HANGMAN

“When one of those miracle days unfolds, I look out from the top of Great Hill and spy my boat in the harbor. It quivers in the morning light, twisting and turning, riding one wave after another, dancing over a glittering sea. It’s impossible to deny. I race down the hill and jump into the boat and head straight out. You never know where the wind will take you. My sails are wings that never tire.”

“Son, don’t you see,” he tried reasoning with him, “we got our own visions. First off, we need to build a town and defend it against enemies...against Indians and wild animals. Then we got disease and the cold. In that first winter, do you realize, more’n half of our people died! If we don’t pull together, we’re done for.”

“Out there everything is exploding with new life, fish so excited they jump out of the sea, and birds so wild they fly straight at the sun. How many days in a lifetime do you see like that? I hate to waste a single one. Have you ever really been alive in your whole life?”

“If you live in a community, you’ve got to follow the rules,” John shouted. “That’s why you’re in trouble! You shouldn’t be violating the Lord’s Day and running round like a madman. You have no order in your life. You’re not a savage or an animal. Can’t you--.” Exasperated, he gave up. Why couldn’t he have followed the rules? Why should John care? He just carried out the law. His prisoner had broken it and must pay.

The day after the trial, Michael woke with the sun. He put the box and stool in place and peered into the growing daylight. The islands hadn’t moved in the night, small dark spots interrupting an endless sea. The stars were shutting off one after another on schedule as specks of light came to life along the Boston shore. But everything else had changed. Eight days, that’s all he had left. Eight days to watch the sea, a poor substitute for sailing the harbor and fishing and--his thoughts stopped as he watched the sun try to chase away the night.

He moved around making noise, hoping John would wake soon. What if he’s angry?  He had tried to explain. John was stirring. A voice came from the shadows, “You want to use the outhouse, Michael?”

“Yes, Constable.”

When they got back and Michael returned to his cell, he asked, “I was wondering if it’s all right, I shouldn’t ask, ’cause my situation’s changed. If that job in the tower’s not taken--.” His voice trailed off.

Situation changed, that’s one way to say it. John was still annoyed by the argument. How could this boy have done so many stupid things? Once, he too followed no rules except his own...it was so long ago. Where had it all gone? Sometimes, he felt he’d been sentenced to life in his own jail. He was tired of it all. The jury listened and voted. Maybe their judgment was harsh, he thought, but they’re the law and it’s my duty to carry it out. By God, though, I’m not going to make these last days worse for him. “Sure, you got the job. Better than listening to your infernal pacing.”

“I’ll owe you forever, Constable.” The cell was unlocked. Michael ran out and quickly disappeared up the ladders into the tower.

The tip of the sun was peering above Hull. It was strange yet beautiful, the black hill branded upon a reddening sky. He picked up the telescope and trained it on Emerald Island, which was halfway between the Neck and Moon Island. He raised it slightly and Hoffs Thumb emerged from the sea. Next to it was Great Hill.

If I was home, he thought, I’d be coming down the hill to my boat. Look at that sunrise...he gazed in awe at the fiery red colors tossed randomly across the sky, bouncing off East Head, grazing Lovell’s, and coloring the surf at George’s, painting anything it pleased...I’d have to stop for that. That’s when it came to him like a vision, as sudden as a striper hitting a line. He would spend his final days visiting the islands. Through the telescope, he could begin each day from the top of Great Hill, march to the sea, pull in his boat, and trace a tour of the islands. “Sheer genius,” he exulted.