The village crackled behind as they trudged forward; the dead and dying left where they lay. Jayvyn glanced back for a final time to see his father’s unmoving form—the only home he’d ever known burning in the background. Bitter wisps of smoke briefly followed as they penetrated the thick primeval undergrowth.
They walked for hours as the day grew hotter, steam rising from the jungle floor. Any who tried to speak or call out were abruptly hit by the captors. They quickly learned they weren’t to talk and should obey lest they endure further pain.
A few fell and couldn’t go on, but instead of being helped, were mercilessly beat until they either got up or lay dead.
A woman from his village fell from fatigue and shock—the mother of a child Jayvyn’s little sister played with often. A kind woman, always smiling, always bringing joy and laughter to those around her.
Jayvyn watched, paralyzed with fear, as a white man, wielding a thick stick, promptly descended on her. He yelled at her, hitting her several times as she tried to defend herself.
Her husband and young child screamed desperately for him to stop, but were unable to go to her. With his neck tied fast to the log and hands bound tightly in front of him, her husband could do nothing. He watched, crying helplessly, as his wife’s suffering continued.
The woman, bleeding badly from her head, stumbled in a daze several times as she fought to get to her feet. But the man had hit her too hard. She sat, stunned and sobbing, as the white man untied her from the group. He then swung his stick hard, bashing her in the head several times, until she lay unmoving in the blood-tainted verdure surrounding her. Her husband
Peter D Brown, Author 