Darmandhas knew, one day, death’s hood shall fall over his head, enwrapping him in an endless, dreamless slumber. But today was not that day.
Gray clouds hung dismally above, shadowing the remnants of a battle. Rivers of blood ran dry across the grass and dirt. Corpses laid sprawled marred with wounds. Beside them, their weapons rested the steel, stained crimson.
The bronze limbs of Darmandhas stirred, and his wiry figure rose. He was naked, save for the loincloth girdled around his waist. A black, grizzled mane crowned his head, and his face resembled the features of a hawk, the stern, stoic eyes glaring in their sockets.
The lone soul scoured his surroundings and the bodies of the dead. Nightfall approached as the shadows began to thicken. Being the patriarch of his tribe, his thoughts immediately turned to the villagers. Wearily, he strode off into the nearby forest.
A frail silence befell those woods broken only by the branches creaking under the whistling winds. Darmandhas took resolute steps, his eyes blazing through the dark and keeping his ears trained for any sounds amiss. Should a man or beast pose a threat on his path, he was ready to spring with the quickness of a panther and rip apart his prey using the iron thews of his arms.
A river gurgled beside him. The canopy of leaves fanned out, revealing the dreary sky. A trail of smoke was rising ahead.
He quickened his pace, rummaging through the foliage, until he arrived at the village.
The crackle of flames filled the night. He hurried past the huts to where a crowd was gathered, humming to themselves in lament and woe. They encircled a burning pyre, the firelight dancing on their somber faces.
None of them seemed to notice Darmandhas.
He waved and called out to them.
Still, they didn’t acknowledge his presence.
Infuriated, he went to grab a man’s shoulder. His hand fell through the flesh as if it was air.
He stumbled back, chest heaving, and stared at his hand. His thoughts were interrupted by the wailing of a woman.
He brushed along the host and saw his wife, collapsed on her knees, bemoaning aloud in woeful agony.
Clasping her chest, the tears flowed openly down her cheeks as she sobbed, “Darmandhas! My husband. Oh, Darmandhas…!”
Tears welled in Darmandhas’s eyes. He yearned to nest his wife in a loving embrace. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t.
An arrow pierced his heart.
He sank to the ground and bawled, shaking his fists. Was this a cruel joke by the spirits?
His son, Daruma, comforted the grief-stricken widow helping her to her feet. The priests and priestesses performed the final funeral rites. Every man, woman, and child wept and stared solemnly at the pyre until the flames died down. When they had grieved their last, they all returned to their huts, and eventually, sleep took hold of them and soothed their minds for the night.
The next morning, the sun rose behind the clouds, and the chill of autumn’s breath swept across the lands. Dispirited though the villagers were, they toiled about their tasks, hunting, gathering, cooking, and tending to the young. At the village square, the feathered headdress and wolfskin of their fallen chieftain were hung up on a wooden cross. They carried him in their thoughts and prayers, hoping he found peaceful repose in the afterlife.
But the soul of Darmandhas still lingered.
He sulked the earth, watching his people labor as winter approached. They were ill-prepared to face the ire of father nature without him. Although Daruma had succeeded his place in leading the tribe, he lacked the discipline and prowess needed to uphold the burden. Where he was a man self-wrought in the wilderness, senses sharpened, muscles hardened, his son was a fledgling always kept safe under his wing, unable to develop that same innate vigor. For the coming days, his absence took its toll upon the village in the form of a dwindling food supply and heightened fears of an attack from a warring tribe. So he brooded during the hours, wishing he was there to ease their plight.
One afternoon, Daruma was hunting alone in the forest. After setting up a couple of snares, he strung his bow and went to hide beneath the trees and bushes. He waited, letting the ambient sounds of the woods settle. Unbeknownst to him, his father was trailing by his side.
Darmandhas observed him and grinned. He reminisced over memories of teaching him how to fire his first arrow, catch his first fish, chop down his first tree, shoot his first game.
The boy had learned well, even if he was missing a certain grace. He sat with the patience of a mantis and the alertness of a squirrel though his mind seemed troubled.
Head hung low, doubt and anxiety strained his face. Then, he snapped out of his thoughts. His body stiffened.
A stag trotted onto the clearing. Golden antlers stemmed from its scalp, and the scent of pines reeked from its velvety coat. It stopped to nibble on the grass.
Daruma inched closer, and as did his father, behind his shoulder. He drew an arrow upon the bow, steadily pulling back the string, and took aim.
The stag craned its neck up. Then it darted away into the thickets. The arrow hissed, skimming over its hide.
Daruma cursed under his breath.
Darmandhas’s ears twitched. He glanced to his right. “Daruma! Watch out!” he cried.
Daruma turned, and a gray blur of a mass leaped on top of him. A wolf pinned him to the ground, its hungry eyes glaring into his soul. Its claws scratched his skin and mouth frothed, snapping at his neck. He desperately tried to wrest the beast.
In a vain attempt, Darmandhas curled his arms around the wolf. There was nothing he could do. He bellowed and watched hopelessly, clenching his hair.
The boy hung on the brink of life. The primal force of fear exhorted his limbs. His arms knotted to keep back the jaws of death.
“Come on son…” breathed Darmandhas. “You can do it…”
Daruma’s face flared with the rage of a wounded bear. He grappled the hound and slammed it to the forest floor. It growled, flailing under his weight. Then, in a fell motion, he clasped its head and twisted its neck.
The bone snapped. The wolf twitched, letting out a whimper before it sank limp and lifeless.
Covered in cuts and scratches, Daruma shuffled away from the carcass and leaned against a tree, panting.
Relief flooded Darmandhas, and he beheld his son.
A subtle change had swept over the boy. In time, the trauma would wear, revealing underneath, the chiseled features of a man shaped by the experience today. Already, he was beginning to see the ruggedness of himself in his offspring. Deep down he realized nature shall take its course no matter what.
A melancholy smile lightened his face. He closed his eyes, becoming as free as the winds, and vanished. At last, he slept in peace.
THE END