Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 325: Chapter 18 Funeral and Militia

The night before, the young men had dug the grave. It lay in the cemetery of the Wolf Town Church, right next to the resting place of other old Dusacks.

At this moment, those young people who were born and raised here after their parents had settled in the land, were standing behind the grave with shovels, waiting to fill it back in.

A few pine boards and a handful of iron nails made up the old Hunter’s coffin. Winters, Gerard, and two other old Dusacks carried the casket all the way to the graveyard.

They placed the casket next to the grave and stepped aside. There were unexpectedly many people who came to see Ralph off, not just Dusans from Dusa Village, but also villagers from the east and west sides of the river. Even Protestants from Nanxin and Beixin, villages far from the town center, had made the journey to attend the funeral.

It was only when villagers from the other four villages offered their condolences to Bell that Winters learned Ralph, the Hunter, was also a veterinarian, a herbal doctor, and a forest rescuer. All attending villagers from the four other villages had benefited from his services.

The Priest Anthony, dressed in full black ceremonial robes, presided over the ritual himself. Holding the gospel book, he chanted the scripture with great eloquence, leading all those in attendance in prayer, and then recited the Catholic funeral prayer once more.

Having known Ralph for a long time, Winters never thought the respectable Hunter was a Catholic, and neither was his son. The Hunter and his son did not attend Sunday mass, and there were no religious artifacts in their home.

But when the old Hunter was laid to rest, the funeral held was a Catholic one, which left those who knew the situation unsure how to feel.

Priest Anthony finished the prayers and looked around before asking, “Would anyone like to say a few words?”

Just as Gerard was about to speak, Sergei stepped forward from the crowd in front of the casket—and it was too late to stop him.

Gerard Mitchell’s heart immediately jumped to his throat.

After all, disputes and brawls among Dusans were as likely to be caused by strong liquor as they were by this custom of “saying a few words” at a funeral.

Dusans held funerals and the deceased in high reverence, and they certainly did not have a tradition of speaking only well.

With immense respect for death, the mourners at the casket would speak their minds, hiding nothing of their true thoughts.

Such candidness often led to outright shouting matches, followed by hot-tempered Dusacks throwing punches; in some cases, it even escalated to drawing knives, shooting, and consequently, more funerals.

Gerard now feared that Sergei couldn’t help but say something inappropriate, and any argument or injury was the last thing he wanted to see.

“Ralph Pradov, the second son of old Yelmo… there’s no need to introduce him, as you all know who he is.” The proud chest of the Dusan that could be seen no matter where he went was gone, as tears welled up in the old man’s eyes.

Choking back tears, Sergei said, “Yelmonovich was one of our old brothers. Every Dusan of age here had worked as a laborer with him. We stood shoulder to shoulder, fighting against Bumpkins and Northerners, and were sent down south to slay Rebels and fight Herdman. I’ve never seen a better archer than him… The battle at Stony Ford, I can’t say how many Dusacks died there. My horse was stabbed to death, and my thigh had a hole gouged by a Rebel spearman. If Yelmonovich hadn’t carried me on his back, I would have died there too.”

As he spoke, the old man broke down into tears. The villagers from the other villages had complicated expressions on their faces, but many of the old Dusacks were already stealthily wiping away tears.

Ralph, Sergei’s son, ran out to support Sergei, but the old man insisted on finishing his speech, “We old brothers lose one more each time one passes. I regret! I regret not understanding before! Yelmonovich was a true man, a true Dusan. We used to ostracize him, we wouldn’t let him into the village—we were bastards! But he has paid his debts, and whatever happened in the past should now be crossed out. A Dusan’s son should also be a Dusan, Ralphnovich should be a Dusan too. That’s all I have to say! If anyone disagrees, I’ll be waiting at my house for you!”

After “saying a few words,” old Sergei let go of his son’s hand and strode back to his original position. Winters noticed that the other villagers didn’t react much to the old man’s latter words, but the Dusans were clearly very surprised.@@novelbin@@

Perhaps because Sergei’s speech was so impactful, no other Dusans “said a few words,” but several villagers from the other four villages did speak of the old Hunter’s kindness to them and expressed their gratitude.

With this final ceremony completed, the old Hunter’s casket was lowered into the grave. Bell, the young Hunter, tearfully cast the first handful of earth, followed by shovelfuls of soil cascading onto Ralph’s coffin.

The old Hunter’s grave was gradually filled in, and some couldn’t help but cry softly, while Winters too felt profound sorrow.

The left arm of the old Hunter was hastily sewn onto the body. Because the corpse was “far too incomplete,” no lady dared to perform the sewing, and in the end, it fell upon Winters and Caman to do so.

Following the blood trail, the militia that arrived later discovered the already dead adult lion and its cubs in a cave. In addition, they found a half-eaten fresh corpse and… the head of the youngest son of the Rostov family.

There were also some scraps of clothing, but those were of no consequence.

It was clear that a man-eating lion was to blame. That night, Dusa Village was not attacked by one beast, but by two.

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