Spoiler
Hi all, I want to enter a competition with the theme of 'hope'. Would you please give me a critique of my grammar and general english and tell me if it fits the theme...Thank you so much! The deadline is next Fri, so reviews please ASAP would be great...I need to know if I'm going to have to go back to the drawing board...! Thanks all (And help with a title would be great) Btw, it's set in the 1800's and the narrator is a Cherokee American Indian. Thanks
I won’t die say Ash’s fierce, dark eyes. They smoulder deep within their sockets; glisten with salty tears. He will not let a single one fall. A coarse chocking noise emerges from his throat. I place my finger to his lips. “Try not to talk. It will only make hurt worse.”
His eyes are filling up with fresh tears, this time from the pain. I lift the hem of my cloak and gently wipe them away. “Don’t give up, not yet. Promise me.”
He gives me an endearing, sympathetic stare, riddled with agony.
I can’t manage words anymore. Taking his hand, I give it a light squeeze. His fingers curl weakly around mine. Pulling away, I bind my cloak closer to my body, and rest myself down beside him. I lay awake, staring intently at the canopy of the stars above, until I hear Ash’s breathing become slow and gentle. My blood is freezing, my limbs numb and purplish. I huddle in close to him, just like old times. My stomach feels flimsy, weightless; as though it is about to drop from my body. I clutch it tightly, my breathing shallow. It is now our third week without food. I keep waiting for a miracle from the Lord; Manna to fall from the heavens. It is in my nature to be optimistic, or, as Ash would say, fanciful. I often find myself caught up in the whirl of a fool’s paradise, but living inside my head is the only way I survive.
I am headstrong and determined, just like my people. As a nation, the Tsalagi do not go out without a fight. We both stand and fall with our dignity about us. We march in solemn, noble silence. It is the people who wail: those who stand by the wayside – outsiders, who pity our plight; those who are utterly moved by our stance.
I have been thinking for over an hour now: endless thoughts, just whirling around my brain. Sleep, if it ever comes, is often light; filled with fearful, meaningless dreams. Ash is stirring. He coughs heavily. I prop myself up on one hand and stroke his greasy black hair away from his forehead. It’s burning hot: he’s running a fever. Ash wretches, hacks up vomit laced with swirls of red. My eyes widen in horror. Frantically, I claw the earth around me for my water skin. Lifting Ash’s head onto my lap, I push it to his lips, tipping fluid down his throat. He jerks out of my arms, chocking vehemently, the water spurting from his throat. I smack him between the shoulder blades: it seems to calm the demon inside of him. He falls back limply into my arms, shivering violently. I wrap his gauzy blanket tighter around his shoulders and start to rock gently; hum a soothing tune. I glance at his thigh; the mere sight – let alone the smell – is nauseating. It’s seeping again, the bandages used to bind the wound damp with puss. The surrounding flesh is black and fetid and very much rotten.
I look back to his face. Ash’s eyes, thick with crusty yellow, flutter slightly. His ensuing stare stabs me through the middle, causes my heart to lurch inside my rib-cage. He clutches my wrist, his icy grasp getting tighter and tighter. I feel as though all circulation is being cut off to my extremities. I meet his urgent, piercing gaze. He is ruined. He cannot get well, even if I wish it so. Ash, my beautiful husband, the man that I was joined to by the holy knot, is dying. He continues to fight, true to his Cherokee blood. It is how we were raised; as warriors, trained to combat emotions, people, and ailments. But now it is time to stop.
“Ash,” I whisper, my words chocked with tears. I let them run freely now. His dark, glassy eyes glower in the dim light. “You don’t have to do it anymore.”
He frowns. I shake my head, say: “Don’t suffer, just for me; for your dignity. You can let go.” He swallows, is able only to emanate one, muffled word: “You.” “No, don’t think about me. I’ve been so selfish, forcing you to keep going, battle the pain and push through: you are in agony every day…and this winter is so harsh. Don’t try to keep living, not for me…I -” my voice breaks, and my lips began to quiver. Nothing will come out now. I bend low and kiss his dry, cracked lips. Perhaps this will mean more than words. His neck relaxes, and his eyes close. He breathes in short, sharp gasps, sucking pockets-full of air into his dirty black lungs. Carefully, I lay his head back down onto the ground. I lie down beside him, but do not wait for sleep. I wait for Ash’s heart to become still; to stop to a silence. It does not take long. I reach into my woollen bag, and pull out his funeral clothes. They bear no pattern; are sombre and dark in design. They were carefully crafted by his mother when he was a child, as were mine by my own aluli. I swaddle Ash in the leggings, shroud and sash. Pulling the gauze over his face, I leave his body to rest for the night. I reach a blunt, dull-handled knife from my bag, and begin to cut my hair. Thick glossy locks – as black as the blackest Onyx – fall from my head, encircle my shrivelled form. Some watch me as I do so, realise, and bow their heads respectfully. They know. I remove my cloak, and lay it over my husband, then strip myself of my outer layers and my snow boots, leaving me standing with only a simple dress of cotton. Already my blood has slowed; seized within my veins.
I trod carefully around the maze of sleeping tribes-people, trying not to wake them. It is Liseli I want to see. I know that she will be awake. She is often so during the hours of the stars. When finally I reach her she mending a garment, her eyes keenly adjusted to the moonlit night. I tap her. She twists, gives me a faint, gap-toothed smile. I say nothing, merely return the smile, and thrust toward her the bulk of my clothes.
Liseli catches the bundle; gives my hand a grateful squeeze. Extra layers may just get her through the winter. “Sister, I wish you peace on your journey.”
I leave, pad silently back to where Ash’s lifeless carcass is laid, cold and still. Slipping on a shroud of black wool, a gauzy sash of the same colour, and thick, dusky blue leggings, I recline out on my back. My heart feels calm. I close my eyes for the last time. Gently, the cold kills me.
Hope is like a barricade. It fortifies the heart; puts up a sterling defence.
But it is not invincible.
It doesn't rule us. We all have a choice. Each of us, at some point in our lives, will ask: should I stay? And sometimes, the noblest thing to say is no.
