Fog rolls over the hill. It is midnight and the villagers gather, torches lit and eyes drawn intently to the desolate field, waiting for the Fomorian ranks to trample the village. Not one eye looks without worry. One of our own has shattered a delicate truce. He has broken a trust and understanding that has allowed our village and the Fomorians to live in peace for centuries. Fishing Fomorian waters has been warned against since the days of my grandfather’s grandfather. To do so is a death sentence for you, your family, and your village. Now, we wait.

     “Where are the bows and scabbards?” I said, looking to my son, Lucas.

     Lucas’s eyes race through the crowd. “I do not know, father. Garth was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

      “Find him,” I said, pointing to the far side of the village. “We need those weapons right away.”

      “Yes, sir.”

     He ran from my side, leaving me with my thoughts. Thoughts are all that I have now. I have no further ideas. But it was not always this way. When I first took charge of the village, my ideas and my passion knew no bounds. Businesses rose from the dirt mounds, providing steady work and fresh supplies; homes were built for growing families; everyone prospered. I even established trade between the clans of the Southern Plains and our village. The village had never been happier. And I owed it all to my father and the wisdom he had instilled in me as a boy.

     My father was a simple man. He dreamed of a life free from fear and boundaries. He, my grandfather, and his grandfather before him believed that the clan could grow into a functioning community that needed for nothing. They wanted a place where children could grow without worry. My great, great grandfather made a truce with the Fomorians long ago to assure the village’s safety from piracy and war. The truce was signed in blood, a reminder of the cost for breaking such an agreement.  

     My father once told me, while walking in the garden, “A leader must have broad shoulders to carry his people; a mind so sharp it could sever bone; and a heart like a steel bear trap, powerful and unyielding.” But the most important lesson he had ever taught me was that the center of my heart belonged to my family and my people. He said, “One day, they will call upon you in desperation, and the way in which you answer the call will define you as a man.” These words have lived in me for many years, but have failed to hold any weight until now.

     I puff my pipe, peering deep into the fog, remembering my father’s words. I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar smells of the grasslands, a humid blend of lush grass and sage that I could breath forever. Though my heart thumps like the hooves of a frightened horse, my mind keeps a hawk-like focus, ready for anything that emerges from the thickness of the fog. There is an old saying amongst our clan, “With sight of a predator, you shall never be prey.”

     Conflict lashes out, stirring the crowd into an uproar. Cursing and shoving lead to threats and fist throwing.

     “You stupid boy! You have doomed us all with your selfishness!”

     The man draws his knife and looks down on the boy, who lies bruised and bleeding on the craggy earth. The boy has no fight in him. His stooped, defeated posture is evidence of shame and understanding, the look of one who is deserving of such punishment. Be that as it may, I cannot allow this to continue. I am the chief, and I must have order.

     “That is enough!”

     The man ignores my command, pulling the boy toward his blade. I lunge at him, knocking him to the ground, my ax ready to strike.

     “I said, that is enough!”

     The man looks up at me, eyes bulging with anger, body quaking with adrenalin.

     “It is his fault that we all stand here awaiting our demise! It is only right that he be sacrificed to the giants for his treachery. Then maybe they will spare us.”

     “That is not your decision to make!” I said.

     I help the boy to his feet. He is a teenager, bathed in the soil of the land and draped in tattered rags that clung to his body. Though the boy had made a decision that could end all that we know and cherish, I find it hard to place blame solely on him. Our resources have been dwindling for some time, and I know the control that hunger can have on a person, especially when one’s family is at stake.

     When I was fifteen, a villager was spotted hunting on Fomorian land. The man was killed on sight, his intestines strung along the forest entrance as a warning to others. Balor, the king of the Fomorians, was filled with anger, ordering that all villagers forfeit half of their cattle and produce for the entire year in return for their lives. Those who failed to deliver were disemboweled and left for the wolves. The village had to bend to Balor’s will or risk being broken. 

     For most, Balor’s demands left barely enough to live on, let alone run a profitable business. For others, it meant certain death. For my family, it meant a year of suffering, falling asleep with empty stomachs and waking to splitting headaches. We had more than most, but a good portion of our riches went to help those in the direst of need. Being a chief is much more than barking orders. A chief is responsible for the survival of the entire clan. My father believed in what he did. He made me believe in what he did. So, I learned to be stronger than hunger, stronger for my people.

     Only those who have truly been hungry can understand the desperate mind. My father had grown weak from sickness, and my mother had dwindled into a frail, mindless shadow of herself. Between my parents helping the village and assuring that I was fed, they neglected to maintain their own health. I never understood how someone could give so much to others, to the point that their own life hung in the balance. But at fifteen, there are a lot of things that you do not understand. My father’s skin turned yellow, and his sight began to deteriorate. My mother was gaunt, and her body would shake. Eventually, her hair and teeth fell out, and she grew sores all over her body. Both my parents’ bodies started to rot, casting a putrid odor upon the house that would turn my stomach, but I never complained. They never complained. All of this, they did for the village.

     I remember searching the house from top to bottom for food of any kind, anything that could bring the life back into my mother and father. There was nothing. Our pantry was as empty as our stomachs. I snuck through town, following the scent of freshly baked bread to the village bakery. The bakery was nothing more than a hollowed out booth with loaves of bread and sugary treats organized on a back table. The bread and treats were made elsewhere and brought fresh to the booth every morning. At the front of the booth was a counter with an arrangement of various bread loaves, the baker’s way of allowing the customers a look before they buy. Though I knew that all of the sales would be done at this counter, I also knew that the baker was a stickler for presentation. Between the waves of customers, he would order and reorder the loaves and treats, so they would be more appeasing to the customers’ eyes. But it seemed that no matter how much he arranged and rearranged the baked goods, he could never get it right. If I snuck up on the counter during this time, I could steal a loaf of bread without being seen.

     I waited patiently as the morning regulars paid for their bread and baked treats and dispersed to their homes. The smell of honey glaze wafted from the stand, demanding full attention of my senses. The sweet aroma put me into a trance. My mouth watered, remembering what fresh bread tasted like. It had been so long that I struggled to remember. I saw the baker turn and organize the loaves of bread. This was my chance.

     I rushed for the counter, ducking low from sight, my heart like the rapid beat of a battle march. I took a loaf from the counter and tucked it under my arm, scurrying from the stand. The baker turned.

     “Stop, thief!”

     I ran home as fast as my legs would carry me and buried the bread in the garden. The baker came banging at our door, and I hid under my bed. My father answered the door, and I could tell from the baker’s shouting and my father’s familiar, suppressed response that I was in big trouble. My father refused to show any weakness, including anger, when dealing with the villagers. “I see” was the common way of vocalizing his understanding of the issue, while containing his anger until they left. My father tanned my hide with an old bullwhip later that night, but nothing else ever came of the event. Since my father was the chief, I evaded any serious punishment for my thievery. The baker even let my father keep the bread, delivering him three more loaves later that day. After one good look at my father, the baker understood everything.

     But what is to come of this child, this poor and hungry child that stands before me? He does not have this luxury. He was not born into leadership, so I must stand for him as my father stood for me.    

     “Look up, boy,” I said. “Your self-pity is of no use to us.”

     He struggles to speak, dazed with sorrow. Trembling, he falls into my arms. I hug him tightly as if he were my son, allowing him to sob into my shoulder.

     “We are all flawed, boy. Mistakes are part of our nature.”

     “We were hungry,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”

     I release my grip on the boy and kneel to meet his eyes, lying hidden under a bowing head of matted braids.

     “Look…” I struggle to remember his name.

     The boy senses my struggle and speaks.

     “Figs. My name is Kevin Figs, sir.”

     I smile to lighten the mood. “Ok, Kevin Figs. Fetch a pale of water from the well. We will want to drink before the Fomorians arrive.”

     He nods his head and runs to the well, returning with a bucket of water. Many proceed to fill their hands, sipping water with an indulgent breath. I stand and watch. Though thirsty, I know the knot in my stomach will not allow a cool stream of water to enter, nor will it allow me the slightest bit of comfort in these unnerving moments.

     There is only one other moment in my life where my stomach knotted in such a way. It was the day my son was born. I had never been so scared in all my life. I had slayed savage wolves and come face-to-face with the meanest of beasts, but none of them brought me as much fear as my own flesh and blood. The fear that he placed in me was different from any fear that I had ever experienced before. It was a fear that would not let me slip or falter, a fear that was beyond my people, beyond myself.

     After complications with the birth, my wife, Magdalene, got an infection. It spread throughout her body, killing her two months after Lucas was born. Her final words to him spoke, “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” She had only known him two months, but I could sense that she meant every word. She never blamed him for the infection, nor did she ever regret bringing him into this world. Everything she did was for her family, for the village.   

     Flickering torches pull me from my thoughts. Lucas and Garth return, arms overflowing with bows and scabbards. The crowd gathers and pulls the weapons from their arms, practicing their aim and readying their senses. Many of these men believe that a sharp wit is the only hope in settling the dust that has engulfed our two clans, but there are others that are prepared to fight, arguing that a stiff shot of bourbon can knock the hide off of a farmer and turn him steed. I often hear them spouting amongst friends that not even a Fomorian could withstand the bite of their “Fire Water.”

     The low thrum of the battle horn sounds, jolting the hearts of the hopeless crowd. I move to the front ranks and look out onto the milky field. Black, shadowy figures, stretching the height of the fog, lumber toward the village.

     “Get into formation!” I say.

     All of the villagers with scabbards, axes, and clubs follow me to the frontline, while the archers form a line at our back. I pace before my men, trying to boost their confidence as well as my own. I run through the plan one last time to assure that everyone has a clear understanding of their role in the battle.

     “We will attack them at the fog’s clearing! We will bang our weapons and cry out at them, causing confusion amongst their ranks. We are only hundreds, but they will think us thousands! And we will drive them into the path of our arrows.”

     A trembling voice speaks from the line.

     “What if it fails? What if we cannot drive them into our arrows? Maybe we should just give them the boy! It may be our only hope of escaping this massacre.”

     I step before the man, the steam of my breath fogging his welding goggles.

     “This clan protects its own. It was founded by my ancestors and built on a foundation of unity! To turn on our fellow clansman in the wake of his darkest hour would put our entire existence to shame! These Fomorians have been coveting our land and resources for long enough. It is time for us to fight!”

     The frontline roars, thrusting their weapons into the air. I look back at the archers, receiving a confident nod from my son. I return the nod and look out upon the fog, studying the movement within.

     “Steady!”

     I calm my breathing and allow my eyes to close, feeling one last moment of peace before the charge. In my mind, visions of my life flow like a calm breeze. I remember my Grandfather’s whiskered face and how his breath always smelled of pipe tobacco, my father and his love for his family and village, my mother and her gentle eyes, the birth of my son and the day he took his first steps, and the way his mother used to watch him while he slept. Then I remember the village and the history that bloomed within its walls. In my mind, I can see the people and their hopeless faces calling out to me with the gravest of desperation. And I answer the call.

     My eyes shoot open, focusing on the first Fomorian to step from the fog. Drawing my ax, I lift it into the air, crying out with everything in me.

     “For honor—our freedom—for the village, attack!”