The Keeping

Pater smiled faintly at the feel of spring sunshine on his face, eyes closed as he reclined under the pear tree crowning Red Hill. The day had been hard. In all his years collecting King’s Tariff, he’d never felt so close to fleeing. The look in that poor widow’s eyes. All the same excuses he heard on the daily, something in those eyes, the sincerity, the helpless plea. Yeah, today had been hard. Hardest yet. All the easy days are behind us, his father was fond of saying. But old man Poll was busy fertilizing the willow now, coming on 8 years. All his days behind him, easy and hard alike. So Pater sat, and enjoyed what leisure was left to him, as the sun became brighter, and warmer.

Hot, in fact. It’s not hot today, Pater thought.

As the dream was replaced by the fuggy between of wakefulness, his eyes opened to a fireball just inches from his face. No, a torch, held by his jailor. Checking to see I didn’t die before they hang me, no doubt. Trouble with the thousand day forbearance, so many became corpses before they could even have their neck stretched.

“How many days for me?”, he wondered aloud. Joints and voice creaking as he forced his limbs into the monumental act of standing, he turned to his calendar. Well, technically one of three cement walls, the fourth of his cell being iron bars. Counting his tallies, all neatly grouped by fives, cordoned off in regiments of hundreds, all scratched into the cement with the nub of his toothbrush, the only concession to hygiene this dungeon offered outside of the weekly dousing of cold water. Keeps the lice down, the jailor would explain, with a cruel grin. Only kind of smile available, these days. Now, where was I? That’s three hundred, four hundred, gotta keep it pointed in the right direction! “Aha-ha! Tee-hee-hee!” Pater’s thoughts and actions degenerated into a fit of giggling as he recalled an episode with Juniper, his second wife; him attempting a rather acrobatic approach to their love making, her providing encouragement with that phrase: you‘ve got to keep it pointed in the right direction!

Juniper had been there that day, the day he dreamt of. It had been her comforting way that helped him get over it, her unwavering light proving that the whole world couldn’t be as dark as it felt. Not even for a Tariffer.

The Widow visit had started, as is normal, with a polite (loud) knock (breaking down) of her door. Pater, preceded by his Sentinel, Hightower, announced himself: ‘Time for Tariff!’ And rushed in to the domicile. Hightower already had the delinquent cornered by the hearth, two wiggly brats cowering behind her skirts. Initially, there was no denial, no decrying the injustice of the debt. Only a resigned, pitiful, sadness, leaking from the women’s eyes and dribbling down her cheeks.

“You are in arrears with King, to the amount of seven hundred-“

Seven hundred, and eight hundred. Gotta keep it pointed in the right direction. Just a smirk at that thought, now the giggles were done. How can I ever laugh, with memories like that?

“-eighty four marks, plus interest, pushing you past the five thousand limit of King’s generous tolerance.” Pater had read announcements like this, or near enough, countless times. The penalty for passing five thousand with no sign of repair was execution. No trial, no forbearance. Just the sharp end of a Sentinel’s sword up through the gut. So those who could pay, paid. Those who couldn’t, well, it was Hightower’s sword. Pater just gave the nod; it’s not like he actually killed anyone.

The Widow, desperate to save her skin, and that of her offspring, offered coffee. No fire in the hearth, no nothing of any note in this hovel, and she actually offered coffee to these cold collectors who have just barged in demanding a year’s salary or more, on pain of death. Coffee. “ ‘snot the good stuff we used toonjoy, back afore Marland got ’isself kilt by a bear, but iss good.” Swiping at her tears with a ratty sleeve, she made for the kitchen.

“You do understand that only one of two outcomes are possible today, right? That you part with payment in either marks or your life?” Pater wasn’t trying to use fear against her. Well, not only trying to use fear. He did want to ensure that all was fair, after all.

“Knew once i’hit nine hunnerd-”

Nine hundred, now an incomplete regiment, five, ten, fiftee-

The Widow was all hospitality. No cheer, unless you count the sparkle came to her eye when she glanced over to her children, when she thought maybe Pater didn’t see. No, no cheer. Sad stories of how no matter what she tried, the world just kept putting a little more force behind the boot pressed to her neck. Sad stories delivered by a sad mouth and punctuated by sad, sad eyes. “No, mista Tariffer, I know I kin nevva repay to King. An I know t’day‘s my lass day. Frum a thousand days, nine hunnerd ninety nine-”

Nine hundred ninety nine, “Wait, that can’t be right. I’ve still got- NO NO NO! It’s not time yet! It’s not time!” But the bars were squealing open, the torchbearer making his way in.

Pater quickly began scratching the thousand mark on the wall, needing to finish, to accomplish just this one simple feat before he goes. Almost before he began, though, the jailer was dragging him bodily out of the cell, up the stairs and, ultimately, to the gallows.

As the widow collected the earthware, piled neatly on the counter, Hightower fixed Pater with an expectant look. Pater froze. First time since he went to the pleasure house at the age of twelve he felt completely out of his element. He’d never froze on the job. Never even hesitated. Today, though, feelings were making themselves known that were previously hidden. Is this guilt? Worry? What the hell is wrong with me?

Seemingly of its own volition, his hand reached out to the hilt of Hightower’s sword and drew it. A flush warmth sluiced over Pater, a sudden bath of sunshine, manufactured by his own mind. He had never drawn a sword in violence himself, that’s what a Sentinel is for. He turned to look at the widow, everything slowing, like the rest of the world was underwater. Took a moment to observe and absorb her features, the kindness that radiated from her. The understanding. Then, quicker than he would ever have dreamed possible, Pater whirled about and in the same motion buried Hightower’s sword straight up his gut until he saw the tip of it through the open mouth, crowding for space with that senseless little flap of tissue at the back of Hightower’s throat.

The drop through the trapdoor probably hurt like hell, supposed Pater, thankful that his nerves must be desensitized. Glancing toward his cell, his home for nearly three years, he could see someone busily painting over his pitiful calendar. That calendar had kept him, mostly, connected to what life was. Before, that is.

As the darkness pervaded his vision, he forgot about the thousand days past. Forgot about how humiliated he felt a moment ago when his bladder, and his bowels, betrayed him, and here in his final moments of all the times. Pater forgot everything, slowly at first, and then rather rapidly. Forgot everything, except the dream.

“Did I ever thank you? For, you know, that day?” Juniper’s voice was always filled with song, and sadness, and understanding. With that springtime sun as a backdrop, a halo of golden light, Pater could well imagine finding a different path, and learning to enjoy it.