My father, my teacher, would often speak of the few things we could rely on. He knew this world was volatile, unpredictable. He knew that we would face things that he could not begin to understand. So he made sure that we knew that the only things that would never change was death and the war. We would die, one day, and it would most likely be because of the war.
There is always war, he said. Even in the quiet days, war is always there, waiting for someone to say the wrong thing.
He would then go on to say that while we could not prevent either of these things, that we should do everything within our power to make sure we werent responsible for either. Do not kill, and always say the right things.
He was right, too. War came to our shores. A mistranslated word by a rookie diplomat brought hell upon us. Where we were, in the mountains, avoided most of it. We were self sufficient up there and the invading armies left us alone – for the most part. What could we do? We werent soldiers, we werent anything. We werent helpful.
We could see the front line dragging across the plains, always inching closer to the mountains. The fear that we would be dragged into this fight increased by the day, but our father, not the leader of our village, but certainly influential, tried to maintain the peace. Told us that we were safe. That we werent part of this and they would fight themselves to death before they reached us.
He was wrong. My sisters and I were conscripted in the dying days of the war – not that we knew thats what they were. Very important people from the capital came and took anyone who could hold a weapon without hurting themselves away. Where we were taken to, I dont know. We were shoved and crowded into cramped vehicles, driven for an hour, unloaded and reloaded into another vehicle and the process repeated.
It took me a while to understand the point of this, and by the time I did, it was too late. They were separating us. Families would be torn apart and loaded on to different vehicles. Taken to different places. I lost my sisters that day and I never saw them again. The people I ended up in the camps with became my new family. We trained together, we ate together, we slept together. We even went to the bathroom together. I had heard stories about being in the army, and the reality was still worse than I could imagine.
I accepted these people as something like family, but it would never be a true replacement and my sisters would be acting the same way. I knew, intellectually, at least, that there was a chance of seeing them again if I played by the rules, did what I was told and followed the path to a higher position. In my heart, though, I had to lock that optimism away. We all knew what was out there; why we had been taken like we were. The odds of seeing each other again were slim. That thought kept me awake. It made me sloppy. I had to be better – for them. So I locked it away. I became the soldier they wanted. I made my mind ready for war while they honed my body.
My father would speak of the Miseries. Thats what he called them; he was not a fan of the word ‘Gods.’ He said there was a Misery for every bad thing that happened. One for death, one for war. There was one for a bad harvest, and another for a heavy blizzard. Some of the people of our village prayed to these things. Begging them not to unleash their fury on us. To leave us be.
My father would scoff at these people. He would call them fools, or worse. To believe that people like us, mere humans, could influence beings like the Miseries was childlike behaviour. They would do as they would do. To think that we had any power over these natural things was the height of hubris.
My older sister once asked him if there was a Misery for a good harvest? Or the birth of a healthy child. A misery for the rivers not flooding? He looked at her as if she had said she wanted to grow a second head. Those things, he said, they were up to us. We were those Miseries. We fought against the other ones. We made the good that was in the world. I dont think any of us understood what he was trying to say. My sisters, they would argue with him about it. They would say that if there were these beings that made the bad things happen, then why arent there ones that made the good things happen. But he had said all he was going to say. There was no arguing with him, which was the one thing I never liked about growing up with him. He was always right and no one, not even our mother, could convince him otherwise when an idea was lodged into his brain.
He would say, later, that these Miseries, they would be wherever there was a concentration of the bad things they controlled. Wherever there was open warfare, thats where the Misery of War would be. With Death not far behind.
Too late I realised he was talking in metaphors. That the idea of these things controlling our actions were meant to be seen as an abstraction. Too late I realised the dangers of that thinking; we were responsible for the good things, but victims of the bad. It takes the responsibility off of us.
But I was a soldier now. There are things that I am expected to understand. One of those things is that, if it is needed, to kill for my country. For its people. And, maybe, die for it. Its a hard ask but I know that the people who stand alongside me, who wear the same colours, who salute the same flag all understand the same thing. In this, I am not alone.
Our training has been so vastly different from how my father would teach us. He would say something and let us come to the conclusion on our own. Every conversation with him was a lesson about something, even if we werent actively aware of it. He would let us teach ourselves almost. But here, answers are forced upon us. We get questions and before we are even able to absorb them the answers are provided. Some of them arent right, and when I ask about them, Im told that it doesnt matter what I learned before, this is what Im learning now. So I just go along with it. I give them the answers that they want and they nod in approval. I stop understanding because I am not meant to understand. I lock away all of my fathers teachings in my heart, right next to the hope of seeing my sisters again.
We’re told that the invading army has been halted. That there is a chance, a slim one, but still a chance that the fighting has ended. We are, obviously, not told anything. We arent here to help plan anything. We are here to be thrown to the wolves and fight according to the plan they have etched out. My lesser family seem to think this is normal and ok. They think being here, as part of the fighting force is something to be proud of. I asked one of them, a farmer, if he chose to be here and he looked at me as if to say not choosing to be here was treason. Suddenly I realise how my father feels when he sees the gulf between what he knows and what we can understand. If this war is over, and they release us, I will never leave his side again. I will be his student more than I could ever be his daughter.
The fighting ended and we were released, as they promised. I, and the 1,500 others who made up my camp have no further obligation to the military. The others, the ones I was closest to during this time, they have no idea what to do. A few of them, including the farmboy, have asked if they could stay on. Theyve each been told no. I am not sure what to make of that. Im sure I could make sense of it after some consideration. But right now, I have to find my way home. I can see the mountains in the distance and the plains between here and there. I can make that in maybe a month.
Its quiet in the mountains. Its always quiet here. Ive missed it so much. Everywhere Ive been for the last three years has been so noisy, so busy. People refusing to take the time to enjoy what there is to offer.
There were times when the silence here annoyed me. When its quiet, you end up only hearing yourself. Sometimes I dont want to hear myself. I want to escape that. But when theres nothing to think about but the silence, your own thoughts inevitably come back. But now its the most amazing sound in the world and I kick myself for even thinking about not enjoying it before.
Heading up the trail towards the village, its clear that very few people have been through here recently. Either Im the first one back, or the last.
Theres no one waiting for me when I enter the village. No welcome party, no celebrations or cheers. There are a few people wandering the streets, their heads down as they go about their days. Its the same as I remember.
Someone whos name I dont remember, looks up as I trudge in, my military uniform muddy from the hike and my face tanned and scarred from the training. I must look totally different. I must look like someone from a horror story. A lone soldier, entering an isolated village. But an immediate flash of recognition flies across their face. They drop their bags and rush over and throw their arms around me. They know me, theyre happy to see me. And then their face drops.
Thats when they tell me. Theres a disease in the mountains, its everywhere and its taking everyone. Almost everyone in the village has it and its only a matter of time before everyone succumbs to it. They tell me that my father is one of the worst cases and hes likely to die within the week.
As I rush to the house, I ask about my sisters. No one has heard anything. The war ended months ago, they said. Each and every day they wait for us to return. But Im the first. Maybe the only.
I kneel before my fathers bed and he looks at me with tired eyes and a relieved smile. He whispers thanks to some unknown god that we didnt know he believed in and takes my hand. He doesnt blame me. He doesnt blame anyone. Death, after all, is unchanging.
I ask him to tell me the story again, the story of the Misery of Death and how they are always around places with lots of death. I ask him whether its here now. He tells me that the Misery of Death has left this place. Its work is done, although delayed. The only one left is the Misery of the Plague and its sitting in its cave a small way up the mountain.