The Cock Crew, and Mourning Came

Ammon cried.

Hendrix could feel his grief. It mingled with his own. Ammon had lost his parents and his sister. Hendrix had lost some of his closest friends. There was only one thing to do.

He inhaled, and began to tell a story. The story began with a poem.

The First Story

“The sun rises and the moon fades

The soft dreams of the evening are replaced

By the harsh realities which daylight reveals

The calm drowsiness of night turns

To the bustle of day

And the stars find their hiding place

Behind the clouds

And beyond the sky

We can only hope they will return

Those tiny pinpricks of light.”

“In the absence of stars

We have hope

At least for now

Though now is only until a new day dawns

Banishing our hope

Along with the stars.”

“A long time ago, there was a child named Ammon. I am not talking about you. I speak of your namesake. A boy I never met. His story was told to me by your mother. What she knew of it anyway.”

“Your mother knew him back in her school days, you see, they had been good friends. At one point, he had even asked her to dance with him at a festival. That is, to say, they knew each other well.”

“Your father had known him too. There were several times when Ammon had kept your father from starting fights he couldn’t finish. He was the one who introduced your parents to each other. He was always helping someone.”

“Thing is, Ammon wasn’t always the best off himself. Didn’t have the best home life. Your parents knew that, though they hadn't known how bad it had been. Of course, no one knew how bad it had been ‘till he was gone. Took his own life.”

“He was already gone when they found him. Your parents, they never stopped thinking about that. How not a single person knew how badly he needed to be saved. They never forgave themselves.”

“One thing your mother told me, is that he’d start every conversation by asking, 'What songs do bluebirds sing?' Well, on the dawn after the night that he died, the bluebirds didn’t sing. The cock crew, and mourning came.”

“Your parents had to live with that mourning every day. Every night. Every moment. They had to survive every moment of guilt. It was hard. It broke them, so many times. But they did it. They healed. Every time they broke they healed.”

“Now, this story doesn’t have a ‘happily ever after’. I’m not sure any story does. Life is too complicated to put into words like ‘happily ever after’, or ‘terrible’, or ‘perfect’. Life is too messy for that. Too unfair. Too cruel. Too wonderful. People are too messy for that.”

“No, what this story has, is hope. Hope for a better future. Not a perfect one. A better one. Hope for a smile, even if that smile is tired. For laughter, however infrequent. For love, even if it comes with pain. Hope.”

“Because in the absence of stars, we find hope. In the absence of strength, we find courage.”

“Ammon died out there. In the fields of a battle no one knew he was fighting. In the midst of death and terror. So, we remember him. We tell his story. Because, in the end, who lives, and who dies, isn’t up to us, but we get to decide whose stories we tell.”

One Year Later

The rising sun painted the graveyard a rosy sort of hue.

Ammon knelt by the grave. His sister’s name was carved into a plank of wood that lay on the ground.

Zara Elwood.

He placed another spruce cone, completing the ring.

“Good morning, Zara.”

Zara’s grave was four graves down from the spruce tree that Ammon had gotten the cones from. Three graves down was his amma. Two graves down was his appa. One grave down was an elderly man whom Ammon had only met once. Ammon believed he had been a shoe maker, but he wasn’t entirely certain. He didn’t know the stories of every person in this old graveyard. There were too many.

Each of these four graves–excluding the shoemaker’s–were encircled with spruce cones. Dead Man’s Spruce cones, to be specific.

Ammon stood, and, as he had every day for the past year, and made his way to the forge.

As he walked, he remembered his birthday. In two months, he would be fifteen. It was funny, in a terrible sort of way, how his birthday would mark the one year anniversary of the deaths of so many within his community.

Disease was funny like that. In a terrible sort of way.

In that terrible way that shook you to your core. In that way that brought you to your knees in desperate prayer to the gods. Until you realized that the gods had forsaken you. Had forsaken everyone you loved. Had forsaken everyone. And your prayers were silenced. And then that silence grew louder.

That silence grew louder and you could hear nothing except for the thoughts inside your own mind. Your regrets. Your guilt. Your happy memories turned sour by grief like milk left in the the sun. And the impact of hammer on anvil.

All you have is the impact of hammer on anvil. And the man beside you. Teaching you. Telling you stories. Legends of times long past. Of serpents and danger and bravery. Of sinners and saints. Of the victory of heroes. And, for a moment, you escape.

The shadows fade, for just a moment. And you are at peace. In the forge. In the fire. In the moment. And everything is as it should be.

Ammon was pulled out of his solemn pondering by a rough yet cheerful voice.

“Oy! Ammon, hope you’re ready for some had work today,” Hendrix greeted him.

He had made it to the forge.

“Always. I guess we have an order then?”

Hendrix tossed Ammon his gloves, “Sure do. Grab a bucket of water from the well. We’d best get to work.”

And so, they worked.