ONE

They came across the water at night. There was no moon, but the sky was cold and clear and the stars were bright slivers of shining ice. The strangers came in four boats, six to each, and they rowed as quietly as possible; oars dipped gently into the cold black water, pulled deep and through, then carefully rose and swung forward, water dripping invisibly, almost silently from the dull wide blades.

Shivering, the boy watched from the shelter of rocks. He wanted to warn them, but he was afraid of what Petros and the others would do to him. They had beaten him regularly over the years—because he had no father to do it, they said, no mother to scold him or slap his face. He worked hard for them, did whatever he was told, but it never seemed to be enough.

The boats were headed for the short, narrow strip of sandy beach. The boy crouched out on a spit of land that jutted into the lake, a clutter of rocks and driftwood and dead grasses. The boats would have to pass by on their approach to the beach. He could hear the creak of wood, the faintest splash of water, and he could see shards of starlight reflecting from metal and shining eyes.

The boy was tall for his age—thirteen or fourteen, no one knew for sure—and lanky. He crouched lower behind a large rock. The first boat slid past, so close he could have jumped into it. He counted the people—two rowing and facing backward, four staring fixedly forward—and looked for weapons, but the floor of the boat was too dark. It didn't matter. It wouldn't be enough for what they were about to encounter.

The second and third boats passed, then the fourth. So quiet. Tiny splashes and flashes in the black of the water. Their stealth was futile.

The first boat slowed as it neared the beach and the rowers pulled in their oars as wood hulls scraped against sand and gravel. Moments later the beach lit up with a burst of flames.

Petros and the others had ignited a string of fires just back from the water's edge, wood coated with oils and resins. Orange and scarlet flames roared and cracked and spit into the night sky like some great malevolent beast. Unable to stop in time, the second and third boats landed on the beach beside the first as a volley of flaming arrows shot between the fires, across the open sand and into the midst of the attackers. Some of the arrows missed their targets completely or deflected away and fell into the water with loud hissing, but others dug deeply into the wood or clattered still aflame inside the boats.

One arrow plunged into the back of an oarsman. He lurched forward in stupefied amazement, then jerked back with a harsh cry, the arrow tail lodging in the boat as he fell, the head driving up and through him until the shaft broke apart as he rolled onto his side and dropped from view.

The boy remained motionless on the point, huddled in a coarse blanket, watching, listening to the screams that tore the night. More arrows flew, now accompanied by shouts and burning spears and flaming, oil-filled glass vessels that burst on impact and spread thin sheets of blue and orange flames, engulfing the boats.

The fourth boat had managed to stop just before beaching, and now moved slowly in reverse, the rowers frantically and awkwardly shifting direction, pushing the oars instead of pulling, struggling against the resistance met by the flat stern. Go, the boy thought at them. Go!

The people in the first boats scrambled for weapons, for clubs and blades, long staffs and bolas, stumbling into each other, unbalanced, panicked and confused. Leaping and howling, Petros and the other men rushed through the gaps between the fires and attacked with spears and knives and cudgels. Blades bit deep into flesh; knotted wood cut the air and crushed bones. The beach became an inferno of smoke and screams and flames and blood, the bitter stench of burning flesh, and cries of victory; rising above it, strings of burning embers climbed toward the sky like the dying swarms of lantern bugs in the late summer nights. Sickened, the boy turned away.

But he watched the one boat that might still escape. A small fire burned in it, but was quickly extinguished. When they were several boat lengths away from the beach, the oarsmen, now composed and synchronized, dug in on one side, turning the boat around, then began pulling desperately with the oars. Several more flaming arrows launched toward them, but only one made contact, and it bounced harmlessly off the side of the boat and into the water.

The boy's decision was almost unconscious. As the boat neared the spit of land, he stood upright, shrugged off the blanket, clambered onto the rock, and dove into the lake. The cold stunned him for a moment, and he slid through the water like a slowly sinking statue. He opened his eyes, but was as good as blind. For several long moments he did nothing, nearly accepting the bottom of the lake as his final destination. He had no will, no desire, no sense of loss. Then some spark of life returned and he recovered; he pulled with his arms and kicked with his legs, and swam awkwardly for the surface.

His boots filled with water. One at a time he kicked them from his feet. Finally he began to rise through the cold and dark. A driving ache in his chest, strange inner glistenings of silver in his vision. His arms and legs felt dead and useless, but he managed movement, upward progress until at last he broke the surface.

Water came with his first breath, choking him. For a moment he couldn't see the boat, and he was afraid it had already passed him by. Then he heard a splash, turned his head, and saw it no more than fifteen feet away; but it was moving quickly now. He swam toward a point ahead of it, and in ten strokes he was within reach.

The boy kicked hard, rising slightly out of the water, and grabbed the side of the boat with one hand. The boat's momentum continued, dragging him through the water, straining his arm and shoulder. He pulled himself up enough to get a grip with the other hand and cried out. "Help me!"

The help he received was an oar cracked across his hands, then again across his skull. He fought the instinct to let go, his vision shifting slightly.

"Help me!" he cried again.

The oar came down hard on his left hand and he released its grip, but held on with his right. His face smashed against the wet dark wood, the fingers of his left hand scrabbled for purchase somewhere, anywhere.

"Wait!" a voice whispered forcefully from inside the boat. "He's just a boy!"

Copyright © 2005 by Richard Paul Russo