The Scroll

The village was a small and an outwardly quiet place. It held many uniform, box houses, all exactly the same size and shape, all bowing down under the weight of the dense trees of the forest, and the almost daily rain.

The rice fields dominated the perimeter of the forest, and every morning, all the men of the village emerged from their small homes, after all having the same breakfast, and crossed, what seemed like, hundreds of bridges, through the upper echelons of the treeline, the cliffside roads, and the forest floors, as they made their way to work.

Every single day, the rice fields were attended to, in the exact same patterns each time, with the exact same people treading the same paths, the same hollowed holes, and holding the same finger indented farming equipment.

They spent hours together, all suffering under the hours of monotonous heat toiling away in full view of the sun, the boredom broken by the screech of an occasionally obnoxious bird, or the latest gossip of who snuck over who whose house last night, and how it was going to result in another small, terse wedding, between two families who would prefer to never see each other every again after such a mortifying ordeal.

Some of the men decried," We were better when we their age!" while others were happy to wave them off and comment," Oh the folly of young love," to throw their two cents into the pot, trying to keep the peace and save their skins from the fight that may, or may not break out, every single day.

After they all ate their identical lunches, and toiled away, all at the exact same pace all afternoon, before they all began to trudge home, their skins red and peeling, and their legs, backs and arms aching in the exact same places as they did everyday.

The little worker ants all went home, arriving at their identical houses at exactly the same time, and they all ate their identical suppers from their wives and sisters, and they all went to sleep, at exactly the same time, to wake up, just as they always did, every morning at sunrise.

When the moon hung high in the sky, when all the village was asleep, the backdoor to one of the homes swung open, and a man, barely out of his teenage years snuck out, looking right, looking left, and looking right again for good measure, as he made each and every movement out of his house.

He carried an old, tattered scroll, attached to his belt by some cheap twine he had made, and slowly made his way into the darkness of the forest, away from the light of the moon and the village.

It had rained that evening, as it always did, and so dry firewood was hard to come by, but he had prepared. It took him a dozen, or so, paces in a straight line from the door to each one particularly twisted elder tree, bathed in the glow of fireflies, as droplets of rain fell onto the sparkling spider webs, enclosed within its branches. It looked as if it was dancing to the music of the crickets, swaying gently in the night breeze, bestowing a few more droplets of water, now and again, down onto the small, glowing flowers, which formed a ring around it's base.

Behind the tree, the man had kept a supply of dry sticks, preparing for just the occasion. He tiptoed around the tree, making sure to not quash any of the flowers, or the edible mushrooms that he would be probably be consuming over the summer.

He crouched down and reached into the darkness of the hollow hovel behind the tree, and pulled aloft several, dry, flaky sticks of wood, playing make believe for a second, pretending that he was holding a sword.

A small scuffling sound of rustling leaves and a woman emerged from the woods, on the path back to the village.

The man dropped his arm, and shuffled back to behind the tree, placing the sticks and unclasping the scroll, hanging from his waist, placing it down into the hole, where the rest of the dry fire wood was stored. It wasn't a big enough hole for him to fit into, but he knew several small ravines and several rivers, deeper into the trees and bamboo.

The quiet footsteps of whoever had entered the grove grew closer, and the man knew that he wouldn't be able to run away now, the unknown stranger too close to escape from. The man plastered himself into the bark of the winding elder tree, placing all his limbs into the shadows. He held his breath, and tried to keep his hands from shaking. His stomach rolled and he willed the sweat, pooling on his skin, to not drip down and give his location away.

There was nothing he could do now, frozen still, pinned to the tree by the pure fear of discovery.

Who would be willing to come out here at the dead of night?

If any of the women came out, then it would be talked about as if it were scandal, and if it were any men, then he could easily be dragged back to the town, and made to answer to the elders why he had snuck into the woods at night, and be punished for breaking the rules. It wouldn't be any children who had snuck out at this time of night, and if it turned out to be a children, the man knew he was going to be really embarrassed.

A tiny child, lips wobbling as they thought that they were lost, would be adorable. He would be able to breathe a massive of relief, pinch their cheeks, and send them back on their way, telling them that they ought not to tell anyone to avoid punishment, and he could go straight back to what he was doing before.

The man smiled wryly to himself, indulging for a short second that his fantasy was real, and that there was no real threat. It was a nice dream to live with. Dreaming was what got him through the day. It got him through breakfast as his mother commented every single day how he hadn't managed to find himself a girl to marry yet. It got him through work as everyone else discussed which young lady was getting married to which young man. It got him through supper again, as his mother disapprovingly looked down at him for still living with her, even as her husband died and her youngest child had already married, and had children of her own.

Dreaming was his bread and butter. He lived off dreaming for a better life.

A cold hand gripped his wrist, and threw him into the pale moonlight and the glow of the fireflies.

The man rolled over the dewy grass, landing on his side, and quickly pulled a hand to it, checking and making sure that it wasn't bruised. Quickly, he scrambled up to at least a position where he could run, leaning heavily on one of the trees at the side.

The idea of others waiting in the shadows of the woods thrust itself to the front of the man's mind and he threw himself in front of the tree, his legs wobbling, and his arms and hands gripping the bark to keep him standing.

Out of the shadows, emerged a small woman, with burning eyes, and her fists clenched. She walked slowly and steadily towards the man, silent, without saying a single word, the fabric of her long skirt not even stained or ruffled.

"Mum!" the man cried, before slumping down onto the forest floor, his head hanging down, supported by his hands, wiping the sweat away from his face.

"Did you think, young man, that you would be able to leave the house without me noticing? I was almost hoping that, maybe, it was you who was the one sneaking out to spend time with his lover at night, but no! You're out here, galivanting in the woods, doing who knows what! Go home and get the fuck to sleep!" she screamed at her useless son.

She whirled around, giving one last look over her shoulder, before marching off back home to continue her own sleep, leaving the man to wobble downwards until he led down on the forest floor, sapped of energy and of the will to finally read the scroll that he had found, hidden under the floorboards of her room.

He was going to leave this place. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.