Philip Gooden - Sleep of Death

I made my exit into the confusion of the night. I ran and ran and ran, as I ran once when I discovered the plague in my mother and father’s village.

I zig-zagged among trees, blundered through low-lying bushes, crashed into unseen branches, slithered down slopes, splashed through streamlets. The lightning must have illuminated my course but, for them to see me, they would have to be facing in the right direction as the flash came. My only thought — no, it was hardly a thought, more the instinct of an animal for survival — was to put as much distance between myself and those three men as possible. While I ran, I struggled to loose my hands from the bonds which tied them.

You, who sit in comfort reading this and assessing possibilities and likelihoods, may wonder how a single, frightened, bound man may make an escape from three enemies who have their hands, wits and weapons about them.

As I am running, breathless, almost sightless, hands still bound, consider (in comfort) these things.

I am a player. I have to fence, to dance, to tumble about on stage. I am required to move quickly, sometimes while speaking lines which I have committed to memory. I can run if I have to.

Against me was a fat, wheezing individual whose legs would not carry him far without rest. Against me was Adrian, who might be thin and angry and was doubtless ready for the chase but who, unless he doffed his black mantle and high hat, would not make very quick progress through the forest. Besides, I sensed that he was frightened of the storm. And against me was Nub the charcoal-burner; he might be the most dangerous. The forest was his. But he was too stupid to do anything without direction from the other two.

Consider also. I was angry. That these three men should set themselves up as a tribunal, and judge me on false evidence, and sentence me to death, as Adrian had expressed it — all this filled me with a fury that was paradoxically hot and cold. I was like the storm. When I lowered my head and charged at my captors, I saw red in front of my eyes.

Consider further.

I was afraid. Not only was I faced with death — which they were not; I was threatened also with emasculation — which they were not. The latter is perhaps, in some eyes, a worse fate than the former. There must be many men who would sooner contemplate losing their lives than being forced to part with the very instrument that makes them what they are. So I had this advantage over the rogues who had taken me prisoner. I was desperate and had everything, or nothing, to lose. A cornered man has a strength which he may not know that he possesses — until the time comes for him to use it.

So I ran. My breath came in thick gasps. Sweat and rainwater gushed into my eyes and I couldn’t brush it away. When I judged I’d put a distance between myself and the hut I stopped. I needed to catch my breath and to listen for the direction any pursuit was taking. I crouched down in the inky shadow of a great tree. It took me some moments to quieten my quivering, beating body sufficient to hear any other sounds. At first, nothing. Then, from a fair way to the left, in between the thunderstrokes and the lightning flashes, came a rustling and crashing through the underbrush. Perhaps a night creature but, more likely, one of the three men.

I tried to put myself in their position. I’d taken them by surprise and left them in darkness. Ralph would be winded after my collision with him, Adrian, already unnerved by the storm, would be thrown off balance because his carefully laid plans of torture and death had been disrupted. I had managed to strike Nub in the face but he was the kind to shrug off any hurt. Nevertheless I’d had a few moments’ advantage while they recovered and rallied their forces, enough time to cover the yards of forest immediately beyond the hut. Anyway, had I been the hunter, I would have delayed setting off in pursuit and listened instead for the blundering noise of the quarry and watched for glimpses provided by the flashes. Only when his direction was known for certain by sound would I have set off, telling those with me to fan out slightly as they beat their way through the woods. This was what I assumed Adrian would do.

The night air and the rain cooled my throbbing face. Despite my sweaty self, I shivered. I knelt in the dark, like a true penitent.

My priority was to free my hands. My shoulders ached from my arms being forced behind my back for hours. Besides the pain, it is awkward to run with your hands bound behind you, particularly if you are making your passage through a fraught wood. You are afraid for your eyes and your face, you cannot balance yourself properly, you are unable to guard against a tumble to the ground. I couldn’t cut my bonds. I had no knife — nor any means of holding one. Had I been able to find some saw-edged tree stump, I might have worked away at the cords until they frayed and parted. If all this were taking place in a play on stage, I would undoubtedly have found a cave to shelter from the storm in, a fire to warm myself by and a kindly old shepherd to provide simple country fare (and a beautiful daughter too). But it was still dark and I could not see any convenient tree stumps. And this was no play: there was a storm but no cave, lightning but no fire, and a trio of murderers rather than a kindly old shepherd (and daughter).

I had no choice but to writhe and twist and struggle with the ties that bound me. Like a man possessed, I rocked from side to side but was careful to stifle any grunts and groans, even though I considered that the swish of the rain would cover my noise. Nub had loosened the cords when he had snatched the scrap of paper from my grasp, otherwise I might not have succeeded in eventually freeing myself. My hands grew slick with moisture as I tugged and pulled. I felt the ropes slacken and give. A mixture of sweat and blood eased the passage of my wrists and hands. At last my hands fell free. They dangled at the ends of my arms like the belongings of another.

There was a pause in the thundering, which was in any case passing over. My ears still rang. Then my breath almost hopped out of me as an owl’s hoots sounded close by. Ter-wit ter-woo, three times repeated. It was no owl, of course, but fat Ralph, signalling to his companions. Sure enough, some way to the front, there was an answering hoot — the same, only slightly more convincing version of the night-bird’s cry which I had heard in the clearing by the wagon. So much for Nub. Finally there was a strangled croak from farther to the right, scarcely a bird at all or any creature known to God or man, and that I knew must be Adrian. I might have laughed out loud with relief and mockery but did not. Under the sound of the rain pattering on the leaves and dribbling from their branches, there was the noise of wheezing, again identifiable as Ralph. I breathed very shallow and huddled myself up on the ground into a kind of ball. I even shut my eyes because, like a child, I had a queer notion that if I could not see them they could not see me. Then there was a swishing and a crashing added to the wheezing as Ralph struggled, to the accompaniment of muttered curses, through the bushes and low branches to catch up with the charcoal-burner ahead. I guessed that the storm-tossed Adrian would also be striving to join his more nimble man.

Now I knew the whereabouts of all three. They were in front of me or making in that direction. Like a man at a crossroads I had a choice: to double back towards the hut, to follow in the track of my persecutors, or to turn to the right or the left. Or, simply, to keep where I was. Staying still would be the hardest. My heart was beating fast, every sinew in my body was tense with fear and expectation. I had to move.

But where? Although I thought that Adrian and the rest were in ‘front’ of me and that the hut was ‘behind’, I was by no means certain of the lie of the land. If you have ever been lost in a wood in daylight you will know how easy it is to draw circles with your feet while you think that you are ruling straight lines with your eyes. In the dark it is ten times worse. For all I knew, and especially in the rage and confusion of the storm, I might have gone round and about and ended up within yards of the hut. Nor could it be so far from day — so I reasoned to myself, the night had lasted a lifetime already, it could not be so far from day — and the dawn could expose me to my captors.