Benjamin

Some people are just born with tragedy in their blood

He struggled against the storm tearing at his clothes, his skin, ripping the breath out of him.

Benjamin, come home.

He could just make out his sister on the porch, clutching one of the posts and reaching out to him.

Come home to us.

His mother stood in the door way, stirring slowly in the mixing bowl. He could smell the gingerbread dough from here, and his mouth watered. He tried to reach out. His fingers stretched but it was no use. His mother was saying something, but he could not hear it. Their little brother poked his head out from behind their mother. They were all calling him home.

Benjamin... Benjamin... Ben—

"Ben, wake up!"

Benjamin Holmes shot up with a violent gasp, his hand impulsively on the sword by his cot before he could recognize who was standing over him.

"Not a raid, Ben, put that down. Come on! It's raining!"

Ben blinked the sleep out of his eyes and registered the form of Jane as she pulled him out of bed and dragged him by the hand out of the empty tent.

Cold kisses buried themselves deep in his hair, touching his scalp. He looked up in amazement, unable to understand what he was feeling as the rain splashed down on his dry, sun-burnt face. The blackened, creaking trees lining the camp seemed all the be whispering, here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten.

Jane tugged him down the dirt road, past rows and rows of flimsy government-issue tents. There at the crown of a crisp little hill the rest of their squadron stood rejoicing and shouting for him to join them. A smile finally cracked across his bewildered face.

"Benjy!" Max hailed, clapping him on the shoulder and grinning a soaked grin at him. "Will you do the honors?"

Ben took the blade of dry grass Max handed him uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then he remembered. It felt so long ago now. It was before they'd begun to be a part of the open war, when they'd just been drafted. One day in basic training the eight of them sat on a little hill apart from the compound, complaining about rotten government-issued food. Somebody had made the joke that they'd be better off eating the grass, and it had seemed much funnier at the time. Thus began their ritual. In the midst of victory, they swore to each eat a blade of grass as a reminder of what they had left behind.

Benjamin held up his brittle yellow piece of grass, which the rain was pummeling. "To victory!" he proclaimed in his best proclamation voice. "To peace! To rain!"

The others laughed, a sheer outpouring of uncontainable joy.

"We are the members of the one-oh-seven-seventh strike fighter squadron and we will never surrender!"

Everyone cheered raucously, holding up their blades of grass. Together, they stuffed them in their mouths. Danny began to dance. He pulled Jane with him, and then suddenly they were all dancing and whooping and feeling, for the first time in forever, glad to be alive.

The world is big and we are not but we are still enough.

They filed in to the mess hall soaking wet, but knowing every ounce of it was worth it. They were fighting in the arid land between the kingdoms. No water, no living things. The soldiers around them didn't seem living anymore either. They were only a few years older than Benjamin and Jane and the others, but something inside them had aged and died. When their staff sergeant saw them, she spread her hands in exasperation.

"Your uniforms— you're soaked— why can't just ever keep yourselves clean for more than five minutes?"

Benjamin thought he heard Alan mutter, "This is war," and he was glad the staff sergeant didn't hear. Sergeant Andrews was only two years older than they were, but knew a thing or two about punishments. But she only sighed and dismissed them for lunch. The rain had sparked a good mood in everybody.

The whole company was made up of boys and girls under the previous minimum age restriction of 18. The war had cost so many lives the king was forced to draft minors, and finally, the youngest yet: a squadron of twelve-year-olds. The 1077th strike fighter squadron.

Benjamin was just digging into the unimaginative gruel when a muffled shout approached the mess hall tent.

"We're under attack!"

As if to confirm the statement, the terrible boom of a cannon rang out. The staff sergeants and their squadrons leapt from the benches so quickly that bowls clattered off the table and gruel spilled onto the dirt.

No loss there, Benjamin thought as Sergeant Andrews yelled, "To arms!"

Everyone flew to their tents and back with what could only marginally be considered arms. Their swords were old and clunky. Mostly the 1077th served as pack mules, and performed the more menial tasks of setting up camp. They weren't necessarily meant to fight. But they necessarily had to, if they wanted to survive on the front lines.

The world wasn't. It was no definable thing. Or perhaps, chaos. That's all the world was. An undulating conglomeration of unconnected horrors. The fire of cannons, like the world itself was groaning. The serpentine hiss of clashing swords. People becoming things.

Benjamin's eyes found a frozen milisecond of blue. Jane's terrified eyes. Their eyes screamed at each other, The world is big and we are not.

Then they were whirled apart.

Somewhere in the chaos, a message was relayed. There had been a tacit communal belief that they only had to hold out long enough for another company to get to them. That was what had always happened before.

Whether other companies too were off fighting their own battles, or dead, or simply decided they were not worth their time and manpower saving, no one knew. Benjamin was not sure which was scarier.

No one is coming. You are alone.

Benjamin looked up. On the other side of the valley, thousands of enemy soldiers poured over the hill, unendingly. They were absolutely outnumbered and positively hopeless.

Benjamin felt his breath leave him.

He had been told once that he must have been born with tragedy in his blood.

Because Benjamin William Holmes had a tragic secret: he had an incurable terminal illness. It was called magic.

Benjamin began to run, breaking out of formation.

"What are you doing?" Max yelled.

Somebody else yelled, "Benjamin, get back here!"

He ran out in front of his company, in a small patch of rich black dirt that was a little ways apart from the active combat. The words of Dr. Jones rang in his head as he planted his feet on the wet earth.

The more he uses it, the more it kills him.

Jane was the first to understand what he was about to do. Her stomach clenched with terror. "Benjamin, no!" she screamed.

Benjamin shut out the sound of her screams. He closed his eyes, fell to his knees, and shut out everything. He had to concentrate. He reached his fingers down into the wet dirt and focused on his breath. Images of his sister, his mother, his baby brother flashed into his mind, and a knot of fear and despair wrenched in his gut. He shut them out too. He dug his fingers deeper into the ground, held his breath, then exhaled.

The ground began to rumble.

Before the enemy could turn and run, the ground beneath their feet tore open in deep cracks.

Benjamin could feel it, the poison shooting through his veins, burning, burning. Every part of him seared. He had never known such pain in his life. But he would not surrender.

He thrust his other hand into the dirt and the vengeful world shuddered. The enemy wailed as the ground swallowed them whole. Benjamin was shaking. A scream tore out of him, but he held on until the ground closed up.

Then, he collapsed.

The members of the 1077th broke formation and ran to him. Sergeant Andrews didn't have the heart to stop them. The company looked on in stunned silence as Benjamin's friends surrounded the broken figure on the ground. Jane couldn't remember afterward what happened. She remembered crying, and hollowness.

The next thing she knew, the seven of them were seated around a table in the mess hall, warm mugs tucked in their hands like that would make a difference.

It was raining. Not one of them could think of a single thing to say to each other.

Alan looked restless. He kept bouncing his leg and rubbing his thumbs over each other agitatedly. He stood up abruptly from the table and walked out. Jane and Patrick exchanged a heavy look. Everyone felt gravity increase and weigh down on them.

After a while, Alan returned. He stood at the end of the table, and held up a handful of yellow grass. Jane started to cry again. Slowly and pained, they each took a blade of grass and held it reverently. No one was sure what to say.

Danny exhaled, cleared his throat, and exhaled again. Max, Alan, and Luis looked to him.

"To victory," Danny said, as tears slipped down his face.

The all murmured an echo.

"To Benjamin."