Not on my Watch

Chapter 18

                                         "Fly not yet, -'tis just the hour

                              When pleasure, like the midnight flower,

                                That scorns the eye of vulgar light,

                               Begins to bloom for sons of night,

                                And maids who love the moon!

                       'Twas but to bless these hours of shade

                       That beauty and the moon were made;

                       'Tis then their soft attractions glowing

                            Set the tides and goblets flowing!

                                              O! stay-O! stay-

                            Joy so seldom weaves a chain

                                 Like this tonight, that O!.

       'tis pain To break its links so soon." Thomas Moore

                                    December 21, 2013

                           Mesa Verde, Colorado U.S.A.

           Rowan looked up at the gathering storm clouds for what must have been the tenth time that morning; and it was still fairly early.  There were already about six inches of snow on the ground, with more expected.  Although she loved the snow dearly, it was impeding their progress slightly; but all in all, things were going well.  She and the other soldiers and Native Americans no longer dressed in standard Air Force Uniforms most of the time.  There were times they still wore their desert camouflage, but mostly when it was warmer.  As the weather grew colder, they'd adopted more practical clothing, such as traditional Native Americans wore. They'd learned how to make buckskin leggings and jackets, and also leather jerkins that laced up the front, and all sorts of little pouches and bags to place on their bodies, in which to carry tools and other objects.

            Today they were running practice drills in hand-to-hand combat, as well as weapons training at close quarters, using knives, swords, and quarterstaffs.  Lone Warrior had sent people to help train them in his ninja tactics.  The army's fighting skills had improved significantly with his help.   He himself had never appeared personally, always sending messengers and assistants. She wondered at this person who stayed behind the scenes.   Who was he?  Where did he come from?   How had he come by his intensive knowledge?  She wiped a hand across her sweaty brow.  As she often did now, she wore her dark auburn hair in two long braids, and wore a headband.  She had on her warm leather buckskin leggings and boots.  She'd discarded her buckskin jacket because she'd gotten so hot from training, and instead wore a light cotton shirt with the lace-up jerkin over the shirt.

           She was trying to keep busy enough to keep thoughts of Vin from entering her head.  If she thought about him too much, especially during the day, she lost her focus on what was more important right now, learning to fight the evil and corrupt government which had taken over her beloved country.  It had been fifteen months since he went MIA, and there had been no further news of him and his crew, nor recovery of the bodies.  Still, she refused to believe he was dead, even though all evidence pointed to the contrary.   Her heart would never give up hope, believing beyond all rationality that he was still alive somewhere.  He had to be. She was sure she would have felt it otherwise; yet the only time she allowed herself time to think about that was late at night, when she was trying to sleep on her uncomfortable pallet in the tunnel.   In those brief moments late at night, she allowed herself to fantasize about him coming home.