By Paul Mirabile
The murder had been carried out with frightening rapidity and meticulousness. Roger preened before the mirror with unconcealed content at his exploit, however gruesome. At last, those evil eyes would never again stare stonily into his. Those lascivious lips curl into a sardonic snarl and snicker. And those hairy nostrils, never again to open in surly disdain. Two years of planning, two years of mounting tension … of burning desire — now that the vile individual was dead and buried, buried deep where no one, not even the sniffing police hounds could sense his other worldly lot, Roger breathed in relief and slept soundly, without apprehension or fear: his revenge had been just.
His hands, however, still trembled after the strangulation, still ached after hours of digging, his mind still aflame with abominable delight. Roger hence decided to take to the road to lead a life of a vagrant, of a wandering non-entity whose secret would lie hidden deep in a heart cleansed of ardent expectancy. He needed no one, desired nothing, only to guard that titillating secret entombed securely within that cleansed heart. Why did he leave now since his victim would no longer polluted his existence ? Because of his vile but indispensable act ? No. Because Roger had never befriended one person since his arrival at that town, never sought to marry and have children, never wished to climb the social rungs of power and prosperity at his mediocre profession. He was a person not without qualities, mind you, but whose indifference to those qualities confined him to the life of a unimaginative loner.
This being said, Roger always felt an instinctive drive for adventure, to strike out on his own so to speak, a picturesque wanderer, but at the same time terribly frightened of it. An adventurer fearful of adventure, however paradoxical that may sound! After the salutary slaying, he now experienced an élan that would send him forth into the wide horizons of the world as a mendicant, living from day to day with a knapsack for companionship, few thoughts of the future and certainly none of the past … Or so he wished …
So the fearless adventurer took to the road to experience a loneliness which he had voluntarily chosen, and this, regardless of the loathsome deed. Roger envisioned his departure merely as a reader who begins another chapter of a long novel.
Winter, spring, summer, autumn … How many seasons had come and gone ? He walked or hitch-hiked, sleeping under the stars or in abandoned, gutted homesteads, dreaming of vigilante squads at his heels, he hiding behind thick bushes or red tinted rocks, eyes scanning the horizon but never settling on his. Would the heavy rains drive the slain body upwards from its underworld plot for all eyes to see? To see and feast on the merciless truth? He dreamed these disturbing dreams, yet they never disrupted his slow but steady gait … never prompted misgivings. At times, the wanderer’s heart, albeit cleansed, longed for the silence of his act to break out of its soundless vault. Roger soon realised that his act was causing him an inexplicable sorrow, a sorrow that accentuated the mystery of his wanderings. Because in spite of his errantry he suffered the deed in lonesome insufferable suffering, the only person in the world to bear the secret of such an odious act. Had Roger fooled himself ? Had he been duped by his own vanity and puffy aplomb ?
He strode ever onwards, none the less, picking wild berries and figs during the day, laying his head on his knapsack or on lumps of grass on balmy nights. The brisk silvery air would, at times, revive his sunken spirits. His gait then would become more springy, more cheerful. There, in the violet blue above, a flock of kingfishers glided so majestically. He had an urge to join them on their migrating route. He arched his neck backwards; “Is the road not better than the tavern?” he wondered looking at the vanishing flock. As the last bird disappeared behind a cloudlet.
One warm spring evening as he shuffled along a dusty country road in an unknown shire, he was overtaken by a motley gaggle of beggars. They were singing bawdy songs of better days; days upon the bland or furious surface of the seas, of chopping wood in the mountainous forests, of pounding fists on the tables of taverns where beer and hydromel poured out of heady kegs. Roger bit his lower lip; these lewd ballads reminded him of an individual whom he had long despised and had disposed of. Yes, there was no doubt that he carried out what was absolutely essential to his well-being.
As soon as these songs died out, the beggars began arguing about something or someone, gesticulating wildly in their tattered garments, stomping their shredded boots. They stopped, hailing to Roger. One bent, glassy-eyed old fellow stepped forward and pulled at his sleeve, pressing him to bear witness on a vital issue: “Hey governor, you’ve heard the news about a murdered bloke rising up from his grave?” Roger suddenly stopped in his tracks.
The question baffled him. He shrugged his shoulders. “You see mates, he don’t know nothing about it!” the beggar cried out through rotting teeth, turning to his companions.
“Blimey, if he ain’t a halfwit,” coughed another. “Halfwit or just wanting to keep it all for himself.”
“The whole thing is rot, I say,” grumbled another, patting Roger on the shoulder. “Don’t worry governor, they don’t know what they’re on about.”
“The rains brought it up, I’m saying,” rejoined the first beggar, wheezing through his nose. “Strangled, dragged and buried he was by a pair of strong hands.” And the beggar took a covert glance at Roger’s strong hands. “The poor sod dragged like a sack of potatoes then thrown into a deep pit,” he stuttered, glancing harder at Roger’s hard hands.
“They’ll get the blighter for sure now,” added the still coughing beggar whose hair lay sticky on his broad shoulders. “They’ll hang him high. All the evidence is there.”
“What evidence?” Roger managed to ask, a bit distraught at all these insinuations, desperately trying to conceal his mounting fear.
“What evidence? What evidence?” he asks. They all howled in concert like a pack of wolves. “It’s written all over the corpse. Written in the stars, too. Just look up and read the evidence for yourself, mate.”
Roger involuntarily lifted his eyes to the darkening heavens where the stars were emerging in twinkling clusters. Was he able to decipher their twinkling? Were the beggars able to? When he lowered his eyes the whole pack had vanished round the bend of the road … Or so he thought. He wondered: “Was it a dream? An hallucination?” Roger sighed and moved on, glancing up every now and then up at the crowding stars.
Four weeks later as a harvest moon rose over some low-lying mountains, he trudged up to a cottage whose roof of browning straw and unsmoking chimney bespoke poverty. About to knock, his hand remained motionless mid-air: a woman’s voice reached his ears, a voice coarse but melodious, each syllable articulated in a maternal tone. The voice was reciting lullabies or children’s bedtime rhymes. A veil of sadness moistened his eyes. His mother, too, sang or recited nursery rimes and poems whenever her spirits had been dampened by grave or sombre events. And Roger mused: “Was the deed all that needful?” He knocked, his spirit traversed by qualms of uncertainty. A huge fat woman dressed in a thick woollen robe opened the door slowly. She stuck her red puffy face out: “Well, what do you want, tramp?”
“I’m down to the bone, good woman. Just a bit of bread and some water will do me. I’ve been on the road for so long.”
“Hungry hey! Had a good taste of the frost? And I suppose without a halfpence to your name. Well, come in and sit yourself at the table. I’ll give you some soup and bread … then off you be. I’m not particularly fond of vagrants.” The creaking of the door disturbed Roger who obsequiously side-stepped the fat, straightforward woman and sat down at a very long, knotty, oaken, wooden table. The ashes in the hearth lay cold like the atmosphere of the cottage … like the cold, dry voice of his host. Everything, cold as a grave …
She served him cold soup and rancid black bread. Roger ate with trembling hands, but without any real appetite. His head spun round; he felt estranged from his surroundings and from himself for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp. The woman wiped her huge, knotty hands on a greasy apron observing her ‘guest’ suspiciously: “Had enough? Want some more? You eat like a prisoner eats before execution.”
Roger gave her a strange look, but remained speechless. She scrutinised the speechless tramp: “Did you hear the news, they finally caught that lunatic who killed the real estate agent? I hope he gets what he deserves,” she rasped.
Roger shot her a terrified look: “Impossible!” he screeched, his mouth full of black bread.
“Why impossible? The bloody sod wasn’t very clever; he left so many fingerprints. He even left his calling card on the body. A real estate agent, they say he was. Probably a settling of scores.” Roger’s face went a deathly white.
“Did you see his photo in the papers?” Roger squeaked.
“I don’t read the dailies. It was the neighbours over the hill who told me. You act as if you know all about it. Did you know the victim?” Roger said nothing. “What’s up, cat got your tongue?” The fat woman eyed him leerily out of her beady eyes. “Your eyes tell me you have something heavy on your heart, something to hide,” she probed, a bit intrigued by the paleness of the tramp’s face, paling whiter and whiter. “Your lips move and move but no sound comes out, and you squirm in your seat like a worm on a fish-hook.”
The woman read Roger all too well; he, indeed, had fallen into a sudden whirlpool of words, repeating events of his childhood under his breath, vainglorious events and despicable lies. His voice then rose to a pitch that shocked his host. She suspected him of evil doing.
“You know mate, if they hadn’t caught that killer, I would say that you had strangled and buried the real estate agent.” She moved towards him, arms akimbo, beetling her brows.
“Strangled? Buried?” Roger pushed back his chair, he suddenly felt very tired. His thoughts whirled about in his head, chaotically. He stood, arms limp at his sides.
“I have to sleep,” he managed to stutter.
“Words are sharper than swords, hey! And you’ve said too much already. Your thoughts are impure, weighed down by some great burden. I don’t want anything to do with you. Go out and sleep in the haystack. But I want you off my property by morning, right?”
Roger thanked the fat, beady-eyed woman and stumbled out of her cold cottage into the colder air. The harvest moon had risen high, orangey-brown and round. He had taken a half loaf of bread with him. “How could they have caught the killer?” he murmured. “I’m the killer! I’m the killer!” He checked himself, listening to the wind.
“I forgot to fill my gourd.” Roger turned back but the cottage had disappeared. The haystack, too, was nowhere to be seen. He sat down, his back against an oak tree. “Must have lost my way,” he whispered to the oak tree.
The cold wind bit through his cotton vest. The silence of the forest frightened him, penetrated the uneasy thoughts of his confused mind. Would his victim’s grave become the mirror of his ever-lasting reflection? No! He was not to be intimidated. His act was a righteous one; how long had that individual plagued his dreams … poisoned his waking existence? An act of faith! Yes, that’s it, it was an act of faith. Roger rubbed his blood-shot eyes.
The eyes of the forest were upon him, the eyes of the animals, the trees and other night creatures ; large, owlish eyes that crouched behind thick bushes and gnarled trees. Relentlessly they followed his every move. He contemplated the moon’s valediction behind the dark, wooded hills then finally fell asleep…a very restless sleep …
The morning dew dripped off his long, unwashed hair, beard and foul-smelling clothes. His muscles ached. Roger felt wretched. He nibbled on some black bread, then set out to find a path that would lead him to a village or town. Hours passed. The sun, like his lies and vainglory, lay heavy on his bowed shoulders … on his furrowing brow, dripping with perspiration and weighed down his worn-out footfalls. Roger stopped abruptly.
He heard the tinkling of goat or sheep bells to his left. The tinkling was music to his ears; it brought an unexpected joy to his fatigued mental and physical state. The tinkling was then accompanied by snatches of a young chanting voice; pastoral verses intermingled with the tinkling which created a sort of contrapuntal rhythm. Roger experienced an estranged longing to relive his childhood, so comforting, so filled with maternal attention and love. Had he really undertaken that horrible deed? Had his hands stirred up the dust of such an unforgiving reality? At that moment, to his right he espied a large grassy pasture dotted with bleating sheep and goats. And there was a shepherd boy, no older than thirteen. “Perhaps he has some cheese and milk,” he thought excitedly.
Roger limped over the thick grass towards the hobbling boy who now approached, tapping his staff in rhythm to Roger’s hastening stride. Roger put up a trembling hand: “Good day shepherd. I’m down to the bone. Might you have a bit of cheese and bread for a poor mendicant?”
The shepherd boy, squint-eyed and long-haired, stroked one of his goats without answering. The boy was barefoot. He sized up the medicant and pronounced in a reproachful tone: “You don’t look like a sponger, sir.” Roger, taken aback by the boy’s bluntness, smiled sheepishly, avoiding his cross, roving eyes.
“How so?”
“Your face and hands tell me you’re not a sponger, that’s all. I’d say you’re a townsman.” Roger stood dumbfounded; he couldn’t quite fathom what the lad was on to.
“So you won’t give me some cheese and bread?”
“Of course I will, but stop playing the sponger. You need not beg, just ask.” And the boy handed Roger a large slab of goat’s cheese and bread.
He watched Roger eat the food with voracious grunts and groans, then asked him warily: “Did you hear about the killer … they freed him … the bloke who murdered the real estate agent?” Roger stopped munching.
“Freed ? Well, I’m glad to hear it. Then it wasn’t him after all who had killed that poor man.”
“No, it wasn’t him at all, sir. Do you know why?” Roger certainly did, but gestured indifferently that he hadn’t the faintest idea.
The shepherd lowered his squint eyes then chanted in a strange, fey voice: “The eyes, sir, the eyes are the windows of the soul. Through them all has been engraved, every word and deed all written bold. They are read like the stars by whose glitter stories are told. So put an end to your roaming days and come in from the cold.” The boy pointed his staff at Roger: “You are the murderer, sir ; the double-tongued wanderer who has senselessly misplaced the guardian of his heart and the shepherd of his thoughts.” The boy fell silent and began to caress his goat.
Roger felt faint; he wavered back and forth like a leaf clinging limply to its life-giving branch.
“I don’t understand you shepherd: guardian of the soul, shepherd of thoughts? Am I too ignorant to understand or are you having me on?”
The shepherd stared at Roger without compassion: “Like the shepherd who guards his herd, you are the guardian of your heart. Keep it simple, innocent of blood-letting, base defilement and scathing lies. Innocent like a child’s.”
“But if it has been contaminated?” Roger interrupted in a hushed voice.
The shepherd dropped his eyes, still caressing his goat. He replied : “Thoughts are like sheep; you must caress them and not let them wander into the clutches of wolves.”
“Wolves? What wolves?” All these enigmas troubled Roger dearly. The boy tapped his staff to the rhythm of the wind that had been steadily picking up, tinkling the bells of the herd animals.
“Those who wander in packs and feast upon the lone and parasitic sponger,” came the boy’s blunt reply.
“I only seek freedom, laddie. Freedom!” Roger said in a strident voice at a loss to grasp the shepherd’s intentions.
“Freedom from what, sir? Society? Your murderous hands? A bad conscious? Or free to be doomed? Doomed is true freedom.”
“That is a play on words,” the wanderer snapped scornfully.
“Is it ?”
A soft, silky evening veil mantled the wind-swept pastureland. The shepherd boy turned away, chanting a tune alien to Roger’s ears, but whose solemn undertone caused him to shudder. He suddenly turned round and shouted through the wind: “Stop bleating about the countryside like a lost sheep. You should know all this yourself. The murder that you have committed is like wind ripping through the weeping willows, a storm over the desert sands, a tempest upon the open seas. Right?”
Roger, mouth agape, could not reply to those metaphorical images as the shepherd hobbled away with his goats over the brow of a grassy hill.
Four more seasons passed in cheerless roaming …
Then one summer day, as lightning flashed and thunder boomed across the heavens, heavy rains pounded the parched earth. Roger was forced to find shelter in the dens of animals, cowering in the corners, petrified by the sudden lightnings, booms and downpours. He had never witnessed such a mystifying spectacle! Compunction pricked his heart with twinges of joy and grief, anger and jubilation, pleasure and remorse. Had the rains really lifted the corpse from its pit? Had the eyes that followed his every step penetrated the mask of apathy, the layers of indifference, the veils of contemptible aloofness? Perhaps he had never killed that real estate agent after all. Then the occult twinges and tugging made him doubtful while the lightning lit the heavens and the thunder resounded over the downs and through the dells. Was he really guilty of what he believed he had whole-heartedly accomplished, or simply pitied his empty, hapless existence?
One star-filled night when the storms had abated, Roger returned and slept in the same grassy pastureland where the shepherd boy had tended his gentle herd. Alas, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Roger felt terribly alone. And yet, he slept so soundly that night in the shepherd’s pasture; dreams of staring eyes, rising bodies, and he crouching in terror behind bushes or boulders had not plagued his slumber. A dreamless night the wanderer spent. A night without colours, without sounds, without memories … A dark night, the darkest of all nights …
So, waking refreshed, he left that green bed, glowing, strong and free like the morning sun rising from behind the dark surrounding hills …
*
The Dunghill Daily News obituaries announced that real estate agent Roger Snider died of a heart attack at his home at the age of forty-five most probably in his sleep. On the following page, the usual, daily bulletin urged the good residents of Dunghill to provide any information about another real estate agent, Ralph Richardson, who had disappeared four years ago without leaving a word either with his family or with his friends. If anyone had any information about his disappearance they were asked to contact the local police.
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Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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