by J. Rock
2.
“I didn’t do it!” the voice of Thomas Whiskeyjack pleads over the enraged outcry of the mob. But his words are drowned in a rain of rotting food and excrement.
And stones.
The first one strikes Thomas in the stomach, his cries cut off in a grunt of pain. The second strikes him in the shoulder, his grunts becoming screams, mingled with the creaking of the stocks as he struggles against them. The rage in the crowd is escalating, and Thomas’s cries are joined by others as people are trampled, battered, or struck by thrown projectiles meant for Thomas Whiskeyjack himself. I start to panic. I’m trapped behind an advancing wall of furious people!
My claustrophobia kicks in.
It doesn’t happen often, as I’ve managed to get the fear mostly under control during my eighteen years but, every once in a while (and usually during a high stress situation), it gets the better of me.
As it is now.
Traylor sees the look on my face and comes toward me gingerly; he knows something is wrong. "It was just a joke, Juno!" he says, taking my hand as I begin to feel dizzy, bending prone at the waist. I feel something slimy and pull my hand from his, finding it coated in a disgusting blend of rotten vegetables. I grab Traylor and wipe it on the back of his black tunic. The rest of the vegetables he'd intended to throw are now a mushy pile beneath our feet, some of it leaking onto my sandaled feet.
"Did you even bother to find out who was up there?" I chastise him, grabbing him by the elbow and moving him away from the bloody cries of the dying Thomas Whiskeyjack.
Traylor shrugs with a smirk. "Do I ever?" He's being cocky because he knows I will tell Father, no matter how much he begs me not to. We've been through this countless times before.
"It was Thomas Whiskeyjack," I say, finding satisfaction when I see the blood drain from the little guy's face.
"What?" Traylor stops moving, turning around, standing on the ends of his toes to try and see over the crowd again. We're almost at the edge of Judgment Square, but we're both fairly short, and Traylor more so because he's only ten years old. But the crowd is breaking up already. Thomas Whiskeyjack must be dead. Just like that, the bloodlust is a memory and the throng begins to file out of the Square in all directions. My claustrophobia eases as Traylor begins to elbow his way back toward the stocks.
"Where you going?" I call after him.
He half turns his head and replies, "You're lying! It's not him!"
I sigh and follow my little brother.
I should have known this would be hard on him. Thomas had been like a second Father to Traylor. Not to me though. I'm old enough to still remember our Mother. Somewhat. I was eight years old when Father passed Judgment on her, shortly after Traylor was born. I still haven't forgiven him for it, High Deacon or no. She was born without a nail on the second toe of her left foot. No big deal, right? Wrong. Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live, no matter how small or insignificant the change. As Father says: "If we let ourselves deviate from the True Body Plan, if we play god like the ancients did, we only invite another cataclysm upon ourselves. The ways of the Forerunners are the ways of death."
I don't know whether my Mother kept her mutation hidden from Father all those years, or if he knew about it and just never said anything. Either way, the truth became public, and my Father had little choice as High Deacon. Our whole family would have stood to be Judged otherwise. Instead, he did his duty and passed Judgment on her, in the very place Thomas Whiskeyjack's corpse now hangs limp and lifeless.
I still think he made the wrong choice.
Traylor stops at the base of the platform and stares upward, wide eyed, a few stragglers shaking their heads in disbelief that the High Deacon's second in command had just been Judged. I come up beside him, and the confused look I see on his face makes me realize that Traylor still retains most of the innocence of childhood.
"That's not him," Traylor says, denial coating every word. "I can't tell who it is." I look up and see that Traylor is right. Thomas' face is so smashed and bloodied now, there is little left to distinguish it.
"It's him," I say softly, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Traylor shakes his head, staring not at the man now, but at the Thesis tacked to the post beneath him. "Thomas would never help a mutant!" he says between clenched teeth. I nod my whole hearted agreement. Thomas Whiskeyjack was the last person–other than my Father–that I would have ever expected to see at the center of Judgment Square. My thoughts keep drifting to the six toed footprints in the sand yesterday. And the strange metal box. Hopefully Jude is alright. He's supposed to be lying low after what happened.
"I bet this has to do with whatever you found on the beach," Traylor says, gesturing to Thomas.
I freeze, doing a double take. What did my little brother just say?
"Where did you hear that?" I ask, my heart fluttering in my chest. How could anybody know? Had the Deacons been watching us? I look up at Thomas Whiskeyjack trepidatiously.
Traylor shrugs. "That's the rumor going around. People are saying that you and Jude found something from Everwinter on the beach, and that's why there was a mutant trying to get into the city last night. It wanted to get the thing back. What was it, Juno?"
If I'd had a reflecting glass in my hand at this moment, I know I'd see a pale, shocked face staring back at me. "Who's saying these things, Traylor?" I ask vehemently. "How many people have heard this rumor?"
Traylor shrugs again. "I dunno. I heard it from a few of my buddies near the docks. Well, one of them anyway. He told the rest of us."
I want to ask Traylor who his friend is, but I realize it doesn't matter. The docks are the center of commerce in the city, with people coming and going all the time. If the rumor spread from there, most of Krakelyn would have heard it by now.
"I have to go," I say abruptly, turning away from the stocks. "Go home, Traylor."
"Juno, what's going on? I–"
"Just go home, Traylor. Go home and grieve for Thomas Whiskeyjack. I won’t tell Dad you were here." Traylor is forbidden from seeing Judgments, at our Father's discretion. He isn't mature enough yet.
"Really?" Traylor asks with a raised eyebrow. He looks at Thomas and a sob wracks his chest. But then he forces composure onto his face and smiles. "You don't have to tell me twice!" With that, Traylor bolts from Judgment Square.
I follow seconds later, but head in the opposite direction.
