The Olive Grove

He clawed at the shrapnel tearing through his chest, ripping through flesh and puncturing organs with sounds that echoed in the darkness, surrounding him in a gruesome radio production of his own mortality. The void of the blind eternities stretched out before him as his breath betrayed him in ragged, staccato bursts and the sounds of destruction fell away, like water over the edge of a waterfall, into the oblivious silence. His mind slowed with his fading heartbeat and, as the inevitable scythe found its mark, his eyes searched for their final resting place, fluttered, and…

Opened.

The musty air filled his lungs as desperate breath followed desperate breath, each deeper and more grateful than the last. He squirmed against the cold, uneven floor as his eyes, realising that their duty was not at an end, strained as they adjusted to their new surroundings. Needles of warm yellow light swam into view, each forcing its way through a gap or crack in the wooden walls of what appeared to be a large warehouse or barn. At the far end of the structure there loomed countless mounds of… something, silhouetted against a constellation of shining holes in the back wall.

Pushing himself up onto his knees, Lance Corporal Matthews cast his gaze downwards onto his uniform, expecting to see the remnants of his tattered gear slowly becoming saturated with his own blood and, more than likely, the blood of his friends and comrades. He knew that Roberts and Peterson were dead. They had been just ahead of him when the IED had detonated and hell had been unleashed on their troop. Nobody could have survived a blast like that.

Inexplicably, though, he found his uniform clean, clear of any sign of conflict and devoid of any blood, his own or otherwise. He could still feel where the jagged shards of metal and stone had torn through him but there were no holes in his jacket and no blood dripping onto this unfamiliar floor, wherever it was.

He rose carefully to his feet, his pristine uniform rustling, the sound echoing around the otherwise silent building. The air was sour, thick with a familiar odour that he couldn’t quite place as his mind scrambled to find answers to the many more pressing questions that presented themselves. Where was he? How did he get here? And, most importantly, was the boy still alive?

The mission had been simple. Escort the child to a secure location where he could be safely evacuated from the warzone and returned to his parents, who had themselves been resettled out of the country for their own safety. They were locals who had risked their lives to serve as translators for the invading forces, but they had been betrayed to the enemy by their own family, a cousin in whom they had confided. They were marked for death from that moment on and could no longer serve in the field without facing certain retribution, so they were taken into protection. Infuriated by what was viewed as a patriotic betrayal and unable to exact revenge upon them directly, the enemy had instead enticed their 10-year-old son, Emil, out of safety, where he was promptly kidnapped and had a ransom placed upon him. A message was sent saying that the child would go free if the parents gave themselves over to face whatever form of barbaric ‘justice’ was planned for them.

Knowing that the chances of the child being freed were slim, even if the ransom demands were met, it was decided instead that the parents would be removed from the country and a rescue mission would be staged to retrieve Emil from the clutches of the enemy. Had the life of a child not been on the line, Matthews might have enjoyed the cinematic nature of it all; he had always enjoyed war films when he was young. But there was nothing entertaining about their mission. There was only the evil that men do, against the backdrop of a crumbling nation.

His eyes now adjusted to the gloom, Matthews could see that the shapes scattered around the barn were in fact piles of olives, freshly picked and, he presumed, awaiting further processing. Above him loomed a high ceiling, also of wood, held up by arching, knotted joists arranged in triangular structures across the length of a massive central beam that served as the spine of the entire building. Here and there, cobwebs hung in the darkest corners of the barn, undulating in an unfelt breeze.

Almost completely obscured in the corner of the furthest triangle of the roof, there sat something else. It was no cobweb, that was for sure, but it was hard to make out any detail from such a distance and in the persistent gloom.

Allowing his curiosity to get the better of him, Matthews slowly began to shuffle forward across the dry dirt floor, his heavy military boots scraping loudly with each cautious step. The shape began to move in the darkness and, after the soldier had taken a few more steps, a pair of shining eyes emerged from the shadows, fixing him with an unblinking, opalescent, and not all that welcoming stare that rooted him to his place.

An inter-species staring contest began to take shape. It was a contest that Matthews would be wholly unable to win, that much he knew, but it would at least give him time to consider his options before turning his back and making himself vulnerable. Without knowing where he was, escaping was a difficult thing to plan. How do you know where to escape to when you don’t even know where you’re escaping from? Then again, he couldn’t stay here forever, locked in a battle of wills with an as yet unknown opponent. Perhaps he could call for help, or find someone to explain what the hell was going on? What if his troop was out looking for him? What if the mission was just riding on him? He had to go and find some way to-

Footsteps.

Closer. And Closer. And-

Light poured into the barn-like commuters spilling out of an overfilled elevator as the heavy wooden doors were thrown open with such force that they crashed back against the outside wall. The sound of splintering wood cracked through the stagnant air as the deepening orange glow of a low sun beat back the shadows and revealed, all at once, the reality in which Lance Corporal Matthews found himself.

***

On a particularly cold Saturday in late January, an 8-year-old Matthews had found himself sat, shivering, on a cold metal bench awaiting a Birds of Prey display. Tucking his scarf even further into his jacket against the biting wind, he watched through narrowed eyes as an unreasonably cheery falconer sauntered onto the display field with what appeared to be a very angry falcon on his arm. It was, as far as Matthews was concerned, the most ill-tempered animal to have ever drawn breath. Throughout the display, it squawked and flapped and nipped at any patch of exposed flesh that the falconer dared to leave undefended. The bird’s reign of terror reached its crescendo, however, when it leapt from the handler’s gloved hand for ‘a quick circuit of the field’. Up and up and up the falcon flew, calling up at the sky and flatly ignoring the panicked shouts of the falconer below as it vanished into the slate clouds that billowed in the distance.

After speaking hurriedly into a walkie-talkie, presumably dispatching a search team to retrieve the jailbroken bird, the handler turned to face the small, unimpressed crowd, his enthusiasm undiminished despite the catastrophic trouble he was in.

“While we wait for Freddie to return,” he said into his microphone, “there’s a very special member of our winged family who I would like you to meet.”

Somewhere behind Matthews people began to gasp. Turning, he saw bearing down upon him from a perch at the top of the seating block a large barn owl. Its white face and abyssal eyes shone in the grey light of the afternoon as it glided over the heads of the gathered crowd, its coffee and cream-coloured feathers, specked as if they had been topped with poppy seeds, flexing and contorting silently as it flew. It cut through the air like a scythe, leaving neither sound nor breeze in its wake, flying barely an inch above an awe-inspired Matthews without so much as a breath of change in the frigid air.

***

The owl which now bore down on Matthews from the rafters of the barn did not look like it was going to leave anywhere near as much space between him and it. In fact, as he squinted against the blinding light that had flooded the building, again forcing his eyes to readjust with haste, he could just about make out the hazy shape of a bird that was most definitely on a collision course with his head, flying in at speed and, it appeared, with intent.

A whistle, high and sharp as a razor, cut through the air. It was louder and somehow clearer than any sound Matthews had ever heard a person make before. It whipped around the barn, ricocheting off the walls and ringing in his ears, helpfully incapacitating another of his ever-shrinking arsenal of senses. Left with very few options, human nature overrode military training as, in a split second, Lance Corporal Matthews dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, moments before being decapitated by his new avian nemesis.

“Not exactly what I would call a graceful evasion.”

Silhouetted in the doorway of the barn was a tall, dark-haired woman. Despite her slender frame, she seemed to occupy the entire opening with a presence that far exceeded her physical stature. Even the light streaming in from the setting sun seemed to bend around her, swirling in eddies at her feet and along the contours of her understated dress. She peered down her nose at Matthews, still laid out on the floor, surveying him with a cool mix of emotions, none of which he could quite place.

“On your feet, soldier. There’s work to be done. And as for you,” She let out another whistle, lower and less forceful than the one before, but still clear enough to set Matthews’ ears ringing all over again. He recognised the tone of an officer and so, doing as ordered, picked himself up off the ground, watching with awe as the owl which had moments ago tried to maul him, glided down from the rafters and perched itself softly on the woman’s outstretched arm. “How many times have I told you not to play rough with our guests?”

Until that point, Matthews had been wholly unaware that owls could look ashamed. Unable to hang its head due to unfortunate biological restrictions, it instead turned to face away from its mistress in a way that only an owl could – by 180 degrees.

“Now take this,” said the woman, producing a small roll of paper from the folds of her dress and affixing it to the bird’s talon with a length of fine golden thread, “You know where to go. And you can think about your behaviour on the way!”

With that, her sullen messenger took flight, the sound of its powerful wing beats barely audible as it climbed up into the sky and out of view. Having sent her message, the woman strode purposefully into the barn and grabbed from one corner two large sticks, at least 2 meters in length.

“Ready to work?” She asked, turning to look at a bewildered Matthews.

“I…I don’t know… I need to get back. The mission. Emil. I have to- “

“If I answer the questions which are so obviously clouding your mind, will you help me with my harvest?” Asked the woman, interrupting his stuttered ramblings, a small smile playing across her lips. “You may ask three questions, then we go. The rest you will have to find out when we get there.”

She held his gaze with a vice-like steadiness, her grey eyes never wavering nor wandering around the barn. There was no malice in her stare, no ill intent or danger to speak of, just a firmness gained only through a life lived rich with experiences, not all of them good.

“Do we have a deal?”

What other options did he have?

“Yes ma’am,” he said, drawing himself to attention and regaining what was left of his composure, “we have a deal.”

“Good. Then ask away.”

“Where are we?” He asked, figuring that the obvious was probably the best place to start.

“We are in my storage barn, on the east side of my grove. I work this land and, occasionally, take care of visitors who drop in from time to time, like you.”

“You’re the one who saved me? Who brought me here?”

She nodded thoughtfully, leaning casually against the rods she still held in her hands, “In a manner of speaking.”

“A manner of speaking? What the hell does that me- “

She silenced him with a wave of her hand.

“You are irritated. And scared, too, I imagine. I understand. I promise you will get all the answers you seek in good time. But there is work to be done.”

“But-“

“You have one question left. Choose it wisely.”

His brow furrowed as hundreds of unknowns clamoured in his mind, each more desperate to be answered than the last. But, after a few moments of agonising silence, one question cried out the loudest. There was one piece of information that Matthews knew he needed if he was going to keep it together in this confusing and inexplicable place.

“Emil. Is he…?” His voice trailed off, unable to finish the question.

The thought hung in the air, its weight pressing down on Matthews with such force he almost fell back down to his knees. The woman’s smile did not fade, though. She simply drew herself up from her leaning position and tossed one of the sticks in Matthews’ direction, almost knocking him out cold before he caught it at the last moment, inches from his face.

“The boy is alive.”

Relief flooded over Matthews, filling every fibre of his being with a glee so intense he could barely stop himself from crying out with joy. Hope, that most intoxicating of emotions, crackled in the chambers of his heart as silver tears began to fall onto his dusty, stubbled cheeks.

“Your tears do you credit, Lance Corporal.” said the woman, “but now I believe you have a bargain to fulfil.”

It took Matthews a moment to realise what she had just said. “How did you know…?”

She laughed as she turned away from him and began walking out into the evening light. “The same way every soldier deduces the rank of fellow combatants,” She stopped in the doorway, casting a playful glance at him over her shoulder, “It’s written on your uniform. Now come, Lance Corporal Matthews, follow me. And try to keep up.”

***

“Who are you?” asked Matthews, breaking into a light jog in order to keep up with his hostess’s rapid pace. Though she moved as if she were merely out for an evening stroll, she somehow covered distance in a manner that would put even the most accomplished marathon runner to shame, weaving her way through the sunbathed olive grove. In the orange light of the evening, the knotted trees, stretching as far as the eye could see, seemed almost aflame, the shadows cast by their leafy canopies further contributing to the illusion of a flickering fire.

“I am a soldier. Like you.” she answered, not breaking her stride, even for a moment, as they moved deeper and deeper into the seemingly infinite grove.

“In which army? What country are we in?”

“I have served many causes in my time. Too many to count, in fact. But I grew tired of death and destruction, as all who see war do. Even eternal soldiers must be discharged eventually. So I retired here to tend to my olives for what remains of my time. As for precisely which land you find yourself in…” For the first time, her confident mystique cracked as she paused to consider her response, “that is a more complex answer.”

“Simplify it for me.” Pressed Matthews, his patience beginning to wear thin. He could still hear the sounds of the explosion in his mind, and the cries of his comrades as they met with bloody and undignified ends. And Emil… the time for coyness and mystery was over. He was a soldier. A man of action. And, until he was told otherwise, he still had a mission to complete.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, stretching out to take hold of the woman’s shoulder in an effort to slow her incessant pace, “I need you to-“

No sooner had his hand brushed against her than he was back in the hell he had left behind. He was laid out on the desert floor looking up at distant stars shining in a clear, innocent sky overhead. All around him, the sounds of battle erupted. Explosion followed explosion and the air was littered with errant bullets and contorted metal, each eliciting a heart-wrenching scream whenever it found a mark. Turning his head, Matthews could make out the body of Private Roberts just a few feet away. A rivulet of blood ran from the corner of his lifeless mouth, dripping into a sanguine pool which was being fed by countless wounds that crisscrossed his mangled corpse, soaking his usually pristine uniform in the colours of his own demise.

A juvenile cry cut through the cacophony of destruction. There, behind the remains of their patrol vehicle, cowered the battered and bloody frame of a young boy.

“Emil!” Matthews tried to call out, but all that could be heard was the gurgling of his voice through the blood that had gathered in his throat. Desperately, he dragged his failing body along the sands towards the boy, leaving a glistening path of scarlet behind him, broken only by the grooves his splintered bones, protruding through his ashen skin, were carving into the earth.

“Emil!”

He pulled back his hand in horror, tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes and falling softly onto the lush green grass of the grove.

“I told you the boy was still alive.” Said the woman, in a cold but not unsympathetic tone, her grey eyes once again fixed on his own.

“I saw him… And Roberts…”

“I know. Come. It’s not much further.”

“No more of this. Please. I have to help them.” Sobbed Matthews, his voice undulating as his body began to shiver, despite the warmth of the still, sunlit evening.

“And so you shall, if that is your wish.”

The woman turned on her heel and set forth through the thickening grove once more, tenderly running her hands over the dancing trunks of her olive trees as she passed them. Though his sight was still foggy from his drying tears, Matthews could have sworn he saw each plant respond to her touch; leaves stood prouder on their branches and the fruits they bore seemed to swell and ripen before his very eyes. So mesmerising was the spectacle that when he finally managed to tear his eyes away from what appeared to be a horticultural miracle, he found that he had been left alone where he stood, his hostess having vanished deeper into the grove.

“I told you to keep up.” Came a familiar voice, winding its way through the trees from somewhere to his left. Turning, he found the woman facing away from him, framed in a living archway of woven olive branches that seemed to be growing at a visible pace, twisting and knitting themselves together as if possessed. Through the archway, he could see a clearing lined on either side by flickering torches placed between the trees, causing the shadows of the encroaching night to dance like revellers at some pagan festival.

Following the woman into the clearing, shapes covering the branches which hung over the empty space began to emerge, revealing a scene that turned his blood to ice. Hanging from the branches were uniforms, hundreds of military fatigues from every imaginable army in every possible time period. To his right, he saw the uniform of a WWII Russian general folded neatly over a low hanging protrusion, above him the cap of an American civil war captain swung softly in the imperceptible breeze. At the far end of the space, towering over the surroundings, was another tree, taller and mightier than all the others, with roots that wormed their way out from its trunk across the damp and shaded ground. Its wood was jet black, in stark contrast to the dizzying array of epaulettes that adorned its ample trunk, representing hundreds of soldiers of every rank and regiment. The midnight bark rose up from the undulating roots and exploded into a canopy of deep purple leaves which shone and flashed with otherworldly light and, weighing down the branches behind the purple shroud of leaves hung large golden coins, embossed with the image of an owl.

Fearing that his own uniform would soon join the ranks of this gruesome display, Matthews turned to flee, though he did not know where to. To his dismay, he found his way barred by the olive-wood archway, which had woven itself together into a solid and impenetrable barrier, cutting off any hope of escape.

“What did you do to them?” He asked over his shoulder, afraid to look his captor in the eye. If this was to be his end, he had no desire to watch it bear down upon him.

“I gave them a choice,” came the answer. “I know you have questions-“

“Is this what you do?” Matthews shouted, rounding on her as the confusion and fury of the entire ordeal finally broke through his practised façade in a roaring tidal wave of raw emotion, “You lure the beaten and broken to your little olive farm, acting all mysterious, and then collect your trophies when you’re done?”

“Calm yourself, soldier.”

“I would rather die on the battlefield with my brothers in arms than beg you for mercy in this twisted place. So go on.” He spat, storming towards her in a blinding rage, the red mist swimming in front of his eyes as he braced himself for what was to come, “Do it. Take your prize. I’m done with these games.”

She waited until he was just a few feet away before she spoke again.

“They are not dead.”

He stopped dead, just a few feet from her. “What?”

“The soldiers to whom these uniforms belong are not dead, Lance Corporal. They live here, with me, in my grove.”

“But the uniforms…” Matthews stuttered, unable to comprehend what he was being told.

“Were no longer needed,” replied the woman, “They belonged to soldiers who are soldiers no more, like me. The Fates deposited them here and they chose to stay, just as you are welcome to do.”

“They chose?”

The woman sighed, leaning against the pole she had been carrying as she glanced around the clearing, her steadfast expression softening as she began to speak.

“As one age moved into another and my family and I began to fall from the prayers of the world’s peoples, the many wars I had patronised began to take their toll. I resolved to retire and carry out what duties I had left from the comfort and peace of my grove. At the time, responsibility was being passed on to a new pantheon and so I was met with little resistance. My uncle even gifted me this tree upon my departure, though he did so reluctantly, claiming that the fruits it bore would prove to be useful to any visitors I might encounter. He was, I realise now, under orders. The Fates had spoken, and they were not done with me.”

“Shortly afterwards, soldiers began to appear in my grove, each more terrorised than the last, plucked from their lives in their final moments in the heat of battle and bloodshed. At first, with the words of my uncle echoing in my mind, I would bring them here, offer them one of the golden fruits, and send them on their way, imbued with what strength I could grant them to continue their fight upon their return. Few of them ever survived, though some did manage to achieve great things with the meagre time I was able to give them.”

With a sigh, she took her staff and strode towards the blackened tree at the end of the clearing, reaching it high up into the branches and began to shake, prompting the golden coins it bore to rain down upon her, littering the ground around her feet. Wordlessly, she motioned for Matthews to do the same, stepping back to allow him access to the canopy. Great chunks of golden riches showered over him, just as they had her and, as he bent down to pick one such piece from the dewy grass and place it in his pocket, the women resumed her tale.

“These coins are golden drachmae. A currency of sorts, though not one that would be useful to you in your day-to-day life. The only time when a person is in need of such an item is to pay for passage across the black river when their time on earth has come to an end. The masses wait their turn, while those with drachmae sail forth to judgment. That is why I gave them to my visitors, to expedite their journey onwards. But my gifts could only help them so far, and many of them, each as heroic as the last, were met with unfavourable verdicts in the courts of my uncle.”

“So you started to let them stay,” said Matthews, as the faint glimmer of understanding came to shine in his mind. “To save them from judgment.”

The woman nodded.

“You could have told me this sooner.”

“Decisions like this should be made in a place of meaning and history,” she answered, gesturing to the clearing in which they stood, “A soldier should not believe what they are told without proof that it is true.”

Somewhere above them, an owl screeched. Looking up, Matthews could just about make out his old enemy, gliding in wide, arching circles above the clearing. Below it, something was glinting in the dusk light as it fell, tumbling end over end towards them.

“Hold out your hand.” said the woman.

A small vial of golden liquid fell neatly into Matthews’ outstretched hand, so accurately that he had not been forced to take even a single step to catch it. The contents of the bottle was viscous, but not unappealing, and it shone with the same unnatural light as the tree next to which he stood.

“Nectar.” Came the answer to his unasked question. “Drink it, and you will be returned to your body, just as you left it. How much time it will grant you once you get there I do not know, but-“

“I’ll die anyway.”

Her grim expression was all the answer he needed.

“There is a place for you here, Lance Corporal. You do not have to gamble with judgment. This is a paradise for the fallen, far from the courts of the dead. You could be happy here. The Fates have played a cruel trick on you, but there is a way out, if you want it.”

Scenes of the destruction he had escaped came rushing back to Matthews. He could feel the shrapnel boring its way through his flesh while he stared into the eyes of his disfigured, blood-soaked comrades. The sounds of bullets cascading through the air and the incessant drumbeat of detonations rang in his ears, flooding his mind with a terror so acute his heart seemed to beat out of his chest.

He could escape it all. The death and destruction. He could leave it all behind and live among the olive trees in this divine land, free of the blood and the screams and…

He saw a young boy cowering behind a patrol car. He heard the scream of a child with nowhere to go. A scream of desperation, so common in war, but laced with a sound so rare in battle that many forget its tune – the melody of innocence.

He remembered Emil.

He took one last look at his otherworldly surroundings, his eyes coming to rest on the woman who had brought him here, then he lifted the vial to his lips, and drank.

He watched a smile spread across her face as his world once again went dark. It was a sad smile, but there was something else there too. Something he recognised.

Pride.

From one soldier to another.

***

In a military graveyard, a young man stands before a plain headstone, just one among the hundreds that line the field in neat rows, his head bowed in silent prayer for the man who saved his life.

He goes there every week to pray and lay flowers, always with an olive branch in the bouquet. The symbol of peace. He doesn’t know where the idea came from, but he’s happy that he does it. It gives him hope.

The orange light of the afternoon warms his face as he finished his prayer. It’s time for him to leave. He has to pick up his daughter from nursery. Solemnly, he gets into his car and slowly drives away, disappearing behind the forest of trees that line the graveyard.

From its silent perch high up in one of them, an owl watches him go.