Two tombstones in a shallow grave.
There are 150 steps between them. The routes to take are clear from the faded treadmarks. Desire-paths show the safest way, branching out like dusty capillaries.The sun gets in your eyes and the heat sticks to the base of your back.
Run past scattered trees in quiet salute. In Between rocks that first fell so ago, that the creek still carried water. Landmarks in this thirsty and waterless land whittled into shapes by gunfire. Would their shadows say something if you had a bird’s eye view? A message? Or a warning?
Keep moving through the brush and peek into small hideaways. Havens that once provided shelter from the storm outside. It’s cooler in the caves. The stagnant wells of water cast reflections when they’re disturbed. Tunnels scratched out to the sound of distant thuds. Buried avenues that hold heroes in perpetual darkness. Necessary shade from the sun.
Follow the path around the edge. One foot behind the other like a big cat. Maybe it's best to avoid the middle. There’s still a chance that a hidden exile is nested in a canopy searching for reckless revenge. One who doesn’t know the war is over, and still wants a medal pinned to their chest.
The ground is too hard to leave new footprints anyway. It is compacted into concrete. But disturb the surface of the sediment and you find the true form of your footing. Bullets. Shells. And Bones.
Because there was intensity here once. But just like the river that carved the sides of the valley, it’s long gone. Maybe if you squint you can see the high watermark. When there were fights overhead. When there was the anger of the guns and the heat of the fight. There were shouts and cries that echoed off the angles of the rock, and might still be reverberating in some hidden corner, quiet as a whisper now. If you listen carefully, you might be able to still hear it.
But the wind whips in from the top of the bowl and whistles into your ears. The birds have returned and sing cautious songs. Grass has started to grow in the craters.They thought it never would. The blood that fell in the sand must have made for good mulch.
Yet there are no witnesses to this recovery. Just the tombstones locked in a stand-off at either end of the valley. And even if the grass grows so high that it hides them from view, the energy will always be here. There is no changing the history of the place.
The evidence will always be trapped in the sand. You just need to know where to look.
This is essay two in a set of six travel essays about the Halo universe. To read more click here. For information on future seasons and games click here.
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