Requiem

Set during the Spanish Civil War...

Foreword:

This story is set during the Battle of Malaga c.1937 (Spanish Civil War). A small village has just been invaded by Nationalist soldiers and the inhabitants murdered because of their involvement in laicite.

A grim serenity had settled over the village. The courtyard was filled with shadows streaking the faces of the dead. Death had come and gone; leaving nothing in his wake but the murmur of the wind and the heartbeat of a child.

The orphaned boy stood amidst the massacred bodies, a mere black etching as he recited;

“Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine.” The words left his mouth as barely a whisper, but the wind carried them across the vast space to warm the hearts of the dead. “Et lux perpetua luceat eis,” he continued, praying for each soul in turn. “Absolve, Domine,” he said, asking God to forgive them for their involvement in secularism.

Thats the only reason they're dead, he thought to himself naively, The Nationalist soldiers only killed these people because they didn't want religion in their lives. The boy sighed heavily, touching his temples in a gesture far beyond his years. He began to move on but a noise stopped him short. A woman, the only survivor, had risen from her slumber; drenched in blood she began to sit up. She moved with a mother's gait, oblivious to her bleak surroundings.

“Hey you!” The boy spoke in Spanish, his words short and clipped. The woman took no notice.

“You there!” His voice grew louder as he moved towards the rising figure. Unafraid of what she might do, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her upwards. She finally took notice of him then. Her eyes grew wide and terrified as she recoiled from his touch. He was only a child, but she knew from the scar on his cheek that he was different.

As the woman processed her fear, the boy was quick to size her up. She was beautiful in the traditional Hispanic way; dark eyes and olive skin. He grimaced at the thought of what they would do to her, but it was none of his business. Sensing his intentions the woman began to move away but the cold metal that skimmed her forehead restrained her.

“Move.” He said, digging the pistol deeper into her temple. He gestured for her to precede him in leaving the courtyard. As they manoeuvred their way around the dead bodies the woman began to sing softly to herself.

Her voice was sweet, even when weighed down with fear. She sang about love, death and heaven on earth, and as the final note escaped her lips the boy lost his resolution. He tried to hold on to his reasoning, but his childish emotions took control. He stopped abruptly, jerking her backwards as he kept a hold of her arm. They were in the middle of a narrow street, corpses littered around them. He turned to face her.

“Run.” he said reproachfully. She did nothing, having thought she had misheard him. “Ru-” a sickening noise cut him off; the heavy march of a Nationalist soldier's footsteps.

“Run!” his voice became urgent, “Run! Hide! Don't Let them find you. Run!” He handed her his revolver and pushed her in the direction they had come, but she didn't budge.

“God bless you,” she said. She hesitated before kissing him lightly on the forehead, leaving behind the warmth of a mother he would never see again. Her smile was full of sorrow as she turned away from him. The footsteps grew louder as she began stumbling down the street. The boy watched her go, aware that the soldier was now only a few metres behind him.

He heard the gunshot. She fell like a rock. He looked at her body as the blood began to spread, seeping deep into the sandy ground and even deeper into the tresses of his mind.

“Miguel!” The boy spun round at his name. His commander was standing before him, fury splattered across his face.

“Estimado Sr. Iniesta...” the boy fell to his knees both in a plea for mercy and a sign of defeat.

“You had one task! One task! Bring back any survivors I said! And you disobey me?” Iniesta took a step closer to him. “Does being a soldier mean nothing to you?” The boy quivered as his commander brought out a silver pistol and placed it on his forehead; the exact spot where her lips had been.

The bullet fired straight through his skull.

“What a shame.” Iniesta turned on his heel and left the boy, dead.

Death had come and gone once again; leaving nothing in his wake but the murmur of the wind and the corpse of a child soldier.

Author's Note

Pleas review & critique harshly!

Reviews

[MOON]

Interesting captivating write.