War Of Men

Kaya

The war was over. The news was everywhere: on the street, in the newspaper, supposedly even in the songs of the birds. People saw wonder in everything. They said the falling of the autumn leaves marked the end of years of bloodshed and suffering. Personally, Kaya thought the notion was rather foolish. Thousands of leaves had fallen during the Trenian wars and peace had yet to show itself.

Unlike most, Kaya firmly believed they were worse off now. Enemy soldiers still marched through the streets, fueling century-old hatred. The sound of brawls polluted the silent night and blood stained the streets. Some of the former enlisted found themselves on the street with a bucket and mop, told to clean these bloodstains. They had to be taken to mental hospitals when they collapsed on the floor, tormented by memories. At least some acknowledged the unrest and predicted a hard winter and next few years. Others cast any such thoughts from their mind and put on their rose-tinted glasses.

Kaya sat at the bakery window, eyeing the passersby sceptically. She was fidgety and the heat of the burning ovens was making it worse.

'You're doing it again,' said her mother, producing a tray of pocha from the oven. Fruit juice trickled from the turnovers. Red for cherries, orange for peaches, green for kiwis, a pale yellow for elfri. As a child, the process of baking had fascinated Kaya. She had watched how the floppy puff pastry formed a crust and changed colour with wide eyes. Simple things like that had always been a good distraction.

'What am I doing?'

'You're being grumpy when we should be happy.' Romilly Kaya put down the tray and flicked Kaya's nose. 'The war is over, Kaya. We're at peace.'

'I don't feel like Surtrenan occupation is something to be celebrated,' Kaya grumbled.

Her mother let out an exasperated sigh, then changed the subject. 'Your breadsticks are burning.'

'It's a choice. When they're singed, the taste of the herbs really stands out.'

'Singed isn't how I'd describe those. More like if you leave them for one more second, they'll disintegrate.'

'That's slander,' argued Kaya, but she still slid on an oven glove. Swiftly, she lifted them out of the oven and onto a rack. Her uncovered left hand reached for the tray and she winced when her bare flesh came into contact with the burning hot metal. Her mother didn't react, just watching sadly. Kaya had been doing this for years, her little act of insanity. Her hope still perservered.

'Do you want to get changed before we go?'

Today was the Fetaprès, at least, that's what the propaganda-spouting papers were calling it. Stalls had been set up to celebrate the end of the war and the unveiling of the memorial monument. As much as Kaya didn't want to go, she was going with her mother to hand out their freshly baked goods. It would be good advertising, though Kaya hadn't been aware of them needing more customers.

In the end, they didn't get changed. Romilly had offered her daughter gloves for her scarred, burnt hands, but the latter had turned them down. People probably thought she was just incredibly clumsy or rather thick. Kaya was happy to let them think that, as it was better than the truth.

The two Elementida walked down the cobbled path. Passersby cried out exclamations of good tidings. Every time such a cry was aimed at them, they smiled and bowed their heads. By the time they reached the crowded field, Kaya was fed up with it. Luckily, the sight before them distracted her from her frustration.

Although the occasion was officially a memorial ceremony, a small fairground had been constructed. Several little stands and salespeople lined the sides of the fields, offering sweets, salads and most. The smell of burning fat from deep-fried radish balls filled the air. An air Elementida redirected the breeze to rock a gigantic swinging boat from side to side in which children and loving couples shrieked gleefully. A group of former soldiers competed in a tug-of-war while their friends and admirers cheered them on or teased them. A Vuscan created a show of lights while a Forti darkened the surroundings to make the flames pop, which was helped by the dark storm clouds overhead.