Thoughts of Something Bad

If you could foresee the future, if the world’s destruction was revealed to you, would you eliminate those responsible in the present? If you could foresee your ally turning, to stab the backs of your own, would you kill them now, before their intent was ever realized, even to themself? People believe that good will overcome evil. Some believe that there must be a fundamental balance of the two. Would you kill the infant, that will eventually become the tyrant? 

Henry watches as the body of his friend, Maximilian, is thrown upon all the others. Max’s father isn’t present. Max’s body was left to stiffen and pale in the mud. Henry knows Max, he doesn’t know all the other people piled into the cart. Like Max, they must have had their own friends. Their friends must have watched them being thrown into the cart, too. Henry feels a lot of things that go by, feelings that greet him as if they were walking down the path, just to taunt him, to hug him, to pat him on the shoulder, before they continue on their way, off to visit other people, off to bestow upon them too a certain feeling. Somebody else has just been taunted by sadness. Henry feels slightly less alone in light of this.

“Henry!” Jack can’t contain his momentum, he startles Henry from his thoughtful trance as he’s bumped in the side. “My mum says not to be outside when the cart comes around, to carry along the dead. She says I’ll catch their illness.”

“Where does the cart go?”

“My dad says that it goes to the cemetery, where they can be buried.” Jack leans forward to peer over Henry. He watches the cart continue down the street, leaving a rancid smell in its wake.

“They shouldn’t have put Max in there…”

“Max?”

“I just watched them throw Max in.” Jack quietens. The little grin that’s usually plastered to his face softens.

“Poor Max. We should have buried him ourselves. That way we could go and visit him.” That would’ve been a great idea, Henry thinks to himself.

At the creek, where the boys play, hangs Max’s father from a tree. The tree in which the boys had carved their initials. Jack and Henry halt immediately. His father’s body is blown slowly in the wind, rocking back and forth as the branch creaks eerily. Every muscle was released, he was limp, like a doll that had been strung up. The boys take a minute to stand and observe. His face was already pale and yellowing. 

“Was he executed?” Jack asks.

“I don’t think so. I think that he killed himself.” Jack lets out a surprised huff. He doesn’t say anything more. Jack couldn’t fathom killing yourself. He had only heard that sometimes great heroes kill themselves, as to not die in the hands of the enemy. What was the enemy of Max’s father? In the rocks and pebbles of the creek’s shallow shore, pieces of parchment lay submerged among the moss and silt. Jack shakes the wet parchment in the air, the charcoal that had been used to write upon it was washed away, leaving only finely grained, smeared streaks of dusty black. Jack looks up to the hanging body, the open hand, the discoloured skin that now appears more waxy than alive. Around one crooked finger a necklace still hangs, the small silver door to the locket is closing and opening softly in the breeze, glued inside is a tuft of brown hair. 

“Where did you boys go today?” Jack’s mother, Elaine, shovels a meaty porridge stew onto their plates.

“We went along the creek.” Elaine glances at Jack and Henry with concern, for just a second, before sliding them their plates. She knows what Max’s father had done. He had hung himself.

“I hope you boys didn’t watch the cart.” 

“We didn’t.” Jack answers, too quickly.

“It’s not good for young boys like you to see the dead. It will fill your head with bad thoughts.” Henry slowly feeds himself scoopings of the stew. It had filled his head with thoughts. Whether they were good or bad, he didn’t know. He hopes he hasn’t thought of anything bad. 

“You saw Max’s father, didn’t you?” Elaine asks, her tone composed and motherly. Jack and Henry look at each other out of the corners of their eyes, as if to communicate telepathically, before one of them says anything. “Max’s father could not handle the death of his son. Sometimes people cannot handle these things.” Jack and Henry remain solemnly quiet. Jack is unsure as to whether he should continue eating, his spoon lodged in the stew. “You’re not in trouble.” The boys finally raise their lowered heads to look at Elaine. “Your mother should be returning tomorrow, Henry. Nevertheless you’re welcome here anytime.” Henry nods in appreciation.

Henry knows he shouldn’t untie the stretched, hide curtains, but he can’t resist creating a small gap for which he can glance outside and inhale a breath of fresh air. Today has been a day of thoughts for him, many unpleasant. Jack sleeps nearby, nestled in woolen blankets and oblivious to Henry’s continued pondering. In the distance Henry hears the whinnies of horses and the unintelligible shouting of men. Through the muddy streets, wielding torches, with swords sheathed and armor, leather and chainmail, come knights. Their horses trot through the mud, exhaling from their snouts long columns of fog with every breath. Henry slowly turns his head, watching as they continue onwards, six horses, twelve men. They halt abruptly, and dismount. Henry feels as though he should duck down, hide himself, that’s before his attention is struck by the sight of those men. Tall men, each towering over the knights. They wear elaborately engraved, plated steel armor, on their hips long greatswords are sheathed. One of the knights holds a torch up to illuminate these men, these armored men, and despite his opened helmet, nothing is seen. His very face seems to be emanating darkness, or swallowing light. 

“We told you not to come to the towns. We told you that at the gates of the castle, you must meet us.” Henry is captivated by the exchange. His eyes are wide, and his head is mostly hidden below the small window opening. These men are alien to Henry, he cannot tell if it is a trick of the light, or if these elaborately adorned knights truly have no faces. Henry feels his hairs prickle in alert as the man responds.

“You violate our agreements. We owe no compliance to those who lie.” The man’s voice, the dark man’s, is something twisted and unhuman. It is deep, ominous, distorted, and haunting. Henry feels his heartbeat accelerate, as if he were seeing something he shouldn’t, like the cart with the dead bodies, like Max’s father hanging alone from the branch of the tree. How many bad thoughts will flourish from his seeing of this, he wonders.