The crunch of last season’s grass sounded under his feet as the man walked through the flower-filled fields of early summer. It was the kind of grass that did not grow high, but would curl back on itself and stay close to the ground, keeping that shape long after it died back in the fall. In the spring, new shoots replaced the old, but, like the skeleton of an old beast, would remain long after its life had expired.
It was wild grass, like the fields it grew in, fields filled with the careless scatter of plants and flowers. Here and there, small copse of shaking aspen still mourned the loss of last year’s greenery, forgetting to see the new colorful growth spreading through the fields around them. To the man walking in this strangely enchanting place, it was peaceful and beautiful, yet sad and lonely. With his eyes set on a distant hillock and his mind pondering past events, his heart lost itself in a world of yester-dreams.
The little hill was over an hour’s walk from the west gate of the palace wall. It provided him time to think, time to consider his life and his destiny. He had come here every day since the fleet had departed for the Prisoner Exchange. His heart wondered if he would see Sirion safely come home again. Or would he have to journey here to pay his regards? The sky was clear and the sun towered high overhead. A light breeze filled his senses with the refreshing scents of summer flowers. As he walked, he stooped and picked a handful of the brightly colored ones.
Eventually, the man came to the base of the little hill. Climbing to the top, he arrived at a gate made of what looked like simple wrought iron, but it never needed maintenance, or so he had been told. Passing under the arched leaves that folded in until they almost touched, he came to some stone benches, one on each side of the path. He stopped and, raising his eyes up, scanned the view facing him.
Beyond this hill, the land gradually fell away, allowing a person to see for miles in any direction. At one time, a huge orchard of fruit trees covered the surrounding land, but after the wars of the Rebellion started, it gradually became a vast resting place for Ma-we’s children. Row upon row, for mile upon mile, as far as the eye could see, the little mounds reminded the man of the heavy price Ma-we and her children had paid in their attempt to rid this realm of its evil.
He stood in awed silence. It always overwhelmed him when he thought of why this beautiful people who had no reason to die so freely surrendered up their lives. To die for a cause, such as for money or power, he could easily understand. But to sacrifice it for people who didn’t appreciate or even care about what was being done for them, and to continue to stand the battle line for all these thousands of years? It was beyond his comprehension. He felt so unworthy to even be in their presence. His heart ached from thinking about his own past failings, knowing he deserved nothing and yet had received so much. Tears came to his eyes and ran down his face.
The children called these fields the ‘Resting Place of Quiet Testimony’ or the ‘Silent Tombs’. Even those who never returned from battle received recognition here by being given a plot and marker to signify their sacrifices. Every name of every loyal child who had perished from the Rebellion was here. It was common to see large numbers of somber people quietly wandering along the many paths, but today it was strangely empty. Only a handful of others were here, some strolling among the graves, their minds deep in thought, others sitting or kneeling next to a grave where someone extra dear lay sleeping.
Several minutes passed before the man, with halting steps, moved toward one of the many stone paths that radiated from the gate. First down one and then another he walked, pausing from time to time, reading a name on a marker. Occasionally he would stop and stare, reading and rereading the words written on some stone or plaque. Then he would take a flower and place it on the grave.
Chisamore…Sirion had said that he helped removed the bodies of Darla’s attackers. He fell at Desiah, defending the fleet. It was an ancient battle fought shortly after Ishtar’s death.
Avdiel was one of Darla’s stretcher-bearers. His fighter disappeared while on patrol and never returned to the convoy. After many days passed without word, Ma-we came here and put up this memorial. Sirion often talked about his laughing green eyes and comforting smile.
Ehleenohr Kalahnit was with Mihai when they hurried into camp, diving behind some rocks while warning the others to get down. Sirion told of her fiery red hair and temper to match. Her leadership abilities were outstanding and did not go unnoticed. By the time of the Great War, she was already a high-ranking officer. Ehleenohr commanded one of the corps that was trapped at Memphis. Few survived. She was not among them.
Tzidohn also died at the second siege of Memphis. Sirion sang many love songs about him. She more often affectionately called him ‘big brother’ instead of his given name. Whenever they came to his memorial, her eyes would fill with tears and her hands would shake with little tremors. One time she said, ‘He was always so gentle and kind.’
Depais, the song maiden, assisted Sirion in supporting Darla while she and Gabrielle helped Ishtar. Later she joined with Darla’s company during the first siege of Memphis, and remained with it during the Two Hundred Years War. She died in a futile attempt to retake one of the cities in the Northern Rim. It was her frozen body that Darla refused to leave at the ruined fortress of Mordem.
The man walked along toward a newer section of the Silent Tombs. After the Great War, the slaughter dramatically decreased, but it did not end. If it wasn’t a senseless battle, it was some other kind of mischief drummed up by the enemy that would claim another victim. He wondered how many more would enter this place before the wars ended.
He walked on and on until, at the far northwest corner, he came to another trail. It went down a slope into a shallow ravine. A cheerful little brook cut through it, splashing and bubbling along, singing a happy tune, oblivious to the sadness that filled the cut through which it ran. Down there, just where the stream made a sharp bend to the right and dropped over a ledge into a rippling pool, was the man’s destination. The stream ran beside the trail until it turned and went over the falls. At that juncture, the trail abruptly stopped, ending at the foot of two earthen mounds.
When Sirion first brought the man to the tombs some years before, this was the spot she hurried to. The mound was recent, with small patches of earth still showing through the grass growing on it. She had come to the end of the trail and stopped, as though fearing to continue. For the longest time, Sirion remained motionless, her shoulders stooped, arms limp, with hands folded together. Finally she turned her face to him, stained from a river of tears that were still flowing, covering her cheeks. ‘Periste took the blow for me. I was supposed to take point on that patrol and she ordered me back, leading it herself. So I am here now, a little shadow of nothing, living a life that should have been hers.’
Sirion moved in close and sat down, reaching out and resting her hand on the soft mound. After several moments she began to sing a lament, a lyrical song describing some of the qualities Periste displayed. Her song, like all she sang, was a love song, describing the effect the person’s life had on her heart. She sat, legs crossed, eyes closed, her hand on the grave, rocking back and forth in time with the gentle rhythm of the melody. Periste’s song was always the most emotional, her loss reaching the deepest into Sirion’s soul. Then, when she had finished, she would take some blooms she had picked in the fields near the hillock, and gently place them near the stone marker.
The man stooped and put his remaining flowers near Periste’s marker. Slowly he stood back up, his eyes filling with tears. In a soft, gentle voice that was breaking, he choked out some words, while gazing at the grass-covered mound. “I’m sorry she couldn’t visit today, but maybe she will come soon. I hope you don’t mind that these flowers came from my clumsy hands.”
Pausing for a moment in thought, he then continued, “There is no way I can repay you and all the others for the sacrifices you have made. Please, let my ‘thank you’ suffice for the mom
ent. One day I may find the words or do the deeds that will show my gratitude to all of you…” The tightness in his throat cut off the rest of his speech. In silence, he remained standing, thinking about these wonderful people.
Ten went out to help Ishtar those many years ago. Of them, six now rested here…gone, but still remembered. Only four remained to tell of their valor, or possibly only three. Was Sirion still alive? If so, would she survive to return, to again come to this place of remembrance, to sing her haunting songs of lament?
Finding power to speak again, he added, “Ishtar will be coming soon. You know she won, thanks to you and the others. But you have helped so many win, not just her. You helped a child keep her integrity, and that integrity has altered history. An innocent young woman proved more powerful than all the armies of all the nations that have ever marched to war. Her faith will bring a world to its knees, and changed it forever. You helped a child become a woman, and that woman will soon be here, to help bring a finish to this terrible struggle. You have done so much for us all.”
With that, the man started to sing a little lament of his own. He sang it to no one and to everyone. He sang it for those lost. But, most of all, it was to Sirion that his words went out.
“You walked through the mist and the smoke and the fire,
Into the face of destruction you strode.
Your hearts were once filled with such hope and desire,
But you chose a most dangerous road.
You came from a world so happy, so free,
A world filled with joy and rest.
You charged into battle through missiles, through bombs,
Determined to give it your best.
You fought in the fields, the hills and the glades,
Your chariots raced through the sky.
In sorrow you witnessed, experienced and shared,
Your hearts ached over those who did die.
Through planting and harvest, the four seasons round,
Your swords, burnished blades you raised high.
And you moved ever forward ‘til you fell to the ground,
In a war that makes generals cry.”
The song ended. He silently stood, eyes fixed on Periste’s marker. The shadow of early evening filled the draw before the man stirred.
Two more days and Ishtar would be here. How long he had waited, longing for and fearing this day. The world let her down. Could she ever forgive it? In her gravest hour, she was abandoned by the very ones she saved.
Would she ever forgive him for the part he played in her humiliation? Did anyone deserve to be forgiven? ‘We acted with incomplete knowledge. We were obeying orders.’ How shallow and empty such excuses sounded now. Yet those reasonings still echoed in his heart. Would he ever grow up to accept his personal responsibility for Ishtar’s demise?
With head still down, the man turned and retraced his steps from the little ravine. Reaching the crest, he looked back at the setting sun. ‘Tomorrow…what a blessing!’ There was always a tomorrow - one more chance to make things right. The night would wash away the past and a new day would give birth to the promise of a new start. If enough new days came and went, the child might be able to gain an understanding in her heart…maybe, just maybe. He could only hope and pray that she would one day forgive him and all the others who showed no appreciation for the goddess who walked among them.
Looking back to the east, he spied the gates on the hillock, now miles away. Choosing a more direct path, he started toward them. As he walked, he began to whistle a little tune Sirion once taught him.
Somewhere, light years across space, a woman lying in a cold cell, shivering, beaten and bleeding, dreamed she heard someone singing a lilting little melody. It echoed in her mind and warmed her aching heart. She smiled to herself. ‘A few more days…only a few more days.’ Then she could rest in the arms of those she loved.
* * *
I hope you've enjoyed reading about the struggle of Lowenah and her children in the first book of "The Chronicles of Heaven's War".
Look for their continuing epic saga in "The Chronicles of Heaven's War" to follow in:
Book II: “Phoenix Burns”
Book III: “Blood Moon Rising”
Book VI: “Hell Above the Skies”
Book V: “The Spirits of Lagandow”
Book VI: “The Haunts of Haudenosaunez”
About the author:
It is a customary thing to offer a short soliloquy of rhapsodic prose regarding an author of words who has put pen to paper, writing down by a hand not self-made and from a brain not understood, a tale of suspense or intrigue that the reader finds titillating to his or her senses. Credit is then taken by the author for the seemingly random charges of chemical and electrical energy that make those thought processes possible and that have then been woven into a tapestry of verbal music that plays upon the hearts and minds of those who open their eyes to see into the world of the author's mind.
Ava is no such author. “Take the tools you have been given and share your works with the world of men.” This is a motto of one who writes from the heart, one wishing to share the emotion felt, to give the reader pause to see beyond the ordinary into a world that may or may not exist in reality, but most certainly does in the heart and soul of any and all who believe there exists something greater than the frail human body. To dream and help others dream of a world beyond their own, to share the life and love of those who might possibly reside there, to help them see that they do not journey upon the secluded path alone... that is the goal of this author. ~Ava Dohn
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