Judgement
by
Kit Reed
The place looked like heaven only to those who knew no better. There was terror in the deep blue shadows that laced back and forth across the crystal dome of the field. There was malevolence in every movement of the tall grasses, golden only at the tips, and the beings that lurked in the darkness at their roots looked with hatred and fear at the figure that sat, inert, on a small globe at the center of the field.
Clutched in the figure's hands was a small, golden-covered book that hung from a chain about his neck. The gold was much brighter than anything else in the field, and it picked up lights and threw them, glinting, against the grasses.
In one part of the brush Alexander Caine threw back his head and bayed like a mad dog.
At first there was silence, and then a hundred voices were raised in an answer. The grasses rustled and some of them shattered, falling dryly into the deep shadows of their roots splintering on the backs and rough shoulders of the beings that screamed and screamed in hopes that Caine would raise his cry again.
To Thomas Cartman who sat, proudly, humbly, at the center of the field, these voices were beautiful. He could not know that rough-shouldered creatures teemed and seethed at the roots of the golden grasses that bounded this field, crying and shuddering with disgust at the (to Cartman, melodic) sound of their own voices, tearing at their heavy ears to erase the harsh, fierce rumbles of Alexander Caine, in their agony hoping that he would cry once more. He could not know that Caine ranged, hot-eyed and hungry, just over the edge of that (seemingly) golden hill.
To one who knew no better, the place looked like heaven. And Thomas Cartman sincerely believed it was heaven, for he had died (he was sure he had died) at the hands of a soldier, in defense of his beliefs, a martyr (he was sure he was a martyr).
