The Gleeman
Copyright© 2026 by KiwiGuy
Chapter 11
A short time later, the Pitch felt like a place emptied of its certainty. The body of the Gleeman had been taken away, but his absence did not bring relief—only a hollow bewilderment that hung over the crowd. People drifted in loose clusters, speaking in low, uncertain voices, as though afraid that anything louder might shatter what little understanding they had.
The children wandered among them. They moved without direction, their eyes unfocused, their steps hesitant—as if they had not yet fully returned to themselves. A few adults tried to speak to them, kneeling, asking questions, but the responses—if any came at all—were confused, dreamlike.
“I still don’t understand it,” murmured a woman, clutching her shawl tightly about her.
“It was all so sudden,” said a man beside her. “One moment—music, dancing—and then...”
“Why did he ... flare up like that?” another voice asked, uncertain, almost fearful of the words.
“A trick, perhaps,” suggested an older man, though without conviction.
“A trick doesn’t burn a man like that,” came the quiet reply.
Near them, a father rested a hand on his child’s shoulder, watching the other children with troubled eyes. “They’re not right,” he said softly. “Look at them ... it’s like they’re still somewhere else.”
“They were so excited about the play,” a woman added, her voice tinged with sadness. “They’ve been talking of nothing else for days.”
“And young Cameron...” said another, shaking his head slowly. “A brave lad. Who would have thought it of him?”
“A hero,” someone else said firmly.
“Yes ... a hero,” the first man echoed. “And such an ending...”
The murmur spread, overlapping, circling back on itself—questions without answers, fragments of understanding that would not quite join.
Then Gloucester stepped forward. He raised his hands, calling for quiet, his voice measured and authoritative.
“My friends,” he began, “this has been a sad and troubling day for our town. What we have witnessed—strange though it was—will no doubt be spoken of for many years.”
The crowd settled, though uneasily.
“And I regret to say,” he continued, “that I must add to your distress. It is my duty to inform you that, as of this evening, the land known as the Pitch is no longer public property. It has passed into private ownership. You are, all of you, trespassing.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then it broke—sharply, violently.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s not possible!”
“This is our land!”
“How can this be?”
Voices rose, anger and disbelief surging together. Gloucester raised his hands again, insisting on order.
“The situation,” he said, “is entirely lawful. The fact is, the land was granted to the town under certain conditions—conditions which, I regret to inform you, have not been met. The original owner, an eccentric gentleman by the name of Josiah Pritchard, required that a procession be held each year in his honour. If fifty years passed without such a procession, the land would revert to council ownership.”
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.
“I have examined the records thoroughly,” Gloucester went on. “No such procession has taken place within the required period. That period expired only minutes ago. Accordingly, the land has reverted to the council, and arrangements have already been made for its development. I am sure you will all appreciate the benefits this will bring—”
“Just a minute, Mr Gloucester.”
The voice of Mrs Gladstone, just returned from the hospital, cut cleanly through his speech. She stepped forward, composed and utterly unruffled.
“I believe,” she said, “there is something you have overlooked.”