The vagabond opened his eyes and shook the dark thoughts from his mind. He had no choice, he was just defending himself. It was not his fault, it was the farmer's fault for not helping him. But he knew no one would ever believe him; which is exactly why he needed to get out of the area and start over fresh somewhere else. The drifter glanced out the door to the hayloft, and was relieved to see nothing in the field below. Settling back in, he finally calmed himself, and he finally drifted off to sleep. The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was a cold chill pass through his body. He thought it odd, given the warm summer air, but he was so exhausted, he did not give it another thought.
The sleeping drifter suddenly started wide awake. He sat bold upright looking around in alarm. He could have sworn that he just heard voices! He looked out the hayloft door and did not see anyone or any light from torches. From his vantage point he should easily see anyone approaching the barn at least from the front. Cautiously he crept over to the ladder and looked to the bottom of the barn thinking that someone had managed to get inside the barn without him knowing it. He could see no signs of anyone being down there.
If someone was down there they would need a torch to see by. Yet, he was certain that he had heard voices. Perhaps they were behind the barn. Maybe they had approached from the same direction that he did. After a few more minutes of listening, he heard nothing else and he finally decided that his mind must be playing tricks on him. He decided to close the door to the hayloft. He would rather be in total darkness and be concealed then be left open to the possibility of being spotted from the outside. As he made his way across the hayloft he stumbled over a small hatchet. He quickly picked it up thankful to have some sort of a weapon. He closed the door and lay back down on his hay bed, and after his nerves finally calmed, he once again fell asleep.
As he lay there his dreams were soon invaded by thoughts of his execution. He could see out over the crowd from the gallows. So many people had gathered to watch his demise. He could clearly see the old farmer in the crowd looking at him with loathing in his eyes. The vagabond knew there was only one place reserved for him and it made the heat of the fire that destroyed the cottage seem cool by comparison. They would not even allow him to see a minister before his sentence was carried out. These people meant not only to punish his body, but his soul as well. He suddenly felt the trap door beneath him drop away.
He felt himself falling, falling. He landed in a pile of wood. The rope was gone, but the same people were still there watching him. Several people had ringed the pile of wood each with a torch in hand. He tried to flee, but he was suddenly bound to a massive wooden pole. He could now see that some people held Bibles in their hands, and others appeared to be praying. He could not be sure, but he doubted that they were praying for his salvation. The next instant all the torches were thrown onto the wood pile, which had been soaked in oil. It instantly caught fire. He could see the flames, and smell the greasy smoke. It started to choke him.
Slowly the heat around him started to grow, becoming more intense. He could feel searing pain where the flames began to lick at his skin. He could see his skin begin to blister and bubble away, the pain was indescribable. It would not be long now.
Once again his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright. His hair was glistening from sweat and his breathing was heavy and rapid. He could still smell the smoke from the fire that was meant to inflict an agonizing punishment before his death. His hand reflexively went to his neck, where he could have sworn he felt the indentation where a rope had been.
He tried to banish the thoughts from his mind; he could not afford to be kept awake by these dreams. Then he realized the dream was not what had woke him up. He really could smell smoke! He jumped up and pushed the hayloft door open with all his strength. His fear made him forget all about stealth as he shoved it open. What he saw below made him recoil in horror. The barn was completely surrounded by a large mob. They all either carried weapons or torches, sometimes both. Directly in front of him, he could clearly see the old farmer he had wronged starring up at him with a baleful look. He had his rifle in his hand, but he did not fire at his son's killer, he was not even pointing his rifle at him. Then a plume of smoke passed in front of the hayloft door, and he understood. They had set the barn itself ablaze. His dream had been prophetic. The town had decided to end his life the same way he had ended the lives of the two poor souls he had murdered.
YOU ARE READING
Itinerant Chronicler
幻想These are the tales collected by a wandering historian whose only goal was listen to anyone who would tell him their story so he can record it for all to know.
