Easternport Vol. 1, First Edition

Mikkel's Epilogue: The Funeral

Mikkel

Half the city came out for Dr. Gore's funeral two days after the eruption in the South End. Miles and Piper started the preparations, but when Steven found out that they were planning the funeral, he wanted to help, and the next thing I knew, a whole flock of police officers and medical personnel were in our house planning a massive funeral--buying flower arrangements, sending out invitations, drawing sketches for tombstone ideas, calling the news station to make a city-wide announcement...

You would have thought it was a national holiday. The tombstone they ordered turned out to be more of a monument, standing 10 feet tall in the city cemetery and covered in fresh flowers and cards from everyone who attended the burial. And after he was in the ground, each person present left a small, white stone on his grave, creating a mountain of pebbles that reminded me suspiciously of the rubble of our city.

It was a nice funeral. I mean, as far as funerals go. Miles stood in the center of it all, surrounded by Townies, mostly the nursing staff of Dr. Gore, who drowned out Cory, nudging her to the wayside to hug him and hold onto him like he was their son. It was the most physical touching I'd ever seen him take, and he took it all like he wasn't even living in his own body anymore.

Piper stood beside him and received a few shoulder hugs and sympathetic looks, but even at the funeral for his mentor, after suffering through the capture and torture by his side, Piper was out of place. Something told me he was out of place even in his own home. A black sheep no matter what. And now that Dr. Gore was gone, he had lost even that small thread of belonging.

We held the reception at Rea Estate in the great room, which the Midtown Station group had spent God-knows how long cleaning up. All that was needed was a fresh coat of gloss on everything and the whole place would look like new. Not a spot of dirt, or a root of weed could be found in any crevice from the floor to the fifteen meter high ceilings.

Long garlands of white lace flared out from the center of the ceiling to the decorative molding that ran the perimeter of the room, and colorful, though small, bouquets of flowers were scattered in various places in an attempt to brighten up the stonework and add warmth to an otherwise dreary atmosphere.

All who attended the funeral were invited to the reception, but the crowd thinned considerably. Some gave the excuse of the long walk up a steep hill. Others were more direct about their reservations toward the house and whatever might be lurking inside it. And some didn't bother to give any kind of excuse. They just didn't come.

Lial and Roah offered to host the event, dressing themselves up in their best clothing, which had certainly seen better days. But this was Easternport. Everyone's clothing was a little frayed around the edges, faded, and out of shape. And everyone there were refugees--from war, destruction, or gang life. Even Piper was a refugee from a life of uselessness.

And so was Don, for that matter. Don, the scrawny shadow of a man who sat uncomfortably in the corner eating from a small plate on his lap and looking around at every person, but knowing no one, not even himself.

The two of them were desperate people, lost without a purpose, a mentor, or a direction to follow.

They needed me.

And then there was Joel--the young man who unwittingly made himself an enemy of the state by publishing a story of hope and love. I hadn't had the pleasure of meeting him until that funeral reception. He was a warm, friendly man, much brighter than the flowers in the room. He showed his respect for the somber mood of the affair by speaking in low tones and keeping a serious face, but his words were always upbeat, curious, and gently probing for the details needed in his next story. I admired his tactics. He was astute, but hadn't yet learned anything about indigo children. Nor did he know me.

But there was one more player in all of this--one who would begrudgingly become an integral part of the story of Easternport, the selfish little brat that I have the chore of calling my cousin: Poldi.