Across The Lake

by Doug Kelly

  Experienced warriors had told him tales. Some talked of savage hordes who were advancing with relentless curses and extraordinary valor, incredible troop formations of fierce enemies who swept along like an angry pack of wolves. Others spoke of tattered and eternally hungry men who fired parting shots with their bows as they ran away. Still, he could not put much faith in their sagas because the inexperienced and impressionable youth of the villages were the storytellers’ prey. They talked much of smoke, fire, blood, and the weapons of battle, but he could not tell how much might be lies.

  However, Aton thought that it did not really matter what kind of enemy he was going to fight, so long as they fought, which was something that no one disputed would happen, but there was a more serious problem on his mind, so he remained lying in his tent to ponder on it, too. He tried to convince himself that he would not run from a skirmish. Previously he had never felt compelled to struggle too seriously with the question of his resolve to fight. To him, before today, combat had never been a real thing, just nighttime stories around a campfire. In his life, he had taken certain things for granted, never challenging his belief in ultimate success, or worrying about the means and paths needed to achieve it. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps in a battle he might run away, like a coward. Why shouldn’t he doubt himself? He had already run from a single man, Lanzo Brill, who only had a bow and arrow as a weapon, Aton’s very own bow that he had been foolish enough to let the villain acquire and use with one of Aton’s signature arrows to kill Malina. How would a young man without combat experience react against an army of angry men with heavier and more destructive armaments of war? Was he really running bravely toward battle, or cowardly fleeing from his clan and homeland? Reality forced him to admit that as far as war was concerned, he did not know how he would react. A little panic or fear began to swell again in his subconscious. As his imagination went forward to the frontlines of battle, he saw gruesome possibilities. He contemplated the prowling hazards of the future and failed to see himself standing firmly in the midst of them. He remembered his visions of glory, but in the shadow of the impending turmoil, he suspected they might just be impossible dreams. He felt that his laws of life were useless in this moral crisis. Whatever he had learned of himself did not matter here; the life and death struggle of combat could change the strongest man, just as sunshine could melt the hardest ice into water. As it thawed, the solid unyielding block of ice would change into a formless liquid that ran to the lowest level, flowing away like a spineless coward. Now facing combat and possible death, he was an unknown to himself. He feared that he would be that block of ice and the ruthless enemy would be like the heat from blazing sunshine, melting him into a turbulent river of fear.

  The next day Aton still felt burdened with his problem. The dilemma perplexed him. The perpetuation of his self-doubt was irritating, and he was greatly concerned with self-preservation. Burdened with craven thoughts, he was compelled to sink back and he figuratively dipped his toes into a cold pool of depression. He finally concluded that the only way to prove his fortitude was to go into the heat of combat, and then watch his legs, hoping they would not buckle underneath the weight of battle, to discover if he possessed heroic resolve. He reluctantly admitted that he could not derive an answer by sitting still. To gain his manhood, he would require bloodshed and danger, just as a blacksmith required heat and metal to produce a weapon, but the blacksmith of war might shape Aton into a plowshare rather than a sword. Therefore, he agonized over the opportunity that loomed like a dark cloud over the destination to which they would be marching.

  Meanwhile, he continually tried to measure himself through his comrades. A veteran warrior gave him some assurance. The man's tranquil indifference dealt him a measure of confidence because the soldier had experienced combat and survived. Aton would have liked to discover another who shared the same self-doubt. A sympathetic comparison of mental notes would have helped put his mind at ease. He occasionally tried to provoke others to discover if they also had hidden thoughts of cowardice. He looked around to find someone who was in a confessing mood. All attempts failed to catch any statement that seemed in any way like an admission to those doubts that he privately acknowledged in himself. He was afraid to make an open declaration of his concern because cowardice or desertion could be capital offenses.

  When he thought of his new companions in the camp, his mind wavered between two opinions of them, according to his mood. Sometimes he believed them all to be invincible conquerors. In fact, he secretly admired the superior development of the combat-hardened warriors’ higher qualities, like stoicism and valor. In those men, he saw them going very inconspicuously about the world bearing a load of unseen valor. Then, in other moments, he ignored those theories, and assured himself that his fellow warriors were all privately wondering and trembling, just as he was.

  His emotions made him feel strange in the presence of men who talked enthusiastically of an approaching battle, with nothing but eagerness and curiosity apparent on their faces, as if what they were about to do was not real. He often regarded those men as liars. Just as critical about himself, he did not permit his cowardly thoughts without his own severe criticism and self-judgment. He had already convicted himself of cowardice, but he simply did not want to die. Should that be such a crime?

  In his great anxiety, his heart was continually clamoring at what he considered the unbearable tardiness of certain battle commanders and clan leaders. They seemed content to perch tranquilly on the riverbank as they broke formation to get water during their long marches, and left him burdened with the weight of a great problem. He wanted to settle it. He desperately wanted to know if he had the mettle of a man. It was difficult to bear such a mental load. Sometimes his anger made him grumble around the war camp; his hot temper erupted occasionally, and his friends warned him against committing further outbursts of dissatisfaction, but that never completely prevented his frustration.

  The next dark and early morning he found himself in the middle of Grinald’s ranks, just another of the many cogs in a machine of war. The men were whispering theories and communicating old rumors again. Maybe they were going to shake the walls of Kern with battering rams, but nobody really knew yet, maybe not even the warlord. In the gloom before the break of the day, their faces showed the fatigue of impending battle. From across the river he thought the red eyes of the enemy were peering from behind the shadows of the forest. In the eastern sky, there was a yellow patch like a rug laid for the feet of the coming sun; and against it, loomed the gigantic black silhouette of a troop commander on a warhorse.

  From off in the darkness came the sound of tramping feet. Aton could occasionally see dark shadows that moved like monsters. His group of archers stood and waited to march for what seemed a long time. Aton grew impatient; his temper began to flair again because of the unbearable way so many clan leaders communicated the very orders they lacked the foresight to create. He wondered how long they would be kept waiting, again. As he looked all around and contemplated the mystic gloom, he began to believe that at any moment the ominous distance might rush at him, and propel him into the rolling crashes of a barbaric military engagement. He turned toward the gigantic black silhouette of the troop commander on his massive horse and saw him lift his huge arm to calmly stroke his beard. He had a long deep scar across his face and was a veteran of many battles. In Aton’s estimation, he must have been an exceedingly brave man.

  At last, he heard the clatter of a horse's galloping hooves from along the road at the foot of the hill. He put his knees to the ground and rested his tired legs because he thought it must be the orders coming, and understood that another long march was about to occur. The dull thudding of hooves, as it grew louder and louder, seemed to be beating on his soul. A horseman pulled back the reins as he approached the mounted troop commander. The two held a short discussion. The men in the closest ranks craned their necks to try and hear even a snippet of the conversation. A moment later, strati
fied groups of spearmen, archers, and swordsmen went marching off into the early-morning darkness. It was like a monstrous millipede progressing onward. The air was heavy and humid as they trudged along on matted, wet grass to avoid the muddy road.

  There was an occasional flash and glimmer of steel from the swords of these advancing fighters. From behind them came the creaking of poorly fitted wheels grinding on wagon axles, burdened with piles of dry food and weapons. The men marched along, still mumbling rumors. There was a quiet deliberation as to when the real battle and final siege would actually occur. What city would be next? Only Grinald knew, and maybe he was just waiting for another superstitious dream to inspire him with the location of his next attack.

  On the march, a man fell down on the road after tripping in a rut. As the fallen man reached for his spear, a companion accidently stepped on his hand. The man with the injured hand cursed loudly. A low, snickering laugh went through the ranks. The marching warriors were as indifferent with their allies as they were with their enemies. That happened often because it was up to Grinald’s whim to determine who was friend or foe. One year, a nearby village could be a trusted ally and the following year, he might have its walls surrounded while pummeling its innocent civilians with catapult stones and demanding tribute of gold and silver during the unexpected siege.

  They merged onto another roadway and marched along it with easy strides. The dark contingent of men moved along in a column, and Aton heard the clatter of weaponry on the bodies of marching men approaching from behind. The increasing yellow light of the emerging day went on behind their backs. When the sunrays finally struck fully on the earth, Aton saw that the advancing lines of troops streaked the landscape with two long, thin, shadowy columns that disappeared over the top of a hill in front, and vanished rearward between thick stands of trees on either side of the road. They were like two lost meandering serpents crawling from a cavern of darkness.

  Aton took no part in the vigorous discussions regarding impending battles and final destinations; he was alone with his thoughts. As he marched along in the line, his own eternal debate engaged his mind. He could not stop himself from dwelling on it. He was downhearted and brooding, and threw shifting glances around. He looked ahead, often expecting to hear the enemy’s battle cry, but the two long serpents crawled slowly from hill to hill without a single arrow or spear piercing the sky in their direction. After the road dried, a reddish cloud of dust floated away to the right. The sky overhead was sapphire blue.

  Aton studied the faces of his companions, always on the watch to detect those he suspected of sharing the same emotion he was trying to conceal: fear. He was disappointed. Some patriotic fervor in the air was causing some of the younger, less experienced warriors to move cheerfully along. Naive men began to speak of victory as if they had already attained it. Aton considered himself separated from the others after hearing so many unconcerned and joyous discourses that went from man to man. Later, some of the men marched to the tune of laughter. This troubled him because he thought that they should consider battle, the very struggle for life itself, seriously. It was not long before he noticed that some the men, but all from the same clan, seemed to forget their mission and the fatal dangers that might be waiting for them. This contingent of clansmen seemed to grin in unison, and laughed as one, but Aton’s gloom was indestructible.

  As they marched unsupervised and without the discipline that a battle commander or a clan leader would provide, an inexperienced soldier attempted to steal a horse from a field near the road. He planned to load his gear on it. As he tried to trot the horse away, a young boy rushed from behind a bush and grabbed the animal's mane. A struggle ensued. The young boy, with nostrils flared and wide eyes, stood his ground like a bold statue. The men, standing at rest in the roadway, exclaimed with laughter, and cheered for the boy. Men from different clans became so absorbed in the event that they entirely stopped thinking about their own battle ahead and their petty inter-clan rivalries. They verbally taunted the embarrassed warrior and offered cheers and encouragement to the child. Finally, the young boy hit the soldier across the thigh with a stick he had used to herd goats. His comrades delivered another sting with a roaring round of laughter. As he retreated from the young farm boy by the road, the string of words that assailed him hurt far worse than the whack from the angry child. He took a position in the rear of his group and marched quietly along.

  At nightfall, the columns broke into groups, and the fragments went into the fields to camp. Tents sprang up like weeds. Red campfires dotted the night. Aton kept from interacting with his joyful companions as much as circumstances would allow. He felt as though their cheeriness was a fatal disease. If he caught it, he would become soft against the seriousness of battle and would soon perish in death’s embracing arms. In the evening, he wandered a few paces into the gloomy darkness. From that little distance, the many fires, with the black forms of men passing back and forth in front of the red flickering flames, appeared demonic.

  Aton lay on the grass. The blades pressed tenderly against his cheek. The silver moon appeared as if it were perched on a treetop. The stillness of the night enveloped him like a blanket soaked with disappointment. Soft winds gently caressed him, but they could not massage away his self-pity. He wished that he was at home again, making the endless rounds from the house to the secluded forest and then back through his father’s gardens to return to his loving family. He remembered disparaging the level of security inside his clan’s stockade, but from his present point of view, there would have been no better place, where he could feel more secure at that moment, than home. Home was just a distant memory, something like a dream, a place he could go to only in a fantasy because that home did not exist anymore. The love of his life was far away, too. Lanzo’s murderous act, killing Malina Regalyon, had driven a wedge of expanding distance between Aton and Esina, where the bond of affection should have been. After pondering these thoughts of home, he confessed to himself that he was not really a warrior, and he seriously considered the fundamental differences between himself and those men who had actually experienced and survived battle.

  Although he was tired enough to have slept where he lay in the grass, he summoned the resolve to get up and find cover for the night. He went slowly to a tent and stretched himself on a blanket beside someone snoring loudly. In the eerie darkness of the tent, he had visions of the fanged monster of desertion that would claw at his back and cause him to flee during the night, while others were going calmly about their business. He admitted that he would not be able to cope with the imaginary creature hidden in the shadows of his imagination. He felt that every nerve in his body could feel the ogres slashing at his courage, while other men would remain solid and brave as they waited for the battle cry. He stared at the red, quivering reflection of a fire on the wall of his tent until he was exhausted and ill from the monotony of his suffering, and then he fell asleep.

  The following night, after an all-day march, the meandering columns filed across a stream. A glaring fire tinted the water to look like blood. Its rays, shining on the moving masses of troops, brought out mysterious shadows on their faces. Across on the other side, a dark and mysterious range of treetops curved against the sky. The insects of the night sang sadly, as if they were foreshadowing a tragic event. After crossing the water, Aton assured himself that at any moment the enemy would suddenly assault them from the woods. He kept his eyes vigilantly on the darkness at the forest’s edge, but the enemy did not attack the camp, and its soldiers slept safely throughout the night.

  In the morning, the traveling warriors jogged along a narrow road that led deep into the forest. Eventually, Grinald’s army sat down again and Aton had time to think, continuing his perpetual thoughts regarding his bravery and the fate that awaited him in battle. The odor of the peaceful forest was in the men's nostrils. The sound of monotonous axe blows rang through the trees, and the insects serenaded them like a choir.

  The next early dawn, a soldi
er kicked him in the leg, and then, before he was entirely awake, he found himself running down a road in the midst of men who were panting from the sprint. His gourd canteen banged rhythmically on his thigh, and his quiver bumped him softly. He tried to run in such a way as to avoid hitting the other men with the bow in his swinging arm. He was bewildered, still groggy. As he ran with his companions, he vigorously tried to think about what was happening, but all he knew was that if he fell down, those coming behind would trample him. He needed all of his mental and physical abilities to guide him over and past obstacles in the road. He felt like an unruly mob carried him along.

  The sun spread its revealing rays, and one by one, groups of fellow archers burst into view. Aton wondered if the time had come. He was about to be measured. He instantly saw that it would be impossible for him to escape from the moving ranks. They surrounded him on all sides, enclosing him. He was in a moving box. As he recognized that fact, it occurred to him that he had no vested interest in the battle. These men were strangers to him, not from his clan or even from close to his home. This was not how he really wanted to test his manhood. He could gain nothing from it, but he could lose everything. Protecting his family and conquering a sworn enemy had merit, but blindly attacking a strange city was purely mercenary. At least mercenaries were paid for their endeavors. Aton knew he was not much different from a slave. He was only worth as much to the warlord as dogs thrown into a pit to fight for their lives. His circumstances had dragged him here, and now his unfortunate fate was taking him to the enemy for slaughter.

  They slid down a bank and wallowed across a little stream. The current moved slowly on, like a sad tear flowing down a scarred cheek, and in the shaded water, minnows seemed to peer at the scene with unhappy eyes from the calm of a shallow pool near the bank. On the other side, ants marched in columns like warriors across the dirt. Aton stepped on these little soldiers in the same manner that he believed the impending enemy was ready to trample on him. As the archers climbed the bank on the farther side, they heard the enemy’s battle cry and swords thumping on shields. Aton forgot many things that had troubled him as he felt a sudden impulse of curiosity. He scrambled up the bank with a speed that a murderous warrior could hardly exceed. He expected a battle scene. There was a field surrounded by a forest. Spread over the grass and in among the tree trunks, he could see moving lines of swordsmen and their opponents who were running back and forth, and an occasional arrow or spear dotted the landscape. A flag fluttered in the distance.