Aydan Murdoch

The Deserter

The sky was bleeding again today. Its wound pulsed with viscera, rusty nebula that hung in long strings that clung to the stars. I stared into the hole as I woke up, longing for that primordial dread that I knew as a kid. It didn’t come. Averting my eyes I shuffled out of the dugout that was my home for the night, twisting my limbs this way and that as I dragged myself out from under the sandbag roof and into the muddy, empty trench. 

My legs creaked as I stood and checked that I had all my gear on me. I did, of course. I never took it off. But if basic training had done anything to me it was build routine. So, with deft movements I felt across the various pockets of my coat and pants, checked magazines and MRE expiration dates, clasped the chin strap on my helmet, and tightened my belt. Finally, I adjusted the dial on my waist mounted lamp and lit up the dark trench. Light spilled out from the oil lamp, forcing the shadows to pool in the recesses of the sandbag walls. The world beyond the dimly lit circle was a pale red that reflected off of the still, murky water that filled the divots of the trench floor.

I looked up again for a moment, then quickly down towards my wristwatch. The face was smeared with mud, but a quick shake showed the time. 3:00 AM. “Early enough, got at least an hour before everyone wakes up,” I said to myself.

I set off at a brisk pace. The front had been pushed back a couple days ago, right before the sky started bleeding, so there wasn’t any danger in walking fast. My helmet bobbed in tune with my step, catching the eyes of the Regulars. There were a few of us, though we never spoke. Generally, those who woke up before the brass did, did so to avoid talking. A glance, a curt nod, and a quick return to whatever occupied their morning.

As I walked I fetched my cigarette box from my helmet, where it was stuck by an elastic band. A shiver ran down my back as I touched it, forcing me to glance around instinctually and tuck myself into a corner. No jingling metals or the clicking spurs of officers boots, nor the wheezing of clerical masks. It was safe, for now. I popped open the lid and reached into my jacket pocket to fetch my ink pin. It took a lot of convincing to make Valéry believe that I needed it, and a couple shifts of corpse hauling, but it was mine now. I handled the pin very carefully and brought it to the interior of the cigarette box. With a final glance up towards the red sky I made another tally mark against the interior of the lid. It joined twenty six other black marks, now twenty seven. Another year. I put the pin back into its vial in my coat and the box back on my helmet. I resumed my walk. We all had our own little heresies, and this was mine.

The trenches were a maze, but well marked. A series of symbols and tallies serves as sign posts, indecipherable to the enemy, or so that was the prevailing theory. Mud worked its way into the holes of my boots as I walked. The mud was almost pretty in the early morning twilight. The grooves of boot prints and wheelbarrows carved a tapestry across the ground. It told stories if you knew how to read the words. I kept my paces to the dry patches, my story wasn’t supposed to be told.

It was another half an hour before I reached my destination. Hopefully, the brass would sleep in today. The old fort was an infrequent haunt of mine, but today was a special occasion. It loomed over the trenches as a shadow against the dark horizon. It was a French fortress, the only reason it was still standing. The enemy didn’t want to fire artillery at a piece of their own history, even at the cost of us using it. We never did, or so the Gray Heads tell me. They didn’t know the enemy so well then, thought their anti-traditionalist past would rear its ugly head. And even still today the fort stood empty. Perfect for me.

With another anxious glance at my watch I hauled myself up the steep stairs and into the stone structure. It was weird, being in a place older than the war. Not many could say they had even seen a building older than the war, let alone walk in one. The air was stale and tasted like dirt. The interior had been destroyed, any ounce of wood or cloth long since vaporized, all metal stripped and recycled in Croatian foundries. The only thing that remained was the stone. I climbed to the top of the fort, scaling rubble and time-worn stairs, until I found a spot with a clear view towards the dark sky.

I repeated my motions from earlier, bringing out the ink pin, with the vial this time, and took the cigarette box from my helmet. Seated on the roof, I placed my precious few personal items around me and opened the cigarette box. I carefully stared at the ends of each cigarette, before picking one out gingerly. Nearly fumbling it, I turned it over until the seam of the paper was visible, then pried apart the weak adhesive with a dirty fingernail. The roll of paper was small, almost too small, but I was used to it. I dumped the tobacco into a small cup and brushed the rest from the paper.

“Finally, quiet,” I said so that only I could hear. This place was a sanctuary for me, a place above it all. Looking out I could see miles in the distance. I could see the patterns of roads and trenches that stretched out around me like a web. I looked dispassionately towards the south, towards the mountains that stood between me and a home I never knew, yet would almost certainly die for. I swept my eyes westwards, along the ever busier trenches full of men and women young enough for the front. Beyond them, the enemy, a wall of fog that sat like a storm upon the ground, flashing with discordant light. I absentmindedly touched the crucifix affixed to my chest and muttered a prayer to Saint Michael against demoniacs. Finally I brought my gaze skywards and soaked the sharp pin with ink. I took the pin to the cigarette paper and began to draw.

A ruler beat against my fingers, the dark skin blooming a harsh pink. A clatter, my pen falling off of my desk.

“Léon! What have I told you about drawing in class!” the dark figure loomed, but the face was kind.

“That art was close to God and I am not. Sorry, Father Maxim,”

“We will discuss it after class boy,” then kinder, “now pick up your pen.”

The last of the kids, all distant eyed and twitchy, funneled out of the bunker and towards the family barracks. I was alone, almost. A chair scraped against the concrete floor and pulled up to my desk. Father Maxim sat down. Before he could speak, I started.

“I am sorry again, Father Maxim.”

“What were you drawing son?” The response surprised me, and I slowly uncrumbled the paper in my hand. It was a drawing of the sky I had started the previous morning, initially done with wax crayons. In it, the sky was bleeding.

“Come here boy,” Father Maxim stood and walked towards the exit. I silently followed. We stepped up to the threshold, but not a hair beyond it. Outside the dark sky awaited us, it bled still. The venerable Father held up my picture, as if to compare. The sky was black, blacker than black. A lightless void that seemed intent on suffocating the stars. I could recognize them, each and every one. Unmoving, unchanging. They sat in loose circles but the distance between each was uneven. They reminded me of shattered glass, scattered across the floor, or perhaps floating on a dark ocean. I thought them like a court, like those of the French before they dug up Napoleon, all courting the hole in the sky.

I would’ve said it was indescribable, had anyone asked, but it wasn’t. If you had the imagination it was possible. I felt that I did. There was a hole in our sky. A violent tear that seemed as though a hand had reached into its flesh and ripped out its heart, and perhaps it had. And If you had the will to stare into the wound, you could make out its walls. They moved, constantly, shifting streaks of dim light or clouds that twinkled in oranges, reds, and purples. It was like staring up from the bottom of a well, our world the dark cistern below. And if you were a particularly stupid child, having drunk a whole supply of cough syrup after stealing their mother’s keys to the pharmaceutical cabinet in the medical tent, you would stare beyond that. You would see the second sky, beyond the wound, within it. You would glimpse a sea of ever moving stars and glittering clouds. Perhaps even catch something staring back at you, before your heart gives out. But I hadn’t drawn that. I had drawn something rare, an event, as I had been told, that only happens once a year. It was an anniversary of sorts. An uncelebrated, unnamed holiday. I was told it was the anniversary of the sun being ripped out of the sky.

The sky bled. The walls of its wound shuddered. Thick tangles of blood drooled down, hanging across the stars like a spiderweb. Its blood was multicolored, but mostly red, the same shade as the interior of any wound. But, like strokes of paint, color found its way into the red. Greens and yellows. Purples and browns. The colors seemed unnatural, but I thought it beautiful. I should’ve known better. The crack of a lighter brought me out of my thoughts. I watched Father Maxim burn the drawing.

“You know better Léon, what has your mother always told you?”

“To be stupid is to be expendable, to be extraordinary is to be Chosen.”

“That’s good my son, now go home and throw away those crayons, I won’t have you being taken away too.”

A horn sounded out. I startled, snapping the frail ink pin in my hand. “Fuck, shit, I’m late.” I gathered my stuff as quickly as I could and scrambled down the stairs and rubble. My rifle scraped into my back as I ran. Dull eyes followed me as I pounded across the old trenches, praying to Christ above that I didn’t get lost. The parade ground was small, more a pit than a field, though some of the children played rugby in it. There were no children there now, unless you classified the baby faced Privates as children still. The sergeant was reading off a list of names when I marched into the open.

“…Private Tritoly, Communications Officer Capello, Special Officer Battier…”

“Here, Sergeant!” I called out, stepping into the uneven line last second. Slowly, the bill of his green cap lifted and turned towards me.

“Special Officer Battier. You are late.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Do you know why your name has been called?”

“No, Sergeant.” At this a low mutter spread through the gathering. I resisted the urge to turn my head.

“Well then, you won’t know until tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Private Aveni, Morale Officer Pola…” My brain stopped listening. Each of us called were getting looks from the others. They shuffled away imperceptibly. As if the microscopic distance would save them from having their names called. Like a spreading disease. An order must have come down.

I was used to new places, had been to several, had fought in two. Not much, but enough to get promoted. This was something different. Something worse. I scanned the scene, trying to remain calm. The lights were bright, more like spotlights that lit up the pit. In one corner though, the light seemed to slip around a figure. A man, no, a creature stood there. It was draped in dirty robes covered with religious iconography. A large mask clung to its face covered in numerous antennas, cameras, and other perception enhancing apparatuses so that they may hear the words of God. A huge tube full of cables ran from its mouth to its staff, a wooden scepter topped with a crucifix covered in dishes and microphones. Hanging from the arms of the cross were a pair of severed human hands. Mendax was written on them, ‘liar.

My heart began to lose control as the creature slowly rotated the mass of its head towards mine. Innumerable camera-like eyes focused on me at once. My chest hurt and one of my hands began to fumble for my medication. I turned my head away, refusing to meet the gaze of the priest, my time had come. No, I wouldn’t go, not there, not wherever they wanted to bring me. I grabbed my pills and threw them into the mud at my feet and swung my gaze upwards. I stared into the sky’s missing heart, listening for the ghost of its beating. I forced myself to keep looking as dread crept into my brain, as the ends of my fingers grew numb, as my eyes began to hurt worse than my own heart. Someone was moving towards me and I looked deeper. I peeled past the layers of blood, past the throbbing walls of stars, and further beyond. I looked into the sky. The sky looked back. 

“Stop.”

I hit the floor with a thud.