Another night with Zagarolo, mused Wes. He sipped from an old wooden cup that was a day or two from returning to dust; he had to keep a finger on a crack on the surf to keep it from dripping.
The night was sweltering, as it had been the night before. He had been here too, making today the third day of watching the captive. He had amassed thirty-six copper reeds from Hamil. This night the guard had given him a little extra for his trouble.
The staffer was still away, though the lord of the village, Sanford, expected him to arrive this evening. No matter, thought Wes, I am paid well for his absence.
Wes got up and walked over to Zagarolo in his cell. To his surprise, he appeared to be less lively. He looked quite sickly when Wes moved his light closer to him.
"Please," begged the old man, "water ... "
His lips were dry and cracked, and he looked so miserable with his dirty robes and his bone-thin body.
"Great Father above!" Wes exclaimed, "Do they not feed you or give you drink?"
"As you know," said Zagarolo, "they hate me for Demond's sake."
Wes handed him his cup.
"Careful," whispered Wes, "There is a hole on the side."
But Zagarolo sucked all the water down faster than even a drip could be lost. He licked greedily at the breach in the side to catch a drop.
"My thanks," Zagarolo said through relief filled breaths, "I praise you for your kindness."
"I shall get you some more," promised Wes as he turned to leave, "I'll fetch a pitcher from home and—"
"No," called out the old man, "don't leave!"
Wes was taken aback by this.
"I will not be gone for long," he assured.
"It would be best if you let me leave," suggested the old captive.
"Ah, you need to walk?" concluded Wes, "Perhaps for a couple of minutes, everyone is asleep, I'm sure no one will see us."
Yesterday they had a little talk about the importance of exercise. Keeping one's body and mind fit made life easier. Food, money, and animals were a few other things they discussed. In truth, Wes directed these conversations. He enjoyed the old man's company, yet he truly desired to ask him about curses and the forbidden arts, but he did not feel ready for it. Placing curses ... not on him at least, Zagarolo had said.
But he never felt ready to talk about it.
"You mistake my meaning, my friend, Wes. It is time for me to leave this village. My life is in danger," said Zagarolo.
"They have no proof of your crime," Wes reminded him, "you said yourself, he most likely sick with the Love Shiver."
"It is not just for Demond's case that I will face execution, but rather many other's like it!"
"Zagarolo, I do not understand."
"They judge me. I frighten them. They call me heathen, evil, son of the King of Ash, a hellspawn. I am but one who wishes to learn secrets that the Faith of the Great Father does not want us to know!"
"I will explain to them that you are a good man, who has nothing to do with Demond's affliction."
"They will not listen, my friend. Surely you feared me on the first night? Yes, but now you do not because you understand and dared to talk to me. Your friends and neighbors, what do they say?"
Truly, the villagers felt disquieted by the old man's presence. When they walked past the little prison, they either chose to walk as far from the structure as possible, or they kissed their palm and uttered a word for divine protection.
Leta treated him differently. Though she tried to be polite, she did not seem to like his presence that much. When Alfons asked him if he could play with Marge, Leta got between them and made excuses. "I'm sorry Wes, but it is time for his prayers!" She had said quickly and joyfully as she rushed her son away.
Garth told him honestly that she feared Zagarolo had tainted him, and she would tolerate him once the old man was gone.
"They are as you say," Wes conceded, "you do frighten them."
"Listen closely," Zagarolo said as he beckoned him closer, "I will reward you, my friend. I have made a discovery quite recently, I just need some time, and once I am ready, I will come for you."
"Oh, Zag," Wes said softly, "you do not need to give me anything. Besides, even if I release you, they will know I am to blame."
"Then you may come with me, you, your wife, and your child. My home is no cottage, and I mean that with no insult to you."
"Where do you live?"
"In Abal's Wood northwest."
"You live alone in the forest?"
"Yes, there is this stone manor house within that I have taken for myself. Perhaps a village used to thrive around it, but it is gone now."
Abal's Wood was not a place someone would want to get lost in, Wes knew. The forest was haunted, or so the legends say. That village Zagarolo spoke of had a name. Its name was Brackton.
One day, a woodsman came upon the little village amongst the trees. The place was silent and deserted. Bodies, burned and crooked, lay in their beds. Men, women, and children all looked to be taken suddenly by flame as if they died in their sleep, oblivious to their destruction.
The Lord of Brackton was nothing more than a pile of cracked ribs half-buried in ash. His skull had fallen on his stone table in his solar. The woodsman talked of whispers that followed him on his way back to his village.
"So," said Zagarolo, "What will you do, my friend, Wes?"
"Zag, are you mad?" asked Wes with a smile, "I can't just leave my home. My friends are here. How will I feed my family? Who will plant the beans?"
"Oh, Wes," said Zagarolo, tittering like a small child, "oh, my dear friend, Wes."
Wes looked at him strangely.
"What is it, Zag?" asked Wes.
"After you receive your reward," said old, ever-mysterious, man, "it shall be the lords and nobles that will feed your family and plant your beans."
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