0 comments

Fiction Inspirational

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

People talk about the war as if it was millennia ago. As if it were a piece of history so far behind us that it would be inconceivable for anyone alive to remember it. I remember the war.

I was eighteen, and one of the only women who had, however unfortunately, managed to land themselves a spot right on the front lines. A medic, they called me, but what I really did was a far cry from medicine. A man would be hauled into my tent, fire hailing down from all directions just past the door, and he would be unceremoniously thrown upon my table. One man, I recall, squirted blood from his upper right leg onto every other patient in there on his way in.

He was smiling, a shaky, half-joking smile that I looked right through. I saw the terror there, and the keen knowledge that with every drop of blood he lost his life grew shorter. Well, I decided, not on my watch. The tourniquet was never a good experience for the men, but half of them were too busy worrying about if I had the strength to tie it correctly, slight thing that I was, that they would fuss over me until it was over, which kept them sufficiently distracted. This man had the gall to insist I tie it tighter, though I assured him it was plenty tight enough (his leg had gone blue and the blood had long since stopped flowing.)

He would lose that leg, I told him, my face stone-cold and my eyes holding his. He held my gaze for a moment longer than I’d expected. Then he nodded, and nodded again, and I knew it was more for his sake than mine.

“Where is the doctor?” he eventually asked.

Where indeed, I thought from across the tent, pressing down with all my body weight on a gushing bullet hole that had reopened on another man’s shoulder. The doctor had been missing for half the day already, and would likely be missing for the rest of it. The men I’d sent to go fetch him from his bed had come back to report that he had retched whiskey all over their shoes and told them to sod off.

“Indisposed,” I replied, “you’ll have to make do with me, soldier.”

The blood had finally stopped flowing from the bullet wound I’d been working on, and I began pulling out gauze to pack it with.

“Alright,” I announced, “everyone cover your ears.”

All ten men in the tent obeyed, even our newest addition. We’d run out of anesthetic days ago, and the packing of wounds was not precisely a pleasant experience. I handed the gentleman I was working on a piece of leather belt I’d cut. He bit down on it dutifully. I went to work, muttering ‘there, there’ and ‘almost done’ until the wound was packed tight. I wiped the sweat from the man’s brow before moving to the next cot.

“How old are you, Miss?” came the voice of the man again.

I met his eyes this time, measured his intentions.

“Do you really think, Sir, that now is the time?” I scolded him.

“Your name, then?” he winced.

I gave him my most withering look and turned back to my duties but told him, “Anna East.”

“Pleasure, Miss East,” he grinned, though I did not turn to see it. “I’m Sebastian McIntyre.”

I paused only briefly between switching bandages to nod at him.

Mr. McIntyre went on at great length after that, telling me stories of his life before the war. He had a sister back home, I learned, and a baby brother on the way if all went well. Soon the other men began chiming in, telling their tales of home and what they looked forward to going back to. Though I tried to keep my mind on my work, my thoughts kept drifting back to my home, which seemed so very far away now. I hadn’t thought of home in weeks by that point. Hadn’t even bothered to write. There was no time to write when a new injury came stumbling in through the tent flaps every hour. Despite myself, I listened intently to the men talking, and most particularly to Mr. McIntyre, who had a way of speaking that could almost conjure images in front of your very eyes.

He spoke of the rivers and hills and valleys he’d seen, places so ordinary transforming themselves into secret, special places filled with hope and light and miracles. The rest of the men had gone quiet, and I had taken a seat in the center of the tent, and everyone listened.

“There is a town,” he began his next story, “not too far from my home, where every summer the gypsies camp. The town transforms, overnight, into a place like you’ve never seen. Lanterns line the walkways, and the town square is riddled with stalls and shops and games. The children bounce about with lanterns of their own, exploring the crevices behind houses they’ve never seen or chasing down cats in the alleys. When I was a boy, we stopped in this town at night, and from the shadows I heard the tinkling of a very small bell. Being a boy, I snuck away as quick as I could, and followed the bell into the forest. As the night grew darker and the bell grew louder, the forest seemed to shift in front of me, ensuring that I neither tripped over a stray root nor cracked a fallen branch. I was silent and safe.

“In a clearing just ahead of me was the light of a fire, setting the whole forest aglow in reds and oranges. I kept to the shadows, having found the source of the bells, and found myself a hefty bush behind which to crouch. Peering out from my hiding space, I saw five women, all naked as the day they were born, dancing their way around the fire in the center of the clearing. The sight filled me with awe, and terror. The night was cold, even for summer, and my cheeks had gone numb in my pursuit of the bells. These women danced without care, as if the wind spoke and they listened. From their ankles the bells hung, an invitation or a warning?

"Suddenly a chill ran up my spine, and my blood went cold. I knew I was not alone. Turning to my left, I saw the yellowed eyes of wolves emerging from the trees. I tried to yell, to warn the dancing women, but my voice would not obey me, and my legs would not move. And so I sat, still as stone, as the wolves crept forward into the light of the fire. They were monstrous, bigger than any wolf I’d ever seen or have seen since. They stalked right up to the women, who kept on dancing right until one of them nearly tripped over a wolf.

"Then, she laughed, the woman did, and embraced the wolf like an old friend. I backed away as quick as my fear would allow, watching the wolves lay with the women beside the fire, every one of them at ease.”

The tent was dead quiet, and I had to check if all the men still drew breath.

One of the men scoffed, “That can’t be true.”

Mr. McIntyre crossed his heart, “On my life, Sir, it is true.”

“Why weren’t the women afraid?” another man asked.

I will never forget Mr. McIntyre’s smile, cruel and wide and knowing as he explained, “Therein lies the secret, Sir. All women are wolves, born with fangs and claws, not used for violence but protection. Take Miss East here, who is surrounded by body parts and blood and fire every day. She is kinder than any man out there on the field and has seen the worst of us. Does she turn and run? No. She invites us in. She cares for our wounds. She protects us as we heal. Where a man seeks vengeance for a bullet hole, a woman seeks a remedy. The wolves know that, amongst women, they are safe, they are cared for. Amongst men? They are hunted, driven out, frightened. There is nothing to fear if you never fear for yourself.”

I’d never heard the words spoken by a man, let alone directed toward other men. My chest puffed and my eyes welled, but I kept my head high as I nodded my thanks to Mr. McIntyre.

Outside, the war raged, taking buildings and bricks down with ease. Inside my tent, Mr. McIntyre’s words rang louder than any bomb the men had heard.

January 15, 2025 00:19

You must sign up or log in to submit a comment.

0 comments

RBE | Illustrated Short Stories | 2024-06

Bring your short stories to life

Fuse character, story, and conflict with tools in Reedsy Studio. 100% free.