THE CROSSING
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
He woke to the smell of death.
The acrid smoke from burning buildings, mixed with the night mist, had formed a crust over his closed eyes. He sat up, spit several times into a corner of his shirttail, and scrubbed the eyelids. The air had a dry taste and he did his best to create saliva to ease a painful and parched throat.
From a young age, his father had taught him to use the stars as a pathfinder, and for that he was grateful. Before sleep had overpowered his will to continue, he estimated the crossing was 60 miles to the east, and time wasted was now his greatest enemy. A day earlier, he walked with another, now alone, he felt a vulnerability that brought uncertainty and fear. The land was stripped of life; war had reached into every beating heart whether plant or animal. As for man, he started this, and did not deserve mention.
His direction was marked by a line of six rocks placed hours earlier. Sighting a distant mountain to the right of this line, he scattered the formation and commenced walking. Late in the morning, a grinding sound of metal on rock caused the man to look back. An old man in a two wheeled cart pulled by a mule was slowly approaching. His first inclination was to the leave the road and seek shelter in an abandoned hazelnut grove trailing off to his right and meandering up a hillside. Perhaps twenty steps into the grove, he stopped and turned. A soft voice in the still air whispered “Kindness and compassion are faithful companions, no man can remain an island.”
The farmer’s face was struck with a palsy that contorted his speech, but managed to expel “Danylo” and slapped his chest. Poking the man now seated to his side, he raised his head as if asking for a reply, “Otto” was the answer, and the traveler turned to the road ahead saying no more. Since childhood he played a walking game, 2,000 steps to a mile, and even as the mule pulled the cart, his subconscious mind counted the way forward. The crossing was now 53 miles to safety, to freedom, a new life.
An hour or so later, Danylo reached under the bench and tossed over a sack saying “Eat.” Otto turned, his expression was both one of surprise, and indebtedness. This was a time of hoarding, each man for himself, survival at whatever the cost. Inside was a peach, a half loaf of bread, and a chunk of pork seemingly off the side of the backbone, the most tender of parts. He was ravenous, and yet determined to eat sparingly. Several bites of peach soothed his raw throat, and he closed his eyes to better sense the liquid dripping down. He alternated between bites of bread and pork, finishing with two final bites of peach. He carefully closed the sack, handing it back with his left hand while his right palm tapped his heart in gratitude. The goat wineskin pouch was passed back and forth several times, each with a nod and a smile.
The oppressive rays of afternoon sun fell unmercifully upon their neck and shoulders, while the bite and irritation of swirling midges added to the discomfort. Eventually, the mule wearily slowed its gait, and the farmer pulled reins stopping the cart. Leaning forward, he slapped the rear of the animal while shouting “Borja, Borja,” and grinned joyfully to Otto, signaling a close companionship between man and beast. A water bag was placed over the mule’s head, and it eagerly lapped as the tail kept time swishing against the seat. The two men stood by the large wheel stretching arms and legs when suddenly a rifle shot shattered the silence.
The animal, startled by the sound, instinctively bolted forward, and Otto quickly reacted by running to catch up, throwing his arms around the massive neck, and digging his heels into the road, eventually bringing the cart to a stop. The farmer had disappeared from sight when Otto turned and looked back. Stepping away to gain a broader view, he was spied sprawled in the tall dry grass, and in short bursts of effort, pulling his body further into the field. Without hesitation, and disregarding an unseen enemy, he ran toward the fallen man. A second shot rang out and a nearby rock splintered, hitting his face like shrapnel from an exploding bomb. In one swift motion, he reached down, hooked his arms under shoulders, and dragged his companion forward while seeking protection. After stumbling, falling twice, and now exhausted, he dropped him behind a tree, and turned his gaze back to the road. No movement was observed, and only a hee-haw from the mule permeated the air.
The bullet entered and passed through the left shoulder, leaving precious blood oozing from both sides. Otto removed his shirt and fashioned a tight wrap using the man’s underarm as a fulcrum. With the tree as a backrest, he pulled the farmer across his legs, and rested his head against his stomach. As if tending to a newborn, Otto brushed dirt from Danylo’s face and fingered hair away from his eyes. The man looked up trying speak, but only emitted sounds that were not understood, closed his eyes, leaving a faint smile from chapped lips.
A rifle shot struck the back side of the tree, and the vibration was felt along his spine. If blood could carry an emotion, it was anger that welled up, his face flushed with heat and like a balloon ready to pop. He leaned out from behind the tree shouting, “Why do you taunt us so. Kill us or let us live, it is for you to decide. Are we not the same, we bleed, we love, we seek peace; must there always be war.” He fell back winded, and gasping for air. No other words mattered.
Hours into darkness, both men shivered uncontrollably. Otto lifted his friend aside and quietly walked back to the cart to fetch a tarp for cover. The mule stirred but quickly fell back asleep. Angered that he did not mark his return carefully, Otto struggled to find their hiding place, and took the risk of softly calling out for direction. A cough repeated several times was a guideline, and warmth allowed both to sleep soundly for the remainder of the night.
A glint of morning light served as an alarm to rise. The farmer, faint from loss of blood struggled to move on his own, and quickly fell back exhausted. He looked up to Otto and pointed to his left palm, “Borja, Borja.” He then pointed to his right palm, “Otto,Otto” and then gripped the two hands together in a tight fist shaking it up toward Otto’s face. Otto nodded, signaling he understood. With effort, the men stood. Otto lifted the farmer’s left arm over his shoulder, and gripped his waist. Slowly they made their way to the road, only to discover the cart and mule missing.
Their walk was more of a stagger with Otto calling out steps, one, two, three, four, and then repeating the cadence. As if to reply, a rifle shot rang out, a brief pause, another burst, and followed by a final two. It was clear to Otto the weapon was not pointed in their direction, and perhaps an answer was sent that war indeed brings only sorrow, and that life deserves a second chance.
As they crested the hill, the road led down into a valley that seemed familiar to Otto. If his memory was correct, the crossing was closer than he had imagined. Something moved in the distance that caught his eye. He was either hallucinating or the cart and mule stood under a large tree beside the road. Shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare, he was overjoyed to confirm the sighting and tried to rouse his fellow traveler by pointing and shouting. Danylo tried to raise his head but could not speak, and showed no response to the news. Otto sat him down on the side of the road and said he would soon return. As the cart neared, the man was no longer sitting, but lying on his side in a fetal position, there was no movement. Otto feared his companion had passed to another dimension, and struggling to find a pulse, accepted the loss with head bowed and tears of anguish. Left alone once again, an emptiness returned.
The family referred to the land as “Grandfather’s Farm” and wheat was the principal crop. Before he left, Otto and his sister replaced the weathered crosses in the cemetery plot with freshly painted white markers, and planted a new sunflower garden around the border. Danylo will feel welcomed to join the others, thought Otto, and the barn, soon to house his beloved mule was just down the slope. Nine months is a long time to be away, and he wondered how his sister had fared without his help. She was a strong woman who in the past, endured great hardship, but running the farm alone was a Herculean task.
As the dark moonless night made further travel dangerous, he pulled off the road and into a field. He removed the harness from the mule and tied Borja to a tree. Coaxing him to lay in the grass, Otto nestled near his belly for warmth and slept soundly.
It was midday when the crossing came into view. Locals laughed that the river was a mile wide and an inch deep, and although not quite so shallow, it served as a dividing line for centuries among folks who often disagreed, and occasionally fought. The final miles melted away as his thoughts wandered over all that was missed. He knelt at the water’s edge and drank hardily, removed his pants and shoes and bathed as best he could.
The road to their farm was once lined with Scot’s pine, now barren from firewood cutting during the difficult years. He closed his eyes and visualized the restoration they could accomplish in the years ahead. A final turn, and the farm appeared below. He was grateful to see a good portion of the fields planted, and the tillers waving in the breeze felt like a million hands saying “Welcome, we’ve missed you.” Passing the cemetery, he looked to the back of the cart and spoke to Danylo, “Your new home my friend.” Even from a distance, he knew it was his sister, standing by their front door looking his way. He stopped the cart, and stood waving and shouting. The shriek echoed up the hill as she ran.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
He woke to the smell of death.
The acrid smoke from burning buildings, mixed with the night mist, had formed a crust over his closed eyes. He sat up, spit several times into a corner of his shirttail, and scrubbed the eyelids. The air had a dry taste and he did his best to create saliva to ease a painful and parched throat.
From a young age, his father had taught him to use the stars as a pathfinder, and for that he was grateful. Before sleep had overpowered his will to continue, he estimated the crossing was 60 miles to the east, and time wasted was now his greatest enemy. A day earlier, he walked with another, now alone, he felt a vulnerability that brought uncertainty and fear. The land was stripped of life; war had reached into every beating heart whether plant or animal. As for man, he started this, and did not deserve mention.
His direction was marked by a line of six rocks placed hours earlier. Sighting a distant mountain to the right of this line, he scattered the formation and commenced walking. Late in the morning, a grinding sound of metal on rock caused the man to look back. An old man in a two wheeled cart pulled by a mule was slowly approaching. His first inclination was to the leave the road and seek shelter in an abandoned hazelnut grove trailing off to his right and meandering up a hillside. Perhaps twenty steps into the grove, he stopped and turned. A soft voice in the still air whispered “Kindness and compassion are faithful companions, no man can remain an island.”
The farmer’s face was struck with a palsy that contorted his speech, but managed to expel “Danylo” and slapped his chest. Poking the man now seated to his side, he raised his head as if asking for a reply, “Otto” was the answer, and the traveler turned to the road ahead saying no more. Since childhood he played a walking game, 2,000 steps to a mile, and even as the mule pulled the cart, his subconscious mind counted the way forward. The crossing was now 53 miles to safety, to freedom, a new life.
An hour or so later, Danylo reached under the bench and tossed over a sack saying “Eat.” Otto turned, his expression was both one of surprise, and indebtedness. This was a time of hoarding, each man for himself, survival at whatever the cost. Inside was a peach, a half loaf of bread, and a chunk of pork seemingly off the side of the backbone, the most tender of parts. He was ravenous, and yet determined to eat sparingly. Several bites of peach soothed his raw throat, and he closed his eyes to better sense the liquid dripping down. He alternated between bites of bread and pork, finishing with two final bites of peach. He carefully closed the sack, handing it back with his left hand while his right palm tapped his heart in gratitude. The goat wineskin pouch was passed back and forth several times, each with a nod and a smile.
The oppressive rays of afternoon sun fell unmercifully upon their neck and shoulders, while the bite and irritation of swirling midges added to the discomfort. Eventually, the mule wearily slowed its gait, and the farmer pulled reins stopping the cart. Leaning forward, he slapped the rear of the animal while shouting “Borja, Borja,” and grinned joyfully to Otto, signaling a close companionship between man and beast. A water bag was placed over the mule’s head, and it eagerly lapped as the tail kept time swishing against the seat. The two men stood by the large wheel stretching arms and legs when suddenly a rifle shot shattered the silence.
The animal, startled by the sound, instinctively bolted forward, and Otto quickly reacted by running to catch up, throwing his arms around the massive neck, and digging his heels into the road, eventually bringing the cart to a stop. The farmer had disappeared from sight when Otto turned and looked back. Stepping away to gain a broader view, he was spied sprawled in the tall dry grass, and in short bursts of effort, pulling his body further into the field. Without hesitation, and disregarding an unseen enemy, he ran toward the fallen man. A second shot rang out and a nearby rock splintered, hitting his face like shrapnel from an exploding bomb. In one swift motion, he reached down, hooked his arms under shoulders, and dragged his companion forward while seeking protection. After stumbling, falling twice, and now exhausted, he dropped him behind a tree, and turned his gaze back to the road. No movement was observed, and only a hee-haw from the mule permeated the air.
The bullet entered and passed through the left shoulder, leaving precious blood oozing from both sides. Otto removed his shirt and fashioned a tight wrap using the man’s underarm as a fulcrum. With the tree as a backrest, he pulled the farmer across his legs, and rested his head against his stomach. As if tending to a newborn, Otto brushed dirt from Danylo’s face and fingered hair away from his eyes. The man looked up trying speak, but only emitted sounds that were not understood, closed his eyes, leaving a faint smile from chapped lips.
A rifle shot struck the back side of the tree, and the vibration was felt along his spine. If blood could carry an emotion, it was anger that welled up, his face flushed with heat and like a balloon ready to pop. He leaned out from behind the tree shouting, “Why do you taunt us so. Kill us or let us live, it is for you to decide. Are we not the same, we bleed, we love, we seek peace; must there always be war.” He fell back winded, and gasping for air. No other words mattered.
Hours into darkness, both men shivered uncontrollably. Otto lifted his friend aside and quietly walked back to the cart to fetch a tarp for cover. The mule stirred but quickly fell back asleep. Angered that he did not mark his return carefully, Otto struggled to find their hiding place, and took the risk of softly calling out for direction. A cough repeated several times was a guideline, and warmth allowed both to sleep soundly for the remainder of the night.
A glint of morning light served as an alarm to rise. The farmer, faint from loss of blood struggled to move on his own, and quickly fell back exhausted. He looked up to Otto and pointed to his left palm, “Borja, Borja.” He then pointed to his right palm, “Otto,Otto” and then gripped the two hands together in a tight fist shaking it up toward Otto’s face. Otto nodded, signaling he understood. With effort, the men stood. Otto lifted the farmer’s left arm over his shoulder, and gripped his waist. Slowly they made their way to the road, only to discover the cart and mule missing.
Their walk was more of a stagger with Otto calling out steps, one, two, three, four, and then repeating the cadence. As if to reply, a rifle shot rang out, a brief pause, another burst, and followed by a final two. It was clear to Otto the weapon was not pointed in their direction, and perhaps an answer was sent that war indeed brings only sorrow, and that life deserves a second chance.
As they crested the hill, the road led down into a valley that seemed familiar to Otto. If his memory was correct, the crossing was closer than he had imagined. Something moved in the distance that caught his eye. He was either hallucinating or the cart and mule stood under a large tree beside the road. Shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare, he was overjoyed to confirm the sighting and tried to rouse his fellow traveler by pointing and shouting. Danylo tried to raise his head but could not speak, and showed no response to the news. Otto sat him down on the side of the road and said he would soon return. As the cart neared, the man was no longer sitting, but lying on his side in a fetal position, there was no movement. Otto feared his companion had passed to another dimension, and struggling to find a pulse, accepted the loss with head bowed and tears of anguish. Left alone once again, an emptiness returned.
The family referred to the land as “Grandfather’s Farm” and wheat was the principal crop. Before he left, Otto and his sister replaced the weathered crosses in the cemetery plot with freshly painted white markers, and planted a new sunflower garden around the border. Danylo will feel welcomed to join the others, thought Otto, and the barn, soon to house his beloved mule was just down the slope. Nine months is a long time to be away, and he wondered how his sister had fared without his help. She was a strong woman who in the past, endured great hardship, but running the farm alone was a Herculean task.
As the dark moonless night made further travel dangerous, he pulled off the road and into a field. He removed the harness from the mule and tied Borja to a tree. Coaxing him to lay in the grass, Otto nestled near his belly for warmth and slept soundly.
It was midday when the crossing came into view. Locals laughed that the river was a mile wide and an inch deep, and although not quite so shallow, it served as a dividing line for centuries among folks who often disagreed, and occasionally fought. The final miles melted away as his thoughts wandered over all that was missed. He knelt at the water’s edge and drank hardily, removed his pants and shoes and bathed as best he could.
The road to their farm was once lined with Scot’s pine, now barren from firewood cutting during the difficult years. He closed his eyes and visualized the restoration they could accomplish in the years ahead. A final turn, and the farm appeared below. He was grateful to see a good portion of the fields planted, and the tillers waving in the breeze felt like a million hands saying “Welcome, we’ve missed you.” Passing the cemetery, he looked to the back of the cart and spoke to Danylo, “Your new home my friend.” Even from a distance, he knew it was his sister, standing by their front door looking his way. He stopped the cart, and stood waving and shouting. The shriek echoed up the hill as she ran.
RICHARD SWAIN