Spoiler! :
I won’t die say Ash’s fierce, dark eyes. They smoulder deep within their sockets; glisten with salty tears. He will not let a single one fall. A coarse chocking noise emerges from his throat. I place my finger to his lips. “Try not to talk. It will only make hurt worse.”
His eyes are filling up with fresh tears, this time from the pain. I lift the hem of my cloak and gently wipe them away. “Don’t give up, not yet. Promise me.”
He gives me an endearing, sympathetic stare, riddled with agony.
I can’t manage words anymore. Taking his hand, I give it a light squeeze. His fingers curl weakly around mine. Pulling away, I bind my cloak closer to my body, and rest myself down beside him. I lay awake, staring intently at the canopy of the stars above, until I hear Ash’s breathing become slow and gentle. My blood is freezing, my limbs numb and purplish. I huddle in close to him, just like old times. My stomach feels flimsy, weightless; as though it is about to drop from my body. I clutch it tightly, my breathing shallow. It is now our third week without food. I keep waiting for a miracle from the Lord; Manna to fall from the heavens. It is in my nature to be optimistic, or, as Ash would say, fanciful. I often find myself caught up in the whirl of a fool’s paradise, but living inside my head is the only way I survive.
I am headstrong and determined, just like my people. As a nation, the Tsalagi do not go out without a fight. We both stand and fall with our dignity about us. We march in solemn, noble silence. It is the people who wail: those who stand by the wayside – outsiders, who pity our plight; those who are utterly moved by our stance.
I have been thinking for over an hour now: endless thoughts, just whirling around my brain. Sleep, if it ever comes, is often light; filled with fearful, meaningless dreams. Ash is stirring. He coughs heavily. I prop myself up on one hand and stroke his greasy black hair away from his forehead. It’s burning hot: he’s running a fever. Ash wretches, hacks up vomit laced with swirls of red. My eyes widen in horror. Frantically, I claw the earth around me for my water skin. Lifting Ash’s head onto my lap, I push it to his lips, tipping fluid down his throat. He jerks out of my arms, chocking vehemently, the water spurting from his throat. I smack him between the shoulder blades: it seems to calm the demon inside of him. He falls back limply into my arms, shivering violently. I wrap his gauzy blanket tighter around his shoulders and start to rock gently; hum a soothing tune. I glance at his thigh; the mere sight – let alone the smell – is nauseating. It’s seeping again, the bandages used to bind the wound damp with puss. The surrounding flesh is black and fetid and very much rotten.
I look back to his face. Ash’s eyes, thick with crusty yellow, flutter slightly. His ensuing stare stabs me through the middle, causes my heart to lurch inside my rib-cage. He clutches my wrist, his icy grasp getting tighter and tighter. I feel as though all circulation is being cut off to my extremities. I meet his urgent, piercing gaze. He is ruined. He cannot get well, even if I wish it so. Ash, my beautiful husband, the man that I was joined to by the holy knot, is dying. He continues to fight, true to his Cherokee blood. It is how we were raised; as warriors, trained to combat emotions, people, and ailments. But now it is time to stop.
“Ash,” I whisper, my words chocked with tears. I let them run freely now. His dark, glassy eyes glower in the dim light. “You don’t have to do it anymore.”
He frowns. I shake my head, say: “Don’t suffer, just for me; for your dignity. You can let go.” He swallows, is able only to emanate one, muffled word: “You.” “No, don’t think about me. I’ve been so selfish, forcing you to keep going, battle the pain and push through: you are in agony every day…and this winter is so harsh. Don’t try to keep living, not for me…I -” my voice breaks, and my lips began to quiver. Nothing will come out now. I bend low and kiss his dry, cracked lips. Perhaps this will mean more than words. His neck relaxes, and his eyes close. He breathes in short, sharp gasps, sucking pockets-full of air into his dirty black lungs. Carefully, I lay his head back down onto the ground. I lie down beside him, but do not wait for sleep. I wait for Ash’s heart to become still; to stop to a silence. It does not take long. I reach into my woollen bag, and pull out his funeral clothes. They bear no pattern; are sombre and dark in design. They were carefully crafted by his mother when he was a child, as were mine by my own aluli. I swaddle Ash in the leggings, shroud and sash. Pulling the gauze over his face, I leave his body to rest for the night. I reach a blunt, dull-handled knife from my bag, and begin to cut my hair. Thick glossy locks – as black as the blackest Onyx – fall from my head, encircle my shrivelled form. Some watch me as I do so, realise, and bow their heads respectfully. They know. I remove my cloak, and lay it over my husband, then strip myself of my outer layers and my snow boots, leaving me standing with only a simple dress of cotton. Already my blood has slowed; seized within my veins.
I trod carefully around the maze of sleeping tribes-people, trying not to wake them. It is Liseli I want to see. I know that she will be awake. She is often so during the hours of the stars. When finally I reach her she mending a garment, her eyes keenly adjusted to the moonlit night. I tap her. She twists, gives me a faint, gap-toothed smile. I say nothing, merely return the smile, and thrust toward her the bulk of my clothes.
Liseli catches the bundle; gives my hand a grateful squeeze. Extra layers may just get her through the winter. “Sister, I wish you peace on your journey.”
I leave, pad silently back to where Ash’s lifeless carcass is laid, cold and still. Slipping on a shroud of black wool, a gauzy sash of the same colour, and thick, dusky blue leggings, I recline out on my back. My heart feels calm. I close my eyes for the last time. Gently, the cold kills me.
Hope is like a barricade. It fortifies the heart; puts up a sterling defence.
But it is not invincible.
It doesn't rule us. We all have a choice. Each of us, at some point in our lives, will ask: should I stay? And sometimes, the noblest thing to say is no.
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