Sanguinia
Jenna Barufka
He talked about it as though it were a house: “Here’s the living room,” he would say, and pat the thickest bough. “Over there,” he would point, “is the kitchen, and the bathroom’s just to your left.”
“But my room,” he whispered, checking to his left and his right, “is up there!” He threw his arm up and his head back and together they looked up, up, up to see the two thinnest, shortest branches tied in a wishbone at the top of the tree. They danced under the whim of the wind. They looked unsuitable for even birds. “C’mon,” he said, and dragged Ransom up by the wrist. “I’ll show you.”
Leo’s room was too small for two people, almost too small for just Leo, so Ransom sat on what Leo said was the staircase and watched. Leo dusted off the wishbone like sweeping the floor, smoothed out his leaves like making a bed. Leo sat upon it like a throne.
Leo’s brow worried and his lips pursed as he looked out on his yard, a small rectangle of plastic-looking grass behind his house. The grass stood pristine: bush-less, twig-less, leaf-less. The tree they sat in was the only one in the yard. “Have you heard the news?” Leo asked solemnly, as though it were very bad news indeed.
“The news?”
“Yes, yes, the news,” Leo continued on, shaking his head and tutting at his hands, a concerned king. He lifted his eyes without lifting his face and took in Ransom’s empty expression. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard!” he exclaimed.
“Heard of what?” Ransom asked.
“Well the war, of course!” Leo exclaimed, throwing his hands up as though to say, The war, you fool! Surely you know of the war! “In Sanguinia?” he asked.
Ransom didn’t know what to say. He knew what not to say: “There is no war. There is no Sanguinia.” That would be a rather horrible, horrible thing to say. He chose to say nothing at all.
Leo acted shocked and disappointed, but his eyes glimmered. “Well, if you truly don’t know,” he said, “I suppose I shall tell you.” Leo managed to fit himself on only one end of the wishbone and dragged his eyes expectantly between Ransom and the other branch, as though it were the cushion of a couch. “Come, sit.”
But of course, being twice the size of Leo as he was, Ransom could not. Instead he pressed his feet against the staircase and his hip against the doorway, only his right arm and head in the bedroom with Leo.
“Take my hand,” Leo insisted. Ransom lifted his left arm and Leo reached out to him. His entire hand could nearly wrap around Ransom’s thumb. “And close your eyes,” he commanded, “and I will recount to you the very bad things that have come to our lands.”
Ransom shut his eyes and became aware of everything else; the song of birds sang far away and the croaking of bugs with them, between their fingers, in the tree. The wind cooed, and made the leaves titter and tatter. It was cold, but not so that people wished to stay indoors, cold so that people rushed out and inhaled in, exhaled out, a grin against their taut, rosy cheeks as they thought, Invigorating! Cold so that the air crystallized their eyes and made their knees jitter. In front of him Ransom could hear Leo breathing, heavy huffs through the mouth since his nose was red and stuffed. Leo took three hard sniffs, one after the other. Then he swallowed. Then he began to talk.
“There once was a land called Sanguinia,” he spoke, his voice dramatic but also hushed, like it were all a crooked secret. “Here the land was good and green and all sorts of trees grew all over, but the most common tree was the, um, the...
“Ransom, give me a tree.”
“Sycamore,” said Ransom.
“Sick-aye-more?”
“Yes.”
“But the most common was the sick-aye-more. The sick-aye-more trees grew all over the land, even in places they weren’t supposed to grow, like in the swamps and on the mountains. And the sick-aye-mores were real special, ‘cause they were filled up with water, so whenever the dry season came, the people only needed to slice open one sick-aye-more with their swords and they would get enough water for all the people everywhere.”
Leo took three hard sniffs. Swallowed. Huffed through his mouth.
“But there were problems in Sanguinia, you see, ‘cause the sky was always fighting with itself. And this is ‘cause the clouds and stars were at war. See, the stars had been in the sky at night, as stars are, and the people in Sanguinia looked at them and all, and used them to take them places and stuff. But then, all of a sudden, the clouds showed up, in the middle of the night, and covered up the stars. And normally the clouds provided nice shade during the day, but at night all they did was block out the light from the stars and take up all the stars’ room. And this made all the stars real angry, and they told the clouds they couldn’t be in the sky at night, ‘cause the stars were there first, and they had to guide the people. But the clouds refused to leave.
“The war caused lots-a problems in Sanguinia, ‘cause it made the clouds too distracted to provide shade during the day, and the stars too distracted to provide light at night. But that wasn’t the worst of it.”
Leo stopped. For dramatic effect, perhaps, or to figure what was the worst of it. Ransom fought the urge to peek. His eyelids lightened themselves, tugged their way towards his eyebrows, and his stomach fluttered with them, encouraged, pull! pull! pull! But Ransom knew what Leo was weaving; he could feel it sewn around them like a cocoon. The air was different. He was different. If he opened his eyes, it would snap.
“The worst of it,” Leo continued, “was that the magical creatures down in Sanguinia, the, the uh, Fairies, and Centaurs, they all thought the stars were right. But the Hunters, they thought the clouds were right. See, ‘cause the Centaurs and Fairies, they had been in Sanguinia since before time. And the Hunters, they had just arrived there on a boat not too long ago. And even though the magical creatures had never had a problem with it before, hearing the arguments of the stars and clouds made them feel like they shouldn’t be sharing all this land with the Hunters after all.
“Soon everyone on the ground was fighting just like everyone in the sky. And these arguments led to a bunch of bloody battles between the Centaurs and the Hunters, and the battles went on for days, or weeks sometimes, until one of the fighters died. And when the fighter died, they would be buried in the ground where they had been fighting, and a, uh, a…
“Ransom, give me a flower.”
“A lily.”
“A lily?”
“Yeah.”
“And a black lily would be put over the spot where they died.”
Around his thumb, Ransom could feel Leo’s hand gripping tighter, growing sweatier. Still, they didn’t pull away. Don’t let it snap.
“And even though it was real sad, the fighting did not stop. Actually, as the war in the sky got worse, the fighting on the ground did too. It got so bad, and so many people were killed, that the roots of the sick-aye-mores started absorbing blood instead water! And the people in Sanguinia had to worry, ‘cause the dry season was coming and they needed the trees’ water.
“So they all decided that the fighting needed to stop, but neither side wanted to admit that they were wrong. So, instead, the Hunters built a long brick wall, three feet high, right down the middle of Sanguinia, to separate the two sides so they couldn’t fight anymore. And ‘cause the Fairies could fly and lived high in the trees and all, the magical creatures were given a lot of the swamp land and mountains. But that was unfair to the Centaurs, ‘cause they couldn’t run around and stuff in the swamps or the mountains, and they had to stay in the small area of the woods that the Hunters had given them.
“So the Centaurs complained about this to the Fairies, who, being the wicked things they are, and dangerously clever too, enchanted the brick wall to slowly move backwards and give the magical creatures more room.
“For a long time the Hunters didn’t notice that the brick wall was moving. But then, one day, one of the Hunters went to go pick an apple from his favorite apple tree, which produced the most delicious apples in all of the land. But, when he went to it, he realized it was somehow on the other side of the brick wall, when it wasn’t before! He watched closely for a few nights, and soon realized what the Fairies had done. And he was so mad. And he went and spread the news to the rest of the Hunters, who became just as angry.
“Meanwhile, the war in the sky got even bigger! The sky split right down the middle, stars on the left, clouds on the right, preparing for battle. The Hunters noticed and decided to follow their lead, and declared war on all the magical creatures! And right” - Leo leaned in - “now” - tugged sharply on Ransom’s hand - “they are lining up like soldiers on either side of the brick wall, about to start” - he leaned so close Ransom could feel sticky hot breath on his nose - “what will be known around the universe as the war of the century!”
Leo let go. The crisp autumn air began to chill the sweat on Ransom’s bare thumb, and Leo laughed and jumped about in a way he could only do with his eyes wide, but still nothing snapped. The air stayed different. Ransom stayed different. He sat afraid to break it. His eyelids weighed something awful. But even as he moved his arm, dragged his palm up and down Leo’s staircase, the tree didn’t feel so much an oak...
He opened his eyes and it was there; blink, and the long, thin, curving leaves of the backyard oak grew flatter, grew sharper; blink and the trunk paled and expanded. Blink and Leo’s house disappeared, replaced by blossoming sycamore after sycamore, a trickling creek where was a fence, the dirt of a worn forest floor where was perfectly mowed grass. Green and grown mountains decked the horizon and colored the sky. Musty and moldy and sickly swamps sank in patches on the forest ground. Blink and the light grew warmer, blink and the air shimmered. Fairies flew past Ransom’s ears, through his hair. In his ears hooves clacked, feet thundered, swords clanged as they were drawn from their sheaths. Blink and the sky divided, stars on his left, clouds on his right; blink, and he was no longer Ransom, no longer limited to the things being Ransom entailed. He saw tall, branchless trees and knew he could climb them, saw thick, oozing swamps and knew he could cross them. Blink, and he flew; blink, and he bent steel; blink, and of him and the world became everything he imagined they would be; blink; blink; blink…
“There it is,” Leo whispered.
Leo stood upon his room, hands on his hips, his hair intertwined with a lustrous crown of leaves. The wishbone was no longer a wishbone but two magnificent boughs, whose branches and come-offs had woven themselves around Leo in an elaborate pattern of knots and hatches. A king’s throne indeed.
Ransom followed Leo’s line of sight to a short stone wall that seemed to stretch on for miles. Ransom could not see its end, but somehow knew that if he were to search for it, he’d find the wall infinite. And then, just some ways down the barrier, beneath the slithering arms and fingers of an impossible number of sycamore trees, stood two armies.
The world had stopped to watch the fight. Birds sat still and high above the ground, arm in arm with the Fairies and bugs. Fish peeked out from within the ponds and swamps, and the wind lay eerily still. Mountains pulled themselves taller for a better look, and trees bent their necks. The trickling creek did so quietly. Everything held its breath. Leo had not lied; the War of the Century had arrived, and the universe knew.
“C’mon!’ Leo trumpeted. His voice ruptured the silence like a crack in a porcelain cup. Leo backed to where one of the large boughs of his bedroom hit the trunk, gasped air in, chest out, shoulders up, and took off. He sprinted down the mammoth arm until he reached the nail of its extended finger and, without a moment’s hesitation, jumped.
“Leo!” Ransom shrieked, only to see Leo scratchless and impatient on the ground, motioning urgently for Ransom to follow. Blink, and I can fly, Ransom thought. And he did.
Once on the ground the two of them raced forward. The weight of their feet snapped the stems of black lilies again and again. There were hundreds of them, hundreds and hundreds of black lilies. Ransom trailed behind, looked at the way Leo ran, looked down at his own legs and feet. They moved quicker, took longer strides, had warmer skin and sharper eyes and the ability to hurdle this, dodge that. The world molded to their step.
“Here,” Leo hissed, and pulled Ransom down with him behind the thickened trunk of a sycamore. They tipped their heads out just enough to see the two armies, stock still, determined but fearful. Fear came from the soldiers on ground and from the Fairies in the sky and from the way the wind seemed to wheeze in, out, in, out. Ransom and Leo watched the others watch each other and waited for someone to blink.
“Ransom,” Leo whimpered, his gaze still fixed on the soldiers. The leading Centaur, standing nearly eye to eye with the leading Hunter, began to move her front leg. She dragged it slowly, almost unnoticeably, through the dirt. “What do we do?” His eyes were large and glossy, his mouth wriggling. His fingers shook where they dug painfully into the trunk of the sycamore. “What do we do?”
Get out of here. C’mon Leo, let’s just go. There’s nothing you can do, and besides, you’ll just make it worse. Okay? Don’t put yourself in the middle of it. You don’t owe them anything. None of this is your fault anyway. Your life is better than this, more than this. You have me, and and your books. Let’s go read a book, yeah? Very quietly, let’s sneak back to your room and read a book.
“Anything you wish,” said Ransom.
Leo gave a stiff nod as though he’d been given orders instead of options, but Ransom had understood before he spoke that Leo would only have one response. Leo rose slowly to his feet and rolled his shoulders back, not blinking, barely breathing. Each movement he made looked angry; a sharp brushing of dirt off his knees, a tight pull at the hem of his shirt. A mean tilt of the chin. Even at his tallest he stood at maybe the bend of the Centaurs’ knees. Still he narrowed his eyes to no more than hazel-green slits, and colored himself fearless, and pulled himself from behind the tree, and shouted:
“Stop!”
As soon as he spoke the world turned to him and, in one great, sweeping gesture, bowed. The Hunters stared at their toes with their arms spread out and wide, and their horses brought their noses to the dirt. Birds and Fairies fluttered to his feet, and the Centaurs bore their necks. The trees and their branches and the mountains behind them dipped, bent at the waste, until everything arched towards Leo, as though he were the center of gravity. As though he were the sun.
Slowly Leo made his way to the two armies, hopping on the stone wall between them with the ease of a jackrabbit, standing before them with the elegance of a stag. From his waist hung a golden sword that hadn’t been there before. The world stayed silent as Leo drew the sword from his belt, raised it above his head and cast it down against the trunk of a sycamore. The bark of the tree was like the skin of a child, too soft, and blood poured from it as though it were human flesh. The blade of Leo’s sword donned a gown of crimson. He held in front of him. Droplets dripped from its tip to the toes of his boots.
“Whose blood is this?” the boy asked, spinning in circles. The sword was nearly as tall as he, but still he held it high. “A Hunter’s? A Centaur’s? Both?” he continued. And then quieter- “Does it matter?”
Ransom understood then that it wasn’t just the lengths of their legs or the quickness of their strides. It wasn’t just how high they could jump or how much weight they could hold. Leo walked bigger, talked bigger. He spoke like a man. He was older. Funny, Ransom thought. To wish to be older.
“No more blood can be shed,” Leo was saying, “for soon there will be too much for the sycamore trees to absorb, and blood will flood the land.” His voice was weighted with sadness as he spoke. “Blood will poison the swamps in which your fish and alligators swim,” he told the Centaurs. “And it will be impossible to hunt, because your feet will squish and squelch with each timid step,” he told the Hunters. “And all of us, we will go thirsty, because there will be no clean water left to drink. So I urge you- tear down this wall, live like you did once, if you can remember.”
Though the people in Sanguinia did not notice, the war above them had come to a halt. The clouds and stars sent their ears to the boy on the stones.
“This war will have no winner,” they heard. “If we fight, it is lose or be lost.”
***
That night Ransom lay in Leo’s bed and listened to his sleep. Normally his sleep was quiet, but Leo acted rather disturbed; tossed and squirmed and balled the sheets in his fists.
Beside them The Wall shuttered. Banged. Shattered like Leo’s recently glazed pinch-pot. Yelled, and then angrily hushed.
Ransom lay on his side and watched and quietly prayed Leo wouldn’t wake up. Ransom moved to tuck his arm around Leo’s waist only to have it hover directly above the boy’s sleeping form and slip back down to his side. And still Ransom watched and prayed, don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wa-
“Ransom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you hear that?” Leo didn’t turn to him. He kept to the edge of the bed, facing the far side of the room. The Wall thumped. Shattered like a wine glass. Struck, and then apologized.
“Yes.”
“Crumbling stone,” Leo said, and dug his head deeper into his pillow. “Miles of crumbling stone.”