The Last Execution (7 page)

He cannot hear the dog anymore. Perhaps someone chased it away. But now he cannot hear the family, either. He looks down at his arms: no, he hasn't blocked his ears with hands—cannot do so with the one hand anyway. He can feel his head about to burst. Words and sounds twist and turn, become a growling gruel, the rustle of thousands of nails against his skull. They plunge down his throat in a cold clamor; they stay embedded there. He cannot breathe. Red-black dots are dancing before his eyes.

Now I'm going to die
, thinks the boy.

But then the howling mass combines into a regular sound, a row of words, like a song, and his gaze rests on the mother's face. It is still red, distorted by hate and pain, the spray of spit before her mouth, but the words that emerge are like a verse, a poem:

When the night is still and mild

And all things quiet through,

My son, my dearest little child!

Then I shall come to you.

For God has granted me,

When sleep comes over thee,

Now and then

In a dream with you to be.

I see you draw, write,

Read your book so carefully;

You learn to be bright,

Pious, and clever for me.

Your cheeks are red,

Your eyes are blue,

Those sweet lips in your bed

I oft did kiss for you.

Pray, do you think of her

Who mourns her only son?

Pray, does she recur

When evening prayers are done?

Pray, do you remember my call?

Pray, do you remember my face?

Oh, can you forget that hour at all

You left my sweet embrace?

In the forest like a lonesome bird

Only to sing sorrow's song,

Ever mournful and unheard,

Of you my thoughts prolong.

Oh, if you knew my yearning,

You'd make all haste,

And flee your prison burning,

To her who loves you most.

To her who bore you here

In woe and fear,

Who christened you in tears—

And loves you ever dear!

Farewell, farewell, my darling!

Softly I sigh your name;

Never to think away my yearning,

Your loss never to reclaim.

I close my hands and tend

To you, my son of sorrow!

Each hour to God I send,

To you, my heartfelt prayer!

The boy only shifts his gaze from the mother's lips when the family turns and leaves.

T
here are four hours till the boy is to be executed on Gallows Hill, and the mayor is sitting at his desk fiddling with a wooden figurine. This is nearly too much to bear: the way they keep pestering him!

One meeting after another. He spent God knows how many hours with the Bakers' Guild, which is up in arms about falling bread prices. They claim to be in the direst of straits, they want to raise their prices, but what would have happened if he'd let them? Then the poor folk would've been up in arms.

The mayor feels as if he's buried in complaints: Townsfolk complaining about the begging on the streets—shall he drag them to the workhouse himself!? Townsfolk complaining about the leaking gutters—shall he go and clean them himself!? Townsfolk wanting to know what he's doing about the threat of cholera—can he, single-handedly, ward off an epidemic at the city gates?! Townsfolk complaining about the seepage from pig farms that freezes overnight and turns the streets into a skating rink. Choice example: He sent some men to break up the ice—but the tenants didn't want to pay for it!

The mayor hammers the figurine into the desk, and now he takes a good, long look at it. It was standing on his desk when he took up his post. It's carved into the shape of a fat monkey. Of course the thought crossed his mind that it was meant to be a spiteful model of him. But he likes it. And who says the
town
isn't a fat-bellied monkey—wanting bananas stuck in both hands!

The mayor feels as if he is being pushed and pulled from all sides. That folk keep trying to get money—bananas—out of his pockets. And they won't stop till they've torn the clothes from his body. Nobody will be happy, it seems, till he's standing on the square stark naked!

The image of him standing naked in the middle of the town square reminds the mayor of something else: the lad who will be executed on Gallows Hill later that day. His mood improves at once. He leans back in his chair and lists three undeniably good things about executions.

One: Executions prove that the mayor is a man of action—that will serve him well for a long time to come!

Two: Folk won't have time to file any more complaints today—they'll all be up on Gallows Hill!

Three: A man can't say it, but a brawling monkey can—that's
one
problem less!

The problem calls for radical means. He's quite clear about that. The mayor has thought about building higher walls around the city, building a regular city wall. This would be an effective way of keeping the beggars out—especially all those peasant children—who are such a blemish on the town.

A city wall, perhaps more executions. Surely a dumb wooden monkey is entitled to ask: Wouldn't the elimination of the poor eliminate poverty? A wretched, deranged murderer of a boy—like the one to be executed today—doesn't have a life worth living. Wouldn't it be in everyone's best interests? Wouldn't the death of one of his kind improve the lives of the rest of us? Isn't this proof enough of the common good?

The mayor starts at the knock at the door.
Who could that be now?! Hardly likely His Royal Highness, the king, here to pin the Medal of Honor to his chest!

“Come in!”

A large man in filthy clothing is standing in the doorway. This does not bode well.

“Stengel, from Odense,” the man presents himself.

It may as well be Stengel from America!
thinks the mayor. As if he didn't have enough townsfolk to take care of. The world is standing at his door, hat in hand.

“Yes?”

“It is me,” says the large man. “Me . . . the executioner.”

Now the mayor looks him over carefully. Does the face of a man reveal that he executes men for a living? All the mayor can see is how mild tempered the man is.

“I need to check the scaffold, Mr. Mayor,” he says. “But I'm looking for an assistant.”

“An assistant?”

The executioner clears his throat.

“Someone to hold the head, Mr. Mayor.”

Me!
is the mayor's first thought.
He wants
me
to do it!
Then he thinks:
Nonsense! Pull yourself together. Defer him to the chief inspector—let him figure out the rest.
The mayor defers to the chief inspector, and bids him farewell.

“Good-bye, Mr. Mayor.”

The man nods in parting.

“How do you do it!?”

The mayor is no less surprised than the executioner. He has no idea why he asks. Why doesn't he just let the man close the door, so he can have some peace?

“Err . . . with an ax, sir,” says the executioner. “I bought it from my predecessor. First-class quality.”

“Yes, but how do you
do
it?”

There is a moment of silence. The executioner shifts his weight.

“The ax is exactly as it should be: heavy, but not too hard to handle,” he explains. “It demands your full attention at the start of the swing, but then it takes over; it cuts like a scythe through a blade of grass. It's a part of me, yet stands apart—like a son. . . .”

But all at once the executioner clams up, looks down at the ground in shame. The mayor is at a loss for words, but feels he ought to take charge. Be pragmatic. Be mayor.

“And what are you thinking of spending your wage on, sir?” the mayor asks.

“On food,” the executioner answers.

The mayor gives him a nod. He is already staring down at the papers in front of him.

“And I'm saving up for a little dinghy I've got my eye on, Mr. Mayor,” concludes the executioner.

The mayor winces, ducks his head even farther, and dismisses the executioner with a wave of the hand. The mayor doesn't look up.

“Good-bye, then, Mr. Mayor.”

Once he hears the door click shut, the mayor leans back in his chair. He stays sitting like this for a long time.

He thinks how easy it would be. He could get up, pack his clothes, walk to the harbor, and set sail on the first available ship!

He rests a hand on the wooden figurine, as if it were the mast of a boat. The whole time he had thought the monkey was staring ahead in blind fury, indeed
was
blind, or perhaps the artist had simply forgotten to do the eyes. Now he thinks the monkey's eyes are cast down, staring at its own navel.

The mayor thinks about the time he was a boy, when he used to play in the hills beyond the town. There was something special about the clouds: the way they darted across the heavens in a gray-white belt, the blue behind, the green landscape in the foreground, and the yellow fields—as if layer upon layer had been stacked in a certain way. He used to love standing with his arms hanging down by his sides; he liked to think he was a landmark in that patch of the world.

Again he thinks:
Get up and go
.

Just like that
.

And meet the world.

One town's many mouths, a chorus fair,

Whilst a head that still doth stare

Rolls to the ground

Without a sound.

I
t is past noon, the sun slants down over the town roofs, and there are three hours till the boy is to be executed on Gallows Hill. He looks up to the sun.

“Am I a bad person?” he asks.

The boy cannot tell how much time passes without an answer, but he can see the sun has moved.

He's been watching it. The sun—or that patch it makes on the floor. He has tried to hold on to, take note of, its slightest move. He cannot remember shifting his gaze, but the light has moved. A great deal, in fact. Can't we just hold on?

The boy thinks that sometimes it's just
too late
. No longer possible. One moment it is, and the next, it isn't. That's how it feels, anyway.