"Fight Against the Earth" by Crista Whyte

            Every time I try to fight, I end up falling. Sad, I know. But it’s like no matter how hard I try, the world is against me, pushing me back with its talons of wind, ice, rock… molten core. And I’ve faltered for so long; I could not say if I knew how to stand again. I may bleed eternally here, plastered from the rain, down on one knee, bent over myself to stop my eyes from seeing the very thing that fights against me, arms stretched out behind me, chained to… something.

            The weight of the chains has lessened somewhat. I cannot feel the iron clasps pulling my ankles, my shoeless feet into the soil. I’ve been here so long, I cannot hear them move. They rest upon me night and day, cold, burrowing into my flesh, digging to find their Mother Earth.

            In my defense, all I can say is that it’s not my fault. I made no design to be who I am, I made no plans to arrive as the soldier I was. I did not know who I was. I did not understand. And yet, Mother Earth fought me, kept her words at bay, would not explain to me that I was something unwanted… formidable. Mother Earth would not speak her whispering words to me, and she would not tell her warriors to speak to me either.

            So I was alone, from ash to bone, to blood and flesh, walking Mother Earth’s lands and swimming her waters, undoubtedly lost and afraid. I was afraid. Afraid of life, of light… of death. I was afraid to feel the wind on my face, the rain falling into my palm. I was afraid to sit on stone, lean against wood. And I was especially afraid to look in the mirror. Yet, when I did, I saw nothing different than what I had known I was.

            So I kneel, before the great unknown, Mother Earth’s lashing anger behind me, pulling at the binding chains that will not let me go. My arms feel as if they might rip from my shoulders, but still they hold. My legs feel as if they might crumble, but they hold me up. My eyes never see more than darkness. I have not seen the sun since I’ve been chained. They only see shadows and dirt; they only see death.

            “It’s time,” Mother Earth’s warrior says.

            I’ve never seen more than the tips of his shoes, black as the shadows, threatening to rise and open the pouring blood once again. I close my eyes and wait. I can already taste the blood from before, along the inside of my lips.

            But he does not kick me. He does not hit me. He stands still, waiting.

            “Get up,” he says.

            I frown. Mother Earth has given me no slack on the arms; no weight has been lifted from my feet. I keep my head down, fearing the worst. A trick, a ploy, to get me to defy my containment. I will not move.

            “Get up,” he says again, this time more brash.

            “Leave him,” a woman says.

            My heart beats. I’ve never heard a woman’s voice since the chains were put on. I try to recognize it, I try to know it, but before an answer comes to mind, she kneels down before me, takes her delicate pale hand to my chin, and raises my face to hers. She’s a woman of beauty, of softness, of tenderness. I can see it in her eyes. She looks at me through her pale blues, holds my chin gently with her silken hand. She strokes my cheek with the other, once, twice, pushes a strand of hair off my face. Luminescent, she seems, radiant in a white gown that pools around her on the ground. Still, I try to know her. I try to sense her familiarity.

            “Are you well?” she asks. I can only stare into her eyes, grimace as the known pain comes surging to me anew. My shoulders ache. I can fell the blades touching in my back. My knees are trembling; they’ve been stuck in one position for so long. And it’s as if the chains have turned red hot, because it feels as though they’re searing through my skin. I start to writhe; I start to fight the pain. She still holds my chin, holds it firmly as I squirm.

            And it’s then that I know her, it’s then that I feel her presence like I should have immediately. She blinks so innocently, but her face has hardened. Her slender features have become sharp like stone, unforgiving like the sweltering sun. It’s a regal, dictator-like look she gives me. She knows she has control.

            “Stand now, if you wish,” she says. She takes her hand away from my chin and stands. She takes a few steps back. She watches me intently.

            I’m gasping from the pain. I’m shuddering, praying to break free. But Mother Earth stands before me, daring me with all her power, to rise to the occasion. I cannot. I will not.

            “I need you, Dosair,” she says. I flinch at my name. “Will you not rise?”

            My body quakes to her command. Yes, it is a command. Her beauty is only a guise, for through her voice is the power I fear. She knows my name and uses it against me. Unwillingly, I feel myself begin to rise.

            It’s slow at first, my knees scream in protest. My legs are so frail – I pause half way, lean backwards, letting the pulling force that strains my arms keep me from falling. I keep my head down until I am fully standing. I feel uneven, unsteady. But then I see her light approaching, and she comes to lift my chin again. She looks into my eyes, her subtle blues piercing me, acting as if they would like to forgive me… love me.  

            “Good,” she says, stroking my cheek. She seems pleased and docile now; her innocence has returned. But as subtle as her first temperament change, she transforms again. “You must die now,” she says.

Her warrior steps forward, I see his face for the first time. He’s a wretched beast of horror, dressed in dull metal armor from head to toe, metal knuckles protruding from where flesh should be on his fingers. Three quarters of his face is scarred, wrinkled from poor healing. His left eye, on the side of his face burned, is bloodshot and lazy. It pains me to know that he’s beaten me, that he’s hurt me and spoiled me as he has been spoiled. I can feel my swollen lip begin to throb.

But I think that I must live. I feel strained, bent over backwards to compensate for poor balance, but there’s some force inside me begging to live, acting like the driving force behind a fatal blow. My head begins to shake in defiance. Yet, I still do not speak.

“But you must,” she says sweetly. “If you do not, the balance will break.”

My mouth begins to move, to work, but I cannot find my sound. I push my throat to its limit, until a rasp noise comes, like a dying howl in the night.

“But you’ve killed my trees,” she says. “You’ve killed my children.”

I look at her, remembering when I was taught to use the axe and the saw, when my father told me the ways to make a sturdy home.

“You’ve pelted my children for warmth, murdered them for food,” she says.

Yes, I have, I think. I remember the spitfire, the flames of yellow and orange licking up into the starry sky. That memory prompts me to look up. Its dark all around, but the stars are in the sky without fail. They twinkle softly, little holes in the black to prove that there is life beyond the sky. I smile, reassured, at them, then come back to Mother Earth… to her warrior.

He holds a metal blade in his hand. Metal does not feel, does not grow, so Mother Earth knows it need not weep for its transformation from inside rock to a weapon of death. She takes a few steps away. I wonder if she’ll watch, if she’ll stay to see my blood spill on her precious soil. And she does. She holds her place, look of pallor upon her. It’s like she’s never seen a death; it’s like she’s the one scared.

I swallow hard as her warrior approaches, my eyes fixed on his. The bloodshot one draws my attention, I can’t help but look into its malice. And then he steps forwards, his feet landing to the earth like hammers to a stake, making the ground vibrate beneath me. He comes close enough to reach out and touch me. I take in his bloodshot eye one last time, his gnarled face, the woman of eerie light behind him. Yes, she’s eerie now. Her warming light has lessened, taken on a bluish, sickly tone. If I didn’t know better, I might have seen a tear. But I know, I know that Mother Earth does not shed tears for those like me.

So then I feel a cold internal burst, a breaking snap within. My eyesight blurs, and I lose sight of the woman. I gasp, force myself to look up. I look to the stars, melding together. I cannot focus on just one, but I see them there, welcoming… comforting. The force on my arms lessens. I feel slack. I fall free of my chains. And as I fall to my knees, the cold is withdrawn. I moan in pain, collapse to my heels. My hands clutch my stomach, my bleeding, aching stomach. I force my head to stay back, my eyes to look to the stars. There’s something beyond Earth. I knew it once, and I know it now. I believe it now. I try to find my faith as old memories pass me by: my first hunting trip, my first felling of a tree, my first fish over the fire. I remember the way my mother braided flowers into her hair. I remember my father carrying a doe over his shoulder. I remember my people feasting. I remember my own innocent joy.

And then I feel my shadow leave me, a flow of life exhale itself from my body. I fall face to the dirt, hands still clutching my stomach. My head’s turned to the side, and I strain to keep my eyes looking up. But I can’t do it, my eyelids are too heavy. They droop down, and I feel cold and alone. The last thing I see is the eerie glow of Mother Earth walking past me, taking the sword from her warrior, and plunging it into the ground beside me. And when she’s finished, and my eyes are closed, I feel nothing more, I remember nothing more.