Tim shifted his weight to his left hip. A knot on the bough that had served as last night’s bed had been digging into his thigh all night until he could no longer feel his foot. The sharp pins and needles pricking down his leg slowly woke him and he opened his eyes and squinted at the daylight. He wondered how he could have slept so long. Usually Elsa woke him at dawn but the sun was already high above the trees. His ears were ringing shrilly. He shook his head to clear it and ignited another shower of pinpricks, this time down his neck. The ringing only got louder. There was nothing wrong with his ears. The sound was coming from above and below. Discontented birds screeched and squawked at one another from all sides. They circled overhead then darted sharply to the ground back up again. He rubbed his watery eyes and slid down the tree wondering what the commotion was about. As he reached the bottom he stumbled over something. He fell on top of Bas, who lay on the ground at the base of the tree looking up with a blank stare. Tim twisted and landed hard on his backside. A curse tickled his lips until he looked a little closer.
Bas’ skin was unnaturally pale. His eyes stared up blankly and his face contorted in an expression of pain or horror. Tim gasped as he scrambled to get away. His foot knocked Bas’ head askew and the dead man’s tongue rolled out of his mouth in ragged pieces. Tim covered his mouth to stifle a scream. His chest tightened and he could not breathe. As he tried to get up he realized he had fallen on something soft and slick. It was all over the ground. He rolled away not wanting to know which parts of Bas had cushioned his fall.
Tim shoved his fist in his mouth to choke back the urge to vomit and ran several yards into the shelter of the trees. He hid behind the biggest one and closed his eyes. He counted to ten. When his heart did not slow, he repeated the count until it did. There was no sound except the birds. He was alone. He looked back at the camp. Everywhere there were bodies lying in pools of blood with the same vacuous expression in their eyes. Nothing stirred. Tents and carts were knocked about. Some had been pushed onto fires and were still burning. Others had been busted into pieces and their canvas covers shredded. Whole families murdered. No one was immune to the violence. Livestock that could not be led away was slaughtered where they stood, along with a number of dogs and cats the pilgrims had brought with them. The birds were feasting on choicest parts. The cacophony that had wakened Tim was an ongoing argument over the best of the dead.
He armed himself with stones and began hurling them at the birds. Every hit was a battle won. He killed and wounded several of the carrion birds. He kept throwing until he ran out of rocks and fell to his knees weeping. He vomited down the front of his tunic until there was nothing left. It was all his doing. His mother had warned him never to tell anyone about who he was or where he was from. He had been so careful only to tell the sparest details about himself but the birds and the trees had ears it seemed. He clutched the pouch around his neck. The muffled clinks of the stones rubbing against one another inside soothed him. He took small comfort in knowing they were still safe.
After awhile he wandered back toward the camp. Most had died with their eyes closed and their faces serene as thought they had slept through it all. Valiant men slain without ever waking, their swords never touched. Some enchantment more grim than highwaymen must have been at work.
Tim felt woozy again so he sat down on a log to think. He remembered very little of last night even before he went to bed. He did not remember climbing the tree or what happened after they ate supper. One thing he did remember was the sweet taste of the berry punch one of the women made for their celebration. A purple stain on his sleeve still smelled sweet. He held his arm over his nose as he picked his way through the bodies looking for anything that might be useful. The stained sleeve was a good block against the stench of death. It was also familiar. Tim inhaled slowly as the world tilted. His mother used to keep something similar in a clay jar. It was impossible to mistake. A few drops would induce euphoria, a little more caused sleep and large doses could kill. Even dry the concoction was potent. No wonder they did not wake. No wonder they did not fight.
He was afraid of breathing in their death. He ripped a length of cloth from the bottom of his tunic and tied it around his nose. Tim had no supplies of his own. It was necessary for him to salvage what he could of the food and water if he was to continue.
He stepped between the bodies as though they were asleep until he came to Elsa and Ivan. Their eyes were closed and they did not move. He felt the tears well up behind his eyes and his throat constrict. He could not stand the notion that the birds would pick their flesh. He placed a blanket over their bodies and weighed it down with rocks. After awhile he found the courage to pick through what remained for anything he might use. The highwaymen were thorough but he found a few light tools, hardly more than toys to a big man like Ivan but had served her well. He hesitated when he came across a hunk of cheese folded in cloth and hidden among the tools. She must have laid out the night before so that she had something to put in his sack for the day’s journey. Tim imagined her refusing to let Ivan finish it off and the small smile that might have played across her lips as she tucked it away where he would never think to look. With difficulty he pushed the image aside and shoved the cheese in his sack. Amongst the rest of the camp he found half a loaf of stale bread, a skin of curdled milk and a few apples. He closed the eyes and covered the faces of as many as he could, including Bas and Claus. He did not see any of the rest of the kantorei among the dead. He wondered if Claus had forbidden them to drink. Whatever the reason their abstinence had saved their lives. Tim hated them for not helping the rest escape but he could not waste time thinking about where they may have gone.
Tim cut a large square from one of the tents. He tied it up into a sling that he could hang from a walking stick he fashioned and inside he placed his scant provisions. His labors had taken most of the day. He knew he could not follow the road so he turned into the woods. He passed the last campsite and heard what sounded like a whimper. His blood turned cold. He must have imagined it. The sound repeated.
“Hello.” He whispered back.
He was answered by a trembling intake of breath. The sob was very near. The fear emanating from the creature was palpable and absolutely human. He moved slowly in the direction of the sound even though his mind screamed for him to run the other way.
“Who’s there?” he demanded only a little more loudly.
Sniff. Sniff.
Tim took his staff and poked at a lump in the nearest downed tent.
“Aaahhh!” was curdling reply.
Tim pulled at the cloth and the lump started thrashing about. After a little struggle he managed to reveal the bare foot of a small child probably two or three years of age. He was deeply entangled and it took some effort for Tim to pull him free. The boy threw his arms around Tim’s neck and did not let go. He recognized him. It was only the night before he had found the child and led him back to his parents.
Tim looked at him long and hard trying to remember his name.
“You complicate things.” He muttered into the boy’s blond curls.
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