Crucifixion

Never before have I experienced so much pain as I did that day. The
physical agony caused by the nails they had driven mercilessly through
my palms, coupled with the pain of humiliation, and of helplessness. I
had been crucified, by order of King Gerald, for my supposed 'crimes
against the people'.

That I was wholly innocent of these crimes seemed not to matter to him,
or to any of the 'people' in question. I will admit that I was hunting
King Gerald s royal deer, but that is hardly a crime punishable by
crucifixion, is it? Perhaps you do not know the law of this land, but
it is generally agreed that the basic punishment for illegal hunting is
merely a good telling off. That, however, is not the crime I was
accused of. I was wrongfully accused, tried and sentenced to death by
crucifixion for the murder of an eight-year-old girl, whose body was
found in the woods one week ago. I had been in the woods that same day,
committing the previously mentioned minor felony, and it was my
misfortune to be found near to the girl by the search party that had
been sent to look for her. Mistaking the men for royal wardens, I took
flight, which was enough to convince them of my guilt when they caught
me. The girl had been brutally raped and mutilated, yet even my own
mother thought me to be guilty of these most heinous crimes. The trial
was a mockery; they all wanted retribution, and I was their only
scapegoat.

There you have it. I contemplated these events as I hung on the wooden
cross, trying to ignore the searing pain in my hands. Licking away a
droplet of sweat that ran down my cheek, I found myself wishing for
nightfall, and the blessed coolness it would bring. In this land, when
someone is to be crucified, they are given a small platform on which
they can barely stand flatfooted, in order to take the weight from
their impaled hands. They think of this as a kindness, but the
resulting long hours of agony, unable to rest or to die seemed far
worse to me. I have never tried the other method, but I have seen it
done, and know it to be far quicker than my sorry fate.

After a few hours, the crowd that had come to watch my punishment
gradually dissipated, and the only person left was an old woman. I
suddenly felt sure that she was the dead girl's grandmother or
something, and would torment me with sticks or rocks, or hurl abuse as
many others had already done. Instead, she walked up to the base of the
cross, some three yards below my bonded feet, and began to utter a
prayer of salvation.

'Why do you pray for my soul, if you believe me to be guilty?' I
somehow managed to say, after licking my cracked lips with my
tongue.
The old woman did not look up, but continued to mumble her prayer. I
wanted to shout at her, to demand an answer, but found myself incapable
of anything more than a groan. Eventually, the old woman finished her
supplication, and raised her head to look at me with infinite
slowness.

'I do not judge you, Abram.' The words seemed to be little more than a
croak, yet they were surprisingly soothing. With that, the old crone
left, leaving me alone with my misery.

Despite the discomfort of my position, the intense pain forced me into
unconsciousness. I was awoken by a large black bird, which had taken
upon itself to land on my head. I tried to shake it off, and eventually
it settled on one of the arms of the cross, to my right. There was
nobody around, as far as I could see in the crepuscular light, and I
deduced that I had been unconscious for several hours. I longed for a
drink of water, but was glad that the heat of the day was past. How
long could a man survive in these conditions? I asked myself this,
despite knowing full well the answer. I had seen several crucifixions
in the past, and knew that when they were performed in this style, the
unfortunate victims often lived for several days, despite the lack of
water. I decided that I would not go on for so long, and so tried to
take my feet from the platform. The pain was excruciating, and I could
not endure it for more than a few seconds. I screamed in frustration,
and actually willed myself to die, but it was not to be.

My mind turned to the possibility of escape, but dismissed it almost as
suddenly. Nobody had ever been known to escape from a crucifixion
without outside help, and since the whole area is guarded day and
night, and the criminals sentenced to die in this particular manner are
widely regarded as murderers, rapists and the like, this rarely
happens. I had no real friends, merely acquaintances and drinking
companions, who would never endanger their own lives to help me. No, if
I were going to escape, it would have to be a solo effort.

The pain in my hands reminded me of the thug who had hammered the nails
into them and tied my feet together. I remembered the expression on his
face as he worked, one of regret and sorrow, and I knew that he had not
wanted to do it. He had not, in fact, hammered the nails all the way
in, as I have seen done on other crucifixions. When I remembered this,
I gave an almighty pull on my right hand, trying to move the
nail.

Pain clouded my vision, and I cried out despite myself. The raven, for
that was what it was, mirrored my cry with one of its own, and took
flight. When I had recovered, I realised that this could well be a good
omen, for the raven has long been regarded as a sign heralding death.
Mustering all of my strength, I tried to move my hand again, but slower
than before, and more deliberate. The pain was bearable this time, and
I gritted my teeth against it. I could feel the nail grating against
small bones in my hand, but it did not appear to be moving. I stopped
to rest, then started to try again.

After several minutes of this self-inflicted torture, I began to feel
something moving. I renewed my efforts, and was rewarded with a
hideously painful jerk as my hand ripped free from the nail, leaving it
still imbedded in the wood of the cross. Ignoring the pain and warm
flow of blood, I wept with joy. I continued to weep, my free arm
hanging loosely by my side, until I again slipped into
unconsciousness.

When I awoke, I could feel the bright rays of the early morning sun on
my face, and was wholly surprised to still be alive. From the height of
the sun, I judged that it was only a few hours past dawn, and that I
might still have time to free myself before any people came. There are
always some people who are sick enough to watch the suffering of the
crucified. My parched lips curled into a twisted grin, but then froze
in a horrified rictus; I had seen someone approaching.

Suddenly filled with a dread that whoever it was would re-nail me to
the cross, I hastily pushed my ravaged hand back onto the bloody nail,
wincing with the pain of the grinding bones. The figure came closer,
and I saw that it was a middle-aged man, walking with the aid of a
stick. He leered up at me, showing a mouthful of blackened teeth.

'Not dead yet?' he cackled, sitting on a nearby stone with an audible
cracking of joints. 'Well, I think I'll stay 'til you croak.' With that
he proceeded to take a meaty bone from his satchel, which he began to
gnaw, ravenously.

Oh, the unfairness of it! I was more hungry than I had ever thought
possible, owing not only to recent lack of nourishment, but also to the
frugality of the meals served to those on death row. I was unable to
keep myself from salivating, and could not tear my gaze from the man's
grisly repast. Eventually, he threw the bone at me, still with a large
amount of meat on it. It struck my chest, and I was taken by a terrible
rage, causing me to yell obscenities at the man, who just cackled and
rocked to and fro on his stone.

He remained sitting there for the entire day. Others came and went, but
he just sat there, occasionally eating something from his bag. When
dusk came at last, and it became clear to him that I was not going to
give him the satisfaction of dying, he wandered off, leaving me alone
once more. I forced myself to wait until darkness, even though I could
feel my strength draining away from me each minute.

As the last rays of light disappeared with the sun, I tried to gather
my wits and strengthen my resolve. I decided to summon all of my
courage and stamina, and make a determined effort to escape the wooden
cross that would otherwise be my unwitting killer. I remember thinking
that I would succeed; that I had to escape, simply because I couldn't
believe that anyone could suffer so greatly and not survive. Foolish
and untrue, considering the number of crucifixions I had witnessed
myself, but still, it was the one thought that kept me alive.

My reverie was disturbed by a fluttering sound below me, and I managed
to make out a large black shape moving about on the ground before me.
It was a bird of some kind, and I believed it to be the very same raven
who had made my acquaintance the previous evening. As if to confirm my
suspicions, the creature ceased picking at the discarded bone beneath
me, and languidly resumed its previous position on my right. This time,
I took comfort in its presence, and even felt that it might be helping
me in some way. Indeed, I felt a surge of strength flow into my body,
and I knew that the time had come to act.

I wrenched my right hand away from the nail once more, thinking that I
would be able to endure the pain now that I knew how intense it would
be. I was wrong. The world seemed to explode around me, and my eyes
shed tears of blood as I strove to hold onto my consciousness. The roar
of blood in my ears seemed deafening, but began to subside and be
replaced by a new sound; that of my weeping.

'Do not give up, Abram. You are closer to freedom than you
believe.'

The words had been spoken directly into my right ear, in a familiar
croaking voice that seemed to quench the fire of pain that burned
within me. With great effort, I managed to turn my head, and found
myself to be staring directly into the beady eyes of the raven. Whether
I was hallucinating or dreaming I know not, but the bird seemed to
simply vanish without a sound. I felt blessed in some way, and turned
my attention to the nail in my left hand.

Even before I began, I knew it was hopeless to attempt to free my left
hand in the same manner as I had my right. There was simply not enough
leverage, and I had precious little strength remaining. I knew exactly
what I had to do in order to escape, but the possible results if it
were to fail did not bear thinking about. However, I had no realistic
alternative plan, so...

I did my best to jump upwards and to the left, then closed my eyes
tight. For the most agonising ten seconds you could possibly imagine,
the nail in my hand bore my full weight. Then, immeasurably slowly, the
nail began to slide out of the wood of the cross. I blacked out just as
I fell away from that wooden instrument of torture, and I truly
believed that I had died.

I was awoken by a persistent stabbing pain in my forehead, and
discovered that it was the raven, attacking me with its beak. It was
dawn, and I knew that I had to leave the shadow of the cross before
anyone came. Once again, the raven somehow gave me the strength to
rise, and to ignore the pain in my hands and ankle, which I must have
injured in my fall from the cross. Staggering and half blind, I
followed the raven as it led me into the woods behind the cross.

As we travelled, I began to feel stronger and stronger, which puzzled
me, as did the gradual slowing of the raven's flight. At that point I
was past caring, and soon found I had the strength to begin
running.

The raven fell from the sky and into my arms, and I stopped my
desperate flight to examine it for injury. Its wings were both ragged
and bloodied at the tips, and it had broken one of its claws. With the
other, it clutched feebly at my arm, whilst its eyes stared deeply into
mine. Then I understood, and breathed a word of thanks as its body went
limp in my fully healed hands.

I buried the raven on that spot, not knowing how else to treat it. I
felt a wholly changed man, and resolved to live my newly given life to
its fullest. I blinked away tears of sadness for my dead saviour, then
strode away from the grave. Away from the grave, and onwards to my
freedom.