I rated this part R just in case for some detestable, unpleasant things that happen to our poor, dear Mac!
Read on if you dare!
Accusations Part Four
Rated: R (violence)
MacGyver was barely conscious when his brawny jailers fully rousted him from sleep, yanking him upright.
“Wait…what’s going on?” He asked drowsily.
Thomas stood outside the cell, the spindly and jaundiced man looking far more menacing than the powerfully built men that held MacGyver, grinning sadistically, his eyes icy and piercing, filled with bloodlust.
“Time for your confession,” he hissed.
Remembering the conversation he had with William the night before, he knew this was the beginning of the series of trying times he would have to endure if he were to survive and eventually gain his freedom. Still, having knowledge of that information provided little comfort, knowing he was about to suffer from some unbearable torment of which he could not envision nor do little to prepare for, except to steel and brace himself as best as he could against the coming, inevitable pain that would follow.
“No,” he said, struggling in the arms of the jailers, even though he knew it was futile to resist, their firm, powerful grip on him unbreakable. He was completely helpless against them.
“Take him outside to the village square,” Thomas instructed the jailers.
Grunting and nodding, the large men dragged MacGyver out of the relative safety of his prison cell and into the harsh daylight, his eyes unaccustomed to the sun after days of being shut up in the dark, causing him to squint against its brightness as they attempted to adjust to the new light levels. Once he could see again, he noticed where they were taking him, locking and securing his wrists and neck in a wooden device that stood in the center of the village where everyone could clearly view him, as if he were on display. He had been placed in the stocks. They left him alone there for a moment, and for awhile MacGyver thought he would be fine, figuring they were going to leave him there, for perhaps a few days. Being restrained in such a manner would be uncomfortable, and he would once again suffer from the deprivation of adequate food and water, as well as exposure to the elements. He would also be harassed and spit upon by the townspeople who believed he was a sorcerer, unable to shield himself from their vicious attacks, but at least the discomfort would be minor in comparison to other forms of torture that he could imagine with a shudder in horror and revulsion.
His jailers ripped the back of the coarse shirt he wore open violently, exposing the flesh of his back. Thomas paced in front of him, smirking. He produced a whip-like instrument that consisted of several tentacles of knotted, spiked cords, handing it to one of the jailers. MacGyver gulped as he recognized the instrument of punishment as the Cat O’ Nine Tails, known to inflict severe pain. He began to realize that exposure and starvation were the least of his concerns. An audience of townspeople began to congregate, staring at him with unkind eyes, believing he deserved the punishment he was about to receive. Among the crowd MacGyver could see Emily, who watched, horrified and helpless, unable to protest lest she be considered an accomplice to his wicked deeds and punished in a similar fashion. She looked at him in sympathy, her eyes moist with tears. All he could do was nod slightly in return and attempt a brave smile, his neck clamped down upon too strongly by the stocks to allow it much movement.
“You have been accused of the crime of sorcery,” Thomas shouted loudly, projecting his voice so that the curious audience that had gathered to witness the barbarity could hear him. “What sayest thou to the charges? Dost thou confess?”
“No,” MacGyver said strongly, remembering and heeding the advice William had given him.
I must stay strong. I must survive this, no matter what happens… “I’m innocent.”
Without saying another word, Thomas nodded to the jailer who held the Cat O’ Nine Tails. Understanding his silent order, the bulky man moved into position behind MacGyver, facing his back. MacGyver tensed, feeling his presence. Even though there was a chill in the air, a trickle of sweat ran down his back in anxious anticipation of the first blow. Although he had steeled himself as best as he could, he was still unprepared as the first lash ripped and cut deeply into his skin, tearing it open in bloody strips. He released a cry as he felt the sting and the intense, excruciating pain, something that seemed to please Thomas, who obviously wanted to hear him scream, to hear him beg for mercy. Not wanting to satisfy his desire, MacGyver controlled himself better for the next blow, biting his lip to stifle his screams.
The blows came harder and faster, repeatedly lacerating him until his back was a messy, sticky mass of blood. He could feel it spraying as he was continuously pummeled without even a brief moment of respite or pause, now drawing blood from his lips as he bit down harder, the pain becoming increasingly unbearable with each new thrashing he received, the multiple cords slicing into his skin in different directions, creating long, jagged, bloody gashes. The severity and frequency of the blows were beginning to take their toll on his abused, damaged body, weakening him, the thrust and force of them pushing his exhausted body forward. He moaned between his tightly clenched teeth, beginning to lose his connection to consciousness, his trembling body sagging and drooping, going limp, the stocks the only thing supporting him. When it seemed the beating would continue unceasingly, it abruptly stopped, leaving MacGyver gasping in pain. Barely aware, feeling groggy and faint, almost collapsing in a swoon, he felt someone grab his chin and force his head upright. Opening his eyes to slits, slowly blinking away the drops of sweat that had fallen into them, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision, he saw Thomas, his nasty, decaying teeth showing in a predatory snarl. He glared at him in pure hatred.
“Wilt thou confess now?” He asked.
“No,” MacGyver said hoarsely, speaking as loudly as he could despite the intolerable pain he was suffering, hoping the others in the village would be able to hear him, especially Emily. He could no longer see her. He could no longer distinguish any faces except the sallow, narrow face of his tormentor and interrogator.
Thomas released his chin and shook his head, making a tsk sound in disappointment. “’Tis a shame,” he said, as if he actually felt sorry for him. “Why dost thou persist with your defiance? If you would merely confess I would release you from your unendurable torment. I would relieve you of your intense suffering.”
“No,” MacGyver said, knowing that relief would mean death, and as much as he wished for it at that moment, he would not yield, thinking of Emily and William, of Pete, of everyone he cared about and wanted to see again.
“Why dost thou refuse? Do you not wish to be free of pain?”
“I am not a sorcerer,” MacGyver said emphatically. “Listen to me!” He shouted to the crowd despite his pain and weakness, wincing. “I am not a sorcerer! If I was, wouldn’t I be able to heal and protect myself from injury? Why would I bleed like a mere mortal, like a normal human being?”
“Do not listen to him!” Thomas shouted. “He is attempting to persuade you to feel pity for him by assuming this corporeal form, by pretending to be as fragile as you when in fact he is infinitely more powerful and more fearsome than any of us can begin to imagine!”
After his latest theatrical display before the crowd, Thomas turned to face the jailer who held the Cat ‘O Nine Tails, once again communicating with him silently. MacGyver could not see his invisible tormentor, not knowing or able to anticipate what he was about to suffer next, his body shivering from shock and struggling to remain awake. He heard the clanging of metal behind him and something sizzling.
“Since you will not confess to your crimes or to what you are, perhaps we shall have to label you as such, forever marking you with the brand of the devil so that there will be no mistaking who or what you are,” Thomas said, grinning gleefully, taking delight and pleasure in watching his prisoner suffer, feeling with absolute moral certitude that he was doing the right thing by punishing evil as God had commanded.
As MacGyver listened more closely, he began to make out the individual sounds, and more dread filled him as he realized what was happening. He had been around enough blacksmiths during his time on farms and ranches to recognize the banging and forging of hot, molten metal, forming a branding iron. Clenching his fists tightly into balls, wriggling against the restraints of the stocks that held him, he awaited the new pain with as much tension and anxiety as he had the lashing from the Cat ‘O Nine Tails, trying to steady his nerves and fear, trying to think of something else or focus his mind elsewhere, on anywhere but the pain, but it proved impossible. The branding iron seared into his back on what seemed to be the only place the whip had not touched, causing white hot intense pain that made him holler, unable to contain it as he had during his whipping. He smelled his own flesh burning before the pain became too severe and he lost consciousness, falling into the relief of oblivion, sagging against the stocks.
Emily had bit her lip as much as MacGyver had during the torture, as if she was experiencing it along with him. In some ways, she had, watching as he was brutalized, powerless to stop it. She did her best to suppress her tears as she saw his shocking condition, his back a mass of cuts, bleeding profusely, a blackened, smoldering scar forming where he had been branded with the mark of the devil, his body hanging slackly, the stocks the only thing keeping him upright and preventing him from collapsing completely to the ground. She feared her father would be too late delivering the governor’s verdict to interdict and save him from this cruel treatment for which he was undeserving. If it continued much longer, she knew he would most certainly die.
“Leave him in the stocks!” Thomas shouted to the jailers. “Allow him time to reconsider before commencing with his next punishment.”
Emily felt an enraged, primal cry rise within her, one which she could no longer control or withhold, not caring any longer if she were condemned as a witch herself for releasing it, wanting to stop the madness, wanting to save MacGyver’s life as he had saved hers. She was about to release it when another voice among the crowd spoke out.
“Wait! I implore you! Cease and desist your actions!” A man shouted, pushing his way through the throng. As he got closer, Emily recognized him as her father. She had to continue to restrain herself from expressing the jubilation she felt seeing him, knowing he carried orders from the governor to release MacGyver. Her bruised lower lip trembled as more tears threatened, and she smiled broadly at him, knowing that later she would throw her arms around him and embrace him tightly in gratitude for what he had done. He returned her smile, sharing her elation and relief.
“What is this?” Thomas asked.
William approached him with a brisk march, waving the papers signed by the governor and bearing his seal at him. “I have orders from the governor himself that you are to release this man,” he said.
An astonished cry rose in the crowd.
“What?” Thomas asked, scoffing dismissively, a scowl forming on his waxen, unhealthy features.
“Read for yourself! He hath pardoned this man of all guilt! There is his personal seal confirming it!”
Thomas angrily snatched the papers from William’s hand, reading it furiously, his expression incredulous as he began to realize that the orders were legitimate. He stared blankly at it, stunned into speechlessness.
William turned to face his fellow villagers. “This man whom we have wrongly mistreated saved my daughter’s life!” He shouted. “Our most revered governor has recognized him as an angel of mercy, not an agent of Satan! Release him at once!”
“R-release him,” Thomas said to the jailers, stammering and stumbling over his words, still staring at the papers in shocked disbelief.
The jailers began to unlock MacGyver’s bleeding, battered, unconscious body from the stocks, and from his manacles, and William rushed to their side to assist them, taking hold of him and carefully lowering him to the ground in a prone position so that his lacerated and burned back would not grind roughly into the dirt. Emily rushed to his aide, staring down in horror at the extensive damage.
“Oh father, look at what they’ve done to him,” she said, releasing her sobs, unable to control them any longer, burying her face into his chest.
“I know, my child,” William said softly, stroking her hair. “I know. But it’s over now. His suffering shall soon end, and he will heal.”
“You are fools, all of you!” Thomas shouted, recovering from his initial shocked reaction. “Are you blind? Canst thou not see that he hath deceived us all?”
“Are you questioning the authority of your governor?” William challenged.
“He hath been influenced by this sorcerer’s evil power,” Thomas said, looking down at MacGyver’s unconscious, bloodied form in contempt. “Ye shall see! Ye shall all see that I am in the right when he brings destruction down upon us all!”
William watched him in disgust as he walked away, dropping the governor’s orders in the dust, still flabbergasted and outraged, muttering curses and oaths softly to himself as he went. Deciding to ignore him, returning to the more urgent, pressing matters at hand, he helped his daughter tend to MacGyver.
“There is…considerable damage to his back,” he said, shocked by the gore, knowing he had cautioned the man that he would suffer greatly before he could be released, but now that he was seeing the horrors of what he described, the experience was entirely different, the absolute cruelty sickening and devastating for him to behold.
“Whither shall we take him?” Emily asked.
“Our home,” William said, sighing. He looked up at the jailers. “You! Help us carry this man to my home!” He barked gruffly, angered and disgusted by all that had happened, beginning to doubt his role as magistrate in a society that allowed such things to happen to the innocent, feeling all of them had made a terrible, grave error and misjudgment, once which history would rightly condemn as a deplorable event in the course of humanity.
Emily stared sadly down at MacGyver, his bloody body remaining motionless, disconcerting her. She found herself wishing she knew how to revive him the way he had revived her, wondering if he was already dead, wondering if the governor’s orders had arrived too late to help him.
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
