A Story

The snow fell in the dark. Outside his tent he could hear the preparation for war - the men gathering around the dawn fire. He leaned over the small statues of the Gods and prayed. As he closed his eyes the field of gold appeared before his eyes - the grain soft like the back of a woman's hair. He reached out to touch it with an open, calloused hand. He whispered the ancient words. Put the candle out. Collected the small statue of the woman and the child, and folded them into the soft piece of lambskin and placed them in the small box below the set of furs upon which he slept.

He drew the tent and the cold enfolded him. The light of early dawn cast a blue pale about camp. Everyone seemed to be doing something. At the armory he gathered sword and then passed the sleeve of his arm guard over his right hand and to his shoulder. He tied the leather cinch at the top, feeling the leather tighten around his shoulder. He passed the glove over his right hand and through it , he wraps three times the tie to the shouldergard. An image of a lion is etched into the flat of the hand.

Making his way through the camp to the edge of the woods he unties his horse and places a single hand upon its nose. The horse's eye moves towards his belt and sees the buckle there. Swinging up, he mounts and canters toward the edge of the wood - hoof cutting through snow - an icey branch snaps underfoot. The horse steps high - instinctively pulling his leg from the deep snow.

He brings pressure from the leg and pushes the horse on. Clenching his teeth he makes a soft clicking sound and then pulls the leather reins toward him and swings out to the edge of the wood as the sun rises. The fires of the camp behind him - he sees across the field his enemy.

His breath is visible in the cold morning air. As if by some signal the men filter out of the wood and line up behind him. They are professionals. They do not need to be told their command. Cavalry in the first line, pikes at the second and swordsmen to follow.

Across the field the burned out remains of a steel blue electric car - its hood twisted into a misshapen collection of angles , each collecting snow flecked with ash - hides the movement that did not escape his eye. He focusses on the point last seen. And there he finds hiding the ragged form of a forward scout. He motions to bring forth the archer and points the target.

The archer pulls one fletched arrow from across his shoulder and then draws the compound bow - an notches it into the bow. He lets out a slow breath - the morning sun fills it with shapes coiling and wrapping around the bow in the cold - and then he lets fly.

Behind its cover the form across the field falls.

The moment is soon. He closes his eyes. At first he can't think of her. Then. He remembers something about her - something that he couldn't see. He remembers the amber fields... the burned out buildings. The most amazing view out of the abandoned two story building that they found themselves in.

He opens his eyes. He looks to his men. In the woods across the field something dark moves toward them. He kicks his leg into the horse and they drive across the snow. The form moves toward them like a wave. Men crashing into the darkness. One after another, tearing at it. The blackness sweeps over the line - a cloud of electricity roils across its edge. Its dark soldiers follow from within - driven by hunger for human flesh. He kicks into his mount and the horse with lowered head charges into battle.

And they fall like wheat before the blade of the scythe. They fight like demons. And then on toward sunset until the last enemy falls. And again he is alone.

He returns to his tent. Pulls the figure from beneath the fur and lays it on the table. Reaches his arm into the water left for him and washes the blood from his face.

Then he sets them on the small table. A woman. A child. He closes his eyes and prays. And he is there again. The golden field. The home. Slowly growing larger before his eyes. She is there waiting for him.

The fields of wheat, their medicine growing within - soft to his hands. As if he could hold the warm sun - as if it were her hair.