I could flee! The lovely thought crossed his brain, momentarily raising his hopes of avoiding a grisly appointment with the man in a hood and armed with an ax. Then Salemon realized he had never been to other places. The only familiar areas for him were the town and the forest where he found his livelihood. His new-found optimism came crashing down in flames.
He turned aside and sat under cover of a large tree, taking deep breaths which turned into quick and shallow ones when the gravity of his situation again dawned on him. Worried hyperventilation broke his tear ducts. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer and started crying, punching the ground in frustration in accompaniment to his unmanly bawling.
“What are you doing?” A surprised voice asked.
Salemon quickly looked around, a bit ashamed that someone had seen him. Crying was fine, everybody did it at some point, but bawling like a stuck pig wasn’t really acceptable behavior, even for peasants, unless they’re actually on their way to their execution.
Nobody was in sight, and the forest was quiet. Quickly standing up, Salemon promptly combed the nearby bushes.
“What a dumb cluck,” said another voice scornfully. An occurrence which resulted in a more frantic search by the woodcutter. Asking why he was crying was a lot different from insulting him.
“I guess you’re right, Lord Magarn. He is stupid,” added yet another, this time a feminine one.
“Hey, stop with the insults! And stop hiding, you cowards!” shouted Salemon. The woodcutter’s patience had suddenly reached its limit upon hearing a woman joining the unseen audience of commentators. The situation was threatening to become a chorus of insults.
“Great Amilthus, you better call him back. Otherwise, we’ll end up with a mad vessel. It won’t do us any good if he becomes crazier than a rabid rabbit,” advised the voice of an elderly woman.
Mad vessel? thought the woodcutter. Rabbit? Not a bear? Or even a wolf? A badger even?
Salemon suddenly blacked out, right after the odd suggestion and the errant and slightly annoyed question in his mind. When he opened his eyes, the woodcutter found himself back in the middle of the circle of deities. The lighting had not improved.
I am going mad, thought Salemon and after a quick reflection, smiled. That means if this gets worse, I won’t be in my right mind when the headsman cuts off my head.
“You are not going mad,” the now familiar gravelly voice intoned.
Not mad? Shit.
A Writer's Request
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Tartarus Beckons Page 27
