Heretic
By John Kaniecki
I am a heretic condemned to die. The executioner lays waiting in the next room anticipating my arrival. I wonder not if he is longing for the moment to do his crime. I am certain that the thought of his axe severing my head from my body brings him a feeling a glee; such is the evil of those connected with the clergy. They are fanatics and not for good. They are the bane of the world that turns darkness into light and light unto shade.
The specific charge put upon me is blasphemy. I’m sure they could have trumped up other accusations. What they do is a mockery of justice. I am no blasphemer at all. In fact I speak the truth. A truth that is very dangerous to those in power. You see the premier, you see the council; they have no authority, none at all. They are cleverly conceived puppets whose strings are pulled by those in the shade.
‘Who are these puppet masters?’ you ask. ‘Where is the substance of my allegations?’
You are oblivious to their existence but I declare their influence is supreme. ‘What is that you say?’ ‘I am mad?’ If I were insane I would be locked in an institution rather than waiting for my life to be snuffed out. No I have touched a nerve and a house built on sand cannot stand in the storm. I am an angry wind in that storm. To keep things status quo all must fall in line or pay the ultimate price.
Why would I lie? Let me assure you of my honesty. I speak the truth I have no ulterior motives. I stare at the specter of death and see into the vacuum of his eyes. I can feel his cold breath and his icy touch. Again let me ask you ‘Why would I lie?’ If I had taken the easy way I would not be in this solution less predicament. If I had decided to take the path of falsehood I would have done so at the inquisition.
I recall the day of my condemnation. For what must have been months I suffered in the squalor of their prisons slowly perishing. Every day my hope, my resistance diminished a fraction in a war of attrition. There was barely room to move about in my cell. Damp stone walls carved from the rock itself were on three sides. In front of me were iron bars rusty and ancient. Yes the bars were as old as our civilization itself, a sad reality. Designed specifically for those such as I. They do not keep the dangerous locked up but the dreamers such as I. Brave souls who recognize the truth through the falsehood and have the conviction and courage to rise up and speak the words that need to be uttered. This is my reward for my dedication to a better tomorrow, an uncomfortable stay in prison and impending death.
A lone flickering torch gave the only illumination. There was no rising sun, no glorious moon and starry host. I have seen them; I have seen the heavens themselves. ‘Impossible’ you say, for ‘none could exist on the surface outside our subterranean world;’ that my friend is a lie, and the crux of my incarceration. Then why do we live like gophers far away from the sweetness of the surface. I shall answer that question soon enough. But I am getting ahead of myself.
