There’s a reason you’re never supposed to bother a dog while it’s eating, or go near a mother bear’s cubs. All creatures in creation are alike in one way: if you threaten what’s theirs, they bite back.
Years ago, I came to Falton expecting a melting pot of cultures and peoples. And by Bawbee’s beard, I wasn’t disappointed. Falton is hailed far and wide as one of the few places in the world where anyone can make a living and be accepted. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, young or old, fighter or healer, you’ll be treated as an equal. Not everyone’s honest, not everyone’s kind, but everyone has a strange sort of fellowship. We made our town this way, and we’re proud of it.
Lately, however, I cannot laud Falton as readily. Think back, and remember the werewolves. One could hardly blame them for being who they were. Some chose to be turned human again, and some didn’t. And, in the great town of Falton, that should have been fine. But it wasn’t. Discrimination is an ugly word, but it was a very true one in those times. When livestock began to disappear, we lumped the werewolves together, saying that many should be punished for the acts of few. And eventually, the tension became a battle, and the werewolves were no more. Killed because the people of Falton couldn’t learn to get along.
What about the Warboys? Do you remember them? They were vicious. They were bloodthirsty. And they infringed on our land and our lives. Even I must admit that peace was a far-fetched notion. But we did not spare even a thought to it. Blood was spilled, and young men and women, full of potential, were slaughtered. While it may be true that there were few other ways, that does little to ease my conscience.
Are you starting to see my point in this? If not, I have one more example for you. Remember Roam? I would expect you to, as the Roamans still loom tall in our lives. Roam came, and brought change with it. But like the feathers of a duck to water, we resisted. Who were the Roamans to come to our town and expect us to change? What were they thinking, trying to make us adapt? No matter whom I talked to, all seemed to think there was little hope for a peaceful solution. And in the end, there wasn’t any hope at all. “No parleys will be made,” said the king. There would be no talking, only the clanging of blades and the weeping for those fallen. And in the end, Roam won. That final battle broke the tradition that Falton had set, of fighting off the encroaching parties and winning. As I write this, Falton is under Roaman rule. And still, there is unrest.
I can see things from the point of view that caused these conflicts. Falton is ours, built from the dust through blood, sweat, and tears. We have fought and we have died to make it what it is. And when trouble comes a’knocking, when our liberty is threatened, we do not hesitate to retaliate. I know why. But mine is a heart that longs for the path of peace. Not peace in the sense that nothing is to ever go wrong, because a life without adventure is a life wasted. Peace in the sense that I can greet people without wondering which side they’re on. Peace in the sense of not having to wonder whether the next day will bring a bloodbath.
Try to understand. It is, in my opinion, our duty to change. To adapt, and to grow. “But we are happy the way we are,” you might say. So is the ant, toiling away on a tiny hill. But he will never know the true scope of the world, the joy and the pain and the exhilaration that comes of knowing that every day brings something different. As humans, set apart from beasts, we have the ability and the privilege to change. To accept that our own notions are not always the right ones.
I am not telling you that we should accept the Roamans taking over. I am not suggesting that we submit to injustice. But what I am saying, and what I am begging you to comprehend, is that the best way is not always the bloodiest. The truest heroes are sometimes unsung.
-Reyna P. Alcazar