To the Elusive End - Chapter 1

A stranger appears at the funeral of James's father, to learn a story beyond all belief.

To the Elusive End
By Daniel A.J. Barker

Chapter 1


Death is mandatory. Dying again was a choice, a choice Thomas Hartwell was doomed to forget. And forget he had, on that crisp November morning. For his casket lay beneath the steeples of St. Helen’s.

One man stood alone amidst a sea of empty pews, his attention fixed on the wooden box as tears pooled from his heart.

Through the rafters, an echoing silence lingered until a feathered silhouette appeared in the frosted glass at the back of the church. A crow, James thought. Its caw confirmed it, a sound that pierced the stillness, amplified by the cold stone walls. The bird moved with curiosity, drawn by the glow of candles surrounding the coffin.

James thought back to spring days spent birdwatching with his father. Together, they camped by a babbling brook, the air thick with the rawness of silver-birch bark kindling their fire. He could still taste the black tea, boiled over open flames. His father had a way of making him feel like the only person who mattered, as though every moment together held meaning. Yet, there were times when his father stared out solemnly, as if peering into a great abyss.

Those stares seemed impenetrable until nature pulled him back. Even the cackle of a magpie could break the spell.

"Look, son," his father would whisper. "See those fanned tail feathers? That’s a crow—the only bird that holds funerals. We’re not the only ones who feel loss."

How fitting, thought James as he gazed at the crow behind the glass. Its visit felt comforting—almost as if it had been scheduled to appear. The bird bobbed up and down, perched precariously on a fragile branch. After a few moments, it returned to flight, giving one last caw before vanishing from sight.

A soft voice called from the aisle.

"James…"

The sudden sound jolted him. He turned to see a woman in flowing white robes. Her mahogany skin glowed softly, her jet-black hair flowing like fresh silk. She shone a comforting smile as she reached for his hand.

"I am so sorry for your loss," she said gently. "How is Grace doing?"

James accepted the woman’s kind gesture, his grip gentle in return. Her question lodged a lump in his throat.

"She’s doing famously, thank you. The bump is getting bigger every day."

This answer made her smile. He glanced at the robes and asked, "Did he ask you to conduct the service?"

The woman nodded dutifully. "Your father kept saying, since my family arrived here, ‘Dawn dear,’ he’d say, ‘one day, I’ll have a job for you.’ Thomas was always a man of his word and saw people for who they are."

Looking around at the empty seats surrounding them both, James posed the question, "Is that because of the village?" He turned to peer over the rows stretching out behind them, not another soul in attendance.

"No, sweet child," Dawn interrupted. "Down that hill, they’re good people who treat us kindly, and it’s been that way ever since Thomas welcomed us here."

"This isn’t like him. Why wouldn’t he want everyone who loved him to be here?" James said, his voice weighted with confusion. "We spent all that time together, yet I know there was still so much more to learn. With him, though… you could never learn enough."

"Sometimes, the very things that shape us can almost break us. And in those moments… we bear that weight alone, so others don’t have to." Dawn’s voice was steady, but there was a knowing sadness behind her words. "Do not be troubled. Father Morris will hold a service later for the community. Your father made… specific wishes for this service."

"How specific exactly?"

Dawn hesitated, her expression conflicted. Before she could respond, the lever of the church door clunked, followed by the groaning creak of the age-old doors. Light flooded into the sanctuary as a figure limped down the aisle towards them, the doors slowly closing behind him. His walking stick clicked: click-click, click-click, echoing through the silent church.

The stranger was an elderly man dressed in a faded military uniform, no medals adorning his breast. His shoulders stooped slightly, and his face was carved with deep lines.

Dawn raised a hand to pause James and moved to greet the elder. As she approached, she noticed a pocket watch in his other hand, the brass casing heavily scored with chalky white scratches. His cotton eyebrows drew together in a frown.
"Oh, only a couple left, we must make haste. Would you mind leading on, my dear?"

The stranger hooked Dawn’s arm and made his way to the pew. She guided him carefully over the raised wooden step and proceeded to the front of the coffin. The man accepted James’s hand for support, settling beside him with an audible sigh.

After rummaging in his pockets for a spell, the elder presented a metal poppy to James.

"Here," he said. "This is for you, a gift of the departed."

James took the poppy carefully, its crimson petals shimmering in the candlelight. Why give me this now? What are you trying to tell me? his mind echoed.

"I always knew my father served in the war," James began. "It was a side of him he would never share."

"I served alongside him," replied the old man, his voice low and clear. His eyes, however, never met James’s. "Believe me, those are memories you never want to talk about."

James opened his mouth to press further, but the man raised a hand, his lined face tightening with a restrained grimace.

"The truth is, lad, some things aren’t for the living to carry. Not yet at the very least."

He glanced at his pocket watch, the final seconds counting down to eleven. When the hour finally struck, the church bells bellowed a haunting sound. The elder bowed his head as the tolls struck, his lips moving soundlessly. Yet James kept his gaze fixed on the peculiar man. Why him? Who was he? The questions looped in his mind.

When the eleventh toll fell silent, the doors creaked open. A troop of soldiers marched inside, their uniforms varying across nations and eras. Each one pristinely pressed, with copious medals swaying with every stride. They moved in perfect formation, their faces sombre and expressionless.

The soldiers surrounded the coffin, lifted it smoothly, and carried it towards the open doors. Dawn led them ahead, her white robes billowing softly as she moved.

James watched them go, his body rigid as stone, his eyes unblinking. The stranger stood and gestured for him to follow.

"It’s time," the man said quietly.

As they proceeded down the marble aisle, the soldiers' marches faded into the distance, leaving only their own discordant footsteps echoing through the silence. James’s breath grew heavier, deep exhalations breaking the rhythm of the tears falling at his feet.

Outside, the air was sharp and cold, frost clinging to the grass beneath their feet. The soldiers had reached the far end of the graveyard, their movements deliberate and silent. The polished casket gleamed beneath the piercing pale rays of the overcast sky.

"Where are they taking him?" James asked, his voice trembling.

"To the place where all soldiers find rest," replied the man, his voice steady but distant. After a pause, the elder turned, a glow of warmth rising to his cheeks. "It always is. Do not be afraid. You won’t be going over alone."

James swallowed hard before stepping forward.

"Thank you," he croaked. "Pardon me for being rude, but we haven’t been properly introduced."

"Ernest Beck," the man replied, clasping James’s hand firmly. "I am an old friend of Thomas… We served together."

"That’s right," Ernest motioned his hand in the direction of the pallbearers for the two to resume their walk. He reached into his pocket once more to present a faded black and white photo to James. A deep crease ran across the centre. It depicted a man holding an infant at an office.

The child has a firm grasp on the man’s thumb and both are exchanging a look of hysterics.

"That’s my father, and that has to be me, oh wow. Look at how happy we are here." A lump built up in James’s throat. "You’ve kept hold of this?"

"Kept it dear, boy? Who do you think took the picture?" Ernest ran his finger over the desk in the photograph. "That’s taken at my office. Where we must go after laying our dear Thomas to rest."

"I don’t know how to say goodbye."

"No one ever does. And over the years I’ve learned, where words fail us, actions can speak on our behalf. You won’t be alone, we’re going over together." A twitch flickered in Ernest’s eye; he took a hard swallow and waved James to continue walking.

Keeping a step short of his elder, James maintained a similar pace. In the distance, the bleating of sheep broke the rhythmic sound of their disjointed steps towards Thomas’s final resting place, situated on a small mound.

James’s heart began to race. He glanced at the soldiers who stood in formation around the coffin. Their faces stern and unwavering. A gravestone stood, draped in the Union Jack flag, its usual colours changed to black and white. Looking back, another flag caught the corner of his eye, a German flag stitched into the jackets of one of the pallbearers. This made acid build up into his throat, and yet he then could see an uneasiness about this particular soldier. T

he only one among them to shift attention ahead, like the others, and occasionally a flicker to the side.

"Why is…?" James muttered towards Ernest, who stayed in a solemn position beside him.

Before the question could be interpreted, Dawn approached, her robes fluttering with the morning gales. Ever so gently, she clutched James’s hands. The soft warmth helped him to suppress his own tears, while he saw them build up in her own ducts. Neither spoke a word, for James, his mind drew a blank. With a slow nod, she released her grip, and returned to the head of Thomas’s plot. By this time, the heat in their hands was replaced with a cold emptiness.

A golden glow broke through the clouds. Its rays cast a spotlight.

Ernest couldn’t help but smile. "Ah, you’re still watching, aren’t you?" he whispered to himself. With a deep breath, he put all his strength into his walking stick, standing proudly and gave a salute to the soldiers on the opposite side. This posture he held until his left hand began to buckle. His wrist felt almost as if turned to jelly, and he managed to catch himself from falling forward. He could see James about to reach out to catch him. "You raised a good lad," he thought to himself.

Undeterred by this, one soldier took position by the headstone, behind Dawn. Carefully, they removed the flag and gradually fed it through their hands to the rest, so they could attach it to the roof of the coffin. Once applied, they remained on guard, while the others lowered Thomas into the plot. James could hear the thick rope gliding between their pristine white gloves. His heart ached with dull pain. With each foot descended, a memory flashed in mind.

James recalled picking strawberries with his father in Somerset during the hot summer days, their adventures through the mysterious caves of Cornwall, learning to ride a bike through Sherwood forest, fishing the crystal streams in Cumbria, to standing at a loss for words before the Roman Colosseum and at the last foot, when after every childish nightmare, the silhouette of him would appear at his bedroom door, waiting to comfort him whenever he needed it.

The coffin descended to a final soft thud. Only Ernest’s clearing of his throat filled a cold silence. Withdrawing from the graveside, each soldier took formation into single file, to give a salute, all except the one stationed by the headstone. Holding position for a few seconds, they began to march. This left the remaining soldiers to stand at the head of the plot, issued a sharp salute and joined their comrades on their journey down the path to exit the ongoing service.

Dawn took the position of the last soldier, and revealed a bible from beneath her robes.

She navigated through the pages and began "In the book of John, page fourteen, verse twenty-seven. Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." A lump formed into her throat, instead of clearing it, she gave a deep gulp to help delay the tears in her eyes. "Soldier, on behalf of the almighty, at ease. Your duty was served, rest earned and peace deserved. May God give joy to this soul beyond this mortal life, and into paradise where they belong in your divine grace."

"Ah-amen," Ernest stuttered, rolling his eyes at his butchered execution. Dawn glanced with a warm smile, the fluid in her eyes reflecting off the morning rays, soothing her glazed cheekbones. She cupped a handful of dirt by the graveside and slowly filtered it through her clenched palm onto the oak lid below. When the last speck had found its place six feet down, her shimmering lips voiced "thank you", the words struck a pained expression as she circumvented around the graveside and in a cracked voice told James, "I’m so sorry," as she departed to the pathside, unable to control the flood of sorrow that overcame her.

Dawn’s departure triggered the soldiers to give a joint salute, as they too made their way towards the path, leaving James and Ernest side by side. It was then James’s eyes wandered through hazy vision and glanced upon the headstone. The words written made his heart miss a distinct beat, for it read; ‘Here Lies Private Elias Thorne, Died October 11th 1953’.