20 In 5 -- Vol. III -- The Only Pure One

By Gil C. Schmidt

One person makes a difference
more often than not.

The town was a festering sore on the face of the earth. A strung-out, ramshackle, decaying plot of ravaged coast, bordered by a gray fetid ocean to the west and pockmarked mountains everywhere else. A sweltering swamp in summer, a frigid ice hell in winter, the town had no name. It merited none.


Several thousand lost souls crammed the town’s hovels; how many was a matter of conjecture and deadly bets. Thieves and murderers rubbed rags with pimps and whores, all of them hunted by grifters and conmen, so many of whom were women. Blood caked the gutters in the filthy streets; blood also stained the lower walls of every wretched building, both inside and out. Gangs came together in the flash of a knife and broke up even faster. The dead were dragged by former comrades or enemies to be tossed over the ocean-side ridge, bodies smashing to the rocks below. The demon fish fed well and often.


Money changed hands by death as often as by chance, but in both ways more often than by choice. The many seldom slept, unless watched over by others for whom the favor would be returned upon awaking. The food stank, but filled the gnawing bellies that crawled into town and lost the courage to crawl out again. No one was called friend and trust was a word long forgotten.


Except…


The tall gaunt man wore a robe of soft gray, his doeskin boots stained badly but intact. He walked quietly, his hands in full view, the gray robe cinched at the waist by a length of knotted white rope with no sheath or scabbard in sight. His long steel-gray hair was tied back in a tail that ended between his wide shoulders. His eyes were sad. A poet, long-dead, once called them “The eyes that yearn.” Since the night that poet died with his new song’s notes barely faded, the tall gaunt man was known as Yearner.


Yearner was a beggar. The beggar. He walked the muck-encrusted streets with long steps, stopping on occasion to ask for a coin. Many pulled knives or swords or sticks at his approach and these were known as recent arrivals; their passage through the town was watched with greed and lust. Some turned and entered dark doorways or simply walked away faster than the Yearner. These were known as the new-dead or the longers, those who had stayed long in the town. The few who gave coins were known as fools.


But the days became weeks, seasons changed and the Yearner remained, a quiet presence in the mayhem. He seldom spoke, except to thank a coingiver. He nodded politely at any inquiry or threat, and when cold steel was pressed upon his skin, he would remain quiet until the weapon was sheathed, either by the holder or the holder’s killer. For over time, the poet’s name for the beggar began to change in the pustulent town, and the Yearner was given the sobriquet of The Pure One, and as another set of seasons changed, he became The Only Pure One.


He no longer begged much, for coins were quietly placed in his hands by stealthy passers-by. Sometimes a small loaf of fresh-baked bread was given to him, wrapped in warm cloth, the riches of a dozen deaths in this pustule of a town. The Only Pure One was noticed by all; in this ravaged hellhole of lost hope, he was cared for. He was, probably or improbably, loved.


One gray summer day, a bravo swaggered into the muddy street, heavy sword at his side. A newcomer with his face wind-burned by the mountain’s high, exposed passes. His clothes were tattered finery and his temper was hot. The Only Pure One walked up to the bravo and reached out his hand. With fluid motion of long practice, the bravo slammed his sword through The Only Pure One’s chest. The bravo’s laughter was full of satisfaction as the Yearner’s blood flowed to mingle with the town’s past.


The crowd gathered quickly, shocked, stunned, paralyzed by what could have been just another death. Then, a trickle of thoughts became a stream, and then a flood: The Only Pure One had given much, but he had also received so very much… And thus began the bloodiest battle of all, until the town was left empty to only wind and waves.



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Announcing February 2012 Edition of "20 in 5"


We hope you enjoyed this FREE article from Volume III of our monthly ebook, "20 in 5." Go purchase a copy right now at  Smashwords to enjoy 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.