novelraw Chapter 175: A Ghost from Home?
Chapter 175: A Ghost from Home?
Several days before Lin Jie's Baker Street apartment in London was shrouded by the uninvited guest and the shadow of the ancient Egyptian "cursed diamond" he brought...
A slow Great Western Railway Company train, spewing white steam, was crawling through the vast, tranquil pastoral scenery of southwestern England.
The clackety-clack of the train carried a lullaby rhythm, both sleep-inducing and orderly.
Outside the window were rolling hills, washed emerald green by rain, with vast pastures spreading out like a green carpet.
Flocks of sheep grazed leisurely on the grass, like marshmallows scattered across the carpet. Occasionally, the spire of an ancient grey stone village church would peek out from behind dense woods.
This added a medieval solemnity and sacredness to the peaceful landscape.
This was Devon.
A paradise seemingly forgotten by time, far from the industrial clamor and political intrigues of London.
William sat quietly by the window in the third-class carriage of this slow train. He did not wear the joyful, homeward-bound expression of other returning travelers.
He simply pulled the brim of his faded, coarse tweed cap a little lower and silently watched the familiar scenery of his hometown, which he had not seen for nearly a year.He carried no weapons. The Winchester had "sacrificed" itself during the Germany trip to save the team, and the new rifle now lay quietly on the operating table of the Fourth Equipment Laboratory in the Underground City, awaiting assembly by that genius craftsman, Arthur.
The hunting jacket stained with gunpowder and monster blood had long been taken off, replaced by a set of country farmer's casual clothes he had specifically purchased at a London second-hand shop.
At this moment, he no longer looked like the I.A.R.C. Level 4 Investigator who could stroll casually through danger, nor that coldly reliable team Guardian.
He was just an ordinary, taciturn middle-aged man returning home to visit family.
Only he himself knew, however, that beneath this mundane Surface World disguise, his hunter's heart had never relaxed for a single second.
His muscles still maintained the relaxed readiness to unleash a fatal attack at any moment, and his senses remained alert, capturing the breath, heartbeat, and scent of every passenger in the carriage.
This was an instinct etched deep into his bone marrow, impossible to erase.
The train finally came to a stop at a simple rural station. William picked up his half-worn canvas travel bag containing only a few changes of clothes and stepped off the train with the sparse trickle of passengers.
He did not take the hackney carriage waiting at the station entrance to solicit business. Instead, he silently walked along the muddy path his feet had measured thousands of times, slowly heading towards home.
His home was located in a village about three miles from the station, a cottage surrounded by his now somewhat neglected small farm.
When he caught sight of his familiar chimney at the far end of the country lane, a touch of human warmth surfaced from deep within his eyes.
At that moment, a slightly plump, golden-haired young woman wearing a floral apron, her features strikingly similar to William's, walked out of the stone cottage carrying a basin of freshly washed laundry.
She looked up and saw the familiar figure standing at the end of the lane, quietly watching.
The wooden basin in the woman's hands clattered to the ground.
Her grey eyes, identical to William's, were instantly filled with surprise, a hint of reproach, and a thick mist of longing.
"Dad...?"
Her voice held disbelief.
William did not answer. He simply nodded silently at his daughter, Anna Keen, and then offered a somewhat clumsy, apologetic smile.
...
That evening's dinner proceeded in a strangely quiet yet warmly familial atmosphere.
William's daughter Anna had also inherited her father's taciturn nature, but she knew how to express her longing and love through actions.
She had prepared for her father the most sumptuous, authentic Devon dinner: a lamb pie with a crispy, flaky crust and tender filling, mashed potatoes smothered in rich gravy, scones layered with fresh cream and jam, and a pot of apple cider she had brewed herself.
William ate with a startling appetite, clearing every bit of food from the table.
He wasn't truly hungry. He was simply responding to his daughter's weighty love in the most fundamental way.
Meanwhile, William's little grandson, a golden-haired boy named "Tommy," had been stealing curious, slightly fearful glances at this legendary grandfather with his big blue eyes since the start of the meal.
He had heard from his mother that his grandfather was an "explorer" who traveled constantly and a "hero" who had been to many faraway places.
But this man, silent as stone before him, was completely different from the heroic figures in storybooks, who were always laughing, talking, and full of legendary flair.
"Tommy," William spoke to his somewhat shy little grandson after dinner, while Anna was clearing the dishes. "Come here."
His voice had shed the icy killing intent of the battlefield, gaining a touch of gentleness.
Little Tommy hesitated, then finally mustered his courage and shuffled over to William.
William pulled from his pocket a piece of hard oak he had casually picked up on the journey and a sharp pocket knife.
Then, under the dim light of the kerosene lamp, he began whittling a wooden toy for his grandson.
Wood shavings fluttered down like snowflakes from between his fingers. Under his knife, the lifeless block of wood gradually took the shape of an eagle, wings spread as if about to take flight.
Little Tommy's blue eyes grew wider and wider. The fear in them vanished.
"Dad," Anna's voice came softly from behind William. "Not even the carpenters in town can carve an eagle as fine as yours."
Her voice held a faint trace of pride.
William did not look back, focused entirely on what was, at that moment, the "most important work in the world."
"I've seen real African fish eagles in South Africa. That's how they fly."
Anna fell silent for a moment.
Then she brought over a small stool and sat down beside William, beginning to chatter to her father about the village gossip and happenings of the past year, just like she did when she was a child.
She talked about the Baker couple at the village entrance, whose eldest son had finally found a respectable job as a dockyard clerk in London.
She talked about the old pastor at the church, who always wore a stern face. Last month, he broke his leg falling down the stairs after being caught secretly drinking the communion wine.
William listened quietly.
He rarely interjected, only occasionally emitting a low "hmm" from his throat to show he was listening.
The knife in his hand continued to whittle steadily.
For someone who had just returned from a place of anomalies, these seemingly mundane, trivial daily matters were a more effective healing balm than any alchemical potion in the world.
However, just as Anna was talking about the most recent news in town...
William's hand, which had been carving the eagle's wing feathers, suddenly stopped.
"...Oh, right, Dad. A group of very strange merchants came to town recently."
Anna's tone held confusion and bewilderment. "They drive these big trucks that don't need coal, powered by something called an 'internal combustion engine,' they say. They've been going around to the farmers in the area, peddling a new type of farming tool they call a 'fully automatic combine harvester.'"
"Old man Hanson told me that machine is terrifyingly efficient. One man can harvest in a day what used to take ten men a whole week. And the strangest thing is, their selling price is incredibly cheap. So cheap it's almost like they're giving it away."
William's brow furrowed slightly. Beneath any display of generosity, there was often some hidden scheme.
"But," Anna's tone grew even more perplexed, "ever since those merchants arrived, several pieces of very unlucky, strange business have happened in town, one after another."
"Old man Hanson's brand-new 'Lance' brand steam tractor, which he spent a fortune buying from Birmingham, had its gearbox gears suddenly jam while plowing last week. Couldn't be fixed no matter what."
"And old John, the steam valve on his trusty old machine, which he's used for over a decade, inexplicably cracked the day before yesterday. Nearly scalded him."
"In just two short weeks, four or five farmers in our little village have had their tractors break down due to all sorts of bizarre accidents."
"Now everyone in town is talking, saying our area might be cursed by some unclean ghost."
Anna was just treating this as an after-dinner country tale of the strange.
But a cold glint flashed in William's eyes.
This was definitely not an accident. Nor was it some intangible ghost.