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.