I Want to See My Mercy

At the edge of his village, where tilled soil met dense forest, Garrod drove his spade into the ground. The work was done. The earth was already ploughed by oxen, but Garrod had tilled it again. He worked for two reasons: he wanted his Martha to sleep easy. Always plagued by superstition, he had assured her the evils of the forest couldn’t cross into worked land. The woods were their domain. If we labour, keep civilized, the wilds of the forest would know they were not welcome. The second reason why he had spent more time in the field rather than home was his daughter, Mercy.

A morbid name; she had been a sickly child, not expected to live past her first year. Garrod had prayed, promising if she were to live, he would work as long as the sun was up, every day till his body gave out. God, in all his mercy, had accepted Garrod’s bargain and Mercy had become the light of his life. She’d run out with his lunch, a hug and a kiss. No matter how the day’s labours had exhausted him, when the sky finally darkened, he always had time for her.

From the village, a half dozen torches winked in the fading light. Garrod squinted but couldn’t make out any faces. He knew his Martha would be among them. The bailiff would have insisted she stay behind, but she’d wear the old fool down, he was certain. The sweat on his brow chilled as the wind picked up. He looked out into the blackness of the woods for any sign. Under the shade of the trees the forest looked to swallow all light. Torches were carried when travelling through, even in daylight. He crossed himself, remembering the vow he took and knowing he had never broken it.

The bailiff, a jowly man named Harlan, trotted up. His palfrey, a splendid beast normally sure-footed, pawed at the freshly dug earth. Harlan gave it a pat, unable to soothe its nerves.

“Anything, Garrod?” Harlan called over.

Garrod shook his head without turning around. Harlan tutted at his fine boots, sliding out his dagger to scrape off the mud.

“You needn’t work yourself to death out here for that peasant superstition of yours.” Harlan said, noticing Garrod hadn’t turned to greet him.

“Your superstition’s the reason my daughter’s out there.” Garrod snapped.

Such insolent talk would have earned him the lash had they not been alone. Instead, Harlan continued to scrape his boots, the metal on leather made Garrod’s jaw clench.

“My superstition has kept the forest out of our village.” Harlan flipped his dagger, pointing it toward the trees. “Her choosing is a blessing.”

Garrod spat, folding his arms, “Why didn’t yer choose your Agatha then? She’s but a year older.”

The boot scraping seized. Garrod stared into the woods, feeling the knife point only a foot away.

“Careful, Garrod, I enjoy you and your family but questioning my authority…” He didn’t need to finish.

“Beggin’ yer pardon Master Bailiff,” Garrod turned, the muscles in his arms taut as bow strings. “Slip of the tongue.”

Harlan slipped his dagger back into the sheath between his legs. The horse shied under him as the half dozen torches arrived. Garrod shielded his eyes. Nothing was said, even when his Martha stood by him, taking his arm. She wouldn’t have stayed behind, no more than he would stop labouring. He wondered how he’d had the strength to stand before she arrived.

“Garrod.” Martha whispered, pointing into the woodland. Garrod followed her finger, only glimpsing the faintest promise, an outline of a small girl. Leaves crunched underfoot as the outline approached, Martha’s whole body shuddered. Garrod caught her elbow, but she stayed upright, reassuring him with a twisted smile. One of the bailiff’s men-at-arms, a lad too young to shave, readied his polearm. Six feet of ash wood ending in a curved blade. He leaned it forward, ready to thrust.

“Stand down, you fool.” Harlan barked. The lad obeyed, snapping his weapon upright.

The footsteps stopped, just shy of the last tree. The torchlights doing little to cut through the darkness, their meagre flames easily smothered by the moonless night. Garrod unhooked himself from Martha’s grasp, stepping slowly.

“Mercy? Mercy, love?”

Harlen’s palfrey whinnied, clumsily backing away. Martha stifled a scream, armoured plates clattered as the men-at-arms recovered. Harlan belted its rump until it shook its huge head, snorting. Undeterred, Garrod bent down and held his arms out.

“Mercy, come to papa.”

She made the most tentative step, as if testing the water of a scalding bath. Her bare foot sank into loose soil, bathing her in torchlight. Garrod dropped his arms. His Mercy looked feral. Her arms and legs covered in cuts and dirt. The tunic she wore was ruined, and her beautiful auburn hair had been fiercely shorn.

Garrod felt pressure build behind his eyes. His joy had returned, only the spark in her eyes had been sharpened with wariness.

“Don’t be frightened, love,” he said, pouring warmth into his voice.

Mercy took a step, then another, then she fell into his arms. He hugged her tightly, feeling his tears spill when her tiny body stiffened in his embrace.

“No need to be afraid now.” He whispered, as Martha joined him.

“She’s been returned, just as the creature promised.” Harlan wheeled his palfrey around. “See them home,” he instructed, digging in his spurs. The horse bolted, as eager to leave as he was.

Two days had passed. Garrod sat alone in the field sharpening his plough blade, eyes fixed on his home. He thought of abandoning the trivial work and sitting by Mercy’s bedside till he looked at the sky. He made an oath, and his joy had come back to him. He worked, hoping to see Mercy come bouncing out, his lunch wrapped in a cloth. When the sun finally set, he was ravenous. His limbs shook, and his stomach gurgled another complaint. He dropped his whetstone and sprinted the length of the field.

Mercy was where he’d left her. When they’d brought her home, she’d shied from the light of the hearth fire, preferring the cool larder. Martha met him at the door. Her face told him what he’d feared.

“Still nothin’?” he asked. She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.

He sat at the hearth fire, letting its heat soak him. He flexed his fingers, the welcoming sting chasing away the numbness. Over the fire, Martha’s stew bubbled in a cast iron pot. Its aroma was hypnotic. Garrod’s mouth watered. He filled a bowl and pulled himself to his feet, joints stiff.

He stepped into the larder bristling, it was chilly. Mercy was curled up against a sack of potatoes. Martha had washed her not long after they had brought her home, but now she was covered in fresh dirt, streaked with her finger marks. Garrod waived the bowl just in front of her as he sat on the cold floor opposite, making sure her nose caught the smell.

“Ma put a pinch of salt in. Ain’t that nice?” Mercy brought her head up, her hazel eyes barren. She used her foot to push the bowl aside.

“A bite see, for your pap?” Garrod swirled the stew around. Mercy reached into the bowl, delicately pulling out a chunk of meat. She held it up to her face as the broth dripped down her fingers. She drew away, tossing the chunk to the floor and baring her teeth. They were now Jagged, reminding Garrod of broken glass. He clasped his hand over his mouth to muffle his cry. Mercy turned her gaze to him.

“…Ain’t…that…nice.” She croaked, her voice the dry rasp of sawdust. There was an almost mocking edge to it that caused Garrod to break out in a cold sweat.

Martha wasn’t beside him when he woke. He leaped out of bed fearing the sun had risen and he wasn’t out in the field, only to see she’d left a candle burning for him. He climbed down the loft ladder, placing his hand against the larder door. He could hear a faint whistle of a draft from the other side. The front door burst open. It was Martha, her face, a mix of resolve and sorrow.

“Forgive me, Garrod, I ‘ad to tell him.”

Ashen-faced Garrod approached the door, covering his eyes from the torchlight outside.

“What have you tol’ him?” Garrod asked.

“Jus… she’s different.”

Martha reached out a hand, Garrod snatched her slender wrist in his calloused fingers and squeezed.

“Get inside.” She did as she was bid, vanishing behind him like a ghost.

“Master bailiff,” he said, addressing the man behind the torch.

“Garrod.” Harlan nodded, “Martha tells me Mercy has been sick these past two days?”

“Women an’ their soft hearts, eh?” Garrod tried for a chuckle that caught in his throat. Harlan’s half smile missed his eyes.

“Maybe, but I’d still like to see her, before Father Matthias visits.”

Garrod’s body grew cold and rigid. That pious fool had practically pleaded with him to send Mercy out into the woods. Had delivered entire sermons, raving about the afterlife rewards and responsibilities of those chosen to send their children out to appease the Barghest. More than likely a learned man like him had bastards in villages from here to Rome. Why not send one of his whelps? It’s not as if he could ever admit to fathering any. That had always been the way, twisting the words of the good book, so others had to sacrifice.

“He’s never seeing, Mercy.” Garrod stated. Harlan crossed himself.

“I need to see if that’s really your daughter. I’d rather not have to return with my guardsmen mid-morning.”

“Yer think shame will move me. Thos’ cowards whispered prayers whilst my daughter was dragged to the woods by men hiding in metal armour. Ter hell with ‘em.” Garrod spat, the glob landed between Harlan’s boots. He stared down for a moment before kicking dirt over the glob.

“These burdens I’ve forced on you plague me also, Garrod. You know I prayed that it wouldn’t be my Agatha. But don’t think I won’t leave Mercy fatherless if you will not let me past.”

Garrod’s eyes trailed down, Harlan’s white knuckles were curled round his dagger.

“Suppose you best come in then. Master Bailiff.”

Garrod closed the door behind him as Harlan shrugged off his fox fur coat. Underneath, his body was scrawny, the back of his neck a milk pale. Martha took his coat and stowed it by the hearth with a clumsy courtesy, sending a bolt of anger through Harlan’s head.

“Thank you, Mrs Garrod.” Harlan said.

“Go check on the pigs.” Garrod ordered his wife. She opened her mouth, maybe to protest or comply. He slammed the palm of his hand against a wooden beam, the force of it caused Martha to yelp. Harlan’s hand jerked back to his dagger as he whirled round, that noble air of disapproval in his dim eyes. Garrod straightened his back to challenge him. Harlan let go of the daggers grip.

“She’s hidin’ in the larder.” Martha said, Garrod caught her eye, whatever she saw in his face frightened her, she left to tend the livestock. Harlan waited till she left then approached the larder door, using the weight of his body to get its stiff hinges working. He let out a quiet “ohh” as the chill hit him. Garrod stood in the doorway, his face a mask.

When Harlan saw Mercy, he crossed himself, “dear God in heaven.” Mercy’s eyes shone like two pinpricks in the dark.

“Stay here, I’ll get the Father.”

He turned and met Garrod at the larder door. “Step aside,” Harlan instructed. Garrod didn’t move, swallowing back the rage spilling over him.

“I want to see my Mercy.” Garrod said.

Harlan looked at him aghast, “I don’t know what happened. Let me get the Father.”

Harlan reached down to his belt. Before he could draw, Garrod wrapped his hands around his throat, almost tenderly. The bailiff’s eyes bulged as Garrod applied pressure. He raked at the farmer’s thick forearms. Years in the sun had tanned Garrod’s skin to leather, the feeble clawing of the paper pusher barely broke the skin.

“I want to see my Mercy.” He stated again, Harlan’s reddening face now a blur behind tears. As the two fought Mercy started to howl, she didn’t stop even when Garrod drove Harlan to the ground, still with his hands crushing his neck. Harlan tried to finger his dagger, but Garrod used his knees to trap his arm. He writhed and rasped, a deep purple creeping up from his neck, but the man wouldn’t die. He clung to life as stubbornly as his traditions, gulping for air like a fish.

Garrod begged aloud “Please just die… just die. I’ll labour day and night... for all time… just die.”

Harlan’s tongue lolled out his mouth, his hands pawed weakly. Garrod drew his head up and slammed it back down. He did it again and again as Mercy’s howls became deafening. Eventually the throttled man lay limp, his nose leaked blood. Molten metal poured down Garrod’s arms as he took his hands away. Mercy had fallen silent.

Garrod stayed on top of the dead man. Shining in the dim light he spotted his bailiff badge of office. More than everything Garrod owned pinned to his chest. Mercy crawled slowly towards him. Once, when he was young, he had a hive of bugs crawling inside his bedding. He couldn’t see them but the way the cloth moved told him there was something underneath. He backed away. Mercy stared up at him.

“Why… did you do that, papa?” She whispered, her throat raw.

Garrod tore his eyes from Harlan’s body. “I want to see my Mercy.” He said, refusing to look at her.

“I am Mercy.” She told him, her dirt caked face now lost and confused.

He left the larder, all fear burned away, with only a singular purpose. Martha stood in the far corner, where the hearth’s light couldn’t reach. She whimpered when his eyes found her. Tensing as Garrod shuffled past to retrieve his tools. He slung his pick and spade over his shoulder, stepping out into the first light of day.

His spade broke the dirt at the far end of the field. Crows burst into flight, scattering into the sky.

“I want to see my Mercy.” He left the spade in the ground as he turned toward the forest.