Though I have never understood the fascination with death, the stories of the executions sell papers. Journalistic standards require us to write the truth, though I fair doubt any will believe the tale I will be writing today that was not there to witness in person. I wonder if I shouldn’t just give up the fight and sell the tale to the penny dreadfuls and be done with it. It might end up there anyway.
I have dutifully witnessed nearly a hundred hangings at the old tree in the town square, all with a sour stomach. I have recorded each scene down to the last detail, including the final words of the condemned. It has begun to feel like I was Charon ferrying the lost souls to their final destination.
Normally I am not as free with my prose in the description. This one was different. It hit harder.
Firstly, It was the first woman I had seen meet the noose. Secondly, the weather was odd. If I didn’t know any better I would have claimed that the sky mourned her death afore she had the chance to die. And lastly, She wore the habit of a nun. Everything about this felt wrong.
The whole week has seemed off. The nun had come to town alone. That was strange enough. She set herself up at the local church to help those who needed her. I am still struggling to understand why she ended up hanging from the noose. The day she arrived in town we had another execution. A killer, He deserved to hang…there was no doubt in anyone’s mind. The nun insisted that the man at least deserved his last rights. There had not been a proper priest in town for a while, as the last fellow had died of cholera. The magistrate did not seem to know how to deal with such a pushy nun. Women were not allowed to be acting as clergy. At least that is what the whispers around town said.
Now, don’t misread me here. She did not immediately end up at the noose’s end. Still, her behavior did not put her on the town’s good side. She seemed to have herself opinions, and they were not suitable for a lady…much less a woman of the lord. I believe she irritated the magistrate the most, though only the devil knows why. She was obviously brash and opinionated. She would feed the negros and the good fer naughts. She crafted potions that she claimed would heal the sick. Though I must be plain that I had not tried them.
In another place and time this woman might have been celebrated. This was not such a place nor time. El Paso is barely civilized. Our tiny little town was even worse. The west is still wild, the year of our lord Eighteen ninety five is an innovative time about many a thing…but I believe she was just too much. I am frankly surprised she was not burnt as a witch. I am still unsure if she was a true lady of the Lord or a witch sent from Hell itself. I believe she was a test either way and I am not sure if we passed.
The nun and the magistrate continued to come to terms several more times during the week after she arrived. She was arrested for causing a disturbance of the peace. That has ne’er been a hanging offense afore. Yet, the notice of execution went up immediately after she was detained.
I, as the town journalist, tried to interview the magistrate as to the reasons why he was having her hung. He refused to answer my questions. I was also not allowed to visit her to ask any questions of her. I have often been to the capital to argue for laws about executions. I firmly believe that there should be more involved than just a Magistrate’s ruling and the noose. I have yet to be successful there. I am usually told that there is more involved… but that has not changed the way this town works. I don’t know of anyone else being hung for being a disturbance of the peace.
The wind was strong that day as they led her to the hanging tree. It might have been imagination running wild, but I could have sworn I heard crying in the wind. I swear it should have been called off then and there. The wind was nearly pulling people up and carrying them off, and the clouds were darkening the sky as if night had fallen. The rain had started a slow drizzle coating the entire area in a cold wetness. The dark wetness of the hanging tree nearly looked like it was covered in an unearthly blood seeping straight up from Hell. The crowd that always gathered for these things was uneasy and filled with discontent. A smart man would have cancelled the execution. Our magistrate has never been accused of being smart.
As they walked her to the tree, she was muttering prayers. She walked straight, with her head high. Most cannot face the noose as they approach the tree and watch their feet as they walk. Not her. She walked straight, watching the noose, rattling prayers beneath her breath. I am firmly believing that the way she faced her death was unnerving to the people gathered. It was not long before half the crowd joined her in prayer. Normally I say that the one place I have never seen God is at an execution… That might have changed after hers.
The magistrate forced her to remove the wimple before approaching the noose. He was none too gentle in placing the rope about her neck. Eerily her long hair seemed to reach for the tree.
As tradition demanded he asked if she had any final words. “All are equal in the eyes of the father. what is done to one… shall be given to all.”
As soon as she said that last word he kicked the lever to drop the door from beneath her. The crack of her neck rattled, echoing around the town square. Imagination starts running wild at times like that. Yet, I swear I heard her say she was coming home. I realize it was impossible as with a broken neck she was dead.
Still, I think I’ll not be going to any more executions. I plan to move as I want to be anywhere that the hanging tree is not.
*This one is going to be added to before I publish it. it is done except the feedback has given me ideas for adding to it*
I forgot myself, for a while. It is easy to get caught up in a story and lose yourself in a well spun tale. I believed the image of life that I was given. I played the part of the mild mannered cab driver in the busy urban landscape.
While my life was not perfect, and really whose life is, I found myself content.
When they tell my story I believe they will say that I went stark raving mad. And perhaps it should be questioned when the media paints a portrait that differs from the norm.
I find myself wanting to leave my own version so that others like me don’t fall into the same trap. I think it’s only fair. One taste of freedom is almost enough to incite madness. The truth is not freedom, but something far darker.
I remembered who I was nearly a month ago now. He climbed into my cab smelling like a brewery and yelling at someone over the phone. I always hated the fares like this. I always ended up with a migraine afterwards.
It was the night of the blood moon. I almost didn’t work. The craziest people always came out on the full moon, and the weird moons were worse. The crimson moonlight was mesmerizing as I tried to ignore the smell coming from my backseat as he got himself settled.
He had barely slurred an address at me before he climbed into my cab but otherwise his attention was focused on cursing at top volume at whomever was on the other side of the call.
I pulled out into traffic slowly trying to block out the voice inside my head telling me that he was unworthy of life. I don’t know why I pretended I didn’t see the script above everyone’s heads. I suppose I worried I was insane. Was I ignoring the scripts unconsciously, or was it something that I was not supposed to see. These were things that I did not want to question, I guess I assumed everyone had an inner critic and I told myself that the scripts were just my overactive imagination.
I looked at the rear view trying to understand why I was so distracted. This was just another drunk idiot in my cab. Another day that ended in Y. Yet , something about this passenger on this night had me feeling the need to act.
I nearly swerved as I actually saw his scripts. Repressed memories hit like a tank. It was a good thing for the other drivers on that road that my reflexes kicked in at the same time. The clamoring of horns and cussing told me I had at least been noticed. Remembering who I was, and understanding the situation, I decided it would be safer for everyone if I drove us somewhere more discrete.
The scripts were where each person’s sins are collected, something that I had just remembered. It was meant to be a shadow ledger that directed the universe how to deal with your soul after you died. Before the fall, I was one of those sent to collect the worst of the sinners and carry them to their fates. The scripts on most people were inconsequential anyway. Otherwise they would go through a cleansing and be given the option of eternal rest or trying again. I enjoyed my job.
Before I forgot.
His scripts wrapped around him like a mummy’s bandage, doubling back over itself, and was covered in blood. His soul could never be clean again. I knew my duty. Though many of my brethren have as I had forgotten themselves after the fall, we still existed. This man would have reminded any of the immortal ones. He was a danger to mankind. That could not be allowed.
The only problem was that I no longer had the divine power. All of us lost that in the fall. In order to do the duty ahead I would have to be strategic. By this time he noticed we were not going to where he wanted to go. My only chance was to kill him. It would accomplish the same goal though it would be more effort for me. I was convinced that this was the only way. I was blinded by my own emotions. None of us on earth could even hear the divine voice, much less be given assignments. Still, I was certain that this was my job.
His drunken state would aid me. So would my appearance. I looked like a slender young man. “Sorry sir, I am having trouble with the car. I am pulling off so I can call it in. ” I reached over and killed my meter. “Rides free for the inconvenience.” That seemed to placate him for the moment.
I parked the car and pulled out a phone. Getting out casually added to the deception. I popped the hood, and pretended to call someone. I could still hear him berating his call. I looked around for a quick weapon. He got off the phone, and I knew time was growing short.
The rock I found was perfect. Discrete, and heavy. Something no human could easily lift. I prepared myself. The door opened. My aim was flawless. Between the red light of the moon and the immense amount of blood that spread from his skull as he fell I finally saw what the truth would be. I had, in doing my duty, created a script of my own. My sin was presuming I could know the mind of the divine.
Having a script means I am now mortal. If you find this my brethren, please learn from my mistakes. Continue forgetting.
The old house had many shadows. Some still moved, others had forgotten even how to do that. The child looked confused, and as she did at least once per day, asked the same question. ” Tell me again Grandma, how did we die?” The grandmother sighed. She knew that the child could no longer help her memory escaping, but it was beginning to be difficult even for her. The fog in her memory made the daily story change slightly.
Still, it seemed to calm the child. So she sat down and motioned for the child to join. Then she began. “We moved into this house before you were born. Back then it was your mother, your father, and me. The house had so much extra space and it was so cheap that it felt like a dream. We were here when your mom discovered she was pregnant. We were so excited that you would join us.”
As always the child interrupted. “Where is mommy? And Daddy? Did they not love us anymore?”
Indulgently, the grandmother continued as she had every night before. “They still live child. They love us and grieve for us every day. We have died and we are staying together here. Do not fret child. We have each other.”
Hugging the child close, and being grateful again that ghosts could touch each other, the grandmother continued. “This house had dark things living in the dark spaces. Things that we did not know about when we moved in. You were such a bright light when you were born that we nearly could ignore that darkness. We lived here with you for two years. Then the darkness got worse. We started to react to it.”
The child shivered in her arms, afraid of the darkness that they knew was dangerous. Grandma hesitated, as always afraid that the child may be to innocent to understand the story told. Though she had been telling the story for nearly fifty years, the child was only three when they died. It seemed cruel to her that they remained. She found herself wondering why the hand of death otherwise known as the reaper had not shown themselves to lead the shades to the afterlife. It worried her.
Still, to comfort the child she continued with the story.
The grandma never questioned how she was able to speak. The only thing she cared about was that she could give the child comfort.
“The darkness was something that we didn’t understand. I died first. I died in my sleep. The family was sick with grief, and I was unable to communicate with them. I remained like that for a whole year before you joined me. I did not expect to see you so soon. You were following a shadow from your room and fell down the stairs. Your parents were lost in their grief and left the house. Too much evil hqd happened here. Now we await Death’s Hand to lead us to the afterlife.”
The child looked at grandma confused.”When will they come ? Will we be able to see mommy and daddy again ?”
Grandma smiled softly “They will join us when it is their time..I believe that Death’s Hand will come to lead us home when we four are joined again.”
With the child calmed down and the story done, Grandma settled in with the child and pretended she was not worried about the time they had been there. The house was something outside of time. She was afraid as she didn’t know how to end the eternity of the darkness that they have existed in.
This was a story written in high school…I have used it to start a novel. The novel is not one I am working on currently though I plan to go back to it. The Journal will be the title of the novel. Still it was a short story at one time…
To whoever may find this,
I realize I was fairly naïve. I believed the world would change for me. I thought I would be able to do anything. I know better now. I should have known then. I ask that you reserve your judgments until my tale is finished. It is the year of our lord fourteen ninety-eight. I had thought that in the reign of Henry the VII that England would be civilized. I was born into a noble house and have always had plenty of money. I never abused my wealth, Tis against my nature. I was simply myself, nothing more. I started healing various ailments. Having a small talent for the herbal craft, but having little patience for the training the doctors went through. The idea of using leeches disgusted me. The church endorsed their use, thus it became the accepted way to deal with all illnesses, but I did not see where it helped some of the ill at all. I oft healed those the doctors thought to be hopeless. Simple herbal remedies that brought comfort to the ailing and aged. Arthritis to madness, there was no one I would not treat. And I expected naught in return. If I had paid heed to the tongues that wagged, I would have been prepared. I gave freely to the poor and the wretched. I spent much time with the ill and insane. I spoke of acceptance to those who had sinned. For why would God not forgive, when it is what was promised?
My father begged me to hold my tongue about such matters. He said my flaming hair would garner accusations and my shrewish tongue would prove them. I was beautiful then, of this I have no doubt. Though then it mattered so little. Vanity was not a sin I have ever committed. ́Most of ́the accused committed no other crime than that. A lord’s daughter should not be so reckless. I suppose now I should have heard clearer what he said. You understand, of course, I knew it all then. I had no shame, only pride.
I ignored the witch hunters. I was no witch, so I saw no need to pay them mind. The whispers around town were of torture and evil things being done to the accused; the whispers spoke of jealousies and false accusations as well. None of this touched me, It should have. The accusation was made a week ago. I assumed the wealth and power my father had would free me or the magistrate would dismiss the clear fact that it was nonsense. When the hunters came, I was unafraid. I stood up against the mob and the jeers. For what could hurt me? I had the truth, and I had God. I would soon find out how little that was.
I was stripped of all my clothes and belongings. I was allowed no modesty. Nor any comfort was I given. I was even denied all traces of humanity. The magistrate and his helpers searched for the mark of the beast that would prove me false. A mark that did not even exist. They looked for a symbol or a brand, even a mole or blemish. I am sure any mark would have sufficed. For this would prove their accusations, at least in the eyes of the court. I did not cry then. The exam was embarrassing and long. ́I was made to stand the entire time. I was pinched and poked. Then prodded with cold metal to see that I yet bled. Yet, even then I was unafraid. I was stretched on a rack and told to admit myself as the witch. I was left for hours pulled taught and in pain. I would not lie. My jailers refused to believe anything I said. The days got worse as each passed. I found torture to be too kind a description of the cruelty I endured. Forced to endure thumbscrews and hot pincers that left me weak. I have felt my health flee me as the days have gone on. I smell the infection set in. For the last two days, I found myself left alone with my thoughts. That was the worst of torments, as it can easily drive one mad. I was given naught except for moldy bread and dirty water every evening. After a time I ate and was thankful for it.
As the seventh-day dawns, I find fear in my heart and prayers on my lips. I have never broken the covenant with God nor man, but find that my death approaches faster than I ever thought it would. I write this on the parchment left for my confession, will be seen as such regardless. My flaming hair hangs matted now, as bathing has not been allowed me. I fear the filth has caused fever to set in. I hear whispers at night of a young man’s voice. A voice is deep with possibilities. The voice speaks of freedom. I am sure the voice is a sign that my mind is cracking or my will breaking. Either way, I cannot remain here.
Come to the dawn I will try escape, and perhaps the voices who whisper of aid they will lend me are more than just my fever speaking. Either that or the attempt will mean my life; it will be an ending to my torment. I pray God is with me.
I always do this with my poetry volumes and nearly never with Serena. She’s nearly done with Illumination and has decided to let the masses pick the next poetry volume she will pen.
Pattimouse 