Ghost Warriors
A young boy looked through the frost of a winter window. He saw his father dressed in thick wool clothes bring down an ancient ax to split frozen logs.  The father put the chopped wood  in a large canvas bag.  He hoisted the bag over his powerful right shoulder as he made his way through the snow back to the farm house.

The young son waited and felt proud and secure as he opened the door for his father. The boy felt the cold wind and heard the laughter of nervous work horses from the stable. With his small, strong hands he helped guide the bag of logs to the wooden floor and dragged them to the fire place. He placed a couple of logs into a fire. They steamed and burned poorly.

His mother stood over him and spoke with kindness. “We have enough wood for a fire for tonight. You must sleep. Tomorrow we must travel far.”

The boy nodded. He overheard his parents speak of the same dream they had the night before. The same dream that villagers and settlers across their country land had: of deadly ghost warriors arisen from the past…and of the villagers' ancestors, without reason or mercy, savaged and slaughtered. The old. Children in their slumber. Women crying hopelessly for life. The warriors were returning—the dream foretold. To slaughter the descendant settlers of this land.

Were the horses strong enough for the journey? The mother asked the father. He said they were, if the road to the forest was not too long. They would join the caravan. They would settle and fortify behind the tall trees and kill the ghost warriors with axes and sharp tools. The mother began to weep.

The young boy went to his room. He stood atop his bed and pretended to swing his arms as if he held an ancient ax. By morning he believed he would be strong like his father and would fight the ghost warriors behind the same tall trees.