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Trial By Fire Prologue
By Teach
The low knoll dividing the two parcels of forest land is impossibly green, so full of color that it seems to thrum with vibrant life. It is made even more beautiful by the setting sun, casting its light in the color of glowing embers across the tranquil scene.
The sounds of calling birds saying good-night fill the air, mixing with the shrill noise of chirping crickets saying good-morning. A toad begins to tune his basso instrument, preparing for the night-symphony. Soon he is joined by another, and then another. In the distance, a loon cries out its song, a low series of notes not unlike the prelude to a dirge.
Then the forest-dwellers’ revelry is broken by new sounds, so foreign in this placid clearing as to be startling, the sounds of metal scraping and the voices of men.
A regiment of soldiers has come to the forest. From where I sit, I can see them, affecting a careless march, coming to a clattering halt. They are making camp here. Helms are peeled from sweaty heads and sword and bow are laid aside. It is in this state that I enjoy men best. Man was made only to fight, to conquer himself and his world, but he has his moments. Man has his times, and in those times he is rightful Master of the Beasts, a visionary, musical, magical creature capable of great works and deeds. Man comes into those times when his weapons are laid aside.
The men talk and laugh. Some go to gather wood, for man needs fire as much as the animals of the forest do not. Others shake the pebbles from their leather boots. They are clearly tired, and it is my guess that they have walked a great distance this day. Probably they will do so again tomorrow, for men find comfort in repetition and ritual. Some go into the forest to seek out places in which they may be modest, and they leave behind the things they will forget at once but which the citizens of these woods will avoid for days to come.
Then the men are joined by others. These new arrivals do not come to rest, but to kill; they emerge with sword and bow and attack the unsuspecting soldiers, who die sitting on stones with their boots beside them.
When the attackers have run their course and lain waste to their enemies, they lay hands on the possessions of the dead men, finding all that they can of any possible value.
One man finds gold.
Man is a mystery in many ways, the most peculiar of which is his love of things that catch the sunlight. The only true gods of men are gold and silver and bronze.
The man who has found the precious coin is set upon by his brothers-in-arms. He is slain.
The battle does not end there; the other men turn their swords each upon the other, each man in his turn, until only one stands. In his hand is the bag of coin. He has traded in a way that I will never understand, and that the beasts could never do. He has traded his soul and his fellows for a few pieces of gold. Not far from this place, at the base of the great mountains, a man might labor for a day and carry away gold equal to his own weight or more, yet men continue to kill and to die for it. It makes my heart heavy to know that this is the way of man, his very nature, and not likely to change for many generations, if at all.
Now it appears that the sole survivor was not the last man, after all. From the forest, another soldier emerges, a holdover from the first party. In his hand is a blade, and in his heart is murder. His feet are silent as he comes from behind to rend flesh and spill blood. The sack falls to the ground, clattering, emptying in the dirt.
The assassin pauses to collect the coin and hurries from the clearing. In a moment, he is gone.
Certain that it is now safe, I descend from my observation point. I walk among the dead, grieving not for men but for man. The grass, beautifully green only moments before, is now stained crimson. This place will be remembered in legend and song, a place of massacre and bloodshed. Man recalls his playground for as long as he is a child, but remembers his battlefields forever.
The smell of dead and dying is already becoming too much to bear. With one last look around and a silent, futile wish that such things would not be so, I take my leave of the glen. In all of my travels, right unto my dying day, I do not return to the valley, but I will remember it often. I will remember, as well, the thief who cut a man’s throat and took a bag of gold from this forest, for this thief’s destiny is entwined with my own, and our paths will cross again.
And again.
Feedback welcome!!
©2004 James Clark
9/10/2004 4:14:06 PM
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