Grayle wrote:I try to put the pieces together, but memory fails. Without the sun and moon to tick off the bells, the whens and hows become hazy. Time is peculiar in that manner. Without the benefit of record -things to look forward to- you live your life from one now to the next. The old man had already marred each stone with obscure hashes, overlapping into a confused jangle of scratched years. I know it had been years for me, decades for him. He should have withered. I should have been called for. It was an astonishment that niether of us were dead long ago.
The thing that kills you in here isn't the cold or the damp or the sores, the acrid water or the weevils in the loaf. It isn't the dysentary or slow rot. For the two of us in our pen, it isn't even the madman cuthroats who would kill you for your crust or out of boredom. What kills you is the answer inside your head when you ask yourself, over-and-over, "How did I end up here?" When moments go by unmeasured, you have plenty of time to consider fate and justice, life and longing. If the pining doesn't kill you, you get the chance to concentrate on surviving. At least, until your name is called. Until then, the guards never even saw your faces.
I feel my face and trace it's angles, the mats of tangled hair. When I came here, I didn't even know the differences between a man and a woman, save for the obvious. I didn't know how to read or write. Wind, I was wind...drifting from one daydream to the next, unaware of the countless ways man can be cruel to each other, kind to one another. My arms were for holding toys and buckets or brooms. Now they are made of stone. Push-ups and gifts of the old man's beef which didn't agree with him, yet was somehow provided as a courtesy. He was important to someone on the outside, beyond these gray sweating walls. Somebody did what they could to get a minor comfort to him here, probably all they could do. And he passed this treasure on to me, along with so much more.
And now he's dead.
I wondered if my own parents were alive, if my sister had her baby. I wondered if the smell of trees was the same as when I left them. The familiar bells of the citidel still rang dully into this oubliette, and the old man listened to them like a lover's voice, scratching his marks, waiting. The guards didn't care if your shackles became tools. Noone cared about anything down here, except the old man, and then, me. I must have been to him what he was to me...savior, the thing that keeps you alive. Just as he was the reason I came to manhood with some measure of wit, I was his focus, his clarifier: Surely he, or anyone, would have gone mad in this worst of cages, alone.
I give you my name...my name. Remember it, he said to me. He marked his last line with a red finger, his cough grown deep and bloody. The old man must have known that his emancipation was near, one way or another. This is how i learned of death, that It need not always be the reaper dramatic, the tragedy of the stage. He passed and I was alone. I had never been alone. It can be a terrible thing when you are used to the company of a caring voice. I never did and never will forgive the boy I used to be saying "I hate you" the way I did. He knew I didn't mean it, anyway. I had not yet learned to hate. Regardless, I wish those words had never come from me to him. More countless time. He stank and became bones before me. Terrible days and the unanswered question. Forgetfulness. Despair.
Then one day...the door was opened.
"Prisoner, state your name" he commanded. The apathetic voice was that of someone my own age. I didn't know there were other voices in the world. My body went wet with the fear of finally being called to the axe. I then told the most important lie I have ever uttered.
"Grayle, I'm called."
"By order of the throne, you are freed."
The two men that dragged him along stank of garlic. Grayle's head turned to each of them as his feet struggled to keep up with thier pace. He was afraid and bewildered. He had not been beyond those four walls in so long. The stone corridor stretched out before him, ascending slightly as he began to tremble. The guards' footfalls echoed as a glow before him brightened. The light made him wince. It was not from torchlight and Grayle was afraid to look at it. The light made him shiver.
"Consider yourself the luckiest man alive." said the burly guardsman. "You 'ave no idea 'ow many bones remain below without memorial or marker to note thier passing. You must think you're pretty special." His voice boomed against the cold stone, sounding as if uttered by giants. His words were full of contempt. "Why a bastard convict such as yourself is to be released I can only guess."
The thinner man spat and tightened his grip on the prisoner's arm. "He must be someone pretty important. Noone is ever released from the pit. At least, not in my time." The two men shoved Grayle to the ground. "He must know something...some secret worth a lot of coin."
The guards stood over the prostrate prisoner. They regarded the dirty, bearded man with curiousity and disgust. "Maybe we can learn a thing or two from him before we let him go." said the thin man, stroking his chin. He nudged Grayle with his boot. "Hey, you. Why are ya bein' freed? Do you know where treasure is hid or somethin'? Talk!" His shouts travelled through the hall. The prisoner, wide-eyed, blinked and parted his lips. To his surprise, Grayle discovered he had forgotten how to speak. He had been alone so long. His mouth moved, but only grunts and breaths issued. The thin man slapped him.
"No, no no...that's not 'ow you do it, 'arry." said the larger of the two. "Ya gots to show them ya mean business. Like this." The burly guard picked up the prisoner with strength that could not be resisted and struck him in the nose with a club. Grayle's vision went red and his eyes watered. "Talk! Why are you wanted back in the outside?" Grayle tried to stand on his own but was disoriented. His bare feet bobbed and scraped against stone. The lean guard then punched him in the belly. They beat him over-and-over, in the face, in the ribs. Grayle gasped as his breath left him, and the pain was something he had never before felt. Blood streamed from his face and all he could do was wordlessly beg them to stop. The fat guard put the heel of his hob-nailed boot down onto the prisoner's hand. Grayle screamed as the fingers were broken and mangled. They kicked and kicked, forgetting even thier questioning.
"Desist!" A new voice commanded. Grayle rolled about to his belly, trying to crawl away but only writhing in his own blood and sweat. The two guards stiffened themselves and backed off. "Let him go his way undamaged. There are plans for him." The voice was soft and sinister. A distant conversation drifted into silence.
The prisoner was picked up and thrown into daylight. It was cold and pure, numbing the pain that assaulted his every nerve. He slowly crawled along, inch by inch, as wind and wet blew against him. The white turned pink and red as he struggled, his eyes blinking, his body quivering. He drew himself to his knees and embraced a mound of snow. Beneath the tears and blood, an indescribable feeling moved within him.
His laugh sounded like a dying animal, even as he felt the displaced ribs scrape under his skin. Grayle laughed and laughed at the first snow he had seen since he was a boy.
Freedom, that long awaited dream, was his.
