The Old Warrior

He arrives a sorry figure, gaunt, lean with stooped shoulders, carrying a broadsword strapped to his back. His mail is rusty, leather jerkin hardened from the rain, with leggings tied loosely as he limps to the battlement. He is an old man, scars show waxy in the pale light. A history of battles fought over the years. He is oblivious to those around. Young men draped in shinny mail with bejeweled swords, fashionable for the day. He suffers the taunts from others. Their bravado belies fear of the morrow’s battle, to become men or cowards as the fates cast their stones. He finds space to rest his weary frame. Crumbling to the earth, he wraps in a coarse wool shawl, falling into a fitful sleep, striking the demons that haunt him every night. Morning arrives to bugle and drum. Jeers greet the invader as he masses before the castle wall. Catapult and siege machines assault the stone with relentless fury, Ladders shoot up the granite ramparts, followed by an endless stream of footmen, overwhelming the defenders as the assailants gain a foothold. With a raging bellow, the old warrior wades into the melee. His broadsword sings while being drawn from its scabbard. Gone is the hunched old man, his white hair streams and head held high. He is young again, with purpose to which he was bred.....a hero. With the ease and strength of a beserker, he swings his sword two handed over his head. Sunlight glancing as it strikes yet another foe. Arrow and sword scarce touch him. Single handed he regains control of the battlement. The invaders falling back in the face of his frenzied attack. Seizing on his momentum, The defenders rally to the old warrior’s charge. The gates swing open with men and steel pouring onto the battlefield. The battle intensifies, Swords clash, arrows cloud the sun. The attack is routed with the invader fleeing for their lives. With the battle over; The warrior returns to old man. Sadness enters his eyes as he looks over the battle scene. Gazing at the smoking ruin, he listens to the cries of wounded on the stenchfilled air , such a waste... but it is all he has ever known...all he will know. He binds his wounds, gathers his meager belongings and slowly limps through the joyous throng. Invisible he walks amid the revelry, among the young men bragging to their ladies, how they faced an enemy with superior odds and won the day. A precious few do tip their hat, acknowledging the old man’s presence. For they know the true value of the old warrior’s contribution. He crosses the square, approaching the gate leading to the world beyond. Doggedly, he is searches for that elusive meaning to his existence. (c)  Jim  Feb/98Written February 1st, 1998 © on Jan 23 2002 03:43 PM PST   other