Story #28 - Agreement Made

Agreement Made

Pastoral was the word most used to describe it – those that passed through, impressed by the town’s nestled valley location, its gentle green ringing hills and crystal clear streams. It was a paradise in a land that had known little in the way of dreams, a fantasy for all those that dared to approach.

And yet most didn’t stay. They came for a day, a week, perhaps a month but then found pressing engagements elsewhere, calls in other parts of the land.

Wilton Phist couldn’t understand it, frankly. He’d grown up in the village, rarely daring to leave the valley and confront the “civilized” peoples that lived above. It was hardly forbidden; the elders permitted him, or any citizen of the village, to come and go as they pleased, but he had no desire or inclination to leave. Why would he?

The village had been good to him, never demanding more than he could give. He had an interest in art and the elders had encouraged him, brining him all of the materials he needed to start his own small craftsman’s shop. Now he was chief architect to the town, responsible for the upkeep of the hall and church as well as building any new homes that visitors might choose to inhabit, though there had only been a handful of those in his time.

He sighed as he watched another one go. A medicine man, this time, who said he’d never stay no matter what they offered him. He’d seemed so angry, so aggressive, so unlike the man he’d been when he came to town. Wilton could never fathom what happened to these men and women – children even – that they left in such fear.

Shaking his head, he noticed the sun had climbed just above the valley’s rim. A quick glance to the watch at his waist told him he’d better hurry. As much as the elders respected the work he’d done, he was no more given leeway than anyone else. He must do his best to uphold the Agreement.

Walking swiftly along the wide main street Wilton nodded to the few passersby who were out. Old Lem was there, of course, sitting on a stone bench near the Statue as he was each and every day. Even the pitted stone of the long seat seemed younger, softer than Old Lem. He’d lived his entire life in the village, working first as a laborer and eventually becoming the town’s long-serving elder. The years had taken their toll, however, and though Lem kept his health, he’d lost both his eyes, an ear, and four fingers on each hand.

Wilton nodded to the man regardless, though he knew Old Lem had no chance to see. Respect for his betters, respect for men dedicated to maintaining the Agreement was something he would never lose.

The hall loomed large in front of him sooner he thought it would. Even after all this time, five payments made and the Agreement always honored, he still felt a thrill of nervousness each time he approached.

Tanis, the newest secretary at the hall, did not speak as he entered. Words were unnecessary – he had been summoned and arrived on time. He checked his watch again

Exactly on time.

Balling his right hand into a fist, Wilton did his best to store the feeling, to remember and identify each finger on the hand as it curled inward, short nails marking scores across the fleshy surface. He’d survived without an index finger on his left, but his right had always been so dominant, so deft.

A deep breath and he swept into the Agreement office. There was little need for decoration here, small point in having it well-fashioned or extravagant. It held only what was needed – three elders and the pit, a solid stone cylinder rising four feet from the floor, seemingly carved from a single piece of rock. Legend had it the pit existed before the village, though some stories marked it as a function of the village’s formation. Regardless of its place in time, however, it existed. More importantly, it commanded the dedication of each man and woman in the village once every decade.

Wilton stepped forward, right hand out, palm up. Ten years had passed but still his hand shook, still his feet were unsteady.

As he reached the pit elder Rahiv took his wrist, guiding him into position. The man’s grip was warm and firm, a reassuring touch in what was otherwise a cold and ugly room. Beside Rahiv was Myrs, the youngest of the elders. The scared duty always fell to the youngest – something new elders both feared and embraced.

Myrs dipped a hand quickly into his robe, drawing the ceremonial blade with a dull scrape and Wilton shuddered. Part of the Agreement was that the blade could not be cleaned, could not be altered in any way, and Wilton Phist found himself facing the three elders, hand in their grip and a crusted knife slipping toward his flesh.

It was all over in a moment.

Wilton cried out, pain searing as the knife sheared of his right middle finger. Myrs was well-trained, he needed only one long cut to do the job and the finger fell, spitting blood as it plummeted into the pit.

A deep-toned snarl drifted up from the opening – the Beast had been sated.

The third elder, Umoa, handed Wilton a towel and waved him from the room. Help would be waiting down the hallway; their current medicine man was old but still had one eye left. His stitches were not what they once had been – a shame the other could not have been convinced to stay – but they would suffice.

It was a small price to pay for peace. A small price to keep nations and their politics away from the gentle streets and flowing breezes of the village. A small price to honor the agreement, to keep the village safe.

Pastoral was the word most used to describe it. Most did not stay.

- D