The Call of the Homeland
It had been ages since he had seen the homeland.
Years ago, he had been taken away. Taken away from his family sold to slavery . He turned his collar to the cold air blowing from the sea and to the bitter memories.
The sea pounded relentlessly against the earth, perhaps with the hope of removing this stained land forever. He looked back to the open green field that lead to the base of the mountain. The sun hid behind the clouds as storm winds began to blow. He walked away from the cliff on which he had been standing. Away from the sea. Away from his past life.
He looked down from the top of a hill. He expected to see a small village squatting against the mountain side, hiding from the harshest of winds. Instead, he saw an open field with rubble peeking through the tall grass.
He had heard of the wars that ravaged here after he had been taken. Villages burned for weeks afterwards. Nothing remained of his old village, or any other village. Again, he turned his collar to the old memories.
This was where he would rest. This was where he would wait for the storm.
He took his place among the rubble near the mountainside. He remembered where his old house had sat, right up against the mountainside. He found an old stool, only slightly singed, and picked it up as he walked past.
He set the stool down next to the mountainside, sat upon it, waited. He waited for the storm.
The clouds overhead began to darken and a fierce wind began to blow. A slight rain began to fall, but it stung nonetheless. The old memories of that night, of all the lost souls, the lives that had been stolen that night, stung harder than any rain. The storm grew closer.
He sat upon the stool as the rain began to fall in great drops, as if the clouds were weeping in remembrance of that night. The wind howled through the open land, whipping the grass and crashing against the motionless mountain, as a sea would against a cliff.
The clouds had now thickened and shut out an impossible amount of light. He had known all along that this wasn't an ordinary storm. No, this was the Storm. He stood now, and the stool tipped over, blown by the wind. It buffeted him, as if daring him to challenge it, to try to run. He stood his ground, waiting for the Storm.
The rain began to fall in great sheets. The wind knocked down anything that dared to defy it, all but him. Lightning began to dart across the black skies. Thunder boomed and the mountain echoed the shout.
He realized he wasn't in the right place. He needed to be higher. He looked around for the hidden stairway, carved by his ancestors. The children had ran up it during the attack so many years ago. The marauders found them, no matter how hard they tried to hide.
He began to feel his way around the side of the mountain, looking for a sign. He found it and slipped around a hidden corner, disappearing from sight, escaping the rain but not the wind. He walked up the jagged steps, cut unevenly and steeply into the rock.
As he climbed higher, he emerged and was immediately pelted by rain. The rock was wet and slick up here, and he had almost lost his balance. He clung desperately to the rock, but he needed to get higher. Lightning struck the field, but the fire was quickly extinguished.
He climbed higher and higher, even higher than he had dared as a child. He clung desperately to the rock, hoping not to be blown away. Not until the real storm arrived.
He had reached the top of the mountain. It was strangely peaceful, with little wind. He looked down to the place where he had arrived. The Storm was coming.
The wind picked up, stronger than before, but he miraculously held on. He stood up and opened his arms to the wind as the Storm began.
From above, lightning struck down, but with purpose. It flew past him, carried by winged horses. On it rode a young woman clothed for battle, sword in hand. More lightning flew past, some young men, some older woman. Each was a familiar face. He laughed as they began to fly around the mountain. They landed on the plain below, and each step they took seemed to revive a part of the past, only to disappear as they flew off.
Chariots began to fly around the small island. Filled with energy and light, they blinded him as they circled him. The horses breath was filled with anger, the drivers' whips cracked in fury. The light became all-consuming and the wind insufferable. He opened his arms and the wind swept him away.
The storm suddenly lifted, the horses and chariots gone with the wind. The clouds dissipated quickly and the sun began to shine on the lonely island. The grassy fields were being blown by a slight wind. The mountain stood still, as it always had. The sea pounded relentlessly against the island, slowly wearing away the memory of death. The rubble had disappeared, as with the man.
It had been years since he had seen the homeland. Thousands of years, walking the Earth with a longing for the familiar shore. He returned to answer the call. All who were born there hear the call of the homeland. It calls, never forgetting its own, always hoping for them to return. Then, it takes them into its loving arms with the others who had returned, to hold them in its loving embrace for the rest of time.
Years ago, he had been taken away. Taken away from his family sold to slavery . He turned his collar to the cold air blowing from the sea and to the bitter memories.
The sea pounded relentlessly against the earth, perhaps with the hope of removing this stained land forever. He looked back to the open green field that lead to the base of the mountain. The sun hid behind the clouds as storm winds began to blow. He walked away from the cliff on which he had been standing. Away from the sea. Away from his past life.
He looked down from the top of a hill. He expected to see a small village squatting against the mountain side, hiding from the harshest of winds. Instead, he saw an open field with rubble peeking through the tall grass.
He had heard of the wars that ravaged here after he had been taken. Villages burned for weeks afterwards. Nothing remained of his old village, or any other village. Again, he turned his collar to the old memories.
This was where he would rest. This was where he would wait for the storm.
He took his place among the rubble near the mountainside. He remembered where his old house had sat, right up against the mountainside. He found an old stool, only slightly singed, and picked it up as he walked past.
He set the stool down next to the mountainside, sat upon it, waited. He waited for the storm.
The clouds overhead began to darken and a fierce wind began to blow. A slight rain began to fall, but it stung nonetheless. The old memories of that night, of all the lost souls, the lives that had been stolen that night, stung harder than any rain. The storm grew closer.
He sat upon the stool as the rain began to fall in great drops, as if the clouds were weeping in remembrance of that night. The wind howled through the open land, whipping the grass and crashing against the motionless mountain, as a sea would against a cliff.
The clouds had now thickened and shut out an impossible amount of light. He had known all along that this wasn't an ordinary storm. No, this was the Storm. He stood now, and the stool tipped over, blown by the wind. It buffeted him, as if daring him to challenge it, to try to run. He stood his ground, waiting for the Storm.
The rain began to fall in great sheets. The wind knocked down anything that dared to defy it, all but him. Lightning began to dart across the black skies. Thunder boomed and the mountain echoed the shout.
He realized he wasn't in the right place. He needed to be higher. He looked around for the hidden stairway, carved by his ancestors. The children had ran up it during the attack so many years ago. The marauders found them, no matter how hard they tried to hide.
He began to feel his way around the side of the mountain, looking for a sign. He found it and slipped around a hidden corner, disappearing from sight, escaping the rain but not the wind. He walked up the jagged steps, cut unevenly and steeply into the rock.
As he climbed higher, he emerged and was immediately pelted by rain. The rock was wet and slick up here, and he had almost lost his balance. He clung desperately to the rock, but he needed to get higher. Lightning struck the field, but the fire was quickly extinguished.
He climbed higher and higher, even higher than he had dared as a child. He clung desperately to the rock, hoping not to be blown away. Not until the real storm arrived.
He had reached the top of the mountain. It was strangely peaceful, with little wind. He looked down to the place where he had arrived. The Storm was coming.
The wind picked up, stronger than before, but he miraculously held on. He stood up and opened his arms to the wind as the Storm began.
From above, lightning struck down, but with purpose. It flew past him, carried by winged horses. On it rode a young woman clothed for battle, sword in hand. More lightning flew past, some young men, some older woman. Each was a familiar face. He laughed as they began to fly around the mountain. They landed on the plain below, and each step they took seemed to revive a part of the past, only to disappear as they flew off.
Chariots began to fly around the small island. Filled with energy and light, they blinded him as they circled him. The horses breath was filled with anger, the drivers' whips cracked in fury. The light became all-consuming and the wind insufferable. He opened his arms and the wind swept him away.
The storm suddenly lifted, the horses and chariots gone with the wind. The clouds dissipated quickly and the sun began to shine on the lonely island. The grassy fields were being blown by a slight wind. The mountain stood still, as it always had. The sea pounded relentlessly against the island, slowly wearing away the memory of death. The rubble had disappeared, as with the man.
It had been years since he had seen the homeland. Thousands of years, walking the Earth with a longing for the familiar shore. He returned to answer the call. All who were born there hear the call of the homeland. It calls, never forgetting its own, always hoping for them to return. Then, it takes them into its loving arms with the others who had returned, to hold them in its loving embrace for the rest of time.
1/25/13