Bev Goodman's Page

Mama wouldn’t look at me.
“But you know it already,” she said, her face turning red.
“Maybe, Mama, but you never say it.”
“Don’t my actions speak louder than the words?” Mama wanted to know.
I made circles on the carpet with the toe of my shoe, before looking up at her.
“Actions,” I hesitated, “don’t stick with you, as long as the words do.”

People stop and stare.
Voices jeer.
Rude questions are asked.
They are looking at me; talking about me; pointing at me.
The child who is different.

Restlessness beset the crowd again, as the cloaked man began to sway back and forth while murmuring incantations and waving his hands hypnotically.
The audience, now silent once again, stared in awe at the platform.
A lone voice began to moan, “Take me, take me now . . . or I shall die of fright while waiting to be hanged.”
The cloaked man whispered to his blindfolded charge, “Listen to me, and I the executioner, might be able to save your hide if you are innocent,” before placing the noose loos… Continue

After the town square was cleared and the body removed, the executioner, knelt in front of the King who queried, “Executioner, I must know if the accused sheep stealer was justly charged.”
“I know not, Sire,” the hooded man stated.
“I only know that it was my duty as the executioners son to perform the hanging whilst my father recuperates from his illness.”
“But talk is that you are a seer, a magician and a healer, so you would know if this man deserved a hanging or not,” the King persevered.
Th… Continue