The Ropes

Tiny ropes for tiny necks.

A young man fell dead from his horse, and nobody knew why.

The villagers watched for other bad omens.
Many birds were born too weak, and the weather was too cold. The moon hid behind shadows for nine days.

At a council, they wondered about its meaning.
“When the crops don’t grow fast, we must starve. It must be punishment,” said a farmer.
Some reached for their loved ones’ hands, fearing the hunger.
Soon, their whispers turned to noise.

The old hag knocked her wooden stick three times on the floor.
She walked into the middle of the room.

“I told you so!”

Villagers had thrown eggs when she spoke at the market:
A strong man would die without an enemy in sight and poison the fields.

“The Blasphemer has come.”

Nobody laughed now; some shivered, and one even cried in the corner of the room.

“The crop fouls at its roots. Erect a gibbet. Who poisons the earth must hang.”

The woodworker doubted the prophecy.
“No crop will grow under the shadow of a gibbet.”
“In the next village lives another man with an axe.”

The Priest rose. He was drunk.
“God’s children don’t hang each other.”
The hag didn’t even turn to him.
“Then you will share the holy wine with the hungry?”

The herb woman didn’t speak up.
The hag stared at her.
“I already smell the rot.”

The next day, the woodworker brought the wood, and everyone helped build the gibbet.
Elders cooked the food for the hardworking man and woman, and the children carved holy symbols in the wood.
“Higher, higher!”
The gibbet grew so tall that the church’s windows would never see light again.

When the work was done, the villagers came together.
The sun set behind the gibbet, and a cold wind blew from the east.
The hag stepped before it.

“The stench blows from the fields. Make ropes!”
She waited, but no one uttered a word.
“Tomorrow,” said the Ropemaker.

The next day, the villagers gathered at his place. He taught them all how to make ropes, and the villagers worked hard.

“More, more!”

Visitors avoided the village after they saw the skinny people sitting quietly, with bloody fingers, binding until light was gone.

The hag called for another gathering late at night.
“The gibbet whispers at dawn. Some of us turned to blasphemy.”
Torches lit pale faces.
“Tie a rope around your neck. Throw the other end around the gibbet. Wear it all day and all night.”
The herb woman sobbed quietly.
A man shook his head.
Nobody said a word.
At sunrise, the herb woman took a rope, bound it, and left.
Everyone else followed.

Ropes lay on the streets like snakes.
People were fighting with each other when the ropes became entangled.
A farmer wanted to remove it. His friends avoided him.

The crops still didn’t grow. The Woodworker called for a council.

“These ropes cut deep into our necks.
I can barely move or work.”

He pointed at the old hag.

“Why is she not wearing a rope? Her bony fingers control our lives. How is this right?”

The villagers muttered. Many nodded. Some had red marks on their necks.

The hag climbed the podium. Instead of speaking, she pulled one rope.
The woodworker was lifted to the top of the gibbet.
She laughed while his face turned blue, then purple.

When all was silent, the hag let go of the rope.

“Purple is the color of blasphemy! Wear your ropes.”

Everyone left, except the crows who had already gathered close to the dead body.

Many years passed.

A mother greeted her child with a smile.
And when it smiled back,
a tiny rope was gently put around its neck.

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Original image painted and manipulated by Ashmore.