Page 6 of Between Life and Death

I peered up at the enchanting moon. I had always felt fond of her.

When I found my spot in the glades, I ensured my boots were tightly laced and plucked my chosen stick from the ground, something I’d acquired along the way. It was roughly four feet long and decently straight, other than the slight bow at the one end.

I rotated the stick, testing its weight, my hand quickly becoming accustomed to it. I began to move as I twirled it around my body, my warm-up more playful than my serious routine. I moved with ease, my muscles recalling each movement, each swing, each step—always ready for the next—a sacred dance. As I settled into the familiarity of training, my mind began to drift among the memories of this place.

“But I want to use the sword today,” an eight-year-old version of myself protested as I plucked a blade of lush grass.

It had rained last night, rejuvenating the meadow—lush, rich greens and vividly colored wildflowers painting the enchanting glades. Even the red alder and quaking aspen looked thankful to see the rain.

“Swords are not always available,” Ezra said as she balanced, her foot placed against the inside of the leg she stood on, prayer hands settled against her chest.

“But . . .” I motioned to the wooden sword. “. . . this one is.”

Ezra opened one eye and peered at me—a hawk sizing up supper. But instead of whipping out her dinner fork, she simply replied, “A good warrior can use anything as a weapon.”

“But a good warrior would probably choose a sword over a stick.” I plucked out another blade of grass, as if it were to blame.

Now both of her eyes were propped open, and she was staring intently at me. She reached behind her head and tied up her gray-brown hair. “If you can knock me over while I use only one leg, I’ll let you use the sword today.”

I nodded with satisfaction, wrapped my hand around the hilt, and charged towards her. I aimed for her leg in an opportunistic move, but my confidence got the better of me as she leapt out of the way and flicked my forehead as I went sailing by. She landed gracefully on her other leg, not even a whisper of sound escaping her skillful movement.

“No fair!” I exclaimed in frustration as I scrubbed at my temple. “You said you’d only use one leg.”

Ezra smirked and gestured to the right leg she now balanced on. “And so I am.”

Gritting my teeth, I charged again, readying myself to move whatever direction she went. But instead of going right or left, she used my head as leverage. With her palm pressed against it, she catapulted over me. I swirled around and chased after her. My efforts were ridiculed with another flick. My brow lowered in frustration. I charged again.

Flick.

And again.

Flick.

And again.

Flick.

I crumbled onto the cool, dewy grass, my lungs itching for breath.

Ezra lay down beside me, her breath calm, not labored like my own. “After you’ve regained your stamina, we’ll start practice.”

I rolled onto my side and glared at her. “I’m too tired to practice.”

She shot me a challenging look. “A good warrior always practices.”

I let out an aggravated groan.

I bent over, my hands placed against my legs, huffing as I awoke from my meditative warrior state. Just under three hours had passed, and the sun was now rising, introducing the dawn of a new day. A light sweat trickled down my brow and neck, dampening my collar. Throwing my fingers through my hair, the color of fresh snow, my eyes teared as I inhaled an unsafe amount of the smell radiating from my armpits.

Damn—I stunk.

Deciding for the sake of humanity that I should take a wash, I headed towards the lake. A short walk led me to the edge of the woods—the slumbering, effervescent lake yawning before me, the same lake where Ezra had found me.

Directly across, a sky-scraping wall of black swirled with hunger.

The Endless Mist.

It swallowed the horizon, stretching from east to west, gobbling up the sky and anything in its path.

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