Blud-shed

"Open the message." The Magistrate demanded. Her long nose, wiry hair, and stuffed throat would have made anyone churn like spoiled milk. Lest they did not see her appearence, her quality of voice would have made nails on a chalkboard seem like choir angels singing.

Her poor victim was none other than Milain Mildred, a young woman with an air of innocence and puppy-like trust which would make anyone want to squeeze the daylight out of her (out of annoyance or love is anyone's guess). Poor Milly- as her friends call her- didn't hesitate to do as she was told. The Magistrate huffed, most likey irrate by the girl's candid joy-something she very much lacked. You see, the Magistrate was once much like Milly. She too was once colorful, and a catch for the lucky man who would have caught her eye, but the Magistrate-like many- grew to be a sour woman. She was about to show Milly why.

"Magistrate," the girl peeped, "what was it you were going to show me?"

"Quiet. Read the first sentence." The old woman snarled, teeth bared like a rabid wolf. Like a child, Milly obeyed:

It comes as a heavy burden to inform the caretakers of the young ladies' orphanage

that soon, under commandment of Prefect Sliz, that all orphanages shall put all

able-bodied children to work for his lordship's advancement project.

Milly, with eyes bright, looked up toward where the Magistrate who stood contemplating rather sternly the ruffled edges of her office's curtains.

"Surely you know what this means, Milain." The Magistrate huffed once more, this time utterly ruffled from her subordinate's lack of response.

"It surely means that the orphanage... the orphanage is to close its doors."

"Hmm. Surely you are smarter than that Ms. Mildred. Think a bit if you have a mind to. It means our country is at war or going to be very soon." The Magistrate had hoped her prod would bring a bit more of a reaction out of the girl, but alas the woman-like so many of her peers- uttered no sound.

"What is a war?"

It would have been simple for the Magistrate to finally loosen her barbed toungue off at the girl, but this was not the first time she had ever heard the question. In fact, she had heard it so many times her response was nearly automatic like the automatons who taught at the children's schools without any children to sit at their desks.

"A war, Ms. Mildred, is a conflict." The older woman did not spare Milly a glance, rather she walked toward her office's secret, one which she most certainly would be imprisoned for. Milly watched in fascination as she took out something leathery and geometric, something rare and wonderful that only ever were mentioned by her metal professors.

"A conflict," the Magistrate continued, "is a disagreement between two parties. A disagreement, dear Ms. Mildred, was something our species never knew how to resolve without bloodshed."

Milain Mildred had never heard these words before in her life. Wah-or, CON-flict, blud-shed; all were a wonder. The Magistrate did not care to explain further. Instead she opened up her leathery chest filled with much treasure and began to sing, something Milly-and many others- never knew could resonate so beautifully from a woman so bent.

הֶֽעֱלֵ֖יתָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם " חסָ֣רוּ מַהֵ֗ר מִן־הַדֶּ֨רֶךְ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר צִוִּיתִ֔ם עָשׂ֣וּ לָהֶ֔ם עֵ֖גֶל מַסֵּכָ֑ה וַיִּשְׁתַּֽחֲווּ־לוֹ֙ וַיִּזְבְּחוּ־ל֔וֹ וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ אֵ֤לֶּה אֱלֹהֶ֨יךָ֙ יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר הֶֽעֱל֖וּךָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם: טוַיֹּ֥אמֶר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֶל־משֶׁ֑ה רָאִ֨יתִי֙ אֶת־הָעָ֣ם הַזֶּ֔ה וְהִנֵּ֥ה עַם־קְשֵׁה־עֹ֖רֶף הֽוּא: יוְעַתָּה֙ הַנִּ֣יחָה לִּ֔י וְיִֽחַר־אַפִּ֥י בָהֶ֖ם וַֽאֲכַלֵּ֑ם וְאֶֽעֱשֶׂ֥ה אֽוֹתְךָ֖ לְג֥וֹי גָּדֽוֹל

It was a song that Milain never heard before. But it didn't sound like a song, nor did the Magistrate read it as if a set of laws from Prefect Sliz. It almost sounded as though she were enjoying the melodic prose. Milly never thought the Magistrate knew any joy. Too soon did it end. All the more did Milly want to hear the rest, but as before the Magistrate said nothing. For some time it was silent between them. The Magistrate at some point during her song had sat heavily behind her wooden desk with the leathery relic carefully placed before her. For the first time the Magistrate did not have that air of commandment. Something about her seemed less. Perhaps her wrinkled brow or the shadows dancing across her face changed it. But before her the Magistrate looked vulnerable.

"Milain, what I have just read to you is what was read to my ancestors so long ago in a market place. Before it was sung, it was told for generations before from elder to elder. Sons to sons, daughters to daughters. It was taught throughout the world. And still somehow, through people like me, is still chanted privately."

"Milain, I have no idea what you were taught, what you were trained for before you came to be my assistant, but what I need now, more than ever is an answer to this question. What would you do for these children here at our orphanage?"

The question struck Milain like bolt of lightning. It was a question she never expected, because questions like that were never asked. It was the first time she was ever asked to think about another's well-being, and she did not know how to do so. Somehow she did know the answer. The idea of losing the children crossed her mind every now and then. She often asked herself if there was ever another option, another possibility. Surely there must be a way for good things to happen. She never expected the Magistrate to give he r the words she needed to make sense of it all.

Her words now made sense. Her world now made sense She now knew what happened so long ago on a summer's evening when her world turned red before her. She had words to make sense of it all. She was in a Wah-or. Her disagreements with Prefect Sliz are a CON-flict. The red she witnessed so long ago, the red she could not understand before now seemed to make sense. She saw Blud-shed.

But she still hadn't answered the question.

"The children are going to be trained for this- uh... Wah-or"

"War, Ms. Milain. It is little emphazised."

"The children will be in CON-flict"

"Conflict, Ms. Milain. The word is said quickly."

Milain couldn't bring herself to say the other one. She thought of her little girls going out and learning of these things in the strangest of ways, ways she did not understand. How dreadful it would be. And she thought much about how she dotted on these children, and how infectious their smiles were. Oh, how could anything keep her from her children? She had her answer.

"Magistrate," she uttered under her breath, almost fearful of her own answer. "I would do anything."

Suddenly the weakness Milain had seen in her superior vanished, but what replaced it perplexed her even more. Dare she say the Magistrate looked... hopeful? It was a most curious day indeed. The Magistrate stood, steadfast and firm as she was, but brighter. She picked up her leathery treasure and with care offered it to her.

"Then read this, as much of it as you can, and I will answer any questions you may have on the condition that you will not speak of this to anyone. I promise you, it is for all of our sakes."

As Milain took the wonder into her hands she marveled at how heavy it truly was, but its weight was a sentiment to her, nearly comforting. She wondered if the Magistrate thought the same, but before she could ask the Magistrate was at her door, gesturing for her to leave. Ah, it was time for them to put the children to sleep. But for Milain, she would find no rest tonight. Rather her dreams would instead be living things, things with feeling, things with depth. Milain knew she had little time to read the special gift she had recieved. Ah, if only she could remember what it was called!

But perhaps it was best she forget the name. Afterall, this was why the world when she was so young turned red, red, red. Perhaps finally, she'll understand why.

Oh, sleep elude me, she'd surely say. The children would need her to know everything she possibly could. So Milain tucked it away deep into her pockets, then helped the Magistate with her duties. She had to make plenty of time to read as much as she could. And perhaps, if she were lucky, she'd ask the Magistrate to sing that song again.