Karl had stacked the wood neatly as ever, enough to cover his secret for the night. Eric spotted him from across the camp and touched his cap in a tiny salute, Karl copied the gesture to signal the first task was complete. Eric would play his part later. Karl wandered around the camp of ragged, life filled tents and he considered his own. Torn and patched in places but in others there were great gaping rents that he knew would never be mended after tonight. In his mind he pulled together the words he would need and considered those who would be listening; some needed to be lulled gently, coerced to hear more of his story, others must hear and be heartened. He sat with a familiar creak from his knees on to his smooth rock and began the slow kindling of the fire. The crackle of growing flames echoed his crackling voice as he prepared himself to become a storyteller for one final night.
“Many years have passed since my quiet life was wrenched from me by the passage of war, at barely ten the troops came and I was cast into this story. The myths my mother had told me were no protection against the forces I met marching across the frozen fields to the Baltic Sea; I wept for the first week until my tears would flow no longer, my shrinking body could not produce more. A woman took me into her small herd of children and for a time we travelled together, I remember the rags that fell behind us as we went, dark smears on the snow and yet remarkably the children I marched with grew no fewer. We finally reached a tiny town, and the woman who had taken in so many of us disappeared with a clinking of gold. We huddled together in a room filled with our coughs and moans until we were scoured of dirt and lice; they skipped on the floor as our hair fell in hanks. I remained there for another six years and I soon learned that it was safer to stay, my body bears a history of my escape attempts. The children I had travelled with, and many others since, were gone and I learned not to ask after them. The lady of the house gave me my orders, I soon stopped hearing their screams. On one of my weekly errands I spotted a huddled form in the corner of the frosty morning market, blanketed head and stick hands with swollen purple fingers pleaded with the crowd. I walked past and although I tried not to look I peered above my jacket and saw a nose I had broken when I was twelve on the orders of my lady. Her pale face met mine for the briefest of moments before she shrank back into her blankets, I stared at the trembling mound before me and found my hands moving to my own feet, I threw my socks at her and ran back to the house.”
There was a gathering crowd now, a few more at the back of his circle, he looked around and saw dark figures near the other fires, the guards were coming now, leaving their posts unguarded to hear the last story of their lives. The stories of their captives.
“It was three weeks later that Amelia and I escaped together. Eric’s note had said simply “GET HER” smudged onto the paper bag he had thrust into my hands moments before he ran. I darted the other way, grabbing her and the swathing blankets. We never saw the lady again but she haunted us on our journey, finally, to the Baltic. I talked Amelia through it, told her the stories my mother told me to see her through the darkest hours. Amelia began to tell her stories too and we made many new ones together. Our daughter heard them all, and now our granddaughters.”
Across the flames he saw his daughter’s eyes sparkle just like Amelia’s; she sat with his granddaughters and their stick arms were entwined sleepily about her neck. He knew too well the walk that faced them this night, and many nights to follow. They were prepared as he was for what would happen at the end of his tale when their small camp would be gone. She stood, a solitary tear escaped her guarded gaze as she took the children towards her tent; several other small families followed suit. The days were hard in their camp, more so since winter had set in, their time was spent scavenging, sleeping or listening to songs and tales by night. He saw the remaining few, lighting up their pipes, settling in for the rest of his story, guns unslung from guards’ shoulders, but ever at the ready. He would tell the rest, his final story though his voice could scarce form the words.
“After a score of years war had come to our door again. It bore down from the sea and we fled through the bleak forests that had protected our backs. Amelia was tired, something had eaten away at her and she tried bravely to keep up. The soldiers were close behind and there was no fire to warm us in our little camps at night, only the smoke of our breath as we whispered stories between us. There were not enough to keep watch and by daybreak she had gone, her coat was warming our young daughter. She awoke and I watched as she realised what had happened, her small form crumpled, clutching at the coat on her back. I shuffled over and held her for the briefest of moments before we heard the shouts from the soldiers camp. We stood and walked away, quivering as screams echoed through the trees. I gained two granddaughters on the road; they were clinging to the bushes and trying to hide, the two snowy heaps in the distance a testimony to their nights work; they were all too grateful to join our small unit, to share their own stories, to go on making new ones and tell them to all who wanted to listen.”
Across the fire Eric was watching, his face scarred with memories of his deeds; all of them had been told in story since he’d found us. He gave the smallest of nods and Karl threw another heavier log onto the blazing fire. The other guards had followed Eric and waited for the end to the story. They all sat round either his fire or another, his own crackled and smoked into the night, fiery tongues licked at the new wood, breaking through its woody casing to the volatile core.
“When the soldiers caught up to us some of them were kind and tried to keep us safe, although there was little that could protect us from the fear and fury that stalked the camp. We became accustomed to the stench and filth that followed us all around. We couldn’t leave and our leaders would not save us, they didn’t know we existed. We formed an alliance of sorts, meeting by the dawn embers of the fire when guards would doze the morning away, before the wolves would howl that the night was ending. There was little to be said after our decision was made.”
He threw a little kindling to keep the blaze hot to burn through the new log and keep the guards close, around him the tents were dark, devoid of life, it was time to finish.
“We stared in wonder around us as the days passed, taking in each memory we could find, holding one another a final time as the nights grew shorter and the time was near. More people had joined us and we still kept to our plan, hoping beyond hope that they would be saved with the rest of our families.”
The log began to fizz and spit as he looked across the blaze into Eric’s steadfast eyes and he imagined Amelia by him as the heat fell on his face. The tents around his fire were dark and he knew they were empty, their usual residents in position near the fences that ringed their camp, the guards sat before him, he was ready to end his story, and theirs.
“I send tonight my story into the world, who here can say what is learned from it?”
He sat motionless, twelve pairs of eyes stared back, waiting for a word they would never hear. The log he had thrown on the fire – one graced each campfire this night – finally cracked, the core turning white as it erupted. The explosion sent him flying backward. Unable to move, he felt the vibrations of feet running for the fences that would by now be pulled down. He could not turn and watch his family run free, they would take what was left of this smoking camp. Stories.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 