WARRIOR

“Which way?” Ajoúla asked the moon.

 

For a while, the clouds held their place. Then the moon emerged, lighting a bend in the road.

Ajoúla followed.

 

Ahead lay a mountain swept by wildfire. The smell of charred pine hung in the air. Ajoúla crossed the scorched ground and entered the living forest, jumping over the feet of wooden giants, hidden in the shadows of their tangled crowns.

 

The doula of the night stirred around Ajoúla, whispering stories on the wind, weaving a passage along the winding road.

 

And where the moonlight could not reach, agents of the forest plied their ancient craft.

But Ajoúla continued, over every stone and through every river, emerging with a shield bearing the mark of the sun and the moon.

 

Then came the drums.

Ajoúla moved towards the sound.

As the moon faded and sunlight rolled over the hills, the village came into view. Feet planted in the earth. Shields raised against the morning glare.

 

A voice called out, “Ajoúla!”

 

Then another, until the name thundered across the hillside.

Only now could Ajoúla see the gathering, others carrying dirt, scars, and shields of their own.

Ajoúla raised the shield in answer and took a place among them.

 

Shields and spears struck together. The village roared as clouds of dust rose.