Valley of trolls

It is summer, nearing autumn and the first of the winter storms are rolling through. The sun is shining, palely through the oncoming wreck of clouds. The alpine grass pushes back from its hunched position under the gathering line of nature that approaches. The boulders that shout protection, hold the position of guarding the holy grail against the impending army.

The ground is squelchy and whispering in fear. The mist hangs off the ground as if not wanting to let go. The clouds broil off the mountain in streams of gloomy light. It seems that the sun has lost its reason for fighting is just fighting because. The swing of the sun bears down on the craggy line above, obliterating the desired but unreachable summits like the fall of a catapult.

The dirty scar that leads, through the mouth to the protective valley, crosses the once beautiful mountainside. It is now tainted. The movement of man has broken the natural order of the system. It has sped up the battle that is forever roaring, creating unintended consequences. The people carrying their multi-coloured packs have slumped down the scar. Slipping into the crush of war, being lost in the flying colours.

But you follow anyway.

You see a long-forgotten path to war to this scarred land. The land is flat like a well-trodden track to war. The surrounding area is littered with boulders like spent rifle casings. Where you now stand holds enough room for all of you and your gear.

The tents stand tall under the evermore gusty war that continues above, the hope of end flailing. The sun breaks the ever-increasing mass of barbaric clouds but one man, especially a lost one, cannot stop one million and the rain stings, as the wind flys. The sun has lost for now but he will return. In the waiting for a savour, life must go on.

You look at a gathered droplet in the bending grass. You can see your tents of green and yellow whipping around in the wind. You can see the winding of water as it flops to the ground, coating everything. You can see the pulling of pegs as the tents defences fail without the sun and you can see the people jump out to hold the tent down like a wild animal.

However, you made a mistake.

The water is now seeping from the ground as well as being flung from the sky. The water spreads out lazily. It spoils the bags and tents with depressing mass. It cannot be stopped, the swell of the river frightens the ground cover into flight.

Maybe life cannot go on.

Time flows through your contemplation. Night struggles with the slow passing, lights twinkle in and out in the sky, quiet in the silence before the front is reopened. The clouds become complacent with no threat and only the sickly moon can see the openings that come with complacency. The rain slips away and the sky becomes an ever-changing gradient of oranges and yellows.

Maybe the insane can become sane.

The sun slips its rays through the clouds and breaches the encampment. The struggle for survival is now the storms only interest. The mist rises from the stumbling stream. The rain runs. The clouds flee. And the morning rises a new, bright day.

The aftermath of the battle can be seen out of the half-collapsed tent, crushed under the onslaught and prejudice. The boulders sit, unchanged, in cold contemplation of the quick changes. The stream is now fat and bloated. The grass is standing with relief. The scar is now a gash, reopened and the mountain bleeds into the lake.

You rise with the sun. The mountains shake off this short battle and reopen the battle with the depressing gravity. The scream of the flaming cooker is inhuman as it burns. The torture and sacrifice of a few to ensure the safety of the rest.

The slow fall of the army begins. It starts with the tents. They quake in fear, not wanting to give away and stop protecting. They finally slip, falling to the ground. The rustle of the quiet fabric holds in the air as it folds and flips togeather. The bags are slipped out and the tents disappear for another day. The clothes are next to go. Shoved into the pack and forgotten. The next to go is the supplies that feed the army. Lovingly placed into the nooks and crannies of the pack, but still easy to get to when hunger makes itself be known. The final piece to fall is the packs themselves. They are flung over the shoulders of people and left to hang. The army has fallen, their aim complete. The time of movement has begun. The sounds of crunching feet, swinging clothes and crash of pots wanders through the valley. Feet squelch across the marsh back to civilisation. Silence flits back into place over the valley, hiding the screams from the past battles.