| I.1.007 |
|
They said that when the sheriffs deputy encountered the boy in the forest a half mile
across the town perimeter that he was scrabbling for something in a worked out dump.
The boy, preoccupied with unearthing a white object with an unusual shape and texture
did not hear the deputy approaching until he laid a hand upon his slim shoulder and
grasped it roughly. 'What d'you think you're doing, young fella?' Then the boy struggled and resisted in a most surprising manner considering that he was clearly violating the law. He spat at the deputy, struck him in the head with the white object and then scratched the man so badly that the evidence was still visible a month later. Some even said that the deputy was lucky not to loose an eye though how much truth you thought there was in that depended on how you judged the motives of the storyteller. Anyway, it was agreed by all that the boy was very lucky. That particular deputy could easily have killed him right there on the spot had he not recognized him as the Shopkeeper's son. Instead he brought him up before the Magistrate. On the day of his appearance in court, the courtroom was unusually full, and not of the rabble, who had as far as possible been excluded, but of the Shopkeeper's peers and their women. The Shopkeeper sat at the back of the room, squirming with shame at this embarrassment to his position. Not a month before he had triumphed in a heated dispute with the Magistrate over the cost of construction of an outhouse and now he was sure the man would pay him back. But Becky felt no shame and she glared at everyone, including the Magistrate, and clenched her fists. The Magistrate was an old man whose belief in authority and law was unwavering to the point that his mind was cast like an iron jacket. He had neither imagination nor intelligence and had always regarded the Shopkeeper as an upstart. He sat and glowered at the courtroom. They all knew how many he had sentenced to death over the years. 'Produce this infamous child' sneered the Magistrate. The boy stepped forward from the custody of another deputy. They had kept him in jail for three nights and had beaten him so that his face was a mass of bruises. The deputy gave his evidence. The white object was produced. It was one half of an old PVC bottle though few in the courtroom had any idea of its identity let alone its utility. 'What can you tell us about this, boy' sneered the Magistrate. 'Speak up. How old are you?' 'Ten, sir.' 'Old enough to know right from wrong! Who is you father?' 'The Shopkeeper, sir.' 'The Shopkeeper, whose business it is among all the people of Dentonsville to know the law and the nature and value of things.' The Magistrate savored his words, inflicting them upon the Shopkeeper while the rest of the people in the room enjoyed the show. 'Did your father never instruct you? Did he never say that to cross the line that separates our civilization from the wilderness is a crime punishable by death? That only the savage 'Men Apart' may venture there and, for that reason, we shun them?' The boy assented that he knew these things. 'Then you disobeyed your father as well as our law! And what is this object that you came up with from this... place? This weapon you used to nearly blind poor Matthew here?' 'I don't know, sir.' 'The Shopkeeper's son and he doesn't know!' People in the courtroom tittered. 'Let me see it.' The Magistrate took the piece of bottle and examined it. There was some writing embossed into it. 'What are these letters? What do they mean?' Carl shook his head dumbly. 'Bring on the expert witness!' said the Magistrate sternly. An old man came into the courtroom and shuffled to the front. His clothing and demeanor identified him as a 'Man Apart' . He was gaunt and stooping with a white beard and very little hair. A rare old man, so old; a brown ghost stalking among the living. People made plenty of room for him to pass and when he finally stood beside the boy there was a tense feeling in the courtroom. No one spoke and, when the Magistrate finally broke the silence his words were no longer sneering or loud but had a measure of deference, if not respect. 'This is Thomas, boy. You don't know him but your father does. He is our oldest citizen. The 'Men Apart' call him the Keeper of the Catalogues. If you wish to deal in strange things boy, you must learn to deal with Thomas.' Though he spoke quietly, the Magistrate enjoyed this moment, holding the specter of Thomas not so much before the boy or his father as before the rest of the assembled crowd. There were many there who had almost forgotten the existence of this old man and among these old feelings of hate and indignation were quickly stirred. They felt that this was one old man who had no right to be alive: he was truly a living, breathing Demon of the Past. 'Have you identified the object, Thomas.' 'There is a listing in the book which corresponds.' The old man's voice was as wispy as his frame, yet it was also intelligent and firm. 'It is a part of a Liquid Container. One or gallon or two liters. Many designs. In use 1980-2240. Common. The object is not rare.' As Thomas spoke the boy Carl forgot all about the pain in his face and backside and became fascinated by the silhouette of Thomas' brown skull: his naked ear with a giant lobe. 'There!' The magistrates loud laugh broke the tenseness. 'It's part of a bottle. Useless! These words on it tell what it is. The letters are reversed in Old English. Even I know that. Isn't that so, Sister?' Currently the eldest of the Sisters, Sister Mary had been sent by the Pastor to attend the trial to ensure that nothing untoward in the way of a sentence was handed down. She came forward and took the object carefully. 'It says... ONE GALLO. Magistrate. There are other letters as well', she said gravely. 'Shopkeeper?' snapped the Magistrate irritably. 'I believe it means: one gallon. A unit of liquid measure, 'the Shopkeeper said equally gravely. 'One gallon. What is that? Is that in the Bible, Sister?' The Sister shook her head and offered no further comment. The Magistrate resumed his sneering tone. 'Some sort of nectar they used to have. Did you know that boy?' 'Oh, no, sir!' As old Thomas left the courtroom, the boy watched him go. Though no-one in Dentonsville had ever seen a cow, Thomas could have told them that there were still people who drank the milk of such animals. He would not have been believed since such practices had been made illegal so long before that by then they were considered unclean. But that knowledge was not part of Thomas' Catalogues; it was a part of his experience. |
|
|
