“The ink of the scholar is holier than the blood of the martyr” Muhammad
It was appropriately quiet in St Paul’s Cathedral. Although no thurible was present, the small side chapel smelled of incense and damp stone. The green of the altar and the bright oranges and blues on the walls belied the somber reverence of the occasion. The priest would arrive soon to begin the funeral rites. A horse neighing from a waiting carriage on the London street outside echoed through the chamber and broke the tension in the air around the couple seated in the front row. The sound momentarily distracted them from the questions that had been on their minds. Were they to blame for their son’s death? Did they blame one another? No, they had both known that they had put their son in harm’s way. Could they have stopped it? Then he’d be alive right now, instead of lying in the casket before them.
They both felt the pain of losing a son, but it seemed secondary to the guilt that they each felt for their own part in their son’s death. It was, in fact, their own doing. They had introduced him into a world which, by its nature, was a dangerous one. Not just that they, as his parents, had birthed him into a dangerous world, no, they had sent their son to be a spy. To be a spy on people who not only had power and influence, but they also had the power to manipulate reality.
Why had they done it? They had told themselves that it would be an opportunity for their son to apprentice under some of the greatest minds of their day. They had justified that what they were doing was for the greater good.
The priest arrived and began the ceremony. But the words went unheard to the parents of the young man who lay dead in a box just inches from the priest standing over him. Tears began streaming from the woman’s cheeks, wetting her dress, though she made no sound. This was her only son, her only child, in fact, and no words from this priest could bring her handsome twenty-six year old baby back.
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Should she tell her husband about the part that she had been playing? No, that would reveal herself. Once, this was just a job, a part that she would play. Now, this was her family, her son in that casket. Maybe, by blowing her cover to her husband, she could make all of this right somehow. It seemed appropriate that here, where she often took the Blessed Sacrament, she could make her son’s death meaningful, just as the death of Christ gave meaning to the Blessed Sacrament.
There were less than three dozen souls who came to witness the funeral, the group was dwarfed by the size of the chapel. It struck the priest as odd, having so few people attend. When someone was important enough to have their funeral at St Paul’s Cathedral, they were usually well known enough to have several hundred people attend. Judging by the look of those in attendance, the priest guessed that the dead boy he was sending back to the Maker must have made some academic contribution that gained him the attention of either the government or perhaps even the crown. The priest was not correct in his guess, but he was not entirely incorrect either.
The boy’s father bore his grief differently, he was filled with a wrath that drove him to rash action. All those years in hiding, protecting his secrets, and staying safe. Those things seemed small and inconsequential now. His son, his Owen! Dead. No, he would act now, secrecy be damned. He could only hope that his dear sweet wife would understand that he had to do this, though he hated the idea of putting her at risk, especially because she had no way of knowing who he was, and what abilities he possessed.
Outside the cathedral the sun had already set long before Owen’s casket left the church. The sound of horseshoes on cobblestone rang out as they carried it to the cemetery.
The Comet de Chéseaux was plainly visible in the night sky, and it would never shine brighter than it did on the night they buried Owen Burton. A scientist would tell you that this was because the comet had reached its perihelion, and would never be closer to the sun. But artists and patriots who knew him would tell you that when the comet’s once singular tail split into six brilliant streaks at the horizon, it was in salute to a boy who became a man and saved his country.
The comet would rise again the next day, so bright that it could easily be seen during daylight hours. The same could not be said for Owen Burton.