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gazed a
moment longer. No, I didn’t think so. His soul was so filled with
anger, that it was difficult to pull individual thoughts out.
However, in that brief glimpse, I could see it wasn’t enough for
him to merely silence his enemies—he had to make them suffer.
Beyond that, he wanted them to know that it was he who was
inflicting the torture, so they could see his power over them and
know they were completely defenseless. I suspected he would use his
position, as the magistrate, to take his revenge.
    A crowd grew, and with it, so did the
potential witnesses. Realizing that there was nothing more he could
do to intimidate us, Mr. Martin, still shaking with anger, abruptly
turned and strode up the road without saying another
word.
    Mr. Shepherd let me go. I whirled,
ready to yell at him for holding me back; but he raised his hand
and gestured toward the small group, cautioning me to be careful
about what I said. Some wore scornful expressions, but most had
ones of understanding. A few even looked encouragingly at
me.
    “ Are you hurt?” he
asked.
    I hurt all over, but replied, “I don’t
think so.”
    Obviously unconvinced, he said, “Let’s
go back to the smithy, lad. We’ll have a wee cup of tea and I’ll
look you over.”
    I didn’t argue. I was furious at myself
for how badly this had gone and felt I deserved every bruise
forming on my body.
    With the excitement at an end, the
crowd began to disperse.
    We walked the short distance back to
the shop where he led me into a small, dark sitting room. It was
populated with a few chairs, a small table, and a fireplace with,
regrettably, no fire. It lacked the touch of a woman. Mr. Shepherd
never married, though I couldn’t figure out why. From my
observation, plenty of women fancied him. I sensed a story there
and, though tempted to try and find out more, I left it alone. I
didn’t like reading people’s souls when it wasn’t absolutely
necessary to do so. I had in the past and felt dirty, like I was
sneaking around, peeking into windows. What’s more, I wasn’t good
at keeping what I had been told separate from what I had
harvested—a mistake that sometimes came back to haunt me, when I
inadvertently said something that I wasn’t supposed to know. Such a
slip is where trouble usually begins for me.
    “ Sit you down, friend, while
I get water heating for tea,” said Mr. Shepherd. He turned and left
for the smithery, where the forge still blazed.
    I slid into a chair, which was
surprisingly more comfortable than it looked, stared at the empty
fireplace, and waited in glum silence. After a few moments, Mr.
Shepherd returned.
    “ Now, let’s have a wee look
at you.” He poked and prodded. I winced a few times as he touched
some tender spots.
    I liked Mr. Shepherd; he had a good
heart. He had always been friendly and seemed to genuinely care
about me. Of course, anyone new to a small town generates some
interest at first, but his never died—nor did it waver for any of
his friends. However, when it came to his own life, he revealed
very little; and none of us knew anything about him beyond what we
observed.
    Finally, he announced, “Well, it
doesn’t look like you’ve broken anything, though I’m sure you’re
going to feel like you did in the morning.”
    He was wrong. I didn’t have to wait
until morning. Things were already stiffening and I felt an
increasing soreness set in.
    “ Why’d you stop me?” I
demanded, still angry.
    He stroked his beard and, in a fatherly
voice, replied, “Well now…I suppose for the same reason that you
decided not to fight back.”
    It wasn’t the answer I had expected and
I tried not to look surprised.
    With keen eyes that didn’t miss much,
he continued, “I know you could have ducked that fist. I’ve seen
you move a wee swifter than that…and I saw it in your eyes. You
were right not to fight, though. It would’ve been worse for Mrs.
Martin. Moreover, you would’ve been charged for striking a
magistrate.