Short Story Time! (Part 4--finale)

Check out parts 1, 2, and 3 here, here, and here.

And here we have it, the last part! If you are reading this, thanks for sticking with it thus far :) Enjoy!

And So They Proceeded* 

Part 4

Short Story Time! (Part 3)

Check out parts 1 and 2 here and here

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

annnd I thought of another title option: And so They Proceeded

part 3

In the forest, the system was not so easily enforced. Bandits and cults still roamed, exacting grief upon those unlucky enough to cross their paths. And so they left in the moist of dawn the next day.

Holding the map, Three leaned close to Five and whispered that they had a choice: skirt around the circumference of the woods or cut through. He didn’t feel the need to elaborate on the consequences of either.

Five had a funny look to his face as he turned his face forward. “The faster route,” he said.

Because Five’s decisions were usually not easily doubted, Three hesitated before speaking. “The faster route—”

“The faster route,” he said before walking ahead.

Later, One caught up to Three and said, “Do you think he’s in a mood?”

Three studied the slight but straight line of Five’s back as it cut through the woods in front of them. “Not a mood. Something else.”

One nodded. “The girl.”

“The girl” had been awake at their departure, and Three had wondered if she’d slept at all. Her footsteps fell soft behind them, but not as softly as yesterday.

“What about the girl?” he asked.

One blinked. “Don’t you feel it?” He started to open his mouth, then shut it. “Forget it.”

It was none too difficult a task, and before long Three had completely retracted into his thoughts. He didn’t need to consult the map to know where they were; it was a gift of his to know everyone’s exact location. And yet strangely, he frequently didn’t know where he was. Now he could only see the moss beneath his feet and the dense stalks of foliage and trunk before his eyes. All around him, the silence of the dead leaves crowded into his mind.  

So when the shots rang out all around them, Three only barely heard before the fire burst through his gut. He felt himself sway, lose his balance. Someone whom he thought to be Four caught him under the arm as he fell. From the periphery he saw the lithe blur that was Five hurtle toward Two and the girl. The distinctive pops of Five’s rifle, joined by One’s, punctuated the cacophony. Gradually, the noise diminished until the dead leaves, trembling, hung in silence once more.

Three’s hand moved by its own accord to his stomach, where fabric slick to the touch met his fingers. In his daze, he realized he was going to die. He felt it, a warm truth in his veins. It stained his hands and seeped into the ground.

He sensed the presence of Five at his side. “Bandages,” the boy spoke calmly, but one disadvantage of knowing Five so well was also knowing that he was most calm when most scared.

Someone left his side to fetch them as another crouched down.

“I can help.” The newcomer’s voice held a different quality from the rest.

“That won’t be necessary,” Five said coldly.

“Why don’t you let her?” shouted One—Three guessed it was One because only One ever shouted. “Do you want to watch him die?”

Five didn’t answer.

“Calm yourself,” said Four said, presumably to One.

“Well, do you?”

            “He’s not going to die,” said the strange voice again.

It was the girl, Three discerned. Somehow, she was making Five act strangely. Whatever One had suggested…

“He’s not going to die,” she was saying, “but you have to trust me.”

“Step aside,” Four said quietly.

At last, Five did.

She worked deftly, hands flying over him, instructing the others, except for Five, who had disappeared, on what to do. At one point Three felt his mind sigh and loosen its strangling latch on his thoughts. His thoughts, freed, floated white and amorphous from his parted mouth. They curled before his closed eyes, familiar specters, thinning, disappearing. With his thoughts, Three felt as if he might disappear, too.

But when he opened his eyes, he saw her. It was the brown of her hair, the arch of her brows, those images cruel and forbidden that hooked onto the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of the white lake right before it flooded over his nose.

His throat struggled to choke out the syllable. “Di…”

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s delirious.”

“He’s okay,” said the girl. “The worst is over.”

They continued to bustle around him after that, placing cold things, hot things on his skin, moving him about. All the while, he saw black. Except for when the sun set. Then, his eyelids bled.

At night, when the others had finally given to exhaustion and Three himself was battling the fire that still writhed in his gut, Five returned to his side. He was whispering something too hushed for Three to make out at first, but soon the words became clear.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Five was saying over and over again in his ear. “I should have listened to you. I should have taken us on the longer route.”

Why didn’t you Three imagined himself asking.

But as Five repeated the words, Three picked up on a pain in his voice too raw to be concern over a peer’s well being.

In an uncharacteristic slip of heart, Five took Three’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“You know what One keeps on saying?” he asked, obviously not expecting a reply. Three wished he could.

“Do you think the girl…” He trailed off. After a long moment: “Never mind. Hang in. We’re almost there.”

The last few words sounded too strained to be comforting. Five squeezed Three’s hand again, this time a little too tightly. 

Thanks for reading! The last part will be posted tomorrow! Once again, let me know of your thoughts/comments. 

Short Story Time! (Part 2)

Check out Part 1 HERE

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

part 2

The land came and went easily under their feet despite the wind. When the last slant of light slithered from the earth back to the sun, Five stopped them by a twisted grove of trees that marked the beginning of the forest. Without a word, One set down the lantern on the flattest patch of soil as Four set out to scout the next leg ahead of them. Three sat on the ground and stretched out his limbs, then pulled out a small wooden flute and began cleaning the notches in its side.

On the fringe of light cast by the lantern, Two walked the girl to the fresh remnants of a fallen tree. There he offered her his canteen of water. She made no motion to accept it, leaving him to awkwardly take a swig himself. Afterwards, he passed his end of the rope to the girth of the tree, tying it firm. He checked the rope around her wrists in turn, adjusting the knot so that it was tight but did not cut into her skin.

Two hoped that she would say something. By now, he was certain that any expression that could color her eyes would ground this girl as a convicted in his charge, because in this world there was a need for Two who guarded the desperate, the indignant, the cruel, Two who soothed and shushed and comforted the wretched. There was no Two for the emotionless. 

“We continue in the morning,” he said finally.

She stared at the tree before her, not so much stirring at his words.

Farther off in the grove, One leaned against the warped trunk of a tree. “So what are your guesses?”

Four grunted in question.

“You know, why she’d kill the man.”

“Not any man,” the larger boy corrected carefully. “Her husband.”

“And you’d think she’d actually kill the man?” One rubbed his jaw with a hand.

Behind them, the underbrush crackled. Both boys turned to Two emerging from the shadows.

“What’s your guess?” asked One.

“Nice girl,” Two murmured, and Four murmured his consent.

“Yeah,” agreed One. “Usually the Killings make a dash for it, don’t they? Think she’s deaf?”

“Why would you say that?” asked Two.

“Perhaps she didn’t hear the sentence,” Four said.

A glance passed between the three as the thought registered.

“No,” said Two quietly. “She hears alright.”

“Think she could have killed him?” pressed One, returning to his curiosity.

Two shifted his weight. “Dunno. Maybe.”

Four reached into his satchel. “Let’s read the report.”

“Yeah, read it out loud.”

Four cleared his throat, then spoke only loud enough for those in proximity to hear: “Male, 21. Blow to the temple. Cause of death: bleeding from the artery. 

One whistled. “Pretty brutal for a pretty girl.”

“It’s not about the looks,” Two suddenly snapped, flushing when he became aware of his outburst.

One frowned, turning to Three as he joined them. “What about you? What do you think of the girl killing her husband? Doesn’t look it to me.”

“Does it matter?” The others watched as Three began whittle the flute with his knife. Once, it had been as long as his arm, but over the course of a year it had shrunk to the length of a hand.

“No, really.” Swiftly, One snatched the knife. “Don’t you go into your shell now. This is important. What if she isn’t guilty?”

The words slammed Two into silence and stole what conjecture Four had been brewing in his mind. But when they reached Three, they slowed to trudge through the mud in his mind.

He tried to force himself to think but found that all he could think of in the moment was his childhood friend, Di. She was a great girl—a great climber, too. They used to climb all fruit trees in her farm. Sometimes, they picked fruit, but more often they just sat behind the foliage in a content silence.

They had plans. Small plans, like going down to the creek to fish, but big plans, too. When Three turned sixteen and she fifteen, they had planned to get married.

The past winter, Di’s father fell gravely ill, and so she married the cogworker’s son for his inheritance in order to pay for the healer’s visits. 

Two’s voice pushed through the fog and clung feebly to the sides of his skull. “Do you think it could be true?”

“What do you think, Three? Doesn’t look it to be me.”

“You don’t think she could have killed him, right?”

“Think it could be true?”

“She probably killed him for inheritance.”

Two outright gaped while Four eyed Three in concern.

Three didn’t care for their reactions. He took the chance to snatch his knife back from One’s slack hand.

The ground was hard and the wind was harsh and the trees made rustling sounds and he couldn’t fall asleep. But Five was a reflective boy, a specimen of human that spent a good amount of time looking inwards, turning over objects and searching for some sort of truth or definition that he knew he would never find. As a result of the searching, he knew himself well. Now, he knew that the ground, the wind, the trees were constants. What was actually keeping him awake was the soft shape that sat at the edge of the log.

He had been watching her for most of the night—not that he wanted to watch her. It was part of his job. They always tried to make a run for it at night, when the darkness seemed more forgiving to sin.

At first, he had watched her with scrutiny. For the most part, she sat still and upright. When she moved, it was a hand or a boot or a piece of hair, and even then she didn’t move much.

The more he watched, however, the more Five imagined that he knew her. Her life seemed to flash like leaves in the moonlight before his eyes, and he saw her as a young girl who sewed dolls and perhaps watched from behind her parents’ trousers and skirts as the procession cut through their town. Perhaps she had seen the previous Five and had admired him for his wit and decisiveness.

Blinking, Five tried to shutter out the images of the life of a girl he didn’t know.  The night weighed heavy on his mind, a powerful but unobtrusive presence. It steeped into his blood, made his senses sharper.

He suddenly considered getting up and walking over to that log. He played the scene through his head. He would sit down a far distance from her, and they would sit in silence. Then, when the time was right, he’d say:

Tell me what happened.

Not why, because he knew better than that. They would come flooding—the excuses, the tears, the pleas of set me free.

Or not. From where he sat against the tree, he studied her again. She was the quiet type to the marrow, if he had deduced correctly (and Five might have been the leader because he often deduced correctly).

He played the scene again. He would get up, walk over, sit down, wait in silence, then he’d ask:

Why.

She would turn to him, eyes quiet and solemn, and whisper set me free. No pleas, no tears.

Maybe she’d say nothing.

 As he watched her, she slowly moved. Increment by increment, she wrapped her arms around herself. So small a motion that he almost missed it, she shivered.

He’d walk over to her and untie her wrists.

He’d say:

Go.

Tell me what happened was bad enough.

Once again, thanks for reading and let me know of your thoughts!

Short Story Time!*

*Because I'm in a novel-rut/I haven't had time to write anything except for tacking sentences onto a story that has been lying on my on desktop since last year.

And so you have it :) The title has yet to be finalized (in fact, please let me know which one of the two--or if you have a completely different suggestion--you prefer when you are done). I'll be posting this in a few chunks, probably 3-4, because the entire thing ended up clocking in at 3.9k. I also wouldn't dare to call myself an awesome short story writer because while I used to write predominately in that category, of the late noveling has stolen my energies. Okay, enough talking! Enjoy!

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

The witnesses stood around in a broken egg-shaped circle, mouths agape, brown skirt hems and muddy trouser bottoms swaying. An old woman’s cap flew off her head and landed on the tall grass several feet away. The wispy cloud of white atop her scalp quivered in the wind.

She could have run. She could have easily pushed the woman aside and burst out from the circle. She could have run—and she would have gotten far. Instead she stood, boots planted shoulder-width apart. For the longest time, the only sound came from the gale as it skimmed over the blades of glass.

Then the baby started to cry. It struggled in her arms, grabbing at the air. So she walked up to a rotund lady with a kind face and deposited the bundle into her arms.

“Her name is Rowan.”

The lady with the baby opened her mouth as if to call the mother back, but no words came out.

She walked to the opening in the broken circle. The tall grass pressing against her knees and skirt flying back behind her, it seemed then that she might make one last dash for it.

But the men came dressed in uniform, and she went without a fight.

***

There were specific consequences for specific wrongdoings, all dictated by necessity. The lowly thief paid for his crime in coins. The rambunctious assaulter paid for his crime in freedom. Likewise, the sly murderer paid for his crime in blood.

Origin of the system was an unquestioned mystery, though all knew that it did not stem from an eye for an eye nature. Some said that the creator of the code found distasteful the visceral, direct retaliation of the involved parties. Some said that the creator desired a law unique to his name. Regardless of theories, the process remained constant. After being read the accusation and the penalty, the convicted would be led to the center of the land. The journey could last anywhere from an hour to a month. Watching the procession was a pastime, and people would crowd into the square to see its culmination.

Those carrying it out were the agents of justice. They felt the responsibility dully yet pressingly, like a knife-wound that throbbed with numbness. At least, they told themselves that, they the impassive ones. They were the men who had come to collect the girl. Not really men, despite their uniform and rifles slung across their backs. Not really men (their faces, clean shaven for those who could shave, were soft and whole).

If they knew it, they did not show it. They hid their youth. Not sewn on their sleeves like the row of brass buttons, not askance on their heads like the required cap. Their anger, their grief, their love for one another, for their families and—they kept that all inside when accompanying a convict. They dealt the hand justice, and justice was aloof to all.

They were five because five was a good number. One, a gangly lad who walked with a rhythm, carried the lantern. Two, the youngest at sixteen and one month, carried the ropes. Three was a dreamer who wished to someday leave the job behind. While he was on the job, though, he held the position of messenger and held it well.

By appearances, Four served the purpose of brawn. But One, Two, Three, and Five knew he had the softest heart of the three.

Five was the leader. He was the oldest, a boy of eighteen—and some speculated that was why he was leader. He was the most levelheaded, a boy of cool disposition—and perhaps that was why he was leader. Above all, he was skilled with the rifle—probably why he was leader.

Today, they had pinned down their caps guard themselves from the wind. Two brought the rope to tie the convict’s hands, but when the girl held out her wrists, face turned to the side, the boy faltered.

“Give me that,” said Five curtly, and took the rope himself. He tied her wrists, gave the other end of the rope to Two, and pulled out the sentence scroll from the inside of his coat. The parchment crackled as he unrolled it, but it could hardly compete with the howl of the wind. Five began to read:

“The spoken word of Ribar of Bluewillow has been corroborated by physical evidence.”

The villagers absorbed his calm words in silence.

“The taken shall repent through death by firing squad at the center of the land on the fifth day of the new quarter.”

Five looked up from the parchment in his hands. He swept his gaze around the curve of the circle, its circumference trembling in the squall. “We are the dealers of justice,” he announced.

“We are the accomplices of justice,” the men and women in brown murmured in return.

Two tugged lightly at the rope to gesture to the girl of their departure. “It’s a long walk,” he warned, seeking her face for a shred of fear.

Her eyes, colorless yet dark, flitted to his face before dropping to her boots.

One swung his lantern to point north, but not before flashing a grin at the young ladies in the circle. Three joined One on his right, the two of them close on the heels of Five, who rolled up the parchment. Two and the girl, connected by the trembling loop of rope that hung between them and braved the wind, followed One and Three. Four brought in the rear.
At the sound of Four’s solid footsteps, Five turned around and gave his men a brief glance, making sure that all, including their subject, were accounted for. Beyond the strong line of Four’s shoulder his eyes went on, absorbing the townspeople. Small and ordinary they stood, quivering, as fleeting and frail as the hundreds of other townspeople in hundreds of other towns. Yet he swept them all in, passing over the old lady with the flyaway white hair, a breath of color against all that brown. His eyes landed on the bundle in the kind-faced woman’s arms.

Unknowingly, the woman shifted her stance. A corner of the blanket slipped from its tented fold and, disturbed by the wind, was left fluttering, creased under the soft moon of the baby’s cheek.

At that moment, the porcelain creature opened its eyes, breathtakingly colorless like its mother’s.

Five turned around. “Let’s go,” he muttered beneath his breath.

They began to move, then as the lash of the wind began to leech the feeling from their faces, they picked up pace. The long, shriveled grass paved the path before them while the baby’s cries paved the path behind.

Thanks for reading! All comments/feedback are greatly appreciated! And I'm also open to questions :) Lastly, sorry for being absent recently from this blog/the blog-world. I have a lot of catching up to do and I'm expecting that I'll be less busy come October.