Praying for the Dawn

The council, clothed in the high shadows above the dock, made themselves known, their speaker’s voice breaking the silence, “Young Mr. Ebenright.”

For a moment the addressed was a caged animal, pulling at his chains and twisting around to peer into the all-encompassing darkness. He spat, “You devils! I’ll wake up.”

“But you’ll sleep forever,” a deep voice intoned from the bench.

The official speaker continued, “It has come to our attention that—”

“Hang it, you dirt bags,” the man interrupted. “You wouldn’t speak the truth if it would save your sorry souls. I’m a King’s man, and you hate the king.”

“The gentleman will hear the words of the court,” insisted the speaker. “Notwithstanding our nation’s relationship to the deposed king—”

“The good king.”

“The people were liberated from his law,” the voice quavered. “Now we are free.”

“We are enslaved,” returned the man. “Enslaved to ourselves, and to new masters, themselves slaves, all writhing in these shadowy dreams without light.”

“You have rebelled against the dictates of this court,” the deep voice returned. “And you will not escape our judgment.”

“Nor will you,” the man said, “forever escape the light.”

. . . and groaning, the man turned over in his sleep, half waking, praying for the dawn.