13 Mink Street

Chapter 22: Laughter

Mrs. Hughes was dead. Or rather, she was simply gone, vanished without a trace.

Karon had escaped immediate danger, and yet he felt no relief at all. A man knelt before him, and beside that man was a woman, if she could even be called that. The two of them alone brought him an immense, suffocating pressure.

Karon knew there had to be a misunderstanding. He also knew that he could not explain it. He had just watched them deal with Mrs. Hughes. If they wanted him gone, it would be even easier.

At moments like this, he could only be grateful for what he had once done for a living, as well as for everything he had stumbled into since waking in his new life. His nerves had been tempered. As long as it did not touch the instant where life and death truly met, his composure would hold.

That edge had a clear definition. When Mrs. Hughes had raised her knife, Karon had been terrified beyond words. Still, he had been better off than those who only broke down once the coffin was closed. Right until that final second, he was at least able to force out a smile.

What made things awkward at the moment was that the two simply knelt before him, saying nothing at all, and Karon did not know what to say. He had almost no room to say anything. If he said the wrong thing, he would be silenced forever.

At your command. Karon replayed the words the man in the red suit had spoken earlier. Had they mistaken him for someone else?

No. That did not fit. Whether it had been the “Karon” from before or the one he had become, neither version was worthy of having these two kneel to him.

That meant that it was not his identity they had mistaken, it was his strength.

When facing something complicated, he had learned to reduce it to something simple. They believed him to be some great existence. He did not know why, but he had no choice except to keep acting “great.”

The problem was, what was he supposed to do, exactly?

Karon wanted to go home. He missed Tiz’s study so badly it almost hurt.

Then, with a jolt, he remembered: Tiz was not home tonight.

Alfred and Ms. Molly remained kneeling. Time dragged on. At last, they heard a voice from the “great being” before them.

It was Karon’s.

“I’m tired.”

Alfred lowered his head even further. Ms. Molly did the same. Karon rose from the bed, slowly. His legs still felt weak.

Alfred shifted while remaining on his knee, moving aside to clear a path. It was as if he was making room for a king to pass by.

Step by step, Karon moved forward. A reckless impulse flared in him to bolt from the bedroom door, race down the stairs, burst through the foyer, sprint to the courtyard gate, dive into the red Caymon, and floor the pedal until he escaped the world.

Instead, he looked at the glass beneath the window. It had been shattered so neatly, as if cut. He remembered the way the man in the red suit had entered the bedroom. Even if Karon was given two more legs, he still would not be able to outrun such speed.

Still, since he had already moved from the bed, he could not very well turn around and sit back down as though nothing had happened.

In the end, he stepped to the pile of Mrs. Hughes’s clothing, bent down, and gathered it up. They were just clothes, yet also, in a way, her only remains. Truthfully, Karon had a generally good impression of Mrs. Hughes. Most of the time, she had been herself. Only when pursuing her “art” had she turned into something else.

He did not permit himself to sink into grief. Holding her clothes in his arms, he looked through the window at the moon. “The moonlight is gentle tonight.”

Alfred and Ms. Molly remained bowed.

Karon steadied his breathing and walked closer to the window, moving slowly. His soles scraped against the broken glass with a faint, unpleasant rasp. He lifted his head, pretending to simply be absorbed by the night.

Behind him came a soft scrape as Alfred and Ms. Molly shifted the direction they faced. Instead of kneeling toward the bed, they now knelt toward the window.

Say something, Karon thought. If you just kneel there in silence, how am I supposed to know what I’m meant to play?

His hand, still clutching the bundle of clothing, brushed against something small and rigid. A cigarette case.

At that moment, a thought arose within him. It was so ridiculous he almost wanted to slap himself: If his act slipped in another second and he was about to be swallowed, why not smoke one more cigarette first?

Then his mind screamed at him, What the hell am I thinking?

Even so, muscle memory took over. He opened the case. Honey cigarettes, thin ones meant for women.

He upended the pack into his palm, tapped twice, and let one slide halfway out. He pinched it free and knocked it on the back of his hand; once, then again. He raised it and placed it between his lips, then reached for a lighter with a purple rose printed on its casing.

His face tilted downward as he flicked the lighter. A flame sprang to life with a soft snap.

After lighting the cigarette, he flicked the lighter shut with a practiced motion and then drew in a breath. He then toyed with the cigarette between his fingers while exhaling a clean ring of smoke. It was a routine only an old smoker might possess. Every smoker had their own small idiosyncrasies, yet the essence remained the same.

For a moment, he felt as if invisible music swelled around him. It did not matter what you were or where you stood, on a construction site, in a station’s smoking corner, or, like him, under the watch of two “ghosts,” once you performed the ritual, at least for that instant, you became detached. You looked at the world with a depth that felt almost unreal.

A thin haze of smoke drifted across the room. Alfred still knelt. Ms. Molly still knelt.

Karon let out a faint sound, “Heh.”

Alfred’s body trembled. He nearly raised his head, but forcibly stopped himself. Karon pursed his lips, withdrew another cigarette, and with a hand that he forced to not shake, held it out to Alfred. “Want one?”

For a moment, Alfred looked as if he did not understand. He hesitated, then gathered his courage and slowly raised his head. He saw the “great being” standing in front of the window, holding out a cigarette. Moonlight fell over the figure’s shoulder, placing a pale edge atop him. It looked almost like a halo.

Karon lifted his brows slightly. “Mm?”

“I...” Alfred carefully rose and walked forward, as if approaching something sacred. He accepted the cigarette and put it between his lips.

Click. Karon sparked the lighter.

Alfred trembled. The apostle was lighting a cigarette for him. Cigarettes and wine carried the same sort of poison, the same old rituals of deference and offering. When the one above did it, the one below would be moved nearly against their will.

Alfred leaned closer to allow his cigarette to be lit. Inhaling, he subtly turned away, careful to avoid having his smoke drift towards Karon.

Good. He smoked. Karon took out a third cigarette and looked at Ms. Molly. “And you?”

What the fuck am I doing?!

Ms. Molly rose. She walked forward with a faint, uncertain clack as her red heels tapped a strangely pleasant rhythm on the floor.

She has no hands. But! She has a face! Karon brought the filter to her mouth. She leaned forward, opening her lips, and took it between her teeth.

He lit it for her, and Ms. Molly began to smoke.

No sane painter could have ever composed such an image, and yet Karon watched it happen.

He was still terrified, but the sheer absurdity of the scene struck something in him. It hit a point so strange, so wrong, that it circled back into something almost laughable. Hold it in, hold it in!

He held it in. To keep his expression from breaking, he turned toward the window.

Alfred and Ms. Molly followed, shifting with him so that all three of them were facing the moon, cigarettes in their mouths. Karon thought, What kind of grotesque tableau is this?

His cheeks ached from restraining his laughter. He tried to distract himself with a drag. He inhaled.

And then laughter burst out of him like a dam breaking.

“Ha, ha, ha... cough... ha, ha...” He choked, and started coughing violently, yet was still unable to stop the laughter. Tears spilled from his eyes. He laughed until he thought he had lost his mind. He laughed until he was sure he had ruined everything. I’m done for.

He slapped his palm against the windowsill in regret, still laughing, still coughing. Stop! Stop it. Pull yourself together.

Alfred stared, stunned. Ms. Molly was also staring. The “great being” was laughing wildly, showing no restraint at all. He was laughing with pure, reckless abandon.

Then, Alfred began to laugh as well. It started small, then grew louder, as if he were trying to match Karon’s rhythm.

Ms. Molly saw that Karon was laughing. She saw that Alfred was laughing. She laughed too, joining in as though that was the correct response.

Karon had almost managed to rein himself in, but then he heard their laughter behind him and he cracked yet again. What the hell are you laughing for?

Unfortunately, he turned his head at the wrong moment. Ms. Molly’s cigarette fell from her mouth. She had no hands to catch it.

That finished him.

Karon laughed until his face was wet with tears. Alfred could not stop, either. Ms. Molly’s volume rose, perhaps to hide her awkwardness, perhaps because she no longer had anything else to do.

Laughter is contagious. Even if it makes no sense, once someone near you starts laughing, your body will betray you.

Karon did not know how long it lasted. He only knew it ended when he could barely breathe, his limbs were weak, and his lungs burned.

Then, at last, Ms. Molly spoke in a quiet, almost drifting voice, “I haven’t laughed in a long time. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.”

Finally, she was talking. Karon immediately straightened. Old habits resurfaced, and the familiar tone he used when guiding patients appeared. “Sometimes, letting go of an obsession is the only way to reclaim what you truly want.”

Ms. Molly’s legs trembled. She sank back down to her knees. “Thank you for your guidance. I will remember your teaching.”

At that moment, Alfred spoke, “The Inquisitor of the Church of Order has arrived.”

Inquisitor. Church of Order. Karon stared out the window in confusion.

On the road outside the courtyard gate stood a familiar figure: Tiz.

Beside him was something small. It was hard to make out in the dark, but the eyes gleamed amber: Pu’er.

For an instant, Karon almost shouted, Grandpa, save me!

He measured the distance and forced the thought down. The two in the room with him were too close, and Tiz was too far.

Even so, the sight of the old man granted Karon a deep, instinctive sense of safety. He stood at the window and calmly declared, “I live in his house.”

Alfred’s eyes lit up. “Is the Inquisitor your retainer?”

“He is my grandfather by blood.” He swore to himself it was the plain truth, without the slightest bit of embellishment. Beneath those red eyes’ gaze, he did not dare lie. He had a feeling this man was extremely sensitive, and would know if anyone lied to his face.

Grandfather by blood. So that’s it. The “great being” before them was a god who had descended into the world, borrowing a human body, been conceived, born, raised, and grown, and was now walking the path of founding a faith.

Everything fell into place.

His strange language. His hymn.

A god did not need to be formed.

He did not need to be built.

He simply was.

Alfred dropped back to his knees, fear and reverence flooding through him at once. “Please forgive my presumption. I disturbed your path from greatness to light.”

“Your sins are forgiven.”

“Thank you for your mercy.” Alfred did not rise. He gathered his resolve and spoke, voice taut with desperation, “I wish to follow you. I will be your falcon, your mule, your most loyal servant, and your greatest glory.”

Ms. Molly spoke as well, “I will be your legs, if only to witness your great road.”

Karon blinked. He had no idea how to respond. All he could do was glance back down at his grandfather outside and offer a strained, helpless smile.

***

At the gate to 128 Mink Street stood Tiz and Poelle, both looking up at the second-floor window.

Poelle spoke in a low voice, “You regret it now, don’t you, Tiz? That absolutely forbidden ritual summoned a truly terrifying demonkin. Before, your eyes were deceived by his appearance. Your heart was clouded by family ties.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Look: he has already subdued two demonkin.

“And look again! His wings have grown. He’s smiling at you; openly provoking you.”