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(The second part of this story is an adapted version of a short story I posted here a few months ago. I've now decided to extend it into something bigger.
It's my first fully fledged story on this forum. Hope you enjoy it.)
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This is the sick land. This is madness.
We sixty are the outcasts- the dispossessed, the lame and the crazed. For years we have wandered through lands ever more hostile, at the mercy of the elements and the barbarians that hunted us across the strange lands. Last autumn we numbered nearly one hundred, but that winter was cruel and the spring scarcely kinder. There is barely one among us who is more than a tattered bundle of rags, skin and bone.
My own story? I joined this ragged band four years ago along with eight others who had survived when our village was razed by the raiders from the south. We were the ones who fled- those who fought are the ones who now lie crow-picked clean in the ashes of their huts. For a time I thought myself one of the fortunate ones, but no more. When the chill of night decends and the cold seeps into my bones I envy those who fell.
We joined up with one of the nomadic groups of outcasts that occasionally passed through our lands- the lowest of the low. In better days I had thrown stones at them to drive them away from our crops, but now I value the safety of their numbers. There are savage tribes who hunt down people such as we, but their raiding parties are small enough to make them think twice before attacking us. Our band is bigger than any other that I've seen, even in our depleted state. When sole outcasts meet us, they tend to stay with us, for we have one thing that sets us apart from other pathetic wanderers. It's him.
He is the oldest of us, and older than he has any right to be. I did not expect him to survive last winter, when we all froze and starved in the foothills, but he refuses to die. He has been wandering for years, longer than any of us, and there is a purpose to him for he hears voices that others don't. Once he was a warrior, a strong and deadly man, but his joints are now reddened and swollen with age and he walks only with difficulty and pain. His eyes are as clear as ever, though.
It's his eyes that always struck me. There is a sense that, even when he looks you straight in the eye, he is staring clean through you and beyond the horizon. Our wanderings are guided by him, and he has lead us consistently with the rising sun to our right for all these years as we headed to the land of cold and mists.
I can see him now- he's warming his hands by the fire outside his tent. Silhouetted against it's light his long white hair glows like a setting sun, but he can't bring light and warmth to this evil land. Some of us grew restless as he lead us relentlessly into this region of cold and misty swamps though none left. Then, two days ago, he brought us here and declared that we had reached his promised land- a slight and rocky promontory forming a near-island in the gloomy low trees of the marshlands.
It will support life, after a fashion. There is just enough good ground to graze a few sheep or goats, and there is bare foraging around, but this is not a welcoming country. The stink of rotting vegetation hangs sweet and heavy in the air, and clouds of biting flies swarm in the evenings. Already two of our children have fevers, and one may die tonight. This will be another hard winter, for we will face it with no stored crops and poor hunting around.
We are here because he saw this place many years before, and he knows that even if we will struggle to claw a living from this poor soil, and even if fevers may strike some of us down, the barbarian tribes will not come here. Though it is a poor home, it is at the very least a secure one and our few spears will hold it safe.
Two rings of hide tents streaked and stained with mildew. A low and smoking campfire at the centre of each ring, adding it's small mist to the late evening fog creeping in from the surrounding marshes. Inside the tents, tired and sick travellers huddled together for warmth. Outside- just the lame and hobbling seer, and the warrior who ran rather than fight. Beyond- the cold and creeping marshes stretch towards the ice-dappled seas.
We hang by a thread finer than the spider's.
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(Extract from the Primary School's history textbook "A very long time ago".
Six thousand years ago our ancestors first settled on what is now our capital city. It was very different then, because all around was forests and swamps. It must have seemed a very frightening place. Perhaps they went there thinking that enemies would be too scared to follow them.
The remains of tents have been found when the subway was made. Why not imagine you are one of those first settlers and draw a picture of yourself and your tent in your workbook?
***********************************
It's my first fully fledged story on this forum. Hope you enjoy it.)
_________________________________
This is the sick land. This is madness.
We sixty are the outcasts- the dispossessed, the lame and the crazed. For years we have wandered through lands ever more hostile, at the mercy of the elements and the barbarians that hunted us across the strange lands. Last autumn we numbered nearly one hundred, but that winter was cruel and the spring scarcely kinder. There is barely one among us who is more than a tattered bundle of rags, skin and bone.
My own story? I joined this ragged band four years ago along with eight others who had survived when our village was razed by the raiders from the south. We were the ones who fled- those who fought are the ones who now lie crow-picked clean in the ashes of their huts. For a time I thought myself one of the fortunate ones, but no more. When the chill of night decends and the cold seeps into my bones I envy those who fell.
We joined up with one of the nomadic groups of outcasts that occasionally passed through our lands- the lowest of the low. In better days I had thrown stones at them to drive them away from our crops, but now I value the safety of their numbers. There are savage tribes who hunt down people such as we, but their raiding parties are small enough to make them think twice before attacking us. Our band is bigger than any other that I've seen, even in our depleted state. When sole outcasts meet us, they tend to stay with us, for we have one thing that sets us apart from other pathetic wanderers. It's him.
He is the oldest of us, and older than he has any right to be. I did not expect him to survive last winter, when we all froze and starved in the foothills, but he refuses to die. He has been wandering for years, longer than any of us, and there is a purpose to him for he hears voices that others don't. Once he was a warrior, a strong and deadly man, but his joints are now reddened and swollen with age and he walks only with difficulty and pain. His eyes are as clear as ever, though.
It's his eyes that always struck me. There is a sense that, even when he looks you straight in the eye, he is staring clean through you and beyond the horizon. Our wanderings are guided by him, and he has lead us consistently with the rising sun to our right for all these years as we headed to the land of cold and mists.
I can see him now- he's warming his hands by the fire outside his tent. Silhouetted against it's light his long white hair glows like a setting sun, but he can't bring light and warmth to this evil land. Some of us grew restless as he lead us relentlessly into this region of cold and misty swamps though none left. Then, two days ago, he brought us here and declared that we had reached his promised land- a slight and rocky promontory forming a near-island in the gloomy low trees of the marshlands.
It will support life, after a fashion. There is just enough good ground to graze a few sheep or goats, and there is bare foraging around, but this is not a welcoming country. The stink of rotting vegetation hangs sweet and heavy in the air, and clouds of biting flies swarm in the evenings. Already two of our children have fevers, and one may die tonight. This will be another hard winter, for we will face it with no stored crops and poor hunting around.
We are here because he saw this place many years before, and he knows that even if we will struggle to claw a living from this poor soil, and even if fevers may strike some of us down, the barbarian tribes will not come here. Though it is a poor home, it is at the very least a secure one and our few spears will hold it safe.
Two rings of hide tents streaked and stained with mildew. A low and smoking campfire at the centre of each ring, adding it's small mist to the late evening fog creeping in from the surrounding marshes. Inside the tents, tired and sick travellers huddled together for warmth. Outside- just the lame and hobbling seer, and the warrior who ran rather than fight. Beyond- the cold and creeping marshes stretch towards the ice-dappled seas.
We hang by a thread finer than the spider's.
*******************************************
(Extract from the Primary School's history textbook "A very long time ago".
Six thousand years ago our ancestors first settled on what is now our capital city. It was very different then, because all around was forests and swamps. It must have seemed a very frightening place. Perhaps they went there thinking that enemies would be too scared to follow them.
The remains of tents have been found when the subway was made. Why not imagine you are one of those first settlers and draw a picture of yourself and your tent in your workbook?
***********************************
Original and engaging. Hope to see it continue soon. 
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