From The Mouth of Gods

Young Bartholomew gets his first taste of war.

Barnaby. Malcolm. Mary. Lizzie. Emmanuel.

Barnaby. Malcolm. Mary. Lizzie. Emmanuel.

Barnaby. Malcolm. Mary. Lizzie. Emmanuel.

It’s a beautiful day. The sun postures in a clear blue sky as birds sing and soar through the heavens.

It should be a sin to taint such a day with bloodshed.

Barty kneels in the grass, head bent and sword standing proud in the dirt. Shaky hands wrapped tight around the grip of his broadsword, forehead rests on the pommel, with red bitten lips he prays. He wants to ask God to watch over his soul, to take care of his family, and protect his lord’s land, but his mind is caught in a repetitive of “Please God. Please God. Please God.” He can't think louder then the sound of quivering chain mail and subdued whimpering. Even the songs of singing birds begin to sound like screeching and the wind shifts from a breeze to a chilling howl. The sudden cool air is a shock to his lungs and he tries to steady his breathing, but this is in vain as he sees movement around him.

Those around Barty that were praying just as he was begin to rise and those in need of no salvation begin to beat against their chest with a great warcry. Barty can feel his heartbeat against his chest with great trepidation, he fears it may run off without him. As the battalion moves into formation, he notices to his left the drummer boys marching to the front. Then is when Barty realizes it is not his heart he feels raging within, he can’t discern his heartbeat at all, instead all he feels is the instigating pound of the drums. Barty wants to freeze and die in his very spot, but duty and obligation move his feet to march.

As the battalion advances forward, the drummer boys tune turns more ferocious. In reply Barty can hear the horns of the barbarians intensify in fury. The warring sounds causes his head to ache and he tries to call to mind a melody his grandfather plays on the fiddle, but the notes remain scattered in his mind. As the war sound hits its crescendo, Barty isn't prepared for the calm that suddenly befalls the field, but it doesn't offer him any comfort, not with a storm raging within himself. Having now clear view of the enemy, Barty’s situation becomes all too real. He may be killed today.

Barty is certain the Holy Ghost fought that battle and used his body as a vessel, for he doesn't remember it at all. From the first rush towards his enemy, he was raptured. He wasn't sent hurtling back to the earth until he was covered in dirt, blood, and gore and under his hands was a lifeless body with Barty’s sword in his gut. He was no older than Barty himself. His eyes were grey and they never left Barty’s face not even once his soul passed to the hereafter. He'd never seen someone with such colorless eyes, maybe they were blue or green or brown before, but maybe once you die the color leaves them. Barty isn't sure; he never saw his eyes until he made the final blow.

Barty drops the body in shock and scrambles away in the dirt. He doesn't know where he is and isn't quite sure who he is at that moment. All he can focus on is the body he put in the ground with his broadsword sticking from its abdomen. Barty has to get out of there. Before he makes his getaway, Barty crawls back to the body and works to yank his sword out of the body's guts. Once his weapon is retrieved, Barty darts for the treeline. As he flies by the brush and breaks branches in his hasty retreat, a humorless chortle bubbles forth from his mouth. He killed a boy today. He killed a boy and God gave him his life.