low and so high. For a long while we worked on some walls near the castle, carrying brick and mortar.
We all slaved as hard as the bread we ate, but no matter to the Guards, curses and whips were their sport.
Sometimes a day went by and I did not believe my ears or my back could become any redder!
Still the toil has its good pay, in hard bread and the hold of a sword's execution. What man or child would not crawl thus for a life saving and bless such minor ordeals?
But some among our dragging flock did not and in the dark time of vermin, gave attempt to scurry to wider burrows. They were caught and hung by their ankles to die in the sun. They were alive over our work pits to remind the rest of us that the gods of Hades favour well-ripened meat. It took days for them to die and the harder our toil to drag slow past the crack of agonies that choked our own names.
They died and the flies fed well for the corpses were left to sway to the breeze; a crowing with wings. Straw for mortar plucked a new use in our nostrils as we now gagged past the stench from the bloating; their poor bodies swelled as a wine sac swinging too close the fire.
Too long in their ferment, they were feared to be cut down for the resulting burst of offal. We would pass, a reluctant eye upon the expectant cascade, breathing in even in this toil of drag held till the carnage was behind.
Finally, some street brats saw the game and begin tossing sharp stones at, around and above our heads.
Their target? To bring burst of the sagging sacks now resembling more obscure grapes than men. The guards allowed the play, for delight of their gambling; their bets on which of the plod would drink the soak.
Alas, those who cast coin on any lot but I , got a poor account of the scene. By some trick, near all gave vent together and hence the splatter was more like a drench.
I was well among the drench and will never it seems unburden my nostrils of its memory though I have tripped or slept in much dung and rubbish since.
The guards allowed a washing of the path and the half carcases dragged away but it was of too late for some of us. Lacerated soles had already drunk deep the diseased slip; torn palms began the gangrene slimed on horrored brows.
The next day, many of us were violent to fever, sick and discarded from the work party. Some died of this fever, some didn't and lived to bear regret.
I did not die and thus you witness me. So many men have told me this was a god’s will. So many of a beggar type have said it is of man’s doing.
I laugh at it all now. Was it man’s sin...or god’s sin ...or my sin?
No matter whose sin...it is I who am honoured, it would appear, to be the Lamb of Sacrifice! The soul licks its err and gives its wholeness to an axe of penance. Crippled to universal height, the soul, forgiven by all yet itself, still to itself burns the stains of its remains. Once penance is embraced, it is a savage of lusted. Repent besmears as its new Sin. This is always a crueller judgement in the one limb left, the gods leave for mercy bethinking the means to reach their abode but, alas, the soul flails its skin in Anti-sin.
Sometimes there is of no gods sought but rather only the rougher, sharper path of unholy undertaking. A soul past of judge results in a sinless state of entire evil. As the state of sin is to degrade good unto evil.
But what grades evil once total in its hurl? The limb repents and the stain of dung (curse of physical existence) have no lesser abomination whether judged godly or manly. Now all is sinless.
So you see, my Friend, though three limbs are now sinless, I can still be condemned by the actions of the Last.
(He laughed) Well, so say the priests who step over my tale in the street, anyway!
Such is my tale, Brother, a whistle of misfortunes. Once an old leper told me destiny has many sided teeth. Some men are nibbled, some crushed, some torn, yet the end is in all sallowly void and gratitude's belch.
Who knows perhaps a man devoured to my state in an instant instead of nibbles, would have despaired and crumpled, his final limb a marker to draw a jackal's sorrow. But nibbled away, the pieces given to the day... not even a miss. A gradual pruning, to learn to do the same with a bit of the less, till, who knows, can he do everything with nothing?
At this the young fellows laughs heartily; the Beggar's young son offers a slow grin.
The crippled boy continues "Though this has its harshness of trade, it sweeps a better glance any watch of erect.
Before this ‘mishap’ I witnessed nought but the rope and a strain of another’s back in the front of my eyes. The name has no call, the backs all the same, all mistress of the same harem.
But here I lie, the one-limbed beggar and at least I am cursed for what I am. That men step out of their way to pay me and men step out of their way to kick me, I force men to change their path.
I am not a thing below men's feet nor a mere extension of moving stone but, oddly, I am seen as more of a man as I become less a man.
You know, some stray to my eye and curse me slug or dog; demand my death to rid the earth of my beast of burdensome plight. Yet I argue with them to their err. No dog would be allowed live to this state. Whether his master or brother dogs, some hand or tooth would gentle ease the blood from his throat. But I live to horrify because I am man; and I horrify because death is painted upon my frame above the curtain of dust.
Yet, I give the curser more homage than charity. For a coin in cast is a blank eye. Only those who spit upon me look at the man. And my brothers, like yourself. They can see and still hear. They offer coins from another purse.
Ah, but, forgive my mumblings, brother. I sit much and have much to think. A failing when boring upon the first reclining ear. To be slow in limb does not necessarily carry a swift mind. For if indeed that was the effect, cowards would be dim-witted indeed.
Again the crippled boy sings in laughter; this time the Beggar cannot help but chuckle at his good humour as well.
"But I'll tell you of this, brother, looking gives a hard believing some times. Where the stall leans that I buy the daily bread with my begs, there is a merchant baker who arranges the world with an odd scale.
For when I bring my coins, they are pursed in my mouth, as the bowl must travel underarm. At the stall, I spit them to the table, away from the crusts of risen wheat. My hunger is given more of the sun to swallow as the seller will not touch upon the coins till the spittle is dry. Neither will he give bread till payment rests in his palm.
Once the exchange can be done without wetting his fingertips, he will shove the loaf under my arm. So cautious is he of a malignant brush, that any number of times the bread has fallen amongst the dust and dung of the street.
Here begins a new battle of commerce over repulse. The bread tainted now with my skin, will he put a hand to it or begin a new cut, forfeiting the fallen to the dogs?
A dilemma for any man often breeds the tool and such for him the miracle of the stick. Poking the crust and rising the bread from its place of grimy display, he thrusts it again to my underarm grip. Satisfied, with a grunt impossible to answer, he turns away busy with a fresh gathering to his table though they may not exist for this movements waver.
Now, whether a beggar likes dung to sweeten his bread is not a seller's concern. That the seller is averse to a deform's spittle may not have its misunderstanding. But more's the watch here.
For time to time, the baker departs, cart and all, he goes off and then returns in the half of a sun's stick.
One time, I gathered my crutch and kept along; for a one-limbed beggar can easily race a merchant towing his world. In the trip of a street's numbered almost twenty, the bread man came to a money changer's place. At a window, barred but for the pass of hands, some gold in a small coinage was given for the baker's pile of copper and brass.
The merchant then rolled back to the return voyage, though his pace now all the more hampered for this new burden of gold. Men's a comic thing. To be jealous of a wife who has a little glitter while the tarnished wife given careless tow. His
mind rings of the same value in both yet his heart harbours a different scaling. Yet which has more value on the enter of a rat's alley, golden rings fingered or an iron dagger in hand? No matter, this merchant clutched his gold a far deeper bosom then his bagged copped.
A circuitous route back he took and all the more with his eyes, their dancing and bobbing for some thieving follow or murderous sidestep, his eyes like flies strung to carrion by whirls of glut and desire.
Till a dark door in the grayest alley was sidled up to. The... but Brother foolish I am. For I mistook to mention his dog. He had a dog you see. The mongrel of mongrels undescript. The breed of all breeds. The makings of the end of any dog breed to just dog. As if all the breeds distinct were allowed cavort such as men, then this dog the Merchant had would symbolize the natural coming state of resulting dog. Oh, alas, such a sad state was not meant for a noble four leggedbreed. Still the result was for the merchant's means. This dog had heaped of a merchant's rewards, you tell by a glance. For his coat of mid height had been patched so many a time that the original colour was disguised well amongst the white, brown and black. This was bore through the streets on bent clawed sticks that moved in a slink when walked and a hind hop when it ran. A blunt snout in a blunter skull decorated with rags for ears always half stiff as if crusted in the wind. The eyes, yellow, nocturnal as a rat's and in half
The Seven Days of Wander Page 54
