Forgotten Liberty

by Alessio Cala

  TWO

  8 YEARS LATER.

  The middle-aged couple sat hunched and huddled together under the harsh release of late autumn's downpour. Their horse-drawn carriage trudged through the damp dirt track. Wooden wheels clung jadedly to their structure with every trembling rotation. Raindrops tapped and glided off of hooded waterproof ponchos that sheltered their bodies in the cold. Tall grasslands on rolling hills stretched for miles either side of them with pocketed tree lines scattered throughout. Amidst the darkness of the man's bearded face sat a burning cigarillo between dry lips. The scorching orange light illuminated the greyness of day's gloomy morning. Between the couple, further back beneath the carriage's tarpaulin canopy sat a friendly canine companion, a border collie who answered to the calling of Max. The dog's head jolted up as he heard the sounds of teeth crunching through apple.

  "Frank?" the woman mumbled through chunks of fruit.

  "Yes Annie?" he replied.

  "You think we should have waited for the rain to stop?"

  "Can't."

  "Why not?"

  "You know why. Market closes at midday. If we miss this, then we'll have to wait another week till the next trade."

  "I know."

  "Then why'd you ask?"

  "I don't know. This weather worries me, that's all."

  "I know," he said, allowing the tobacco infused smoke to seep from his mouth. "Me too."

  Holding the apple between her teeth, Annie tied her long brunette hair back up into a bun and tucked it back beneath her hood. She sensed Max's interest in the apple and could not defy those eyes of adoration and utter intrigue. Piercing the apple's skin with her incisors, she took the piece of fruit from her mouth and offered it to the dog. He sniffed curiously to investigate before taking it and chewed through the soft, juicy texture. In the cart behind the trio sat rows of crated fruits and vegetables; onions, parsnips, carrots and apples were among several various choices on offer.

  Dying embers and dusty ash fluttered down onto Frank's lap as he moved the cigarillo away from his mouth. The reins of the horses rested loosely in one hand, the cigarillo in the other. Annie fiddled with an old antique radio beside her. Its wooden carvings and overall appearance were a sight to be appreciated. Sadly, the same could not be said for its performance.

  "Still no good?" Frank asked abruptly.

  "No," Annie sighed in defeat. "Can't seem to get the thing to work."

  Frank pushed the end of the cigar into the side of the cart and twisted the light out before tossing it to the mud. "I'm telling you, Annie. Old bastard sold us a lemon, thing’s a piece of crap. Kinetically powered radio my arse..."

  Annie studied the wire running from the radio to a conductor attached to the wheel's spindle but could make neither head nor tail of the problem.

  "Maybe it's the rain."

  Up ahead, a man on a horse emerged through the misty wall of rainfall. His hair was drenched in straggled curls that hung in front of his face and his damp shirt clung tightly to his body. It was obvious he had not prepared for such a downpour. As the man's proximity drew nearer, Frank recognised his familiar face through the grey. Frank tugged back on the reins and the carriage stopped parallel to the man. The man sounded his command, a release of air through taut cheeks that sounded like the quack of a duck. The horse stopped immediately. It was obedient and well-trained. There was only one man Frank knew in the whole of Autark who could train horses to such a high standard.

  "Hello Annabel. Frank," said the man.

  "Oh, Henry. Look at you. You'll catch a cold out here," Annie replied. Although they never had any children of their own, Annie always seemed to possess the caring qualities of a nurturing mother.

  "That's quite all right, Annabel. Not far to go now." Henry replied in his thick Irish accent. Frank studied Henry's horse, a healthy mustang with a silver coat that glistened in the rain.

  "How many did you bring in this morning?"

  "Just the one today. A snake oil merchant lost one of his two horses to some angry customers last week."

  Annie's eyebrows rose unexpectedly, "sounds terrible."

  "You should pop in for a drink on your way back. I'll tell you all about it. Don't want to be keeping you out in this rain."

  "We should really say the same for you," said Frank.

  Henry looked down at his shirt, almost surprised that he hadn't noticed just how drenched he really was. Together they laughed, exchanged goodbyes and departed on their separate ways.

  The brute force of the weather began to pick up along the damp trail. Puddles consumed the earth. The cart's canopy began to thrash and sway with the wind's quick change of pace and direction. The couple said very little to one another as they drew closer and closer to Merribank village with every rolling stride of the squeaky carriage. Annie tossed the bruising core of the apple into the track below and the smell of tobacco still lingered as the carriage proceeded onwards.

  The core of the apple was left lodged into the soaking mud. Several minutes passed. The dirty rainwater splashed up against it, revitalising what was left of its tender juices. The soaking mud slowly began to solidify, attracting panicked insects who sought both nourishment and refuge from drowning. Though the harshness of rainfall surrounded the core, the repetition of each tapping drop evoked a stillness and tranquillity like no other. The insects abruptly scurried away from the track and into the brush. Tumbling vibrations shook the ground, drawing closer and closer to the core as every second passed. The vibrations soon transmitted to the frequencies of galloping hoofs and the squeaking of loose mechanisms.

  The apple core was obliterated and disappeared beneath the hurtling force of yet another horse-drawn carriage. Its rickety wheels ripped through the rising puddles along the dirt-ridden track. Unlike the one before it, this carriage bellowed out an aura of ferocity and anguish. The horses were whipped and hollered at by their riders. Four men wielding automatic firearms fired wickedly into autumn's sky. With every shot flashed light from their muzzles and piercing echoes from their chambers. The men chanted and hollered in rebellion and the rumbling engines soon followed behind them.

  A convoy of three military trucks made passage behind the cart, but these men were no military. Windshield wipers fought desperately against the thrashing rainfall, now heavier and more frightening than moments ago. Driving the trucks were men of the same nature. Their brutish physique and rough skin; their battered, scarred bodies reflected the hatred deep within their tormented souls. One in particular stood out from the others. He sat in the passenger seat at the front of the pack. The entire right side of his face was scarred with wrinkled flesh of a past disaster. The burnt man stared out into the bare fields, consumed with burdening thoughts.

  Within the darkened canopies of the truck's cargo sat rows of children. Most appeared age ten or eleven, while some were as young as four. Each child was equipped with a firearm far larger than they could carry. The children's fragile minds were poisoned, corrupted by those same men who had been damaged long before them. Sitting quietly, they too were scarred and dented by the world around them. There was nothing but the rain and engines to drown out the silence. Among the children, one stood out as a vessel of childlike innocence. Rather than wielding arms, this young boy held a small black book, and in that book he scribbled and sketched with a small blunt pencil. This boy could not have been much older than four or five but the other children only appeared to repel his magnitude of potential.

  THREE

  Between high wooden beams the hanging lights of Merribank illuminated the marketplace. Crowds of settlers and merchants exchanged their trade. Rays of light shone multi-coloured apparitions through crystal glass decor more poignant in the gloom of a morning most grey. Merribank market was the village's main attraction, a calling point to all those looking to trade in the south-west of Autark. Its grand stone archway tunnel was a spectacle in itself that took the settlers of Merribank two years to complete. Those travelling into the village set u
p their stalls while other merchants opened their doors to anyone seeking only the best of value. The scent of freshly caught fish, aromatic spices and exotic perfumes generated a musky aroma that entwined the crowded marketplace. A row of elderly widows bartered and haggled with the local butcher for the finest cutlets of venison the island had to offer.

  Situated atop several pillars scattered throughout the market were megaphone polls. They regurgitated distorted renditions of music through Radio Autark. It was the same orchestral piece that had been on the air for the past four years. It droned endlessly but the villagers of Merribank had listened to it for so long that they somehow tuned it out completely. Although it had been turned off from time to time, a group of children who resided the village found amusement in switching it back on when the adults weren’t looking.

  Established on the corner of the market's street was a boutique tailor with fine leathers and practical accessories displayed proudly behind the window's chipped wooden frame.

  Annie closed the door as she and Frank stepped out onto the street and she wriggled her hands into her new leather gloves. She took a sip of water before placing the canteen back into Frank's knapsack. Frank carried a crate with leftover fruits from the morning's trade. Upon their return to the cart, they discovered Max standing watch, deterring all those who dared to help themselves to the contents of their cart. Frank smiled at the dog and the dog looked back with that same adoration he always did.

  Frank hauled the heavy crate back into the cart and pulled the canopy back over the top to cover the goods. They had bartered their trade of fruit and vegetables in exchange for ten bags of compost; half a dozen freshly cut steak fillets, a case of shotgun shells to deter the crows and a new machete that Frank planned to use to maintain next year's cornfield.

  “What’s for dinner tonight, darling?” Frank asked.

  “Roast with veg and lots of salad.”

  “Again? Jesus Annie, I’m not a rabbit. A man can only eat so much lettuce.”

  “Then stop bloody growing so much and we won’t have to eat it,” she snapped back playfully. Frank turned to her and put his arm over her shoulder. He thought about when they were younger and first getting married; how they struggled to make ends meet just to put food on the table. Once they both had a taste for this new life, every other way just seemed overcomplicated and unnecessary. They struggled back then, but they managed to get through it all because they were together. To Frank, that was all that mattered. She was all that mattered. He pulled her closer and laughed, kissing her forehead softly. "Was there anything else you wanted to do before we head back?"

  "No. My hands are warm now." She smiled and rested her head upon his chest.

  Distant screams of women drowned out the tunnel, reverberating against the walls and flooding the inner market. Both settlers and merchants turned to face the distant cries, peering over one another to observe the commotion. Frank stepped out into the road to get a better look but a crowd had already formed to block his field of view.

  The blast of automatic rifles flooded the marketplace. Frank flinched at the sharpness of their resonance and when he looked again, the sea of people had parted, scattering in all directions. He turned to see his wife but was blocked by the sheer chaos of scarpering settlers. Bodies dropped all around him. He felt a great force push against him suddenly, a cowering merchant shoved through with neither thought nor care. Frank fell back into the road. His back thumped hard against the stone floor. The wind shot out from his lungs and he could do nothing to retrieve it.

  He stared up into the glowing colourful lights above. Panicked legs flew past and their feet trampled over his body. Turning over onto his stomach, he pushed himself to crawl through the sea of chaos. Gunfire blared in the distance. It was getting closer. His fingers were stamped on beneath the filthy boots of panicked settlers. The pain was sharp and the blood pumped harder through to his fingertips. Frank used the fallen bodies to drag himself over to the roadside. As he caught his breath, the sound of smashing glass combusted the nearby market stalls into a blazing inferno. A merchant bolted into the road, doused in the flames of a Molotov cocktail that danced all around him. His screaming cries would scar the minds of all those who heard for an eternity.

  He wondered if this was a nightmare, if he would wake up any moment at home, sitting beside Annie in their matching armchairs. The pain was too real, his body ached and bruised. Through the obstructed view he caught glimpses of children bearing arms. They fired their weapons into the market's stone shelter. No remorse, blind to the nature of their actions. He heard her calling. It came from across the road but he could not see through the desperate stampede. He brought himself up to his feet and pushed through the masses, barging shoulder to shoulder with every step.

  Annie saw his face and reached out over the others to take his hand but she couldn’t reach. Instead, Frank shoved through and swept her to the front of the carriage. Together they quickly climbed aboard. The horses reared up wildly and whinnied amidst the madness. Frank held the reins tight and the cart swerved out into the road. He felt the bumping of pedestrians hitting the back of the cart as they were shoved from its path. Another banquet of fire erupted behind them, bullets ricocheted and snapped up from the dirt and stone below. Dozens of settlers dropped, folding to the ground. A bloody mist sprayed up into Frank's face. He whipped the reins but could not see ahead of him. The carriage jolted over the jagged stone floor and fallen bodies and soared out into the clearing of the open trail.

  They had made it out into the desolate trail between the village and their home. They would have gone the full stretch but the cart dragged to a sudden halt. One of the horses collapsed. It was the older of the two, twenty-three years of age. She dropped to the ground, her legs folding beneath her exhausted body. They sat isolated in the middle of the dirt track. There was nothing but the light patter of rain and swaying trees shedding their leaves. An array of vegetation gently floated over the cart. Warm yellows, ambers and dark decaying browns fluttered to the ground around them; and in those colours Frank couldn’t help but see the burning flames of Merribank marketplace.

  "Are you okay?" he asked Annie. She nodded but her face said otherwise, eyes wide, darting from one side of the tree line to the other. He hopped down into the road and detached the injured horse from the cart. It struggled to walk, limping towards the tall grass on the other side. Frank marched to the rear of the cart. He reached inside and pulled the shotgun out from inside the canopy. He cracked it open and checked the breech. Two shells. He flipped the barrel back up and it locked into place. Frank stood there beside the cart for a while, watching the horse traipse and whinny softly. He started to approach it but stopped halfway. He couldn't do it, couldn't bring himself to put the suffering creature out of its misery, not after what they had just been through. He stood there in the rain and the injured horse shambled away into the open field. Frank turned back to Annie and said, "you think we can make it back with just the one?"

  She didn't reply. She didn't even hear him. Her mind was elsewhere.

  "Annie," he repeated, much louder this time.

  Finally, her eyes engaged his own. He moved to her side and looked up at her closed-off body sitting up on the carriage beside Max.

  "I know you're scared. I’m scared,” he admitted. "But I need you here with me now. I can’t get us back on my own."

  She nodded again; this time in short, rapid bursts. She closed her eyes but no matter how hard she tried she couldn't shake the horrific images from her mind. Frank glanced back over to the field and noticed the wounded horse lying on its side, its weary lungs expanding and contracting with every numbered breath. The croak of the raven distracted him from behind. It called to him from a low branch, staring at him, cautioning him.

  Frank and Annie walked round to the back of the cart to check on the stock. Frank pulled back the tarpaulin blinds. Annie nabbed the box of shotgun shells with shaking hands and stuffed them into Frank's knapsack. />
  "When we get back, I'll warn Henry while you go inside and get your sister," Frank ordered. "I don't think it’ll be safe in the house for the time being. Not until we know what's going on."

  She didn't reply. He felt her tug on his arm like an infant calling for attention.

  "Frank?" she called out wearily.

  "What is it?" he asked, still focused on the stock.

  "Frank."

  "What?"

  This time he looked up at her but she wasn't looking back at him. She was looking dead ahead. He followed her gaze to the back of the cart. Crouched in the corner amongst the shadows was a small boy. His knees were tucked up into his frail chest, hands firmly clasped to a book of some sort. At first glance he did not appear armed or dangerous. He had tanned skin, straggled black hair and eyes of emerald green. Tattered rags held by a rope at the waist were all that clothed his naked body. They stared at the boy and he stared back. The dull droning of engines loomed in the distance behind them. Terror struck their hearts. They looked at each other, then back at the muddy trail they had just taken.

  "Just grab him," Frank ordered. "We won't make it back fast enough on this thing."

  "But what about the other stuff?"