Defying Orono: A Tale of Courage and Sacrifice

The war started in the same way it always did.

The King's men rode into our village, kicking doors open and dragging people out into the streets. The older ones they beat unconscious, but the young ones they took away with them; their screams fading as they rode away.

I watched from my window as they galloped towards the palace gates, and I could feel that familiar weight settle in my stomach. My mother had a saying for times like this: "When you're scared, go hide."

I ran down the stairs and into our pantry, pushing all of the towels to one side and pressing myself up against the wall. There was a tiny gap between the wall and the floorboards; just enough for me to see through. I squeezed myself into it and held my breath. As I waited, I could hear my mother's voice in my head: "Be strong, Pili."

The heavy footfalls of soldiers' boots grew louder as they marched through our house, smashing anything that looked valuable. They kicked over tables and tore down curtains; they tipped over chairs and threw pots against walls until there was nothing left to break.

Then they came to my room. They scattered my things across the floor, pushing aside my bed so they could get at the corners. One of them found my mother's medicine box under my bed. He opened it up, pulled out an old bottle of redroot powder and popped it into his mouth before handing it back to his commander with a mocking grin on his face; he knew what would happen next.

The leader snatched it out of his hand and knocked it against one of my dresser drawers so he could make sure there was no poison inside it. Then he handed it back to him again, this time without taking any precautions. The soldier chuckled and drank it down in front of us all before collapsing on top of my bed - dead before he hit the ground. I'd seen enough poison kills by now to know exactly what had happened; if I'd been quick enough, or if I hadn't been so scared, I could have stopped him from dying before he did any more damage to us.

The other soldiers laughed at their comrade as they left our house behind them; laughing because they didn't realise that their leader was dead or because they didn't care either way? It wasn't long before I heard their horses fading into nothingness as they made their way back to the palace gates.

I crawled out from underneath my bed, took a deep breath and went outside to check if anyone had survived their attack. My father was still alive; lying unconscious on his kitchen floor with a broken arm but otherwise unharmed by their violence. He'd been beaten but not taken away with them; why? I wondered if they thought he would be able to identify them if he woke up later? If so then how would he ever do that when he couldn't even remember where home is anymore?