Ashes

I figured since I've already posted some excerpts from John's story, I'd post this. It contains no spoilers, and the writing style is different from the previous section. However, it's an example of how I do see chapters almost as short stories in their own right, with a silent exhortatin to turn the page.

Before the Blood, Kellen's Story, Chapter One: Ashes      

            War.

            It's all Metta knew. It's all Metta had ever known.

            Every day of each of her fifteen years, "Because of the war," was the barricade to every wish and want.

            "Why can't we have eggs?" Metta grumbled into her bowl of beans and vegetable broth.

            "Because of the war," her father  would answer. "The soldiers stole our stock."

            Metta did not know what "stock" was.

             "Why can't we have a big fire?" Metta whined when her body shook from winter blasts, despite feather blankets pulled to her nose.

             "Because it's dangerous to venture into the forest," her father would answer, "where soldiers are hiding, because of the war."

            Metta wondered what a forest looked like.

              "Why can't we have a doctor?" Metta whined when her body blazed with fever and coughs racked her chest.

             "The doctors are busy with the wounded," her father would answer, "because of the war."

            Metta wondered what a doctor looked like. She only knew about doctors because Greta's grandfather had been a doctor, before he died in the war.

            The hut was too empty and quiet. That, too, was because of the war.

             She wanted Pawel, Henning, Drewes and, Arnth, but each brother had left, one by one, to fight against the Spanish armies and never came home. Were they still fighting? Were they wandering mercenaries or street beggars in some far-off village?

             Her father had no answer. That irked Metta.

            "Families should be together," Metta sniffled over her sewing.

             Her mother, still kneading, glanced at Metta's father.

             "That cannot be," her father muttered and poked at the fire, "because of the war."

             From that day forth, her father stopped answering questions. The next month, her mother was gone, all because of the war.

            Metta swung the bucket as she trudged to the well. The noon sun warmed her arms and pretty brown curls. Talk to no one, her mother always warned, especially men in uniform. So Metta ignored the frauen's gossip and impatiently waited her turn for water. She stomped her foot. She loudly sighed. She had many weeds to pull.

            She sulked walking home. The wood bucket bump-bumped against her shins and sloshed. Her frowned at the half-empty bucket, but he did not beat her. He even let her take some water to the fields. Why had her father changed?

            Then came the day that changed everything.

             "They are distributing eggs," her father had announced.

            Metta had grabbed her basket and flew out the door, never stopping until she reached the village center. The lines were long and wide. Metta took her place, doubting she'd see any eggs.

            "Psst."

           

            She looked up. A man, black hair sleek in the sun and blue uniform clean, kindly smiled down at her.

            "Come with me," he said.

            Metta followed him behind the shops. Still smiling, he lifted the cloth from a bushel heaped full with eggs. He filled her basket and told her to return at sunset. She looked quizzically at him and shook out her curls so he could see how pretty they were.

            "Have you no tongue?" the man asked.

           

            "My mother told me not to speak to you," Metta said.

            The smile fled. "Then you must obey your mother." The man replaced the cloth and turned to leave. Metta grabbed a cuff.

            "My father gave no such instruction. Why must I return tonight?"

            He stopped, surprised, and dropped his voice. "A surprise."

            His words angered her. Her cheeks burned.

             "We in Grotekop don't get surprises," Metta said bitterly, "because of the war."

             The man softly laughed, brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and walked away.

            At sunset, Metta came back. She beheld the man in the distance, leaning against a fence. As she approached, he held up a sack.

             "Look." He pulled the ends open.

            Metta looked. At the bottom lay a chicken with a broken neck.

            "My gift," he said, "to you."

             Metta studied the flies crawling on the fowl's open eyes.

            "I've never had a gift," she said.

           

            "And now that you have received one, what do you think?"

             "I do not know," Metta raised her eyes. "I've never tasted chicken."

             The man chuckled. "Well, then, run home and ask your mother to cook it. Then come again tomorrow and tell me if you like gifts."

            Metta's eyes narrowed.

            "I have no mother," she said hotly, "because of the war."

            She snatched the sack, turned her back, and marched home. Her father showed Metta how to pluck the chicken. Metta watched him cut up and cook the chicken. She wondered at this taste of bird flesh, firm, chewy, so different from beans, bread, and wild onions and asparagus.

            Weeks passed.

            "They are distributing grain," her father said.

           

            Metta took an empty bucket and raced to the village center. She scarcely felt the bucket's bumpety-bumping on her shins. Again, she faced a sea of hungry people. Again, men in blue uniforms shared their stores. But was "her man" among them? Forgetting food, her father's order, and the man's rude comment about her mother, Metta climbed onto a wagon and stood tall. She shaded her eyes and peered. Yes, he was there!

            "Mr. man!" she cried and waved. "Mr. man! Mr. man!"

            He looked up and saw Metta. So did a second uniformed man, who shouted at her to get out of his wagon. But Metta's man reached her first and helped her down.

           

            "Can't you behave?" the man sternly asked, but his eyes were twinkling. He turned to the other soldier. "Laech, take my place."

            Laech scowled at Metta. "You bad girl. If you were my daughter, I'd whip you." He glanced at Metta's man and said, "Whip her good, Captain Weschler." Then Laech strode back to the crowd.

            Metta turned bright eyes at her man. "You're a captain?"

            He clicked his boot heels together. "Captain Brandt Weschler, Fraulein."

            Giggling, the first giggle of Metta's life, she curtsied back. "I'm just Metta."

            Brandt gazed intently at her. "Well?"

           

            "Well, I very much like gifts. Have you others?"

            "Not today," Brandt's face turned serious. "I was hoping you might give one to me."

             "I have no gifts," Metta said, and Brandt added with her, "because of the war."

             They both laughed.

             "Laugh again," Metta said. "It makes your eyes very blue and crinkly."

              "I cannot laugh on command. But I know a way to make me smile."

            "How?"

             Brandt pointed to his cheek. "Kiss me. Here."

            Metta's needle moved in and out of the cloth, as she blushed in memory, but not that memory. It was only a kiss. It was only on Brandt's cheek.  

'          

            That time.

            She and Brandt roamed the forbidden forest, realm of soldiers, now the hideaway of Metta and her soldier. More than once, after Brandt bid her farewell where the trees met the grove and then disappeared back into woods, Metta picked a snow daisy and pulled off its petals while murmuring, "Er/sie liebt mich. Er/sie liebt mich nicht," all the way home.

            Her father grew suspicious of her itchy eyes and sneezing.

            "You have either wandered near the forest," he said, "or you are sick."

            Yes, Metta was sick, sick of war, so sick that Metta had become sick. Metta feared she would die. She did not recognize this strange sickness. It was not the fever, headache, and rash of typhus victims. It was not the fever, headache, and swelling of plague victims.

             No, this was a new sickness.

            As soon as her eyes opened to dawn, she vomited. She vomited her breakfast. She vomited her lunch and dinner. She vomited for no reason. Her pretty curls grew dull and limp. At night, she cried scalding tears for Brandt, so bravely fighting the enemy. His victorious homecoming would crumble to ash. He'd return only to mourn her death.

            And then she vomited into the dirt.

              "A pox on Catholics," Brandt said, and he spat tobacco onto the ground. "All they know is war."

            Metta did not understand this talk of Catholics, Lutherans, and Calvinists. But it sounded important when Brandt spoke of it.

            "When will war end?" Metta asked.

            Fire flashed in Brandt's wonderful blue eyes. "When they learn our lessons, lessons not taught from the pulpit."

            Metta shivered with delight at Brandt's commanding authority and grasped his arm tighter. "You are strong, and your army is mighty. The Catholics should be very afraid."

            Brandt stroked Metta's curls and stared into her eyes. "Are you afraid of me, Metta?"

            It was not fear Metta felt when Brandt looked at her that way. She nearly fainted when Brandt did more than look. She hated her father's beatings, but Brandt's pounding sent her to heaven. So was death good?

            Metta knew death's face. She had seen its frozen features on enemy corpses in the streets. Death looked like her father before she had become sick: sunken eyes, wasted limbs, raspy breaths, and hard and swollen belly, as hard and swollen as Metta's belly.

            It was good her father had died. It was good he had not seen her sick. With joy, Metta had dug a grave, dragged him to the yard, and rolled him into the hole. With joy, she had shoveled dirt onto his stiff and lifeless frame. He was never the same after the French had raped and dismembered her mother.

            "Watch over my mother, Metta," Brandt had said before he had galloped away. "I trust you."

            Metta could not listen to his words. They hurt her heart, and she clung to his coat.

             "Don't leave, Brandt!" She buried her face in the rough cloth. "Don't leave your Metta."

            Brandt's voice was solemn. "I'm leaving for you, Metta. For my mother. For the family we will raise. For the villagers. For all the blood spilled on German soil by wrath of Ferdinand II. To have a future, we must have freedom. There is no other way."

            So Metta had moved into Ilsabe's hut. But now, Metta was dying. And Metta could not watch over Ilsabe if Metta was dead.

            Summer's heat withered at autumn's chill. Metta gathered twigs and broken branches to keep the fire burning at night. She worked the harvest. She gleaned the fields. She patched the thatched roof. Metta did not die.

            Autumn's chill became winter's cold. She and Ilsabe lugged home manure from the landowner to burn for warmth. All winter, they huddled about the fire. They ventured out only for more manure and to beg for food. Metta did not die.

            The warm winds of spring blew away winter's frigid ones. Again, Metta gathered twigs and broken branches until spring grew strong, and fire was not needed.  Metta did not die.

            Soldiers shuffled home. Metta's man was not among them. Tomorrow, Brandt would come back, she told herself as she lugged the bucket to the well. Tomorrow, she told herself, as she gathered wild herbs. Tomorrow, she told herself as she worked the spring planting.

            Ilsabe grew restless inside the hut while Metta worked. So Metta led her to the well. Metta lowered her bucket. In the water's reflection was a soldier. Metta dropped the bucket. She spun around. The soldier wore blue. Metta knew that straw-colored beard and hair. She  grabbed his sleeve as he passed.

             "Give me news of Captain Weschler!" Metta demanded

             Laech irritably shook off her hand. Metta's courage failed. She whimpered at his harshness. Then she shook. Then she sobbed.

             "I'm sorry, Metta," Laech said. "He was my friend, too."

            A strangled cry broke from Ilsabe's lips. Tears ran from unseeing eyes.

            "What are you saying?" Metta cried and lunged at Laech.

            But Laech broke free and kept walking. Through swimming eyes, Metta watched him leave. Ilsabe moaned little moans and groped Metta until her hand found Metta's belly. The child inside responded with a firm kick.

            Something deep within Metta, not the baby, twisted hard and turned to stone. Metta's fear of death was now a wish for death.

             The war had won.