A rustling sound shook the air as leather was pulled up over heels and shoulders, as boots and jackets were tugged on, and pants zipped — a shuffling in the dark. Red quilts were strewn over the bed, a mess. A couple of them, now fully dressed, splayed their hands over the quilts halfheartedly, not making enough of an effort to smooth them.
Dawn broke, quick as knives tore through the skin and flesh of an apple, and they were strapped up and ready to go. Out they went, pushing through wooden doors and wooden doors, the chill not nearly thick enough to break through their armor, but settling instead on the knives they held at their belts. For although they all were skilled at peeling apples, they were much more used to slashing something else.
The outfits were the most important part, beating even the skill and courage. Animal hide, the lot of it, cured and cut and sewn with deft, tight stitches. They had been blessed by those at the temple at the end of the long path. The temple lay in the center of the plains, equidistant from the forest edges, but they built the cabins along the border. For theirs was work that required proximity, even as proximity demanded sturdiness of heart and mind. The forest, after all, held things to be afraid of.
But the outfits also included metal — metal even in addition to the weapons. Metal hooks and belts that held it all together, keeping each of the pieces separate but linked. Keeping all of it on right. The whipping sound when cut leather flew through the air was unmistakable; a result of several specific situations, none of them good. They did not want to be put on high alert for nothing. This was one reason the outfits had to be so secure.
One might ask, why leather? The enemy was, after all, formidable, and metal was known by man to be a well-fortified protection. So why — why leather?
The enemy did not wear leather. The enemy wore cotton, and woven cloth from the plants that grew by the rivers. The enemy despised leather and despised metal and despised them . Really, it was because leather imbibed the trials of nature (the sun, the holy water) much better than metal, and it did not rust. Metal was harder to come by, more cumbersome, and somehow worse. Heavier. Less warm. Less personal. Less replaceable.
Who had a forge, in this day and age?
Some slung crossbows over shoulders, and some quivers, and one or two even broadsword or glaive — but no one carried anything, for carrying anything in the hands was an invitation to get it used on your unsuspecting self. You might think you are suspecting, after having gone through the ritual of putting on the outfit, after having tossed crossbow over shoulder or sheathed dagger in belt, but the most you can be is suspecting of your own credulousness. Aware that you may be caught off guard, the more deeply you tread in the forest. This is something they all know.
The first time you go into the forest, you always think you are smarter than the enemy, and that is how it gets you. You must never think you are better. You can’t help it, the first time, but you would do well to learn quickly.
But carrying anything is a bad idea.
The arms of the forest caressed theirs like a sweet embrace of a blind man, one that is executed poorly in the realm of sight but in metaphor well-intentioned. Branches brushed against their skin and the taut leather that covered it. The branches shriveled a little at their tips, disliking the domesticated feeling the leather held. The people did not notice and kept onwards, treading over land that should have become beaten down to form a path, but didn’t really, just kept growing and going as it went. Their boots hit the earth with thuds that were wholesome and truly present, and they kept stepping, unaware that that was not how things were done here.
Stone shards and wood stakes stopped them in their tracks, and they gazed up, slowly giving into the temptation to take something, anything, into their hands. Reasoning that if everyone else were doing it, at least they would all die together and not alone, as is the common fear. Bolts shuddered into place and a broadsword hissed through the air to rest its point on a root, strong hands gripping its hilt. The building rose before them, column of steam and smoke in the background parting the otherwise clear air.
There were berry bushes in the forest at this time, and their red juice would have been easily noticeable if perhaps everything else hadn’t been so red at that moment.
Leather whipped and cotton whispered as it ruffled in the wind, and two sides clashed for perhaps the last time. The funny thing is, either one of them could have lived their entire, God-given lifespan if they hadn’t gone on this trip. Not that this trip is particularly special. Any trip within the next eternity could have been this trip.
Every one of them could have lived. It’s just that they didn’t.
Dawn broke, quick as knives tore through the skin and flesh of an apple, and they were strapped up and ready to go. Out they went, pushing through wooden doors and wooden doors, the chill not nearly thick enough to break through their armor, but settling instead on the knives they held at their belts. For although they all were skilled at peeling apples, they were much more used to slashing something else.
The outfits were the most important part, beating even the skill and courage. Animal hide, the lot of it, cured and cut and sewn with deft, tight stitches. They had been blessed by those at the temple at the end of the long path. The temple lay in the center of the plains, equidistant from the forest edges, but they built the cabins along the border. For theirs was work that required proximity, even as proximity demanded sturdiness of heart and mind. The forest, after all, held things to be afraid of.
But the outfits also included metal — metal even in addition to the weapons. Metal hooks and belts that held it all together, keeping each of the pieces separate but linked. Keeping all of it on right. The whipping sound when cut leather flew through the air was unmistakable; a result of several specific situations, none of them good. They did not want to be put on high alert for nothing. This was one reason the outfits had to be so secure.
One might ask, why leather? The enemy was, after all, formidable, and metal was known by man to be a well-fortified protection. So why — why leather?
The enemy did not wear leather. The enemy wore cotton, and woven cloth from the plants that grew by the rivers. The enemy despised leather and despised metal and despised them . Really, it was because leather imbibed the trials of nature (the sun, the holy water) much better than metal, and it did not rust. Metal was harder to come by, more cumbersome, and somehow worse. Heavier. Less warm. Less personal. Less replaceable.
Who had a forge, in this day and age?
Some slung crossbows over shoulders, and some quivers, and one or two even broadsword or glaive — but no one carried anything, for carrying anything in the hands was an invitation to get it used on your unsuspecting self. You might think you are suspecting, after having gone through the ritual of putting on the outfit, after having tossed crossbow over shoulder or sheathed dagger in belt, but the most you can be is suspecting of your own credulousness. Aware that you may be caught off guard, the more deeply you tread in the forest. This is something they all know.
The first time you go into the forest, you always think you are smarter than the enemy, and that is how it gets you. You must never think you are better. You can’t help it, the first time, but you would do well to learn quickly.
But carrying anything is a bad idea.
The arms of the forest caressed theirs like a sweet embrace of a blind man, one that is executed poorly in the realm of sight but in metaphor well-intentioned. Branches brushed against their skin and the taut leather that covered it. The branches shriveled a little at their tips, disliking the domesticated feeling the leather held. The people did not notice and kept onwards, treading over land that should have become beaten down to form a path, but didn’t really, just kept growing and going as it went. Their boots hit the earth with thuds that were wholesome and truly present, and they kept stepping, unaware that that was not how things were done here.
Stone shards and wood stakes stopped them in their tracks, and they gazed up, slowly giving into the temptation to take something, anything, into their hands. Reasoning that if everyone else were doing it, at least they would all die together and not alone, as is the common fear. Bolts shuddered into place and a broadsword hissed through the air to rest its point on a root, strong hands gripping its hilt. The building rose before them, column of steam and smoke in the background parting the otherwise clear air.
There were berry bushes in the forest at this time, and their red juice would have been easily noticeable if perhaps everything else hadn’t been so red at that moment.
Leather whipped and cotton whispered as it ruffled in the wind, and two sides clashed for perhaps the last time. The funny thing is, either one of them could have lived their entire, God-given lifespan if they hadn’t gone on this trip. Not that this trip is particularly special. Any trip within the next eternity could have been this trip.
Every one of them could have lived. It’s just that they didn’t.