Home Again
by Reilly Irvine
The hill would not appear to be anything more than a small bump in the vast green terrain from a plane in the sky. Surrounding the grassland were majestic snow-capped mountains, more apt to catch one's attention. From the mountains to the north came a small river as blue and pure as one can imagine. It travelled through the valley and came to caress the small hill I called home.
My house was a small one, but I would not want it any other way. I was told it had been built by my grandfather with his bare hands. To the average person, it was not much to look at: the logs composing the walls were not well refined, and the building contained only four rooms. It took shelter at the side of the hill, which could not have been more than ten times as tall as the house - and the hill was just as much my home as the house was.
Daily as a child, I would venture up the hill by myself. Without siblings, solitude was no anomaly. My father, an artist by profession, would give me parchment with a brush and various paints to take with me. He enjoyed nothing more than seeing my paintings, and he cherished each one deeply. Early in the day, I would leave the house and follow the trail that started at my door; it was the trusted route that led me to my sanctuary day after day. The short walk was a beautiful one, spotted with purple wildflowers and often blessed with a dazzling blue sky overhead. The grassy slope did not weary my legs, instead offering me the occasional stone to sit upon and catch my breath.
The summit (if you could call it that) greeted me with a view that made my trip worth it each and every time. The hill I had just climbed swept down away from me and turned into a lush valley of tall green grass and violet wildflowers. The only thing that interrupted the land was the blue river that came from the north, wrapped around the hill and continued to the south. The hill was the largest feature around; at least, it was until you looked forty miles to the north, where great rugged mountains pierced the sky. Seeming to loom over me despite their distance, the mountains always made me so small. That wasn't such a bad thing.
In those days, nature satisfied my very soul. I always tried to capture the world around me in my paintings: the rocks and the soil were as alive as everything else, the birds sang to the sound of the river running below, and the smell of honey bees and wildflowers never waned.
* * *
The war came when I was eighteen. My mother thought it would be best for me to stay home, but my father disagreed. He recounted tales of himself fighting honourably years ago, and said that it would be edifying for me to do so as well. I was eager to begin such an adventure with my father's blessing, yet in my heart, I was sad to leave home. My parents and the green hill were all I knew in life.
The other men, as I learned on the train, were almost all from the city. Their view on life was very different from mine - this was evident from the way they acted. Coming from the sprawling city, I had imagined they would be looking out the train window in amazement at the rolling green country; instead, they seemed more interested in their own two feet. While I was curious about the war, the other men shook nervously. I did not understand then that they were already acquainted with the reality of the world: suffering and death.
I began to question my decision to leave home the moment a gun was put in my hand. This object was designed for death, a concept I had not pondered as a child. I dreaded the feel of the steel, cold as ice in my hands. Our commander would often stop to look at me as I awkwardly fumbled my rifle.
By the time I saw action, I had been trained to fight. Once our differences were resolved, the other men became my brothers. They were there with me helping to cope with my first kill; they were there with me mourning every loss.
