Agreement

Word Count: 4,432

Agreement

Let me tell you a story.  A story about how one of the most terrifying beings came to be.  Like so many things, it didn’t just happen all at once, but over time.  You see, long, long ago, there was a boy who was absolutely miserable.  There just wasn’t anything in his life that he felt was good or right.  Miserable.  There’s just no better word to describe how he felt.  Try to imagine the worst place you can for a child to live.  Rotten food.  Unsanitary conditions.  Beatings.  Neglect of all sorts.  Miserable in its true meaning, not the half-hearted, diluted way people often use it.  He lived in a state of perpetual hopelessness. 

One day, he learned that if you pray and ask God, sometimes you get what you ask for.  So, the boy began to pray.  He didn’t have anyone to teach him or tell him how, so he started off as best he could.  He knew it would take time for him to learn how to do it right, so he wasn’t too upset when, at first, nothing changed.  However, as time went by, the boy started feel even worse that God wasn’t answering his prayers, his pleas for help.  The boy tried every which way he could think of to ask help, but day after day, nothing changed.  He’d spend whatever time he could during the day coming up with new prayers to make. 

One day, he heard a story about a man who did something very much like what the boy wanted to do, only the man sold his soul to the Devil.  The boy thought long and hard about this and, it seemed to him, that if God wasn’t willing or able to help him, perhaps the Devil could.  After all, the boy was absolutely miserable, so how bad could it be to sell his soul?  While the boy was sure no good would come from the sale, at least, he figured, for a time he’d get to be happy.

That’s just how miserable the boy really was. 

The boy knew one didn’t offer prayers to the Devil, but one made a deal with the Devil.  So, that night, boy switched from his nightly ritual of praying and tried making an offer to the Devil.  He figured that selling his soul was worth becoming fantastically rich until his time on Earth was over.  The next day, nothing happened.  Nothing changed.  The boy knew that he didn’t know how to make an offer to the Devil, so he wasn’t too upset.  He tried again the next night and the next and the next.  He’d spend whatever time he could during the day coming up with new offers to make. 

Each day he’d come up with some new offer, even if it was just a different wording.  Each morning he’d awaken eager to see if he’d finally gotten it right.  Each day that bit of hope would fade.  Each day that bit of hope started off smaller and smaller than the last.  Until one day, the boy even gave up trying to make the Devil an offer.  His level of misery reached an impossible new low.  God wouldn’t help him and Devil didn’t want him. 

Time passed for boy who was now without any hope whatsoever.

One night after a day worse than any in recent memory, the boy had a thought while his empty belly rumbled and his bruised and battered body ached.  Just one of those ideas that comes to you when you’ve stopped pondering some issue; a stroke of genius some call it.  The boy made the Devil one last offer.  Instead of trying to barter with the Devil, he simply said he’d give the Devil his soul on the Devil’s terms.  Whatever the Devil felt was right in return is what he’d accepted. 

That night, the boy awoke to the face of a very unusual looking man watching him sleep.  The man wasn’t unusual due to any physical oddity like a third eye or horrible burns on his face or anything like that.  The man was unusual because he was dressed in clothing that the boy had never seen.  The boy had never seen someone wear a tie or silk suit or have shoes with such a shine.  He’d never seen hair combed to such perfection.  Where the boy was from, these things were the stuff of fantasy and myth.

The boy knew who it was and was struck dumb by the magnitude of who he was looking at.  The man smiled at the boy and said, “I’m sorry to wake you, but, you see, when I heard your last, ah, offer, I decided to take you up on it.  I can be impulsive that way.  I love snap decisions.  Really, I do.”

The boy just looked at the man, not really following the words being said.

“Now boy, you know who I am, don’t you?  Of course you do.  I can see it in your eyes.  Even if your lips can't move to say yes or even your head nod to answer.  I’m used to such things.  And, to be honest, the longer you’re quiet, the faster this will go.  I think, you know, that you have made me more offers than anyone else ever has.  That’s saying something too.  Night after night after night you used make me some of the most fantastic offers.  Some would really and truly make me smile.”

A moment of silence settled between the two.  The time was just enough for the boy to gather his wits.  Later, the boy figured, that’s exactly why the man paused. 

“Now, I think we’re ready to, ah, conclude things.  A few, ah, formalities.  You can just nod your head if you like.  And, as I can see the question trying to form in eyes, there’s nothing to sign.  That’s just foolishness people made up to try and, I suppose, make sense of things.  All that’s needed is your agreement.  No words, no writing.  Just your agreement. 

Your offer, and correct me if I have this wrong, is that I get your soul and you’ll take whatever in return?  There’s, of course, the unstated, but implied, condition that I end your misery.  I base that on all those past offers you made.  Is that about right?  I get your soul and end your misery?”

The boy made the meekest of nods to agree.

The man considered him for a moment and smiled, “Well, I guess that’s that.  We have an agreement.  An accord if you will.”  The man’s smile grew larger, “Now that that’s settled, would you like to understand why I turned down all your other offers?”

Again, the boy made the meekest of nods.

“Some of your first offers were things like if I made you rich or famous of powerful in oh so many ways, you’d give me your soul when you died.  You didn’t always say it quite that way, but it’s not the words of the offer than matter, but the intent in your mind.  Just like the agreement.  It’s what you truly think and feel that counts, nothing else.  I laughed at those early offers because, quite honestly, your soul isn’t worth that much.  However, you’re growing up in this place does give you certain admirable qualities.  You’ve seen much cruelty and known much misery.  You, far better than most, understand the value of a life, of a soul.  Whether you know it or not, you do. 

If I took up every offer from everyone who wanted to be rich and powerful, well, let’s just say there wouldn’t be a poor, obscure person in the entire world.  On occasion a soul worth that much comes along, but it’s a rare thing indeed.  You just aren’t that rare or special.  Not even you later offers balanced the scales quite right.  But this last offer or basically nothing for your soul?  Well, that’s just about right.

And now, get a good night’s sleep.  You’re going to be a very busy boy starting tomorrow.  Yes, that’s right.  Your soul is mine now, not when you die.  I’ll keep my word and you’ll be out of this place.  Have you no worry about that.”

The boy just sat there throughout everything the man said.  At some times, the boy felt ill, desperately ill, at the deal he’d made.  At others he felt relieved for his misery was going to end.  As he watched the man turn to leave, the boy really began to wonder just what life was going to be like as a servant of the Devil.  His only solace was to know he’d not be miserable.  As the feel asleep, the smallest of smiles was on his face.  It was, perhaps, the first smile he’d ever had.

When the boy awoke, he wasn’t sure if he’d dreamed everything.  After all, he’d gone for so very long with nothing happening, with no reply.  It wouldn’t at all be out of reason to think he’d just had a dream.  However, next to the boy was a scrap of paper and small rusty knife.  Neither of these had been there the night before.  The boy picked up the paper and it saw that scrawled upon it was the name of lady. 

The boy knew of the lady, but had never met her.  Everyone in the area knew of the lady.  The boy would never have been permitted, or been so lucky, as to have met her.  She was known as one who’d help anyone and everyone in any way she could.  Rumors swirled that she got some extra food or medicine when it was needed.  Perhaps she had even helped a person or two get out this miserable place.  The boy had often dreamed that one day she’d come to help him, but she never had.  In truth, she probably had no idea he existed. 

As the boy considered the note and knife, he knew what he was to do.  The agreement was real and this was the first thing he was to do.  A little, soft voice whispered inside his head that it would be best to get started now while it was still early, much earlier than he, or anyone else, normally awoke.  With little more thought, the boy grabbed the knife and hurried off.

Carefully he made his way towards where he’d heard she lived.  He knew that if anyone saw him, he’d be in the most trouble he’d ever been in.  Never mind what he was going to do, simply going where he was going was something he wasn’t permitted to do.  Despite his caution, the boy made good time and found the lady.  She was just setting about her morning routine.  From a safe hiding place, the boy considered her.  His hand starting to feel itchy as it held the worn handle of the knife. 

The boy knew about knives.  He knew how to tell if they were sharp and how to make them razor sharp.  A simple flick of his thumb on across the blade told him that despite its obvious age, it was extremely sharp.  The boy had also seen a knife used many, many times.  Stabbings, both designed to kill or to simply maim, were common place in the boy’s world.  He’d never done one himself, but he knew exactly what he was going to do. 

Closer the boy crept and, as he did, a growing sense of anxiety grew in his belly.  He’d never done anything like this before.  In fact, being the victim was something he’d spent a great deal of time fretting about.  He wasn’t at all sure he could actually kill the lady.  Seeing something done and doing it were two different things.  The boy’s belly rumbled as the smell of her breakfast reached him.  For a moment he pondered when he had last eaten.

Such thoughts left his mind as the whispering voice returned.  It urged him closer and closer.  The boy complied, creeping silently closer.  One thing one learns quickly in such a world is how to move about without making a sound.  The less attention one draws, the less beatings and abuse one gets. 

The boy paused, barely a few feet from the lady.  The whispering voice quiet and all the dread and anxiety came flooding back.  The urge to bolt and run filled him.  Taking a beating, perhaps to his own death, suddenly seemed preferable to what he was about to do.  Just as he was about to bolt, the whispering voice was back.  Only this time, it wasn’t a whisper, but a sharply barked command of NOW! 

There was no hesitation from the boy.  There was no thought.  The voice was simply something he couldn’t refuse or ignore.

The boy lept at the lady.  His legs wrapped around her waist.  His left hand found and covered her mouth.  His right hand ripped the knife across her throat.  The sudden weight of his body on her back made her start to fall, his legs squeezed tight as they tumbled.  His hand across her mouth did just enough to muffle the sounds of her surprise and terror.  Then the knife did its work well and silenced her completely.  As they lay on the ground, the boy simply clung to her with all his might.  He did nothing else as, at first, she struggled and then did less and less.  Her heart pumping her blood beat, by beat, from her body.  The boy clung to her until he felt her go completely limp and then he released her and rolled away. 

He looked at her now lifeless body.  He looked at the blood sprayed across everything and pool of it on the ground.  One side of his body, the side that had lain on the ground, was covered in her blood as were both his arms. 

Terror filled the boy.  He hadn’t had a thought the entire time of the attack.  He’d simply jumped on command and did what was to be done. 

Now he waited for people to come running.  He waited to be tackled himself.  No doubt he’d be tortured in the most inhuman of ways.  His own life suddenly seemed to consist of only the possibility of intentionally prolonged torture.  He’d seen such fates happen to others for much smaller infractions than killing a lady everyone liked.

The whispering voice came back, now soothing and pleased.  It told him how well he’d acted and that it was time to go.  The boy listened and now ran back the way that not too long ago he’d taken such care to move so slowly and silently.  The voice gave him directions and blindly the boy followed.  Turning here.  Running from one hiding place to the next.  Sometimes creeping silently.  Sometimes sitting and waiting.  The rest of the day the boy ran, walked, and crawled farther and farther away.  The next day and the next were the same.

He never did hear the cry that rose when the lady was found.  He never knew how big the search party that was launched to find her killer was.  He’d never know of the uproar her death had caused.  Many would be accused of the crime, most of them quickly beaten to death. 

As the boy traveled, he found small puddles of water to drink.  He was able to trap small animals or pick berries to eat.  Once he came across the carcass of some unidentifiable animal.  The knife continued to serve him well by cutting chunks of fleshed and, with the use of rocks, creating sparks for the occasional fire. 

As the days pasted, the boy’s long held misery faded.  A sort of emptiness took its place.

In a town many, many miles away, the boy found another scrap of paper with another name on it, a man’s name.  Filled with an odd sort of confidence that he’d never known before, the boy asked around until he learned where this man lived.  Just a short time ago, the boy would have been far too meek to even consider talking to strangers.  Attracting attention simply got one beaten.  Now he’d just smiled and nodded as a stranger told him such nice things about the man in question and where the man lived.

The boy watched the man and waited.  When the moment seemed right, he again used the knife and killed the man.

The same story repeated itself time and again.  The boy would go from place to place.  Now and then he’d find a name on a scrap of paper, track that person down, and kill him or her with the knife.  Sometimes he’d kill the person quickly and sometimes not.  It simply depended upon the situation.  The boy had grown up seeing great horrors inflicted on others and he now put those memories to use.  That which once helped feed his misery, now gave him inspiration.  On occasion, if there was time, he’d search the bodies and take whatever of value they had.  These scraps of money and clothing the boy took make him feel like one of the wealthiest people in all the land.  He’d never before owned anything.

A rumor started to swirl everywhere the boy had been.  People began to fear this traveling killer.  An evil who crept into towns, villages, and camps and killed good, kind people.  Parents began to fret about letting their children play outside too late, for even children would be claimed by this malevolent force.  Stories about it being some cursed boogieman or worse began to be told at the fireside.  People began to trade stories about the viciousness of the attacks.  Even the most hardened of men would feel unease at once mundane sounds of the night.

The boy knew none of this.  He spent little time in any place and, being so slight in stature, no one much gave him any thought at all.  He was just another ragamuffin, vagabond child scrounging for food and a place to sleep.  He was, perhaps, a bit better dressed than others, but that really made people consider him less of a threat.  The boy gave little thought to how many kind folks gave him odd jobs to do and paid him scraps of food or shelter for the night.  In the boy’s new world, there were simple two kinds of people, those who names he found on scraps of paper and those whose names weren’t.  If a name made the paper, that person would soon be dead. 

Was the boy still miserable?  No.  Was he happy?  Not exactly, but then, being happy wasn’t part of the agreement.  The boy had just wanted to no longer be miserable and he’d have to admit that goal had been met.  Of course, he didn’t think of such things, there was no need.  If anything, the boy really no longer felt much of anything.  His world was different now and, for the boy, that was enough.

As the boy grew older, he traveled father and farther.  He went to cities that, compared to where he'd been born were breathtaking.  The boy was free to roam wherever whim might take him.  While he always kept the rusty knife, he found and use other weapons.  He experimented with different means of killing.  He tried poisons, strangling, bludgeoning, and countless other ways.  Early on, the boy had started to have an almost perfectionist attitude towards what he did.  He enjoyed the tracking and the planning of his attacks.  The attacks themselves didn't matter at all.  They were just the foregone conclusion of the boy find a little scrap of paper.  An inevitable event. 

Stories about the boy grew and merged into other stories.  Many said he was a vampire.  Others Death itself.  Some of that attacks left the body mutilated beyond recognition.  Others hacked into pieces.  Others still, seemed to have died in, relatively speaking, a most peaceful manner.  The two constants among all the victims were that they were good people and that there was no clue whatsoever to who the killer was. 

One day as the boy, now a young man, was wandering the back alleyways of a city he came across a Priest.  The Priest smiled at the young man and made an offer of shelter and food.  The young man, while years older, was still waif-life and emaciated by most standards.  Something about the Priest's offer struck a cord with the boy.  He had taken such charity offerings in the past, but something was different about this man.  There was something in the man's eyes or in his manner that stirred up feelings of anger, of hatred.  Feelings the young man was most unused to feeling.  He went with the Priest and started to do something he had never done before.  He started to plan the Priest's death without having found the Priest's name on a scrap of paper.

Part of the young man's mind wondered if he was allowed to do this.  Was it permitted to kill someone without being told to do it? 

The church the Priest led him to was a most wonderful example.  Ornate stonework, colored glass, and all the trappings decorated this house of God.  The young man felt a sense of awe.  He had seen churches before.  He had been inside them.  But none had been quite as grand as this one. 

The Priest talked and talked to the boy, he rambled about all sorts of things and the young man nodded while he ate.  After he was done eating, the Priest shifted the conversation to the young man.  The Priest could see that he'd had a very rough life.  The Priest could see he had committed many sins, perhaps unspeakable sins.  The Priest was, in the end, making an offer to help the young man earn forgiveness for his sins.  The Priest went on to explain that while the young man couldn't live in the orphanage, if he wanted to he could work at the church in exchange to a place to sleep and food.  The work would be simple.  He'd need to sweep, clean, help out at the service, and other various trivial tasks.  In exchange, he'd have a place to call home, food, and support of the community to better his life.

The Priest asked the young man to think about it and began to clear the table.  As the Priest turned, dirty dishes in hand, the young man silently rose from his seat.  As the Priest carried the dishes toward the sink, the young man moved behind him.  As the Priest set the dishes in the sink, the young man slide his right forearm across the Priest's throat and locked it in place with his left.  The young man's practiced grip wasn't one the Priest had any hope of breaking.  The young man yanked backwards, making them both fall to the floor.  The Priest tried to struggle as best his could, but the shock of the strangle-hold and then falling had him more than bewildered.  The young man wrapped his legs about the Priest's waist and waited.  His arms and legs squeezed tight to the Priest's struggling body.  Weaker and weaker the Priest got until he struggled no more.  The young man held fast for a minute longer and then let go.

Barely panting from the exertion, he looked at the dead body of the Priest.  His mind flashed back to where he'd grown up all those years ago and wondered if he'd just done something for which he was going to be beaten and punished. 

He paused a moment, but nothing happened. 

That night as the young man navigated the back alleyways of the city looking for a place to sleep, he came across the man he'd met years before.  The man with whom he'd made the agreement.

They considered each other in silence for a moment or two.  Finally, the man spoke, "You're wondering if I'm here to punish you.  Don't be silly.  You've done everything I've ever asked.  You've proven yourself, time and again, to be a most valuable resource.  More valuable than you'll ever know.  The mere whisper, the mere hint, of you causes fear.  But you are right that I am here because you killed the Priest."

The young man felt as he did the first time they'd met.  A feeling of worry, of fear growing in his belly. 

The man continued, "I'm here to tell you, if you'd like to know, why all these years ago God didn't answer you prayers.  That's why you killed the Priest, whether you know it or not.  Something about the Priest reminded of the countless prayers you made and how God ignored you.  Then here was this Priest, this man of God, offering you food, shelter, anything and everything you could want.  But it was late, too late.  Why couldn't someone like the Priest have found you way back then, right?"

The young man stood silently still while the man talked.  Ever word he said ringing true.

"You seem surprised, but yes, I know about all your prayers and begging to God.  Night after night you plead your case to God.  You promised such wonderful things.  You’d dedicate your life to service to God.  You’d try to save a life, or, at the very least, help one person every day if God would just make your life better.  Sometimes, just like with me, you’d make the most grandiose promises on what you’d do.  But God did nothing.  Why nothing was done is really such a splendidly simple reason.

The secret to prayers to God and begging God for help is that God helps those who help themselves.  That’s right.  You had such wonderful words, but you never did any action.  You never put into action helping anyone or trying to achieve any of the good works you said you’d do once helped.  You wanted God to act first.  That’s just not the way God works."

A moment of silence settled between them.  The young man considering what he'd just been told, trying to make sense of it.

"I do wonder just what you would have become if you had chosen differently back then.  If you had made some sort of first move with God.  I dare say, I'm happy you didn't.  You would have been a most challenging name to give one of my minions.  A challenge at which I don't think any of them could possibly have succeed."