Every year is the same. The events may differ between individuals, but in the end, we live rather cyclical lives. We transition from the raining season to the dry season, then back to the rainy season again. We grow our crops, they wither and die, and then the land is rejuvenated once more. There’s nothing we can ever do to stop it, so why bother trying? I used to think that way. The dry season has ways of changing everything you think, though. The dry season has ways of playing with your mind.
The best way to start my tale of… The best way to start would be to give you a brief, but accurate layout of the land. We, I, my village, my people, my family, whatever descriptive noun you wish to use, all live in a small valley between what I can only assume to be small mountains. We are surrounded by trees on all sides that extend for quite some distance; too far of a distance for one to travel at once. At some point throughout the forest, not particularly too deep in, is a river that provides us with enough fresh water to live, most of the time. We tend to get by just fine without seeing our numbers dwindle too much.
Every so often, the villagers chose from the youth to go on missions into the forest and across the river. For the most part, it seemed easy enough, so I never got too excited when they passed me over for the boys or stronger girls. The ‘trek’ as it was called seemed to me more like busy work for the problem children than anything else. Of course, all of the people chosen felt some sense of pride in taking on this ‘trek’. The elders probably did this on purpose. I had no way of knowing the truth.
When I was younger… When I was a child, I had many problems. I would sit in the corner of my home and observe the room. I would move around the furniture to make the room flow. I would cover the walls with clay to accent the interior. I would never go outside. I would never play with the others. I would never speak.
My health was in question by many in the village, but as I never once bothered them personally, nothing came as a result. Occasionally I was bed ridden and could not carry out my daily tasks. Whether I was in bed or my corner though, not many people noticed me. No, that can’t be right. I’m sure they noticed me. Maybe not everyone, but at least some people noticed me. My parents noticed. My neighbors noticed. The elders certainly noticed. So, many people noticed me. They just didn’t see me. The invisible child of the mountains; don’t involve yourself, it’s better to stay away.
During the rainy season, nobody gave me a second thought, or rather, my behavior was regarded as more normal. Nobody likes the rain. Nobody likes the thunder. Nobody likes hammers crashing down on war drums. The rain was exceptionally loud, so it was normal to avoid it. Nobody likes screaming wind. Nobody likes thieving waters. Nobody can change any of it though, so why bother even trying? I used to think that way.
Through easy or tough times, no matter what conditions we faced, the rainy season always ended and would be replaced by the dry season. They say the children loved the heat. I suppose I was never a child. I suppose I was wrong.
I questioned everything. I never asked a soul. My inquisitive nature was always overshadowed by something; respect to never speak out of turn, fear to ever speak. I loved my parents; as much as any child could. Nothing they did was ever harmful. Nothing they harmed was ever on purpose. They knew my favorite dish. They fed me rice with every meal. I learned to love rice.
The dry season brought with it enough rice to fill my stomach. The rainy season staved off my hunger. The dry season drew me as far into the ground as possible. The rainy season accepted my nature. The dry season fought the rainy season. I think the rainy season won. I think I may always be a foolish child. Maybe I never was. Maybe things can never truly change. I used to think that way.
I started to know things were strange when my father stopped standing over me at night. As I attempted to sleep in the darkness, I always felt a large presence above me. One day however, during the rainy season, it vanished. Without a trace, my… angel? My protector? Whoever, whatever stood over me started passing me over. I’m sure it was my father. No one else cared for my being as well as did. When my father stopped standing over me at night, I knew things were changing, but how I did not know; yet.
Adolescence is nothing more than a period marked by bodily changes and fluids. Perhaps my father left for that reason. I hadn’t a clue. What was happening to me was as normal as anything else I had done. When all you know is a life like mine, change is never scary. Change is always terrifying. Hope and despair are opposite sides of the same coin. Things can always get better. Situations can always get worse. You are only as safe as the walls you hide behind. If only time felt of concrete.
My mother grew tired of seeing my lanky body huddled in the house. The rainy season was coming to a close, and my lease on hiding was coming to its expiration. Without my father around, I could not face anything. I had less to face. Hours turned to minutes. Hammers fell softer until the beating came to a close. My walls came down to the realization that the rainy season was over. I used to think that nothing ever changes. The dry season has ways of taunting you.
My newfound age brought with it consequences. My behavior was no longer tolerated, and as soon as the rain fell to a halt, I was forced outside. The white sun burned my skin. It felt as if tears were being pulled from my flesh. Without the forest, I was not sure how anyone could survive this weather. Without the forest, I was not sure how I could live.
The elders got together to make their orders for the current seasons ‘trek’. Much to my surprise; much to my chagrin, I was among the chosen children. I felt a twinge in my heart. People could see me. The invisible child had come to light.
Our group was small; perhaps a dozen of us in total. I knew one of them by face, and three by name. I thought I could get through another year without facing these conditions. I was wrong. I let life progress without me for too long, and this was my punishment. I was never ready for such a task. Perhaps I never would be. Perhaps there was never a chance.
We walked through the forest. The calming shade from the trees looming overhead soothed my skin. A cool blanket was thrown over my head and I had never been so thankful in my life for the touch of another. The ‘trek’ lasted quite a long while. Hours would pass before we could ever make it to the river, our supposed goal. It did not help that our group crawled through the forest at a pace not fit for the likes of even the most slovenly oaf; not that I would ever mind prolonged exposure to the shade I had learned to love faster and stronger than any person in the village.
The others spoke for the entire ‘trek’. They spoke of the games they played. The spoke of the things they learned. They spoke of the animals they killed. They spoke of many subjects that interested me less than nothingness itself. Nothing they spoke of drew me closer, and in fact pushed me away. I did not walk side by side with them. I did not participate in their time wasting fun. I did not impede their actions in any way, nor did I aid them. I wanted to bask in the darkness of my forest for as long as possible, but I also wished to rid myself of the unwarranted company. So I maintained my silent composure and walked forward until we all gathered at the river.
Never before had I seen the mighty river, flowing down through our valley with such power. It was a magnificent sight.
Never before had I seen the mighty river, flower down through our valley of corpses with such power. It was a malevolent sight.
Each rainy season, outsiders take the opportunity to invade our lands in pursuit of unattainable glory. Each rainy season, our strongest men take up arms and fight the outsiders to the brink of death. Each rainy season, our elders hold a vigil for the few fallen who would never return. Each rainy season, our drums are beaten to drown out the screams of the fallen. Each rainy season, our blades are sharpened to the finest point imaginable. Each rainy season, our blades are tested against the flesh of the outsiders. Each rainy season, the outsiders are left to writhe in pain along the river. Each rainy season, our drums are repaired with the outsider’s skin.
Each dry season, the children are sent to dispose of the bodies. Each dry season, the children are sent to revitalize the land. Each dry season, the children train their muscles through a vigorous ‘trek’. Each dry season, the children prepare for adulthood.
The others each grabbed a body indiscriminately and waded through the river. The stronger ones carried two at a time. I examined the corpses closely. I grabbed the one third closest to me. It had a familiar build. I dragged the body across the river and to the rice fields. The previous harvest had seemingly destroyed the land to absolution. How little will I ever know?
We each made our trips until the river was back to its purity. Some of the others washed their faces with the flowing waters. I kept silent and stayed back. Once the others were out of sight, I crossed the river one more time. I examined the field closely. I dispersed the clusters of corpses to a more even order. The wind blew down my face as if to approve. My skin began to weep. I crossed the river a final time and walked back through my forest; alone. My body ached from my first ‘trek’. I slept through the night for the first time I can ever remember that night.
I used to think things could never change. Life was a cyclical flow that could never be disrupted by even the most influential of people. I used to fear the power of time. I used to hide myself away behind as many walls as I could. I used to think that there was nothing I could ever do. I was wrong. I used to think that way. The dry season opened my eyes to the truth. I know now, more than ever, that I can never change anything. I know now, more than ever that I cannot stop change. I know now, more than ever, about the wonders of the shade. I know now, more than ever, that I love the forest. I used to think I was helpless. The dry season has ways of toying with your mind.
