He 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 that had been raging for three months had finally calmed, or so it seemed. In the boy'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 entire 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 was running 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. He 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, the girl raised a firearm, made eye contact and pulled the trigger over and over again until all of the brass lay hot on the floor. Tomorrow she would reload and tomorrow they would play that scene again. You might think it was the rounds that caused the most damage, but it wasn’t. It was a subtle but undeniable joy that would emanate from her during the assault. That held a pain he would feel over and over again.
The days grew dramatically shorter. By day the boy roamed the countryside living 20 years in the past. By night he shared intimacy with the glass darkly shaded. Within it, secrets bubbling violently 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 mere thin sheet of glass and they danced upon it like it were a foot thicker than it actually was.
They created a bubble in the frigid air. The airwaves brought definition to the dark days. Adventurous journeys into the north that their decendants would be afraid to ever take on. The nightbird was tapping on the glass as the Kobayashi Maru streamed through that strong north east wind. Somewhere in the darkness, principles existing beneath the dirt, a foundation upon which he would not build upon for a long time, affected everything. If not for that, the soil he was on would just wash away into the sea.
It was not enough. So lost in the smokey night, there was a haze in which they could not even see accross the room. While the nightbird tapped, the boy placed his elbow on the table and extended his hand upward 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 was 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. Judgement day had come. It was enough!
Soldiers burst into the compound, guns blazing, knives flashing, gathering them 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 them and prodded them, sure that they could incite a response that 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 only be made of paper. There were indeed desparados under the eaves. Whispers everywhere, plotting harm, never trustworthy, never safe, always injurious. They brought in additional forces, more 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 up ahead, but the boy had to fight in one more battle to make it happen. He embarked alone on a journey to take the war on himself, knowing that he could not be defeated. In those days, nothing stopped him. He was strong, ten times his size should have allowed.
Just as he was hanging up the sword, a messenger came to him. 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, the boy would have spent day and night with him and walked his journey, respecting all of the purpose in which this man had lived with.
So much knowledge, power and wisdom, comes to this quiet and dark moment in which the boy and his family sat in a circle whispering, remembering and crying. The man 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 at 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 the industrial revolution.
There comes a time, where 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 the boy sat accross from the table from the man, he now struggled to bring back every single word. The bridges, the homely French girl on the bicycle, the storms, the human nature, and the fight.
The boy 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 accross 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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