Wrath
The dry stacked, stone walls tinged with moss bordered the pastures below. Carlos sat on one of these walls watching the cattle and sheep graze. The new calves and lambs were suckling at their mother's tit with gusto, tails waggling. The verdant grass was coming through lushly, promising a bountiful spring. The setting was idyllic and after enduring a long captivity, the young man should have felt less troubled than he was today.
Yes, his nerves were less on edge, and the rest had done him good. His hosts were fine and generous people. It had been good to gain respite from that awful grind of the continuous, ready wakefulness he had practiced for the past eight years.
So why was he so restless and discontented? There should be no reason for his mood. It was beautiful here he observed as the apple blossoms fell on him like pseudo snowfall, light in the darkness of his hair. He pulled his shining black mane back from his eyes and tied its length into a short ponytail with a strip of leather.
There must be something better beyond
he thought,
somewhere where he could just belong.
His early memories of his city upbringing were still vivid, that was the environment where he had thrived. In the fast-paced, fast-thinking landscape of his childhood, he rued the demise of its conveniences. Strong memories came to him of the Rundle Street East end, the rows of brightly glittering shop windows, the hotels on every corner, and the gelato bar with its hundreds of flavors to sate his childhood appetite. He could almost smell the delicious aromas of food wafting from the myriad of restaurants and food carts, the reflections of the car lights creating bright runnels of the pavement. Captured forever in his mind's eye, Hindley Street in the rain. It was gone, all obliterated in an instant by the allies of all things.
He could not remain here, in the middle of nowhere, with his hunger for city life. He was no farmer destined for this simplicity. To be ruled by what Mother Nature wished to throw at him. He was feeling so much better, he had eaten well these last few days and restored his strength. However, the newly freed slave was still very unsure of what he should do. So he had languished, absorbing the comforts and idly waiting; waiting for a cue that may not come.
Even before the war, the state was over eighty percent desert. The only capital city had been leveled and irradiated so no one could return. Should he head south, back toward the coast, and see if society had attempted to rebuild? It had been the best part of eight years after all. The idea had merit, he was unsure what he may find there, and even more unsure of the journey. It would no doubt be long and perilous.
Alternatively, should he seek revenge on the one he hated more than anything? The one who robbed him of his dignity and life. He had toyed with that scenario in recent days now that he felt stronger. His reviled enemy Wezley Bennett commanded very few men. He would be a far easier target than he had been before. Though Carlos wondered what he would feel if indeed he did run face to face with his nemesis again, a man of his recurring nightmares, a man who had rent his soul.
As his fingers traced the faint line of a scar on his cheek given to him by that tyrant, he realized could in effect never be the same after all he had endured. It had forged him, bent him, perhaps broken him in ways also. He no longer knew what he really wanted, this feeling ate at him, and it would not relent.
Footsteps behind him. Whoever it was, they were making no effort to approach quietly. He half turned to see Renard standing just beyond the wall, dressed in dark brown suede and leather. He was cleanly shaven except for a neat trademark goatee, and his shoulder-length hair neatly trimmed and tied back in a ponytail.
"Beautiful afternoon." Renard commented casually. Observing the beautiful rural visa before him.
Carlos just nodded in assent of the cheery remark, he rarely felt the need to engage in anything but the most minimal of conversations. Perhaps a legacy of his past time as a captive, the less you spoke the better.
"I was wondering?..."
Here it comes,
thought Carlos with a twinge of regret.
"If you would accompany us to rescue the girls?"
Renard did not see the young man grimace at the mention of the mission.
"You are one hell of a fighter, we would be happy to have you along."
Carlos did not reply, his mind was in a terrible conundrum over the request. He must answer carefully, yet he could not frame the words.
"Anyway, if you decide to accompany us we leave tomorrow at first light."
With that Renard walked away, leaving the young man alone with his thoughts.
*****
After the conversation the troubled man had tossed and turned all night, sleep would not come as he wrestled with his demons to make a decision. As the first tendrils of light evoked shadows on the floorboards, and the inhabitants stirred in the house Carlos made his choice. He rose from his bed, dressed, collected his few belongings, and made for the stables.
A tight knot of approximately twenty men assembled all readying their mounts for the journey. On well rested horseback the journey would not be so far. Two, three, days tops. Carlos did not know the majority of the volunteers. Though he had sighted most of the participants during his short respite here. The stables smelled deeply of horses and sweet fresh cut hay, agreeable and comforting to the young man as he made his way through the press of warm horseflesh.
