The Escape

The palaces of the dead are the prisons of the living, thought Mykál as his shackle bonds were released. Mykál looked his captor in the eye with bitter disgust as he stood to full height.
The man was a shaggy man, his eyes were sunk in, shirt torn and his pants were torn at the cuffs.
“Come, let’s get this over with.” said the captor with a grim face.
Mykál retorted to the back of his cell were a still figure lay on the floor covered in blood.
The captor came into the cell and grabbed the man and pulled him out with considerable force as he whispered harshly.
“We wouldn’t want another death in this cell, would we?”
Mykál’s muscles tensed at the word death.
The captor gave a chuckle as he led his prisoner down the corridor.
“You’re not getting off easy, unless you like hanging.”

As the captor took his prisoner down the endless, grimy corridor, the hands and faces of the damned poked between bars. One unfortunate child, brushed his scrawny hand past the captor’s leg and a sound that silenced everyone, was the sound of whip on flesh.
The captor scowled at the child and dragged the pale, still man beside him, to the end of the corridor. There he pushed the small grimy doors open, always keeping his eyes on Mykál.
When they walked through the doors, two guards joined behind them and two in front. Mykál looked around nervously and fought against his body to keep up straight from lack of food.
As they past rooms, Mykál realized they were going to the end of the corridor, the opening to where the public hanging was held.
Mykál could do nothing but let his captor drag him further and further into his death.
The captor stared Mykál in the eye as they reached the end of the corridor.
“You won’t feel anything, apart from the sword, if you’re lucky enough to survive.”
The captor tied Mykál hands behind his back with a smile on his face that was rewarded with a look of terror from his prisoner.
He placed a number on a small wooden panel with rope around Mykál’s neck while two of the guards held him down as he’d started to freak out.
This made the captor laugh and it sent a shiver down Mykál’s back.
“Get the hell out there, you’re next.”
The captor gave Mykál one last shove as he pushed him into the court where people were talking to one another and casting bets.
Two guards with hardened sweaty faces walked behind him and poked him in the back with spears. As he was walking, one of the guards behind him fell to the ground with a dull thud from the heat.
In the confusion, the other guard cut the ropes around Mykál’s hands and whispered.
“Get the hell out of here!”
Mykál turned around and there in front of him, was an old version of Mykál’s older brother.
Tears rolled down Mykál’s face as he looked at his brother.
“Has it really been that long?”
“Yes, now go!”
Mykál looked at his brother for a few seconds and ran through the ensemble. With guards following behind him, Mykál took the most turns possible to get away from the prison.











Mykál didn’t stop running until he’d reached the place he remembered most in Spain. He was familiar with everything, the gate, path, steps, house and roof, but he did not enter.
His stubborn mother had put an ugly flower in the garden and said that as long as she lives, the flower would remain.
Mykál ran faster and faster, not knowing what to do, all seemed lost in his giant world.
He ran until he came to a stable. Then an idea finally weaved its way into his madness.
As he walked into the stone stable, poo lined the corners of the stable and the smell reminded him of the cells at the prison.
When he entered, the animals huddled to the back of the stable. He crept closer to the animals and found a horse that suited his needs.
As he latched onto the horse, it reared its hind legs and kicked a small lamb over its mad attempt to break free of Mykál’s grip.
Mykál quickly jumped on the horse’s back, put a bit into its mouth and rode out of the stable. He quickly gained control over it and realized something else he could do.
Instead of leave the country he could go to the fortune tellers dwelling from the legends he’d heard as a child. Mykál galloped in the streets hour after hour and as he was passed the grimy alleyways, beggars and the dirty people of the city.
When he eventually figured out which ways of the city were North and South, he finally set out. Mykál held onto the horse’s mane with hope for something in his world because at the moment, holding the horse’s main gave him the comfort of hope.
Numerous things occurred on his arrival to the city gates, two men fighting about loaded dice, people screaming as they were stoned to death outside the city walls and the thing the churned Mykál’s stomach was a small boy being sold as a slave after being grabbed from his crying mother in the ensemble.




Mykál buried his face into the horse’s mane in a half-hearted attempt to cover his face from the guards as he passed through the gates. He thought it was brilliant until he heard something that froze him in place.
“HERE YE, HEAR YE, a prisoner has escaped and it has been decreed no one leaves and that all the gates be shut.”
Mykál was half way through the gates when the guards ordered.
“Inside the city, it’s not like you’re on the run?”
Mykál gave a faint smile before riding out of the city.
“Aye.”
One of the guards threw his spear on the ground and ran to a stable. He walked over to the back of the stable and got on the finest stead.
The guard rode out of the city as fast he could in pursuit of Mykál.




Mykál rode faster and faster on the plains, never daring to look back.
Mykál rode for days on end without food and water, on the third day he left his stead behind because it died of exhaustion.
As Mykál trudged along the barren terrain between two cities, he spied a tent. Mykál stumbled to the shabby tent where he opened the flap.
In the tent he found lots of scattered papers, quills, powders and lots of strange things that had been tested on and in the middle of the tent there was an unfurnished wooden table and the only thing on it was a crystal ball.
Mykál sank to the ground with exhaustion and sprang back up again when he heard a thin raspy voice that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Hello weary traveller, sit down and I will tell you’re fortune, if that is what you wish.”
The rest Mykál could not remember fully but what he did piece together made no sense.
He remembered something about darkness then a tunnel in which he would enter.
Mykál realized very quickly what it meant when a dagger stuck out of his chest.
Mykál fell onto his back and remembered nothing else.
At that the fortune teller stood from the shadows and revealed himself as the prison guard.