A War-Torn Country
Diane Dooley
Rafer threw himself violently backwards, managing to blunt the blow that struck his helmet. Head ringing with pain, he shoved his way back through the lines, slipping in the mud and the guts of other men. The wounded were gathered at the edge of the forest. Some had already died; others were working on it. Rafer sat under a tree and held his throbbing head in his hands. The battle was lost. Through blurry eyes, he gazed at the bloody field, the crossroads, and his superiors galloping away down the road to the south, towards home. His country had won a glorious victory here many years before, but this time there was only defeat, and the enemy was working their way through his remaining countrymen, stabbing and hacking. Covering his ears did not block the sounds of their dying screams.
He stood and moved deeper into the woods, picking up speed as soon as he was out of sight of the battlefield. He would head south through the forest; his country’s border was only a two-day march away. And once he crossed, he’d just keep walking until he got to his family farm; back to his dear old mother, and his sickly little sister, and his toddling brother. He should never have deserted them to seek excitement and adventure. In the year since Rafer had left them to indulge his wanderlust he’d found nothing but death and terror and casual cruelty. He’d spent his sixteenth birthday eating a few bites of horse stew and crying over his stupidity. He just wanted his mother, and he begged to be delivered to her as he crept deeper and deeper into the thick, dark woods, the sun fading and dying.
He slept in a pile of leaves, then continued his journey at dawn. He explored a burned and deserted village, hoping for food, but finding it barren. That night he slept in an abandoned animal’s den among furballs and ancient scat, ignoring the hunger cramps in his belly, slaking himself in the morning on the icy water of a mossy spring. He continued to walk, seeing no signs of people, not even a path, until finally stumbling exhausted to the ground, unable to even cry. Would he never see his mother again? Perhaps he should try to make it back to the blood-drenched battlefield? Though by now the crows would be about their business and the sun was starting to set once again. But then he caught a scent on the breeze. Smoke. And it was the sweet smell of woodsmoke, not the stench of burning bodies. He staggered to his feet and used the last of his strength to find the source.
The cottage was in a sun slashed clearing, surrounded by a thriving garden, its fence made of sticks and covered in a dense, spreading vine. There was no sound, no signs of life other than the slick of smoke coming from its chimney. From a small barn almost hidden by the cottage, Rafer heard the gentle cluck of chickens. He ripped away at the thick vine, eventually clearing enough to unlatch the gate. He stumbled to the door, his hand trembling as he knocked. When it opened, a small boy stood there, sad-eyed and silent, beckoning Rafer in. The interior was one large room. Flames flickered beneath a pot of simmering liquid, and his mouth gushed saliva. Beside the fire sat a woman, black hair piled on top of her head, rich, creamy skin, blue eyes blank as she nursed her infant. She placed the baby in a cradle next to her chair, rose, and went to the cook pot, ladling a helping of food into a wooden bowl. She placed it on the table, added a cup of water scooped from a pail in the corner, then tore off a hunk of bread from a loaf. She indicated he sit and eat, and Rafer instantly ploughed into the food, tears blinding him, forcing himself to eat slower, to make it last. The bone broth was delicious and thick with vegetables, the bread chewy and filling. And when he was finally sated, she pointed him to the smaller of the two beds in the corner of the room. He managed to pull off his boots before flopping onto the soft mattress. To the sounds of a slurping baby and the gentle flicker of the fire, he fell into the deepest sleep of his life.
In the morning the woman was already awake in her chair, her baby once again at her breast. From the larger bed two little boys stared silently at him. The woman fed them all porridge, then indicated Rafer follow her outside. She pointed to a woodpile behind the cottage, and axe propped against it. Rafter nodded, and chopped her wood. He milked her cow. Pumped a pail full of water, collected eggs. He tried to talk to the little boys, but they seemed not to understand his language. The children lazed in the rows of abundant vegetables, occasionally pulling a weed, before taking a nap in the sunshine. They made no attempt to speak to him; they did not even talk to each other. The woman nursed her baby and prepared all their food, but she too, was silent. Even the baby didn’t cry. Rafer slept in the smaller bed again that night, tucked under a pile of patchwork blankets, still exhausted, but happy he had found a place to rest up before he continued his journey home.
Rafer woke again to the soft squeak of the woman’s rocking chair. Her arms were empty for once as she stared into the fire, reliving memories, no doubt, and Rafer wondered what had happened to her husband. The two boys were still sleeping. They looked nothing like their mother. One was small and red-haired and thin. The other was also thin, but was brown-skinned, with dark, curly hair. The younger child was sucking his thumb, the older child curled around him. Rafer smiled to himself. A few more days and he’d be strong enough to leave, back to his whiny sister, and mischievous brother, and chattering mother. The silence of this family was unnerving, and Rafer mused on the horrors they must have seen in this contested corner of a war-torn country. Centuries of armies had ravaged this area, over and over, to the point that hardly any people remained. He’d been lucky to stumble across this family, Perhaps, so deep in the woods, they had managed to avoid the worst of the current war. Yawning and stretching, Rafer rose to the bowl of porridge the woman prepared for him. He resolved that today he would repair the hole in the barn’s roof; tomorrow dig the weeds from the corner of the garden. It would be repayment for the kind hospitality they were showing him, and they’d think of him fondly after he was gone.
He sighed, exhausted, as he slipped into bed another night, pulling the rough blankets up over him. He fingered the stitching that held the blanket patches together. The fabric was rough, coarse, like his uniform. He touched his concave stomach, felt his jutting ribs. A few more days of food and rest…But he was still tired when he woke the next day, or was it the day after that? The boys were already awake and wide-eyed. The woman rocked in her chair, silently staring as usual, the baby asleep by her side. The younger boy started to cry, the first emotion of any kind that Rafter had seen. His brother cuddled him hard, and the child turned and snuggled into his chest, his shoulders heaving. The woman did not comfort him, not like Rafer’s mother would have done. She never touched their heads gently or sniffed her baby’s hair. She prepared the boys their morning porridge, but when they came to the table there was no soft stroke of their cheek, no smile. Rafer ate his food, dreaming of reunion with his family. Brother running to meet him, sister demanding he pick her up, mother crying, her first born finally back in her arms where he belonged.
Rafer went to tackle the weeds in the corner of the garden. They grew thick over a pile of rocky earth. He stabbed at the pile with his shovel, but he was so weak and it took so much effort. He managed to remove a few weeds, pulled out a rock, tugged at what appeared to be an old boot. He yawned. The sun was warm and making him sleepy. He stood, catching his trousers as they slipped off his narrow hips, tripping over the thick wad of fabric that trailed on the ground. He sat down and rolled up the hems, glancing up at the garden gate which was once again covered in thick vines. How fast it had grown. He decided it was time for a nap. He curled up in between the rows of vegetables, eyeing the pea pods that hung from the seedlings planted only a few days before. He and the boys slept the afternoon away, as the vegetables grew and ripened in the sunshine.
After dinner, some days later, he lay in bed, drowning in his oversized uniform. The woman sat alone at the fire, the cradle empty. Rafter finally understood the silence of the woman and the sadness of the children. The baby had died. It must have been ill. No wonder it had never cried. The woman turned to her children, and beckoned the youngest with a crook of her finger. The boy’s brother kissed the back of his red head and relinquished him to toddle unsteadily to his mother and climb into her lap. She bared her breast and the child latched on, while the brother whimpered, alone, in the big bed. Rafer slid down out of the smaller bed and climbed in with the boy, wrapping his body around him. He was just skin and bone. They fit perfectly. Rafer remembered his brother for the last time, as he kissed the back of the child’s curly head.
The next day came a knock on the door. The woman had Rafer open it. A tall man stood there, a bloody gash in the side of his head, his uniform ripped and covered in dirt. “Food?” the man muttered; his eyes set deep in his gaunt face. “Please?” The woman put the baby in the cradle and rose, preparing a bowl of soup, fetching a cup of water, ripping off a hunk of bread. Rafer cuddled his brother, and stared at the soldier. He wanted to warn him, but about what he was not sure. His eyes were heavy, his brother warm, the rocking chair squeaked, the baby was sleeping. Heavy-eyed, he decided a short nap was in order. The soldier could do the chores.
He stood and moved deeper into the woods, picking up speed as soon as he was out of sight of the battlefield. He would head south through the forest; his country’s border was only a two-day march away. And once he crossed, he’d just keep walking until he got to his family farm; back to his dear old mother, and his sickly little sister, and his toddling brother. He should never have deserted them to seek excitement and adventure. In the year since Rafer had left them to indulge his wanderlust he’d found nothing but death and terror and casual cruelty. He’d spent his sixteenth birthday eating a few bites of horse stew and crying over his stupidity. He just wanted his mother, and he begged to be delivered to her as he crept deeper and deeper into the thick, dark woods, the sun fading and dying.
He slept in a pile of leaves, then continued his journey at dawn. He explored a burned and deserted village, hoping for food, but finding it barren. That night he slept in an abandoned animal’s den among furballs and ancient scat, ignoring the hunger cramps in his belly, slaking himself in the morning on the icy water of a mossy spring. He continued to walk, seeing no signs of people, not even a path, until finally stumbling exhausted to the ground, unable to even cry. Would he never see his mother again? Perhaps he should try to make it back to the blood-drenched battlefield? Though by now the crows would be about their business and the sun was starting to set once again. But then he caught a scent on the breeze. Smoke. And it was the sweet smell of woodsmoke, not the stench of burning bodies. He staggered to his feet and used the last of his strength to find the source.
The cottage was in a sun slashed clearing, surrounded by a thriving garden, its fence made of sticks and covered in a dense, spreading vine. There was no sound, no signs of life other than the slick of smoke coming from its chimney. From a small barn almost hidden by the cottage, Rafer heard the gentle cluck of chickens. He ripped away at the thick vine, eventually clearing enough to unlatch the gate. He stumbled to the door, his hand trembling as he knocked. When it opened, a small boy stood there, sad-eyed and silent, beckoning Rafer in. The interior was one large room. Flames flickered beneath a pot of simmering liquid, and his mouth gushed saliva. Beside the fire sat a woman, black hair piled on top of her head, rich, creamy skin, blue eyes blank as she nursed her infant. She placed the baby in a cradle next to her chair, rose, and went to the cook pot, ladling a helping of food into a wooden bowl. She placed it on the table, added a cup of water scooped from a pail in the corner, then tore off a hunk of bread from a loaf. She indicated he sit and eat, and Rafer instantly ploughed into the food, tears blinding him, forcing himself to eat slower, to make it last. The bone broth was delicious and thick with vegetables, the bread chewy and filling. And when he was finally sated, she pointed him to the smaller of the two beds in the corner of the room. He managed to pull off his boots before flopping onto the soft mattress. To the sounds of a slurping baby and the gentle flicker of the fire, he fell into the deepest sleep of his life.
In the morning the woman was already awake in her chair, her baby once again at her breast. From the larger bed two little boys stared silently at him. The woman fed them all porridge, then indicated Rafer follow her outside. She pointed to a woodpile behind the cottage, and axe propped against it. Rafter nodded, and chopped her wood. He milked her cow. Pumped a pail full of water, collected eggs. He tried to talk to the little boys, but they seemed not to understand his language. The children lazed in the rows of abundant vegetables, occasionally pulling a weed, before taking a nap in the sunshine. They made no attempt to speak to him; they did not even talk to each other. The woman nursed her baby and prepared all their food, but she too, was silent. Even the baby didn’t cry. Rafer slept in the smaller bed again that night, tucked under a pile of patchwork blankets, still exhausted, but happy he had found a place to rest up before he continued his journey home.
Rafer woke again to the soft squeak of the woman’s rocking chair. Her arms were empty for once as she stared into the fire, reliving memories, no doubt, and Rafer wondered what had happened to her husband. The two boys were still sleeping. They looked nothing like their mother. One was small and red-haired and thin. The other was also thin, but was brown-skinned, with dark, curly hair. The younger child was sucking his thumb, the older child curled around him. Rafer smiled to himself. A few more days and he’d be strong enough to leave, back to his whiny sister, and mischievous brother, and chattering mother. The silence of this family was unnerving, and Rafer mused on the horrors they must have seen in this contested corner of a war-torn country. Centuries of armies had ravaged this area, over and over, to the point that hardly any people remained. He’d been lucky to stumble across this family, Perhaps, so deep in the woods, they had managed to avoid the worst of the current war. Yawning and stretching, Rafer rose to the bowl of porridge the woman prepared for him. He resolved that today he would repair the hole in the barn’s roof; tomorrow dig the weeds from the corner of the garden. It would be repayment for the kind hospitality they were showing him, and they’d think of him fondly after he was gone.
He sighed, exhausted, as he slipped into bed another night, pulling the rough blankets up over him. He fingered the stitching that held the blanket patches together. The fabric was rough, coarse, like his uniform. He touched his concave stomach, felt his jutting ribs. A few more days of food and rest…But he was still tired when he woke the next day, or was it the day after that? The boys were already awake and wide-eyed. The woman rocked in her chair, silently staring as usual, the baby asleep by her side. The younger boy started to cry, the first emotion of any kind that Rafter had seen. His brother cuddled him hard, and the child turned and snuggled into his chest, his shoulders heaving. The woman did not comfort him, not like Rafer’s mother would have done. She never touched their heads gently or sniffed her baby’s hair. She prepared the boys their morning porridge, but when they came to the table there was no soft stroke of their cheek, no smile. Rafer ate his food, dreaming of reunion with his family. Brother running to meet him, sister demanding he pick her up, mother crying, her first born finally back in her arms where he belonged.
Rafer went to tackle the weeds in the corner of the garden. They grew thick over a pile of rocky earth. He stabbed at the pile with his shovel, but he was so weak and it took so much effort. He managed to remove a few weeds, pulled out a rock, tugged at what appeared to be an old boot. He yawned. The sun was warm and making him sleepy. He stood, catching his trousers as they slipped off his narrow hips, tripping over the thick wad of fabric that trailed on the ground. He sat down and rolled up the hems, glancing up at the garden gate which was once again covered in thick vines. How fast it had grown. He decided it was time for a nap. He curled up in between the rows of vegetables, eyeing the pea pods that hung from the seedlings planted only a few days before. He and the boys slept the afternoon away, as the vegetables grew and ripened in the sunshine.
After dinner, some days later, he lay in bed, drowning in his oversized uniform. The woman sat alone at the fire, the cradle empty. Rafter finally understood the silence of the woman and the sadness of the children. The baby had died. It must have been ill. No wonder it had never cried. The woman turned to her children, and beckoned the youngest with a crook of her finger. The boy’s brother kissed the back of his red head and relinquished him to toddle unsteadily to his mother and climb into her lap. She bared her breast and the child latched on, while the brother whimpered, alone, in the big bed. Rafer slid down out of the smaller bed and climbed in with the boy, wrapping his body around him. He was just skin and bone. They fit perfectly. Rafer remembered his brother for the last time, as he kissed the back of the child’s curly head.
The next day came a knock on the door. The woman had Rafer open it. A tall man stood there, a bloody gash in the side of his head, his uniform ripped and covered in dirt. “Food?” the man muttered; his eyes set deep in his gaunt face. “Please?” The woman put the baby in the cradle and rose, preparing a bowl of soup, fetching a cup of water, ripping off a hunk of bread. Rafer cuddled his brother, and stared at the soldier. He wanted to warn him, but about what he was not sure. His eyes were heavy, his brother warm, the rocking chair squeaked, the baby was sleeping. Heavy-eyed, he decided a short nap was in order. The soldier could do the chores.