Hanged Man

Who am I? Am I still the reputable man, the generous owner of a sawmill who cared for his employees and their families with a fatherly hand? In a land where farmhands earn with their hard work only a cot in a draughty hayloft, hard bread, and the stayed hand of their master,  I built them warm apartments and provided nourishing food — gruel with syrup, breads with butter and cuts of meat, and most days even milk. Whereas farmhands and maids are sent packing if they make a child, the children of my workers grew up strong, with pride joining their fathers and mothers in the various workings of the mill as soon as they’re able. In a world where work is life, I provided good work for hundreds.

I might still be that man, had I not been a youth. Hunted by hunger, we were. The winter was hard and long. We gave her all the food we could, but my sister’s milk stopped and the little one was too small for the crude bread we could make out of roots and seeds. I could handle it while it cried, but when it grew too weak even for its pitiful whimpers, I had to get away. Listless and dazed, I roamed the streets. Perhaps it was fate, maybe I just followed my nose, but I found myself standing in front of a bakery. One of the fancy kinds, with glossy round rolls and sugar-pasted biscuits. Without another thought, I ran in and grabbed the biggest loaf I could. I ran for my life, but was caught in just a block.

I am no longer that youth. Am I the prisoner, then? Perhaps I’ve always been a prisoner. Young and strong as I was, they made me a slave of the law, took away my name and bestowed upon me the number 24601. Every time I tried to escape, they added more time. After nine years, I finally got away, feigning the wasting sickness when the wardens moved sick prisoners out in an attempt to stop the outbreak.

For years I have lived in an uncertain kind of freedom, waiting to be found out. I changed my name, founded a business, grew out my hair, but I could still be found out. I knew they were still looking for me because they never stopped looking for anyone. While my movements have been free, my mind is not. Though my body is free, my solitude is undiminished. The fugitive is hunted, and the fugitive retreats. My secret forces me to keep my distance. A wife, a family, these are impossible dreams.

Then a day came, my attention was drawn to the town caller who announced the capture and trial of prisoner 24601. My number. Imagine my elation! The forces of order and law had stopped looking for me, now I would truly be free at last!

But who was this man, this innocent captured in my stead? Did he have a family? As soon as I thought them, I knew no peace. These questions haunted me for hours, robbing me completely of any feelings of victory or closure. I forced myself to sleep one fitful night on it, and turned myself in the next morning.

You may have heard of the ensuing scandal, and I will not repeat those events here, but you will not have known how I escaped once more.

The night before my scheduled execution, the man who’d been mistaken for me asked to be admitted to my cell. He came in, a guard in chain mail a few steps behind him. I could see the resemblance that had led to the misunderstanding and this cruel twist of fate. What did he want with me, I wondered?

Then something strange happened. He struck a strange pose, and suddenly his visage was that of a much older man. He moved again, and the guard stiffened and fell with a clang. A third movement, very precise, and the manacles binding me to the stone floor ran from my wrists and formed a shiny silver puddle on the ground. Finally he dropped into a low crouch, and I felt a cold breeze as a thick dark cloud blew over me from behind. I turned and saw the thick stone wall blow away like smoke.

The wizard calmly walked past and gestured for me to follow into the wilderness beyond. The whole escape lasted no more than a minute, and I did as he bade me. After walking in silence for some time, he began to talk, explaining that he’d spent the last few years scouring the land for an heir. Why he’d picked me, he refused to say, claiming that I wouldn’t accept his answer anyway.

He only stayed with me a week before vanishing one morning, leaving only his book of magic, the Grimoire. He’d taught me the basics of how to use it. What I will do with my new-found power and freedom?