by Scott Bury
Javor looked up the stream bank, where the Avars’ trail led into the trees. “Our only hope is that the riders are not too worried about putting much distance between themselves and us, and that they’ll stop soon to rest and eat. But then, they’ll probably rape the girls.”
Hrech winced. It was another trait of Javor’s to say out loud exactly the thing you didn’t want to think about.
They hadn’t taken any food or anything for the night. But Javor remembered Elli screaming as the rider dragged her by her long hair. And he thought of all the men of his village, waiting for someone else to make the first move. If we had all rushed them when Mladen did, we would have saved the girls. But who else would be dead?
“I hate to repeat myself, Javor, but we’re two kids with a knife and a wood-axe, and there are ten of them with armour and swords and gods know what else,” Hrech argued. “We won’t stand a chance.”
“We’ll catch up with them at night, sneak into their camp quietly, free the girls and steal the horses,” Javor replied, surprising himself. “The moon will still be pretty big tonight,and the sky will be clear. We’ll have enough light.”
“There’ll be at least one on watch,” Hrech protested.
“Then we’ll have to kill him quietly,” Javor answered. Where did these words, these ideas, come from? “We’ll have to be careful not to make any noise that would alert them. But they won’t be expecting us. They’ve done this before, I’ll bet. And I’ll bet that every time, the poor villagers were too afraid of getting killed to follow and rescue two girls.
“I think they’ll get really drunk, eat everything they can, rape the girls, then tie them up and fall asleep. We’ll sneak up when they’re deep asleep. If there’s one on guard, we’ll have to kill him quickly before he can alert the others. I’ll sneak up behind him and ... and cut his throat.” Javor felt the dagger’s fish-shaped handle. The way it fit in his palm calmed him. “You untie their horses and lead them away, but be sure you don’t make any noise doing it. Then we’ll untie the girls. They’ll probably be tied up near the guard. Then we’ll get out of there as fast as we can.” He was making this up as he went along, but it all seemed to make sense.
“They’ll follow us, you know, to get the girls back. And to revenge their dead guard,” Hrech said.
“You’re right. Well, we’ll have to kill all of them. First save the girls, take them someplace safe, then sneak back and cut their throats while they sleep.”
“I—I don’t think I can do that, Javor.”
“You’ve killed chickens and pigs, haven’t you?”
“I can’t kill a sleeping man,” Hrech said in a very small voice.
Javor turned to look at Hrech directly, something he almost never did. “Do you know what they’re going to do to the girls? First, they’ll rape them repeatedly. They’ll each take their turns with them, keeping them for their amusement as they ride back to wherever the Avars stay. When they get tired of them, they’ll kill them and leave their bodies to the vultures and dogs. And they’ll go to another village and take more girls.
“If Elli and Grat are really lucky, the raiders will sell them to a slave trader and they’ll go to Persia or someplace even farther and live the rest of their lives as slaves for some prince. Either way, we’ll never see them again alive, unless we do something right now. Are you with me or not?”
Hrech fell into step without another word, his face miserable.
At nightfall, they stopped by a stream to rest and drink. They found some nuts and sour pears. Hrech fell asleep, but Javor couldn’t. Elli, he thought. He thought of her thin legs, cut and dirty, of the tears on her face as she was pushed astride the horse.
When the moon rose, Javor woke Hrech and they slowly followed the horses’ tracks. From the droppings, they knew they had almost caught up to the riders. The group must have stopped long before nightfall and had a lazy afternoon.
The trail soon led into the forest. Javor and Hrech crept ahead, trying not to make any noise, listening. Javor winced every time they broke a twig or made a branch swish.
Soon, they heard a girl’s sobs. The moonlight would not penetrate the shadows under the trees, so Javor felt his way toward the sound. Hrech stepped on his heels and whispered “sorry.” A twig cracked underfoot and the sobs stopped with a sudden inward breath. Javor squinted: a darker shadow under a tree seemed head-shaped. Javor fell to his knees and found himself touching Elli’s soft hair. Her fist was in her mouth. Grat was beside her, trembling with the effort to stop sobbing.
The girls were bound to the tree with a thin rope looped around their waists and wrists. Hrech stepped around Javor to cut the rope with the axe, frustrated because Javor never seemed to know how to do anything practical. He pulled Grat to her feet. “Where are the soldiers?” he whispered. No answer. “Did they let you go?” Javor and Hrech led the girls to a narrow path. “Are you hurt?” Hrech asked as they stumbled along, but Elli would only shake her head. She pointed toward a clearing. When they reached it, the girls would go no closer. Leaving Hrech with the girls and holding his dagger in front of him, Javor stepped into the clearing.
It was hard to make out at first what he saw in the moonlight, but when his foot struck something that rolled, understanding hit him like a cold wave. It was a severed head; the Avar helmet rolled off it and continued a short distance before it fell over in the grass.
Javor was surrounded by the dismembered bodies of the whole troop. Ten heavily armoured men had been literally torn apart—maybe more. They may have had friends. Everywhere he looked there were legs, arms, torso, heads. A shadowy heap turned out to be a horse, its throat torn open. Javor turned and turned, his head swimming. What could have done this?
Trembling, he returned to Hrech and the girls. He could only shake his head when Hrech asked, “What is it? What’s there? What is scaring you all so?” They found the path and went the opposite way they had come, hoping it would lead home. In the next clearing they came to, they found two of the soldiers’ horses, grazing, wearing their saddles and bridles. The boys took the reins. No one thought of riding the horses—no one in their village had a horse and no one knew how to get on, let alone hold on and ride.
Finding their way home was easy—they just followed the same path that had brought them to the raiders’ camp. Hrech and Javor fell behind the girls and whispered. “What was in that clearing?” Hrech demanded.
“The soldiers. They’d been torn apart.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said. Arms and legs and heads ripped apart.”
“More soldiers? Greeks?”
“No. That wasn’t done by swords. It was like—like when you eat a chicken and pull the meat off the bones. It was ... I don’t know. Unbelievable.”
They drank at a stream. Hrech made a fire while Elli and Grat washed. They had nothing to dry themselves with and shivered, even though the night was warm. Grat didn’t say anything, only sobbed continually. Finally, they huddled together for warmth. Again, Hrech fell asleep. Javor felt weary, too, but could not sleep. If he closed his eyes, he saw the dead, mutilated raiders in the field. It’s no more than they deserved, he thought. But still—what had done that?
Elli was awake, too. Grat was crying, but she seemed half asleep. “Did they hurt you, Elli?” Javor asked.
She shook her head. She answered haltingly, pausing and shuddering. “Nothing serious. They hit us to make us stop crying when we set out. We kept slipping off the horses, and they would get mad and slap us when we fell off.” She absently rubbed her face, remembering pain. Javor could see tears glistening on her face in the sinking moonlight.
“Did they touch you?” Javor asked. He hesitated. “Did they…did they rape you?”
Elli shook her head. “Not yet. They were going to. I knew it.” Her voice started to tremble. “They actually gave us some food. They made a camp where you found us and ate the food that Roslaw gave them, and gave us a little. And they started to drink s
ome strong wine. They made us drink, too. Grat got sick ...”
“What happened to them?”
Elli looked down. “I don’t know,” she said in a shaking whisper. “At sunset, they tied us to a tree. I thought they would rape us then—they were all gathered around. But their horses started to make a lot of noise and they ran to see why. One stayed to guard us. Then there was a horrible noise, a roar like a bear, only worse, louder ... then the men were screaming. Our guard ran to his friends and then he screamed. Then he … he stopped.” Elli bit her lip. Javor could see her hands shaking as she pulled her tunic closer to her body.
“Did you see anything?”
Elli shook her head. She stared at Javor, trying to tell him something with her eyes, but no words would come. Javor put his arms around her and pulled her closer, chafing her arms to try to warm her up. When her trembling subsided, she nuzzled her head under Javor’s chin.
“I could not see anything but the trees. There was a lot of commotion, movement, I could tell men were running this way and that. There was sound, like branches breaking, but … wet. I think it was the arms and legs of the men, breaking.” She buried her face in his chest, like she had after Vorona’s celebration. Her tears dripped onto Javor’s skin.
Eventually, Elli fell asleep, but Javor could not. He listened intently, but the only sounds were crickets, frogs and birds. Once, far off, a wolf howled.
When the sun rose at last, Javor woke the others. They silently set off again for home, leading the horses, conscious of how hungry they were.
Chapter 3: Coming home
The girls couldn’t walk very fast, and it took all day to get home. Grat cried all the way and by afternoon developed a limp.
Hrech tried to cheer the girls. “Everyone is going to be thrilled to see you back at the village. There’s going to be a big party!”
The girls did not look any happier. Javor chimed in with “Yah, everyone is going to celebrate. They’ll be so happy!” He put his arm around Elli and patted her shoulder like his father used to do to him when he was small.
That surprised Hrech—Javor had never been able to follow his lead spontaneously like that before.
“My mother,” Grat sobbed. She fell to her knees.
“I’m sure she’s okay, Grat,” Hrech lied, his hands on her shoulders. “I saw her with the other ladies before Javor and I left. She was just a little roughed up.”
Hrech’s words did not reassure Grat. She sat in the tall grass, weeping. The boys could not get her to stand.
Elli put her head on Javor’s shoulder. Like a pot boiling over, her grief finally came out, but unlike Grat, Elli cried quietly. Once she sniffed “Papa, oh, Papa,” but nothing else was intelligible.
They stayed in that spot until the boys pulled the girls toward a stream and made them drink cool, fresh water. The girls stopped crying, but Grat could not look at either of the boys.
Finally, Hrech managed to get them moving again. It was a sombre journey. Grat wept almost continuously, but at least she managed to keep walking. Elli followed her, eyes unfocused.
A rabbit suddenly hopped through high grass. “Hey, look at the bunny!” Javor cried out. “I hope she’s not too far from home! Hey, bunny—why do you wiggle your nose? Do I smell so bad?” He laughed and looked at the girls, but they did not respond.
“Look, the bunny is running toward those trees,” Javor continued, trying hard to break through the girls’ mood. “Hey, do you think it wants to climb the tree?” He looked at the others, grinning.
The girls ignored him, and Hrech just gave him a strange look. No one ever gets my jokes, Javor thought.
Javor had another idea. “Hey, do you girls want to climb a tree?” They all stopped and stared at him. Javor jumped to the closest tree, grabbed a branch and pulled himself up. He loved climbing trees. He looked down at the others. “Come on up. It’s nice here among the leaves. You can see far, it’s comfortable. Come on.”
The other three looked at him with expressions that he could not read—he could not read many expressions. He jumped down and gave up trying to cheer anyone. The walk home continued in silence except for the sound of wind in the leaves and the calls of birds. He looked up at the sky, at the high, wispy clouds fanning out like white hair, and below them, another layer of puffy white clouds, like small loaves of flat bread.
His mind drifted forward, and Javor pictured coming home with the unhurt girls. He imagined a shout from the circle of huts as a lookout saw them approaching. He could see a crowd running out to greet them at the foot of the hill below the village. His father would clap him on the shoulder and say “My boy, my boy!” He could see his father glowing with pride, see his mother smiling and weeping at the same time, her worries banished, relieved that her last son had returned. He imagined Roslaw, the headman, clapping him on both shoulders, grinning from ear to ear, proclaiming him the hero. The villagers would give him flowers and bread and mugs of ale. Elli’s mother would hug him, and then Elli would kiss him again, and so would Grat, and even that scrawny, nasty Mrost would have to congratulate him and acknowledge him as the hero. And the next day, they would resume their interrupted solstice celebration and Javor, would jump over the bonfire and everyone would cheer.
And Elli will be my girl, and we will be betrothed and then married before the fall.
He did not let himself think of the dead Avars, or of Elli’s murdered father.
The sun was setting before they saw Nastasiu’s circle of huts nestled against the hill.
“Something’s wrong,” said Hrech. There was no sound coming from the village, no dogs barking, no babies crying. No one shouted as the four young people and two horses came closer. No one came running out to clap Javor on the shoulders.
Hrech ran to the first hut and then stopped dead. The hut had collapsed, its thatched roof spilling onto the ground. A corner post, thicker around than a man could reach with two hands, had been broken as if over someone’s knee.
Then they heard weeping and sobbing. They saw bodies between the huts. A dog sprawled, its neck broken. Mara, Javor’s neighbour, slumped over a rock, legs at unnatural angles. Her children cried over her body. As the four young people turned to survey the scene, they saw men and women binding each other’s wounds.
Javor went to a man sitting in the dirt, holding his head. “What happened?” The man turned around; it was Roslaw, his face covered in fresh blood. There was a new bruise under his eye in addition to the scar he had received from Krajan, the Avar.
“Where were you?” he asked.
“We brought the girls back. Did more soldiers come?”
Roslaw shook his head and turned away. Tekla, his wife, a very thin woman with bulging eyes and grey-streaked black hair, answered. “Not soldiers, boy,” she said. She appeared shaken but unhurt.“A monster. A monster. It killed so many, then ...” and she broke down, kneeling in the dust, weeping.
The only thing that Javor could say was “There’s no such thing as monsters …” He turned. Elli’s eyes were wide, searching around the village. Grat just held Hrech’s hand, insensate.
Elli shrieked “Mama!” and ran across the village. Lyuba, her mother, came out of her hut, eyes wide in disbelief. Mother and daughter embraced, weeping. Javor could see a red wound across Lyuba’s forehead from the Avar’s blow.
Hrech led Grat to her hut; her mother had not come out. “You’d better check your home, Javor,” he said.
Javor felt as if there was only an empty space in the middle of his body. He ran to the end of the village.
His hut was standing, but the thatch over the doorway was gone, as if ripped away by a huge claw. In the dying red light he saw his father lying face-down in front of the door. In his hand was his long scythe. Javor could not breathe. One side of his father’s skull was caved in and matted with blood. Slowly, Javor bent down and stepped carefully over the body into the hut, not daring to think about his mother.
He had to wait until his eyes adjus
ted to the gloom, and then he saw Ketia lying on the floor, her back against the cold oven, as if she were trying to warm her back. But her legs were splayed awkwardly, and her head was slumped forward.
Javor put his hand on her shoulder and felt wetness: blood. He pushed her head up and it lolled to one side. Javor was numb. He couldn’t move. His hands dropped and then his stomach heaved. He barely had time to move his head away from his mother’s body before he spewed a thin stream of bile onto the ground.
When the retching passed, Javor carefully pulled his mother toward him, holding her head gently so that it would not fall too far forward. He pressed her tightly to his chest, hoping that his life, his heartbeat, could somehow flow into hers. He did not hear the thin whine coming from his throat, did not feel the tears on his face. He wept, rocking his mother’s body until night filled the hut.
Hands gently laid Ketia on the floor. Other hands pulled him out of the hut, but he could not see whose they were because his eyes were blurred. He stumbled into the arms of ... he blinked until his vision cleared. Photius, the Greek traveller, the strange man who had wandered into the village two days earlier, the day before the solstice.
Javor found his feet and stared at the stranger in his wide-brimmed hat and ragged grey cloak, holding his long walking staff, unscratched, unhurt.
Javor’s mind reeled back. He saw his father two days earlier, walking into the woods to gather honey before the sun set. That was when the stranger had walked into the village: tall, thin, older than any many Javor had ever seen before, wearing a long grey cloak and a strange hat with a wide brim that were almost exactly the same shade as his long grey beard. He carried a long walking staff, but it seemed unnecessary.
He strolled casually into the centre of the village, where the men were resting and talking after working in the fields and before going home for their evening meal. The women would have supper ready when the sun’s rays shone level, into the eyes.