The stone-lined pool on the back bailey has transformed from ice to liquid stillness. The sun glances across the mirror of its surface through a narrow wedge between retreating clouds and the horizon, past and future parting, an opening for reflection.
Six months ago, Cassandra stumbled into our camp stammering a prophecy of coming days of darkness, a prelude to the grendel's challenge, a prologue to chapters now read.
The siege has finally lifted. The final round has found its mark. During the night the grendel's army abandoned their camp, some deserting, others dispersing to their caves. Scars mar the hills and fields where fighting raged and army's slept, black reminders that will green and fade with time.
On battlement, the trebuchet lay in pieces, disassembled so the mage-general and his mercenary band can load it onto wagons in preparation for the next battle, someone else's battle. Stacked as unshaved timbers, it looks less martial, less deadly, perhaps a watchtower, a wellhead, the skeleton of a hall. One day.
Though the arsenal stands empty, the fighting has not ended. Hemogoblins still conduct commando raids at twilight. Cackling imps still pilfer her salt, occasionally stealing a memory. Minor elementals still torment her with flame without warning. Sentries remain posted. Pickets patrol beyond the wall. Where we thought to grant leave in the brief respite between phases, our timetable advanced with the enemy's retreat. Even as we clean up the detritus of siege, cloven shields, shattered swords, rent links of chain, we service our equipment for seven weeks in the field.
Wandering through the now open gates it is difficult not to feel a sense of loss. There has been purpose to the months of fighting, our time scripted, spontaneity reserved for sanity and riposte. The narrow spaces between buildings echo with ghosts of that activity, pale specters of the loneliness and fatigue. Shades whose translucent faces mouth a haunting question: is where we were still where we want to be? The answer requires time and contemplation, luxuries that remain in short supply.
With our eyes focused elsewhere, winter turned to spring, spring to summer. And midway to autumn before this campaign ends.
© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III
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There is a biblical expression about beating swords into plowshares. I always liked that vision, reforging swords into something peaceful and productive. Which is where the idea of what the disassembled trebuchet might one day become came from. Maybe one day when we figure out how to beat this disease (and I mean all cancer, not just one).
Even with chemo being over, some of the side effects still lingered for Karen. Foods still tasted strange, though that eventually went away. Memory loss, confusion and lack of concentration continued to affect her. As they do today. Not debilitating, just enough to notice and sometimes frustrate her even three years later.
This was the beginning of a time I began to feel a bit lost. In a way, I liked having my days full as it meant I didn’t think about what was going on, just what needed to be done on any given day. With that gone, I started thinking about had just happened and what might have been.
And the journey wasn’t over yet, so I had to stay alert. We still had a long way to travel before we could call it the end.
Picture notes: This is a great shot Karen took looking out through an arrow slit onto the moat of Beaumaris Castle in Wales. I love her ability to capture scenes like this.
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