Short Stories

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Empty courtyard, black stones set in high impregnable walls. Double-doors, thick oak laced in gold metalwork. Unconscious figure, huddled in a lone, dusty corner. Hair black as the night barely kept at bay, clinging to her perspiring face. Body asleep, yet eyes wide open. Old, torn tunic, long ago white.
A horn blows in the distance: a signal. The young woman in the corner stirs, the vacancy in her eyes is gone. She is afraid, but she doesn't know why. She stands weakly and looks to the fathomless sky, far above the looming towers the stars still shine. She shifts her weight and hears the clanking of metal against metal...and she remembers...
Blood—she had scrubbed until her hands were raw, but she could not rid her hands of the incriminating stain. She is glad now that it is dark, for she cannot bear to see that which convicts her. The nightmarish memories of the last feeble cries for help; the recollection of the exact moment the life was vanquished turns her stomach and she vomits in the dust.
It was not long after she had smothered the embers of that life that she was brought into custody. She had planned to run away, yet she couldn’t move her feet from the spot. In the moonlight, reflections had made her nearly mad with regret, the taunting recollection of what her destiny was intended to be before she desecrated herself beyond returning. While the blood on her hands still emitted steamy warmth, she had been hypnotized by the silver light dancing on the corpse; conjuring up memories of her childhood. When she was a little girl it had been her habit to wait patiently in her trundle bed picking out the shadow animals on the thatched roof. A lion with a monkey on its back, a rabbit—until her father came to tuck her in. Kneeling on the floor beside her he would say “Someday you will live in the palace like the Royal Court. You wouldn’t leave your old Pa alone with your Ma would you?” He would kiss her cheek, and look over his shoulder to see his wife smiling at the threshold. They were so proud to have a daughter who had been chosen by the King to serve in his court when she was old enough. The King had selected her especially. Most nights, she dreamt of meeting him, but never had she imagined it would be like this…
The large doors swing open; a herald calls out, "Guilty, step forward." She is led into a dazzling hall of intricately carved wood and stone, the carpet is a rich purple with golden galaxies spiraling along the perimeter. The ceiling is high and painted in the colors of sunset, and gradually as the hall progresses, its colors bow out into purple night. The hall goes on and on and finally leads into an expansive throne room. Along both walls are a line of guards wearing armor so well polished, the reflection of their comrades could be clearly seen. Each have their right hand on the hilt of golden swords.
She is breathless with the wonder of all that surrounds her and she hardly notices when her escort stops walking. It is not long before she feels light warming her skin, but there are no lights anywhere except a golden glow coming from directly ahead. At the moment that she discovers the source of the light, she falls on her face, for the light seems to be pouring from the throne of the King.
The King is raised on a dais, clothed in such things as define royalty. His throne is built of precious gems and rare stones. The King himself is a Man among men, a hero of old tales, spoken of only in legends and epic poems. She is in awe of him and would be thrilled—except for the blood on her hands. Shame like a putrid, black tidal wave washes over her and she wishes that she could drown in it. She can't look at him anymore; she kneels before the King, worthy only of death.
A voice suddenly shatters the silence in the throne room. It is a harsh voice, heavy with condemnation and scorn. She looks around for the owner of the voice and sees a man, standing at the foot of the throne. He is pointing at her, his name is Accuser.
"Your Highness, this wretch—"
"What is her name?" the King interjects.
Looking upon the girl in rags, love and deep sadness bursts forth in his heart. Oh how he loves her! But—
"Her name is Guilty, Your Highness."
"Guilty?" she thinks, "No that's not my name, its...its..." but she can’t remember.
"—This woman has killed an innocent. As you know the penalty for the slaughter of innocence is death. A life for a life. "
The King knows this, "Yes. It is evident that she is at fault. Does the condemned have any last requests? "
The softness of his voice reverberates within her, a strange urgency grips her heart like hot tongs. Guilty knows she has done wrong and she will not evade punishment, yet she knows she doesn't want to die without speaking with the King, just the two of them. Of course he will never forgive her, but she wants him to understand...to know how much she loves him.
"I want to speak with the King!" The sound of her voice is jagged and condemning in her own ears.
The Accuser looks shocked and disgusted; the King shocked too, but in surprise rather than disgust. After a pause, the King beckons the Accuser to come forward to discuss the matter.
“Of course the request is impossible—she has blood on her hands! The Law is perfectly clear: she must die immediately. "
"Yes. I know, but no one has ever asked to speak with me before. "
"She has blood on her hands! A life for a life."
The King shakes his head as though from a dream, "A life for a life...take her outside."
Accuser jerks Guilty up by her elbow. She is saddened by the Kings response, but she is not angry or surprised, for she knows she deserves it.
Accuser leads the girl into a large courtyard. Four torches align every wall. A pile of wood is stacked neatly in a corner and a clay jar sits next to it. In the center, is a platform with stairs on one side and a large pole in the middle with a metal ring on it.
He is behind her, pushing her with one hand as she walks. At the stairs, she trips over the dangling chains and falls, hitting her head on the step. Accuser kicks her for her in the stomach for her clumsiness; hate and disgust chiseled into his face. She scrambles to get up. Fear chokes her, but she knows she is getting what she earned. He laughs scornfully and she hurries up onto the platform, afraid of being struck again.
Accuser forces her to stand with her back pressed against the pole and he clasps the chains to the thick metal ring.
Locked now into place she looks into the sky at the familiar stars for comfort, the only thing that has been constant in her life…besides the King. Accuser begins to get wood, to pile under and around the stake, when a wicked idea occurs to him. He takes the jar and again climbs the stairs.
"Do you know what this is? Its pitch, to pour onto the wood, so it will burn quicker and hopefully for your sake, smoke more." He holds it up to her line of vision and looks at it, "If you ask me, I think it would be much more efficient to skip the wood part. Seems like an unholy waste of money, just so you can inhale smoke and die the easy way."
Accuser pours the pitch over her head; it slowly trickles down her face, covering her eyes; seeping into her ears. He then pours the sluggish fluid over her shoulders; it stiffens her clothes and clings tightly to her flesh.
When he is satisfied, he jumps down from the platform and gets a torch off the wall. He walks slowly back—he can't wait to hear her scream. Accuser mounts the steps—torch poised—he is unsure if he wants to finish it quickly or drag it out and savor it.
Guilty labors to keep her breathing regular but she is so afraid that it comes shallow and tremulous. Tears betray any reserved strength in her and if it weren't for the chain her knees would buckle.
Accuser, knowledgeable in death, sees all this "Oh stop it you wench. You’re lucky I'm not a Roman or I'd have nailed you to the stake."
At that moment where the flame would meet her skin the double doors swing open and slam against the wall. A furious King strides in and shouts gutturally at the horrendous sight before him. He jumps onto the platform and snatches away the flame, throwing it angrily on the ground.
Relief and renewed shame flicker across Guilty's face. The King looks at her reassuringly, he proceeds to unlock her from the stake and in her weakness, she collapses.
"Accuser you have undone yourself." He says with much repulsion in his voice.
The King bends down and takes both of Guilty's hands in his and pulls her gently to her feet. The Accuser gasps in shock.
With her hands in his, he looks into her eyes so intensely she feels him knowing her, knowing everything. In the depth of his eyes, she sees love, compassion...and mercy. Mercy! Looking down, overcome with sheer wonderment she inhales sharply as she sees that… “The blood! The blood is gone!”
Emotion is thick in the voice of the King as he says, "I give you a new name. You shall no longer be called Guilty...but Beloved."
It is then she notices his hands—covered in blood.
"My kingdom is yours...forever."
The Accuser watches all this with growing happiness—he knows the law. He mounts the stairs and touches the King on the shoulder to lead him to the stake, but he brushes him off.
"No, I do this of my own will. There is no need that chains should hold me."
With that, he takes the jug and pours the remainder of the pitch over his body. He steps to the stake and grips the ring in his hands.
Beloved weeps on the ground darkening the dirt with her tears.
Before Accuser sets flame to his saturated robe, the King looks at her and says, "I love you my Beloved."
The King does not cry out as the tearing heat consumes his flesh. He sings to her songs of love from the dancing flames. It isn't long before he can do so no longer. The flame flickers brighter for a moment and he gives up his life. At that moment, Beloved sees a dove fly out from the midst of the flames and upward into the stars.
The perfect King dies for a murderer.

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