Goodbye, child

The autumn rain fell heavily that day, and the sky was darker, greyer, shadowed by clouds. The smog, ominous and thick, causing a cough from any who breathed it, had thankfully receded during the night, giving way to the rain. The smog, though, had only preceded its cause: the artillery, the guns, and foremost the explosions, first loud and far off in the east, but now frightfully close.

The inhabitants of the little village of Talboslav had never been many, but now only a handful remained. Fugitives from the east had been passing by in a steady stream, their numbers growing as they went. They carried what they could, brought what they could on wagons or trucks, and had left everything else behind.

Leaving everything behind had at first been a concept too foreign to Rivka for her to truly consider it, and the column of refugees had held no lure for her. She knew nothing outside Talboslav, aside from the trek to the river Galva, and the long winding road leading to Sarajevo, where she had relatives whom she had visited only twice. Lately, news of nothing good came from Sarajevo. Then again, news seemed to come exclusively from the east, from the battles, and it came carried in the distressed minds of refugees, as it had been seen through the with-fright widened eyes of the same.

The stories of maltreatment of locals, their homes and possessions, and the slaughter and terror described to her, were beyond her comprehension. They could not catch hold of her mind: she shoved the away, refusing to hear what she did not want to hear, and did not want to believe.

Rivka's mother and father had been in Sarajevo when the war had begun, and had not returned. Her brother and her three cousins had been called into service, or fled from the same; she was not sure which. Her widowed aunt, fretful as ever, had gathered her things and joined the refugees, heading towards some hoped-for sanctuary, with no proof even of its existence.

Rivka's husband had also been swept into service with the armed forces. It had happened suddenly, leaving Rivka alone, with no-one to trust aside from her own child. A little girl not yet weaned was little comfort, though, and only conjured more worries. How to ensure the child's survival in a world which was falling apart?

The autumn rain fell heavily that day, and heavy was also Rivka's state of mind. Stubbornness and her well-anchored roots had kept her in her home, despite being alone. Denial had kept her mind from finding the will to flee.

This morning, though, she could see them. At the outskirts of Talboslav, there were figures of dim grey in different shapes and sizes moving through the rain. She supposed those she saw were not engaged in any fighting. By all reports, this was an army driven on the run, by a fiercer or better armed opponent, and those she saw would be those quickest on their feet or highest in favour with Fortune. The fighting would be further away.

Rivka barricaded herself in her house, kept her daughter in a protective embrace, and let her eyes glaze over. Despite everything, she could feel no fear.

* * *

The road through Talboslav was a small one, seldom used, and now turned to mud from the previous day's rain. Never had the village seen as much activity as when the retreating army passed through it. Trucks half-empty of supplies were followed by trucks filled with soldiers, sporting faces either of gloom or apathy. Those on foot marched in lines disorganized by fatigue. There were also smaller jeeps, carrying two people, sometimes with a third sitting in the back.

A few of the villagers came out to watch the passing columns. Some asked for food, but were denied it: there was no food to be spared. Some asked how far away the enemy was, but were given no reply, aside from a shrug and an indistinct wave towards the east.

Namechja, Rivka's neighbour, was growing frantic. Her son's friend from college was part of the retreating army. He was riding in the passenger seat of a jeep, his officer's coat tight about his shoulders. The jeep had actually stopped so he might talk to Namechja; a sure sign of his relative importance.

His tone was grim as he spoke of the coming enemy, and Namechja's expression grew more and more panicked. Rivka, standing at some distance with her child on her arm, could not make out any words of their conversation. This was not because she was too far away: aside from the ongoing roars of large and small engines, and the splashes as wheels passed the puddles of mud on the road, there were no sounds except Namechja's discussion with the young officer. Both of their voices were raised; the soldier's to overcome the surrounding noise, and Namechja's to overcome her own worry.

Rivka did hear the words, but she did not pay them any heed. What caught her attention was the officer's voice: heavy as the previous day's rain, arid as the silence after an explosion, but strengthened by an honest and heartfelt warning which spoke beyond the need for words: leave, leave now, and don't wait for them to come. They'll pillage, they'll burn, they'll kill.

The warning had been aimed at Namechja, but it went straight to Rivka's own heart. She felt as if she had been falling for several days and now finally hit the ground.

Stories that she had refused to listen to or believe now came back to her, in flashes of vivid imagery, to the background drone of the engines of retreating army trucks. Now they were too real to be ignored: the young officer's voice had conveyed beyond any of Rivka's doubt that the war was real, and it was on its way, and it was too late to run. Stunned, she stood where she was for several more minutes, hearing the exchange between her neighbour and the young soldier. She stood staring into space, not registering how the columns of marching soldiers and trucks grew thinner. Another jeep stopped, right beside her, and the driver and two passengers stepped out to look at a front wheel which was reason for concern.

Despite the pleas of panicking Namechja, her son's friend did not agree to let her accompany the column. He shook his head, shrugged, and mentioned his commanders and different regulations.

This denial registered faintly somewhere in the back of Rivka's mind. That the officer said his farewell to Namechja and his jeep continued on his way barely caused a stir of thought. Namechja's whimper and the way she disappeared along the street towards her home was noted only absentmindedly, like one might note the texture of a wall while one's mind is occupied.

They'll pillage, they'll burn, they'll kill.

There was no doubt remaining, now. Rivka's sole concern was saving her child. Run, before they came, and be long gone by the time her possessions were gone through and stolen and her house set to flame. Run, on foot and with nowhere to go… and even in her present state Rivka could dismiss the idea as foolishness. Firstly, she would not be able to bring food or water enough to feed herself and her child for as long as they would be on the road. Secondly, by the rate the retreating army was moving, she would be in the midst of the enemy within two days, no matter how fast she ran.

Her second idea struck her before the first had been fully withdrawn. Hide her daughter before the enemy soldiers came. The problem was that there was nowhere to hide her. Nowhere in a house being burned to the ground could she be certain her child would live. Nowhere in a village looted could she hope her child would avoid detection.

Suddenly the column of refugees and the idea of dragging her possessions on a cart well ahead of the coming armies did not seem so horrid.

The jeep standing motionless with three people kneeling by its front wheel was the only vehicle left in sight when Rivka returned from her wandering thoughts. The others were leaving. The last, straggling soldiers on foot were just passing her.

She would not be allowed to accompany the retreating army in one of the vehicles. On foot, she would not be able to keep up. They had every intention of keeping out of the enemy's reach.

To the east, that enemy was appearing as dark specks in the distance. Those specks were ominously growing even as Rivka watched, even though she knew it to be a trick of her frightened mind. She hugged her child close to her chest, and her gaze strayed towards the back of the jeep.

There stood a box, barely a meter long, and half as wide, and half as deep. It was a sturdy, wooden box, reinforced with iron, with a large handle at each end. It had the appearance of a box which should have been locked, but for some reason was not. Most importantly, though: the box was heading away from the enemy army.

Numb with fear she felt as she took the two steps forwards, lifted the lid, and glanced over her shoulder at the approaching enemy.

They'll pillage, they'll burn, they'll kill.

* * *

As the jeep drove away, hurrying to catch up with the rest of the column, Rivka whispered two simple words: "Goodbye, child."

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Author's Note;

Something I wrote for English class, and ended up fond of. Write a review and tell me what you think. (Just to clarify; this is completely made up, without a single speck of truth.)