On a clear day, if you’re in town and looking towards my farm, you can see it. The tower.
There are a great many theories as to what my tower is. A granary. A water tower. Some say it’s the last remnants of a grist mill – although I’ve no idea where that thought came from. Others say it’s the failed attempt at a textile mill, and that’s nigh on as close to ridiculous as one can get.
Nowhere in any of the private histories of Cross does it say what it truly is, what it was used for, and how it came to be.
Simple enough reason for that, of course: I don’t want anyone to know.
I didn’t want anyone to know when I built it before the end of our first war with England, and so I never told them. I was more than happy with allowing them to come up with all their extravagant ideas.
There are a fair few who believe I’ve hidden treasure of one kind or another in the tower, and in a way they’re right. Things are hidden in the tower, and they are priceless.
And when I say priceless, I mean worthless.
Upon occasion, over the decades I have found the need to punish people. Death isn’t quite enough for them. No. Not quite enough by half.
So, I built the tower.
What people don’t see is the scaffolding I keep tucked away in the lower barn. When I have someone foul enough to punish, I put the scaffolding up, and then I lower the person to the tower’s base. Once there, they sit in darkness with the bones of all the others who have gone to their just rewards.
I feed them, of course, and I make certain they are warm in the winter and cool in the summer. But I do not speak to them. They do not know what time of day it is, what day of the week it is, or what month.
All those intangibles which remind us of who we are as people, I take those away.
Why? Because it pleases me.
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