Battle Burdens
flash fiction | sustenance and threat
Both sides had long guns.
“We have come for war, but I pray this last appeal may avoid it.” Major sat tall in his saddle, his deep black eyes conveying the gravity of his plea.
Hunters, numbers unknown, dotted the slopes and hid within the forest. Some hundred or so farmers stood opposed, standing on a grassy rise with a view of wheat and corn fields behind, peppered with sporadic farmhouses and livestock pastures as far down the valley as an eagle could see. A few dozen on the agriculture side were on horses.
Major continued, “We wore different colors in the war but your reputation was well regarded.”
Like it or not, Major had become the reluctant leader of the valley farmers. It was a title he carried from the Civil War, although it seemed paradoxical since in recent years he had been the strongest advocate for peace. The younger fellows — none old enough to have ever seen battle — were eager for the fight Major had long delayed. He went on, “More than most, you and I know the burden that will be carried by all who survive, should we cease to quell this incipient belligerence.”
The two sides were separated by a quarter of a mile. In the middle were six on horses: the two older men, each with two behind.
Major continued, “Our sons met a few years ago. If it were not for the water issues, they could have remained friends and trading partners.” He turned his gaze to the younger on the right behind his adversary, “It’s still possible that could be.”
The mountain man opposite Major was a figure carved from granite and sun-weathered leather. His grey beard reached his chest. His eyes held a wariness reflecting years in the unforgiving peaks. “The water is ours, valley man,” his voice a low growl. “It flows from our peaks. It feeds the game we track, waters the high meadows our families depend on.”
Major nodded. “We have always respected your claim to the high country,” his voice was calm and clear. “But the rains have been meager. The river dwindles. Our crops wither. Our families face ruin if those dams are not loosened. We are not asking for your entire bounty, only enough to survive.”
The younger mountain man on the right scoffed. “You’ve grown soft in your fertile fields. You wouldn’t last a season in our mountains.”
The mountain leader silenced him with a look. He turned back to Major. “We have our own hardships, valley man. Your growing needs threaten that. You would drain our mountains dry.”
“But surely, a balance can be found.” Major continued, “We are not asking you to starve so that we may thrive. Our fates are intertwined. If the valley dies, what will become of your trading partners?” He pointed to the younger mountain man. “Your son, Jedediah, is it? He has a fine knife he bartered from our smithy. He spoke of the fairness he found in our dealings.”
The mountain leader’s gaze flickered a hint of something other than hardened resolve.
“Come down,” Major urged, “Let us sit by the creek bed, where the water still flows, and talk. Not as enemies poised for bloodshed, but as men facing a shared hardship. Let us find a way to divide the lean times, so that when the rains return, we may both prosper once more. For the sake of our children, let us choose cooperation over conflict.”
The mountain leader held his rifle firm while his gaze fixed on the distant valley, a vision of both sustenance and threat.
Silence stretched, save for the wind.
by George Alger
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