The Hangman

         The Hangman

         Lord Beltaire stands behind his white polished railing bearing his eyes upon the center square in front of the Testle Market, just south of the great fountain that stands along the side of Lord Hamerson's manor. His fingers tightly fold behind his back and his arms cling to his sides as a man in raggedy patched cloths is lead up to the platform. The tall wooden beams sway slightly in the wind that carries the Fall leaves up like little birds flying away, their small wings shimmering in light reds and brownish yellows in contrast against the grainy stone and white marble in the center square. A quick chill runs down Lord Beltaire's skin and crawls out through the sleeves of his coat, the white frills sticking out to warm his arms which tighten behind his back as the roughly clothed man is masked by a dimly thick sack. The wind rushes in behind Lord Beltaire and through the double doors to fill the room.
         The crowd grows silent. The leaves can be heard rustling along the stone. The wood can be heard to creak and moan in the breeze. The heavy footsteps of the hangman echo throughout the square as he moves up onto the platform. The man is pulled gently over with the thick arms of the hangman and a thick loop is loosened over his head and rests on his shoulders. Through the silence, Lord Beltaire can hear the tapping of the prisoner's feet against the platform. The nervousness and fear ooze out from under the sack as the hangman's footsteps carry him back to the lever. Small breaths and cold fog pushes through the sack.
         "No, no, please no". The prisoner shakes his head back and forth with hatred and fear and denial of the future.
         Lord Beltaire sighs and turns back to his house, the doors loosely shut behind him. The wind still appears to crawl out from under the gap, but a warm fire brightens the room and heats his frail bones. The vibrant reds and yellows of the room mixes with the brown staining of the wooded furniture. Wall fixtures hang next to the windows and over the fireplace, along with a vivacious portrait of Lord Beltaire's father. He poses with his sword up in triumph, his chin held high with grace and nobility. He wears a coat of red and golden tassels hang from the shoulders.
         "Please, I have children to feed. No, no"! The Prisoner rambles on as the hangman rests his gloved hand upon the thick wooden lever attached to the platform. Tight rope strings from a cog at the lever to the trapdoor beneath the prisoner's feet. The crowd begins to lighten and murmur to each other in anticipation of when the door will release. They wait impatiently for the show.
         Lord Beltaire relaxes his spine in a gold trimmed dining chair sitting next to the fireplace. The fire warms his knees, but is soon uninteresting and the portrait catches his attention. He cranes his neck to the left to view his father's painting, a striking resemblance to his own dress and features. He looks back on his father's pride and his strength and courage. Lord Beltaire's hands wrinkle in the heat of the flame.
         "Please, have you no mercy? Have you no forgiveness? I want to live"! The prisoner screams through the crowd and Lord Beltaire's balcony doors. The shout seems to ring in his ears like clanging bells. The hangman swiftly pulls the lever soon after and the platform drops out from under the prisoner's feet. Air is cut off, but the jerk is not sharp enough. His body wriggles in anguish, snapping back and forth as the rope pulls tighter and tighter into his neck.
         "What a lot of racket". Lord Beltaire murmurs to himself. The crowd shuffles and squeals in excitement. The prisoner continues to writhe back and forth until the pain stops. His feet come to rest and his body straightens out limply. Lord Beltaire rises from his chair to face the painting. Such a strong pose his father held. His arm outstretched and his jaw kicked up. He thought back on what he was. All of that money, the house, the servants, the gaudy clothes with the golden jewelry, it was all profit and investment. Lord Beltaire's father was a fine business man, handling trades and investments of the rich and making great money by skimming off of the top of profit. All of these things were his father's. He lived for them.
         Lord Beltaire slowly steps back to the doorway and pulls the doors open to see the prisoner's limp body hanging like a pathetic dead sack. The crowd slowly disperses, the entertainment had ceased and the hangman is preparing to remove the corpse. The man had a family. The man had a life and a vision for the future. Lord Beltaire stares off into the air, looking back at his father's great castle, his great accomplishments, his great victory over life. He gained such a victory as to accumulate so much, such a victory as to prosper with so much. And when he died, he left it all to his only son, grateful and loving towards the only mentor he had ever had. And he remembers him with that painting.
         The limp body felt so much pain and heartache, so much longing for everything living a poor man's life. But with that pain, Lord Beltaire realized, he felt a great love for life, much more than he could ever understand. Lord Beltaire sat back in his chair staring at the portrait, a grim reminder of his father's one failure. His father, the business man, did so well, and tried so very hard, with just nothing left. The hollow money, the hollow house, the servants surrounding nothing, the useless clothes and jewelry, his father lived for nothing. And with all of the time, so much had been wasted. Lord Beltaire felt the material of his coat, the fine red silk and cloth felt like nothing more than rags, and the fire could no longer warm  his cold bones. His skin seemed to rot under such heavy decoration, and soon it would be only dust in a vacant coat. Lord Beltaire jumps from his seat and claws at the painting, tearing it from the wall. His feet stomp across the room with his arms to the ceiling, carrying the painting over to the balcony. The portrait leaves the railing with grace, floating through the air seamlessly like a leaf in fall floats towards the ground from its branches. With a crack that bounces off of the buildings in the center square, the painting smashes into shreds and splinters of wood and material, the frame shattering against the stone.
         Lord Beltaire hangs over the railing, his arms resting on the white polished wood, propping his shoulders up above his lowered head. The shattered frame echoes in his mind like the false image his father projected and the reality he never lived. Lord Beltaire's grip slips from the railing as he moves back into the room, through the door, down the stairs and out of the house.
         Winter sets in like a raging storm of white cotton striking the earth in flurries. The house crumbles behind the muted footsteps of Lord Beltaire, small shards to begin, but only remnants left over time. The falsities of his surroundings shrivel like ashes in a fire. As his feet lead the way for the world beyond that of which he understands, he makes a conclusion for his life with the weight of the wind behind his lonely back.
         The hangman takes down the limp body of the prisoner and prepares him for burial. The thick rope sways in the chilling wind. He begins to think out loud.
         "Seems like today, there's just less and less of you". He rests the body in the back of his wagon and the horse pats the ground with its hooves, clacking against the cold ground.
         "I'll be out of a job soon". The hangman chuckles under his thick coat as he slams the back gate of the wagon and walks up to the front seat. The frozen air ruffles his coat and thins his aged skin. The wrinkles in his face reach down like rivers that have traversed through continents and ages. Everything seems to change from the past.
         "Less people know what their living for, more just worried about living". The hangman lifts himself up into the seat, giving the reigns a quick jerk, and leaves the center square, a rumbling against the ground following close behind. A grumbling murmur leaves his lips as the wagon rolls away down the cobblestone road.
         "And just living's the easy part".
         The leaves roll back through the center square with a change in the wind, the scraping of their frail bodies breaking the silence of the stone walls and wooden buildings. Lights flicker inside and hot fires keep the young families and old couples warm through the chilly air. The few people still left in the center square spread out and move back to their houses where they can feel warm for just a little while longer.