Libing
The boy dove into the hollow of a Narra tree. Woody, and gritty as it was, the hint of iron persisted. There he'd wait for his friends.
And wait he did.
The rain did come, and dark clouds blanketed the sky. Gone were the brown hues, and in their place came a vicious storm.
The droplets of water gushed like a river, and they fell like rocks. The little boy could only brace inside of the tree.
He could hear howling, tired and rasped.
"Is that the wind?" He wondered. It sounded so different.
The howling continued, ever louder; the boy had to cover his ears, and shut his eyes.
Then, it became quieter, and quieter. It went from a howl to a whimper, then it died out completely.
The boy opened his eyes, and the rain was gone.
"Simoun!" A voice called out.
The boy turned to see his father, still in uniform.
"We've been looking all over for you!"
"Dad!"
The father slipped his rifle onto his back and opened his arms.
Into his father's arms the boy leaped. The smell of iron clung to his shirt.
...
The smell of iron.
The smell of rust.
The smell of blood.
The boy turned his head up. Up towards where his father's face should have been.
...
Instead, all he saw was the sky, a bright youthful blue.
The little boy was no longer a little boy; he was an old man. An old man whose body ached. His arms were numb, and his knees were stiff. His spine could no longer bend.
The old man grabbed his rifle, propped it up to use as a cane, and with great pain, lifted himself up.
His head hurt, and as he put his hand to his nose discovered the source of the iron smell.
Sigh.
He wiped the blood off with the sleeve of his uniform--slowly. His stiff arm, and weak wrist reminding him of his age.
Oh, how he hated the mountains.
And wait he did.
The rain did come, and dark clouds blanketed the sky. Gone were the brown hues, and in their place came a vicious storm.
The droplets of water gushed like a river, and they fell like rocks. The little boy could only brace inside of the tree.
He could hear howling, tired and rasped.
"Is that the wind?" He wondered. It sounded so different.
The howling continued, ever louder; the boy had to cover his ears, and shut his eyes.
Then, it became quieter, and quieter. It went from a howl to a whimper, then it died out completely.
The boy opened his eyes, and the rain was gone.
"Simoun!" A voice called out.
The boy turned to see his father, still in uniform.
"We've been looking all over for you!"
"Dad!"
The father slipped his rifle onto his back and opened his arms.
Into his father's arms the boy leaped. The smell of iron clung to his shirt.
...
The smell of iron.
The smell of rust.
The smell of blood.
The boy turned his head up. Up towards where his father's face should have been.
...
Instead, all he saw was the sky, a bright youthful blue.
The little boy was no longer a little boy; he was an old man. An old man whose body ached. His arms were numb, and his knees were stiff. His spine could no longer bend.
The old man grabbed his rifle, propped it up to use as a cane, and with great pain, lifted himself up.
His head hurt, and as he put his hand to his nose discovered the source of the iron smell.
Sigh.
He wiped the blood off with the sleeve of his uniform--slowly. His stiff arm, and weak wrist reminding him of his age.
Oh, how he hated the mountains.