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| The Hunted | |
| By Ted_Iberrz | ||||||||||||||
| 24 March 2006 | ||||||||||||||
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I am being hunted just as my father was. One sniper bullet exploded his heart and he fell dead. It is said I was there when it happened, but my memory is devoid of any recollection from that day. No images, smell, or feeling remain with me. I have been told much of him and his ways. A giant among his kind he walked proud, never showing fear in the face of adversity. My mother says I am much like him. She taught me the traits of being strong minded. “Your father always said, ‘Walk tall, shoulders back, head upright, and always look your friend or foe straight in the eye. Project a confident gait and half the battle is won.” I have never run from a fight, but never have I struck the first blow. There is much to be afraid of outwith our community without coming to blows with those closest to us. We resolve disputes amicably, respecting the strength of youthfulness and the wisdom of old age. It has been instilled in our genes that to survive, family preservation comes before the individual. The story goes that on the day he died we were walking together by the river. Parents ambling alongside the slow flowing water while us children ran and chased one another through the overgrown grass banks. Father stopped walking and stood stock still for several seconds, setting a glaring stare past the thicket of shimmering aspen foliage to the thick limbs of the giant oaks. In a sudden change of mood he bellowed at us to run, and pushed my mother toward us. He charged at whatever threat he saw hiding at the forest edge. My mother thought he had tripped. It was not until after he hit the ground that the sound of an exploding cartridge reached her. Gun crime is rife in these parts, always has been and always will be, but no one takes a stand against those who come to our parts with killing on their minds. Things may well get worse before they take a turn for the better. There is hesitancy among officialdom to stop the mindless violence. Something to do with violating their human rights, but what rights do we have? A few friends of mine decided to take action and police their territory, striking the first blow against those who arrived with violent intent. It worked well for a while until several banded together and came shooting at us, taking the lives of mothers and children. We retreated to the hills and mountains, but still they track after us. Only the mountains remain to provide sanctuary, but in winter we could not expect to survive among the low temperatures of the snow capped peaks. It is said my father was killed for his head, that it adorns the wall of the Snowdrop Ski Lodge, and that his twisting antlers are now used to hold coats and hats. I find that hard to believe.
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