Blind Eyes

Chapter Fourteen

I am surprised to be woken up by the father the next morning. He knocks at my door rapidly and keeps knocking until I am able to stumble out of bed and open it for him. He is dressed up formally, different from his usual clothes, and he looks eager to get going. He also looks sick. His face is completely drained of colour, and as I look at his hand that rests on my doorknob, I see that his hand, like Peter's, is strangely darkened.

"Why aren't you ready?" he asks. "We have to go."

"Go to...?"

"The ceremony. Where they will be burned."

"How do you know about that?" I question. My father wasn't at the trial yesterday.

"Oh, the news is all over town. We shouldn't be late Lara. Can you please get ready?" he pleads.

"You're sick, father. Shouldn't you stay home? I can stay with you, if you'd like," I say, partly because he is sick. I also say it because I do not understand why my father is so eager to watch Maggie and her family die.

He clears his throat and looks at me strangely. "What are you talking about? I'm not sick."

I grab his hand from the doorknob and hold it in mine. It feels cold and hard, heavy. I bring it up in front of his face. "Your hand, look. You look so sick. You can't possibly feel well."

He looks at his hand, apparently not seeing anything wrong with it. "My hand is fine Lara. And I do feel well, although we must get going."

"But yesterday," I say, "You threw up. You said you weren't feeling well. Trust me, you're really sick; I think you should rest."

"I'm feeling much better now, I really am. And I must be on my way; would you like to come with me or not?"

He looks at me impatiently. I look at him blankly, at a loss. He shrugs defeatedly and starts to walk towards the kitchen.

"Wait," I say, "I'll come with you. Just let me get ready."

"Okay," he says.

I close my door, and quickly put on clothes and brush my hair. Clearly there is something not right in my father's mind, and I do not want him to go out into town by himself. I am worried he will do something bad. If he cannot even realize how sick he is, I am sure there are other things he does not realize as well.

After I exit my bedroom, I put on a coat, and we walk out of the house and down the street together. We do not talk while we walk, but I notice that my father continuously clears his throat, to the point where I become irritated.

"Is your throat okay?" I ask eventually.

He rubs his neck mindlessly. "It feels rather weird, as if there is something sticky in there. Perhaps I should drink some water," he says, but I know that water will not help his situation.

When we reach the main street, I spot a cluster of people a little further down, moving about a wide area of the street. My father and I walk towards them, and as we get closer, I see they are setting up the stakes. Thomas is standing nearby, supervising. I watch as two men carry a thick wooden pole, pointed at one end. They heave it up, and bring it down hard, the pointed end sliding into the dirt-filled space between the sparse cobblestones.

There are two other stakes lying nearby, one the same size as the first one, and another much smaller one. Another group of people pick up the second large stake and bring it over, a little ways from the first one, repeating the same process to insert it into the ground.

Out of all the places the town could have chosen to set up, I do not understand why they chose a location right in the middle of town, on the street. Although the street is old and broken enough to allow the stakes to be set up, it will be a messy affair afterwards. If Maggie's family is burned alive here, there ashes will have to be swept off the street, but I'm sure some will remain on the street, and will be walked over by the people of this town, sticking to their shoes. Every time people pass by this section of the road, they will be reminded of death, of the screams that I'm sure will fill the air later today. I do not know why they would want that.