All the doors were locked, of course, but he easily found a substantial rock that would remedy the situation. After a quick glance to make sure no one was around, he hefted the rock and swung it toward the window.
Several seconds later, Wil opened his eyes to escape the blinding white explosion in his head. He found himself flat on his back in the dirt, still grasping the rock. The slicing, stabbing, burning pain that grated up his arm was less intense now, but still impossible to endure.
When he dropped the rock, the pain finally began to subside. He hauled himself back to his feet, looked at the car window, and blinked in surprise. The window was not broken. Not even a crack. But he couldn’t have missed—not with the force he’d used, not at such short range, and yet . . .
Carefully, afraid of triggering the terrible pain again, he picked up the rock, this time with his left hand. He swung with all his might at the window—
Bam! Flat in the dirt again. Wil’s head pounded as if a grenade had gone off in his right ear, and his right arm felt as if an elephant had walked across it. He whimpered—something no one had ever heard him do. He wondered if he might be having a heart attack. Wouldn’t that be the left arm? It was hard to think.
His fingers let loose of the rock, and he lay on the tire-flattened grass until the pain had subsided to a mere pricking in his right index finger. He brought it up to his face and studied it again, but still found nothing.
Something was very wrong with him. Wil didn’t have medical insurance, but there was a first-aid tent inside the faire. He could describe his symptoms, maybe have them examine him. At least it would be free.
He got up slowly, not even bothering to brush the dirt off. It might add an air of authenticity when he explained his symptoms, make the first-aid workers take him more seriously. On his way to the entrance, much to his chagrin Wil passed the Perfect Family waiting to take the wagon shuttle back to the parking lot. The wagon was coming, the horses clomping forward, the people pushing closer to get a seat aboard.
Wil hoped to walk past the annoying family unnoticed, but Perfect Family Guy saw him right away and managed to look genuinely concerned. “Hey, how’s that migraine doing?”
Wil’s first instinct was to lie, but what was the point? “I thought it was gone, but it seems to keep coming back.”
The little girl, Orli, trotted out in front of the wagon, grinning. “Look—what pretty horses! Where’s the video camera, Daddy? Can you take a picture of me with them?”
Two rowdy young boys began to clatter against each other with wooden swords they had purchased as souvenirs.
PFG nodded his sympathy toward Wil. “Could be one of those cluster headaches, I suppose. They come and go, and they can be as bad as migraines.” Wil made a noncommittal response and stepped around the crowd, wanting to be away.
A younger boy, frustrated at being left out of his brothers’ sword fight, pulled out his “Renaissance souvenir” pop gun and pointed it at them. “I’ll get you both!” He fired the pop gun, augmenting the sound with his own yell, “BLAM!”
The hot and tired horses responded to the noise. Startled, they flinched in their harness, snorted, and lurched forward. Orli was standing right in their path, still waiting for PFG to film her with the video camera. The wagon driver wrenched at his reins, the horses lifted their hooves, and the girl shrieked.
Because he had been trying to get around the crowd, Wil was closest to where the girl stood. He jumped forward, knocked Orli out of the way, smashed into the nearest horse, and fell to the ground. Before he could roll away, he felt a hammer strike his chest. The girl had fallen backward to sprawl in the dirt and had already begun to sob, but the weeping came more from startlement and confusion than from severe pain. Wil, on the other hand, thought he might have cracked a rib or two.
The wagon driver backed the wagon up several feet and jumped down from the buckboard, and other people hurried forward to Wil and the girl. The horses snorted, as if embarrassed by the incident. Orli continued to cry softly, and her father quickly checked to make sure she was uninjured before moving to take a look at Wil. “Wow, that could’ve been bad! I don’t know how to thank you. Are you all right?”
Surprised was the first thing that came to Wil’s mind. He had acted completely without thinking, with no regard for his own safety. Stranger yet, he felt very little pain. “Fine.” And he found it was true. His entire body was suffused with a pleasant tingling sensation. “Better than fine. I’m great.”
Perfect Family Guy still looked concerned. “Could just be endorphins and adrenaline talking. You’d better have a doctor check you out.”
A distant part of his mind seemed aware that his body was hurt. He pulled open the loose neck of his muslin peasant shirt and looked inside. A red flush of bruising was already beginning to appear beneath the skin. How odd. After the inexplicable agony he had experienced several times today—each time while trying to ply his trade—now he felt euphoria when he should really be hurt. And he’d only been trying to help someone, after all. There was definite irony in that: invisible pain after trying to steal, and a feeling of well-being when trying to help, despite a visible injury.
Wil’s eyes narrowed as the thoughts flashed through his mind. Was it irony, or was this something more sinister? It had all begun after he’d tried to pick the storyteller’s pocket. Had the old man done something to him, administered some sort of drug or hypnotized him?
He smiled up at the PFG. “You’re probably right. I’ll head back inside to the first-aid tent.”
Perfect Family Guy still looked concerned. “They won’t be able to do much in there. You might need an x-ray. Do you have insurance?”
Wil shook his head. PFG pulled out his wallet and removed a business card. “Here’s my card. If you end up needing to see a real doctor, I’ll make sure that your expenses get covered.”
“Thanks.” Wil glanced down at the little rectangle of paper, then put it in his pocket. Bentley Watson-Taylor III, Attorney at Law. “I hope I won’t need it. I’m just glad Orli’s okay.” A tingling rush of good feeling started in Wil’s hand and swept up his arm and through his body.
“Thank you, Mister,” Orli said, and gave him a hug. “I hope you’re going to be okay.”
Wil knew the hug against his sore ribs should have hurt, but he didn’t even wince. “I’ll be fine. You just stay out of trouble.”
Back at the entrance he showed his hand stamp, went through, and headed toward the storyteller’s pavilion.
On the way, he tested his theory. He tried to pick a pocket and received a fresh jolt of pain. Then, after helping an older woman push her husband’s wheelchair up an uneven slope and position the man where he could watch a troupe of players perform humorously abbreviated Shakespeare plays, Wil felt the rush of euphoria again.
The old storyteller had definitely done something to him.
When Wil reached the pavilion, the old man had just finished spinning a tale and the few late-afternoon audience members left quickly. Wil walked straight toward the storyteller, stepping over the scattered cushions. The leathery face registered recognition and concern, but no surprise.
“What did you do to me?” Wil demanded. His voice was rough with mixed emotion.
The old man considered the question. “I shared something with you, as I do with all who listen to me. How is your headache? Are you feeling better now?”
Wil felt an acid spurt of frustration burn in his stomach. “You know it wasn’t a headache, and no, I’m not feeling better. You tricked me.”
The old man’s expressive eyebrows climbed a millimeter up his forehead. “How so?”
Wil cast about for an answer. He wasn’t sure how he’d been tricked or what had been done to him, but he traced the strangeness back to here, in this tent with gauzy walls and cooling breezes, and this enigmatic man from whom he had tried to steal something of “true value.”
“You . . . you tricked me by saying you had something valuable in you
r pocket.”
The old man nodded soberly. “You heard that, did you? That is true. I carry what I value most in my pocket. But how is that a trick?”
Wil seethed inside. Wasn’t the answer obvious? “Because you knew I’d hear you, and that I’d try to find out what was in your pocket.”
“Ah.” The storyteller’s voice was barely a whisper. “And . . . ?”
“And? When I touched whatever was in your pocket, it gave me a jolt of some sort. It hurt so much I let go and fell to the ground. That’s how you tricked me. What was it? Some kind of trap?”
“I admit, I did speak the truth in your hearing, yet no one can choose what another person will do with the truth once they hear it. I did not make that choice for you.”
Wil couldn’t believe his ears. Was the storyteller actually implying that this was all his own fault? “Oh no you don’t, old man. You still did something to my hand, and I’m betting you know how to undo it. Every time I try to practice my . . . business, my hand, my arm, my body, my brain, everything hurts like hell. Well, fine. You made your point. Picking pockets is bad. Stealing is bad. I get it.” He raised a fist. “Now make it stop or I’ll—”
An excruciating pain sizzled up Wil’s arm and blinded him for a moment. As soon as he lowered his arm and forced his fist to relax, the agony began to fade. “For God’s sake, just make it stop.”
“Make it stop? For God’s sake . . .” The storyteller looked troubled. “Let me tell you a story—it’s what I do. Please, sit down.”
Wil wasn’t sure why, but he sat. And listened.
“In the time of the Third Crusade, the Year of Our Lord 1190, many brave knights, greedy lordlings, and hapless soldiers traveled across Europe by boat or by foot, in order to secure the Holy Land from the evil Turks. Some crusaders truly felt a calling from God, but the real reason for most of the lords and commanders—third and fourth sons without lands to inherit—was to capture new domains to rule. Other knights simply came for the chance to fight, to kill the infidel, to find glory on the battlefield.
“One such knight—let us call him Roderick the Brash—led his soldiers into battle, cutting his way through Turkish lines to establish a foothold in Jerusalem. There, while attempting to occupy the ancient holy city, Roderick came upon a kindly old leather worker, who went by the name of Julius. The leather worker did good deeds for his neighbors in Jerusalem, without giving thought to whether they were Christians, Moslems, or Jews. He claimed to have been a centurion in the Roman army in the time of Jesus Christ.”
Wil scoffed. “That would have made him over a thousand years old.”
The storyteller simply looked at him. “It’s a story. Would you like to hear more?”
“As long as there’s a point.”
“Julius himself was present at the crucifixion and had come into possession of a fragment of the True Cross, and a Splinter from this remarkable artifact had kept him alive for so long. Though he wasn’t wealthy, the leather worker had sufficient means to meet his needs and was content. No doubt he experienced the same euphoria you did when you performed a selfless deed.”
“That’s a stretch. Are you telling me—”
The old man calmly went on. “When he learned that Julius the leather worker had such a treasure, this holy relic, Roderick the Brash came at night into his shop and demanded to see the fragment. Julius told him the story I just told you. And then Roderick struck him down with his sword and took the fragment for himself.”
The old man’s gaze was distant, and his voice hitched. After a brief pause, he reached into the pocket where he kept his treasure, where Wil had felt the first sharp sting. He withdrew an oddly shaped and unimpressive lump of very old wood, less than two inches long. “When the fragment encounters someone who needs its . . . assistance, it shares a part of itself. A Splinter.
“Roderick the Brash had great need of it. After touching the fragment, Roderick attempted to ignore the message of the Splinter. He continued to fight and kill until the pain became so overwhelming it rendered him unconscious, and his men left him for dead on the battlefield. After that, Roderick had no choice but to change his ways. He performed his penance for many centuries, made his way through the world, and found his own contentment. And, over the years, the fragment grew smaller, bit by bit, as it found others who needed it.”
Wil’s impatience mixed with wonder, annoyance, and indignation. “So, I’m supposed to believe that you’re a knight named Roderick the Brash, who lived during the Third Crusade? And that I’ve got a Splinter of the True Cross stuck in my hand?”
“I simply told the story.” The old man gave him a noncommittal look. “Believe what you wish.”
Wil blew out an angry breath, looking at the lump of wood. It wasn’t the least bit impressive. “If I believe that’s a real holy relic with magical powers, and an invisibly small Splinter is embedded in my finger, then I’d also have to believe that I no longer have free will. I’m just a rat in a maze, and God is some sort of cosmic experimental researcher dispensing either treats or electric shocks, depending on whether or not I do what He wants.”
The storyteller did not answer the accusation directly. His pensive gaze seemed to look through Wil. His eyes seemed very, very old. “There are many possible interpretations—some harsher than others. Some say that the Splinter is a sort of . . . conscience for anyone who has discarded the conscience that God gave them. But I don’t believe that.
“Others believe that because the cross is a symbol of sacrifice, a Splinter of the True Cross might bestow peace and happiness for every deed that is selfless or sacrificial, while selfish acts are rewarded only with pain.”
The storyteller paused. “But I don’t believe that either. All of my experience and knowledge have led me to conclude one thing, that a Splinter is distilled truth. No more, no less.”
Wil wanted to object, to interrupt and call the man’s words bullshit. He didn’t believe in Biblical morality or in miracles and had never felt a need to go to church. He had certainly never let himself be bound by superstition. But something kept him silent.
“Each Splinter senses the good or bad potential of a person’s actions, then gathers those effects, concentrates them into the now, and transmits the truth back to its owner. If a thief takes a wallet, he causes financial injury to the person he steals from. He also steals some of that person’s time, and robs him of his feeling of safety. Like a pebble dropped into a pond, there are ripple effects.”
Wil rubbed his forefinger but felt no twinge of pain. “Now you’re getting pretty esoteric.”
“It is concrete enough. Perhaps the thief’s victims would not have enough money to buy necessities for themselves or their families. Imagine that a person needed to fix the brakes on his car. If there wasn’t enough money to fix the brakes, and the brakes failed, then a terrible accident could result. All these things factor together and are condensed by the Splinter into a single manifestation of pain, great or small. In the same way, a kind or unselfish deed helps both the giver and receiver. The Splinter concentrates consequences, intensifies truth.”
“But . . . but, if I believe you, then you’ve just taken away my livelihood!” Wil squawked. “That’s how I survive. You don’t have any right.”
The storyteller smiled. “Imagine what the ruthless warrior Roderick the Brash must have experienced. How difficult it was to give up hatred, pillaging, and violence, stranded in a hostile foreign land, suddenly prevented from looting and killing. . . . Still, he learned to get by. So can you.”
Wil squirmed. Something about the old man’s interpretation rang uncomfortably true. “So is there anything I could do to get rid of it? Short of amputation? I mean, if I did a lot of good deeds would it go away . . . and leave me in peace?”
“I have met a few people who tried amputation. Strange, no matter how much they cut off—finger, hand, arm—the Splinter stayed inside them, as if it were in their blood. Perhaps you stand a better chance of finding pe
ace if the Splinter remains in your finger.”
The old man began to stack up his fine tooled-leather books. With a callused finger, he rubbed the intricate designs and workings, smiling at the craftsmanship. “It’s not so hard to learn a new trade, given a little incentive, although you might find it comforting to revisit . . . familiar surroundings from time to time.”
Outside the tent, criers were announcing the closing of the Renaissance Faire for another day.
Wil just stood, unsettled, staring at the storyteller, not knowing what to do. “This is impossible. You don’t really expect me to change who I am and what I do for a living just overnight, do you?”
“No, my friend. But you will have plenty of time. After all these centuries, who would know better than I?” He paused for a moment, holding up one of his ornate books. “You might discover talents you never knew you possessed. You already have quick hands, sharp eyes. Think about what you could become.”
The old man’s words were too much to absorb all at once. Wil had to let the implications sink in, and questions piled up in his mind. “I have plenty of time . . . ?” Then, as he began to consider the possibilities, a familiar pleasurable sensation tingled in his hand. “You mean I could be a fine artist, a poet, a rock guitarist, even a surgeon? How would I choose?”
A small smile flickered at the corner of the storyteller’s mouth. “Why choose? You could do them all. But use your abilities to help people, and you will find contentment.”
The pleasant warmth seemed to be growing stronger. “Well, I guess I’ve always wanted to see other countries. Maybe I could join a service organization and travel while I learn some job skills—new ones, I mean—and some foreign languages.”
Now the tingle seeped from Wil’s hand into his entire body and, for the first time in memory, he felt a true sense of wonder.
The End
Redmond’s Private Screening
Author’s Note:
After studying the history of Japan, the fall of the last samuari, the opening of Japan to western influences, and then the early history of filmmaking, I added the ingredients together, mixed them up, and developed this story. “Redmond’s Private Screening” was published in German translation several years before it appeared in English because most magazines considered it too gruesome (now there’s a recommendation!) And how are you supposed to make seppuku cute and cuddly? Even though it’s been toned down some, I still consider it one of my best creepy stories.
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