”
He shakes his head. “We should have at least twenty minutes.”
Hamala nods. “Then, that should be fine.” she places her hand on his and then George grabs her arm from there.
We leave the chapel.

“What does it look like here?” George asks.
“Well there are statues.” Hamala explains patiently.
“What of?”
“People with bird wings, various animals and some more… abstract works?”
“Those are Cygnian burial wreathes.” I add recognizing the structures from the memorial service. Although those ones looked a lot more intricate and expensive.
“Can I touch them or would they get mad at me?”
I look at Hamala. “Well, the ivy is already climbing all over some of them. So I don’t think anyone would stop you as long as you’re careful.”
George reaches out to a statue of a dog with a heart shaped box in his paws, gliding his fingertips over the roughened rock and entangling his fingers in the strands of ivy. “Is this a dog?”
“Yes, well felt.” Hamala encourages him kindly.
A smile broadens on his face “The detail is amazing.” He titters in delight “And the ears are so large.”
Hamala smiles “That’s wonderful.”
“What else is here? Besides the statues.”
“Well there are trees…”
“Are there handkerchiefs in them?” He asks dead-seriously and for a brief moment I wonder whether this man thinks handkerchiefs grow on trees.
But then I look closer at the things, I thought were white flowers and lo and behold “There are!” I let out with surprise in my voice. “How did you know?”
“After a funeral, you’re supposed to tie your handkerchief to the branches of the weeping willow as a sign to the dead that their loved ones are crying about them still. Then you must come back to it every year to see if it’s still there, if it’s gone that means the spirits have taken taken the handkerchief away and they want you to stop grieving.”
“Why would the dead want people to stop grieving them?” the question rolls from my lips before I have a chance to stop myself.
“Because some people forget to live when all they do is remember the dead.” George explains.
Behind George I notice Hamala, eyes moist. She dabs her tears on her handkerchief, then without a second thought walks towards the tree and reaches up towards the thin willowy branch before tying it around.
She returns without a word, but George faces her and asks “Are you sad?” Hamala rubs the bridge of her nose, eyes aimed at the sky. “Yes. I- I lost my grandfather not too long ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” he reaches out to her, she grabs his hand and guides it towards her shoulder where it lays reassuringly.“Thank you.”
The stay like that for a while as I keep my eyes on my watch. Telling them. “We should head back.” when the watch hand gets worryingly close to the hour mark.
“All right.” George agrees.
And so we head back to the church for all religions. For a funeral of two people I didn’t know but maybe-
Hopefully, can catch the murderer for.
I just hope I’m correct about Jerebiah and Otto being innocent. And my ‘friend’ is correct about him being somewhere around here.
There’s only one way to find out.