A Bag Full of Eyes
a novella
by Robert J. Krog
Published by Sam's Dot Publishing at Smashwords
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written consent of the author and/or artists.
A Bag Full Of Eyes is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Story copyright owned by Robert J. Krog
Cover illustration "A Bag Full Of Eyes" copyright 2012 by Teresa Tunaley
Cover design by Atomic Fly Studios
First Printing, January 2012
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Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam
To Dev, Jimmy, Chris, Sean, Aaron, Mike, and Kelli.
Acknowledgements
Thanks are due to my wife Ana, to the members of Imagicopter including but not limited to H. David Blalock, Herika Raymer, Tyree Campbell, and Jennifer Mulvihill, and to Alexis Lott. Thank you.
Chapter 1
It was not until mid-afternoon that the eye-man arrived at the scene of the murders. He rode up the blood-stained, dirt track that zigzagged up the hill into the village in a two-wheeled cart pulled by a slow, lanky pony. Royal Inspector Sir Gordon stopped him just outside the gate, making sure to keep his sword in the other man’s sight and to display the insignia of rank and the crucifix embroidered into his surcoat.
“You the eye-man?” Gordon asked the somewhat aged looking fellow.
“I am Victor, the eye-man, yes. Where is the corpse?”
“I’m Royal Inspector Sir Gordon. There are five corpses. The villagers pulled them up beside the wall here. They were found downhill a ways. You can park your cart on the other side of the gateway.”
Victor, the eye-man, glanced past the vigorous, younger man’s dark-haired head over to where the corpses were lined up, covered by canvas sheets, then clucked at his pony and flicked the reins, easing the cart over to a level patch beside the gateway. He set the brake and stepped down from the cart, standing tall and spare. Gordon observed that the man and the pony uncannily resembled one another. He was a stocky man himself, which was fine, since that fitted well his idea of how a man should appear.
Victor walked over and looked at the five corpses lined up before the village wall. He removed his hat and made the sign of the cross. Gordon had already prayed for the repose of their souls earlier with their families, but he removed his hat respectfully and waited until Victor was done. The eye-man finished praying shortly, ending with, “Eternal rest grant unto them, o Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them.” He went to the back of his cart, from which he hauled off of a medium-size, iron-bound box. Staggering under its weight, he came bowlegged toward the spot where the bodies lay, stumbling, and nearly tripping over the hem of his flapping, brown cloak. Gordon shook his head but gave the gangly fellow a hand with one end of the box. In his estimation, it was not heavy, and, in his opinion, a man should be able to carry the tools of his trade without so much effort. Such a minimal level of fitness wasn’t as high on his list of important characteristics as piety, but it was high.
“Here,” Victor indicated a level spot in the grass beside the corpses. They set the box down and Victor took a moment to stop huffing and puffing. He cleaned his spectacles on his tunic before proceeding. Calmly, his breathing returning to normal, he took a large key out of a pocket in his cloak and unlocked the box.
“It’s a very specialized trade,” he explained, taking his brass eye extractor out of his toolbox, and holding it up, carefully calibrating the adjusting screws that managed the tension between the grabber claw and the spoon.
“So I was given to understand,” said Gordon, “I was told that you are the only one who does this.” He was trying to be patient, but the man had taken nearly half the day to arrive, and waiting around, guarding the corpses of the five, blood-drained peasants had made him irritable.
“I’m the only one with the necessary equipment and skills,” Victor said, holding the brass instrument up a little higher in the sunlight. His spectacles cast a glare, making his brown eyes look blood-red behind them. “The skills are just as important as the equipment,” he continued, “A damaged eyeball will yield little or no insight.”