S&S8

The ‘Prospector’ was a moniker only recently acquired by Mr Francois, the former village teacher. Once, he had had a resonant name, recognized throughout the entire community, and a profession in which he had excelled beyond everyone’s expectations. Yet, as the years went by and his activities gradually shifted in their nature and purpose, his reputation gradually waned from its former gravitas. Until, eventually, both his fame and his commendable educational endeavours faded almost entirely from the people’s memories - and were ultimately replaced by the fear and distrust of all the residents he had previously mentored.

Following the death of Father Theodore, the Prospector was the only individual which the Elders could consider as a potential successor. Even though he had no formal religious training or authority, the Teacher was among the few in the village who could read and write - and thus ensured, at least, the continuity of the church services and the interpretation of the cryptic scriptures that ruled over their behaviour.

He no longer taught in the village school, but the lessons he now imparted were of an entirely different nature, focusing mainly on disciplining, or re-disciplining, those few inhabitants of the Dusty Village who had either strayed from the Elders’ teachings, or showed troubling signs of potential insubordination. Therefore, the Prospector was tasked with identifying and condemning the wrongdoers. Any deviation from the teachings and traditions of their isolated community was seen as a direct threat to the village’s peace and security - and was, consequently, harshly penalized according to the laws and sanctions imposed by the Council of Elders.

At first glance, Francois appeared to be a harmless old man, short and stout in stature. A neat, greying beard subtly adorned his chin, and no moustache, revealing an obnoxious and constant smiling mouth. No matter what he was called out to do, and regardless of the situation’s gravity or triviality, the old man consistently wore that contrived smile upon his face, which always terrified the villagers upon encountering him on the streets.

The Prospector’s harshness and the cruelty with which he punished any transgressions, as interpreted and dictated by the Council of Elders, earned him a fearsome reputation in the community. His fiery Hazel eyes always seemed to boil with an undying and inexplicable rage, which openly betrayed his dark thoughts and cruel intentions - intentions of which everyone knew he was not only capable of, but also perfectly willing to execute, to the bitter end. No matter how much he tried to feign sincerity or goodwill, with his words or his actions, all the village inhabitants were forever suspicious, and always exercised extreme caution when speaking to him.

He was a figure with whom a regular, obedient and cautious person rarely had to interact, for the old man ventured out only at night, and specifically when someone’s behaviour needed immediate correction. If the Prospector had any words to pick with you, if he inquired about you around the village, or worse, if you found him standing on your doorstep, one day, it was evident that some inevitable punishment was Soon to follow.

Whether you remembered what you had done, or said, at a particular point during the year, that never mattered, for he never visited any one of his delinquents unaccompanied by his colossal ledger, a large, thick notebook with dry leather covers, in which he meticulously recorded every single inappropriate action or suspicious word of every inhabitant in the village.

Neither children nor the elderly were ever spared from the severity with which the Elders dictated the goings on of The Dusty Village. And the Prospector, under the pretence of merely performing his duty to the Council, eagerly meted out their scorching sanctions, regardless of the age or status of the accused in question.

On the morning of November 28th Francois found himself on the main lane, heading towards Eli’s house. As always, he was impeccably dressed in what the villagers mockingly and covertly termed his ‘Eternal Uniform.’ the dusty leather shoes, with hard soles, and rounded tips, the itchy trousers made of a coarse, thick, woolly fabric, dark brown, almost black in colour.

A white shirt with iridescent cufflinks at the wrists, made out of deer bone. A vest, made of the same material and colour as the trousers, And the ever - present wooden cane - which the village children always whispered about in hushed tones to each other, claiming it to actually be a secret sheath, in which the old man hid a magical sword, the same sword that had been used over time, by all his predecessors, to behead the thousands of ‘'Unholy Spirits” that had plagued their region for centuries.

The townsfolk had taken to the streets early that morning - it was the last day of the year, according to their pagan calendar, and they had the utmost duty to settle all of their accounts before the Gathering. So, everyone bustled from one end of the village to the other in a constant flurry, trying to sort out their unfinished business and stock up on provisions.

Upon spotting Francois, however, in broad daylight, they would greet him apprehensively with hushed voices or with merely humble nods of their heads, but the old man entirely disregarded them. He strode arrogantly forward, smiling, right through the middle of the lane, only responding politely to the greetings of a select few - which he arbitrarily chose.

Though he tried to seem utterly indifferent to the people’s presence, his sharp eyes, shadowed by think, long eyebrows, carefully scrutinized everything that happened around him. Especially now, when he had made such an unanticipated appearance - firstly, during the day! And, even more so, this early in the morning, under the full gaze of the bustling crowds of the Dusty Village.

To the greater astonishment of those he encountered - or of the more fearful ones, who only watched from a distance, from within their courtyards, peering over fences or through gates slightly ajar - the old man did not carry with him his infamous ledger of retributions. Without it, none could fathom any other reason for him to haunt the lanes with that same foreboding smile of punishment upon his lips.

In his specific, sadistic way, he always revelled in their fearful stares. Their reactions that morning were hardly surprising, as this was the reception he received every time he walked among them. However, this time, an added delight for his enjoyment was the visible shock of the villagers who had noticed the absence of the ledger. They couldn’t fathom what was happening or how to interpret this unexpected change. Was it a permanent shift in his approach? Or had he simply forgotten to bring it? If he had forgotten it, would the offender get off lightly or even entirely escape punishment? This added layer of mystery to his already notorious persona was something he thoroughly relished, as he defiantly observed the bewilderment smeared across their faces.

When the Prospector suddenly halted in front of Eli’s gate, the gathered crowd, whose attention had been only on him up to that point, went entirely silent. They all seemed frozen in place, staring lethargically at him, like dormant mortuary statues.

Feeling their fearful eyes still strained upon him, he swiftly turned around with the agility of a feline and met their gazes with that same uncertain smile, unwavering on his pale, thin lips. He then gracefully bowed in an exaggerated manner, subtly bidding farewell to the astonished audience.

Before the Prospector cold even make his dramatic exit, the people were already dispensing to their homes and tasks, visibly trying to forget or ignore what they saw nothing, fearful of the consequences of involvement.

By the time Eli returned with the milk from Tica’s place, across the village, his family was already up and about, and life had gradually returned to their homestead. He had been gone no more than an hour, and the melancholy scent of the place he had left behind was now aggressively replaced by the nearly chaotic scene unfolding in the yard before him, animals, noisily mingled amongst one another, the same fowl, once drowsy from the morning, now burst with life and continuously chirped in agitation, the pigs communicated with each other in shrill, high - pitched noises. Only the horse seemed calmer still - quietly standing by the entrance to the barn, occasionally stretching its long muzzle over the fence to take generous bites of the neighbour’s thick, tall hay stack…..

‘Here,’ Eli said, approaching Micala apologetically, ‘I brought the milk.’

Hesitantly, the young man handed over the bottle, expecting an inevitable reprimand from Micala, at any moment, for this abrupt departure earlier. He felt guilty for his odd behaviour and not necessarily because she caught him smoking - although that was hardly a proud moment - but more for the way he had reacted, impulsively exiting without a word, thus breaking a long - standing promise never to act that way, ever again.

Micala, however, if she had even been bothered by his behaviour, didn’t show any other sign of irritation now. On the contrary, she smiled warmly at him, carefully taking the bottle away, holding it securely under her left arm, as she simultaneously cradled the baby on her right.

At no point did she seem to need assistance. Eli looked at her with such admiration and warmth that he felt himself falling in love with her all over again, seeing her so full of life and vigour. Nothing seemed to bring that remarkable woman down… At that moment, he felt somewhat superfluous, as a human being. As if all his strength and goodwill were somewhat redundant in that setting, because the fabulous mother seemed to manage just fine on her own, with his assistance being merely a passive, tolerance occurrence.

Seeing her there, with the child in her arms, seemingly aglow in the sharp morning sunlight, her fair skin, almost translucent in the dawn’s light, she seemed to radiate nothing but kindness and love. Emotions that Eli received all the more confusingly, given he had expected a completely different reaction from her.

He suddenly felt so small beside her, like another child under her care, yet one powerful enough and capable of doing anything to protect her if such need were to ever arise. And that’s what he desired most, after all, to protect her! He wished with all his heart that she would understand that. He would do anything for her and the children’s safety. And for that accursed village, too - which he was bound by heritage laws to forever watch over. If only he could make her understand … If only he could explain to her the gravity of this unwritten, sacred pact he was obliged to honour and respect….

He looked up at the sky, which seemed to be darkening quickly. Then around him, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, and the once bright scenery was now muted and bluish. Time, he realized, moved faster when immersed in thoughts and dreams. And everything around could undergo an unexpected change at any moment!

Eli headed towards the barn to begin the preparations for their long journey ahead. With his bare arms, he pulled out the cart from within the barn, then he brought out the horse’s harness and the rest of the tools, and set himself to work.

His little boy, Brave, began to approach as well - taking small, halting steps from behind, trying to go by unnoticed. By the time he finally reached his father, the man was already adjusting the harness on the horse, and hitching it to the cart. He like watching the man work, and Eli would always give him a small task to occupy himself with - to make him feel involved as well - a gesture that greatly delighted the boy, every time.

Brave waited patiently for the man to give him that bit of attention again, as he was so used to already - yet now, Eli seemed to pay him no heed, so the young boy contented himself with merely observing his older sibling’s hurried, unfamiliar movements, as they ran around the yard in a ruckus.

Eli was too deep in thought to notice him now. He continuously weighed all the options before him…. Micala was determined to leave the village forever, but perhaps it wasn’t too late to persuader to stay? To wait a little, at least until after the Gathering. For months, they had considered their escape form that treacherous village, how they would do it, and where they would go, and when they would leave…

The septennial ritual of the Gathering required the mandatory presence and quarantine of all the villagers, within the Church on the Hill. The village would effectively empty out on the night of November 29th, and into the 30th. They could have, theoretically, taken advantage of the village’s impending seclusion and slip out of the Dusty Village almost unnoticed… But how to escape from the Church’s grasp without the rest of the gathered villagers seeing them leave? Or, if they didn’t go to the Church at all, how much time would they have before old Francois, and his relentless henchmen, would come looking for them, track them down?

Lost in thought, he didn’t even notice Brave, who had by then silently drawn closer to the cart. He only became aware of the child’s curious gaze when the boy suddenly broke into a yelp, and immediately jolted away from him. Eli looked after him, laughing, without even wondering why the boy had darted off so suddenly. He revelled in the boy’s childish joy. His care freeness….

Then, out of nowhere, the Prospector approached the cart, moving with a speed completely unexpected for his advanced age. He suddenly grabbed the harness in his withered hand, and studied Eli intently, looking back at him in bewilderment - and it was only then that he realized why Brave had run off so terrified from that very same spot ….

Next Chapter S&S9

The long road stretched endlessly ahead, shrouded in the prevailing mist which suffocated everything in sight. Slender trees, stripped of their former leaves, leaned wearily on either side of the pathway, as silence reigned over the cloudy morning. Casting another glance towards the bag, beside him. David felt a profound emptiness slowly expanding within his stomach. It was a peculiar emotion, which he likened more to a profound and overwhelming sense of fear.

Back in the car now, he felt relieved to have escaped with his life, but the shock of his recent ordeal continually replayed in his mind’s eye all the gruesome scenes of the event that he had witnessed, he narrowly avoided a nightmarish situation, one that he could not have fathomed even in his darkest dreams.

His entire body trembled, and he was occasionally overtaken by a fleeting, hysterical laughter, which he tried desperately - yet failed - to control. Yet, the Fear evoked by his rough brush with death was now increasingly overshadowed by the Fear of being discovered by the police - or exposed by some unsuspecting witness who might have happened to pass by there, at any given moment.

On the one hand, he could hardly believe he still had the bag after all that debacle, earlier. On the other hand, he never could have imagined that, what was supposed to be a mundane transaction, could ever have gone so terribly wrong…

Port of Bechet, 15 minutes earlier.

He arrived at the Customs crossing a few minutes later than expected. He parked the car in the dock’s parking lot and stayed inside for a few minutes, staring blankly across the Umzimvubu River before him. The parking lot was deserted. He could see no other car in sight. He knew he was to be met there by two of the loan shark’s associates, but he saw no one around.

The bleak, desolate landscape surrounding him was oddly calming and, for a moment, he even entertained the relieving thought that maybe those individuals he was meant to meet there wouldn’t even show up - and he could thus return home, trouble free. It wouldn’t be his fault, right? After all, if Tiny’s associates failed to attend the meeting, how was he to blame?

The cold draft constantly seeped in off the murky waters of the river through the car’s slightly opened window. He suddenly imagined how well he’d sleep at home, underneath his think warm blanket, after finally all of this was over….

However, he couldn’t bask in the tranquillity of the scene for too long - for he shortly after spotted them emerging, seemingly out of the ground, the two imposing figures in dark police uniforms, marching menacingly towards him.

As they drew closer to his car, he realized they weren’t as tall and big as he initially thought. Furthermore, observing their small faces from a distance, as they came nearer and were no longer so distorted by the thick fog around, he clearly noticed they were just a bunch of kids. Probably around his age, or even younger - but both quite tall. Their bulkiness was artificially enhanced by the padded uniforms they wore, and not at all sustained by any real, impressive muscle mass which they would have suggested.

Exiting his vehicle, he calmly waited for them, leaning against the hood of the car. When they finally reached him, he noticed the Fear and humility on their faces, a reflection of their tender age and their tragic inexperience with such odd ventures. For a moment, he even felt sorry for them. So young, and raw… And already they were in the same unfortunate predicament as he was.

The young men saluted him respectfully, in a military fashion. Then, the taller of the two hastily handed him a leather bag.

‘Regards to Mr Tiny,’ the latter dared to say, then added loudly, forcedly - ’and warm kissed to Madame’s hand!’

He immediately showed signs of embarrassment as soon as those last words parted with his mouth. David paid him no heed, however. It was evident he was older than they were. Hence, he tried to set some sort of example. To seem more accustomed to such tense scenarios than they were. To feign a semblance of control over the situation.

He opened the bag, casting a curious glance over the barrels of the guns, not entirely sure what he expected to find. In passing, he caught the other young policeman’s eye. The one who, until that moment, had remained so deathly silent. He looked notably nervous, the tension of the situation increasingly transpiring through his pallid face and quivering gestures.

David observed him discreetly for a few moments but said nothing. At one point, he had the urge to confront him head - on, to test him, shake him out of his confusing daze. But, in the end, he attributed the young man’s visible stress to the unusual task all three of them were now partaking in and decided to leave him be. To not push him any further than he had to. He felt sorry for him… The poor kid’s hands trembled continuously. He had tried to greet David several times, but his voice seemed to catch in his throat every time. It was evident he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, or the courage, to do it - lost amid his whirlpool of emotions.

‘That’s it,’ David said, abruptly closing the bag and assuming a stern, authoritative look. He then handed them the box they were expecting - a large shoebox where Tiny had not so- discreetly stashed the promised payment for the transport. Stacks of Randelas, tightly rolled up into cylindrical bundles and then stuffed into the largest pair of shoes that David had ever seen - size 15, he’s read on the box!

At first, he thought it was a joke. He could hardly believe that such a large shoe size genuinely existed.

He opened the car door, threw the bag onto the passenger seat, and then turned to them to conclude the deal officially.

‘Is that all of it?’ the previously silent cop suddenly blurted out to his colleague, even tenser than before.

‘Yes,’ David responded firmly, ’Count it - It’s all there,’ he said calmly, yet taken aback by the young man’s question - the terrified little boy who, until then, couldn’t even muster a greeting. He even felt somewhat affronted, as the young man dared to suspect him of any dishonesty.

The young cop made a hurried sign to his colleague and, with even shakier hands than before, took the box away from him. He tore it open savagely at one corner and stared intently at the dark contents inside.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, almost in a whisper. He shot a sudden glance at his partner, then - without a moment’s hesitation - swiftly drew his gun out from his waist and fired two shots, point - blank, right into his face. He then turned to David and fired once more. He looked quickly around, in a panic, then turned and ran away - hurling his weapon into the Umzimvube as he raced off through the empty parking lot.

David remained standing, motionless. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. He felt paralyzed from head to toe. The only sensation he perceived was a subtle burning sting, and a wetness slowly dripping on his cheek. In his nervous haste to take them both down quickly, the young cop had misaimed. The bullet that should have struck David squarely in the forehead grazed perilously close to his terrified face, merely scratching him superficially below his left eye.

To be continued….

"The Holy Spirit is glorious in the use of this sword. He finds that this weapon suits his hand, and he seeks no other. Let us use it also, and be glad to do so. Though it is the sword of the Spirit, yet our feebler hand may grasp it; yea, and find in the grasping that somewhat of the divine power comes unto our arm."