Sabledrake Magazine
August, 2004
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Passing Thoughts
Copyright © 2004 Carl Horne
Surrender is unthinkable!
I refuse to even contemplate ceding defeat to the malevolent despair gnawing at the fringes of my awareness. I've been stripped of so much by these filthy vermin; my dignity I shall carry with me into the devouring flames of my funeral pyre.
Even now, my beloved village all that I hold near and dear … my very reason for existence falls to the invaders' torch.
The men, the aged, and even the children have long since been slaughtered. Only a handful of young women remain alive, much to their regret. These poor, pitiful creatures have naught but days, weeks, even years of torment and abject slavery before them; followed only by their deaths.
I saw it all.
The inhuman invaders scurrying out of the dark winter night; the scrofulous horde rushing into the village to split up and enter the buildings in scurrilous clusters.
But I, creaky old relic that I am, was incapable of voicing a warning.
I was just as impotent at defense; all I could do was sit in mute witness to the slaughter, rapine and looting of all I have ever loved in my long, long life.
Over the centuries I have seen my share of joys and sorrows. Luckily, I've enjoyed more of the former than I've suffered the latter. But of the latter, this night's slaughter and destruction has been by far my worst experience.
Perhaps it's for the best that soon – in mere moments actually – I will be put to the torch by this pestiferous rabble. Only in death can these bitterly hateful memories be purged from my consciousness!
As the blazing heat and dying groans of my fellows fill the starless, smoke-enshrouded night, the survivors' piteous whimpers and despairing wails can be heard loudly over the crackling flames and collapsing buildings.
After these pitiful remnants of my once happy and prosperous village are mercilessly herded out in naked, cowering clusters of grief, only I remain - the sole survivor - as yet untouched by the inferno. All others are either dead or in flames.
As dawn's light begins transforming the smoke-laden eastern sky into a roiling mass of sickly greenish-gray, a few remaining invaders crowd around, and with a wicked glee, they set me alight.
My fellows have all ceased their dying groans and shrill screams. But they were young, so cannot be faulted their weakness.
I, on the other hand, am centuries old far older that all others in the village. Over the long years I had become central to the village, and village life revolved around and within me. Therefore, I must die with the dignity my age and position warrants.
Originally a lone hostel along an out-of-the-way stretch of country road, I had become the Meeting Hall and gathering place for the village which grew up around me.
Hundreds of births, deaths, joys and sorrows have I witnessed.
Now, my better memories sooth my dying agony, and give me strength as my timbered walls and age-blackened rafters succumb to the flames, and I finally collapse into fiery death.
The End