Rounds

Demetri flipped his feeble legs over the edge of his bed. A chill surged through him as his soles touched the floor. Winter was just around the corner. 

The morning guttural cough came as soon Demetri rose to his feet. Each wheeze squeezing his chest into a sharp pain – reminding him once again of his regret to pick up the habit of smoking and of the hefty price that came with it. The sickness of smoke now spread deep into his lungs. 

Demetri picked up his pipe and loaded tobacco into the bowl. Every puff brings me closer to my maker, he thought. A lie he repeated to himself in an effort to conceal his guilt of never being able to quit. The dried leaves crackled as he breathed in the warm smoke into his failing lungs. As he exhaled, another dry heave followed. 

For all its evils, the pipe was also the only thing that steadied the old man’s hand. War would do that to a person, making even the most hardened man jittery. Demetri could still hear war’s echoes. When everything goes quiet – the clashing of blades, the whizzing of arrows, the pleas for mercy and the screams of the dying – he could hear it all. The whispers of a not-so-distant tragedy.

War was over now but the desolation was still felt in the Country. Famine, poverty, sickness and trauma. What used to be themes of ballad or song, were now pillars of everyday life. The once rich and bountiful countryside barely stood on its two legs.

Demetri took one last puff to rid his thoughts of the war. Another cough. The alternative to smoke was dark rum but Demetri was no longer the drinker that he used to be. Senility and hangovers do not mix.

Demetri set his pipe down and began covering himself in extra garments, including an extra thick scarf that he wrapped around the lower half of his face. The pre-winter winds were harsh this year. Some say it was the beginning of the Gods’ wrath for the war. Others, that it was a curse unleashed by a forest witch. Demetri never cared for such superstition. Not when there were more realistic evils just around the corner.

Grabbing a piece of old bread from the kitchen counter, Demetri stepped out of his hut and into the chilly morning. Thick clouds spread across the sky concealing most of the sun’s warmth. With the bread in his hands, he shoved his fists deep into his pockets as he tried to keep himself as compact as possible. A poor attempt to keep what little body heat he had left. 

The cold accentuated the pains in Demetri’s failing body. His joints ached and his muscles stiffened as he limped towards the barn. Far were the days when Demetri could leap out of bed and go for a morning sprint. Nowadays, it would be a full hour or so before his body loosened up. Somedays, the pain never really subsided.

He gave the barn door a huge tug before it burst open. A mule, just as old as him, shook her head to greet him.

“Did you sleep well, my dear?” Demetri said to the animal. 

Demetri loosened the rope of one of the sacks, funneling carrots from it into a bucket. A sour odour wafted from the vegetables. They would be spoiled by the next morning. 

“These are the last carrots for a while. Sorry to say, but it’s back to hay again tomorrow.” Demetri said, placing the bucket down.

The mule slowly munched on the old produce while Demetri gnawed his way through the stale bread. The food would provide them with barely enough energy to get through the day but it would do. They had no choice either way.

Demetri got up from his stool, stretching whatever muscle he still could stretch. Every extension felt like something was going to tear apart. 

Round the back of the barn was an old musty cart, its wood moulded and the iron holding it together browned with rust. Demetri dragged the vehicle towards the mule. It squeaked and groaned at every turn of its wheels. Even the axles were no longer aligned, judging by the way it bopped up and down as it went. 

“Come, my brave little beast.” Demetri said, attaching the cart to his mule. “Let’s fetch some bodies.”

They ventured into the fields. It was eerily quiet but for the occasional flutter of a distant bird. It was hard to believe this was the setting of bloodshed known as the Battle of the Crops. A small skirmish that will form barely a footnote in the war. 

Demetri always questioned its purpose. Essentially it had no bearing in the War’s outcome. But hundreds of men paid the price for a small plot of land that meant nothing to the commanders and kings of the War. 

Wave after wave of shrill cold winds ploughed them head-on. The poor mule shivering, her thinning hair barely able to keep her warm. Demetri took off his wool coat and swung it over her back.

“Hang in there.” he said, patting the beast behind the ears.

Evidence of war became more prevalent the further they got. Snapped arrows stuck out like weeds over a field of discarded swords and axes. Broken shields and helmets decorated the rest of the dried land. 

After every hundred meters, Demetri would pause, pull down the scarf wrapped over his nose and take a sniff. Most days, there would be nothing but the scent of country air. But every so often, the winds would carry a putrid stench.

“Smell that?” Demetri said to his mule as if she understood him. “Today might be our lucky day.”

Demetri now spent his days searching for corpses of the War. This activity served two purposes. The first was the body itself. A copper for a body. That was the exchange. Every fortweek, soldiers of the Kingdom would come by and collect bodies Demetri retrieved. They would be taken back to the city for identification. Families would pour hoping to find lost loved ones so that they could arrange for a proper burial. 

The second was a more personal reason. Demetri sought bodies of old friends and family. He took it upon himself to give them a proper burial. 

In the beginning, collecting dead soldiers was a reliable source of income. But as the bodies quickly ran out, it was barely enough to feed a full-grown man let alone one with a mule. So far, he only found two bodies this fortweek and it cost three coppers for a decent sack of potatoes.

The promising stench of rotting flesh was Demetri’s guide, luring him like a carcass would a vulture. This was the first hint of bodies in over a week, the shift in the northbound winds revealing a new set of corpses to Demetri.

“North?” Demetri said in surprise. “How’d we never think to go North?”

Demetri tugged on the rope attached to the mule’s head. She snorted in complaint but obeyed anyway. The animal got cranky in her old age but was still loyal to Demetri. 

For a while, the journey north was bland. Frozen mud extended far ahead. No sign of life or death.

It was about noon when Demetri found evidence of the War again. Judging by the banners and the types of weapons found, these belonged to the enemy. The lack of his own Country’s banners told Demetri one thing – this was where the slaughter took place, where the Battle of the Crops was won. Strangely enough, nobody in the countryside felt like that was the case. In the end, the after effects of war made them feel all like losers. 

 Demetri led his mule and cart towards where the stench was strongest, even tearing through the scarf that covered his nose. As they continued, the bodies started piling up.

Tens, fifties and even hundreds of them. All foreigners. They looked nothing like him or his countrymen at all. As he scanned the sea of rotting corpses around him, Demetri came to a realisation. These bodies were worthless.

The hatred for the enemy was strong within the countryside. Anything that they owned was deemed nothing of value. And their bodies weren’t worth a single copper to any soldier. You’d have to pay a copper for me to take a foreigner’s corpse, is what the soldiers would say.

From a distance, Demetri saw a body. To his surprise, it was upright. Standing. It was alive. She was alive    .

She was a petite woman and judging by the clothes she wore, she was from the villages, where all of the area’s locals resided. All, but for an old man on the outskirts, collecting bodies for copper.

“Not a place for a lady,” Demetri said, as he approached.

She was startled by his sudden appearance, almost leaping out of her boots.

Demetri raised a hand in the hopes of calming her. “Didn’t mean to frighten you, my dear.”

“It’s… fine,” she replied.

“Demetri’s the name.”

“Katarina.”

“Katarina,” Demetri repeated. “What a lovely name.”

Katarina barely glanced at Demetri before continuing to search the bodies around her. Using her feet, she would roll over the corpses, examining each one’s face before heading onto the next. It was strange to see a lady do such things but Demetri suspected she had a purpose.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I am looking for my husband.

“Was he a soldier?”

Katarina simply nodded, never once lifting her focus from the corpses. “He’s the only thing I have left.”

“The bodies here are mostly foreigners.”

Katarina looked at Demetri with a burning hate in her eyes. “If you are suggesting that I married one of these piece of shit foreigners then you are mistaken.”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Demetri said. 

A thought stopped Katarina in her tracks. “You’re him, aren’t you? The geezer who collects the bodies for the soldiers?”

Demetri nodded.

“Are there many bodies left?”

Demetri shook his head.

Tears started to well in Katarina’s eyes. “They never found his body,” she said. “Are the Gods so cruel that they wouldn’t allow a widow to bury her husband?”

Demetri walked over to Katarina and handed her his spare handkerchief, giving her a kind smile with it. He would have used the garment to stuff his scarf should the smell become too strong but some things were more important than smell.

“I’ve never searched the North,” Demetri said. “Your husband might be here.”

False hope. But in the countryside, false hope is all they had.

They scurried across the battlefield with the mule trailing closely behind. Demetri’s presence didn’t seem to lift Katarina’s spirits but at the very least, she did look a little calmer than she did when she was on her own.

“What does he look like?” asked Demetri.

“Like a commoner. But his right ear is puffed up like a piece of soaked bread and he has a scar on his lip.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

They glanced over the hundreds of bodies that laid on the battlefield. Most were young men, barely into their twenties, their faces already turned blue and the blood from their wounds dried out. Most of them were already half nibbled by crows and maggots and whatever scavengers that roamed nearby. It was a pitiful sight. Despite them being the enemy, Demetri couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. He felt like they should be offered a proper burial. But such progressive ideas will get you shunned in the Country. So, Demetri kept his mouth shut and pressed on. 

About an hour into the search, following body after body of nameless faces, Demetri happened to stumble upon a young soldier wearing the Country’s colours. His eyes stared blankly into the space in front of it. A familiar face.

Demetri crouched to meet the boy, placing his hand gently on his chest, as if to console. “Good morning, Poch,” he said. “So sorry to see you here.”

“You speak to the dead?”

“Only the ones I know. Poch was the first born of friends of mine. Had the brains of a scholarly man, this one. Shame to see such smarts go to waste because of war.”

“Will you return his body to his parents?” 

“No one to return him to. Those two were buried a long time ago. Right before the war started.” Demetri using his palm shut the eyes of the now dead Poch. “Come. Help an old man load this boy onto the cart.”

Katarina grabbed the body by the legs and Demetri by the armpits. The body was cold and stiff and started to reek of decomposition. Poch was large fellow and it took quite an effort to waddle him at the back of the cart. 

The weight was too much for Demetri. He started coughing into his hands before collapsing onto one knee. Katarina rushed to Demetri’s aid, helping him upright. Her eyes widened as she saw blood on his lips and hands.

“There’s blood-“

Demetri cut her off with a wave of a hand. “Sickness, my dear. It’s nothing new to me.”

Katarina handed Demetri back his handkerchief. “Here.” she said, returning it with the same smile he’d given her.

“You are a kind soul,” Demetri replied, as he wiped the blood away. “Come. We have one more stop before the sun leaves us. If we don’t find your husband there, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

The pair circled back southwards, passing through the battlefield once more with Katarina stopping every so often to make sure she didn’t miss her husband. Soon, they left the war riddled land and crossed into lifeless fields once more.

As dusk neared, the temperature dropped even further. Demetri started feeling the chill seep deeply into his body. His lungs were fatigued, each breath getting shorter and shorter. 

After a short hike, a peculiar tree appeared just beyond the hill. The tree was leafless and its branches crawled high into the sky, like veins of plague, before drooping, hunching over the ground. The bark was discoloured into a tarnished silver. Above, crows circled around it, cawing ominously as they approached. 

Katarina noticed the birds swooping down onto a large object which swung from one of the tree’s branches, like the pendulum of a large clock. As they neared, she noticed a second. Then a third. Horror gripped her when she realised what it was – men dangling from ropes around their necks, eyes bulging from their sockets. She felt the blood drain from her face as she fell, landing on her bottom.

“They call it the Hanging Tree.” Demetri said, shuffling ahead. “Stay here.”

Demetri grabbed a tall stool and shovel from his cart before proceeding towards the Hanging Tree. Katarina observed in shock as Demetri cut them free of the rope. One by one, they thudded onto the ground. Katarina found herself shaking profusely.

But Demetri was calm. He had no emotion on his face. He just simply dug three holes for graves and buried each of the dead, sticking a twig into the loose soil as a makeshift grave marker. There were almost twenty markers in total. 

Demetri placed his hands together, as if to say a quick prayer, before returning with his shovel and stool.

“Who are they?” Katarina asked, still visibly shaken.

Demetri threw the shovel and stool at the back of the cart, fatigue clearly written all over his face. “The desperate. Those who have nothing and no one. Those who lost everything.”

“And you bury them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it is the right thing to do.” Demetri tugged his mule away from the Hanging Tree. “Come. Night approaches.”

The rest of the walk was quiet. Katarina was in deep thought, probably thinking about the shocking image of the Hanging Tree. 

Dusk turned into night. Only the winter glowbugs illuminated the pitch-black field. Demetri and Katarina soon found themselves at a junction – one path leading towards the city, the other to the single hut Demetri called home.

“This is me,” Katarina said.

“And this is me.”

“What will you do with Poch?” she asked.

“I will bury him near my home. That way, I can visit him for his parents. It’s the least I can do.”

“Will you help me find my husband tomorrow?”

“You have my word.”

Katarina gave the old man a smile before she went her separate way.

The return journey for Demetri was excruciating. Burying three bodies had taken a great deal out of him. He would have liked to rest, but there was still the matter of burying Poch. 

Demetri eventually arrived, tucking his favourite mule into the barn before giving it a kiss on the nose.

“Sleep well, my dear.” he said. 

With the last of his energy, Demetri dragged Poch’s body around back and began digging his fourth grave for the day. It was only through willpower that he managed to finish. Placing a large rock for his marker, his task was finally completed.

Demetri plucked a few nearby weeds and placed it by his grave. “I’m sorry I don’t have flowers for you, my boy.” 

He said a quick prayer to the Gods before retiring. His body immediately started to shut down as he laid his head on his pillow. Another round without a body. Another day without copper. May tomorrow be blessed by the Gods, he prayed as he fell into a deep slumber.

Demetri’s sleep was ruptured by a bout of heavy coughing, each felt like hundreds of tiny cuts in his lungs and throat. He sat up and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. Startled, he rolled out of bed, stumbling towards the sink. He cupped some water in his palms, splashing some onto his face before gurgling the residual blood from his mouth. It was only seconds before he started coughing blood again. The sickness was at its worst. 

A banging came from the front door. Demetri splashed one more cup of water on his face before answering the door. The first thing Demetri noticed was the snow that had began to drift from the sky. Second, was the soldier that collected the bodies.

“Good Gods. Wipe that blood off your fuckin’ lips.” he said, handing him two copper coins. “For the bodies.”

“Thank you, sir.” Demetri swiped his lips clean, trying his best not to cough.

“Get it together next time.” 

And without another word the soldier left. 

Demetri held the two coppers in his hands. It should be enough to buy some bread on the way back from his rounds. He slipped the coins into his pocket and picked up his pipe. He lifted it up to his mouth, but this time he stopped just as he was about to light it. He snickered before placing the pipe back down. Perhaps one day off from the pipe would be best, he decided.

 He grabbed another piece of stale bread from the pantry before heading to his mule to feed her hay. She didn’t look happy with her fare, but even she knew she had no choice. After the scant meal, he led his mule and cart into the fields. It was a normal day by Demetri’s standards. The only difference was the snow – and the lack of smoking. It made him a little irritable and his hands trembled. He ignored it for now. If it got too much to bear, he could smoke in the evening. 

The freezing winds made Demetri’s life hell. It felt like his bones were strutting to crumble under his weight. The fatigue from yesterday’s rounds aggravated his condition. If it was up to Demetri, he would have stayed in bed. But a promise was a promise. And he wasn’t about to let Katarina down.

Demetri went about his rounds, travelling North once more. He ventured through the battlefield, weaving through the many corpses. But once again, he could not find any soldiers to exchange for copper – nor Katarina for that matter. Perhaps she had decided against the journey because of the snowfall. A wise decision if that was the case.

Demetri started to feel light headed and his cough started to worsen – spitting out blood with every episode. 

“Shall we head home?”

The mule neighed in response.

“Ah yes. The Hanging Tree.”

A thin layer of snow had formed over the ground. From a distance, one could no longer see the bodies and the broken weapons left by the war. For once, the fields didn’t seem like it was a setting for a terrible tragedy.

As he approached the Hanging Tree, he saw a familiar face. 

“Good morning, Katarina.”

Katarina dangled just like the others did, her brown eyes almost falling out of their sockets. By her feet was a dead soldier wearing the same manner of armour as the one from earlier that morning. The soldier had a puffeed ear and a scarred lip. From the purpling of his skin, he had been dead for quite some time.

“You must be Katarina’s husband. My apologies – I never asked for your name.”

The snowfall grew stronger. The rope creaked as Katarina swayed in the wind, her face already turning blue. A storm approached. Demetri cut her down, still racked with coughing. He spat out another chunk of blood, its viscosity making it seem more black than red.

Battling his cough and with an eye on the approaching snowstorm, Demetri grabbed his shovel and hastily dug a grave for husband and wife. His head started to spin and his lungs desperately gasped for air. He didn’t have very long.

He rolled the two into the grave and covered them with the snowy soil. He placed two branches for markers as he always did before letting out a prayer for his new friend and her husband.

The mule whimpered. She knew. She was a smart creature, always aware of what was going on. Demetri untied her from the cart and stroked her mane before giving her a kiss.

“Go on, my dear. Be free.” Demetri slapped his mule on her behind, sending her into a trot towards the villages.

Demetri stumbled onto the ground. Gasping, he crawled towards the Hanging Tree, leaning his back against it. He took a few rasping breaths as he watched his beloved mule disappear in front of his eyes.

As he faded out of consciousness, Demetri wished he had brought his pipe along for one final smoke.