The Man Trap

For a brief moment Fletcher studied his reflection. His one good eye took in, dispassionately, the taut scarred flesh that was once the left side of his face. Julie used to think him handsome, in a rugged kind of way. At night, when he slept, fitfully these times, she would come to him and stroke his beard, whispering in his ear the things they would do together once they were married.

Fletcher shook these thoughts from his mind, plunged the still hot horse-shoe into the trough of dark, cold water, taking no comfort from the sizzling that indicated the final making of the shoe. He turned to the forge and nodded to Seth, who silently resumed pulling rhythmically on the long wooden pole that operated the leather bellows.

The hot charcoal sprang to life, Fletcher scanned the workbench for the next job. He knew there was none. After a brief hesitation he said to Seth "no more today my lad".

Seth understood. The boy, mature well beyond his twelve turbulent years, left the bellows and asked "shall we play"?

It was over three months since they had played the game. The blacksmith, already a middle aged man at twenty-seven years, had never gone to school, and Seth, who's quick mind took to reading the first year of school, had taught Fletcher the basics by means of blank off cuts of iron, inscribed with the letters of the alphabet, which they would toss one by one onto the earthen floor, then each would take turns moving them letter by letter into words, with the winner guessing the word before it was completed.

Fletcher could now read and write, albeit with a simple vocabulary, but it was enough to make himself understood. Since the accident however, Fletcher had no enthusiasm for the game, and Seth understood the reason.

"Take yourself off home now" said Fletcher, "and tell your brother there will be food tomorrow because as God willed, the rain has kept customers away today".

The boy busied himself dampening the forge, putting away the few tools and sweeping the floor, which really was as clean as need be. He was reluctant to leave, knowing that Fletcher would be alone until the morning. Since his disfigurement, the blacksmith had taken to sleeping on the floor of the forge. The villagers kept clear of him now, not so much because of his fearful visage, but more because they feared being drawn into the confrontation between Fletcher and the Squire.

Everyone around these parts kept clear of the Squire if at all possible, his reputation spread across three counties, where the name - 'The Red Squire' - was used to frighten wayward children into obedience. Fletcher never was one to blame others for his position in life. He considered himself fortunate to have a skill, one taught him by his father, but now he harboured a grudge of overwhelming hatred towards the Squire, one that consumed his every waking hour, in spite of his valiant efforts to overcome this life-sapping mental preoccupation.

His only respite was in sleep. Then, as if by some occult trick, he dreamt dreams of such bright optimism and love, that upon waking, he had to shake himself to come back into the real world.

Every night was the same. Julie would be there, and they would travel (he had never walked more than three miles from the village, but had been told about lands far away where the sun shone every day and people had no need of shoes), together he and his intended would be in this wonderful land of light, and although he always awoke cold and damp and stiff and aching, the memory of his dream-time kept him alive through the day.

Fletcher's mind searched for a solution. He went through the facts in chronological order, there must be a connection, a way to tell the world, at least his world, that what he intended to do would be justice. Not justice in the legal sense, but his kind of justice, a justice that would vindicate him, at least in the eyes of his neighbours, and yet tell the rest why.

After Seth went home, Fletcher began his evening ritual of planning revenge. It ended, as it always did, inconclusively. That night Julie came into his dream as usual, but this time she seemed to be telling him something, that events were going to change, that from now on life would be different, resolved into a future so wonderful they would scarcely be able to comprehend it.

The morning broke damp and foggy, mist swirled around the copse, driven by an unseen wind. Fletcher walked back and forth, pounding the packed earth floor with his iron studied boots, his mind disturbed by the strange dream of the previous night. He was expecting a horse to be brought for shoeing, and wondered how they would eat if the farmer failed to come. Seth arrived, his face breaking into a smile as it always did upon catching Fletcher's glance. Fletcher was deeply moved by this simple gesture; everyone else found it impossible to look him in the eye.

Together they worked at bringing the forge to life. Soon steam was rising from coats they had hung to dry over the forge. Damp was always a problem in this part of the land. "Seth" said Fletcher after a long period of busying himself at nothing in particular "things are about to change my lad, and there is something I have to tell you before we part".

Seth's face lost its usual happy countenance. He knew that trade was bad, and the call of a wider world tussled with his love for the old man and his gentle, noble ways. Fletcher avoided Seth's gaze, which he could feel burning his blind side. He continued, "You have been like a son to me, and a friend, a loyal friend indeed, and.........." before he could finish, the sound of a galloping horse changed the atmosphere as if a sudden storm had struck.

The rider was Red Squire, in his hand he carried a mantrap. "Here – blacksmith – I want this fitted with spikes, caught a damned poacher last night and he got away, left his boot in the trap, along with the skin off his foot". The trap was flung down in front of the forge door, the rider turned his mount and spurred it away, calling back "I want it on the morrow, or you will pay dearly".

The trap lay where it had fallen, like a hungry beast waiting to pounce on anyone foolish enough to approach. Seth knew the implication, and waited for his master to decide. They waited. Gradually the woods resumed singing, small animals scurried back to their lifelong search for sustenance, and the two figures at the door of the forge heard them, yet were unaware.

Fletcher saw, with the awful certainty of a path chosen, but yet not taken, that this moment would mark the end of his life, at least in these parts. This job would, he knew, be the cause of great sorrow, he did not know what direction events would take, only that the end was fast approaching. Shaking his head, he fetched the long tongs, gripped the trap as one would a snake, and plopped it into the water trough, where it disappeared beneath the inky water, but not from their thoughts.

"Tomorrow lad tomorrow, you best be off now, there's nothing we can do more today". Seth fetched his coat, slung it around his shoulder and searched for something to say to the old man. Walking to the door, he managed "I'll be in bright and early on the morrow, maybe there will be a horse to shoe". They both knew that no horse would be brought, but Seth's optimism always overcame reason.

The trees absorbed the last of the fading light and Fletcher watched the still surface of the water-trough until it became as one with the rough stone wall against which it was set. Then, with a deep intake of breath, he walked back into the cave-like interior of the forge and put fresh fuel on the dying embers, taking comfort even before any warmth was given.

By midnight, he had a plan. For the first time in his life he relished the prospect of revenge, of retribution, of putting a stop to something that sorely needed ending. He knew what he was going to do, but not quite how he would do it. That would require a degree of waiting, waiting for the opportunity, which he was sure would come. Fletcher knew anger, and also how best to control it.

He rested by the heat of the forge, dozing fitfully, through the remains of the night. His brief episodes of near slumber were full of pain. Scenes of his recent past re-enacted themselves with a vividness more real, more detailed than the grey light of actuality. He watched as his betrothed came towards him, smiling shyly with

anticipation. He watched her face change as the squire rode between them, bending down to whisper words that made her say "no – I will not – never". Then he saw her run to the church, go inside, to be followed by the Squire. Fletcher saw himself run towards the door of the church, the Squire there before him, the door shut and bolted on the inside. Fear sweeping over him again. Fear for his loved one, to be overridden by hatred for the Squire.

Then came the scream. That ear piercing, long drawn out scream, coming closer, and when the scream died, Julie, his love lying dead at his feet. The Squire's retreating footsteps drowned by the cries of the blacksmith's grief.

What was the word of a blacksmith against a Squire? Where were the witnesses? There were none, at last none that would speak for him. All this played out during his long night by the forge, andwelded his resolve to the hated man-trap and its owner.

He woke long before the dawn, cold of body, but with his head fired by a purpose that gave him an energy he had not seen since his youth. He made up the forge, almost breaking the bellows pole in his effort to hurry the heat. He picked up the man-trap and took out the spring, re-tempering it to a greater degree of tension. Then he heated and hammered the claws to a sharp edge – quite unnecessary for the purpose of restraining a leg.

Next he gathered his tools together and selected the ones that were most useful and also the lightest. Then he made a message of the alphabet tablets. He spelt out the words SETH I HAVE GONE TAKE THE MONEY GO TO LONDON and left them in the tool box, knowing that Seth would mix up the letters as soon as he had read the message. He wanted to be away from the village as soon as the deed was done, and had no desire to put the boy in any more danger then he was in already.

The Squire had used Seth as a means of coercing Fletch in the past. The man-trap had been forged under the duress of losing the boy if it were not made. It had not been long before it was sprung. The man got away with a badly bruised leg only because the spring was deliberately made weak. Now, Fletch's livelihood was once more at stake. He had lost his future wife, Seth was in constant danger of being taken by the Squire. And there was the other thing. The little matter of his disfigurement.

As Fletch strained to compress the newly tempered spring, all his energy went into the thought that soon – very soon, he would be avenged. Not for himself, but for Julie, and all the other villagers who lived in dread of the Red Squire.

Placing the money they had accumulated over the year into the safe hole under the forge, money meant to pay rent for the mean little plot of land the forge stood on, Fletch gathered the selected tools into a leather bag, together with a wrapped chunk of bread, some apples and a hunk of cooked chicken given him by a farmer in late payment for mending a plough-shere.

Payments always came late, but this one would be on time. The payment for pain and suffering, not least the constant pain of his face. Fletch took one last gaze into the cooling trough. Even he recoiled at the sight, no wonder the villagers kept away from him, who could blame them? He touched the livid scar, then placed his hand over it, so that he could only see the good side of his face. He remembered how the Squire had come into the forge that day. How he had thrown down the man-trap and demanded a copy be made. Fletch remembered telling him "no – I will never make such a device".

The next memory was of unbelievable pain, and Seth pushing his face into the water trough. Everyone knew who had smote Fletch on the back of the head and tried to obliterate his face in the heat of the forge. Seth had saved his life, but Fletch often wished he had failed. Often wished he was with his Julie, in heaven, if there was such a place.

Now he had a job to do. If he failed in his quest, so be it, he would have at least tried, and he would surely perish for the attempt. If he succeeded – he didn't like to think about that – because life away from the village, Seth and the forge was unimaginable. Quickly, he shouldered the bag, picked up the man-trap, then made his way into the forest to lie-up until darkness, when he would be able to finish his task.

The Squire stood in front of the fire in the great hall, legs apart, warming his ample rear on the blazing logs and his ample stomach with a glass of brandy. He was waiting for his manservant to bring the plate of cold game, his customary supper, and he was drunk – as usual. His eyes glanced towards the figure that entered, silently. "Hurry up man, before I roast your lazy feet over this fire".

The man advanced, walking tall, head turned to one side, better to see the figure of the Squire, who, expecting the manservant, paid no attention except to vent his anger. The figure walked slowly, in his right hand, swinging in step, to and fro, in an ever increasing arc, the man-trap – sprung and ready.

Twelve steps separated the two men. One expecting a meal, the other satisfaction of a different kind. At six steps the Squire noticed the object swinging by the others aside, at five, he tried to fathom what it was, at four, realization came that the man was not his manservant, at three, he watched as the man turned his face quickly from left to right and back again, giving a fleeting glimpse of the hideous, eye-less profile. Then in a smooth, almost graceful sweep, the Squire saw the trap rise, then fall, to land squarely on his head.

Mechanical devices have no qualms, no ability to differentiate between good and bad, proper operation is all that is required of them. The plate did it's proper job, releasing the catch that held the spring's mighty tension. The spring did it's job of moving the jaws in the required way. The jaws did their job of clamping tight onto anything that had touched the pressure plate, which in this case had come to rest on the red, curly hair on the crown of the Squire.

The distance between the top of the head and the neck was the same as the distance between the sole of the foot and the calf of a man, but the trap did not mind, neither did the man who had fashioned it, in fact, he was pleased to see how well it worked. There was just enough edge on the steel jaws to cut well into the flesh, but not enough to sever the head.

Fletch watched as blood sprang from the neck of the man who had brought so much pain. He watched as the brandy glass shattered on the floor, the arms rose to grip the unrelenting trap, straining to release the pressure that only a strong man using both feet and hands could do. He watched the eyes bulging, the colour draining gradually from the bloated face, the the heaving chest, lungs pushing against crushed windpipe. Like a dance of death, the Squire gently swayed to and fro, the steel crown atop his once proud head, glittering in the firelight, a crown that suited him, fitted him, as if made for the job – which in a way it had been.

After a time, a time that was slow for Fletch, his blood hot and charged with adrenaline, but was even slower for the other, fighting his first and last battle, knowing it to be his ignoble end, yet trying nonetheless to ward it off, as a child would try to remove a padlock, not knowing what a key was. The struggle went on, even when lack of oxygen removed the power of balance and the victim of his own machine lay writhing on the floor, unable even to scream, then to see, then, finally, after many minutes, to comprehend.

Fletch did not wait for the end. He knew what it would be, and had no desire to witness the agony he had put in train.

As the first light of dawn drew a line across the English channel, Fetch walked onward. He had covered twenty miles since departing the Squire's manor house. No doubt people would be after him soon. They would not have much guessing to do. France lay ahead, just another twenty-odd miles away. If Fletch could make it across the channel, he stood a chance. He had heard tales of France, others had gone there, smugglers, who made good money from the fine things people wanted but which the customs men would have the king's duty paid.

Fletch knew no weariness. His mind was full only of one thing. His love had been avenged, and that was all that mattered. He carried on southward, avoiding villages and hamlets in case word had somehow got out ahead of him. As the sky lightened, so did his spirits. Rain began to drum on his back, the clouds above him were black, but ahead, over the sea, colour came, deeper with every minute. He imagined that heaven was there, high above the sea in that glorious, intensifying radiance. He saw, in his mind's eye, Julie there, waiting patiently for him, dressed in her finest gown, the deep pink one that was to have been her wedding gown.

His judgement gone, along with the discharge of his self allottedtask, he started to call out her name. "Julie – Julie my love – I am coming". But no sound escaped his parched lips. Only the thought left his head, along with the sweat of his brow. For the first time since her death, a smile formed on the blacksmith's face, at least the side of it that was not scarred. A weight was lifted from him. At lasta future held out its hand to him, a future that was free of worry, free of pain, free of fear.

 Fletch's heart suddenly regained the lightness that it had when he was a boy, the lightness it possessed when he first noticed Julie, coming out of the church on a sunny spring morning ten years previous, the morning he felt like a man instead of a youth, the morning he decided that Julie would be his woman, as soon as he could provide for her. And she had waited, in spite of all the offers from older and richer men then he.

Suddenly, ahead of him, stretched a reflection of the magical pink light of the morn. Fletch stood for a moment, marvelling at the sight of it. The sky seemed to stretch almost to his feet. Never having seen the sea before, it was like a vision, a glimpse of heaven on earth. All the trials of his adult life were as nothing, the future lay at his feet. All he had to do was walk into it. Freedom. Happiness. Love. Nothing else mattered.

With these thoughts in his mind, he started walking once more. His heart sang for joy, the pack on his back was as nothing. After three steps, the flood waters were about his ankles and the salt-marsh grasses cushioned his blistered feet. Still he kept right on, steadily walking into his future, head held high and his eye on the bright horizon.

The forth step went straight into a dyke. Fletch pitched forward, his broken face breaking the bright reflection of the dawn, as down he sank, the tool-laden leather pack holding him to the grey-blue silt as surely as a foot treads in the earth around the roots of a sapling.

Fletch felt the cold water splash his face, felt his body sink into the soft silt, felt the cold water fill his lungs, felt his arms dig into the silt in a warm embrace, felt his lover take him to her – felt her gently guide him - along the dark, dark pathway to sunlit freedom..............