Ars Poetica

Ars Poetica
“To be or not to be”
“Double, Double, toil and trouble”
The prophecy of a king,
Name’s so cool,
Power-mad
And a prince plotting revenge
Poisoned blades included
The mournful story of
star-crossed lovers, and the man who
coined the phrase,
“Nevermore;” A raven that speaks
Insanity will ensue; always will
Just look at the poet
Mr. Poe, we’re watchin’ you
Man’s incestual
Weird, gross, I know, but true
So true
Sonnets to science, villanelles to death, and
Sestinas to Portuguese plotting penguins
Insanity,
Its reason, its result
TUEZ!!!!!
Maybe all poetry is insane
Do you have to be insane to write it?
Ha! You do!
Or so I think; You have to be insane enough
to know how to mix, mince, mash words
until its sounds beautiful
Weird but true
Schizophrenia, gotta be that too…
Just a bit, not much at all
What am I talking about?
Ars Poetica
The Art of Poetry
Yes, you skeptics, there is such a thing
Poetry’s contagious, I think
Don’t you?

A Call to War

1
A Call to War
The horse’s hooves pounded across the land. Beating rhythmically they stamped out a violent cadence across the Pfallian Landscape. The rider never paused to look at the rolling meadows filled with shepherds and flocks. Nor did he glance to the side to observe the brooks that babbled under the bridges he crossed. The forests flew by in a memory of dancing shadows, and it wasn’t until he saw the setting sun sinking below the horizon did he pull his mount to a halt. He was on the apex of a small hill, a small valley sprawled out before him. His horse continued to canter, lifting impatient hooves that itched to keep running. The rider however seemed calm. He sat erect in the saddle, and despite the movements of his steed his eyes remained fixed on the valley.
In the very center of the valley, outlined by the sinking sun sat a castle. Noble and unmoving it dominated over the land, its large shadow covering the land with buttress, ramparts, towers, and pennants. The land around the castle was speckled with villages, and farmhouses. Freshly plowed fields lay with their bosoms open, ready to accept seeds from the peasant’s hand. Behind the castle stretched a large lake. It shone like a well polished golden platter in the evening light, and if the rider were to squint his eyes he would barely be able to make out the faint shadows of the fishing boats. In the few seconds that he sat there the rider let all the joys, fears, hopes, and agitations of home sink in. Then with a quick glance in his saddle bag to assure that they still carried their burdens he kicked his horse back into a gallop and rode down the hill.
It was past sunset when the hooves of the rider’s mount first echoed off the courtyard cobblestones. On any other night such an act would’ve immediately roused the guard and torches would’ve been lit as the castle’s sleeping inhabitants awoke. Tonight however the castle was already teeming with life. Torches shone from nearly every window, and at least a dozen horses stood with their masters in the courtyard. A few frenzied stable hands were desperately pitching straw into empty stables, as other brushed down even more horses, that were tied to a post in a far corner.
“Boy!” shouted the rider to a passing child with a pitchfork in his hand. The boy paused and turned to the voice that’d called him. He looked scarcely older than twelve, and brown mousy hair hung down over his eyes. The boy was skinnier than a stalk of corn, and his head barely reached the rider’s saddle, but even with his small stature he stood erect and looked the rider in the eye.
“Yes?” the boys voice was still high pitched.
“Boy. Fetch the stable master. I need someone to take Felix here immedietly.” The rider patted the neck of his horse and then in one fluid motion dismounted to the ground. The boy stood unmoved. “Didn’t I tell you to fetch the stable master Boy? Go now, and be quick about it.”
“Not to be rude sir, but the stable master is passed out on that cart over there. He started drinking the moment the first of the Princes arrived, and hasn’t moved since the last time the bells rang.” The boys grubby finger indicated a pair of feet that protruded from under a pile of hay.
“Where are the stable hands then?” inquired the rider.
“All around you sir. And not to be rude, but I don’t think they’ll have much time for you.” Looking around the rider could see that the boy was right. Everyone was occupied with some task or another, and no one had even bothered to look twice at the new arrival. Biting his lip in anticipation the rider thought it over quickly before asking.
“Boy, can you handle a horse? He needs water, some straw to lie in, a good brushing, and some fresh oats. Can you do that, and find him a place to rest?”
“Yes sir. I do suppose that I could do that.” Answered the boy. The rider was hesitant to hand his horse over to a complete stranger, but he didn’t have time to consider it. Fishing a large scroll out of his saddle bags he handed the reins over to the boy.
“His name is Fenix and if he doesn’t like you he’ll be inclined to bite. So take good care of him. Also don’t bother trying to ride him, he’ll crush your skull in before you could get one foot in the stirrup.” The boy nodded and took the reins, and began leading the horse away.
The rider didn’t spare a moment in finding the door, and after asking a few scullery maids for directions made his way to the heart of the castle; The Prince’s Courtroom.
The Prince’s Courtroom at its simplest was a long narrow hall with vaulted ceilings. Pillars lined either side of a long red carpet that flowed from the door all the way to a large black throne on the other side. At its most complex however it was the nexus for politics, war, art, and anything deemed important for the land of Pfallia. Tonight every corner was bathed in golden light, and slippered as well as armored feet filled the floor. Nobles, Generals and Servants alike crowded on either side of the hall, leaving the red carpet open so that new arrivals could make their way directly to the throne. The air buzzed with an electric charge of whispers, rumors, and glances, all of which were suppressed under the declaring voice of another messenger who stood before Prince Richard and read the scroll he held in his hands.
Prince Richard sat on his throne with his chin cupped in his hand. His brow was furrowed, and his hand anxiously stroked at his speckled beard. The worry emanated from his face, but even in this less than perfect state he still radiated power and authority, and all of his focus hung on the messenger’s words.
“… even if we lack your support First Prince Richard, Lord of Pfallia. We will shall proceed to act as we’ve declared. The death of his Nobleness on high King Erock shall not go unavenged, and his rightful heir will be placed on the throne. If you seek to aid us we shall await your presence and your men at the fields of Ehre in two weeks time. Do not spurn your friends, nor parley with your enemies. The honored Duke Wolfers of Rindland.”
As the messenger’s last word echoed off the walls he bowed before the Prince, and said in a voice filled with humility. “When my Prince wishes I shall await your response to my Lord.” and with that he turned and faded into the crowd.
The rider, who had during this time had remained standing next to the door, made his way down the aisle, and placing one knee to the ground bowed before the Prince. “I bring a message for the Prince of Pfallia.”
Prince Richard sat upright on his throne and peered at the new arrival. “I am the Prince of Pfallia, and who are you?”
“A simple man.” answered the rider without lifting his head.
“That I can see. Where are your trappings messenger? Where are your Nobleman’s colors, and why do you lack a coat of arms on your breast?”
“I’m not a messenger My Lord.” said the rider.
“Do you not bring me a message?” asked Prince Richard his voice straining with irritation.
“Well… Yes but…”
“Then by bringing the message you have become the messenger despite how stupid you may be. It’s been a long day, and my wives await me. Out with it fast and I’ll excuse your ignorance. Stand up.”
The rider followed the Prince’s command, and holding the scroll out in front of him he unrolled it and read:
To Prince Richard of Pfallia. Do not listen to the lies of the Haxens. They do not seek peace, nor do they seek what’s rightfully theirs. Third Prince Daniel of Haxen is already on the move. His troops are lining the borders of my land and yours as we speak. They shall be here within three weeks times and we cannot hold them. My spies number his forces in the thousands, and without your steady sword we shall fall. I’ve reason to suspect he’s had a hand in the death of His Nobleness King Errock, and that he wishes to take the crown by force. He has gathered many allies, and the hour of our sunset is near. Gather your forces, and stand with us through the night of war my ally, friend, and brother. Meet us at Dolran’s Keep before the fields of Ehre in two weeks time. There we shall make our stand.
Second Prince Jared of Nodsten.

The courtroom stood in utter silence, as the rider’s last words were spoken. All eyes grasped onto Prince Richard as he mulled the words over in his head. His face grew from concern, to worry, and then to rage. Each step creasing the skin on his forehead more and more as his skin began to burn red with anger. Standing up he declared in his deep bass voice “The King is dead, and lesser men seek his place. Let the trumpets be sounded from every tower in the land. Let the men assemble. We have been called to War.” The crowd erupted in cheers.

The Revised Prologue - Revised

The flash of lightning pulled Antoine from a surreal, thoughtful daze. He had been losing himself in his thoughts lately, a sign that made him worry if he wasn’t a bit loopy. He was keeping to himself, not really talking to anyone, despite the business going around him in the bar of the Bishop’s Square Inn. He looked up and saw the Bishop’s Square sign (which rocked in the ferocity of the night’s storm) out of a small, four-pane window in the lobby area. Antoine wasn’t surprised to see the amount of people at the inn that night. The Bishop’s Square Inn was the only inn in the small town of Turkwood, Kent. Despite its humble surroundings, Bishop’s Square was a portal for the working class that inhabited most of the town. It took them out of their drudgery and transported them to a higher position in life. Even though the bronze chandeliers had begun to rust, and the teak staircases had begun to creak as guests went up to their rooms, it was still a higher life experience for many of the citizens of Turkwood. These denizens of the working class were lucky if they had managed to get a house all to themselves.

Turkwood, a small fishing and logging village just north of Folkestone, Kent, had been Antoine’s place of residence for the last two (or was it three) years. Antoine didn’t know, he had never been good with years. He could hardly remember what year his father was killed, despite the harrowing ordeal though it was. Now, the closest thing he had to a family had been ripped from him once again, which was why Antoine found himself drowning himself in liquor at the inn. He hoped, although the hope was unfounded, that he would be able to drown out the images of his former employers (to whom he had been a valet) and the sad looks on the faces of their two young boys.

In his hand, an ice-cold German black lager sat, almost forgotten. It was his fourth one, and each had taken him an eternity to consume. Dark rings of condensation marked the resting place of each mug on the teak wood table. The resulting image reminded Antoine of a dark, binding chain. The “chain” disturbed Antoine; it was as if the Bishop’s Square Hotel was trying to shackle him to the muddy little town he had tied himself to. Or worse, it might be trying to shackle him, to chain him to the horror that had just wracked this small, perpetually busy little town.

The orange glow hidden behind gaps in the storm cloud had faded some time ago, and Antoine had been left to the yellow, artificial haze that the Bishop’s Square Hotel provided. The orange flush had been emancipating, freeing the town of Turkwood, Kent (a small fishing/logging town just north of Folkestone) from the harsh, relentless grips of the torrential rain that had plagued them lately. Now the rain had returned, and any hope of the warm feelings that a blue sky brings were lost just as quickly as the couple had been. The owner of the nationally renown “Terry Fisheries & Co.” had been killed, along with his pregnant wife and a majority of the crew. Antoine couldn’t keep himself from thinking that it had been his fault. You inebriated bastard, a phantom voice teased, Can’t even fulfill your bleeding --

Antoine drowned the phantom voice with a long, intense drink from the beer mug in his hand. Three gasping breaths helped him recover from the toxic nightcap. He looked up at the patrons in the Bishop’s Square Inn, the drunkenness in his eyes masking the welling tears. Antoine, who would come to Bishop’s Square on his “personal evenings” (which is what his former employer had called them), noticed that the usual patrons and guests were there. Nothing, not even the perpetual lightning storm and torrential rain shower, could dissuade them from their nightly restitution. Some people there seemed to just need a little fortification to get them through the week. There were also a few there that he recognized from the offices of Terry Fisheries, the one that the husband of the couple had run. Antoine wasn’t surprised to find the workers a little crestfallen. The husband had run the company efficiently, but he had also treated every one of his workers as a different person, not as parts of a bigger machine. He had always been that way, and it had earned him a place of respect in the hearts of many of the Folkestone citizens. As a result, many small toasts were being paid to the fallen foreman.

The great, oaken door to the Bishop’s Square Hotel opened slowly. A small, mousy man entered the inn. He looked completely out of his element amongst the drunken, working-class multitude. With his pale brown three-piece suit and gold-rimmed glasses, he stood in stark contrast to the working class citizens, whose clothes were covered in layers of soot. Most of the regulars to the Bishop’s Square Inn worked in random factories around Turkwood and oftentimes did not stop at home before seeking compensation for their backbreaking labor. The tidy, little man was, in fact, a representative of Mr. Terry, the former foreman of the business. He had come to see Antoine to resolve a few ambiguous matters in the will Mr. Terry had left behind. However, he didn’t know who Antoine was, and Antoine used this to his advantage, watching the poor man (who Antoine thought of as a fool) wade his way through the sea of the working class. That imbicile, coming in here with his “fancy” clothes and whatnot, Antoine thought, a knowing, cynical smile on his face, If he is not careful, every lowlife and prostitute in this inn will be on him before he can even get to me.

Antoine allowed himself a few more moments of entertainment at the man’s expense before calling him over. The man was happy to have found Antoine amongst the crowd. A long, arching wave in Antoine’s direction caused Antoine to raise an eyebrow in incredulity. Was this man really that foolish? He made his way over to the table Antoine was sitting at, cordially excusing himself whenever he came close to a minion of the working class. When he reached Antoine, he set the briefcase gently on the table, either not noticing or disregarding the cynical smile that had now replaced the frown on Antoine’s face. He meticulously unlatched the briefcase he brought with him, extracting documents from within. As soon as he was finished, he looked at Antoine, a tawdry, trained smile on his face.

“Hello, Mr. Laurence. How are we doing this fine day,” he began, but after thinking about what he had just said, he murmured, “Mmm, don’t answer that.”

“I was hoping you weren’t that daft,” remarked Antoine, his cynical smile now morphing into more of a smirk, “I thought men of the law were supposed to be intelligent.”

“Now, Mr. Laurence,” the lawyer said, his rehearsed smile fading, “let’s not breach the rules of etiquette on our first meeting. I call myself Alexander Cabot.”

“What do you want from me, then, Mr. Cabot?” asked Antoine, his hand running through his tawny hair, as if to say ‘let’s get this bloody ordeal over with.’

“I would very much like to go over the late Mr. Terry’s estate,” began Alexander, “In his will, he mentioned that you shall be the guardian of the boys until the older boy is of age. While I have my reservations about the scenario, it was Mr. Terry’s wish.”

Antoine’s eyes focused on the man, a sneer crossing his face, “What are your reservations? That a Englishman would entrust his estate to a Frenchman, even temporarily?”

“Not necessarily,” said Alexander, shaking his head “but your remaining presence at the estate is circumstantial at best.”

A look of pure hatred filled Antoine’s eyes, and the Frenchman moved as though he was going to leave. Alexander’s hand was quicker than it looked, though. It darted forward, grasping Antoine’s arm and preventing him from leaving.

“Sit DOWN, if you please,” Alexander said, to which Antoine obeyed, the hate prevailing in his eyes, “Disregard that last comment. It’s just, shall we say, old prejudices resurfacing. Shall I buy us some drinks?” – Alexander snapped his fingers at the nearest barmaid – “Barmaid, two of your finest drinks over here. A scotch-and-soda for me and a - ”

“New stein of black beer,” said Antoine simply.

“As you wish,” said the barmaid, one eyebrow cocked incredulously at the lawyer.

“Now, back to business,” resumed Alexander, “As you know, I am Mr. Terry’s lawyer and executor of his will. We first need to consider what we should do with the estate itself.”

“Burn it. Demolish it. I don’t care what the hell you do with it,”

Alexander was quite obviously annoyed at this point, “Don’t be daft, you French inebriate,” he said before changing the subject. “The older boy is to be the steward of the estate, but he is still quite young.”

“Why are you talking to me about all this? I’m not quite his family, you know,” explained Antoine, murmuring a quick ‘thank you’ to the barmaid as she delivered their drinks.

“Are you fluent in English?” mentioned Alexander, a definite tone of annoyance in his voice, “In his will, Mr. Terry stated that you were to be the guardian of the two boys, should something happen to both him and his wife.”

“How much research did you do before you came to me?” asked Antoine, his teeth now bared in hostility, “He still has family. Did you even contact them? I don’t want to spend the rest of my –”

Before Antoine could finish his sentence, the oaken doors to the Globe Hotel burst open again. Antoine jolted and looked over at the doorjamb. Never had he seen a man so angry. Wet, sticky mud adhered to the man’s shoes and to the cuffs of his pants. His receding, dark red hair was plastered to his head, little rivulets of water dripping down. The person’s eyes were very demonic in appearance, an effect likely augmented by a lack of sleep. His hands were clenched into two furious fists, effectively resembling flesh-colored steel mallets. His red moustache gleamed over his bared teeth, as though his mouth was on fire. Only an idiot would cross a man on a rage such as this.

The demonic man was the first to break the awkward silence following his entrance. Walking as though he were entranced by the hatred which filled his veins, he pointed at Antoine, shouting:

“You drunk son-of-a-bitch, Antoine! You murdered my brother! You murdered Wallace Terry! After all he has done for you! How the bloody hell COULD YOU?”

Prologue Re-edited

The flash of lightning pulled Antoine from a surreal, thoughtful daze.  He had been losing himself in his thoughts lately, a sign that made him worry if he wasn’t a bit loopy.  In his hand, an ice-cold German black lager sat, almost forgotten.  It was his fourth one, and each had taken him an eternity to consume.  The orange glow hidden behind gaps in the storm cloud had faded some time ago, and Antoine had been left to the yellow, artificial haze that the Globe Hotel (the inn he was inside) provided.  The orange flush had been emancipating, freeing the town of Folkestone from the harsh, relentless grips of the torrential rain that had plagued them lately.  Now the rain had returned, and any hope of the warm feelings that a blue sky brings were lost just as quickly as the couple had been.  The owner of the nationally renown “Terry Fisheries & Co.” had been killed, along with his pregnant wife and a majority of the crew.  Antoine couldn’t keep himself from thinking that it had been his fault.  You inebriated bastard, a phantom voice teased, Can’t even fulfill your bleeding --

            Antoine drowned the phantom voice with a long, intense drink from the stein in his hand.  Three gasping breaths helped him recover from the toxic nightcap.  He looked up at the patrons in the Globe Hotel, the drunkenness in his eyes masking the welling tears.  Antoine, who used to frequent the hotel, noticed that the usual patrons and guests were there.  Nothing, not even the perpetual lightning storm and torrential rain shower, could dissuade them from their nightly restitution.  Some people there seemed to just need a little fortification to get them through the week.  There were also a few there that he recognized from the local fish factory, the one that the husband of the couple had run.  Antoine wasn’t surprised to find the workers a little crestfallen.  .  The husband had run the company efficiently, but he had also treated every one of his workers as a different person, not as parts of a bigger machine.  He had always been that way, and it had earned him a place of respect in the hearts of many of the Folkestone citizens.  As a result, many small toasts were being paid to the fallen foreman.

            The great, oaken door to the Globe Hotel opened slowly.  A small, mousy man (and coincidentally a new source of entertainment for Antoine) entered the inn. He looked completely out of his element amongst the drunken, working-class multitude.  With his pale brown three-piece suit and gold-rimmed glasses, he stood in stark contrast to the working class citizens, whose clothes were covered in layers of soot.  Most of the regulars to the Globe Hotel worked in the local factories, and oftentimes did not stop at home before seeking compensation for their backbreaking labor.  The tidy, little man wore a frightened face.  The fool is marking himself for some of the seedier workers, Antoine thought, laughing to himself as he thought what those dissolute thugs might do to the man.

            Antoine allowed himself a few more moments of entertainment at the man’s expense before calling him over.  Coincidentally, this man represented the Terry’s and he had needed to meet with Antoine.  The man was happy to have found Antoine amongst the crowd.  A long, arching wave in Antoine’s direction caused Antoine to raise an eyebrow in incredulity.  Was this man really that foolish?  He made his way over to the table Antoine was sitting at, cordially excusing himself whenever he came close to a minion of the working class. When he reached Antoine, he set the briefcase gently on the table, either not noticing or disregarding the cynical smile that had now replaced the frown on Antoine’s face.  He meticulously unlatched the briefcase he brought with him, extracting documents from within.  As soon as he was finished, he looked at Antoine, a tawdry, trained smile on his face.

            “Hello, Mr. Laurence.  How are we doing this fine day,” he began, but after thinking about what he had just said, he murmured, “Mmm, don’t answer that.”

            “I was hoping you weren’t that daft,” remarked Antoine, his cynical smile now morphing into more of a smirk, “I thought men of the law were supposed to be intelligent.”

            “Now, Mr. Laurence,” the lawyer said, his rehearsed smile fading, “let’s not breach the rules of etiquette on our first meeting.  I call myself Alexander Cabot.”

            “What do you want from me, then, Mr. Cabot?” asked Antoine, his hand running through his tawny hair, as if to say ‘let’s get this bloody ordeal over with.’

            “I would very much like to go over the late Mr. Terry’s estate,” began Alexander, “In his will, he mentioned that you shall be the guardian of the boys until the older boy is of age.  While I have my reservations about the scenario, it was Mr. Terry’s wish.”

            Antoine’s eyes focused on the man, a sneer crossing his face, “What are your reservations?  That a Englishman would entrust his estate to a Frenchman, even temporarily?”

            “Not necessarily,” said Alexander, shaking his head “but your remaining presence at the estate is circumstantial at best.”

A look of pure hatred filled Antoine’s eyes, and the Frenchman moved as though he was going to leave.  Alexander’s hand was quicker than it looked, though. It darted forward, grasping Antoine’s arm and preventing him from leaving. 

            “Sit DOWN, if you please,” Alexander said, to which Antoine obeyed, the hate prevailing in his eyes, “Disregard that last comment.  It’s just, shall we say, old prejudices resurfacing.  Shall I buy us some drinks?” – Alexander snapped his fingers at the nearest barmaid – “Barmaid, two of your finest drinks over here.   A scotch-and-soda for me and a - ”

            “New stein of black beer,” said Antoine simply.

            “As you wish,” said the barmaid, one eyebrow cocked incredulously at the lawyer.

            “Now, back to business,” resumed Alexander, “As you know, I am Mr. Terry’s lawyer and executor of his will.  We first need to consider what we should do with the estate itself.”

            “Burn it.  Demolish it.  I don’t care what the hell you do with it,”

            Alexander was quite obviously annoyed at this point, “Don’t be daft, you inebriate,” he said before changing the subject. “The older boy is to be the steward of the estate, but he is still quite young.”

            “Why are you talking to me about all this?  I’m not quite his family, you know,” explained Antoine, murmuring a quick ‘thank you’ to the barmaid as she delivered their drinks.

“Are you fluent in English?” mentioned Alexander, a definite tone of annoyance in his voice, “In his will, Mr. Terry stated that you were to be the guardian of the two boys, should something happen to both him and his wife.”

“How much research did you do before you came to me?” asked Antoine, his teeth now bared in hostility, “He still has family.  Did you even contact them?  I don’t want to spend the rest of my –”

Before Antoine could finish his sentence, the doors to the Globe Hotel burst open again.  Antoine jolted and looked over at the doorjamb.  Never had he seen a man so angry.  Wet, sticky mud adhered to the man’s shoes and to the cuffs of his pants.  His receding, dark red hair was plastered to his head, little rivulets of water dripping down.  The person’s eyes were very demonic in appearance, an effect likely augmented by a lack of sleep.  His hands were clenched into two furious fists, effectively resembling flesh-colored steel mallets.  His red moustache gleamed over his bared teeth, as though his mouth was on fire.  Only an idiot would cross a man on a rage such as this.

The Mephistophelean man was the first to break the awkward silence following his entrance.   He walked toward Antoine as though he were in a trance, and a large hand slowly rose.  The man pointed at Antoine in a condemnatory manner.  For Antoine, it felt like a knife being pointed at him.  He thought that he likely knew who this man was. 

“Damn you, Antoine Laurence.  How could you murder my brother and his wife?  How the hell COULD YOU?”

On Memory's Horizon; Chapter XII Beginning

A beam of bright light shone on the pinewood flooring in the covered promenade.  Stretching along the floor, it crept closer until it encompassed Jimmy, who was currently sitting on a teak, wooden bench.    Jimmy preferred the enclosed promenade because it created a sturdy barrier against the interminable sea and its mercurial mood.  In the promenade, Jimmy was offered fresh air without the constant reminder of where he was.  Fortunately, Jimmy also had others to detract him from that which he feared most.  On this warm, sunny Saturday,Uncle Will, Constance, and Edwin had joined him, while Miss O’Riley and Aunt Meredith took some time for themselves.   It was just after breakfast, which had unfortunately turned out to be as disappointing as the previous night had been.  Robert was still mad at him for yesterday’s incident.  Jimmy still didn’t blame him.  Who would have forgiven him, other than Seanan?  Yet, some naïve part of Jimmy had hoped a night’s separation would have settled the animosity.

            Jimmy tried his usual medication of losing himself in his book.  The book he had in his hands was quite interesting but was depressing all the same.  Instead of detracting him from his plight, the book reinforced Jimmy’s predicament, throwing it in his face.  It reminded Jimmy that, like this “Oliver Twist,” he was an orphan.  Jimmy personally did not want to be reminded of this lamentable truth.  The story also reminded Jimmy of the previous day.  Oliver, like Robert, had hardly known the person who gave birth to him.  Because of this relatable fact, Jimmy found himself thinking about what he had said at tea (“I KNEW my mum and dad, I LOVED my mum and dad”).  An impotent, vicious anger overwhelmed Jimmy.  Why did he have to say that?  He felt like a fool, but he also kept thinking Robert was an idiot for pressing the situation.  Jimmy tried to return his thoughts to Oliver Twist but realized that the book was acting like a piece of paper on burning logs.  It only succeeded in idiomatically fueling the flames.

            Jimmy soon became fed up with the story, tossing it under the seat he was sitting in.  A scowl covered his face.  He rapidly and heatedly pulled up his knees onto the bench in an infantile attempt to hide his face, to hide the tell-tale signs of what truly was going on in his eight year old head.  Deep-rooted animosity for Robert began to grow within Jimmy, and he had a hard time getting rid of the feeling, succeeding only when he convinced himself it was his own fault.  There was nothing Robert did wrong, other than trying to know his friend, and that wasn’t a crime.  The self-blame, though, began to wear at Jimmy’s self-esteem.  He slowly began to feel depressed.  Absentmindedly, he began to play with the wrappings on his left hand.  Uncle Will stopped him quickly, scolding him for playing with the bandages:

            “You mustn’t do that, little man.  We can’t have you pulling out your stitches.  That would only create more problems.”

            Jimmy quickly stopped.  He was holding true to his determination to not be sent back to the hospital during this voyage.  He attempted to smile at Uncle Will, but it turned into nothing more than an accentuated frown.  It appeared to Jimmy that Uncle Will noticed this. He walked over to his oldest nephew, picking him up and setting Jimmy on his lap once he had taken his seat.  A period of silence ensued where Uncle Will held his nephew near.  Jimmy was lost in his own thoughts, although Uncle Will’s presence comforted him.  Now that he thought more about it, Jimmy realized that after the events of the previous night, he would rather it had been Uncle Will comforting him than anyone else.

            “Uncle Will, is Robert ever going to be my friend again?” asked Jimmy abruptly.

            “I can’t say that I know for sure,” replied Uncle Will, his head gently resting on Jimmy’s, “I would very much like to simply say ‘yes,’ but I don’t want to make you a promise I can’t uphold.”

            Jimmy cuddled up next to his uncle, milking every ounce of comfort he could.  He didn’t want to cry, but he definitely felt as though he would.  Uncle Will hugged Jimmy tightly as he nestled into his arms.

            “I wish – I wish you could make him be my friend again Uncle Will.”

            “That wouldn’t solve anything, dear boy,” replied Uncle Will, “If anything, it would only cause more problems.”

            “I know,” Jimmy murmured, “But I still wish.”

            “I know what I might be able to do, though,” said Uncle Will.

            “What?” asked Jimmy eagerly, looking at his uncle.  He was willing to hear anything that might fix his broken friendship.

            “I could talk to Robert and his uncle and aunt.  Perhaps all we need to do is to explain the situation.”

            “Do you think that would work, Uncle Will?”

            “We can’t do anything more than try.”

            Again excited by Uncle Will’s ingenuity, Jimmy hopped off his uncle’s lap and helped him to his feet.  Uncle Will grabbed the book he had borrowed from the library, which had been orphaned on a nearby teak bench when Uncle Will had gone to comfort Jimmy.  Edwin sat up immediately in response to this change of pace.  He had been biding his time playing with two toy wooden horses, made for him by his father, two of his very few possessions from that time.  Constance had been reading one of Jimmy’s penny dreadfuls, curious as to why Jimmy found them so appealing.  She responded in much the same way Edwin had to the sudden action, essentially jumping off of the bench she had been relaxing on.  Together, the four members of the family began trekking back to the staterooms, leaving the promenade – and Oliver Twist – behind.

They covered the short distance to their staterooms rather swiftly.  One of the two oaken Second Class landings was nearby, and they descended it to D-Deck, where their staterooms were situated.  Within a couple of minutes, they arrived at the rooms.  Jimmy immediately noticed that Aunt Meredith and Miss O’Riley had just returned from the library, as both women had a couple of unfamiliar novels in their hands.  Uncle Will kissed a greeting to his wife, and then proceeded to ask Miss O’Riley if she would be kind enough to watch Edwin as Jimmy, Constance, and he went to go speak with Robert’s aunt and uncle.  Jimmy’s excitement increased as he saw Miss O’Riley nod her head in willing compliance. 

Jimmy’s newfound good mood was momentarily dampened when Edwin began to cry because he wanted to go with his older brother.  Jimmy quickly scurried back to his brother.  Kneeling on the ground, he reassured Edwin that he really would not want to come with Jimmy this time.  He told him that it would just be boring.  Edwin protested that he wanted to join the trio, and that “he would be a really good boy,” but he was still not allowed to come.  Thinking quickly, Jimmy went into his own stateroom and grabbed Edwin’s teddy bear.  Jimmy gave the bear to Edwin, who stopped crying at that point.  Jimmy wiped the tears from his little brother’s eyes, gave Edwin a quick hug, and then rushed back to Uncle Will and Constance, both of whom were smiling at him.  What once might have been a peculiar act for Jimmy now was becoming more regular.  Jimmy was becoming the father that Edwin had never really had.

The Gallows..

It was nearly the end of the third watch when the hooded man knocked on the gatehouse door. He rapped three times in quick succession with his staff. The door sounded heavy by the deep thuds that emitted from it. He assumed that a heavy door would be necessary for the gatehouse. Cracks, scratches, and holes peppered the door, and he assumed they didn’t come from years of wind, snow, and rain. At about eye height was a slab of wood that could be slid away from the inside. After a few moments it slid back and a young set of eyes looked out on him.

“Who goes there?” said the youth.

“Victor of Alzey” replied the old man.

“And what is your business here?”

“I’ve come for the execution tomorrow.”

“Ah the execution” said the guard “We’ve had lots of people coming to town for the execution.”

“Why would so many people drop a day’s work just to come see another man hang?”

“Oh I don’t know” said the youth, his voice becoming increasingly cheerier. “ I think it cheers people up. Lets them know justice is being dealt. That and not everyone comes to watch the execution. Some come to sell stuff, and others come to buy. With so many people running an execution is like a birthday party for a starving merchant. It’s quite good for the economy really. Why are you coming then? If I might enquire.”

“I’ll never understand all this fanfare over death” said the man, shaking his head.

“Well I don’t know if you’d call it fanfare, but the atmosphere sure is riveting. I’ve always loved a good execution. Really warms the heart to know justice is being dealt. Know what I mean.”

“Not really” said the man, but he doubted the guard heard him.

“So what brings you out for the execution? By the looks of things I’d say you were a shepherd. Not many shepherds around these parts. Not enough open land. You must’ve come quite a ways to get here. Any special reasons, eh?”

“I’m just a tired old man who’s lively to catch his death out here in the cold. Is there anything you need to know or can I be let into the city now?”

“I don’t know. You come for an execution, but don’t care for a proper hanging. That just sounds mighty suspicious to me. Why don’t you step inside here and…” at that moment the guard was interrupted by a guard inside the gatehouse. His voice was as coarse as his language, but the old man smiled couldn’t help but smile at what he heard. “Will you just let the man in. Will ya? If he wanted to attack the city he probably would’ve brought more friends. Just let him go on his way.” The jingling of keys could be heard and then one slid into the lock and the bolt was pulled back with a loud clang. The doors to the city swung open.

*****

At that very same hour in another part of the city three men were sitting on tiny stone bench in a dark, wet cell. A musty odor hung in the air, and every few seconds an invisible drop of water echoed off the floor. Each wall was made of brick and mortar, stacked on top of each other to create a cold hard barrier between the three men and the world. The cell had two openings, a large wooden door that muffled the sounds of the world, and a small window, exactly opposite the three men, that breathed free air through its grated teeth. They couldn’t make out much through the window, but three things stood were visible to every one of them. The cobblestone ground of a courtyard, the full moon illuminating the nearby buildings, and the wooden skeleton of the gallows.

“It’s cruel” said the first prisoner. He was small, scrawny and dirty(even for a prisoner). Every few moments he picked at something in his hawk nose, and unceremoniously flicked it onto the stone floor. “Being sentenced to death is nerve wracking enough without having to watch your own noose swing in the breeze all night.”

“Maybe it’ll rain” said the second one airily. He wasn’t the brightest fellow, but by far he was the largest of the three. ”and they’ll cancel the execution”

“Rain?” wheezed the first prisoner “ Hedward, we’ve been sweltering in this cell for three days without a cloud in the sky and you think it’ll rain?”

“Well it is getting a bit breezier.” Hedward nodded with his chin out the window towards the swinging nooses. “but Perry, a few hours ago they weren’t swinging so much.”

“You fat tub” said Perry scratching at his nose “they’ve been swinging just like normal the entire bloating day. That and they wouldn’t stop the execution for a few rain drops. The only chance you’ve got is if you snap the rope when you fall.”

“You think that might happen?” asked Hedward.”Do you think I’m big enough?” He sat as erect as his shackles would let him and ran his hands over his belly with a smile.

“Not a chance in hell” retorted Perry.”They’ll be certain to use a thicker rope for you, and even if you do manage to snap it the guards will just turn you into an overstuffed pincushion. ”

“Oh” sighed Hedward, slumping down again.

“You really shouldn’t get our friends hopes up” the third man finally spoke. He sat on the end of the bench(if only barely). He was young and strong, but his eyes were empty and hollow. “It’s hard enough having to come to terms with one’s fate, without false hope.”

“Oh shut up you” said Perry “Just because you share a cell with us doesn’t make you one of us. Why Hedward and I go way back. We know each other better than ants and dirt.” Hedward nodded in agreement.

“I’m sorry. I never really wanted to be one of you.” The last three words were said slowly, each one more covered in loathing than the first.

“Oh… Did I hurt your feelings? Sheesh.. you sound like a bloody imbecile” Perry’s voice went even higher as he mimicked the third prisoner “Not like you. Well you’re sharing a cell with us goat face. Like it or not you are one of us.”

“But didn’t you just say that he wasn’t one of us?” asked Hedward.

“Of course he’s not one of us” retorted Perry “but he’s as good as dead as the rest of us so he might as well stop acting like he’s something different.” Leaning forward Perry peeked around his large friend and poked a finger at his cellmate. “What’d you do anyway? Must’ve been something good to get yourself thrown up to the top of the lynch list.”

“I don’t want to talk about it” said the young man. He shifted away from the other two and looked at the wall.

“Oh come on. Everyone else in the crowd will know anyway so what’s the point of keeping it a secret.”

“I’d still prefer not to tell.”

“OH come on” wheezed Perry again “You can’t not tell me. We’re dying together! What difference does it make?” The young man didn’t reply.

“Maybe we should leave him alone” rumbled Hedward.

“No Heddy. He started it, calling us no good scoundrels.”

“When did he do that?”

“Just now.”

“He did? I don’t remember him saying that.”

“Well he didn’t.”

“Then he didn’t call us no good scoundrels?”

“He said it in the way he talked to us.”

“I’m confused.”

“Yes you are, just leave the talking to me. It never was your strong point.” He turned back toward the young man “You’ve insulted Me an Hedward here with your stuck up attitude. You act as if you’re better than us and yet here you sit with us. Awaiting the same noose we all await. Now I want to know what you did to put you here with people like us.” He punctuated the last three words by poking his finger into the man’s exposed back. The young man squirmed a bit, but remained silent still.

“What’d you do? Kill the Mother of God? It can’t be anything worse than what Heddy and I have pulled.” He wrapped one arm around Hedward’s bull neck “Heddy and I are a team. Always have been. He saved me from a pack of dogs when we were kids ya know. Pummeled them straight into the ground with his fists ya see. Now most folks would’ve said thank you and continued on with their merry lives. Not me though. I’m a saint. Hedward could fight right through a brick wall, but never had the brains to navigate past a curtain. So I gots to thinking, and says to Hedward ’Hedward I’ve got the brains to go far in this world, but lack the muscle. You’ve got the muscle, but lack any sort of brains. Hows about we team up?’ I promised I take him far in life and I did too.”

“Everyday we’d patrol the streets and liberate those snotty nobles of their precious gems. Hedward would take out the guards and as soon as we had his richness with his pants down we’d take the loot and run. We lived like kings. Better than kings. We had all the money for whores and meat we could ever dream of, ain’t that right Heddy.” Hedward chuckled a bit as a dumb smile crossed his face. “Everything was just grand until that wench showed up. It was her who turned us in I tell ya. She was way to pretty to be from the slums. Didn’t smell like crap either. Should’ve been the first clue, but I’ll be the first to humbly admit that women are my weakness. She just waltzed right in, and within a fortnight we were both sitting shackled to this bench. Stupid whore…” Perry continued on describing in grotesque detail what he’d do to the women if he ever caught her, but no one was really paying attention anymore. Hedward had dozed off to merrier dreams, and the young boy hadn’t responded once to Perry’s tale of misfortune. Slowly Perry himself began to become sleepier. He voice got quieter, as he snuggled into Hedward’s plump ribs. Right before he dozed off Perry said one last thing. “Hey kid. What’s your name?”

The young man played with the shackles on his wrists for a moment before responding. “Soman” he said. “I’m Soman of Alzey.”

*****

Hedward was awoken by a light shaking in his side. Without even bothering to open his eyes he yawned and said “C’mon little fella it’s not polite to wake a sleeping man. Stop squirming around and catch some shuteye.”

“Sorry” choked Soman. “I’ll try not to bother you anymore.” His face was buried in his hands, but Hedward could see the tear stained floor between Soman’s shoes.

“You know” began Hedward “you really shouldn’t believe everything Perry says. He says lots of mean things. You don’t have to tell us what you did. All criminals have their secrets.”

Soman looked up from his hands and said “I’m not a criminal. I’m a shepherd.”

“A shepherd eh? Well I don’t know of very many shepherds who got hung for shepherding. What’d you shepherd to get yourself a cell?”

“It wasn’t shepherding that got me in here” said Soman.

“Then what did?” asked Hedward leaning forward.

Soman held his breath for a second. That one second became suspended in an eternal moment, an eternity that shattered when he opened his mouth. “I killed a man.”

The cell fell again into silence that last a few seconds before Hedward cleared his throat and said “Since when do shepherds kill people? Only soldiers, and criminals kill people. Are you a soldier too?”

“No” sighed Soman “I’m not a soldier.”

“Then you’re a…” began Hedward

“Well I’m not a criminal” interrupted Soman. “Criminals kill innocent people. The man I killed.”

“Why did he deserve that?”

“He tried to take something very precious from me.”

“Ah..So he was a criminal?” said Hedward.

“You could say that” answered Soman

“I guess you are a soldier then.”

“Since when are soldiers executed?” inquired Soman. When Hedward didn’t answer right away Soman looked up at his cellmate. Hedward’s brow was scrunched so low that it nearly covered his eyes, and his lips were pursed in thought. Before he could find a suitable solution however Soman said “It doesn’t matter Hedward. I’m just a simple a shepherd.” his voice croaked “I just wanted to tend my flock.”

“You had a flock?” said Hedward excitedly. Soman nodded. “You mean you had your very own flock.”

“Well…” began Soman “they didn’t belong to me. They belonged to the Duke. My father and I simply tended the sheep.”

“Did the Duke have lots of sheep?”

“Hundreds” said Soman “and not a gram of sense among them.”

“What was it like?” asked Hedward.

“Really boring” yawned Soman “The sheep follow anyone who can promise food and water. Most days I sat on a rock and whittled.”

“What else?” Hedward leaned forward.

Soman looked at Hedward and chuckled “Do you really want to know ?”

“Yes” pleaded Hedward.

Soman sighed and began. “Well being a shepherd never was the easiest jobs. The sheep are all so dumb that you can never leave them alone. There were always two shepherds watching the Duke’s herd. Every couple of weeks my father and I would travel up into the higher meadows for our round of shepherding. Most years our round came about mid summer, but this year the Duke sent us at the end of spring. I should’ve known, but I didn’t. I was content daydreaming the time away like a love struck fool. ” Soman paused. He seemed to be chewing on a particular memory. However it only lasted a moment before he shook his head and continued. ”We didn’t do much most days. The sheep fed themselves on the green grass and unless they thought they could find something greener elsewhere they rarely broke away from the herd.”

“ During the day my father taught me how to use my sling to fend off wolves, and every night we slept out under the stars. Father would use the stars to tell me the old stories he learned from his father. He loved to tell the one about the Dragon who guarded the God’s Tree of magical fruit. You know, the one where the peddler boys steals one of the Dragon’s three eggs and then trades them back in exchange for the fruit. He loved telling me that story, but the one he always told right before I fell asleep was off Klementia, the mistress of Man. It was her affair with the man Japeth that caused the god’s to cast man down onto the earth, and she was banished to the northern most reaches of the heavens. My father would point out her star and…“ Hedward’s snore vibrated off the prison walls. His head, which was slumped against his chest, rose and fell with each breath. He snored again, and Soman just smiled. “I guess the stories will have to wait for another day.” Looking out the window he could see Klementia’s star dangling above the gallows.

“You see that star.” echoed the voice of Soman’s father in his head. “That’s Klementia’s lantern. Every night she hangs it in the exact same spot in the heavens, hoping that one day her lover will return. She knows he will never return but her consistency is her defining feature, and is her gift to the descendents of Japeth. If you are ever lost or alone, and you can’t find the way. Just look for that star, and you’ll be able to go wherever you want.”

******

The following day was stifling. The sun was just past its zenith, and with searing eyes gazed down on the crowd of people that had gathered into the courtyard. The courtyard had been slowly filling since before noon, and it was now nearly bursting. Merchants lined the out circles with their wagons. They called to out to anyone who looked their way. The butcher gestured with his burly arms at his latest selections of beef, pork, and poultry. He had a switch in his hand that doubled as a pointer and as a switch to keep the flies at bay. And on the other side stood a man on his wagon. Skinny and pale his loud voice danced over the crowd. He preached to small congregation of women in colorful dresses all the devilries of age. Holding a bottle in each hand, he listed the infinite list of effects his elixirs had. Another merchant carefully guarded his fruit stand in vain from a pack of boys. They circled around him with eyes fixed on the small club he bounced in his hand. He swung his head back and forth trying to keep them all in sight, but one smaller boy was able to get behind him. He bolted to the stand and snatched an apple from the stand. He made to grab a second one, but the merchant’s club cracked down on his hand. Laughing, the merchant watched the young boy slip off into the crowd, unaware that the other boys were pilfering his watermelons. In another corner sat a table of men smoking pipes. Their hands moved constantly through the cloud of smoke that encompassed them as they discussed everything that makes no sense(Namely politics, religion, and women). Others simply milled about the square with no direct purpose other than to see the show. None of them noticed a robed shepherd standing in the shade of the alley.

Like a scuttled ship the long poles of the gallows poked out from the center of the crowd. A blue robed man carrying a scroll ascended wooden stairs. Being a fairly plump man, he leaned against one of the posts for a moment as he caught his breath. His hands were bejeweled with rings, and a large golden medallion stretched from his neck down to his prominent belly. Even when trying to catch his breath the man’s face appeared smug. This man’s name was Sir Arnold Heinsberg, Head Justice of the Royal Courts, but he was known among the general public by many less than favorable names. It was reputed that he lived for only two things, eating, and executing the law to the letter. It was however his complete lack of feeling that made him good at what he did. He reviewed and oversaw every execution, and was commissioned by his Highness himself to mete out justice as he saw fit.

After a few breaths he unrolled the scroll and shouted over the din of the crowd, causing every eye to turn to him. “On this 8^th day of the 5^th cycle of the moon in the 30^th year of the reign of our King. The following prisoners have been sentenced for hanging.

We shall begin with Commoner Perry of Krefeld, next shall we review the case of Commoner Hedward, and last but certainly not the least we have the vilest of criminals, Commoner Soman of Alzey. Shepherd to the late Duke Karls Ruhe of Alzey.” The crowd booed as each name was read aloud, but at the mention of Soman the crowd hissed loudly and some vulgarities were shouted. Sir Heinsberg raised his arms for silence. When the crowd quieted he continued “ Their crimes and case will be reviewed prior to hanging. At this time all voices may be heard, and the sentence will be performed.”?

Sir Heinsberg then rolled up the scroll and moved to a chair on the far end of the platform. Motioning with his hand he called for the executioner to bring out Perry.

The door to the prison grated open and out stepped a burly man with a black cloth over his head. He jerked at a chain which connected to Perry’s shackles, causing Perry to stumble out the door. The crowd roared to greet him and a few shells of a watermelon bounced of Perry’s shoulders. Some others who might’ve known Perry started throwing rocks at Perry’s face. He avoided most of them by keeping close to the executioner, and slouching as much as possible. At one point he even tried to shout some insults back at the crowd, but a hefty rock quickly put him back behind the executioner. Together they ascended the staircase and Perry was brought to stand before Sir Heinsberg. A few more rocks and watermelon rinds were thrown, but after a stern glance from Sir Heinsberg they promptly stopped.

Sir Heinsberg wiggled himself a little higher in his chair and pointing a finger at Perry said “You, Commoner Perry have arrested for the following crimes which are Punishable by death. They read…” he produced another smaller scroll from his robes and read “The Plundering of a Noble’s home, and Women…”

“Now she came willingly,” interjected Perry, but was silenced with a stern look from Sir Heinsberg

“You’ll have the right to state your claims later…. You are being tried for the Plundering of a Noble’s home and of HIS woman. You’re being tried for the illegal selling of royal property, and for the Murder of two officers of the law. Do you have anything to say?”

Perry looked at Sir Heinsberg who nodded his approval before saying “Well… like I said earlier. The woman came willingly. Can’t help it if I’m such a charming fellow ya know, and I willingly admit that I did remove a few items from your cousin Sir Wasserberg mansion, but I’d been going to his place nearly every night for two weeks and he never touched those jewels anyway. They were in the exact same spot on the night stand the entire time and given that Sir Wasserberg is such a kind and generous fellow I figured he’d be more than willing to help a man of poorer circumstance. The money we got from them was used, and I swear on my honor, to purchase food for my little ones….”

A voice shouted out from the crowd…”You don’t have any little ones, you lying sack of bones!” followed quickly by another voice from the same direction “but he’s got one big child to take care of. The dumb wit probably thought the jewels were candy and ate them himself..”

“You leave Hedward out of this.” Shouted Perry to the crowd before turning back to Sir Heinsberg. “Ok..so I don’t have any little ones, but I do have obligations to meet, and I’m sure Sir Wasserberg wouldn’t have even missed them.”

“May I remind you that it was he who called the Officers and demanded your arrest.” Stated Sir Heinsberg.

“I’m sure that was just a misunderstanding. I too wouldn’t have been in the best mood if I found someone sleeping in my bed after a long hard day. We’re both men, we do these sort of things. Are a few trinkets seriously worth more than a human life? I mean…”

“And what of the two lives you took? What were they worth?” asked Sir Heinsberg calmly.

“Hey now..” exclaimed Perry “If those two club happy little twits hadn’t been so persistant I wouldn’t have had to knife ‘em. And Hedward only killed the other ones to protect my life. Honestly, does a man not have the right to defend himself?”

“Not when he’s wanted by the law. Do you have anything else to say?”

Perry nodded and addressing the crowd pleaded his case. Starting with the difficulty of being an orphan he slowly worked himself through the years, depicting tragic event by tragic event that made him “The Victim” of life and Society. If he hadn’t have talked so long the crowd might’ve listened, but after five minutes of his rambling began to demand his death. When the crowd got so loud, and a few rocks began pelting the platform Sir Heinsberg stood up and raising his hands brought the crowd to silence by shouting “You have heard the case. I am simply a Mediating Justice. It is the people who decide the sentence. What do you say?”

“HANG HIM!” shouted the crowd in unison. “Hang him!” they shouted again. They shouted it again a third time, and then a fourth. It rapidly rose into a chant and rocks began pelting the platform again. Sir Heinsberg nodded to the hangman, who started dragging Perry towards the noose. At first Perry tried to resist but a quick shove sent him walking. He didn’t say a word as noose was looped around his neck. Tears began to work their way down his dirty cheeks, and a wet spot formed on the front of his pants. The hangman yanked a lever and the trapdoor under Perry’s feet opened. Perry dropped and then stopped in one lurching movement. The snap of his neck drowned out by the cheer of the crowd.

His rope was cut, and a larger thicker one was placed in its stead. Perry’s body was dragged off by two officers and thrown unceremoniously into the back of a wagon. Sir Heinsberg stood and raised his hands for silence. The crowd ceased shouting, but an audible buzz still vibrated among its members. Sir Heinsberg with another jerk of his arm, called for the next prisoner.

Hedward came out the door with two guards pulling on his shackles. His face was wet with grief for his fallen friend, and a wet stain already marked his trousers. A few people tried throwing rocks, but Hedward screamed at them with such anger that no one dared try it again. He lumbered up the Gallow steps. Each one creaked under his weight. The platform rocked a bit every time he shifted his feet. Which was a lot given his nervous state, and Sir Heinsberg was forced to hold onto his chair with both hands to keep from being rocked off.

“Commoner Hedward” began Sir Heinsberg “You are to be tried for the murder of three city officers, and for being an accomplice of the former Commoner Perry. What do you say?” Hedward said something, but he held his head so low it was muffled by his body. “What did you say?” inquired Sir Heinsberg again.”Speak up if you wish to have a fair trial.”

Hedward sniffed audibly and raising his head said “I didn’t mean to kill anyone.”

“Each officer’s heads was smashed in. That’s hardly an accidental act.”

“They were hurting Perry.”

“Perry was resisting arrest. They had every right to subdue him.”

“But they were hurting Perry!” exclaimed Hedward again. “I had to stop them.”

“Commoner, the line between stopping and killing is hardly one that any person simply crosses. Every Officer you killed that day had a family or lover. Were their deaths worth more than either yours or Perry’s? Who will care for their families?”

“I don’t know” moaned Hedward. “I didn’t know. They were just hurting Perry and wouldn’t stop. Even after he was chained.” Tears ran down his face in great gobs and he began choking on his own breath.

“Is that all you have to say?” asked Sir Heinsberg. Hedward didn’t hear him, but his lack of response was taken as affirmative. Turning to the crowd Sir Heinsberg asked “He is guilty of murder according to the law, and what do the people say? Does he deserve to hang?” the cry for a hanging was weaker than Perry’s at first, but after a few moments the unanimous chant of the crowd sentenced Hedward. Hedward was so consumed in his tears he barely noticed the noose being laced around his neck. Just as the trapdoor sprung out from under his feet he let out a loud NO, and then dropped. The fall didn’t snap his neck, and for a few minutes the crowd laughed as they watched him squirm like a dead fish. His toes were only a few inches off the ground and he desperately tried to get a footing. Eventually his feet slowed and then halted all together. His rope was cut too and he collapsed into a mound on the ground. Some men tried moving him, but they eventually gave up and left him lying under the Gallows.

“And now for the final trial.” Said Sir Heinsberg and he motioned for the guards to bring Soman out to the gallows. Soman stepped out the door before his guard and standing erect marched towards the gallows. Fiery determination burned in his eyes and the crowd backed away into a path. Up the gallows he walked and stood himself before Sir Heinsberg. “Commoner Soman” began the judge “you are here to be tried for the Murder of Duke Karl Ruhe of Alzey.” The crowd booed louder than it ever had before, and nearly every hand went in search of a stone. Duke Karl Ruhe was a national war hero. He was loved by the people, and his sudden death was still being mourned within the city. ”You sliced him open from neck to pelvis” continued Sir Heinsberg “and were found attempting to steal his maiden after the act. I doubt you could think of anything worth saying, but have your say.”

Soman bored into the Duke’s eyes and said loudly “That Pig you call Duke wasn’t fit for anything more than the butchering he received. For my whole life my family has protected his sheep from Wolves, Bears, and Thieves. My mother died working his fields, and he dishonored my younger sister.”

“That’s all lies” shouted a voice in the crowd that was heartily supported with more insults.

“Your younger sister was his to do with has he pleased.” Chimed in Sir Heinsberg

“My sister belonged to No one” replied Soman.

“I beg to differ” answered Sir Heinsberg “Your entire family is property of Alzey, and our beloved Duke would most certainly not be bestial enough to dishonor your sister.”

Soman locked his gaze with the judge again and said “I am but a Shepherd. I do not know war, and I’ve seen the Duke of Alzey with a blade. You think a simple ‘commoner’ could dispatch your lands greatest war hero?” he paused for a second and when no answer was forth coming he continued “I only stood a chance because he had his pants down and was so busy beating my sister.” The crowd booed, and even a few voices called out for his hanging.

“Whatever the circumstances” said Sir Heinsberg. “You have killed a direct descendant to the throne and are guilty of murder. The law demands a life for a life. It’s the equal price” Turning to the mob he said “Shall we hang him?” the crowd roared its approval, and the hangman began loosened the noose for Soman’s neck.

“NO..” shouted a man from the crowd. Faces turned to an old man in a tattered robes with a hood around his shoulders. He carried a shepherds crook in his hands and shouted again “NO! I am the boys father and it was I who sent him looking for Isabella. She was kidnapped from our home and we knew not where she was. Knowing the dangers posed to one so young I made my son swear an oath to not be deterred by anything in returning her safely. He fulfilled that oath, and as the holder of that Oath I am responsible.”

“You came a long way to watch your son die.” Sneered Sir Heinsberg.

“I am no lawyer, but does not the law demand a life? What is the worth of his life over mine?”

“Your lives are both worthless” answered the Judge.

“Then take mine for his and the law will be fulfilled. Will it not?”

“You would die for this scum?”

“Scum or not he’s my son, and only a father understands the worth of his son. Will you take me?”

Sir Heinsberg turned to the crowd and asked “Is one head as good as another? Shall we take the father over the son?” Not a single voice was heard. Sir Heinsberg gathered his breath and asked again “The Law demands a life, shall it be the son or the father.”

A gruff man shouted from the crowd. “I served under Karls Ruhe in the eastern war. His every command saved my life. I don’t care who hangs, but someone has too.” A view voices echoed his sentiments.

One of the older men at the table stood up and shouted “I lost my son in the eastern war. I wish I could take his place. I understand the father’s plea, let him take the boys place.”

“Why must one of them hang?” came a voice from the crowd.”What does the law say for Mercy?”

Gesturing openly with his hands Sir Heinsberg explained “Mercy had no claim when the law was broken. Balance must be meted or else all is chaos. Such is the purpose of law. ”

“Let them both go.” Shouted another voice

“I cannot do that” exclaimed Sir Heinsberg “I must uphold the law, it is you who chooses the sentence. If you do not decide it will use my authority to hang this murdererous scum.” He pointed to Soman.

The crowd was silent for a moment. Faces swiveled between the Father and the Son, and gently the crowd parted forming a path from the wagon to the gallows. The Father stepped down and walked towards the gallows. People slapped him on the back and then left the courtyard. He ascended the stairs, and stood in front of his son.

“No.” whispered Soman to his father. “No. I can’t let you.”

“Son” pleaded Victor. He made to loosen the noose from around Soman’s neck, but Soman grabbed his wrists. “You’ve always been a good son. Please just let me do this.”

Tears welled up in Soman’s eyes “I can’t” he whispered “Who’ll take care of Isabella?”

“You will” said Victor, his eyes began to glisten. “You’ve become a man, and you will care for her.” He pulled Soman’s hand’s away from the noose and loosened it.

“But why must you die? It was me who killed the Duke.”

“Someday, when you have a son of your own you might understand” said Victor. He pulled the noose from Soman’s neck.

“But..” began Soman but he choked on his breath

“No buts Soman.” Victors eyes hardened “As your father I do this. You can’t stop me.” And he pushed Soman gently out of the way. He wrapped the noose around his neck and looked at his crying son. Soman’s face was now drenched in tears and his lower lip trembled as he sought to hold back his cries. “Swear you will live an honest life.” Soman nodded “Swear to protect Isabella with your life.” Soman nodded again. Victors voice became more strained with each command and it nearly broke with the final oath. “Swear you’ll bury me next to your mother.” Soman nodded again, and slowly descended the stairs. The courtyard was now empty of everyone except Soman, Victor,the Hangman, and Sir Heinsberg. Victor smiled at his son and with a sign from Sir Heinsberg he plummeted to his death. It was quick, and Soman imagined it was painless. His father’s neck cracked loudly, and Victor was forever motionless after that moment.