An Unfortunate Discovery: Episode One

Miller Goodman stared at the three freshly gnawed chairs in his hallway. The idea that some wild animal had entered his house, eaten his chickens and for some reason gnawed his chair sent shivers down his spine. Chickens got eaten all the time and gnawing furniture is the sworn duty of all pets. Yet he had never heard of a wild animal that unlocked bolted doors, gnawed on chairs and returned, locking the doors behind themselves. All sorts of demonic entities swirled before his eyes. It was then that he noticed that his window wasn’t locked. Of course, the window might have opened with the wind and some animal could have entered his house. Suddenly, he remembered Robertson’s mangy cur.  Why the bitch had bitten him last month.

So, it was not the case of a wild animal gnawing on chairs, it was a pet animal who had ate his chickens. Seething with anger, he put on his coat and began walking to Robertson’s house. He was a chicken farmer and the loss of his chickens meant the loss of livelihood during one of the harshest winters of his life. He put his arms together, in an attempt to make his tattered coat cover more area. All his efforts to ward off the cold were, ultimately futile.

Miller wasn’t actually ostracized, yet he was as close to being ostracized as any man had ever been. He lived quite a bit outside the village called Little Simpleton, where he was once quite influential. Now, he was just the codger who lived in a shack outside the village.

He was so lost in his thoughts that when he arrived at Robertson’s house, he didn’t notice the crowd converged around it. Pushing through the crowd, he entered Robertson’s house, only to find his wife crying, with the other women in the village trying to calm her down. He looked from the crying women to the calm, serene face of Father Justine and realized at once that he had blundered to Robertson’s wake. Silently, he cursed himself. The villagers were shooting him nasty looks, the ongoing feud between him and Robertson was no secret, unwittingly he had given them gossip to last for generations.

As he approached the cleric, Father Justine got up from his chair, shook his hands and said some comforting words. “How did it happen?” he inquired, “Apparently, a wild animal of some sort. Climbed in through his window and tore him up real bad.” Miller mentioned his chickens and mentioned that it might have been Robertson’s dog. “What dog?” Father Justine looked at him suspiciously. The dog that he has always had, Miller tried to clarify. Pettigrew who had been sitting next to them, listening in on their conversation started laughing loudly. “Miller, ya old codger yer gettin’ barny. Guv’nor’s cur bin dead fo’ months.”

“My child,” Father Justine reminded him softly, “this is a wake, if you can’t mourn the loss of a life with the rest of the community, then at least be silent.” Miller sat there for a good hour or two, he wasn’t exactly sure how long it was. Yet, he was not in the least sorry for what had happened. He took his leave from Father Justine who reminded him to come the service this Sunday. “Nasty business with Linda, I admit, my brother, but it was so long ago. You must not darken your heart to Christ. He misses your presence in our church.” Father Justine said. Miller heard every word, thanked Justine profusely for the offer and politely explained that with the death of his chickens, it would be some time before he was able to attend church services, but once he had worked out his problems, he would most definitely attend. He didn’t mention a word about the gnawed chairs.

Miller, old as he was, discovered that the death of Robertson, one of them, had brought him immense relief and satisfaction. He was older than he had ever been, yet he felt refreshed, why he thought that he could run really really fast if he tried. Faster than when he was a wee child, running in his pa’s farm. Of course he didn’t actually try running. If he fell and broke his foot, he would be as good as dead. Shrugging he went back to work, whistling a tune.

Yeh made it tis far. Stretch yer legs. Jump aroun' a wee bit. Then come back.

It had been a fortnight since the sensational death of Robertson and yet the village had precious little to discuss. Pettigrew, the village potter and Black were huddled against a fire in the pub and were exchanging conspiracy theories. “Its a demon, innit?” said the potter. Black shaked his head in negation, “Yeh got it awl wrong. Me thinks it was lion or a tiger. One of ‘em nasty big cats.” Pettigrew looked deep in thought.

” Yeh gots something to say to me?” Black challenged him. “Big cats in ‘ere. Yeh gettin’ senile, Black. If yeh ask me, I think it was ol’ man Miller who did Robertson in.” Pettigrew replied. ” We all know Miller and Robertson ‘ere not best of mates. Miller hates Robertson who hated ‘im right back. Now, I ain’t sayin’ that Robertson was an ideal man. I am not one to make disrespec’ of the dead, so I’ll be keepin’ me trap shut.  Miller is too old though to have done Robertson in hisself. Mighta hired someon’. S’pose Miller gave ‘em his chickens and comes a’runnin’ to Robertson’s claimin’ his chickens got nibbled by Robertson’s cur. Nay says I, guvnor’s cur bin dead fo’ ye’rs. These days are hard, many fella around who would kill jus’ fo’ a warm bed an’ a meal.” He added thoughtfully.

” Miller won’t dare.” Someone shouted. The whole pub had now joined in their discussion. ” How do yeh know that. Miller talks to no un. Why I raised me hat to ‘im only las’ week an’ he didn’ even fancy a glance. Men withou’ common manners are always plannin’ to do summat bad, that’s what me pa used to say.” Someone else replied eloquently. Black spoke,” Jus’ s’pose Miller did him in, now I ain’t sayin’ that it happened that way, no sir, I am jus’ sayin’ suppose it did. Say Miller took in a highwayman an’ gots the man to do his nasty. The man kills Robertson, and Miller gives ‘im his poultry. I suppos’ it mighta happen. But it’s a mighty might.”

” So, you people think Miller ate Robertson?” Father Justine, who nobody had noticed in all the frenzied  discussion, suddenly spoke out. There was instant silence. The simple folks of Little Simpleton were god-fearing at least. ” A man should neither make nor spread rumors, without any basis in fact or evidence. Miller is a g

ood man. He is also very old. We should instead be trying to make his last days peaceful.” Father Justince continued.

” You, Pettigrew, should be ashamed of yourself. Your behaviour becomes bawdier every passing day. Don’t think that I have forgotten about your ashaming behaviour at Roberton’s wake. No more liquor for you for the next month. Now leave at once.” Father Justine had very rarely been sighted as being angry. This was one of those moments.

Pettigrew hurried through the darkened muddied paths to his little shack. He mouthed silent curses as he made his way back, shivering with the cold. He stopped on his tracks when he thought he heard a wolf baying. Next moment it was no more. In the silence, he wasn’t sure if he had really heard anything, or if it was his mind playing tricks. He started walking to his shack, again, this time faster. It was then that he became aware of another set of footsteps. Someone was following him. He turned quickly, and brandished his walking stick as a sword in front of him. He was thankful for the full moon. He backed into a wall. The people from the pub would start stepping out in a few minutes. All he had to do was to stand here back to the wall. If it was a dog or a wolf, he was pretty sure he could take it on. He could hear its low-pitched growl. Sometimes from his left, at others from his right. Yet he never saw the beast. He never could hear its feet. Just the growls. Color drained from his face, when he realized that it was most probably a pack of wolves. “Com’on yeh mangy curs. Les’ show yeh what stuff a Pettigrew is made of. What are yeh scare’ ov?” It was not a false sense of bravado that made Pettigrew talk. Nor was it the cheap liquor talking for him. It was his fear. He was scared to the point he had frozen against the wall. Both hands holding the stick in a manner akin to a claymore. He was drenched in cold sweat. His hands were shaking. When he saw what had been stalking him, he lost the ability to speak. The stick clanged loudly as it fell on the frozen ground. Pettigrew was dead in the time it took for the stick to drop from his hands to the ground. His mangled corpse was only found next morning, half buried in the snow.

Goodman stared at his clothes. They were torn, obviously. His attention was focused however, on the blood stains that covered his clothes. Yet was not in the least hurt. For some reason he felt elated, which is not the usual emotion when confronted with blood stains on your clothes. He was aware of the contradiction. He relished the contradiction. He knew that it was important to destroy this evidence. To what end he didn’t know. He did have a few guesses.