Those Who Walk Onward

“Ronnette My Dear” by Deckard Enright

Those Who Walk Onward by Roxanne Thompson

Sweet breeze after a bitter winter. Faces once frozen stern had now grown joyous with the return of spring, thawing like the river that ran behind the old barn. Above me, the festival lanterns glowed and fireworks shredded through the night sky. The “Basler Fasnacht,” Carnival of Basel had come, and I was grateful for the excuse to venture out of my neighboring village for the evening. My brother Silvan, three years older than me, trailed not far behind- the obligatory shadow of my every action. He reached down and sharply pinched the skin on my back. Unable to speak, Silvan relied on me as his voice. As a boy, our father had sliced his tongue out of his throat as punishment, taking not just Silvan’s voice but his independence, and burdening me with his care. Silvan motioned to a nearby stand selling meat pies and fresh cheeses. The crowd was thick and hot as we pushed our way through, revealing cases of fresh delicacies. 

“This will make a perfect meal for our picnic tonight,” I said to Silvan, who nodded pleased. I purchased a small wheel of tête de moine and two of the pies.  A bleak woman, wearing a dress adorned with embroidery, leaned forward across the counter.

“I’ll see you at the performance tonight, hm?” The woman's crinkled eyes locked on me.

“Oh, of course!” I smiled politely, taking the wax-wrapped food from her crooked fingers.

Thanking the old woman, I took Silvan’s rough hand in mine. We walked for quite some time, towards a field blurry in the distance. As we traveled away from the festival, the guggenmusik of the brass bands and costumed drunks faded into nothing but the solitude of the placid mountains. I realized I forgot my sweater, a gift from my father back at the festival, and ran to get it. When I got back I found Silvan eating on the damp grass. In silence, we passed pieces of torn off food between us. Silvan picked at the skin on his leg, exposing ripe wet flesh. 

“Stop.” I clenched his wrist. He looked over at me, hung his head, and lay back against the hillside. Just then, a scuffling sound grew louder, a shadow paving channels through the grass. “Let’s go,” I said to Silvan. We quickly gathered our stuff, but the dark figure soon morphed into a sharp featured, short haired dog. My feet planted under the earth's surface, unable to run- just as my recollection of Schatzi was still rooted in me. Schatzi, my father’s dog, shot dead on the floor of the barn. Silvan gripping a pistol with white knuckles. My father taking his kitchen knife upon Silvan’s tongue. 

The dog seemed to forget what he came for, and ran off towards the pale sickle moon. 

“Why don’t we get back, the show is starting soon you know.” 

Silvan looked at me, hollowed eyed, but followed obediently nonetheless. We walked together, through the hills that cut against the night sky like a cursive line, drawn by a broken hand. I wished often that I could break free from my brother, wander by myself wherever I may please, but that was far from my reality. As we drew closer to the festival I noticed smoke rising from the valley like hot breath in biting air. Past the clearing I could then see the stage- engulfed in blazing flames, dancing in the night sky, soulful but yet no rhythm. Loud voices and cries echoed among the people, as helpless as fish on grassy banks. Dry wood tumbled, and the fire spread with nothing left to burn. A stage, once the bearer of culture, had disintegrated to a skeletal body, supple to the wind. 

“We should get home,” I murmured. “There’s not going to be a show after all.” And so we walked, the stars providing little guidance for our faint shadows, and returned home for the night.

The next morning there was a banging at the door. The creek of the oak slab made way for a gangly man. His shirt was too small, the stretched letters Polizei on his chest. 

“How may I help you?” The officer’s presence challenged my comfort. I proceeded the conversation with caution.

“Good morning. This is the home of Silvan Hegg, correct?”

“Yes sir. He is my brother.” Silvan appeared in the stairwell like a watchful bird perched in a tree.

“He must come with me then. Important matters- arson in the city.” I nodded, my tongue trapped between my teeth. He had come about the fire. 

“You see sir, I must come too if that’s alright. My brother is unable to speak, so he needs my assistance.”

“I’m not sure I can allow that, an exception for a criminal is a gaudy request.”

“A criminal?! No sir, you must have it wrong. Look at my brother’s mouth, you see he is not able to speak like you and me.” Silvan opened his mouth to reveal a hole of salivated flesh. The police officer turned a sickly white. The three left the house together. As we rode through the winding streets my anger boiled over into steaming tears, unjust flames causing still water to tremble. It was clear why Silvan was here, seen as weak with an unsound brain. A threat to the peace of quiet living. But my innocent brother was now shaking in the back of a stuffy police car, stereotypes pushing him down a different path of life. 

When we arrived we were taken to a large domed room, familiar faces filling the seats. Shame painted my cheeks pink. If it were not for my brother’s past actions, the reputation that he created for himself, that he tied to me like it was my own- I would not be here. The simple truth. 

A thud of the gavel came with a firing of accusations.

“I saw Silvan yesterday! He was standing behind the stage, looking around frantically, only minutes before the fire was lit.” 

“Makes sense! I think I saw him with some matches.”

“It’s not like anyone else would do such a thing.”

“With my own two eyes I saw that freak light our stage on fire.”

With a second thud, they turned to me.

“And you, do you know about the whereabouts of your brother at the time? Do you attest to the accusations?”

Of course they were wrong, but I could not bring myself to say it. Would it really be so bad if I went along with their lies? Rid of Silvan, finally able to survive as one, breathe as one, live as one. But he was my brother, and to not defend him would be a failure I would have to live with. The choice hung in the air like a pendulum, my mind swung between the options- a life heavily changed, dragging the weight of my brother’s poor choices with me forever, or a lie, a life of freedom.

“I found my brother’s journal,”  I said. “He lit the fire. He felt he had no other way to express the anger he felt.” My brother turned to me. His lungs uttered a silent scream. The proceedings continued, six men clasping metal rings around his wrists. I stood up and walked outside. A dog came up to me, the same dog I had encountered the previous night. He sniffed on me a scent of dishonesty, and whimpered as he ran far, far away. The green stretched as far as the eye could see, and with no obligations, I walked on towards the horizon. As I walked I stuck my hand in my linen pocket. I fumbled with the small empty matchbox.