| Horror and Thriller Fiction posted November 5, 2020 |
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Christmas is a terrible day for an execution
The Executioner's Tale, Part I
by Jay Squires
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
Part I of Christmas is a Terrible Day For an Execution
He spat on the whetstone again and, bending over the table, pulled the full three-foot length of curved blade sizzling across its surface.
“Fucking King Gregory.”
“Shush! Mind your mouth, Freddie. Some‘d love to deliver your message to hisself.”
He spat again and squinted at the door, raising his voice so she could hear him. “And you’d best be mindin’ your own, woman. Who’s to hear? Unless he’s in there layin’ with you.”
“Ah, Freddie, come on back to bed. The sun’s not even up.”
“Aye, the Christmas sun. ’Tis a terrible day the fucking King chose for a fucking execution. Hah! And I don’t feel like Jesus Christ.”
“Now you hush! Hush!” She appeared in the doorway, barefoot. “God forgive you, Freddie, you’re talking like a crazy man. It’s not a good day to kill. I’ll grant you that, but...” Crossing the room to the table, she stood in the lantern light, her silver-streaked hair to her waist. “You must get hold of yourself. It’s not you. It’s not your choice. You’re doing the work of the king.”
He laid the sword on the table and turned to her, but didn’t speak.
“I’m thinking there won’t be many there,” she said.
He shook his head and blew out a puff of air. “No, woman, it’s a proclamation. Everyone must go."
She laid her hand on his upper arm and spread her fingers across its mass. “Will you be all right?”
He sighed, lifted his heavy shoulders up to his ears, and let them drop.
“You’re worried.” She flattened her other hand on his chest.
He shot her a glance. So she knew. She heard about it after all. It didn’t surprise him, though. News like that spread like the plague.
Suddenly she was onto her tiptoes, gripping his shoulders to pull her up, for he stood a foot taller. Her mouth lingering at his earlobe, she tugged playfully at the large gold ring hanging from it, sucked it into her mouth, let it slide out, nibbled at the flesh where it entered his earlobe. Then she put her lips full onto his ear. “Fuck. King. Gregory,” she whispered, and the heat of her breath radiated to flush the entire side of his face. “Let’s go. Let’s leave.”
He pushed her to arms’ length. “What? Leave what?—Go where?”
“Anywhere. Out of the kingdom. Start over.”
“Claire, listen to me. I’m forty-two.” He turned back and tapped his sword. “This is all I’ve ever done. Famine is everywhere outside the Kingdom. There’s no starting over.”
And at that moment, he almost told her what she didn’t know about the rest of it.
* * *
The jail door clicked shut and the jailor turned the key. The priest gathered the folds of his smock and crossed the cell to the prisoner, who sat on the edge of his hay-stuffed mattress, leaning into his knees, his head in his hands.
“Are you ready, my Son?”
“I don’t want to.” There was a sad, childlike quality to his voice. He looked up, blinking fitfully.
“You don’t want to…” The priest held his Bible in both hands, his rosary marking some page or another and hanging down from either end. He considered it a moment, then looked back at the prisoner. This was probably his tenth pre-execution visit with a prisoner. The Holy Bishop told him on the day of his first assignment that it would be an experience he would never get used to. This concerned him at first, and he prayed about it, but after the fifth or sixth he found it to be easier than he’d anticipated. And this one had a special significance. He smiled without showing his teeth.
“I don’t think not wanting to’s an available option, Son.”
“It’s Christmas, Father.” The prisoner couldn’t control his jaw muscles. “Jesus Christ! No one should die on Christmas day.”
The priest winced at the name of his Sweet Savior being spewed out so carelessly. But he would forgive him. He was sure God would forgive him, had already forgiven him.
“Our blessed Savior knew at the moment of his birth the day and hour that he would die. Did you know that, Son?”
The prisoner, who had gone back to holding his head in his hands, angled an eye at the openly smiling priest. Is he expecting an answer? To that? He is.
His greasy, red lips still holding his smile, and his beady eyes boring into me. He isn’t taunting me into a debate, is he?
“The very day and hour. Our Savior knew.”
“He was a child, an infant, with an infant’s understanding.”
“Jesus Christ was Lord, our God! Our Saviour!” The priest’s face grew red as a berry.
The prisoner leapt to his feet with a suddenness that caused the priest to retreat two steps. And then when he raised his arm, the priest held his Bible to his face in both hands. A smile flickered on the prisoner’s lips and he brought his hand to his hair. But no sooner had his fingers arrived when his other hand joined them and he started yanking at his hair. His face collapsed.
He turned from the priest and sobbed, taking in jagged gulps of air.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry Father. Forgive me, I was wrong,” he cried, thrusting both arms overhead and staring up curiously at the strands of hair wound in his fingers and some drifting to mingle with the sawdust on the cell floor. For a moment it struck him as funny and he released a short chuckle. And when he turned back to the priest, his tears resumed and he covered his face in his hands.
“You are mad. Clearly mad. But you know that.” The Priest, no longer feeling threatened, was smiling again, speaking slowly, assuredly. “Apostacy brought you here. Sins against the Word and our Kingdom as Protectorate will cost you your head.”
“Jesu, Jesu, forgive me!”
“If your plea is sincere, the Lord has already forgiven you. He reads the heart; we are left to read the fruit of the lips.”
“The fruit of the fucking lips!” With his words echoing shrilly in his ears, the prisoner felt his body begin to vibrate like a taut wire that had been plucked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t even know I—”
“Ah, so begins the battle with the Demon of Darkness.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I don’t deserve to die, Father.”
“Not want to I understand, Son. But that you don’t deserve to? King Gregory, in his earthly wisdom, decreed differently. His Majesty’s charge is to protect the purity of Christianity against all apostasy.”
“But my charge is with the minds of my students.”
“A precious responsibility, that.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. They must understand the world, the real world they live in. The crops they’ll be planting. The peasants in the market place they’ll bargain with. The majesty of the sky above them, the deep mystery in the soil beneath their feet.”
“And the rain? And flooding?”
The prisoner looked confused. “Ye-es…”
“You told them that Noah’s Arc was a child’s story.”
“I did, but—”
“The greater’s your sin.”
“My sin. My sin. My sin.” Why did he keep saying those words? He snuffed back the strand of snot that hung all the way to his lip. His words were confounding the priest. It was muddying his argument. His argument … as though he had an argument. The priest was a speck, a dust mote in his ecumenical hierarchy, less than a speck in Gregory’s kingdom.
With all other options gone, with nothing to save him, he was left with only his dignity. He would die with his dignity.
“Now … would you like me to read to you from the Word?” The Priest opened his Bible and removed the rosary.
“I don’t need the Word. I need to ask you about the executioner.”
“The executioner?” He closed the Bible.
“I hear he is not very good at his craft. The other prisoners tell me he botched his last two… performances.”
The priest smiled, close-lipped, and one corner of his mouth tilted up. “I hadn’t heard.”
“On one, they say he had failed to sharpen the blade enough, and besides, he was so far off the mark that the blade struck the clavicle, absorbing much of its downward thrust, then severed only half the neck, barely through the spinal cord, so the head rolled off the chopping block, but dangled by a sheath of skin and the trapezius muscle from the torso.” He watched the priest’s face turn ashen. “He was dead, of course.”
“Oh, my.”
“Then, one can’t expect the executioner to have a perfect day every day … can one?”
“No, I-I suppose not.”
Enjoy the conclusion of The Executioner's Tale in a few days
Part I of Christmas is a Terrible Day For an Execution
He spat on the whetstone again and, bending over the table, pulled the full three-foot length of curved blade sizzling across its surface.
“Fucking King Gregory.”
“Shush! Mind your mouth, Freddie. Some‘d love to deliver your message to hisself.”
He spat again and squinted at the door, raising his voice so she could hear him. “And you’d best be mindin’ your own, woman. Who’s to hear? Unless he’s in there layin’ with you.”
“Ah, Freddie, come on back to bed. The sun’s not even up.”
“Aye, the Christmas sun. ’Tis a terrible day the fucking King chose for a fucking execution. Hah! And I don’t feel like Jesus Christ.”
“Now you hush! Hush!” She appeared in the doorway, barefoot. “God forgive you, Freddie, you’re talking like a crazy man. It’s not a good day to kill. I’ll grant you that, but...” Crossing the room to the table, she stood in the lantern light, her silver-streaked hair to her waist. “You must get hold of yourself. It’s not you. It’s not your choice. You’re doing the work of the king.”
He laid the sword on the table and turned to her, but didn’t speak.
“I’m thinking there won’t be many there,” she said.
He shook his head and blew out a puff of air. “No, woman, it’s a proclamation. Everyone must go."
She laid her hand on his upper arm and spread her fingers across its mass. “Will you be all right?”
He sighed, lifted his heavy shoulders up to his ears, and let them drop.
“You’re worried.” She flattened her other hand on his chest.
He shot her a glance. So she knew. She heard about it after all. It didn’t surprise him, though. News like that spread like the plague.
Suddenly she was onto her tiptoes, gripping his shoulders to pull her up, for he stood a foot taller. Her mouth lingering at his earlobe, she tugged playfully at the large gold ring hanging from it, sucked it into her mouth, let it slide out, nibbled at the flesh where it entered his earlobe. Then she put her lips full onto his ear. “Fuck. King. Gregory,” she whispered, and the heat of her breath radiated to flush the entire side of his face. “Let’s go. Let’s leave.”
He pushed her to arms’ length. “What? Leave what?—Go where?”
“Anywhere. Out of the kingdom. Start over.”
“Claire, listen to me. I’m forty-two.” He turned back and tapped his sword. “This is all I’ve ever done. Famine is everywhere outside the Kingdom. There’s no starting over.”
And at that moment, he almost told her what she didn’t know about the rest of it.
* * *
“Are you ready, my Son?”
“I don’t want to.” There was a sad, childlike quality to his voice. He looked up, blinking fitfully.
“You don’t want to…” The priest held his Bible in both hands, his rosary marking some page or another and hanging down from either end. He considered it a moment, then looked back at the prisoner. This was probably his tenth pre-execution visit with a prisoner. The Holy Bishop told him on the day of his first assignment that it would be an experience he would never get used to. This concerned him at first, and he prayed about it, but after the fifth or sixth he found it to be easier than he’d anticipated. And this one had a special significance. He smiled without showing his teeth.
“I don’t think not wanting to’s an available option, Son.”
“It’s Christmas, Father.” The prisoner couldn’t control his jaw muscles. “Jesus Christ! No one should die on Christmas day.”
The priest winced at the name of his Sweet Savior being spewed out so carelessly. But he would forgive him. He was sure God would forgive him, had already forgiven him.
“Our blessed Savior knew at the moment of his birth the day and hour that he would die. Did you know that, Son?”
The prisoner, who had gone back to holding his head in his hands, angled an eye at the openly smiling priest. Is he expecting an answer? To that? He is.
His greasy, red lips still holding his smile, and his beady eyes boring into me. He isn’t taunting me into a debate, is he?
“The very day and hour. Our Savior knew.”
“He was a child, an infant, with an infant’s understanding.”
“Jesus Christ was Lord, our God! Our Saviour!” The priest’s face grew red as a berry.
The prisoner leapt to his feet with a suddenness that caused the priest to retreat two steps. And then when he raised his arm, the priest held his Bible to his face in both hands. A smile flickered on the prisoner’s lips and he brought his hand to his hair. But no sooner had his fingers arrived when his other hand joined them and he started yanking at his hair. His face collapsed.
He turned from the priest and sobbed, taking in jagged gulps of air.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry Father. Forgive me, I was wrong,” he cried, thrusting both arms overhead and staring up curiously at the strands of hair wound in his fingers and some drifting to mingle with the sawdust on the cell floor. For a moment it struck him as funny and he released a short chuckle. And when he turned back to the priest, his tears resumed and he covered his face in his hands.
“You are mad. Clearly mad. But you know that.” The Priest, no longer feeling threatened, was smiling again, speaking slowly, assuredly. “Apostacy brought you here. Sins against the Word and our Kingdom as Protectorate will cost you your head.”
“Jesu, Jesu, forgive me!”
“If your plea is sincere, the Lord has already forgiven you. He reads the heart; we are left to read the fruit of the lips.”
“The fruit of the fucking lips!” With his words echoing shrilly in his ears, the prisoner felt his body begin to vibrate like a taut wire that had been plucked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t even know I—”
“Ah, so begins the battle with the Demon of Darkness.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I don’t deserve to die, Father.”
“Not want to I understand, Son. But that you don’t deserve to? King Gregory, in his earthly wisdom, decreed differently. His Majesty’s charge is to protect the purity of Christianity against all apostasy.”
“But my charge is with the minds of my students.”
“A precious responsibility, that.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. They must understand the world, the real world they live in. The crops they’ll be planting. The peasants in the market place they’ll bargain with. The majesty of the sky above them, the deep mystery in the soil beneath their feet.”
“And the rain? And flooding?”
The prisoner looked confused. “Ye-es…”
“You told them that Noah’s Arc was a child’s story.”
“I did, but—”
“The greater’s your sin.”
“My sin. My sin. My sin.” Why did he keep saying those words? He snuffed back the strand of snot that hung all the way to his lip. His words were confounding the priest. It was muddying his argument. His argument … as though he had an argument. The priest was a speck, a dust mote in his ecumenical hierarchy, less than a speck in Gregory’s kingdom.
With all other options gone, with nothing to save him, he was left with only his dignity. He would die with his dignity.
“Now … would you like me to read to you from the Word?” The Priest opened his Bible and removed the rosary.
“I don’t need the Word. I need to ask you about the executioner.”
“The executioner?” He closed the Bible.
“I hear he is not very good at his craft. The other prisoners tell me he botched his last two… performances.”
The priest smiled, close-lipped, and one corner of his mouth tilted up. “I hadn’t heard.”
“On one, they say he had failed to sharpen the blade enough, and besides, he was so far off the mark that the blade struck the clavicle, absorbing much of its downward thrust, then severed only half the neck, barely through the spinal cord, so the head rolled off the chopping block, but dangled by a sheath of skin and the trapezius muscle from the torso.” He watched the priest’s face turn ashen. “He was dead, of course.”
“Oh, my.”
“Then, one can’t expect the executioner to have a perfect day every day … can one?”
“No, I-I suppose not.”
Enjoy the conclusion of The Executioner's Tale in a few days
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