Never given death even a second
thought. But now it would not leave his mind. A quick slash with
a knife, a blow to the head, a fell from a crag. And it is over.
The only death he had ever know was that of his Father. And he
had been quite young. It had been lonesome without him, sad.
But he had not understood how very final it was. He had always
thought, in a childish way, that his Father would return.
Perhaps, strangely, even 'til now.
He hadn't thought of his Father for a long while. He knew not
why, but tears welled from his eyes. For a few moments he sat
beneath the tree, sobbing. Now I begin to understand. How
strange, after all these years. And yet he had always missed his
Father. But he had never cried before. He shook his head.
His Mother had cried. He remembered, at night, listening to her
sobs. He had walked to her bed, hugged her, and she kissed him.
But he had not really understood. Now he did. How very strange.
How insensitive we are, unknowingly.
Biting his lip he rose, glanced back toward the escarpment.
With an effort he brought his thoughts once more to the hunt.
Did the deer ever think of death? Was the buck fearful,
constantly watchful for the hunter? How very strange the world!
He began his descent, wide-eyed and watchful. There could be
others around any tree, any boulder!
His concern was not warranted, for he met neither brigands nor
wild beast. The mountain slopes were silent. As though the men
had never existed, had never disturbed the peace and calm of the
placid heights.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35