Prairie Villagers
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My birthday was private in our new house, our new city, our new life. There were none of my friends from preschool; nothing but my nuclear family and our big, new house. Alone, perhaps, but not lonely, I was content with my surroundings and young enough to have no attachments to the people I would never see again.
My birthday present was a plastic suit of armor. It was roman in design, with a detailed breastplate, helmet, sword and shield. I donned this armor, wielded this toy weapon and went out into the world. The backyard was huge and had a great tree growing at its center. I went to the gate at the end of the yard and out, into the creek behind.
It was fall in Middle America and the leaves were piled as if by the truckload. I wandered down into the dry creekbed, taking in this place where I would spend my years. Then, as I walked farther down the side of that empty river, I saw a
commotion ahead. There were two crowds of children, situated at either sides of the creek up on the banks and compacted into battalions.
As I neared it became clear that the two sides were at odds with one another. Each hurled shouts of conquest and insults at the other across the expanse, along with a barrage of acorns Each legion seemed to be prepared to do battle on into infinity. Each mighty army stood strong in numbers and war cries, and it was at this very moment that I decided I had a duty to join the fight.
Perhaps it was some warrior instinct that pushed me on to engage this enemy, seemingly at the flip of a coin, of which I knew not their plight nor their complaint, and to join the struggle of an aggressor of whom I had as much history. I teamed with those who stood at the western end of the creekside. Entering their phalanx from the rear and making my way to the central front line, I stood beside a boy of my height whose hair was sandy red and was smiling as he lunged forth his ammunition.
He took one look at me and my armor and told me to start throwing as hard as I could. I resigned my sword to take up a load of acorns from the piles that had been made. Taking aim at someone, anyone, on the other side I let them go, among the cloud of slings and arrows that careened in either direction between the target and myself. Using my shield, held tight in my left hand, I deflected the enemy's onslaught as I counterattacked with my right.
I felt like some hero, some Odysseus with his dozen men. The war waged on into the afternoon, and was over when the opposing side grew too tired to keep it up. We had claimed victory unanimously, and our cheers rose as the fireflies in dusk. This allegiance that I was a stranger to was suddenly welcoming my bravery and my preparedness. After the battle the sandy red-haired kid put his arm around my shoulder, told me his name was Mark, and offered a seat at his dinner table that night.