Chapter 8 Lukas
8
Lukas
They kept him in for seven days, then sent him back to the work party; back to the sawing and hacking and destruction. His body felt like an old man’s, aching all over from the rough treatment. In the lockup, beatings were part of daily life. Speak out and you’d be punished. Break some rule you didn’t understand, and you could expect a fist to the jaw, a kick from a booted foot, a pail of slops in the face. He’d raised a protest about his father, quietly at first, hard though it was not to shout and curse and return blow for blow. But the guards ignored him. His fellow prisoners had given up. They huddled in the makeshift shelter, not speaking, and devoured whatever scraps came their way. The place stank; the only latrine was a bucket in a corner, and it wasn’t emptied often. And yet, when Lukas was finally beckoned out to freedom, there was a part of him that didn’t want to leave. These wretched captives were part of his community. They had wives, children, elderly parents. This place was sucking out their souls. Could despair alone kill a man? How long did it take for hope to die?
He hadn’t even seen his father, who was being kept in a separate area. It made no difference that Farmer Jurgis was a respected village elder and that his farm was helping feed them all. These people respected nobody. They didn’t even respect themselves. Orders were snapped out and they obeyed out of fear, a fear they in their turn used against their prisoners. It had seemed, though, that sometimes their obedience was being shaken. Lukas had heard the guards talking among themselves in lowered voices. Their conditions were harsh. They faced dire punishments for insubordination, just as their captives did. For some, it seemed the impossibility of the task ahead was starting to sink in.
So, he was out at last, and able to return home after each long day’s work to see his mother and sisters, who were coping as well as they could. Stasya was free, but all he saw of her was an occasional glimpse as she slipped like a shadow away from the bakery and up the hill at the end of the working day. Best that they stayed out of each other’s way. Safest that the Commander and that other fellow made as little connection between the two of them as possible. Stasya had drawn their attention that day with the horse – what a remarkable save it had been, even by her standards – but they hadn’t detained her, and that had to be a good sign. He missed her badly. With Stasya, he could be truly honest. He could confide his deepest secrets in her. She would listen, and sometimes she would tell a story that helped him make sense of things. Without her, his troubles built up inside him. The weight of them was harder to bear with each passing day. His father was still a prisoner. His mother and sisters were burdened with more work than anyone could reasonably handle. How long before the Commander or that sharp-featured man, who seemed to have high authority, called a halt to the whole wretched thing? And even if that happened soon, could Heartwood ever be the same again?
—
He woke at night, suddenly. Someone had cried out. His mother. A smell of smoke. A commotion outside. Lukas threw on some clothing and shoved his feet into his boots, ignoring the pain that was always with him now. His mother and Kristina were at the front door, looking out. The younger ones had not risen.
‘A fire? Where?’
‘Over there.’ Kristina pointed. Even as she spoke, the flames flared up, lighting the night with a shower of sparks. It was taking hold fast; through the roaring sound of it came shouts and screams. ‘Looks like it’s on Vidas’s land.’
His mother made a sound fit to break Lukas’s heart. She didn’t need words. The encampment with its lockup was next to Vidas’s old barn. And Jurgis was prisoner there. Rasma snatched up a shawl as if about to rush out.
‘I’ll go, Mother. You stay here and keep the little ones safe.’
She pulled against his restraining hold, deaf to reason. He had to go right now; the flames were leaping higher.
‘Buckets,’ said Kristina. ‘The well. The stream. Mother, stay here with the girls. You’ll be needed to help if anyone’s injured. I’ll go with Lukas.’ She snatched up the bucket from the corner and headed out.
‘Stay calm, Mother. I’ll find him.’ Lukas could feel the wild beating of his heart; it was anything but calm. But his mind was curiously clear, as if sheer terror had made choices plain. Save whomever he could. Save Father.
They ran together, brother and sister, until they were close enough to see the flames devouring what was left of Vidas’s barn and ripping through the makeshift structure that housed both prisoners and their keepers. The night was all roaring, crackling, shouting. Sparks danced in the air. People were running about everywhere, a madness silhouetted against the red-gold light. Lukas had grabbed a bucket on the way; Kristina now had one in each hand. By the stream, people were dipping their own buckets and bowls, and others were carrying them up toward the fire. It looked like a losing battle. Their efforts might slow the burning, but it was surely too fierce to be put out that way. Kristina joined the group by the water, passing her spare bucket to another girl, wading in to help. Lukas thrust his bucket into someone’s hands and ran on toward the barn. Some of the men in there had been too weak to stand, let alone sprint to safety.
The heat was scorching. To go any closer was unthinkable. But he had to. Maybe the fire had not reached the area at the back. Maybe …
‘Here!’ Someone shoved an old sack into his hands. Others held sacks too, and were beating at the flames, trying to smother them. Vidas and Kiril were working alongside some of the guards. Even young Tomas was doing his share. And there … there was a big man, skirting the others and heading toward the rear of the barn. Timbers cracked; within the burning building, objects crashed down from above. Surely the roof must soon give way.
Sack in hand, Lukas ran after the big man. Some folk at least had escaped. Over by the fence, well clear of the fire, a group sat huddled, while someone crouched beside them, offering water. He did not see Jurgis among them.
A door. Not yet afire. The big man broke it down with a powerful kick and headed inside. Lukas followed. Gods, it was hot! The air was thick with smoke; it was hard to see, hard to draw breath. He battled forward, following the other man, who was shouting, ‘Anyone there?’ Lukas lost sight of him in the haze. Called out in his turn, ‘Father? Where are you? Anyone?’ He was choking over the words; not far off there was a thump as something fell.
Just as the big man reappeared, heading back out with a limp form in his arms, there came a weak cry. ‘Lukas! Over here!’ Father. Still alive.
As he made his way through the smoke, near-blind and wheezing like an ancient, something flashed above him and a fresh shower of sparks descended. Lukas batted them away. On, on. He had made a promise. Hands out in front of him, he moved forward. ‘Where are you? Call out!’ But Jurgis did not answer. From the doorway, someone shouted, ‘Get out of there, quick! It’s all going up!’
Three steps. Three more. And there was Jurgis, slumped in a corner, his wrists and ankles hobbled. Lukas sucked in a breath. Gods, his chest hurt! Why did it hurt so much? His knife … where was his knife? Father … Promise … Out, quick. He crouched by Jurgis. No breath to spare for words. His father held out his bound hands and Lukas severed the ties. Now the ankles. The smoke was thicker; he cut by feel alone, praying that he would get it right. And Jurgis was free. But he did not rise.
‘Father, quick! We have to get out right now!’
No response. Lukas took hold of his father, trying to haul him to his feet. Jurgis was a dead weight.
‘Can’t … stand. Go, son. Save … yourself.’
Something smashed down behind Lukas. He did not turn to look. ‘Here. Help me a bit.’ He’d lifted enough goats and other creatures over the years to have the knack of this. ‘Arm up around my shoulders, that’s it. This might hurt.’ A haul, a twist, then the backbreaking rise to his feet. Wobbling. Staggering, his father’s weight across his shoulders. Finding balance as flame sheeted across the room and the heat was an oven, a bonfire, a funeral pyre. ‘Good. Now we get out of here.’