| The Prisoner Lynne Kerr |
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The old man plodded steadily on, a solitary figure among the teeming thousands. The very walls of the ancient city bulged, such was the intensity of the numbers present.
Shouts of glee rose on the spring air only to be lost in the shouts of one thousand other voices. Soldiers in full armour patrolled the palace grounds, the old man knew, for they even patrolled the streets. Sunlight flashed here and there on the mudwalls of the houses, reflected from the helmets of the soldiers polished to a high shine for the occasion. By the time the old man's aged feet carried him to the palace ground the crowd was already immense. They were restless, as was shown in their taut faces, but scarcely a sound was heard as everyone waited for the prisoner to be brought forth. A buzz went up as soon as the movement of the guardsmen at the rear of the patio was detected. The old man remained silent. His bent form withstood the pressure as the many onlookers pressed forward for a closer look at the prisoner. Yet his ice blue eyes saw everything, from the cruel marks of the chains on his wrists to the glistening tear in his deep brown eyes. Moments later the shouting throngs flocked hurriedly into the narrow streets. As he had stood throughout the short, but gruelling ordeal, the prisoner remained motionless. And the old man was last to leave the palace. He took one last, lingering look at the lonely chained figure, so stolid and courageous, before he took his cane and joined the crowds. It was nearly half past ten when he saw the strange procession come down the miserable street. This would be the prisoner's last journey through the city yet his eyes never strayed from the ground in front of him. His stride was slow, measured, perhaps a bit hesitant and often fell because of the burden on his back. The old man joined the noisy procession but uttered no sound. By noon the prisoner was dead. From out of nowhere a dark cloud obscured the sun from the hillside and rain began to fall. In the semi-darkness as he turned to leave the scene of death the old man remembered a winter, perhaps thirty years past. He remembered the light, it was blinding, which had filled the sky while he had been tending sheep. He remembered the journey to the stable. Turning, he saw the silhouettes of the crosses on the hilltop. A few tears rolled down the old man's whithered cheeks. There had been no room in the inn and now the Babe was dead. He retraced his steps in silence. |