Phillippe's Hay Pen

They were unlike any other men.  They ran the junkyards, the trenches; the deserted islands North of Chaplis Point.  They imported the alcoholic beverages and exported them back out through the UM, the underground  market in the center of the city.  There wasn’t a mountain too high or a valley to low that they couldn’t scale.  They had long since found their vertical sense of enlightenment.

Anyone who stood in their way had no choice but move, or be moved.  Forcefully or peacefully they strode, with grace no less.  No one dared thrust a single rasp towards them nor raised a finger in disagreement.  They were the law that the city didn’t have.  Every other week they would march to the heavens and stand before
God, either to complement him, or tell him he had gone too far. 

Very few who had been held on trial were shown mercy from them, but mercy was a loose term.  In all actuality, the ones who had been casually thrown to the dogs were the lucky ones.  These were the watchers, they were the gods.  They held the power to give life, or take it away.  The unoverthrowable.  They were millions, but they were few.  The people had milk but not the will to drink.  As far as anyone was concerned, they were unbeatable. 

Clinton was sitting on his front porch, drinking cheap, but overpriced, beer purchased from the UM.  Lady Ellie was furnishing the dead roses in her garden.  They had turned as rotten as her mind since the new form of government had come into bloom.  Street children roamed the dumpsters in the allies looking for toys to reach out to, maybe a teddy bear to hold tight while sleeping on their street mats.  People in the steel shantytowns were waking up to the sight of their hideous lives.  It was looking like rain, it always did.  The skies were always dark and cloudy; the sun had long since forgotten them.  These were all the people of the “new world”.  It was the world built around the watchers, and through the eyes of the watchers. 
There was screaming in the distance.  “What the hell is that?”  Clinton asked, turning from his seat, letting one of the dogs run free with just a wounded leg.  He got down from his porch and started heading towards the center of town. 

“People of Arlis, this woman has broken a law.”  There was a crowd of people standing around the bound woman and the man binding her.  He was wearing a long black trench coat and black brimmed hat with grey lace.  “It seems this woman disagrees with how we’ve been running this show, disagrees with our rules.  She brought this dispute up with Headmaster Reginald, and it seems he did not take it in such a kind manner.”  No one dared speak. 

Clinton arrived at the scene.  He recognized the woman.  She was half way through her 20’s, stunning beauty.  Long auburn hair and hazel eyes.  She had a husband and a child.  They were standing not to far away from her, mixed in the crowd.  She kept glancing, pleading to them, begging with those soft hazel eyes.  There was no used to beg, she would be going where all the others had gone who had committed such a crime.

“We do hate doing this, but it seems you people just will not learn unless we provide public examples.”  The woman fell to her knees crying, screaming, howling.  Clinton couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.  He felt sorry for all the young beauties that were wasted away to the fires.  He knew that her husband would turn to UM liquor and her son would become just another urchin of the street. 

The man in the coat binding her pulled her to her feet unwillingly.  He led her to a fenced off area filled with hay and a single oak tree in the center.  There was a sign hanging from the top of the fence which read “Philippe’s Hay Pen.”  A scorched rope was tied around the tree.  Everyone knew what this tree was for.  They had seen It been used many times.  The tree never burned, nor did the rope.  They just stood their, laughing at the ones who were unlucky enough to meet with them face to face. 

The man tied her hand cuffs to the end of the rope and walk off to the edge of the hay.  “I hope you all learn something today.  I know your sons and daughters wouldn’t want their mothers and fathers to be done away with like this, or vice versa.”  The man pulled out a matchbook from is inner pocket and lit a match.  He knelt down and looked at the young lady, who was now managing to hold back her tears, every few seconds letting whimpers escape.  Clinton saw him flash a wicked grin at her.  She wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at her son, she gave one last smile and a wink at him, looked at the man in the coat, and spit on the hay beneath his feet.  This seemed to elaborate his grin, more sinister than it had been.  He walked out of the area throwing the lit match over his shoulder and shut the gate.
The fire traveled fast over the dry hay.  It engulfed the girl like a freight train.  After a few seconds of burning, she started to scream.  The flames were so high, no one could see her, they could only hear her pitiful cries of agony.  The screams traveled all over and around the pit.  Then there was nothing.  People with buckets of water commenced to putting out the dancing fires.  When the steam cleared, the people saw why the screams of the woman had echoed all around.  She had successfully managed to wrap the rope several times around the giant oak until she could no longer move.  It was a horrifying sight indeed, nothing left but charred skin, bone and the lingering smell of burnt hair and cooked flesh.

Later that night Clinton was back on his porch, recapping the events of what had happened during the day.  He wanted to forgot, as he had longed to forget all of the other Hay Pen’s victims.  The woman, who was once so beautiful, was now unrecognizable.  She could only live on as a memory now.  “God speed to her soul, if there is even a god out there.”

He got up from his porch and walked into his house.  It was musty, most houses were, musty with barely any light. 

Clinton started walking to his room when he heard a knock at the door.  He approached the door, grasped the handle, paused for a quick second, and opened it.

“Oh, Clinton, hello.”  Little lady Ellie was standing on his doorstep.

“Ms. Ellie, and to what do I owe this occasion?”  Clinton asked sarcastically.

“Well, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.”

“Anything Ms. Ellie, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m going to be taking a short leave and I was wondering if you could look after my rose bushes while I am away.”

“How long you going to be gone?”

“Well, you see, that’s the puzzling part, I don’t really know.  I’m hoping only a short while.  It would really mean a lot to me.” 

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Oh Clinton, you’re such a sweet boy.  Just like your mother, you are.  Don’t go letting these streets turn you into something you’re not.”  With that she scuttled off to her home.

Clinton was a little taken back by this comment of his mother.  She hadn’t been brought up in anyone’s conversations for years.  Clinton had had very few conversations in the last few years, though, so he didn’t think much of it.
Clinton closed the door and began to walk back to his room when there a second knock on the door.  Clinton muttered to himself, “For the love of God.”  He walked back to the door and opened it.  “Yes?”

A man in a black trench coat and a black brimmed hat with red lace stood at his doorway.  Clinton’s face turned blank and they stared each other straight in the eye.  The man held up a letter with the feared black seal that was placed only on the letters directly from the Headmaster himself.  Clinton glanced down at the letter being held out obviously for him to take, and then back up at the man.  The man shook the letter fiercely.  Clinton began to wonder if the man had any sort of vocal cords for which to speak.  He took the letter and the man turned around and stepped off Clinton’s front porch and walked on up the road. 

Clinton shut the door and walked back to his room and sat on his bed.  He tore off the seal and opened up the letter.  It read:


Eugene Clinton,
You have been summoned to see Headmaster Reginald
on the sixteenth of February.  A vehicle will arrive at your
place of residence at exactly 6:00 in the mourning,
this will not be a problem I presume.  The vehicle will take
you to the headmaster’s quarters.  This is an honor.  Very
few people are lucky enough to see Far Field Manor.  Be ready
when we arrive, the headmaster does not put up for tardiness.


Clinton read this letter over and over again, trying to soak up exactly what he was seeing.  It was only a few hours away from the sixteenth of February. This letter was very troubling.  True, not many people were lucky enough to see Far Field Manor, but who wanted to.  That was where they kept the dogs an the mass graves of the people who had been taken by the Hay Pen.

Clinton laid awake in bed until the horns filled the streets with the “beep beep beep” at exactly 5:30 AM.  Clinton got up, threw on some jeans and the same shirt from the day before.  He topped off a warm bear, his last one, and made a note to himself to get more at the UM, if he would ever have the chance to visit there again. 

At exactly 6:00 AM, he heard a knocking at his front door.  He walked slowly to his door.  He opened it and stood there face to face with the same man who had given him the letter the one day prior.  Clinton stepped out and the man closed his door behind him.  There was some commotion at Ms. Ellie’s home.  Two men appeared out of her doorway carrying a stretcher with a sheet covering what it was holding. 
“‘I’m going to be taking a short leave…’”  Clinton remembered Ms. Ellie had said this the day before.  “Guess it wasn’t such a short leave after all.”  He thought aloud.
There was a black car in front of Clinton’s house.  It was very dirty and there was rust on the bumpers.  The man opened the backseat passenger side door and motioned for Clinton to enter.  Clinton did so and the man shut the door, almost clipping Clinton’s right hand.  Then he sat in the driver’s seat and started the car.  They were off.

The drive was long.  Looking out the window was pointless.  The countryside was lacking beauty.  After nearly an hour of driving a very large Mansion came into view.  The man hadn’t spoken once, just sat the driving quietly, eyes on the road.  They reached the front gates, which opened to the car invitingly. 

The man pulled into a long circular driveway and stopped the engine.  He got out, went around to Clinton’s side, and opened the door.  Clinton thanked him, which the man said nothing in return.  They began walking up to the front doors, two towering teak doors.  The man opened them and motioned for Clinton to step inside.  Clinton did so and the man followed and closed the doors.  The man stepped in front of Clinton, who was admiring the flawless design on the ancient home, and motioned Clinton to follow him.  Clinton did as he was told and was led through a series of corridors and a number of rooms until they reached a long hallway with a room at the end.  The man stepped aside and motioned Clinton to go inside the room.
“Do I just knock?”  Clinton turned around to face the man, but he was gone, as if he had just vanished.  There was no sign of him.  It was quiet, no sound at all.  No footsteps of a man rushing down a hallway.  Nothing.

Clinton turned back to the door.  He knocked.  A voice from within said “Come in, Eugene.”  Puzzled, Clinton opened the door and stepped inside.  “Could you please close the door?”  Clinton closed the door.

This was the headmaster, Headmaster Reginald.  He looked different from the rest of the watchers.  He had on long red robes.  Grey hair flowed down his back and his eyes were as black and deep as a well.  His face was as wrinkled as his hands, which were just bone with a thin layer of sun-spotted skin.  He looked a towering 6’4, thin and lanky.  He was studying a book pulled from the bookshelf, which carried an impressive number of books.  “Please, do sit down.  I have just been informed that Lady Ellie has passed, I understand you were friends with her?”

“Yes.”  Clinton replied.  He was very nervous; he had never met nor even seen the headmaster.

“Well, I’m terribly sorry to hear that.  Shall we get down to business?  Do you enjoy where you are in life?  Here?  Do you enjoy yourself here?”

“As much as anyone else, I suppose.”

“Not very much I see.”

“I didn’t say that.”  Clinton replied, worried he had implied something wrong.

“I know.  Let me tell you what you are here for, Eugene Clinton.  You are here because you’ve been pardoned.  You are leaving us.”

Clinton’s heart jumped a beat.  He felt faint.  Clinton thought to himself, “Had Ms. Ellie been summoned days before her death?  Is death what they meant by a pardon?”  A different man stepped into the doorway of the room.  Reginald motioned for him to come closer then pointed at Clinton.  The man produced a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his coat and came towards Clinton.
Clinton’s heart was racing now.  “What’s going on?”

“Please, don’t restrain from us, Mr. Clinton, all in good time, you’ll understand.”

“Understand what?  What are you talking about?  Are you going to kill me?”  Clinton was loosing breath and feeling as if his heart was going to jump out of his chest.

“Goodness, no.  We are merely… setting you free.  Now, I brought you here to discuss—”  Clinton rose to his feet.  “Sit down Eugene.”  Clinton did not.  “I said sit down!”  Instead, Clinton made a break for the door, but was intercepted by the other man, who grabbed him by the throat and held him up.  His grip was tight and Clinton was gasping for air.  Reginald approached, “You really are making this hard for us.  Why all the struggle?  We are just trying to help you escape this wretched place.  I know you hate it here, I know that.  But you can’t begin to know how I loath this reality.  Yes, I have power, more power than you’ve ever had in your miserable life.  But unlike you, thee is no escape for me, not even death can release me from this filth we live in.  I envy you Clinton, I envy all who have been pardoned.  Oh no, your not the first who has reacted this way.”  Clinton could barely breath, he was hanging onto the man holding him, trying to pull himself up, trying to get away.  “Everyone reacts this way, they think we are evil, they may very well be right.  But it truly makes me sick that we are giving them this… this gift, and this is how they repay us, by acting like mongrels. 

“Fuck you!”  With that, Clinton passed out from lack of breath.

When Clinton came to, he realized he was in a moving car, handcuffed, with a potato sack placed over his head.  “Where are we going?”

“All in good time,” said a voice, “we are almost there.  Just up the street.”  The car soon came to a stop.  “We’re here.”  The man laughed, it was an evil laugh, more of a cackle.  The door opened next to Clinton and he was pulled out.  His he was led by the hands for a ways until he was stopped.  People were whispering all around him, but he didn’t know who. 

“Where am I?”  He asked.

“See for yourself.”  The man said as he pulled off the sack.

Clinton squinted his eyes.  It wasn’t bright outside, as always, but it was brighter than it was in the sack.  When he could see clearly, he stopped breathing, almost as if he had forgotten how.  When he remembered that he had to take in air to survive, he glanced up and read the sign, “Philippe’s Hay Pen.”  He turned around and caught eyes with the same man who had burned countless others here.  He also saw the audience they had gathered, they were whispering to each other. 
“You are!  You are going to kill me!”  Clinton’s heart was speeding up at a rapid pace.  “Someone, please, help, stand up!  Has anyone else grown tired of being frightened your entire waking life?  I bet they’ve even caused your best dreams to send a shiver down your spine.”  No one answered; no one was brave enough to stand up to anything anymore.  They were all to scared that they’d meet the same fate as Clinton. 

“Its time for you to take your leave Eugene,” the man said.  With that, he led them into the hay pen and tied him to the laughing oak.  It was cold out.  Clinton could see his breath which was growing heavier by the minute. 
“Cowards!  You’re all cowards!  Pitiful excuses of men and women!”  Clinton said this with much disgust for his peers. 

“That will be enough out of you,” the man said, and he walkout of the area.  He produced a match from his pocket, like Clinton had seen him to so many times and lit it.  Clinton remembered the day his mother had been burned, what it did to him.  His father turned to UM liquor and they found him dead in an ally a few weeks later.  Clinton was left to become an urchin of the street, searching for toys in the dumpsters, perhaps a teddy bear, something to hug, hold onto as he laid on his street mat.

The man threw the match down onto the hay and the whole audience was blocked by the wall of flame.  Clinton could still make out the face of the man though.  The evil man with his evil smile and evil cackle.  The wall of flames was close enough for Clinton to touch now, he could smell the red and the yellow, and the small amounts of blue, he could smell the hay burning.  It engulfed him.  Some say before the moment of your death, you’re ripped from your body, and there is no pain after that.  It must have been true because Clinton didn’t feel a thing.  His skin was still cold, just a different kind of cold, a warming cold.  He felt more at peace than he ever had. 
His mouth was open, he was swallowing flames, he felt like he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear it, he could hear nothing, but the sound of the ocean for some odd reason.  He didn’t remember ever visiting the ocean, but he had clear visions of being there.  He dropped to his knees and wept.  He was a human torch by now.  He remembered his mother and father before the watchers came, and how happy they were.  They would go to the park when he was little and he would swing on the swings and slide down the slide.  Then there was nothing, no feelings.  No tingling sensations of his skin shrinking from the heat of the fire.  Nothing.  He became nothing.

Then there was something, a light, and a voice.  Clinton opened his eyes and saw the face of an old man dressed in white.  “Hello there.” the man said, “You’ve been gone from us for quite some time, glad to see you’ll finally be joining us.”

“Where... where am I?”  Clinton asked, his vocal cords were sore.

“You, my friend, are wherever you want to be.”

Clinton got up from where he was lying.  It was very bright, white light was everywhere.  “Am I in…”  The man in white laughed.  This wasn’t an evil laugh, this was a comforting laugh.  This was a laugh that could calm a small child in the middle of a war.  “But why?”

“Why not?  You’ve got a good heart Eugene, no need to question it.  Please, step this way, this is merely a checkpoint in your journey, and a long road lies ahead.”  The man opened a door that came out of thin air.  It was too bright on the other side for Clinton to see.  “So let’s begin, shall we?”

Clinton hesitated, he thought, “Is this another trick?”
“
I assure you this is no trick," the man said, reassuringly

Clinton couldn’t help but believe him, his voice was so comforting.  He stepped through the door, and the man in white followed after.