All glorious images of future wives and lovers dissipate from our minds instantly. In creeps a sight that would put thoughts of Hell to shame. Dying embers lay in front of us, the sky painted with blood. Happy, impulsive lyrics die at our lips. The demons of war have finally revealed their ugly faces.
A stunned silence settles among us as we walk into the burning village. No words are needed. The same pain felt in my heart is within every other soldier. As we walk deeper into the village, we see the remains of a burnt house, the forlorn and broken state of a stone wall that served no protection to the family it was built for. Our gazes wander over the desolate premises.
"Search for survivors," the Captain orders, as he turns his horse towards us. His eyes meet mine and, in the briefest second our eyes meet, I see the dread in his eyes. His father should've been here. I turn left and watch as some soldiers scramble to follow their Captain's order, while the more experienced soldiers walk slower around the village. Yet none of the soldiers give up. We all know the village is now a burning graveyard, yet as soldiers, we do not and cannot simply throw our helmets down. We inspire hope. We bring hope. We are the hope of China and because of all this, we do not give up.
I slowly walk towards a cliff. For what? What is possibly compelling me to walk towards a cliff? I do not know the answer. Perhaps, somewhere, in my subconscious, I want to find the tiniest shred of serenity in the fire pit of death. As I reach the top of the snowy cliff, I feel my stomach (the stomach that has endured all sorts of food mankind fear to eat) lurch. In every inch of my sight lay a dead man, either with red snow enveloping the body or an arrow protruding from the chest. I feel the daily army grub of poorly cooked rice and some sort of vegetable climb up my throat. I force it back down. I am Chien- Po, three time winner of my village's annual winning contest and two time runner-up. Food does not come up my esophagus, it always flows down.
Scanning the dead bodies, I selfishly hope there aren't any recognizable cadavers. Suddenly, a golden feather stops my radar. My slow pumping heart stops and my strong stomach drops.
It wasn't.
It couldn't be.
Yet, it was.
The general's helmet, lying innocently in the snow, glittering in all its cruel beauty and honor... How is the captain going to feel? I stare stupidly at the body and helmet, until I realize that the least a soldier could do at this moment is to bring their captain his father's helmet. I slowly climb down the snowy cliff and walk towards the helmet, trying not to tread on any of the soldiers. Red snow crunch underneath my feet and I feel my usual calm face scrunch into a grimace. I try not to be bothered by the aimless gazes of the imperial soldiers. I try not to think about the family's faces as they receive the letter of honor and death. After all, this was war. Casualties are inevitable.
Yet, why couldn't diplomatic ways be pushed? Was the only way to solve problems was to fight? What does it lead to? A contest as to which country could afford to more the most men?
I reflect on the one reason I joined the army. In my village, a man's life depended on his farming skills. I had no such talents. I couldn't bear to whip water buffalos into pulling a torture device that would plant our seeds. I was also born wider and fatter than most babies, with bigger bones and a bigger stomach. There was no helping with what my ancestors bestowed upon me. I was the pariah of my village, a shame, a man whose honor failed to ever meet him.
Joining the army was the last thing I ever wanted to do. Peace was always the answer for me. I learned this from a monk, a great, wise man who also disapproved of war. Yet, honor still flooded my mind and I needed to abase the shame on my family's name. So, here I am, stepping over cadavers in a devil ridden land.
The closer I get to the general's helmet, the more of the more of the general's corpse is revealed. My mouth set in a determined line, I continue to trudge through the snow. As I finally reach the helmet, I see a sword decorated with dried blood protruding from the general's ribcage. I flinch and nearly fall over a Hun enemy, who lay directly in front of the general, with the hilt of a sword sticking out from where, I presume, his heart lays. From the positions of the two bodies, I can tell the General laid a fatal thrust before his death. An honorable death.
His non-seeing eyes gazes up at me and a shiver runs down my back. The General, this father, would never be able to watch his son grow more, prove his position, and he would not be there to congratulate the Captain. How am I to break this news? As a friend, as an inferior?
I knelt down against the General and gently close his eyes with my thumb and forefinger, while mumbling, "May you rest in peace, General."
Standing up, the one time in my life, I look down at the General and I feel my heart sighing in sympathy for the Captain once more. I pick up the sacred helmet and turn to slowly walk back to the ashes of the once lively and flourishing village of the Tung Shao Pass.
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Chien-Po always struck me as a tai-chi and yoga sort of a guy, so it got me wondering "why did he join the army?" Honor, I believe, is the answer or, perhaps, like Mulan, he joined to protect his father, but writing about that would be all too cliche. This is my version of Chien-Po's thoughts at the the Tung Shao Pass.
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Fin. 2:52 am so let me know if any grammer or spellling mistakes occured! please and thank you!