Serpent Mound

I always loved war stories. Sitting by the fire after dark listening to father speak about his time beyond the walls as his voice lured all the sleepy children away from mother’s bosom and into a universe where heroes were born. Father was a hero too. Up in the attic was a sword in its scabbard. Next to it, a shield dented, cracked by the weapons of the enemy. Somewhere in the house was a gold coin awarded to him by His Majesty for valor before a ruthless monster. On his face, an eye patch. An eternal reminder that he was unlike other men. That in place of love, all we could do was give him a whispering worship. One day, I imagined, I will be a hero just like him.

How old was I? 10, maybe 12, when I first saw the gates open to welcome the return of our city’s heroes. Light reflected radiantly from the cathedral windows. The grounds vibrated to the music of celebration glorifying the young men. Horses marched regally down the streets with steely eyed warriors atop them like kings from an unknown world. “Here. Look here,” I called out. If only one of them would look my way. If only one of them would give me the affirmation I needed. One of them did turn his gaze towards me. His face was rugged, his eyes jaded, armor bloodied. Where’s the glint? I wondered. Did he not feel like a hero? Was he just tired? Tired — I chose to believe he was tired. Too many days on a horse and only God knows how many days fighting on his feet. He was tired and he had earned his rest, his reluctance to celebrate.

My time had come. Time for me to join the ranks of men who fought courageously for our glorious city. His Majesty stood before us. Young starry eyed recruits leaving the life we had understood behind to go, first, to the barracks and eventually out into that faceless land where we would have to relearn the rules of being. Father stood right by me with his hands clasping his walking stick. Mother held onto the young ones and tried, with no success, to keep the wild ones calm. A grim ambience wafted around father. It came from his eye that gazed at our flag viciously. That flag that meant so much to him, and now, then, to me. I did the same. Gave it a death stare envisaging that my life from thereon out was to be given to it. A crow flew up above and perched itself on the flagpole. It cawed and gave us a curious look with its black, dead eyes. Father turned up to it forgetting, for a moment, what that day was intended to be.

What was that soldier’s name? Had he returned to that faceless world? It had become a hope of mine to meet him someday. To let him know that it was his sacrifice that gave me the strength to venture out beyond the walls. Winters were unforgiving, the training, even more so. Often, I would dream of home. Dream of my brothers, my sisters running recklessly as mother made dinner. I’d close my eyes and imagine the gruel on my plate was mother’s cooking. Pheasant stew in blueberry sauce with the meat falling off the born ever so effortlessly. The silence of young men now cognizant of the weight of their choice was the calm air moving around father. That phlegmatic coldness he carried with him like a prized possession. Was that always there or was it born here? Born in these ravenous woods, before cruel commanders and frightful peers.

Some days were brighter than others. Some days we’d get a chance to run to the river and wash away the blood of battles not yet fought and clean wounds not yet earned. The bright days were the hardest days. As the sun rained down on us we’d, for a time, be faced with memories of home. Recollections of a pristine childhood when the sun did not symbolize reprieve but… People would hold back tears. Others could not. Those were the targets. A bullseye for all the pain the rest of us held and come nightfall we’d hold them down and punish them for reminding us that we were still children at heart. We did all that we could to free them of their innocence. By morning’s light, they were broken. Blank stares drawn dispassionately on their faces. There’d be no more crying. No more expressions or reminders of a walled garden. All that would be left was a blossoming rage that would be gladly shared on that field of battle. The generals praised the broken men; the broken boys.

Father’s scabbard was never taken out of that attic. My brothers and I would sneak in when he was out and just gaze at it. Picture him, a warrior, wielding a sword and intrepidly ready to give his life for his home, his people. None of us ever dared to lay a finger on that scabbard for it seemed, as we gazed at it, that it would stare back at us. A life had been stirring in it. How many lives had it taken? Did their blood inter in the steel? Did that interring, in turn, create a new kind of soul? It must have been sad to be that scabbard, that sword within. All it knew was war and, now, then, to be nothing but an antique from a time its wielder dared not truly speak of.

We received our swords, our shields, in the fall. What a symbolic gesture. As the leaves fell, we were asked to imagine that our time, too, would come to an end. Here you are. Partake in the glory of death, said the commanders as they handed us those tools of war. It was, they were, just like his. Just like father’s. Will I one day leave it forlorn in an attic, I wondered. We raised them to the heavens allowing them to bask in the honor and liberation of our impending death. By then all the fear had been stolen from us. We were of iron heart awaiting a battle that was still far beyond the horizon. An eternal war that promised to make dust of us. Father never mentioned his comrades. Those blown by the wind, scattered across the four corners of the earth and him — him carrying memories of brutality and viciousness that he would never be allowed to express again. What do warriors do after a war? They die. They die. Did mother know? Did she know that father died long before his return?

I always loved war stories. Sitting by the fire listening to fabrications of honor and glory. I do the same. I do the same. All that I have told you up to this night — they’ve all been lies. I wish, as I cry, that I never set out beyond the walls. I’m broken now. You can tell, can’t you? I knew you could see it long before you could walk, talk. You knew there was something wrong with your father. Yes, there is. The birth of the warrior requisites the death of the child. I died in those woods and that is why I will not let you lose your life to a war that the warrior cannot justify to himself. Stay here. Allow me a chance to live through you, my son.