016 The King's Funeral

For the people of Tuvalu, today was a day of sorrow, for the funeral of their former king was set to take place. Although the nation had already mourned once when the former king perished in a plane crash, that grief had not dulled; no one expected laughter or light hearts as the funeral was held.

Tuvalu was poor, barren even. Yet its people were happy—a happiness not rooted in material abundance, but in the spirit. Facing the ocean, with the warmth of spring and the blossoming of flowers—this was the aspiration of famous poets, but for the people of Tuvalu, it was something they were born with.

The land was worked by families, the society ran on barter. There was no industry, but thanks to the former king’s ingenuity, all essentials for life could be imported. Many who were defeated by the complexities of the wider world dreamed of a peaceful sanctuary where they could live in seclusion, rising with the sun and resting at dusk. That was the natural rhythm of life for the people of Tuvalu. If not for the lack of vegetables and the threat of the rising sea swallowing their home, few would ever wish to leave this paradise on earth.

Today was the funeral of the king who had devoted himself to finding every possible way to secure his people’s livelihood. The entire nation grieved as one.

In truth, there was nothing elaborate or ceremonious about the funeral. It was much like any other funeral in Tuvalu—perhaps even simpler. The custom for an ordinary Tuvaluan was to view the body, cremate it, and scatter the ashes into the sea. For the former king, even the viewing was omitted, for there was no body to see, only ashes after the plane crash.

Tuvalu was young as a nation, and poor; thus, no grand rituals had ever been developed. When Li Daniu received the funeral plans from Burns, he could only sigh inwardly: Only those who are well-fed and warm can afford such thoughts. For those struggling daily at the edge of subsistence, there was no right to pursue things beyond their means.

“Isn’t this too simple?” Li Daniu asked, pointing at the plan, recalling the elaborate funerals back home that were designed to display filial piety.

“Your Highness, the late king made it clear in life—everything should be kept simple. There’s no need to waste money on someone who has already passed on,” Burns said patiently, seeing Li Daniu’s frown. “I know you’d like the king to have a more magnificent send-off, but I believe, if he’s watching from above, he’d most want us to use the funeral funds to benefit the people of Tuvalu.”

I just feel awkward, Li Daniu thought. I’ve inherited a nation, after all—I simply wanted to do a bit more.

Taking Burns’ words as a cue, he stamped and signed the plan.

“How many foreign guests are confirmed?” Li Daniu wanted to know in advance, to prepare himself, for this would be his first time receiving foreign dignitaries as a head of state.

“The Foreign Minister of Fiji, the Foreign Minister of New Zealand, and a member of the Australian Parliament,” Burns replied, not in the least embarrassed. In fact, he found their willingness to attend surprising. When the late king was alive, meetings with officials of this rank required appointments and there was no guarantee he’d be seen.

A weak nation has no diplomacy, Li Daniu reflected. He wasn’t sure why he’d grown so prone to such sighs. In the grand Celestial Empire, a mere conference would bring half of Asia’s leaders, and even the world’s major powers would send high-ranking representatives, if not their own leaders. But Tuvalu? For the king’s funeral—the biggest event since the country’s founding—only these minor figures had come.

Of course, even these “minor figures” as Li Daniu saw them wielded far more wealth and power than he did, to an incomparable degree.

The funeral, simple in Li Daniu’s eyes, proceeded as planned. Dressed in the most expensive outfit he’d ever owned—the king’s formal attire, thick, adorned with all manner of decorations—he felt uncomfortable in the heat. It had been bearable receiving the guests at the funeral home, thanks to the air conditioning. Now, leading the procession on foot to the seashore to scatter the ashes, he felt his clothes soaked with sweat, dried by the sun, and soaked again.

Luckily, Tuvalu was small. Just as he was about to collapse, they reached the shore.

The foreign guests came and went in haste. Only Tuvalu’s citizens remained at the scene. Li Daniu looked behind him—a sea of people. Wasn’t the population just eleven thousand? Had the entire country come?

As the small band from Fiji played a mournful tune, Li Daniu followed Burns’ instructions and personally scattered the late king’s ashes into the sea. Ashes, though in truth, they were the remnants of the king’s clothes and possessions, burned to cinders—how, he did not know.

The wind was favorable; his worry that the ashes might blow back onto him did not come to pass.

With that, the funeral was nearly over, but Li Daniu noticed that none of those standing nearby left, nor did anyone weep.

“Burns, was this your doing?” Li Daniu asked, a touch suspicious.

“Your Highness, apart from a few hundred government employees, no one was asked to come. They must have come of their own accord.” Even Burns was surprised by the turnout.

“So what now?” Li Daniu asked awkwardly. He wanted to return to the comfort of air conditioning, but felt it improper to leave with so many people present.

“Perhaps you could say a few words?”

A few words? You didn’t prepare me a speech—what am I supposed to say? Li Daniu had no confidence in his ability to improvise.

“Why don’t you start?” He’d always believed professional matters should be left to professionals—otherwise, why pay them?

Burns, upon receiving the order, cleared his throat and called out loudly:

“Dear people of Tuvalu, though the late king’s departure saddens us, we should believe in a brighter future under Prince Tarek’s leadership. Now, please welcome Prince Tarek to say a few words.”

Heavens, where did you learn that rustic master-of-ceremonies style?

With no sound system prepared and the sea breeze and waves making the air restless, Li Daniu had no choice but to shout as Burns had.

“Though this may be my country, it truly belongs to all the people of Tuvalu. Though we have always faced many hardships, I believe that we, the people of Tuvalu, will never yield to adversity. We will overcome every challenge before us, and create a better future for our descendants.”

He had no idea how many could hear him, but that was all he could muster.

A smattering of applause followed—mostly from government employees. The rest of the citizens gave little reaction, but began to drift away.

“Your Highness, shall we go back?” Burns suggested at just the right moment.

Seeing the crowd disperse, Li Daniu was finally able to retreat with Burns.

The seashore was not too hot, cooled by the sea and the occasional breeze. What he dreaded was the walk back, once the sea was out of sight—he would be drenched in sweat again.

As he passed some who remained, gazing at the ocean, Li Daniu could not help but study their expressions. He’d always thought reading emotion in someone’s eyes was a difficult skill, but as he saw one after another standing solemnly, staring out to sea, he caught a glimpse of sorrow and despair in their eyes.

They did not wail or sob; their faces were blank, yet a palpable sadness emanated from their silent presence.

How could they not grieve? Even as an outsider, Li Daniu had felt a pang of sadness reading about the late king’s tireless efforts abroad, let alone those whose lives he’d worked so hard to save.

Li Daniu had already searched every belonging left by his predecessor, even a diary—but apart from necessary expenses, there was no property. No mansion, no sports car—things any second-generation rich from the Celestial Empire would buy abroad. Prince Tarek had none of these—he lived in a dormitory, ate in the cafeteria, and even had to fight for scholarships at Harvard.

Li Daniu could not understand why a king would treat his only heir with such austerity. Though raising a child frugally is one thing, poverty is relative. The son of a billionaire raised simply is not the same as a child raised on the edge of subsistence. What’s more, as a king, even in poverty, the nation’s annual budget was still millions of dollars—couldn’t more have gone to his child? In a monarchy, the entire country belongs to you.

But now, seeing those who had gathered here unbidden to bid farewell to the late king, Li Daniu felt he understood a little. It was precisely because the country belonged to the king that he had both the responsibility and the duty to care for the people of Tuvalu.

Now that he had inherited the nation, he had also inherited that responsibility. Perhaps, with the system’s help, he could bring greater material comfort to the people.

Yet, Li Daniu could not help asking himself: “Am I capable of earning such respect?”