This story is by Tahirah Baker and was part of our 2018 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Three blind mice, three blind mice.
See how they run, see how they run.
They all ran after the ministers wife,
Who cut off of their wages and rubbished their rights,
Have you even heard such a tale of strife
As the three blind mice.
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Day 1
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It was the usual, black and white, men and women, rich and the bloody stinking poor…Depending on what side you were on you were either a nuisance to be kept at bay or a miser, sadist, or perhaps a miserly sadist and any other words that might be associated with Evil. But none of that mattered now. They’d all seen her, the Lady. They way she’d fallen, flailing striped of all dignity at her very last. What was the point of it all with an end like that…
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As an unspoken rule amongst men, the first to fall earned the title of matyr. The thing about evil was you got away with the smaller bits of it when someone else went and did something bigger. People turned their backs on the truth, backstory was of no consequence and it didn’t help of course that the Lady by virtue was also a woman. The Press leapt on the story as any media outlet, though publicly scorned at doing so, was expected to… how else would the public be kept informed? This was just one example of the hypocrisy on which societies such as Belldrum were run and so, when the stories started to circulate about the ministers wife being pregnant with her second child…well, all sorts hit the fan and none of it smelt good.
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They cordoned off the tower with rope from the shipping yards, dipped in red paint, and people came and left roses in an uncharacteristic yet expected show of remembrance. It was selfish really, and an awful waste of roses, to cause all that mess and tread on other people’s grief for the sake of quieting your own conscience, but everyone has their coping mechanisms. Two days in and the stench was already becoming overbearing, fresh roses mingling with the aroma of dying ones, because nothing pretty survived long in this town, the Lady being no exception. There was a third smell too, though one wondered if it was the cruelness of imagination. Those at the scene said there had not been much blood.
–
This at least was the truth.
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The bell had been silenced of course. Sources said the minister wanted it removed entirely but engineers would need to study the logistics a little further before they did anything so…rash. It was a very old bell, a very old building.
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No one was above questioning, though of course, which side of the river you came from greatly determined whether one was treated as a witness or suspect. He was one of the luckier ones, a geographical witness, thank God. Some of the farm folk from over the river were refusing to talk. They were being lined up and shot as an example. No one left them roses.
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Day 30
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The room was hot on account of it being shut off for the past two weeks. It was a still heat, unmoving and heavily scented with Her. Musk and powder and peonies. If you stood still long enough and closed your eyes, it almost felt like she was still there with you, a silent embrace.
–
He must have stood there a while because the Butler had appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat in the manner of someone who has been there for quite some time and did not wish to, but was obliged to intrude.
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“We’d better be going, sir,” was all he said, and added something about tetchy horses and two o’clock.
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The minister wasn’t really listening. He hadn’t been listening for quite some time now, before all this, weeks before when he found out. It had been a mistake of course. A surprise gone wrong, turned quite nasty in fact. If he hadn’t dropped the card he’d have never found the letters in the first place… his mother always did say not to go through a Lady’s things, but he’d never have imagined…not in his wildest daydreams…
–
People had said she’d pulled the wool over his eyes since the day they said I do, people spoke all sorts of nonsense about being blinded by her love, bewitched, that his Lady was a witch, must have been because how else would a man allow himself to be ruled so relentlessly.
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It was all talk of course. Yes, there had been changes since the marriage in the way things were run but that was just because the minister didn’t think it right to exclude the love of his life in anything, including matters of state. But the letters had made him think. Maybe they were right. Maybe there was some truth in gossip…
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In any event, it didn’t matter now. The deed was done and she was gone, characteristically selfish as per his recent discovery, leaving him to suffer her penance. The drought was setting in. Riots in the town square and they still couldn’t find the bastards that did it. The boy wept all night and slept all day; salty tears, no damn use to anyone. He found comfort in Velda at least. There was no-one to hold his hand or stroke his hair. No-one to whisper in his ear that everything was going to be alright. And now he was expected to stand over the body of a woman who betrayed him, and say a prayer or two, ask God to give her safe passage to heaven.
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The minister undid his tie, ignored George’s stammered remarks and took of his boots, removed his cuff links.
People were too busy fighting with one another, they hadn’t realised. You only had to hold an ear out , scan the skies a couple of times to see that even God wasn’t listening.
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Day 31
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Halfway through writing an article themed on shame and guilt and how the Minister failed to show up to his own wife’s funeral, failed to represent as a symbol of strength and justice in such trying times, Jo Richards was notified of the same said Minister’s suicide in his home at 2:30pm of the same day. Needless to say, there would need to be revisions, something more along the lines of true love lost and the pangs of grief. No news is good news for ordinary folk but in the world of The Press it was a race to report it first and lead by tone and example. But when news came in half an hour later that the farm folk had taken control of the river by force and were shooting anyone who approached on sight, Richards stopped writing altogether.
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Day 50
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They were meeting at the Bell Tower. Everyone. Every man and his dog, anyone who had anything to say about peace and justice was summoned to the tower at noon. There was an agreement to put aside differences for a day and hear each other out. Bloodshed didn’t make people stop and think but dry throats did. The river had become a stream that would soon become a trickle. Rain was a tale the old people spoke about.
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It was quiet though you couldn’t hear much from this high up anyway. But it looked quiet. People were dirty, tired and worn. He marvelled briefly at how quickly human behaviour could change and in just a few weeks. How they blamed and fought and attacked one another over something they had no clue about.
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She had wanted too much, the baby, her title and husband. And him. Then the threats came out of nowhere and he asked her to run away with him. She wouldn’t listen. Agreed to negotiate with whoever these people were, strike a deal in turn for their silence.
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He refused to be a part of it but waited in the shadows, should she need him. She did need him but the coward in him had him rooted to the spot. They had come, angry and armed. Men without reason but only purpose…
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He must have managed to ring the bell at some point, though she threw herself over before it got too much. Half the town showed up to watch her fall.
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And here they stood again, defeated at fighting a battle which wasn’t even theirs in the first place. It was a special kind of pathetic. He wouldn’t be sorry to see them go…
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In the years to come, parents told their children about God’s mysterious ways. They told them about how although ten thousand men had died that day, the fallen bell had revealed a well, and that was a true sign of redemption. There may have been truth in what they said. But it would have done more good to warn of hunger and greed and the mischief caused by selfish men.
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