The Healer’s Touch — “Deeper Into Hell”
Chapter VIII/XIV
Her face was dry from ash and crusted blood, but little creeks of tears flowed through this desert from the wide opened wells of her eyes.
From the valley down below, fire and smoke rose where the village burned to memory. Her home. Her memory.
The day held no solace with skies of steel and the sneering cold of fall. She half expected it to snow, as she waited in the small rock cavern where she was hiding for the cover of night to cloak her escape.
She held her newborn close to her chest to grant it warmth. Her younger son who was still tipsy on his feet lay curled up in her lap. The other two sat, barren of any feeling, next to her. A boy and a girl not yet old enough to understand the pain, but surely mature enough to have it etched into their souls forever. Their sorrow pierced her heart more than her own torment.
As soon as the sun had set and shadows were creeping over the mountainsides, she made her way up towards the pass. They had already declared it closed because of the snowstorms up here, but she knew all streets to and from the village would be ravaged, all survivors captured, the men enslaved, the women raped, the children killed.
She looked up towards the mountains. There was only one way to go. As her feet tore through the snow, she prayed. Her newborn was still in her arms, the young boy clung to her back, the other two hung at her coat-tails, staggering in the rut she carved into the snow.
The night knew no mercy. The clouds had vanished from the sky which now cast down a cold that burned their faces, hands and feet.
She fought on. It was more than a tender miracle that she had survived the carnage of the village, more than a coincidence or luck that she had gotten out with all her children. A high prize had been paid for their escape.
Her hand touched the rock to support her in her exhaustion, but she snapped it back over the tearing cold of the stone. The newborn started to cry. It was hungry and suffered from the cold. The boy on her back woke from the crying.
She used the short break to feed the little one, while she watched her oldest daughter cuddle her brother, rubbing his back and trying to keep him warm. They needed to get out of this cold. Her oldest son had always been a weakly child. The healer of the village hadn’t thought he would survive that long. Six years and he was still with them. But she saw him fading, here, in the cold of night, harrowed by the loss of his father. She didn’t know how much he was able to understand, but she saw that he was distressed and that this weight tore on his strengths.
Slowly, she forced herself to keep going. One step after another, until she couldn’t feel her feet anymore. The night lasted an eternity. It was the sun of a new day that finally unfroze her consciousness and gave her new hope. Hope so fragile it shattered moments later.
The pass lay behind her and a northern valley had opened to her sight. The snow reached further down the slopes than in her home town, almost reaching the valley bottom.
The newborn felt so cold. She pressed it harder to her chest, scared to look down, her eyes fixed on the white rays of sun breaking over the horizon. A tear escaped her eye, rolled down her cheek, first hot, then cold, then ice.
She lifted the small head to her face, then turned her head, listened. The silence was as loud as eternity was long. Where there should have been breath, there was none. Where there should have been warmth, there was cold. Where there should have been color, there was paleness.
The boys stayed on the path, while she couldn’t keep her daughter from following her to the vertical cracks in the mountainsides.
“Will she not travel with us anymore?” asked her daughter as she laid her newborn in one of the cracks, fighting to keep the storm in her soul at bay for the sake of her remaining three children.
She stacked up some rocks over the tiny corpse. “You little sister will travel now with your Pa.”
Despite the young age of only eight, the mother saw the understanding flicker in her daughter’s eyes. “Goodbye, little sister,” she said and the heart of the mother broke. “I will see you later.”
Her words proved to be prophetic.
The valley soil was destined to provide a grave for her older son, who just withered away, froze to death before she was able to light a fire in the small forest.
Then the starving started. There were no settlements this far north and without a map, it took her over two weeks to find a passage back south. By that time, she was giving her milk to her remaining son until she had no more.
When they finally reached an abandoned mill, she tore through whatever storage was left. She was so exhausted she didn’t think it strange to find some embers still alight. She fed her children — slowly so their empty stomachs could remember how to digest. She allowed herself to eat the remainders, before crouching down with them on a carpet by the fire. The days of wandering took their toll. Her eyes became heavy, so heavy.
The neigh of a horse woke her from her rest. She was wide awake in an instant. Chatter and laughter of men. She woke her girl, who was fast to observe and grasp the situation. The mother took her son in her arms and started for the door, only to see the shadows of the men through the cracks in the doorframe. They were already on the front porch!
She ducked into the storage room, since the bedroom was at the far side. The door opened not a second later as she cowered down in a dark corner. She counted the shadows on the wall. Four men. They would see the fire, the bowls.
Now, that she listened more carefully, she picked out their accents. Enemy. Her eyes jerked through the small chamber. She found a knife and yanked it close. I’ll get out of here! We’ll get out of here! She looked at her little ones. Her daughter, stoic and responsible, standing close to her. Her little boy — waking! No! She caressed his forehead. Keep on sleeping.
The laughter of the men came to an abrupt halt. They suddenly fell to a tense whisper and swords were unsheathed. She closed her eyes for a moment. They would find her, rather sooner than later.
She got to her feet and walked into the doorframe of the storage room — the knife hidden between her and her boy, who was only half awake in her arm.
The men, one after the other, noticed her. Soldiers, all of them. “Forgive me,” she said, as they exchanged looks with each other. “I was in need of help.”
“And so you decided to steal from our supplies?” said their spokesman.
“We stole them from the millers in the first place,” said another, but harvested a threatening stare of his superior.
The mother shook her head. “I only took what my children and I needed to survive. Forgive me. I plead for your mercy.”
“Stealing from the army is a crime punishable by death.”
She felt her heart drop a beat. War burned out all love from the human soul. “I can do no more than seek for your forgiveness.”
“I would know a way you can pay us back,” he said and his eyes wandered up and down her body.
She felt touched in a grotesque way, but forced herself to face the man as he approached. The urge to run to the door was great, but he would catch her before she could reach it.
With a forceful grip he tore her son out of her arm. A knife flashed in the same movement and severed all the inner tendons and muscles in his forearm. He screamed and dropped her boy.
He staggered back with blood dripping everywhere. The way to the door was now unblocked. “Whore!”
The other three laughed at him. “She would give a good prize at the slave markets,” said one of them.
The bloody knife still in her fist, she reached for her son, eyes fixed on the soldiers. There was no mercy to expect. Fine! Then she would give none in return.
The boy, who had fully awoken when he fell, started to cry. “The next one who dares to come near me or my children leaves with a smile on his throat!”
Again laughter was the answer, but the men stayed back. None was eager to be injured just to rape a desperate mother. She clutched her son to her chest and steered her daughter out of the mill.
It wasn’t for long until she heard the hooves behind her. Two riders in pursuit. She put down her little son and hid him in care of her sister in a ditch at the riverbank of the road they had been following.
She saw the riders approach. It had been only a matter of time. She hadn’t dared to take a horse in fear that they would stop her right then and there, but she hadn’t left the men without securing her flight.
She tasted the wind on her face and its movement in the trees, nocked an arrow on the string, raised the bow and aimed. The first man was bolted right out of the saddle and hit the ground hard, already dead. She waited for the other man to approach further, but he pulled the reins back and came to a stand-still.
Another arrow already sat on her bow. She saw him study her, never taking sight off her. If she shot, he would be ready to dodge the arrow. If he turned around in an attempt to flee, he would have to rely on her mercy.
From the distance, she couldn’t tell if it was the man who had tried to ease the captain’s temper. With her children at stake, she wouldn’t bet on his compassion though.
He decided to give her what she wanted and drove his companion’s horse toward her. He waited until the horse blocked her aim at him and started for the woods.
She jumped to the side, again able to see him clearly. The feather of the arrow strode over her chin when she hesitated. She followed the man with the aim of her bow until he vanished between the trees.
Watching the border of the forest with narrowed eyes, she took the bow down and took the horse’s reins. With the danger fading, she found her strengths trembling. Her children pressed to her body as she rode down the road, following the river.
The boy did not survive the pursuit. They came on the following morning and were fast — so fast. She could feel the heat of the three men’s breath in her neck when she steered the horse into the river, abandoning herself again into the indifferent arms of nature.
She regretted the decision the moment the shock of the cold water spilled over her. The girl hung on to her neck as the river swept them downstream. With current’s merciless pull, all she could do was to keep her son’s head above the surface. The only solace was knowing that his crying and screaming proved his heart was still beating.
When she finally managed to pull them out of the water, his screams had stopped and by the time she had managed to strip them off their wet clothes and start a fire, he was past saving.
All begging and screaming and praying and weeping couldn’t hold his soul in. She hardly remembered how the men found her, bound her hands and tied her on the horse of the man she had killed.
The blur of the loss faded in the morning, but the grief never lessened. Her body felt so thin now, pinched and beat up from starvation and pain, that she started to feel numb. She didn’t know where they were heading, didn’t care. All she cared for was her little daughter, afraid and scared as she was forced to ride with one of the soldiers.
They rode for days without end. “Please,” she begged, “my daughter needs food. She is getting weak.” She stared at the man she had spared, but he didn’t meet her eyes. Coward!
She didn’t even realize that they were under attack until she found herself in the thick of the skirmish. She saw her daughter drop out of the saddle and hit the ground like a ripe fruit. The fire of a mother’s love lit up in her once more as she rammed her horse into the soldier whom she had injured at the mill. He fell and was smashed by his own horse.
Her daughter, there she lay, unconscious amidst the trampling horses, while clashing swords cut the silence into pieces. She jumped out of the saddle and launched herself forward, her hands still bound, and crouched over her girl, shielding her with all that was left of her body.
She only dared to look up when the silence returned. There was the man she had spared, mortally wounded, dropping out of the saddle, the horse following him a second later.
With all the care of a tender mother she took her weak daughter to her chest and arose. She felt somehow surprised to find no more than three dead man and two fallen horses on the ground. The other horses seemed to have run off. There was no enemy. At least none from the outside. A memory dawned on her, distant as the warmth of summer on a winter evening. Voices, arguing, cursing. A threat. A sword.
She shook her head and raced to find a blanket for her daughter, wrapped her in it and found a couple of apples and dry meat. She chewed the apples and warmed the mush, before forcing it down her daughter’s throat. “You need to eat, honey,” she said. The girl swallowed, but didn’t wake from her sleep.
The mother salvaged once more all she could from the saddlebags and started to walk. The following night didn’t better her daughter’s condition. Her skin was pale, her body thin, her eyes closed.
And then she faded to join her siblings and father.
The mother left the road and put the small corpse on the ground. She found the dagger in her hands and started digging. The ground was frozen and the dagger disappeared when the grave was but halfway excavated. Her hands kept going. Her vision was blurred with tears.
She laid her last child into the grave and forced herself to wrap the blanket over this cute and innocent face. Then she heaved the earth on top of her daughter, and with it buried all her love and care she’d ever had.
When all was done, she started walking down the road. There were no tears left for her to spill, no supplies for her to eat, no hopes to hold onto. Walking was all that remained.
She walked.
