Liar’s Reward

 

Sitting here crouched back against the cold stone inner wall of this long abandoned hovel, I wonder at the peasant who built it. In this oppressing dark that only the Cornish copper miners know from years of labor deep in catacomb labyrinths where no light penetrates. I can hear the buzzes of the fly near me, flittering from spot to spot searching for some rotting remnant to feast on and leaving his sickness where ever he lights for the moment. I can hear him in the depth of the silence of this room amidst the clamor of heavy torrential rain drops beating against the outer layers of old thatched roof above, in between the blasting of close thunder mere moments before the only penetrating light here when blinding lightening seeps between the age old cracks in the rotted wooden door and window clap boards.

In those brief intrusions of brightness my eyes have no time to adjust to clear vision of my dank and years of dust encrusted surroundings. But my memory of these past few days of haven here, need not the brilliance to know them well in this ominous ebony shroud of middle night. The fly flits again and again unceasingly like a harbinger of another sleepless night hiding in exile from my just reward outside these most humble quarters, if I am found.

A rustle in the corner alerts me to my other companion here, that long grey rat I have been unable to kill with his whip like pointed tail and nasty whiskers. Could I but murder him, I would have my first meat to eat in several days. I would rather feast of him, than him chew on some appendage of mine due to my lack of skill in thwarting him. This is what I have become, an eater of rats and found woodland fodder, hiding in years gone by dilapidated and abandoned places as far off any well trekked places of humankind as I can stumble upon.

Here, what I hope is far enough to the north, to be nearing those ancient remains of wall that marks the extent where those age old tales of Roman conquerors once held sway, I pray is far enough to be out of any pursuit by the undersheriff of Shrewsbury. For there I am named worse than rat eater and his personal enemy.

Another clap of ear deafening thunder almost immediately followed by the eye searing blast of temporary light, gives a momentary reflection of small intent yellow eyes peering directly in my seated direction. Instantaneously, by pure instinct, I jolt backwards in aversion, cracking my skull cap against the stone wall I am leaning against. The sound of my head thudding against the wall coupled with my short gasp of air, startles the rodent just long enough for my lung back forward to send the vermin scurrying back into the far darkness. A bite now averted, but also a chance at meat that I could cook on an actual fire this night, when there would be less chance of anyone about noticing possible habitation in this long thought uninhabited shelter, is gone as well.

Peering into the oppressive dark I can barely make out the patterns of the grass stuffed, once straw mattress I had found here, or the creaking legged rustic table (I had done my best with torn remnant rags to tie back into use), much less any small rodent sneaking about the floor in stealth. However glad it is I am that it is only the fall of the year and not the dead of winter, because dead it is I might be, even here with some shelter from the elements by now.

Would that I could turn back the flow of sands leaking through the midpoint of the hour glass and I would change all that I had done which brought me to this place in time and imminent future fate. But alas I am no mage of old, so I can but forge forward in an attempt to at least stall off capture and restart a life again elsewhere far from where any knows of my past cowardice.

I place my gnarled hands at the age’s worn smooth stones at my back and slowly press, aiding me in achingly rising on shaky legs, as I have crouched in the deep shadows far too long. Stretching my back muscles to awake and flexing my other muscles back into usefulness, I step forward one foot at a time until I can put my hand on the dilapidated wooden table in the middle of the room. Here I use the table as my guide, walking around it and toward the door of the hovel. Once at the door I remove the dirk, tucked between my belt and britches, so that I can slide it between the edge of the many cracked door and its frame and slide it upward lifting the latch on the outside. This is how I have kept the door closed when I am inside, so it would appear to anyone chancing upon this abandoned cottage that it was indeed still uninhabited.

Swinging the door ajar into the night I can peer only a couple of paces into the deluge of the storm, the torrential heavy hard rain drops are bearing down almost sideways and within moments I am soaked to the skin on my front side, thus I close the door and latch it again as it was before. Inside is dry; the Thatcher’s work had been done well for there to be no leaks after so many years. None will be about this night, so I move toward the mattress in the corner. Kneeling down and turning to first sit on the dank grass and straw stuffed bag, I lean back and stretch out to attempt at find some solace in sleep on this night when all I have to be aware of is my rodent companion and not others searching for me.

Sleep does come eventually, fitfully and broken with dreams of dread, but sleep none the less.

With a dismal grey almost dawn, I awake not fully rested. After opening the door I see that the storm had belayed down to a dense cold drizzle, still constant and thick as fog on a winters morn on the Cotswold’s. Watching the rain continue to soak the entire glade, my mind drifts back to Shrewsbury. I can still see the stalls starting to rise for the festival and open faire, a feeling of merriment in all those of this tiny shire, amid many colored banners flying in the soft breeze. I was one of those allowed to have a booth at the faire and was looking forward to the additional possibilities of sales or trade with the merchants from outside our area. All of this would be for naught in just two days time.

It was by happenstance that one of these merchants attending that faire was from much farther south, hailing from close to where the ancient Druid stones stand in circles. At catching a glance of me as I put finishing touches to my small booth, he spoke to some others there that he thought I looked incredibly like a man from a shire nears his, who had been thought to be dead these five years past. His suspicion, he said increased by the fact that this dead man was of the same trade as mine, a potter of some small note locally in that region.

These rumors found their way into the Undersheriff’s ear, which would have been damning enough on their own. But considering the fact that the Undersheriff’s sister was a maid of my acquaintance, his interest became doubly piqued. Late that selfsame evening the Undersheriff found me in the Boar and Thistle having a porridge and ale for my supper. His questions had been both pointed and heavily laced with veiled threat, his hand having slammed to the table two different times and his jowls growing deep red as he spoke. Were he to find that I was a man being sought for some illegal past, or of any sort to sully his sisters good name with the people of the shire, his vengeance would be swift and excruciatingly painful. He ended his harangue with strict instructions that I was not to leave his jurisdiction before his enquiries were completed.

I left Shrewsbury that very night with great stealth, leaving all I had acquired in the last five years, so the same I parted without goodbye to his sister. To make matters more complicated while I was sneaking away in the night I stumbled upon a corpse not too far from the faire itself. Druid’s Bones, it was the merchant who had first named me possibly afoul; he looked to have been murdered in some haste by some footpad bent on thievery. No one would believe this now however, so my stealth became an outright run for my life. Here at this hovel, in this storm, not far from the northern region was as far as I had gotten. No coins to my name, no friends to aide me, no plan to guide me out of harm’s way and close to starving if I did not find real food soon.

With these thoughts careening through my brain, I grab a tattered and dirty rag heaped in the corner and drape it across my disheveled long unclean hair, wrapping it about my unshaven neck to venture out in search of something of sustenance. 

After wandering between the maze of thoroughly soaked forest trees and soggy undergrowth for what seemed like hours, now completely drenched to my bones from dripping high leafy wet canopy, muddy booted beyond my ankles finally I spot a scrawny lost hen nearly drowned as well from the storm. Praising whatever powers that have let me find this much needed prize. Grabbing her in her dazed state, I am able to wring the final stages of life from her, and carry her lifeless back to the hovel.

Once inside and shed of all the wet coverings I can, I use all the dry wooden pieces I can find to start a fire in the fireplace, risking whatever discovery might happen for some meat to fill my shrinking stomach. As I strip all the feathers from this fowl and use my dirk to gut her for cooking, a secondary gift is my body drying out in front of the building fire, which I keep adding material to. Finally I am able to spit the bird into the arch of heat and can hear the beginning sizzle of cooking flesh.

Just as the meat is nearing ready to devour, I see blaring light coupled with excruciating pain at the back of my skull and fall over onto the hearth cracking my forehead on the stone. As all fades to shrouds of black I think I hear laughter in the background of the shadowy room.

My mind drifts through foggy sights and sounds of people and moments from my past, some from that same past I have tried to leave behind me, farther south in land.   None of these happenings seem real as people and places are mixed in unfamiliar patterns without the context of how I remember them occurring.

Suddenly I am jarred into conscience awareness with sharp thudding pain. One, two, three times, before I can attempt to jolt upright into a seated position. But as I do I see the fist jarring into my jaw as I feel the bone break and see blood splatter across my eyes.  Then I hear that laughter in the background once again, as a deeper more menacing voice blasts right in front of me.

“Stay down fool or I will wallop you again. Druid’s curses I’ll smash you again anyway. But I will give you one boon though, you cook good stolen chicken.” The voice booms before fading into violent laughter.

Behind him I hear the other voice saying “go ahead and finish him off, we need to be clear of here long before we are found.”

In the midst of the deep laughter I wince and jerk uncontrollably as I feel the deep gutting stabs to my middle torso, five times one after the other before my conscience fades into oblivion once again.

What seems like an eternity later I drift in and out of awareness? I am still lying in front of the hearth but now in a crusting puddle of my own blood. As hot liquid gurgles in my throat while I try to gasp for small gusts of air, I feel sharp pains at one of my one of my wounds. It is that companion of mine, the rat gnawing at the stab wound from the now long gone attacker. That deep oppressive dark envelops me as consciousness wanes for the last time.

A fortnight later two men are standing in the dank abandoned cottage. Their gaze is somber, staring down at a partially devoured rotting corpse.

“Is this the man you were sent north to find?” the Sheriff of Preston asked the sergeant from Shrewsbury.

“This is him sir. I had seen the potter several times.” The Sergeant answered.

“So let me get this right, Sergeant? Your Undersheriff sent you to Dursley, to check out the background of this potter. To which you found that no one was looking for him, they assumed him drowned by some trickery he did when he left there, but he is not sought or wanted for any crime?” The Sheriff asked.

“Yes Sir and none there gave a reason as to why he would feign a drowning. I think probably, he ran from something that none there wishes to admit.” The Sergeant added

“And while you were gone your Undersheriff found the footpads who killed the man who spotted him during your faire, so he was not involved in that crime either?” he asked further.

“Again, yes sir. However the Undersheriff’s sister wanted him found. So I was sent to locate him. I believe she had her sights set on him, knowing him not a criminal.” He answered.

“Well you have him found for what good it may be, I think she is better off for it this way though. I am reaffirmed in this one thing Sergeant. Lying has a high cost for sure and it should be thus, but cowardice has no recompense ever.” The Sheriff of Preston stated flatly.

“I so agree Sheriff, thank you for your assistance in this.” The Sergeant answered just as benignly.