Jus fell through the ice just as it formed. That is when a hand reached down from his childhood and pulled him back out of the freezing water. He would survive now, and so would his tribe. Things were looking up. He was sure that this was where life was beginning. It had to be.
The storm, which had been raging for three months, had finally calmed, or so it seemed. In Jus's uniqueness, he found normalcy inside ancient brick walls where people came to live and die. As the nights became colder, he worked through distractions that would be debilitating for many. He jumped from a floating chunk of ice to another in a great cold sea that, although he had never seen before, he navigated with incredible skill.
The world was rapidly changing beneath his feet, and he did not truly understand that. He was so busy fighting for his life and the lives of others. Just where did all of this trouble come from? It was tireless, relentless, and never-ending. The very mountains he had known since conception were fading, and his back was turned toward them so he could not see them. At the time, he was so unaware that he was squandering the most incredible opportunity. Time ran out fast as the detonation approached like a fuse burning down to the dynamite.
The days were still wild like a roller coaster ride that had not been activated for 25 years. This was what normal had become. Jus felt the weight of the ropes that suspended those he carried high above the gorge. In the evening, just as he thought he could rest from the war, Maarja raised a firearm, made eye contact, and pulled the trigger over and over again until all of the brass lay hot on the floor. She would reload tomorrow, and they would play that scene again. You might think the rounds caused the most damage, but it wasn’t. It was a subtle but undeniable joy that would emanate from Maarja during the assault. That held a pain he would feel over and over again.
The days grew dramatically shorter. By day, Jus roamed the countryside, living 20 years in the past. By night, he shared intimacy with the glass, darkly shaded. Secrets are bubbling violently within it, trying to break free to the surface. Dangerous meetings of substance in one moment, floating away as smoke in the next. He never knew if it was clarity or illusion. The floor was made of a thin sheet of glass, and they danced upon it like it was a foot thicker than it was.
They created a bubble in the frigid air. The airwaves defined the dark days, bringing adventurous journeys into the north that their descendants would be afraid to take on. The nightbird was tapping on the glass as the Kobayashi Maru streamed through that strong northeast wind. Somewhere in the darkness, principles existing beneath the dirt, a foundation upon which he would not build for a long time, affected everything. The soil Jus stood on would wash away into the sea if not for that.
It was not enough. So lost in the smoky night was a haze in which they could not even see across the room. While the nightbird tapped, the boy placed his elbow on the table and extended his hand to grasp hers firmly. His face was struck with a heavy glass bottle, pushing his limits into a savage fever of betrayal and anger. Retaliation and hurt were all he could feel. He stomped around the surrounding land, tearing people from their tents and teepees of the past, dragging them out into the light of the fire to charge everyone with their crimes. Judgment day had come. It was enough!
Soldiers burst into the compound, guns blazing, knives flashing, gathering Jus and Maarja up with contempt and loathing. He knew that they did not know what they were doing, and he searched for ways to control the assault. The soldiers poked and prodded them, sure they could incite a response they could smash. But the boy had a friend so many years ago who taught him well. "Fight them with those things they do not understand, and they will have no leverage."
As the sun rose, the walls around them were revealed to be made of paper. There were indeed desperados under the eaves. Whispers everywhere, plotting harm, never trustworthy, never safe, always injurious. They brought additional forces, eyes, and ears to guard the homestead. As they did, the sun grew warmer and brighter. They could see that the furniture around them was all smashed, and there were ashes of their goals all over the floor.
New hope arrived as the days grew warm. A complete course change was on the horizon. Shelter was ahead, but the boy had to fight one more battle to make it happen. He embarked alone on a journey to take the war on himself, knowing he could not be defeated. In those days, nothing stopped him. He was strong, ten times his size should have allowed.
A messenger came to him just as he was hanging up the sword. One of the most formidable men he had ever known was passing. It was something that never seemed possible. This was the threshold of life and deep regret. If he could have gone back, Jus would have spent day and night with him and walked his journey, respecting all the purposes in which this man had lived.
So much knowledge, power, and wisdom came to this quiet and dark moment in which Jus and his family sat in a circle whispering, remembering, and crying. Israel still fought because he was a fighter. Far into the night, I supposed he walked through the bombed-out streets of war-torn France once more. He heard the voices of his children, muffled in the back of his head. He knew the sound of the voices and the streets that he walked on at the same time.
Did he see friends along the way who bled out forty years ago, hardening his heart forevermore? Did he see his wife on the day that they met? Sherwood Island, the mountains, the smell of charcoal, all of it. Echoes of machines in a factory that churned out during the Industrial Revolution.
There comes a time when a decision made thousands of years ago finally determines that we only have one option, and we surrender and rest. Our thoughts do perish, but are remembered. For the hours Jus sat across from the table from Israel, his Grandfather, he struggled to bring back every single word: the bridges, the homely French girl on the bicycle, the storms, the human nature, and the fight.
Jus went to his new life in a box on wheels. He did not know it, but things were really going to come apart now. They would be flung across the sky, where new wreckage awaited them. Things were going just as they should—just the way they were supposed to.
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