Field of the Fallen

Sunlight danced softly across the frost-crusted fields, making the little blades of grass sparkle like emeralds. The faraway chirrup of a songbird was the only disruption to the quiet of the morning. An icy chill, the last vestige of the dying winter, clung to the air, settling in a thick white mist at the far side of the open field. The heavy stench of decay hung in that mist, punctuation by the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.

The tiny ice crystals crunched beneath her tall, mud jumper boots as Carys crossed the field, nearing the carnage hidden in the fog. The balaclava wrapped over her nose and mouth tempered the odor just enough to allow her to breathe without tasting the rotting flesh of the fallen. A few dozen feet away from the edge of the mists, Carys paused and crouched down. Hundreds of tiny trumpet shaped purple flowers spread through the grass. She reached out with her yellow rubber dish gloves and carefully snapped the stems, gathering a large bouquet which she stowed in the red gingham lined wicker basket she carried. Then she continued on her way.

At the edge of the mist, Carys paused, glancing back over her shoulder. In the distance she could see the white sails of the windmill, lazily waving to her as they slowly spun round. A dozen chimneys boasted small curls of white smoke promising warmth and breakfast waiting within the cozy homes. Everything else was still. She turned her attention back to the task at hand.

Carys stepped through the veil, for a moment she felt the searing pain of thousands of tiny, red-hot needles piercing her from head to toe followed by a wave of cool as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head, and then she was through. With a sickening squelch she stepped down into the mist. Carefully she tiptoed, stepping around the mounds she could now see scattered throughout the fog covered field. These were weeks, months, some years, old. They had already been picked over so she paid them no heed. She heard a squawk to her right and looked over to see a large black crow watching her intently, a string of red flesh dangling from its beak. The crow returned to its meal and Carys returned to her careful trek.

Each step squelched, splashing thick pungent black blood over her knee-high boots. The balaclava no longer provided enough barrier to the growing odor, the taste of rot and tang of blood coated her tongue. Finally, she reached the fresh quarry.

Squatting next to the woman, Carys only briefly looked at her blank green eyes before pulling the lids shut. She set her basket atop the woman's still chest and removed the pair of brass scissors and a small plastic bag. She snipped a small lock of dark red hair from the woman and slipped it into the bag. Then she began pulling the contents from the pockets of the woman's clothing, removing her gold band from her bloodied fingers, and tearing the silver earrings from her lobes. Everything went into the bag with the hair. Once finished, Carys zipped the bag shut, set it carefully back in the basket with the scissors, and pulled one purple flower from her bouquet. Carys folded the woman's arms over her chest and placed the flower in her hands. Then she moved onto the next.

One by one, Carys repeated the ritual at each newly fallen body. She closed their eyes, snipped their hair, removed all their belongings to stow in her basket, and left them clutching one small purple flower. She moved methodically, efficiently, through the mass grave, never taking more time than necessary. Finally, her bouquet had dwindled to one last flower and her basket overflowed with pilfered belongings. She turned back to the town in the distance and started her long trek back.

A snapping twig broke the silence of the morning bringing Carys to a stop. She turned toward the sound. A red haired boy a few years younger than her, maybe twelve, sat in the high branches and clung to the thick trunk of a withered tree several yards away. His ragged clothes hung loosely on his dirt caked frame. He watched her with green eyes. Neither moved for several long seconds. Then the boy turned his eyes toward the first fallen woman with red hair and green eyes to match his own and nodded. Carys nodded back and then returned to her homeward trek.

Again at the edge of the veil, Carys looked back over her shoulder. The fog still covered the Field of the Fallen, hiding the mounds of rotting flesh and exposed bone. Naked trees that would never bloom in the new spring stood silently in vigil over the fallen. In one black tree a boy watched Carys.

He watched as she pulled the one last flower from her basket. He saw her crouch next to one of the older mounds, one of the very first.

The blue eyes that matched Carys’s had long been taken as the lunch of crows. The once blond hair had become black from the rancid blood. No one would have noticed the resemblance now, with the flesh stripped from her face. But once, Teagan had been indistinguishable from her twin sister. Only the veil could tell the difference. It had let Carys through and rejected Teagan.

The boy watched as Carys set the last flower on the top of a pile of hundreds of purple buds, many now withered and turned brown. Then she stepped through the veil with a slight shudder. He watched her go in silence, never turning back to look at the Field of the Fallen behind her.