A Sikh lays against a tree, staring upwards in meditative reverie. This is his favorite spot, in the depth of the forest’s grasp, he feels safe, unseen and unheard. The sky moves with such grace, he feels, becoming lost in the dance of light and cloud against a gentle, open blue. He gasps. In the distance, black balls of rolling smoke hurl themselves upwards. He runs.

At the edge of the forest, the evening wind is furious. Flames tear through the heavy air, thirsty for the clouds, like an inebriated scoundrel licking the sky for the last drop. This is an easy victory over an unsuspecting lot; they didn’t even have any weapons, except for some old-fashioned bows and worn arrows, as well as a few broken swords, looked 17^th century – a museum may be interested. Collecting such trinkets is a good side business for a soldier.

The entire village is lit ablaze by the young recruits, their Lee-Enfield rifles clanging at their backs. Shrieking widows cannot escape, engulfed . . .

“Suttee,” the officer could not resist, sneering to himself. Despite the shackles of decorum in appearance, soldiers understand that self-control has little place in the battlefield. Decoration was reserved for the parades and politicians. Honor, glory, and courtly cleanliness were all luxuries for the storybooks.

Pain knows no etiquette. Strategy gives way to luck. Death is certain – living is the mystery.

The officer stands back this time, admiring the terrific horror of it all. He can see the flames reflecting upon the inside of his spectacles. Mesmerized by the dancing bonfire, he smirks, pulling a cigarette towards his parched lips, cracked by the subcontinent’s winds.

A naked child rushes the officer, who tries to avert his gaze, but it is too late; his eyes hit the child’s, and at once, the shield falls, the shield that carries him through his days here. The crustacean’s carcass that grew over him since his first patrols. He saw his sister in the girl, his sister as when they were children, playing Robin Hood in the woods. He would hold her plump, soft, pale hand when she became tired and they’d walk home; if he felt strong enough, he’d lift her up in his arms, acting like daddy, carrying her back to the house.

The girl begins beating the officer’s abdomen with her thin, tiny, brown fists. Paralyzed for a second, he finds it odd that his reflexes haven’t taken over. On the field, one does not think. Not in the way civilians believe soldiers think. Life in the field is much more senseless, acquired senselessness; life is a reflex, because anything less risks vulnerability. Then again, this was no battle; the villagers provided no resistance, except a girl with desperate fists and the heat from an uncontrollable blaze.

The Sikh races towards the angry air.

He cannot muster the appropriate distance to strike her; the bobbing memory of his sister, rippling across his eyes will not allow it. Instead, he clutches the hysterical girl’s thin wrists, pulling her towards himself, whispering into her ear, “Git ’way from ‘ere.” He tosses her aside, “Go, Chalo!”

“Hurry, hurry!” The Sikh tells his legs, racing through the forests, leaping over the rocks, and branches, through the soft spots and over the mounds. He carries a bow and only seven arrows, uncertain of what awaits him on the other end of the forest, “Hurry!”

She stares at the officer too long. The others catch sight of her – the boys. There will be trouble for her. He steadies his musket and fires just above her head, startling her back to her reflexes – she runs like a frightened doe, into the thick dark forest.

The fusiliers charge the forests in a game they love. All of them boys, with romantic visions of a thousand and one adventures at one point; such dreams were lost long ago, after their first post.

“She’s a foxy one!” laughs Charles, striking Officer Dowling on his shoulders. Charles is never one for subtlety. Three or four more hurry after Charles and the others, but several of them are too superstitious to enter the forest where vile spirits were said to haunt.

One of the stragglers turns around to yell at Dowling, “Well come on!”

The stragglers, Mouse and Willy, often shuffle behind the pack, partly because of their weight, but also, despite their girth, because of their general lack of guts. They would wait until things seemed safe, before they would proceed. They were not always this heavy; but, they spent most of their time in the canteen, feigning some sort of illness and eating as much as they could. “Feed a fever,” they would utter, wiping their sweaty brows in unison. India is hot. Everyone here has a fever. No bother for the rest of the boys though, because Mouse and Willy would always bring certain comforts to the company, from brandy and rum to marijuana and opium.

Dowling runs into the forest as well, behind the boys, trying to follow their tracks, which seems to have disturbed ground that hadn’t been traversed in ages.

The brave young men stop their chase in a clearing. The trees swallow the light quickly, and the eyes of the soldiers do not adjust quickly enough after the flames.

“Come out, come out, where ever you are?” Charles teases the trees. “Foxy, foxy, foxy!” He clicks his pursed lips, as one would a dog. Charles pulls his tin bottle out from his dusty boot; drinking’s a game to him, like everything else.

The Sikh hears voices in the clearing. He tries to catch his panicking breath, “Quiet,” he tells himself, taking a deep breath, leaning his back against a tree, pulling out an arrow.

Her whimpering is clear; Charles mocks it, rubbing his eyes. The soldiers circle, waiting in the clearing, while Charles stops, standing, staring at the girl, who clutches her bent knees, shivering, collapsed upon the ground, face pushing into her chest. Closing her eyes, she wishes for invisibility. When she was younger, she believed that if her eyes were closed, no one could see her. And for a moment, she is gone. It is yesterday, when she was playing hide-and-go-seek with grandmother. Grandmother would always pretend not to see her, calling out, “Munnie, where did she go? Oh well, she is gone now. I will have to go the market and buy another grand baby tomorrow.” Then Munnie, that was her nickname, would run out smiling, “I’m here, I’m here, can I go to market with you?”

“But you are not Munnie?” Grandmother would tease, “because my Munnie always gives grandma a kiss!” Then, Munnie would kiss grandma on the cheek, her old hands stroking her back, gently. Munnie would stuff her face into grandma’s warm, soft body, shutting her eyes in happiness.

The Sikh cannot aim through the trees. He bites the arrow with his mouth and quickly climbs. His feet scrape the slippery tree, struggling to pull himself up. If only his arms were stronger, he thinks, grunting.

Dowling thinks he’s heard a grunt.

She keeps her eyes shut, while Charles rough hands pull her up, into the clearing, gasping a scream which silences the world.

Dowling hesitates as he moves deeper into the forest, swatting a fat fly on the side of his neck, the blood trickling, a waterfall through his smallest finger, upon his lapel. The first time he remembers killing a mosquito, he felt bad for it. He was six years old, and he hesitated before he struck. But then, when he missed, it became a game of pride. “This mosquito won’t make a fool of me!” When he finally killed it though, and say its lifeless body crushed in his palm, he felt upset with himself, and hurried to wipe off the disgusting black beast from his palms. He rubbed his hands along the grass, crying, when father asked him what was wrong. Father laughed, “It’s just a mosquito, love. Be a big boy, now.” Dowling stops following, looking up at the trees, hoping to see the sky’s light, for reassurance, but he cannot find any. He’s killed so much more than a silly mosquito. He touches the tree, the woods of the merry men, he smiles.

“Another fox hunt success, boys!”

Lying atop the arm of a tree, like a python, the Sikh kisses the tip of his arrow and then . . aims . . . breathing . . . deep breath . . .

Hearing their laughter, Dowling shifts his direction, running, stumbling over a thick tree root, slamming himself into the footprints of his brothers in arms. “Damn!”

Dowling’s foot is grasped by the heavy brown root, twisting over him, nature’s snake. His fingers are startled by the slick puff of an arrow.

. . . fire.

Dowling halts, his gaze shoots upwards, searching for a sniper – nothing!

The woods are haunted.

The Sikh pulls out another arrow, without thinking.

In the clearing, James Holding, a nineteen year old, goes down -- arrow to the heart. The six others quickly fumble to load their muskets, while Dowling, out of sight, frantically wrestles with the tree root ensnaring his foot. Dowling scans the tree tops for the sniper, but nothing.

Holding wheezes, clutching his chest, the blood trickles through his worn fingers. Guy bends down over him, pleading for him not to die, “You’ll be alright.”

His first post, Guy has never seen death before. Never seen anyone or anything die. Back in England, he read about death and now he longs for his medical texts, over this.

Holding’s eyes flicker, “I, tell Lucy, I, I didn’t . . .” He gasps.

“What?” asks Guy, gently, “I’ll tell Lucy.”

Holding’s breathing becomes faster and faster, louder and louder, like a rainstorm upon the Ganges, “. . . know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

Holding’s eyes quickly dart, he pants, “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.”

“God damn it,” Guy whispers, spooked. He’s never seen anyone die before; he’s never seen anything die. Guy moves away from Holding, disturbed. He’s never seen anyone die; nothing. “This can’t be how it ends. It’s too simple.” Guys spins around, certain the forest gives birth to ghosts.

The girl stands, staring at Holding’s prone body.

A turbaned shadow, echoing through the trees.

Dempsey lunges for her, but an arrow strikes his calf. The girl runs towards the trees.

“Bloody hell!” Charles spits on the ground. “Come on out you heathen bastards!” A cracking sound.

“There he is!” Charles spots him. They boys fire North, followed by two shots by the stragglers.

The Sikh is hit, falling with a thud to the moist earth bellow. He clutches his shoulder. Blood trickles through his fingers.

Dowling is certain he has heard a thud.

The air gushes out of the Sikh’s lungs. Foolish, he thinks, recollecting his focus. Quickly, he rolls up.

Shuddering, the girl freezes at the edge of the clearing. The gunshots feel as though they tear through the flesh of the air. Just this morning, in the meadow, she was certain that no one could catch the breeze. The wind escapes all, she played. Now, even the air is wounded, forever.

Guy snatches her up.

“Good move, duke,” Charles smirked. “Hostage!”

“Did we get the coward? Bloody sniper. Come out and face us like a man!” Dempsey roars, clutching his calf.

“Save your energies, Achilles,” Charles smiles. “We have all the cards now,” Charles yells out to the forest, “Don’t we?”

“Cut the girl.” Orders Dempsey.

“What?” Guy pants.

“Cut her, you spoiled rich bastard, or should we call up your butler to do the trick?”

Smoke from the burning village drifts through the canopy of trees, infiltrating the leaves, as though the heavens themselves were dripping with fear. The forest pulses a fierce emptiness.

Dowling searches the woods; he sees a rustling – it is the Sikh.

Pulling the chord back, taut, despite his pain, the Sikh urges himself to be silent.

The girl bites her lip, but now her eyes are opened by the gentle caress of the wind. She smiles; the wind still moves. She doesn’t feel afraid anymore. She doesn’t care now.

“I think we got ‘em.” Laughs a vacant Charles, eyes darting, voice in disagreement with the words they carry. “Ain’t no Ghosts, ‘ere. But there is now!”

With smoke behind him, the turbaned silhouette appears again and in a flash, disappears. Mouse and Karl run, hurrying out of the forest, taking an arrow each into the thick flesh of their behinds.

A waste of arrows, the Sikh reprimands himself, only three remain.

Charles and the two others, Guy and Dempsey, roar like trapped animals, piercing their bullets into the dark thickness of the forest. Dempsey’s calf muscles stiffens up, the waterfall of blood makes Guy queasy.

“Which way did he go?”

More smoke pours into the outstretched branches. Dempsey coughs, “He’s becoming pale,” Guy mumbles.

Dowling lies beyond the clearing, pulling his leg from the root, he motions to stand, but hesitates, when an arrow flies through the clearing.

It misses Dempsey’s face by three inches.

The Sikh becomes worried. Two arrows left. All he needs to do is get the girl, like his ancestors would against the Muslim raiders. Then, they can run. They’ll be safe in the forest, until she can go back to her family.

Guy seems the least assured, nibbling his lips nervously, he begins arguing with Charles, “All your fault! If we hadn’t chased after the girl we would’ve been fine. Now Mouse and Karl are gone, who’s going to bring us gin?”

Charles kicks the dirt, “Shut up!”

Guy continues, “The others don’t even know that we’re here.”

Dempsey tries to stop the both of them, “Would you both . . . .”

“And if they found out we were chasing another girl . . .” The arrow strikes Guy in the top left of his chest. The girl bites his hand; she races out. She runs as fast as she can, as fast as the wounded wind. She runs, she runs, she runs. Her thin, brown legs gliding.

“Don’t let her go!” Charles urges.

Guy falls backwards, kicking his legs in the air, screaming. Rolling out of the clearing, after the girl, he gasps into the dirt clutching his face. Guy’s hand reaches out for her thin brown foot; his hand chokes her ankle with rage, and she screams.

“Kill her!” Orders Charles.

Guy pulls out a knife, raging. The girl pierces his eyes with ferocity. With teeth clenched, she strikes Guy in the head with a swift kick. Escapes.

“Run!” Thinks the Sikh. One final arrow.

Guy’s lips kiss the dirt, he collapses onto his chest, the arrow pushes through even further.

The girl disappears.

Guy jerks, shattering the air with his numbing torture.

“Well I guess that shut him up,” quips Charles.

In the center of the clearing, Charles and Dempsey remain. The smoke from the village fire clouding their eyes, Charles turns to Dempsey, who desperately clutches his pistol with both hands, “We ought to run, you know,” suggests Charles.

Dempsey doesn’t pay attention, “What?” Dempsey fires a pistol shot into the leaves above.

Charles, “We can’t see the enemy.”

Dempsey rubs his eyes, “We both won’t make it.”

They nod at one another, agreeing to make a run out of the clearing together.

But, just as they began to move, Charles snatches Dempsey, holding a knife to Dempsey’s throat, “One of us will.”

Charles clutches Dempsey tightly, spinning himself around in circles. “How many arrows does the sniper have left?”

Dempsey bloody legs drags heavy across the ground; Charles squeezes Dempsey’s mouth tightly, moving back out from the clearing.

The Sikh aims for Charles.

With one forceful push, Charles sacrifices Dempsey into the clearing, while running through the smoke back out into the forest. The arrow strikes Dempsey in the throat. Charles runs away, right towards Dowling, who hurries to stick his leg back into the root, his excuse, but then decides against it, darting up from behind the tree.

Charles trips over Dowling’s root and they stare at one another for an instant. Charles shakes his head, a shocked snicker. Charles continues running. Dowling follows for a few steps, turning back for one last look at the girl, through the trees and smoke.

The turbaned fellow does not move beyond the clearing.

Dowling stares.

“Chalo.” He says. The little girl wrapped in a blanket steps out of the trees and they both walk back into the dark woods surrounding Amritsar.

The girl and Robin, Dowling wants to believe.

Darkness welcomes the traveling smoke, trickling through the trees.