The Dying Day (Challenge #143-Nightfall) -- PG-13
Posted: Sat Nov 24, 2012 6:23 pm
Many people have written of Josef’s turning (some, superlatively so), which had to have taken place in the mid- to late-1620s. In my personal viewpoint, as expressed in other stories, I’ve taken the idea that he might have been an Irishman, serving as a mercenary soldier in the Thirty Years War, which raged throughout Europe at that time. The whys and wherefores of the war don’t really matter, but the destruction and death of war are realities as old as history, and as new as today.
If you want a soundtrack for this story, I recommend Barber’s Adagio for Strings. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lV3SHBFyDZM
The Dying Day
Joseph Constantine clawed forward, the leather fingers of his gauntlet slipping on the blood-soaked grass before gaining purchase in a depression made by the heavy hoof of a war-horse. Breath rasping and labored, he pulled again, moving a scant few inches.
At least the blood had stopped dripping in his eyes, he thought, squinting against the bright sunlight beating down on the quiet battlefield. He spared the energy to glance down at his right hand. He’d lost all feeling in the arm some hours before, but he was heartened to see that he still maintained a grip on his sword hilt. Or perhaps it was simply hung in the skirts of his coat, or the baldric that held the scabbard. He suspected, now, that his wounds were mortal, and he didn’t really expect to see another dawn, but nonetheless, it seemed right that if he were to die, it would be with his sword in his hand.
A few hours ago, or was it days?, he’d ridden onto the field, jaunty at the head of his troop, sword at one hip, harquebus at the other. The scarlet plume of his hat swept down across the broad brim, almost to his shoulder. Let the rank and file wear their cuirasses, their metal helmets. He needed to see, to be seen by the men.
And he’d paid for it. The blast from the musket that caught him in the side as he wheeled his horse, sword raised to urge on the troop, had felt like a dull blow, not the piercing pain he would have expected. He’d lost his hat as he fell, and never knew if the wound on his head had come from an enemy, or the iron-shod hoof of his own horse.
He hitched forward again. Around him, he could see the bodies of the fallen: men, horses all stiffening now, their bodies given a false warmth of life from the relentless sun. When first he’d awakened, here in the midst of the slaughter, his hearing had still been blunted with the sounds of the skirmish. The blatting cough of muskets, the ring of swords, the screams of the wounded, shouted commands. He hadn’t heard the command to retreat, although he supposed one must have been given. Perhaps he’d already been down by then, left for dead among all the other carrion on the field. Now, the ringing in his ears had stopped, replaced by a deep silence, broken only by the sounds he made as he crawled through the muck and gore, seeking the shelter of the tree line.
And the flies. There was a low hum of insects, gathering to begin the work of clearing the field. The stench hit him like a blow to the face. Blood, shit, vomit, the raw stink of rotting meat. And he was struggling through the worst of it.
Any time, now, he could die. He thought it might be as easy as slipping his hand from his glove, leaving his sword behind. Leaving it all behind. The pain, the blood, the sun. He wasn’t ready yet, though. Not ready to quit the struggle. Not ready to give up.
Slowly, he made his way forward. That morning, before the battle started, he’d joked with his comrades that the little valley, parched with the late summer heat, made a sweet place for a fight. Open ground, flat for the horses, with rocks on either side to cover the musket men. Wide enough to give space for the initial charge, but too narrow to allow the enemy to flank them. Now, crawling, it seemed broad as the ocean, broader than the distance that separated him from the green hills of his homeland.
Maybe, if he survived the day, and the night to come, he’d go back home. He thought he’d had about enough wandering. Enough killing. He inched forward again. The rocks ahead seemed miles away now, and his head was spinning. A wave of nausea washed over him, bringing the taste of the sour wine he’d drunk for breakfast into the back of his mouth. The world turned to gray, and he laid his head down to rest for a moment.
When he awoke again, the sun was lower in the west. He knew that no matter how long the day seemed, eventually, night would come, and with it, the scavengers. Whether that meant peasants from the nearest village, out to pick over the dead for anything of value, or animals, from the surrounding woods, ready for a feast, it would be a dangerous time. He needed shelter.
The wound in his side was still seeping. There had been blood, too much blood. Sometimes, these past few years, since he’d taken his sword, and his horse, and left home to seek his fortune in the wars of the world, he thought he’d seen enough blood to last him a lifetime. Until today, though, so very little of that blood had been his own. Now, the blood that covered him was rolling slowly from his own veins. If he’d had the strength, he would have laughed. Wasn’t he supposed to live forever?
He used the leather harness of a fallen horse to pull himself onward, sparing a thought for the stallion he’d ridden that day. He wondered if Bayard had survived, taking flight, riderless, when he fell from the saddle. Or did the big gray lie lifeless, behind him? He’d lost comrades, before. Foot soldiers in his command had fallen, and he hadn’t given it so much as a thought. But Bayard had been with him, from a foal. He’d seen that horse take his first wobbling steps, and the thought that he was gone forever…a tear leaked out from one eye, and Joseph was glad no one was present to see it. War was war, and men—and horses—died. No reason to weep over it.
Slowly, inch by inch, the tree line was getting closer. He was getting weaker, he thought. Every movement brought a fresh wave of pain. And he was so thirsty. He’d have sold his soul, little worth as it was, for a drink of cool water. Better yet, a draft of wine, with a pretty girl to serve it to him. As long as he was wishing for the impossible, there was no reason to aim low. He’d have smiled, if he’d had the strength.
The muscles of his shoulders throbbed painfully. Just a few more yards, he thought, and he could rest. He’d crawl in among the rocks, shaded by the trees, and rest. If he could do that, if he could last out the night, he’d be sheltered from the day, and he’d be stronger.
Another scrabble, another grasp, another pull. Once he’d thought the whole world was his to grasp, and he’d intended to see it all, to seize it all. Now, his world had narrowed to a single goal. Reaching the tree line. Every inch forward cost him more of his ebbing vitality, but he refused to stop. Refused to die, here in the wreckage of a minor battle, miles from anywhere. The elbows of his coat had worn out long ago, as he crawled, and the skin beneath was scored and raw from sharp pebbles in the dirt. Joseph almost welcomed the pain of every contact with the ground. It meant he was still alive.
As the welcome shade drew nearer, the shadows slanting outward with the declining sun, he had an impression of someone standing, cloaked in black, among the trees, watching him. Twice, he convinced himself it was an illusion, a phantasm conjured up from his fevered brain. After all, if anyone was there, they’d have ventured out into the sunlight, either to help him, or to kill him. He knew his sword alone was worth more than his life, at the best of times, and now—if the peasants found him, they’d kill him for his boots. Or his gloves. Or maybe for nothing at all, but to show their hatred of the soldiers who ravaged back and forth over the land.
The shadows had lengthened considerably, and his strength lessened accordingly, by the time he dragged himself into a slight declivity in the rocks at the side of the valley. That last twenty yards, up a short slope, had been the hardest part of the journey, and he had little thought beyond the achievement of his goal.
It was an effort to turn over, but he managed, slowly, painfully, and drew himself into a half-sitting position, his back protected by the rocks. He thought he ought to reach over, take his sword into his left hand, since it was useless in his dead right one, but after a few attempts failed, he resigned himself to the situation, and leaned back, cursing his failing body.
He had become realistic enough, over the past hours, to realize that he’d likely arrived at his final resting place. At least, he thought tiredly, there was a bit of a view. He supposed as the years passed, the traces of the battle would vanish, and the meadow below would once again be nothing more than a pleasant little bit of land. Not as green as the Ireland he remembered, but he wasn’t complaining. He could rest here, with his sword by his side, to the last.
He must’ve dozed, because suddenly he felt a chill, and looked up to see a tall, thin, cloaked figure standing before him. The deep hood was pulled forward, and he could see nothing of the face within. He tried to tighten his fingers around the hilt of his sword, but he could feel no movement.
When the figure spoke, he understood nothing of it. He’d learned Latin, and some Greek, when he was young, and during his time with the Emperor’s forces, he’d picked up some French and German, but these local dialects defeated his ear. Even the peasants hereabouts managed sufficient German to get by on; there’d been no need to trouble himself with Polish, or whatever this was. He managed a small shake of his head, enough to signify, "I don’t understand."
“Easy, child,” he heard a voice say in low rough tones, the German heavily accented, but intelligible. “I mean you no harm.”
He had enough strength to rasp out, “I’m…no…child.”
A low chuckle answered him. “Forgive me. I meant no insult.”
Joseph was past worrying about meanings. He saw a possible source of hope, of help, and he was ready to take whatever was offered. “Water?” he croaked.
The hood swayed a negative. “No, my son. But if you can wait until nightfall, I will give you a better drink.”
Wine, he thought. “Why…wait?”
Another chuckle. “You are a brave soul, it seems. A worthy soul. I watched long, before I came to a decision.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Joseph now. “Indomitable, even unto death. He’ll do. He’ll do.” The figure turned, and then looked back over one shoulder to the dying man on the ground. “Rest. It will be night, soon enough. I will keep watch until then.”
He wondered if this was the Reaper, come for him at last, or an angel of death sent as a final mercy. He muttered a few prayers, as best he could remember them. He thought he’d keep his eyes open, as long as he could, watching the sunset. He knew, now, there would be no more sunrises to see. Not for him.
The clouds streaked a late afternoon sky with gaudy ribbons of orange and pink, shading to indigo purple as time went on. He thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful. He wished that Siobhan were here to share it with him, and the thought brought up a vision of her face. He’d been a fool to leave home, and all he wanted, now, was a chance to tell her so. That, and a little water to moisten his lips. Just a little, to quench this burning thirst.
And there, in the rocks above a battlefield that was already forgotten by all but the dead, Joseph Constantine, late of Ireland, waited for death and destiny, as the summer sun went down.
If you want a soundtrack for this story, I recommend Barber’s Adagio for Strings. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lV3SHBFyDZM
The Dying Day
Joseph Constantine clawed forward, the leather fingers of his gauntlet slipping on the blood-soaked grass before gaining purchase in a depression made by the heavy hoof of a war-horse. Breath rasping and labored, he pulled again, moving a scant few inches.
At least the blood had stopped dripping in his eyes, he thought, squinting against the bright sunlight beating down on the quiet battlefield. He spared the energy to glance down at his right hand. He’d lost all feeling in the arm some hours before, but he was heartened to see that he still maintained a grip on his sword hilt. Or perhaps it was simply hung in the skirts of his coat, or the baldric that held the scabbard. He suspected, now, that his wounds were mortal, and he didn’t really expect to see another dawn, but nonetheless, it seemed right that if he were to die, it would be with his sword in his hand.
A few hours ago, or was it days?, he’d ridden onto the field, jaunty at the head of his troop, sword at one hip, harquebus at the other. The scarlet plume of his hat swept down across the broad brim, almost to his shoulder. Let the rank and file wear their cuirasses, their metal helmets. He needed to see, to be seen by the men.
And he’d paid for it. The blast from the musket that caught him in the side as he wheeled his horse, sword raised to urge on the troop, had felt like a dull blow, not the piercing pain he would have expected. He’d lost his hat as he fell, and never knew if the wound on his head had come from an enemy, or the iron-shod hoof of his own horse.
He hitched forward again. Around him, he could see the bodies of the fallen: men, horses all stiffening now, their bodies given a false warmth of life from the relentless sun. When first he’d awakened, here in the midst of the slaughter, his hearing had still been blunted with the sounds of the skirmish. The blatting cough of muskets, the ring of swords, the screams of the wounded, shouted commands. He hadn’t heard the command to retreat, although he supposed one must have been given. Perhaps he’d already been down by then, left for dead among all the other carrion on the field. Now, the ringing in his ears had stopped, replaced by a deep silence, broken only by the sounds he made as he crawled through the muck and gore, seeking the shelter of the tree line.
And the flies. There was a low hum of insects, gathering to begin the work of clearing the field. The stench hit him like a blow to the face. Blood, shit, vomit, the raw stink of rotting meat. And he was struggling through the worst of it.
Any time, now, he could die. He thought it might be as easy as slipping his hand from his glove, leaving his sword behind. Leaving it all behind. The pain, the blood, the sun. He wasn’t ready yet, though. Not ready to quit the struggle. Not ready to give up.
Slowly, he made his way forward. That morning, before the battle started, he’d joked with his comrades that the little valley, parched with the late summer heat, made a sweet place for a fight. Open ground, flat for the horses, with rocks on either side to cover the musket men. Wide enough to give space for the initial charge, but too narrow to allow the enemy to flank them. Now, crawling, it seemed broad as the ocean, broader than the distance that separated him from the green hills of his homeland.
Maybe, if he survived the day, and the night to come, he’d go back home. He thought he’d had about enough wandering. Enough killing. He inched forward again. The rocks ahead seemed miles away now, and his head was spinning. A wave of nausea washed over him, bringing the taste of the sour wine he’d drunk for breakfast into the back of his mouth. The world turned to gray, and he laid his head down to rest for a moment.
When he awoke again, the sun was lower in the west. He knew that no matter how long the day seemed, eventually, night would come, and with it, the scavengers. Whether that meant peasants from the nearest village, out to pick over the dead for anything of value, or animals, from the surrounding woods, ready for a feast, it would be a dangerous time. He needed shelter.
The wound in his side was still seeping. There had been blood, too much blood. Sometimes, these past few years, since he’d taken his sword, and his horse, and left home to seek his fortune in the wars of the world, he thought he’d seen enough blood to last him a lifetime. Until today, though, so very little of that blood had been his own. Now, the blood that covered him was rolling slowly from his own veins. If he’d had the strength, he would have laughed. Wasn’t he supposed to live forever?
He used the leather harness of a fallen horse to pull himself onward, sparing a thought for the stallion he’d ridden that day. He wondered if Bayard had survived, taking flight, riderless, when he fell from the saddle. Or did the big gray lie lifeless, behind him? He’d lost comrades, before. Foot soldiers in his command had fallen, and he hadn’t given it so much as a thought. But Bayard had been with him, from a foal. He’d seen that horse take his first wobbling steps, and the thought that he was gone forever…a tear leaked out from one eye, and Joseph was glad no one was present to see it. War was war, and men—and horses—died. No reason to weep over it.
Slowly, inch by inch, the tree line was getting closer. He was getting weaker, he thought. Every movement brought a fresh wave of pain. And he was so thirsty. He’d have sold his soul, little worth as it was, for a drink of cool water. Better yet, a draft of wine, with a pretty girl to serve it to him. As long as he was wishing for the impossible, there was no reason to aim low. He’d have smiled, if he’d had the strength.
The muscles of his shoulders throbbed painfully. Just a few more yards, he thought, and he could rest. He’d crawl in among the rocks, shaded by the trees, and rest. If he could do that, if he could last out the night, he’d be sheltered from the day, and he’d be stronger.
Another scrabble, another grasp, another pull. Once he’d thought the whole world was his to grasp, and he’d intended to see it all, to seize it all. Now, his world had narrowed to a single goal. Reaching the tree line. Every inch forward cost him more of his ebbing vitality, but he refused to stop. Refused to die, here in the wreckage of a minor battle, miles from anywhere. The elbows of his coat had worn out long ago, as he crawled, and the skin beneath was scored and raw from sharp pebbles in the dirt. Joseph almost welcomed the pain of every contact with the ground. It meant he was still alive.
As the welcome shade drew nearer, the shadows slanting outward with the declining sun, he had an impression of someone standing, cloaked in black, among the trees, watching him. Twice, he convinced himself it was an illusion, a phantasm conjured up from his fevered brain. After all, if anyone was there, they’d have ventured out into the sunlight, either to help him, or to kill him. He knew his sword alone was worth more than his life, at the best of times, and now—if the peasants found him, they’d kill him for his boots. Or his gloves. Or maybe for nothing at all, but to show their hatred of the soldiers who ravaged back and forth over the land.
The shadows had lengthened considerably, and his strength lessened accordingly, by the time he dragged himself into a slight declivity in the rocks at the side of the valley. That last twenty yards, up a short slope, had been the hardest part of the journey, and he had little thought beyond the achievement of his goal.
It was an effort to turn over, but he managed, slowly, painfully, and drew himself into a half-sitting position, his back protected by the rocks. He thought he ought to reach over, take his sword into his left hand, since it was useless in his dead right one, but after a few attempts failed, he resigned himself to the situation, and leaned back, cursing his failing body.
He had become realistic enough, over the past hours, to realize that he’d likely arrived at his final resting place. At least, he thought tiredly, there was a bit of a view. He supposed as the years passed, the traces of the battle would vanish, and the meadow below would once again be nothing more than a pleasant little bit of land. Not as green as the Ireland he remembered, but he wasn’t complaining. He could rest here, with his sword by his side, to the last.
He must’ve dozed, because suddenly he felt a chill, and looked up to see a tall, thin, cloaked figure standing before him. The deep hood was pulled forward, and he could see nothing of the face within. He tried to tighten his fingers around the hilt of his sword, but he could feel no movement.
When the figure spoke, he understood nothing of it. He’d learned Latin, and some Greek, when he was young, and during his time with the Emperor’s forces, he’d picked up some French and German, but these local dialects defeated his ear. Even the peasants hereabouts managed sufficient German to get by on; there’d been no need to trouble himself with Polish, or whatever this was. He managed a small shake of his head, enough to signify, "I don’t understand."
“Easy, child,” he heard a voice say in low rough tones, the German heavily accented, but intelligible. “I mean you no harm.”
He had enough strength to rasp out, “I’m…no…child.”
A low chuckle answered him. “Forgive me. I meant no insult.”
Joseph was past worrying about meanings. He saw a possible source of hope, of help, and he was ready to take whatever was offered. “Water?” he croaked.
The hood swayed a negative. “No, my son. But if you can wait until nightfall, I will give you a better drink.”
Wine, he thought. “Why…wait?”
Another chuckle. “You are a brave soul, it seems. A worthy soul. I watched long, before I came to a decision.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Joseph now. “Indomitable, even unto death. He’ll do. He’ll do.” The figure turned, and then looked back over one shoulder to the dying man on the ground. “Rest. It will be night, soon enough. I will keep watch until then.”
He wondered if this was the Reaper, come for him at last, or an angel of death sent as a final mercy. He muttered a few prayers, as best he could remember them. He thought he’d keep his eyes open, as long as he could, watching the sunset. He knew, now, there would be no more sunrises to see. Not for him.
The clouds streaked a late afternoon sky with gaudy ribbons of orange and pink, shading to indigo purple as time went on. He thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful. He wished that Siobhan were here to share it with him, and the thought brought up a vision of her face. He’d been a fool to leave home, and all he wanted, now, was a chance to tell her so. That, and a little water to moisten his lips. Just a little, to quench this burning thirst.
And there, in the rocks above a battlefield that was already forgotten by all but the dead, Joseph Constantine, late of Ireland, waited for death and destiny, as the summer sun went down.
What a brilliant answer to the challenge!! 
) but even more so for the utter richness of your descriptions. 