When Red Blosoms Fall, Part 2

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…