Work Text:
A wail through the willows... All hollow through the willows... She’ll wail through the willows... Until she finds him.
I heard the gunshot, and then the world went silent.
I had only been speaking to him moments before, mere seconds fluttered between our conversation and the deafening scream that escaped the gun he had stolen from his father’s study. Only seconds. The sound made me trip and fall and stop breathing altogether.
I hadn’t meant to cry in front of him. I wanted so badly for him to come with me, if only for the afternoon. Just so we could walk by the stream and laugh together. Only for an hour or two. I saw the pain in his eyes and thought maybe I could relieve it just a little bit with memories from our childhood.
Hiding in our wigwam.
I should have kept walking, but I turned around and went back to the clearing I had found him in earlier. I found him again. I took the gun and placed it tenderly in my satchel, averting my eyes to the bloody mess that was strewn before me. I tried to focus instead on the flowers surrounding the trees, but even those were painted with bits of him. I felt my stomach lurched, and I ran.
The day of the funeral was sunny. What a cruel trick the world so often plays on us. I stood far away from the gravesite, watching the children who I used to call my friends look at the hole in the ground with blank stares, shock written across their faces. I felt so much older than them, even though we were all roughly the same age. I caught Melchi’s eye from my hiding spot behind a tree. He nodded and gave me sad smile.
Wendla walked up towards the grave and threw a flower in. She was always the perfect picture of innocence. As she tossed the flower, she looked up at Melchior, all one swift, fluid movement. I narrowed my gaze. Living with artists had made me painfully aware of the way people’s bodies tug towards others. I wondered how long it would be until Wendla’s heart was cracked open by the boy who used to tackle me in the fields behind the schoolhouse.
Following Wendla’s lead, the rest of the children stepped up towards the grave, one by one, to drop a flower. Moritz’s father looked straight ahead, refusing to meet anyone’s eye. I knew that he would probably dissolve into anger if I stepped forward and joined the solemn march, but my body tugged towards Moritz, even in death. I walked slowly up towards the little gathering, all loose ends and streaming fabric. I had borrowed a green dress that was far too big for me from another women in the colony. I came to her with streaming eyes and blood soaked clothes (I had smashed a vase in anger that my friend was taken away from me, and had sliced my hand in the process). She bandaged me up and gave me the dress, throwing a belt around the middle to cinch the waist (“You are much smaller than me, you know.” “I know. But I want to be green. I want Moritz to see me in colors like the leaves.”). I had my satchel and a small fistful of wildflowers and when I got up to the grave I felt my knees buckle. I was the only one who knew what was beneath the wooden lid. A headless boy. His heart had won in the end.
The small crowd began to disperse. I saw Wendla’s mother usher her away quickly, and Hansi sneak a glance towards Ernst, whose cheeks bloomed with a blush. They are so obvious, I thought quietly to myself. I turned and saw Martha, her cheeks still tear stained, standing next to the grave. I wondered how long she planned to stay there.
I silently crept up behind her and slid my hand into hers.
“We’d better go, Martha. The gravediggers will be here soon to pour the dirt onto him.”
“I want to stay.”
I tugged at her hand. She didn’t move. She had grown stubborn since I was last in town.
“We’ll bring him more flowers tomorrow, I promise. There are so many growing in Priapia. Irises everywhere, it’s beautiful. You should come home with me someday so you can see them.”
Martha nodded solemnly, “I’d like that.”
“I’ll bring forget-me-nots too, those are my favorite,” I said, getting swept away in my own ideas, “his grave will always be the most beautiful. I promise. I’ll water the flowers every time I come by.”
I looked at Martha, who had begun to cry again. I put my arm around her. She winced in pain, and I withdrew so that I wasn’t pressing against any of her bruises. I closed my eyes, saddened to know that her father hadn’t stopped, even now. It had been years since we last talked about it. I rested my head on her shoulder, and placed my hand back in hers. A tense silence hung between us.
“I was just across the bridge when I heard the shot.”
Martha looked at me in horror, disbelief in her eyes. “But you’re never in town.”
“I was coming around to see my mother. Just to make sure she was okay. I’m here more than you think.”
“Oh. Did you see him?”
I couldn’t bear to explain the conversation Moritz and I had in the woods. It was easier not to tell Martha that I wasn’t able to save him. I wasn’t able to convince him to come with me and laugh at our old jokes and smile until our cheeks hurt.
“Here’s the pistol,” I said, brandishing the gun from out of my satchel.
“So that’s why no one could find it.”
“I took it out of his hand.”
“Can I have it?” Martha asked pleadingly.
I snatched it back towards my body, stuffing it into my satchel. “No, it’s my...it’s my souvenir.”
Both of us turned back towards the hole in the ground, the wooden box barely visible at the bottom. I could see the gravediggers coming in the distance, shovels slung over their shoulders.
“Ilse, is it true he’s in there without a head?”
“He must have loaded it with water. The king’s tapers were sprinkled all over with blood. His brains were hanging from the willow branches.”