Good Story to Read.com: Short Story Collection #01

the night that the visitor arrived, everything changed. He stumbled into her beloved city where no man or woman set foot since her people died out centuries before. At first, feeling somewhat shy, she watched him from a distance. He was hurt, and she felt a kind of pity for him. Then she sensed his memories- fresh, succulent, full of life. And she realized how very hungry she was.....

  "Who is it?" the visitor asked waking suddenly.

  "It is only me," the woman said, her voice almost a whisper in his ears, "Last night I brought you water. Tonight I bring you a blanket."

  The man rubbed his eyes. By day, he could only see shadows. By night he was as good as blind.

  "Gracias," the man said, "you are most kind."

  He felt the woman covering him, tucking the ends of the blanket under his arms and feet. When she finished, his skin began to feel warmer. But the cold of the place still clung to his bones.

  "Can't you build a fire?" he asked, "even for a short while?"

  "Your enemies may see it. What would I do if they came?"

  He knew from speaking with the woman the night before that she lived alone in this desolate place. She had no family, no friends. Outside the wind howled. The room seemed so quiet he wondered if she had left.

  "How many nights have I been here?" he asked.

  "It has been two nights since I found you," she answered.

  Then tonight was the third night he had gone missing from his unit.

  "You must keep watch tonight," he said to the woman, "My friends will come looking for me tonight."

  He reached out to take hold of her arm, but she was not where he judged her to be by the sound of her voice.

  "They are good people," he said sensing what he thought was apprehension, "They carry guns like the government soldiers, but they fight for the poor. They fight for our country, to free it from corruption and injustice. They fight for our future, for our children. If you tell them my name, that I am in your care, they will treat you as their own sister."

  "I am not afraid of your friends."

  "Good," he said. He thought to ask her to go out and look for them. But if there were government patrols in the area, he knew it would be dangerous.

  "You wear a ring," the woman suddenly said, her soft voice jumping out at him, "Do you have a wife?"

  "Yes."

  "She must be beautiful. Tell me about her."

  He knew he had been married for several years already. He could remember the very date he stood before the priest. He knew he should recall at least his wedding or some other happy memory of his life with his wife, but he couldn't. On the other hand, he could recall several arguments he had with her. He remembered she was tall and wore her hair long. But he couldn't remember her face. Even worse, he couldn't remember her name. He had lay there most of the afternoon going over women's names in his head, trying to find one that felt familiar.

  "I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't seem to remember much about my wife."

  "You had a bad fall.”

  He reached out from under the blanket and felt his head.

  "Yes, but it doesn't hurt that much," he said, "Just a little here where the blood already dried. You’d think that....."

  The woman took his arm and tucked it back under the blanket. He flinched from her touch. Her hands were ice cold.

  "It would be best if you rest and try to get some sleep," the woman said, "I will stay with you again tonight."

  "Gracias," the man said, "you have been most kind. Without your help I may have died out there. Or worse yet, the government soldiers may have found me. I owe my life to you. But I don't want to sleep. I have been sleeping all day and all night for two days now. I know it sounds strange, but each time I wake, it seems I remember less."

  "You have had a bad fall. That is all. Now tell me about your friends, so I may know them."

  Unlike his wife, who he had not seen in several months, it had only been a few days since he had last seen his comrades. Still the memories did not come quickly. He remembered a camp somewhere, hidden in the mountains where the government soldiers could not find them. He remembered some of the details of his life in camp, the rigors of training, how he had learned to shoot and clean his rifle. With nothing else to do, how he had practiced until he could do it in his sleep. A smile spread across his face.

  "There is one man," he said, "I don't know his name. It is not that I have forgotten. It's just that he never really told us. We called him 'the Cuban'."

  "Is he handsome?" the woman asked, "With a moustache?"

  "Yes, he has a moustache. And yes, I believe that women would say he is handsome. To me he is a very friendly face, a brother. He is always laughing and smiling. But you should not underestimate him. He is strong, very strong."

  "He saved your life once?"

  "Yes, yes, but how did you know this?"

  There was a short moment of silence. Then the woman answered, "In your sleep, you sometimes talk."

  "You see," she added, "you are not losing your memory as you fear."

  "Maybe you are right," the man said.

  He wondered if she was a beautiful woman. Her voice was young and soft. Yet living life in such a harsh place, he guessed that she must have aged beyond her years. And the touch of her hands was like the touch of ice. He pictured some of the Indian women he had seen in the villages further down the mountain. Most of them looked ten years older than they actually were. And with the poor medical care they received, few of them lived much past the age of forty.

  The man told himself that it was for people like this woman that he was fighting. The revolution was not just for the workers in the cities and the peasants in the countryside. It was not just to satisfy the hunger for righteousness among the professors and the intellectuals. It was for the people on the fringes of society also, the people who had a different color of skin and spoke a different tongue. He told himself that when the rotting capitalist institutions that enslaved them finally came crumbling down, society would need to make room for these people as well.

  The woman began to sing a strange song, something like a lullaby, but full of lament. It was not in any language he recognized, but listening to the melodious rise and fall of her voice, he began to feel drowsy. He started slipping off towards the edge of sleep. A part of him resisted, clinging to consciousness, still fearing there would be even less to remember the next time he awoke. Then he heard the woman's voice soft and reassuring, like the touch of a butterfly upon his ears.

  "All is well," she whispered, "sleep now."

  Finally, he gave in to his drowsiness. He let himself drift off. In sleep, there was comfort. In sleep, he could escape from the cold. He felt the woman's hand on his forehead. It had been there the night before too, just as slipped off into sleep. He thought it strange that someone's touch could be so cold. But he realized that in a few moments none of it would matter. In a few moments he would be oblivious to it all.

  Then there were voices, far off and nearly lost on the wind, the voices of men. Someone was out there. Someone else had entered her beloved city. She thought to cover his ears, but he heard them too. Already he stirred from his sleep. His eyes flickered. Quickly she took her hands away from his forehead.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "I thought I heard voices."

  "It was only the wind."

  "No," he said, "I thought I heard my name being called."

  "I will go and look."

  "Be careful."

  She moved to the doorway. From there she could clearly hear the voices of men talking in the distance.

  "Do you hear anything?" the man asked

  "No," she said.

  The wind picked up suddenly, drowning out the faint sound of the voices. She smiled and moved back to the man's side.

  "I could not hear anything from the door," she said, "it must have been the wind you heard. But if you would like I will go out and look for the men you described to me."

  "No, it is too dangerous
."

  "But if your friends are near, how else will they find you?"

  The man did not want to send the woman out alone and risk her life, but she was right. There was no other way.

  "I will not ask you to go," he said.

  "I will not be long," the woman assured him.

  Before she could move away, the wind died down as suddenly as it had picked up. In the cold night air, a distant voice could be heard calling out, "Maaaaanuel! Maaaaanuel!"

  "That is my name!" the man said sitting up, "It is them! They are looking for me!"

  "Yes," the woman said, her voice coming from near the doorway, "I can see them now, but they are not the men you described to me. They look like the dangerous men you told me about, the government soldiers. Somehow they have learned your name."

  "But..."

  "Shhh..." the woman said, "be very quiet."

  But no wind rose up this time. Now a second voice joined the first in calling out.

  "I know that voice!" the man said starting to get up.

  Before he could, the woman was back at his side, pushing him back down to the floor. She put her cold hand firmly over his mouth.

  "Be quiet," she said, "it is trickery I tell you. They are not your friends. They are the others."

  The man reached out to push the woman's hand off of his mouth, but there was nothing there. Still, he felt the cold hand firmly over his mouth.

  "She must be holding me from behind," he thought, reaching back over his shoulders.

  "Maaaaanuel! Maaaaanuel!" the voices outside called, now closer than ever.

  The man started to become frantic. Not only was the woman's hand covering his mouth, but his nose as well. He could not breathe. He