Idea for a fiction screed. Maybe a screenplay, could be either or both.
‘Run to the Hills’
A large bronze-age tribe occupies a small hinterland next to a nice big ocean. They might be semi-nomadic agrarians. They might have been early innovators in the use of bronze tools. Maybe the combination of the close mountains and the fruits of hunting and foraging that can be gotten there, and the minerals and fatty acids from the fish in the sea, is good for their brain development. Maybe the tribe has both oars in the water a bit.
The tribe of healthy eaters has contingencies in place for all forseeable emergencies. They harvest and store grain with bronze-age plows on plots around the hinterland, per semi-nomadic agrarianism. Up in the woods, a plot. Pastures of whatever will grow in the mountains squirelled away in the mountains. Maybe they have community protocols in place for whenever anyone passes away. Maybe they pay respects to unity of opposing forces to counter what they call the destructive shadow, but is just as easily couched in terms of collective paranoia.
The tribe also builds quick escape routes into the mountains in case of sea invasion, which has been known to happen. Adversarial tribes from across the sea come for blood and plunder. Upon sight of approaching vessels, the tribe runs for the hills through its specially-designed–and heavily disguised–escape-routes. Once everyone is safe, the tribal leaders demolish bridges and collapse rocks such that the invaders may not follow. A complex protocol is put into place to make sure every last member of the tribe is accounted for before crucial infrastructure like bridges to safety from bloodthirsty invaders is irrecovably destroyed.
One foul day the hinterlands are duly invaded, but preperation and drilling makes for a near-perfect execution of the plan. As the last soul is out of the way, and protocols are completed, the final rope is cut on the bridge over the ravine. Its removal also disguises the exit route.
As the chieftan and his council are watching the bridge fall away to the far wall of the ravine, the Chieftan’s daughter’s dog appears on the far side. He barks and smiles, happy he’s found them again.
Everyone in the exit-disguisal party swears out loud. The dog barks again from the far side of the ravine in recognition and excitement of familiar voices.
One of the other councilors looks at the Chieftan, in visible pain. “She’ll never talk to me again if we leave the fucking dog behind,” the Chieftan says.
A red glow rises in the direction of the sea. The Chieftan sighs.
The party begins the long trek back.
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