Fallen Prophet
Posted: Thu Sep 27, 2012 11:16 amI.
He didn't look back as they pushed him roughly onto the ship. No last look at a world that had nothing for him anymore. A better man would have felt remorse, he thought to himself, as they chained him in the hold. The musty smell suggested that he was surrounded by barrels of half-rotten oats. Only the best for the brave colonists. As his sunken eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed a single crate of Bibles directly in front of him, and wondered if they were placed in this particular hold to taunt him.
They needn't have bothered. Better to forget. That book had caused him enough pain already. He couldn't have resisted forever, no-one could. Most of the time it didn't even make sense to him - they hadn't even asked questions for the first few days. Better to forget. Sometimes he wished that they had just executed him. But the Crown didn't want another prophet martyred. A coward, a traitor, was far more effective.
They fed him what he thought was once a day during the voyage. Just scraps no-one else wanted, but at least it provided some sense of the passage of time.
By the time they unlocked his shackles and dragged him blinking into the light again, he could even stand by himself. "Boston. What a *****." The sailor spat and shoved him forward. "Piss off. Enjoy the New World."
As the crew laughed, he stumbled awkwardly down the gangway with the other, "voluntary" settlers, onto a crowded huddle of buildings surrounding a makeshift dock. Rough looking men called out to the scared newcomers, offering to guide them into the woods. Fat merchants of the Hudson Bay Trading company smirked behind their stalls, doling out tiny quantities of food and the occasional piece of useful equipment in exchange for the furs hunted by the stronger, more successful settlers.
Even this place was too crowded for him now. These people might know who he was. What he had done. He stared at the churned up mud at his feet and walked as fast as he could past them all, towards the open hills and beyond the town.
-------------------------
He keeps on walking. Boston recedes into the dusk behind him. Red leaves blow in thick drifts from the trees. The sun sets in front of him, glinting off some small treasure in the grass at his feet. Crouching, he picks it up. He keels forward onto his knees, gripping the obsidian arrowhead so tightly his pale hand bleeds.
No God to guide him here. The darkness closes around him, and the howling beasts of the Lumberwoods grow louder. As the hot blood drips steaming down his arm onto the cold earth, he remembers what he has done, turning and somehow seeing across the ocean, where his lost, betrayed disciples struggle and scream as they burn.
No God to guide him here. But something deep in the black night calls to this broken, bitter traitor, and he steps forward, onto his own path.
II. viewtopic.php?f=3&t=1198#p18107
He didn't look back as they pushed him roughly onto the ship. No last look at a world that had nothing for him anymore. A better man would have felt remorse, he thought to himself, as they chained him in the hold. The musty smell suggested that he was surrounded by barrels of half-rotten oats. Only the best for the brave colonists. As his sunken eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed a single crate of Bibles directly in front of him, and wondered if they were placed in this particular hold to taunt him.
They needn't have bothered. Better to forget. That book had caused him enough pain already. He couldn't have resisted forever, no-one could. Most of the time it didn't even make sense to him - they hadn't even asked questions for the first few days. Better to forget. Sometimes he wished that they had just executed him. But the Crown didn't want another prophet martyred. A coward, a traitor, was far more effective.
They fed him what he thought was once a day during the voyage. Just scraps no-one else wanted, but at least it provided some sense of the passage of time.
By the time they unlocked his shackles and dragged him blinking into the light again, he could even stand by himself. "Boston. What a *****." The sailor spat and shoved him forward. "Piss off. Enjoy the New World."
As the crew laughed, he stumbled awkwardly down the gangway with the other, "voluntary" settlers, onto a crowded huddle of buildings surrounding a makeshift dock. Rough looking men called out to the scared newcomers, offering to guide them into the woods. Fat merchants of the Hudson Bay Trading company smirked behind their stalls, doling out tiny quantities of food and the occasional piece of useful equipment in exchange for the furs hunted by the stronger, more successful settlers.
Even this place was too crowded for him now. These people might know who he was. What he had done. He stared at the churned up mud at his feet and walked as fast as he could past them all, towards the open hills and beyond the town.
-------------------------
He keeps on walking. Boston recedes into the dusk behind him. Red leaves blow in thick drifts from the trees. The sun sets in front of him, glinting off some small treasure in the grass at his feet. Crouching, he picks it up. He keels forward onto his knees, gripping the obsidian arrowhead so tightly his pale hand bleeds.
No God to guide him here. The darkness closes around him, and the howling beasts of the Lumberwoods grow louder. As the hot blood drips steaming down his arm onto the cold earth, he remembers what he has done, turning and somehow seeing across the ocean, where his lost, betrayed disciples struggle and scream as they burn.
No God to guide him here. But something deep in the black night calls to this broken, bitter traitor, and he steps forward, onto his own path.
II. viewtopic.php?f=3&t=1198#p18107
the first Salem literature! bravo!