A Silver Coin
- Enekos
- Jul 31, 2023
- 5 min read
Farm life was good.
He was happy, tending to sheep and cattle, gathering the harvest, visiting the village of Ekrinaya, and trading goods with the locals. He was popular too, greeting everyone with a warm and genuine smile and the uncanny ability to remember obscure facts about everyone.
“Ms Vaduva how is bunica today?” he offered a thick, regional accent that one associates with an ancient myth of a neck-biting warlord. But the tone was friendly. Ms Vaduva stopped chopping the fish and called back, “Ea este bine.”
He gave a friendly wave and consulted his map. He loved his maps and others found them useful. “You should sell these,” suggested his neighbour, but he just wanted to help. Plus, with the rate of progress, roads changed so frequently that any map would be out of date within weeks. No, he was a farmer and farming was in his blood.
A dozen leagues away a hard-drinking Mearaithe encountered problems with his employer and gaining no support from the Union of trades had turned his mind to crime. Evicted from his home, Mearaithe descended into the sewers, where he adopted a stray cat. Each night, he would return to the road and gather scraps of food, steal small coins from unsuspecting drunks and find other disillusioned and desperate people. His blood boiled whenever he found other affected by the decisions of the Union, and he vowed to extract whatever vengeance he could. As the nights passed, Mearaithe gathered more people in the sewers – he called them his cats. “Today we are but a group of beggars and small-time thieves,” Mearaithe’s voice echoed in the tunnels, “But we will become stronger together and we will be feared by those who look down upon us my cats. Tomorrow we will become a mafia!” His voice rose to a crescendo to a chorus of meows.
Back in Ekrinaya, the farmer had reached his destination: a watchmaker of great renown. “My friend, can you make this?” The watchmaker studied the papers handed to him, shot a puzzled look at the word ‘Αθανασία’ and as he considered refusing the job, a large purse of gold coins dropped onto his bench. He looked again at the farmer and silently nodded.
Days became weeks as he tended the farm and collected eggs from his favourite goose and life continued as it had always been. Until one day a messenger arrived, climbing the long lane in the heat of the day. He greeted the farmer with a pleasant smile. As he handed over the note, the farmer tossed him a silver coin.
The message was simple: “Come to my home at 8pm”.
Ekrinaya’s alleys were less busy when the sun began to sleep, so no one really noticed the farmer as he turned left then right, right then left, passed the magistrates and into the leafy lanes and formal gardens which would eventually bring him to the home of the watchmaker. He knocked on the door, checking his pocket watch for the time. There was no answer. And no candle flickered in the window. Distant voices and what sounded like a can being kicked. He knocked again, but this time the door became slightly ajar. He pushed it carefully and called out for the watchmaker. No response. No, there was a noise, like someone struggling to breathe. He went inside and found the watchmaker’s study where the rasping breath was louder. He quickly lit a candle and found the watchmaker slumped in his chair, blood oozing from his belly.
He quickly looked for something to stem the bleeding as the watchmaker mouthed the words ‘taken, taken’. The farmer poured some whisky and pressed the glass against the watchmaker’s lips. It seem to soothe the man who took a moment to look at the knife buried in his gut. He regarded the farmer once again and whispered, “Find, must… find… taken… Veraku… Ver…”
The farmer took a step back as the life fell from the watchmaker’s eyes. He looked down to see his own hands and clothes covered in blood. The watchmaker was silent now, gone.
His mind raced. The artifact had been taken. But by who and where? The ‘why’ was obvious and the ‘how’ included murder. The corpse was here and so was he, covered in the watchmaker’s blood. His heart raced for a moment. Even if he called for help, there would be an enquiry and questions. Questions he wanted to avoid. But no one knew he was here.
His heart pounded once again.
Did the murderer know about the artifact? Did they know about his drawings? Could they find him. What had the watchmaker told them? Was his life in danger? His breathing became hard.
No one knows I’m here. No one. Breathe easier. No one. It’s OK, No one. No one… Damn.
“Yes Tata – a whole silver coin from the farmer. Just to tell him to go to the watchmaker’s home tonight. He seemed so happy. A whole silver coin.”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He knew he needed to leave, but first he needed to find the drawings. He searched the watchmaker’s pockets, his desk and bookcase. Nothing. He was frantic and study began to morph from purely a murder scene into one of a brutal murder and robbery.
Suddenly he heard a door creak open. Quickly he extinguished the candle and reached around for anything that could be used as a weapon. Had they returned. Had they forgotten something?
His hand grasped something – it was the knife, still embedded in the watchmaker. He slowly pulled it out and winced. Whoever was here, was a problem. Did they have answers or did they have questions. He needed to get home. He needed to think. And he ran. Through the dark house closer to voices. Voices that carried candles. Candles that revealed features. Features that revealed… Questions.
He changed direction to a shout of “Oi! Who goes there?” tripped and hurtled through a closed window, shards of glass ripping into his skin. He still gripped the knife and ran and ran and ran…
The sounds of the farm were always the same, aside from the gushing of water as the farmer removed every trace of what had happened that night. He needed to leave and write a letter to the magistrate – from a safe place. Yes. He needed to go to Veraku until he could clear his name. He knew he wasn’t being rational, but he also knew he needed the artifact, his notes and he knew the time answering questions would make finding them so much harder.
He dried, packed some clothes, and turned the knife over in his hands. It had a white bone handle, engraved with the letters J.F. The blade itself wasn’t metal as anyone would expect, but a razor-sharp stone like slate or maybe flint. It was certainly the biggest clue he had.
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