War: A Futile Transition, Hadi Garib [christmas read aloud TXT] 📗

Commanders inspecting the weaponry; the sounds of the enemy charging in the distance; the crackle of a horse barraging over a twig; leaves rustling; blood curling screams; soldiers charging. A hint of light streaming through the hazy mist in the distance; families gathered holding onto their loved ones as they prepared for battle.

Cattle scurrying across as if without a thought; drains overflowing with tears rather than the abandoned stream. The command beckons - march. They won't let go; the bell beckons yet again; a demanding bellow. horses yield; the final order. He carries his luggage, dragging it as it were, looking around; the faces, unsure he would see again. They seemed like silhouettes, and yet, they were within touching distance. Armor loaded, disgruntled, he mounts his steed. Battle formations; queue formed; 'charge'.

The last he remembers was the teary mist of the gathering giving them the guard of honor as they marched out of town. He looks up towards the heavens; a final blessing as if it were; questioning the notion of war; doubting his own strength. Surely he would return home. He was full of youthful exuberance; his fellow scouts, his brethren. Nature would not unravel this journey which had started just a few years back - it was a momentary blip in a voluminous journey - the river flowed, and so would his life.

A gray mist in the yonder distance; archers strategically placed on mountain cliffs; valleys shimmering with greenery, and yet the antecedent of peace reflecting against the snow. Cannons fired; flares bouncing against castle walls.

A convoys murmur; charge was the command; a battle cry would be the last they would hear. The town below, a thing of the past; civilization, embattled; individuality, emblazoned. The steady march, archers lighting all in their way; the green was no more. A dull barren brown, having replaced the scenic allure.

They say man thinks best in a time of strife. Civilization sought recluse; sought shelter at the peak. Nature wouldn't allow that. A boisterous wind knocking all in its path. 4000 meters above sea level, this was a battle ground out of the abyss of a frozen hell.

They ascended further; nature wouldn't have that. An avalanche accompanying the barrage of arrows. The track dotted with ridges, which were but the remains of the fallen. Those behind, groping the dead relatives, striving to gain height advantage. Far west, a watering hole. Surely there would be respite at that spot. The marching group split into two as a segment headed to the water. More wind; a stronger breeze; the echoes of the firing cannons serving as the antithesis of the very serenity that had long dictated terms. The lords of the mountains wouldn't allow these valley dwellers any leeway. They were momentarily individuals, marching from the east, they were cavalries. Ridges were no longer safe; the valley, burnt asunder. Nutrition, an unknown. Civilization had come to an end; man wasn't the only protagonist. Nature, whose arms would surely provide recluse, the antagonists nightmare.

And yet, it was a group of ten that relentlessly drove forward. Commanded by a valiant individual, they would surely succeed in entry via the southwest channel. They had managed to sneak past the convoys that adamantly stood guard at those rigid hilltops; they had managed to survive the lack of food; they had battled against the tumultuous winds, and yet, as if the saga simply wouldn't let up, one fell, and another. As the flock jumped the gun they analogized wild beasts escaping the unseen hunter. The formation no more. Last man standing, and yet, a united front in pairs. The chain would surely succeed.

Around them, ropes dangling; snow drenching the top of the cliffs; if not a battle, then surely a war. Birds gliding in the horizon; flares breaking the silence. In the distance at the foothills of the brazen valley, a cottage that had been left untouched. Its wooden aesthetic serving as a shield; protecting what resonated a reflective sheen off the walls. Window frames etched in even gaps, strategically garnered for defensive armor. It was a recluse forgotten by the invaders. Had they not deemed it attack worthy? Was there a mystical force that had protected it from the treacherous flames that engulfed the surroundings?

Calm; a momentary slumber, presenting with it a sense of renewed hope. The trekkers etched their way through, targeting the areas where there remained a hint of white. Potentially seeking companions, while ultimately seeking solidarity. The quest was nigh, and yet, success, uncharted.

As if it had all never happened, this small group found itself in the midst of an untouched valley - tracks, unmarked; trees, standing tall; birds hovered over, as if signaling peace; groups of refuge seekers steadily crawling out of the shadows. That mystic abode had a sense of calm around it. It was as if nature was turning tides; favoring those that it had so harshly treated. Archers suddenly no more; the haze devolved; the war had come to a end - now was a period of solidarity.

A gush of fresh water started unannounced, washing away the blood of the fallen. One would have perceived the same to be capable of reincarnation, but alas, that was a mythical notion.

Publication Date: 12-17-2012

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