The Night Watch

These ol’ bones of mine ain’t got much left in em’ but salt and faded memories—more so salt, ifin' I had ta’ guess. That don’t mean I’m dead yet, so don’t get yar’ hopes up. But lately, one of those memories been botherin me somethin fierce, keepin me up nights like a splinter diggin deep behind my eyeballs. It’s near time someone else shares my restless nights, and ya’re as good a sod as any.

Youth ain’t all it’s cracked up ta’ be, specially if ya’re born an awkward, broke, good-for-nothin peasant boy such as myself. Bein poor ain’t easy, and it ain’t rewardin—despite what the good book might say. The struggle of it all will suck ya’ dry till eventually, hard times just become times.

I know somethin bout’ hard times. My Da died young, and my Ma was ill her whole life; lost her eyesight when I was naught but a wee lad, snot-nosed and tuggin on the hem of her dress. She always told me she got used ta’ bein blind, as if it were nothin but a pebble in her shoe. Told me ya’ can get used ta’ anythin.

Ma was a helluva liar. In my experience, most people are when they can justify it. That’s one of the sad things bout’ gettin old; ya’ finally see things for what they were only when they’re too far behind ya’ ta’ be worth a damn. Lookin back, I know that lie was specifically for me, for no one can lie ta’ themselves, not when somethin is eatin at em’.

Back then, I wish I coulda lied ta’ myself, told younger me that my life wasn’t a steamin heap of cow manure. Ya’ see, my job was ta’ stand watch over the town gate, ta’ keep an eye out for ne'er-do-wells and other unsavory types. Nightwatchman they called me. Got ta’ where people in town didn’t even call me Carl no more. They always called me nightwatchman Carl. Load of ballocks.

When I signed up, ain’t nobody say nothin bout’ nighttime. Not nobody tell ya’ the boredom is murder either. Guard is what they told me I’d be, not no nightwatchman. Though, I guess it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference; woulda took the job if it was called turdwrangler, I was so strapped for coin.

Funny thing is, nobody calls ya’ daywatchman when ya’ guard the gate come sunup. They just call ya’ watchmen. So why the hell do they call ya’ a nightwatchman with the moon’s up?

Probably was an inside joke, just the whole town havin a good chuckle at me, because no one in their right mind woulda ever become no nightwatchman if they knew they’d just be twiddlin their thumbs till madness took em’. I bet day watchman had it easy—hammin it up with folks comin inta’ town, a little action here and there to livin things up. Musta been nice.

Anyway, ten months gaurdin that godforsaken gate taught me the meanin of idle, and boredom is nothin if not a good teacher: 26 planks of wood in the gate— held together by eight strips of iron with fourteen rivets each, 243 stones in the archway, two potholes in the road, 31 trees in sight, six rotten fence posts, three boulders, and one hole—home ta’ a particularly ornery gopher, whom I’d takin ta’ callin Troublemaker.

Besides Troublemaker, weren't a soul out there ta’ bother me. Never. My sword might as well been a paperweight, all the good it done. I kept it sharp, though; good for trimmin fingernails.

What I wouldn’t have given for a drunk ta’ tussle with; hell, even a passerby askin for directions woulda done. But no such luck.

Nothin ever changed, even when it did. Sure, the seasons came and went, but their comins and goins were more like different flavors of the same misery. Wet as a stray dog in spring, eaten alive by bugs in summer, and come fall, I got ta’ hear the whole town celebratin and partyin over harvest while my arse stayed put collectin blisters.

So, there I sat, night after night, countin planks of wood in the gate or shooin off Troublemaker ta’ stop him humpin my boots.

But this was my first winter. Damn cold winter that year—wind coulda froze the prunes off a snowman. They say misery loves company. Or maybe it’s that misery comes in pairs? Hell, point is boredom and freezin is a nasty match up. Like two peas in a rotten pod they are, with nothin better ta’ do than make my life miserable, and they did a good job of it, too.

Now, ya’re probably wonderin what this all has ta’ do with ya’. Not a damned thing, truth be told. Makes me feel better ta’ rant, though. All this is seasonin, garnish if ya’ will, ta’ let ya’ know where I’m comin from. The real meal starts now.

Ya’ see, I was sittin in front of the gate one night, confirmin ta’ myself that there really were 243 stones in the archway and not 244, when I got this weird feelin. First, I just thought it’s the cold. My nose was numb as a nun’s crotch after all, and my fingers were stiff as icicles. Who wouldn’t feel strange?

That’s when I heard it. Noises in and of themselves ain’t nothin ta’ normally get me too bothered, but I’d heard all the noises worth hearin a thousand times over already. This was somethin different, somethin new.

Boredom is a sickness, an ailment like any other. Thing is, unlike most ailments, this one’s got a simple cure. It’s called anythin at all.

Now, whatever this noise was, it had my blood up. Finally, somethin, the opposite of nothin. That’s not ta’ say I let myself get too excited. This wouldn’t be my first promise broken at the gate. Still, it was enough ta’ rouse me outa’ my chair.

The sound grew inta’ sounds, becomin clearer, more regular with each instance. Then, I figured it out: they were footsteps treadin through snow.

There wasn’t much a moon that night, only a sliver, just enough ta’ give the snow an eerie glow. Sure enough, I focused my eyes and a man came a loomin from the darkness. He wore a wool robe that was so black, ya’ could only really see his outline blockin the placid glow of snow around him.

I’d like ta’ say I kept my calm, but this person felt like mana from heaven, someone sent by god himself ta’ put an end ta’ my idle misery. I didn’t know what ta’ do. First, I stood by the door and straightened up, tried ta’ look serious like a tough guard oughta do. But my body started to shiver, shakin like a skinflint at an alms box. That didn’t seem so tough.

I decided ta’ go back ta’ the chair. Then, my teeth started chatterin. So, I stood again, this time leanin against the wall. Its push against my back helped ta' keep the shivers at bay.

The man came closer, his approach louder with each step. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“Who goes there?” I asked. It took everythin in me not ta’ smile, as I always wanted ta’ say that.

The man stopped bout’ six paces away. He didn’t even raise his head.

“A weary traveler,” he answered, voice dry and gruff.

“Gates is locked,” I told him. “No one gets inta’ Repshire till mornin. Town rules.”

It was only then that this man lifted his gaze from the snow. It was dark, like I said, but somethin didn’t sit right with me. The man’s black hood seemed ta’ swallow the light; it was as though I was starin down the bottom of a deep will with no bottom in sight.

“I certainly hope that is not the case,” said the man, voice so low, it sounded like a sad song. “I’m here to see someone. My arrival is quite urgent.”

“Who? Repshire’s a small town. I might know em’.”

The man didn’t move, stood still as a statue when he spoke. “A good friend. He is expecting me, so to speak.”

“That weren’t no answer,” I said back.

He gave a tired sigh, the kind yar mom gives when ya’ve been buggin her too much. “If you must know, he doesn’t go by his real name. I knew him as Thomas. We had business years ago.”

Ta’ be fair, I shoulda told him ta’ sod off; twas my job after all. But somethin bout’ him had my nickers tightenin. Didn’t feel right tellin him ‘no’ too many times. So, I tried ta’ soften the blow.

“Well, come back at sunup. I’m sure this fella can wait. There’s another town back the way ya’ came, Pelicsbury. Bout’ two hours walk. They got a proper inn, and they be lettin people in all times of day.”

“Unacceptable.” The man shook his baggy sleeves, bones creakin as his slender hands poked through layers of wool. They was the longest mitts I’d ever seen, boney and pale as wood ash.

He held out one of those slender hands, and somethin caught my eye, glimmerin like fire in the sparse moonlight: a single gold coin. I couldn’t help but lick my lips. I’d only ever seen one once before, but us poor folk can spot a grain of gold in a sandpit.

The coin rolled over his boney knuckles, callin ta’ me as it danced from pinky to thumb. It put me under some sorta spell, twisted my mind.

“Say I let ya’ in,” I says ta’ him. “Then what?”

If the wall hadn’t been behind me, I woulda lept back. A mischievous grin flashed ta’ life under that dark hood, spreadin with teeth as big as tombstones, each one shinin like a polished pearl.

Let me tell ya’, I’ve seen many a smile in my life: friendly ones, tired ones, angry ones, hell, even flirty ones. But this smile, this god damned smile sent needles down my spine. I felt so tiny starin at those jaws, like a rabbit cowerin before a hungry wolf.

“Then,” he continued, “you will be so much the richer, and my business here today shall be concluded, for which you will have my eternal gratitude.”

The next question tried my bravery. In fact, before askin, I gulped so hard I thought my Adam’s apple might drop inta’ my stomach. “And what if I don’t let ya’ in?”

The grin vanished. He began ta’ rise, his dark robe expandin, strange groans and pops escapin from under his black garb as he came ta’ stand a foot over me. “This decision would be,” he sucked air between his big teeth, “unwise.”

This bout’ made my sphincter go placid as a boned fish. That sword on my hip, the heavy chainmail pullin at my shoulders, seemed ta’ vanish. I felt naked, powerless.

So, I reached for my belt and grabbed the keys. They jangled like sleighbells, my hands were shakin so bad. When the lock finally clicked, the man’s grin returned; fast as a snake, he closed the distance and grabbed my wrist. His fingers felt like ice against my skin, his grip tight as a hangman’s knot. I couldn’t pull free.

Then, his other hand came down on my arm, the one he was holdin. His fingers slithered, cold and clammy, down my forearm till somethin warm plopped inta’ my palm. He let me go, and without another word, walked through the gate, closin it behind him. I looked down and saw the gold coin shimerin in my hand.

Come morning after work, I asked around, afraid I’d let some devil inta’ town. No one knew nothin. Far as the townsfolk were concerned, that night had passed like any other. It wasn’t till I talked ta’ the parish priest that the truth came out.

An old man by the name of Dalton passed away in the night. Priest told me his heart had failed and that Dalton had ‘finally had enough of this mortal coil’ or some such nonsense. Call it a bad feelin, guilt, curiosity, or maybe a bit of all three, but I snuck inta’ the church after they moved the poor sod’s body there.

When I removed the cloth over Dalton’s face, I nearly jumped outa my skin. The man looked terrified, eyes bulgin, mouth agape, fingers curled like claws. He hadn’t left this mortal coil so much as been shoved out kickin and screamin.

My first purchase that day was the biggest, cheapest pint of ale I could find: it was the best horse piss I’d ever drank. As I was sittin their sippin, mug in one hand, coin tightly clasped in the other, I couldn’t stop seein Dalton’s twisted face or thinkin bout’ the robed man.

In time, I found peace. Life crept on. The gold coin allowed me ta’ leave that godforsaken town and make a new go of things. From that point on, my life was a bunch of nevers: never rich, never poor; never married, never lonely; never full, never hungry. Not so bad, all in all.

It feels good ta’ tell the story out loud. I ain’t never told a soul bout’ what happened that night—not no lover, nor no friend. But somethin in the back of my head tells me it ain’t over yet.

Gettin old is like playin a game ya’ can’t win, one ya’ got no choice but ta’ play all the same. I know I don’t got much time left. Some days that’s alright with me, others, it scares me outa’ my wits. But lately, a worse thought has slunk inta’ my skull. I keep thinkin of that robed man and his horrible smile. His grin haunts my dreams.

That’s why I’m here tellin ya’ this. Last night, when I was lyin in bed, mind a churnin, I heard strange sounds. At first, I thought it all in my head; night can play tricks on a troubled mind—and my mind certainly qualifies. But the noises grew, louder and louder, till it hit me. Twas the crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps treadin snow, comin right up ta’ my doorstep.

Peelin outa bed, I threw open the door. There I was, breathin hard, suckin down cold air, lookin for somethin that couldn’t be. But there were no footprints in the snow, no sign of trouble, no noises of any kind. Just darkness and a restless old man.

I ain’t too keen on holdin on ta’ regrets; there’s no need punishin yarself more than need be. But if that’s true, then why do I keep wonderin, stayin up nights wishin I’d never opened that blasted gate? Truth is, there are just some doors that once they're opened, they can never be closed.