by Jeff Siamon
Was this then the end? Connie wondered. He glanced at his bound arms. He looked down at his feet. At the broken ropes that had held them. They were thick strands. Not easily split by any ordinary man. Despite his helplessness, he had the same feeling he had had in the desert. He was possessed with some kind of superhuman strength. The question he asked himself was whether he could break the ropes on his arms before he choked ─ either to death or to unconsciousness. And before these men could attack him.
The man with the silvery hair seemed to sense what Connie was thinking. He took a sword from the man beside him and walked up to Connie. They eyed each other. Their faces only inches away. There was something familiar about the man’s face but in the face of what was happening to him, he didn’t try to come up with any memories.
The man began speaking to him. Sharp words he didn’t understand. Then he grasped Connie by the chin and shook his head. He added more words to the shake. Connie didn’t see any sense in saying anything in his defense. No one was going to understand what he was saying. And by the angry stare he was getting from the man, no amount of words ─ even if he could be understood ─ was going to change his opinion.
For third time, Connie assumed that this was it. Especially when the man left him and walked over to the archers. He began speaking to them while Connie contemplated his it. It seemed a very long time ago when the only thing he had to worry about was meeting his company’s year-end project goals.
The archers began to walk away. It seemed, it was being put off. At least for now. The silver-haired man glanced at Connie. Then went to the group of men that surrounded the prisoner.
Connie let out his breath. He shut his eyes. The glare the sun was giving him was more intense than the silver-haired man’s. It had just come out from behind some clouds. The heat of its glare suddenly erupted perspiration on his face. It blurred his vision. He blinked several times and without thinking, tried to wipe away the tears. Instead, he choked. “Shit,” he murmured. He guessed he’d just have to put up with the stinging in his eyes. The lesser of the two misfortunes.
Once again, he marveled at how calm he felt. About to die strung up on a cross and yet ─ it wasn’t that he didn’t feel afraid. It was just that he wasn’t willing to let his fear take control of him. As long as he was alive, there was still the chance that he would remain alive. And if chance had its way, he’d last until nightfall. Perhaps in darkness, he’d be able to play Russian roulette with the ropes on his arms. Now all he had to do was keep from passing out until that time came. What had he wanted in another lifetime? he thought, his wry sense of humor still intact. A shower? Some clean clothes? A pot of coffee? Hell, now he’d settle for just breathing.
There was a sudden commotion around the prisoner. They were dragging him to what Connie could see was another stake or pole in the ground. It was on the opposite side of his vision from the people who were struggling with the sheets of material that were now looking more like the coverings of a tent-like enclosure. He saw two men quickly lash a horizontal pole to the post. And then the prisoner’s arms were wrestled and tied to the pole in the same way Connie was tied by an intricate set of ropes that ended around the man’s neck. His legs were also bound.
Connie could see now that the captive had a different look from these bearded men. The same longish hair but he was clean shaven except for two tufts of beard on his chin. The man had put up a violent fight when they had dragged him to the post, but once secured, the fight had seemed to go out of him.
Connie wondered what the man’s fate was. What were both their fates? Did they intend to leave them trussed up long enough for fatigue to overcome them? Until they slumped to be choked to death?
But it seemed, at least for the prisoner, these men weren’t going to wait for that outcome. The woman he thought he’d seen with the armed men appeared with bundles of branches and straw. They placed the material around the feet of the prisoner. Holy shit! he thought. They were going to burn the man alive.
Every muscle in his body tensed. He’d rather die in a fight or even choke to death than being torched. He flexed his arms. That made the ropes around his neck tighten. Once again, the silver-haired man looked his way as if he could read Connie’s thoughts. The man pointed to the two archers who had become onlookers. The archers took up their previous position. Their arrows staring at Connie. Along with the silver-haired man’s humorless eyes.
Shit, he thought. Chance was not looking good.
Evidently the prisoner had the same thought. For now, he was shouting hoarse words that ─ from what Connie could see of the man’s face ─ seemed more like curses than cringes.
Was that going to be his fate as well? Not if he could help it. He’d rather be shot full of arrows than be burned alive.
He watched the women build up the brush around the prisoner’s body. A few of the watchers laughed at the man’s shouts. The silver-haired man gave Connie a long, hard stare until the women seemed to have finished their task. Connie didn’t need a translator to know what was in the man’s thoughts. The it had arrived and damn if he was going to die like that.
He took a deep breath. Positioned his body as best he could to relieve the pressure on his throat. And whispered a ten-number count down where zero was going to be possibly the last word he would ever utter.
He got as far as “three” when ─ out of his line of sight ─ a rider on a black horse rode into the knot of people encircling the prisoner. It was a woman by the looks of her golden hair and her skirts which were longer than the men’s tunics. She was shouting something as she rode in. Then she jumped off the horse and continued yelling at the group, directing most of her words at the silver-haired man who began walking towards Connie. The woman followed, still spewing angry words at him. Connie let out his breath but kept his body tensed. Now he remembered why the face of the silver-haired man seemed familiar. That was man he had seen arguing when he was in the tent recovering from the wound. And the woman? The woman was Hey-la.
While she talked, the man took in her forceful words without expression while he stared into Connie face as if what she was saying concerned him. And if the woman recognized Connie, she gave no hint of that. Once glancing at him without a flicker of interest. Not returning the glance when Connie, in trying to adjust his posture, began to choke.
She talked for several minutes. Occasionally, she punctuated what she was saying by looking over at the prisoner. As the minutes went by, her voice grew calmer. Until she finally stopped speaking. Then both of them looked over at the prisoner.
Connie held his breath and wondered what had been decided. For that’s how the silver-haired man appeared. He gave her an imperceptible nod and walked over to the group standing around the prisoner. After he said something to the women, they began to remove the fire material.
The woman, Hille, remained beside Connie but her attention followed the silver-haired man. Connie exhaled in relief. Both for the prisoner and for his chances. She flicked a look at Connie but there was still no sign of recognition. She walked away from him without another glance.
44
He must have been dozing. The constriction around his throat told him that. But it was a man’s cry that twitched his eyes open. That of a cry of pain. It came from the prisoner. For the man shouted again several times more. And as before, Connie thought they were curses rather than pleas.
He saw the reason for the cries. Standing beside the prisoner, a man held a staff whose end was smoking. Then he smelled something that wasn’t charred wood. It could only be burnt flesh. The prisoner’s burnt flesh. Connie didn’t have to wait for the sum of two plus two to realize what had happened. The prisoner had been branded like an animal.
The man who held the staff was the man who had wielded the sword on the prisoner. There was a fire nearby. A woman was tending it, throwing the occasional stick and log and then stirring up the flames. (She wasn’t Hille.) The man went to the fire and placed the still smoking end of the staff into
the fire. Connie didn’t see the silver-haired man among the men that were around the prisoner. On the other side of his vision, he noticed a tent-like abode. Behind him, he could hear people moving around and talking. Children playing, from the glee of their cries.
He listened to the sounds and watched the man who had the staff. Whom it was being readied for, he had no doubt. He was about to join the herd. From what he could see of the prisoner, there was a bloodied welt on his forehead. So, if he should ever get out of this episode ─ and he wished he knew how he had escaped the other episodes ─ if he ever returned to his real life, he was going to be branded for life. Was it better than being burned alive? Definitely, he thought to himself. But that was about as far as he was willing to go. Better had a long way to go before it was better.
The man who held the staff was now looking at him. He returned the man’s stare with a hard stare of his own. Bravado was easy now but he wondered if he would yell like the prisoner when the hot metal touched his skin. The man took out the branding end of the staff and inspected it. He gave Connie another look. This time he added a smile.
Okay, Connie thought. What do you do while you wait for anticipated pain? Had the prisoner begged before he was branded? He didn’t think so. What would be the use? Do you try to think of something else while you wait? (Two torturers walk into a bar …)
He watched the man turning and thrusting the hot end of the staff into the fire. Connie looked down at his feet. At the split pieces of rope. The problem he had, as he was beginning to understand it, was what exactly were these people going to do with him? Treat him like a prisoner-slave obviously. But they had seen him break the ropes around his feet. They had gone for their weapons because they were afraid of him. Wouldn’t they think he was liable to break free from whatever constraints they put on him once he was released from this cross? And if so, why brand him? Why take the chance of his escape, either to run free or exact vengeance for what they had done to him? Why not just kill him?
As usual, there were too many damn questions he decided as he watched the man inspecting the now white-hot end of the staff. When, at last, he didn’t put it back into the fire, Connie assumed it was now ready. He closed his eyes. Not from fear. He didn’t seem to have any. No, what he was trying to do was summon up some kind of moment, emotion, vision ─ something ─ that would somehow transport him back to the site of the crash.
He could hear the man’s footsteps as he approached. As well as the sound of people milling around. When he could feel the man’s presence, he opened his eyes. Reluctantly admitting to himself that nothing was going to wrest him from this moment. Possibly from this episode. Perhaps, this was the final assault by this thing. It hadn’t been able suck him into its blackness. Couldn’t make him die in a burst of bullets. Or car explosions. So this is where he was going to end up? But why here? Why at all? He didn’t know and wasn’t in the mood to ponder these questions any further.
The crowd of people who had gathered remained several feet away from him. Eager for what was about to happen, yet fearful. He noticed the archers had returned. The man with the staff also carried a sword. Well, they needn’t worry, Connie thought. Escape at this moment wasn’t going to happen.
The man led the glowing end of the staff near Connie’s face. Slowly. So that its effects could be appreciated. He barked out some words to Connie. Harsh sounding words. Now there was no smile on the man’s face. Just the look of a warrior about to go into battle.
Well, Connie strangely felt like a warrior, too. Although, the only battle he was about to face was that of the arena of pain.
The man looked behind him at the archers. They readied their bows. Then he slowly brought the glowing piece of metal ─ a circle intersected with a cross ─ to Connie’s forehead. But before it touched his skin, the smoke from its smolder got into his eyes. He instinctively tried to blink it away. Then, unthinkingly, went to wipe his eyes and the ropes tightened around his neck. He began choking just as the metal burned into his skin. Both shocks jerked his head upright with such force that he cracked the pole behind his head.
Everyone watching gasped. The man with the staff jumped back, dropping the staff. His sword at the ready.
Connie was in the agony of extreme pain. But beside the gagging sound he had made when the ropes tightened around his neck, he said nothing. He was too overwhelmed with trying to contain the pain he was feeling to speak. Yet his mind was still clear enough to realize that he shouldn’t writhe. For every time he flinched his body, the ropes dangerously tightened around his neck. And if he passed out ─ which his nervous system was suggesting ─ the ropes would tighten even more. He struggled with this dilemma until he could feel himself losing consciousness. As everything around him began to darken, he began to count down again, but only got as far as “two.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“Con-nee … Con-nee.”
He heard whispered words and his brain tried to wake him. When it did, he immediately went on alert. When he opened his eyes to the whisper, he saw only darkness. He didn’t know where he was until he tried to move his arms. Until the ropes tightened around his neck. Their constriction pricked his memory.
“Con-nee … Sshhh.”
He tried to speak but his lips wouldn’t move. There was a hand over his mouth. He tried to shake it away but he couldn’t. His head was bound again to what must be the post he was trussed up on. When he tried to move his legs, he realized they had succumbed to the same fate as his head.
“Sshhh …” He felt the whisperer’s lips on his ear. “Con-nee.” What was he hearing? His name?
Slowly his senses began to return. But not slowly enough for his liking. His arms were numb. Painfully so. His neck sore, rubbed raw by the ropes encircling it. There was something pressing on his seared forehead. A rope. It acted like another hot poker on his burn. And then there was the general state of his head. It was a metronome of pain. In double time. All of which made him tense up as if he was about to ward off an attack.
The hand loosened on his mouth. “Sshh.” He couldn’t see the person’s face. It was just a dark shadow against the ceiling of stars. The voice whispered something in his ear, ending with the one word he recognized: “Hille.”
“Hey-la?” he croaked.
Instantly her hand clamped down on his mouth. “Sshh.”
He would have nodded that he understood if he could have moved his head. Slowly she took her hand away from his mouth. He exhaled a sigh of some kind of relief. He wasn’t sure which. His head and the stinging burn of his brand vied with each other to see which was the more painful. He felt her undoing the rope that was around his head. That released the pressure on his forehead. Was she going to free him?
She whispered more words to him that he wished he could understand, but her voice sounded soothing. He felt a hand on his forehead. He twitched when it found the burn. The ropes tightened around his throat.
“Sshh,” she whispered and stroked his hair. Then he felt something gooey on the burn. Like a salve. It stung for a moment and then began to cool the burn’s inflammation. She whispered once more. A moment later, he felt the rope around his head returning, only looser and not over his burn. She wasn’t going to free him. Just ease his discomfort. Damn!
So, he thought, on a scale of one to ten with one being dead and ten being free, he’d give himself a three at the moment. However, it was night. And besides Hille, there didn’t seem to be anyone around, so when she left him, he’d go to work on pushing the scale to ten.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Hey-la.” Her face was close to him. He smiled a thank you but he doubted she could see it. She whispered back to him and backed away. Her face was in too deep a shadow for him to see her expression. But that was okay. She had already expressed herself. And he hoped ─ thinking ahead ─ that if he did manage get free without choking himself to unconsciousness (or worse), she wouldn’t get in any trouble.
The sound of a twig breaking filled the silence a
round them. Its suddenness captured both of their attentions. Connie saw her head jerk around in the direction of the sound, followed by a twist of her body. But awareness came too late for both of them.
A dark mass that could only be a man by its size, swooped down on Hille, grabbing her around the throat. Now it was her turn to gag.
Connie tugged on his arms but had to stop when his breathing became labored. The man hissed more words at her. He could see now that the man’s other hand was over her mouth. Damn, if he didn’t feel helpless. He lashed out with both feet, once again breaking the ropes on his legs. But all that did was nearly choke him into unconsciousness. His body slumped like it was doing an imitation of a hanging. He barely manages to plant his feet on the ground before he passed out.
Meanwhile, Hille twisted and turned to free herself while the man whispered menacing sweet nothings into her ear. By the time Connie had regained his breath, he could see ─ or at least sense ─ that Hille was losing the fight to breathe. All at once her body became limp. Then what happened next came so swiftly, Connie was only aware of its conclusion.
Suddenly the man cried out, flinging his hand away from her mouth. Then as suddenly he buckled to his knees. Both hands went to his belly and he groaned what sounded like a gargle. Another gargle hissed Hille’s name. And a third saw him fall face down onto the ground. His body twitched several times until it lay still. The body no longer having the breath for one last gurgle.
Connie could tell by her silhouette Hille was still as well. She stood over the dark patch on the ground that had been a man. The only sounds he heard were Hille’s heavy breathing and the distant cry of an owl on the hunt.