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Authors: Tad Williams
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two former prisoners, who had been released to their campsite in Squire’s Wood, if not to their previous state of anonymity.
Holding out his rod of office, the lawspeaker approached Eli and said, “In the name of the State and its gracious Sovereign, His Majesty the King, you must tell me how you sent the boy to Eader’s Church.”
The big man only looked at him, unbothered. Then he extended his hand. The Prosecutor General, after a moment’s hesitation, extended his own small, plump hand and allowed it to be grasped.
When Father Bannity and the other men watching had finished blinking their eyes, they saw that instead of his prosecutor’s tunic, the Prosecutor General was now unquestionably wearing a judge’s robes, cowl, and wreath, and that a judge’s huge, round, golden emblem of office now hung on a chain around his neck. (Some also suggested that he had a stronger chin as well, and more penetrating eyes than he had heretofore possessed.) The ex-Prosecutor General, now a full-fledged Adjudicator, blinked, ran his fingers over the leafy wreath on his head, then fell down on his knees and uttered a happy prayer.
“Twelve years I’ve waited!” he said, over and over. “Thank you, Lord! Passed over and passed over—but no more!”
He then rose, and with fitting jurisprudential gravity, proclaimed, “These men have not practiced any unlicensed witchcraft. I rule that they are true messengers of God, and should be treated with respect.”
Finding that his pockets were now richer by several gold coins—the difference between his old salary and new—the newly minted Adjudicator promptly sold his cart and donkey to Pender the village blacksmith and left town in a covered carriage, with a newly hired driver and two new horses. Later rumors said that he arrived home to find he had been awarded the King’s Fourteenth Judicial Circuit.
In the wake of the Prosecutor General’s astonishing transformation, Squire’s Wood began to fill with people from the village and even some of the surrounding villages—for news travels fast in these rural areas—turning the two men’s camp into a site of pilgrimage. The size of the gathering grew so quickly that Father Bannity and some of the wood’s nearer and soberer neighbors worried that the entire forest soon would be trampled flat, but the squireward could not turn the newcomers away any more than he could have held back the tide at Landsend.
Although none of this swarm of postulants was turned away, not all received their heart’s desire, either—Eli’s hand opened only to one in perhaps three or four and it was impossible to force the issue. One man, a jar maker named Keely, tried to pry the big man’s fingers apart and shove his own hand in, and although he succeeded, nothing magical happened to him except that he developed a painful boil in the middle of his forehead the following day.
Some of the pilgrims’ wishes turned out to be surprisingly small and domestic: a man whose sick cow suddenly recovered, a woman whose youngest son abruptly discovered he could hear as well as he had before the fever. Others were more predictable, like the man who after clasping Eli’s hand discovered a pot of old coins buried under an ancient wall he was rebuilding.
To the astonishment of many, two blighted young folk who lived on neighboring farms, a young man with a shattered leg and a girl with a huge strawberry blotch on her face, both went to Eli, and both were gifted with a handclasp, but came out again looking just the same as they had before. But within the next few days the young man’s drunkard father died of a fit, leaving him the farm, and the girl’s cruel, miserly uncle who treated her like a servant fell under the wheels of a cart and died also, leaving her free to marry if anyone would have her. The two young people did indeed marry each other, and seemed quite happy, although they both still bore the disfigurements that had made them so pitiable to the
Holding out his rod of office, the lawspeaker approached Eli and said, “In the name of the State and its gracious Sovereign, His Majesty the King, you must tell me how you sent the boy to Eader’s Church.”
The big man only looked at him, unbothered. Then he extended his hand. The Prosecutor General, after a moment’s hesitation, extended his own small, plump hand and allowed it to be grasped.
When Father Bannity and the other men watching had finished blinking their eyes, they saw that instead of his prosecutor’s tunic, the Prosecutor General was now unquestionably wearing a judge’s robes, cowl, and wreath, and that a judge’s huge, round, golden emblem of office now hung on a chain around his neck. (Some also suggested that he had a stronger chin as well, and more penetrating eyes than he had heretofore possessed.) The ex-Prosecutor General, now a full-fledged Adjudicator, blinked, ran his fingers over the leafy wreath on his head, then fell down on his knees and uttered a happy prayer.
“Twelve years I’ve waited!” he said, over and over. “Thank you, Lord! Passed over and passed over—but no more!”
He then rose, and with fitting jurisprudential gravity, proclaimed, “These men have not practiced any unlicensed witchcraft. I rule that they are true messengers of God, and should be treated with respect.”
Finding that his pockets were now richer by several gold coins—the difference between his old salary and new—the newly minted Adjudicator promptly sold his cart and donkey to Pender the village blacksmith and left town in a covered carriage, with a newly hired driver and two new horses. Later rumors said that he arrived home to find he had been awarded the King’s Fourteenth Judicial Circuit.
In the wake of the Prosecutor General’s astonishing transformation, Squire’s Wood began to fill with people from the village and even some of the surrounding villages—for news travels fast in these rural areas—turning the two men’s camp into a site of pilgrimage. The size of the gathering grew so quickly that Father Bannity and some of the wood’s nearer and soberer neighbors worried that the entire forest soon would be trampled flat, but the squireward could not turn the newcomers away any more than he could have held back the tide at Landsend.
Although none of this swarm of postulants was turned away, not all received their heart’s desire, either—Eli’s hand opened only to one in perhaps three or four and it was impossible to force the issue. One man, a jar maker named Keely, tried to pry the big man’s fingers apart and shove his own hand in, and although he succeeded, nothing magical happened to him except that he developed a painful boil in the middle of his forehead the following day.
Some of the pilgrims’ wishes turned out to be surprisingly small and domestic: a man whose sick cow suddenly recovered, a woman whose youngest son abruptly discovered he could hear as well as he had before the fever. Others were more predictable, like the man who after clasping Eli’s hand discovered a pot of old coins buried under an ancient wall he was rebuilding.
To the astonishment of many, two blighted young folk who lived on neighboring farms, a young man with a shattered leg and a girl with a huge strawberry blotch on her face, both went to Eli, and both were gifted with a handclasp, but came out again looking just the same as they had before. But within the next few days the young man’s drunkard father died of a fit, leaving him the farm, and the girl’s cruel, miserly uncle who treated her like a servant fell under the wheels of a cart and died also, leaving her free to marry if anyone would have her. The two young people did indeed marry each other, and seemed quite happy, although they both still bore the disfigurements that had made them so pitiable to the
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