A Collection of Battle and its Aftermath: C.M.'s Collections, #14

By C.M. Simpson

From the personal to the impersonal, from times of kings, to the modern era, battle, its causes, and attempts to make peace has been a major part of human history…and so have those who've lived it, survived it, and tried to come to terms with living beyond it. These stories and poems shift from commemoration to reflection to exploration of causes and prevention, and bringing peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.M. Simpson
• Release date: Apr 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223944294

C.M. Simpson

I spent the first twenty years of my life living in different parts of Queensland and the Northern Territory. My father was a teacher who liked to travel, so he took teaching appointments in all kinds of places. I don’t think I stayed in one place for more than four years at a stretch. I wrote stories for most of that time, drawing on the different landscapes we encountered and giving a hyper-active imagination somewhere to run. Seeing so many different places gave me a lot of food for thought as I stepped into the world of adulthood and took my first full-time job, and I never stopped writing and exploring the worlds in my head. So far, I have written four collections of short stories and poetry, and a number of novels, with many more to come. I hope you have enjoyed this part of my journey.

Book preview

A Collection of Battle and Its Aftermath

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C.M.’s Collections #14

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C.M. Simpson

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From the personal to the impersonal, from times of kings, to the modern era, battle, its causes, and attempts to make peace has been a major part of human history...and so have those who’ve lived it, survived it, and tried to come to terms with living beyond it. These stories and poems shift from commemoration to reflection to exploration of causes and prevention, and bringing peace.

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License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright Page

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A Collection of Battle and Its Aftermath

First Edition

C.M. Simpson

Copyright © April 19, 2023 C.M. Simpson

Cover Art & Design © April 21, 2022 Jake at JCalebDesign

All rights reserved.

Dedication

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For all those who believed in me enough, that eventually I had to believe in myself.

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Thank you.

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And for the men and women who have fought on the battlefield, and in the shadows, and from the sidelines, and the halls of governance that their countries, and their people, might live in peace.

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We thank you.

Author Forward

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Welcome to my fourteenth collection. While many of the pieces here are drawn from other works you might have seen, most of the short stories, especially the last one, and one of the poems, are unique to this collection and can be found nowhere else.

If I’m honest, I don’t know why this theme surfaced so often in my writing. Perhaps it’s because of the state of the world, or fallout from time working as both a uniformed and a civilian member of Defense. Maybe it’s just because there is a lot of drama and action in battle, and they’re a good source of strong characters, and story.

More importantly, most of the stories focus on the people involved in the battles, be they personal or for a 'greater’ cause, because the people are where the stories can be found. Everything else is a backdrop to their stories, so it’s them we’ve come to see.

But why a collection themed around battle and warfare, you ask. Why do you think we’d be interested?

Because warfare seems to be integral to humanity. It doesn’t matter where you look, humans are fighting about something, and this book is about all kinds of battle.

Wars are fought on so many fronts, and the battles that bring victory are made up of a myriad of smaller fights, each of which are as important to victory or defeat as the other. Not only that, but the nature of battle differs, and while this book includes only those fought between two definitive ‘sides,’ with some kind of warfare attached, it also looks at what battles might look like when fought with strong digital components, or what a fight to prevent bloodshed might look like when led by a community matron with very few fighting folk at her disposal, as well as at the different ‘off-screen’ battles that might be fought to bring about peace. The stories here might be themed around war and why its fought, but they look at the different causes and solutions, albeit from a fictional standpoint. Some of the poems provide a short social commentary, but most also tell a story, and question war, peace and a fighter’s motivations. Some is food for thought, but I hope you can find worlds in which to explore and a haven from real world, here, at least for a very little while.

Table of Contents

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Copyright Page

Dedication

Author Forward

Brave the Poppies Bloom

Jalaya

The Mountaintop

Raid Awakening

Human Victory

A Sleeper Agent’s Regret

Headlines from the Starman

Drums upon the Wind

The Soul in the Sword

The New Recruit

Storm-Riding Raiders

A Stranger’s Kindness

Ogres at the Battle of Falls Hill Field

Rescue Beyond the Rifts

Invader’s Demise

Battle Encoded

Davenmouth Showdown

Obedience

The Battle Overhead

When Women Fight

One Storm-Lit Night

A World in Governance

Hansard Retakes the Castle

Village Uprising

The True Fight

One Good Deed...

Battle’s Cost

Battle’s Aftermath

The Runaway

Uncertainty in Battle’s Lull

Mr. Teddy’s Secret

The Battle for Our Dreams and Nightmares

Dark Sharn

Shift and Return

The Eviction Notice

Good Morning to the Dream Defenders

Under Siege

Unexpected Alliance

The Mis-Placed Pilot

Homecoming

Vale for the Kessek’s Beast

Rest, My Warrior. Sleep.

A Vignette for Rashkah

Jacob’s Vision

Uncertainty in Battle’s Lull

Oceanic Allies

Survivors Resettled

The First to Remember

The Starships of Avanil

A Planet’s Ransom

After the War

Back to the Delve

Tomasina Says Goodbye

Returned from Star Battle

Earth’s Defeat

The Planet Burned

The Brastineek Survivors

It’s Still Life

Dead Fall

Hope on Cetavila

Iana Lives

Rosemary Hill Invaded

Mercenary’s Honor

A Valiant Sacrifice

Dragon’s Nightmare

Lest We Forget (I)

A Christmas Surprise

Kavesh and the Peace Deal

They Must So Know

The Possibility of Peace

A New Start Endangered

The Dinabranki in Defeat

A Family in the Stars

Beginning, Middle and End

Protocols of Success

Overthrown

Raiders’ Regret

The Invisible Refugees

King Ruford’s Peace

Eviction and Eradication

Salvation in the Dreaming

Opening Negotiations

Alien Invasion

World’s End

Fate in the Sun

Jelisair and the Deep

Alien Invasion (II)

Origins of Cloudfire

Hasik

A Window on Salukia

Lest We Forget (II)

War’s End

Keeping the Peace

Captive on International TV

The Dead and the End of a War

Duct Tape and Tar

Stupidity on the Brink

Soldier, Warrior, Fighter, Love

Quandaries of War

The Lost Kings

Author’s Notes

Other Works by C.M. Simpson

About the Author

Brave the Poppies Bloom

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Written on November 17, 2013, and tweaked on April 5, 2023, this piece first appears as the November 13 entry in 365 Days of Poetry, and was written for the 95th anniversary of Armistice. Lest we forget.

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Shallow lie the graves,

and brave the poppies bloom.

Honored is the farmer,

who digs up to re-entomb

the dead who died upon his fields,

his freedom for to pay,

in wars long past,

before the modern times,

which o’er our lives hold sway.

So far from home the soldiers died,

so far from friends and kin,

yet with their comrades

they joined the fray,

and tried a war to end.

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Lest we forget.

Jalaya

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Inspiration:

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The inspiration for ‘Jalaya’ comes from a quote taken from Old Serpent Nile, a travel book written by Stanley Stewart that was published in 1991. I found my copy in a second-hand bookstore in Melbourne, but it has a borrower’s pocket showing that it had once belonged to the Vancouver Library and was purchased from there by some unknown traveler. That quote is as follows:

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‘She became un petit fou, you understand. Always she was wanting the window open. And asking about boats. Could we see any boats arriving in the harbor? She was waiting for a boat, you understand. She thought someone was coming to fetch her in a boat to take her away. No one ever knew where it was she hoped to go. She had been such a fine woman. Everyone had liked her.’ (Stewart, 1991:12)

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History and Background:

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On January 8, 2019, I published this, the final edition of a story I first published in 2013. I’ve learned a lot since then, but the story remains essentially the same. This edition now has the cover it deserves, and has been re-edited and given updated front and back matter, but has had no other major changes. If you have bought the previous edition, you will find this edition is almost the same.

I first started writing this story in 1999, and stopped just before Michael gives the order for the tribe to return to the town. At this point, it was 3,300-words long and I knew how I wanted it to end, but not how I was going to get it there. Life came along, as it so often does, and I set the tale aside to find work, raise a family, and gain teaching qualifications. It was quite some time before I could return to writing.

In 2003, I made some background notes that explained the reasons Caroline stayed in the town and why she is important to the story, but I added nothing to the story itself. It wasn’t until mid-March 2012, when I wanted to include ‘Jalaya’ in An Anthology of Battle, that I sat down to try and complete it.

This was not an ‘easy’ story to write, taking a fortnight to revise before I found the last 11,500 words it needed in order to reach completion. When I started it, I didn’t expect it to take more than 6,000 words in total. No wonder I had trouble completing it before; it was never meant to be a short story; it has always wanted to be a novella. Well, now it is.

Thirteen years in the making, ‘Jalaya’ begins with the passage that inspired it, an idea spawned at a time I was researching Egypt for a roleplaying project. The story began as an experiment in importing elements from ancient Egyptian culture into a futuristic world in decline—and became story of love, loyalty, the call of duty, and the bonds of family in a world at war.

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Overview:

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After ten years of keeping his village free of the invaders, Michael is forced to face the fact the invasion is catching up. Cut off from escape, their only hope of salvation is to return to the town they fled, and pray, but returning to the village means returning to his fiancé, forced by a secret family tradition to remain, when duty called him to leave. Reunions will have to wait, however. First Michael and their daughter have to bring their people home.

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The Story:

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Michael looked down at the town in the sand. Red, flat roofs of clay interspersed by the elegant, wooden gables of buildings from northern climes, still stood in a basin of protective hills. From where he stood, the rotting boards were invisible, as was the sand that swirled along the unkempt streets.

He tried to see the town as it had been ten years before. There had been trees standing inside walled islands of stone dotting the center of the main streets, and the sweetly scented jalaya flowered beneath them. There had been window boxes full of color clinging to the walls and the town had been white, the color of snow and light-hearted purity, not red, the color of old blood and war.

Caroline had danced in the streets with him on the first day of the new year, and the unseen rains had made the river roar with pride as it rushed between the white stone walls of the canal. That had been ten years ago when the Scorpions had first attacked, and the town had emptied shortly thereafter.

Caroline’s family had disappeared in the melee, along with his son, but Caroline had refused to grieve them. They were safe, she insisted. His son was safe, but he had to take their daughter. Michael had had no time to argue or grieve and clung to her promise. His son was safe. His daughter would be safe with him, but of his bride-to-be...

Caroline had refused to go. She said she had duties that must be attended. She had asked him to stay. Michael had possessed other duties, other responsibilities that forced him to leave her behind, so she said she would dance the streets on the first day of every new year in his memory. When he had protested that the day was no longer safe, she had promised to dance at night.

Michael had begged her to come with him, to wed him in the desert. Caroline’s eyes had glistened with tears when she said she had to stay, the reasons secret until they married and united as family. She had said she would not take him from his duties, hugged him fiercely tight, and then fled swiftly away.

Caroline would dance again tonight, without his arms to hold her as she wound her way through the streets. She would raise her voice in bittersweet song, her body clad in the white of a bridal gown that had never seen a wedding day. And Michael would watch her from his place upon the hill.

Once, during all her dancing and serenade, Caroline’s steps would bring her to the edge of the town. She would stretch her arms towards where he sat, folding back towards herself as she waved to him, beckoning him with her body and her hands. She would pause there, the song momentarily silent, as she waited for his response.

When Michael did not answer, she would swirl away, dancing back along the empty streets, her voice returning in a song of mourning as she grieved her loneliness and the duty which prevented her leaving the town to join him. He would watch her as she floated between the buildings to the empty riverbed, listen as she wound her way from one ruin of a dock to another.

He would hear her naming every dock and each boat that had ever tied up there. He would hear her naming other things, as well, but it did not worry him. It was just her way. She had conducted a similar ritual when they had been dating. It had been a family tradition, but she had never told him why. It was a secret that could only be shared once they were wed.

Caroline knew the name of every boat that had plied their trade on the river: the old ones, the new and the sunk and mostly forgotten. Her father had taught her, and she had grown the habit of being at every launch or decommissioning. Now, without her father to supervise, she summoned them.

She completed her tour of the docks as midnight approached, ignoring the midnight spirits ruffling her dress and pulling at her hair. When the litany was over, she would cry for her father and throw dust in the air, and then she would cry for Michael.

That was the hardest time, when her voice lifted his name above the rising wind, and the dust she hurled into the air reached him still scented with her perfume. Michael always tried to snatch a handful of it, a piece of her, to see him safely through the rest of the year. He always wept when the fine particles sifted between his fingers and she was lost to him once more.

Papa?

Michael looked away from the town, unaware of the tears that had dampened his cheeks until a soft hand reached up and brushed them away.

Michelle.

She had been named for him, born early and out of wedlock but not in shame, proof of the fecundity of the woman he had pledged to marry and an advance blessing on the union they had planned. Her little brother had been a second blessing, one Michael hoped was not lost forever. Perhaps, when this was over, Caroline would reveal where her family had hidden.

Aware of more tears following the first, Michael brushed the other cheek dry, then took his daughter under his arm as he turned back to the town. She spoke as they gazed down at the empty streets.

The tribe is moving. There have been Scorpions seen on the western fringe.

Michael’s disappointment was so great he could not answer, could only gesture helplessly at the clustered buildings while the tears wet his face once more. Michelle’s arm, about his waist, tightened in sympathy.

The headman says even dusk will be too long.

For a long moment of silence, Michael stared at the town. Now that he was looking for them, he could see the empty spaces where doors had once hung, and the brief scars left by bullets in the sandstone walls. This time he allowed himself to notice the broken stumps of the trees still standing in the center of the stones that had failed to protect them. The sight of their shattered trunks strewn in the streets almost broke his heart.

He sighed.

I will need to fetch the jalaya. She will think I have abandoned her if I do not.

I brought it. The headman did not let me forget.

Michael turned to stare at her.

How much time...?

Michelle was wearing her fatigues. They were blotched and mottled, the color of the sand they would travel through. They were tinted red.

He says we have to reach the first river by nightfall.

There was no more time, but she handed him the jalaya bloom she had brought, and gently pushed him towards the ruins.

Be quick, Papa; I need your protection more than she does.

His daughter was right. After their first wave of attacks had emptied the town, the Scorpions had avoided the ruins as though afraid. They had not even stopped to loot the undefended buildings. Michael stepped away from Michelle, his boots sliding on the scree. Halfway down, he hesitated, looking back.

I have brought your fatigues, she called. I will wait for you here. Don’t be long.

Caroline would be inside the hotel, Michael thought as he picked his way down the slope. She had retired there because it reminded her of him, of the good times they had spent there when they were able to be together. He loved the hotel, too, knew exactly where it was, but there was no time to find her, and it would do no good if he did. He could feel the tears again, gathering at the edges of his eyes. He forbad them.

Later, he promised. When the jalaya was delivered and he was back with Michelle. Obediently, he felt the tears subside. Nine times previously he had left the jalaya at the edge of the town. Always, when he returned, the flowers had been gone.

He did not know where Caroline took them, was not even sure that she found them. It was something he chose to believe over the possibility that the desert creatures had come before her and taken the blooms, leaving her with the impression she had been abandoned once again. On those years, the months had seemed longer as the time for her dancing drew near and it was only her white-robed figure that reassured him his gift had been received.

With the scree of the slope behind him, he began to run. This time he did not look back to see if Michelle still waited on the hill. This would be the fourth time he had left the jalaya. He hoped Caroline’s forgiveness extended that far, that she did not subscribe to the old adage.

Nine times spurned; a tenth time, hated.

Michael pushed the thought from his mind. It was she who had refused to accompany him, to leave the town against her father’s orders. He felt his fingers tighten, then remembered the tube he held in his hand. If he crushed it, there wouldn’t be time to return for another; the fact Michelle waited with his fatigues was testimony to that. The first river by nightfall was almost an impossibility, but they would try.

He wondered how long it would be before the Scorpions arrived.

The town loomed before him, the red dust coating it losing some of its bloody look as he came closer. Beneath the relentless scouring of the wind and the fine layer of scarlet particles from the hills, the walls were still white. An irony, Michael thought, since the Scorpions had long ago robbed the town of its purity. It was fitting, then, that there were no flower-filled window-boxes; for the raiders had also torn the light-heartedness from the townsfolk and never given it back.

Michael paused beside the first house. It was at the end of the street where Caroline beckoned him and he hoped she did not think he had come to join her. He called her nonetheless.

Caroline!

His voice rang off the walls of empty buildings, becoming hollow and booming its way into the town’s heart as the echoes bore it. He did not doubt that she heard him calling.

I will leave the jalaya if you do not wish to go with me.

He froze, listening, trying to quiet the thrumming tenseness that rattled like static in his brain.

Caroline?

His voice broke.

Please come.

He strengthened it and tried again.

Please come! My heart breaks without you. Caroline, please... Michael’s shout died to a whisper, ended on a choked-back sob. He waited for an entire minute for her response, the jalaya clutched in one calloused hand, hoping he would be able to give it to her himself, wanting to wrap his arms around her once again.

Caroline did not answer and she did not come, so Michael put the flowers on the windowsill. There was a bracket there. It had once held a lantern. Now it held the soft, whiteness of his wedding pledge. He had not forgotten, nor given it up. His fingers lingered on the outer surface of the tube. The jalaya quivered within.

Suddenly, impulsively, he stooped and kissed the tube, then he spun on his heel and began to run for the hill. The kiss haunted him. He had never done that before, had never felt the need. He laughed at himself as the first scattering of scree slid beneath his feet, forcing him to slow down and concentrate on not tumbling back down the slope.

There is no way she will know of the kiss, he thought and was comforted by the fact that only his daughter had seen his folly and that she would not comment on it.

She loved her mother, but hated her for her abandonment. She would not speak of her unless she had to.

Michael could not see how the red dust settled over the small taint of moisture he had left on the tube’s outer coating, and there was no way he could know of the mark that appeared in the centre of the bloom as the dust mark shadowed the jalaya’s heart in the sun’s last light. By that stage, he had pulled on his desert-toned fatigues and was running, with his daughter, towards the camp.

The headman greeted him amidst the dust and confusion of the dismantling camp.

I need you on our back trail, Defender.

Michael nodded.

Who did you send on point? he asked.

Hawk Mark.

Good. I will take fifteen men from the Sun’s Mark. Where were the Scorpions last seen?

First from the Ibex Rim in the north, crossing the plains. Our scouts report the raiders stopped to camp at the foot of the Rim itself. They sent back a messenger on first sighting, then waited to see the direction the Scorpions travelled. Last report places them twenty miles north of the Northern Rim.

That put the raiders not far from the town. Michael’s eyes clouded and his voice, when he next spoke, was harsh.

When do you leave?

The headman gestured around them.

Defender, we are leaving now.

Michael let his gaze followed the gesture and this time noted the order of things. Vehicles carrying families and hastily packed personal possessions were already lined up and moving south. All that was left were those carrying the emergency power plant, the barracks and the base communications. Michael knew that, somewhere ahead of the families, the vehicle carrying the mobile comms-unit was leading the way to safety.

Again, impulse took him and he reached out to clasp the headman’s shoulders between his palms. Briefly he looked into the man’s eyes, then bowed his head and released him. It was the only way he could show his gratitude for what had been done.

I gave you what time I could, the headman told him, his voice rolling low so only the two of them could hear. It was all that I could do.

You honor me, Michael replied. Now I will try to ensure your people stay alive long enough for me to lecture you on waiting so long.

The headman nodded, his smile hidden in the false beard he wore.

Go, the man ordered him. Do your duty, Defender, and teach your daughter her trade.

He tossed something in Michael’s direction as he turned away. Michelle was watching him, sudden excitement lighting her face. Michael plucked the headman’s gift from the air rejecting the temptation to curse the man in spite of his gratitude. His daughter was beside him when he opened his palm to see what lay there.

Oh, Papa, she said.

Oh indeed, he muttered examining the emblem in his palm.

It gleamed at him, polished stone the color of fresh blood, covered in duralloy stronger than glass and more transparent. The stone was set in duralloyed gold, and the red ostrich plumes of a hereditary warrior were encased at its center.

Michael did not need to look at his daughter to know the delight on her face, nor did he need to examine the badge that clung to the front of his tunic to know the two pins were identical. He reached out to fix it in place just as the distant rattle of gunfire reached his ears.

As a second burst followed shortly after, his movement lost its gentleness and he hastily pushed the badge into place as he turned to look in the direction of the sound.

He heard Michelle gasp, and realized what he had done. The badge was pinned in the old way, through the uniform and into the soldier beneath, blood and honor mixing to celebrate the occasion.

His daughter regarded him with shock mingled with grateful pride. This was the first time he had truly acknowledged her right to take the place of the son who should have stood at his side.

The red cloth of her uniform was stained a darker shade, against which the newly pinned badge glistened with malevolent pride.

Sun’s Mark to me! he roared.

Michelle waited at his side.

Who’s out there? he asked the first man that skidded to a halt beside him.

Lion’s Mark, was the reply. They’ve been out there a week.

They should not be engaged in combat, Michael snapped.

As you say, Defender, the man replied.

Michael glanced at him. It was Simeon, leader of Sun’s Mark.

Get out there and relieve them. Send Shumra to fetch the restorant, and Alamis with him. My daughter and I will plan the delays.

Our lives are in your hands, Defender. If we must give them to defend our people, so be it.

They were words that exonerated him should he need to send them to die.

Gods guide your hands and your aim. You protect our heart. Michael said the words in staccato, his attention already on the gunfire and the terrain.

He was aware when Simeon left, but his