The Long March of Ares, Part 1 Written by Azmodi,
Edited by E.A. Morrissey |
The Long March of Ares
Part 1 of 3
In his ears, he heard the pant of his own
breath and the weight of his comrade heavy against his body. The dark forest
floor swayed before Frederick Derych’s ash-colored eyes. In the distance the
sounds of bombs and American war cries moving his steps; with his free hand, he
wiped the stickiness from his flat features, the blood caking across his
hardened skin. His grey uniform, once faded from the years of war, was darkened
now, stained with the draining lifeblood of the smaller man supported by
Derych’s right arm.
The sergeant slowed his pace; grimly looking
over at the private, Elger Garrick’s wan features pale in the diminishing
sunlight, the sun weakly sinking below the distant German peaks. Frederick
surveyed the damage as he hurried through solemn timbers, the cacophony of war,
the ever present rushing of the Rhine fading to his ears, yet never leaving him.
The young private’s eyes flickered, Elger’s addled mind careering in and out
of consciousness - the dazzling shift between living red and the cold, dim grey.
Even his iron lungs began to rust, the steel
cords of his body beginning to fray. Derych eased himself to a brisk walk, the
din of gunfire and crushing of branches now nearly inaudible - the Americans had
turned away, satisfied with the deaths of the sergeant’s squad and uncaring of
his own. The sight of his men gunned down before his eyes sprang back, but
Frederick pressed on, the florid memories washed away within the countless waves
of war. The past was ended and the future unwritten... Frederick pressed on,
moving with each passing second of the present. His thoughts diminished and he
simply moved, every part of his being moved as they had within the bodies of his
ancestors on the African plains, long ago.
Erlen’s booted feet dragged limply through
the old-fallen leaves, those landed years before beginning to rot, unable to
endure. The private groaned, his head lolling, catching fractured glimpses of
towering giants that seemed to stare down with eyes obscured in the rising mist;
the twisted branches spread out in a canopy of accusation, pointing out at the
world. A call rang out and for a moment, Erlen thought it had issued from the
sergeant; his daze returning, Garrick realized it was an animal.
His face set grimly in iron, the grease of
combat painting the shadows of his visage in deepening rust. Frederick continued
the pace, even as the forest thickened and any sense of familiarity drifted away
with the last shafts of warm sunlight. The sounds of nature enveloping the two
soldiers, Derych glimpsed a far-off glimmer of orange, vibrancy misplaced in the
dark maw of the forest. Moving on with growing vigor, the orange light flickered
through the trails of mist yet was never completely lost; it grew as Frederick
approached, the artifice smoothing the shadows from his face.
The sergeant stopped at a crooked wooden sign
pounded into the ground, its surface almost completely green with moss; fingers
of fog curled around the sign’s post, refusing to release it. Frederick leant
down, squinting, making out the faint letters, their identities nearly erased by
years of exposure.
Nachtholm.
Confident now it was the village he
approached and not a military camp. Derych trudged through the fallen canopy,
unconcerned with the fate of his younger comrade - it was Frederick’s duty to
aid Erlen, but if the private died nothing could be done to stop it - everything
dies, eventually.
The weeds and lichen of the forest proper
began to shrink away, bowing down into a rough path of velvet grass, overgrown
yet obviously trampled by feet not only of animals. The scent strong, Derych
followed it to its source, the path widening to accommodate a small settlement -
primitive buildings of wood, the light of fires shining through foggy windows.
Frederick’s grey eyes flashed in the darkness as he did his best to make out
the details, ensuring there was no ambush.
No more than two dozen houses; farm tools
attached to the sides of some, a stable. A well sat within the middle of the
town, and in the murk of deepening night Frederick reasoned he saw fields of
fallow; at the opposite end a hill sloped back up into the dark maw of the
forest. Uncaring, his instincts satisfied, Derych pushed on, choosing the
nearest house to intrude upon.
Harshly the sergeant knocked on the door, and
Erlen moaned in his stupor, the sound of knuckles thunderclaps to him. A moment
and then the door opened, a middle-aged man opening it. Frederick pushed his way
inside, explaining in a clipped, commanding tone the situation, the dire state
of his companion.
The inside of the abode was rustic, wooden
boards, the separations extenuated by the shadows cast by the fire. The flames
were set in a small fireplace; several burlap bags of belongings were piled
before it, ready to be removed.
Garrick moaned again, the features of the
people elongating, their bodies cast in stone, marble planted to the
floorboards, yet their eyes purple and shining, roving about with the
intelligence cast of years.
Erlen sensed he was moving again, being
dragged from the sanctum, out into the cool night air again, only to once more
be brought into a house, this was one larger, more spacious with a roaring fire
and several windows.
Frederick waited as an older man stood; his
features lined by days in the sunshine, his hair and mustache bleached a lighter
shade of brown. He looked with familiar concern on the bloodstained body of
Erlen Garrick; several red droplets beading on the floor below the private’s
beleaguered self. Behind him, a woman looked on with mirrored emotions, her
belly swollen.
He introduced himself as Irwin Wenzel, the
unofficial leader of Nachtholm.
"I need a room and medical aid for this
man - he has been seriously wounded."
Irwin nodded, the situation obvious - he
pledged a small house for the two men to use, and promised that various herbs
and bandages would be brought swiftly. He sent off the man who had accompanied
Frederick to fetch these things, and Wenzel himself agreed to show the two
soldiers to the house, near the edge of the village.
Walking in the darkness without aid, his
steps perfect, Irwin Wenzel led Frederick and his comrade through Nachtholm, the
buildings haphazardly arranged around a rough central avenue and the well. There
was no conversation, each man serious and devoted to his task.
They reached the house within a few minutes,
Irwin striking a match and lighting the single lamp as Frederick located one of
the three cots in the house and gently laid Erlen down on it. The single flame
danced, casting writhing shadows across the young man’s body as Derych tore
off the soaked uniform, examining the ragged hole in Garrick’s shoulder, the
flesh angry around the dark hole that drove deep.
The older man came in, with healing herbs, a
bucket of water, bandages and some towels. Both he and Wenzel looked on in
silence as Frederick set about his task of cleaning the wound; Erlen groaned
with the touch of water, his eyelids fluttering, angry colors exploding across
the torpid sea of his misery.
Derych called for a bottle of alcohol and a
sharp knife and again the older man was off, returning minutes later with the
requested items. Wasting no time with thanks or replies, Frederick doused the
wound with the amber liquid, Erlen roaring in pain the moment the first drop
touched his torn flesh. Not waiting for the private’s spasm to subside, Derych
jammed the knife into the wound, prying out the blunted bullet with a single
swift motion, only bringing Garrick to new heights of agony.
Blood flowed anew but Frederick had quickly
wiped it away and tightly bandaged the wound. When the chore was completed,
Derych turned to see the two villagers watching their positions unchanged.
Without words the sergeant told them to leave, and they did so, saying they
would speak with him in more depth in the morning and wishing his comrade good
luck.
With the two men gone, Frederick made a final
check to make sure Erlen was in a comfortable position, his wound elevated, so
that he would sleep through the night. Paying little attention to his
surroundings, Derych took the cot across from his wounded companion, blew out
the lamp and surrendered to the fatigue that had been building within him for so
long.
Yet, in the depths of his exhaustion,
Frederick felt alien light when it washed across the outer-edge of his eyelids,
and they opened with painful swiftness. Weak orange strobes filtered in through
the small window situated across from his sleeping cot, and Derych stood to see
their source.
The darkness of night still in firm dominion,
Frederick squinted to make out the sight of several men carrying lanterns,
descending from the hill that rose at the edge of Nachtholm. Their ages varied,
some older then others from what he could see, but all dressed the same, hunched
in grey cloaks; they all carried shovels.
The small party passed quickly by, the
artificial light fading and with it the sergeant’s curiosity - he was fast
asleep again.
The pale light of early morning slinked
through the small single pane and found Frederick, taking him from his deep
sleep. He rose, checked Erlen’s bandages and saw the wound had ceased to bleed
- there was no sign of infection. Garrick rested comfortably and Derych departed
the small house, unwilling to be confined by it or shackled by a long vigil.
Nachtholm was half-alive already in those
early hours, some farmers beginning the march into the fields, burlap bundles of
seeds strapped across their backs. From those seeds would spring life, but
Frederick knew how fleeting the children of those seeds would flourish - in time
they would rot and bow, food for the future, trapped.
A dim thundercloud seemed to float above
Frederick’s head, and it was obvious he had no wish to speak to anyone, though
his odd, blood-soaked presence sometimes elicited subdued whispers from a
curious passerby. Uncaring of the opinions of the smaller individuals, Derych
made toward the forest, its darkness foreboding but its roots set too strongly
within him for the sergeant to resist.
Frederick passed a man as he began the ascent
up the hill and realized he was one of those he had seen late last night, shovel
in-hand. For the first time in his memory, Derych found himself intrigued and
endeavored to discover exactly what the Jew and several of his comrades had been
doing so late at night with shovels in their dirt-stained hands.
The trees seemed to bend around the entrance
of the forest, forming a great mouth that led into a tunnel of deepening natural
darkness; Frederick entered and felt at home. The dis-ease that the presence of
others brought him faded, as did the fear of the animal boiling forth from his
stomach and slaking its thirst on the blood of strangers.
Birdcalls rang in his ears, and a woodpecker
not far off hammer away at the dead bark of some massive oak, ripping away the
rot to reveal the vitality beneath.
Bending his tall frame under a low-hanging
branch, Derych finally came to a mound of fresh earth. For a moment, he was
puzzled by the sight, with a small stone marker atop the heap, before Frederick
realized it was a site of burial, the work of the men in the night. He peered
down and read the name from the crude tombstone: Jürgen Berkhold.
A comforting roar suddenly rose up and
instantly Frederick cast his eyes toward the sky, seeing a squadron of bombers
overhead, their bellies filled with the capacity for destruction. From the sound
and his sight, he saw they were American, obviously heading for the true
conflict, unaware of the man staring up at them. Derych was both pleased and
saddened at their passing.
His curiosity satisfied regarding the
gravestone and the activity of the Jews. Frederick wandered the forest for the
remainder of the day, comfortable in his crimson-splashed grey uniform, the dark
patches mirroring the shade of the setting sun as Derych began to journey back
to Nachtholm. His muscles ached from traveling the uneven terrain.
In the village, he was forced to reason
again, as when Irwin Wenzel approached him and began to question the status of
young Erlen, and how they had found the village.
"The private is fine. It will take
several days for him to regain consciousness."
Irwin told Frederick that hot soup had been
set out in the makeshift hospice, along with fresh bread; he asked if the
sergeant would enjoy a change of clothes.
"No. We will be returning to the front
shortly."
Any further questions by the chief farmer
were met with absent gestures of Frederick’s head until finally the sergeant
was glad to shut the door on Irwin’s constant words. He breathed heavily, more
tired then he had been during the long journey to the village itself. His body
ached even more, each syllable thrown his way bringing corrosive rust to the
iron body Frederick had cultivated out of necessity.
He partook of the food, checked Garrick’s
bandages and wound and, finding them both in fine condition, surrendered himself
to sleep.
For several days, the cycle was the same -
Derych ranged in the woods during the day, allowing Erlen to recuperate in peace
and avoiding the prying eyes of the people of Nachtholm. To them, he was only a
shadow that visited them in the nighttime now, fleeing at the break of dawn and
the first painting of the sun’s brush. They could get no fix on who or what he
was and so Frederick remained a mystery in the form of a man.
One night the sergeant returned to eat the
food given to him and is startled by a weak voice calling his name. Frederick
turned and saw young Erlen searching for his glasses, which Derych took from his
own chest pocket and slipped onto the private’s face.
Shining blue eyes were magnified in their
sockets as Garrick looked over at him, searching for words that he had
forgotten.
"Sir, have you been the one taking care
of me?"
Frederick nodded, resuming his meal.
"I’m grateful, sir - you’ve saved my
life."
He took a spoonful of soup.
"I had feared that one of them had been
taking care of me. One of them delivers the food you eat."
The sergeant tore off a generous piece of
steaming bread, buttered it and swiftly consumed it.
"You may not care, but I do - I won’t
have a Jew touch me."
He wiped his mouth with the napkin.
"Are there many of them here? We’ll
have to report this place..."
Derych finished his eating, reached to blow
out the lamp, "Be quiet and get some rest. As soon as you’re better you
have to work in the fields to repay your debt."
The house was cast in darkness again, and
Frederick settled in to sleep. It was long in coming, the persistent sound of a
dog barking driving him to distraction. The sergeant did not sleep well.
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