Aadron - A short story about the price of freedom.

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.