David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

Wasting no time, Anatole sat himself down and began to feast, half afraid the bounty would vanish before his disbelieving eyes as he awoke from this delightful dream. After sampling everything, he settled in for a royal meal of bread and cheese, with an apple for desert. The beef he would save for a dinner celebration. He could barely remember what meat tasted like anymore.

Burping softly as fitting tribute to such a momentous feed, Anatole went to check on last night's fire and behold! next to his red-glowing, crude firepit was a rusty hatchet of steel. Wonders of wonders! It was a gift for a king! He owned nothing made of steel. It was impossibly expensive. Examining the tool, he marveled at its sharpness despite the thin layer of rust, and lightly cut a finger testing the edge. Amazing. He could probably shave with such a magical device.

Going outside to examine his prize in daylight, Anatole found a clean, dry suit of old patched clothes on a new clothesline. Placing the precious hatchet on the small wood pile, the delighted hermit stripped himself naked, washed with cold water from the trickling stream running through the bog alongside his ramshackle cabin, and dressed quickly. The grayish undergarments were soft as clouds. The mismatched socks thick and cushiony. Without any patches, the pants felt oddly smooth to his legs, and the oversized tunic was so loose and flexible that he wondered if he was wearing it correctly. The boots of stained brown leather rose to his calves, giving him a feeling of height and authority. They didn't fit very well, and the left heel was cracked, but who cared? They were infinitely better than his ancient sandals.

A plaintive moo sounded from his left. Behind some moss-covered scrub trees, the hermit discovered a scrawny cow tethered in the grassy clearing. Anatole was overwhelmed, tears of joy blurring his sight. How could all of this. . why would. . who. . Turning about in wonderment, he spied a parchment note tacked to his battered door. Rushing over, Anatole gingerly removed the piece of homemade paper and struggled to read the printed message. His only schooling had been received sitting outside the window of a classroom and listening until the teacher chased him away. It was difficult, but as memory sluggishly flared, the block lettering began to make sense and the awful words written there pierced him like an arrow. These things, this junk, was a gift from the villagers. And with them, he would have 'no need to visit the town again for supplies. Ever.

Casting aside the note like an unclean thing, Anatole felt a cold anger form in his belly, and his large hands closed into fists of rage. Damn them. Gods damn them all! So only their fear of death would earn him charity, eh? All he had ever wanted was to be left alone, to live a normal life. And all he ever received was beatings and starvation and hatred and scorn and. .

As a clear, reddish dawn crested the vine-encrusted trees of the swamp, bathing the cabin in bloody light, his breathing became deep and steady. Plainly, after last night, the townspeople were so incredibly afraid of the horseman that they had decided to appease the deadly lord of the roadway by bribing the hated freak. And this is how they decided to buy his favor? Keep him in the stinking swamp? With a dying cow, stale food, and discarded clothes? This was payment for all the wrongs done to him? As a gift from friends it was staggering, magnificent. As tribute it was rubbish. Worse. It was garbage! An insult.

The noxious smells of the muck and mire mixed freely with that of the food and his soap-clean clothes. Anatole suddenly felt violently i ll, and turned to retch in the bushes. Afterward, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his new shirt, the hermit stood and stared with unseeing eyes of hatred at the burning sun. Well, now he was in charge, holding their very lives in the palm of his hand. In bitter satisfaction, the freak closed that hand, crushing its imaginary contents, and dumped the remains onto the ground. Offend me, he thought in ill-restrained fury, and my mysterious friend shall slay you like cattle. Like sheep!

Hitching up his pants, Anatole started across the string of rocks that bridged the bubbling mud around his little island home. In broad daylight, without a mask, he was going to go to town and walk about. And bedamn anyone who tried to stop him. Let's see how they like tasting fear for a change. The horseman had presented a bill to the villagers, and it was up to Anatole to collect it. In full.

Sternly ambling into the village, feeling angrier with every step, Anatole was shaken to be greeted with cheery hellos from the gate guards. Stumbling from surprise, he waved to them in return. Once past the city wall, the freak was endlessly called to by strangers and enemies alike. Everybody gave a smile, and it took the hermit awhile to realize that these were false expressions — mouths lifted in grins, but eyes cold and hard, brimming with darker emotions.

Going boldly down the main street, he spied that many windows slammed closed before he could look at the inhabitants of the houses. But when he saw them first, the people beamed, and some even called his real name. Astonishing. He hadn't known that they even knew his name! Anatole had never been called anything but 'freak. 'At first the hermit hesitantly waved back, wondering if he had misunderstood the note. But slowly the duplicity of it all became clear, embittering his heart, and he stopped playing the fool in their game.

Some of the townsfolk halted dead in their tracks and openly stared at the hermit. Quietly, their neighbors pulled them aside and whispered into astonished ears, faces rapidly changing from disgusted surprise, to fear, and then to forced friendliness, neck muscles tight from the strain of cowardly grins.

In the center of town, the great square was jammed with people pushing heavily laden carts of produce, barrels of wine and fish and pickles, boxes of shoes, nails and bolts of cloth. It was market day. Everyone seemed to be yelling prices, and all arms were carrying parcels and packages of brown paper. As he moved among them, the shoppers parted, giving the youth a wide berth despite the fact that the market square was heavily packed.

Some youths lounging in an alleyway spied the disfigured freak, and one grabbed a stone, preparing to throw. With fearful cries, his companions wrestled the offender to the ground. "Are ye mad?" whispered one, straddling the chest of his struggling companion.

Another hissed," Aye, want to die, fool? "

"Want us all to?" quietly demanded a third, trembling hands pulling the stone free and hiding.

In the bustling market, a mustachioed green grocer offered Anatole a huge, delicious-looking red apple. The hermit accepted with thanks, but noted that the fellow secretly wiped his hands on his apron afterward. The hermit dropped the fruit to the ground, where dozens of uncaring shoes trampled it underfoot.

"Get a canvas bag, ya walking dung pile," softly muttered a busy clerk, ladling milk into a bucket for a waiting customer," and put it over that gruesome head before you sour my cream."

Somebody laughed, and a friend elbowed the fellow in the stomach, cutting the noise off.

Though the words had been whispered, Anatole heard them anyway, and he shied his disfigured head away in shame. Listening carefully, he could hear a hundred people talking at once in the square, all of them plainly, purposefully, ignoring him. Standing alone and isolated in the bustling crowd, the hermit sagged in defeat. Annoying the townspeople lacked the pleasure the original notion had offered, and with a sigh, the disfigured youth sadly turned to leave. This was not a good idea. Why should he act like them? Time to go back to the swamp where he belonged. At least they would never beat him again.