No one was so stern as Patriarch Paul, Hand of Justice.

Breaking the Law of The Lord was no small thing.

The lawbreaker was first separated from the Congregation.

The Elder Patriarch—Peter—then repaired to the pulpit of the Patriarchy to pray silently for God’s forgiveness before the lawbreaker’s family, who would kneel before the first pew in the old way, in the attitude of ‘hope for forgiveness’ employed by the First Christians in olden times.

The First Patriarch—Daniel—had dismissed the Congregation to their homes, where he would visit them one family at a time, to lecture upon God’s Law. Before the home counseling, Patriarch Daniel must first go among the Dispensed, and counsel them, reminding them to be ever vigilant should the Lord’s Wrath take the form of a pack raid.

In any event, no Samaritan was permitted beyond the village gate until justice had been administered by its Hand; big, broad, sweating, strong-armed Patriarch Paul, the last man in Samara any man would cross, even if he were not Hand of Justice.

The sound of the willow switch tearing the cheek of Joshua Hound, for the sixth and final time, brought him to his senses, even as Joshua slumped beneath the heavy stocks, looking at Josiah with a sad vacant stare. This look would have held him like a witch’s spell if the gruff voice of Patriarch Paul had not rumbled so close, “To your work Bastard Chowning.”

“Yes Patriarch”, he blurted as he, with his right hand, dipped the cloth of penitence into the witch hazel that filled the Cup of Guilt, which was couched against his heart in the crook of his left hand. The cloth he handed to Patriarch Paul, who used it to clean his willow switch, and then advanced to Joshua, slumped in the stocks.

Joshua and Josiah had once been set by Carpenter Sawyer to sanding the oaken stocks to remove the blood of a Nazarene murderer who had been brought to Samara to suffer in the stocks unto death. The blood of a murderer would not be shed in his own village, and must not be left to contaminate the merely guilty who would be punished in the stocks in days to come, not to mention the innocent who were beaten on Flagellation Eve to drive any fresh demons away that may have recently attached themselves to their simple souls when out and about beyond the walls, where witches and pack sorcerers roamed freely.

Josiah’s prayer was not completed as Patriarch Paul grunted behind the nine-tailed cat—the man-sized one! The nine-tailed cat was a mass of nine knotted ropes on the end of a leather handle. The sound of the knots sinking into the flesh of Joshua’s belly and thudding on his ribs was deafening, to the ears and the soul.

The stocks weighed more than four large men. The frame was of squared oaken beams rising from the ground just over an arm’s span apart. These acted as pillars to support a lighter beam above. The stocks were not on open ground, but covered by a shed open on two sides, east and west. The sinner, enduring his penance on Flagellation Eve, was suspended by the wrist by way of soft leather manacles. The lawbreaker though, was suspended by course fiber rope around his wrists, cranked uncomfortably tight by way of a pulley winch. His ankles were also fixed in the actual ‘stocks’ broad oaken vices in which each foot was securely held. There was also a head harness for murderers, which was not being used in this case.

The Tools of justice were arrayed about the walls: the willow switches; nine-tailed cats; toe hammers; thumb screws; barbed hide whips; and branding irons. Each tool existed in many varieties, from toddler, to child, to youth, to woman, to man, to elder, to crone; a tool of its kind to beat the devil out of anyone larger than an infant from earliest childhood to fading old age. It was, he knew, an indication of his impiety and eventual damnation, that he was suspicious of God, when the tools of His Justice seemed so devilishly contrived by the hands of men.

The sniveling whine of Joshua as the witch hazel guilt cloth was pressed to his face, and over his eyes even, by the big meaty hand of Patriarch—no Beast—Paul drove any notion that his unfinished prayer had been answered form Josiah’s mind.

The nine-tailed cat thudded on, well beyond the six strokes prescribed by God’s Law. He felt his cheeks burn with anger even as Beast Paul sucked in more air, like Smith Munson’s bellows.

His head had been spinning with blasphemous thoughts and defiant notions all the while, as Beast Paul used the thumbscrews, the nine-tailed cat again, unlimbered the tow hammer, and then went back to the nine-tailed cat. Joshua did not even whimper at the application of the guilt cloth any longer, just hung limply, regarding Josiah with increasingly sad, and ever more distant, eyes.

Beast Paul’s rough thick hand pried the guilt cup from his hand. He then watched as the man walked over to Joshua, barely visible in the falling light, and splashed his wounds with the remaining astringent. Even this brought not a whimper.

As full night began to fall God’s Just Hand lit a lamp, and hung it from the stocks. He then picked up his massive wooden bound bible and walked over to Josiah. Standing before him, the big man rumbled, “Look here Bastard, you read the whole night to your friend or he dies of damnation before dawn.”

With those words Paul slammed the massive bible into Josiah’s body with such force that it knocked the wind from him. He would have fallen to his knees if not for his pride. As he rose to face Joshua, and forced his stomach to take in new air, he could hear the weary brutal tread of the cruel man’s booted feet, as he walked along the mud path—then he heard it, and his mind caught fire.

Josiah could hear far better than most people. He had always known that and began keeping it as his own little secret at about age five. Hs mother soon forgot about his extra keen hearing. And now, at age fourteen, Josiah was the only Samaritan that knew he could hear almost half as well as Joshua’s father’s big hounds. He heard with a damning clarity, the hard booted feet of ‘Patriarch Paul’ veer off the mud track and brush through the thick grass, so meticulously manicured by the women of Samara on hands and knees; a task they must only do when anointed and in bare feet.

Just as his mind fired with indignation when he heard the giggling of a Swill girl in Patriarch Daniel’s wing of the Patriarchy, he felt anger now. He had a duty to do, however. Josiah Chowning might be certain that the ‘Men of God’ were base hypocrites, and in one case—Paul’s—evil to the core. But he was not willing to forsake his God, to forsake the faith that had led the First Pilgrims up from the Pagan Lands, and had sustained so many good people for so long, most of all his dear Mother.

As full night soaked the land and the burning pig fat of the lantern assaulted his nose, Josiah stood in the flickering shadows of its light—a most unholy light he felt—and read words of the holy kind to his worn and tormented friend. His only friend, Joshua Hound, hung like a dead man there before him, even though he was barely a man-to-be. Josiah cleared his throat as he opened the book at random and began to read middle page, “My God, You are the perfect Good. Whatever attracts me in my human person…”