The Historian's Tale

I am a historian. I can trace back my ancestry nearly two hundred generations. I know my history—the good, the bad and the ugly. And there has been a lot of bad and ugly.

My mother, grandmother and great-grandmother were all warriors. They lived their lives covered in blood, reciting the names of loved ones who had died. My brother takes after my mother, and already when he comes home on leave, I can see the pain in his eyes.

And here I am, among my books, and I am safe, and I am happy. I am surrounded by stories from throughout history. Through my books, I have had the privilege of getting to know my ancestors, and so many other people’s besides.

I do not only live in the past, though. At the end of the day, I walk home through the village, and all around me are people going about their lives, and I think that is the most beautiful thing, that though chaos surrounds us, our lives go on. I have friends who are farmers and friends who are bakers, friends who are cobblers and friends who are blacksmiths and friends who are healers. Sometimes they come to visit me at my workplace. Perhaps they have questions about their own lineages, or perhaps they simply want to hear a story. We are happy to give one to them—or two, or three, or ten. We love to tell our stories, and we think, sometimes, that our stories want to be told. And sometimes, in return, the villagers tell us stories, and we carefully write them down and add them to our archives. Some of their stories are simple, and some are intricate and complicated, full of twists and turns.

The intricate stories are powerful, of course, but the simple ones should not be underestimated. For sometimes the warriors come too, usually at the end of the day, slinking through the twilight as though, in spite of—or perhaps because of—being our heroes, they do not wish their faces to be seen by the public. I understand, I think, or at least I understand that I will never understand. Those of us who have not been out there on the battlefield cannot possibly understand what it is like there. They fight in our name, but when they come home, they look into our eyes and see all that we do not know, and they cannot bear for us to look at them. They turn away, back to their fort on the outskirts of the village, back to those who understand. They are so used to danger now that to them danger is safety and safety is danger. So it was for my mother, and my grandmother. I never met my great-grandmother, but I imagine it was so for her too.

But even the most hardened warriors need to escape sometimes, need to forget all they have seen and done. And so, sometimes, in the evening, they come to me and say in voices so low I can barely hear them, “Aidyll, please, tell me the simplest story you have.” They sit in the shadows, hiding their faces so I will not see them cry, and I tell them the simplest stories I have, stories with no hidden messages, no cruel twists, no lies. I tell them stories of childhood, of friendship, of safety, of peace, of rest, of hope, of love. I tell them of families and friends who come together not to defeat some great evil, but simply because they can, because they want to, because they love each other.

Sometimes it is all too much. Sometimes when the scarred heart feels itself opening, pain and grief flood in first, before the love can get there, and they cannot bear it. Some flee in tears, while others pour out angry words, accusing me of lying, of trying to lull them into a false sense of security so they will not be in their best fighting form, before they leave. I do not argue with them. All the stories I tell are true, but that does not mean that they are true for everyone. Some will return later, when they are ready to hear what I have to say. Some never will. It is not for me to judge. We are each on our own journey.

But other times, they sit hungrily, drinking in each word, and when I finish one story, they ask for another, and then another. Sometimes I sit up all night with a warrior, filling them up with words of warmth and light, words that they can carry with them wherever they go next. And every now and again, before they leave, they will tell me their own stories, knowing that I will keep them safe until they return. I do not claim to be able to heal all their wounds, but if they leave with hearts a little lighter, even for the moment, I have done my work well.

I am a historian. I have the privilege of staying home and safe, but I am not wholly ignorant. I know where I come from. I carry the blood of Kahlen, who fought on the front lines of the greatest war the world has ever seen. Mary, who threw herself between a strange woman and the man who was threatening her, and said, "Take me instead." Sapphira, who would have burned the world down to save her beloved. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my mother all fought wars to keep me safe, and now my brother is fighting a war too.

But I have my own fight. As I sit here among my books, surrounded by chaos but happy within my own safe space, I am fighting to keep alive the reason that my family goes to war. I am fighting to keep alive joy, and safety, and peace, and love. I am fighting to keep it alive within me, and I am fighting to keep it safe, too, for my brother when he comes home, and for all those like him.