Lighter, Truly Lighter

Her head hangs from the tree, the way it has for four days.

Four days I have gone through the torment of seeing it every time I walk by. Four days I have tried to avoid it, but failed due to the low height at which it sits. Four days of questioning, for the first time, a tradition of our people.

The attack had been sudden and no one had been prepared. Our soldiers were struggling against too many of the enemy, and Zork had decided to join. She does — did — have combat and arms experience, but it had been two years and she hadn’t trained recently. Still, she felt compelled to help, and who could blame her? Our people were in a dire state. I myself couldn’t fight, simply because someone had to manage the sick. What’s the point of defending a people if those people are left to die? Everyone here has a role, that’s how it’s always been.

What’s also always been is the custom of displaying the heads of those who gave their lives for the people. On a tree, in a common area, at a level that most would unmistakably see and be reminded of the sacrifice. I’d never questioned it until it was my friend whose lifeless head dangled in my face on my daily route through the village.

Her death was noble, to be sure. She had fought bravely, blades in expert hands, taking down fifteen assailants and spending her final moments drawing attention from a group of children in the line of fire. And now the attention remains on her as she dangles in the square.

Our people have always done this. Every battle, every honorable loss, someone’s head is hung for display. They say it’s to respect the sacrifice, and I never took issue because it made their deeds feel more meaningful, reminding us they didn’t die for nothing. But now it’s different, because all I can see is the decaying head of my friend who can no longer sit in my home and eat with me and tell me how much she wants to visit the mountains.

They purposely hung her on a tree in one of the main squares, a place that cuts significant time out of travelling by foot. Taking a roundabout route would mean significant delay, and in my work, every minute counts when people need healing. Death must be denied every opportunity to take the ill. It’s unfortunate that Death was not denied the same opportunity to take Zork. Now my friend can only stare blankly, what’s left of her body moving only when the wind decides she could use a little spin.

I’ve tried to circumvent her, taking the side where she doesn’t hang, but she is still visible. I can see her hair, the color of rock in the river near the village, and her eyes — kept open, as per custom — frozen in time at the moment she saw the spear fly. There’s no way to avoid her.

It unnerves me by the day. Every time I pass her I get more agitated. Never have I thought so much about something. I want to simply miss her, but I cannot, because it’s tradition to not remove the heads. That’s why several trees in the village have skulls.

This morning I passed her again on route to the healing center. Her eyes, still open wide, bore into mine with an eerie awareness, as though she was looking right through me. In that moment, I felt that she was not truly gone, and it unsettled me.

The day unwinds as I lose myself in my work, focusing my attentions on those I can help. When I finally abandon the clinic hours later, it is with a newfound lightness: healing work, it seems, can temporarily suppress the cloud above my head.

Though I walk my usual route with less trepidation, I notice unusual glances from others. People I normally exchange salutations with raise their hands to wave, but their faces seem to carry confusion, as though they expected something else. The lightness I’ve adopted must be giving me an altered appearance. Then again, I could be imagining things — an afternoon of carrying out intricate wound measurements is one way to temporarily worsen visual acuity at a distance.

What I do not expect, however, is for the head to be gone.

As I approach the tree, her eyes and face are nowhere to be found. Only the neighboring skulls and decaying heads remain, drifting among one another in the breeze. When I look closer, a lone string hangs where she hung.

There’s a sense of relief — finally, finally I can miss her. I don’t ask where it went. I don’t wonder who took it. I don’t care. What I know is that she is gone, along with the cloud that developed over my head thanks to this asinine tradition. My mind feels lighter, truly lighter.

Upon returning home, I drop my sack and immediately seek out my supply of herb of bol. It’s used exclusively for tired eyes, and I find myself needing it on days when I look too long and too closely at bodies. I keep it in the special cabinet with the looking-glass door, easy to reach.

As I hastily swing open the door, my sprig of paxi comes into view. I’ve been taking paxi for the mind fog overtaking me the past few days, but it’s not needed now. Amazed at how the heaviness in my brain seems to have disappeared, I grab what I need without another glance at the sprig.

Retrieving my small medicinal knife from the drawer, I position it to slice a piece of bol. Normally I am not so quick with this, even clumsy, but today my hand is agile as I work. I separate the part from the whole in one swift motion, the cut clean and even.

When I am done I replace the rest of the herb and close the door, my reflection in the looking-glass coming into view. I nearly drop the slice as I realize the face looking back at me is not my own, but Zork’s.