On the gallows, the hangman hocked a wad of phlegm to the ground as if to confirm the nasty business he was about to perform, the priest mumbled his Latin verses in quantitative rhythms, and John stood with his hands tied in front, trying to quench the dragon’s fire of panic burning in his stomach. A cloud passed over the sun, darkening the daylight and setting the mood. The crowd buzzed with gossip and expression, all wanting to see the condemned man hang and making conjectures as to why he did it. John himself had no answer to that. He wasn’t the guilty man, merely a scapegoat so the guards could look good in finding the culprit to an unsolvable crime.
As the noose was placed over his head, John met the hangman’s eyes peering from behind the black hood and was chilled by the cool detachment he found there. He took a shaky breath but stood tall; he had no reason for shame.
“You’re going to die, you bastard,” the hangman said, his face close enough for John to feel his breath. It was hot and sour. “Do you have any last words?”
John shook his head. He had mustered every ounce of bravery he could find just to appear calm, but if he tried to speak, his voice would betray his emotions.
“Very well then,” said the hangman. He placed his gloved hand on the lever to release the trap door under John’s boots.
Is this going to hurt? he wondered as he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, waiting for the world to drop out from underneath him.
The crowd suddenly became quiet, the anticipation hushing them. The hangman did his duty and pulled the lever. John fell through the floor, the rope tightening around his neck, the fall not violent enough to break it. Strangling slowly as his body spun in a lazy circle, his tongue lolled from of his mouth, flapping against his chin, and his eyes bugged out as if they would burst. His vision started to fade around the corners, red then black. Just as he was sure the end had arrived, the rope loosened and he fell with a thud to the dirt beneath the platform, gasping and choking for air. The noose had been cut. Before he could register what was happening, someone grabbed his ankles and pulled him out from under the gallows. The crowd surged, desperate to see what was happening as the guards beat them back, trying to find their missing prisoner.
As he jumped to his feet, John whipped his head around to catch a glimpse of his unknown savior. The chaotic atmosphere made it impossible. His hands still tied, he was a little off balance and nearly fell over when he dodged a galloping horse. He stumbled against a large barrel and scanned the throngs of people, all running and shouting, the frenzy overwhelming. He heard a noise from behind and spun around. Before he could see who was there, he was met with a blow to the face, rendering him unconscious.
John awoke clawing at his neck, desperate to remove the noose that was no longer there. When he realized he wasn’t dangling from the end of a rope, he took a deep breath, his broken nose whistling as the air passed through the swollen passages. He could taste blood. He squinted and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim light then looked around at the damp stone walls of a cave. He could hear voices muffled beyond the entrance and see flickering firelight cast against the craggy surface.
They rescued me. Must be friends out there, he thought and struggled to stand. A wave of nausea pulled him back down and threatened to empty what little contents were left in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut until it passed then lifted his fingers to his face, gingerly touching the tender bridge of his nose and finding the large goose egg on his forehead. He tried to remember, could see the bloodthirsty crowd, the hangman, and the noose. The noose was burned into his memory, how the scratchy fibers rubbed against his throat, how it snapped around his neck as he fell and squeezed tighter and tighter, suffocating . . .
He shook himself out of the memory. The connection between his last conscious moments and his present situation still eluded him. He had no idea who was sitting around that fire having plucked him from execution just hours earlier. His friends were in short supply these days.
Barry had been hung the week before for stealing a blueberry pie. John could still see the purple stain at the corner of his lips as he outright lied to the men arresting him. They strung him up the next day. Stealing was a capital offense, no matter the value of the stolen item.
Walter slipped away one night in search of fortune and fame, leaving a bastard in the belly of the barmaid and no notion of where he’d gone. Perry was in jail, as were George and Thomas. Marcus and Alan were at sea. Jimmy drowned while running from a cuckolded husband, and Frank disappeared without trace. That left Dustin, and Dustin just wasn’t trustworthy. None of them, even if able, were the type to risk his own neck to save John’s. In fact, if the shoe were on the other foot, John wouldn’t risk his for theirs either. It left him wondering, Where am I and who would rescue me?
As if to answer his question, a figure appeared in the entrance of the cave, just a blurry shadow at first, but as she approached he could make out her features, slanted and cat-like, her angular body slinking toward him like a panther. Her long black hair was pulled back and held with a bone, exposing her green eyes framed with black lashes.
John tried to speak, but he only croaked.
“Shhh,” she said, placing her finger against her lips. Her foreign accent purred. “You mustn’t talk. Your throat has been damaged. Drink this.”
She held a cup for him to drink. It was sweet and he gulped it greedily.
“You rescued me,” he said, his voice sounding like sandpaper.
“Rescued?” She laughed and shook her head. “The Mountain God grows angry and has been spitting fire and smoke for the last few days. We stole you from the gallows to appease Him. The condemned make the best sacrifices.”
Sacrifice? he thought. Great, I’ve gone from the frying pan into the fire.
As the noose was placed over his head, John met the hangman’s eyes peering from behind the black hood and was chilled by the cool detachment he found there. He took a shaky breath but stood tall; he had no reason for shame.
“You’re going to die, you bastard,” the hangman said, his face close enough for John to feel his breath. It was hot and sour. “Do you have any last words?”
John shook his head. He had mustered every ounce of bravery he could find just to appear calm, but if he tried to speak, his voice would betray his emotions.
“Very well then,” said the hangman. He placed his gloved hand on the lever to release the trap door under John’s boots.
Is this going to hurt? he wondered as he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, waiting for the world to drop out from underneath him.
The crowd suddenly became quiet, the anticipation hushing them. The hangman did his duty and pulled the lever. John fell through the floor, the rope tightening around his neck, the fall not violent enough to break it. Strangling slowly as his body spun in a lazy circle, his tongue lolled from of his mouth, flapping against his chin, and his eyes bugged out as if they would burst. His vision started to fade around the corners, red then black. Just as he was sure the end had arrived, the rope loosened and he fell with a thud to the dirt beneath the platform, gasping and choking for air. The noose had been cut. Before he could register what was happening, someone grabbed his ankles and pulled him out from under the gallows. The crowd surged, desperate to see what was happening as the guards beat them back, trying to find their missing prisoner.
As he jumped to his feet, John whipped his head around to catch a glimpse of his unknown savior. The chaotic atmosphere made it impossible. His hands still tied, he was a little off balance and nearly fell over when he dodged a galloping horse. He stumbled against a large barrel and scanned the throngs of people, all running and shouting, the frenzy overwhelming. He heard a noise from behind and spun around. Before he could see who was there, he was met with a blow to the face, rendering him unconscious.
John awoke clawing at his neck, desperate to remove the noose that was no longer there. When he realized he wasn’t dangling from the end of a rope, he took a deep breath, his broken nose whistling as the air passed through the swollen passages. He could taste blood. He squinted and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim light then looked around at the damp stone walls of a cave. He could hear voices muffled beyond the entrance and see flickering firelight cast against the craggy surface.
They rescued me. Must be friends out there, he thought and struggled to stand. A wave of nausea pulled him back down and threatened to empty what little contents were left in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut until it passed then lifted his fingers to his face, gingerly touching the tender bridge of his nose and finding the large goose egg on his forehead. He tried to remember, could see the bloodthirsty crowd, the hangman, and the noose. The noose was burned into his memory, how the scratchy fibers rubbed against his throat, how it snapped around his neck as he fell and squeezed tighter and tighter, suffocating . . .
He shook himself out of the memory. The connection between his last conscious moments and his present situation still eluded him. He had no idea who was sitting around that fire having plucked him from execution just hours earlier. His friends were in short supply these days.
Barry had been hung the week before for stealing a blueberry pie. John could still see the purple stain at the corner of his lips as he outright lied to the men arresting him. They strung him up the next day. Stealing was a capital offense, no matter the value of the stolen item.
Walter slipped away one night in search of fortune and fame, leaving a bastard in the belly of the barmaid and no notion of where he’d gone. Perry was in jail, as were George and Thomas. Marcus and Alan were at sea. Jimmy drowned while running from a cuckolded husband, and Frank disappeared without trace. That left Dustin, and Dustin just wasn’t trustworthy. None of them, even if able, were the type to risk his own neck to save John’s. In fact, if the shoe were on the other foot, John wouldn’t risk his for theirs either. It left him wondering, Where am I and who would rescue me?
As if to answer his question, a figure appeared in the entrance of the cave, just a blurry shadow at first, but as she approached he could make out her features, slanted and cat-like, her angular body slinking toward him like a panther. Her long black hair was pulled back and held with a bone, exposing her green eyes framed with black lashes.
John tried to speak, but he only croaked.
“Shhh,” she said, placing her finger against her lips. Her foreign accent purred. “You mustn’t talk. Your throat has been damaged. Drink this.”
She held a cup for him to drink. It was sweet and he gulped it greedily.
“You rescued me,” he said, his voice sounding like sandpaper.
“Rescued?” She laughed and shook her head. “The Mountain God grows angry and has been spitting fire and smoke for the last few days. We stole you from the gallows to appease Him. The condemned make the best sacrifices.”
Sacrifice? he thought. Great, I’ve gone from the frying pan into the fire.
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