A Light From the Ashes

by Rachel Anne Cox

7

  UNTIL THEY CAN STAND ON THEIR OWN

  S mudged gray uniforms and soiled snow blended into a mass of gray in the square. Sam, Ethan, and Zacharias stood in a row with their fellow town members in front of the stage. The citizens of Jesse’s Hollow were all clad in similar clothing, government issue of muted gray cotton tunics, pants, and tied leather belts. On Market Days one could expect to see tiny splashes of color, patterns, and various materials found in the old houses when the refugees had arrived. The people often traded swaths of fabrics on Market Day. It was the custom to try to find even a tiny sliver of individuality among the sea of gray. But on town meeting days when the citizens faced the Corsairs en masse, it was expected that they all look uniform. Sam searched the faces above the gray, trying to see a hint of the familiar.

  He looked around to see if he could see Kyle with Gemma. He had not spoken to Kyle since his return. He hadn’t found the strength or the necessity to do so. But Gemma stood without her husband in a row on the other side of the square. Sam wondered how Kyle had managed to get out of the required town meeting. He seemed to be always making up rules of his own.

  “Attention! Silence!” a sergeant barked even though the crowd stood in silence already. “Give the captain your strict attention, citizens of Jesse’s Hollow!”

  A barrel-chested man in bulging blue uniform approached the edge of the stage and looked over the crowd before speaking. Sam expected to hear him shouting as well, but an almost friendly voice emanated from the new soldier, as if he were reading a bedtime story to a child. “As a reminder, no citizen is allowed to enter the city limits of large cities or leave the borders marked by the guard stations. There are dangers lurking in the decimated streets of the large cities. Your government is aware of these dangers, which is why the Triumvirate has wisely taken this precaution for your benefit. We should all be grateful our wise leaders are helping us to stay the course.”

  “Stay the course,” the crowd echoed in unison, like a chant.

  “You will notice fences are being erected along the borders to further allow us to protect our villages from infiltration and attack. Anyone attempting to cross the fence will be shot without question.” The words and his congenial tone did not match, grating against Sam’s ears and nerves like the creak of a tree before being felled.

  “Now onto our next order of unpleasant business. Sergeant, bring the man to the front of the stage.”

  A gasp went through the crowd, a concert of whispers and gulps of breath. Nothing could have inoculated the people from the shock of what they saw. Before them was a citizen, shivering in the cold with his tunic removed, back facing them. His flesh was torn in gaping red slashes. Though many had seen such injuries before, the time interim had dulled their memories of the spectacle. Mothers covered the eyes of their children, the Old Ones looked at the ground, the young clenched their fists. The desired dismay and fear meant to be engendered by the display fell short of the outrage and passion that still flowed in the veins of the citizens, however quietly it flowed.

  The captain’s dulcet tones continued, an insult to the scene before them. “A member of our esteemed government in Boswell has been murdered in cold blood. Citizens may be assured the culprit will be found and brought to swift justice. There will be one citizen from every village flogged once a week until that time. We are confident this will encourage your full cooperation with our investigation. If you have any information regarding this brutal murder, you will bring it to the sergeant in your village immediately. As always, stay the course.”

  “Stay the course.” The citizens released the reply through clenched teeth or whispered it almost inaudibly. The air was thick with words not spoken and blows not struck.

  As the crowd dispersed, Sam looked down to see tears in Ethan’s eyes. Sam had tried to turn him away from the awful visual, but Ethan would not be swayed. He needed Sam to know he was no longer a child. And yet he could not stop the tears which wet his face and peppered his tunic in dark splotches. The boy wiped furiously at his nose, anger rather than fear shaking his young bones. He was angry at the Corsairs, angry he wasn’t big enough to do something about it, angry at all the people who stood there just gaping and answering, blending into complicity and tolerance like a river of dirty water.

  “Ethan, are you alright, son?” Sam tried to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder but was shrugged away.

  “How can you stand it? It’s wrong for them to punish people who haven’t even done anything. Why can’t we stop them from doing things that are wrong?”

  Sam tried to usher the boy out of the square in case they would be overheard. “Let’s go for a walk. Z, we’ll meet you back at the house.”

  They walked in silence toward the old bridge, one of Sam’s favorite thinking places. Wooden pilings worn down with time, yet still not smooth. Sam grasped the railing, rough under his hands, and peered at the fish swimming under the frozen surface of the water in the creek. The ice was thinning. Branches, brown grass, and other vegetation awaiting spring renewal stood in dark contrast to the glaring white snow. Soon it would all be melted, the color returned to the land.

  “I know how you feel, son. Truly I do,” Sam began. “But there are times to fight, and times to keep yourself safe so you can fight another day. We all know what the Corsairs are doing is wrong. But until we can fight with some expectation of winning, it would be throwing our lives away for nothing. Wars can’t be entered into lightly, and we can’t always give in to our feelings, no matter how justified we feel in them. It’s a hard truth, but it is the truth. And sometimes that’s all we can hold onto. Do you understand?”

  Ethan kicked at a small pile of snow up against the bridge piling. “You were in the war, though, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And you were just a kid.”

  “Not much older than you, but I didn’t exactly have a choice. We were all called on to fight for our lives.”

  “Did you ever kill anyone?”

  Sam paused, feeling the words like bile in the back of his throat. “I did. It’s not something I would ever want you to experience.”

  “But like you said, sometimes we don’t have a choice. How do you know when is the right time to fight?”

  “Well, now. I’m not sure I know the answer to that question. Every situation is different. There’s the question of knowing beyond a doubt you are in the right. There’s protecting the innocent. There’s common sense of knowing if you even have a chance of winning the fight. All of those things come into making the decision. It’s why it’s usually an adult’s decision and not a child’s.”

  Ethan stood as tall as he could, throwing his shoulders back and chest out, but still not even reaching the height of Sam’s shoulders. “I’m not a child, Sam. I know things. I’ve seen things. And I’ve taken care of myself.”

  “I know all of that, boy. You’ve done very well on your own. And I don’t want to take away from the things you’ve done and accomplished. But there are still many things you don’t know. And until you do, it’s probably best to trust my judgment for now, alright? When I think it’s time to fight, I’ll let you know, and I’ll want you by my side. Can I trust you with that?”

  “I guess so.” Tiny crystals of snow covered the boy’s rough boots as he kicked again at the pile.

  “In the meantime, how’d you like to go back to Boswell with me tomorrow? We have some photographs to deliver.”

  Ethan nodded.

  The fish continued to swim in their frozen stream. The warmer southern winds began to blow. And the child and the man set their decisions aside for another day.

  * * * * *

  A spring wind attempted to steal away Sam’s hat. He pulled it down around his ears, looking down at the matted grass, wet from melting snow. A thaw was setting in. Just a few more weeks before the brutal winter would be over. Sam’s body still bore the marks and the memory of his weeks on the mountain when he’d almost starved in the cold, but it fe
lt like another lifetime. The boy at his side reminded him of the renewal he was feeling, the new energy that seemed to make him want to try harder, live more deliberately. He placed an affectionate hand on the boy’s shoulder as they approached Sophie’s house. Maybe it wasn’t just the boy who was lightening Sam’s step.

  The sound of his quick rap on the farmhouse door rang in Sam’s ears as he impatiently waited for it to be answered. He rifled through his pack, trying to find the photograph of mother and daughter, but was interrupted by the sound of the door opening before him. He looked up quickly to see an elderly woman standing before him, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “I’m sorry, I was looking for Sophie Bryan. Do I have the wrong house?”

  “No, this is her place.”

  “Is she around? I’ve come to deliver something to her.”

  “You may have to be satisfied leavin’ whatever it is with me, my boy. She can’t really be receivin’ company just now.”

  “Has she become ill as well? How is her daughter?”

  “Know her well, do ya?”

  “We met a couple of weeks ago. I took a photograph of her and the child. Then she was kind enough to put us up for the night.”

  “Well, she is a kind one. Truth be.” The woman seemed to be thinking something over and trying to make a decision. “A photograph, ya say? Well, now, that might be just the thing.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Come in and I’ll tell ya about it. Seein’ as how she trusted you in her house, I suppose I can too. Yes, might be just the thing.”

  Sam and Ethan left their bags inside the front door and followed the elderly woman as she toddled toward the fire, stoking it, and motioning for them to sit before it. She made her way back to a large tub in the kitchen where she continued washing clothes as she spoke. Her hands were rarely, if ever, idle.

  “I’m Mrs. O’Dell from the next farm over.”

  “My name is Sam, and this is Ethan.”

  “I’m happy this blessed winter seems to be ending. Truly was a hindrance on these bones of mine. No good for little ’uns and their sicknesses either. This little ’un isn’t ill, is he?”

  “No, he’s fine.”

  Sam fidgeted with the picture, moving it from one hand to the other and turning it over and over. He wanted to know where Sophie was. Why was the house so quiet? Why was this strange woman receiving him? Was she a relative?

  “That the photograph, is it?”

  “What? Oh, yes. It is.”

  “May I see it? Been quite a spell since I’ve seen one of someone I know. Just the ones left in these old houses to look at. Not quite the same as seeing the likeness of a friend.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, now, ain’t that a wonder? Spitting image of her and the poor little mite.” Mrs. O’Dell lifted the corner of her apron and wiped a tear from her eye. “One night over a week ago, I woke to hear this terrible sound. Never heard the like before. Sounded like an animal stuck in a trap, just a sharp cry, then a wail. I ran over because I knew the child had been sick. Found young Sophie holding the little ’un just so still in her arms.”

  Sam took a deep breath. Ethan regarded him carefully. He stepped closer to him and put his own hand on Sam’s shoulder as Sam had done to him many times.

  “Took me and Jim both to pull Sophie away so we could take care of things with the poor child. Sophie had stopped crying when we got here. She was just holding that poor baby. Rocking her like she was rocking her to sleep. Once we got her out of the bedroom, she just sort of went limp. So Jim carried her into her own bedroom. She stayed there for a few days, sleeping. Probably best, poor lamb. We buried Bridget in the back pasture under an oak tree, next to some other graves of the people who lived here before. And I’ve stayed here with Sophie since. At night, I’ll hear her cry out once again like that first night. But she’s not awake. I’ve found her a couple of times just wandering around, not awake. That first night, I’m almost sure she got out of the house and back in while I was sleeping right here in the front room. Uncanny, if you ask me. Yesterday, she got up, walked down the hall, in a daze like. Went to the child’s bedroom, sat on the floor and started playing with her toys as if the child was there with her. I tell ya, I’m right scared for her. I’ve seen things like this crack a person’s mind. No one knows the connection between a mother and a child. When it’s broken, well, there’s nothing fills that. The pain doesn’t pass. Not ever. But if the mother’s lucky, the pain will step aside from time to time. Losing a child is always hard, but this is something different.”

  “Every grief is different,” Sam whispered.

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’m not sure I should give her this picture now. Wouldn’t it just upset her more?”

  “No, it might be just the thing.”

  “I’m not sure it’s my place, maybe you should . . .”

  “Now, now. She’ll not harm ya, my boy. You come on upstairs with me. She’ll be in the child’s bedroom again.”

  Sam looked at Ethan, who nodded he wanted to go with them. So the three walked up the creaking stairs to find Sophie sitting in the middle of the floor in Bridget’s bedroom. The small bed was made, a coverlet of faded blue and pink flowers laying over the top. Sophie had a piece of what looked like an old yellow blanket hanging around her shoulders. Sam remembered seeing the child carrying it the day he’d met them in the square. The room was completely clean except for the few meager toys scattered on the floor around Sophie. One by one, she would pick up each toy, look at it, turn it over in her hands, hold it up to her nose, breathe in, then place it gently back on the floor. She had gone through this ritual several times before Mrs. O’Dell finally spoke.

  “Sophie, dear, you have a friend who’s come to see you. He’s brought something for you.”

  Sophie didn’t look up at the sound of the voice but went on with her ritual. A tiny elephant, squeezing it in her hands, then breathing it in. A doll with matted blonde hair and one shoe missing. A stuffed bear with only one eye.

  “Go on, son.” Mrs. O’Dell urged Sam into the room.

  Before walking into the sanctuary where this mother was attempting to commune with her daughter, Sam removed his boots and left them outside the door next to Ethan. He approached her slowly, not wanting to startle her. He sat down on the floor across from her, the toys between them. Sam was shocked at the change in her appearance from just a couple of weeks before. She seemed much thinner, her cheeks were pale and sunken in, her red hair hanging in her face. There were dark circles under her red eyes, and Sam wondered when she had slept last. He still wasn’t sure this was the right thing to be doing. He felt like an intruder into this woman’s life, something he never wanted to be. And he marveled at the strange coincidences that had led him here.

  “Hello, Sophie,” he said quietly. “I’m Sam, remember? We met a couple of weeks ago.”

  Sophie finally looked at him. She seemed to be struggling to focus on him. Recognition crossed over her face, and she reached out for his hand, holding it for a minute before she spoke.

  “You were the last person besides me to see her alive. I can’t see her face anymore. It’s hazy in my mind. She’s like a song, but I can only remember a few notes or a phrase. I can see her fingers wrapped around mine. I can smell the top of her head. I can hear her laughing. But I can’t remember her face. I thought maybe if I stayed here long enough, was around her things, I could see her again. But there’s nothing.”

  Sam took a deep breath before delivering the photograph. He slowly turned it over in his hands as if he were handling a precious jewel, then placed it in Sophie’s hand. She held it in the same way he had. She looked toward Mrs. O’Dell and Ethan, a questioning look in her eyes, not sure if what she was seeing was real. Then she turned back to Sam with the same questioning look. Sam slowly nodded, affirming it truly was her daughter in the photo before her. Seeing her daughter’s face for the first time in over a week, seeing the child
in her arms, her eyes finally released her unshed tears. Her face collapsed under the weight of her grief, and she fell limply into Sam’s lap. She clutched the photograph to her breast and held it there as she would have held Bridget if she could. Sam held firm to her shaking shoulders, letting her cry as long as the tears continued to flow.

  * * * * *

  Later that night, Sam took himself to Bridget’s grave to pay his respects. Moonlight shone in fractured pieces through the oak branches, lightly caressing her wooden grave marker and the older stones of those buried before. Sam struggled with the idea of death. He had seen too often the faces of the dying. One minute animated with life, the next stilled forever in death. Who was to know what happened to the souls of those who had passed through the shrouded portal?

  Sam had left Sophie inside. She had finally spent all of her energy in crying and was sleeping peacefully in her own bedroom. He looked out at the Milky Way, smudged across the black sky with innumerable clusters of stars. Tonight, more than ever, he contemplated his place within that vast expanse of stars. They looked like tiny specks to him. But Zacharias said those specks were as big as or bigger than their own sun. How could something so large appear so small? Or maybe he and the earth were the specks, dwarfed by the expansive universe. You could never really determine the greatness or the smallness in another being, it seemed. Perspective changed it all and then back again. He breathed in the cool and cleansing air, filling his lungs to capacity, then breathing it all out again.

  The cold air in his lungs and the sounds of Sophie’s cries still ringing in his ears brought a forgotten memory flying forward into his consciousness.

  Sam hears a muffled cry somewhere near but hidden in the trees. He pulls the knife from his boot and moves silently toward the cry. His ears strain to hear another sound. Scuffling to the right, up the hill. A girl’s cry escapes, rolls down the hill to hit him in the chest. He has heard too many cries like that. Too many hearts ripped open with fear. His legs carry him like a deer over the snow. He surveys the situation quickly. A man holds the girl against a tree, his hands around her throat, her feet barely touch the ground, kicking as she struggles for breath. No one else around. Sam runs up behind the man, a foot taller than himself. He’ll never be able to pull him off of the girl. He wraps one arm around the man’s waist, and with the other, jabs his knife under his ribs. A grunt escapes the man’s throat. He doesn’t fall, but hits Sam with the back of his hand across his jaw. Sam is on the ground, so is the girl. They look at each other. She’s gasping for breath, trying to stand. Her hand is in the man’s blood on the ground. The man grabs her by the hair and pulls her head down hard upon the ground. Sam is up again, struggling to hold the man away from the girl. They’re rolling in the snow, a fist on his jaw, a hand around his throat. Where is the knife? Hands cold on the ground in the snowbank, feeling for the knife. Sam’s hand closes around the handle and plants the blade in the man’s stomach. The man slumps forward, heavy on top of Sam. The fight is over. Where is the girl?