[Other Original] Short Stories [Newest: Dust]

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Devsirme​

They come every fifteen years. There is no warning, but somehow the entire town always seems to know when the day has arrived; perhaps it is the peacefulness in the air or the almost imperceptible tremors that shake the ground. A dreadful sense of inability to prevent the inevitable seems to slow down time as we await nightfall. They always come with the setting sun.​

It happens like the Passover, except there is no way of escape; no blood on the doorframes to mark the houses of the families to be spared. They always arrive in the same manner, as if it is their god-given right: entering the town in large military tanks and sending out troops to control anyone bold enough to try to fight back. Groups of two men and one woman go through the neighborhoods, breaking into each house one by one. The men carry weapons to protect the woman as they search until they get enough of what they are looking for – newborn children.​

My daughter, my husband, and I were hiding in the back of the house. I was praying that they would leave before reaching us. But I knew they wouldn't - thoroughness is a virtue in which the kidnappers are well versed.​

"Don't worry. I'm sure that we will be fine," my husband whispered to me, the slight quiver in his voice undermining his attempt to provide comfort.​

We had followed protocol – mostly. As the day began to end, we retreated to our houses like the rest of the families in our town. We locked our doors and prepared for the worst, as we are instructed to do by the city council. The fact that most of the newborn children in the town would be gone in the morning was becoming all too tangible.​

The town has collectively learned from past experience that the kidnappers will stop at nothing, using whatever force necessary to take any child that is young enough. "It is in everyone's best interest," the head councilman explains every fifteen years, "to not fight for your children." He then calls upon one of the many horrific anecdotes that all follow the same structure: a mother whose love blinded her to danger, a father whose protective instinct overrode his cautious predisposition, or perhaps a teenaged brother whose sense of invincibility that ultimately proved to be unfounded tries to stand up to the intruder. The resulting conflict is typically not a fair fight; it ends quickly and bloodily.​

"To prevent unnecessary loss of life, the city council advises that you willingly give up your children." This part of the speech is always received poorly. People are not often able to accept the truth.​

"Have your children with you to prevent further risk of harm. Willingness to give them up will send the message that we wish them to leave without causing any more damage." The faint scar above the councilman's right eye provides testament to the fact that this is much easier said than done. He himself had tried to stand in the way of the intruders as they kidnapped his own son many years ago. He was one of the unlucky few that had survived. Those who live to tell their stories always seem to freeze in time. Ambitions forgotten, family plans erased. Even the blood running through their veins seems to slow, making their heart cold. The type of cold-heartedness that makes a person forget his pain; that enables a person to calmly tell people who still have hope to give up trying.​

I still had hope, clinging to my husband and daughter as we waited for them to enter our house. Hope that my plan would work.​

I'm sure it had been tried before, but no mother has ever spoken of her failed attempt to prevent the inevitable. As the entire town simultaneously locked their doors and prepared for the long night ahead, I put my plan in to motion. I moved quickly, with a frantic sense of calm that always seems to occur when situations are the direst. In the small amount of time that I had, I opened the silverware drawer and found a dark tinted brown vial pushed far to the back. I had acquired it years ago with the hope that I would never require its use. I struggled to twist off the cap, praying that the drug inside hadn't lost its effect with time. I didn't know how much of the off-white powder I should use; my son was small and an overdose could be lethal. I sprinkled a miniscule amount into his food hoping that it would be enough. I stirred it in and fed it to my son, tears falling down my cheeks as I gently rocked him to sleep. The drug-induced peacefulness that swept over his face gave me hope that perhaps he would be there to hold as the sun rose in the morning.​

Wasting no time, I stood up on one of the four chairs surrounding the dining table, then on the table itself, to reach the ceiling. The vent in the ceiling above the table was just large enough to fit a child through. That was the extent of my plan. It wasn't much, but maybe, just maybe, the presence of my daughter, too old for the kidnappers, would give the intruders the signal that we did not have what they were looking for, the signal to move on to the next house.​

All I could do was wait. So we waited.​

It did not seem to take long for them to reach our house. The lock on the front door was picked with the speed and subtlety of a skilled locksmith. My heightened senses allowed me to hear their nearly inaudible movements as they entered my home. I held my breath as they quickly made their way through the house, searching for its inhabitants – searching for us. My heart seemed to skip a beat as they marched through the dining room, passing by the very thing for which they were looking.​

They found us quickly. The men, eager to reap the harvest that they had not sewn, clutched at my daughter. Over her piercing screams, the woman snapped at them, with the authority only a woman can exude, "No. She is much too old. Let her go." Her cold and my pleading gaze met, and for a brief moment her eyes changed. In that instant we were simply two mothers sitting on opposite ends of a park bench, watching over our children as they played. In that instant, she realized that my pleading was too much for a mother who had just heard that her child was safe; she knew that I was hiding something. As quickly as her eyes changed to those of an empathetic mother they changed back to their cold glassiness as she ordered, "Search the house. They are hiding a child from us."​

As the men searched, the woman stood over us to keep us from impeding their progress. Our eyes occasionally met during this time, but we were no longer two mothers sitting across each other in a park.​

They searched the house for an imperceptible amount of time. In hindsight, they were probably not there for long, but in the moment it seemed like an eternity. All I could do was hope that they wouldn't find him, hope that after searching every room they would decide that the woman's intuition was faulty, hope that my son would not make a sound. But part of me knew better than to hope. The kidnappers knew what they were doing.​

The stealth with which they had entered the house disappeared. As they searched through the house, upturning furniture and slamming open closet doors, the eerie quiet that had been pervading the night dissipated. When I heard them enter the kitchen I held my breath.​

Suddenly the sound of shattering glass put a stop to the slamming of cabinet doors. It was the vial – I had left the vial on the cabinet top.​

The rest was a blur. I remember trying to get up, trying to fight for my child only to be knocked back into the arms of my husband by the cold woman who was stealing my child from me.​

"Don't," she snapped, in the harsh, brutal voice that would never be able to calm my son back to sleep when he wakes up in the night crying.​

I didn't listen; I tried to get past the woman again, only to be thrown down onto the cold floor. I heard my daughter shriek as my head hit the ground.​

- - -​

I woke up lost and disoriented. From where I was laying I could see my daughter and husband, both of whom were unconscious but breathing. Suddenly my heart jumped and fear jolted through my veins. I immediately got to my feet and almost passed out again. I ran to the kitchen, from where I could see the front door agape, the wind gently blowing the curtain hanging over the window.​

Shaking, I climbed onto one of the four chairs surrounding the dining table, then on the table itself, to reach the ceiling just as I had done hours earlier. My trembling hand reached out and opened the vent.​

My screams lasted through the night, but not much longer. The blood flowing through my veins was already slowing; my heart was already growing cold.​