The Deserter

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. The wound in the deserter’s side was still bleeding as he dragged his feet along the ground. Nearly spent, he pushed on towards a gnarled tree, dead in the winter. The man collapsed at its roots, breathing heavily. Reorienting himself, he leaned back and rested against the trunk. It had a strength and stability that the deserter could now only hope for. He pushed his heavy fur coat back and pulled up his stained and torn shirt. The stab wound was high on his side where the knife had plunged toward his heart. The blade had missed its mark, but it was still just as mortal. He gritted his teeth and grunted in pain as he attempted to press the wound and ebb the flowing blood. Some part of him wanted to let the stream continue. The blood was warm. It kept the feeling in his fingers and the biting cold off his skin.

The snow was coming down thicker now and the last light was escaping behind the tall pines. Left only with the growing light of the moon, the deserter closed his eyes and rested his head against a knot in the tree. His breathing slowed and whether he wanted to or not, his arms relaxed and the pressure on his side eased. Warm blood seeped between the fingers that still rested just below his heart. His head lulled forward and his eyes snapped open, as if waking from a light nap. Staring intently ahead, he tried to make out what was before him. If there had still been any strength left in his legs, the deserter would have pulled himself up to shamble towards it. Instead, the sight clarified and seemed to draw closer.

It was a young boy; he sat on the ground and held a large pine cone in one hand and waved a thick piece of bark around in the other. The boy was talking out loud to himself, but whatever words he spoke were lost to the wind and falling snow. Still speaking, he set the pine cone down and began drawing in the mud. Whatever it was seemed important to the boy; but before the deserter could make it out, the image was obscured by a gust and a flurry. It had crumbled and dissipated and drifted away, carried into the frigid night’s air.

The man winced as the sharp, cold wind pierced his coat and cut him to the bone. The bleeding had slowed; if it was from the shift in temperature or due to a now lack of blood, the man could not tell. The faint sound of laughter pulled him back from slipping into unconsciousness. Running in from the darkness to the right, a mottled brown and white dog stopped and turned around before releasing a muted bark. A boy quickly caught up to the dog and knelt down to tussle with it. The boy's features were similar to the first’s, only he seemed taller and lankier. His patched clothes and bare feet revealed his poverty and his shallow face betrayed his hunger. Still, his smile and playfulness made plain his attitude. The boy reached down, picked up a stick, and threw it. The dog leaped after it and they both dashed out into the darkness.

Soon, the boy reentered from the left, a young man now. With him walked a young lady and they laughed and talked as they slowly strolled. In one hand, he held a book and waved it about while they discussed whatever its contents were. The deserter interrupted their moment with a sudden, deep cough that seemed to shake his entire body. He wiped the dark blood from his mouth and looked back up. The cheerful young lady was gone and instead the young man was sitting in front of a dying hearth with his head cradled in one of his hands. The other held a nearly empty glass of some dark liquid. He set the glass down on the floor next to him and slowly stood up. He picked up a piece of wood and threw it hard into the fire. It bounced off the brick wall at the back of the hearth and landed mostly outside the fire. The young man had already slumped back down into the chair and did not get back up to fix it. He sighed and leaned his head back but the back of the chair was too short and there was nothing to rest it on. He muttered something but the snow had started to stop and the sight began to dissipate along with it.

The deserter wiped the last of the snow from his face and accidentally smeared the dark blood that was not already frozen to replace it. He moved to check his wound again but found that his shirt had frozen to it and he dared not peel it back.

Walking towards him now, was a cluster of several men. The same man from before was with them and he looked a few years older now. They were all laughing and laughing and joking as they stumbled forward. They stopped as one of them halted and gave an eccentric bow, made one last joke, and headed off his own way. They continued on, stopping every now and then as they each parted for their own destination. The man was among the last three, as he and another helped the third from collapsing in the street. At some point, they all stopped, and the man pulled a ring of keys from the third man’s pockets and unlocked a door. The third man slurred a few words as they dragged him through the doorway and all three of them disappeared.

At this point, the deserter’s breath slowed even more and his sight began to blur. His arms fell to his side as the strength to move them left him. Despite this, he saw the three men again, the familiar one in the middle. They all wore matching fur coats, had identical packs on their backs, and had all lost any of the joviality they had shared before. They took a few steps forward before drifting awaying in the wind. Now the deserter winced as he saw blades flashing in the light of a setting sun. The two combatants struggled for a time before they connected, blades piercing each other. One of them dropped to the ground, pulling his knife from the other. The man cried out and clasped a hand to his side, just below his heart. He quickly turned, seeming to forget about his own wound, and ran back to his fallen friends. They both laid, unmoving, on the ground; the light of life already escaping their faces. Tears streaming down his face, the man turned to the sounds of fighting behind him. He turned back and stared at the tree line opposite the fighting. He got up and ran and faded into the trees.

The deserter’s eyes closed and his chest stilled. He fell sideways into the snow and did not move.