The Broken Jar Read Free

proved difficult, nearly impossible. At least while we still lived here.

    Eventually I reached the small stone house. Set far off the road in a copse of ash and alder, we had found it abandoned. Whether because it was too close to the border or because of rumors of Pells raiders, we did not care. We made it our home.
    The privacy of the trees provided protection as well. More than once early on we had hurried deeper into the woods when we thought we heard soldiers advancing nearby. Nearly two months had passed since that had been necessary. We began to believe that the war really was over.
    Today even the birds were quiet. A sense of stillness hung over the clearing. Smoke drifted from the chimney, hanging in a fog over the clearing. I smelled something burning as I approached. There was something more, something I could not quite place. Only later would I fully understand what it was that I sensed.
    I walked past the stretched hides and the small screen Ana set out for her papermaking. With the heat of the day, I was surprised Ana was not outside working, waiting for me. I dreaded telling her of my failure, the herbs destroyed, but at least I had a few more coins to add to our jar.
    I circled around to the door and walked inside. Burnt bread roasted in the fire and the small table I had made was overturned. Herbs Ana collected that morning scattered across the floor, a collection I instantly realized was more valuable than what I had managed on my walk back home. The clay jar where we stored our coins, watching it grow until we were convinced we could afford transport, lay shattered on the ground.  
    I remembered the care Ana put into crafting it, carefully painting the jar with pictures of our imagined future. Now all the coins were gone. Our future was gone.
    I looked quickly through the small house but still did not find Ana. A growing sense of worry knotted my stomach and mixed with the burning bread to make bile rise in my throat.
    “Ana!” I yelled.
    Somehow I already knew I would not get a response.
    As I walked from the house, I first wondered where she had gone. I stood at her filters, looking at the pages of drying paper, thinking of what might have made her run off. One thing came to mind.  
    Soldiers.
    I turned slowly, looking around the clearing. Only then did I see the end of a slippered foot lying near the trees.  
    Ana lay bent, face down on the ground, the golden linen dress she had made torn, exposing her thighs and buttocks. I kneeled in front of her, rolling her so that I could see her face.  
    “Ana?”  
    I repeated the question but need not have.  
    I did not need to check to see if her heart still beat.
    I barely heard the sounds I made. A soft moan followed my cry.  
    Crystal blue eyes stared blankly at me. Her dark hair was matted but I stroked it anyway, pushing it from her face one last time. Blood soaked the front of her dress between her legs and I wailed again.  
    A short handled knife dropped from her grip. Blood stained the blade. A Pells’ blade.
    I fell to the ground in agony.

    Dusk fell by the time I finished burying my Ana. I marked the grave with the remnants of the clay jar, the painted dreams mocking me.  
    A small fire crackled, more for light than for heat. I sat staring into the night. Dark thoughts filled my head, angry and unyielding.
    In spite of all that I had done, I still had not managed to save her.  
    I glanced at the broken jar sitting atop the mound of dirt, our dreams gone with it, stolen from us as Ana was stolen from me.  
    And all for what? For a war now over? It had changed nothing, other than our lives.
    She deserved better than this.  
    I do not remember collecting the herbs from the floor of the house and refilling my satchel. I do not remember the walk back to town or my preparations along the water.
    All I remember is the rage I felt knowing Ana would never smile at me again.

    The woods west of Nys swallowed the road. Large branches swung