Free The Last Execution by Jesper Wung-Sung Page A

flow:
    There’s the cart carrying the lad! It takes an eternity to get it up the hill. Gallows Hill may be one of the steepest of the land, but those are strong horses pulling, and a man of obvious experience is at the reins. No, the laborious progress is wholly due to the mass of people vying for a glimpse of the condemned: Niels Nielsen. Fifteen years old. Sentenced for murder and arson. Woe and cursed creaking!
    I’m afraid , thinks the poet in that moment the cart passes him.
    He has slipped too far behind. He wants to get closer to the scaffold, see what happens within when he sees it. Not too close, though. But perhaps Johanna is right up front?
    He tries to force his way forward and is immediately swept up by the thrust from behind. He makes a mental note: My feet have lost contact with the earth, so great is the number. Everything is shimmering in the sun. There is a slight smell of sulfur in the air, as if the hill led to a smoking volcano, not a scaffold. Beads of sweat are breaking out on my forehead.
    He can feel the heat and sweat—his own and that of the masses. People are packed like herrings in a barrel. The nausea rises slowly from his stomach. His arms are wedged to his sides; impossible to write anything down. But he has eyes on stalks, eyes embedded in his head.
    You cannot tell from looking at the fifteen-year-old boy that his head will soon be severed from his body. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was daydreaming. This cannot be said of the rest: The air is nearing boiling point—the masses swelling back and forth!
    And yet, some seats are reserved, like at a matinee viewing at the Royal Theatre. Amongst those in the front row are the murdered boy’s family. They are treated with a peculiar respect; there’s no pushing or shoving in their vicinity. A little circle has formed around them. From here they can look upon and yell at their boy’s murderer; especially mother and sister are spewing curses at the scaffold. Next to them the priest is standing in full formal dress. The mayor is also among those people who are standing closest to the scaffold, including a mother and father with their malformed child. The child seems oblivious to events. Her head lolls backward onto the nape of her neck, there are dabs of spittle around her mouth, but her parents are determined to let her drink the blood of the executed boy, in the hope of that miracle, which will restore the rightful dignity of their daughter’s neck.
    I can feel a ripple through my body , thinks the poet. All the while he sees:
    It only seems to agitate the crowd further that the condemned boy looks like a lazy apprentice who has sat himself in the corner to avoid the beady eyes of his master. Everyone is yelling and spitting on the lad. A raucous bunch of ruffians have forced their way to the front row, and those officers who—up till now—were posted at the scaffold in all their motionless glory are suddenly struggling to keep the masses at bay; their fine uniforms rumpled and clotted with spit in no time.
    The boy and the executioner seem to be the only ones taking the proceedings with any measure of dignified calm. The executioner is standing one meter behind the boy, eyes cast down. He is dressed in simple clothing. His hands are hanging down by his sides. Only the scuffle of his feet give him away: Let’s cut to the chase!
    The scaffold is made of a dark, weather-bitten wood—clearly secondhand material—but between the executioner’s feet there’s a glimpse of an altogether new, pale wood: a newly crafted coffin. To the right of the executioner lies the sack containing the heavy ax. It is an ax that has been passed down for generations; it has done this before. Up close, the boy’s face is surprisingly fine, as if he were made of porcelain. As if all the executioner need do is hold him up and drop him—and he’ll shatter in a thousand pieces!
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