True Peace for Soldiers

Old white men, they were, their bodies a rolling landscape of skin pulled tight and fallen loose. Pockmarked with moles and freckles, splotches of red, white, blue, and green, colors and shapes that hide behind the skin and fat of younger men. When they smiled, their eyes would become lost in the wrinkles and cracks of their brow.

The signs of wear on their bodies brought unease to the others in the field, like seeing the photos of improvised weapons of murder found after the act; unmeaning objects, now crumpled and cracked from their misuse. Spattered with dried-brown bloodstains that would tell you the sickening story of their journey, how they rushed out of body into open air, in a language that finished the thought before you ever had a chance to close your eyes and cover your ears.

The white men were spattered as well, with medals. Bright embroidery, silver and gold, a pox that had spread from their lapels onto their shoulders and across their chests. Covering the mute-green uniforms that had failed to age with their owners, attempting in vain to conform to bodies that had sloughed away decades ago. The medals spoke a language as well, but one known only by the white men. You could approach them, ask them to translate the meanings of this strip of turquoise and the gold stars and that shining scarlet ribbon, and they would point to this one and that and tell you exactly what happened where on what day; but those that couldn’t understand the medals could still pick words out of the slurry; words they remember from their conversations with the bloodstains.

Mai had never seen the white men at this monument. Her age, her story. Her grandfather died here.

She watched on as the white men trundled up the hill in a loose mass, too tired to form the even, single-file lines of their heyday. Upon reaching the even ground at the top, they spread outwards, each ambling around in their own aimless direction. Some followed the paths circling the flowers, others headed to the monolith in the center of the field.

Callum stayed at the edge, near the entrance. He scratched his white hair, unkempt and uncut. Some twenty years before this, he lost his desire to keep up his appearance. This had coincided with the loss of anyone he ­believed he needed to look good for. At home, he spent his days painting, landscapes and portraits that he would hide from his children out of embarrassment. He looked towards the monument and squinted, imagining how he would paint the large black stone. Though he would make no effort to paint it, he still measured the angles that he would need to convey the towering mass that stood some fifty paces away.

The monolith was made of a dark gray stone, tall and narrow, with rough sides, like it was pulled out of some larger boulder. One side was cut and polished smooth, with names engraved into it. None of the text was in English, but the white men that had gone over to observe the statue knew the things it said: given the field surrounding it, it was undoubtedly one giant gravestone.

For this was a field of Warflowers, which sprout only where blood has been spilled. Throughout the world, places of violence are marked by thick patches of deep burgundy, a flower that cannot be unrooted, a flower that will not wither nor shrink, no matter how much it is poisoned, salted, or tilled. The world fears the Warflowers, whose image gives pause to those who lament the end of things, of people. Some will cover patches in white gossamer, some will crouch and stare at the flowers in silent contemplation, drowning in their smell. Some see them as a taunt for the grieving. Some see them as the soul of their fallen warrior.

The locals silently questioned how the white men saw the Warflowers. They rarely took their eyes off them, with stern and solemn expressions on their faces. Some bent over to get close to the flowers, but none took a knee or sat in their presence. It was if the flowers had some authority over them, like they were a superior they couldn’t regard casually, at least not while they were on duty. More than anything, their treatment of the flowers was alien.

The presence of white men in these parts was not a rare occasion, but it still felt somewhat significant whenever it happened. This was because the white men did not blend into the area around them, they did not feel as if they were where white men are meant to be. They themselves seconded this idea, coming to this place only as tourists and foreigners, determined to demarcate themselves from those around them. Every meal they ate and event they attended would be followed by comparisons to their home country, to paved streets and sterile kitchens.

Mai was not yet sure what she thought of the white men. Opposing waves crashed against each other within her body. Boiling anger rose from her stomach, meeting a cold desire for peace that poured down from her temples. As she had always done, she looked to her mother.

Her mother’s face was pulled together. She was squinting in the sun, contributing further to the crow’s feet she had noticed two weeks ago and summarily began obsessing over. Mai understood the expression on her mother’s face wholly. She had seen it several times before: when Mai had broken a pot, when she had badmouthed her tutor, when she had brought home an older boy who smoked and made his money scamming tourists out of their passports. It was a look of disappointment, a disappointment that would have been shame if she didn’t love the perpetrator as much as she did. However, Mai’s mother did not aim her expression solely at the white men; she swept it across the field indiscriminately, hitting Mai and everyone else in the crossfire. Mai’s eyes locked with her mother for a moment as the typhoon inside of her swelled to a peak.

A hoarse shout tore through the contemplative silence of the field. The men turned their heads and began to make their way towards the source of the voice, a stout man in uniform holding a canvas bag. They ebbed slowly through the crowd of people, careful not to bump or push anyone. Upon reconvening at the head of the field, between the sun and the granite pillar in the center, the leader clapped his hands- once, loudly. He gave an order to the others, speaking in a jovial tone with a smile on his face.

“Line up, Boys! We have to get a new picture. Everyone remember where they stood?”

Callum remembered exactly where he needed to be. One away from the left end, in the front row. Right of McDowell, an ever-cantankerous man from Upstate who snored loudly, and left of Eames, a man with thick smile lines and a dirty joke to tell, no matter how inopportune the moment. He weaved through the pack until he reached the far end, looking to his right and seeing McDowell already staring forward towards the camera. He turned to the left and saw nothing the forest that stretched outwards past the field. He had forgotten.

After the movement subsided, the captain reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a camera while the men froze in anticipation. Some smiled, others couldn’t. The camera gave a soft click, and after a beat, the men unwound, slouching their backs and loosening their tight smiles. Again, they encircled the leader, who had reached into his canvas bag. Delicately, he lifted out a stack of brown paper sheets. He began to pass out individual sheets to the men, taking care to not crease the paper.

The first man to take the paper was broad, with closely shaven hair. Sheet in hand, he turned toward the center of the field, near the obelisk, where the largest patch of Warflowers sat. He approached the patch, kindly regarded the locals already there, and knelt. Then, with a swift and decisive hand, he reached into the patch of and began to pick the flowers, placing them into his brown paper.

The locals stirred into a silent frenzy. Through quick glances, they questioned the man’s audacity, insulted his family, and lambasted his appearance. The older members failed to return the surprised glances, some responding with disappointment and others solemnly refusing to meet gazes at all. They were used to this tradition, and they would not join in on the bottled anger and confusion. They saved their energy and preserved the peace.

Mai looked on in horror. The waves inside her rushed into her mouth. She clenched every muscle in her face to combat the pressure that built behind her lips. She looked again to her mother. Do you see now? Do you see why I did not trust them? Her mother’s face had not given in to the silent mob, and she held strong her contemptuous gaze, now directed at a patch of dirt in between her legs, one Mai doubted she felt that strongly about. Inside her mind, Mai was gasping for air, reaching out for some safe land after her mother, the island, had fell below the waves. Mai was lost, because her mother was not.

As Mai floundered, the other men each took their sheets of paper and moved to their own designated patch of warflowers, ranging in size and shape. They picked enough flowers to form thin bouquets, between one and three for each patch, depending on the size. The locals struggled to maintain the taut thread of peace that ran through the air. As much as each person wanted to stand up and begin shouting, doing so would cut the thread that hung above their heads. That thread brought comfort to the dead that lie here; it mattered more than individual flowers and justice for sick men. And so, the men were left to their rites, passing out papers till only one remained.

Callum took the last sheet from the captain’s outstretched hand. He remembered exactly where he needed to be. A patch on the back left edge of the field, distant from the others and closest to the wall of trees that encircled them all.

Only one other person attended these flowers: a girl, in her late teens. She sat cross-legged at the edge, staring deeply, unfocusing her eyes and seeing only a hazy patch of red.

The man’s arrival did not break Mai from her trance. She saw him approach as if she was on the other side of the field. He stood before her as a blur of olive and white. He slowly, carefully lowered to one knee and gazed at the Warflowers, setting his paper flat on the ground. Softly, he ran his cracked fingers over the tops of the flowers, as if caressing the plants.

He swept across the flowers until his hand found its place to stop, and lowered beneath the sea of petals, towards the stems. His thumb and forefinger closed upon the neck of his desired flower, and he pulled it free from the rest, spinning it in his fingers before laying it into the paper.

Before he could find a second flower, Callum’s hand was wrestled away by the young girl. Her intense stare had moved to him, lodging barbs into his chest and holding tight. Her face shifted into one of reserved anger. She spoke in harsh words, refusing to care for the peace around her.

“▒▒▒! ▒▒▒▒▒▒? ▒▒▒▒▒!”

Callum didn’t speak her language, but perfectly understood the sentiment. He pulled back from the patch and began to stammer as those nearby turned their heads towards the commotion.

“No, it’s- “

“▒▒▒▒▒▒▒, ▒▒▒!”

Mai could barely think as the ocean inside her poured out of her mouth. She berated the man’s gall and audacity. He was sick. He was ugly. He was evil. She wished that the waves would push him on his back and bury him within the soil. She did not stop until the man dug into his pocket and frantically pulled out a crumpled photo.

In the photo stood a line of men, at least twice as large as the group in the field. They all stood tall, with arms over every shoulder. Some men were smiling, others couldn’t. The man held the photo close to the woman’s face and used the nail of his pinky finger to point out a small, blurry face in the photo. He lowered the photo, and his hand moved to point towards the Warflowers.

The girl fell back onto her knees, her face pulled tight. She sat for a moment- silent, skewered by the surrounding gazes- before turning towards the plants, and reaching out. She quickly found a flower- unblemished, with striations of pale blue, pulled it from the ground, and held it in her hands. She looked towards the man and presented the flower, holding it in the light.

As the girl’s words fell away, Callum felt a conflict of faith. He had wanted nothing more than for the girl to stop, for the dozens of eyes needling his back to let up. But he knew that if there was a God, He would have compelled this girl to keep going. Down from the heavens, He would send a bayonet, delivering it into the girl’s hand for her to drive into his heart with divine fury and justice. This girl had every right to kill him, every right that Callum had had to kill her father, or her uncle or her mentor.

He remembered the day he came home, in the open bed of a truck moving much to slowly down the main streets. The people had stretched their hands out to him and his brothers, screaming and cheering. Confetti and champagne had rained down on his head and he hoped that God had simply misplaced the sulfur and fire he was owed. He was sick. He was ugly. He was evil. He knelt in that field of Warflowers, looked down at that girl and begged God to set him alight and give her a sign that there truly is good in the world.

The air around him turned orange, and Callum looked up in anticipation of the wrath that would soon fall upon him. He saw no descending fury, and his face fell. He turned to the setting sun and began to berate it for pulling such a trick. His curses were cut short as the sun spoke in a voice that filled Callum’s ears and soul:

“Just you wait, asshole. You’ll get yours.”

Mai kept her hand outstretched as the man stared at the sun. She watched his blank expression pull into a smile, before turning back to face her. The man accepted the flower, placing it into the paper sheet, on top of the crumpled photo. The two continued the ritual, passing the flowers as one by one, the people in the field pulled away from them and resumed their own rites.

Once a small bouquet had been assembled, the man pulled out a strip of olive canvas and tied the paper together. He thanked the girl and apologized, like she could understand. He rose, walking towards the group that had began to reform. The others turned towards him, meeting him with beaming smiles as if they too had heard God’s promise. Each man held one or more thin bouquets in their arms, all tied with green cloth.

All together, they reminisced, orating the tired stories of the men cradled in their arms. They laughed as they held their brothers tightly. The group was finally whole again.

Most certainly, some flowers of other men were nestled in the bouquets. The patches were thick, and the memories were foggy. But in the bouquets, those strangers are brothers too, innocent once again. For dying is a soldier’s only true penance; his only true baptism, in his own blood.