Silence

After ten years, the War of Troy has finally come to an end. But there are many repurcussions.

The cool, salty wind combed through the young woman’s hair as remnants of the Achaian fleet faded slowly into the sunlight along a cresting, golden-lit ocean. The faint odour of smoke still fouled the air as she was led down toward the beach, and she sighed deeply as the dry, twisted grass prickled at her feet with little care for mercy or respite.

Myrnna relished the cool setting sunlight, despite the gnawing rope tearing at her bloody hands. Tears marked her face, bereaved with a mask of dust and soot. The soldier guiding her did little to help as she stumbled down the hillside and onto the pearl-white beach, landing face first into the crunching white mass. The leather-garbed soldier quickly pulled her to her feet, and barked something inaudible at her. He pushed her impatiently toward the anchored boats before them, wedged onto the sand shore and splitting the slopping waves breaking over the beach. A warm wind pulled through the small woman’s dark hair, and tugged at the masts of anchored ships menacingly. Dark clouds brewed along the horizon like a tidal wave, filtering the sun’s sharp rays of light as it began its long slow descent.

Along the fringe of the mirror-blue ocean, hundreds of white sails dazzled in the reflection of the sun’s warm rays. It is unknown whether such a force had ever been raised before, for an entire army had given up the land for the sea; all of Achaia had been emptied of her fighting men, to hunt and retrieve their abducted queen. Now alas, after ten long years, they were finally returning home.

Myrnna’s hair fluttered delicately in the wind behind her, and she cherished the cool air releasing her from the exhaustion and day’s heat. The beach stretched along the coastline for many miles in both directions, connecting east with west. The waving motions of the sand, carved by the wind and waves, lay so quiet; and yet giving the impression that it had once been disturbed and slept upon by thousands. The sand gave way under her every footstep as she was led to one of the wooden ships, swarming with soldiers intent on seeing the far-ocean before dark. Dozens of captive women sat at the pointed base of the long, wooden boat, bound to one another by coils of rope. Their downcast stares were ridden with tears and weariness, clothes torn and tattered with the blood of their own families.

Confusion still swept through Myrnna’s mind, but she knew where she was going. Why those boats before her still lay anchored upon Ilion’s white shores. Like those women, she would never see her home again. They looked up at her brown eyes as she past them, understanding the agony and bewilderment surrounding her features. They knew well of their people’s sudden plight, all of them did.

The Achaian leading Myrnna paused in his tracks, and began talking to the guard at the narrow wooden walkway, leading onto the ship’s deck. The old man before the raised board of wood held his spear just below the blade, leaning on its shaft to rest his aching back. He wore only a loose garb. Myrnna listened intently to their language, but found she knew nothing of what they were speaking. They uttered a tongue different to that spoken by most other invaders, who spoke a language much similar to her own, one she could understand with little difficulty.

The Achaian soldier turned around and beckoned for the young woman to move up the wooden walkway onto the ship. His stern eyes cared little for the contorted look on her face, as she looked distraught and edged slowly away from the gangway. The soldier grunted, his wide brown eyes cursing her. Myrnna hesitated, and the soldier quickly yanked her forward onto the boat by the rope binding her hands together. The coarse, burning sensation struck pain in her wrists, and threatened to tear into her skin. She shrieked and her stomach gave a sudden heave as she tried to let out a cry, but she couldn’t. Her eyes stung and grew red, but nothing came out. She had already lamented for long hours earlier that day, as Ilion’s young were sent to their cruel fate over the high walls of their own city. The whole of Ilion had wept.

Myrnna’s eyes throbbed from the protest of tears, and she felt her heart sink, her spirit wane. The rough wooden planks stroking her feet as she crept onto the skinny, diamond-shaped ship were cool and wet. She bore the conviction of a slave, a prisoner, but she was born a free woman. Now look at her, a mockery for men. Her tattered dress, once silken and white, now marked with soot and dust and dapples of her own blood. She was a walking bride of corpses for the birds to pecker. How strange that it was only yesterday she was equal to one of noble birth. That she had fallen to her knees in tears, after news of Achaia’s sudden absence from Ilion’s beaches reached her city. They had all celebrated that night; they had all been dreadfully fooled.

Myrnna was motioned by her captor to sit down at the prowl of the boat where soldiers and sailors alike pushed past her, shouting foreign words and bringing the last supplies and captives on board. The walkway was pulled aboard, and she could feel as the ship jutted backward into the ocean as it was slowly dragged off the churning trail of sand under them. She tucked her head under the beams supporting the edges of the ship, and eyed the soldiers knee-deep in water below. Gripping long lines of rope attached to various allotments along the ship, the soldiers strained to haul the boat out into the freely bumping waves, like some old-fashioned game of ‘tug O war’. After a long moment the ship finally broke free from the shore, and began floating smoothly through the ocean waves. She watched as the soldiers departed back onto the beach.

Myrnna’s captor strutted away, leaving her hands unbound. She rubbed her swollen wrists remorsefully, and soon fell under the calm of the gently rocking barge under her. She stared sluggishly at the oarsmen struggling to pull off into the far-reaching flat of the ocean, looking to be free of the shore by sundown. Sentries patrolled the deck around her, and sailors adjusted the large centering white sail, trying to find a wind that whipped and abated and rose and fell—from time to time—as it pleased.

As the ship slowly ploughed through the ocean, heading for sight of a shore unseen for many years, Myrnna wondered what would become of them once they reached the Achaians homeland. Several other war ships had set sail around them, their white sails rising in the evening wind, toward an orange horizon. A hawk silently prowled the empty sky, surveying the departing invaders below, and dreading the far-shore looming with towers of rising smoke and the stench of waste left unburied. For the whole world to resent.

Three other captive women were bound by rope to the ship’s railing adjacent to Myrnna. They melded into the wooden beaming, huddled together as one body of anxiety and horror, featuring the scarred markings of beatings and lashes from rods, the dark complexion of their faces already so pale and swollen. Wide eyes stared in horror at the empty space before them, through matted, twisted hair. Acknowledging not the eyes of human beings or the grip of the wooden boards under them, but at something tearing at the hearts of their minds.

Two Achaian soldiers laughed and gripped one another’s arms, delighted to see the other, to be going home at last. But yet among the chatter and occasional soars of laughter, she studied the grim faces of men around her, masked with silence and reserved sorrow. Eye averted one another, and pondered over the gently glimmering light along the whole of the ocean.

Myrnna looked up to the shout of an Achaean officer, calling over to a nearby sentry to keep watch over her by the edge of the ship to make sure she did not do anything foolish. Surprisingly enough, the sentry spoke her language, and threatened that he would come after her if she threw herself overboard. The dark-tanned soldier made a threatening gesture with his fist. But Myrnna did not care and she absently looked away, observing the darkening sea, where the last rays of light finally died against the underbelly of the overhanging string of clouds. For even as the Achaian ships of war took float among the sea, atop the jostle of ocean waves, she wiped the mess of tears flowing down her face. She could only think of her friends and family, those that had died out of all this meaninglessness. She knew she would never again see their faces, never again laugh with them, cry with them, or be with them. Never again, would she ever live.

Myrnna leant her cheek against the edge of the barge, and looked out over the ocean at the vestige of land behind them, where the silhouette of Ilion’s high walls broke against the sky. It was the last time she would ever again see her home. The smoke had all but abated now, the land left to the cool void of the greying sky above. It was strange, for her at least, how one day of slaughter had put to end an entire world.

Myrnna rested her chin on her arms, dangling over the side of the ship. Her brown, curly hair fell past her shoulders. Loose strands began to pick up in the wind as it rose coolly for a brief moment. The young woman raised her head, and closed her eyes, feeling the wind’s soothing touch. The fragrant brush of salt was so strong to her senses. She could smell home, yet it was now so far away.

After a long moment, Myrnna relaxed into her previous position. She observed the water splashing up against the side of the barge, sprinkling her face with tiny droplets. She tried to remember sounds of last night’s celebration, the cries and cheers of elation as the whole world seemed drunk with the sense of a long war suddenly and finally, ended. But there was no noise, only the gentle waves of water licking the boat’s hull.

Only the resonance of a deafening silence.

Author's Note

This is a two-day job, written to fit a deadline. I'm not sure if there's really any point to this piece, so your guess is as good as mine. Reviews/comments are welcome.