What died in the east

The boy turned at the clatter of Jan’s horse, bowed and brought a muddy hand to his muddy forehead. He smiled, and there was admiration in his eyes. They liked their soldiers here in Orenburg, the feeling of being protected, of knowing that when the uncivilized came washing over the frontier there would be rough men who would throw them back. But every bow, every sign of respect served only to remind Jan of what he’d done.

Jan sat straight in his saddle. Behind him his three Cossacks were working through a conversation, with long breaks interspersing their clipped sentences. It was his first patrol as an officer. They’d left the fortress two days ago, riding west along the river, accompanied by the gloomy honking of geese high overhead. Now, returning, he knew his new rank and allegiance were confirmed, and it rankled. He was an ensign in the emperor’s army, a servant of Russia.

They went past the boy and he cheered them. One of the Cossacks swore at him good naturedly, the others laughed. The boy kept cheering, oblivious to the Cossacks’ taunting. Strange, to be admired, and by these people. They would kill him if they knew, they almost had when he’d first arrived.

It had been a hot day, seven years ago, and dust glittered in the merciless sun. It was the end of a months long journey, traversing vast steppes empty as the sea. Encounters with other people were so rare that he and his friends started to think they’d left the world behind them. It fit well with their transformation. They’d left Poland the sons of nobility, exiled by the emperor’s agents for fomenting dissent. On the day they left Krakow their hair had been shaved off before the city gates, their humanity had been shorn on the journey itself.

Their Cossack guards treated them like animals, worse than animals. Every dawn they beat them awake and drove them with whips down the endless road. By the end of the third day, Piotr’s eye was purple and swollen shut, Aleksy was limping and crying constantly with pain after a Cossack had kicked his thigh, and Mikolaj’s shirt and back were shredded after being dragged behind the head guard’s horse for almost a mile. In the evening, they let them have the only meal of the day. Scraps of bread they tossed into the dust.

On the eighth day Aleksy couldn’t go on any longer. Jan tried to carry him, but he was too heavy. Even after all these years Jan’s mind recoiled from the memory of what the Cossacks had done to Aleksy. They left his body under a stunted oak tree by the road.

About a month later Piotr was dead too, left to the crows on a plain where wind rushed unchecked through dried grasses. That night Jan lay on the ground teeth chattering so badly he thought his jaw would break. He held on to Mikolaj for warmth and whispered “I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them,” over and over again. After some time he realized that Mikolaj had joined him and together they whispered “We’ll kill them, we’ll kill them,” while the cold reached into their bones. It became a ritual for them, a vow that protected them from the world. Every night they would hold on to each other for warmth and whisper revenge, no matter how unlikely it seemed. It was the candle flame that drove away despair, it was what allowed them to survive the march to Orenburg.

The fort was close now, no more than a hundred yards away. Jan’s mount lifted its legs high and tossed its mane. Its hooves struck a cheerful rhythm on the cobblestones. The beast’s gait was high and showy, as if it too knew what they’d achieved. A first patrol, a first command, a first ride on the emperor’s business. Jan straightened in his saddle and barked at his Cossacks to do the same. He smoothed his coat and lifted his chin. Let them watch from the ramparts, let them see what an officer looked like. Discipline, pride, bravery, that was what made the emperor’s cavalry.

As they passed the gates the commander of the guard came down a flight of stairs leading up to the walls. He gave Jan an approving look and Jan snapped a stiff armed salute. They came to a halt next to a trough. Jan leapt off his horse. The horse was ebullient, it wanted to rear up, to whinny, to make itself known, but Jan stroked its head and calmed it down with soft commands. He led it to the trough and watched it feed for a moment. The Cossacks would take care of it later, right now he needed something to eat too.

He hummed a marching song as he headed to the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread wafted from the ovens and life was fine, just fine. Better than a man like him could hope for. He was young and strong, an officer in the best army in the world, with the promise of endless adventure in the mountains and steppes, leading men to glory. He’d arrived in Orenburg no better than a slave, and now he was a prince of the frontier.

By the stables a man sat on the ground crumpled against the wooden wall. He was filthy with mud and dung. His clothes looked ancient, mended repeatedly until no trace remained of the original cloth. He was a thin man, with sunken cheeks and bulging eyes. Even at this early hour he looked exhausted. More than exhausted. As if no rest or food could ever revive him. Only one thing was out of place in his otherwise hopeless appearance. He was staring at Jan with an intensity that did not belong in such a spent body. It was as if Jan was the only thing in his world. More important than life itself. Jan had never seen anyone look at a person like that. Not lovers, not enemies. Did he mistake him for someone else? And how did this man from the dregs of society have the courage to call Jan’s attention to himself in this way?

Jan took a step toward the man. The gravel crunched slowly beneath his boot. Was there something familiar about him? What was it that drew Jan to him? Why not just ignore him? Another step. There was some connection between them, he was almost sure of it now, an old bond that was warm and easy. And how could that be? The man put a hand on the ground and got up. He straightened slowly, like an old man. Fear welled up in Jan, a cold mass rising from his stomach and drying his tongue. Jan forced a smile to his lips. Should he offer his hand? No, the man was just a laborer and this struggle inside Jan was probably nothing. Just useless imagination, there was nothing to fear here in the barracks, surrounded by comrades.

The man closed the remaining distance with three steps.

“Who are you?” Jan asked.

“Did you kill them?” The words were in Polish, a language lost to Jan far to the west, in another lifetime, and they were worse than any pain Jan had suffered in years.

“Mikolaj.” Jan didn’t need to ask, it was clearly him. Thinner, older, so much older, almost ready for the grave.

The wind rose suddenly and Mikolaj spat him full in the face. It ran down his cheek in an icy rivulet.

“What have you become?” Mikolaj’s voice crackled. “Monster.”