The seers proclaimed that our village must be built in the manner of a fortress. Small, tightly connected stone houses hemmed in by an even thicker wall, one that could withstand any siege.
As small children we spent our earliest years running and playing in the narrow alleys formed by the houses, giggling and hurrying along tight passages that seemed made for creatures our size.
Age brought responsibilities beyond the walls, where our fields and livestock were. Gradually those broader spaces grew as familiar and beloved to us, but they could never replace the map of the village imprinted on our hearts.
I had passed twelve summers when I joined my older sister in taking charge of our family’s small flock. This meant cooking and sleeping outside of the walls for the first time. Frightening at start, then gradually coming to feel like freedom.
For the first time I felt the drawbacks of our village. Returning after a week in the pastures I was suddenly aware of the stench that came from so many living in such close quarters. I began to resent the winters, when we kept indoors and fed the animals on stored grains.
Of course all of these feelings evaporated on the day we were barred entry. A small band of young men and women told we must leave and never return.
The fact that it was for our own good did nothing to soothe the mortal pain of having our homes and families forcibly ripped from us. Not one of us believed that surviving the sudden plague was worth such a terrible price.
We fought to get back in. We knew every secret weakness of those walls, but our parents had never been as blind to our activities as we’d thought—they knew them as well. They fortified themselves so well that by the time we made our way in, for we never gave up trying over a full cycle of the moon, everyone was long dead.
Written for the #365daysofwriting challenge from the Day 227 photo prompt.