Four Hundred and Ninety Five
He screamed, sending shivers through the village.
‘Not again,’ moaned a man, shaking his head as he made his way toward the crowd.
‘Hold him!’ He shouted, ‘hold him tight!’
The man continued to scream, occasionally gasped for air, kicking his feet in the air.
‘Stop!’ shouted a man with thin voice.
The man stopped and looked around, confused and terrified. He wiped off saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand, soiled and cracked.
‘Tie him up,’ suggested a voice, booming and loud.
‘What for?’ said an old man, balancing on a rough walking stick.
‘What for?’ boomed the man with voice, ‘he’ll start all over again’
‘Let him scream…let him be,’ the old man said.
‘Scream… I can tolerate. What about our crops? What about our children? Have you already forgotten?’ said the man of booming voice, ‘next time, it could be you…or any one of us.’
‘But he’s improved…’ implored the old man.
‘Improved?’ said another, ‘you call this improvement? Just look at him for Lord’s sake. He’s crazy, mad, gone! Tie him up’
The man just looked at the crowd, stabbing looks of hatred and of pity at him. He’s horrified. He did not protest as he was tied to a walnut tree, leafless and dying. He looked into the eyes of the people around him.
He looked at the distant horizon and muttered, ‘four hundred and ninety five…’ without even knowing why.
He saw him, he saw him clearly now. He saw his kind wrinkled face, his warm smile, his maroon robe. He could almost hear his soothing voice.
He looked up into the sky, clear and blue, and sobbed silently.
