The Weeping Children

Maurice Forrester

Copyright (c) 199

The two huddled under an outcropping of granite. They had crept into their hiding place two hours earlier as the sun had set on the opposite side of the valley. Their rover lay on the other side of the hill in the ravine that had broken its axle. The village was designated PA-40 on their maps, and there appeared to be at least one infant present.

Emilia spoke first. "When do you think they'll get a copter in for us?"

"A couple of days unless we ask for an emergency recall," Wells replied. "We'll just sit tight and get some data on the village. When the copter comes we can snatch the children."

"They're being careful. At least four guards on the perimeter." Emilia handed the nightscope to Wells.

"A careful barbarian is still a barbarian."

Emilia's hand moved to cover the tic at the corner of her left eye as she heard the stupid schoolboy expression, and she wondered how Wells had managed to rise to the rank of captain.

"You like your work, don't you?" she asked knowing it would put him on edge. Wells regularly filed reports to headquarters about her aberrant behavior.

"I like making a contribution to what's left of humanity," Wells said slowly, quoting a speech he had once heard. "You should understand the importance of our word better than me."

Just as Emilia had managed to see Wells' mission reports when at base, he had read her confidential files. He knew, and mentioned at least once each mission, that she had been a barbarian child. Wells had come from the ruins of Montreal, and he prided himself on being a real Canadian. When Emilia had been reluctant to kill a barbarian high on ergot from some bad wheat just outside of Windsor, he knew there was something wrong with her and broke into the files when they got back to the base. Several more missions went by before Wells let slip that he knew Emilia's background. They had been hunting barbarian infants near the Hudson River when Emilia tried to make conversation with her disinterested partner. She mentioned playing in the woods as a child, and Wells carelessly replied, "You mean near here?" There was a long silence before Emilia answered, "No. I don't remember that childhood."

What Emilia remembered most about her childhood was that she was not permitted to call her adoptive parents by any of the familiar names that the other children used; to her, they were always Reverend and Mrs. Standish. Reverend Standish had a small parish on an island in the Slave Bear Lake. While the other sterile women in the community lived active, varied lives, Mrs. Standish chose to live the way fertile women were forced to live. She remained at home to care for the house and Emilia, she was always available for babysitting, and she had remained married to the Reverend until her recent death. The young Emilia spent most of her time sneaking out of the house to avoid lessons in music, dance, and cooking. She preferred to run in the woods and swim in the lake. Sometimes, when that thin, quiet woman looked at her in a certain way, Emilia knew that Mrs. Standish blamed her for the absence of natural children in the family. The barbarian girl was a constant reminder of the source of the poisons that made her sterile.

Wells was still scanning the village with the nightscope, so Emilia picked up her rifle and did the same with her weaker, mounted sight. Slowly, so Wells would not notice, she swung her rifle from the village to the surrounding countryside. The area had once been part of the middle Atlantic United States, and Emilia recalled pictures she had seen during a briefing that showed the land covered by enormous trees and filled with deer, bear, and other animals. Now the land was covered by scrub brush, and people who grunted like animals instead of speaking a proper language grew stunted crops in the rocky, worn out soil. To the north, lay an eroded plateau with its steep ravines and flattened hills, but here the valley was wide and the hills rolling. A river fed by cold, narrow streams flowed through the valley. Emilia remembered the forests she had played in as a child. The trees had seemed enormous to her little girl eyes, but she had learned in school that they were only reminders of what once had been. She focused her scope, and her rifle, on the village fields. This was a large settlement by barbarian standards, several dozen huts were grouped around a central square, and its plantings were ambitious. Emilia wondered why the village was so large, and she wished it a silent good luck. She knew it would never grow enough food or produce enough children to endure. The large village with its wide fields was doomed long before she and Wells arrived to steal their children.

Like Emilia, those stolen infants would be taken north where they would be adopted by some of the many sterile couples that filled the waiting lists. They would be brought up with all the comforts that society and their new parents could provide. Many would never even know that they had been born in a barbarian hut.

Only once had Mrs. Standish treated Emilia as her daughter. Whenever each child reached puberty, he or she was tested for fertility. With so few fertile individuals left, it was imperative that they be identified and urged or, when necessary, required to procreate. Emilia's classmates began to report for fertility testing at age twelve. One by one, as they reached puberty, they made the trip across the lake to the city of Providence. Most returned to the island disappointed; a few returned in tears. Once, a young girl named Rachel failed to return to school. It was rumored that she had been found fertile and married a wealthy merchant that same afternoon. A few weeks later, Emilia learned that the girl was sterile and had jumped into Slave Bear Lake and drowned.

There was one fertile woman on the island. Mrs. Mackenzie was the wife of the town mayor; she was 25 and had four children. She was in good health, so she could expect to have at least four additional children and perhaps many more before she would have filled her obligation to society and could stop. Other women did things, some even did things with their adopted children, but Mrs. Mackenzie stayed home and nursed her youngest. The mayor's wife had as many lines on her face as did the 50 year old Mrs. Standish.

As each month went by, Mrs. Standish had become more optimistic about the chances for Emilia to be fertile. It was a commonly held belief that the later menstruation occurred, the more likely the girl would be fertile. Emilia became increasingly apprehensive. Four years had gone by since the first of her classmates had made the trip to the clinic in Providence before Emilia awoke to find her pajamas soaked with blood.

When Mrs. Standish came into Emilia's room to see why she was late for breakfast, Emilia tried to pretend everything was normal. "It's just a stomach-ache," she said.

"Let me feel your stomach." Mrs. Standish had grown suspicious of every one of Emilia's aches and pains.

The older woman would not be put off. Finally, Emilia begged, "Please, don't make me go to the clinic. Please."

Mrs. Standish could not contain her excitement. "If we hurry, we can catch the morning ferry. This is a big day girl! Get some clothes on."

Emilia stalled as long as she could, but Mrs. Standish was determined to make it to the ferry. She pushed her adopted daughter out the door before her boots were tied, and they made it to the ferry fifteen minutes before it was scheduled to leave.

The trip to the city was uneventful. Once the ferry was on its way, Mrs. Standish moved to the bow and watched for Providence. Emilia moved to the stern and stared at her trees and fields, certain that she would not see them again. The only other passengers on the boat were a group of men selling manufactured goods to the islanders. They seemed to know where Emilia was going; they elbowed each other and whispered, but none tried to talk to her.

When the boat docked, Emilia thought of running. But there was nowhere to run. The men were watching her, the city was unfamiliar, and Mrs. Standish put her hand on Emilia's arm. "The clinic isn't far," the woman said. "We can walk."

The clinic was a low, gray cinder block building. As Emilia and Mrs. Standish approached it, passers-by would turn their heads and watch the two. In front of the building, another young woman, older than Emilia, was exiting a taxi. The girl looked like Emilia's opposite: tall, slim, well dressed with pale skin and dark hair. She was accompanied by a stout, matronly woman who was dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief.

The lobby was filled with plants and low couches. On the far side, a young boy was curled up in a chair near the wall. The doctor had only taken a few minutes with Emilia; waiting for the results seemed to go on for hours. The other girl had arrived before Emilia, and she got her results first. When the doctor spoke with her, in a glass-walled office just behind the receptionist, she broke down. Her cries reverberated throughout the clinic, drowning out even her mother who could be seen waving her arms at the doctor. A security guard had to be summoned from the bowels of the building to escort the doctor out of the room. The mother and daughter were left inside to exhaust themselves. The girls cries had turned into steady sobs when the doctor finally approached Emilia. The look on his face told the outcome of the tests, and now Mrs. Standish began to sob softly. Emilia did not speak to the doctor, but instead, got up and headed for the exit as soon as the news was official. Mrs. Standish hurried to catch up. The boy was still in his chair.

Emilia and her adoptive mother reached the dock well before the evening ferry was scheduled to leave for the islands. Mrs. Standish unwrapped a sandwich she had made that morning and ate it quietly. Emilia fed her's to the gulls. The trip home was equally quiet. Emilia hung over the railing near the bow and felt the spray on her face. The older woman dozed under a blanket in the covered passenger area. It was dark when they arrived on the island.

Reverend Standish was smoking a pipe in the living room when Emilia entered the house. She stepped aside to let in her adoptive mother. "Well," the Reverend asked his wife. "How did she do?"

Mrs. Standish sighed. "She failed. But she took it well."

"I thought she would fail. Barbarians live closer to the poisons than do we. It's a waste of time to even test them."

Emilia felt her throat tighten and the tears well up behind the dam she had built with her mind. Blindly, she groped for the door and, flinging it open, dashed out into the night.

The night was cool and the grass was damp. Emilia ran up the hill to the tall maple she had climbed so often as a child. Panting now, she collapsed at the base of the familiar tree and began to cry. She thought of what she could not have, what she had thought she did not want, and she cried. Slowly, she became aware of someone standing over her. She turned and through her tears she saw Mrs. Standish looking older than she had ever looked before. The thin, old woman put her hand on the girl's arm and, as Emilia's sobs turned to heaves and hiccups, Mrs. Standish held her close and cried too.

Wells nudged Emilia and handed her the nightscope. "Keep an eye on that guard down below. He keeps looking up here. I'm going to take a leak."

Emilia put down her rifle and the valley went black. She blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. There was a slight reddish glow from one of the huts in the village, a small fire spilling through the cracks in the wall, but everything else was in darkness. She brought the scope up to her eyes and, as it began to magnify the available starlight, the village became visible again. As Wells crept quietly out of the shelter, Emilia focused on the guard that was looking in their direction. He could not possibly see the PIP team in the dark, but the way he stared in their direction was unsettling.

If the barbarian guard was not looking for them, maybe he was looking for someone else. "Captain," Emilia whispered. "There might be others out there." The only response was a heavy grunt of pain. Emilia grabbed her rifle and dived out of the small cave. Her knees scraped against rock as she turned to see Wells doubled over with a spear through his gut. Dark shapes moved toward her and she fired. She cursed herself for leaving her other gun in the cave. The rifle was equipped to fire only tranquilizer darts, but the pistol fired nine millimeter hollow points. She had unbuckled it for comfort, and now it lay on the other side of the dark figures. Two of the shapes fell before a third hit Emilia on the head with a thrown rock. She fell backward down the slope, blood flowing into her eyes. As she tried to bring her rifle back up to firing position, there was a small explosion at the back of her head. Fighting the pain, Emilia hit the emergency recall beacon on her belt before surrendering to the darkness.

Emilia regained consciousness slowly. She tried to roll over, but ropes bound her. She was not lying down but was tied to an upright post that pushed at her spine. Her swollen eyes opened, then closed again in reaction to the bright sun. "Stop, think," she told herself. "What happened to the team?" She went over in her mind the events of the previous night. Her body shuddered as she pictured Wells tugging at the spear that ran through his stomach.

Her eyes opened again. She was tied to a post in the middle of a barbarian village. The crude huts that surrounded her looked like the ones she had observed the night before through her nightscope but all barbarian villages seemed to look the same. She looked down at herself, and finally realized she was naked and bruised. Her captors had not been gentle when tying her up.

A dirty youth peered out of the doorway to one of the huts. He stared at Emilia lustfully until he realized she was awake. Then, jabbering in the barbarian language that Emilia had never learned, he ran through the village. Quickly, people began to converge on the clearing. From the huts and fields they came until the central square was filled with a hundred people or more, and Emilia was surrounded.

A tall, gray haired man to whom the others deferred approached her. He took a spear from a younger man, and poked Emilia in the belly with the blunt end of the weapon. "I don't understand," Emilia said. The headman spoke again in his language; he had a rich, deep voice. Emilia's mouth was dry and her throat tight. Her eye began to twitch. She had raided dozens of villages and fought countless fights, but she had never felt this close to death. Her shoulders sagged under the ropes and she repeated herself. "I don't understand." The words scratched as they came out.

The man turned from Emilia and spoke to the crowd. A moment later, the onlookers pulled away from their prisoner and a group of young men armed with spears stepped into the cleared area. The men ringed the bound soldier and began to circle. As they moved, their spears jabbed closer and closer to Emilia's skin. From the crowd, a low chanting began. Emilia straightened her back, readying herself for whatever was to come.

As the spear tips began to scratch Emilia's skin, an old woman burst through the circle of warriors and collapsed at Emilia's feet. The men stopped in confusion, and the crowd fell silent. The only sound in the still morning air was the wailing of the old woman. The headman stepped forward and spoke sharply to the crone. When that failed to move her, he came closer and grabbed her shoulders. The old woman shook him off and keened louder, and the crowd began to talk excitedly. The headman turned and called forward a young woman. She knelt beside the old woman and spoke softly, placing an arm around her in comfort. The woman's wails trailed off, and she spoke to the young woman between sobs. When the old woman stopped speaking, she broke down again and cried at Emilia's feet. The young woman looked carefully at the prisoner before speaking with the headman.

The village chief grabbed the old woman roughly and peered closely at her face. He then turned to Emilia and studied her face before grunting to himself. With a wave of the headman's hand, Emilia found herself being cut free. She was pushed into a nearby hut, and her clothes were thrown in after her.

After dressing and checking to make sure the barbarians had not left any weapons with her clothes, Emilia assessed her situation. Something the old woman had said had led to her being spared, at least for the time. Was it something in her face? Could anyone recognize her this far south? After all these years?

Lost in thought, Emilia did not hear the old woman until she had entered the hut. She was carrying a bundle which she set on the dirt floor. While speaking affectionately in her own language, the woman stroked Emilia's cheek, Emilia replied as best she could. She tried to tell the old woman that she could not be her daughter, that it had been too long, that she was now a child of the north. The old woman shrugged and cooed.

The bundle contained a long skirt and shirt made from tanned deer hides. When Emilia put them on, the old woman smiled in appreciation. Hours passed before the chief came for the old woman. As she left, Emilia saw tears on her cheeks and felt her own eyes fill.

Emilia was awakened by the sound of copters. In her sleep, she cursed the early morning flights on which headquarters insisted. Then, realizing where she was, she jumped to her feet. At the doorway, a guard grabbed her arm and together they stared up into the noonday sun. Canadian gunships were circling the village. Some were preparing to land in the cleared area where Emilia had been tied, and barbarians were running to the square with spears and clubs in their hands.

The Canadian soldiers leaped from the copters and formed a tight phalanx bristling with SMGs. From a loudspeaker mounted on one of the gunships, a voice called out, "We are looking for Captain Wells and Lieutenant Emilia Standish. Turn them over and no one will be hurt." The sound echoed off the hill where Emilia had hid with Wells, and the crowd looked at the copters in confusion.

Emilia stood transfixed, the guard at her side forgotten, as someone in the crowd of villagers threw a spear. It landed in the group of soldiers, striking no one, but the soldiers panicked. Emilia shouted out at them to hold their fire, but her voice was drowned out. A withering burst of automatic weapons fire spat out at the tightly packed crowd and the battle was on.

The barbarians with their crude spears and wooden shields never stood a chance against the Canadian soldier's auto-weapons and battle armor. In a matter of minutes, the village square was filled with barbarian bodies and the survivors were fleeing to the hills. The old woman who had befriended Emilia was trying to make her way across the battleground to Emilia when she was caught in the crossfire. A badly thrown spear struck her in the leg and, as she went down, a well placed burst from an SMG nearly severed her neck.

The barbarian that had been at Emilia's side fled. A Canadian soldier looked across the bodies to Emilia. She tried to make eye contact, but all she could see was his tinted visor. He swung his rifle into firing position and casually squeezed off a burst that chewed through the door of the hut. Emilia tried to call out to him but the roar of the copters was too loud. The next burst ripped through the wattle and daub wall of the hut just above Emilia's head. Emilia tensed to run, but the next burst was in the ground at her feet, kicking clods of dirt up onto the deer hide skirt. The fourth burst was aimed at Emilia's chest.

As the soldier squeezed out that last burst of bullets, the gray haired headman scrambled around the corner of the hut and tackled Emilia to the ground. The two were sprayed with bits of stick and dried mud as the front wall of the hut disintegrated.

Then the headman was up and pulling at Emilia's arm. He pushed her pistol into her hand, and then they were off. The soldier pulled again at the trigger, but he had wasted his clip. Emilia and the headman sprinted through the village, dodging between huts to avoid the soldiers, and trailing the rest of the villagers.

From a rocky outcropping on the hill overlooking the village, Emilia and the rest of the barbarians watched the Canadian soldiers systematically search and then destroy each hut. As her home burned, Emilia unconsciously disassembled and cleaned her pistol. She thought about what Wells had said: "I like making a contribution to humanity." And she finally, silently agreed.

The sun set, all red and gold, behind them, and Emilia heard a child start to weep.

Maurice Forrester lives in Syracuse with his wife, Lori, and three year old son, John. He is a Ph.D. student in the history department at Syracuse University where he is doing research on American religious Perfectionism and antebellum reform.

mjforres@mailbox.syr.edu