They laid Keylor Moss to rest in the Alder Boy’s family plot - a rolling bluff studded with headstones and burr oak that rose over the sea of grass like a rogue wave. The crows still soared above the procession, and they descended to perch among the oak branches as motorcycles and church vehicles stirred up dust in the parking area.

The council joined Erlan and together they lifted the casket onto a cloth-draped platform. The six men stood beside the grave, heads lowered, as the mourners assembled.

Members of the Church of the Universal Branch made up about three-quarters of the crowd, with Alder Boys and their patch-overs filling out most of the rest. The Branch members wore the hand-woven attire they favored when going among outsiders: loose belted trousers and matching shirts died in earthen shades of brown. The simple garb presented a wholesome image, like a crowd of monks out to practice their Tai Chi.

The Branchies gathered in orderly arcs around the casket, crowding back the less organized groups of bikers. After some scuffling that Erlan thought might erupt into a brawl, the Alder Boys and the patch-over clubs opened a wedge for themselves beside the AB council members. Sapphire stood with a crowd of biker’s old ladies just behind the men.

The Ex-wives Club and their children filtered to the front of the Branch members. They were easy to pick out because of their conventional attire - as Branch royalty, they weren’t required to give all their worldly goods to the church.

Keylor Moss had married and divorced three times since leaving Sapphire behind and founding the Church. Among them they had given him four more children, and all three women remained committed members of the Church of the Branch. Erlan realized he’d have to start calling them the Widows Club now.

He nodded to widow number one, Casey Wilson Moss, and her daughter, Neralee, who must be seventeen or eighteen by now. Neralee gave Erlan a flickering, tentative smile. He remembered her as a coltish girl, all gangly legs and arms, but now she was getting close to earning the least flattering nickname the locals had for Branch members: Chubbies.

Beside them stood widow number three, a younger version of Casey - blonde, curvy, with a bouncy walk. Erlan had her name on the tip of his tongue, a two-parter like Lucy May, but that wasn’t it. Her daughter had been a serious little thing even as a five year old when Erlan had seen them all last, and now Aribella was a prim girl of ten wearing a long dress that would have fit right in on a horse and buggy.

Sapphire had mentioned rumors that Keylor had wife number four in the works when she’d given Erlan her traditional solstice holiday call last winter. Too bad that was all over for the old man now. Erlan would miss the drama.

Mani moved up beside Erlan. He had his hat off, his lank hair creased in a circle, the brim of the hat curled in his hands. He looked up at the crows scattered among the trees like dark ornaments.

"Damn birds," whispered Mani.

"They’re the Ghost Mother’s children," Erlan whispered back. "Better show some respect in this crowd."

"Give me the creeps, is all." Mani grabbed Erlan’s elbow and leaned closer. "We got to talk."

Erlan sighed.

"I tried to get him to put together a will,” said Mani, “but he just laughed. Now we got a real mess."

"Since when does the MC care about the Branch properties?"

"It isn’t the Branch I’m worried about. They got their own problems."

"You mean the club doesn’t own..."

"Any of it. Deeds are all in Keylor’s name. Without a will, all the legit stuff will go through probate. The state could end up owning the Roadhouse and the Garage."

Erlan almost laughed. Maybe things were going to work out after all.

"That isn’t our biggest concern," said Mani. "We got the real revenue streams to worry about, the off-the-books cash flowing through the patch-over clubs. Things would be a lot easier if you took your father’s place, kept a firm hand."

Erlan didn’t answer. Many in the crowd were looking at him, and what he saw in their faces worried him. Keylor Moss, their invulnerable father, was dead. No wonder half of the people at the funeral looked stunned. Even Erlan, who had long ago fallen away and now believed his father was just a charismatic conman, felt hollow inside, as if the world had suddenly dropped a couple feet beneath him.

He also saw hope, relief, and a disturbing amount of reverence in the crowd’s eyes. These people had gotten something from his father, something they needed or wanted badly, and they looked like they expected the same from him. The foolish childhood dreams of a boy who wanted to grow up to be like his father stirred in Erlan’s breast, like acid reflux. Erlan grimaced and thumped his chest. He thought he’d cured himself of that bullshit long ago.

Erlan turned away from Mani and walked through the crowd. He couldn’t stand the looks any more. It wasn’t his fault the old man had left no plans for succession. He wasn’t the right person to take over the club, much less the Branch. A nonbeliever like him? No way, he thought, Does not compute.

As Erlan pushed his way to the back, a lone woman came up from the parking lot. She had dark hair past her shoulders, a straight nose, almond-shaped eyes that hinted at exotic heritage, and she wore a black knee-length dress over a pair of jeans. A couple of the club women gave her unfriendly looks, and a moment later some of the Branch women did the same. She ignored them and pushed her way up to the back of the Alder Boys men. She gave a start when she saw Erlan coming through the crowd, then looked quickly away. He wondered how she’d come to be the local pariah, and why she’d decided to show up here.

A murmur in the crowd drew Erlan’s attention back to the front. One of the senior church brothers stepped up to a black draped podium.

"This is a time of great sadness,” said the brother. He was square-jawed, his hair a uniform salt and pepper gray, and he spoke with the easy calm of long practice. Erlan didn’t recognize him, but that was no surprise. He and the Church had avoided each other growing up, with a few notable exceptions.

The brother grasped the podium with big hands and leaned into the audience. “It feels like our Founder has been stolen, taken long before his appointed time. But the Groves are vast, the will of the trees transcends even the life of a Moss. The right of this will be seen in time.

“In his passing, we have nothing to fear for ourselves or our church, for he has left us his sons and daughters, and they will carry on.” He spread his arms to the widows and their children, then turned and opened his arms to embrace the crows in the trees. “And there are good signs. The Ghost mother’s children assemble to herald her return, even as they mourn with us.”

The crows watched the Branch minister deliver his eulogy, their silent attention lending an eerie air to the proceedings. When the brother called his first supplication to the trees, the birds cawed in unison with the crowd.

"Alderii, greatest of the trees, hear our prayer! The next Alderman is here, among us. The vestiture has transferred the Founder’s power to his heir.

"Together, as always, the Ghost Mother and the Alderman will take us to the promised future. They protect us from the dangers of the Weald and shepherd us on our righteous path back to the Groves.

"Let us send a prayer to Polu, the great Ur tree of Ithir, portal to our Founder’s home."

Erlan closed his eyes, and let the sun warm his face, let the words wash over him as the light flowed over his skin.

Someone cleared their throat beside him. Erlan sighed again and opened his eyes.

Widow number two stood beside him, her gaze on the podium. Lera O’Conner Moss. A six-foot tall redhead, model-thin, milk white skin stirred with strawberry freckles. Her twin boys, just as flame-haired as she, stood behind her along with one of her minions. Darius was the older of the twins, born a minute before Liam. They were just about the age when Keylor first took Erlan into the trees. He looked for telltale signs of cuts and callus on their hands to see if his father had started their initiation, but their fingers were smooth, even manicured.

Lera spoke first, her voice quiet and flat. "I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you had severed ties."

"Doesn’t pay to believe everything you hear," said Erlan.

"Your presence is disruptive," said Lera’s minion. "I trust you will be departing shortly?"

Erlan turned to look at him, a balding, florid man whose stomach strained the linen belt of his Branch robe.

"Who are you?"

"I am Brother Churchman."

"Of course you are." Erlan didn’t try to hide his contempt. Some converts gave up their names along with their possessions, a sure sign they would become the most ambitious ass-lickers in the church. "Actually, I was thinking a staying awhile," said Erlan.

"You are not a member of the church,” said Lera. “You are barely even part of the Alder Boys. What could you possibly want here?"

"I want to see my father buried in peace."

"Fine then, if that is all you seek," she said

Erlan was about to let it lie there, but his bad half stopped him, wanting to make her twist a bit, just because she was annoying.

"I only want what is mine by right."

Lera turned to face him fully. "Surely you don’t dream of your father’s position?"

"I am a Moss, a member of the Five families."

"You are a half-blood bastard,” said Churchman. “The Founder’s biggest mistake, aside from that ridiculous gang of outlaws you ride with. The Ghost Mother showed him the light and corrected his ways. Only a full-blood heir will take the Founders place."

"Full blood?" Erlan said, speaking to Lera. "Half this planet could claim as much of the Decimi line as you do. In fact, I’m not sure you haven’t made up the connection entirely."

Lera smiled. "Any suspicions of yours are hardly a concern," she said. "You have the Founder’s blood, which places you beyond the merely Terran." She opened one elegant hand dismissively toward the ranks of Branch acolytes. "But you are no Decimi. Put aside your ambitions and serve the Branch in some capacity proper to your place."

Erlan stifled an angry retort. She couldn’t put aside her own ambitions for even a day. Then he almost laughed at himself. He was planning to leave this crowd to their own devices as fast as possible, to pursue his own life. He really shouldn’t judge.

"That’s very generous of you." He said. "I’ll consider it."

Erlan turned away from them as the brother at the podium concluded his prayers.

"And now we lay our Founder to rest in this soil so far from his native land. We will shelter his body with Earth until we return the House of Moss to its rightful place in the Groves, and then he will rest forever in Ithir."

One of the Branch brothers stepped over to the casket and turned a crank, lowering it slowly into the open grave concealed beneath the draped cloth. As the crowd watched in silence, the crows stirred on their perches. They began to caw and squawk, tentatively at first, then louder, until the birds scrabbled into the air, cawing wildly and swooping down upon the assembled mourners and the slowly descending casket.

For a frozen instant the crowd stood in surprise. Then a woman screamed as a crow flapped away into the sky, trailing a black ribbon and a hank of hair. Everyone scattered.

The birds kept up until they had driven all the mourners off the bluff except for the brother turning the winch, who persevered under a black umbrella now spattered white with bird shit. The backhoe operator, safe in the glass cab of his machine, began to lower buckets of dirt onto the casket.

Erlan hadn’t been home in over five years, and as he followed the last stragglers away from the cemetery, spitting dust and ducking as the birds swooped around him, he was reminded just how much comfort there was in a thousand miles of road between him and his relations.

Next Chapter: A Neglected Duty