Plagued: The Trial of Man

    There's barely a dew on the grass.  The clouds hide the sun but there's a warmth.  I sit on a lump of green and watch the villagers whip into a crescendo'd fury.  The animals on the farm make no tussle.  Barely a noise as they graze.  There doesn't seem to be more than a handful of buildings but when the villagers step out they assemble in step with an army.  Some throw a glance towards me as they get closer.  I raise a hand in greeting, but they focus their eyes elsewhere.  They're clearly not here for my trespassing.
    Out front they lead a lad nearly 13 by the nape of his neck.  The crowd stops in front of the bullpen not 30 yards from me.  A show in the front seats.  The crowd quiets down as they arrive at the chopping block.  The boy's said not a word.  His face reddened by his sorrow, he's quiet as he's accepted his fate.  A man steps to the crowd and speaks, his words too softly spoke for me to hear.  An old man stranded to the sidelines inspects me with curiosity from far away, slowly making his way to my person while the crowd mutters with wayward expression.  The old man sits beside me on the small hillock of grass, obviously intent on conversation, or someone to listen.
    "Theft," he greets.
    "Is that so?"
    "Mm.  Boy was hungry.  Slaughtered a pig to feed his family, he told.  I'm unsure if he really has one, but it wouldn't matter.  Theft is a high crime when the people's possessions are so few."
    "Will his family be tried?" I asked.
    "Doubtful.  It's no crime to eat.  It's common to be hungry.  To have a full belly for a day would be a luxury.  No, it's the theft that's a broken law."
    I thought of what I would do as the judge to many pleaded cases of mercy, and how few of them got what they wanted from me.  I decided not to dwell, as I would never be that man on the seat of power ever again.  The boy on trial also reminds me of my son, another reason not to muse on the past.
    The old man and I spoke awhile, our eyes watching every action the stoic crowd made.  Everyone, including the young crook, were silent as ceremony.  No one pleaded.  No one bickered.  The boy is guilty, so says the crowd.  Somewhere in their ritual we ceased to speak.  The hand was lain on the stump without struggle, I daresay given time the lad would've surrendered his limb himself.  There was no breath taken between the draw of the ax and the swing.  Just the clack of something breaking wood.  The old man clicked his tongue.  The young boy seemed to faint without word as the crowd swarmed to groom him.  Leaning on my sword, I erected myself into the slipstream of cooled breeze that washed the hills.  Rest interrupted by the sins of Man, I marched toward the clouded sun.