บท 56: Chapter 53: The Child of the Quiet Village
In this latest chapter, I experimented with a different writing style. While most of the story is told from Osman's perspective, this time, I wanted to try something new and step away from that for a fresh approach. I hope you enjoy this change as much as I enjoyed writing it!
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A heartfelt thank-you to Mustifa_89, Oxsinus, Ridwan_Nugroho_0749, Muhammad_Al_Aizat, Cevizli_Helva, Iemayr_3815, Daoist9d5Kbm, Daoist8ZKfWR, m_jonas, and daoist_northsky07 for your generosity and unwavering support. Your contributions inspire me to explore new writing styles and strive to deliver an engaging story for all of you.
Thank you for being an essential part of this journey with me!
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Our village was nestled in a secluded valley on the Ottoman border. I had always loved the peace of this place—the babbling of the stream, the birds fluttering over the fields, the smell of bread my father brought home in the evenings. But those peaceful days felt long gone. For some time, everyone in the village had been uneasy. Rumors circulated about Cossacks and Poles patrolling the border, raiding villages. Yet, we comforted ourselves, trusting in the mountains that surrounded our valley.
That morning, I woke not to the crowing of roosters but to distant cries. At first, I thought it was the wind playing tricks, but as the sounds grew closer, my heart began to pound. My father burst through the door, shouting, "Everyone to the shelters! Women and children, hide immediately!"
My sibling and I clung to my mother's arms. She whispered, "To the cellar, quickly!" We climbed into the small cellar beneath the house and shut the hatch. Waiting in the dark was unbearable for me, so I peeked through a small crack at the edge of the hatch.
At the entrance to the valley, I saw riders galloping toward the village square. Their gleaming armor and blood-red banners were unmistakable. My father and the other men of the village had gathered in the square, armed with a few old rifles and swords, trying to resist. But the Cossacks and Poles, with their superior numbers and weapons, were overwhelming.
In an instant, chaos erupted. The sound of horses' hooves, clashing swords, and human screams filled the air. Our homes were set ablaze. The Cossacks, wielding long spears, struck down villagers, while the Poles fired muskets to break the resistance in the square. My father climbed onto a high stone and shouted, "This is our land! We will never surrender!"
But his voice was drowned out by the war cries of the Cossacks. The resistance in the square faltered. My father fell to the ground. My mother gripped my hand tightly and whispered, "Be silent, don't make a sound!" Yet, the fear inside me felt ready to burst.
We stayed in the cellar for hours. When the screams and commotion outside gave way to silence, my mother cautiously opened the hatch. The scene before me was beyond what my young mind could grasp. Our village was burnt to the ground, our fields ravaged, our livestock slaughtered. My father was nowhere to be found. With trembling hands, my mother pulled me close.
That day, I saw how the Cossack and Polish raid had annihilated our village. We had lost not only our innocence but everything we had. I lost my father that day. My mother and I were forced to move to another village. Yet, my father's final words still echoed in my ears: "Defend this land!"
But even my mother didn't survive. When she hid me in the cellar, she had gone outside and never returned. Days later, when I finally opened the hatch, I found myself alone in a world completely transformed.
Starving and parched, I wandered aimlessly, the scent of ash still clinging to my nostrils. My mother's final words haunted me: "No matter what, survive." But how could I? The forest felt alive, yet empty. I pressed my face to a small stream to drink and crawled forward, too weak to stand.
One morning, the sound of approaching hooves startled me. I hid behind a bush, trembling. Peering out, I saw an Ottoman courier, his face drenched in sweat, bearing a flag adorned with the Ottoman emblem. He dismounted to drink from a spring.
Summoning what little courage I had, I stepped out and stammered, "Sir, help me."
The courier flinched, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. But when he saw me, he hesitated.
"Who are you, boy?" he asked, his voice weary but not unkind.
"My village was raided," I said. "My mother… she hid me in the cellar, but she… she never came back." Tears spilled down my cheeks. "I have no one left."
The courier scanned me from head to toe. After a deep sigh, he turned to his horse and extended his hand.
"Come. I can't leave you here alone. But you'll have to obey me."
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To the Crimean Khanate," he replied. "I carry a message from our Sultan. If it doesn't reach the Khan, more villages will burn. Let's hope you won't have to see that."
Thus began my journey with the Ottoman courier. For most of the way, he spoke little, focusing only on the road ahead. But one night, as we camped in the depths of a forest, I finally dared to ask what message he was carrying.
"Why is it so important?" I asked. "No one comes to help the border villages."
"This message is not just about the villages—it's about all Ottoman lands," he replied. "The Cossacks and Poles threaten more than our villages. They challenge the pride and future of the Ottoman Empire. Our Sultan is sending orders to the Crimean Khan. If this threat isn't dealt with at its source, more blood will be shed."
His words sent a chill down my spine. The destruction of my village was only the first gust of a much larger storm. Yet, my father's voice echoed within me: "Defend this land."
Days later, we reached the Crimean Khan's palace. I stayed in a corner of the garden, watching as the courier strode purposefully to deliver his message. The grandeur of the palace was worlds apart from the simplicity of my village. Yet, a glimmer of hope flickered inside me. Perhaps the decision made in this palace would not only save the Ottoman Empire but also shape my future.
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