"Prologue" to Solace
by Taylor McGowan '18
Late October, 1864
Deep South
Lanterns in the darkness. Swinging orbs of burning gold, cutting thin slices from the shadows – too thin, not enough to see by, but enough to avoid certain death by running off the steep sides of the trail. Vivid yellow light danced across the path; snapped like whips of fire into the shadows; caught the silver lacework of frost in the foliage as they whipped past, briefly lighting it to gold. It burned between Will’s slim fingers, encased by a delicate sheen of glass, and the lantern’s heat was great enough to scald his palm and make his skin tingle with shivering pinpoints of pain. But it was not great enough to make him let go, and still he held tight, his teeth grinding together as he clenched his jaw, the salty, metallic tang of blood springing up on his lip where he had bitten it.
He could hold on, or he could die.
It was not a difficult choice to make.
His breath came in short, shallow, hitching gasps of pain, and his free hand tightened on the reins, so much that the color leached from his knuckles. His heart hammered against his ribs with enough force to shatter them, and the blood shooting through his veins and roaring in his ears was hot with adrenaline. The shadows fled as he approached, but not the people who hid in them, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he galloped nearer. Were they allies, ensuring his safe escape? Or were they enemies, awaiting a golden opportunity with weapons in hand?
He thundered past a cluster of crouched, waiting men, and they rose to their feet as a single entity, their shouts breaking through the din in Will’s ears – his breathing; his heartbeat; the thump-thump of his mare’s hooves on the dirt road. “Run! Run, sir!”
So he did. He ran, and with every stride he felt self-hatred rear up inside him like a living creature, ripping into his chest. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be back there, with the rest of the soldiers, doing his part to push the enemy back – the enemy that had come for him.
For him. For him. For him. The words repeated themselves over and over in his mind, bitter as poison, keen as a blade. He risked a glance over his shoulder and caught a fleeting glimpse of what he had left behind – flames; burning; everything burning, spewing plumes of filthy black smoke into the starless night. He had brought that down upon them, all of it. The death, the pain, the raging fire. Their opponents had intended – quite literally – to smoke him out, and smoke him out they had, having put their faith in one of the few rumors that was true – that he would never leave his comrades alone in the face of danger, no matter what the risks. He would stand and face his own death first.
And he had tried. He had burns up and down his forearms to show for it; singe marks on his sleeves and the toes of his boots. But his first lieutenant, Mulberry, had seized his arm and dragged him away, screaming, protesting until his throat was too raw to speak another word. We can win this, the pale-haired, bright-eyed boy had promised him, his grip like iron on Will’s forearm. It’s just another battle, and we can win it. But they know you’re here now, and they won’t stop until they have you. Not when they think they know where you are headed next.
They think they know? Will had repeated in a semi-conscious daze, staring at his lieutenant through a dark veil of smoke. He felt brittle, ready to break under the weight of his musket in his arms.
They think they know, the other boy had agreed, so make sure that they don’t. The implication of the words had hung heavy in the air between them.
No, Will had said, gripping his musket with both hands. The barrel had been slick between his fingers, as if it had been oiled. I won’t go.
For all they know, you already have, Mulberry insisted. Take that opportunity. Run. Go anywhere, so long as you run to it. Steer clear of the camp. Steer clear of anywhere where they would know to find you. We’ll tell them you’re dead; if they think they’ve killed you, they’ll leave the rest of us alone. He paused; grimaced. Probably.
They won’t believe you, Will told him, dizzy with the idea of such an enormous deception. They’ll want to see a body.
There’s something very convenient about fires, his lieutenant replied, grimly, and Will’s stomach had turned.
And the others? he'd asked without remarking on it.
Mulberry had nodded, understanding his unspoken message. In the lurid glow of the flames, his white-blond hair had blazed gold, his eyes sparked from pale blue to luminous azure. I’ll tell them. I promise, he said.
Will’s hands had shaken so much that his musket fell from between them, landing in a heap of ashes and smoldering debris. I can’t. I can’t. He’d only meant to think it, but somehow he said it aloud, his voice low and choked and miserable.
And then Mulberry had said the only words that could have possibly changed his mind – It is the only way to save them all.
They had run to the outskirts of camp – Will fighting to keep pace with the other boy’s impossibly long stride – and he had vaulted into the saddle of an unfamiliar bay mare, tangling one hand in her mane and using the other to snatch a hanging lantern from the hitching post. Take this, Mulberry had said, handing a silver-barreled pistol up to him. His blue eyes had been grave, as had his voice. You might need it.
He would. Will had shoved it through his belt and bunched the braided leather reins in his trembling, soot-smudged fingers. Where do I go? he asked.
Anywhere, Mulberry had replied, and moved back to allow him room to start forward. Then he'd hesitated, catching at the reins to stop Will before he could take off. Make sure you come back, sir, he added, with fire in his eyes. This war needs to have someone like you in it.
When? Will had asked, unable to bring himself to reply to the second half of his comment.
Mulberry had released him and stepped back. When you have to, he said, and whirled around, vanishing without another word into the flame-streaked shadows.
And that was how Will found himself here, on the endless, winding road away from the wreckage, away from the nightmare he had caused. The wind raked his face, stinging the fresh burns there, cooling the sheen of sweat on his forehead. His pulse was wild, erratic; the force of the blood thrumming in his temples was enough to make consciousness start to slip from him, like a blanket sliding from his shoulders, and he caught at it desperately. He had left them behind, to save them, and he would not punish them and reward himself by failing at one of the final hurdles. He would live. He would live, he would flee, and he would come back.
At last, after a long, strenuous hour of riding, he managed to put some distance between himself and the conflagration that had once been his camp. The choking haze of smoke had long since thinned out overhead; over time, the wind had brushed it back like a dirty curtain, giving way to wisps and finally to nothing. Beyond it, the sky was fathomless indigo. There were no clouds to spoil its endless, unmarred perfection – a remarkable sight, especially at this time of year – but Will barely noticed. What he did notice was something floating in it – a single point of light, like the glint of a diamond on a sheet of dark velvet. It was a star – just one, both hopeful and dismal in its isolation – and it hovered alone on the distant horizon, as bright as a flame, as tenuous as hope.
Will knew its name. He had learned it when he was a child, lying on his back on a bed of cool grass, his fingertips tracing the invisible paths of constellations across the sky.
Polaris. It was the North Star, a guiding light blazing forth to guide Will in his escape. To safety. To the North.
To home.
Deep South
Lanterns in the darkness. Swinging orbs of burning gold, cutting thin slices from the shadows – too thin, not enough to see by, but enough to avoid certain death by running off the steep sides of the trail. Vivid yellow light danced across the path; snapped like whips of fire into the shadows; caught the silver lacework of frost in the foliage as they whipped past, briefly lighting it to gold. It burned between Will’s slim fingers, encased by a delicate sheen of glass, and the lantern’s heat was great enough to scald his palm and make his skin tingle with shivering pinpoints of pain. But it was not great enough to make him let go, and still he held tight, his teeth grinding together as he clenched his jaw, the salty, metallic tang of blood springing up on his lip where he had bitten it.
He could hold on, or he could die.
It was not a difficult choice to make.
His breath came in short, shallow, hitching gasps of pain, and his free hand tightened on the reins, so much that the color leached from his knuckles. His heart hammered against his ribs with enough force to shatter them, and the blood shooting through his veins and roaring in his ears was hot with adrenaline. The shadows fled as he approached, but not the people who hid in them, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he galloped nearer. Were they allies, ensuring his safe escape? Or were they enemies, awaiting a golden opportunity with weapons in hand?
He thundered past a cluster of crouched, waiting men, and they rose to their feet as a single entity, their shouts breaking through the din in Will’s ears – his breathing; his heartbeat; the thump-thump of his mare’s hooves on the dirt road. “Run! Run, sir!”
So he did. He ran, and with every stride he felt self-hatred rear up inside him like a living creature, ripping into his chest. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be back there, with the rest of the soldiers, doing his part to push the enemy back – the enemy that had come for him.
For him. For him. For him. The words repeated themselves over and over in his mind, bitter as poison, keen as a blade. He risked a glance over his shoulder and caught a fleeting glimpse of what he had left behind – flames; burning; everything burning, spewing plumes of filthy black smoke into the starless night. He had brought that down upon them, all of it. The death, the pain, the raging fire. Their opponents had intended – quite literally – to smoke him out, and smoke him out they had, having put their faith in one of the few rumors that was true – that he would never leave his comrades alone in the face of danger, no matter what the risks. He would stand and face his own death first.
And he had tried. He had burns up and down his forearms to show for it; singe marks on his sleeves and the toes of his boots. But his first lieutenant, Mulberry, had seized his arm and dragged him away, screaming, protesting until his throat was too raw to speak another word. We can win this, the pale-haired, bright-eyed boy had promised him, his grip like iron on Will’s forearm. It’s just another battle, and we can win it. But they know you’re here now, and they won’t stop until they have you. Not when they think they know where you are headed next.
They think they know? Will had repeated in a semi-conscious daze, staring at his lieutenant through a dark veil of smoke. He felt brittle, ready to break under the weight of his musket in his arms.
They think they know, the other boy had agreed, so make sure that they don’t. The implication of the words had hung heavy in the air between them.
No, Will had said, gripping his musket with both hands. The barrel had been slick between his fingers, as if it had been oiled. I won’t go.
For all they know, you already have, Mulberry insisted. Take that opportunity. Run. Go anywhere, so long as you run to it. Steer clear of the camp. Steer clear of anywhere where they would know to find you. We’ll tell them you’re dead; if they think they’ve killed you, they’ll leave the rest of us alone. He paused; grimaced. Probably.
They won’t believe you, Will told him, dizzy with the idea of such an enormous deception. They’ll want to see a body.
There’s something very convenient about fires, his lieutenant replied, grimly, and Will’s stomach had turned.
And the others? he'd asked without remarking on it.
Mulberry had nodded, understanding his unspoken message. In the lurid glow of the flames, his white-blond hair had blazed gold, his eyes sparked from pale blue to luminous azure. I’ll tell them. I promise, he said.
Will’s hands had shaken so much that his musket fell from between them, landing in a heap of ashes and smoldering debris. I can’t. I can’t. He’d only meant to think it, but somehow he said it aloud, his voice low and choked and miserable.
And then Mulberry had said the only words that could have possibly changed his mind – It is the only way to save them all.
They had run to the outskirts of camp – Will fighting to keep pace with the other boy’s impossibly long stride – and he had vaulted into the saddle of an unfamiliar bay mare, tangling one hand in her mane and using the other to snatch a hanging lantern from the hitching post. Take this, Mulberry had said, handing a silver-barreled pistol up to him. His blue eyes had been grave, as had his voice. You might need it.
He would. Will had shoved it through his belt and bunched the braided leather reins in his trembling, soot-smudged fingers. Where do I go? he asked.
Anywhere, Mulberry had replied, and moved back to allow him room to start forward. Then he'd hesitated, catching at the reins to stop Will before he could take off. Make sure you come back, sir, he added, with fire in his eyes. This war needs to have someone like you in it.
When? Will had asked, unable to bring himself to reply to the second half of his comment.
Mulberry had released him and stepped back. When you have to, he said, and whirled around, vanishing without another word into the flame-streaked shadows.
And that was how Will found himself here, on the endless, winding road away from the wreckage, away from the nightmare he had caused. The wind raked his face, stinging the fresh burns there, cooling the sheen of sweat on his forehead. His pulse was wild, erratic; the force of the blood thrumming in his temples was enough to make consciousness start to slip from him, like a blanket sliding from his shoulders, and he caught at it desperately. He had left them behind, to save them, and he would not punish them and reward himself by failing at one of the final hurdles. He would live. He would live, he would flee, and he would come back.
At last, after a long, strenuous hour of riding, he managed to put some distance between himself and the conflagration that had once been his camp. The choking haze of smoke had long since thinned out overhead; over time, the wind had brushed it back like a dirty curtain, giving way to wisps and finally to nothing. Beyond it, the sky was fathomless indigo. There were no clouds to spoil its endless, unmarred perfection – a remarkable sight, especially at this time of year – but Will barely noticed. What he did notice was something floating in it – a single point of light, like the glint of a diamond on a sheet of dark velvet. It was a star – just one, both hopeful and dismal in its isolation – and it hovered alone on the distant horizon, as bright as a flame, as tenuous as hope.
Will knew its name. He had learned it when he was a child, lying on his back on a bed of cool grass, his fingertips tracing the invisible paths of constellations across the sky.
Polaris. It was the North Star, a guiding light blazing forth to guide Will in his escape. To safety. To the North.
To home.
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