Urshzane

At the intersection, I could go right and head home—but turning left would take me toward the prison, the place I both despise and find enchanting.

It’s not like I go there often, not like I just hang around its stoney walls like some madman with a psychotic obsession. Only from time to time do I go, and normally only drive by, so Jenny won’t be asking why I’m home late.

The stoplight turns green as I’m thinking, and I find myself following the black Jeep in front of me. Going left.

Oh well, just a brief detour. No harm done.

The clean buildings around me quickly disappear, and trees envelope the road, making a clear path forward. This road is a dead end beyond the buildings, and I find myself wondering curiously what the Jeep ahead of me might be doing. I’ve never known another car to go this far before.

Well, unless it's one of the ominous black vans that carry criminals. But I’ve never driven alongside one of them. And don’t care to.

Ahead, I can see the tall, barbed wire fence rising to block the roadway and cut off the trees, and just within, the dark stone structure makes me shiver a little. They say it was built in the 1800s, and, heavens, it looks it. Or something old anyway. Maybe they said the 1700s, I can’t remember. Dates never were my thing.

But the narrow, barred windows always make me think of knights and ancient wars. The idea of being a prisoner in there, with only their uncertain light to uphold my mood is never encouraging.

But this is where I have to turn back, or walk through the woods beside the fence a little way if I’m feeling like it. Those gates open for no one who doesn’t drive a van.

I pull to a stop, watching the Jeep. Is he a fellow onlooker of the forbidding scene, or will he go in? I wait.

The vehicle pulls to a halt directly before the gates, and I watch the passenger door open and a slim man jump out, feet almost in the woods. He’s not tall, and from what I can see can’t be more than twenty. Jeans, a gray muscle shirt, and a pair of worn cowboy boots. He looks back at me and doesn’t close his door.

My windshield is heavily tinted, so I’m not worried about him seeing me, but still, there’s something odd about it. About the way he’s holding his left arm out of my sight.

I glance at my gearshift, in park, and think about putting the car in reverse, in case. But I hesitate, and the next moment the man’s coming toward me. He walks quickly, with the air of a businessman, eyes on the ground and a slight frown on his face. His left hand rests on his hip, and I have an idea what might be hidden there.

I should leave, I know it, but something’s holding me back, and it’s like the thing that brings me here. A strange, inexplicable desire or curiosity that pulls at me and makes me do things most men would call weird. Or downright bizarre.

The man comes around my car, bends down and taps on my window.

I get a good look at his face and, from this close, I know he can see mine somewhat, too. My first guess at his age wasn’t wrong; he’s practically a boy, with the faintest beginnings of facial hair lightly growing on his chin and upper lip. His big blue eyes are looking into mine, and they’re utterly unaware of their owner’s youth. They take themselves very seriously.

I smile a little and let my finger press the button which rolls the driver’s window down. Still a little nervous about his left hand, yes, but not enough. Not yet.

“Hey, mister,” he says, vaguely polite. “What are you doing here?”

“I come by here sometimes,” I shrug. “I’m a writer. Something about the place… kinda neat to me. What about you, son? What are you doing here?”

He frowns at me, blinking as his eyes flick back to the Jeep.

“Think you’d better get out of here, mister,” he said, slowly. “This isn’t the time for… that.”

“Ah, I’ll be okay, son,” I smile again, and lean my arm on the door, peering at the Jeep ahead of me. “Who’s in there? You didn’t answer my question, you know.”

“I know that,” his expression hardens, his jaw tightening. “This isn’t the time for questions. I’m in a hurry, and you need to go.”

“Son, I’m not used to being bossed around by a boy like you,” I say. “Answer my questions and I might think about heading home.”

He looks back at the Jeep, seeming uncertain, and then I hear him sigh, his left arm twitching.

“Now,” I raise my arm, and he’s standing close enough I can touch the hand he’s holding by his hip. “I know what you’ve got there, son, and you don’t want to get that out right yet. Answer my questions. Only take you a moment.”

I see his eyes quest the inside of my car, evidently looking for any sign of a weapon. He doesn’t find anything, of course.

“Sir, you need to go,” he takes a step back, beyond the reach of my hand, and pulls the pistol from its hidden holster. He doesn’t aim it at me though. “You don’t want to be here.”

I chew my cheek for a moment, and then do something that may have earned me a place in some competitions. Competitions for recklessness, arrogance, and stupidity. Maybe bravery if you’re being generous.

I brush my hand across my jean pocket, to be sure my knife’s still there, and open the car door, stepping onto the road and slamming it behind me.

The boy looks up at me with something approaching wonder -- or so I think -- and I smile. I lean back against my car and fold my arms.

“I’m not leaving, son,” I tell him quietly.

I hear, a squealing sound, and both of us look over to see the prison gates rolling open, apparently of their own will.

I wasn’t expecting that, and I glace sidelong at the boy, gauging his reaction. He’s not surprised. He’s expectant.

“What’s going on, son?” I ask, stepping forward, pulling my knife free. “Why is the gate opening?”

“It’s Urshzane,” he whispers, and starts running.

I follow him before I know what I’m doing, sprinting through the gates and into the short-cropped grass of the prison yard.

Behind me, a car door slams, and I whirl to see who it is.

A tall, white-cloaked figure strides toward me from the Jeep. The driver.

“Leave, free man,” he tells me, voice deep and guttural. “This is Urshzane, the day all prisoners are released. Be not found by them.”