Between Night and Day

 So much boredom, tedium, cabin fever, mental haze. In the underground bunker the soldiers did all they could to stay alert. To keep their mental focus, they played cards, checkers, and chess. They listened to MP3 players, did calisthenics, wrote in journals. Tinkering with repairs, sewing, cleaning their weapons, they tried to avoid becoming snappish. They rode a line between strength and force. Waiting to receive their signal, to enact the drill they were trained for. Through the trap door, and a few steps in a dark passage, out into the light of day, to skillfully kill the leader of the opposing forces. That leader must be in the exact right kill zone, in a small circle of opportunity. Operation Trapdoor Spider. Devon had his own way of staying prepared. The black market had provided him with military-grade d-amphetamine sulphate, DAS. He hid it carefully, slyly took two pills every 24 hours, never being detected. When he reached a point of adrenal exhaustion, he slept for a couple of hours and woke with the others, always afraid that he would miss the signal to move out. His irritation and fogginess were basically how they all lived, but when the order came through he felt slow. Forgetting his sunglasses and ammo, he streamed out and followed the lightening pace of the others. Reaching the top side, his eyes were blinded by the light as bullets rattled all around him. He dropped to the ground to avoid getting hit. The edge of a ravine on his left took him down, he rolled uncontrollably.  

  In his mind the possibility of a tree or large rock stopping his fall was more terrifying than the drop itself. To his surprise, he came to a gentle halt in a gully cushioned by vines. He had no idea how long it took for his eyes to adjust. By then the sun looked low in the sky. His gear bag and weapon were gone. The cell phone in his pocket was non-military, but all the guys in his unit had one. He took it out, flipped it on, and looked at the screen. No cracks. Relief ushered to his mind the possibility of being found, of being in one piece with only minor contusions. No broken bones or gashes. No signal. Just silence. That could mean several different things. It got darker and he stayed lying still under the green covering of vines, wondering what to do. He was thirsty and tired, his adrenaline spent. Without meaning to, he fell asleep. In his sleep he left his hidden spot and went out to look for water. He found a stream and bent down to drink. The moon’s reflection on the water was so bright that for a moment he lost his bearings. He sat down and closed his eyes. He heard the soft sounds of the water flowing past. He felt the coolness of the night air. He breathed in the clean, earthy smell of the stream bank. A bright flash of light and a booming sound turned the far side of the ravine into a wave of fire.

   The heat hurt his skin and he involuntarily screamed in pain. The trees seemed to scream and sob but they could not run. They were rooted in place. A thick black smoke filled the moonlight. It looked down at Devon with the face of madness and power. Death was its power and it smiled with an ever-widening smile. Devon crawled into the stream, soaking his clothes so that they clung to him like a second skin. As he lay in the unrelenting rhythm of water, time ebbed and flowed. Veins of purple light crept into the sky and he realized he had survived the blast. He woke back in his gully, having witnessed the blind destruction of life. The weapon of war had cut a wide swath through every atom of air, water, earth, and even moonlight. He was thirsty and yet he felt nauseous at the same time. His head throbbed. He rose to stand and fell over right away. The earth was hard and cold. He was safe but he had no water. The plastic baggy of DAS pills sewn into his shirt were still there. The underground bunker had supplied him with all the basic needs, but as the son of a wealthy father he had found it difficult to adjust to Army life.  

  Enlist, prove you’re a man, or you’ll be disinherited. You must prove that you can stand alongside other brave men, real men, strong and determined. Pass the test and you’ll get my wealth. Devon agreed right away without really understanding any of it. Why was my father was so stingy? Why did he always want to squeeze me to the breaking point? There was a cold, hard mold with straight sides, a bank box that represented Devon’s life, the only route to legitimacy. He was supposed to fit it perfectly and not even need any air. He did well in school. He had two Bachelor’s degrees. They were on the shelf at home. His father looked at that shelf and saw something half-empty. Not enough. Do more. Coins clinked in his father’s hand, silver coins that were a sign of uncommon prestige. The sound that his father’s heart made as it ticked on and on, one coin at a time. Every time he tried to escape his father’s control, it hunted him down. In Devon’s mind he was shot down as he ran from an oncoming fighter plane. Those machine gun bullets stopped his heart, stopped him in his tracks. He willed himself to be the pilot of the plane, soaring higher, above the clouds, searching everywhere in the bright sunlight for something that would calm him down. The old man that had been watching him started to gently hum a tune.  

  He saw a scared young man in the dark, alone. He hummed slowly to let the young man know that he had been watching him, had found him, that he was not an enemy. Suddenly getting his bearings, Devon looked over as he was handed his gear bag. He reached in a grabbed a tiny flashlight. Someone stood squarely, looking at Devon’s face. The man was calm, and old as the earth. He had a grace that moved without moving, the clothes he wore were elegant and yet shabby, thread-bare, dusty. Some kind of walking stick posed an image of sophisticated contours but it was just a common branch. The man’s tanned face held intricate, rippled contours but it was smooth at the same time. His eyes spoke clearly. Follow me, you look tired. A warmth surrounded the wanderer, this gentle leader, almost seeming to glow like firelight. The younger man glided more than marched into the unknown. Gauzy grey gloves, small hands, reached out to him, guided him inside a quiet room. After a moment, he felt water at his mouth, and heard the sound of metal being sharpened with a stone.  

  Small hands, a woman’s face, a girl’s smile, started to come into focus. The glint of shiny metal flickered a few feet away. He had no fear as the woman spoke, “Welcome home. Are you ready for your weapon, young man?” Women warriors? In clinging grey and silver battle clothes, they appeared changeable, like moonlight. Graceful, effortless movements, melodic voices, held together by intensity. Like water. Their swords, however, were very hard and sharp. “We hope that you will fight with us. Fighting is a way of life. It’s what we know.” She paused, then continued quietly, “We have dignity, our sky Gods light our way. We have honor. Claim that honor and take this sword. You can refuse us, but we will take you back to your ravine and leave you there alone.” A small electric current ran through Devon’s body and he wondered at this new sensation. Just as quickly though, his father’s eyes became his eyes. The eyes of power, of the enormous black smoking face after the deadly ravine blast waited as it watched. The veil of illusion that was his father’s gaze showed him a woman who was speaking as a haughty Queen. A vain and wealthy tyrant who claimed all the forests, rivers, plains, and cities, all the way to the sea, as her own. All were expected to pay tribute. Her herds of horses were purely bred for battle by a long line of royal families. Devon froze, his stomach tightened. His neck seemed to squeeze off his air. He was more frightened than he had ever felt. A horse’s nose nuzzled the back of his hand. A soft nicker, a shake of its head. “I know.” a man’s voice said. The voice of the friendly wanderer, the man who had given him his life back and had asked for nothing in return, offered to take Devon outside. “A horse will make you feel human again. Come.” Off in a clearing, a tiny fire warmed two logs where they could sit and talk.

  The deep, warm voice spoke kindly. “I’ve learned everything I know from the Moon Women. They accept illusion, but it does not change their subtle nature.” A meal of bread and canned meat soothed Devon’s miserable nerves. They talked about fear. They talked about war. They talked about women. But when it came to talk about God, Devon stopped. He felt embarrassed, but could not find words to say. He thought about the Moon Women, their swords, their skills, and their faith. He did not know anything like faith and he didn’t want to learn. They were probably the best fighters that he would ever see. He had no idea how many warriors they had, but they were probably certain to win any battle that presented a challenge. But he missed his Army unit, his friends. When the sun came up he would leave, find his squad leader, be in his familiar surroundings. It was his home, the bunker, the checkers, cards and chess, the bland MREs, the stupid jokes. Finally he said, “I have to go back where I’m supposed to be. I could climb that ravine, get to the top, and be home again.” A smile came from his companion’s eyes. “Do you know who you are?” the wanderer asked. Devon did not care who he was; he didn’t want to know. The old man looked at him for a moment, then took the gear bag from under his long baggy coat. “Keep your eyes on the skies.” The gear bag felt like it gave Devon back his identity. It contained strength, know-how, and tools. He looked and saw another path leading into the trees, the one leading back to the ravine. A sudden breeze seemed to lift Devon up and push him toward the path. His path in life. He looked back, and the warm gentle stranger pointed up. Eye to the sky. Bullets tore through his leg and it exploded in bone, flesh, and blood.

  His ears were ringing, buzzing. The moon looked down and loved him and laughed at him and handed him a sword. He still had some his DAS pills and swallowed two with a throat full of water. Where was his unit? He had been sleeping, he realized. The wound in his leg was real though, and the first-aid tourniquet in his gear needed to be tied on. He might lose his leg. He would be a one-legged soldier. The amphetamines lit a sunburst in his brain and his heart raced. The tourniquet felt too tight, but he felt alive and ready. Familiar purple streaked the sky as the sun peeked over the curve of the earth. He made out a scattered group of soldiers, furtively racing toward the soldier on the ground who was waving his arms. Pain killers in his gear bag would help him stand up, maybe limp alongside the shoulder of an army buddy. Purple changed to light blue. He thought of how the sun had blinded him, how a sun of fire power had destroyed the earth, how his father was the sun, the guardian of all life, how the stranger had glowed like the sun. There was only one winner in war. The sun does not sleep.