Grandma would be so proud of us. She had partly predicted it all. To be honest, it was probably based more on general knowledge of the human condition than clairvoyance, but still, she was eerily accurate. And as for me – I would make her proud for knowing exactly what to do since the first signs appeared in the fogs and smokes. I had returned to my den and kept quiet. At least for the ears of men. Many would think that I had given up on life. Alas, I had freed myself from it.
Death raged all around; the screams made in the woods. The deep forest in the middle of the night is neither Christian, Muslim, nor pagan. It is far beyond any man-made adjectives, and it is precisely why it doesn’t mean to harm a soul. It makes one want to pray, whatever that might mean. Spirits want prayer. They don’t want anybody’s life. It is useless to them. They don’t feed on souls but on attention. I couldn’t become invisible for spirits like I did for people, by simply slipping out of sight. Spirits don’t have eyes to distract them from sensing someone’s existence. So, as I am the only one around, I am constantly being talked to. But I don’t mind. I think I am unable to die yet, but I am already unable to go back to being alive. I have my body, blood, and heart. Those together are deadly dangerous.
Some people complain about the weather. Grandma never did. Maybe it was because she had far worse things to worry about. She used to say that one should never lament about something that might kill them. Why give it one more reason to do so? Keeping that in mind, I did not complain about the freezing cold rain and icy eastern wind on November’s new moon. On a cloudy night like this, I could barely see the paths in the forest, but it was impossible for a baby to get lost in its mother’s womb. I could name every protruding root here, so when I stumbled onto something soggy and damp, I knew there was a body again.
I didn’t mind burying them. I didn’t care on which side they were fighting and in which war. This time the corpse whimpered, though, and I froze. Maybe it was a wolf cub? In November? Surely not. The body breathed in harshly. I could leave him right there and do my gravedigging duties later. Some nosy spirits appeared to see what was going on. They didn’t care either way, and this man must have killed many others to make it as far in the carnage as he had. I sat next to him on a wet moss, instinctively looking up to the Moon for guidance, but she wasn’t there. Crispy gusts brought the smell of smoke. I stepped right upon the aftermath of a battle. Disgusting. Some say people are animals, after all, in order to justify all this carnage. We are worse. Animals don’t simply kill. They hunt for survival. I wish I could tell a wolf that one person killed another person because they called god different names. It would die from laughter. I collected my basket, gathered the cloak, and darted back to the cottage. A couple of minutes after midnight when I was getting warm and comfortable by the fire, with Gaia purring on my lap, the guilt crept in. I promised myself that if he was alive by sunrise then this is bigger than me.
I’d never killed anything until I was left alone. I didn’t have the urge, but I also didn’t have the need. Once, as a child, I snuck up on Grandma killing chickens. I thought it was the ultimate betrayal and refused to eat for two whole days. She had killed something she usually fed. She had told me that I was silly and had nothing to be worried about since she had whispered the same thing to the chicken before she slaughtered it. I stopped having chickens after her death. I hunt for pheasants, though. I see nothing wrong with it, as there is no betrayal. I am not pretending to be their friend, and I am not fattening them up in order to consume them later. They know it. I am an enemy with a bow. And it is honest. Now, looking at the man I was nourishing back to health, I felt exactly like I did when I saw Gran kill that chicken. Disgusting. At least his head won’t dance around.
The stranger keeps praying feverishly to Spiritus Sanctus, and the spirits cannot decide which one of them is the holy one. They all claim the prayer at once, and it becomes a mess. He is unconscious most of the time but responds a little to Gaia’s licks on his cheeks. They are not exactly great company. Grandma would surely be petrified and tell me the story about my miserable parents. Because of them, we had no religion and no people around us. I am no less terrified. I have no idea why I take care of this stranger. I know that I am the only one who can keep him alive around here. But why? Why would I? The wound on his left side, right under the ribs, is closing slowly but steadily. The one on the head is worse, and it would probably need sewing up. Disgusting.
Today, he woke up fully for the first time and started to talk to me very fast in a language strangely similar to Latin. It’s a relief that I cannot understand him. When I was feeding him soup, he held my hand. Disgusting. It’s been nine weeks since I dragged this barely alive half-corpse into my cottage. Worst idea I have ever had. All the spirits agree, but one. Her name is Dwynwen, the Celtic saint, a proud patron of lovers and, very fittingly, sick animals. She is delighted.
Grandma was right; this dagger is very sharp. His heart was throbbing, almost as if it was gulping for air, but instead, it was choking on its own blood, wanting to pour out, not to be constrained by the closed circuit it was part of for so many years. Funny thing – the heart. Once separated from the body, helpless to do the bare minimum, to mechanically pump the blood, it was difficult to imagine ruling anything inside the human being, let alone something as powerful as love. I am not sure what is brewing in mine, but this will make an excellent talisman above the front door. Gran used chicken hearts, and they proved effective. I wonder into which drawer I’ve shoved the mummification instruction. Dwynwen was mortified and is now wailing above the fresh grave. I am not a barbarian, though; I used poppy and vervain to make him fall asleep first. Better to fall into eternal sleep than to fall into what he was claiming to be love. I would choose it every time. In a heartbeat.
Photo: Ksenia Yakovleva
Read our “Camouflage” issue in full
RAWGUE.’s 4th issue delved into the grey, moody, and cold atmosphere of winter. Yet it did not sink into the depths of madness or depression. Instead, it embraced this season of hibernation, allowing 31 artists from all over the world to present their timid work beneath a veil of quiet beauty.
