CHAPTER XVI - A Final Resolution
"Sounds like a tough case you’ve got there,” Simon concluded after I told him my assignment. “So what do you need me for?” He asked, after taking a few moments for consideration.
“If you have any ideas who ...” I began.
“I don’t,” he stated instantly, then added, “but I’d like to help nonetheless.”
“Then maybe you can ask around — fellow thief buddies or something,” I said. He frowned, and then smiled.
“Sure, I will,” he said, still smiling. Then he turned around and started to walk. I did likewise.
“Why don’t you ask around your soldier buddies or something? Maybe one of them helped these people disappear.”
“Maybe they did,” I replied. Simon snorted and went about his business. Meanwhile, I went to Ivar to seek his council.
“This sounds like a dangerous quest. I’m afraid I haven’t a clue who kidnaps commoners. Except perhaps the Lords themselves, but then they wouldn’t send a representative to investigate,” he said.
“Do you think perhaps one of the Lords did the kidnapping while the others remained oblivious?” I asked.
“Possible, but unlikely. You haven’t answered a simpler question yet,” he said.
“Which is?” I asked.
“Why should a Lord bother to kidnap commoners when he can simply take them, out in the open?” He said.
“I can’t think of any reason,” I admitted.
“And why do you, and probably this representative Lord, refer to these people as ‘kidnapped’ when as far as anybody knows, there was no demand for ransom? This is an immigrant community, they could have simply left,” Ivar said.
“What could that mean?” I asked, now even less sure of where this was going in light of Ivar’s perceptive observations. I had trouble enough understanding his elaborate use of the tongue.
“It means that something fishy is going on,” Ivar replied. “If the people were kidnapped, then you’d know they were kidnapped on account of a ransom demand. If the people just vanished, however, then there is no reason to believe that any of them are alive at all,” he explained.
“And what does that mean?” I asked, humbled by my apparent lack of basic investigative logic.
“It means that the Lords are unlikely candidates, and that they know something they’re not telling you,” Ivar said.
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
“They know the people were kidnapped, and now they want to find them ― at least they want to find the merchant.” He said.
“Any more insights?” I asked.
“I fear I’m ill-equipped for such investigations,” he said, and resumed his work. He lied of-course, I could tell he’s conducted investigations before, and I was sure as hell he was a Lord himself, though he did his best to hide it.
‘I’ll let him have his privacy,’ I decided.
“You’ve done great so far. I hadn’t even considered the things you pointed out so quickly and clearly,” I replied.
“And what does that tell you?” He asked, testing me.
‘That you’re a lord obviously,’ I thought, but I drew an alternative conclusion as well.
“That you’d rather not get involved,” I replied, catching on to his way of thinking. “Well, thank you nonetheless,” I said, and moved to leave.
“A piece of advice, if I may offer one, young man,” Ivar ventured after a few moments of hesitation.
“Of course,” I replied, ready to listen.
“It’s a feeling in my gut: something about this whole business reeks of danger, so do be careful, this may prove more risky than your common brawl,” he warned.
“Thank you, I will,” I replied and left. I waited in the barracks for Simon’s return.
“No luck,” Simon said when he finally returned. Reluctantly, I reported my failure to Lord Durrant. He didn’t seem surprised.
“Alright, soldier,” he said. “Return to your usual post. I’ll have you summoned should I have use for you in the future,” he said in dismissal. I returned to my post still thinking over the mysterious events that had just come to my attention. I kicked a pebble as I walked, following the route of my patrol. I heard the sound of Barny behind me.
“Hey, Raymond!” He said. I tried to get away, and just kept on walking. I didn’t want to lose my train of thought and had no desire to entertain him now. I heard his short legs flapping, chasing after me. He passed me and turned, puffing as if he had just run a marathon. I gave him an irritated, impatient look.
“If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were trying to shake me off,” he said and laughed. I gave him a half-smile.
“Shake you off? I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied cynically. He smiled broadly between huffs and puffs. “But really Barny, I need to do something now, so ...” I continued and he interrupted.
“Listen, I heard about this investigation of yours, and you want to know what I think?” He offered.
“What?” I asked, trying to be patient yet having little success.
“I think you shouldn’t let it get you down. I mean, people vanish all the time, and most of the time nobody finds them ever again. You should just pray that they had a quick death and didn’t suffer too much,” he began, and I interrupted.
“Is there a point to this tale?” I asked, growing more and more impatient.
“Yeah. People vanish all the time, it’s a fact of life like eating or sleeping, so don’t let yourself get down on account of it,” he repeated.
“People do not vanish as casually as they eat or sleep.” I replied, not very cheered up.
“Yes, but people also shit,” He replied, as if that’s some sort of revelation.
“So?” I asked, not knowing if I should laugh or cry about this turn of conversation.
“So it’s like; shitting, people shit all the time but nobody discusses the fruit of their bowels.” He said, and I frowned. “So it’s like that, people vanish all the time; everybody knows, but nobody talks about it.” He carefully explained.
“Fine!” I said, not feeling cheered up at all.
“Like there’s this story about a soldier in Over Hampton. One day he vanished without a trace, and nobody was able to find him.” He continued his monologue as if I hadn’t spoken. I felt my face turn red as I recognized the story of a soldier who vanished without a trace.
“And?” I asked, now faking anger to mask my blushing face.
“And they found him a week later, half-eaten by rodents and in several pieces,” he said.
“Wonderful. Did they found out who did it?” I asked, leaning closer to hear his answer, which now truly did interest me.
“I don’t think so. Rumor has it he was done in by some crooks he owed money to,” he said.
“Great! That sure cheered me up,” I remarked wryly, and started walking again. Barny wouldn’t give up and walked on beside me.
“Oh, come on,” he said and slapped my shoulder fondly. “I know what would cheer you up! Me and some friends are gathering tonight ... you know, to drink some; loosen up. Maybe play rocks; wager a bit. You know, you can win lots of money from friends,” he said, laughing.
“I don’t think so, Barny. I don’t have much for you to win from me,” I said with a half-smile.
“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” He protested. “Come on, come on! It’s going to be fun!”
“No,” I flatly refused.
“I insist! If you won’t come of your own accord, I’ll be forced to take you there by extreme force! You know Crushy, she’s very emotional — you can never tell what she’s gonna do!” He jested.
“Fine, I’ll come,” I conceded, hoping it would get him off my back already.
Though I came reluctantly at first to Barny’s gambling get-togethers, once I learned how to wager I loved it. To be honest, more than playing, I loved winning; the game was only fun for me for as long as I won. Call it beginner’s luck if you will, but once I started gambling I was an instant success. I won a day’s pay on the first evening I played. I waited eagerly for my day-shift to be over so that I could wager again in the evening. I even skipped my evening training session with Ivar, telling myself the old man could use a day off. I don’t know what made me slack off; perhaps it was the strain of constant failure, and perhaps it was fear of what was to come, of what I had set out to do. I doubled my weekly wages on the second evening, and tripled them on the third, becoming quite the celebrity around The Black Sheep Tavern. Then a bright idea struck me: it was as if the devil had whispered a devious idea in my ear, I could even imagine the smoke.
‘I’m going to get them all, and they won’t see it coming.’ I thought.
I played the game, played at being a dumb and obnoxious soldier. Suddenly, I had an abundance of friends, and even women started paying attention to me. Word spread around town that I was rich, and I did nothing to counteract that rumor. Word also spread around town that I was a ladies’ man, and I did nothing to negate that gossip either. In truth, I wasn’t half as rich as they made me out to be, and I was all talk and no action with the women. Actually, they did the talking and I did the smiling. But regardless of my involvement with the ladies or lack thereof, my new-found fame killed whatever relationship I had with Ingrid. Nothing comes without a price in life, and I was ready to pay a personal price for the sake of justice.
“Sad I am to find you here,” Ivar remonstrated upon entering The Black Sheep Tavern on the fourth night of my winnings. I was surrounded by numerous sordid friends who eyed him threateningly.
“Why sad, Master Smith?” I asked, offering him a pint of ale. “Perhaps some ale will cheer you up,” I added.
“I’ll have none of that drunks’ piss,” he said forbiddingly. I ignored his glare.
“Suit yourself,” I said lightly. Apologizing in my soul for what I was about to do.
“You’re drunk! What’s become of you, boy?” He said angrily.
“I’m a man, not a boy, old man, and I’ll drink when I see fit, and wager when it pleases me,” I replied casually but with venom behind my words. He glared at me and took a deep breath. Holding the chair and leaning forward, his clenched fingers turned white.
“Fair enough. What about your training sessions?” He asked, exercising a measure of self-control that amazed me.
“Figured you could use a few days off,” I replied lightly.
“How thoughtful of you,” he said sarcastically.
“Take it easy, I’m just having a bit of fun. Even God rested one day of the week,” I said.
“I’m greatly disappointed in you,” he replied sternly.
“Why the bloody hell do you keep judging me all the time, eh? What’d I ever do to you?” I asked, as pure pain rushed from my heart to my mouth with the sort of honesty that I had not seen forthcoming.
“Why? You want to know why?” He asked, his voice growing in volume and anger as he spoke. “Because you asked me to, that’s why!”
“Me? When’d I ask you to condemn me?” I asked painfully.
“When you asked me to make a warrior out of you. What, do you think being a warrior is just about knowing a few moves with a sword?” He asked.
“Yeah ...” I replied slowly, and several of the patrons nodded their agreement.
“Well, you’re wrong. Anybody can swing a sword. Being a warrior is a matter of discipline and honor, and both are equally important. A warrior trains hard, every single day, honing his body and mind. A warrior without discipline is just a rash youth, and they don’t live very long. A warrior without honor is nothing more than a murderer,” he proclaimed.
“Well, I’m a murderer then!” I confessed, though he had no idea.
“And obviously a rash, sentimental youth as well,” he concluded.
“Anything else? Let’s list all my defects,” I responded.
“Only the Gods can tell you those, I have not enough longevity to list them all,” he replied. At that remark the whole tavern started laughing, and I was filled with pure rage. I don’t remember what happened next. What I do shamefully recall, however, is waking up in the morning on the tavern floor covered in bruises. Barny was waiting for me to awake, come morning. What began as a clever ploy had now backfired into a whole mess.
“Bloody hell,” I protested as a wave of nausea and aching head suddenly attacked me.
“You’re alive!” Barny cried out merrily.
“Not so loud, in the name of God!” I moaned, grabbing hold of my head and moving into a sitting position.
“Glad to see you’re alright,” he replied.
“If you say so,” I groaned.
“Saved your coins for you,” Barny offered.
“First good news I’ve heard recently,” I said.
“What about being alive?” He suggested brightly.
“Don’t depress me further,” I answered. At this point he started laughing.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“You don’t remember?” He questioned.
“Obviously not. What happened?” I repeated.
“You attacked the smith,” he stated, as if that explained everything. I waited a few moments for him to continue, but no further elaboration was forthcoming.
“And?” I asked impatiently.
“And truly he beat your hide. Boy, I’ve never seen a person paved to the floor like he paved you,” he said.
“Thanks,” I answered dryly.
“Oh, don’t worry, I got him for you, so you’re welcome,” he said, and my eyes darted on their own accord to his weapon.
“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly fearful beyond expression. His eyes followed my gaze.
“What? You think, I’d club him? No, saved you the honor. Meanwhile I had him arrested,” he said.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“In jail, of course, waiting for the magistrate,” he said. “Why, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased. You can nail him now,” he offered.
“I’ve gotta get there,” I said and rushed to get up — obviously a painful mistake. I vomited the content of my stomach on the floor, partially wiped my face on my sleeve, and ran to the jail as fast as I could in my condition.
“Open the gate!” I called to the jailer as soon as I reached Ivar’s cell. Ivar stood there watching the sun outside and didn’t turn towards me.
The jailer arrived promptly to hear what the fuss was all about and protested. “He hasn’t seen the Magistrate yet.”
“He doesn’t need to see the Magistrate,” I replied. At this point Ivar turned to face me and I lowered my eyes, unable to meet his gaze.
“He beat up a soldier yesterday,” the jailer began.
“Yeah, me!” I interrupted.
“So what’s the problem?” He asked.
“It was my fault. I was drunk,” I said.
“So?” He asked, unimpressed.
“When I repeatedly made rude remarks against his person and that of his daughter, he kept his peace,” I lied.
“As he very well should,” the jailer added.
“Yeah, but then I attacked him,” I said, killing my career.
“So? He probably deserved it,” the jailer said.
“No! It was totally uncalled for. I take full blame,” I replied.
“The magistrate will have your head if he hears,” the jailer warned.
“So … what if he doesn’t hear?” I propositioned.
“Suppose he doesn’t ...” the jailer offered.
“Then I’d owe you a favor,” I tried.
“Deal,” the jailer said and unlocked the door. I opened it, and Ivar paced outside in no great hurry, as silent as death.
With a cloudy sky above our heads and the barracks at our backs, Ivar finally turned to face me after having stayed silent for the entire walk from prison to the Smithy. I gazed at the ground, unable to meet his eyes.
“Took a lot of courage to do what you just did,” he said.
“I couldn’t let you die for my shameful conduct,” I said.
“The Magistrate wouldn’t have done anything; we’ve been friends for a while now,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” I replied, flushing red.
“But you didn’t know that,” he offered. “And you risked your career, perhaps even your life, on my behalf,” he added.
“I did what I thought was right, and I’m sorry, but it was all part of a - “I said and Ivar interrupted.
“So what’s wrong with you, boy? Why do you act so nobly sometimes, and at other times like such a damned lowlife?” He asked. I felt so ashamed of myself that no words came and my eyes burned. Even if I excuse this one time, in the broader sense he was completely right, and I had nothing to say in my defense.
“I don’t mean to judge you; I honestly want to know what’s wrong, like a father worrying about his son,” he said earnestly.
“I don’t know. I’m messed up,” I said honestly.
“You make it very hard for people to get close to you,” he replied.
“I know,” I admitted.
“So get a grip, Raymond, be a man! Stop turning into a mindless thug, irresponsible and thoughtless, whenever things don’t go your way,” he said.
“What?” I asked, surprised and shocked by his words.
“You don’t know what’s wrong with you … well, I do. You want something and you work to get it, but when your achievements don’t meet your expectations, you change into a downright lowlife,” he explained.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, blushing and fully realizing the truth of his words.
“Don’t apologize,” Ivar replied. “Change instead! Apologies don’t mean anything unless you do something to better yourself,” he finished.
“You’re right,” I replied.
“I know I’m right. I know you. Now, if you don’t mind I’ve got a daughter at home waiting for me,” he said and turned to leave.
“Thank you,” I replied. I wanted to say something meaningful to him; something to express my gratitude and shame; something that’d make him see that I can be better than all of this. But real life isn’t full of pretty speeches, and all I could say was, ‘Thank you,’ and have my unspoken words singe my soul.
My life resumed its course as if nothing had happened. It seems that I had not gained any wisdom or enlightenment from my experience. My thoughts sometimes wandered of their own accord and lingered on all the things I had left behind — all the things that mattered to me. I wondered why I distanced myself from those whom I love and those who love me. Why did I postpone all the goals so dear to my heart? What is it that tore me apart? I didn’t know, and don’t know even now. I took comfort in the sordid companionship of strangers, and the kind of peace only alcohol can bestow. In a word, I was a mess. What I began as a ploy to win the attention of my adversaries in a way that would leave them off-guard, now backfired. I succumbed to despair, very low. I kept on winning at games of chance most of the time, but not even that elevated my spirits; nothing did. I felt a sense of helplessness, accompanied by bitterness and a silent rage for things beyond my control. I felt I had strayed from the path I should have taken in life, but I didn’t know how to find my way back.
It was on a Tuesday just as I ended my shift behind the barracks that Simon found me and reminded me of the world outside myself.
“Ray, I think we have a problem,” he began quietly, his eyes darting everywhere.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, matching his volume.
“I overheard some of the guys talking about you,” he said.
“And?” I asked.
“And they think you’re rich,” he continued.
“And?” I asked again. He spoke in stops and starts as if he had hard time talking.
“And I think they’re gonna do you in; they want your money,” he said.
“Who?” I asked a bit too harshly, as my heart sped faster and faster.
“I can’t tell you that! They’ll kill me. They’re dangerous, Ray … You should clear out of town,” he warned.
“What do they look like?” I asked. He pursed his lips.
“I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you it won’t be their first time. They’re a dangerous bunch. You should disappear,” he repeated. I described to him the three who had killed Raymond of the Brooks, without telling him what they’d done. He nodded his head, his face turning paler.
’My ploy a success, finally! Now let us hope it won’t be the death of me as well.’ I thought.
“So you know them,” he said, his eyes darting everywhere.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I’ve got to disappear myself … It’s not safe. If they even dream I said anything, I’m worse than dead,” he muttered apprehensively, shaking all over.
“Hold on. I need you to do a favor for me,” I said, as a devious plan began to take form.
“Well?” He asked, nervously, obviously holding himself back from fleeing.
“Talk to them. Tell them I’m richer than they think. Ask for a small share of the loot in exchange for my whereabouts,” I said.
“Are you crazy?” He asked incredulously.
“Yes. Tell them I somehow think someone intends to rob me, and I’m hiding out in some cabin I found in the woods, by the brooks.”
“You really are crazy!” He replied “But you’re planning something, aren’t you?” He asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Alright. I’ll do it, but I want you to know I’m really sticking my neck out for you, so if I do this, we’re even. You got me out of jail, I’ll help you out here, and the score is settled,” he said.
“I’ll owe you,” I proposed.
“You just remember that,” he replied.
“Remember; in a cabin by the brooks!” I reminded him. He turned, nodded his head, and left without another word. There it was; my salvation. All the stray thoughts, gone. The causeless depression, gone. The Fates had intervened. As I had strayed and procrastinated, the Fates had sent my enemies to within my reach. Like Hector and Achilles, our paths were destined to collide in a fatal way. All the things that had been taking me away from everything I held dear; gone, as if they’d never existed. And all it took was a reminder that death waits for no man. Death does not wait for a convenient time. Death may strike anyone and at any time, reminding us to cherish our lives. My mind was sharp again; it was as if just yesterday I’d trained with Ivar, and just last week Raymond of the Brooks had been murdered. Whole and in control, I focused on the dire task ahead. I knew that I was living on borrowed time, so I moved as fast as I could, formulating my plan as I went along. They will die where they killed Raymond Brooks, I vowed. I purchased a few boards from the carpenter and black cloth from the seamstress. I then went to Ivar, finding the courage to see him again only because of my mission.
“Why the nails, Raymond?” He asked, somewhat disappointed that this wasn’t a social call.
“If I come back, I’ll have earned the name Raymond,” I replied, and he smiled and asked nothing more.
“May the gods be with you,” he said, kissing my forehead and giving me all the nails I’d asked for and more, and even a hammer to go with them.
I went to Ingrid next; she looked lovelier than I had remembered. Time has been kind to her. She had filled out in all the right places, making her a very alluring shape. Or maybe it was the thought that I might die that elevated her beauty in my eyes. Without a doubt though, I wanted to forget my past mistakes and kiss her one last time. I wanted to tell her there are things bigger than the both of us, and that love matters and nothing else. Damn, just before my very likely demise I turn up a philosopher.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” I began. She ignored me.
“I’m sorry,” I said simply. She continued to ignore me, though she stopped moving, perhaps sensing that something had changed.
“I’m going away now; when I come back, I hope I’ll be a better man,” I said. She paid me no heed, yet her pose relaxed and she seemed worried. I took her apparent anxiety as a sign that she still cared. I turned and left with that — her last expression, cherished in my heart.
“I love you Ingrid, daughter of Ivar,” I said under my breath as I left, hoping that God above felt my love, and would somehow send an Angel to deliver my love to Ingrid when I was gone.
I purchased a potion of Greek-fire, a magic concoction that, once opened, ignites almost instantaneously ― a few bottles of oil and a chain. With my supplies carefully assembled in my pack, and this hidden under my bed, I moved on to the next stage.
Using a bit of charcoal to darken my skin directly below the eye, and an herb to paint my face — making it seem a bit yellowish, I was excused from service on account of being very sick, and went off into the forest, to where Raymond had once lived and died. I don’t know if my disguise worked, or my Commander deemed it reasonable that I take a day off. The latter is probably correct.
As I opened the door to Raymond’s hut I hesitated a moment. I more than half-expected to see his carcass rotting on the kitchen floor, being eaten by insects as I opened the door. I dreaded the sight, but forced myself to stop my rapid breathing, take a deep breath, and enter the cabin. I was surprised to see that his body wasn’t there. I half-smiled in relief and walked inside. Only after taking a couple of steps did I realize that if the body wasn’t where it should have been, and the house not crawling with insects, then someone must have been, or be there still! My eyes darted everywhere in alarm; my hand drew my sword of its own accord. I searched around the house, found nothing, then searched outside and found no one.
I found a tombstone outside, near the woodpile behind the hut. The tombstone marked the grave of a man who had once lived there. I was surprised; the body missing and now buried; the house cleaned. But what made my jaw fall, agape was the writing. Someone had written on the stone — not in the curved script of the local dialect, but in Ancient Hebraic letters. I read the text carefully, going over every single letter and every mark:
Raymond Brooks
May God Avenge his Blood
May His Memory be Blessed
To the right of the writing a cross was also imprinted on the stone. He was given a Christian burial, after all. I bent closer and touched the letters, read and re-read them, trying to grasp this enigma. Who in this land knew ancient Hebrew well enough to write this inscription? Who would have had the motive to find Raymond, bury him, and write such an inscription? How would they accomplish all this? The letters appeared to be burned into the stone, but I knew of no technique capable of accomplishing that feat. A crow passed above my head, an omen to remind me that I had little time to prepare for my mission. I decided to leave the current enigmas for later and focus on the task at hand.
I first pounded the nails into the boards; all the way through so that they protruded from the other side. I then placed the boards below the windows, upstairs and down, with the nails pointing upwards. I then camouflaged the traps with some black cloth. This done, I cleaned the fireplace of leftover wood. I then climbed up on the roof and poured oil down the chimney, soaking all the walls inside the chimney. Going back inside the hut again I nailed the black cloth into the walls of the fireplace, spread across the opening shaft of the chimney. This made the chimney appear completely dark to a person looking down the smokestack from the roof, should someone contemplate scaling down it. Fireplaces were usually built slightly lower than the rest of the floor so that the ashes would settle there, rather than spread throughout the house. I filled the cavity with oil, creating a small pool. I then carefully tied a short rope around the potion, making triply sure it held before attaching it to the cloth now hanging above. I could not afford to die before my bloody vengeance was complete.
The trap set, I proceeded to the next stage. I crawled under the staircase, filing a few of the steps leading upstairs; I made them too thin to support weight. I then laid out all my tools below the steps, along with every other sharp object I found in the house. Finally, I prayed to God to grant me vengeance and waited impatiently for evening to fall. As soon as the sun set, I poured water on the steps behind the house, hoping that it would freeze quickly in the winter air. Then I hid in the closet, hoping that the bastards would take the bait and come tonight, otherwise... I didn’t want to think of ‘otherwise’. Luckily for me, and quite unluckily for them, they took the bait and came. “Let’s dance with death.” I told myself.
I had no guarantees, of course, that the returning bandits wouldn’t just barge in through the front door, weapons in hand, and ready for slaughter. However, I knew from Simon that they were experienced killers, and thus careful ones. I reasoned that if they were careful and they had reason to guess that I knew of their whereabouts, they’d also assume that I would have prepared something for their most obvious choice of action and location, and that I’d do something clever. I hoped… I really did. In the worst case scenario, if th