The Last Execution Read Online Free

man.
    â€œThen it could be all the same!” he exclaims.
    It’s not due to anything in particular—not that he can tell, anyway—but now he is near to running down the road.
    With every step the messenger gets more and more agitated. He is resentful and angry, and he directs the brunt of his anger at that man on the poster, the man who is to be executed. The messenger will be there, all right! He’ll buckle down the whole day to make sure of it. Then he’ll fetch the Smith brothers. They’ll need to get over to Gallows Hill in good time. Then they’ll be ready. They can stand right up front, in the first row, and shout. They can yell at him, spit in that demon’s face! He’ll take his knife along. He imagines that he slices an ear off the severed head and hides it, before anyone sees. That he keeps it wrapped in a rag; and that one fine night he gives it to someone or other, who looks at it with flushed cheeks, until she leans her body into him, and they lie down in the corn together. . . .

    Once the messenger has disappeared, the girl dares to come out of the shadows and walks up to the notice of execution. She is standing with her package in her arms. After she has stammered her way through the notice, letter for letter, she disappears.
    One town’s many mouths, a chorus fair,
    Whilst a head that still doth stare
    Rolls to the ground
    Without a sound.

I t is seven hours till the boy is to be executed on Gallows Hill, and now he can hear that he is not alone in the world. The sound of a carriage on the other side of the cell window, its bars radiant with evaporating frost; a rummaging somewhere in the building; a door that opens, or closes; a final shuffling of steps, coming closer. The sound of keys in a lock.
    The warden is carrying a bucket. He yawns. Then he stops and stares, mouth open wide.
    The fear in the warden’s face when he spots the boy’s hand—it makes the boy lower his head to his chest. As if this could make the fear disappear. The boy remains sitting in this posture. He doesn’t know what else to do. To prove that he doesn’t have coal-red piercing eyes. He hears the warden’s ragged breathing. The boy is quiet as a mouse. Waiting. Until he hears a cough, several coughs, and jangling keys as the warden retreats.
    The warden has left the bucket standing outside the cell, but close enough that the boy can stick a hand through the rails and reach. They both know that the warden does not want to get too close.
    â€œIt’s not true,” says the boy. “That is not who I am.”

    The stone knocked against the inside of his teeth. His tongue could shift it from side to side so it made a little melody. The boy doesn’t remember how old he was, just that he’d become taller now, his father shorter.
    He remembers that he was very hungry. That was why he had the stone in his mouth. To take the edge off the hunger.
    It had been days since they’d had work. A place to sleep. A decent meal to eat.
    The last time they’d had some money, his father had used it to buy a bottle of brandy. There was no mention of it. It was for the pain—the boy knew—but he couldn’t say it. It was autumn. The wind cut into his skin. They were frozen to the bone, even though they were walking.
    â€œWhat’s winter like in America?”
    His father didn’t answer.
    â€œDo the birds fly away? To the south?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œOr do they stay?”
    â€œIf I could, I would,” answered his father.
    â€œTell.”
    â€œLet’s wait, Niels.”
    â€œWhen, then?”
    â€œCan we decide?” asked his father.
    â€œYes, don’t we always decide, Dad?”
    â€œThat’s settled, then.”
    â€œWhen, then?”
    â€œIt’s up to you.”
    His father stopped short, busied himself with tightening the rope around his waist.
    â€œOkay, then,”