And
if we survive this last battle to the end,
make
your strange and dangerous gesture—
let
us in to die
in
the garden before Paradise.
Lyubomir
Levchev
“The
life of a real warrior doesn't begin until he dies in battle.”
Stefan shook his head wearily as he surveyed the destruction all
around him. If his grandfather's words were true, then heaven was
about to greet a battalion's worth after such a rout.
There
was green hidden beneath the smoke, a fog of battle that obscured the
beauty of the valley, reminding Stefan of the forests of his
childhood—feral, disorderly. And the villages they had passed
took him back as well, with their sweet smell of woodsmoke instead of
sulfurous gunpowder that suffused the battlefield. The city boys
among the troops called the villagers they encountered peasants, but
he far preferred the farmers with wood and iron implements to the
idea-mongers who saw people as statistics and wheat fields as
coordinates awaiting mortars.
Above
all, he preferred the company of his horses, not really his to be
sure, but these broken beauties were far closer to his heart than the
the vicious, clumsy steel jeeps and tanks—squat, sluggish,
indifferent vehicles that reeked of oil and smoke instead of pasture
and haystack.
What
an awful irony, to use his beauties to haul gasoline, oil, and spare
parts, for these machines of violence. Couldn't anyone else see the
incongruity?
This
foolish, ugly war was as good as lost, even more so now than when it
had begun. But he could not tell the idea-mongers, though he did
discuss this and other complaints with the horses. Each night after
Stefan staked out their temporary pasture, he would whisper to them,
smoothing their agonized legs after too long days of pulling too
heavy loads. He sang old songs to them, especially one ancient hymn
his grandfather used to croon to his own long-ago darlings,
confiscated for a previous ill-conceived conflict.
“Patriotism
is for humans,” his grandfather had shouted to the helmeted
soldiers going from village to village, requisitioning all the farm
horses. “How will we till the fields, how will our grain ever
reach you brave solders on the front?” he called, adjusting his
tack.
The
logic was lost to their unaffected backs.
“If
God should so be good as to lend you some of his darling horses,”
his grandfather would tell the teenager years later, sitting on the
porch of his small cabin at the edge of the family land, “then
you must give yourself to their care. Spare them nothing of yourself
and they will offer you everything in return.”
And
now, decades later, in the acrid aftermath of the ugliest battle of
still another fruitless campaign, Stefan was finally ready to do some
“requisitioning” of his own. He had overheard the head
sergeant plotting with the quartermaster—more barrel than man,
all mouth and stomach—looking at the horses, calling them
“tomorrow's meat.” This particular pair and their band of
disrepute acolytes were even worse than the idea-mongers. These men
slithered through the war unmoved by its horrors, weasels hunting
untended chickens. There were rumors of atrocities but Stefan never
dared investigate. He stayed with his beauties as far away from the
inner workings of the brigade as possible. In fact, only one among
them engendered even the slightest spark of admiration—the
pilot of the small bi-wing reconnaissance plane—but only when
he was in the air where the graceful acrobatics appeared elegant,
bird-like. On the ground he was just another puffed up, arrogant
patriot.
Stefan
watched them from the periphery, noticing how they drank together
between battles, seemed to have their own subterranean program—one
rarely intruded on by the Colonel and his orders. And how they only
engaged the enemy when forced by circumstances that couldn't be
avoided.
Once,
when they asked for several teams to haul some “captured
munitions” out of a recently taken town, Stefan referred them
to the Colonel before he agreeing to hitch up the wagons. They fussed
and threatened but he held firm. An hour later he saw them driving
one of the flat tracks towards a devastated section of the bombed out
town.
Then
there was their canvas casino, card games with at least two of them
in on every hand. When Stefan found out that one of the young
soldiers assigned to help him with the horses had lost three months
pay during one long, drunken night of poker, he paid the debt
himself, then had the kid transferred back to the line. He suspected
that they would attempt to leverage the debt for one of their schemes
and wanted his beauties kept out of the ante.
He
had seen them using farm animals for target practice, pumping round
after round into the dying creatures, heard their laughter and then
ugly dismay if the animal died before the sport was satisfied. But
now they had their rheumy eyes on his herd, and he would not allow
them their sport.
And
so he launched his covert maneuver by informing the colonel, such a
stupid man, that he would be moving the horses several kilometers
north to better grass and water for the night.
“Just
have the pullers ready for the next offensive,” the colonel
said, then dismissed Stefan without another word. Pullers. Stefan
resisted the urge to spit and quickly walked away, masking his
disgust. The head idea-monger had more important things on his
mind—like planning the unnecessary deaths of more of his men.
When
his exhausted helpers finished unhitching the horses, Stefan told
them to kip in and get some sleep. Grateful to be released from duty
so early, they didn't even ask where he wanted them to assemble in
the morning. He regretted having to leave the small blacksmith cart
behind as he walked toward the herd, but decided that once they got
to where they were going, the horses would just have to suffer sore
feet when their shoes fell off. He did take the pliers and cutter so
he would at least be able to trim their hooves when needed. Slinging
his pack over his shoulder, he began guiding the horses to “better
grass.”
He
had noted this valley when they swept through during an earlier,
almost accidental string of victories, especially the narrow pass at
the northern end that had necessitated a long detour because their
steel boxes and rubber wheels could not navigate the narrow cut and
rocky zig-zags. He and the herd faced an all-night climb but his
beauties could be beyond easy reach by midday next. With no means to
haul their precious fuel, the soldiers would not be able to follow in
force, and he and his fugitives just might be able to wait out the
end of the war within the safety of some hidden mountain village.
He
staked out the pasture then took his bedroll over to one of the
horses, a powerful roan gelding that had a bleeding but superficial
wound. He pushed the thin canvas against the cut, stemming the flow.
From his pack he took several handfuls of bullet casings collected
over the past several days and scattered them around his rumpled,
blood-stained bedroll. It was a shallow subterfuge, but he hoped it
would look as if he had been attacked in the middle of the night and
injured trying to defend his herd.
He
walked up to the gray stallion with the distinctive slash of white
lightning on his forehead and patted a stalwart shoulder, then guided
him over to a large stump to more easily climb aboard. Nearly fifty,
and worn out from six years of combat, he could no longer leap
astride such a large horse as he had once done when younger. The gray
seemed to sigh at the weight, but made no complaint. Then Stefan
began singing the walking song. Many of the horses were deafened from
the long months of bombardments and screeching bullets but those who
heard shuffled in behind the gray. The deaf among them moved by
instinct, following the comfort of rubbing shoulders, and the nearly
blind were guided by the faint remaining smell of equine
comradeliness.
All
night they threaded the narrow cut, but when the sharp climb started
with the first light of morning, Stefan regretted not allowing more
than a little rest at an earlier stream. He knew that once they made
it up to the plateau, about another five hundred meters, they would
be better hidden within the trees. They could still be caught, though
he doubted anyone would begin wondering about their absence for
another hour. Even the idiot who led the brigade understood that the
day after such a terrible battle called for rest. They would stay and
lick their wounds—hopefully. Besides, there had been many dead
to bury.
His
grandfather hated the soldiers of his own era, calling them “pawns”
for the way they allowed themselves to be marched to sacrifice. But
he would have utterly despised this contemporary breed with their
impersonal war at a distance—the flinging of bullets, mortars,
artillery shells.
“You,
your father, and I, are descended from great warriors,” he told
Stefan one day as he worked the forge shaping the curved shoes. “On
the steppes, it was an honor to die in battle—in real battle,
not walking into pikes or bullets. Their wars were between men on
horses, swirling swords, the clashing of folded steel.” He
paused to pull the hot iron from the fire, then began beating it with
the large hammer. “To die on such a field, defending your
family, your clan, your village, was to enter a true paradise, not
that pretty little heaven the Christians describe.”
“There's
more than one heaven?”
“Each
person's afterlife is shaped by their belief, boy,” he said,
holding up the red, glowing piece of iron he was shaping. “For
the men on the steppes there were no harps, no singing angels
awaiting them, only stone for sharpening their blades. These warriors
saw death in battle as their entrance into an eternity of
preparation.”
“Preparation
for what?” Stefan asked.
“For
the call.”
“The
call?”
“To
return when needed.” Steam rose when his grandfather dipped the
sizzling shoe into the water. “Your forefathers never rode into
battle alone, boy. The enemy would see a hundred turn into a thousand
when their fierce heaven sent its reinforcements.”
The
next day, Stefan let the horses rest for several hours in a small
glade, edged on one side by a patch of swampy murk. He staked the
gray, hoping the others would stay close to the leader while he
allowed himself several hours sleep. He used the old trick of
gathering moss to soften the ground and slept beneath his jacket.
On
the third day of their escape, the sun was well on its downward
streak to the western horizon when Stefan saw him, a young boy of
nine or ten tending a small flock of sheep and goats in an unexpected
break in the trees. The boy stared, first at Stefan, then at the
panting horses.
“My
friends here need some help. Do you understand?” Stefan asked.
The
boy's eyes widened. He went on tiptoes as if looking to see who else
might be coming.
“Where
is your father?”
The
boy shook his head.
Afraid
to dismount lest his legs give out, he pointed over the boy's
shoulder. “Is your village in that direction?”
Another
no.
“Then
where?”
Indicating
to his left, the boy backed away to stand within the safety of his
own herd.
“Is
there grass and water near the village?”
A
nod.
“Thank
you, son,” Stefan said. “When my friends are more rested,
perhaps you would like to learn to ride?”
The
boy almost smiled but there was fear in his eyes.
Smoke
rose beyond the trees that surrounded a wide area perfect to allow
Stefan to rest the horses, and more important—himself, before
entering the village. Folk in such remote mountain villages were not
accustomed to strangers, much less one who arrived with such an
entourage. And besides, he wanted to climb down with only his
beauties watching, in case his legs should falter after so three days
of riding bareback.
Indeed,
slipping off, he had to hang on to the gray's mane to maintain his
balance, his heart pumping wildly, sending crystal shards of feeling
down to his feet, which prickled at their abrupt awakening as if they
had forgotten the feel of earth beneath them.
He
gazed at his charges, craving sleep and rest as much as they did, but
he had to walk back down the path to urge the rest of them forward,
then block the path to keep them here while darkness fell. He would
go to the village in the morning.
As
he walked past them, he noted those that would need immediate
attention, several had bleeding wounds, others staggered with
problems that rest alone might not solve. His anger started to rise
again, but he pushed it back, saving his energy for collecting the
stragglers. It was dark before he slept, his head resting against a
soft mound of moss. The last thing he heard was a soft whinny of
dreaming a few meters away.
The
sun found him through the trees, tickling his face at first, then
increasing its heat until discomfort brought him awake. He started to
stretch, but painful aches attacked from every part of his body. It
took him several moments to remember where he was and why. Then he
heard a soft singing, rising a bit above the stream that gurgled a
few meters away. He tried to rise, but his back rebelled. He rolled
onto his side, propped up on one elbow and tried to locate the source
of the music.
He
saw her through a maze of legs, in the middle of the herd, squatting
while she applied something to the leg of one of the wounded horses.
Whether she was a small woman or a large girl, he could not tell.
Mustering his strength, he pushed against the aches and the ground
and rolled slowly up to his feet, clinging to a tree to steady
himself, cursing his age.
But
what should he do now? Call out and frighten her away, or walk over
slowly and scare her even more? He coughed several times, then
pretending he hadn't seen her, called out with forced hardiness,
“Good morning, my beauties? Did you sleep as well as I did?”
He went to the stream, splashed cold water in his face, scooped a
handful into his mouth and gargled. When he turned back to the herd,
she was standing, still in the middle of them, looking at him evenly.
She was of that age, somewhere between fourteen and twenty, that he
had never been able to accurately determine.
He
nodded. “Good morning.”
She
nodded back. He thought of the boy from the afternoon before, he
hadn't spoken either. Perhaps he had come upon a village of mutes.
“I
see you've met my friends.”
Her
gaze remained steady.
“They
need help.”
A
quiet agreement.
“I
have rescued them... from the war.” He could see he wasn't
telling her anything she didn't already realize. “My name is
Stefan, may I inquire with whom I am speaking?”
“Did
you rescue them or yourself from the war?”
He
smiled. So she could speak. “I am too old for rescuing.”
“Do
you have food?”
He
pointed to his small pack on the ground near where he slept. “I
still have several days provisions.”
“And
after that?”
He
shrugged. “Then I suppose, I will require rescue as well.”
Her
first smile was a slow blossom, but a blossom nonetheless. The horse
whose leg she was attending to, nudged her with his nose. She turned,
murmured something to the dark bay, then walked slowly toward Stefan.
She stopped a few meters away.
“We
will go to the village first. There aren't many of us left, just
women and a few young boys.” She turned to look at the herd.
“If this is what war does to horses, what does it do to men?”
He
did not answer, but she saw the truth in his eyes.
It
took two weeks for Stefan to stop listening for the soldiers every
moment, though he heard the occasional rumble of armaments echoing
from a far distance. As much as he savored what surely would have
been the colonel's angry and frustrated reaction, he now recognized
that he had placed the village in terrible jeopardy. He had witnessed
the colonel's cold brutality on numerous occasions. When it was
discovered that a captured village had hidden storehouses, regardless
of the amount, the colonel would order the execution of any town
leaders, then make all—down the the smallest child— watch
the hanging, ordering men to stay behind and make sure no one tried
to cut the rope and bury the offenders.
This
had not been factored in to Stefan's original plan. He had only
thought of escape, of protecting his beauties, and now that he was
given a small, empty cottage, and regularly fed from their own meager
tables he felt the slice of guilt for not having anticipated the
danger that accompanied his arrival.
The
village itself was little more than a gathering of cottages notched
into the high edge of the mountain. Grandmothers, mothers, daughters,
and a few adolescent boys—maybe thirty in all. The silent
shepherd, who was twelve, was the oldest male in the compound. Stefan
had imagined at least a few grandfathers might have been left behind,
but none were apparent, and he was loath to ask once he realized no
one would volunteer the information.
Magda
was the young woman's name, whose round face centered the subtle
slant of eye that bespoke the mixing of ancient tribes. At twenty she
was the unspoken leader in the village, apparently by proxy of two
years' schooling in the county seat. Little more than an overgrown
town as Stefan remembered, but the height of urbanity compared to the
experiences of these villagers—most of whom had never even been
down the mountain. Not that leadership was a strong prerequisite in
their daily lives. They did what was obviously needed, following the
subtle dictates of the season, though the others did seem to defer to
Magda regarding Stefan's welfare, and he even found himself asking
her advice regarding the horses.
His
feelings of guilt over bringing danger to their doorstep were
overridden by watching their transformation when caring for the
horses. In this, Magda was a brilliant and kind general, seeming to
automatically intuit which woman would relate well to which horse,
which was capable of tending severe wounds, and which horse needed
little more than the caresses of a palsied hand from an elderly
grandmother.
“The
women would like to know the names of the horses, it makes tending
them more—”
“I
have never named them,” he said simply. “It was difficult
enough, watching what the army did to them every day, and the
battles... A name would have—“
“—made
it much worse?” He could not decipher what lurked in her eyes
as she said this, but that was not new, she was as mysterious in
thought as she was capable in action.
He
knew the ministrations of the women had borne fruit the morning the
big gray mounted one of the mares. Several days later, the gray went
up on another mare and Stefan was smiling broadly when he turned and
found Magda looking at him.
“It
is a sign of healing,” he said, “when they recapture
their true nature.”
“Yes,
it is good that they, at least, can forget the war so quickly.”
She stopped, as if about to add an afterthought, but she turned away
from him abruptly.
Sometime
after the second month, a number of the horses, including one of the
possibly pregnant mares, prickled his instincts. Though they appeared
healthy otherwise, he could feel it simmering in their guts when he
caressed their necks. Colic was especially dangerous to even the
healthiest of horses, causing it to founder in a day if not treated
immediately. Stefan went looking for a rare herb that his grandfather
had called clearheart.
“But
why is it so hard to find?” The seven-year old Stefan had
complained, tired of searching at the base of trees—without
success.
“If
it were easy to find, it would be less effective,” his
grandfather had answered from behind a tree a few feet away. “Just
as horses are a gift to men, so is clearheart a gift to horses. When
God shows you where it hides, this means he is watching you, and that
he approves of your care.”
Stefan
had searched most of the areas around the village he was familiar
with, but without success. He discovered a deer path that led further
up the mountain and followed it through the woods until he came to a
secluded clearing that he would have missed had not a rabbit darted
almost between his feet and diverted his eyes. A glint of white shone
through the trees and he carefully pushed aside the brush to
investigate.
Before
him stood the answer to mystery of the men of the village.
Twenty-five wooden crosses had been erected in a seemingly random
pattern. Stefan looked around the small grove, and realized with
growing horror what the pattern of the crosses represented. Each man
had been buried where he had been killed, and it was obvious the
killers had encircled them, executing them in the most efficient
manner.
There
were no names on the crosses, but each was decorated
differently—woven hangings, beads, and fresh flowers. As much
as Stefan had been sewn into the quiet fabric of village life, he had
never noticed anyone slipping away in this direction. He had been so
focused on the care of the horses he hadn't paid enough attention to
the people—to the women. Now that he understood what had
happened, he realized how they had indicated their situation in the
negative. Never had he seen one of them gazing across the hills or
down the path, as if expecting a loved one to unexpectedly return. In
fact, there was no sense of anticipation to anything they did. The
village was surrounded by a dreadful form of an isolated now, an
imprisoning present.
Perhaps
that was why the boy, Andre, was so startled at his arrival. No one
in the village ever expected anyone to arrive, ever again. The
killers, it did not matter which side had done this, had not just
killed their men, they had murdered hope and taken their sense of the
future with their barbarity.
Stefan
flushed with embarrassment. What must they think of him? his defiant
rescue of the horses must seem to them to be the height of frivolity,
an arrogance in the face of their loss.
Magda
had been correct. He had survived the war thus far by staying close
to the horses, trying his best to ignore the men—innocent or
otherwise. He hadn't rescued the horses, they had in truth rescued
him, accompanying him on this mad journey to complete his salvation.
They had suffered the wounds to give him reason to bind them, their
exhaustion preventing him from understanding the extent of his own
weariness—of his own wounds.
And
these women, these widows and orphans had joined him in his private
folly. They knew all about giving their all, because they had already
been forced to do so beyond the limit of self. Their emptiness was
ever evident, but he had been too full of himself, of his victory
over the colonel and the “idea-mongers”, to see the full
measure of their pain.
Shame
burned his face and he fell to his knees to ask forgiveness—from
his grandfather, from the dead men before him. But not God, not yet.
He was too filled with shame and self-loathing to even approach God
at this moment. And for the first time since he was a child, he wept
until there was nothing left in him but a sulfurous gasp.
Sighing,
his legs unsteady as he tried to rise, his hand hit one of the
crosses, knocking it slightly askew. Horrified, he bent over to
straighten it and then he saw, growing around the base—clearheart,
his grandfather's herb. He rose and hurriedly inspected the others.
All were circled by the dark green, prickly leaves of the remedy he
sought. He stood, looked up with wonder at the small bit of sky that
shone through the canopy of the trees. He had invaded the privacy of
their grief by bringing the horses, how could he invade it again
without opening a new wound by exposing his discovery?
Deep
in thought as he returned to the village, he encountered Magda
pulling water from the well in the town center. He grit his teeth,
still trying to formulate a way to open the dread but necessary
topic. She turned when she heard his footsteps and smiled
tentatively.
“Stefan.”
“Magda.”
She
reached down to pull the bucket up and he moved to help her, but as
usual, she managed perfectly by herself. Setting the pail down, she
wiped her hands on her wool dress and looked at him. “Did you
promise Andre you would teach him to ride?”
“I
said 'maybe' when the horses were better.”
“Close
enough to a promise in the ears of a boy.” The way she said
'boy' seemed to carry extra force, especially now that he knew their
secret. “If he were to be hurt...”
“Tell
him that we must make a saddle first, before he actually rides. That
will give us some time.”
“Out
of what?”
“Sheepskin
is a good base, to start. We can improvise beyond that.”
“Yes,
that is good.” She started to walk away.
“Magda?”
“Yes?”
“I
am concerned for the horses.” He stopped.
“They
seem to be doing well, no?”
“Better
than I could ever have hoped. You... all, have...”
“What
is it, Stefan?” Her eyes seemed to pierce him. “What do
they need?”
He
shrugged. “My grandfather told me about an herb. He called it
clearheart.”
“I
do not know it, but names of plants can differ from one region to the
next.”
He
nodded.
“What
does it look like?”
A
shadow passed across her face as he described it.
The
task of fashioning a saddle for Andre turned out to be an unexpected
pleasure. Never having married or fathered children himself, Stefan's
every interaction with the silent boy exhumed bright memories of his
grandfather. He now understood the old man's patience and
understanding, and now felt his own joy at standing upon the plateau
of experience and knowledge. To encourage and observe another's climb
to competence in life was deeply satisfying.
He
explained the purpose of the saddle, the structure that was required
where man and horse came together. Normally, he would have started
the boy bareback, to have him learn for himself what comforts and
advantages a saddle would bring. But the warning and fear in Magda's
eyes precluded those lessons. So he confined the lessons to materials
that would provide sturdiness and protection to horse first, then the
man. A saddle that was too soft gave no support and was worse than no
saddle at all. One that was too hard, would chafe the horse's back,
creating sores, often making even gentle horses buck to rid
themselves of the irritant. Finding the perfect middle ground when
leather was hard to come by, would take ingenuity and a great deal of
trial and error.
But
here again, the women of the village with their intelligent hands and
sharp eyes, came to the forefront. They knew the tensile potential of
weaving and could wind a multitude of cotton strands into rope that
rivaled the strength of leather. Farming on the side of a mountain
called for invention that flatlanders rarely required. A series of
bones surrounded by skin created the soft basis for Andre's saddle.
And when the day came for him to put it on the sorrel mare with the
white circle on her neck, all were gathered—rightfully so,
since each had contributed in one way or another.
Magda's
forced smile could not hide her apprehension, but Andre was too
excited to notice. The sorrel mare he chose was the most sedate of
the horses, and the years of pulling had taken most of the spring out
of her legs. If Andre were to fall off, it would be his lack of
balance, not anything she did beneath him that would cause it.
Indeed,
the moment was gratefully anticlimactic. Stefan stood close by while
Andre fitted his foot into the carved wooden stirrup, then rose up in
a single movement and atop the sorrel easily. There were murmurs of
approval and a few sighs. Magda never took her eyes off Andre as he
used the reins to guide the horse exactly as he had been instructed
under Stefan's indulgent tutelage. After a half hour, it seemed as if
the boy had never known the earth, so graceful was he in the mount.
“That
is enough for one day, Andre,” Magda said softly, When the boy
started to complain, she added, “before you tire the horse.
Andre
nodded, then dismounted casually.
Stefan
showed him how to unsaddle the mare, then how to brush her back. He
started to repeat his grandfather's admonition about giving one's
all, but stopped when he remembered the hidden grove—the boy
already knew.
Magda
brought him a plate of food that night, but did not leave immediately
as was her habit. Stefan motioned for her to sit while he ate but she
only shook her head and remained standing.
After
several bites, he looked up at her. “You have something on your
mind, you might as well just say it.”
She
nodded, but still did not speak. Stefan had learned to wait when it
came to her. Besides, he was enjoying the company during a meal. He
had eaten so many alone over the years of war, surrounded only by his
beauties.
“How
long will you stay?” She asked when he had just taken a bite of
lamb from the bowl of stew before him.
The
question was so unexpected, he was happy to chew for a few moments
instead of answering. He swallowed carefully and said, “I don't
know.”
She
smiled. “I thought not.”
“Is
there some reason... should I plan on going?”
She
shook her head.
“Then
why do you ask?”
“Your
arrival, bringing the horses, was the beginning of hope for them.”
“Them?
You are not one of them?”
A
small blossom in each cheek. “I am younger...”
Now
he nodded. Youth is as defined by hope as hope by youth, another
grandfather-ism. “What does hope have to do with whether I stay
or not?”
“Everything.”
She said it simply, as if it was a clear explanation. It was not. He
decided to use her tack and not speak. “If you had told me you
would stay a month, a year, until the end of the war... that would
mean one thing.”
“And
if I said I hoped to never leave?”
“Do
you? Hope to never leave?”
“Do
they... do you... want me to stay?”
She
laughed, it was the first real laugh he had ever heard from her. And
she blushed. He realized she was beautiful, though others might not
think so. He had been alone, with a different definition of beauty
for so long, he had no good measure. But she was beautiful in this
moment.
“Have
we truly helped you with your horses?” The laughter had
subsided, this question was made more serious by the subsiding
redness in her cheeks.
“Yes.
So much so, I feel they are more yours than they ever were mine.”
“Then
will you help us in return?”
“Yes.”
He said it quickly.
“Without
knowing in advance what that help might entail?”
“Yes.”
“You
say yes, without asking what.”
“You...
the village, took me and the horses in without question. Anything I
can do in return is small favor.”
Three
nights later, when he arrived back at his cottage from the horses, a
bucket of water warmed by the sun and a small circle of soap had been
placed on the small stool by the front door, along with his dinner
covered by a cloth. He was touched, once again, by their
consideration and generosity. He washed himself, happy to be able to
avoid the chill of the stream, and then ate before preparing for bed.
In
the middle of his sleep, he was awakened by a soft caress and the
realization that a someone had climbed in next to him. He started to
speak, but a finger was put over his mouth, followed by the rustle of
his visitor's nightdress being pulled up.
He
awoke alone, not sure if he had experienced a powerful dream but for
the slight perfume of a recognized reality. He would have laughed,
thinking back to his conversation with Magda, but he did not want
anyone to hear and perhaps misinterpret. It had been so many years,
he realized, since he had felt this natural joy. As he walked
outside, he noticed the bucket and soap were gone. This made him
chuckle, at himself. He did spend a great deal of time with the
horses, and was past realizing how much he must smell like one of
them. The generosity had not been directed at him, but at his unknown
visitor.
All
day he went about his tasks as normal, trying to keep his
conversations with others simple and direct, and taking special care
not to gaze into any one woman's eyes too long.
And
so, each night he went to sleep, not knowing if he would be awakened
or not. It made him restless the first few weeks, but then it became
a kind of prayer. On those nights after working hard, his aching body
prayed for sleep. On other nights when the day had not sufficiently
exhausted him, he prayed for a visitor. He never got it right, but
then again, it never felt wrong, either. In one part of his mind, it
was Magda every time, even though he knew it never would be her.
After
three months, the nightly visits slowed and once he realized the
reason, he could not help himself from stealing glances at several of
the women who were being fussed over by the older women. It was about
the same time he started to notice the horses had new woven halters,
each a different pattern—which he thought he recognized from
the hidden grove higher up the mountain. He also knew the horses had
been receiving clearheart, as the subtle symptoms had subsided,
though he never spoke with Magda of this.
As
for Magda herself, she seemed both unchanged and at the same time, a
little more remote. They still discussed the care of the horses, she
brought him the occasional meal, but there was a new distance. Except
when Andre rode, which he did nearly every day, and Stefan couldn't
have been more proud of the boy. He displayed a natural talent,
moving from the sedate sorrel to one of the younger, more powerful
geldings with ease. Even Magda was more relaxed now, and once or
twice Stefan thought he saw a bit of envy in her eyes. He once asked
if she would like to try, but she shook her head.
Magda's
question of his staying or not didn't exactly haunt him, but he
realized that if he were going to stay, he needed to contribute more.
And the horses, too. Of course, he discussed this with Magda first,
and it was decided that the horses were surely healthy enough to pull
the occasional plow and haul wood. Winter beckoned from the early
edge of autumn and, with everyone's help, sufficient wood could be
hauled to make their lives eminently easier through the snowy months.
It
was Stefan's suggestion that they look for an area that might
eventually be terraced for crops. If they cut the trees wisely, the
limbs could be used as fencing, and the cleared area plowed in
preparation for spring planting.
And
so it was, that he and Andre were securing the ropes around a large
tree trunk when a familiar buzzing sounded above them. Andre looked
up with awe, following the plane's looping progress along the
horizon. But Stefan loosened the rope and hurriedly began to lead the
two horses toward the cover of the trees.
“Come
away, Andre,” he shouted. “He must not see us.”
But
Andre was mesmerized, and even waved when the bi-wing waggled at him.
For
the next several days, Stefan imagined he heard the buzzing of the
bi-plane, except when he cocked an ear to listen for it. Then all he
heard was the chuffing of the horses, the ordinary sounds of the
village. The nights were worse. He no longer prayed for or against
his warm visitors, only that the small clutch of cottages on the side
of the hill should remain invisible, undisturbed. His nervous
behavior became so apparent that he wasn't surprised when Magda was
waiting for him as he trudged home from the pasture.
“We
have seen planes before,” she said, diving into the problem
directly. “You have to stop worrying so, you're making everyone
upset.”
He
shook his head. “But I know this plane. And the pilot is from
the same unit. He knows about the horses.”
“At
best, he saw two horses and a young boy. That's a far cry from a
herd.” She put her hand on his arm, one of the only times he
could remember her touching him. “Besides, you said he... did
that... thing with the wings.”
“Waggled.”
“That's
friendly, yes? Perhaps the war is over, have you considered that?”
“Yes.
Actually, I did consider that. But if the war is over, why is he
still flying reconnaissance missions?”
She
frowned. “How can we be sure?”
“There's
only one way to protect you and the women, and the horses.”
“What
is that?”
“I
go back down the mountain.”
She
shook her head vehemently. “No, you will never come back, you
are... a....”
“Deserter.”
“And
that is ...”
“Very
bad during war. Hanging, life imprisonment, if they're feeling
generous. But if they come up here...”
“So,
they take the horses. That would be bad, but... we could hide you.”
“Magda.”
Stefan took her hand. “I know.”
She
started to withdraw her hand from his, but he squeezed and held it
tight.” I know about the graves, your men.”
“Ah.”
“I
know that the women have made bridles, using the same designs as on
the crosses. I know they have given the names of their dead to these
horses. Beyond the fact that I would rather die that let those
monsters have them back, these horses... are now as much a part of
the villages as the well, as the cottages, as...”
“The
unborn children?”
He
was glad she had called them “the” unborn children. He
was also relieved that all was out in the open now, that he was
holding this child-woman's hand, that he had come here. No matter
what happened now, he felt a rightness that had been missing from
inside him for as long as he could remember.
“So,
Stefan, what do we do?”
He
rose slowly, still holding her hand. Then bent, kissed it, and
started away from her.
“Where
are you going?”
“There
are some... people... I need to talk to.”
He
found the little grove with the crosses and sat stiffly at the edge
of the clearing. They were gods and fathers, brothers and sons to
him. He did not speak to them, as a supplicant might at an altar, but
simply sat with the question in his heart, trusting them to shine a
light on the correct path. He tried opening his heart as wide as he
could to any whisper, he cocked his head when a breeze riffled
through the leaves. There was a strange emptiness to the grove, so
much different than his first time here. Only his grandfather's voice
murmuring over and over again, “Spare them nothing of
yourself.”
He
trudged back down to the village, feeling sore of heart and foolish.
What had he expected? Hadn't the many years of war shown him that man
is ultimately alone, that the first to desert are the gods one hopes
will protect against the enemy? He was halfway through the enclave of
cottages before he noticed, or rather didn't notice the normal
activity. No women, no children. No... sounds of horses.
He
ran to the pasture. It was empty. He called out, “Magda!
Andre!”
No
response.
He
rushed back to the village, and was just about to shout again when he
saw them, three men with rifles with their backs to him. He stopped
short as one turned. Though he was no longer wearing his uniform,
there was no doubt he was looking into the face of the brigade
sergeant.
“Well,
well, well,” the sergeant said with an ugly sneer. “It's
our missing horsemaster.”
The
other two turned to look. The quartermaster and one of the scouts.
“Where
are they, Stefan?”
“I
don't know,” Stefan said, trying to keep the panic from his
voice. “Some of the village men must have stolen them while I
was away.”
“Village
men?” The sergeant turned to the scout. “I thought you
said you got rid of them all.”
“He's
lying,” the scout replied. “We wiped them all out when
they wouldn't tell us where the women were hiding.”
Stefan
groaned.
“Where
are the horses, Stefan?” asked the quartermaster. “We
have need of them.”
“Wh-
where are your uniforms?”
“War's
over,” the quartermaster took several steps toward Stefan.
“Who
won?”
“Won't
make any difference to you unless you tell us where those horses
are.” They were only twenty steps away now.
Stefan
took shallow comfort in the fact that he could be clear in his
answer. For he truly had no idea where the women had gone. He was
only glad they were no longer here. He smiled. “I honestly
don't know.”
“We
don't believe you,” the sergeant offered in a sing-song voice.
Expectation
and reality have such different qualities of experience. Some part of
him had been expecting someone to come looking for him and the
horses, and once found, he knew he would experience some kind of
punishment—even hanging or the firing squad, standard
punishment for battlefield deserters. But even though he occasionally
dreamed of the jerk of the rope or the report of a line of rifles,
there was never really any pain.
This
reality was beyond his comprehension. He drifted in and out of
consciousness where they had hung him, arms out to either side,
wrists lashed to the cross-tie of the well. The sergeant walked over
to him, lifted his chin almost gently.
“Where
are they, Stefan?”
No
longer able to speak, Stefan only shook his head feebly.
The
sergeant took his finger and pushed it into the bullet hole in
Stefan's right arm. A searing jolt brought him awake, though he
wilted immediately again.
“Do
the other arm,” the quartermaster told the scout, who aimed and
fired with casual expertise.
Stefan
screamed and thought he might fall right where he was, leaving his
wrists dangling from their restraints. But he only sagged, sending
more searing pain from his shoulders until he thought his heart would
burst.
“We're
not going to hurt them, Stefan. We know how precious they are to
you.” The quartermaster leaned on his rifle. “Farmers
need them as much as you do, and will pay a hefty price. If you
hadn't held out on us, we might have even cut you in.”
This
brought a sharp laugh from the sergeant.
“I
said we might have,” chided the quartermaster.
The
next shot went into the soft muscle of Stefan's right thigh. He
couldn't tell if the bone was splintered, but his left leg couldn't
hold the painful weight, and the pressure on his arms trebled the
pain. Through the red haze of agony, he felt a pounding, a distant
earthquake that seemed to be rolling towards him. Struggling to open
his eyes and lift his head at the same time, he looked up. What he
saw convinced him his death was near.
They
were coming for him, his beauties, pounding out of the forest towards
him and his torturers. No longer the sick and bedraggled pullers,
they had the flashing hooves, and snarling demeanor of warhorses each
bedecked in they're own, unique braided decoration, and astride each
was a warrior wearing the tall hat of the region, a gleaming sword
upraised in readiness for battle.
He
heard one, maybe two sharp rifle retorts, then just hooves pounding.
And then the wind. And then he slept or died, he could not know
which.
There
were no flowers to be found and the little girl stamped her foot in
frustration. “Mommy, I can't find any.”
“I'm
almost finished. We'll go back in a minute.”
Returning
to where her mother knelt in the dirt, the girl peeked over her
shoulder. “What's that?”
“It's
Heaven's Call, a very special plant.” Her mother wiped
her hands and sat back to look at the result of her effort. “Though
it is known in other places by other names.”
“What
other names?”
“Well,
where your father came from, it is known as Clearheart.”
“It
must be a very good plant, to have such pretty names.”
“That
it is, my little doll.”
“Does
it only grow under crosses?”
“No,
Fanya,” Her mother sighed, silently praying for her daughter to
pass through the age of endless questions, though she knew each age
had its challenges. “When we find it in the woods, where it
grows, we ask its permission to move it here, around the crosses, so
our dead will more easily hear our prayers.”
“And
do they? Do they hear our prayers?”
“Sometimes,
when the need is great.”
“And
do they answer?”
“Yes,
my little Fanya. I know for sure that they do.”
The
little girl knelt next to her mother, reached out and touched the
cross, then turned to her mother. “I asked father if I could—“
Her
mother touched her finger to her daughter's lips. “The best
prayers are not for the ears of others, Fanya.”
The
girl nodded seriously.
Mother
and daughter rose and walked hand-in-hand back down to the village.
As they came into view of the well, Stefana saw Andre holding the
reins of the colt with the white spot above his eyes. She broke away
from her mother and raced towards him, leaping into his arms.
“Oh,
mommy, you were right,” Stefana said,
“Right
about what?” Andre asked.
Stefana
whispered in his ear and he kissed her forehead. “We still need
your mother's permission,” he said. “Remember, it's up to
her.”
“Andre,
what do you think you're doing?”
“You
promised I could teach her to ride. Today seemed as good as any—“
“And
you said, Mommy, you said,” Stefana repeated.
“I
said 'one day' you could teach her to ride. I didn't say which day.”
“Close
enough to a promise in the ears of a child, Magda.” Andre
smiled and Stefana looked at her mother with eyes so much like her
father's that Magda knew she could not deny them.
