Rising from the ashes

In my mind, I climbed up the ladder, over the wall, and into the main compound. As I ascended to the top level of the two story structure, I was awed at the surrounding scene.

Fertile farmland strectched as far as I could see in every direction. Crops of every sort - beans, corn, herbs, tobacco, squash - grew in fertile swathes that swayed gently in the breeze. An amazing irrigation system brought life-giving water to endless fields of green.

I saw smaller villages and family compounds dotted throughout the landscape; men working in the fields or resting under a ramada, shaded from the sun. Women and their daughters grinding corn, weaving, and tending small infants. Children playing with dogs and with each other, running in the morning sun.

Around me, in the Pueblo Grande, the signs of a wealthy society were everywhere. Engineers and astronomers discussed science; newly arrived immigrants begged for sanctuary within the compound walls; men trained for games in the ball courts; traders bartered for carved jewelry and pottery. The chief listened to disputes and dispensed fair judgement, his royal robes glowing red and gold. The priest noted the alignment of the sun, seeing the rays line up precisely from his hall to the lookout on the mountain a mile distant.

I opened my eyes to see the bustling modern housing developments; airplanes landing one after another; freeways and highways stretching into the horizon; the outline of downtown.

I saw Phoenix, the city built on the ashes of a former civilization.

The battle is won, but the war?

As the haze cleared, I gazed out over the battlefield.

Thousands of bodies littered the urban jungle in the aftermath of a cataclysmic event. This was no random act of nature, no small skirmish in a civil war. This was genocide.

A few brave souls scoured the massacre, searching for life among the dead. They stumbled in confusion, in horror, at the acres of bodies, piled dead on dead. Some lay in orderly, soldierly rows, some stacked like dry cords of wood.

And yet, though the battle is over, the war has only started.

This was not the first battle, far from it. The enemy was bent on a systematic destruction of all these poor souls held dear. Battles had been fought, and lost; brave warriors falling in their tracks; scouts and supply depots vanished in puffs of smoke.

Yet still they returned. For them, it was not a matter of territory. It was survival. Winter conditions so harsh forced them from their homes. Years of drought and massive overpopulation pushed society past the breaking point. They had no other option but to force their way into a land where they did not belong.

And so they met with me.

I've won this battle - but the war?

Editor's note: The Pierce household has been suffering from an ant infestation in kitchen, bathroom, and hallway.