Heard No More
"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player/That struts and frets his hour
upon the stage/And then is heard no more." - Macbeth
No sport lasts forever.
Haven't I known that from the beginning? I don't think I wanted to admit it to
myself, but in the back of my mind, I always knew it would end, someday . . .
But I didn't think it would be like this. So be it.
I cannot say how long I have been here . . . time means nothing to me now. And
it's becoming so hard to remember . . . everything blurs in my mind, like a
freshly painted portrait in the rain . . . indistinguishable now, from what it
once was.
And, all at once, everything is so clear.
They are taking me out of the cell, and this time, it is not for another of
their interrogation sessions. They tried that, and soon found how useless it
was. I am not so easy to break as all that, you know . . . no, this time it is
for something more lasting.
How many people are here? I try and count, to keep myself from losing
reason . . . ten, eleven, twelve . . . twenty-three, twenty-four . . .
thirty-seven . . . fifty-one. Fifty-one awaiting their turn. Fifty-one
awaiting their fate. And I make fifty-two.
I count them again . . .
And then they call my name. "Antony Dewhurst, English spy." Unconsciously, I
cringe . . . ah well, I won't be bearing the dreaded name much longer . . .
Must they cut my hair? I suppose they must. Nothing must get in the way of the
Republic's justice, even a gentleman's queue. I watch the blond hair fall to
the floor, mesmerized . . . I wonder how long have I worn it atop my head . . .
and it looks so dead, lying there on the stones . . . severed . . .
I should have expected the mob to be prepared with missiles to attack me with.
A rotten cabbage grazes my head and strikes the young lady beside me in the
face . . . she is brave, she does not cry. If my hands were not tied, I would
offer her my handkerchief to wipe the residue from her cheek . . . I manage to
nudge her gently, and smile a bit, and she smiles back . . .
And at last we arrive at our destination. I am scheduled for the fourth to go
up from the cart. The young lady is ahead of me, and I can see she trembles. I
wonder if I tremble, too . . . I hope I do not.
One head falls.
This is what I had to do . . . it is what has to happen. There is nothing to
feel remorse for . . . better I than Andrew, or Percy! They are so much more
vital to the game than I, a mere player . . . I have strutted and fretted my
hour, and now I must take my final bow, for the curtain swiftly closes . . .
Another head falls.
It is her turn now. She turns to me as they seize her, a fleeting panic in her
eyes. I try to communicate with mine, but they are so incompetent; I cannot say
what I want with them now, and I dare not speak out loud, I won't give them the
satisfaction of hearing my last words, until the time comes . . .
Somehow, she understands, and the fear vanishes. Calmly now, she turns and
walks in her turn up . . .
Her head falls.
And now, at last, I am to go. I am not afraid, I know what is to become of
me . . . and there is nothing to fear from it. It is my final contribution to
that which we have done for so long . . . and may they continue after I am
gone . . .
I am forced to lay on the board and stare down into that straw basket. The
blood is fresh, and it fascinates me for a brief second; then I hear them
raising the blade . . .
The blade falls . . .
"LONG LIVE THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL!"
I hear this in the crowd--no longer hearing his thoughts, nor seeing through his
eyes, but in the common guise of a laborer--as the blade comes down with a
sharp, sickly slice; I break into a cold sweat at the words, the final parting
words . . . the final syllable is cut off abruptly, and I close my eyes; I can't
watch his head fall, it is hard enough knowing that he dies, and I have done
nothing . . . why haven't I done anything? . . .
My heart feels as if it has burst inside me, I wonder that I am not torn apart
from the force of it . . .
No, it can't be . . . Tony . . .
******
Percy awoke with a start and a gasp of cold air. He was panting as if from a
hard run . . . and a line of sweat trickled down his cheek . . .
The tiny room looked no different than it did when he fell asleep. The walls
were the same, the floor made of the same rough wood . . . in one corner, not
five feet away, Ffoulkes slept in silence . . . and in the opposite corner, Tony
lay peacefully. Placidly . . . snoring.
He must have made some sudden soft noise when he woke, because suddenly Andrew
was awake, too. He sat up in his place quietly and looked at Percy with a
curious, worried expression.
"Is everything all right, Percy?" he whispered ever so softly, almost just a
breath of air and not a whisper. Percy swallowed once, and nodded.
"Yes . . . Tony woke me with his snoring, that's all . . ."
Andrew grinned slowly, then kicked Tony's foot, which he could just reach. Tony
twitched and turned over.
"Eh . . . what did you do that for . . ."
Andrew chuckled at him. "Stop snoring, Dewhurst," he whispered, "and go back to
sleep."
"Wasn't snoring," Tony murmured, the rest of his words muffled as he fell back
into slumber. Andrew fell back to the floor tiredly, still chuckling at the
joke . . .
Percy leaned back into the position he was in, though his eyes were wide open,
and probably would be for at least another hour . . .
May it never come to that . . .dear God, please, may it never come to
that . . .
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