Four Young Warriors

Chapter 1

In hope and inspiration, I remember holding my mother's hand tightly, fingers cold as stone. From our mobile, we watched marching figures alongside their beautiful dark horses. I saw how the sun glistened with cloth and feathers that lied against their skin, sepia, a warm reddish brown. For miles, long black hair whipped in the wintry wind like ravens. The men, women and children flooded the stone-paved streets, as pale onlookers watched in fear. Except us.

At the steering wheel, my father wore a smile on his face. It had seemed that his hard work over the years had finally paid off. Sitting beside me in the vehicle, my mother's hands trembled as we all sat in silence, watching history unfold. She always had an inclination, she called it "a Mother's Sense".

"Mommy, can I join them?" I looked up to her blue eyes.

She reached over and stroked my pale skin, "No, honey. It's not safe. Maybe one d-"

"Why, of course it is!" Father interjected, "Let's join them." He excitedly opened the vehicle's door.

"You know that's not safe for a child! You never know what could happen," Mother replied to him.

"Don't be so uptight, Celia." My father tugged at my hand. "C'mon, Ella."

"No, Iver!" She shouted forcefully, pulling me closer to her.

I saw the feverishness quickly draw from his face. My mother grew defensive of me, clenching me tightly towards her body. They both held a silent glare that could break bones.

That was when the gunshots rang out. It was the first and only time I've heard it. Indistinguishably loud cracking filled the air, as hundreds of Natives hit the ground. Spooked horses raised in distress, loved ones cried out and marchers fleed to only be shot down.

In shock, my parents watched helplessly as thousands of people that they vowed to protect were slain before their eyes. Mother yelled for my father to drive away, yet he couldn't quite find the strength to leave them all to die. However, we didn't know who was shooting or whether they were coming for us too.

I remember my father eventually starting the engine and driving away. Gunshots ringing, silver tear drops falling onto his beige slacks. Images of red reflected off of his glasses. My mother tried to cover my eyes but I could still hear the screams. I'll never forget those screams.

But here I find myself, walking on the same paved streets which were once stained with pools of blood. Still holding a slightly pink tinge, my boots clanked against the stones below. After the massacre, Adair Square went from a vibrant marketplace to a desolate ghost town. Only the brave live in this neighborhood, a few people; of those includes my father. However, due to it's history, no one speaks about the massacre at Adair Square. Though it is now a mourning site for town folk, it is now considered a bad omen to speak of what happened here.

Over the years, I've asked my father repeatedly of what took place on that day. He always said I was too young, and he'd explain when I got older. Well, I'm older now, Father.

Approaching my father's home shortly after dawn, I noticed that the wooden house was beginning to rot. You would think that Father would repair it, but he hasn't been himself these days. I guess I will have to do it myself. Walking into the always-open front door, I found my father sleeping in his old rocking chair. I smiled as I remembered the countless days he would spend in that chair, telling me the stories of the Natives as a small child.

"Pa," I called, now standing over his sleeping body. Like a bear, he snored with so much power, like he were in hibernation. So I let him do so, taking a seat on the couch nearby and patiently awaiting his awakening.