I was so young then. A peasant girl
in a little village. I don’t even remember if it had a name. Not that it
mattered, really because it might as well have been the world. It was all I
knew, aside from my family’s farm. We were on our way to the village with our
father to sell our crops. We could see the smoke from miles away. Blacker than
death, blotting out the horizon. Gene and I didn’t know what it was, and
thought nothing of it. But our father knew something was wrong. But he kept
driving the cart, at a slower pace than usual. We came to the crest of a hill,
and we saw it. The entire village was in flames. Armed men were slaughtering
any person they could find and setting fire to the thatch of the huts. My
father got down from the cart and walked a few meters away. Gene and I didn’t
even notice.
Then we heard a tiny whimper, and
it snapped us from our daze. We looked and safe our father cradling two small
children in his arms. The boy appeared to be younger, though not much, and he
was covered in blood. The girl, however, appeared unharmed, but she would not
speak.
My father surveyed the scene. He
saw them making their way out of town. Thinking quickly he told us to loose the
mule and turn the cart over and to hide under it with the children. We were to go
home, as soon as we heard the men fade from hearing.
The first time I heard that voice,
I hated it. He spoke with a subdued arrogance, softly, but with unknowable
malice. “Greetings, my good man,” he said as if he were spitting curses. “My
men and I saw you here, on this hill and wondered at your stopping. I see you
are having some trouble with your cart. Perhaps we could be of aid?”
My father laughed, the kindly laugh
I’d give anything to hear once more. “No thankee, sire. ‘M afeared that won’t
matter no how, seein’ as how yon village, ‘t won’t be needin’ me crops tadee,
it seems.”
The man chuckled at this.
Such an evil sound I have not heard since. “True, my good man, but mayhap you
may be of service to us. We are looking for two small children, a boy and a
girl. The boy was injured in the ‘accident’, you see, and we are quite
concerned for his health.” Beside me I felt Gene put a hand over the boy’s
mouth to contain the scream welling up in all of us.
My father was quiet for a long
time. I imagine he had that contemplative look on his face he often got when
asked a difficult question. “Chil’en, ye say?,” he spat with purpose. “Aye, I
believe I seed the chil’en ye’re after.” Gene had to physically restrain the
boy. The girl remained utterly silent, but I had to restrain myself. I did not
want that man find them. I did not want
that man to find me. “They come
a-runnin’ up this hill a screamin’ an’ a-hollerin’. Startled me mule an’ I
nearly took a tumble with me cart, if’n you get my meaning.”
The air seemed to bristle. “And
where are they now?” the man asked brusquely.
My father took another moment,
probably to pluck a bit of sweet grass to chew on. “Can’t rightly say,” he
replied.
They clearly had no patience for the
slow, meandering conversational style of country folk. “What? Which direction
did they go in?”
Again, there was a long pause, my
father no doubt paring his nails, or looking contemplatively at the clouds. “Yonder
ta th’ hills. Seemed like they were makin’ fer th’ river. Fer ta wash the blood off’n tha boy, were it
my guess.”
The sound of several men tromping
off came to us and we almost let out an audible sigh. But the man’s voice cut us off before we
could. He did not sound like he had moved. “You know the hills, dear friend, we
would like you to guide us through them to the river.” My father apparently made some indication of hesitance,
and we heard the sound of metal scraping leather. “That was not a request, friend.”
“Be happy ta, sir,” my father said
clearly shaken by this threat. “Don’t have much to do elseways.”
After a tense moment that felt like
an eternity, they also made their way away from the cart. To make sure we were
safe, we waited for several long minutes before we crawled out. Gene went first
and verified the coast was clear. He then took the children down the hill, and
quickly started making his way back to our farm. But I wanted to see the man
whose voice pierced me so. I crept to the side of the hill towards the river
and saw them walking. As I watched, the man who stood closest to my father, the
man who I knew was the owner of the voice, looked over his shoulder, directly
at me. For a tense moment, our eyes locked and all I could see was black hatred
radiating from them. He stopped short and pulled my father to a stop as well.
They conversed quietly, but the look on my father’s face betrayed him. The man
motioned for me to come down. For the first time in my life, my blood ran cold.
It’s a feeling that’s so familiar now, but then it was completely alien to me.
I steeled myself and took the first step. It was like trying to walk with large
rocks tied my ankles. But I stepped confidently, almost brusquely down the
hill. I saw my father’s face regain its color as it became apparent that I was
alone.
The man looked me up and down. “This
man is your father?” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. My voice was
serene and calm, completely free of emotion.
“Did you come with him to town?” he
asked.
“No,” I replied in the same even
tone. “I came to tell him that my brother brought home the spring chickens and
we would like to know where we should put them.”
We never owned chickens, and my
father caught on to my meaning quickly. “Have ‘im feed ‘em fer now and if’n I
ain’t ‘turned afore supper, have him put ‘em down-cellar.”
The man was clearly not interested farm
talk, and hastily interjected. “Is there anything else you need, young lady?”
he said as contemptuously as if I had spat on him.
“No, I do not need anything else.”
I said the sentence as simply and serenely as if I were replying to a neighbor
from whom I was borrowing an egg, but as I did I locked eyes with the man
again. To my surprise, he flinched at my gaze.
“Then be off with you,” he said
roughly. “Your father and I have more important matters to attend.” He turned
away from me and turned my father with him.
I caught up with Gene and the
children, and told them father’s plan. We didn’t really have a cellar, but
there was a dry well near our home that led to a small cave. I knew this was
where my father meant to keep them. We
arrived home just in time for the midday meal, and told our mother of the
goings on. She cleaned the children up and fed them well. The boy seemed to be
recovering well, though he had several deep gashes in his left arm. The girl
seemed to be getting better. She still did not speak a word, but she was smiling
and interacting with us at least. All in all, it seemed like we were in the
clear.
Several hours passed and our father
never returned. We took the children to the well, and made them comfortable in
the cave. We gave them a few small candles and some straw mats to sleep on. We
advised them to go sleep soon, and told them tomorrow we’d go back to the
village and help find their families.
But that never happened. Almost as
soon as we returned to the house there was a loud thump on the door. We all
stood in silence until my mother went to see what it was. She screamed. Gene
and I rushed to her side and saw it. Our father’s battered and mangled head lay
at her feet. Gene began retching. I looked up and locked eyes with that same
man. He was standing twenty feet away with ten other armed men. I stared at
him, and he saw something in my eyes which made him uncomfortable. He flinched
once more before he finally spoke.
“Where are they?” he said, speaking
almost directly to me. I just continued to stare. He grew angry. “If you do not
tell me, I will burn this place to the
ground, and kill all of you.”
Despite the horror of the
situation, I felt a serene smile cross my face. “Then you will never find them.”
I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder, but the man, quick as lightning,
grabbed his bow and loosed an arrow into her chest. I felt her grip loosen and
heard her fall. Gene screamed for her, he cursed the men, he cried righteous
tears. But I felt nothing. I did not feel sorrow, nor fear. I did not even feel
hatred or rage at this man. I only felt cold. I never let my eyes leave his.
He had Gene and
I bound while his men searched the house. He cursed us and threatened us. He
told us of the horrors he had planned for us. And I continued to smile and
stare directly into his eyes. As each minute passed, he spoke more frantically.
Finally, his men indicated they had found nothing. He told them to burn the
house and search the grounds.
I never took my
gaze from him. He continued to grow increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, he
shrieked. “STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME! I SWEAR I’LL CUT YOUR FUCKING EYES OUT
OF YOUR FUCKING SKULL!” I did not react at all. He drew a dagger from his hip
and advanced towards me. I never let my gaze leave his eyes. As the blade cut
into my flesh, I expected to wince from pain, but I never even felt it. I
continued to smile and look deeply into his eyes. I watched as his eyes
searched for any indication of pain from me, but I did not give him any satisfaction.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes grew larger and larger. Finally he
pulled the eyeball from its socket and held it in front of my good eye. “LOOK
AT IT!” he screamed, “LOOK AT IT!” My smile and my gaze never left his. “STOP
FUCKING STARING!” He averted his gaze from my face to the dangling eye he held
in his hand. A sound I cannot identify escaped him and went completely berserk.
He threw the eye to the ground and began stomping on it, all the while
screaming at me to stop staring.
After what
seemed like an eternity, he regained his composure. “Alright,” he said cruelly,
“Watch this.” He grabbed Gene by the hair, and dragged him to the fence. He
stretched him out on one of the posts and began frantically cutting at him.
Gene screamed and cried, and begged him to stop. His cries only served to
invigorate the man. For an hour, he cut Gene’s arms, chest, and back, with the
precision of an expert torturer, only doing enough damage to cause pain,
without allowing him to bleed out. Then he produced a whip and began lashing my
poor brother without mercy. Hours passed. How many I could not rightly say, but
finally the man grew tired. He threw a glance over his shoulder at me, and saw
that in all that time my expression had not changed. He shrieked and ran
towards me with the whip raised above his head, he swung it but it went flying
over my shoulder, still clutched in his hand, as blood from his wrist covered
my left side.
He did not
scream or make any sound at all. He just stared at the stump in disbelief. He
looked into my eyes once more, and I finally spoke to him. “Now, I will kill
you.” He screamed and ran, never sparing a second look to the small girl who
had just severed his hand.
She was short, a
little older than me, and quite cute. She wore finely crafted mail with a green
sheen, and wielded a fine sword. Her fiery hair was unbound and far down her
back, and her eyes were deep blue with just a hint of grey, like the ocean
after a storm. For the first time in the ordeal, I began to feel something. I
felt nothing but relief and admiration for this woman, as she cut free my
brother and looked over his wounds, and did the same for me. But as soon as I was
free, the cold feeling washed over me and I gently pushed her aside.
“Gene,” I said
calmly. “Take this woman to the children. Hopefully, they are still safe.”
“What about you?”
he asked through the indescribable pain he must have been feeling.
“I’m going to
ensure this never happens again. To anyone.” I didn’t wait for a response. I
began walking after the man. Gene called after me, but I could not make out
what he was saying. I didn’t look back.
It wasn’t long
before I picked up his trail. The blood and careless trail led me to the nearby
woods. Cautiously, I entered. I heard him before I saw him. Cursing and
mumbling to himself, “Just a little girl… she was just a little girl…” He had
stopped to bandage his wrist. I walked silently up behind him.
As if I had
spoken, he started, and turned in a panic. “No…” he said softly, locking eyes
with me once again. “No, please… have mercy. Mercy… MERCY!” He was crawling backwards away from me now,
but he quickly backed himself against a tree. He continued screaming for mercy
until I quieted him with a gesture.
“What is your
name?” I said calmly.
For a while, he
said nothing. He just stared into my eyes with all the horror and pain he had
expected from me. “Hallas.” He said at last.
“I’m Hilda,” I
said as I took a single step forward.
He shrunk away
but his eyes never left mine. “Wh- what are you?” he whispered, barely audibly.
“I’m just a
little girl,” I said and the smile finally faded from my face. The look that
replaced it caused Hallas to shriek as if he had looked first hand into the
fires of Hell. He tried to stand, but he tripped over a root or a rock as I
advanced.
He quickly
rolled to his back and looked up at me. “Please… please, spare me…” he cowered
and begged.
I kicked out and
struck him in the jaw. “How many times have your victims begged you for mercy
and you gave them none? How many people have you tortured and killed? My
father, my mother, my brother… those children? You do not deserve mercy. Perhaps, God in
Heaven will show you some, but I will not.”
I do not
remember what I did. How I did it. I remember he screamed. Begged me to kill
him quickly. I don’t think I did. It seemed like hours later when I walked out
of the forest again, covered in blood. I ran into a woman on horseback. She
told me her name was Elise and that my brother was looking for me. She looked
at my eye and at the blood on me. She merely shook her head and bandaged my
head. Then she took me to a military camp and… that’s where I met you…
