With Independence Day approaching in the United States, I thought this might be a time to post a story I wrote a few years ago, about the price of freedom. So here is the story of Aadron.
1
The old man hardly paused as he walked through the
village. No one had seen him before.
He must have been some kind of peddler
or tinker, what with the big pack on the burro he led. But he did not stop in New Meadows. He paused only long enough to ask for
permission to water the burro at the trough in front of the smithy, and went
on. Other than that, he spoke only to
Aadron.
Aadron
was playing with his wooden soldiers near the place where the trail passed the
last house and entered the forest. There
were three of them, each hand carved by his grandfather’s father over 50 years
before, and repainted at least a dozen times since then. Aadron was busy defending the village with
his little army, and had little time to look up as the old man went by. But the stranger noticed him and his soldiers
as he approached, and slowed his pace just a little as he reached into the
burro’s pack, pulled out a toy swordsman, and tossed it to the boy. “Here, son--looks like you need some
reinforcements.” Aadron had barely
enough time to recover from his surprise and start to thank the man before he
was past--and then was gone into the woods.
At
first look, the swordsman seemed to be much like the other wooden
soldiers. But as Aadron turned it in his
hands, he could see that it was a remarkable work of art. Old and battered, yes, but showing far more
detail than any other carved toy in New Meadows. For a moment it seemed to be alive, but no,
it was only imagination. Soon the
swordsman had taken his place alongside the other three soldiers, and the
battle to save the town went on.
2
Eight years later,
Aadron was again looking at the swordsman.
He did not know why he had searched out the old toy. Something in him had remembered it as he had
heard the rumors about the approaching war.
“They’ll never come through here--there’s nothing here that they could
want,” said old man Barlow. Junkins, the
smith, had disagreed, “New Meadows is between the enemy and the capitol, and if
the King’s army does not stop them soon, they’ll come right through here.”
Aadron
was wrestling with his emotions. He was
trying to settle his mind as he turned the toy in his hands. What should he do? What would become of his home if the enemy
did come through? According to the
rumors, they left little behind that was not burned out or otherwise
destroyed. What would happen to him, to
his family, and the other eight families in the village? Should he join the King’s army? How could he make any difference?
His
thoughts were interrupted as the soldier began to writhe in his hands. Suddenly, it was no longer a toy. It swelled and grew, and stood before
Aadron. It opened its mouth as if to
speak. Then it was as a waking dream for
Aadron. He was in battle scenes, great
and small. He saw the suffering of the
innocent. He fought aside the heroes who
defended them. Scene after scene flew
by, until it was pouring into his mind in a great torrent...
...Slaves,
beaten and starved as they worked to build palace for a tyrant...
...A
young man rallied his people to protect their homes and families by fashioning
a standard from his torn coat, on which he wrote a pledge to defend their
homeland against tyranny...
...Devastation
and destruction in a small village as its inhabitants were tortured and
murdered by the light of their burning homes and barns...
...A
band of 300 brave lads, holding an army of thousands at a pass for three moons
until the last 37 gave their lives in a final battle, lasting just long enough
for help to arrive at their city...
Thousands
of such scenes poured into the young man’s mind, overpowering him, pounding
into him the terrible cost of freedom, and the much infinitely greater price
paid by those who have lost it. Then all
was black, and he slept.
When
he awoke, the wooden swordsman was again a toy on the floor, as if nothing had
happened. But he was no longer simply
Aadron, the miller’s son. He knew what
he had to do.
