Carnage

The night mourned like a betrayed lover.

It fumed as its face drew angry frowns. It cried, roared and spat infuriated sparks, firing up the woods in its wake. Not a speck of twinkle remained to be seen in the heinous gray. The heavens were livid, aching with vengeance. The wind displaced the muddy earth; it was torn out of its cozy bed. The rain thrashed soft petals as they fell bruised and flowed along with bloody mud. The fierce drops raped young buds till they forcefully flowered and finally fell. As the sky flooded the earth, the tides rose up and fought the tempest. The trees defended the earth against the fearless winds. They valiantly wrestled on, as the storm applauded a premature victory.

All other life lay obsolete in this battle.

All hope lay forgotten, as not a whistle defied the carnage.

It was war between heaven and earth.

A young boy, in a torn cape and tattered boots, was dragging his frail body against the gashes and pricks of wet winds and torn twigs. The banter between earth and above frightened him. He wondered if he had lost his way in this odd communion of nature, which so presented itself as a consequence of the great battle. He checked his compass again to ensure he was still fighting the north.

His eyes squinted, their openings covered with eyelash dew. His face was weeping from the sweat and rain. He held a feeble, lanky walking stick with one hand and with the other he held together his cape in front of his wheezing chest. On his feet there were two peculiar boots. One brown one black, one suede one leather, one broken from the heel and the other torn at the right big toe. His calves extended up to his thighs in a thin cylindrical manner. There were bruises on this knees and dried blood stains on his shin. He had obviously suffered a fall and cut himself, maybe falling off steep edgy stairs. He held plastic over his head like a skillfully crafted hat, made to sit steadily, as he slipped and stumbled to no apparent destination.
He wore not even an expression more than his measly outfit.

It wouldn’t show if he shivered, or if his heart jumped at sinister sounds, or if he palpitated from exhaustion or if he suffered physical pain. What he thought or if he grieved, what he desired and what he believed. Being so inconsequential in the great battle, he could be easily neglected.

Yet, he walked on with withheld purpose.

As he heaved his fragile body over a fallen log, he fell along it, temporarily letting go of his cape and staff as he vainly tried to avoid scraping his body against the thorny bark. He lay cut, and naked, on the glazing pine leaves as they recorded the furious dance of lightening in the sky. He regretted being delayed. The emotion, though naturally anticipated, was lost in the moment, considering his insignificance. As he rolled over on his back, he saw black roaring clouds, threatening him, marking him. He felt ill mannered raindrops patter on his face, not for once considerate of his state, as though his body didn’t exist.

And then, just before he saw his past and purpose flash before his eyes, he saw that beautiful crooked streak of pure white as it slashed, like a whip, on a weak and unassuming, nameless tree. He saw golden sparks at work as they enflamed the entire tree like gangrene spreading from a finger through the entire body. He watched the fire consume the tree and excrete it, as ashes. He saw other twigs of fire; spurting out from the debris and lighting up the pine covered earth, mimicking a giant volcano as it consumes all life around it.

It seemed that the earth was now sacrificing itself to pay for its defiance, to heavens and above.

He was a part of that sacrifice now, unborn and unrequited. Just moments ago, he had been worthless. He had been braving nature as a whole, for some personal purpose, now of no consequence to him either. Now, he was holy sacrifice, chosen by his earth. His place in this battle was sacrosanct. He watched as the fire approached him. Soon it would devour him like Satan’s hell hounds. He waited for the pain, while he withered at the insinuation of it, whispered by the blazing pine bed, not even six feet from him.

He didn’t run, he couldn’t. He was chosen by nature and terribly weakened, so that he wouldn’t defy his creator and the holy sacrifice.

He waited patiently as the flames engulfed him. He didn’t feel alone. The forest was to be sacrificed with him; he could sense the fear in it. Young saplings and nipped buds; uprooted and laid alongside him at the altar. The twigs and leaves stopped revolting as they whispered in song, their final prayer. They trembled as the icy wind taunted them. He prayed with the forest as he prayed for it.

Soon it was over, though for three days the forest burned. It was penitence. Not a sound now emerged from the barren hill. No life was to ever return to this grave. It was marked by the wrath of heavens above and the sacrifice of the ones below.