She walks the Earth, He walks the Heavens

Wavering leaves, stuck tightly to the interweaving branches of the majestic tree, shiver in the icy breeze that dances through my hiding place. There’s a slight burnt smell: bitter and smoky. Through the half-open roof of the structure, golden rays glow warmly, dappling the floor with splashes of heat. Dots of dried glue feel rubbery and leave a clay-like substance on my feet. I trace the designs on the wooden paneled ceiling with a finger.It slaloms on the back of a pearly-scaled dragon, follows the yellow brick road and joins Alice down a rabbit hole. My feet bask in the sun’s rays. The warmth races up my body, a rare smile appearing on my face. I can relax. Not forever, but enough to give me strength. 

My name is Mutajawil. I am fifteen years old, and the date today is the 12th of August 3620. I don’t think you know much of my past, since it’s your future. Well, here is a short summary on the last past 1600 years. In 3052, the United States believed that there was a superior race, and that the only way of being able to eliminate all their enemies to make ‘space’ for this race was to start a war. The United States battled fiercely with Russia for 30 long, bloody years. Eventually, Russia was defeated. The United States invaded the conquered land, driving all revolutionists, capitalists and such. They renamed themselves the Eagle Empire. Mexico was conquered later on, and Europe amassed allies and armies that were available. They threatened the Eagle Empire that if they did not return Russia to independence and liberty, then Europe would have no other choice than to declare war on the Eagle Empire. The president at the time, President Tiran, refused. World War III had begun.

My gaze drifts around the painted wooden walls, stroking Tigger, my stuffed animal. It’s colors have almost faded, their bright orange and black stripes almost settling to gray and salmon orange. Tigger’s whiskers and short, stubby tail are blackened, as if they had been licked by fire. I cuddle it, a few sea drops running down my cheeks. Tigger’s only eye looked at me lovingly, his open mouth frozen in a laugh. His other eye was sewn tightly shut, blue threads looping in and out of his eyelid. 

He was salvaged from the ruins, and my curled fist clung to my mother’s necklace when they found me. War is a terrible thing that wrenches families apart. If they’re not at each other’s throats, then they lie under blocks of stone, side by side. Death welcomes them to heaven with open arms, and leaves the battlefield. Homes used to sit comfortably, awaiting for the dads to come from work and receive their beaming daughters and proud sons in their warm embrace. But now, rubble has settled in, with dust gathering on forgotten toy trains while mothers wail for their children, like wolves mourning and declaring their sorrow to the moon. I was there. I saw them crying, and I cried with them. 

“Mama! Papa!” Goofy laughter fills the daffodil-colored room, a rotating mobile entertaining a pair of pudgy fists as a wooden airplane zoomed round and round. The two pudgy fists belonged to a swaddled baby, who’s rosy cheeks were fondly pecked by a curly-bearded man, who’s eyes sparkled and danced when he gazed at his child. A young woman rocked back and forth in an old, weathered chair. It’s royal red leather had a few rips, but still held firm. A polished lever on the right side of the chair permitted the person who pushed it forward to have a footrest lift up. The young woman had silver hair, as if it were spun from morning dew. It glistened as she traced with a feather quill. I remember her letting me hold it, while I sat in her lap. The handle was made of ornate copper that she cleaned when a drop of her emerald green ink splashed it. A fiery-like feather was inserted into the pen. Papa would pretend that it was a phoenix feather. Mama would write about us. Like the day me and Papa read the tales of Christian Hans Andersen. “Roland laughs as M reads the Big Bad Wolf’s speech in a deep voice. She’s very good at inventing voices for the characters. Roland says she should become an actor.” 

On my eighth birthday, We celebrated by having a family reunion: Mama, Papa, Tigger, Grandma Rosetta, Grandpa Georgio and me. Mama brought a beautiful Victorian Sponge covered with a sea green buttercream. A chocolate icing writing said “Wonders will come your way.” Grandpa Georgio lit the candles, which were placed so that each candle (six in total, since we lost the other five) faced a person. When we finished singing happy birthday, everyone leaned towards the cake, took a breath,.... And blew.

BOOM. A crater appeared in the kitchen, glass flying everywhere. Cutlery was distorted, counters melted, and the whole house in a mess. Mama quickly led everyone to the basement, and gave us all a gas mask. I could see salty water dripping from her eyes. We clung to each other, and I could see that everyone’s eyes were determined, grim, ready and mentally kissed everyone goodbye. Mama unfastened her necklace, and handed it to me. She told me, through a waterfall of happiness and fear, “We love you so much, and I hope you the best. You have my blessing on all you do, think and love. I wish you the best.” She hugged me fiercely and so did everyone in turn. Papa got a backpack out of a cupboard and placed books, paints, paper and photos inside. He put the bag on me, and whispered, “Believe in yourself, believe in your dreams and always believe in fairytales.” He beamed at me, and cuddled me close. “Never trust those who do not believe in hope. If you survive, remember those who have fallen, but don’t dwell on grief. Crying is good, but too much can kill you. Look for Raven. He knows where you can find shelter.” The house shook, almost as if it were about to lift into the sky. I gazed at my family, one by one. Farewells were silently exchanged. BOOM.

Wavering leaves, stuck tightly to the interweaving branches of the majestic tree, shiver in the icy breeze that dances through my hiding place. There’s a slight burnt smell: bitter and smoky. Through the half-open roof of the structure, golden rays glow warmly, dappling the floor with splashes of heat. Dots of dried glue feel rubbery and leave a clay-like substance on my feet. I trace the designs on the wooden paneled ceiling with a finger.It slaloms on the back of a pearly-scaled dragon, follows the yellow brick road and joins Alice down a rabbit hole. My feet bask in the sun’s rays. The warmth races up my body, a rare smile appearing on my face. I can relax. Not forever, but enough to give me hope.

This is my story. I am a survivor. I have dealt with liars, thieves and murderers. Raven is outside, at the foot of the tree, guarding our home. Beth and Ella are in the other tree house, deciding our next search of an abandoned city. We are the Mukhfi Survivors. If you search for us on the Witch Mount, you will see a girl, with silver hair, as if spun from pure starlight. She will be sitting on a rock covered in soft lichen, tracing on a piece of parchment with a quill. This quill will write in emerald green ink, from a nib of a copper pen. Out of the other end, flicking back and forth, a fiery-like feather waves in the wind. If you call out to the girl. She will ignore you, but she will smile. And keep writing. Her name was Malak. And she hides our home from prying eyes, war and death. Ever since she left the mortal world, she wanders Witch Mount, her phoenix-like feathered quill and parchment always recording our goings-on. Keeping us from fading away from all history. 

She is my mother, who walks the earth, while my father walks the heavens.