Last Rites

And so he died a liar. Of course, everything he said had been true.

…ish.

He left out details, sure, but for propriety’s sake. He didn’t tell them of the incest, the scandal or the purgory, obviously. I mean, why upset people?

Because otherwise you die a liar.

Clay was rotting in the most pulicous jail cell imaginable. Not literally, thank god, but still, he slumped forward. He’d counted the bricks in his cell; he’d recited the poems Cait had written him to the pelican at his window- seeing the bird at the bars made Clay feel he quite literally had a captive audience; he’d read the dictionary through three times and he’d decided ‘P’ was his favourite section.

His cell was pyriform, he was not puist and those pachycephalic, paralogical palliards they called guards could prolapse for all he cared.
He sighed and slumped, banging his head against the cell bars- he’d actually pandected the dictionary. The pelican…mewed? What was the verb for the noise pelicans made? Squawk? Caw? He could look it up. But the guard had purloined his dictionary, and said it wasn’t ‘natural for a prisoner to be doin’ so much readin’’. Clay had responded that he was just a prosophobe; the guard had responded with reduced rations. But Clay had the moral high ground.

…And three days to live.
 

Still, there were always the daily visits from Father Rivile, they were about as fun as using your hand as a whetstone: “Repent, boy! Repent!”

Clay turned onto his side- he didn’t need to hear the ‘good father’ parabolising.

“You know, Clay- some seeds fall on hard ground and fail to grow; there’s no shame in it. Those  seeds can still be rescued by a good farmer. Let me be that farmer, boy.” Clay fixed his eyes on the pelican- even it seemed to be bored. “I’m not going to mention your hanging, but-” he leant in, the protreptic look in his eyes putting Clay in mind of a bad comedian, begging the audience to laugh, “Clay, my child, don’t throw your life away.”

Clay rolled over sharply. “But I’m not ‘your child’, am I? I think we both know who that is.”
The priest stood up, and trainee clowns have had more dignity. “May god forgive you,” He spat.

Clay couldn’t resist just one last taunt. “And we both know what you did with her!”
 

Next was Cait, Clay’s bride-to-would-have-been; her one pundonor was that she always came in smiling. “Ach, Clay, even when yuir in here, it does me heart good ta see ye.”

“Pollaverer.”

“…oh, aye?”

“How’s Diego?” His voice would have frozen oil. She wiped the stool in front of the cell before seating herself daintily upon it.

“Clay- we ha’ such little time afore yuir hanged” the emphasis on the last word betrayed her true emotions, “Let’s us both agree- ye’ll nae mention Diego, an’ I’ll nae mention-”

“Satan?”

“’Tis nae me fault yuir in here, ye know!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me!”

She leant in close. “Ye could get out easy enough.”

“You’re right- if you’d just tell the truth!”

“Tha’s nae what I mean, an’ ye know it; just say you’ve repented.”

“Well, I’m not predisposed to pseudomania, so-”

“Ye think yuir fancy words will protect ye on the gallows?” She stood up to go. “Ye think God will spare yuir soul, ‘cause ye know a few extra syllables?” The anger drained from her eyes and she ran a hand along the bars. “I want ye for me husband, Clay- but I willnae marry a corpse.”

And with that she was up the stairs, Clay yelling after her: “Well, you already have a husband in the eyes of the lord! And I ‘willnae’ share!” He gave the bars of his cell a good kick that only served to break his shoe.

“Clay, what have I told you about shouting at young women?” came the punctate tones of his mother. She passed Cait on the steps with a look of cold acknowledgment and then began psittaceously repeating everything every one had said: “…Goody Maloney says it’ll be a good day for hanging on Saturday, and that Goody Stepp’s cousin is coming all the way from Edinburgh just to see it…”

Clay had actually stopped viewing her as his mother. Her puling voice and pyrrhotic hair made him think of her more as a giant parrot than a relative- it took all his psychurgy not to tell her such. His father never came to see him- Clay was glad of this, as to have his father propale that he was a failure once more might have made him ask to be hung a day earlier.
“…but don’t worry, Clay- everyone on the island has you in their prayers.”

“Peninsula.”

“Pardon?”

“We’re not an island- we’re a peninsula.”

“That’s nice, sweetheart, but as I was saying-”

“Don’t you even want to know what it means?”

“Well,” she tittered pyrrhonistly, “it’s a fancy word for island, ain’it?”

“No, Deardra-” he knew she hated it when he used her first name- “it’s not. A peninsula is a large mass of land projecting into a body of water.”

“Like I said, ‘an island.’”

“No!” He jumped up, “an island is a land mass smaller than a continent that is surrounded by water!”

“Well, what’s the difference?”

“There is a world of difference, you princox!”

She knew the word like a hedgehog knows a steamroller- it’s big and wants to hurt you, but you don’t know how it works. “Don’t you speak to me like that!”

“Or what? You’ll double hang me? Set the noose on fire while it’s round my neck? I’m in a preagonal jail cell you preterist! I’ll say what I fucking like!”

Unlike Rivile, Clay’s mother knew how to make an exit: it’s all in the eyes. She didn’t look at him when she stood up, nor when she collected her handbag. She didn’t look at him as the guard came to see if everything was alright, nor when he started to escort her out of the building. She only glanced back for one second right at the very end, just as the door was opened and light and mist were flooding in, making it look like she was ascending to some higher plane where there was no such thing as sons who disrespect their mothers.

And then she was gone.

Clay kicked the wall, sending the pelican flying. The guard laughed from down the hall. Clay threw himself down on his bed and denied the remorse that was trying to creep up his body from the pit of his stomach. To hell if the Parrot would make him feel guilty. He glared at the wall out of hate- but definitely not from shame. So, that was all three of his remaining allies that he’d scattered in under an hour. Four, if you counted the pelican.

Summer; the air tickles your skin and whispers of good living. The engagement ring on your finger itches, weighed with deceit.

“Clay; I havenae bin entirely honest with ye.”

“Hmm?” The heat and satisfaction have dulled his senses. But what’s said next will stab at them and rend his world in twain.

“I’m pregnant, and it’s not yours.”

 

The winter solstice ball; the music courses through your system, throwing inhibitions to the wind.

The village priest walks up to you, all charm. “Will you dance?”

You’ll do more than that.

 

Eighteen years prior, Anthony Rivile is a rising star in the protestant church. He has promise, opportunity, and a mistress, who’s with child.
She’s going to call the baby ‘Cait’.

Such a difficult birth, all that agony, that searing pain that blinded you, and for what? A corpse. A small, deformed corpse. Well at least now you can hide the evidence, no one ever need know. You can keep your name. But how to hide the body? You’re not strong enough to dig a grave yourself, not after going through that. There’s only one person who you can trust to keep your secret.

 

“Clay, you are charged with having consorted with the devil on the night of August 17^th; Sally Weems claims she saw you in the square, talking to a man with the cloven feet. Since you have refused to tell us where you really were-”

“I was with Cait!”

“Liar!” Her mother shouted, “she was ill that night! She never left the house!”

“Since you have refused to tell the truth about your whereabouts, we declare you guilty as charged, and sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead.”

Don’t even lift your head and look at him; you don’t deserve it.

 

The walk to the gallows is surprisingly short. The rope’s uncomfortable, but he can live with that, well…

He glances out at the crowd. No Cait, no Rivile, not even my mother. However, he can hear a familiar mew overhead. He smiles.

The trapdoor drops.