smell

                                                 The Smell of Justice

                                                   by Derick Walburger

      Girrard was lost. He knew that he was going in the right general direction, but that was about it. He had been on the run two days now. He had nothing to eat, no weapons, and his butt was killing him. Of all the horses to steal, he had to pick the one with the most awkward, jarring walk. The owner should thank him for the agony Girrard had saved him.
       Densely packed trees walled in the faint trail. Few if any had traveled this way lately. The tops of the old pine forest towered above his head, obscuring his vision. He was heading west towards the mountains, but in his estimation, he should have already been there by now. The thought of another night without a meal made his stomach growl in revolt. If he didn't find a town or something soon, there wouldn't be much left of him for the Duke to kill.
       Just a week ago, Girrard had life easy. He had shammed his way into the good graces of the Duke of Halfast. As an honored guest, he had enjoyed the splendor of the old Duke's lavish castle. Wine and women were in seemingly never ending supply. Girrard had lived the life of a noble--until he got greedy. It seems that the only thing the Duke was not willing to share with his new friend was his young wife. The page that had stumbled across their midnight rendezvous in the stables had seemed even more surprised than Girrard and the gorgeous Duchess. Blushing, he had run off shouting at the top of his lungs what he had seen; discretion was never an attribute of youth. The young boy's thoughtless yelling afforded Girrard only enough time to gather his cloths, steal the first horse he found still saddled, and flee. He had barley escaped with his life.
       He had been moving ever since. He had a few coins in his pockets, but they would not do him much good until he crossed the mountains into the next realm. He had discovered the hard way that news traveled fast in Halfast. The only town he had stopped in already had a description of him and a most generous offer for his severed head. Luckily, none of the enthusiastic peasants had horses, or his head would be stuck on a pole back at the Duke's castle. Prudence forced him to the back trails until he reached Telest, where the Duke thankfully had little influence.
       Girrard started to get nervous as the sun threatened to set again. He was willing to risk another encounter with the locals if he could just find another village. He needed food. The swindler had grown unaccustomed to the rigors of travel in the last few years. Things had been going so well with the Duke. A charlatan like him could never have hoped for better. How could he have been so stupid?
       Girrard trotted along at an uneasy gate, scanning for a break in the trees that would hopefully reveal where he was. Suddenly, a foul odor stung his nostrils.
       "What is that smell?" he commented aloud. It reeked too bad to just ignore, the kind of stink that deserves a remark even if you are by yourself.
His fine silk shirt was soaked in sweat. The past few days had been unbearably humid. At first, Girrard thought that the smell was his own unwashed body. He sniffed self-consciously at his armpit. He stank, but he was definitely not the source of the reek. Something must have died here recently, he thought to himself, and by the smell, it must have been something big. Girrard kicked the horse in the flanks wanting to outdistance the offensive odor before he puked. The horse needed little provocation to move faster as it also snorted in disgust.
       Five minuets later the smell was worse. Girrard had tied a silk handkerchief around his mouth and nose, but it didn't seem to be helping. The stench was overpowering. His eyes stung. It seemed as though the smell had a life of its own. It was something of a cross between rotten eggs, sour milk, a dead skunk, and a fresh dung pile. Girrard was tempted to turn around and go back, but it was getting dark and the last fork he had passed was two hours behind him. He decided to continue, hoping that the smell would go away before too long. To his dismay, it only got worse.
       Girrard closed his eyes and gave the horse its lead. He covered his nose with his hands and breathed in short, gasping breaths. He almost retched each time his lungs started burning, forcing him to suck in more of the putrid air. He traveled for what seemed an eternity in this fashion until his horse stumbled even more awkwardly than normal and his eyes involuntarily popped open. He was heartened to see that the trees were thinning and the terrain had turned rockier. The mountains had to be getting closer. Girrard had forgotten his hunger. All he wanted now was to escape the foul smelling woods and get safely into Telest.
       The trail spilled out into a rocky meadow. Girrard got his first sight of the mountains, and at the same time received his first clue as to the source of the oppressive odor. A mile off in the distance a volcano blew tendrils of black smoke into the evening air. The cone-shaped mountain was impressively set against the backdrop of a magnificent sunset. Girrard would have marveled at the beauty of the moment if it didn't smell so bad. He also recognized the faint outlines of buildings near the base of the mountain--probably a village. A wispy yellow fog and the waning light made it hard to make out.
       Girrard had misgivings about the situation. He needed food and supplies, that was certain, but he was still on the wrong side of the border. Travel facilitated by the main roads certainly could have got word out this far of the reward on his head. But then, there was the smell. He couldn't think of many people that would willingly brave the stench to visit the village. There was a good chance they wouldn't know anything about him. There were risks involved, but he would not last much longer without supplies. He would have to take his chances on the village. He rode warily forward.
       He noticed a few other odd things about the town as he approached, besides the smell. The foundations of three large buildings sat unfinished on the periphery of the town. One of them was freshly dug, another looked abandoned for quite some time, and the third was at least half completed. This last building was unique in that the top stones looked much older than the foundation. The bottom stones had darkened with age, covered in black soot and lichen, where the top layers appeared newer.
       Fine, black soot also covered most of the other buildings in town. Some buildings looked freshly painted and cared for, but thick ash covered most of the others. Hardly anyone stirred in the village. A few windows radiated the soft glow of lantern light, but the streets were almost deserted. The sole exception was a lone figure locked in wodden stocks in the middle of the only road. Girrard decided to go talk with the unfortunate individual. The man obviously heard Girrard's approach, but he could not lift his head enough to see.
       "Hello there," Girrard saluted him.
       Twisting his head painfully, the man looked up at him. He flashed a friendly smile.               "Hello stranger. What can I do you for?" The prisoner wiggled his hand like he wanted to greet his new acquaintance. Girrard finally understood what he wanted, sidled his horse over, reached down and grasped his hand.   It was an awkward gesture.
       The prisoner's enthusiastic welcome seemed rather out of character. Girrard was well acquainted with convicts, the majority of whom were always in a foul mood feeling that society had somehow wronged them.
       "I was looking for some food and a place to stay the night," Girrard said.
       "Hal," the other responded.
       "What?"
       "Hal. That's my name." Girrard thought he saw a genuine smile on the prisoner's face in the half-light of dusk.
       "Girrard," he responded back without thinking. He groaned inwardly at his mistake. He hadn't meant to give his real name. The bright demeanor of the man in the stocks had unnerved him, causing the error, but if the Duke's men had been here earlier looking for him, Hal didn't show any sign of it.
       "There is a tavern down the street," Hal answered his question from before, "but we don't get many strangers here." The pale prisoner sounded genuinely dumbfounded as to why. The rancid smell of the place gave Girrard a pretty good idea. "William, he's the owner of the tavern, lets out most of the rooms to his family, but maybe he still has one in the back."
       "Why are you in the stocks?" Girrard blurted out. He couldn't help himself; it was bugging him.
Hal didn't miss a beat. "Treason," he responded enthusiastically.
       "Treason?" Girrard started getting concerned. Maybe the Duke's men had already been here. He would have to be careful. "What did you do, may I ask?"
       "I'm a tailor," Hal said, as though that should explain everything.
       Girrard shook his head in confusion. He had probably stumbled across the local idiot, locked up to keep him out of trouble. "Tavern did you say?" He brought the conversation quickly back around. "Which way is it?"
       Hal didn't seem at all upset that Girrard had changed the subject so suddenly. He pointed as well as he could down the street in the direction Girrard was headed. "Just keep going. It's the biggest building on the street."
       Girrard had one more question that he couldn't help from asking. "Does it always smell this bad around here?"
       Hal sucked in a lungful of the nasty air with thoughtless abandon. "I don't smell anything."
       "That's what I thought," Girrard said. Hal was probably a brick shy of a load. "Thanks anyway." He spurred his mount forward.
       "I will be by the tavern later," Hal called after him. "I'll see you there."
       Girrard acted as if he didn't hear this last part. Hal must be crazy. He wasn't going anywhere locked in the stocks.
       It didn't take long for the weary traveler to find the tavern. It was a two story building, brightly painted and in good repair. It looked as though the owner took pride in his establishment. It was even noticeable free of the soot that thickly covered most of the other buildings.
       Someone must have heard his horses rhythmical clopping because a boy came out to meet him. "Can I take your horse, mister?" He seemed a little shy about asking
       Girrard dismounted with a moan and handed the reins to the youth. The boy led the animal out back to what Girrard assumed were the stables. He really didn't care. The horse could drop dead as far as he was concerned. He would probably be better off walking.
       Girrard walked through the well-oiled door of the tavern. He noticed the sign as he entered. Like most taverns in the smaller villages, it was a picture rather than words. Depicted in the painting were several people reaching for what seemed to be a crown. What the sign might stand for was a mystery; one that Girrard really didn't care to pursue at the moment.
       The establishment was packed. There were very few empty seats. He shut the door behind him. The smell of the densely backed bodies, the dense fog of tobacco smoke, and the bitter aroma of spilt ale seemed enough to cover the sickening smell that had accompanied him all the way into town. Girrard breathed in deeply. The room that would have probably made him nauseous only hours earlier became a haven. A large pot hung over a fire, and the smell of food reached across the room causing the traveler to salivate. His shriveled stomach rumbled loudly. All his inhibitions evaporated with the promise of a meal.
       Girrard walked to a nearby table. "Is someone sitting here?"
       Nine eyes turned in his direction. "We don't get many strangers around here," a skinny man with an eye patch answered. He didn't sound upset, only surprised.
       "Take a load off," the farmer next to the empty seat called out.
       Girrard sat down hard on the well-used chair. "Thanks," he said while trying to get comfortable.
       He realized that he was still wearing the handkerchief around his nose. He undid the knot and stuffed it back in his pocket. "Does it always stink this bad around here?" The question left his lips before he really thought about what he was saying. Maybe these people were self-conscious about the way their town smelled. Girrard only got blank stares. In general, his tablemates looked mystified at the question. Girrard let it drop.
       A busty waitress came by a few moments later. She was pretty, a little pale and thin, but all the curves were in the right places. "Got bread and stew if you're hungry. Ale or wine to drink."
       "Bring me some stew and ale, beautiful." Girrard flashed a shiny silver coin.
If the barmaid was impressed, she didn't show it. She slapped down several coppers in change and went to fetch his food.
       "What's her name?"
       "Victoria," the lad on his left answered. "I wouldn't mess around with her tonight."
       "I'll take my chances," Girrard said. He watched her spoon some stew in to wooden bowl from the pot on the hearth.
       Girrard turned back to the five men that shared his table. "I got a little turned around a few days ago. What town is this?"
       "You're in Roy," the stocky man to his right answered between sloppy mouthfuls of food.
       The name of the village didn't help much. "I've traveled quite a bit, but I have never heard of Roy. Am I in Halfast, or is this Telest?"
Everyone at the table perked up at his question. A few chuckled. "This be the kingdom of Roy," an old-timer across the table answered as though that should explain everything.
       "What?" Girrard exclaimed. "How is it that I have never heard of an entire kingdom? I lived not two days ride from here for five years, and I have most definitely never heard of Roy." Girrard thought that he had a good handle on the local geography. He was baffled.
       "Roy isn't the biggest kingdom round," the man on his right answered, wiping his chin with a slice of bread. "You'd be surprised at how many people haven't heard of us."
       "How big is it?"
       "You're looking at it."
       "The bar?" Girrard scoffed. It was the most ridiculous thing that he had ever heard.
The locals looked mildly insulted. "No. The village."
After a brief pause, Girrard asked another question. "How can you have a kingdom of only one village. It's not possible. Someone would take you over in the time it took to sneeze."
       "We've been a kingdom for over a hundred years now sonny," squawked the old man. "Nobody has dared try."
       "Probably because of the smell," Girrard whispered under his breath. No one heard him.
Just then, the waitress got back with his food. Ale sloshed over the brim of the mug as she threw it down in front of him. "Want anything else?" she asked grumpily.
       "This will do fine for now." Girrard reached out and slapped her fanny. The look she gave him would have turned a decent man to stone. Girrard winked at her. The blond beauty stomped off swearing obscenely.
"Is she always this happy." Girrard eyed the food ravenously.
       "No, she's just mad cause she's got to work tonight," the lad answered.
       Girrard shoved a spoonful of the hot stew into his mouth. He almost spit it back out. It was terrible. Easily the worst he had ever tasted. The putrid air outside must have betrayed his sense of smell if he ever thought that this slop smelt appetizing.
       "Pretty good, huh," the gluttonous farmer to his right said while patting a full stomach. He had three empty bowls in front of him.
       As he was starving to death, Girrard decided to try another bite. It was just as bad.
He ate slowly, diluting the taste with large gulps of ale.
He thought about Roy as he ate. He concluded that the locals were probably fooling with him about the whole kingdom thing. Girrard didn't know what he had done to deserve it, but he decided that he wasn't going to take the full brunt of the joke. He prepared some questions to stump the others.
       "If this is a kingdom, who's the king," Girrard asked between bites.
       "We all are," the man with the patch answered.
       "I'm sorry, your Highnesses. I didn't recognize you." Girrard sputtered mockingly.
       "No, we all take turns," he responded indignantly. Girrard could tell that the men at the table did not care for his flippant attitude. "We trade off each week. All the adults over twenty-five are eligible. When they are old enough, we just work them into the rotation."
       It was obvious this was more than just a casual joke. The skinny man did not look smart enough to be making this up spontaneously. It was probably the local prank used on all strangers. Girrard decided to continue playing along. "How do you get anything done if you change rulers every week?"
       "We have regular laws that are always the same. The king can only make three new proclamations each week."
       "I bet you get some pretty bad kings if just anyone gets to rule?" Girrard wondered how far this ridiculous joke could go.
       "Yea, Richard here is a real tyrant," the man two seats to his left piped up while slapping the older man next to him on the back. "Every three years he gets the whole darned town out workin on his castle. Another twenty or so years and she'll be done, eh Richie." Girrard remembered the half finished building he saw on his way into town.
       "Your one to talk John," the farmer on Girrard's right snorted. "Remember that time when you declared war on Farsville cause you thought Ed Harrison stole your mule. It was a good thing that your week was up before we actually got there, or we would've had a real bloodbath on our hands."
       John blushed crimson. "That mule loved me. How was I to know that she would run away like that. I'd seen that old peddler from Farsville eyen up old Bessie. Even offered me money for her. I was sure 'twas Ed that took her." Everyone chuckled at John's expense.
       "What about poor Hal locked up in the stocks all week?" John said to change the subject.
       "Now, he deserved what he got," farmer replied. "Shouldn't have been courting William's daughter right before his turn at the throne."
       Girrard was starting to believe their ridiculous story. "Hal got punished only because he liked the king's daughter?"
       "Nope," the man with the patch was quick to answer. "Hal was locked up because he is a tailor. This week, anyone caught sowing is a traitor to the crown, and gets thrown in the stocks."
       "That doesn't make any sense," Girrard said. "How can anyone make a law like that? It is obvious that your king disapproves of Hal and is trying to get back at him."
       "He can do anything he wants as long as he is king. It's not up to us to question his motives."
       "This is ridiculous. How can you get anything accomplished with a system of government like this? It doesn't make any sense. How can everyone support someone that is only king for a week, and makes as bad of decisions as you people have admitted to making?"
       Richard, the old man across from him, didn't seem to like what Girrard had to say. "Don't go questioning our king, Sonny. Our way of doing things is working fine. Has for as long as I've been alive. We don't need no outsider telling us how best to run our country."
       Girrard could see where this conversation was going. He had no desire to spend the night out in the stocks with Hal. He decided to end the discussion before he got in trouble. Tomorrow morning he would buy some supplies and get out of this twisted town before being a stranger became illegal. "All right, you win. I'm sorry."
       Everyone seemed ready to let the matter drop. They all turned to their ale and private thoughts.
       Girrard caught Victoria by the hand next time she passed. She pulled viciously away from his grasp. "All right honey. Don't get excited. I only wanted another drink." He held up his empty mug as evidence. The malicious look in her eye would have made most men turn tail and run. Girrard didn't take the hint. He admired her longingly as she plowed her way to the bar.
        "I'd be careful if I were you," the youth next to him whispered under his breath, "She's the new? Ouch." He rubbed his leg from where someone had obviously kicked him under the table.
       Girrard didn't care much about the lad's warning. He liked his women feisty. He wasn't one to back away from a challenge, and oh, what a challenge.
       When Victoria came back with his drink, Girrard pulled his classic move. As she reached to set the ale on the table, he grabbed her wrist, reached around her waist, and pulled her onto his lap. It had worked a hundred times before.
       Victoria struggled, but she was not a match for Girrard's strength. "Let go of me," she growled.
       "I just want a little company, sweetie."
       Everyone at his table gasped at what Girrard had done. The roar of the tavern died off suddenly. All eyes were on the stranger. Many of the locals were staring at him, mouths hanging open. Girrard had that nasty feeling that everyone knew something that he didn't.
       Almost the same moment of Girrard's folly, two heavily armed, uniformed men stepped through the door. A wash of the putrid night air wafted through the room. Girrard gagged at the stench. Following the guards through the door came what could only be the King. He wore a flowing purple robe, carried a scepter in his hand, and perched atop his head was crown that did not quite fit.
       Chairs grated against the hardwood floor as the locals all fell to one knee before their sovereign. Girrard still had Victoria on his knee, or he might have followed the others. The barmaid quit struggling. A sly grin swept across her pale lips.
       The man behind the bar rose at King William's bidding and proclaimed in a loud voice, "let the ceremony of succession begin."
       Everyone got up and took their seat. The two guards took their places on either side of the King. "Victoria Rathworth come forward," the man on the right bellowed.
       Girrard was stunned. Victoria threw his limp arms off her waist and made her way to the front of the room.
       The exchange of power did not take long. It turned out that King William was none other than the barkeep. In his final address to the public, he thanked them for all the service they had rendered in fixing up his tavern. After he dressed Victoria in her robes and placed the crown on her head, he bowed before her and hailed her "High Queen". The other town members matched his conviction with their own oath of loyalty. Girrard would have found the ceremony interesting under any other circumstances, but all he could really do now was stew over his fate. It soon came time for Queen Victoria to make her three proclamations. Girrard just sat with his head on the table, lamenting his terrible fortune.
       "First of all, under my rule, I want my house scrubbed top to bottom." Everyone groaned at the news, but not to loudly. She really didn't have a very big house.
       "Secondly, I proclaim Saturday to be Queen Victoria Day. The town will feast to my glory, and no one will work." Hearty cheers erupted in the tavern. Victoria finally had to whistle shrilly to quiet everyone down. "I'm not done yet." She turned to William who had retaken his place behind the bar. "Since my father was so eager to have me work on the night of my coronation, I am sure that he won't mind providing the dinner for our party," there was a wicked gleam in her eyes," at his own expense."
       Her dad raised his voice in protest, but quieted down quickly as the Queen's guards loosened their swords from their sheaths.
       Victoria paused, obviously deciding on something. From the way she starred hatefully at Girrard it was obvious what her dilemma was, whether to use her last law to punish him, or on what she had worked out beforehand.
       "Bring that man forward," she finally proclaimed, pointing at Girrard.
       Her two guards were quick to comply. Girrard tried a run for the door, but someone stuck out a foot and tripped him. They hauled him to his feet and made him kneel before the queen.
       "Finally, all strangers to our land will pay a tax." Wild clapping exploded after the announcement.
       Girrard grumbled indignantly. He didn't have much money left.
       "This tax will be to serve as a servant in the tavern for the full week of my reign." Victoria held herself regally. "My loyal subjects will not abuse these poor souls." A groan of disappointment came from the crowd. "No, you will treat any strangers forced into this service exactly as they have treated me. It is only fair."
       She motioned to the guards to have the slave stand. She put her old ratty apron around Girrard's neck, almost as if she were knighting him. Calls for ale and sexy whistles came from the locals. They were certainly enjoying this. Girrard wished he had died of starvation out on the trail.
       As Girrard turned to fill his first order, he felt a stinging slap on his butt.
       "Thanks sweetie." The queen flashed him a triumphant smile. "Now, somebody go let Hal out of the stocks. We are getting married."

                                                            -END-