Penance To Pay

A Story by Dawson June

A story of a man named Richard Miser, a rich man who suffers tests like Job.

Penance to Pay
by Dawson June

The date is November 27th, 1843. This is the tale of a very powerful man, involved in a horrible misunderstanding. His name was Richard Miser…

    It was a very average day for Richard Miser. He collected his payment from his boss, the unfathomable Mr. Ichlishter, who, as usual, forked over the money with an air of extreme reluctancy. After passing by the lovely secretary, Mrs. Strong, and proceeded to climb into his personal horse-drawn carriage, complete with gold inlays in the metal work and snow-white horses. As they passed down Birch Street, the main road in southern Britain. He was soon set to arrive in America, where he could do whatsoever he wished. Upon arrival to his large, grand mansion, with a “Gods of Greece” topiary and a lakeside view, he ordered his servant, the faithful Jackson Polluck, to fetch his celebratory wine. This bottle was a Bordeaux, a 1787 Chateau Lafite wine, one of the most expensive wines in the world. As Richard Miser silently sipped on his wine, he reflected on his day’s experiences. He had not only successfully completed his day’s rigorous tax collections and was paid generously for it, but he had managed to get a romantic moment alone with Mrs. Strong earlier in the day. It had gone somewhat like this:
    “Good evening to you, Mrs. Strong. Is this not a fine day to be yourself?” Richard had said respectfully.
    “Indeed, Mr. Miser. That it is. Is this not the perfect season to be courted by a delusional, older gentleman?” She had replied sarcastically, which was unlike the usual response he would receive from another woman of the era. This he admired.
    “Ah, but my sweet Mrs. Strong, you are saying you would most certainly mind joining me to the Gentleman’s Cotillion? “ He inquired smoothly.
    “I would very much mind, good sir. Good day, Mr. Miser.” She replied, sauntering off in her usual cadence of huffs and incomprehensible muttering. Richard smiled sadly.

                There was always tomorrow.

This was the very same thought that Mrs. Strong was thinking as she lie down in bed later that evening. Her name was Tia Strong, daughter of Maria Strong. Her family originates from Italy, and have roots to the Romans. She, at least the part she referred to as her “Inner Roman Warrior,” was telling her to yell at Mr. Miser as loud as she could in public.
    “Rip his head off!” It said. Tia simply ignored the words it said, it mixing in with the background noise of her brain. At this moment, her brain was spiraling around, scolding her for her unruly attitude earlier towards Mr. Miser. She had lost her composure, and she was now concerned that Mr. Miser had discovered that she actually DID truly enjoy his company. Indeed, she had begun to view him as more than a business acquaintance, and in any other circumstance would have accepted his invitation for the cotillion. Unfortunately, she was to be wed with Benjamin Umbell. He was the head of a company that creates lanterns, which were in great demand. He would be the perfect husband, and the marriage would unite the two companies, her father thought. He was, unbeknownst to her father, a complete snivelling snob. He chided her and critiqued her at every chance, and complained at everything gone wrong. He abused her constantly, smacking her on the back of the head and pinching her. Not the worst he could do, she expected. But then again, the man cries if his tea is not sweet enough, she mused silently to herself. She could dispatch him easily if the moment arises that she is required to do so.

“Though wickedness be sweet in his mouth, though he hide it under his tongue.”
Job, 20. 12

Richard was having a terrible day. He had taken to gambling recently, and so had lost half of his entire savings in one fell swoop. He was saved only by Mrs. Strong, who had heard the commotion, and convinced him NOT to continue playing a game in which he would have surely lost, as the other man had loaded dice. Richard swore loudly, cursing people, the wind, the ground he walked upon, the very air he breathed. Mrs. Strong attempted to comfort him, but could not shake her own feeling that more was to come. So she returned with him to his mansion, and waited. Waited even as the servants cheered that their master was now almost poor, and promptly left, Jackson Polluck being the most happy to leave. After many years of service, he was most happy to leave. It wasn’t that it was a horrible job, or that Richard was a bad master, it was simply that Jackson was hoping to move and live with his fiancee in France, and now he could. He bid adieu to Richard, who waved him off. He bowed to Mrs. Strong, who was standing by Richard at the fireplace. Jackson promptly left the premises. Mrs. Strong, however, chose to wait. She waited even as he fell asleep, and the sun set. She sighed, got up, grabbed her coat, and left. There was no reasoning with him right now.

As she walked down the dark alleyway, she swore she heard footsteps behind her. She looked, nearly startled to find Benjamin Umbell and his small gang of four rich, stuck-up snobs who thought they could get whatever they wanted. Benjamin stumbled up to her, his breath reeking of strong liquor.
“Hey, boys. If it isn’t Mrs. Strong. Why d-don’t you come over here and show me ‘n my boys a good time? Haha…” He offered, rather quite rudely. Mrs. Strong slapped him, as hard as she could, and sent him stumbling back a few feet, dazed and confused and dazed.
It didn’t last long, though. It quickly turned into outraged anger.
“How dare you, you twat! How dare you! Get her!” He boomed, screaming at his gang. They pounced, apprently ready for action. To a passerby, all that would be heard was a single scream and a dull thud.
    That was the last time anyone ever heard of Mrs. Tia Strong…

Meanwhile, at the Richardson Estate, the owner, Richard Miser, was lost in a dark alleyway of dark thought and depression. He was miserable, and more misery seemed to be nipping at his coattails. He was frightened for himself, for his mansion, and for Mrs. Strong. He paced about his living quarters deep in thought. How was he to rebuild his fortune? Then he heard the scream.
He grabbed his Colt revolver and sprinted out the door. He had known instinctively that it was Mrs. Strong’s scream, and so ran as fast as he could to the source of the noise. He saw the flash of steel and the ringing of a sheathed knife. He fired blindly three times, each time missing its intended target. The murderer fled, dropping his knife, the rest of the gang following suit. Richard ran to Mrs. Strong’s side, as she lay, bleeding out, on the unpaved sidewalk. There was a single, long cut of one familiar with knifework. Tears stained her brown, tattered, drab clothes. The moonlight shone directly on her face, the final expression before death clear: Fear. She smelled of it too; fear and sweat. Richard felt his tears welling up, a deep regret forming in his stomach; he felt like someone was stabbing and goring his heart and stomach at the same time. He kissed her brow, and her features appeared to tighten a bit. Simply rigamortis, he told himself. She looked so beautiful to him. Her clothes matched her hair, which was curly and brown, and highlighted her sky-blue eyes. Richard shook his head sadly. The constable would be here soon, and he would explain everything. Even as he thought it, he heard the hoof beats of the constable’s horse and posse.
“Stop right there, criminal scum! You have violated the law, and ended a woman’s life. You now face the full wrath of the Law. How will you proceed?” A gruff voice shouted harshly from the gloomy darkness.
“I did not do it, kind sir. I came out, because I heard her scream. I fired three times, but missed each time. I have harmed no one.” He replied. The constable laughed coldly.
“We have five witnesses who claim you murdered this woman, and fired upon them as they tried to stop you. My friend, we are ill met, and even if you DID do as you say, you would be unable to prove that you did, for the law is unforgiving. These men claim that you also shot the woman, and that if we perform an autopsy, we will find bullets in her body that match your revolver. Lay it down on the ground now, and come quietly.” The constable said. Richard swore and set his weapon slowly down, putting his hands up in the air.

“Ye should say, Why persecute we him, seeing the root of the matter is found in me?”
Job, 19. 28

Jail was horrible. His cell was a simple stone room. There was an indentation on the floor, causing all liquids to roll down into a drain in the center of the room. there were no beds, only hooks on the ceiling and towels, upon which he had stung a hammock of towels. On a daily basis, he was beaten by the guards, served meager amounts of food, and called vicious names. Every day, he proclaimed his innocence as many times as he could, as often as possible, for a week. He soon learned that it was futile. His cell mates were not the most reputable companions, either. One went by the name of Shark-Eye Moses. Lord only knows how he got this name, but Richard assumed it had something to do with a shark and large amounts of liquor. The other went by the name of Jeffery. Sounds like a reputable and respectable name, Richard thought. He was far from the truth. Jeffery was imprisoned for the rape of six women and the murder of a priest, and was set to recieve the death penalty by hanging in a month or two. Shark-Eye had stolen an entire Imperial Schooner full of rum and wine, and was to serve ten years, and he had already served one. Richard swallowed hard as he lie in his hammock made from used towels. He was set to also receive the death penalty. Public hanging, his worst fear. How ironic. Fate, Karma, God, whatever you wish to call it, has seemed to turn its back on RIchard Miser. He had been living perfectly fine up until now; why had it turned so quickly? Richard rubbed his eyes, as there was a bit of haziness in the right corner of his eye. It was still there. Curiously, Richard turned to look at the ethereal, shapeless haze forming in the center of the room. A voice, musical and echoing, emanated from the approximate center of the haze, which was taking a spherical form now.
“Richard Miser… Come closer…” It said. The haze shrouding the mysterious entity was unrelentless, and he could not see through it. Richard lifted his hand to his brow, to help shade his eyes from the light now permeating the haze. He silently wondered why his cellmates were not awake.
“Richard Miser, come closer!” It said, louder and more demanding. Richard felt his legs and arms move of their own accord, forcing him to get up and walk towards the blinding light. It did not feel welcoming, nor did it feel malevolent. It spoke again, enunciating clearly and speaking slowly, as if the wisdom of the ages was before it.
“Richard Miser. I am but one of your spiritual guides. I am here to judge you in the name of the Lord, for I am his left hand, the hand that delivers His justice. If he finds you worthy, you will be set free, but with certain limitations and lessons to learn. Throughout your life, you have experienced endless pleasures of wealth and money. You were, however, interested in love, and someone to share your wealth with. You are somewhat pure of heart, not evil, but neither good. You shall be visited by three spirits. Angels, you may call them. They do not care what you call them. They may be frightening, they may kill you. I do not know what they will do, or what they are. I am only a messenger of the Lord. They shall report the results to me, and I will administer justice where it is needed. Your life intertwines with many, many people. The balance of this community is in your hands; answer wisely and truthfully.”
The voice ceased, the mist vanishing with no trace. Richard stood, pale and frightened, until a guard came over, during a room check, and tapped on the cell bars.
    “Ey! You there! Go to sleep!” He yelled. Richard numbly nodded and climbed back into bed, somehow able to sleep.

The next two week went by very fast. Nothing much happened, just wake up, eat, work, eat, work some more, eat again, and then sleep. For two weeks this happened with no significance, until eventually Richard began to believe that it had all been a nightmare. That was until he started hearing the whispers.
“Change…” They whispered, seeming out of thin air. Richard didn’t always hear them; they come at random. For about four or five minutes, numerous voices would whisper different things to him. Sometimes “change”, or “God”, or “hate”... Mostly anything. Usually advice or an emotion. The first time it happened, he had thrown his pickaxe in surprise and nearly killed the warden. He had been given rock-splitting duty for three weeks. Richard began to think that he was insane, until one night, at exactly 12:00 M…

“WAAAKKEEEEE UPPPPPPPP, RICHARD!” A voice screamed, making Richard nearly hit the ceiling when he lept out of bed. He looked around frantically, searching for the source of the voice. He was sweating profusely. Richard, after searching for a couple moments, went to lie down again, until a hand tapped his shoulder. Richard went pale. The hand had been cold. Richard spun around, and found himself looking his father in the face. “Hello, son.” He said. Richard would have screamed like a little girl, if he could move. His father smiled.
“Yes, I knew you would do that. You see, I have somethings to tell you Richard. Just… Don’t panic, son.” He said. Richard nodded.
“Richard, I know that you did not murder Mrs. Strong.” He said.
“Well, great! At least a DEAD PERSON knows!” Richard replied, surprised by how bitter his voice was. His father nodded.
“I must admit that this is not fair. Not fair at all. But, I’m going to tell you what you need to do when you get out of here… IF you get out. You need to find a man by the name of Selinar. I cannot tell you where he lives, but you will know him when you seem him. I love you, son, but my time is up. I cannot help you any further. Good luck, my son! You will need it…”
Richard was angry at this.
“Leave, you haunting random specter! Your warnings from this implied “otherlife” do not scare me! I do not believe in ghosts and I do not believe you are my father. So, enough with your pictures from the past, I’m not affected!” Richard said, and his father vanished in a poof of white smoke. Richard never knew how he found the strength to climb back into his bed, or how he fell into a dreamless sleep. He felt his concerns drop away, even though something was nagging at him from the back of his mind.
The very next day, Richard woke up with a sense of urgency. Something was going to happen, and very soon. Then he remembered: He was to be executed first thing tomorrow morning! Quickly, or rather, as fast as he could (which was admittedly not very fasti n a prison), he contacted his lawyer. Successfully, he got the date of the execution moved back 3 days, although it took a greater part of the day, and he was already at the gallows before the message reached the overseer of the executioner. Richard sighed deeply when his lawyer rushed on the hanging-platform and informed the executioner. It went a bit like this:
“Good sir! Good sir! This man is not due to be punished until one day from now!” Shouted the enthusiastic, albeit plump, lawyer running up the stairs, gasping for breath. The executioner sighed.
“Return the prisoner to his cell.” He said. And so it was.

Later that night, Richard Miser began his plot of escape. He was to, after shift change at precisely 12:00 midnight, he would snatch the keys from the guard who took a nap approximately 2 feet from the cell bars. By the time the guard woke up, Richard would be gone.
Or so he hoped.

By the time 11:47 PM rolled around, Richard Miser was ready for his escape. he waited a couple moments, and peeked out of the bars on his cell. Both of his cell-mates were asleep, and the guard was napping on the chair, 2 feet from the bars. Richard lept at the bars with the fury of a jungle cat on its prey, and, stretching his arms as far as he could, grabbed the keys to his cell. Fumbling with the keys and trying them, he swore quietly to himself.
“If I could only get the right key…” He said, a moment before he dropped the keys, sending them clattering to the stone floor, the jingling echoing throughout the cell and corridor. The guard began to stir. Richard nearly fainted, but instead ran to his hammock and pretended to be asleep. At this moment, his cell mates began to wake as well. Richard was terrified. If he was caught…
Then the whispering began again.
“Caught…”
“No mercy…”
    “Salvation…”
“Theif…”
“Deserter…” They said in a chorus of erie whispering. Richard was on the verge of tears. Just then, a wispy, shimmering light flew through the solid stone wall on his right. It flew, or rather floated over to him, and spoke.
“Don’t panic, Richard, but you’re about to crash! You are going to be caught by the guard at the door, and also by your unreputable companions. This outcome is your fault, for you attempted to escape your destiny. Despite this, however, I am only here to lecture you. Allow me to send you back to the time when Mrs. Strong was still alive……” He said in a soft, unaccented yet firm voice. The room began to get blurry and distorted, Richard soon being unable to see the ground. There was a flurry of snow and wind, and he was standing outside of Mrs. Strong’s humble home on Baker Street. He was still in his prison attire, and it was winter, and yet he was not cold for some reason. He looked to his right, where stood a glowing man, with a thick, curly mustache, a monocle, and auburn hair. He was maybe 6’2”, probably 167 lbs., and of stocky build. He looked at Richard with a look of gruff contempt.
“So, you’re here, Richard Miser. Nice name. Unfortunately for you, it’s true.” He said, his tone rude and demeaning, and his voice deep and rough. He removed a golden timepiece from his expensive suit. He examined the time.
“Tick tock, get a move on. I have a very tight schedule.” He said, glaring at Richard. Richard hesitated a moment, then walked in the door. A blast of warm air hit him, as well as the smell of freshly baked blueberry pie. He looked around. He was in Mrs. Strong’s dining room, which was odd, considering the fact that the door led to a mudroom. He saw, to his surprise, himself, sitting in a small, red-orange cushioned chair at Mrs. Strong’s dinner table. He also saw Mrs. Strong herself and her family joined at the table as well. Richard watched himself smile and laugh at the jokes politely. Was this how hidden and fake he was in public? The glowing man by his side clicked his tongue and sighed.
“Richard, I’m here to show you what could have been. You had missed your chance to be with Mrs. Strong long before she died. You made her suffer the fantasy of being with you.” He said. Richard was bewildered.
“How do you figure?” Richard inquired. The man shook his head and pointed at the dinner table. Richard watched his memory self stuff his face with enthusiasm as he ate his favorite meal: Ham. Richard remembered this; it was two Christmases ago. For some reason, Mrs. strong was very upset the rest of the dinner. Richard was interrupted in his reminiscing by a tap on the shoulder by the glowing man.
“Listen to Mrs. Strong and her father’s conversation.” He instructed. Richard moved closer to where Mrs. Strong was sitting in order to hear.
“...but you can’t, father!” She was saying. Her father shook his head sadly.
“My dear, it is already arranged. The document is already signed. You are set be married to Benjamin Umbell in one year’s time.” He said. Richard gasped. How had he not known of this?! Then he realized: He was stuffing his face like a pig while everyone else was watching the conversation. He realized now that if he had known, he could have intervened and gotten the marriage annulled and married her himself. She DID like him, he knew; he just thought that she was not ready, and that is why she rejected him when he asked her to the Gentleman’s Cotillion. Richard groaned and slid down the wall and cupped his face in his hands.
“I am so stupid…” He said. The glowing man nodded.
“I will not disagree. I would really wish to stay and point out more mistakes, but unfortunately, my time is up. You will not be caught tonight, but do not try to escape again.” The glowing man said, and a vicious wind blew him away, his form turning into ash. The scene faded, and Richard woke up, the following morning, back in prison.

Later that day, he was hung. Or rather, he was TO be hung, but for some reason or another, there was a rip in the noose, and so when the floor dropped, he fell with it. The audience groaned, and the executioner with them. This man was so lucky that it wasn’t even funny. The rope needed to be replaced, and so that bought Richard another day. He hoped that it would all work out in some largely convoluted escape plan created by angels. He was, however, sadly mistaken…

That night, while mulling over the day’s events, Richard nearly screamed at the sight of a rotting, shadowy corpse that suddenly, yet silently, rose up from underneath the stone floor. Richard was in a less-than-hospitable mood.
“Oh, wonderful. I assume you have some kind of great, life-altering message from the world beyond, have you?” Richard said, voice snide and tone demeaning. The corpse, as to be expected, had nothing to say in reply. It simply drifted into a pool of moonlight, accentuating its features and revealing itself as not a shadowy shell of a formerly-alive person, but was Mrs. Strong herself, returned from the dead for 15 minutes only. She gasped at the sight of Richard, eyes full of terror. Richard was bewildered, looking around fervently, trying to discern the fearful apparition that is scaring her. He finally looked up, and saw a raven in flight, circling around his head. A symbol of death, he knew. Richard tried to stand up, and shamble over to comfort Mrs. Strong, but as he approached her, her body became bloated and began to rot, and turned to ash. Richard gave a muffled scream, as his hands were lifted in disgust at his mouth. He stumbled back, hitting his head on the floor, trying to escape from the horror. He felt a force close his throat, making him unable to breathe. Richard clawed at his throat, trying to remove the constricting, unseen hands. Richard felt like he was on fire. His skin prickled, and burnt, and his air was nearly gone. This went on for what seemed like ages, centuries even, on the verge of life and death. He felt like he was in Hell on Earth… As the pain slowly subsided to a dull heat and a sore throat, he saw a shape begin to form in the corner of his eye. He saw naught of what it was to form into, he only saw a bright, blinding light, and a deep, resonant, familiar, voice say;
“I do believe that he has suffered enough. Let him go, and load him into the carriage…”

So it was: Jackson Polluck, the servant who had been the most happy to leave, had seen the entire event: The murder and violation of Mrs. Strong, Richard’s bravery, the misunderstanding. Jackson had thought that Richard would get this matter settled. Jackson had heard of the execution only recently, and so when he heard, he reported what he had seen to the authorities. At first, they did not believe, but after some questioning of the constable who had received the report from the actual murderers, the authorities concluded that the aforesaid “witnesses” were drunk, and had blood stains on their clothing. Richard Miser was free, and soon fell in love with the kind Mrs. Turner, a witty brunette with a spunky attitude. They married and had 4 children, but Richard never did in fact make it to America. He died on the voyage.
Richard never forgot the haunting he experienced, nor the wonderful Mrs. Strong. Occasionally, he swore he could hear her laughter, or smell the perfume she wore. Some would call Richard insane, or mentally challenged, but I would call him “optimistic and hopeful, with a tinge of mild schizophrenia.”

So ends the tale of Richard Miser. Altogether, he was simply a man with a major misunderstanding. He was not significant in any other time period of the era, and was hardly even remembered by his own grandchildren. Let us hope that you have a more fruitful life than Richard Miser did.

  Fin~