One Tin Soldier

‘Listen children, to a story, that was written long ago,'



The Bard’s voice rang out, strong and deep and throbbing with joy, as she began the new song.  No one had heard it before, the slow, rhythmic beat of the drum under the Bard’s old, cracked, scarred hands, with the network of scars crisscrossing them, called the young ones from their play, the men from their sewing, and the women from their forges and armories.  They gathered around the Bard, silent, and waited for the old woman’s voice to weave magic for them.

‘Bout a kingdom, on a mountain, and the valley far below,”



The people looked about them, at their barren desert land, and slowly it faded, replaced by green and gold and red, brilliant colours, and, towering above them, a great leviathan of a mountain, whose tip seemed to puncture the sky.  Around them the villagers went about the tasks as they did in Darden, the small village in the desert, but everyone, from the infant in mother’s arms to the blind, deaf matriarch, knew that they were somewhere far away, in a time long since gone.  They smiled, care and worry dropping away, as they turned simultaneously to the Bard, whose voice rang out strong.



‘On the mountain, was a treasure, buried deep, beneath a stone,

And the valley people swore they’d have it for their very own.”



And so it happened.  The council of elders of the village of Schroeder met in the center of town, and after much argument, a decision was reached.  They must have the treasure.  It could not be right that the walled city perched precariously on the side of the mountain, which seemed always to be filled with laugher and song, should have so much, while the small, grey town in the middle of the overgrown valley struggled through their daily lives, bickering, growing old, and with it bitter, and then buried and forgotten.  The people of Darden, invisible to those of Schroeder, turned back to their Bard, who began the chorus, her bass voice clear and strong as the bells that rung in the Schroeder church.



‘So go ahead and hate your neighbor, go ahead and cheat a friend.

Do it in the name of Heaven, you can justify it in the end.

There won’t be any trumpets blowing, come the Judgement Day,

But the bloody morning after, one tin soldier rides away.’



And to the amazed eyes of the Dardenis, the scene before them faded, and they saw only a sun rising among scarlet clouds, and silhouetted against it a figure on horseback that blazed with reflected light.  Blinded by the great orange disk of the sun, the people of Darden looked away, blinking, and were immediately back in Schroeder, listening to the ringing of the bells.



‘So the people of the valley sent a message, up the hill,

Asking for the buried treasure, tons of gold for which they’d kill,’



And to each Dardeni it seemed that they sat behind a brightly-clad Schroedi messenger, mounted on a gray mare who ran like shadows before the coming of day.  Bells strung along her bridle rang out like silver as she galloped.  As the sun began to set, the messenger reined in his horse before the great oaken gates of the city upon the hill, and upon the gates was written in gold, “Excelsior!”



The gates swung open silently, and the messenger entered, and when accosted by a sentry explained to her that the Schroedi had sent him with an important message for the merry queen of the fair city Excelsior.  The sentry dismounted, and motioned for the messenger to do the same, leading the Schroedi man to Queen Yelesse, the ruler of the Excelsi.



‘Came an answer, from the mountain, with our sisters, we will share,

All the secrets of our mountain, all the treasure buried there.’



And it was true.  The messenger returned, was summoned before the matriarchs, and told them that the Excelsi would not give them all for which they asked.  They grew angry, unable to accept a half-portion, shouting that they had suffered long enough, the Excelsi had for too long lived untroubled, that the mountain’s wonders were theirs by right.  The matriarchs did not hesitate, even the men left the village that day, and the Bard’s deep, rich voice rang out in a chorus that was at once joyful and sorrowful.



‘So go ahead and hate your neighbor, go ahead and cheat a friend.

Do it in the name of Heaven, you can justify it in the end.

There won’t be any trumpets blowing come the Judgement Day.

But the bloody morning after, one tin soldier rides away.’



Again the bloody sunrise, the lone figure, the blinding light, and again it faded, leaving the Dardeni again in Schroeder.



‘So the valley cried with anger, mount your horses, draw your swords!’



And it was true.  The matriarchs called the Schroedi to arms, and they rose up.  Swords that had long slept in their sheaths were drawn, armor long since left to rust was donned, even the men swung themselves into saddles, preparing to make use of the little training they had been given in fighting.  The small army galloped steadily upward, toward brightly lit Excelsior.

‘So they killed the mountain people, so they won their just reward!’



The gates of Excelsior were wrenched from their hinges, the guards who tried to stand against the Schroedi were trampled or sliced in two by wicked swords.  The Excelsi were caught completely unawares, it was only after far more than half the population of the city had been slaughtered that even a small force of Excelsi was mustered.  They fought bravely, and took Schroedi lives, but they were outnumbered five to one, and before the sun set there was not a single Excelsi left alive.



‘There they stood, beside the treasure, on the mountain, dark and red,

Turned the stone and looked beneath it, Peace on Earth was all it said!’



The army stood silent beside the great stone that had been hewed from the mountain itself.  They dismounted, and at the close of day the stone was rolled aside.  Underneath was a tablet of pure silver, and carved into it the word, “Peace on Earth.”  Schroedi and Dardeni alike stood silent, awed by the enormity of the crime that had been committed and stood silent as the sun set in a blaze of scarlet glory, turning the mountain a deep red.  As darkness fell, each Schroedi knelt, weeping, and fell upon their own swords, knowingly that even that greatest of all sacrifices would not be enough to atone.  The scene faded, and the Dardeni were back in their own village at the close of day, and the Bard sung softly,



‘So go ahead and hate your neighbor, go ahead and cheat a friend,

Do it in the name of Heaven, you can justify it in the end.

There won’t be any trumpets blowing, come the Judgement Day.

But the bloody morning after, one tin soldier rides away.’



And for a split second the Dardeni again stood upon the mountain, among Schroedi and Excelsi dead, as the sun rose, and watched as silhouetted against it the bright figure rode to lands untroubled by death and hatred and envy. 



The Dardeni slowly turn away from the Bard and return to their tasks as ones who have been dreaming and awake to find that hundreds of years had passed in a single day.  They are quiet, thoughtful, sorrowful and yet full of joy.



Alone in the center of the village, the Bard sits on her battered wooden stool, fingertips stroking the goatskin drum, singing softly to herself.

‘Listen children, to a story, that was written long ago…'