Valley of the Gods

It feels first like a quiver, then more like a rattle. As the cold, colorful sunset turns endless desert mountains into a silhouette, Apollo’s chariot ushers in a parade of connect-the-dots heroes whose cosmic guardianship has guided countless warriors through this valley. The rising moon promises to wrap the hills with its signature blue hue as soon as the sun drags the last of its golden rays beyond the horizon. Never am I more in the moment. This is the space in time that blurs the line between night and day, between celestial and material. Here, we stand together. Gods of men and men of the gods. I feel an icy, familiar touch on the wind across the tip of my nose. For a moment, that metallic taste of nostalgia lingers on my tongue. Did I get the placebo? Deja vu with a pinch of salt. A hint of cardamom. And gone. And what is this feeling, like a glitch or a stutter but way, way down. Up comes a wave of energy like a slow motion lightning bolt, shaking through my body from toe to scalp. I let out a full body shudder entirely outside my own control. Too eerie. There’s no denying this wind cuts straight to the bone and I know we are not alone. I stack another loaded magazine in the pouch next to the last and notice the rest of the team bringing their attention in as well. Everyone knows we aren’t alone but we all just stare. We just stare at one another in total silence and continue packing up gear..

There’s a famous warrior legend I can't stop thinking about.Stories all say there’s no way to predict it, to see it, or to capture it but when Spirit Wind visits you, you’ll know it. With it come the spirits of warriors eternally connected to this place. Some of them have been returning back to this valley for eons, whenever the wind calls. Some have never left. They gather with the gods to watch this generation's gladiators and wager on the outcome. For the most unfortunate, the fates collect souls from the battlefield. To appease the gods of the Old World, souls are collected to repay the damages done and crimes committed at war. The fates were given latitude to choose which souls would arrive at the river crossing to the afterlife to learn Charon’s obol was paid in their names but the ferry was long gone.Combat survivors who encounter Spirit Wind say you can hear ghostly echoes of steel against steel and painful screams even as your own battle rages on. Just before the battle is over, when the fates choose their souls, the wind is said to carry the scream of the hobgoblin, the death owl. The unmistakable shriek of the bright white barn owl whose appearance will freeze a field mouse in its tracks, destined for biological upcycling.The cry of death’s harbinger is swept away with the wind, calm settles in, and the true glory in war, appreciation for life, is all that it leaves behind.

The wind kicks up and as if a small tinderbox with a single flame had been held deep inside my chest, it is stoked to a roaring fire. Metal and plastic and bones bang and clang and sing out a battle cry opera to an audience who took thousands of years to find their seats. Even the most seasoned travelers among them can’t find where the constellations of immortal heroes of Olympus end and our own shadows begin. We are figurines of history sworn to duty only a warrior would understand - and only a warrior would seek.

The trembling tips of my metatarsals tucked into my long wool socks made a thump, thump, thump against the sole of my boot. The wind whips up again and the bumps on my backbone shake out a chilly tone like a graveyard xylophone. Legend says you can feel the spirits on the wind and it sometimes makes your skin tingle from just behind your wrists up the outside of your arms and shoulders to the base of your neck. And if you feel them, it’s best to open up and let the spirits in, better friend than foe. Well, take in what they have to say anyway. It’s a figure of speech… you know… about respecting the dead and Valhalla… We don’t exactly have a contingency plan with an exorcism option available, so we decided it was best to move ahead with ritual. A little luck of the Gods can’t hurt. And anyway, you can’t stop the Spirit Wind with any tool but time. So, as it goes with most things out here, you embrace the suck. For the six of us - American stars telling our stories, a living performance for the spirits of history’s tragedies - courage was never in short supply.

I am my brother’s keeper.I do a final check of the gear the rest of my team carries and they do the same for me.We don't say a word. As nocturnal hunters and harbingers of death we share attributes with the ghost owl, but the list stops there. With our faces painted dark, we move silently and swiftly. Our prey will be dead before they ever know we are there. And if one of us screams… Well, let’s just hope that doesn’t happen.

The skyline of the ridge is sharp and dark against the blue moon sky. It has that surreal quality as though Walt Disney or George Lucas hand crafted every detail. The ridgeline’s sharp elevation changes tower over us, the Spirit Wind still with us. A slow, rhythmic drum beats faintly bounces between my ears. I cant remember if it’s been there long or decide if the others can hear it. Maybe I can think about something else, and occupy my mind. Occupy. Occupy.

That’s such a loaded word these days.We’ve been on the ground in this country for over ten years already.I’ve occupied my time here a much larger chunk of those ten years than I meant to. But someone has to be good at it. I think about all the civilian casualties, the abuses, and the drones. We aren't prepared for nation building but don’t we kind of owe it to the people? I mean, I know I promised people I’d be back to help their family knowing I’d never take the first step toward fulfilling that promise. But in the end, will the little things all matter or are we all part of something bigger than ourselves? The drumming is louder now, too loud to think. Suddenly, the sharp crashing sound of metal on metal violently assaults my ears.

We huddle up, taking cover near a large rock to assess the situation. At least now I know it’s not my imagination. A battle we cannot see rages all around us, no doubt the legends of Spirit Wind are proving true - and pinning us down. I can't get a response on the radio. With these canyon walls I don’t know if it’s any use but I can barely hear myself think. I don't know what else to do.I’ll try again.

The decision of the fates is final and unanimous. Charon shall receive his fee and leave these six souls on the bank of the river. In Nevada at an airbase somewhere in the desert, the fates had led a drone operator to the team of six. No sign of them had resurfaced since the mission began and the operator was searching for the enemy. There, in the valley adjacent to the planned patrol route the operator has five men grouped together near a boulder. Permission requested to eliminate the targets while they are clustered together. Granted. Fired. Sir, a sixth target emerged. Sir, he wasn't visible before, I swear! Do we have radio contact yet!?

This radio, this god da…Suddenly, every nanosecond is a lifetime. I hear it. I see the look on their faces, we all hear it. Everyone knows it. But the time - isn’t enough. I have other things to say. Important. Why would it happen this way? Honey, I’m sorry. Love to the babies. Stay strong. Move on. Be happy.

A faint shrill closed in, turning into a scream. The wind ripped through the valley. That space in time there, then, is much like the sunrise - or sunset. There’s no clear line between night and day, or life and death. For a brief point all of it is there in existence.Then the scream of the hobgoblin, the ghost owl, ushers in death where there once was life. The wind disappeared from and calm settled in as the latest chosen souls joined the other warriors of history - perpetual stars in their own stories. Stories preserved in the Valley of the Gods, retold for eternity by the Spirit Wind. Apollo’s whip cracks and his chariot rumbles from the horizon. The Old World heroes shined down a cosmic smile from their constellation perches, satisfied.