Sure enough, within an hour of reaching the coast and heading south he discerned a campfire and a cottage ahead. It was a wooden shack. An old, bearded fisherman and his quiet, middle-aged, ministering son sat on a log in front of it. Few words were passed. They shared a plentiful meal of fish, and he was told, solemnly by firelight, of the eleven sons and daughters the old man once boasted, now all lost, except one, like some ancient Jew recounting the horrors of the Diaspora. The traveller left them with a heartfelt blessing the next morning and set out on his way.
The sky was overcast as usual on this day, but the air was crisp and conducive to thoughtfulness for one walking alone along the shore. Memories from the distant past floated through the mind of Jonathan Winslow, faces and scenes from his student days and first career, his old office and the titles and colors of the books that lined its walls. Because this day would be his last he entertained these recollections with a debonair abandon, a thing he almost never permitted himself because of the remorse that was sure to follow. "Why not feast and regale my mind with what it was before I toss myself into the flames? Is not every sentenced man allowed his last dinner?"
After doting on his old books for a while he started shouting out, as he walked along, the names of the authors and historians he most admired: "Thucydides," "Plato," "Polybius," "Livy," on and on, in a fair, chronological order, exhausting twenty or so names before he exhausted himself. For he had been an historian long ago with a promising future cut short. The fit subsided as he reached the ruins of a lighthouse which he recognized as a sign that the town was only a few miles beyond. This put him in mind of his present business.
He already had the note, his death warrant, dangling in plain view on his chest. His plan was to proceed straight through town to the central temple. There he would present himself to the head priest to be punished, even if the daily prayers were in progress. It would liven up their day to have an 'auto da fe' he thought. Such shows were becoming very scarce lately, due to the dearth of people of any sort left to persecute.
As he reached the margin of this town of about a thousand souls he began a steady, dignified step, with his staff raised up to avoid tripping, looking straight ahead, yet keenly listening for any stir or comment from the few people in the streets around him.
It was not the habit of citizens these days to notice much of anything. The few women and men not employed in one of the central workhouses stayed indoors at their trades until necessity forced them out on some errand. Then, in as self-effacing a manner as possible, clothed from head to foot, hooded and veiled, they would hurry off down narrow streets straight to their destinations and back again, glad not to be noticed by the civil authorities, whose job it was to seek out and punish idleness.
Such a chastened, puritan atmosphere was not exactly conducive to the afternoon exhibitionism Jonathan intended. As he walked the nearly empty lanes the first few souls he passed didn't even notice him. So he decided to announce himself by calling out "unclean," "unclean," like a leper of old, hoping to attract a magistrate who would arrest him. Now the people did make way for him, running away, slipping through doorways or at least hiding their faces and mumbling prayers as he went by. Finally, when the temple and the central square were in sight, a fat, balding fellow, unhooded and wearing the wide belt of an official, hurried towards him with the determined bearing of a person of rank. But at ten paces this fellow perceived two contradictory things; the bright, silver eagle on the staff, which denoted an authority and holiness far greater than his own, and then the strange paper, marked with dark characters on the stranger's chest. This stopped him in mid-step. After a second of confusion, as Jonathan still approached him, he fell to his knees and shielded his eyes with his fat arm, crying out loudly for God's forgiveness upon his polluted sight.
Jonathan Winslow proceeded straight up to this wailing and cowering fellow, put his hand on his bald head, and with the voice of a practiced leader said softly, "calm yourself my good man, no sin is upon you. Just fetch me a few blind servitors to attend me to the gates of your temple. I desire to be judged there by your priests and I promise to say prayers for you this very day in heaven."
The man hurried away as instructed and came back after several minutes with two blind guards, pulling them by their belts as fast as they could shuffle. This time he kept his eyes averted as he neared Jonathan. With a guard positioned at each arm now and the functionary in front, they proceeded slowly to the temple gate. Inside the courtyard the priests were gathering. They’d been vaguely warned to shield their eyes and prepare for the approach of a holy man with dark characters upon him. They had but a few moments to huddle and debate the confusing matter. The head priest was engaged in private prayers and could not be disturbed immediately. But the others were afraid to let any possible evil within the walls, so they closed the huge, white doors and gathered to confront the situation from the parapet above.
When they’d collected there and timidly peeked over the edge, they saw the stranger and his entourage of three waiting patiently almost directly below them. With hand-shielded eyes their spokesman addressed him from some fifteen feet above:
"O holy man, what is thy purpose in coming here, and thy meaning?"
"I have come here in conscious sin and beg the grace of purifying fires, to end my earthly sojourn," Jonathan replied.
At this moment the old priest in charge of the town was being helped by his attendants up the stairs to the rampart. He was very frail and somewhat short-sighted. He had been dimly appraised of the situation in a few words but he didn’t comprehend even that little. He peered over the edge and saw Jonathan with his silver staff, gleaming in the daylight, looking up at him, so he called out: "You do us great honor by your visit, stranger. We shall be most grateful to receive you within these walls and entertain you at our humble table."
"Pollution covers me. I am accursed. I desire to be burned," replied Jonathan loudly.
"Do not worry. You are our honored guest," said the priest. "I will dispatch servitors to cleanse you right away. We have excellent lickers here." Then he turned to his men, "let this be quickly done. Open the gate."
Although the other priests knew that their leader had mistaken the situation by not perceiving the note and by assuming that the stranger was merely talking in an archaic, self-deprecating manner before a host of lower rank, they still found it expedient to go along with him. They all dreaded the thought of Jonathan's request, not that they disliked public burnings, but they dared not touch a man of his high status, not knowing what repercussions might come of it. So without informing the old priest, they quickly instructed a trusted secretary to sneak out and mingle with the lickers and to pluck off and eat the offending note without delay.
This was accordingly done. As Jonathan was standing there, befuddled, and trying to frame a new protest to this unexpected hospitality, the man slipped out the gate and came up in the same bowed fashion as the four servants who were already crowding around Jonathan's legs and dusting off his lower robes. With one smooth motion the man tore the note from the string, crumpled it into his mouth and bolted away down the street. When Jonathan perceived this he yelled out "stop, thief!" He would have pursued the man, but the blind guards were still holding his arms and the servants around his legs hindered him. The fat bureaucrat, who had been standing by all this time, was so disconcerted and confused by this commotion that he too ran off in the same direction as the secretary.
Just then, the gates opened wide and the old priest limped toward Jonathan with outstretched arms, smiling. Jonathan had an extremely sour look on his face. He was thinking of the irony of the situation. He had come here to be executed and instead they were trying to fete him.
"Forgive us, forgive us," said the old man "if we displease you in any way. We are a backward people, simple in the rules of ceremony. Please, come and enter our temple and bless us."
