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She gathered her children, swooped up the little one, clutched the hand of the three-year-old, and instructed the five-year-old to hang on to her dress. "No matter what happens," she said in a firm, steady, but slightly terrified voice, "don’t let go of my dress." She didn’t mean it, of course. If something did happen, she would want him to run, run far and fast and get away from her dress, her life, her female body, her weak limbs and her weaker existence. Life hung in the balance, and that was bad enough, but the fear of the soldiers raping her in front of her children was more than she could think about while the frost was on the grass and her husband’s dead breath was still warm. Her soul, ripped out of her body, combined with her husband’s, and hung over the diminished family. Her mind was foggy, and she was unsure of her new agenda. The survival instinct was still intact inside her for her children, for sure. But she also knew that death might be better for them all now, that the horrors of war would scar them forever, that normal life would never be attainable for any of them. In a real sense, they were all dead now, lying there with him on the ground, their blood mixing with his, spilling over into someone else’s aliveness, apologizing for the air they still breathed. They ran to the woods, hid in some bushes, and waited. The baby, sensing the terror, did not cry until then. Hungry and cold, he whimpered, and his mother fed him. Her warm milk helped his stomach, but his emotions were still the family barometer, and finally, he began to cry. She clutched him to her, trying to keep him quiet while sobbing herself. The three-year-old also began to cry. The oldest child fought back his tears, feeling somehow responsible for the sanity of the other children and the mother. He drew his younger sister to him. "Shhh, shhh." The sounds of the fallen family mingled with the quietness of the forest. The fog started to rise. The mother knew that if she could keep herself and her children from being heard they would probably be safe for now because the fog would cover them so completely that nothing could be seen. If they could stand the chill and the blindness of the fog, it would save them. She explained that to the terrified children, and asked them to be very, very quiet. If the baby continued to cry, she wondered if she should kill it to save the others. Horrified that she thought of it, she choked back her own sobs. Angry as she was over what the soldiers had done to her husband, the anger at them for making her have to even think such thoughts made her feel like a volcano. She wanted to explode in the silent forest, dispelling the fog and spilling over onto everything around her. She wanted them to be maimed and dead and hurting, as she was. She wanted to make a sound like nothing she had ever heard before. She wanted to erupt, violently and without warning. But she just vomited, quietly, and her children, understanding, stopped crying and hugged her, and said that it would be all right. |
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Copyright © 2001 Tales and Lullabies |
