A Christian Jerusalum

A soldier's trek through the Crusades.

Sweat bled into his eyes as he flung his mace onto the distracted Moor's head, crushing his skull like tin foil under his weapon's weight. The combined sound of a muffled yelp and bone breaking made Wallace's heart pound into his chest, a caged fist beating all empathy from his system.

His comrade beside him grunted his approval and thanks while they moved on. Wallace ground his yellow teeth together, relishing the small amount of dull pain that it inflicted. They marched through the Muslims as sharks through a school of unprepared, panic stricken fish. His body ached and he was bleeding from multiple wounds, but he couldn't feel it and even if he could, it wouldn't have registered as a concern. He was in the angry depths of blood lust, and when the man he had been fighting alongside since the beginning fell from an enemy arrow, he didn't bother with any emotion that could halt him, even for a second, from the battle at hand. His sweat was thee only tears he was willing to cry, and his mace upon flesh and iron was the only sounds of wailing uttered by the screaming mad man. The man who had once been a farmer. The man who had once thought himself in love.

They conquered the city that day. For God, for land, for gold, for the pope; Wallace wasn't sure anymore.

He, along with a few other men, fell asleep in the stables, where hay was abundant, though much of it molded. The scent of burning dung and oil laced the air like two brothers locked in the embrace one might give the other before a duel to the death.

He dreamt that night of a lone burning bush in the middle of a desert. The sand flew in specks with the turn of the wind, making the desert look like a yellow and red snowstorm. The Holy Book said something about a bush on fire, but before Wallace could grasp at the words, the flame died into a whisper, carrying the smoke into the snowstorm like tendrils of venomous snakes.

The alarm, in the form of a worn and cracked leather boot in his gut, woke him earlier than expected. With a grunt he rose to his feet only just now feeling the aches and pains from the day before. The memory of the screams and guttural cries for help washed back into focus in horrible conjunction with the pain that now swept across his entire body both inside and out. How many men did he kill that day? A dozen? Two? He couldn't recall.

He wandered through the newly captured city like a lone gunslinger stalking a ghost town. With disgust he kicked the decapitated and rotting head of a young Moor woman off the street and into a stark ditch. Later he would find that woman's body being attended to by three sobbing children. Later he would witness the stones hurled at those children by madmen wearing the Cross.

But not now. Now he was only wandering. Now he was only stalking.

The army stayed in that city of Hell for what could have been weeks or months, Wallace lost track of time; he no longer burdened himself with such things. The armies' supplies were swindling exponentially and some of the men had resorted to eating the bodies of the fallen.

Wallace didn't bother spitting in the sand out of disgust; he felt that to do so would only be a vain attempt at releasing his own demons. And he had no right.

Afterall, he was one of God's chosen jackals now, as well.

Spasms erupted and shook his body to the very fiber of his being as he chuckled uncontrollably clutching his own head like a trophy he won at a carnival game. His chuckling morphed into laughter as he found his own madness to be humorous.

The wind threw the sand around him and he laughed harder still. His chest was on fire, air left him, and tears soaked a face of stone. His laughter didn't sound like his. It sounded like one of the demon-possessed beggars as they were being marched off to the old oak tree, guided by a priest and guarded by His Holy soldiers as they solemnly hung their heads to shuffle to the tree's mighty limbs, coil of rope at the ready.

The last thing he saw before passing out was a snowstorm, and a hand he failed to grab a hold of, clawing its way to him. He saw that hand, and chortled when it brushed his tunic. His eyes rolled into the top of his head when he saw with mad glee that his tunic was white. Flecked with dung, blood, seat stains, and puke; but white.

The last coherent thought he held on to as he flung himself into the abyss was of the sense of humor the divine must have.

A harp. He heard a harp being plucked, as if he was back at the Vatican receiving His blessing to go to war against the Godless Muslims. He felt the light on his eyes and he smelled the rich spices of a distant land.

And he dry heaved as if he was back on the battlefront, having been so used to the smell of rot.

His mace was gone. His rags were gone. He was powerless. He was naked. He was defeated.

Wallace bathed in the warmth of a figure he understood only as an instinct, or a distant memory as if from the womb or as an infant. The figure surrounded him, enveloped him, and was him.

In that instant of blind warmth, weakness, nudity, and defeat: he saw happiness, life, love; pure innocence. He gasped, then sighed, then shrieked as he witnessed death, decay, murder, and destruction. He shuddered violently; he cried.

He came back to, as a steel blade having been pulled back, flings itself into action once more.

He felt the presence of those around him. Felt their lungs drawing in dry air. Felt their eyes targeting him. Felt their hands on their weapons, ready to kill. Itching to kill as an opium addict itches for his fix above all else.

Wallace understood this. This and more. He had his eyes taken from him, but in their place was a holy sense like no other.

Wallace the Blind led the charge against Jerusalem with the same might as the Pope ordering the Crusade into existence to begin with, and He had the sand painted crimson, and filled a lone night with guttural screams of agony and racking sobs of terror.

Reviews

[jb3]

Well written to be in Junior High. It gets a little confusing near the end. He becomes blind? How so? At what point? The hand reaching out to him? Who is this and what role do they play in his blindness if any? Around that area of this chapter it just becomes a little choppy, and somewhat confusing. I would say it's a very good start overall. Well done.

[K. R. Lewter]

Thank you, I see what you mean. It's supposed to be along the lines of him going insane, but I agree that it does get a little choppy and confusing towards the end. Perhaps what I should have done is kept him in reality throughout, but what's done is done and I'm all the better for it.

Though answering your questions now does little to add to the benefit of the body of work above, I'll go ahead and do so. The hand reaching for him wasn't meant to be anyone in particular, it was only meant to symbolize an attempt at keeping himself in the realm of reality, while the sandstorm blinded him from doing so. He becomes blind after waking up, which in itself was meant to represent new knowledge gained and the conflict it had with what he previously believed. He went from being a poor soldier to, what he at least believed himself to be, a servant of God. His blindness was simultaneously about the knowledge he held that he believed no other possessed, and his newfound lack of sanity.

Thank you for your time and honesty.

[Sesame]

Hello K.R. Lewter,

Some epic short story this is. A lot happens, kept me reading on. Good job. I have a few suggestions for improvement, please use them as you see fit. In general: A) you use too many words for your description, B) you use comparisons that do not add to the imagination, C) I think what your story lacks is: timeframe, scope and setting. You can be implicit about pretty much all other things, but at least these three aspects should be made clear in the beginning of the story.

Alright, then there are some sentences that need revision. See my suggestions below:

but he couldn't feel it and even if he could, it wouldn't have registered as a concern. -> you are repeating yourself, by saying 'but he couldn't feel it' you do not need toe explain 'and even...a concern'

His sweat was thee only tears he was willing to cry -> although I like the construction, it is creative, I find it hard to think of sweat as tears, it is too familiar to serve as an abstract. 'The sweat from his pores made up for his unwillingness to cry.' Something like that?

his mace upon flesh and iron was the only sounds -> "sound"

The scent of burning dung and oil laced the air like two brothers locked in the embrace one might give the other before a duel to the death. -> here is an example of a comparison introduced by the word "like" that has no real meaning to me, I find it impossible to imagine how the two things would be alike. I would advise you to use 'like' comparisons only very scarcely, they remind me of bad hiphop songtexts.

carrying the smoke into the snowstorm like tendrils of venomous snakes. -> here is another one of those 'like...blablablas' and WHAT? there was a snowstorm? well that came out of nowhere..

the boot in his guts -> who's boot? and was it a friend or foe, makes a big difference in a battlefield

his entire body both inside and out. -> double and therefore superfluous 'entire' already comprises 'insides' and 'outsides'

Now he was only wandering. Now he was only stalking. -> hmm, conscious choice here? This is very staccato and besides the lack of style in the repetition, for me wandering and stalking are two different things. How can he be doing them at the same time? And if you mean they are subsequent than the staccato is even stronger (and uglier. Sorry.)

swindling = To cheat or defraud of money or property. -> I think you mean dwindling (to graduatly decrease)

what abyss are you talking about? I think this needs some introduction

A harp. He heard a harp being plucked, -> Again staccato. Next to this "A harp." is not a sentence. I would lose it.

I hope this helps you to improve the story! Maybe consider writing a few chapters instead of short story, there is so much going on here. I bet you will be able to fill some pages. Keep writing!

Regards,

Sesame

@followsesame
www.themagiccave.com