How We Fight
by Shann Ray
HORDES OF MEN desolated, struck down, destroyed, sunken form of skin and skeleton, bare cloth matted to torso, bodycage and hipbone, face and neck darkened, bloating to black, rain the endless dream stuck fast in the stone-dead skull and blood a fine sheen over all, arms and legs tangled, a severed hand, eyes dull white opals half-bled from orbital bones, grey earth below and stink in the air and the near cry of predator birds, birds of unbearable hunger, the sodden smell of open wounds, a flock of day raven far above, black, and in the blackness light, black sky with stars and moon like fires defined wholly apart from one another and only darkness in between, mute beacons, and cold. The sun has gone and there is near silence after seven days of fighting, and in the quiet only the caw of birds and the faint word, like a child's, of those whose breath, impatient, labored, stops, and broken off, takes leave to await them in spirit or etherworld, blood echo in the air, agony awaiting peace on the other side.
Hordes of the first clan in the other clan's darkness, the first and the second come to kill over fear and vengeance and love.
To him all are blind, and all are maimed, and all are dead: save two.
The first man ran north hard under cover of night, fast along riverbed and up ascending the forested bulk of land over land, up rock faces and out upon the serrated edge of snow-laden cirques and down again descending into valley and further down low upon valley floor, then daylight piercing all as he ran through pinch of canyon walls and out again over open plains crumbled at the far edge by timber and stone, down in the night to the crowded heart of the great forest and out and up over a wide expanse of grey rock, bold line of trees along the Big Bend River below, the man running more animal or wind than man, bent to the far place of snow and skyborne earth, bent with abandon toward Ten Mountain House.
Like shadow the second man followed the first, and desired him dead.
To the house of the sun the men traveled, one sighting the mark of the other, depression in snow and bent branch, grasses laid low among that which the wind has lifted and lain down again, dirt, leaves, snow, a hint of wildberry in the air and with it the feint scent of wood smoke. At the fjord of Cemsish-pahvah, behind the cliff wall of Gathsahvah, a valley opened and from the high ridge to the north, the second man, broad-shouldered, hailed the first.
“Hail now, listen! I see you with my own eyes and you are well made and I have great sorrow. For you must die. And I must kill you.”
The voice carried, low and full of feeling, and the first man stopped and paused, and turned his head, and sought the form of his enemy far off among the grey stone. Seeing the foe he put his fist to his chest, then pointed to the sky where a ball of fire burned. He yelled with great feeling:
“I am like the sun. I will never die!”
|
1
fav |
1004 views
6 comments |
558 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
While researching the nature of human atrocity I found a resounding note in all cultures of deep violence alongside the desire for ultimate forgiveness and reconciliation. I tried to envision the horrors of the Lidice massacre in my Czech heritage perpetrated by Nazis against Czechs, as well as the Sand Creek massacre of the Cheyennes in which innocents were slaughtered by U.S. Cavalry in the late 1800s. Considering these two beautiful and powerful cultures, the Cheyenne and the Czech, in a historical vessel of suffering and in the ensuing desire for vengeance, the soul finds no rest. From there a vision rises of the core of war that exists in the heart of man. I then envisioned a feminine presence as a healing ethos to the masculine. Women such as Mochis or Woman Hereafter of the Cheyenne, and Catherine Zook, my grandma whom we call The Great One, come to mind. This story leans into the mystery of war and the potential for ultimate forgiveness. The masculine is spoken. The feminine is yet to be spoken.
Love the setting details, the rife tension, the glistening, deft word choices. A spiritual quality combined with the rich landscape makes this enchanting, and also grave. So happy you are at Fictionaut and welcome! A fave.
Thanks Robert. To hear this from you, with your deep gifts as a poet, is lovely!
Strong and powerful images that not only set the stage but also the tone and mood of the story.
Thanks for the kindness Susan.
I like your approach to specifics in this piece, Shann. Good tone throughout. Enjoyed the read.
We have a mutual affinity for McCarthy and Oliver, the word of power and the word of generosity in nature, when I think of those two. thanks for your thoughts Sam.