The boy walked,
one foot in front of the other, the way he had done since he was little and the way he expected to do until he was old.
where he was walking was a mystery to him, though he felt he had been marching forever passing rows and rows of endless wheat fields, set alight by the last rays of a summer sun that never seem set.
The boy could not remember why he had started out in the first place,
but felt some duty to continue on, as if there was some task that needed doing. The boy imagined the men in his village must have sent him out, “yes, that seems right” he said to himself as he marched.
but to where and for what purpose, he did not know.
He thought it might be best to take stock of what he did know, rather than what he didn’t, because the method of naming all the things he did not know could be an awfully long affair, and most likely dreadfully boring.
He had on his person the arms and armour of a knight, albeit a very bad one.
An account of the boys equipment is as follows
a shield fashioned out of barley barrel top,
a rusty old suit armour.
a sword of made of a flimsy tin, but hilted with a shining ornate handle of gold.
a bag filled with bread and cheese.
a calf skin drinking canteen
one walking stick.
As the boy heaved his equipment down the trail, he began to cramp.
The cramp became worse and worse with each step he took but it was not a stitch in his side as he was accustom.
but a pang in his chest,
pang,
pang,
pang,
with every step he took on his seemingly endless march to nowhere.
The stitch, he thought, was probably brought about by the added weight of the equipment, which was large, ill fitting and terribly heavy.
After all, the boy was only about fifteen, almost a man, but young enough that such things weigh heavy on his small shoulders.
the cramp was becoming worse so he decided to rest, under the shade of an oak tree that had, unbeknownst to him, appeared at the fork in the road between the fields of wheat.
It was there, under the dull brown leaves and warm summer wind, he closed his eyes and dreamed.
1. Ballad of the Boy who Marched.
the boy walked.hour by hour.
through the fields, and the forrest.
to the top of the tower.
He had set off from his village,
beyond the golden hill
through the wheat fields and the forrest
and past the farmers mills
Before he left his father had told him “boy”
“you will be a man before too long”
He placed a firm hand upon his shoulder and said
“a man does great deeds to prove he’s strong”
The father, who himself was born a plower
told the boy about a noble deed
the father told his son about the tower,
atop of which a hopeless maiden sleeps
she is defended by an evil power
and if a man should save her then
he would never have the need to cower
and the boy, would at last become man.
So the men in the village all came to arm him
with the tools that their father’s gave them
they gave the boy a rusty suit of armour
a shield made from a barrel and sword made of tin
before he left his mother came beside him,
and said “son forget you not what I have told”
his mother was the one he could confide in,
She gave his sword of tin a hilt made of gold.
the boy walked.
hour by hour.
through the fields, and the forrest.
to the top of the tower.
He had set off from his village,
beyond the golden hill
through the wheat fields and the forrest
and past the farmers mills
-A
Good story..there's a struggle in life. True..
Never give up but push harder. Nice...I like to read more.
Awesome story and I loved the poem within. I could picture everything you wrote. I can’t wait for part 2.