geist emil

The sun rose on the sweeping green hills of the Kosovo countryside. In a land torn by war after war that had raged for nearly ten years, finding a quiet place to settle had become more and more difficult for Poshum and his family. Already they were kicked back and forth, from country line to country line. Nobody wanted them. This was to be expected, but the conflict raised the stakes to almost intolerable levels. In the coming days, they would take the caravan northwest. People may not be more receptive there, but not having to dodge tanks and assault weapons would make it worth it.

But for the moment, they had settled around a copse of trees, tucked safely inside while their flocks grazed peacefully in the spring-brightened fields outside of Pejë . It was a moment's peace. Poshum stirred from his nest of blankets, blinking in the raising sun. Yawning loudly, he did his rounds, rousing his brothers and sisters, mother and father. It was unusual that we was the first one awake, but that hardly mattered. One by one the caravan came to life and the day began. The field filled with children, laughing and chasing one another. Sheep bleated at the approach of the men and their dogs. The women chatted and began the rounds for breakfast. All was right.

Trouble found them, as it always seemed to do these days. Deep rumbling came from down the nearby paved road, and soon military vehicles reared their heads from over the hill. Poshum's father sighed, circling around the frightened sheep to make sure they didn't run. Everyone in the camp prayed that they would pass by, but they would have no such luck. The vehicles swerved onto the dirt, rounding the camp like wolves.

Poshum kept his distance, but watched as uniformed men slammed the doors behind them, toting guns. It wasn't the first time this had happened, but it was always frightening, even to someone as young as him. One of the older men stepped forward to confront them.

"Is there a problem?" the man spoke. The intruders looked at each other and seemed to smile, but their faces went stony cold when they looked back at him.

"You're on private property. You need to leave."

Wasn't that always the excuse. Chances are no one owned this land, but all present, even the youngest children had heard those words dozens of times, and every time they knew they lacked the legal power to argue. The man nodded, and turned to go.

"But maybe we could work something out," the officer in the front spoke. "You do some work for us, and we'll leave your caravan alone."

The man startled, going board-straight where he stood, and Poshum understood why. He'd heard the stories of this happening before, from survivors of the conflicts in the past few years. They didn't want allies. They wanted scapegoats.

If he refused, he would be killed. If he offered, he would have atrocities pinned on him, and then he would be killed. But what would the man do?

He would let them keep their dignity.

"I think that we will pass." the man said. In his voice there was defeat, but also defiance. He stared back at the officers as they raised their guns, and didn't break eye contact even as they fired.

Poshum darted back to the wagons just as he saw the body fall, screaming a warning to the others. The sheep scattered, disappearing over the hills and the camp fell to chaos. The officers moved in as fathers rushed back to their families, pushing them into safety even as their bodies became peppered with bullets. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, and soon, it was followed by the smell of smoke.

The intruders left a parting gift, in the madness of the attack leaving every wagon on fire where the children were hidden from the onslaught. Poshum could hear them from inside, crying and coughing as what survivors were left tugged desperately at the collapsing frames. A few wagons went dead silent, except for the crackling of burning wood.

But Poshum could hear that his wagon still contained life.

Taking no chances, he dove into the back, digging with his bare hands through the charcoal. There was his sister, Nadya, her body curled over their little brother. Poshum wasted no time and grabbed her by the leg, powered by raw adrenaline as he yanked the both of them free and shoved them out. She yelped as she hit the grass, hair burnt almost down to the scalp. But she was alive. He could hear them sputtering as her lungs hit clean air.

He started to climb out, but a horrible creaking filled the tiny space. He desperately urged his muscles to move faster, but no air, no strength...

Wood clattered and pinned him in place, pressing down heavily on the top half of his body, and the pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, searing his face, past layer after layer of skin, burning through slowly until his mind simply would not tolerate anymore. It gave itself willingly to the strangling smoke, and the pain drifted away, his world growing dark despite the raging flames.

--

He awoke to the sounds of screams again. Gunfire. Hissing out a scent of bitter almond.

His scream joined in the chorus and all eyes turned towards him.

But as his eyes caught up with the rest of them, there were no flames, no attackers. There were burnt survivors, tending to each others wounds and reverently laying out the dead.

There they were in neat order. His mother. His father. Two siblings. And him. But he'd been the only one to get back up.

People rushed to him, dragging him away from the bodies and patching up his fresh, aching burns with what little supplies they had. But he was looking beyond them.

Staring at the winding mass of barbed wire that snaked around their bodies but never seemed to touch them. A beast that let out another desperate wail, underlaid by the sounds of shouts and dogs.

It turned its face towards him, little more than holes in its frame where a fire burned underneath.

Fire. The last thing he needed to see right now.

He began to cry.