In the Belly of the Enemy

Tonight it will all be over and we can return home, well, those of us who make it through this night.  This wooden hold, it is built well, so tightly, that there is no room for air to get through the joints.  I am breathing in my own air, over and over again; mind, it is not just my air, it is all theirs, and their breathing mine.  That is a disgusting thought, but I cannot think of anything other than what is going on now, or what is going to happen tonight. 

Have a little patience, is what we are told.  I am so frustrated; ten years we have been at war with them and tonight, just like that, it will stop.  All the pain will stop; all the death and destruction, it will all be gone and we will go home, back to our families, back to our lives.  What life?  I ask, I have none, I have been here since I was fourteen, fourteen!  I missed out on so much to be here and now people will forget what has happened; their lives will go on as if it never occurred, but not for me.  I will never forget what I have seen here.

I turn to the gods for their help, their relief of the torment and heartache that I feel; feelings only a war could ever evoke.  I offer myself to Elpis; hold me tight in your arms tonight, comfort me, calm my heart and give me hope that all will be well, that we will come out victorious, that we will return home to Greece having learnt all that we can from the journey we have taken. 

We cannot move an inch in here.  We must remain still until nightfall.  Any noise, any movement will give us away.  We cannot let them know, now that we are within the city walls that we are in here, in the belly of the beast. It took them hours to take us in, to fool them into thinking that we really are retreating to Athens, to our homeland. 

I can feel the sweat on my face slipping down my cheeks.  I can see the drops forming on the end of my nose, feel them falling onto my chin.  I want to wipe at them; I need water!  My throat feels like I’ve eaten a whole desert!  I do not think I am going to make it through the day, let alone the night.  My muscles are screaming out to me to move them, stretch them, but I cannot.  I cannot move or they will know and I will have destroyed the plan.  Me.  Single-handed. 

What is that?  It… no, it can’t be, they can’t… Music!  The waves of rhythm are assaulting my ears – drums, voices, pipes; they are rejoicing!  The beat is hypnotic, inviting.  I want to move to its temptuous pulse.  I want to throw myself into a crowd; all moving in time to the drum beat, singing our words, swaying with another… A woman.  Oh, to be against a woman right now, rocking against her body as the music fills our veins, moves our forms and releases our spirits into the wild.

I can imagine them now, out there, moving and grinding against one another, delighting in worldly passions, embracing their victory.  Yet when they sleep, it will be the last time that they will place their heads upon their pillows - I shall see to that.  Many times over the years, I have seen to someone’s passage to Hades and avoided my own. 

My scars prove my effort in this war; wounds that have bled and wept, healed and shrunk to the silvery slivers that they are now.  I joined this war when I was barely able to hold a sword, or fire an arrow with accuracy.  Now I am leading these men into the last fight of this war, the battle that will be kept alive by poets and philosophers for years to come – the people that have no real clue of war, or death and destruction and what it truly does to your soul.

If this war hadn’t been, I would have liked to think that I would have been married with children by now, working on my own vineyard and raising my own livestock.  Somewhere in the north, close to the boarders where it is cooler, where a light breeze blows bringing refreshment to those it hits. 

But now… now who will have me?  A man built from war, marred with its marks physically and emotionally.  Can I remove myself from this blood thirst vocation?  Can I become that person I always dreamed I would be?  Would Aphrodite and Cupid bless me with a woman who could tame this savage heart, sooth the wild cat that it is; could any woman invoke a purr from it rather than its roar?  She would have to be a remarkable creature, made from essence of love direct from Cupid’s arrow and entwined with the kindness of Elpis’ comforting arms.  She would need the patience of a saint to deal with me when I was desperate for a fight, turning on her perhaps.  Would she have the strength to cope?

My thoughts have distracted me; my men are looking for their signal.  I did not hear the music die, the sounds of the city falling into their slumber.  I hold up my hand indicating that they hold; we must be sure that the city is at rest, that there are as few bodies as possible out on the streets.

Slowly I raise myself up, testing my muscles, my own strength.  Will my men be up to this?  Will they have the strength in their legs, their arms, after being in here for so long?  Is this going to be for nothing?  Are we to fall at the last hurdle?  No, I cannot think of these things, I must think of them as if they were fresh for battle; they are warriors out of camp, not chickens from their coups!

I approach the board that removes for our exit and I peer through the slit that was left to ensure that our way is clear.  I see two guards casually talking not far from where we need to exit.  They seem too relaxed, as if they are intoxicated.  It disgusts me.  Ten years we have been fighting, and all we had to do was pretend to go home for them to let their guard down.  My men would be on alert if it was reversed, we wouldn’t trust them so easily.  My worries and sympathies are gone.  They deserve this.

I motion my men to arise; this is it.  This is where it will end; this is where we will begin.

We slide the board back and unroll our ropes; silently we begin our descent into the belly of the enemy.

Snowdrifts

Taken from the painting of the same title by Frederick J Waugh (1861 - 1940)

The winter had been hard on them this year; the snow continually fell in sheets of white, suffocating the seedlings that tried to sprout. Father had been taken ill with the cold, making him wheeze and cough – blood would often stain the tissues he coughed into.  Mother tried her hardest to do fathers work, Timmy stopped going to school to help her – against mother’s wishes – and Isabella took over the housework, baking the daily bread, cooking the meals, tending to Father and looking after baby Frederick.

            The family battled against Jack Frost, doing what they could to warm their bodies of an evening to melt the cold from their tired and weary bones, but still the snow fell around them, not only suffocating the seedlings, but their regular lives as well.

            The fire would crackle late into the night as Timmy used the light to keep up his studies, Isabella darning the socks that had mysteriously acquired holes, the trousers that had torn against fences and letting out baby Frederick’s clothes as he grew bigger.  Mother would doze in her large comfy chair, giving father the room in the bed he needed as he thrashed out his fever, and baby Frederick slept comfortably oblivious to all the hardship going on around him. 

Many nights passed in this way, worry lining Isabella’s young face as Father failed to improve in health, Mother’s health slowly waning, her body unused to the work load she bore.  She knew that it wouldn’t belong before Father Time pushed the clock forward on them all and death would soon be knocking at their door for Father and shortly after Mother too.

‘Timmy,’ she whispered one night, careful not to wake mother from her sleep.  ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’  Timmy looked up from his book, carefully closing it and turned to face her.  He knew from the way she bit her lip that she had something on her mind she needed to confess.  ‘I was in market two days ago, and I saw Mr. Thomas there.  He approached me,’ she swallowed hard, trying to find the right words to tell her brother.  ‘He has been watching me for some time, watching me grow into the young woman that I’ve become.  He’s… he’s heard about our…’ she stopped and looked at Mother, ‘situation, and wants to help.’

‘No, Izzy.’ Timmy’s voice was flat.  ‘You are not to do it.’

‘But if I agree to marry him, he will fund the farm, send the best doctors to Father and Mother, see that you go to school again, put farm hands on the farm and baby Freddy will be given everything we never had.’

‘What about John Evans?’  Isabella blushed and looked at down at her fine handiwork.  ‘It’s John you love, not Mr. Thomas, and he loves you too, I’ve seen it when he looks at you.’

‘We’re just teenagers,’ she avoiding the lie she wanted to tell, ‘we wouldn’t be able to support ourselves, our families.  John needs to work for a long time, and I couldn’t leave Mother and Father like this, or you to run the farm on your own.  It will be better for all…’

‘Isabella,’ Timmy sighed, the rest of his objections and words of comfort being carried by silence into the cold winters night, both knew what Isabella was going to do to save the ones she loved.

Mother was crying, holding her daughters hand as she wished her well in her life as Mrs. Thomas.  Timmy solemnly stood in silence he had wanted to run her away from the old man who had tempted his sister into the marriage that was a sham for his sibling, not walk her down the isle and give her too him.

The wedding had taken place quickly, two weeks after Isabella had told Timmy of her plans of sacrifice for the rest of them.  Mr. Thomas had kept his word, sure enough; Father was safely tucked up in a warm bed with a nurse at his side, day and night, his health considerably improving.  Farm hands had started working, shovelling snow, gathering eggs, milking the cows, allowing mother to rest, and he to return to school.  He had tutors come to him of an evening, improving his mathematics and sciences.  He was learning things he would never have had the chance to learn if Mr. Thomas hadn’t stepped in, and in two years, when he turned eighteen he would be able to attend a university and become something more than a farmer – perhaps a lawyer.

Sadly when Isabella turned eighteen, she would probably be already with child, his twin sister would be a mother when his life was just beginning, stuck with the children that would carry the name Thomas instead of Evans.

He had spotted John Evans standing in the snowdrift outside of the chapel, sadness in his eyes as he watched his beloved climb into the carriage and head off for her honeymoon.  Timmy went to his side.

‘Mr. Thomas is fifty-five you know,’ John stated matter-of-factly, ‘and his heart isn’t that great.’ Timmy looked at him, wondering what he could be suggesting.  ‘Give it a month or so and perhaps Isabella will be free again.’

Timmy wondered what he could mean as he watched his friend turn and walk away down the snow covered lane.

The snow was melting and grass was pushing its way through the white powder as the grave was filled.  Isabella stood silently staring into the eyes of John Evans across the lose earth that was now her late husbands resting place.  Her family was safe; Father and Mother were both well, the farm hands were helping the farm turn over more than ever before, and Timmy was excelling in school.  Her bank balance had more money in it than she had ever thought of, and in a few months time, once she knew she wasn’t carrying an old man’s child, she would lose the name Thomas and take the name Evans instead.  And all because of some snowdrifts.

SD is a short story that I wrote for the Exploring Contemporary Art module of my Imaginative Writing degree. Just like MGR I decided to try something a little different to what I normally write and decided on a Period format in the, to be honest, I think something like the fourth person - I'm not sure (I say this because although it is third person, I also use Mother and Father as direct references, rather than the mother or the father).

For this piece we had to find a picture held in the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool and write a short story of 1,000 words about it. This was the story that I wove. The picture 'Snowdrifts' by Frederick J Waugh can also be found on the WAG website shown below.

http://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/online/exhibitions/winter/waughsnowdrifts.asp