Sangre

By Michael Gullikson

Roman doesn't want to be a mercenary.  Carlos doesn't want to deal drugs. Neither wants to be trapped in the Ecuador prison, where no one gets out alive.  What they want doesn't matter, though, because when you live in a world defined by animal greed, and the imperative of bloody violence, hope is just another four-letter w

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cogent Publishing Group
• Release date: Oct 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781949969016

Book preview

Sangre

A Novel

Michael Gullikson

Cogent Publishing Group

Copyright © 2018 by Cogent Publishing Group

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronics or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover image by Brandi McCann

www.ebook-coverdesigns.com

ISBN: 978-1-949969-01-6

Printed in the United States of America.

Dedication:

I would dedicate the results of my work to my wife and first mate, Kimberly Gullikson, who dedicates so much of herself back to me, so that I may write. If art, like life, as our great friend Shakespeare says, shall dissolve, and, like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind, then it is only through a tremendous act of faith and love that Kim could commit so strongly, not to something which she can touch, or feel, or smell, but to an idea, of which, she can only think. It is that commission of faith, in the name of love, that humbles me nearly to tears and ingratiates me eternally to her. What a marvelous turn fate has taken to deliver her to me.

Thank you, Kim. As with all the good things, we have created this together.

Acknowledgment:

Support is not always achieved by simply finding the right words, but in sharing them in the right way, at the right time. I would like to recognize the favorable impact of my friend, Roger LeGoff, in helping to encourage me to move forward with the idea of writing this book, and for offering the continued assurance that it was worthwhile. Your words were kind, Roger, and your timing, during the hours of uncertainty, was excellent. Thank you. 

Also, anyone with a child is certainly blessed. I can barely comprehend, let alone account for, my great fortune to have, included in a wonderful family, a daughter with the qualities of Jamie Gullikson. She is efficient, intuitive, intelligent, capable, and always optimistic. She didn't have to get involved with the production of this book, but what a remarkable difference she has made for a grateful father. Perhaps the greatest appreciation I can express, Jamie, is not that you did these tasks for me, but with me. What a rich experience. You have my respect, gratitude, and love. Having the reward of you as my daughter makes a mockery of that question, ‘what did I do to deserve this?’ I could never achieve enough to deserve you. 

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

Man was made of social earth,

Child and brother from his birth,

Tethered by a liquid cord

Of blood through veins of kindred poured.

R.W. Emerson

Dæmonic Love

I

Roman tucked up behind Lena in a scattering of hay, on the knotted floor of the old barn, and tried to keep still. He didn’t want to do anything to make her leave. His arm rose and fell with her gentle breathing. She had been silent since she stopped crying. He didn’t know why she did and was afraid to ask. He didn’t want to risk the answer she might give, and so, rested his hand above her bare breast and waited. He pressed into the sweet glade of her silky hair and breathed through it.

She'd rolled away as soon as they finished and began to sob. It hurt to think that she would turn her back to him, in the dark pitch of regret. It scared him. How could she cry, when he never felt so complete or alive, had never been so certain of what he wanted? Thoughts of her remorse left him hollow and weak.

Thick beams and boards held solid beneath them, but inside he was falling, tumbling, and twisting; down, and down, and down. It was terrible. With each breath he sank, and there was no bottom. A black tide surged inside. He didn’t know if he should leave her alone or hug her tighter. He lay still, while his arm rose and fell.

On the other hand, maybe she wasn’t turning away, at all. Perhaps she was falling into him —seeking protection from a dangerous world, or from her drunken father. She might have been afraid, too, of the future, or even the sin they had just committed. He could abide that thought, as long as she didn’t reject him.

Why did everything good have bad mixed in? Why couldn’t they both enjoy this moment, which happens only once? His father would say that the best things never came for free, that there was always a price to pay. He wondered if the opposite were true. Do bad things have goodness mixed in? He doubted so.

She edged closer, and his heart thrilled.

So, you’ll be leaving me? Her voice so soft, he could barely hear.

What? She wriggled harder into him and sniffled.

When the war begins, you’ll leave to become a soldier. It was a statement of fact, rather than a question. That couldn’t be what she wanted.

There’s no war.

Bilal went.

Not to war. Just a bunch of people getting ready for one, or hoping it’s coming. He squeezed her, cupping her breast fully, while thrilling at the license she had granted him to her body. He wanted as much of himself as possible to touch her. We won’t have war, he continued. This has all happened before. The U.N. will step in. There’ll be meetings and treaties. Bilal will come home, and then life will return to normal. He paused, being careful to choose his words. Either way, I’m not like your brother, I won’t play soldier. I don’t shoot things for fun. Bilal wants war, so he goes to get ready for one. I’m not like that. I’m not going anywhere.

She tucked her hair behind her ear and spoke with a stronger, clearer voice, challenging him further.

What if you’re wrong? What if there is war? Would you leave, then?

This was harder. If there was a fight, an actual war, he couldn’t keep out of it. How could he stay on the farm to reap and sow, while others fought and died? He wouldn’t want to, but if it all exploded into action, he’d fight. He’d fight to protect his family and hers. He’d fight to protect Lena, herself, to secure his right to marry her and farm these fields. If war came, he couldn’t not get involved. He didn’t want to answer, either; not directly and out loud.

I wouldn’t want to, but, if war comes to Bosnia-Herzegovina, there will be no choice, I’ll have to fight.

You never have to fight. There’s always a choice. She anticipated his position, even as he finished. She was impatient, as if speaking to a child.

"No, Lena, you’re wrong, there’s not always a choice. I don’t want to fight, nobody does, not really. I don’t believe even Bilal would want to, if it came to actual battle. He just likes the idea of being a soldier. It won’t come to war, praise Allah, but if it does, there won’t be a choice.

I don’t follow politics the way my brother does, but I know that unless you have the conviction to fight, someone will come and take what’s yours. This valley, my father’s farm, and your father’s farm won’t be given over, while I stand by. He was certain and let the weight of it cover them. I’d die before I let harm come to you.

Lena sobbed, her body shivered. You can’t die, Roman, you see? You see? You’re already becoming a soldier, finding reasons to fight, using me as your reason. I don’t want you to go, to fight and… She shook. Roman held her close.

Neither do I, Lena.

She remained silent. After a while, her body stopped trembling.

II

A dented kerosene lantern, with red chipped paint, hung from a black iron hook, at the top of the stairs, which led down to the horse stalls. It was dimmed down, to where Roman wondered if there was a line in the room between light and darkness. If so, which side were they on? He looked at the posts and beams, as if answers might come from the ancient architecture.

He was far enough away that he couldn’t see the contours on the timbers, where the old timers had hewn them out with broad axes. He loved those marks. They were the signatures of those ancient craftsmen. The timbers, themselves, were artifacts of the men who had shaped them, their only tangible legacy.

The fields, outside, were planted each spring, then replanted the next, as one year covered the last. There was no sustained record of that work. Each May, soil was turned up, anew, leaving no memory of the previous year, nor all the ones before. There was nothing to remain, no marker that would endure, no record that was not either consumed, or plowed under for compost.

The timbers were better because they could carry some indication of a man’s life. They could tell a piece of his story and stand as witness that he had been. Roman was going to be a farmer —of this very land, if Lena would have him. As he lay there, he knew that he would also build a barn, one day, even a small one, so to leave his own mark. He would make it solid, strong enough to stand for centuries, if only for chickens.

His thoughts were interrupted by a movement on the other side of the barn, at the brace, near the top of the post, above the lantern. It was high up, near the third floor. He was surprised by how hard it was to see something directly above the lantern. He focused on the darkness, until he thought he was mistaken.

Just as his interest abated, there was another slight motion. This time, Roman caught it, part of it anyway, and marked its position. Something glimmered, like the shine of an eye. It was likely to be Lena’s murderous cat, Chimka.

There was nothing wrong with cats hunting rodents; that was their purpose. Chimka was different, though. It seemed Lena’s cat relished the killing as much as he enjoyed the food. It wasn’t merely sport, either, or the thrill of battle, but a perverse satisfaction that seemed to come from the slow death of other animals.

Roman had watched, several times, as Chimka mortally wounded some squirrel or mouse, then settled back to enjoy the awkward waltz of death, savoring the brutal carnage. He stretched that time when life finally slipped from the body of a suffering creature. What remained was merely meat.

Roman’s aversion for the cat grew in proportion to the demented pleasure the cat seemed to derive from the agony. If people could be evil, and they could surely be that, then so, too, could animals. What was man, after all, if not a highly functioning animal?

Lena loved her Chimka, however, so Roman tried to find affection for the cat, on her account. It didn’t take root in his heart, though. Chimka was cruel, and Roman hated him.

He peered into the darkness for the feline, until he began to wonder, once again, if he had actually seen anything. If something perched in the beams, it stayed still. Roman didn’t want to look away because he began to doubt his senses. He couldn’t determine the shape of a body, just that steady shine in the dark.

He took a cleansing breath and relaxed. The scent of Lena’s hair, the hay, old timbers, and the smell of her sex mixed together, and he was satisfied. Just as he became sure there was nothing to see, but black, a mouse darted from a crevice, at the base of the far wall. It crossed the penumbra, scuttled a few feet into the light, then stopped to preen. It licked its forefeet and used them to wipe its ears, then down, to its nose.

There was no reason for the mouse to stop there, of all places. Roman was sure, then, that it was Chimka, whose eye shone, way up in the dark crux of the cross brace. Roman looked to see that the point of light was still there.

The mouse scampered several feet further and stopped, again. It sniffed at the wood and hay, then meandered on. It moved toward the light. Chimka knew about the mouse, though the mouse had no idea that fate was looking down, waiting for the moment to strike.

Chimka shifted silently, like a dark cloud. Roman hated the cat too, for its cunning. There would be no way to trust that animal; there was no fidelity, because the cat was only really ever going to give a damn about itself. The mouse hopped and scurried onward, while that eye gleamed in the darkness, above.

Roman could have intervened, if he had wanted. He could have saved the mouse and cheated the lousy cat. That would have meant disturbing Lena, though, and he wasn’t willing to do that. Besides, mice are quick, and a barn is filled with all kinds of little holes. Maybe the mouse didn’t need saving. If it got close enough to the post, it would be only one short hop from disappearing into the safe framework of the barn. Roman watched as it played out.

The mouse scampered tight along the wall, which afforded protection, while limiting its choices for escape. It was close. Roman looked up at the dark triangle and doubted that the men who put the bents together would have thought their work would be used in such a way. It didn’t matter, they no longer had a say.

The mouse was close. Still, nothing happened. Roman wondered, again, if he were mistaken. Maybe the light had reflected off one of the vodka bottles, which Lena’s father stashed around the farm. He hoped that’s all it was. The mouse was about to hop out of sight.

It happened quickly. The shadow cut out of the heights, like black lightning. Chimka hit the mouse, who jumped too late. It was over then, really, even though the mouse still made a dash for cover. Chimka swatted him, just as he reached a crevice, and sent him sprawling, out into the open floor, away from everything. The mouse was injured, maybe in the front leg, so it hopped, high, instead of running a straight line, as it bounded back toward cover. It leapt twice, before Chimka swatted it out of the air, on the third.

Again, the mouse made a bid for survival, but there was no chance. It was torn down the side and had lost its orientation. Instead of scrambling away from Chimka, it actually made a last attempt by staggering a crooked line, toward the cat.

Chimka waited, as though he could have known ahead of time that the mouse would become disoriented and run toward him. Chimka seemed to know everything before it happened. The hope Roman held in his chest crested and crashed. Chimka snatched the injured creature in his mouth, then dashed down over the stairs.

Lena had fallen asleep. She lay serenely in Roman’s arms, unaware of the savage violence on the other side of the room. Part of him wanted to laugh, when he thought of what she would say about her precious cat. He wished he could ask her whether the mouse had a choice to not fight. She was sweet and didn’t see the ugly side of things. He loved her for that.

With nothing to do, except wait for Lena to wake, he let his eyes wander. He could study the barn for hours. There was a sense of peace and contentment in barns that he never found in a house. He figured it was the farmer in his soul. It was disappointing, as he looked around, to consider that the great barns were all built. They would last a hundred years after he was gone.

It would have been terrific to be among those, in the old days, who had constructed them. The only way, now, for one to be built, was if there were a fire. He looked to where the lantern hung from the post, then to all the hay and debris beneath it. He grinned at his folly. Sure, he’d love to build a barn, but he’d never be able to burn one. The idea was absurd.

He traced the line of the beams and angles at the posts; it all looked perfectly square, even after all the years. He clambered up the posts with his eyes, and crawled over the knots and long, deep checks, which didn’t hurt a timber’s strength. This barn was not as beautiful as his father’s, though it was still impressive. The posts, beams, braces, and purlins had all been worked by hand, with broad axes. The wood all looked much the same, after the years and use, but he could still tell the oak, from the maple, and the ash. There was walnut, too, used mostly for braces.

The old timers were smart. They used what was on hand, rather than trying to build with only oak, or fir, or beech. They shaped those timbers, cut the mortises and tenons, and joined them with wooden pegs. The different species mixed together with the intricate precision of interlocked fingers, and the barns existed beyond the utility they were designed for. They became more. They were the greatest heirloom, the greatest gift, a farmer could pass to his family.

Ivan, his older brother, said that lighthouses were like that, and even more tremendous because they were built of stone. He said they could stand for a millennium before the brutal conditions of the pounding sea. Ivan had been to college in Sarajevo and had a boundless knowledge for things Roman couldn’t imagine. Still, that didn’t make him right. Ivan could have his lighthouses, no doubt that they were truly beautiful, but there was something special, spiritual even, that came from taking all those different trees, which had grown from saplings, and then blending them together into a giant cradle, which protected not just a family, but generations of a family.

The wood perfumed the air, still, and mixed with the smell of what was left of the previous summer’s hay. Oil rose from inside the wood, which took on a sheen, where it was used most. Hand holds were worn into railings, which led from the first floor to the second. There were fewer in the railing that led to the third.

When the wind blew through the cracks in the walls and gaps around the windows, it seemed, almost, like the old building could breathe —a giant, trusted, and faithful friend.

Roman stared at the massive, squared timbers and guessed at their weight. They were the hard work of Lena’s grandfathers, so he appreciated them more. Those men lived their lives and died. They left Lena and the barn. Roman loved them both. He thought of that enormous weight, the strength, and the gift of it all. A soothing comfort descended and settled upon him. He had everything, just then, he was certain, to make him very happy.

He couldn’t know those old timers, of course, though he could imagine them, as they grunted, sweat, and swore; how they stood back, after a good day, and shared pride and satisfaction, even without speaking. There was so much brotherhood in that work, where men gave among each other and to their families, and in the process, lived lives of true meaning. Roman imagined their robust spirits in the gentle cool of an August night. He imagined himself there, too, among them, inside that great circle of happiness and content.

There was nothing else. The cat and mouse had played the game of life and death. He hugged Lena. She was so soft, sweet, and fulfilling. He hoped she found that joy in sleep, which had eluded her since they had made love. He hoped she had found that high, lovely place, where she could look on what they had done together and see that it was beautiful. Her body twitched. Her breathing became deeper and slower. He felt the warm blanket of serenity settle over him, too.

He loved her. Of course, he had said it, before. She had said so, too, afraid, from behind wide eyes. It was different, now, everything was. What he had thought of love, and called love, could not compare to this new realization.

Love was not emotion, only, it was something else, too —something more potent, almost tangible. It was as real and timeless as humanity, and beyond his understanding. What he had experienced, before, was nothing compared to this, this all-encompassing certainty. He had the mad desire to do something desperate and wild, to dive out of the second floor window, somersault, and land on the ground, among the roosters, and cock-a-doodle-do. He wanted to scream out at the moon and make it shake in the sky. He could run across the mountains, outside, miles with each stride, and giggle wildly through the leaves of the forests. He could go home to tell Ivan, his serious brother, that he had found love, ecstatic love, pulsing and crazed.

Roman nestled his nose deeper into Lena’s hair. Some minutes later, he followed her down into sleep.

III

Lena. There was a soft voice, and kind, but not his own. Lena. Roman was dreaming, he knew, because spring had somehow turned to summer. He lay with Lena on a blanket, in the soft grass, beside the Melcic river, in the calm quiet of the Valshaka valley. Home was miles away. He held her, still naked, as he had in the loft.

Butterflies fluttered and flitted, above. They dropped curling, wildflower perfume from their spectral wings. He watched it cascade, as the butterflies drifted beyond them, over the tall, green grass and yellow buttercups. The perfume swept down in swirling mists of pink, and purple, green, and gold. He couldn’t feel it tickle his nose, cheeks, and lips, but he could breathe it in. It was beautiful. It was the smell of Lena.

The river gurgled nearby, as cool water glided over and around stones blanketed in thick, green moss. Roman knew the meaning of life, then, in his dream; he felt what it meant to be at its pinnacle and complete. There could be nothing finer.

Lena, wake up, Doll, it was that soothing voice, again, but this was his dream to hold. He didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to leave the Valshaka valley. He wanted to turn the intruding voice into a random breeze, which could stir the broad leaves above, in the old oak. Yes, it could all still be so beautiful, sweet, and warm.

Mom? It was Lena’s own voice: the little girl, now, confused.

Yes, child, her mother, Nadiya, replied. Roman sat upright, then, aware of the reality of the voices. He pulled the blanket with him, exposing Lena’s chest. The dream was gone, evaporated in the trails of colorful mists. Only the smell of Lena remained. The barn was dim, the floor, hard and dusty.

What’s that? Who’s there?

Mom? Lena clutched for the blanket to cover her nakedness, trying, also, to cover Roman’s.

Yes, Lena, I’m here. Her voice came from near the stairs, where the lantern hung. Nadiya was somewhere in the shadows, where Chimka had taken the mouse. I’m here.

What are you doing?

Roman looked around for his pants. He didn’t need his shirt, could get along without shoes, but he needed pants.

You weren’t in your room. I had to find you. There was sniffling in the black corner. She sounded small.

Well I, Lena stammered. She looked at Roman. We didn’t. She knotted the blanket in her fist and ground it into her chest. Her voice broke. Where’s Dad?

Sleeping. Nadiya was distant and too calm. She was detached, as though she hadn’t just found her naked daughter with a boy. Vodka. She remained in the darkness, her own voice straining. "I thought you were in your room, sleeping, but you weren’t. I was worried. I called Fadila.

You called my mother?! Roman became frantic. He jerked his head around, still looking for his clothes. My mother? Jesus! He patted in the hay and found a boot, then his pants.

Roman, stop. Listen to me. The kindness was gone, replaced by something else; a sense of fear, desperation even. Roman pulled his pants on, under the blanket. Roman, listen to me. He stopped and peered into the dark, unsure of where she was, exactly. She was sort of everywhere. She cleared her throat, then continued.

I was talking to your mother on the telephone. Your father was in the barn with Ivan. We were talking about you two: that wouldn’t it be funny if you, well, we didn’t know that, that you would come here. There was a lag of silence before she resumed. Her words came out, long and loud, like the pealing of a bell.

We were talking, and there was a commotion in the barn. Fadila thought your father and Ivan needed help, so she put the phone down and went to them. Oh, God! I heard them! I heard it all, Roman, I’m so sorry! She had broken into wailing hysterics. Roman jumped to his feet.

Heard what? Sorry for what? He waited, wishing to avoid what came next. HEARD WHAT!?

Gunfire! Oh, God! The gunfire, and trucks, and yelling. I heard her scream for Goran, and then to be left alone. There was laughter. Those men were laughing, while she was shrieking. Then, the line went dead.

What? What men?

It must have been the Serbs, Roman. I’m so sorry.

Serbs?

They’ve been attacking Muslims.

There is a piece of time, a gathering, when a person has to make sense of horrific information that, to them, can’t be possible. It is a vast, vacant span, to comprehend that something terrible has happened, before the pain floods in. It is a soundless stretch of denial and confusion, which passes in an instant: a frozen moment of terror and heartbreak, when enough agony and loss accumulates in a person’s soul to last forever.

None of them moved during that final moment, when the brain still felt the serenity of a relative peace, already exploded. They were caught in that chasm, that monumental cleft, on whose other side, hope is ground into so many tattered fragments, and where a new future needs to be imagined. As bad as the gathering was, it would get worse when it ended.

Roman sought Lena’s eyes, and they were on him. They were sorrowful and deep, on her beautiful face. He tried to breathe and could not. Tears collected in her eyes, from the well of her soul. They spilled over, in streams, down her cheeks; first one, then the other.

She was leaving the gathering. Lena was accepting, and Roman watched her. His legs buckled, as his strength dissolved. Somehow, he caught himself and braced, as reality flooded in on him, too, and broke through the vice of his locked jaw. His face screwed up, in a strangled contortion, as the pain erupted out of him in an ugly, primal howl.

Lena came up and caught him in a hug, as he hollered at the vast, cavernous vacancy of the dark, second floor. He leaned hard on her, and she held him. She joined in the chorus of his crying. There was so much strength from her little body, so much love in her touch. Roman found a sense of himself, at last, and regained control. Lena hugged him and waited.

They’ll be coming here next, I would think. It was Nadiya, still in the shadow. Why wouldn’t they come this way, too? Roman broke away from Lena and hustled into the rest of his clothes.

What about Amar? Roman asked, his throat raw from the barbaric scream.

Drunk, I told you. She was distant, still, as though she were eternally trapped, somewhere between gathering and accepting. She knew what was happening but seemed unwilling to acknowledge it.

Wake him up! Roman hollered. He has to get up!

I tried. There was a pause. He hit me, she sniffled, then he kicked me, kicked me in the stomach. She sobbed.

In the name of Allah! Try again! Lena had wriggled into her dress and was tying the sash around her waist.

He don’t wake up when he’s been drinking, Nadiya said.

Doesn’t matter. If the Serbs are coming, he has to wake up!

If he’s awake, they’ll, the last three words came out as one, barely audible, they’ll kill him.

My God! He turned to Lena. Get your father! I have to go home. He looked into her eyes. My family needs me!

You can’t leave us! Nadiya stepped from the shadows, finally, desperate, gaunt, and ghoulish. She clutched her stomach. Her face was drawn and bloodless, her eyes bulged. She floated across the space at them, like some mystic creature. She pulled her lips back in a snarl, like a she-wolf, though she didn’t seem to realize, because she went on talking. She smelled of urine. We need you! she barked.

No! Mother! He has to go. His family, Lena started but didn’t know how to finish. She looked into his face and collected strength from somewhere inside. His family needs him.

They’re dead, Lena, just like we’ll be…

Mother! She stepped across and slapped Nadiya. Stop it! Stop it, please! He has to go!

Nadiya cupped her cheek in her palm, and looked out, amazed; Lena had never slapped her before.

We’ll go to the cabin, Lena continued. Soldiers won’t climb up there. They don’t know it exists. We’ll go there and wait. She turned to Roman, though speaking to her mother, still. Roman will come for us, after he helps his family.

What about your father? Roman asked her.

We’ll wake him. She reached out and caressed his cheek. She traced his lips with her fingertips. Her eyes were not like her mother’s. Instead of hysteric desperation, Lena held a compelling sense of purpose, which engendered Roman with the belief that things were going to be alright, as though will, alone, were enough. Now, go to your family, she said.

What if your father doesn’t wake?

There isn’t time, Roman. Go. She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in, her delicate hand moving his powerful body. She kissed him. I love you, Roman. Now, go.

She took her mother’s elbow and guided her to the staircase. Roman snatched at his boots, while watching them descend to the ground floor. They took the lantern, which made it seem as though they floated down, on a bouquet of light. Then, they were gone, leaving Roman alone, in the dark. The last thing he saw, in the retreating light, was Chimka, looking down from the angled brace, above the post.

IV

The full moon hung above the eastern horizon and inked the open fields in black shadows and blue light. Far, on the distant side, the forest was dense and black. It was a half mile across, though the light and shadows conspired to make it seem nearer. He knew he would get there soon, and the forest wouldn’t seem so dark. He pumped his arms and legs and tried to think of something, other than his father, mother and Ivan, but that was all he could manage. He tried to forget what Nadiya had said and could not.

Roman ran across the fields, rather than with them. Amar had just plowed the earth into long rows for planting, but they stretched the wrong way. They wouldn’t lead him home. Roman ran for the woods, and the mountains, beyond.

It wouldn’t be safe to use the road, not if the Serbs were about. They hated Muslims. Roman didn’t know why.

He stretched his legs as he ran and learned how far apart the rows were. He had to go a certain speed —any faster, or slower, and his feet would land on the wrong part of the mounds, and he might twist an ankle and fall. Even worse, he might break something. He tried to not think about what that could mean, as he concentrated on the rhythm of his stride and the placement of his feet.

One thing at a time, he thought. First, the field; then, the forest; then, the mountains; then, home. He didn’t want to think of what would be there when he arrived but couldn’t help it. He was so scared. The guilt for not being there was galling.

The field, the forest, the mountains, then home.

He ran without getting tired, not that he noticed. His voice droned out, every time he exhaled, in something that was neither a laugh, nor a cry. He didn’t notice that, either. He just ran for the trees, the mountain pass, his father’s farm, and his family. He ran against fate, though he couldn’t see that any better than the mouse had.

A thick hedge grew around the fields, separating them from the woods. They had been planted by Lena’s grandfather, when he was a young man. The green wall had grown tall in the seventy years, since. It was thick, with twisted branches and long thorns. Those hedges had been planted to keep animals from coming out of the mountains to feed in the fields. Three generations had thrown stones from the gardens, in among the twisted trunks and roots.

Roman finished crossing the field and ran to where he thought the opening was. All he found was a wall of sticks and thorns, with stones scattered before it. He was certain he had run to the right spot, except he couldn’t locate the narrow, arched door in the hedge. It was not easy to find, but he had never had to search before; he had always known just where it was.

There was no time for this; he had to get home. He stopped and looked in one direction, then the other. He started running one way, until he feared it was wrong, then turned back, only to turn again, when he reasoned he had been right the first time. He didn’t get far. Panic crawled over him, like insects. It invaded his mouth, nose, and throat.

This should be easy, he kept thinking. That idea only served to make him more anxious. He shuffled one way along the hedges, then back.

This should be easy, he muttered, again and again. His vision couldn’t penetrate the evergreens. He couldn’t stop looking left, then right, for some hint. There were none. He ran several steps, before being overtaken by panic, then reversed and ran back, beyond where he had begun.

There was no sense to it. He was wasting time. Finally, fed up, he yelled out, and plunged straight into the thick hedges, with his head down. He rolled both ankles, several times, in the tangle and on stones, but he didn’t admit the pain. He kept his hands out in front of his head, as if he were diving into water, and he twisted his body. His arms were torn. Thorns shredded his shirt and pants. He howled and swore, as he kicked and clawed his way through.

He couldn’t stop because, then, he would be trapped inside that wall of needles. All he could do was push and endure whatever punishment that came. It was seven feet, ten at the most, not far, really. Still, he fell out on the other side, a shredded mess.

In order to keep the hedgerow straight when planting, Lena’s grandfather had pounded metal reference stakes into the ground. One of those spikes didn’t have to be, exactly, where Roman would come out, all those years later, but it was.

It had stood through seventy seasons without doing anything, until that night. Roman twisted around as he fell, otherwise the spike might have passed through his body and killed him, then. Instead, it hit his shoulder. The pipe gouged a trough, up the back of his neck, behind his left ear, and on, toward his temple. Roman passed out. His blood seeped into the soil.

The pipe wore Roman’s skin, bunched up like hairy butter, before a knife.

V

Lena jerked the screen door open. It smacked off the side of the house, before slamming shut, behind her. She hurried to her parents' bedroom, on the other side of the kitchen. Her mother waited outside, near the flower garden.

Papa! Wake Up! she yelled, as she ran in to where her father lay, with his clothes still on. Clumps of black dirt had dropped from his boots, onto the yellow bedspread. White circles of dried alkaline stained his red work shirt, around his armpits and chest. The light-shade had been knocked off the lamp, on his bed-stand. The bright light was too raw and garish. It was too true. A half bottle of vodka stood beside it.

Papa! Papa! Wake up, Papa! Amar lay on his back with his arms outstretched, like a man on his crucifixion.

She tried to sound like his little girl, his angel, his sweet Darinka. That’s what he had called her when she wore pigtails. It didn’t feel right, anymore, not since the beatings, and those perverse nights when he had come to her bed, confused and stinking of vodka. She despised that little girl voice. She used it, anyway, hoping to raise pity in the man, or rouse fatherly concern, or any reaction at all. It was hard.

His mouth hung open, showing jagged, yellow teeth. Something white, cottage cheese, or a curdled ball of saliva, wedged in the corner of his mouth. He snored, whistled, and snored again.

Papa! Get up! She shook him and pounded on his chest, but it served only to break his snoring. He made the sounds of a rooting pig. For a moment, it looked like he might open his eyes, but his energy reached its apogee far below consciousness, and his body relaxed.

Papa, please Papa! Wake up! Paaaapaaaaa! She screamed.

Outside, Nadiya yelled, too. No, no, no, nooooo! she wailed.

Lena went to the kitchen for a bucket of water and understood why her mother cried out. Lena hadn’t heard from the bedroom, but the deep growl of diesel engines carried across the night and in through the opened window, behind the sink.

No, no, no, no, no, no! Nadiya was willing them away or trying to wish them gone. The chant was useless. Nadiya continued, however, because the high twisting road that led into their valley was illuminated by headlights, as a line of trucks snaked down, closer toward them.

Please, Allah, No! Lena said. The bucket wasn’t even half full, but she couldn’t wait. She ran to the bedroom and threw the water. Most of it stayed in the bucket, because of the arc and speed of her frantic throw. Much of what did come out hit the edge of the bed and her own feet. A small amount splashed him, but he only made the rooting sound, again. He raised a knee, dropped it, and resumed his sleep.

Paaaaapaaaaa, Waaaake Uuuuuuup! It was everything she had, and it worked. He opened his eyes. They started to close, again, but she was on him, slapping his face. Papa, no! Wake up! The Serbs are coming! They are coming, now! We have to go! Outside, Nadiya continued her rhythmic chant. The trucks could then be heard from the bedroom, too.

She grabbed his shirt and pulled him to a sitting position, with his feet on the floor. His head swung low. He looked out, through half closed eyes. He tried to focus but couldn’t. The sound of machines howled in the night, as engines over-revved on the steep decline.

Lena got down into his line of sight, so he had to see her. He breathed into her face, and she nearly retched.

Please, Papa, she was regaining composure, certain they could still get out. Papa, the Serbs…they’re coming. Can’t you hear?

What? He rolled a dry lizard’s tongue out of his mouth. His runny eyes drifted off to nothing. Her mother chanted and then cried out, her volume increasing, as the trucks approached.

The Serbs, Papa, she spoke in a grounded tone. The child was already the parent. They’re coming. We have to go, right now, or they’ll have us.

He raised his eyes. There was the flicker of recognition, or some spark of a thought.

Serbs?

She sighed and nodded. Yes Papa, her voice steady. They’re close. We have to….

Fugcking Servs!!! He slurred, in a thunderous stupor. He hollered at the ceiling, but it slid out, in a crooked mess, from his gaping mouth and fat lips. They’re all th’ fugcking Sers!!!

The sounds of the engines were evening out. They were on the valley floor, driving past the long line of willow trees, heading for the farmhouse.

Get up, Papa! We have to go! We have no more time. She was talking fast. He looked at her, again, concentrated on her face, really focused on his little girl. She looked at the pits in his big, red nose and at his jaundiced eyes, streaked and slow. He blinked in time with his labored breathing.

We have to go, now, she repeated.

Don’ tell me, Bitsh! He exploded, without warning, and cuffed the side of her head. Lena crashed into the dresser, by the door, and bounced back out, onto the kitchen floor. A high-pitched ringing droned in her head. Jussh lemme be, Nadiya! Bitsh!

Lena clawed at a kitchen chair in order to stand. She lurched back, toward the screen door, as though it were she who were drunk. The door gave easily and slapped, once more, against the house. It didn’t make a difference; the only thing that mattered was the roar of the diesel monsters coming down the road.

Nadiya sat against the rock wall of her flower garden, where Lena had left her. She clutched herself, rocked back and forth, and wept. She no longer said, no. It didn’t matter. Hope was lost. The Serbs were nearly there.

Come with me, Mother! Lena pulled her up, and together, they stumbled across the yard, out past the barn. How could it be that just a couple, short hours before, she had snuck out there, to make Roman her lover? She dragged her mother further away from the house, out toward the fields.

Don’t look back, Mother, no matter what, don’t look back. She didn’t want to think of what was coming from behind. She had heard stories of women, little girls, even, who were caught by the Serbs. Lena was petrified. Her feet were like stones. Her heart shriveled, to think of those stinking beasts, climbing on top, pressing their mouths down on hers, their tongues probing to get in, forcing her lips open.

Behind them, the first of the trucks raced up to the house with guns blatting out in the night, above the screaming sound of the engines. Part of her wanted to return and try to help her father, somehow, though she knew she couldn’t. He was a sad drunken farmer, and his life would soon end.

Glass shattered. She listened as the maelstrom struck. Each explosion reverberated in her body. It was dreadful to hear the shattering glass. There was so much destruction. It was her home, and it was being raped. The wood could sustain the bullets; It could be reworked, but the windows were punched in and forever broken. The glass could be replaced, but never repaired.

They hadn’t gone far, when Lena noticed the trees, along the right side of the field, dancing in light. In less than one of her steps, the light traveled a vast distance, as it swept around toward them. There was no time. She jumped into her mother, knocking her down, onto the small mounds her father had plowed. Light passed over them. She lay still, waiting to see if they had been detected. Her mother remained motionless, also.

They lay on the valley floor, where April’s cold night air had begun to settle. The earth smelled rich, after the spring showers and warm afternoon sun. This was the season for planting, for planting and hope.

Lena imagined those grunting animals, mounting her mother, too, right there on the ground, in a circle of headlights. They would take them both. She imagined the smell of diesel, gunpowder, and sweat. She forced the idea away.

The jeep that cast light across the fields swung around the barn and stopped, with its beams on the house. There was more gunfire, but she couldn’t think of that. She pushed it out of her head and dragged her mother up, off the ground. Nadiya made no sound. She moved where directed and draggled behind. Her feet trailed across the tops of the mounds.

It was a half mile to the far side of the field, one half mile to the trail that Roman had taken. That path would lead them up to the mountain cabin, near the high spring. There was food there, and blankets, and a radio. They would have shelter and rest, until Roman returned. There was nothing more to life, no hope at all, without that idea of her Roman coming back.

She dropped back down, onto the ground, and pulled her mother row over row, on hands and knees, so they wouldn’t be seen, if someone looked out, across the vast, moonlit plain.

The soldiers cut the engines, back at the farm. Gunfire popped again and again, as if there were a fight. There couldn’t be; there was nobody to fight against, only her passed-out father. Soon, even the guns quieted. For a short while, there was only the sounds of their scratching across the plowed soil and their breathing. There was terror and loneliness in those sounds.

She prayed for strength, while she crawled along that ancient garden, dragging her mother by the shawl. Nadiya gasped, hard, sucking air through the thin reed of her throat. She wheezed, as she struggled, and made no complaint.

Due to the racket at the house, Lena knew they were safe. The Serbs were over there, and she was here. When she could no longer hear them, however, the silence made her feel vulnerable; as though monsters were hovering above them, like boogeymen. She imagined they were crawling, right behind, hanging over their backs, preparing to sweep them up in all that horror. She was terrified. Despite having told her mother not to look back, she couldn’t help but do so, herself.

At the house, everything was illuminated. The barn doors were wide open, both front and back. Soldiers scurried about, like ants, looking for something. Their shadows were cast out onto the field, distorting their bodies into something larger, blacker, and more sinister, not like men, at all. Then, the yelling commenced. She knew her father’s voice, of course, but not the other.

I don’ know! They’re gone! All gone, you basterrrdz!

Where, you old drunk? Tell me!

Her father shrieked in pain. Lena couldn’t see, but she could hear everything. Her mother could, too; there was no helping that.

Tell me where they are, or you’ll wish you had, I promise you.

Fugck yoooou! Her father still slurred, his voice was high and cracked. He was beaten and crying. It was pitiful.

Dmitri! Come! Teach this man to not fuck around. Evidently Dmitri arrived, because there was laughter and hooting from the soldiers, not unlike men at a soccer match. Amar shrieked. It was nothing Lena could understand. There was something in that horrid sound that reached out and grabbed a hold on her heart. It felt like a physical tug, and she actually turned back for a few mounds, unable to stop. Her father howled.

See now, you louse of a man? You chose not to tell me, now you can’t! You’ll never speak another fucking word, you stinking alchy. Can you say, ‘Allah’ without a tongue, huh? La, la, la, la, la, la!

It was funny to the soldiers, somehow. They broke into laughter that sounded genuine. How could that be?

You understand now, don’t you? I know you do! We didn’t come here to fuck around! Now tell me, where are your wife and daughter? Where are the Tilchinik boys? Pointing will do.

Lena had started, again, but stopped, uncertain she had heard correctly. They were after Roman and Ivan too? Things were happening too fast. She couldn’t understand. Her father screamed in a rage, then stopped. She wondered if they had silenced him, or if he had become exasperated by the inability to form words. She hoped, for his sake, that they had shown him the mercy of killing him.

Now, let’s go again, old fellow! Where are they?! There was more laughter. Amar howled. Dmitri, I believe he’s asking for a drink. Oblige the man!

Lena couldn’t take any more. She turned to her mother, who lay slumped over, like another mound of earth. Come on, we have to hurry. She whispered, even though they were far enough away that it wouldn’t matter. Her mother stayed stone still. Lena pulled. She wouldn’t move. Please Mom, I need you. Back at the farmhouse, her father shrieked, again.

"How’s that vodka? Got enough