As Garth and Wes walked passed the village prison, a stone house that used to be a small barn, Hamil called out to them.
"Pardon me, Garth, Wes," he began kindly, "would either of you like to go home with a few more coppers?"
"A few?" questioned Garth with a smile.
"A couple," he conceded, "if you accept the offer that is."
"What's your offer, Ham?" asked Garth with interest.
"Well, with Demond ... well, you've seen him. His shift usually covered the night's watch. I've taken his place for tonight, and Tans is asleep since he relieves me in the morning. Someone must watch our guest." Hamil jerked his thumb to the darkened doorway of the little prison.
"For a couple of coppers," Garth scratched his hairy chin, "we guard his cell?"
"One will suffice, you both can do it, but you'll have to split the pay, I suppose."
"And for how long?"
"All night."
Garth yawned and gave Wes a heavy pat on the back.
"It's all your's Wes," he said as he walked down the path towards his house, "pleasant dreams, you two ... or one of you."
Garth vanished into the darkness, out of the torchlight.
"So, Wes," Hamil said turning to him, "are you willing to do it?"
I could have a feast for Rose if I had more coin, thought Wes, maybe even something for Marge. Once again, he could not help but smile.
"Yes," said Wes, "I'll do it."
"My thanks, Wes," said Hamil as he took out a tiny cloth sack and shook out a couple of coppers. "Ten copper reeds for the night," he muttered to himself as he counted.
He poured the coins into Wes's dusty, calloused hands.
"How long," asked Wes, "will we keep the man?"
"Until the staffer arrives," Hamil responded, "as you know, we can't hold court without him. He doing his rounds, so perhaps there will be more opportunities such as this for days to come."
Hamil said his pleasantries, but before he could retire back to his home, Wes stopped him with a question.
"May I borrow a blade?" he asked, "the man is dangerous, yes?"
"The man's old and brittle and I'm not sure how he poisoned Demond," Hamil said more to himself than Wes. He pulled free his dagger and handed it over to Wes. "Just for your own peace. Go on, I have another one at home."
Wes took the dagger, an old wicked piece of iron with a cracked wooden handle. Though, if curses were real and the dark arts were not just things of children's stories, what good would iron do?
For a moment, Wes wanted to cancel. With Hamil gone, he was now alone with this bizarre stranger that may have caused the death of Demond. Stop it, Wes, you are not a child anymore, he cannot hurt you behind the bars, Wes told himself. Think about Marge and how happy she will be when you buy her a mountain of dolls.
Smothering his cowardice, he quickly strode into the prison.
The stone house was lit by candles and the torches in the rusty sconces would not light. At the entrance sat a pine bench, smoothed out by many visitors sitting on it over the years. One big cell was all the structure could accommodate. However, a heavy wooden partition sat in the floor within, dividing it into two cells, each part having an iron-bar door of its own.
In the cell, a figure sat with its legs crossed, back straight and still. In the dim candlelight, Wes could tell the man turned his head, feeling his presence. Yes, yes, the man is still there, Wes thought as he shivered, now back away, back away to the bench.
"Young man," the old man called to him, "do not be afraid, come talk to me."
His good nature did not allow him to ignore or spurn him, and his pride did not allow him to run away screaming like a little child. He walked towards the cell, knowing not if he marched to his doom.
"Please," Wes found himself saying, "do not curse me."
The old man mused at his response.
"Such a strange greeting," he said without ridicule, "usually one mentions the beauty of the day or lets their names be known and such. But perhaps these times change faster than this old mind can keep up."
"I am sorry," Wes apologized, "saying that was ill-mannered."
The stranger raised a hand, gesturing that he took no offense, and smiled warmly.
"I understand, young one, for I know the chaos that I am blamed for." The old man stood up, dusted off his robes, though it didn't do much to clean what looked like decades of dirt from travel, and he bowed sincerely. "I am called Zagarolo. It is a great pleasure to meet you."
Wes was nonplussed by the man Zagarolo's friendliness. Nevertheless, he did not choose to be silent to such politeness.
"My name is Wes. Wes Tenley."
"Now, Wes Tenley," Zagarolo said, "may I ask, what do they believe I did, that they must lock me in this cage and soon bring me to trial?"
"They believe you placed a curse on Demond's head," said Wes solemly, "Tans, one of the guards that brought you in, think's you poisoned him."
Zagarolo laughed at this, yet made no response, which made Wes nervous. But Zagarolo was quick to see his discomfort. He composed himself and apologized.
"Oh, so that is why you feared me," Zagarolo said, "rest assured that neither of those things are true." Zagarolo looked into Wes's tired eyes. "Ah, yes, you were one of the planters I saw in the field. You must be hungry for sleep." Zagarolo sat back down. "Don't let me keep you from sweet sleep. I too must sleep."
"Truly," Wes said, feeling relieved, "you did not harm or curse Demond?"
"It is the truth," Zagarolo lay on his back, folding his arms behind to pillow his head, "he shows signs of a pearl spider's bite. Or he may suffer from, what you call, the Love Shiver. The effects often come suddenly and violently. That man Demond, has he a wife?"
"Yes, but his wife does not seem ill."
"So, you see, I am merely a scapegoat!"
The man seems to know a lot, thought Wes with amusement.
"Well," said Wes, "I must apologize again for accusing you of putting a curse on him."
The old man giggled softly.
"Oh, you need not worry yourself about that," Zagarolo said as he turned on his side. "Placing curses," he giggled softly, "not on him at least."
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