The Eyeball Collector by F E Higgins Page B

nothing. He had little interest in strangers, especially ones who looked impoverished. If the fellow had money (and Jereome had a unique ability to sniff it out), it would have been a different story. Certainly he would have introduced himself in the hope of taking advantage of the stranger’s purse. In fact, if Jereome had known just a little more about the stranger, his life could have taken a very different course, but that is by the by.
    Eventually Jereome sneaked a better look at the fellow only to find that he was already under close scrutiny himself. The traveller looked as if he had been on the road for some time. He carried a knapsack and a stick and was plainly dressed, in dark colours. With a curt nod to Jereome he knelt by the stream and took a drink of water from cupped hands.
    Jereome was wary of strangers. Generally they meant trouble. Either they wanted hospitality (for which the forest dwellers were not known at all, having a reputation to the contrary) or they were sheriffs looking for criminals. This man didn’t look like a sheriff. He watched as the man laid down his bag and took out a hunk of bread, some cheese and a bottle of ale.
    ‘Would you like to share with me?’ he asked. His accent was not local but also not strong enough to place anywhere else.
    ‘I have my own,’ said Jereome, and pulled from his pocket some strips of dark dried meat. And to his surprise, almost without realizing he was doing it, he offered a piece to the stranger. The man’s eyes lit up and he took it gratefully.
    ‘Hairy-Backed Hog,’ he said as he chewed it. ‘Excellent! The best there is.’
    Jereome’s chest puffed out. ‘I cured it myself,’ he said.
    ‘And what a fine job you’ve done. Here, take some bread, make a meal of it.’
    Jereome accepted and the two sat silently for some minutes chewing and drinking, the stranger from his ale bottle and Bovrik from his water-filled pig’s bladder.
    Finally replete, the two began a conversation in earnest. Nearby the pigs were snuffing and the trees were swaying gently in the breeze. The weak sun had mustered some strength and they both enjoyed the feel of its rays on their faces.
    ‘So, where have you come from?’ asked Jereome. ‘Where do you go?’
    ‘I have come from a small town in the midlands.’ The man mentioned a name that was familiar to Jereome. ‘Perhaps you have heard of it?’
    ‘And what were you doing there?’
    The stranger laughed. ‘What I always do. Trying to help but getting into trouble.’
    ‘You sound as if it wasn’t quite what you expected.’
    ‘Oh, I expected it all right,’ said the man. ‘Some things are inevitable.’
    Jereome was quietly intrigued by this enigmatic stranger. ‘Tell me more,’ he urged. ‘Have you had any adventure? What was your reward?’
    ‘Adventure? Certainly. Reward? Well, I have this,’ said the man and he produced from his rucksack a wooden leg.
    Jereome glanced immediately and overtly at the man’s legs. He recalled that he had limped as he had approached.
    ‘I limp, it is true,’ said the stranger, seeing his look, ‘but I do have both my legs. This wooden leg belonged to a very old gentleman. I had the privilege of hearing his last confession on his deathbed. He gave it to me before he passed on.’
    ‘What would anyone want with a wooden leg? Is it valuable?’
    ‘Not the leg itself,’ replied the man, ‘but what was in it. Look.’
    He held it out and twisted the knee and it came off. The leg was hollow. ‘The man kept his life savings in it, in promissory letters and bank notes. It was a substantial sum.’
    ‘What of the man’s family?’
    ‘Aha! Now you get to the crux of it. The gentleman did have a son but he was a slothful beast. He knew what was in the leg and he came to me and demanded that I give it to him, that it was his by right. I refused, of course. He threatened me and then left. He returned that evening and stole it when he thought I wasn’t