Door Handle.
But there's nothing here but a few pennies! I don't have enough today to be worth your bother, Sir."
The man lunges for your pouch and rips it from your waist. You grab him by the collar, catching him off his guard and you both fall to the muddy ground, wrestling for the pouch. He rolls on top of you, his weight squeezing the air from your lungs. You struggle in vain for breath, but your arms are still free and you prise the pouch from his hand. His fist crunches your jaw and the pain radiates through your skull Your molars feel loose and the taste of blood fills your mouth. His sneering face blurs.
The crack of a pistol filters through the ringing in your ears and a searing pain grips your upper arm. Specks of light dance in front of your eyes and the numbness of unconsciousness descends upon you.
Dreams of faces swathed in green cloth drift through your mind; a halo of bright lights hovers above their heads. They move with serenity that you have only ever seen with priests, their raised hands devoid of any blemish you can see.
Angels... This must be the gateway to Heaven. Your heart flutters with excitement. No more hunger. No more punishment. You wonder whether the girl in the red and white shoes made it here too. But wait, what of your friends and family? You cannot be separated from them yet.
"I do not wish to die!" Your voice is dry and cracked. Pain lances through your jaw and your shoulder, the injuries you remember you sustained at the hands of the highwaymen.
"I am glad to hear it." One masked face looms close. "There is still much in store for you." He holds a translucent cup-shaped object over your face and your senses recede once more.
The sound of birdsong wakes you. You are in a bed similar to your own, hard yet not uncomfortable. Pots hang from the beams spanning the sloped ceiling and a basket of clothing sits in the corner. The drapes that cover the small window filter the sunlight into pinkish rays, underneath which, a woman sits at a table. Her clothes are that of a peasant, like yourself, but there is something about the newness and cleanliness of her skirts that makes you curious.
Your bladder feels full and instinctively you reach under your bed for the chamber pot, but something tugs at your arm. A translucent cord extends from the folds of a bandage on your wrist, to a bottle of water that hangs on a stand.
But there is no pot - instead the strangest looking bag hangs from the side of your bed. It is transparent like glass, yet is flexible like cloth, and appears somehow to be filled with your urine. You feel a cord against your leg - it takes no imagination as to where it might lead. This must be a form of purgatory, never described by any preaching you have heard.
The woman is already at your side, perched on the small stool by your bed. She smiles. "Alf, isn't it?"
"If I am not dead, then what witchcraft is this?"
"There is no witchcraft. Your jaw had been broken in a fight, and you had been shot in the arm. Do you remember?"
The memory of the highwaymen make you feel your face with your hands, but there is no pain, no swelling. Your teeth are all in place. Had it been a dream? You move your arm around and pull the loose neck of your nightshirt down over your shoulder. The faint scar of a bullet wound is all that remains of your ordeal with the robbers.
It is only now you notice she is hiding something small and metallic in her hands. Slender figures carved on its surface glint from between her fingers.
Her expression becomes serious as she opens her hands. "Tell me Alf, I need to know. Have you seen this object before?"
The man lunges for your pouch and rips it from your waist. You grab him by the collar, catching him off his guard and you both fall to the muddy ground, wrestling for the pouch. He rolls on top of you, his weight squeezing the air from your lungs. You struggle in vain for breath, but your arms are still free and you prise the pouch from his hand. His fist crunches your jaw and the pain radiates through your skull Your molars feel loose and the taste of blood fills your mouth. His sneering face blurs.
The crack of a pistol filters through the ringing in your ears and a searing pain grips your upper arm. Specks of light dance in front of your eyes and the numbness of unconsciousness descends upon you.
Dreams of faces swathed in green cloth drift through your mind; a halo of bright lights hovers above their heads. They move with serenity that you have only ever seen with priests, their raised hands devoid of any blemish you can see.
Angels... This must be the gateway to Heaven. Your heart flutters with excitement. No more hunger. No more punishment. You wonder whether the girl in the red and white shoes made it here too. But wait, what of your friends and family? You cannot be separated from them yet.
"I do not wish to die!" Your voice is dry and cracked. Pain lances through your jaw and your shoulder, the injuries you remember you sustained at the hands of the highwaymen.
"I am glad to hear it." One masked face looms close. "There is still much in store for you." He holds a translucent cup-shaped object over your face and your senses recede once more.
The sound of birdsong wakes you. You are in a bed similar to your own, hard yet not uncomfortable. Pots hang from the beams spanning the sloped ceiling and a basket of clothing sits in the corner. The drapes that cover the small window filter the sunlight into pinkish rays, underneath which, a woman sits at a table. Her clothes are that of a peasant, like yourself, but there is something about the newness and cleanliness of her skirts that makes you curious.
Your bladder feels full and instinctively you reach under your bed for the chamber pot, but something tugs at your arm. A translucent cord extends from the folds of a bandage on your wrist, to a bottle of water that hangs on a stand.
But there is no pot - instead the strangest looking bag hangs from the side of your bed. It is transparent like glass, yet is flexible like cloth, and appears somehow to be filled with your urine. You feel a cord against your leg - it takes no imagination as to where it might lead. This must be a form of purgatory, never described by any preaching you have heard.
The woman is already at your side, perched on the small stool by your bed. She smiles. "Alf, isn't it?"
"If I am not dead, then what witchcraft is this?"
"There is no witchcraft. Your jaw had been broken in a fight, and you had been shot in the arm. Do you remember?"
The memory of the highwaymen make you feel your face with your hands, but there is no pain, no swelling. Your teeth are all in place. Had it been a dream? You move your arm around and pull the loose neck of your nightshirt down over your shoulder. The faint scar of a bullet wound is all that remains of your ordeal with the robbers.
It is only now you notice she is hiding something small and metallic in her hands. Slender figures carved on its surface glint from between her fingers.
Her expression becomes serious as she opens her hands. "Tell me Alf, I need to know. Have you seen this object before?"