Libing
So he ran, and he tried to make his way home. Was it over the river and under the thicket? Or into the cave and follow the echoes? It all looked the same, under the darkness.
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 hurt rocks. The little boy cried out. He cried out for his friends, neighbors, and mother.
But, no one replied.
Soaked, he could only find shelter in the leaves of overgrown plants.
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.
Oh, how he hated the mountains.
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 hurt rocks. The little boy cried out. He cried out for his friends, neighbors, and mother.
But, no one replied.
Soaked, he could only find shelter in the leaves of overgrown plants.
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.
Oh, how he hated the mountains.