High up on the cliff, the shadows receded into the black oncoming of stormy night. Here and there, pairs of eyes, glowing white in the dark, peeped out of shadowy lairs, but quickly receded as the convoy of light and noise drew near.
Shouts rang out across the mountain range, the reverberations rising up the cliff and then falling down below to black depths ringed with tooth-edged rocks. The words were harsh; without meaning, solely for the purpose of exciting the shouter and his companions.
The sound fell on the ears of many that night, but none more so importantly than those of Crux: that thief, that scoundrel! As he ran, his sharp breaths matched beat with his feet; his teeth ground like a millstone as fearful thoughts churned above like the gears of a clock.
His wet body, inadequately clothed with a simple tunic and light cloak, glistened whenever a far-flung finger of light touched him. His right hand he held close to his chest, guarding the coffer of stolen goods. Every fibre in his body was bent towards escaping. His heaving legs ate up the ground greedily, heedless to pain and slippery rock.
Only that morning, Crux had walked peacefully among those who now chased him. Of course, once he’d stolen some of their most prized possessions, it was only a matter of time before they rose as one and sought out his sorry hide. True, they’d reacted faster than he’d predicted, but it was still enough time.
You couldn’t blame him, though, he had to steal the darn stuff, the peasants’ security was so lax they deserved to have it stolen from them. In the future, they would constrict any other valuables: he was really doing them a favour.
However, the mob behind him hardly saw it in the same light: anyone could tell that.
Crux’s ears were fully tuned to the sounds of night, which was why it was no wonder he heard one of the hunters yell to the other: “Cut him off before he reaches the Stream or we’ll never see our gold again!”
Hearing this, Crux grinned widely and put on a final burst of speed; this Stream couldn’t be far. Already he was deciding what to do with the loot. The silver and gold he could sell, but the jewels were far too valuable to just give up. He would definitely have to buy food. The last time he’d eaten was that morning, and even then it was just a sour melon. It would have been better if he’d skipped a meal completely, since he’d been spitting seeds all evening after that. Maybe–
His train of thought suddenly cut itself off as his feet struck on nothing. For a moment he seemed to be hanging in midair –arms flailing, mind racing– as the rain fell below him. Too late he realized that he had not heard the Stream, had not felt the ground slope down, had not stopped to think about the dangers in the shadows.
“I shouldn’t have counted my eggs before they hatched…”
The lid of the broken coffer flapped open and a single penny flew out, spinning in the cold air. When the face was turned towards Crux, moonlight flashed like a beacon; flash, flash, flash. He reached out towards it in sluggish motion, touching its edge with the furthest tip of his fingers.
“Damn eggs…”*
But nothing lasts forever, and Crux felt air rushing around his ears, the sickening drop in his heart, the final protest of his stomach. The night was black, and the water black, and the very air was heavy with darkness, so he never saw how far he dropped. Bone-chilling waters closing over his head. The turmoil of the waters kept him underwater and current seemed to flow down, keeping him from any hope of ever resurfacing. The coffer was wrenched from his grasp. Gold, silver and jewels were swept away in a glittering cascade.
“One, two three…eggs.”
High above, the mob, now silent, stood at the edge of the Stream. They could see nothing and the roar of the river was muted by a similar roar of rain on the mountainside.
“He never heard it,” one of the Russian peasants quietly confirmed the thoughts of the others. “In he went and the treasure with him.”
Slowly they turned away, shedding bitter tears over their loss.
Spoiler
This is my submission to Trident's Three-pronged Contest. I chose the following columns: Russian peasants, spitting watermelon seeds and a silver penny. 809 words, a 107-increase.
*Normally, I do not resort to profanity. In fact, I feel rather guilty about using that single word (I know, I’m a wimp, right?
). However, it seemed to fit Crux’s personality perfectly, so I couldn’t resist. 
Back story: Crux is a professional thief. He’d escaped from the big cities where his name was well-known, and the pursuers were hot. Upon entering this peaceful Russian village, Crux realizes that they keep gold, silver and costly jewels in their monastery. He waits until night-time to steal them, swiping a melon while waiting. After dark, Crux breaks into the monastery, grabs the loot and high-tails it out. The peasants were warned early on, however, by witness who had been near the monastery. Gathering up their pitchforks and torches, they head out into the growing storm to chase him. The story starts there.
The idea of Crux dying not at the hands of his captors and haters, but at the hands of Nature, was unique to me. Normally for me, evil is bad, and good is good, and both are rewarded accordingly. In this story, however, Crux actually gets a light sentence (in my view). He does die, and probably painfully, but in my eyes it was better for him to go that way than to be hung, humiliated, in the village.
Also, he managed the biggest heist of his life, that should account for something.
My point is, I wanted Crux to win. He was a likeable guy. I couldn’t let him win, though, since it goes against my morals, but I could give him a softer landing into the afterlife.
Does that make sense? Didn’t think so.
*Normally, I do not resort to profanity. In fact, I feel rather guilty about using that single word (I know, I’m a wimp, right?
). However, it seemed to fit Crux’s personality perfectly, so I couldn’t resist. Back story: Crux is a professional thief. He’d escaped from the big cities where his name was well-known, and the pursuers were hot. Upon entering this peaceful Russian village, Crux realizes that they keep gold, silver and costly jewels in their monastery. He waits until night-time to steal them, swiping a melon while waiting. After dark, Crux breaks into the monastery, grabs the loot and high-tails it out. The peasants were warned early on, however, by witness who had been near the monastery. Gathering up their pitchforks and torches, they head out into the growing storm to chase him. The story starts there.
The idea of Crux dying not at the hands of his captors and haters, but at the hands of Nature, was unique to me. Normally for me, evil is bad, and good is good, and both are rewarded accordingly. In this story, however, Crux actually gets a light sentence (in my view). He does die, and probably painfully, but in my eyes it was better for him to go that way than to be hung, humiliated, in the village.
Also, he managed the biggest heist of his life, that should account for something.
My point is, I wanted Crux to win. He was a likeable guy.
I couldn’t let him win, though, since it goes against my morals, but I could give him a softer landing into the afterlife.Does that make sense? Didn’t think so.
