Chapter 3

The sun drifted northwards into the azure sky, beaming its limitless light upon the earth, arousing the dormant greenish plants and trees, as they spread their leaves wider to assimilate the sunlight. Birds were not left out as they were busy relishing in the effect of her great light. Up above the skies, birds were seen flapping their wings as they flew away to unknown destinations.

A great rock girdled by alpines towered above the rugged hills below it. The inhabitants of that region had noticed its uniqueness in those ancient days and had named it Lala – meaning ‘great rock’. It remained the most towering natural feature when approaching the kingdom of Muzagah. The rock had caves and cavernous routes where one could run to for safety in the event of war or calamities. At night, it was told that some pernicious beasts wandered inside, ferreting for humans to rip to pieces. 

Tales of this sort scared people away from the rock. Though sometimes, men of strong spiritual influence; say priests and such ilk, visited the caves in the rock for sacrifices. In most cases, fugitives, vagabonds, and deserters from war went inside to hide. 

 While a majority of the people of Muzagah perished in the war against the Suramites, some had fled in the night to seek succour inside Lala and in the hills, while others had fled to unknown lands. In the dark caves, beast and man shared the same domain. Low sounds of human breaths echoed inside. Fretful noises and chatters followed. That morning, about fifty men emerged through the dark caves, trudging down to its foot. Another four came out from a different cave door. Then three youngsters came out from the rear and walked slowly away from the open door of the cave. They all united on reaching the glade below. 

They began to prattle about the war while they walked on a declining path, arm-in-arm. They were heading towards the main gate of the desolate kingdom. Involuntarily, they began to hum sepulchral songs in a sorrowful rhythmic tune. The picture before their sight was no illusion or dream. It was real. The kingdom had been brought to naught. 

Everyone and all the infrastructures of the kingdom of Muzagah had been destroyed. Charred ruins wafted grey smokes in the air. The carnage was a tragedy and a horrid sight to behold. The Motherland was littered with thousands of filthy corpses. Still intertwined together, they strode slowly on, making their way through the bodies; scanning about the corpses to identify their relative’s faces. 

The three boys who were sent to Lala by the chiefs of Muzagah to trumpet the signals of war were among these men. They had been destined to live. “To live and produce the future generation who will conquer our foes someday,” a senior chief had said wisely to the boys, as he urged them to climb to the top of the rock the previous day.

The morning sun could not warm their cold hearts under this tragic circumstance. Soon they disentangled from the arm-chain and dispersed into the desolate place. Even the strong cried their sorrows away. Some of them cuddled their loved ones, sobbing painfully. Others stood numb, too shocked to speak, as the tears trickled down.

“Alright!” a man with a walking stick motioned to the rest. “Stop crying, brothers! Yesterday, we ran away; today, we have seen it all. Crying will worsen the state of our minds. Brothers, cover or bury only your loved-ones. After that is done, we would part to see someday.”

At that moment, the man initiated the task, while the rest joined him. They walked down to where the palm trees grew. They cut off some palm leaves, and used the leaves to cover few of their dead relatives. Within six hours of partaking in the drudgery, the task was completed. 

Their next move was obvious – to move on and continue life’s journey. They had to leave Muzagah. No one could dare to remain there. Who knew if the Suramites would return! The men eased their butts on the ground, forming a circle. They clasped their hands together in a chain and conducted a one-minute prayer for the dead. Afterwards, they began to chatter away their time. It was necessary to soothe their hearts. 

While they communed in that mood, something transpired. There sounded a strange noise from an unknown source. A human voice screamed like a man who was near the edge of death, as though he was clubbed with a weapon. He shrieked again and stopped. The men jerked away from the ground in fright. Had they not scanned the area, and unanimously concluded that no one apart from them was present there? Another trouble yet unseen loomed around them, as what affected a brother, affected the rest. As they paced forward, following the direction of where the sound came, Jonah appraised his brothers’ faces, one after the other, and seeing that his friend, the brown-eyed lad was not present with them, declared him missing. 

“Murai is not here. He said he was going to pee,” said Jonah, squinting his eyes. A fly swooped around him, touching his eyelids. 

“Whose son is he?” a brother asked Jonah. 

A look of pain crossed Jonah’s features. “Of course! You won’t know him by his looks. I, Murai, and Luh were selected as watchmen to sound the signals of war in the event of an invasion from the Suramites, from the top of Lala.  He is the son of chief Hugadah.”                                                                                        

Jonah saw the flash of surprise in their eyes. Everyone knew the chief of Guchi clan. He was a great swordsman. No one matched him in sword skills in all of the hilly nations. He had fame but never cared for it, because he lived a simple life, unmixed with politics. Justice was his watchword, and for it, he stood that night fighting the enemies of Muzagah till he breathed his last…