There were no gallows in Greenwater, but that didn't stop the prosecutions from occurring. Hangings were a simple procedure—one that Jameson knew about all too well. The shipments of gear (including rope) had died down significantly since the quarantine, so the cursed man who was to be hanged was simply restrained by his own belt. His wrists were drove into his pockets and the belt around his waist tightened until his hands could move no more than a centimeter. Then the man was brought before the Early Tree, placed on a high stool while guards fastened the noose, and another prisoner was forced to secure the rope to the tree.
Jameson had done that once— tied another man's rope to the sturdy branches of the Early Tree. The rope had snapped when the chair was kicked away. Most men said it was a revelation from God. They said that it proved his innocence. The guards did not say that. They simply drew sabers and cut him down. There were stories among the prisoners that the blood stain was still worn against the Early Tree's roots. But legends and stories had no validation in a death prison.
"Prisoner 26X," the voice was harsh, as if the speaker accidentally inhaled gravel into his lungs.
Jameson lifted his eyes from the crowd, not enough to meet Inspector Boucher's eyes, but enough to let the Inspector know he had his attention. You never looked a guard directly in the eyes—looking directly at an Inspector could bring death.
"Prisoner 26X, you are to tie the guilty's ropes." The Inspector's horse made a snort, pawing at the ground nervously.
Jameson let a sigh echo inside him. He would die another day. He stepped through the ranks of men, their eyes following his bare back. Greenwater's brand carved on his right shoulder, large enough that if he was to ever escape, they'd know he was a prisoner by taking one look at his back. There was no escape from Greenwater—except death of course. Their time would come, everyone's always did. Everyone knew the stats, Greenwater had existed for fifty years and not one escape. There were attempts—there were always attempts—but no one ever escaped.
There were three condemned today. Unkempt beards, bruised bodies, red eyes, terrified faces. Everyone was terrified to die, but the inevitability was comforting to Jameson. Of course having a noose around his own neck would change those thoughts.
Jameson stared into the eyes of the first man before the guards shoved three fraying ropes into his arms. Jameson took them, climbing into the Early tree not unlike a rat. The prisoners watched with no festival as Jameson tied the ropes around the lower hanging branches, fitting the height to the height of the condemned. There was slack in the rope, just enough to break their necks instantly. When the guards were allowed to tie the ropes, they tended to see just how long they could extend a man's death. It was a game for them. It was life and death for everyone else.
He finished with the knots, climbing out of the Early Tree and joining the ranks. Inspector Boucher rode in the narrow space between prisoners and condemned. His dark horse stomped a few more times, his head rearing. Boucher reined him back in, driving his heels into the creature's flank.
"It's a superiority complex." A man whispered beside Jameson, just loud enough to be a whisper.
Inspector Boucher cleared his throat, projecting his voice across the prisoners. "These men come today to bring justice. Their final act will be to bring justice upon the rights they have wronged. To die for sins is a necessity to become blameless."
Jameson forced himself to focus his eyes on the small bell hanging from the dark horse's reins and not the guards who fell in line beside the condemned. A small nervous shutter blew through the prisoners. Any day now it could be any one of them and that was truly terrifying.
Inspector Boucher coughed, riding away to let the prisoners see the entire scene. Guards stood beside the condemned, waiting for the word. One of the condemned cried out, tears dripping from his face.
"God forgive us three sinners! Free us from these—"
The Inspector gave a nod. With one swift kick, the stools rolled aside. There was an equally loud cry from the condemned and a snap as the slack in the rope went taut. The unbound bare feet kicked out, the hands twitching at their side. The man on the far left was still alive, still gasping. Jameson must have misjudged the height. It would be a few minutes before asphyxiation completely killed him. The faithful minute as they called it.
If you didn't believe in God the moment the noose went over your head, you believed in Him in those minutes when your life drained away before your own eyes.
Jameson turned away, watching the various expressions on the men's face. Two were dead, the third still choked and spasmed, the rope turning him like a wind-chime. It was a terrible thing to see a man die so slowly.
Something pressed against his hand, some sort of fabric. Jameson's eyes darted down, making sure there were no eyes on him. It was a small piece of cloth with words scratched into the fabric. Need you.
He looked up, spotting a pair of light eyes. Samson. He'd figured something out. Perhaps the next to die? Samson was a quarterer, he had resources to know who's cell would be empty the next day. Jameson nodded to the other man before turning back to the hanging.
The third hanging man was still spasming, but sporadic and weak. The choking was dying down now as well. The faithful minute was almost gone.
"Work detail in ten minutes!" Inspector Boucher yelled over the silence and the dying man.
The prisoners remained silent, watching the Inspector ride off. Jameson turned back to the hanging man and watched the life leave him.497Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhnHF6Xdgtp
