Winter's End (37 page)

His stomach was sticky with blood.
My life is flowing out of it,
he said to himself, pressing both hands to the wound. “Help,” he moaned. “I don’t want to die.” His tears fell to the ground and left a muddy little trail there. The mouse came closer with tiny steps, hesitated for a moment, and snuggled close to his cheek.
You’re not entirely alone,
it seemed to be saying.
I’m not much, but I’m here.

Then the pictures began to come.

First he saw Bartolomeo on the bridge, hugging him in his long arms and then striding away. “We’ll see each other soon, Milos! We’ll meet again somewhere else. We’ll all meet again, the living and the dead.”

“Why did you let me down, Bart?” he asked.

The tall young man didn’t reply. He simply knelt
beside Milos and smiled at him, friendship in his eyes.

Basil came too. His faithful, rough-hewn face was a good sight. He stammered several clumsy, reassuring words. “Don’t you worry, friend . . . I’m all right. Look!” And he showed Milos his own wound, healed.

Then other faces came. A wrestling coach from the past. “No strangling, boys, I repeat, no strangling.” Milos saw himself, very young, rolling over and over on a mat in the gym. Other faces, forgotten, came back from the past: small companions of his in the orphanage offering to swap marbles; friends from the boarding school slapping him on the back. “All right, Milos?” they cheerfully asked. “Good to see you again!” His consoler let them in, she told them to sit down, scolded those who made too much noise. She wanted to know if anyone was hungry, and went to make something to eat. Milos wondered how she would be able to do any cooking, how all these people could fit into this tiny room, and it made him laugh.

And then at last there was Helen. She seemed to be freezing under the hood of her school coat. Snow was falling, white and soft, on her shoulders. She knelt beside him too, and took his face between her icy hands. “Don’t go, Milos,” she said. “Don’t go away, my love.” He looked into the deep eyes of the young woman leaning over him, he saw her round cheeks, and he thought there was no one
more beautiful in the world. “I won’t go away,” he wanted to say, but his lips were made of stone. So he told her, with his heart alone:
I won’t go away, my love. I’ll stay with you. I promise.

And then all of them who had been leaning over him — Bartolomeo, Basil, the friends he had known through his life, Helen, who had brightened that brief life with such a dazzling light — they all gently moved aside and turned to the doorway, where a man and a woman stood, young and elegantly clothed. The pretty woman wore a spring dress and a flowered hat. The man was tall and strong, with the same laughing eyes as Milos. Although his own eyes were already closing, Milos smiled at them both, and they came to kneel beside him at once. The woman passed her hands over his shaven head, caressing him. “What happened to your hair, my darling?” she asked. The man, a little way behind her, nodded and looked at him with intense pride. There was no uneasiness on their faces. Far from it: they seemed as confident as if seeing someone they loved after a long absence, knowing they would be able to live happily together for always.

“Father,” murmured Milos. “Mother. Have you found me?”

“Hush,” said the woman, putting her forefinger to her mouth.

And so did the man. “Hush,” he said.

So Milos became a good little boy again. He curled up in a ball to keep all this warmth and love
inside his body and to take it with him wherever he was bound.

And then he closed his eyes and let himself go.

The gray mouse scurried up and down his leg a little longer, over his back, up to his shoulder. It went back to rub against his face. Not moving now, it stayed there for a few minutes, its soft nose quivering. It was waiting for a sign of life, but there was none. Suddenly, in the distance, came an impact stronger than the others, followed by an ominous crack. The beam barring the gate had just given way. Frightened, the mouse scuttled over to the wall and disappeared down a hole.

M
ilena sat down on a rock and took off her boots to massage her sore feet. She did that every time they stopped to rest. Gerlinda, the young horse-girl who had called her as beautiful as a princess and never left her side, was already busy lighting a small fire to boil some water.

“Will you sing me something if I make you a mug of tea?” she asked.

Milena smiled. Any excuse would do to get her to sing. She had only to begin, without even raising her voice much, for people to gather around her. And if they knew the tune, they would sing along.

They had started out on the long march to the capital two days ago, and it reminded her of her travels with Bart when they had run away in the autumn. She remembered their elation as they talked the situation over in the immensity of the bare
mountains. But she also remembered their terrible uncertainty, their fear of what the next day might bring. Now, on the contrary, she felt that nothing could prevent them from reaching their journey’s end, surrounded as they were by the friendly horse-men with the persistent odor of their wool and corduroy clothing. The natural strength of these people, their kindness, and their peaceable innocence were infectious. They were reassuring; they made you feel confident for no real reason. Milena had felt the same with her consoler, Martha, during her years at the boarding school, but there was only one Martha. Here she had the impression of a huge, multiple, ever-changing body of people, an irresistible force.

As they went on toward the capital, the numbers marching with them grew. Hundreds and then thousands of men, women, and children had rallied to them in small groups making their way through the countryside. Coming down from the hills and out of the woods and fields, they joined in human streams that swelled into rivers. The doors of houses were opened to them as they passed by. They were offered food, their bags were refilled, they slept overnight in barns.

Gerlinda came over with a mug of steaming tea for Milena.

“Now, what about my song?”

“All right, but only for you. I don’t feel like singing for an audience of fifty. Come closer.”

A smile lit up the young horse-girl’s blunt face,
and she leaned her ear close to Milena’s mouth. Milena began quietly:

But as others came over to hear the song, she rose abruptly, mug in hand. “No, I’ve finished now! Another time . . . this evening!”

She put her boots on and went to join Bartolomeo and Dora, who were sitting a little way off wrapped in their winter coats. Their breath was escaping from their mouths in little blue clouds.
The two people I love most in the world,
she thought as she went over to them.
I only need Helen and Martha here as well and the magic circle would be complete.

“I’m sure Jahn and Faber will have reached the bridge by now,” Bart was saying, sounding impatient. “I should have stayed with them.”

“They’ll send for you if they need you — they promised they would,” Dora replied.

“Yes, I just hope we don’t arrive too late. The winter fights in the arena begin tomorrow morning. Milos may not be due to fight on the first day, but we don’t know. We have to get into the city fast.”

Milena nestled against him. “We must trust the others. We’ll be there tomorrow, after all.”

“Yes. The Phalange will never dare fire on us. We’re unarmed, and there are women and children with us — they won’t be able to do it.”

“No, they won’t,” Milena comforted him. “And
you’ll soon see Milos again. You’ve always told me he had a real talent for survival.”

“Yes, so I did. And a talent for happiness too. More so than me.”

“Happiness?” said Dora, joking. “Is there such a thing? It must be so boring!”

They kept close together as they went on along narrow paths and over bad roads during the hours that followed. Gerlinda never left Milena “in case she got lost.” Who was leading their advance? It was impossible to say. They were carried along on the tide. As evening fell, they reached the hills above the city and were amazed to see that the hillsides were teeming with people as far as the eye could see.

They knew that the population had rallied to the Resistance, but the sight of that great crowd surpassed their wildest hopes. How could anyone for a second imagine that the Phalange might be able to resist such a force? A rumor was soon circulating that they would enter the capital at dawn, and until then they must wait and keep warm. Cries of joy were heard, as if the battle were already won. Gerlinda jumped up and down and hugged Milena.

“Are you so pleased with the prospect of a cold night in the open?” Milena asked in surprise. “We’ll all be frozen before sunrise!”

Gerlinda looked at her blankly and then said simply, “Oh no! People will help us.”

She was right, and the night that had promised to be so uncomfortable was a miraculous experience. Within a very short time firewood was found, fires were crackling, and red flames were shooting up into the dark sky. Had Milena feared the cold? She often had to insist on leaving her place close to the fire; people took turns there in an orderly fashion. Had she been afraid they would go hungry? If anything, there was too much to eat! Every bag heaved with loaves of bread, ham, pâté, apples, wine, chocolate! As soon as she sat down, someone would come to kneel behind her and hug her to warm her up. The first time it happened, she thought it was Bartolomeo or Dora or Gerlinda. Who else would venture to take such a liberty? But it was a horse-woman she had never seen before. In her own turn, Milena warmed up people she didn’t know and soon realized that it was as sweet to give as to receive.

At dawn they were all numb, stupefied by drowsiness, tramping up and down on the ground in an attempt to warm their feet up, but they had a sense of having survived together, having reached their journey’s end, and they felt that something great lay ahead. Thin plumes of smoke were still rising from fires that hadn’t been entirely extinguished. Yesterday’s clouds had lifted, and in the biting cold they saw the other hills also covered by thousands of shapes, with figures already on the march on the plain below, and in the distance the sparkling ribbon of the river.

The crowd began to move slowly, and it was good to be advancing in company again. Someone began humming:

And everyone took up the song, the tall horse-men and all the others, whether they could sing in tune or not.

They all repeated it except for Milena. Their voices rose around her — ordinary, clumsy, hesitant, but all vibrating with fervor and certainty.

“Aren’t you singing?” asked Gerlinda.

“No,” she replied, with a lump in her throat. “I’m listening for once. I have a right to listen too.”

A horse-child of about twelve, short and sturdy, red-faced and breathless with running, suddenly plucked Bartolomeo’s sleeve. “Mr. Jahn wants you. With your lady.”

“With my lady?”

“Yes, your lady Milena.”

“Where’s Mr. Jahn?”

“At the bridge. I’ll take you.”

“I’m coming too!” said Dora, and without waiting for any reply, she fell into step with them.

“And me!” cried Gerlinda, starting to follow.

First they had to make way through the crowd, using their elbows and shoulders. Then the child suddenly went off to the left at a tangent, and after a little way they found themselves miraculously alone, going down a sloping path.

“I see you know some shortcuts!” called Bart.

“Yes,” said the child. He was going ahead of them, kicking pebbles out of his way. “I live here!”

“Where?” asked Milena. She couldn’t see a house anywhere near.

The child ignored this question and quickened his pace. They were at the bottom of the hill now, skirting coppices that sparkled with frost. The frozen grass crunched under their feet.

“Wait for me!” called Dora, already lagging behind with Gerlinda. “That lad must be wearing seven-league boots!”

But the small messenger didn’t turn. He forged straight ahead at high speed. From behind, he now looked light and graceful, as if he had grown taller. Soon Milena was out of breath herself.

“I can’t go on at this pace!” she told Bart. “I’ll catch up with you down there. You go ahead!”

The young man made off in pursuit of the child, who ran nimbly on as if airborne. He was almost
level with the boy in a few strides. “Not so fast! We can’t keep up with you.”

As the sky turned pink and blue in the east, the sharp sound of their footsteps echoed over a long distance like a crackling fire. The two figures, one tall and one shorter, hurried on their way, leaping down slopes and over ditches. Bartolomeo had never in his life covered so much space in such a short time. The cold morning air whistled around his ears. He was stunned by the noise of his own breathing.