Week 30 - The Message Carrier

The Message Carrier

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Someone had set the forest ablaze. Who? He could not tell. Smoke was all around. There were men screaming, some from pain, some from their battle rage. Ranks were broken and formations left behind. Men were running towards each other and the sounds of combat, while others turned and fled in what they assumed was the other way. Bodies crashed either way. No one could tell which way was which and violence ensued.

It seemed as though it were mere moments ago – there had been order and the sounds of the slow march of soldiers’ feet. Hardened men of discipline had so easily descended into the uncontrollable flow of battle. He could hear swords and shields crashing against one another. He wondered if the men were even aware of whom they were attacking. The smoke was so thick now. He couldn’t see the enemy. He was sure the frontrunners would be blinded as well. Perhaps each side was simply killing their own men by mistake. Slaughtered bodies on the ground would never know the difference. Once the smoke cleared there would only be the remains of battle and the disfigured and dismembered left behind. No accounts would tell the real tale.

It didn’t matter. There was no time to contemplate what would happen during the next light of day. There was no time to contemplate whether his orders had come too late or if they would still be in time. He had to deliver them either way. He ran harder. He had his orders. He had to see them through. Let the other soldiers fight amongst themselves.  He had his job, and that was what he intended to do.

The forest was a deathtrap. Men swung swords and battle axes. Bodies fell and pushed into one another.  Archers were still firing their arrows, although he was fairly certain none of them could know what they were firing at. Arrows fell down, some lit, some not. Men fell down, some alive, some not.

He ran harder. He pushed past people. When swung at, he dodged and ducked. When knocked down, he got up and ran again. His life didn’t matter. The message he carried was what mattered. He had to get out of the melee. He had to get free from the chaos and get his message through. Perhaps the fight had begun too soon. Or perhaps he had been given his orders too late. It didn’t matter. There was still time and crucial decisions were yet to be made.

He had always hated the wars. He had never wanted to line up and charge. He had never wanted to learn how to hack a man’s limbs from his body or hear the death-curdling screams of pain on the battlefield. He had always preferred walls and moats. If he couldn’t get that, he preferred the shield wall and spears of the Macedonian style. If he couldn’t get that, he preferred being well behind the archers. Not out in front. Never out in front.

In truth, he wanted none of it at all. But that wasn’t an option. Service was mandatory and the wars were endless. He had dreamed and prayed for an easy position, for one of the peaceful border limites, but the fates were not so kind. He had seen far too much war and far too many killings. He had hoped beyond hope that peace would have been met before today’s battle begun. He was too close to the front today. He was too near. He was no fighter and everyone knew it. All he was good for was carrying messages. Not that that mattered now. He held out hope that he would get his message through, that somehow it would bring about an end to hostilities. But he knew that was just foolish hope. The battle fully raged on; nothing was going to stop that now.

Still, he pushed himself and ran with all his might.

He became aware that he had stopped, tripped and had fallen at some point. There was an arrow in his back and another in his leg. Who had shot him? He wasn’t sure. Arrows fell all over the place. Archers fired blindly into the smoke and fog, just hoping to hit someone, anyone. Someone had hit him. His companions? His enemy? He’d never know. It didn’t matter. He had a message to deliver. He crawled. He struggled. He strove to pick himself back up. They had their missions and he had his. In his own way, he was just as much a hero as any of the soldiers slashing each other apart for the fate of the empire.

What did it say? He didn’t read it. It wasn’t his place. Was it new intelligence? Had one general seen something the others had missed? Had there been a change of heart? Was he supposed to call off the war? Offer peace? The legionnaires had already marched, but perhaps someone had thought there was still time. He should have opened it. He should have read it. He could have told someone. Anyone. Someone else who could carry the message on.

Who was he? What was his name? It didn’t matter. He had been weighed and measured and now Morta had come and called for him. He was going to bleed to death, the message undelivered. Time would continue without him and no one would remember he had even been here. No one would know what he had come today to do. The war would continue on however it would continue and history would care nothing for him, just another faceless dead body, lost to time and the fates, forgotten.

Week 29 - Blood Feather

Blood Feather

Matthew Ryan Fischer

He dropped deeper below the surface. What was it that spurred him on? What was the driving force – to push his body, to see what he could achieve? Or was there something else, something greater, or something primal that he had to see to? Harder and harder he pushed. Lower and lower he went. One inch at a time, further, always further. One kick more, heading for something, always just slightly out of reach.

He had seen something in the water. It had just been a glimpse. Something in the corner of his eye. What? What was it? What had he seen? Red. The color red. He thought he had seen something red, but he wasn’t sure.

He looked around, but his vision blurred. He didn’t have goggles. He didn’t have any swimming apparatus. He never did. Not here. Here was a local river, just off the road. A river he had played in as a boy. A river, hidden in the woods, mere yards from the city, but it was worlds away. It was dark and murky. He didn’t think about that. The river had shown him something and the river had taken it away. He tried to find it. He had to find it.

There... floating. Just floating there. So close. How had he not seen it before? Just out of reach. Red. Maybe it was a fish, but it wasn’t moving. It seemed like a leaf, but it was so deep and there was only this one. Silently still. Just sitting there. Like it had been waiting for him.

He moved slowly. He didn’t want to swim too quickly and push it away. It simply remained where it was.

It was a feather. A lone red feather. Deep in the river, somehow immune to the currents. He reached out and touched it, then wrapped his palm around it. Just a feather. Lost in the water.

It was colored red like blood. It had been alive, not some molted thing. There had still been life inside it when it was lost. Some poor bird has lost its wings. Lost its life. But there was no bird. No carcass. Nothing. Just the feather; a blood feather. It looked like life, but felt like death, its master missing. He suddenly realized just how deep and alone he really was, here far below the surface. It was just him, deep and dark and hidden away.

He let go of the feather and let it float away, free. Slowly it began to leave him. Slowly he lost sight of it. He watched, eerily calm, strangely out of touch with the world of water around him.

He thought of an angel, passing along, lost, dying or drowned. A tragic collapse as she struck the water, gasping for air, gasping for flight. But wings didn’t work under water. They just soaked through and helped to drag her down. A poor lonely little angel.

He was brought back to reality by a dull ache in his chest. Air. His body wanted air. It was telling him it needed to breathe. His body didn’t care about feathers or angels or random shadowed glimpses.

He very nearly opened his mouth.

Finally he moved. He had to move, or he would drown. He had to return to the surface, but instead he pushed forward momentarily, hoping to see the feather one last time.

But the feather was no more, nowhere to be seen.

It was getting harder. He was exhausted. No matter how hard he pushed himself, he was slowing down, fatigue setting in. He could feel the top of his left shoulder, right where it turned into his neck, and his right side underneath his armpit. The strangest parts ached. Not all over. Not all at once. Just little parts, letting him know they were sore, out of oxygen, shutting down.

The pressure got worse and his ears began to ache. He could feel it in his lungs and in the back of his throat and his nose. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to take a big gulp of air. There was no air here, but his body didn’t listen to reason. It only knew what it needed. It wanted to try to breathe anyway. Maybe he would spontaneously have gills, and maybe they would work. He didn’t think so.

If this were a movie some mermaid might arrive and blow oxygen into his lungs. This wasn’t a movie.

Dark all around him. He had lost the sun. He had lost the surface when he looked where he thought up should be. Below, there was nothing but shadow. He couldn’t tell how deep it went.

Turn back, he thought. Turn back. But where? Which way was back?

So instead, he simply pushed and pushed. He was sure he still knew up from down, surface from depth. He was sure. But he wasn’t that sure. This was no test. This was not some simple physical challenge. He had seen something, felt something. He had to make himself keep going.

Deeper and deeper still. He could almost see her, almost reach her. But he never could. And he never would.

He needed air. He needed air or he would die... He had to return to the surface. He had never been able to swim fast enough, go deep enough. He had never made it. He pushed himself as punishment. He pushed himself to make sure if he was ever given a similar situation that he would not fail again. But he could only go so deep. He needed air. He had to breathe.

She would wait. She would always wait. Down at the bottom, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Week 28 - Hometown Hero

Hometown Hero

Matthew Ryan Fischer

It was already painful; everything was sore, and the game hadn’t even begun yet. He sat on the grass, legs extended, trying to reach his toes… He hated stretching. It was important. It was good – for the muscles and for the game to come. It was going to help him stay young. He knew all that. But boy, did he hate it. His legs hurt already. His muscles felt tired for no good reason. A gift that came from getting older, he supposed. It was a bad sign. This was going to be a long game tonight. He didn’t want to run. He had run so many times. Maybe he could play Quarterback for a while. The problem with that idea was his arm. Everybody here knew he was mostly a short throws sort of guy, and that his accuracy left a lot to be desired. That was no way to lead a team – poorly. He was a receiver. He knew it; they knew it. He was fast, he knew the routes, could still turn on a dime, and had the hands to make touch catches. That’s what they would want him to play. For years now, that was what he had done. Outran people. Ran the Post. His team would expect that. They needed someone to do that. He wasn’t looking forward to it. No, not at all. His legs hurt already and tonight he was being reminded of his age.

There were too many kids here. None of them were even 30. He was sure of that. They seemed like children. What was he doing here? So many new faces. So many “friends” that he only saw one night a week during the summer. People that responded to an activity post or were friends of friends or maybe they had driven by in prior weeks and seen the game being played. So many people who came from all over town, but none came from his past. Where were all those people? Where were his people? The ones he had grown up with. So many new faces. And they all looked so young.

Flag football at the War Memorial. It had been an institution throughout his life. He had played here when he was fifteen, with friends from the high schools across town. They used to fill the field. There were times they might have had too many people that wanted to play. He could remember times they divided the field and had two games at once. That was how many friends he had. That was how popular the game had been. Back then it was twice a week in the summer. Back then they were all a lot younger. Where were they all now? What was he doing here? Alone. Faces all around him, but he was alone.

Maybe institutions were meant to be handed down.

It was just a game of flag football at a park. He couldn’t even remember the real name of the park. The park wasn’t even really at the actual War Memorial. Truth be told, they were closer to the Central Library. But he had always thought of it as the park at the War Memorial, even though he didn’t know the name of it. How many times had he been here? Hundreds? A thousand? More. He was sure there was a sign somewhere around, but he had never looked for it. Why did it matter? It was just a game at a park.

It wasn’t the sort of thing that people would remember. It wasn’t the sort of thing strangers would care about. There would be no highlights. No one was going to write any articles about him... Or about this game... Or about the things he had done. Nobody would care if he caught three touchdowns or dropped three passes. Nobody would care if he played his hardest or just trotted along. He wondered if any of these people with him here, that were about to play, would even care if he did or didn’t show up next week. How many of them even knew his last name?

Reggie Miller for three. The thought came from nowhere, suddenly, popping into his mind. Wrong sport, he knew. But so what? For him, it was always going to come back to that. It was a battle cry. A mantra. Words to psyche himself up by. Reggie Miller for three. There were newer stars. Flashier stars. Stars that had won more. Stars that were younger and more in line with the times. But none of that mattered. For him, it was Reggie, in the air, taking that three-point shot. Reggie for 3. “Boom, baby.” Did any of these kids even know what that meant? Had they held their breath, watching, waiting, and hoping – only to be what?  Amazed… redeemed… inspired? Sure, they might feel that way now, about someone else, but was it the same? Did it mean the same? Maybe people still thought and said things like that, but not in the same way that he knew it, not how he meant it. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Had it been twenty years already? Had he really aged that quickly? He blinked once and time flew away. He was afraid of what might happen if he blinked again.

It wasn’t about greatness. Well, it wasn’t just about greatness. There were greats before and greats after. And there were those that were better. Or at least put up more stats on a piece of paper. But talent wasn’t always as important as tenacity, grit or desire. There was hope. Inspiration. One man making a city feel like giants, feel like anything was possible, if only for one moment. Too much talent and there’s nothing to hope for. There’s only what’s expected. There’s no thrill in seeing or doing what’s expected. There’s no danger. No risk. No proper reward. With that question mark, with that doubt, there was always the risk. The fear of failure. The feeling that something was truly on the line. There was something better in getting hopes up and pinning emotions to a chance and a prayer, and making something out of that chance, no matter how slim. There is greatness in doing more than talent should allow, doing the unlikely, the impossible. Talent is great, but greatness isn’t always talent.

What was it, back in 1995? Or was it ‘94? How did he not know that? How could he have forgotten? It wasn’t so long ago, and yet, it was a lifetime. His son could have been an adult by now if only he had bothered to have one. An adult son who wouldn’t know what his father was talking about.

He should have kissed that girl instead of watching that playoff game. Alone in her room, everyone else in the city occupied. A moment that would have been theirs and only theirs, hidden somewhere mirrored within the moment that everyone else had that day. Theirs and theirs alone, while everyone else would only have whatever it was they had shared that day. He could have stayed there all day. He could have stayed there forever. Twenty years later and he was still in that room.

The game was on. The playoff series was going to be decided. A hero was going to be born. That seemed important. That seemed to matter. Everyone said it mattered. He wanted to be part of that moment, that excitement. And he had gotten a lot of excitement out of the win. Not that he hadn’t also gotten plenty of excitement from kissing the girl. But he had done a lot of that already and he was young and foolish and assumed he would do a lot more of it. There was only one playoff game and there were millions of girls in the world. That seemed to make the difference. Little did he know.

Win or lose, a moment frozen in time, and a man in the air about to shoot a three point attempt. That was a symbol. That was an icon. That was something to be part of. He was a part of that. A small insignificant part consisting of yelling and screaming with thousands of others, but that was still a part, right? He had done something. He had been a part of something. They all had. They all had that shared experience. A moment frozen in time, made real by the emotional investment of those that were there. An emotional moment, scarred across time and space. Nothing could take that away. No picture would mean as much to a stranger, no retelling would ever have the same impact on the young. But for those there, it was everything, if even for just one moment. It was the world. And it was so long ago.

Where were they all now? Where had they gone? Did they still remember? Did they still feel it? Or was it just a fleeting moment, lost? Why weren’t any of them here? Alone, on a field full of friendly faces.

This was going to hurt. He could already feel it. In his knees, and in his muscles. First foot on the field and he could already feel it. He smiled. His team. His teammates. They wanted him to run the post. They needed him to run the post. And that’s what he was going to do. It was going to be a long game, and he was going to end up even more sore than before, but he loved it already. The challenge. The effort. Feeling in control of his body. Feeling in control of something. Once in a while it was all he needed.

Week 27 - Soul

Soul

Matthew Ryan Fischer

“The boy came to visit again. He sees into my soul and wants more, always more. He is the dangerous sort. Of that much I am sure. Anyone who is able to understand what we are and wishes to know more is the most dangerous sort of all.”  -- From the private journal of Alistair Geoffrey Doyles, September 17, 1846.

Alistair had never been known as a social being. But in that moment, he regretted answering his door more than any other day before. A boy, a madman, came knocking and Alistair had made the mistake of answering. Jonathan had been searching for a long time. Alistair, for his part, had changed his name and moved many times over the years and had previously felt secure in his current life. A foolish desire to live out his final days in one place had proven to be his undoing and most foolish indeed.

The boy had identified Alistair, identified his former life, his former deeds. And despite Alistair’s protestations, he would not be turned away.

Alistair had denied his name and denied any knowledge of what the boy was asking about. But Jonathan produced a copy of the book, of Alistair’s confessions.

That book! He has the book. That accursed wretched awful thing. Why had I written it? A moment of weakness. Desperation. The money earned, spent and gone. The absolution felt, momentary and fleeting. That worthless thing! I wish I had never written it.

Alistair tried to maintain his deception, but his eyes betrayed him. The moment he took his eyes off the boy and gazed at the book, Jonathan knew for sure.

My face had given the truth away. Despite all verbal protestations, this boy knew he had me.

The boy pushed his way inside, as if Alistair had the strength required to stop him. The boy explained he simply wanted to talk. They soon found their way to Alistair’s study, sitting across from one another before the fireplace.

Alistair supplied food and drink; Jonathan supplied ample questions.

Questions, always more questions. Who had I killed? Why had I killed? How had I felt? Why did I write it down? Was that part of the ritual? Was that how I gained their powers, their spirit?

It was folly. Alistair had been born as this something. No amount of questions could make this boy into anything. Still, the boy asked, and still, Alistair knew he must answer. The boy was tough. Dangerous. The boy might not have the gift, but he had the ability to instill fright. That much Alistair was sure of.

Alistair looked towards the fire for a moment. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t strong enough. There would be no way to surprise the boy or force him to the flame. Alistair returned to his drink and pondered his too few options.

I was foolish once as a young man. I have been foolish as an old man. I cannot afford to be foolish anymore. This boy will kill me if given the chance.

“And how many have you killed?” Alistair asked.

“More than enough,” answered Jonathan.

Alistair took note – Was it a threat? Or an egocentric boast? Was Alistair meant to be afraid? More so than he already was? The boy was a third his age – taller, stronger. If the prospect of physical violence wasn’t enough, what would idle braggadocio alter? But perhaps the boy was no more than empty air. He words his claim in such a way that it says nothing or anything, thought Alistair. He comes to me seeking the answer. If he had done any of the things he claims, certainly he wouldn’t need to search down an old man...

Alistair was careful in how to proceed. The boy was conducting an interview, not there to hear an old man confess. Regrets and mistakes would be ignored. Slights or challenges would be seen as an affront or attack. Alistair had decided earlier that he would talk so long as the boy wanted to listen. If they were talking there was less of a chance of violence. Still, it seemed as if that were the boy’s only true predilection. Alistair feared greatly that sooner or later everything would eventually come down to the boy’s desire to see blood.

The boy concluded their first meeting, simply saying “I will return.”

Alistair considered fleeing, but thought better of it. He reminded himself of his old age. His body was failing him and he was unfit for the harsh trek of the open road. Besides, he told himself, the boy found me once. He is wont to do so again. And there is no way of knowing how he would react to an attempted flight.

Alistair decided it best not to provoke the boy to violence. If he was here to conduct an interview, why chance turning it into his own execution? Instead, Alistair resigned himself to a new life of looking over his shoulders and being scared of his own shadows.

The boy had said he would return, and so he did.

The boy came every day after that. They would talk morning until dusk. The boy wanted to know everything. The last thing he spoke, at the end of each meeting, was “I will return.” He always did.

During his many visits, they spoke of many things. The boy was always interested in how Alistair became what he became, not why. Alistair surmised that like himself at that age, the boy had little honor and few pangs of moral conscience. Alistair also surmised that the boy couldn’t exactly do what Alistair had done. The boy wanted to drain his victims, feast on their souls, gain their spirit and their power, but apparently despite his best efforts he had always failed. He asked Alistair again and again “how?” How had he done it? How had he made himself into a soul eater?

“Was it some trick or a spell? A demon’s deal perhaps?”

“I’m no sorcerer’s mage.”

“Don’t tell me you were just a writer, for I know that’s untrue. I’ve learned enough. I’ve traced your steps across the continent. You were a man that death followed.”

“No, it was never anything as simple as a story.”

“Then what did you do to them? How were you able to do the things you claimed? Can you really steal some person’s soul? Or maybe you were just a deviant that enjoyed the kill. And afterwards you searched for words that would help you to justify your actions.”

“I won’t lie and claim the killing didn’t excite me. But that was no pleasure. What I did was very real. And what I gained was as well. The good and the bad.” Mostly bad, he thought, but left that part out. The boy was so fanatical, and harsh truths would fail to dissuade him.

Alistair told him of many kills – why he had chosen them and what he had gained. He spoke of vast fortunes, abilities, energy and excitement. The boy made him talk of love and the losses that came from that. The boy seemed more interested in his pain.

“There was a girl. We were children, but we were grown. I miss her to this day.”

“What became of her? What did you do?”

“She was happy. Always. Always so happy… I wanted her happiness more than I wanted her.”

“So you killed her?”

Alistair was silent. Of course he had killed her. It was the only way.

“You killed her,” Jonathan said.

Finally Alistair nodded in agreement. He didn’t open his mouth to speak. He didn’t trust himself not to cry and he wasn’t going to give this boy that power over him.

“You killed her,” Jonathan persisted.

Alistair wondered why the boy wanted to hear the words. Perhaps he needed to. If he had gained nothing from his own killings, perhaps he took something from the misery of others. If that were true, he had come to the right place – Alistair had misery to spare.

Throughout their many visits, Alistair hated to admit it, but he began to appreciate the way Jonathan looked at him – the look of admiration, reverence. Alistair was no hero, but in the boy’s gaze, he suddenly felt he could have been one. For a moment, he forgot his fear and instead wanted to embrace the boy. Alistair had no family. He had been alone for so long now. A companion suddenly appealed to him and for the first time in a long time he regretted his many decisions to remain alone.

This boy could be my son. He’s certainly young enough, and we share so much already. The boy who could be my heir, my own. But he’s no son. He’s not looking for a father figure; he’s looking for a lesson in the destruction of human life. No one searching that darkness which we are is interested in love or redemption.

Yes, Alistair found that he liked Jonathan’s eyes. He liked the way the boy’s gaze made him feel about himself. He wanted to be as important as he was in those eyes. He wanted to feel like an idol, to be the greatness he had once been. It had been so long since he had been anything other than miserable with a sorry heart. It would be good to become something else once again.

Alistair resolved that he would start with the eyes and capture that gaze. After, he would work his way through the rest of the boy, and see what else he might have to offer.

It would be easy. The boy was there, trying to siphon off his strength, but all he was doing was reminding Alistair what it felt like to be alive. He would live again. The boy saw a weak old man, slowed by time. It would be easy to distract and surprise the boy. It would be easy...

Jonathan looked up at Alistair, his eyes bulging, the life being choked out of him.

“I never sleep well anymore… But tonight… tonight I will truly be free.” Alistair smiled. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you... thank you…”

Jonathan slowly lost his struggle. His life began to dim as Alistair’s grew stronger. The old man was ecstatic. But the boy didn’t look scared, no not at all. He had a solemn calm, a petulant smirk. He stared the old man down, and the last thing he said was “I will return.” For one moment, Alistair felt his grip weaken, for just a moment his resolve faltered, and for that moment he feared the boy just might be a man of his word.