Hunger and Regret

--This follows "A Battle in the Dark"

My hands shake, and I pretend to myself that it is because of the rough ground beneath the wagon wheels. I tremble, and blame the frosty cold of the young morning. Everything is gray and flat in this light. Flat and gray, or shades of gray. Shades, dead or sleeping.

I can still smell them on me--the heavy rust and copper stink of the blood they sprayed. My hands shake, and I shake the reins and hurry on the tired mule.

The bodies I left behind would be gray in this light; flat and gray and lifeless in the chilled predawn. But as the day passes, the warm glow of the sun will show with violent vibrancy the drained pallor and the terror, the sadness, the agony frozen into those blind eyes. The life-giving glow of the day will bloat the tangled corpses and warm the pools of coagulated gore into buzzing puddles of flies and stench.

Bears, wild dogs, wolves will make meals of their torn bodies. My stomach is sick. I pretend it is hunger pain. It might be, for I brought little food, but I know that I could not yet eat. Behind me, the wagon driver groans and stirs. Up ahead, his village peers at us through leaves and branches.

As I approach the small huddle of buildings, made from rough hewn timber, the tremble in my hands and chest subsides. Nobody sees me shaken by the brutality of my hand. Nobody has seen me sickened by the death I dole.

The smell of wood-smoke greets me, and a bird sings. Color has begun to seep into the steely world.

"Crossroad village."

His voice bespeaks his injury. He would sleep many more hours before he felt well.

"Which house is yours?"

My voice is soft to match the sodden silence of the dewy morning. The soft soil sinks beneath the silent hooves of the mule. Only our jingle and rattle announce our coming.

"The one with the gate."

I know immediately which he means. It is the only place surrounded by a wall, man high, and made of local boulders. Within the wall, I can see carefully manicured maple trees thick with silken leaves. Beyond sits the house, with a second story, walls painted white, and three wagons in front. Compared to the small, simple design of the other houses along the dirt road it is grand. The gate is made of iron and painted black, and on one side hangs a brass bell, slightly smaller than a human head.

I scowl. I am prejudiced against walls in general; they are ostentatious displays of wealth and power. As though they could even slow me. Bah. And the bell suggests that I should ask permission to pass, when there is no man yet who has stopped me from going where I please. I sit stubbornly in my seat, considering just leaving the wagon and the wounded man to be found at the gate. I could probably carry him on my back, over the wall, and into a clean bed without being noticed. That would show them all the good their gate does.

My stomach rumbles, and continues to rumble until the rumble turns into a squeal that refuses to be ignored. I only have an apple left to eat. Suddenly, exertion for the sake of principle seems patently foolish, while ingratiating myself with the apparent town mayor could lead to a quality meal. And maybe a bath. And a clean bed. So, with my stomach rumbling, and my body aching and stinking worse than before, I concede to the gate.

But not the bell. I pick up the leaden musket shot that had been rolling about under the wagon seat. It is as thick as a knuckle, pitted and heavy. It feels good in my fingers. With a quick whipping motion, I snap my arm at the bell. My fingers make an audible pop, followed immediately by the sudden wailing hum of the bell, which quivers and swings. It is about five paces away, and I left a dent in it.

The ring resounds and sustains, deafening in the morning quiet. When its warble falls silent, the hamlet is astir. Heads peek out of doors as pots clank and plates clatter and a baby begins wailing.

Within the gate, a large man runs awkwardly, with his arms stiff at his sides, making his shoulders wobble and his head bounce and turn. He wears a sword on his belt and a stare of fierce confusion on his face. His mouth hangs open. The corners of his mouth are crusted with spittle.
"IT’S KENTO’S WAGON," he shouts. His lips and tongue seem too unwieldy for him. "BUT NO KENTO. WHO ARE YOU?"

Before I can answer to explain, he spins about and runs, arms fixed, back toward the house. I sigh. I hope someone lets me in soon. Kento needs attention, and I’m about to get mean-hungry.