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June 2024 Writing
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War is coming.
I’ve been preparing my entire life to hear these words. To defend my people. To break the bands of oppression that hold us here, hidden, protected by those of the White Wood, and finally prove ourselves.
But now, as the echo of the words from the White Wood fade, I am lost.
A series of questions cycle through my mind: when will war come? do we take a defensive or offensive stance? where will it happen?
If my years of training have taught me anything, however, it is that my role is not to question. It is my place to wait.
Our group, though not large in comparison to the armies of the past, is several hundred strong. Each of us is assigned a unit–we train together, sleep together, eat together, and meditate together. Now I cast a sidelong glance at my unit, spread to my right, each with his legs folded carefully beneath him. We all took a sharp breath when we heard the words, but no one else has risked even a glance.
Our discipline sits better on their shoulders than it ever has on mine, but I do my best to hide the weakness.
And now I still myself with a deep breath as I focus my attention on the White Wood again. Though I feel lost, our training prepared us for this moment. We must wait a specific amount of time–the seconds tick by in my head, counting–to see if further instruction comes. If it does not, then we report whatever we heard to the unit leader.
Will he know what to do with the cryptic warning?
Every year of my life, the White Wood has spread a little further toward us, pushing us that much closer to the sea that hems us in on the other side. Those in the Wood do their best to protect us, but a constant push from our oppressors is an equal push against them.
They can buy us time. They cannot save us.
As the countdown in all our heads reaches the end without further guidance or warning, we raise our gazes to the Wood in unison. Then, rising to one knee, heads bowed in thanks, we utter the words–words in a foreign language that we do not understand–of gratitude to our protectors.
As I rise to follow my unit from the edge of the White Wood, a chill slides down my spine. It feels like a warning.
For the first time in my life, I do not want to turn my back on the Wood and those who reside in its depths.