Fossils of the Missing Ones – IV: The Barbarian’s Story
I know what you think:
“He’s just another savage, Neanderthal Man;
a small-brained creature
that rapes, murders, and plunders.”
You’ve made up your mind.
Be careful, stranger, you don’t know the whole story.
Swallow your judgment.
We were forced to move from the mountains in the north.
Winter had become more brutal each year;
Spring’s arrival untimely, forcing the animals to migrate south,
searching for greener pastures, as the saying goes.
We set out early,
leaving our empty grottos full of memories.
The journey was tough with pelts in tatters and rags.
Children were crying and the women moaned.
All of this ended when we reached Bat Wing Mountain.
The forest was dense,
and the Sun was going down when they ambushed us;
twenty-five arrows and a few more poisoned darts
stole thirty-two lives.
Women and children.
Only eight of us escaped,
by chance, I should say,
for we tumbled down the steep slope of the mountain
on the desert’s side.
Now reduced to six (and our skins covered in blood),
my men and I walked.
Not one of us cried, but our souls were filled with rage,
a hollow anger that changed our Wolf hearts
to those of sorrow vultures
as we remembered our dying children,
and regretting not helping those we hold dear.
In the dead of night
(in the middle of nowhere)
we stumbled upon a tiny village.
Tears were streaming down my face
and we howled and howled.
Still, like carcasses;
they didn’t put up a fight.
Innocent blood flowed dark in half-moon’s light.
With my new son in my arms, I started walking,
finding my own way, for cowardice had set in.
How could I ever be myself again?
I guess I have to thank him,
whoever it was
who took my life, took the boy from my guilty hands.
I am the Vulture.