The Soapstone Purse

“I do not have enough to pay you for this dark task, but this murderer is in possession of great wealth. If you can free it from his ownership, then I am to believe you’ll receive a payment fit for the gods,” he said, as a pleading look took over his face. “I hope I do not sound vile, but my son deserved not his death—he was a kind man who happened upon something bigger than himself, something that attracts the worst kinds of people.”

Gordon stared at the old man. After a moment’s pause, “So, I am to do this for nothing? I am to kill a man I do not know in hopes of receiving great wealth which will draw danger to me; is that correct?”

“Please, sir,” the man begged. “Now that my son is gone too, I have nothing. In time, I shall depart this world with nothing more than you see before you.”

The dim fire in his hearth cast shadows on his wrinkled face. Shadows which, while dark, did not appear to Gordon to carry lies or deceit. Tattered clothes lay strewn on his cot in the corner, their rough fabrics offering no sense of comfort; a broom leaned against the wall, its bristles wild and wiry like the man’s hair; and a soot-covered ceiling stood overhead, as black as the night sky, clearly overdue for a replacement.

Gordon hung his head down and sighed. He looked up at the man to refuse the offer, but the man had pulled out two gold nobles and held them out to the black-cloaked stranger before him.

“Please, master; it's all I have to offer. If I had more, surely I would give it all for the sake of my dear George.”

“Fine,” Gordon agreed, snatching the coins from his hand. “But this isn’t enough for my full services; I’ll leave and not look back if this isn’t worth my time.”

The senior jumped up; his worn chair creaked beneath him. “That’s wonderful! You, sir, will surely not regret this. And if you succeed, I hope you’ll return those coins; thus I’ll know my boy shall rest easy.”

Then he informed Gordon of the mark, and the hired blade slipped out of the house into the night.

A few nights later, Gordon approached the hideout of George’s killer, Phil “Pinky” Draper. The son of a wool maker whose boredom led him to an excitement-filled life of banditry, for a fair bit of coin more than his father made—and in less time.

According to one of Pinky’s favorite courtesans, a nervous young lass with no affinity for Pinky, this simple house of stone is a well-kept secret. Not even his fellow outlaws knew of this little getaway. Nevertheless, Gordon practiced slow, quiet caution as he made a few rounds around the cottage, inspecting it for any useful information.

‘The door is secured with multiple locks, there are no windows, and the chimney looks to be fashioned of two, thin chutes,’ he noted to himself.

In the silence of the night, he quickly scanned the surrounding area, then crept up to the house. Carefully stepping around the perimeter, he felt a hollow ground beneath him, absent the earth’s firm feedback. He bent over and brushed aside the dirt, revealing wooden planks.

‘Hm,’ he sounded. ‘Maybe a tunnel or cellar?’

He brushed the dirt back, then set about finding the hollow room below. A few investigative steps suggested a tunnel; thus he walked a straight line into the slightly wooded area ahead. About 40-yards away, he discovered a wooden hatch barred shut from the inside.

Gordon slipped a thin blade between the door and its frame and lifted the beam, then he cracked the door slightly and paused to listen for any sounds. With some confidence, he opened the door wide enough to slip in and shut it behind him.

He pulled out and lit a small candle. He walked to the other end of the tunnel, which opened into a cellar filled with casks, chests, and a simple set of stairs leading above. At the top of the stairs, a thick door with a small window of bars in the middle.

Gordon paused, listening for any sign of life in the house above.

As he neared the stairs, his candle illuminated the empty space beneath them, dust and cobwebs betraying its neglect. He softly set a foot on one stair, then he gradually shifted his weight onto it. A harsh creak shook the still air. Gordon froze.

He stood motionless for a quarter-hour. When no one came downstairs to identify the source of the creak, he took that as a sign of vacancy. With a short sigh of relief, he began up the stairs again.

After an hourlong series of steps, creaks, and pauses, he reached the door atop the stairs and snuffed out his candle. He peeked between the bars into the one-room cottage and spied the lowlight of a hearth.

‘If the fire’s still burning, then he must be coming back soon,’ he figured.

As he scanned the room, an ethereal sparkle shimmered on a table across from the hearth. Though it was hard to make out in the dark, it appeared to Gordon to be a coin purse. Its dazzling gold and white trim twinkled in the firelight, drawing him to its suggestion of treasure. The corners of his mouth spread wide, and he reached out to push the door open.

As his hand touched the door, the sound of hooves galloping outside the house appeared suddenly and stopped. Gordon shook off his surprise, then jumped to the bottom of the stairs. He heard a man’s angry muffled voice. While Gordon debated on his next move, he heard the clatter of locks being undone on the front door.

“A whole, damn cask of wine!” Pinky yelled through the now open front door.

Gordon glanced at the casks near him, then he dashed underneath the stairs.

Just above him, he heard Pinky rustling some things around and tending the fire with a few angry curses piercing the air.

Having calmed down a bit, Pinky huffed, “What a nuisance.”

Then the door to the cellar swung open. “At least I can afford it,” he added with a chuckle.

With one foot on a stair and the other reaching for the next step, Gordon gripped Pinky’s planted ankle and forcefully yanked it back. Pinky fell with his legs spread wide and, failing to find his balance, his head slammed into the dirt floor.

Gordon wiped the dust off his clothes and went to check on Pinky. Though Pinky showed no more movement, Gordon pulled out a piece of rope and tied his hands to the stairs. Then he sprinted upstairs to grab the purse that caught his eye before. However, now, placed next to the purse on the table, sat a small black notebook.

Thinking he wouldn’t be bothered, he picked up the journal and flitted through the pages. His meager literacy made reading a slow chore.

‘It cannot be stolen, and its owner will never give it up. Once, I tried to slip into the room as its owner slept. One step inside the dark room and a forceful wind blew the window open. The sleeper merely shifted on his cot. One step further and a raven flew in, knocking me off my feet in its flurry. The sleeper arose with a start, yelling at the dark. I yanked down my hood and darted out of the room into the night.

‘It’s embroidered with soapstone fragments sourced from the ruins of the infamous Koch Soap Factory in Penwick. Like the stories associated with the moldy soap, this purse possesses strange characteristics. Besides not being able to steal it (as the would-be thief always falls victim to some peculiar accident), it also seems to produce an endless supply of a valuable, local coin. From my observations, I watched another owner wave it around silently—without so much as a single jingle—then proceed to reach inside and pull out a handful of gold nobles.

‘To my knowledge, this soapstone purse still lies in the possession of one George, a clever fellow whose cunning earned him a comfortable fortune from the pockets and coffers of numerous well-to-do nobles before he found himself in possession of this handheld fountain of gold. Neither I nor any of my probes have yet infiltrated his manor, and I don’t believe that has anything to do with the barrier of misfortune surrounding the purse.’

‘It appears death cuts the strings of attachment associated with this accursed artifact, at least for those who aren’t able to give it up. George will not be missing it in the afterlife. And, as I did away with anyone who knew about this purse, it seems I’ll live an easy life without needing to look over my shoulder.’

Gordon closed the worn journal, bewildered by the entries.

“‘A payment fit for the gods!’,” he cheered. “It seems that old coot’s son wasn’t as pure of heart as he thought,” he added, tossing it on the table in front of him. “And it seems Pinky got a little lazy, the arrogant fool.”

Gordon held his forehead in his hands, elbows perched on his knees, and let out his tension with a long breath.

He opened the empty, almost weightless purse and two gold coins glistened from its depths, its new mass slightly tugging his hand. The sparkle reflected off his crooked smile.

“He wasn’t crazy after all,” Gordon whispered, his jaw to the floor. “I guess I should go pay him back.”

Gordon placed various curtains and clothes on the floor, drawing lines from the dead man’s hearth to his uninhabited home’s walls and the cellar stairs. Then, pulling pages from the sheepskin journal he had just tossed on the table, he lit each individually and placed them at the start of the linen trails. When all four were ablaze, he confirmed his possession of the coin purse with a pat of his breast and vanished from the soon-to-be heap of ash.

After Gordon repaid the old man, he paid a visit to an old client, Sir William Kemp. William had hired him to dispose of a rival knight who competed for a woman’s hand. Following a fatal fall from his horse, the rival was out of the picture, and William promptly wedded the lady in question.

Having requested a meeting with the knight, Gordon was brought to the main hall of his castle.

“Gordon, my good fellow,” William bellowed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

A genuine smile filled his face as he greeted his friend. “Sir William, it’s been too long,” he lamented. “How’s Eleanor? As radiant and stunning as ever, I expect.”

“Of course she is. She’s with the other women right now, weaving clothes for some orphans in the next village over.”

“That’s no surprise, she always has had a generous heart—that’s why she married you,” Gordon ribbed.

The old friends shared a good-natured laugh.

“Anyway, I’ve come to ask a favor, William.”

“Anything, my friend,” the knight replied, eager to repay his immeasurable debt.

“Well, it seems I’ve come into a bit of money, and I would like to keep it somewhere safe. Of course, I would be happy to share my fortune,” he volunteered. “In fact, I’d also like a place to live.”

“No problem at all, Gordon. I’ll show you to my vault; it’s quite secure below. How much space do you need?”

Gordon chuckled, “I’ll show you.”

Downstairs in the vault, a storeroom surrounded by two-foot-wide stone walls, the duo stood by a few filled coffers and shelves.

“Well?” the knight puzzled.

“Let’s start with… twenty-thousand?” he proposed.

Gordon opened the coin purse, held it upside down, and a river of coins poured forth like a golden waterfall.