by Kate Elliott
“Give us water,” said one of the women. She was filthy, skinny, and her hands and arms were a mass of red sores. Beside her, an emaciated man reloaded the musket.
Shaking, Jontano stared them down, but by that time Mama appeared in the door with the pistol and Uncle Martin leaned out of the second-story window, his musket propped on the flowerbox, pushing aside the leafy stems of carrots. He had no legs now, but he had once been a sniper in the militia.
The ragged band retreated. Mama stuck the pistol in her belt and hurried out. With Aunt Martina’s help she carried Otto inside, leaving Jontano on guard while Uncle Martin dragged himself down the stairs and together with the two women treated Otto’s wound.
It took Otto five days to die, and because of that, everyone was too busy to scold Stepha for looting along Murderer’s Row.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she whispered to Jontano in the bed they shared with the two surviving youngest cousins, who were asleep. “Why should I care if I get killed, anyway? The Marrazzanos will never leave. And even if they did, I don’t have any friends left, and no Trassahar boy will ever want to marry me because I’m just a Marrazzano whore.”
They had saved the stub of a candle and they lit it now, while the house was quiet. Great-Uncle Otto’s body lay in state in the parlor, until the burial tomorrow. He was the last but one of his branch of the family, having lost wife, sons, and all but one of his grandchildren to the war. He and his surviving daughter-in-law had fled to the city three years ago after their village had been razed, but she had died of a fever last winter, and now only little Judit remained, snoring softly beside Jontano.
Stepha played with the marbles, turning them round so that highlights of bright color caught and winked in the light, yet Jontano could not help but be drawn to the cards once more. They were shaped like playing cards, made of stiff cardboard cut into rectangles as large as his hands, but they were like no deck he had ever seen. A plain hatched pattern of black and white was printed on the backs. The front of each card looked as if it had been painted lovingly by a gifted hand. He spread the deck out to examine them.
A crane stands on one leg in a pool, its form silhouetted in a sunset of red and gold.
A fetid marsh stretches to the horizon, marked by small hummocks and a few twisted old trees.
The restless sea, infinite, surges and swells, without any sign of the safe harbor of land.
A blindfolded woman dressed in a shift runs through a dark forest. Spiders and strange, unsightly creatures peer at her from the branches. As she runs, unseeing, she is stepping on a snake.
Two birch trees bend, their highest branches intertwining so that they form an arch, that leads . . . but here the artist had depicted a haze of golden sunlight in which Jontano could make out only a suggestion, of Trient, perhaps, a golden city where once Trassaharin and Marrazzano lived in peace, together.
And the spring forest, his favorite, the one he never tired of looking at.
As he ran his fingers over the painted surface, he could almost feel the touch of the painter’s brush, as if by concentrating hard enough he could become the painter painting the card, as if he could see through the painter’s eyes the act of creation, the grinding of the paint, the careful preparation of the brushes and the backing, each brushstroke, each spot of color laid on with exact care.
When he touched the pale green buds of the spring forest, he could feel himself walking there along the path which wound through the wood, darting this way and that through clumps of goldenrod and violets. It sloped down, then crossed a narrow river and ascended a hillside. He walked up. Loam gave under his boots. Wind brushed his face, bringing the scents of the dense forest to him. He heard the rustle of birds above and the little scrabblings of rodents below. A spare outcropping of rock thrust from among the trees. He scrambled up onto it and, turning, saw the land below him, curved like a bowl, filling the graceful little valley with trees and emerald meadows. Suddenly he realized this was Trient—but Trient without the city, without the fighting, at peace, in the quiet of a spring morning.
A crash tore him out of the forest.
He lay in the crowded bed, frozen, feeling Stepha snoring against him—she always had a cold—and listened to the pound of the Marrazzano cannon. They had launched a night attack. Little Judit woke up and began to cry.
Jontano stuffed the cards into his worn but clean pillowcase and gathered the little girl into his arms. After a while she fell asleep, and he did as well, though the cannon boomed intermittently and once an explosion sounded very near them. What did it matter if they were killed in their sleep? At least it would spare them the agony of dying. So he slept, and dreamed of the spring forest.
At dawn as he and Judit walked hand-in-hand to the old central park that was now the main cemetery—all the other graveyards being full—the little girl tugged on him until he leaned down to hear her whisper.
“I dreamed that I was in heaven with Grandpa. It was all the prettiest forest, and a red and yellow bird sat on my fingers. And there were flowers.”
Aunt Martina and Cousin Gregor carried the body wrapped in the most threadbare sheet, the only one they could spare for burial. Uncle Martin, ever quick to see the twisted humor in any situation, had waved good-bye to them where he sat on guard in the one unboarded upstairs window and then shouted after: “See, it’ll be the last burial in this house—we’ve got no more sheets to spare!”
They paid the gravediggers three coppers and stood by while a hole was dug next to the others in their family. Jontano led Judit to each wooden cross in turn, Stepha following at his heels: Papa’s grave, the oldest one there, Jono’s two brothers and one sister, Baby Lucia, cousins, an aunt, and uncles. More men than women, because the men all went to the militia, as Cousin Gregor would go next month when he turned fifteen, as Jontano himself would go next year.
Stepha stared at the graves, dry-eyed. Her parents weren’t here. Their graves lay on the other side of the lines, and everyone knew that at least one of her brothers fought in the Marrazzano army, but Mama had taken the girl in because she and Stepha’s mother were first cousins, and no woman with even a trace of Trassahar blood in her was safe on the Marrazzano side.
It was another clear day. For once the Marrazzanos weren’t shelling Trient. One of the cousins had died while burying his own father. They buried Great-Uncle Otto without much ceremony, and Mama decorated the grave with a few shoots from his beloved potato plants. Here and there on the overgrown grass that was all that was left of the once-manicured park, other families stood, burying a newly lost relative. Dogs nosed at fresh dirt. The gravediggers threw stones at them.
“This park used to be so lovely,” said Mama to Aunt Martina as they walked back. The silence lay heavily on them, it was so unusual. “Do you remember?”
“All the trees,” said Aunt Martina in her hoarse voice. “I remember all the trees.”
Not one was left, of course, not even the stumps, all cut down and dug out for firewood. Jontano remembered the trees vaguely, too, from picnics, from running down by the lake, from Papa’s canvases and sketches, flowering tulip trees, elm trees, beech, oaks and birches, ash and aspen, cherry with its spring blossoms and apple and pear.
“It all used to be trees,” he said suddenly, and Mama looked at him questioningly. “Trient. The city. Before the city was here it all used to be trees, one great forest. And it was quiet. It was peaceful then.”
Aunt Martina snorted. “Except for the wolves howling at night. There are always wolves, Jono. Don’t forget them.”
“I’d like to be a wolf,” said Stepha, “and rip out the throats of my enemies.”
Little Judit burst into tears.
“You’ve scared her, Stepha,” snapped Aunt Martina. “I shouldn’t have to remind you, but I’ll whip you if I’ve found you went out prowling around Murderer’s Row again.”
Now Stepha began to cry as well, so they looked properly like mourners as they came home empty-handed.
The house was quiet when they got back. Uncle Martin sat on his chair, elbows and musket propped in the window, and smoked a pipe.
“Where’d you get that tobacco, you good for nothing?” scolded Aunt Martina. “Did you sell the rest of my silver forks?”
Uncle Martin merely grinned at her and flourished the pipe. He had a network of old friends. Once a week they carted him off to a mysterious place in town where only men from the militia were allowed to congregate. When Uncle Martin came home from these jaunts, he always had a new piece of news from the front, and occasionally a trinket for the children or some luxury item for the women—yarn, lamp oil, a piece of fruit, once a pair of good shoes that, with a bit of paper stuffed in the toes, fit Aunt Martina perfectly.
Aunt Martina called him a few rude names, but she was too weary to really lay into him, as she usually did—she and Martin liking good arguments. They argued about everything, the King, the Parliament, the Marrazzano generals, battles fought four hundred years before, treaties signed and broken. Uncle Martin was a good Royalist: He believed in the Trassaharin King, whom, Martina reminded him, had escaped years ago to another country where he lived in peace and plenty; he believed in the Parliament, and in the cause. Aunt Martina believed that they were all of them, Trassahar and Marrazzano kings, generals, and ministers alike, scavengers feeding off the body of the farmers and the shopkeepers and the artisans, who had once populated Trient and the surrounding countryside without civil war, marrying each to the other with more attention to economic considerations than to blood ties.
So Mama, half Marrazzano, had married into a good solid Trassahar craftsman’s family. No one had thought twice about it, because her own family were craftsmen, tile makers, and she had a good dowry, a fine hand for painting pottery, and liked well enough the man who became her husband. So she had in her turn fostered in her cousin’s daughter, Stepha.
So Uncle Martin, Royalist that he was, patted Stepha on the head when she brought him up his dinner of potatoes and onions, and told her that she’d had an offer of marriage.
Stepha dropped the plate. She began weeping, but whether over the shattered plate or the marriage offer Jontano couldn’t tell. No one scolded her. Aunt Martina scooped up the precious food and Uncle Martin ate it from a tin cup.
“Who would offer for me?” Stepha asked through her sobs.
“My old friend Zjilo Berio.”
“He’s only got one arm,” objected Aunt Martina.
“Which he lost fighting,” said Uncle Martin. “His wife died last winter, and he’s got the two little ones now.”
“They had the three children,” said Mama, having come upstairs to see what the commotion was about.
“They had three, it’s true, but he lost the boy to a sniper’s bullet one month ago.”
“Ah,” said Mama. Jontano saw her wipe a speck from her eye. He wasn’t sure if it was a tear or not.
“How old is he?” asked Aunt Martina.
“About thirty.”
Aunt Martina considered this. “That’s not too bad.”
“That’s ancient!” protested Stepha.
Uncle Martin stared her down, and she wiped her nose and clasped her hands obediently in front of her blouse. But she wrung them, twisting her fingers about each other, and Jontano couldn’t tell whether she liked or was terrified of the idea of marrying a man as old as thirty. Jontano didn’t know what he thought of it. He’d known Stepha so long that he couldn’t imagine her being old enough to marry, even though she was almost two years older than he was.
When Uncle Martin spoke again, he measured his words carefully. “Zjilo is a good man. We fought together. He never raised a hand to his wife, though she came from an aristocratic family and spoke down to him once the war came and they couldn’t have the luxuries they had before.”
“He’s rich still!” Aunt Martina leaped on this point. “I thought the family lost their warehouse. I thought they had nothing.”
“Or you’d have pursued him yourself?” Martin grinned at her. “The family kept something by, or must have. He’s taking the children out of Trient. He can’t bear it any more for their sake now that he lost the boy. He’s afraid of losing the little girls, too. They’ve a small estate in Kigori.”
“There’s no way in or out of Trient,” said Mama suddenly. Jontano felt more than saw the pain on her face, in her body. His eldest brother had died that way, trying to get out of the city to fetch the herbs—the apothecary having long since run out of such supplies—that kept Baby Lucia’s heart going. So the two had, in a way, died together.
Martin snorted. “How do you think this tobacco got here? There are ways, if you’ve enough money, or important enough news, and are willing to run the gauntlet and take the risk. It would be a good life for you, Stepha, but if you agree to it, you must understand that you might not live through the crossing. Zjilo’s agreed to take Judit, too, now that she’s alone, and raise her as his own.”
Stepha glanced over at Jontano, but he only shrugged. He tried to imagine what it would be like without her, but could not.
“Why does he want me?” Stepha asked sullenly. “To use me as a servant and a whore?”
Uncle Martin slapped her. This time, though, she didn’t begin to cry. Jontano saw something different in the way she stood, as if she had already made a decision but was refusing to give it away easily. “As a favor to me, my girl, and don’t you talk back to me again. He needs a wife. A young girl like you will be strong enough to do the work and bear him more children. You’re a pretty girl, too, when you’re not making faces and acting wild. If we don’t get you out of Trient, you’ll either get shot or end up in the marketplace with the rest of the goods that are bought and sold.”
Stepha flinched.
“Martin!” scolded Aunt Martina, but Martin looked at her gravely. Whatever Martina saw in Martin’s gaze caused her to nod her head once, shortly, and gesture at him to go on. Jontano watched in confused silence.
“When Zjilo began talking of leaving, of getting a new wife, I reminded him that you’ll be sixteen next month and that you’re a good girl and better off out of Trient. He doesn’t care that you’ve got Marrazzano blood. If you agree and are a dutiful wife to him, you’ll have a good life, with servants, land, a good kitchen and decent clothes always for yourself and your children.”
Abruptly Mama spoke. “Can he get us out, too, Martin? All of us?” Her voice held a passion Jontano hadn’t heard in it for years. Ancient memories resurfaced, clawing out of him, growing, consuming, memories of happiness, of Mama and Papa planning the garden, sketching new patterns for plates and vases for the family business, and in her voice as well he thought he heard a whispering note of hope, that somewhere peace might be found, a place where happiness could, grain by grain, brick by brick, be built again.
As if the Marrazzano guns had opened up again, Martin’s next words shattered that fragile thread linking Mama, linking Jontano himself, to her dream.
“Do you have a thousand florins?”
She gasped. It was an enormous sum.
“Relatives to go to? We’ve got nothing but what we have here, Constance. Zjilo stayed this long because of his wife’s family, and because of the risk to the children. But they’ll die quickly enough in this hellhole, so why wait? I wish him luck. I wish we hadn’t lost everything and everyone, but what’s the use? We can’t leave.”
“We mustn’t leave,” said Aunt Martina. Her voice, forever scarred by the men who had raped her and then tried and failed to kill her by cutting her throat, sounded hoarser than ever. “That would give Trient to the Marrazzanos. Why else have we suffered? What have our beloved ones died for? I will stand here until the day I die rather than run away and give it to those bastard Marrazzanos.”
Stepha stared at Martina. Mama walked to the window and looked out over the city. Her face was pale and the line of her jaw tight with an emotion Jontano could not understand, knowing only that he loved her desperate
ly for her strength—the strength that had allowed her, of all of his family, to survive when the rest had perished. All three of her brothers, her sister, her husband and children, her parents, all gone, leaving her with in-laws and one last child. Uncle Martin got a funny look on his face, and he took Martina’s hand in his own and kissed it, as a lord gives respect to a lady.
Martina made a noise in her throat, then pulled her hand free from his. “Huh,” she said caustically. “All that fraternizing with former officers is giving you airs above your station, Martin. I hear old Widow Angelit is looking for a new husband.”
“Ha! She’s buried four already. I’d rather not know my own fate, thank you.”
“I’ll go,” Stepha blurted out.
That simple statement brought its own, new silence to the room. It was so quiet that Jontano heard the distant yell of hawkers in the Wildmo marketplace, where a morning of quiet had brought brave and fatalistic souls alike to set out their wares, to shop, in the ruins of the fine old market stalls.
So it was done.
Zjilo Berio came to the house the next Sunday. He was a quiet man with tired eyes, but he wore a golden pocket-watch and his clothes were neat, pressed, and made of the finest cloth—old clothes, from before the blockade, well cared for and smelling slightly of the cedar chest, where they had perhaps been stored against better days. His daughters were even quieter. They stared at Stepha with great dark eyes. After the brief ceremony, Judit showed them her doll, and with this treasure, while the adults toasted the new bride with precious wine and ate from a table laid with as great a feast as Mama and Aunt Martina could manage, the three girls played together in whispers in the corner of the parlor.
The food was eaten, the wine drunk, and as dusk settled in over Trient, it was time for them to go.
Jontano hugged Stepha, but he could think of nothing to say.
