From the Editor: From the January Writing Prompt, we present a selected chapter from a larger work, inspired from the cards of “Magic the Gathering.”
Chapter 1 – Gather
Good men, The last wave by, Crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in the green bay,
Rage, Rage against the dying of the light
– Dylan Thomas
Sunlight crept into the baked cobble street, its warm rays seeking their way through every crack and crevice. The light rose through the town of East Norfolk, the shudders of each house closed with a clack, the slanted slate acting as wide shade to the entrenched sidewalks and pathways. As the residents of the shaded town began to stir and mingle in the deep-rooted path, their voices filling each echo-sprawled trench, there was the distinct sound of footfalls from the heavily booted Constable. Garbed in a single-shoulder red robe and heavy leather padding, a large maroon sunhat angled to his back to block the embroiling rays. Yet much to the Constable’s pleasure, he would not be on the morning watch, instead relegated to a morning shift with the condemned squalor of East Norfolk’s criminals. Making his way to the rightmost side of the cobbled road and down a short flight of stairs, he entered the entrenched shaded sidewalk. Briskly, he took off his hat to make more room for others and was greeted by the local Vicar.
“Good morning Constable, done with your midnight shift I take it?”, questioned the aged Vicar, the strength in his voice fueled by his genuine enthusiasm for conversation.
“Good morning dear Vicar,” strained the Constable, “I move from midnight to menagerie.”
“You can just say ‘you’re on prison duty’ Constable, or do you worry I’ll grow bored?”
A dry smile crossed the Constable’s face, “Didn’t mean to sound cheeky dear vicar, the night shift doesn’t invoke much talk.”
The Constable slowed his gate, moving to the left so the Vicar could walk beside him. Though his eyes were bloodshot and baggy, the thin grin on his face betrayed his enjoyment of good company. As both men made their way down the slowly crowding sidewalk, they enjoyed the silence for a brief moment before the Vicar broke the low baritone hum of the morning.
“What news from the watch Constable?”
“Nothing new, there hasn’t been much trouble for the past few nights. Hell, most of the men in lockup will be out of the cells by next morning.”
“Not any dangerous men I presume?” the Vicar asked with an underlining note of concern.
“No, no dear Vicar,” assured the Constable, “all petty crimes, only a few days in the cells.”
The Constable kept his eye on the Vicars face until the aged man looked at peace, before returning his gaze to the sidewalk ahead. The men passed by entrenched entrances to the neighborhood houses, the denizens leaving their homes for the morning activities with their heavy cloth garb to block any sun rays that peaked into the roofed trench. As a low tone of speech ascended from within the walkway, both the Vicar and Constable spoke of mundane things: how the last service went, any characters in the jail cells, the countdown towards the solstice.
It was only when the men passed the chapel, its structured wooden posts maintained with more care, that the Constable’s narrow face scrunched with confusion.
“Dear Vicar, don’t you have…”
“The service is midday Constable, I hope you don’t mind if I join you until you reach your post?”
The Constable’s brow lifted in query for a moment, but in truth, he had been enjoying his talk with the Vicar.
“Of course dear Vicar, though I warn you the road to the cells is neglected.”
The Constable began to traverse through the densely packed trenches, gliding through the crowd until he could reach a declining tunnel. Down both men went, their conversation echoing in the new mucked path.
“You mentioned a criminal release Constable, you sure there are none for the town to worry about?”
The Constable quickly whipped out a match, eyes darting through the shrouded sunder for a street lamp, perhaps even a wayside torch abandoned by a previous shift, “Tell you what dear Vicar, perhaps you would like to meet those to be released. Your lot ‘loves the sinner not the sin’ right?”
“Now you are being cheeky,” spoke the Vicar, his usual charm dulled but still present. With a noticeable Shrrrch, the Constable had managed to strike a flame from his matches, letting out a breath of relief as he carried the flame to a nearby street lamp. As he kindled the wick, both men could see the once-veiled tunnel with greater clarity. Where the trenched or road cobble was usually sun-baked or at the very least dusty, creeping moisture had made an overtone of grime and muck present.
“Come along dear Vicar, any longer and we will both get a smack on the wrists.”
A few moments passed, timed by the rhythmic thud of boots, up until both men came upon the constabulary doors. The Constable took the large metal handle, heaving for a brief moment as he spun the large lock, before pushing it open to reveal the inside of the constabulary. Made of the similar drenched stone as the tunnel that led to it, the East Norfolk Constabulary was not to date with other construction standards. From the fire pit that stoked the entire room with smog and heat, to its cramped conditions and immediate lack of furniture, the prisoners were ironically the only thing that separated this dungeon from the scorching morning shifts.
The Constable began to meander around the slate front desk but stopped when he saw a yellowing piece of parchment. He sighed as he sloughed off his cloak, picking up the parchment with hesitance.
Writ of Containment
By order of the East Norfolk Parliamentary board, the constabulary is to hold this prisoner until his sentencing. Until then, a member of the East Norfolk Constabulary is to monitor the prisoner with extreme prejudice.
Name: John Doe
List of offenses: Arson, murder, grave robbery, Occult activity, Breaking and entering, Smuggling.
Regulations: He is not to be provided water, food, or new clothes. Under no circumstances shall the blindfold be taken off the prisoner. Failure to comply will result in a penance charge of ten unprotected morning shifts.
- Ignis Solutus, Sol Ligatus, Portus Aeternus
“Sorry dear Vicar, you’ll have to forgo…” The constable looked from the writ, the Vicar had gone on ahead, “Bugger.” cursed the Constable.
Briskly, he moved from the lobby to the cells, forgetting to close the door behind him. When he finally found the Vicar, he was already speaking to one of the prisoners.
“I didnae know we weegie having guests hat-man, letlone a stoater guest like this.”
“You weren’t set for guests Lennard. Get the rest of the rabble, you’re going home.”
The ginger-whiskered fellow let go of the bars, whistling to the other prisoners within the cramped cell.
“Vicar, you’ll only get a brief introduction if you’d like, I’m afraid we are getting a new intake in a moment.”
“The Lennard fellow, what’s he in for? I do hope it wasn’t for a drunken brawl.
“How Shameful of you dear Vicar,” mockingly said the Constable, “Not every Scaldslagian-sounding man is a drunkard.”
The Vicar flushed red for a moment, “My apologies, to you and Lennard, what was he arrested for then?”
“Apology accepted. Good Lennard here was arrested for brawling outside the pub two nights ago. They didn’t have his preferred drink.” chuckled the Constable.
The rest of the prisoners began to make themselves to the bars, their appearances less than frightening. Lennard stood to the right of everyone, whispering to the man next to him with rumors of freedom.
“Alright dear Vicar, I’ll make this quick, then you’ll have to go.”
ǂ ɣ ʉ Ɲ Ÿ ʔ
“Take care, dear Vicar, perhaps I’ll come to the next service.” called out the Constable, his upper half peeking down the lantern-lit tunnel
“The same to you Constable, do try to get some rest alright?”
The Constable smiled, his tired eyes straining to focus. As the Vicar disappeared into the shroud, he closed the iron door with a heavy slide. The Constable made his way to the now empty cells, strangely missing the company he had from the varmint of the city. Leaning on the wall, it was not long before he heard a rattling noise, a stirring within the building. He turned his head to the left, beholden to see another constable rocking in a stone-chiseled chair.
“Oscar, wake up you scur!” yelled the Constable, containing his laughter with all his might.
The younger constable violently stirred, “WHOS OUT! Raise the bells! Coats on! Where’s…” Oscar noticed the now cackling Constable leaning against the wall, “Oh piss off yeah? I was having a good nap.”
“You see Oscar, that’s what eludes me. How do you manage to rest so well on a slab like that, wearing the uniform no less?”
Oscar re-shifted his attire, a deep blue leather jacket to signify the day shift, and took off his hat to adjust his blank silver mask. Even through the mask’s slim slits, there was blazing anger within the young constable’s eyes.
“I just think of listening to you drone on, tuckers me right out. Better yet, why aren’t you home?”
“Well that’s just it now Oscar, you and I are on intake duty. While you were knackered, we got this,” The constable pulled out the aging yellow parchment, “a writ of holding.”
Oscar groaned, “Why did you have to pick it up ser?”
“Because if I didn’t, YOU would have. Hell, I figured you’d already be on shift.” retorted the Constable. Prisoner intake was already going to be rough, but a few days with Oscar would be like chewing nails.
“Tell you what Oscar, you get ready on your shift and I’ll say you were never here. Just come by and relieve my post at midday tomorrow alright?”
“You got somewhere to be Constable?” smarmed Oscar, the snarky retort echoing within his mouthless mask.
“Realistically I have to pull Lennard out of the nearest pub before he breaks something,” said the Constable, walking over to the hanger and plucking a large navy sun hat, “but now that’s your task.”
Oscar snatched the hat from the Constable’s hand, his petulant muttering creating a verbal patter within the room.
“Bloody scur, you better remember to get the hatch opened properly.”
Oscar brushed past The Constable, opening the wrought iron door with a heave and a hearty slam. Silence, well-earned but brief, had returned to the constabulary. The Constable moved from his spot on the wall into the stone chair now deserted by Oscar.
Relieving his boredom, he began to amuse himself with a light tune, “There once was a scur named Oscar, had no good lass cause robbed of her, his help was sparse, a pain in the arse, a miserably pining…” before a heavy slam could be heard. Two other night shift constabularies, maroon garb with black iron gloves had burst into the room. In their quarry was a man whose details blurred at the speed they wrenched him.
“I take it this is the prisoner?” asked the Constable. He was greeted by their beleaguered silence as they dragged the man into the cell. The iron cage slammed shut, and as the blunt blur of guardsmen left the constabulary, there was only the stern lone Constable and the prisoner. He stood up, walking over to lean on the wall next to the cell, peeking from the side to get a better look.
“Having a rough go now?” the Constable asked, eyes gimlet in their inspection of this new…guest.
The prisoner just shifted, moving his legs across the hard rock with a heavy slide. His attire was odd: it was a peasant’s garb of brackish origin, the cloth was torn and size too large, yet stained a rich red color. The intruding pallet looked to be scorched in, like black to burnt wood.
“No story then? No sob-inducing tale that excuses whatever you did?” inquired the Constable, his curiosity beginning to overcome his rational mind. The prisoner lifted his head, his motion shedding grey dust from his skin. His face was skeletal, his bones jutting and features gaunt. His complexion was of ash, grey like a cloudy day, matched by his stiff singed ragged hair. A single crimson cloth wrapped around his eyes, its color more deeply emplaced. He blindly faced the door to his cell, and a grating tone groaned from his tongue.
“Would you like to hear a story, jailer?” parroted the prisoner, his tone a rattling echo of what a man should sound like, “Would you like a sermon of my deeds? Or perhaps something more…visceral?”
The Constable couldn’t help but sneer, not at the physique of his new quarry but at the sound that croaked from its mouth. All the intonations were there, the basic patterns and rhythm of how a person spoke, but it all sounded dry. Intrigued, he continued to pry the prisoner for more.
“I’m not sure I need a memoir, I have your writ. Arson, that’s unique I suppose. It would explain your nasty state.
“I mean not to repulse you, jailer,” He extended his arm outward, a long grey limb that stretched longingly “But I mean ner to scratch on your walls when good company is willing.”
The Constable’s ears began to ring, the grating groan seemed to tear at his ears, “A lot of people have stories, you could just tell it to the bars.”
“Consider it boredom jailer, surely you are dulled as well from staring at stone sculptures, stagnated, still sitting upon the…rocks and soil.” the prisoner paused his hollow echo.
“Alright,” responded the Constable, “I’ll bite, but it better be good.”
He looked around for some sort of seat, settling for a wooden stool behind the reception desk. Plopping it in front of the cell, the prisoner’s head tilted as the wood dropped on stone, before once again his words seemed to groan and strain their way out.
“Have you ever left your city jailer?”
“Not farther than the Alpones river.”
“You head to the west often then?” spoke the prisoner, each word a prodding puncture in the air.
The Constable considered his response, the cracking of the firepit ticking like a clock as the brief reprieve paced onward.
“Not often enough, just often enough to see the solstice.”
The Prisoner let out a sigh, the croaking sound dimmed as his words became more bearable. The grey man shifted forward, sliding inch by inch to the cell door, his long-fingered hands wrapped around the rusted iron with an equally rigid grip. The constable could see him grin, his breath spewing a scent of choked cedar.
“Solstice, sun, searing against my eyes and all. Such light, warm, and searching, is it not bright against the minds of those who listen keenly?”
The Constable leaned in, lured by the prisoner’s strange tonal flux.
“Do you know of the ‘Angel of Sordis’ Jailer? Now, that’s a tale worth speaking of.”
It was strange, for a brief moment he believed he saw light from behind the prisoner blind. But it was the title, Angel of Sordis, something about it sparked a curiosity like embers to heat.
