Short Stories

Little Boy in the Grass

"I will tell you the story about the little boy I found in the grass."

I remember it clearly.

-

Gunshots fired in the distance. Smoke tinged the air. I was running. The earth below crashed under my feet. The branches beside reached out to snatch my hair. The soldiers behind were catching up.

They pounded the forest floor in controlled heartbeats as I zigzagged wildly, a hunted hare.

Panic scorched in my chest. These trees were not mine, the forest unfriendly to my foreign presence. My feet knew hot stone and rough streets and the cluttered dark lushness of this place was alien, unwanted.

Their feet still pounded, a steady tramp that radiated dry endurance, that said they would catch me, even if they must run a thousand miles till I collapsed upon the welcoming ground.

Thump thump thump.

My limbs flew everywhere, uncoordinated and haphazard and energy leaked out of me with every desperate leap.

Low monotone sound groaned out from the village behind the soldiers behind me and vibrated in the hollows of my ears, echoing and bending through the trees to thunder over the edges of the valley. A distress call. Our village's very last hope.

But a vain one.

The soldiers that raided our streets not a breadth of sunlight ago are dripping blue with the signature of the Empire, trained to be merciless and cold. And they must have frozen souls indeed to snatch wailing children from arms of comfort and then slaughter the screaming parents. Mustn't leave any witnesses. No one to remember the terror thickening the air or the cruel sight of blazing flames devouring ages of love and labour while the bodies of those working hands lay cooling and forgotten under layers of choking ash. No one to recall the sickened screams that rang throughout the valley.

Unless there was one who got away.

A dull ache throbbed in time with my heart as I thought of the mother and sister I ran from. Guilt and self-disgust writhed in the pit of my soul. My family screeched at me to help them when I turned and fled, my life too much of a treasure to let go. So selfish of me, to save myself so that I may die anyway another day.

My throat burned and closed with a gasping weight of tears and oxygen and I swallowed thickly, trying not to focus on the pain too much.

The thump thump thump was catching up and it flooded my heart with new panic, red smoke billowing in my mind as the chaotic desire to go back, find my family, clashed with the raw need to run and live. I gulped breath into my throat, a sickening exhausted nausea building in the pit of my stomach.

And then I tripped.

Tumbled down a dew-slicked grassy slope, stray twigs scraping at my exposed skin, limbs tangling and bruising together. I came to rest in a thick clearing of tall grass, mud smeared across my cheeks. The air smelled damp and earthy.

I lay there for a second, just breathing, mind scrambling to catch up from where it had been left behind in the trees. B r e a t h e. Cold air soothed my torn lungs and my tired chest heaved in relief.

Silence apart from the forest song. I couldn't hear the soldiers. Grass fronds swayed gently above me, a protective circle of deep, dark green.

And then there was a rustling to my left. Something crept closer. I rolled myself onto my front and tensed my limbs, ready to jump up and bolt.

A face peered through the green, nutmeg-brown skin, locks of chestnut hair falling in front of round hazel eyes. A boy. He crawled into my small clearing and I saw his clothes were cut from fine cloth, embroidered with intricate coloured thread, dyed the many hues of nature with mud, leaves, water.

"You're the Master's son," I said quietly.

He nodded. "Did you get away too?" he asked, in a voice too confident for his small body.

I nodded back.

"They're taking the children away. I can hear them." His eyes swirled with something tired and his tone was laden with flatness. It seemed unnatural that a child this young should be so emotionless.

"What do you mean?"

The boy beckoned me through the grass until we reached the edge of the tree line, where he pulled back the curtain of green to reveal a line of village children, trudging through the forest, their faces stained with varying degrees of grief and hopelessness. Soldiers marched alongside, guns held and their hips, faces impassive.

I shrank back into the safety of the clearing and curled up tight as some energy dragged me back, replusing me, whispering, "Why do they want the children?"

The boy seemed transfixed by the dreary parade through the trees. "For work. For labour. For their armies. They need us. They want us to fight."

He turned to look at me and his eyes were curiously empty of fear, empty of anything but a tiny spark of metal, and even then if I'd blinked I would have missed it. 

"But where does that leave me?" I was a spare part, too young to be killed like the adults, but too old to be considered a child.

The boy blinked at me slowly. "I suppose they'll use you for something. The Empire is huge, and powerful. We will all find our place."

Chills juttered down my spine. He sounded like one of them. Just then there were shouts, and heavy footsteps thundered towards us, crushing the grasses into sharp-smelling paste. I scrambled back, panic shooting through my veins like lightning, hissing, " We have to go! They'll find us."

The boy didn't move, his head turned in the direction of the storm. My breath clogged up in my throat as I lay down deep in the emerald shoots, digging my hands into the soil, wishing the earth would swallow us both up before it was too late. "Move!"

Two soldiers appeared before the boy. From this distance, I couldn't hear them talking, but something was shared between them. The understanding hung heavy in the air like a storm. One of the soldiers took the boy's hand, and they led him off into the trees.

But not before he looked back. Just for a second. He saw me. And I saw him. And there was contentment in his face.

-

I see him now, too.

Across from me on the battlefield. The handle of my weapon is slick with blood. Not mine.

His chestnut hair is longer. Matted to his forehead with sweat and rust-red grime. The same tired flatness in his hazel eyes. He is older now. We both are.

He drips blue, wet paint running down his armoured shoulders, streaming down his face, into his mouth, staining his words and his mind. The blood-stained blue paint of the Empire.

And the honoured fiery orange of the Rebellion rests on my shoulders.

Around us, the battle rages. Screams echo in my ears. Weapons clang and people fall. Good people. Bad people. And everyone in between. The air is cold and bright, stinging his eyes with violence, I can see it. I can almost see him flinch.

We meet again. Everything is different now. Everything is the same.

My heart feels heavy as a stone, as if it might sink any moment, dragging me down with it.

He clutches his weapon tighter and runs towards me, a battle cry tearing from his throat.

My own screaming sounds like laughter.