2011 Retrospective - Playtime

“Heave!” One man shouts, blood mingling with rain as it runs down his mud-spattered face. His score of men push yet again, inching the massive chunk of clay up the steep incline. The sharp rain beats down on their backs from above, the heavy mud clings to them from below. The troops have been blooded, and it washes down their bodies to be churned into the mud. “Hurry! The enemy is not far off!” One of them, readjusting his grip, plunges shoulder deep into the massive clod. It stops, his weight pulling it down again. “Put your backs into it! All will be lost if we cannot reach the peak!” They lean into it, their feet slipping and sliding in the viscous sludge. The clay begins to ooze over their backs. “Push!” A desperate cry. A sheet of watery mud sweeps down and pulls the men off their feet, all save for 2. The clay slides inexorably down, the trapped men struggle wildly.  A sonata of cracks erupts as those still with their back into the clay are crushed. Slowly, their screams are engulfed.

The block slides a couple spans before the men can regain their feet. The situation is grim, for this one slip means hours of work have come to naught. They are sick at heart, for the flooding yesterday has destroyed their entire left flank, a full two-thirds of their forces. They know that they are pushing the last chance to avoid indescribable carnage.

Hours more backbreaking labour in the chill slag, and they have regained their lost ground. They trample the remains of their comrades, pulpy masses of flesh and shattered bone, and they weep into the rain.

They near the peak, but the light is fading fast, almost as fast as their waning strength. The incline is gentler now, but the men slip and fall. Some are too tired to even lift their faces out of the sticky quagmire, and drown where they fall. They cannot see each other for the darkness and muck, only their laboured breathing tells them that they are not alone. The mountain steepens into a lip, and progress halts. They lean against it, praying to their gods that their weight will keep it from tumbling down yet again. It is too dark to know where they are, whether they are still pushing towards the wall; or have gone past in the dark, onto the slopes above the village. If they are in the wrong place, pushing the block will send the block careering down the mountain into the village. But there is nothing else to do but gamble, even if it is with the lives of their families. With heavy hearts they make one last final push, lending their final strength to the effort. The block slides halfway over the lip, hesitates, then speeds down. They listen for the sound, that will tell them that the block has joined the wall. It doesn’t come. They fall to their knees, crushed with despair. They have gone too far, even now the massive clod races towards the town, about to crush their wives and children. They despair, hoping that their families are the lucky ones to be crushed, for the others will suffer immeasurably when the hordes flood through the unprotected pass.

Thunk. The block slides into place in the darkness, the wall is complete. The village is saved.

The young boy chuckles merrily as he drags his fingers through the mud, imagination afire. The last mud brick is in place. His fortress is complete, and the game goes on.