Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

blind.
“Its okay.” assured Marcielli. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“What do you want?” the old man’s knuckles still white around the rake.
“A few short moments of your time. That’s all. We promise you no harm.”
The old man came closer; his skin worse than initially perceived with sun blotches and scars; none of them new. They were as old as the rusted farm equipment he used to operate, that was now scattered in the fields around him.
“You’re not from here.” The old man suggested, spotting Marcielli’s accent.
The man was harmless, thought Marcielli. “No, I’m not. I’m from Italy and my friend is from America.”
“Hello.” Reed greeted in English.
The old man lowered his rake and began walking the trusted, beaten path to his doorway. “I haven’t got a lot of bread. It’s been a while since I’ve been into town, but I’ve plenty of tea.” The old man motioned them in for a shaded cultural intimacy. “Come inside.”

His name was Tomo; one of the more common Bosnian names. He lived alone, and had for the last four years after he’d lost his wife to a severe case of influenza. His eyesight began to deteriorate after that. He said it was because he couldn’t see a future without her. In reality, he had developed cataracts.

As they entered the home, Reed’s eyes subconsciously scrutinized every nook and cranny of the room. The briefcase, not so easily estranged from his thoughts, declined to self surrender. He would have to dig. But first he would relinquish his eagerness to build a relationship of trust with Tomo. If he was anything like his grandfather, whom he did remind him of, he would simply be required to listen, while Tomo shared two or three, or four overly deprived chronicles of his life.
Reed was surprised to see that the inside of the home was tidy and nearly spotless. It made sense; here, trust and comfort were bound within arms reach; no reflection of the outside, where openness, great and deviate, could sometimes be impatient with an old blind man.
He brought them mint tea, sweetened with honey. He also placed a pot of white rice on the table and a side of canned pineapple and demanded they eat.
“I was happily in love, when our country was invaded by the Germans, in World War Two. But then, I was young, boisterous and unruly. I was able to fight.”
Tomo quickly displayed a wavering, clenched fist in the air in front of him.
“I joined the Yugoslav National Army and I fought like hell for three months until the German tanks were rolling down our streets.”
Tomo smashed his sun rotted hand onto the table, breeding small ripples of angst into their cups of tea.
“Now, I couldn’t even fend off a prowler with my rake. I’m old and I’m blind. Sometimes I think I can hear cries in the night of those who are suffering unimaginable losses. I just thank God that I can’t see them. It would bring spoil to the little time I have left. I have been left alone because I am a harmless old man. But oh what I would give to be that young man now.”
And that was it. Tomo had reached his fill of hostile rhetoric. He spent the next forty-five minutes justifying his boycott on suburban life, while abdicating his addiction to the farm. He was a simple countryman, one who found joy in the day-to-day things around him; family, friends, good food and good weather.
Marcielli was very courteous in translating and if he forgot, Tomo would stop speaking and nod his head toward Reed. Reed felt awkward staring into the pale nebulous of Tomo’s eyes. And somehow he felt Tomo detected his phobia.
Marcielli received Reed’s nonverbal nudge to inquire of the case.
“Tomo, we have to leave soon.” said Marcielli. “Could you answer a question for us?”
Tomo poured more tea for Reed when he heard him slurping at the bottom of his cup. It was a benign sentiment, sure to accompany him back to the States.
“I was sure you didn’t come just to hear the ramblings of an old blind man.” Tomo admitted. “What is it that you want to know?”
“About a month ago there was an ambush on the highway out there. Do you remember that?” Marcielli asked.
“Sure do.” replied Tomo. “I brought Billy inside and we took cover in the cellar until the tank rounds stopped.”
“Billy?” Reed said out loud. “I understood that. Who is he talking about?”
“Who’s Billy?” asked Marcielli.
Tomo looked amused as he set his countenance in Reed’s direction, realizing that he understood. “He’s my goat. It’s an English name. Billy’s the only family I got left. I’m surprised he didn’t alert me of your coming.”
It was proof that even Tomo’s hearing was failing him. The goat had danced the polka with that bell.
“What about the chickens?” asked Marcielli “Are they not family?”
“They migrated from another farm. But I swore that I would never eat family and those chickens are good eatin’.” Tomo never really laughed. He just breathed in and out heavily as his eyes went to the top of his head.
“Tomo,” Marcielli ordered his attention back. “Did you ever make your way out to the site?”
Tomo instantly changed his demeanor and grew silent.
“What did you find out there?”
“I found a lot of things out there. Things I wished I hadn’t. But I couldn’t just leave them out there.”
Reed sat up straight, attention cast. What things could he be talking about?
“What do you mean, Tomo?” asked Marcielli.
His eyelids began to lick the dryness from his eyes.
“They were just young boys, maimed and dismembered. I almost couldn’t go through with it. All I remember is that their bodies and clothes were sticky with blood, flies buzzing around them, enticed by the stench.”
Marcielli wasn’t prepared for the depiction and felt the rice in his throat crawling upward. He quickly took the last swig of his tea.
“There must have been thirty of them left there to rot. I loaded them, one by one, onto a hand cart and buried them out by the mill.” Tomo pointed in the general direction.
“It must have been awful.” Marcielli remorsed.
“I know is sounds deranged, but I wish I could have seen their faces.” admitted Tomo.
“If I could have seen their faces, I would have felt more human. Instead I felt like a monster in a horrific movie sorting headless bodies.” Tomo’s tropic seas began to storm.
“I need to give him a minute before I ask him anything else.” said Marcielli. Reed understood.
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Tomo. “To find out where the bodies went?”
“No Tomo. It’s not why we’re here.”
“Then what, son?”
“We’re looking for a black briefcase, Tomo. It may have been left in the field.”
Reed waited, hoping.
Tomo stood up and paced the length of his kitchen, dragging his fingers along the counter tops. Finally he came back to the table. He found Marcielli with his hands. He held him for a moment and then he ran his hands upward until Marcielli’s jowls were resting in the sunken palms of his emaciated hands. He worked his bony fingers under Marcielli’s ears, then over his temples, his brow, his eyes and finally his mouth.
Tomo then walked over to Reed and repeated the enigmatic gesture. Reed was ghostly still. It made him uncomfortable and he swore his physical took longer than Marcielli’s.
Tomo broke the silence. “You have faces I can trust.” Suddenly Reed understood.
“I’ve kind of been waiting for a special occasion to open the case. But I can’t promise you that the color of the case is black. It could be pink or purple or yellow or something.”
Marcielli laughed, and Reed’s spirits found their way through the century old cracks in Tomo’s ceiling.

Tomo cleared the table and disappeared into the shadows of the far end of the home. He returned escorting a black briefcase that he set on the table in front of them.
There it was, the Holy Grail of their mission, the Magna Carta, authorizing the inauguration of discovery in this disparaging land. Reed silently thanked God for anointing a keeper of the case; an old blind man.
“Just tell me what’s inside.” said Tomo.
The case was striped with battle wounds. There were two gold latches, tarnished and misaligned, that had kept the box sealed. There was a combination dial between the latches.
Reed took his pocket knife and slid it down the eyelid of the case. He applied the right amount of pressure and popped it open. Dirt sprang from the seams in liberation.
Marcielli stood over Reed’s shoulder, “Happy birthday, Boss.”
It was all there, just like Radenko had said. The documents were all in order. Audio cassette tapes of the trials and recorded private conversations were lined in a row. Each one was labeled and dated only six weeks old. General Pec and Nikola’s names were everywhere.
“Fresh Intel.” said Reed. “Sam will be pleased.”
There were large manila envelopes marked ‘Confidential’ in Serbo-Croat. Inside were pictures with numbers on them. It almost appeared as though the evidence belonged to the prosecutor, not the defense. How did Radenko get them? Why was he keeping them safe? Reed didn’t understand.
The pictures captured scores of soldiers digging in a field next to lifeless rows of Albanian bodies. There were more pictures of the soldiers burying them. There were pictures of a truck full of AK-47 rifles and pictures of soldiers scattering them over the dead bodies. And then,