Writing

My Waking Nightmare

2011-10-23T17:49:00.001-07:00

Seven black hills sit side by side
And I alone must face them all
For you are not with me
You do not answer my cry
Though the gap between us is not great
My demons, my weaknesses, my fears
Await me at the peaks of those hills
It is not a heavy feat
But I am not strong enough alone

ALways in shadow will I hide
Until the one heeds my call
The someone who I know can be
The one to give me strength to fly
Who can take my life and take my fate
Fill my needs and remove my tears
Without my one, each moment kills
I wait so long you to meet
And to be part of what you own

When you come, here I'll wait
By these black hills, as near as I dare
I cannot climb them alone
But I must, without you
Without you
Life is my waking nightmare

Sleeping Boy excerpt

2011-10-16T16:28:00.000-07:00

I decided to go a little different this week. I wrote this a few years ago as the beginning of a novel and never finished. It's still an idea I'd like to develop in the future. This was the whole first chapter. Please let me know what you think.
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The monks and nuns had carefully positioned his body so that it looked like he was sleeping, which in a way, was exactly what he was doing. His hands were on his chest, but not clasped as if in death, not laying one on the other, but simply placed as though he had fallen asleep with them resting loosely on his torso. They had even positioned his head so it tilted to one side-- to his left, so that those who came to the sanctuary to look upon his body wouldn't be able to look directly on his face. To look straight on at his face, even with him in sleep, would undo the church. The monks and the nuns had covered their eyes with strips of cloth when they had first bathed and dressed him two years ago.

Two years, and still people were lined up to see the young man-- no, the boy-- who lay motionless on the simple duck-down mattress in one of the back chambers of the sanctuary. They came in a few at a time, under the supervision of one of the monks-- lest someone disturb the body. Some wept at seeing the boy's stillness; he didn't even have the steady rise and fall of breath. It was a symptom of the drug the highest priests gave the boy every third day, when he began breathing again. The drug was a powder, placed under his nose so he inhaled the fumes and promptly slept again.

There were visitors who held up children to look on him; some even held up infants and mewling newborns, no doubt to tell them they too had looked on the Sleeping Boy so carefully kept in the sanctuary. There were those who brought candles and lit them in his room. Most were left to burn away on the floor or given to the watching monks as a gift to the sanctuary. Few were taken away. Some fell to their knees or prostrated themselves on the cold stone floor, praying what were probably the most feverish, desperate, pleading prayers of their lives.

It was Harion, a young monk of only sixteen years-- not too much older than the Sleeping Boy-- who first spoke words of fear and doubt to the highest priests. What if those who fell and prayed were not praying to the god, but to the boy? If those who came had plans to bring out the boy's body and set him out against the church? Surely there were those out there with evil in their hearts that would dare enter a place of the god only to see his enemy; to plot and plan the unleashing of the one who could bring about the end of the church's society, or even the church itself.

Peace, the highest priests told him. No fear. The unrighteous cannot enter any place dedicated to the god and therefore cannot take away the boy's body. Peace, and have no judgment, have no doubt that the ones who come by on your watch are the pure, the good, the devout. They come in the unspoken name of the god to conquer their own fear and confirm in their minds that all is right in the world.

Harion slept uneasily, his dreams full of people trying to take the Sleeping Boy from his place. They days when he drew the watch over the cell where the boy lay seemed unending, the people all sinister. He became edgy, twitching whenever anyone knelt or rose, or leaned over the body to get the tiny glimpse of a cheek or the side of his nose that was permitted anyone who dared. His edginess carried over to his time away from the cell, and he began to snap at the nuns and other monks, and even some of the priests. It was as if his senses of calm and peace, friendliness, and humor had gone and been forgotten. All the virtues that the god taught and valued had been sucked out of him.

In less than three months from the time he first spoke of his fear, Harion was sent away from the sanctuary with all the church could provide him: a knife, a hammer, a stout walking staff, a waterskin, and a sack with bread, cheese, and the last of the orchard's apples. He didn't look back at the sanctuary when he left; the open doors mocked him. They were closed to him now. He would never come back.

The day after Harion was sent away, the Sleeping Boy showed his first sign of breathing again. The highest priests had expected it and ushered away the visitors and the watching monks. They closed the doors to the cell so they could administer the drug. Their own noses and mouths were covered with thick wool so they wouldn't breathe in the fumes themselves. The boy breathed them, and his body settled, the steady rise and fall of his chest prevented for another seventy or so hours. At a glance, it was as if he had never moved at all.

The priests left the room, and the monk who was supervising waited the standard ten minutes, counting each second himself, before opening the door again to take up his watch and allow others in.

He stopped abruptly in the doorway, his rather bulky frame blocking the way so he was the only one who saw. The Sleeping Boy was not in his usual position. He was on his side, his back to the door, mercifully. No one would accidentally look on his face. His left arm was flung out on the bed, his right arm pulled tight to his body.

The monk screamed. As it echoed through the sanctuary, it sounded to all who heard it like the voice of the god himself.

Can't

2011-10-09T19:42:00.001-07:00

Can't sleep
Mind won't turn off
Can't concentrate
Mind won't focus
Can't think
Mind won't turn on

Can't feel
Emotions have left
Can't cry
Emotions don't work
Can't smile
Emotions won't come back

Can't dance
No desire to move
Can't sing
No desire to speak
Can't play
No desire to

Can't breathe
Suffocating
Can't move
Freezing
Can't heal
Bleeding

Can live

Can die

Appearance

2011-09-25T14:43:00.000-07:00

Hey, everyone! I will be making an appearance at the Books Alive Festival at the Maury County Public Library in Columbia, TN on Saturday, October 22 from 1-4pm. There will be a few other authors making appearances as well as activities, contests and booths. Mr. History, a good friend of mine, will be there as well. it's going to be a great event! It's geared toward teens, but all are welcome.

For my part, there will be readings, and I will have copies of Empeddigo and the newly-released The Trials of Hallac for sale, as well as order forms in the event that I run out of copies. Autographs, talks, and more! Come and enjoy yourselves at the Books Alive Festival!

Play Around Me

2011-09-24T14:04:00.000-07:00

Others play around me
But I sit alone
It's not that I don't want to
Or I can't, or I won't
But I have nothing to play

Near to the fence
Thought my companion
If there's more to be had, I want it
Or I need it, or I wish it

There is someone there
On the horizon
Unclear to my eyes, a shadow?
Or a phantom, or a ghost?

The vision approaches
Can I play?
Someone to save me, a friend
Who can save me? Unneeded.
Because now I have something to play

The Krakenobo

2011-09-24T14:03:00.001-07:00

Come here, everybody. It’s time you should know
‘Bout a creature that I call the Krakenobo.
With the bod of a bird and the head of a snake
She destroyed almost everything that man could make.
She terrorized lands: East, West, North, and South
Chewing everything up with her huge, gaping mouth.
She set fire to towns: New York, London, Berlin.
Watching them burn, she then sat with a grin.
“This thing must be stopped!” said the mighty King Lee.
He chose someone to kill it; that someone was me.
I set out that day with my sword in my hand
To get rid of the monster and rescue the land.
I traveled by day and so searched for her nest
Stopping every once in a while to rest.
As I rested one day, I happened upon
A sort of a cave; it was just before dawn.
I looked inside and to my surprise
Looking right back were eight pairs of eyes.
“Baby Krakenoboes!” I shouted in fright
And I sank to the ground to consider my plight.
As I sat there, a brave one flew right at me.
I swung with my sword and so chopped off its knee.
When the others saw what happened to their sibling, they fled.
I caught up to each one and then chopped off its head.
I then ran away; I was too scared to stay.
But I knew I would meet the mother someday.
For seventeen years, the monster took leave
No doubt, over her children to grieve.
Then she came back, stronger than before
To wreak havoc on our planet once more.
By that time I was withered and old,
But my young son Dalton was ready and bold.
He left our house to finish my quest.
The townspeople yelled, “Surely you jest!”
“This is no joke!” my son Dalton cried.
“I’ll return with Krakenobo’s hide!”
He left that day, his sword to deploy,
And I hoped once again to see my boy.
For three years more I still had not learned
Whether or not he should have returned.
I had to see my son; I wanted to go,
But my wife stopped me and firmly said, “No!
He’ll come back when he’s ready and good.
Now go out and chop me some fresh firewood!”
I went to the forest and readied my axe
And chopped down a tree in twelve solid whacks.
I almost said, “Timber!” But someone else did.
And I turned to see a figure with his face hid.
It was then that I saw my sword at his side
And over his arm was Krakenobo’s hide.
Dalton pushed back his hood, took out a comb,
And said, “I just want you to know that I’m home.”

Practical Physicality

2011-09-12T18:23:00.000-07:00

Among everything, as it exists
Was, is, and will be
A stiff breeze erodes mountains
Where cannot the sea

The moisture in trees sets aflame
Soil gives birth to a stone
A blazing leaf wafts
The storm goes where unknown

Truth in physical form
Purity of existence untainted
Wildfire two thousand ways unbridled
A droplet in clouds unlimited colors painted

Unnumbered variety, beautiful and fierce
Quartz wind blows, striking bare clay
Steam falls from a liquid flame
The gentle hurricane keeps the earthquake at bay

As it should remain
Untouched, without flaw
What is natural
Holds all else in awe

Pretty Blue Water

2011-09-06T05:19:00.001-07:00

Splish
Splash
Pretty blue water
I stare at the pretty blue water
My gaze shifts to the cream-colored floor
It is cold and wet
There are puddles of pretty blue water
I sit there, staring at the pretty blue water
In the back of my mind, there is a little voice
Drink it!
Drink the pretty blue water
I drink
It tastes nice
The brown-haired boy walks past
“Get out of the bathroom, you stupid dog!”
I run and slip on the pretty blue water
Bow
Wow

Have You Do You Can You

2011-08-28T19:09:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought of something you didn’t know
And discovered that it was you?
Have you ever heard something you could not see
And found it there before you?
Have you ever seen the unseen
And known it was there all along?

Do you ever know what you shouldn’t
And feel proud of the knowledge?
Do you ever feel like someone else inside
And look at yourself in disgust?
Do you ever speak the truest truth
And refuse to admit the lie?

Can you ever forgive yourself the gravest err
And still make the same mistake?
Can you ever go forward on your own
And go back for what you left behind?
Can you read something you have written
And see yourself in the words?

And Then

2011-08-21T12:50:00.000-07:00

I stared at the end of the road,
Where it changed to a path in the trees.
I started walking, as I entered the woods,
I swear I heard somebody sneeze.
And Then...

I followed the sound and approached a small man,
Who was sitting on a stump n a glen.
We looked at each other. “Gesundheit,” I said.
He replied, “Thank you, my nice, polite friend.”
And Then...

The little old man told me he was an elf
And that he would grant me one wish.
I thought for awhile and then I replied,
“I want you to make me a fish!”
And Then...

The little man danced and clapped his hands
And he said, “Doogle donady, dimm!
Turn this young person into a fish,
And in the river allow him to swim!”
And Then...

I turned into a fish, and the little man laughed,
And he disappeared with a flash.
I flew through the air and over a river
Which I landed in with a flash.
And Then...

I swam for awhile, but then I got tired,
So I leapt out onto the land.
I sat on a rock, and looking around,
I saw a small lemonade stand.
And Then...

I flopped off the rock and bounced to the stand
And asked for something to drink.
The man mixed the liquid and poured me a cup,
And gave me a little wink.
And Then...

I took a big gulp and put down the cup,
And I knew that something was wrong.
The lemonade goy said, “Now you’ll be a person.
The change shouldn’t take very long.”
And Then...

I sprouted some arms, a couple of legs,
And my scales turned back into skin.
The lemonade guy said, “Ah, there you go.”
And he grinned his goofy grin.
And Then...

I ran through the woods and fell down a hole
And landed at the edge of the sea.
I saw a pirate ship, and every pirate
Was looking all evil at me.
And Then...

I got pulled on the ship, they tied up my hands.
The captain said, “Come her, Pirate Frank!
You’re going to find out how good it feels
To make something else walk the plank!”
And Then...

I stepped on he plank and I took a deep breath
And I gazed down into the blue.
About twenty sharks were looking as if to say,
“Hey, man, we’re gonna eat you!”
And Then...

Needless to say, I was pretty darn scared.
I knew I was going to die.
All of the pirates were shouting and yelling
And eating pieces of chocolate cream pie.
And Then...

I lost my balance and fell off the plank.
I screamed and I started to sweat.
After about five minutes of falling, I thought,
“Why am I not dead yet?”
And then...

I woke up.
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"And Then" is one of the oldest pieces of my work I still have. I wrote it in 2001, when I was in 11th grade... amazing to see how far I've come.

Every Melted Melody

2011-08-14T19:13:00.000-07:00

Every melted melody
Gets tangled in midair
As a thornbush of sound
That touches everywhere
And I will learn them all, said he

But that cannot be done, you see
For every melody that's there
A hundred, maybe more, unfound
Exist, so one person cannot dare
To try and learn them all, said she

Change of Plans

2011-08-13T05:52:00.000-07:00

Hey, fans!

With my new job, between the commute and significant cut of time to myself, I've decided to change the weekday the blog gets updated. I know I missed my post this past Wednesday, and I think you can tell I've struggled for the past two weeks... although I do think "Out of Stock" was a really cute little story-snippet-let.

Here's what I intend:

1. Weekly posts will be changed to Sunday, starting tomorrow. This will give me Saturday to shore up the writing if necessary.

2. For awhile, I'll probably be posting some poetry. My work schedule will be changing here in a couple weeks, to one that SHOULD make my commute less... time-consuming.

3. I am working on what could either wind up being a short story or a novella, with the intent of getting it on here in the near future. Bear with me while I get it written. It involves superheroes.

Thanks, fans!

Also, I'd like to apologize for the time it's taken to get The Trials of Hallac out for sale. We've run into some editing/formatting issues. I'll let you know when it's on Amazon.com for sale.

Old Timer's

2011-08-03T16:56:00.001-07:00

He wanted to reminisce about their wedding, but he couldn't remember the details. Things as simple as where it had been, the colors, even the guests eluded him. They had hundreds of pictures, he was sure, but they were nowhere to be found. No albums, no full SD cards, not a single upload on the internet. Every unfruitful search only frustrated him more.

Then suddenly, she was there: beautiful, breathtaking, and brunette. And asking what he was doing. Blushing, he admitted it.

"Honey, the wedding's next month."

_________________
This is another 100-word or less story. I think I may try working with these for awhile. It's a good exercise in setting up a problem and resolution quickly, getting your point across in few words. This one counted up at 87 words.

Out of Stock

2011-07-26T17:45:00.000-07:00

“Is there any left?”

“Nope.”

“There’s none left?”

“Nope.”

“Not even a little bit hiding in the back?”

“Nope.”

“Are you kidding?!”

“Nope.”

“You’re honestly telling me that we’re all out of humor? There isn’t a lick of humor left in the entire world now that our supply is gone?”

“Nope.”

“That sucks.”

“Yep.”

Mourning Run

2011-07-20T10:44:00.001-07:00

The empty playground sent a shiver up and down my spine. Fog was blanketed over everything, giving the swings and jungle gym hazy outlines reminiscent of my childhood nightmares. Only the topmost stairs of the slide were above the blanket of mist that turned that joyful place of daytime into an early morning haunt. As I jogged past on the route I'd chosen, I tried to keep my eyes from the place. Something about the absence of laughter made turned the playground sinister. It didn't help that the playground belonged to a private school and the whole grounds were surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and twisted old trees that look grandfatherly in the afternoon. The trees and fence had stood together so long that many of the trees had grown around parts of the fence, the bars of the fence wrapped with the very bark of the tree. The roots of some of those ancient trunks stretched almost to the road on the opoosite side from the bulk of the tree. But the amiable daytime apearance of the trees was absent in the morning fog. Now they leaned over the fence, protective of the grounds behind them at the same time they leered ominously at me. I couldn't run fast enough to escape the invisible eyes of those trees.

The unfamiliar road I was on proved to be my enemy as surely as the trees were. I'd like to say I only stumbled, but it felt more like the pavement slithered up and held my foot fast, drawing me down face-first to the road. Time slowed as I fell, the grass of the nearby residential front yards passing by blade by blade, the road coming up to meet me at the same frightful leisurely pace that tarantulas walk-- the assured pace that states that no matter how hard you try to struggle or run away, you will be caught. Until that moment, I never knew what it was like to feel hunted.

My muscles refused to obey me as I tried to scramble to my feet. There was no pain save the wrenching of a slightly twisted ankle and the burning of numerous scrapes and cuts of my skin from the impact. No bones felt broken, no muscles burned or ached. My body simply would not respond as I wished it to. Against my will, I remained flat on the road, unable even to flip over onto my back. I could feel eyes on me, sense it approaching, growing closer with each hurried breath that escaped me.

The same moment I felt a cold finger brush the back of my arm, I heard the first giggle, high and soft, like a little boy hiding and watching his prank-trap sprung. The laugh itself lasted only a second, but the echo of it lingered, bouncing between my ears like a disturbed nest of mosquitoes in my head. The cold finger that brushed my arm became a freezing hand that gripped me above the elbow, making the blood from wrist to shoulder run frigid. A miniscule shriek escaped me. I felt my body giving in as the hand tried to flip me over. All I could do was think of resisting and hope my muscles would remember that it was me they were supposed to listen to.

My fingers dug into the road, looking for purchase, something to hold on to so I couldn't be flipped over. I could feel the skin on my fingertips tearing on the pavement, my fingernails chipping and breaking and tearing. Somehow, I got enough of a hold that I could resist being flipped by my attacker, though this sudden control of my hands was a strain to maintain. What energy reserves I had left were draining rapidly; my breathing was coming out laboriously-- like I'd just finished a mile at a dead run.

Only when my hands decided again to betray me and I felt myself flipping over did I realize my eyes had been clamped shut for the duration of this attack... since I'd first heard the giggle. It took all my will to reopen them and face whatever it was that was looming over me. The second I pried my eyelids apart and saw the first splinter of light, the giggling began again. It started with one, that same high but quiet giggle, the unmistakable sound of a mischievous boy anticipating his fun. That giggle was joined by a girl's overjoyed squeal, and another deeper young man's, the uncertain forced chuckle of a shy boy, the uncontrolled laughter of a girl who's heard a funny joke. It became a chorus of laughter, the deepest boys' voices cracking on occasion, suggesting to me that none of these voices I was hearing were any older than perhaps thirteen. They were all children.

My eyes took far too long to adjust to the early morning light. I could still feel the cold grip on my arm, but there was nothing above me, no person to explain what had just happened. Were I not still hearing the giggles and feeling the band of ice around my arm where I was still held, I would think I was imagining things.

Though there was no wind, the fog was drifing up out of the playground, coming up across the street and curling around my toes. Even through my shoes I could feel the slight chill damp of the mist clashing with the warm sweaty wetness from my running. Beneath that layer of wet, I cold feel my skin was clammy and breaking into patches of goosebumps. My arm was suddenly freed from the cold clutches of whatever was holding me. Just as if I had been held by something solid and visible, the abruptly-released skin took an even deeper chill in the new exposure to air. Not even half a breath later, both my ankles were seized in frosty hands. I call them hands... tendrils would be more accurate.

This attacker I could see. The curling fog itself wrapped around my feet and ankles and tightened like a pair of translucent nooses. Like a bungee cord, the tendrils seemed to stretch before the pull on them turned into a drag on me. My muscles still ignoring me, I was slowly pulled toward the fence that enclosed the playground. I had no more choice in the matter than a stuffed bear has being dragged around by the toddler who takes it everywhere. Over the pavement, across a grassy ditch and the semi-dried mud at the bottom, more grass. Even though I couldn't control my muscles, I could feel the friction, the texture of each different surface I was unwillingly pulled deeper into the giggles. The sound washed over me, scalding me one moment and freezing me the next.

As I came closer to the bars of the iron fence, I braced myself for the impact, fully expecting to wind up with at least one fractured-- if not broken-- bone. It's not that it was pulling me fast, but it was insistent, using a strength far more than I would have expected from a weather occurance.

But the impact didn't come. My legs first went through the bars, then my hips, chest, and head. And when I say through the bars, I mean through them. Not through the narrow space between a few bars, but between the bars themselves. Once I was through the fence, I felt my ankles were released.

In a warm rush that made me feel nauseous, I became aware again of my muscles. My fingers wiggled. My shoulders rolled. I swallowed. I screamed. Frantically, I got to my feet, using tendons and muscles that were stiff and resistant. The laughter came to me, flowing on a newly-risen wind that traveled over the empty playground. In the haze, the indistinct outlines of the seesaws and slides were joined by darkening shapes of small people. The jungle gym was teeming with them-- ants crawling all over a drop of melted ice cream. Shapes dangled from the monkey bars and sat on the balance beam, hung upside-down from a suspended bar and went back and forth on the swings.

Like flicking a switch, all heads were turned towards me where I stood, and out of each head-shape, two pinpricks of light appeared, shining yellow through the haze. Silence fell, broken only by the thudding of my heart. Then came yet another giggle, a soft chuckle that stabbed me like an icicle. I turned and fled.

The eyes and the laughter followed and surrounded me, pressing down on me from all sides like a pile of blankets too heavy to shift off myself. I forced my way back toward the fence, straining to make my way through air thick as cream. My legs were stiff; I wasn't even sure I was bending my knees anymore.

When my first finger touched the icy iron of the fence, the giggle became screams, shrill and agonizing. My ears felt like they were bleeding. I forced one heavy, resisting leg over the top of the fence. And stopped moving altogether. My legs had both fused together and gone soft around the fence, molding to the iron bars and then again coming solid around them. My bones went rigid, my knuckles white with the strain of my grip on the top of the fence. I couldn't release them. My mouth was frozen open in a scream, but even my vocal cords had gone too solid to move. I couldn't budge.

I felt rather than saw the changes happening in my skin. It was growing rough and hard, textured to be the perfect climbing surface for squirrels and a desirable perching place for birds. The hairs on my head meshed together into wide, flat bits and strained toward the rising sun. The light faded from my eyes. I took my last breath as the screaming turned back into laughter and then faded with the rest of the outdoor sounds of morning. I couldn't hear anything, or see, or breathe. I felt the wind pick up and rustle my leaves. The other trees did not speak, but I understood them. The children needed shade and protection. The day children needed shade, and the night children needed our protection. They could never have enough. In a few hours, the school buses would arrive.

___________________________
I got the idea for this short story during, of all things, a morning run. There's a private school not far from the apartment with these very trees. At 5:48 am, it's pretty creepy there. Glad this didn't actually happen.

Lucid Dreaming

2011-07-13T04:39:00.000-07:00

Right away I could tell it was a dream, one of those dreams where you know you’re dreaming. Even as I slumbered I knew I was asleep, and part of my consciousness surmised that this might even be a lucid dream– one of those dreams in which you have such a profound awareness of self and surroundings that you can control the dream.

I’d never had a lucid dream before, but I’d heard and read stories of what they’re like, and I’ve always wanted to have one. I even bought a book about learning how to become a lucid dreamer. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to do what the book said to do: look at my hands.

I looked down at my hands. I wiggled my fingers. I stamped my feet, grinned, and spun in a circle. This was a lucid dream! I had complete control of it! I could fly if I wanted to!

Once I got over the thrill that I was actually having a lucid dream, I was at a loss for what to do. Here I was, with unlimited possibilities before me, the ability and freedom to do anything, and all I could think to do was stand in place, my arms dangling by my sides, and idly look around.

My surroundings were familiar, so familiar it was boring. This was quite possibly one of the most unimaginative places my subconscious mind could have chosen to have a dream-adventure in. It was the corner of the street I grew up on, where it intersected with another subdivision road. I had moved out of the house after college, and my parents had sold the house and left the town a matter of months later. It had been years since I’d seen that corner or even the town. But in this dream, everything was as I remembered it, right down to the hopelessly neglected hydrangeas in the Wilkinsons’ front yard.

Rather abruptly I realized that I was alone on the corner. What few dreams I remember after waking usually include other people: friends, coworkers, family... But here, in this dream, on this intersection of my old hometown, I was completely and utterly alone. There wasn’t even a dog trotting through front yards or a bird singing on a limb of one of the many trees that dotted the property of my childhood neighbors. Never in my youth had I recalled ever seeing the neighborhood so void of life. I suddenly wished for my lucid dream to be over.

Only then did I realize what I could do with my dream. I could control this dream– or should be able to control it, anyway. I could make anyone, anything fill this empty canvas of my old home. If I so chose, I could make Frankie and Lucy Martin appear in their driveway, drawing dozens of chalk pictures of ponies and unicorns and butterflies; I could have the Warren twins run down in the cul-de-sac, playing freeze tag or hide-and-seek with Bobby Lobowski and Junior Craft.

I could bring Amy back, I realized.

Amy, my best friend and the crush of my early years. She’d gone missing when we were in sixth grade; one day she didn’t get on the school bus, and she became one of those tragic cases where hundreds of searchers yielded not even a single clue to her fate. Even as I got through high school and into college, I held out hope that I might see some new report, hear some rumor that she had been found, somehow safe and sound. I’m really not sure when I gave up that hope, but in thinking that I could bring her back, I realized I now fully assumed her dead.

But how was I supposed to bring someone into my lucid dream? I closed my eyes, forming the image of Amy in my mind, both as I remembered her in sixth grade and how I imagined she would look at my age now, nearly twenty years later.

When I opened my eyes, she was there. Far down the road, almost so far I couldn’t tell it was her, there she was. Finding something to do in this dream was all too easy now. I dashed toward her, my friend, gone so long.

She was somewhere between eleven and thirty, but putting an exact age to her was near impossible. Her face was more like I remembered, but her body was sized and formed more like a teen’s. A charcoal grey business suit accented her shape all too well, the knee-length skirt of it showing pale legs that were far too thin. Chocolate-brown hair tumbled down over her face, obstructing my view of my friend. But I knew it was her, even with her looking down.

She was within arm’s reach when her head came up. I practically stumbled to a halt as a half-human face looked back at me. Lizard’s eyes, bright red-orange with strangely-slitted pupils stared me down above a human nose and a mouth too wide for a human face. That mouth grinned at me, smiling wide and showing rows of razor teeth like a shark’s, taking up far too much of the cheeks and chin. It couldn’t close, that mouth. Her tongue flicked out, thick and dark red, before disappearing back in that too-large gaping hole of a mouth.

The smile grew wider as her hand shot out and grabbed me by the throat. Strength of a dozen men went into that grip, crushing my windpipe as I was lifted off the ground, those unsettling, unblinking lizard eyes following me as I was lifted up, up, up. The sounds that came out of her mouth weren’t like any speech I’ve ever heard, more like a rasping clicking hiss. I knew she was saying my name.

Dangling more than a foot off the ground, my air cut off by the human hand of this half-human monster, I stared down into Amy’s contorted face. This isn’t my Amy, I told myself over and over, willing her away. The arm bent, drawing me closer to that ever-widening shark-like mouth, ready to devour me. I clawed at the hand that held me, I kicked and struggled, I tried to scream.

This is a dream, I suddenly remembered. This is my dream, and I control it.

Amy disappeared, and I fell to the ground, gasping for air. She was gone.

I hadn’t even had time to get my bearings before she dived at me from nowhere, appearing out of thin air off to one side, open jaws aimed for my throat. Fingers grabbed at me, tugged at my clothes for purchase, for a grip. Hair brushed my shoulder as I rolled out of the way at the last second, but not quickly enough to get completely free. Sharp nails dug into my calf, followed by the sickening feeling of teeth in the muscle of my leg. My bones wanted to snap as I cried out, trying to wrench my leg from her. I begged myself to wake up as I twisted around, only to see those eyes staring at me as her teeth tore at my leg. I pounded at her head with my fists, kicked at her with my other leg until she caught it in that too-strong grip.

The feeling of a mouthful of calf muscle tearing away from the rest of my leg was like fire, unbearable and nauseating. Even in a dream, I could feel every fiber of flesh pulling taut and shredding or snapping,

Wake up! WAKE UP!

Desperately, I wanted to run away now that I was free of her grip. Half or more of my calf was now in her mouth, separated from the rest of me. The closes I could manage to running was a rather pitiful scramble on a mangled leg.

So I scrambled.

When her hand grabbed my leg, I swear she grabbed it by the exposed bone. I howled; the noise that reached my ears was one I never thought I could make and never want to make again. Freezing fire seized every last nerve in my body as I was pulled back to the monstrous distorted creature that pretended to be Amy. I gave up the struggle for escape, instead clawing at my own throat in hopes that I might kill myself rather than endure being torn apart by this... thing.

The teeth sank in again, this time into my side just above my hips, sending wave after wave of blazing agony through me. Somehow, even with a mouthful of my flesh, Amy let out that hissing language, again saying my name.

I woke up to see the sun streaming in through the window and dancing on my bed sheets. My heart pounded, I was sweating, and I didn’t want to think about whether or not I had actually wet myself. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I had.

A hand came out of the blind spot beyond my peripheral vision and seized my throat. So swiftly did the contorted face of Amy appear before me that I couldn’t even manage a gasp. Those unlidded bright red-orange eyes bored into me as the too-side shark’s mouth whispered my name.

Price

2011-07-06T04:51:00.000-07:00

"For a long time they said we didn't need one, but then something changed and they said that we did."

"What are you talking about?" Adraen asked, shaking his head. Sometimes Vaery, his younger-by-seventeen-and-a-half-minutes twin brother, could come out of the middle of nowhere with what he said. All too often, Vaery had conversations going on in his head, and when he suddenly broke a silence, he was in the middle of one of those conversations and expected everyone to know exactly what he was talking about.

Sometimes, Adraen couldn't help but wonder if Vaery was a little bit mental.

"A guardpost at the gate," Vaery explained, looking a little irritated-- as he always did-- at the lack of immediate understanding from those around him. He shook his head, taking in all the others around him; every one of them looked as confused as Adraen felt. "For as long as I can remember-- as long as many of the Elders remember, they say-- we've been told that we don't need a guardpost at the gates to the city. But now, something's happened. I know it. Why else would we suddenly need a gate?"

"You don't think it might be... one of those... things, do you?" Rual was two years younger than the rest of those that were gathered, and he was still fervent in his beliefs that all the stories his mother told him were true. But the older boys: Adraen and Vaery, Tory and Gat and Faybrick, knew the stories to be nothing more than tales to frighten the young into behaving. But Rual seemed to cling to those stories, all about how the Otirah were hideous monsters and stole bad little boys from their beds and ate them. Even as much as the younger boy held onto his belief that Otirah were real, he refused to say the name aloud. Maybe he really did believe in them.

Adraen glanced to where the guard tower was being built. Already, the construction was higher than the city wall. Once it was finished, it would be easily visible from anywhere in the city. "It's probably for something else," he said. "Everyone knows the Otirah are just stories." The others chimed in, Tory and Gat even tossing in a few teasing words to embarrass Rual.

"I was just saying," the younger boy blushed. "I saw one once..."

That was enough for Faybrick. "If I have to listen to him insist on that story of his again, I swear..." He strode off, Tory and Gat close on his heels. Adraen looked after them, part of him wanting to join them in whatever time-wasting endeavor they would find, the other part of him not wanting to just leave Rual looking as abashed as their departure had made him look. Vaery gave him a shrug. "I'll stay with him. You go on."
Without another glance, he dashed off after the other three, grateful for the reprieve. Vaery would stay with Rual and listen to the story again. Fine.

The rest of the day found the four of them causing the general trouble expected of boys their age. It was enough to make younger sisters tattle and then spy and giggle when they were scolded by their mothers, and there was plenty of cause for older sisters to pick up right where mothers left off, adding scoldings of their own. Adraen really didn't see the draw of deliberately causing trouble-- not the way Gat in particular did-- or even the draw of filching pastries-- the way Tory did-- when he would get them just as easily after dinner from his mother and without the scolding or the fear of getting caught. More than once, they skirted wide when they saw Vaery and Rual wandering the streets nearby; neither Faybrick nor the others wanted to deal with Rual any more than necessary, and even though none of them said it-- not with Adraen around-- they didn't want to deal with Vaery either.

Evening came, and dinner, and the dessert pastries he really didn't deserve but ate anyway. Vaery didn't say a word about being left behind with Rual, and he even seemed less distracted than usual. He didn't make any of his out-of-the-blue comments at dinner or afterward. He hardly spoke at all, as a matter of fact. Adraen was content not to say anything.

After the lights had all gone out and Adraen was halfway to being asleep, a low growl broke the silence. Adraen's eyes shot open. In the moonlight filtering in through the unshuttered window, he could just make out his brother, sitting up in bed and staring out into the night. Vaery's face looked pale and strange in the shadowy night light, his eyes glowing strangely with the reflected moon.

"Something moved out there," he said simply, not even looking to see if Adraen was awake. "Shaped like a man, I thought, but it didn't move like one."

Adraen strained to look out the window.

"It didn't sound like one, either."

He dared to climb out of bed and creep to the window. Vaery's eyes followed him, shooting warning looks at him while at the same time daring him to keep going. He peered out into the street. There was nothing. No sign of any man or dog or anything that could have explained the growl. it had certainly been too big, too rumbling for it to have been even a large dog. Wind tossed a few stray leaves and a clump of dead grass down the cobbled road. There was nothing else outside.

Adraen suddenly realized how foolish he was being. It had to have been a dog. There was nothing else it could be. Wolves didn't come into the city, nor did any other wild animal, and if it wasn't a dog, well... Otirah were just stories. "Let's go back to sleep, Vaery. It was nothing." Even with his bravado, it took effort not to creep back to his bed, to just walk normally. He crawled under the covers and slept.

When he woke, the sun was still not up, and Vaery was gone. Rumors were flying around the town, about intruders that had gotten in and skulked about, growling like animals, or maybe they were animals, and maybe... the word Otirah was floating around like a leaf on the breeze; Adraen couldn't turn a corner without hearing someone whisper it. Once, as he walked past an lot between a shoe repair shop and an herbalist's-- there had once been an inn there, but it had burned down and no one had rebuilt there-- he almost swore he saw a big black shape moving in the rubble. He attributed it to his nervousness over last night and his uncertainty about where his brother was.

It was Tory who confirmed in his mind that Otirah had come. He went looking for his friends to talk to them, and Tory and Gat were huddled in Tory's house, both looking terrified. They had snuck out of their houses last night-- as they often did-- and had actually seen the Otirah with their own eyes, a hulking figure more animal than man, wearing a tattered cloak and nothing else but fur, growling low and deep and sometimes walking on all fours instead of two feet. They refused to leave the house. "Tell Rual we're sorry," Gat called after Adraen as he left, trying to hide his shaking. With them in that state, he hadn't had the heart to scare them further by telling them Vaery was missing.

After nearly an hour of looking, he realized Rual was missing, too. Fear ate at him, making him nauseous.

Night fell onto the town quickly, and neither Adraen nor anyone else had seen any sign of Vaery or Rual. The two of them seemed to be the only ones missing. Part of him was relieved that there was no sign of them. The more time that passed without seeing either of them, the more he began believing that he wouldn't find his brother alive. If there was no sign of him at all, it meant he might still be living... somewhere.
It was long after dark that he was finally forced to give up his search, when his father came and found him. His father's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, as if he had been crying. When he got home, his mother looked even worse. Adraen gladly accepted their hugs, assuring them he was fine. He went to bed without supper; none of them were in any state to cook, and he wasn't hungry anyway. He slept in Vaery's bed, next to the window, fighting sleep in hope that his brother would return. But sleep took him against his will.

A low growl woke him, and he jumped to look out the window, his eyes straining to see in the darkness. Nothing was outside, just as it had been the night before. But he knew he had heard it.

There! He squinted. Clambering on the side of the street, heading in his direction, was a hunched-over figure that looked to be wearing a cloak. His blood ran cold. He wanted to pull his head back in the window, to hide, but he was frozen, staring as the figure awkwardly approached.

It was another movement and a short shout that made Adraen topple backwards onto Vaery's bed. He kept tumbling in a backwards somersault, finally winding up on his back on the cold floor. His heart pounding, he scrambled back to look at the window. Vaery's head was peering over the windowsill, a big grin on his face.

"Vaery!"

His brother chuckled, but then the smile disappeared.

"Vaery, there's something out there! I saw it! Get in here!"

His twin shook his head. "It's okay. Look, I can't stay."

"What's going on?"

"I'm going with them. Rual, too. Tell Mom and Dad I love them. And tell Rual's parents I'll take care of him."

"What are you talking about? Going with them? Who? Where?"

"The Otirah. I'm going to..." he licked his lips. "I'm going to be one of them."

"WHAT?!"

Vaery shook his head and then looked to his left. The hood of the cloak appeared next to him. He cocked his head to the side, as if listening. "She said I can tell you a little, but that's all."

"She?"

Vaery shook his head dismissively, as if to say there was no time. "They're not monsters. They... they're people. Sort of. they used to be. Anyway, Rual and I both have the gift. There's worse out there, Adraen. Real monsters. Not Otirah." The cloaked figure gave a little start and what almost sounded like an abrupt purr. Vaery nodded at it-- at her. "It's a power. Magic, I guess you could call it. But not. When I learn, I'll protect you, like she does."

"Protect!"

"I can't stay, Adraen. Please, trust me. Tell Mom and Dad I love them." He paused, a sad look creeping into his eyes. "I'll be different, then, but... I will protect you. I promise."

Adraen stood shocked for a moment after his twin and the hooded-- woman?-- disappeared from his window. Finally, he leaped onto the bed and stuck his head back out into the night.

Seven years passed, but Adraen never forgot his twin brother even when most of the townspeople had. As a hardy man, he took his turns at the guardhouse that stood at the wall. He always took night watches, and alone. Should something happen, he would raise a cry. Others rang the alarm bell for any of the normal night shadows that were out there, but not Adraen. There were more false alarms than anything else, but even when he did see a definite man-shape moving out in the wilderness that lay outside the city walls, he did nothing. Most often, he thought he knew who it was.

***

"Sometimes the price is too high for most people, but there's always someone willing to pay."

"What are you talking about?" Michelle asked, shaking her head. Sometimes Paul, her older brother, could come out of the middle of nowhere with what he said. All too often, Paul had conversations and ideas going on in his head, and when he suddenly broke a silence, he was in the middle of one of those conversations and expected everyone to know exactly what he was talking about.

Sometimes Michelle couldn't help but wonder if Paul was a little bit mental.

Her Story

2011-06-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she told me the first time we met. Of course, I knew better. I opened the book and began to read.

Now I’m sure you’re going to think this is some story about me getting sucked into a book, going through some difficult adventure, and having a life-changing experience or epiphany, but you’re wrong. This isn’t The Neverending Story. That’s not to say I’m not a fan of that movie, ‘‘cause it was one of my favorite movies when I was a kid. But this isn’t like that.

Nor is this a story about me being skeptical about something in the realm of magic, and the book is supposed to be some old mystical tome, and then I jokingly read a “spell” out of the book and then have to deal with dire consequences because of my skepticism.

By this point you’’re probably wondering what the story is about. Well, we have three elements: her, me, and a book. I’ll tell you right now that it’s not about the book. It’s not even really about me, either. It’s about her.

I don’t know what her name is. She was probably about the same age as me, but it was hard to tell. I’m at that annoying age where hormones are going crazy, and some of the girls are already looking much older than the boys, but not all of them, and even some of the boys’ voices are changing, so it can be kind of hard to tell exactly how old someone is compared to you. There’s one girl in my class who, no foolin’, looks like she’s about seventeen. Yes, I’m smack-dab in the middle of puberty.

She wasn’t in my class, but I’d seen her around school, usually in the cafeteria. That didn’t give me much hint on her age, ‘cause my class shares a lunchtime with a few fifth-, sixth-, and eighth-grade classes. Okay, so now you know I’m in seventh grade. I’m thirteen, okay? Fine.

Anyway, well here’’s the thing. I watched her. I watched her a lot. But can you really blame me? She’s gorgeous! But not in that annoying, blonde, spoiled, cheerleader kind of way. God, I hate those girls, the kind that have huge sweet-sixteen parties, like on TV, and they’re obviously planning to get by the rest of their lives on their looks and whatever allowance Daddy gives them. No, she wasn’t like that. She’s a redhead and peppered with freckles. I think she plays either soccer or softball-- I’m not sure which-- because I overheard her talking about practice once, but nothing more other than that. She looked like a soccer player though, so I think that’s what she plays.

I keep getting off the subject. So I watched her. Whenever I could, which was usually around lunchtime. Well one day, she saw me. Saw me watching. And she smiled. Smiled! At me! And then she giggled. The other girls around her giggled with her. I blushed and went back to my sandwich.

The watching kept going on. And I noticed her watching me, too. Sometimes. When she thought no one else was watching, when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Then there was the day it finally happened. I was doing some English homework during lunch-- trying to get ahead, you know?-- and she, get this, walked over to my table! Now I’’m not popular, so I usually have a whole end of a table to myself. And she came over and sat down across from me. I pretended not to notice her, just kept my head down, because I could feel my ears burning and knew I was red as the inside of a watermelon.

But I couldn’t keep it up. I looked up at her. And she smiled at me. I smiled back.
So what happened next may seem childish to you, but keep in mind that, well, we were both still, in many ways, children. She passed me a note. We were sitting face-to-face, not five feet apart, and she pushed a note across the lunch table toward me.

Do you like me? Yes/No

I circled Yes and pushed it back to her.

She got up. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." Of course, I knew better. I opened the book and began to read.

Turns out she wasn’t attracted to girls.

Illegitimate Heir

2011-06-22T04:50:00.000-07:00

In Zuro, custom and tradition make it illegal for the king to marry, so his progeny consists solely of children born out of wedlock. I am a son of the king, and I am a bastard. I am neither one of the oldest of my father’s children, nor am I among the youngest. Age has no bearing on who will be the next king. His heir is whomever he chooses.

My mother was the daughter of a miller whose smile and hips pleased my father, and though she was betrothed to another craftsman, law decreed my father could take her if he so chose. And he did, only the once. I was born of that union, and there is no doubting my paternity. A prominent stamp of my father’s feature is evident my face... as well as the faces of at least a dozen of my brothers.

I am not the heir. As my fifteenth birthday came and went and my sixteenth approached, no heir had been named yet. In a single chamber of the keep, I slept in a small cot surrounded by cots holding a handful of my half-brothers. No one was given special treatment, lest he get cocky, believing himself the favorite son and eventual heir. It’s simply not the way things are done.

Zuro is the name of both the kingdom and the capital city. The kingdom boundaries extend but a dozen miles or so outside the city walls, so the lands are fairly pathetic, and the kingdom– in my opinion– doesn’t truly deserve to be called such. Yet, like so many others, I was desperate for the throne and the power to command those lands. I wanted to be the heir, to be the next king, to be the favorite chosen son and become ruler over the kingdom.

What else had I to live for?

On the eve of my sixteenth birthday– a day that would mean no gifts or honors or even acknowledgment form my father– I lay on my cot, poring over an old sheaf of paper bound by leather lace ties. It was a recounting of the founding of Zuro and the first king. He had conquered the city with an invading force, and as a virile and lust-driven man, chosen to take the entire female population of those he conquered as his concubines. Dozens of children were born to him in that first few years, and he chose the son who most pleased him to take over the ruling of the kingdom he’d carved for himself. His son followed his example, except he was more choosy about the women he took to his bed. So began the tradition that I had been born into. There were few people in the little kingdom that I was not, at least distantly, related to, through my father’s father’s father’s exploits or the like. It’s possible that I could even be related to my own mother... if the loose breeches of another king had fathered her mother or grandfather or something on some unknown woman.

We do not think over such things.

I was alone in the room, for it was but mid-afternoon, and the brothers I shared the room with were out and about. It was a fine late summer day. The whole summer had been mild and pleasant, the summer planting fruitful. The air practically stank with the sweet aroma of the wildflowers that grow in every patch of grass. We do not plant decorative gardens, but cherish every flower that grows naturally in a place of its own choosing– except in functional farmlands.

The black smoke ribbon that rose in the northeast was an unwanted surprise. It curled up, staining the picturesque sky with its foreboding taint. Had I not been reading of the first king’s conquest, I may not have known what the smoke meant: attack. At the keep, we were simply not taught such things. But I knew what it meant.

There must have been some sort of oral passing-down of the knowledge by those who lived outside the keep, for once the sighting of the smoke signal was passed from mouth to mouth and became common knowledge, panic struck.

Eight of my brothers were in the tower by the time I got there, and as they were crowded around the only viewing scope, I was unable to get a peek through the lenses. Father came soon after, and wordless, all nine of us backed away so he could use the scope. Ages passed as we watched our father and king stare through the glass and toward where invaders must be approaching. I itched to know what he was seeing. In those silent ages that passed, we were joined by more of my half-brothers, who immediately picked up on the mood and stood aside, adding to the silence.

“Take up arms, my sons,” my father the king said, pulling away from the eyepiece. “Whosoever best serves Zuro in defense against these invaders will be my favorite. Do me proud.”

The scramble out of the tower room resulted in at least one of my opponents falling down the stairs and breaking his leg. As I puffed my way to the armory, I was startled at myself. How quickly had my brothers become my enemies, my rivals. I had grown up with these men, so many of them older than me. So many of them had helped me learn reading and taught me to first use a sword. And now I would be rushing into battle with them, hoping to outdo them and become the man they would all one day bow to. As I armed myself, I looked sidelong at these other men, my rivals, wondering if they were thinking the same thought I was, if I was suddenly an enemy to them. An even more frightening thought gripped me:

What if one or more of them sought not to best the rest of use, but to eliminate us. To eliminate me?

Zuro has no active military. It is simply expected that in times of crisis, able-bodied men will take up arms and defend home and keep. Men were rushing out of the keep and into the city, out of the city to the farms, and out of the farms to the plains where the invaders were apparently approaching.

I retreated. Never before had I considered myself a coward, but the thought of being impaled on the sword of an invading stranger or worse, of a half-brother, sent my toes back to the inner keep and eventually back up to the tower.

My father was still there. He turned upon hearing my approach and looked me up and down, taking in my heavy leather clothing and the weapon I held. Never before had I felt so weighed and measured, and strain for height as I might, I fell short even to my own self-appraisal.

“I must be elsewhere, to give orders,” he said, his mouth twisting slightly as bit back what was surely a comment on my cowardice. I withered in my shoes. “If you are staying out of the fighting, use the scope. Keep watch on your brothers. I expect full reports on their deeds during this defense.”

A murmured acquiescence tumbled past my lips as he brushed by me and began descending. I shed my leather padding quickly and laid the sword atop them.

Before that day, I had no experience of battles, except the accounts I have read in scrolls, so I had no real practical comparison to what I watched. It might have been one of the most spectacular battles ever fought, or the dullest and tamest, but I had no way of truly knowing. I do know this: Their numbers were larger. My brothers– how surprised was I to suddenly realize I did not think of them as rivals!– fell alongside craftsman and farmer. They felled others, paired up with allies to fight off a single man and were ganged up on themselves. Through the lenses of the scope, I was able to see blood spurting from slashed throats in all too much detail. More than once I felt the urge to lean away from the scope and empty my stomach. I saw a brother decapitated by a man he had already run through, and both fell together. Hands and arms I saw severed, legs made useless by heavy mauls and spiked maces, faces ruined by flails and axes. The ground was being churned into bloody mud before my very eyes, and still the fighting went on.

As well as I could, I kept watch on my brothers, cataloguing their advances, their kills, and then their deaths. How I wished for a paper to write down what I could, fearing I would forget something, someone. But I had none.

As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. I had watched as our smaller, less-disciplined men fell, rose wounded, and set upon the invaders again. The opposing army’s numbers dwindled gradually, each of their men falling one by one to the stubborn blades of the people of Zuro. Deep in the fray, I watched as one of my elder brothers, alone and bleeding heavily from several wounds, launched a frenzied attack on what I assumed was the leader of the enemy force.

And defeated him. That one death marked the end of the battle, so abrupt it was shocking. At seeing their leader defeated, the enemy soldiers dropped their weapons almost as one. Knelt they then, surrendering to whomever happened to be closest.

I made my way down from the tower then, to where my father was waiting to accept the surrender and the prisoners. Our survivors returned with their prisoners in tow, some with one man, others with three or more. Several of my brothers actually returned with lines of a half dozen or a dozen or a score trailing them as the tail follows the dog. I kept a tally in my head of prisoners each of my half-brothers brought in, so that when the time came and my father asked for my report, I would leave nothing out.

Once the surrender was finalized and the prisoners escorted away form the king’s presence, the surviving men left to return to their loved ones for healing and care. I was left alone with my expectant brothers and quietly contemplating father.

There are those who, I am sure, are wondering at this point if I have sisters. I do, of course. The king has sired many daughters. But tradition passes the throne from father to son, and my sisters are given to their mothers for care and raising. I have sisters, but very few do I actually know.

“I promised you,” father began of a sudden, his voice booming through the chamber. “My sons, I promised that whoever best serves my kingdom in defense will be my favorite son and my chosen heir. The time is to hear what service each of you made to Zuro.”

My eldest brother stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak. As eldest, it was his right, but before he could even begin to detail his endeavors on the battlefield, our father’s hand forestalled him.

“Rather than hear blathering and boasting and attempts to outdo one another, fabrications of what happened while weapons flashed and men died, I will hear all your actions told by one who watched.”

At this, he motioned to me and bid me make my report. Throat dry and voice cracking, I began my telling of the battle. I could not help but look into the faces of my brothers as I stood before them, making no omission nor embellishing the deeds of one over the other. What little was left of the evening faded into night as I talked, until I was even hoarser than I had begun and my throat felt scratched raw.

The king considered my words for a long time as I remained before them all, bearing the varying looks of my audience. Some brothers glared furiously at me, no doubt feeling themselves slighted by my report, others looking surprised at things I had credited to them, few with pleased looks, as if what I had said was the same as they would have. I fear I suffered more glares than any other.

My father did not consider my words long. “And who, in your opinion, best served Zuro?” he asked, never taking his eyes from me. Again I felt weighed to the ounce and measured to the inch under my father’s gaze. It was without hesitation that I named the brother I had seen slay the enemy commander, who had ended the battle with a fierce stroke.

“You have it by your own words. Son, come here.” My brother looked shocked as he staggered to the king’s feet. His wounds were bad and had been no more than hastily and crudely bandaged after the battle. Still, he stood straight under the weight of his injuries to accept the blessing given only to the heir to the throne. In that act, I saw the hopes I’d had dashed to pieces. Only there was a voice in me telling me that wasn’t the act that had sealed it. It was turning away from the battle. No act but my own had damned me to mediocrity.

I am the son of a king, and a bastard. I cannot be more.

Clone

2011-06-15T04:23:00.000-07:00

Almost everyone thought the man and the boy were father and son. Their resemblance was strong, and even their mannerisms hinted at a parent-child relationship. They both cocked their heads the same way when listening, got the same faraway look in their eyes when they were thinking very hard. But Bant had the bearing and self-assurance that could only come from years of experience, while the boy was just that: a boy. His face was smooth and always ready with a smile, his eyes were brighter than Bant's, and he walked with that boyish swagger that hinted at energy barely held in reserve.

But Bant and the boy weren't father and son. Their DNA was identical down to the last chromosome. Or close enough that it didn't make much difference. The boy was Bant's twin brother, who bore the unfortunate name of Clone.

It wasn't that their parents were out of naming creativity when Clone was born; the decision had simply been out of their jurisdiction. It hadn't even been their decision to allow Clone to live. He simply... was. One day, he was just one of the multiple embryos frozen in a tube, and the next... he was a squalling baby in a lab. Of course, once his parents had discovered about the boy's existence, they had been outraged. But by the time that secret had come out, Clone was already eight, and the moniker had stuck. Oh, his parents had tried to give him a more appropriate name-- had tried several, in fact-- but it always came down to whether or not he would respond, and he simply wouldn't. Appropriate or not, his name was Clone.

Clone didn't hate his parents, but he didn't seem to really love them-- not the way Bant did. Then again, at ten years old, he hadn't had nearly as much time with them as Bant had at 25 years. The tension of Clone's relationship with their parents had finally been lifted when Bant graduated from college with a degree in architectural design, moved permanently out of his parents' house, and taken Clone to live with him instead.

They didn't really talk much; they didn't need to. Maybe it was their almost-identical genetic structure; twins often did have connections and understandings of that type, after all. Maybe they just didn't want to talk. Either way, they were both happy with the arrangement. They coexisted; it was enough for both.

The bus accident took them both by surprise.

It was nobody's fault, really. An unseasonable snowstorm had left a blanket of snow three inches deep on the ground, and the sky had spat down ice afterward, turning the normally-temperate Tennessee ground into a crust of white crispiness. In a city where snow only came once a year (or even once every three years) this was a big deal. And despite the city employees' valiant efforts to plow and salt the roads well, black ice still dotted the pavement, and it was a patch of that Bant and Clone's bus hit. It spun out of the driver's control, practically flew across a shallow ditch in the median, and tried to merge its front with the concrete sign of the hospital.

Everyone on the bus wound up either in the ICU or the morgue. The bus itself was totaled. The concrete sign came away unharmed.

Clone was in better shape than Bant was. He was awake when their parents showed up, fawning and gasping and nearly crying at the thought of the accident. Bant was still in the emergency room being poked and prodded and whatever else had to be done with him, so Clone was alone with his parents. One of the doctors asked to speak with the two adults outside the room, but that didn't stop Clone from getting out of the bed and limping in agony to the door to hear, dragging the machine attached to him behind him. Lucky for him it was on a cart with wheels. It took longer than he would have liked to get to the door, but at least he could hear out there.

"...severe damage to both his kidneys. I'm afraid the damage is irreparable. Unless we can get at least one transplanted, he'll have to be on dialysis indefinitely, and that is, in my personal opinion, no way to live. He's still so young..."

Mother stifled a sniff. "What do you suggest?"

"Well, the waiting list for organ donations is long, as I'm sure you've heard through the media. We do have a perfect match in his brother, but I would need permission to proceed down that path. And you're the ones with the power to make that decision."

Give his brother a kidney. Clone supposed he could do it, if it would save Bant's life. He wasn't really even supposed to be alive anyway. Why not take advantage of his existence and help Bant live? Whatever decision his parents wanted to make, Clone would make sure his own decision was the one that was followed. He limped his way back to the bed.

So when they came back in, seeing him lying just as they left him, awake and quiet but alert, he waited for them to bring up the subject. They had to, sooner or later.
Father wasn't one to beat around the bush. "We have to talk to you about the accident, and about treatment."

"I'll give it to him," Clone blurted, immediately turning red. So much for playing it cool and reasonable. Now they knew he had been listening. "How soon can we do it?"

His parents exchanged a significant look, but neither of their expressions showed even a bit of anger at his eavesdropping. Did Mother tear up more, though?

"It's not as simple as that, Clone," Father said finally. "You... can't give him a kidney. I'm not sure exactly how much you heard, but... well... you're the one who needs a kidney. And Bant is... well..."

Mother took a shaky breath. "Bant isn't coming home, Clone." Her smile was forced, intended to comfort a ten-year-old even though she needed the comfort more.

And Clone understood. He would be getting two kidneys, both perfect matches.

Hester's Child

2011-06-08T03:36:00.000-07:00

She barely made it to the toilet in time. Hester complained about her grumbling stomach and about the girl who’d held up the restroom for so long. Another minute, and there would have been a mess on the floor outside the restroom door, not to mention inside Hester’s drawers That would have been undignified. Even as she relieved herself of whatever she’d eaten that had upset her bowels, she was going over the faults of the generation that young girl belonged to. Holding up bathrooms when other people were having digestive problems was fault number one on the list.

As she reached for the toilet paper, her gaze happened to settle on the trash can. Right on top was the empty box and instructions for a pregnancy test. Was that why the girl had taken so long? Hester harrumphed and looked in the can a little more closely. There was no sign of the test itself. She thought back to her quick view of the girl once she’d finally gotten out of the restroom. Young. A teenage slut, no doubt. Well the little whore’s behavior had caught up with her. No one would take the test with them if it was negative, Hester knew. The girl must have been pregnant. Served her right for sleeping around. Hester silently hoped this would ruin the girl’s life.

Finished with her wiping, Hester flushed the mess away and washed her hands. Undignified such a restroom episode may be, but at least it had gotten rid of that sickening greenish-brown rumble in her stomach. Amazing what a good shit could do. She washed her hands again– that was another thing the younger generation didn’t do was keep clean– and her thoughts went again to the pregnancy test box. It wasn’t fair. All these clueless teenagers were getting knocked up left and right without trying, while she– a well-to-do, educated, perfect candidate for motherhood– had failed for years and wound up needing a hysterectomy because of an issue with her uterus. No hope. It was so unfair.

She’d dreamed of her children, more than once. Perfect, well-behaved little ladies and gentlemen, they were smart, polite, respectful, quiet, breathtakingly beautiful... All the magazines and books she’d read on parenting told her she would be the perfect mother. No chance her daughter would end up a teenage whore. It was unthinkable. Not only would her genes not have allowed such a thing to come to pass, but more importantly, Hester’s natural mothering ability would ensure her children were flawless in their actions and thoughts. If she could only have had that child herself... even some other child with bad genes she was sure she could set straight.

The store was busy and crowded when she left the restroom. More than one child whined or threw a temper tantrum over something wanted or despised. Hmph. Hester’s children would know better than that, too. She strode purposefully toward the exit, passing people and shopping carts ,thinking about her children and how perfect they would be and how people would comment on their behavior and be jealous. They’d ask her advice and all she would tell them is it was natural for her children to be so perfect since they had such a perfect mother.

On her way out, she reached a hand out and picked up an item, tucking it quickly under her arm. Nestled in the folds of her girth, no one would be able to see it as she left. Everything was so overpriced these days, it was robbery– like Hell she’d pay for what she took. She was the victim here. If the price were fair, she would pay it. But for this, she’d already paid more than a fair price. This was owed her. No one would miss it anyway.

She made it outside before it began to make noise. Hester jostled it a bit to shut it up. Later, if it wasn’t ruined already, it would know better than to cry like that. As she began strolling down the street, ultimately heading for her apartment building, she pulled the baby out from under her arm and looked at it. Not bad-looking, but its face was deep red from crying. She shook it again and told it to stop it. If it always acted like this, it definitely wouldn’t bee missed by whatever unworthy woman she’d taken it from.

Well, Hester knew she could set the little beast straight. Not its fault the stupid cow that had birthed it didn’t know how to make it behave. She’d have her perfect baby within a week. She could fix it. In fact, come the weekend, it would already be the perfect little lady or gentleman– whatever the baby was– it was supposed to be.

There was a huge commotion being made behind her, back at the store. Something about a robber, or something being stolen. Hester shook her head at the still-wailing baby in her arms. Shaking it again to quiet it, she mumbled about the faults of everyone these days. Robbers, inconsiderate teenage sluts, overpriced stores... her baby would know better than to be involved in anything like that. Much better.

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Hester's Child was written as a response story to a friend of mine's story, Leaves and Ashes, which you can find here. http://werdswurdswords.wordpress.com/2011/06/01/

Fairy's Tail

2011-06-01T03:42:00.000-07:00

If you were to travel outside of the great civilized cities of Candlin, heading east past the wide rushing river Melhasawump where it cuts through the plains of Nuhla, traverse the dense Felaria Forest and enter the great desert our maps label as Quilistoriavni, and if you were to get lost in the desert, you might find yourself coming upon an oasis that stands in the middle of nowhere. Only three people I know have ever claimed to have found the oasis: one was an old drunkard, another was a traveling fool, a the third was a merchant woman from a foreign land she never told me the name of. I listened to each of their stories, one story each night for three nights. Here are the stories they told me:

The Drunkard’s Story

He used to be a treasure hunter, but there was no luck in his trade anymore. After thirty years, it seemed that there was no more treasure in the world to find. He followed rumors of caches, or of hidden gold or gems or artifacts, but they had turned out to be dead ends, every one of them. So finally, desperate for any sort of money, he turned to different rumors: rumors of rare beasts that had been sighted, beasts whose hair or hide or horn, hoof or head, shell or skin or skull, claw or carapace, paws or poison could fetch a high price. So a poacher he became, hunting the venomous Lord-stinger, the swift Avalant, the aqueous Pike Ripper and the great horned Malthan Retriever, among others. The stories of those hunts are good for an evening’s entertainment, but they are not what I wanted to hear. He told me about the oasis.

It was a flock of Dustchoke hawks he was after, out in Quilistoriavni desert- which his people called Tavni desert– when a great storm of sand rose. Whether it was a natural dust storm or the work of his quarry he didn’t know, but he was blinded and turned about in circles. The dust settled, and everything was changed. His waterskin growing emptier, he pushed on, until a green speck showed in the heat-hazy distance. The green speck turned into a tree, then another tree, then the oasis.

His tongue dry and his forehead burning, he fell into the pool of water from which sprang this patch of life. The water was cool and clear and cold; the trees bore fruit that was ripe and red and ready to be eaten. The flowers were fragrant and fanciful, like something out of a story. Some had petals the size of his hand or bigger, all of them in the most vibrant colors you could imagine, some of them spotted or striped or both.

At first he thought the flowers were just swaying in the breeze, but then he realized there was no breeze. He splashed water from the pool onto his face, wiping his eyes and trying to clear his vision. But still they were there, looking like smaller buds of the flowers, brilliant red and bright yellow, shining blue and deep purple in color. It was their wings that were such loud colors. The tiny beings flitted about, unfolding their wings until they were almost the size of the flowers, flapping and flying and fluttering.

But what was most beautiful about them was not the graceful, minuscule human shape of their bodies, nor was it the moving display of their rainbow wings. No.

It was their tails.

For as small as they were, he described their tails as far too large for them. The fairies– for that was the only name he could think to call the creatures– were no longer in body than his first finger, yet their tails trailed after them for nearly a foot in length. Feathery but not made of feathers they were, sparkling wetly but floating like sand in a draft. The trailing tails changed colors in the light that filtered through the oasis canopy in distinct beams.

As a poacher does when he sees a beast worth taking, the man decided he would capture the fairies and take their tales to market. They would fetch a handsome price, he thought.

But the fairies were not easily caught. They were not tempted to fly towards things that shone bright, like some insects, nor were they easily outwitted by a poacher’s usual traps. They could not be snatched out of the air by hand– they were too fast– nor could they be coaxed or teased into a cage or sack. Even their long flowing tails, if he grabbed at them, seemed to always be just out of reach, or slipped from his hand at the last second, even as his fingers were closing on them.

He didn’t realize how he had exhausted himself until he stumbled and couldn’t catch himself. He wasn’t quick enough, and fell face-first into the pool. The fairies made no noise, but he could have sworn he heard their laughter in his ears, their giggling next to his head, their chuckles taunting him. Dragging himself from the pool, he wrung the water from his clothes and hair, made one last feeble attempt to grab a fairy prize, and left the oasis, defeated.

The Fool’s Story

A fool is best off when he has a person take him on and keep him as almost a servant. But only the greatest, most foolish of fools earn places in castles by the sides of kings. The fool who told me of the fairy oasis was not one of the greatest of fools; he was an ordinary fool. Oh, once he had been the fool to a tyrant-king, a king who was kind to few people, and the fool was one of them. He capered and tumbled and danced, he told jokes and spun tales and made insulting comments about the king in private. His clothes had been checkered or spotted or motley, his face had been painted white. Or half-black and half-green, or checked blue and yellow, or any other strange combination. But that king had been rebelled against and had been killed, and the fool had fled.

He moved from town to village, from village to city, and from city to hamlet. Inn stages he performed in, manor houses, and on street corners. And once no more coins fell in the cup nearby, he gathered himself up and moved on. So he found himself in Quilistoriavni by accident, hopelessly lost and with nothing but his face paints and his coin-cup and the clothes on his back. Now and again as he forced his feet to keep moving, he told himself all his old jokes, over and over again, to keep his eyes open and his ears listening and his mind awake.

His foot was practically in the oasis pool by the time he realized there was an oasis. He, too, nearly fell into the pool when he saw it, dunking his head into the cool, fresh, life0giving water. Nectar of the gods.

When he lifted his face, dripping the clear water from his ears and chin and nose, he too saw the fairies. At first like the flowers were shedding petals, they unfurled themselves and put their wings and tails on display for the fool. Then they began to dance in the air, twirling around each other mid-air, passing above and below one another, doing flips that made their tails arc after them in perfect curves.

Such beautiful tails! No tale or joke he knew spoke of creatures like these! What a story these creatures would make for me to tell a king, thought the fool. And what king could resist keeping the only fool that could be found with such a pet in a cage by him? The thought of having a sure seat with a king was heartening and so tempting that the fool could not resist. He thought to take one fairy with him as proof of his story, and he reached out a hand to a flower where the nearest of the little creatures sat basking in the light. But when his hand closed, he felt nothing but his own skin. Again he stretched out his hand to grasp at a lazily drifting one, and again he came away with nothing.

Only when the light faded to the black of night did he realize he had been hours trying to catch one and had no more to show for it than when he first began. He could not catch a fairy. Quickly, he realized that his legs felt made of rubber and that he was too tired to walk. He curled up in the shade underneath one of the oasis trees and fell asleep.

Upon waking, the oasis was gone.

The Woman’s Story

The woman’s accent was foreign, but she would not tell me from what country she was. She carried with her a wooden chest, and inside the little chest were a few smaller wooden boxed. These held fine paper and thick, one held pencils of color, one had pencils of different hardness, and one was full of stoppered bottles of colored paints and brushes to go with them. She was a scribe and an artist, though she spoke differently and was obviously not from Candlin.

The strange creatures that dwell in the sands of the desert were what drew her. No book held pictures of Dustchoke hawks or Timberback rattlers, or Yellow-bellied scorpions or the always-hiding Sandtrap spider. She wanted to be the first to draw these creatures that were in no book.

Well-laden with water and food, she entered the desert in search of the animals she wished to draw. For three days she saw nothing but sand and mostly-dead shrubs. It was on the third day that she lay down under the tent she had brought to shield her from cold night wind. She woke not to the heat of the sun baking her little tent, but to the clean scent of fresh water and lush greenery. For the duration of the morning, she looked at her surroundings, studying the flowers and trees, gazing into the water. She opened her case and sat, sketching the flowers first with uncolored pencils, then with colored, even though the hues and shades of her pencils did the real flowers no justice.

Only when she was about to put everything away did the fairies appear, wafting on the wind, bouncing on the breeze, their luxurious tails trailing after them. Hurriedly she pulled her papers back out, working feverishly to draw the beautiful creatures that were before her. Never did she try to touch one for fear of frightening them away, and when she was finished with her drawings, she carefully closed them up in her case and quietly crept from the oasis.

These are the three stories I was told about the fairy oasis. The old man had no more proof than his words, so I found it simple to pass his words off as the fanciful musings of a drunkard. The fool too had no proof of his tale and was dismissed just as easily.

But the woman, when I rolled my eyes at her story, opened her case and took out not one, not two, but five pieces of paper, sketched with the flowers of the oasis and three with the fairies. These could be the work of imagination, I told her, but that is not to say I do not find them beautiful.

She was not listening to me, but was staring into the case she always carried with her. Shaking, she reached a hand into the case and lifted out a long trailing item that glittered and shone in the firelight of the tavern room. It seemed made of feathers and yet not.

I have seen the tail of one, and I now believe in fairies.

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"Fairy's Tail" is one of my favorite short fiction stories I have written to date. It was written for a project I and a few fellow writers undertook, called "Letters to a Pen". Sadly, the project was not completed. Still, this was one of the products, and I could not be happier with it.

The Tramp

2011-05-25T04:37:00.000-07:00

A boy with a parrot on his shoulder was walking along the railway tracks. He stumbled sometimes, when the white cane he held and swept back and forth in front of him along the ground missed something that could trip him. A grimace came over his lips when he stumbled, angry at himself, at the cane, at the rock or whatever it was that made him stumble. The parrot on his shoulder never said a word; the little plastic voice box inside it had broken a long time ago. Only a couple safety pins kept the stuffed bird in place on his shoulder, stuck through its feet to attach it to the shoulder of his shirt.

There was a rhythmic thunk-tink thunk-tink as the white cane hit the metal of the railroad. He walked just outside of the tracks, making the same trip he'd made every day for the last two months. Along the railroad tracks, across the little wooden bridge that spanned a creek just big enough to require a bridge, and then into town. Town, and freedom. Maybe they wouldn't catch him this time. The thought made him move faster-- and stumble more often.

He strained his ears, trying to listen over the scrape of his shoues on the gravel and the thunk-tink of his stick for the sound of pursuers. A hand reached up and squeezed the stuffed parrot on his shoulder for luck. Maybe they wouldn't come. Maybe they didn't realize he was gone yet. Maybe this time would see him into town, and find someone to hide him until they gave up, and he wouldn't have to worry about them anymore. He squeezed the parrot again. Maybe.

That was when he heard the first sound of footsteps other than his own. Waving his cane wildly in front of him, he ran, tripping with every other step but never quite falling. Forward-- always forward. They had found out earlier than usual that he was gone; usually, he was at least heading away from the rails and towards the bridge by the time he first heard them. This time... he might not even get to the bridge.

His cane whacked against the changing switch for the rails, sending a jarring feeling up his arm, but signaling him to turn aside, veer to his right, and make way for the bridge. The footfalls of his pursuers were catching up, going faster than he was. He wasn't going to make it.

The ground underfoot changed from gravel to earth, the rustle of fallen leaves replacing the crunch of shoe on gravel. His pursuers were still on the gravel. if he could keep from falling... maybe... He squeezed the parrot.

His cane thumped against one wooden post of the bridge that crossed the creek, and he dashed onto in. Only he had come up on the wrong side of it, and rather than his foot landing on the bridge, it landed on nothing, and he tumbled into the cold thigh-deep water. He almost lost hold of his cane as he sputtered, trying to right himself. Rather than climbing back out and crossing the bridge, he started swimming across.

The water got much deeper toward the middle, until he couldn't feel th bottom no matter how hard he stretched his toes downward. The thump of boots on wood sounded next to him, and he knew he was caught. He struggled to fight the current, to just go away from the bridge and the hands that were no doubt waiting to haul him in. But it was too strong for his six-year-old legs to fight for long, and it swept him away. He quit fighting and let it carry him. Fingers brushed his hair, his coat-- and didn't get hold. Shouts reached his ears, dimmed for a moment as he went under the bridge, and loudened again as he came out on the other side. And they faded away as the water carried him out of reach faster than he could ever run.

Shivering and soaked, he came up on the bank in a place he didn't know. He reached a trembling hand up to feel that the parrot was still there. Yes. The stuffed animal was as soaked through as he was; there was no way the voice of it would ever work again, he was sure. If the stuffing didn't dry out right, the thing would probably rot from the inside out, and it wouldn't be any good at all anymore.

Tugging himself up the bank and to the trunk of a tree, the boy sat and unfastened the two safety pins that held the toy to his shirt. A third safety pin held closed the ripped seam at the bottom of the bird, between its feet. He unfastened that one too, and dug a pair of fingers up into the wet stuffing, feeling around. There was the plastic voice box, and... for a moment, he thought it was gone. Then he felt the small, hard lump tucked into the bird's beak. Squishing and twisting the parrot and his fingers, he fished it out.

Turning it over in his hands, he wondered what the smooth, round object really looked like. It wasn't much bigger than the first knuckle of his pinkie fingers, and it wasn't quite perfectly round-- it felt more like there were dozens of little flat surfaces cut into it, so small and so carefully done that it just seemed round. It felt kind of like a marble, but if it were just a marble, they wouldn't be after him. Closing his fist tightly around it, he let go of the parrot. It was ruined; he wouldn't need it anymore. He hadn't heard any sound of pursuit in some time. He had gotten away. Gotten away for real and for good this time. Exhausted, he slept with his back against the trunk of the tree. Even the sound of a passing train didn't wake him.

The man who jumped off the train had the look of a hobo, but he preferred to be called a tramp. He saw the sleeping boy and doubted he had any food on him, but maybe he had money. Very carefully, the tramp searched the boy's pockets, but there was nothing that could be of any use. Then he saw something glittery in the boy's hand. Grinning a snaggletoothed grin, he took it.

And was arrested for stealing one of the largest extraterrestrial peridot gems when he was found.

When the boy woke up, he was at first upset that his prize was gone, then glad to be rid of it. Wearily, he got to his feet, took up his white cane, and walked.

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I wrote "The Tramp" for a First Line Fiction contest, and to be perfectly honest, I had no idea what I was really doing. Like so many of my ideas, I had loftier goals than could be told in less than 1000 words...

One Noah, His Noah

2011-05-18T04:36:00.000-07:00

He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he'd taken of his son. It wasn't even the original print; that had been destroyed in the flood. Somehow the negative had found him, or he had found it, stuffed in with assorted junk trinkets in a shoebox that had miraculously survived the water that had ruined everything else, that had taken everything else from him.

The water that had taken Noah away.

He wanted to curse God at the same time he wanted to laugh. One Noah, who had built an ark to survive a great forty-day flood. His Noah, who had drowned in a two-day downpour that swelled the banks of the nearby Standish River and flooded the city as never before in history. One Noah, a man approaching grizzled age, with three sons to help him follow God's will. His Noah, a man barely twenty-two, with his whole life ahead of him.

His Noah was a strong swimmer, always had been. How he'd chuckled at that when His Noah was a boy of five, when he began swimming lessons; at eight, when he'd finally thrown away his snorkel and noseplugs; at ten, when he'd asked for a real swimming coach; at twelve, when he first made the swim team and began competing. The joking comments he'd made to other parents that he wouldn't need an ark to survive a forty-day flood, that he could just swim the whole time. How awful it seemed now, that he'd made those jokes, how cruel it seemed now to have named his only son Noah and cursed him by linking him to floods.

He wanted to curse at God's unfairness to spare One Noah and steal away His Noah. But he wanted to laugh at the irony of it. It was such injustice. He should not want to laugh. His Noah was dead! If he'd named his son Paul or Samuel or David, Mark or Andrew, he could mourn in peace.

He buried his face in his hands, laughing at his tears and crying over his amusement. It made no difference.

A name cannot protect a man.

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One Noah, His Noah was written for a First Line Fiction contest.

I believe fully in the power of names, that a name molds the life of the person bearing it. This story is, perhaps, the first stretching in the direction in that line of thought.

Bound By the Knife

2011-05-11T03:48:00.000-07:00

The thin, fine blade bit into the back of Saul’s shoulder, making him narrow his eyes and furrow his eyebrows in pain.

“Are you okay?” came a sweet voice.

Saul didn’t even need to look up to see the speaker. He knew every detail of his new wife’s face intimately, and he was even fairly sure he knew what her expression would be, just by the tone of her voice when she asked the question.

His eyes opened fully, and he looked up. Sure enough, Ardith’s face held a look of intense concern. Saul smiled at her. “It’s just annoying, really. It’s a sensitive area. I’m fine, really.”

The blade dug into his shoulder again, but Saul didn’t wince this time. He wanted to make sure Ardith knew the pain wasn’t bad. And it really wasn’t all that terrible. Still, the concerned and rather frightened look didn’t leave Ardith’s face. Saul mouthed the words, “I love you,” and smiled at her. He wanted to reach out and hold her hand, but the inker wouldn’t let anyone get too close– for safety and cleanliness reasons, he said.

Saul was allowed a moment of almost-painless reprieve as the pigment was rubbed into the wound. He had been subjected to the inker’s knife for over an hour now, and there was still probably another hour of pain to come. Then it would be Ardith’s turn. Neither of them had gotten tattoos before, but once they got married, they had decided to mark the occasion by getting matching ones.

Ardith bounced slightly as she watched the inker take the knife to her husband again. This had been her idea, and she had actually been a little surprised when Saul had agreed. She was nervous; she didn’t know what it would be like to be inked, so she had asked Saul to go first. She wasn’t sure if she could take the pain of it like he could– as a guardsman, he was subject to injuries all the time. It was rare for him to come home at night without a new bruise or a shallow gash. But Ardith earned her part of their money performing songs and dancing at the inns and taverns– tastefully– and except for aching feet and the occasional sore throat, she didn’t experience much pain from day to day like Saul did.

Finally, the inker told Saul to get up off the table. The tattoo was finished. Saul picked up his discarded shirt and turned so Ardith could see his new mark. “How does it look?”

Ardith hugged him gently, careful not to press too hard, especially in the rather raw-looking right shoulder area. “It looks just like we wanted. Did it hurt terribly?”

Saul shook his head and walked back to the inker to have the tattoo bandaged. “It wasn’t bad, just... lengthy. And annoying. You know, you don’t have to get on if you’re worried.”

Ardith shook her head firmly. “I want to. It’s for us, remember?” There was no way she was going to back out now.

The inker finished bandaging Saul’s shoulder and prepared to work on Ardith.

Saul didn’t move from his spot while the inker worked on his wife. At the first touch of the knife, a little bit of a surprised look came over Ardith’s face, but she didn’t squirm, make a cry, or do anything that normally resulted from pain. There were moments in the two hours she was being inked when she clamped her eyes shut, but every time she opened them, Saul was ready with an encouraging smile and a loving gaze. Before either of them knew it, the inker was finished with her tattoo, which she had chosen to have placed on her left hip.

Ardith was bandaged, and the inker smiled as Saul and Ardith took their leave. They went straight to the tiny two-room house they had in the city. Saul half-flopped onto a chair before the movement made his shoulder throb, and he very nearly jumped back out of the chair as a result.

“Careful, honey,” Ardith said, her sweet voice filling the room without effort as she carefully lowered herself into another chair. Her voice filled the room easily, but without being loud or overpowering. A moment in the chair set her tattooed hip burning, and she stood up again. Saul stood, too, although probably not for the same reason. He gingerly took his wife in his arms and kissed her.

“You did wonderfully under the inker’s blade. I told you it wasn’t so bad.”

“I believed you, Saul.”

The door opened, revealing a scruffy-looking man in a guardsman’s uniform. “Saul, I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

Saul gestured the man to come inside and sit. Saul and Ardith remained standing.

The man sat only for a moment before standing up and walking behind the chair, but he was there only for a moment before he walked to the wall and leaned one arm on it. “We’re at war. The Dolerins launched a night attack on one of the port cities, I don’t remember which one, and the King is calling together as many new recruits for the army as he can get. The Captain says we’re all to enlist. We’re supposed to gather at the town gate to head for the capital in the morning.”

Ardith rushed to Saul and threw her arms around him. Saul hardly winced as her hand rested right on top of his bandaged shoulder.

“He can’t go to the King’s army! We’ve only been married a month!”

The guardsman shrugged nervously and headed for the door. “Sorry, ma’am, but those are our orders. Tomorrow morning, first light, Saul.” He ducked out the door. Saul stared after him.

Ardith wouldn’t let go. “You can’t go, Saul! You’ll be killed! You can’t go into the army!”

Saul closed his eyes solemnly. “I have to, Ardith. Orders.”

She looked up at him, her eyes welling with tears. “No, you don’t have to ! We can just stay here! Someone has to stay to protect the city! I’m sure some guards will stay. You can be one of them! You have to stay here!” She buried her face into his chest, her tears falling onto his still-bare skin.

Saul hugged her tightly, holding her to him. “I have to follow orders, even if I don’t want to. That’s what I do.”

She shook her head, still not lifting it from his chest. Her voice came back muffled. “No, no no no no! If they try to make you, I won’t let them! We could... we could run away! Tonight! And go away from here!”

Saul worked a hand under her chin and lifted her face so she looked at him. “What are you talking about? We can’t leave here.”

“Yes, we can! We can just leave, and they can’t make you fight in the army! We’ll be safe, and we’ll be together. I can’t lose you, Saul, I just can’t!” She gently freed her face from his grip and rested her head against him again.

“I don’t want to lose you, either.” He closed his eyes and held his wife in silence for a few moments. “So where will we go? We’ve got to get some things together if we’re going as soon as we can.”

Ardith looked up, her face still wet with tears. “You’ll come? We’ll go away together?”

Saul nodded. ““I’m not going anywhere without you. Let’s get what we can carry, and we’ll leave tonight.”

Ardith kissed his chest. “Do you mean it? You’ll disobey orders?”

“You know I’ll do anything for you.”

Two hours later, under cover of darkness, Saul and Ardith crept out of their little house, each carrying a pack with food, blankets, a few extra sets of clothing, and whatever else they could carry. The night guards were few tonight, probably because of the traveling they would have to do in the morning. Even with as few guards as there were tonight, leaving the city unnoticed wouldn’t be easy.

The weight of the pack on Saul’s shoulder caused a pain that was constantly on his mind. The few extra layers of clothes he had put on did little in the way of padding. But he knew Ardith was feeling the same pain on her hip, from walking and her skirts rubbing against it. He had tried to talk her into wearing a pair of his pants to make traveling easier, but she had adamantly refused. They were going to be doing a lot of walking.

Saul led the way towards the gate, along the sides of buildings, trying to keep to shadows. Most, if not all, of the other guards men knew him on sight, probably because he was one of the biggest of them, and the only one who went completely clean-shaven. Patrols were random, so there was no telling when a night guard would appear.

Ardith heard footsteps and quickly grabbed the back of Saul’s cloak sleeve. He very nearly fell, but he didn’t move forward into the light. There was a guard coming. Ardith held her breath as she and Saul pressed themselves against the shadows on the side of the building they were by. She could feel Saul holding his breath beside her.

The breastplated guard came into view– a young man, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, with only a shadow of a beard on his chin. His hand rested on the short sword at his hip comfortably, though. He was young, but he knew what he was doing. His eyes darted around, taking in all the movement around him. He paused a few steps past them, a few paces in front of the building, and his head turned to look around. His hand eased his sword in its sheath, and he kicked the toe of one booted foot on the ground.

Ardith’s chest began to pound for air. This young guard was only perhaps five paces from the shadows she and Saul had concealed themselves in. Any sound they made would surely be heard. But the young guard didn’t move on.

There was a loud banging sound, and Saul and Ardith felt the building shake a little. The sounds of raucous and probably drunken laughter came loudly from nearby, and after a moment, a large group of staggering men wandered into the street. Not a moment had passed before two of the men began to brawl in the middle of the mostly-deserted road. The young guard quite visibly rolled his eyes, shook his head, and headed towards the group.

Saul let his chestful of held air out slowly and quietly, and began to breath again. Beside him, Ardith followed his example. But even a few moments of trying to calm down did nothing to slow either of their pounding hearts. Still, they moved on, behind the tavern and further towards the city gate. There were two guards posted at the gate itself, so sneaking out through the gate was practically impossible. Neither Saul nor Ardith had thought of that.

“We’ll have to scale the wall,” Saul whispered.

Ardith looked up. Made of plastered stone, the wall was high and thick, meant to protect the city from invasion. The stones made natural foot- and hand-holds, perfect for climbing, but the wall was amazingly high. She’d never thought what was meant to keep someone out could prove to be such a barrier for keeping people in.

“We can’t climb this, Saul. Perhaps you could, if you weren’t carrying a pack, and if it weren’t dark, but I know I can’t. We must find another way.”

“There is no other way. The sentries at the gates won’t leave their posts unless there’s an attack, so we can’t go through the gate. We have to climb.”

“I can’t climb the wall!”

“I’ll help you.”

“Do you want to get through the wall?”

The voice was whispered and sounded youthful and came from a wiry, shadowed form that neither of them had heard approach. Ardith jumped at the voice, and Saul very nearly attacked the person before he understood what he had said.

“Yes, we have to leave tonight,” Ardith replied despite Saul’s gestures not to.

“Follow me.” A dark cloak flourished as the shadow turned and headed back the way they had come. Ardith and Saul hesitated for a moment and followed. The cloaked figure stopped behind a building and waited for them. “You can leave through here.” He placed a hand on the wall, and a dim light seemed to extend from his fingers onto the stone. A nearly door-size section of stone melted away, revealing the grassy plains that gave way to forest on the horizon. “Go.”

Saul darted through the passage as though he were being chased by some fierce animal. Ardith paused before going through. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important.”

“Why are you helping us then? Tell me that.”

“Look, just go. I’ll explain later.” He practically shoved Ardith through the opening and into Saul’s arms. The wall seemed to melt back into place. They were outside.

Without a word, Saul grabbed Ardith’s hand and dashed for the treeline. It was only a mile or so from the city wall. It wasn’t long before they were safely concealed in trees. Only then did they allow themselves to rest for a while.

“We made it out of the city, Ardie! We made it!”

She nodded, setting down her pack and sitting on a fallen tree. “I’ll feel better once we’ve put the city far behind us.”

“She’s right. You should keep moving.” The cloaked figure was leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over his chest. The hood of the cloak shadowed his face. “This path will take you straight through the forest and on to Banditan. You should be safe there.”

Saul took a few steps, putting himself between Ardith and the stranger. “Thanks for your help, but who are you?”

“Your wife already asked me that.”

“But you didn’t answer me. And you didn’t when I asked why you were helping us, either.”

He sighed and uncrossed his arms. “My name is Elias. And I’m helping you because it serves my purpose. That should be enough for you. Just don’t get yourselves separated or killed, okay?” He pulled back his hood, revealing the smooth face of a boy only nineteen at the oldest. Moderately long, messy brown hair topped a rather round face with only a hint of facial hair. His blue eyes were sunken in a bit, but they were filled with light.

Ardith stood. ““Thank you for your help, Elias.”

Elias’s eyes darted up and down Saul for a moment, and he stepped forward and placed his hand on his shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s a tattoo, not an injury,” the man replied, shrinking away from the boy’s touch.

“It still pains you. Let me help.” Keeping his hand on Saul’s shoulder, he beckoned Ardith forward. “You have one, too. I can take away the pain.”

Ardith stepped up to him, and Elias placed his other hand on her hip. His hands glowed dimly again, and both Saul and Ardith felt the aches from their inkings drift away. The feeling was so soothing that Ardith closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Elias was gone.

“What an odd young man,” Ardith commented, looking around. “He must be one of those Mages.” She tenderly touched her hip. As Elias had said, it didn’t hurt anymore.

“Yeah, but we’re in debt to him now. I don’t know if I like that,” Saul replied, working his shoulder.

“He seemed nice enough. But we should keep moving, shouldn’t we? If we want to get far enough away so they can’t find you and force you to join the army.”

Saul nodded and reshouldered his pack. “Let’s move, Ardie.”

They traveled on through somewhat dense trees well through the dark hours and continued even after the sun was above the horizon. It wasn’t long into the day when they heard the sounds of people. Lots of people. Ahead of them, not behind.

“I don’t like this, Ardith. Stay hidden. I’m going to see who’s out there.”

“Please, Saul, be careful.”

Giving his wife a reassuring kiss, Saul picked his way through the dense forest towards the sound. He was out of Ardith’s sight in moments. But he was not out of her hearing. She heard a cry of, “Ambush!” from an unfamiliar, very harsh voice, and she heard Saul pleading innocence. She could not explain how, but she felt the heavy blow that was landed on her husband’s head. He had been knocked unconscious. The sounds of people moving picked up again, and Ardith stood frozen in her hiding place. Would these people leave Saul alone and unconscious in the forest? Or would they take him with them? Carefully, she crept towards the sounds and where Saul had disappeared.

She saw the moving people before too long, and she understood almost immediately how Saul had stumbled upon them. They were Dolerins– part of the Dolerin army, probably, if not all of it– and they had dressed in greens and browns and fastened leaves and branches and the like to themselves. They looked like moving parts of the forest. And in their midst, draped over the back of a leaf-covered mule, was Saul. He was out cold. The blow had seen to that. Ardith’s head ached dimly in the back of her thoughts. Her foremost concern was rescuing him.

The Dolerins continued on through the forest, towards the very city she and Saul had escaped from the night before. That thought didn’t matter to Ardith now, though. Saul was all that mattered. She kept the Dolerin army in her sights, creeping along in their wake and trying not to be heard or spotted. It wasn’t long before a few camouflaged scouts joined the ranks, and the army stopped their march for the day.

Ardith knew this place. They were near the edge of the forest, and the city was less than five miles from her very position. The army was planning an ambush. But Ardith had set in her mind her own ambush.

As the army quietly mad a small temporary camp, she watched as a pair of soldiers removed Saul from the mule and poured a small amount of water on his face. Saul sputtered, and his eyes opened lazily. Ardith couldn’t hear what was said, but the two soldiers bound Saul’s hands and dragged him and his pack to a man Ardith could only assume was in charge. Saul was thrown to his knees before the man, and he coughed tiredly. Ignoring Saul, the man took the pack and emptied its contents onto the ground. At the sight of Saul’s sets of clothes, some of the cooking things, and the food, the man laughed. Sorting through the clothes, one of the soldiers came upon Saul’s cloth-wrapped sword. The commander’s laughter ceased, and Saul was hauled to his feet. The commander began to speak, but she could not hear his words.

Ardith quietly moved through the trees, trying to get closer so she could hear what the commander was saying.

“...part of the army, no doubt. Possibly... probably a deserter. Find out what he knows. Use whatever means are necessary, but I want him left alive until I’m satisfied.”

Saul’s mouth moved, but whatever he said was too quiet for Ardith to hear. However, it resulted in a solid back-handed slap across the cheek that made Ardith’s face sting as though she had been the victim instead of Saul. The soldiers dragged Saul into a newly-erected tent and out of Ardith’s sight.

For a long while, nothing happened. No one left or entered the tent where Saul had been taken, and the only things going on in the camp were the normal camping things: low cookfires were made, horses and pack mules were cared for, and soldiers were fed. Ardith decided to wait until dark to attempt a rescue. She crept a short way away from the camp and settled down to plan as she wait for nightfall.

She was still at a loss for what exactly to do when the sun began to set. Suddenly, she doubled forward, feeling an intense pain on her back, like she had been beaten with a heavy stick. But there was no one there. The delusory blow came again, and again. The blows fell continuously, and Ardith found her self curled into a ball on the ground, tears streaming down her face. What was happening?

“Seems there was a small side effect from my healing,” came an all-too-familiar voice.

Turning her tear-stained face towards the voice, she saw Elias’s brown-haired head, which appeared to be floating, as his dark cloak seemed to melt into the dark that surrounded them.

“What’s happening?”

Elias ran a hand through his unkempt mass of hair. It did nothing to tame it. “Apparently, you’re feeling your husband being beaten for information. Somehow, healing you a the same time bonded you together. At least, you feel what he feels physically. I wonder if he would feel what comes to you.” He reached down to help her back into a sitting position. The blows were still falling, sending waves of pain all through Ardith’s body, but she was becoming almost numb to them. She hoped Saul wasn’t suffering as bad as she. “Elias, is there anything you can do to help him?”

The boy shook his head. I’ve already endangered myself from helping you so far. I hate to say it, but you’re on your own.”

Ardith felt a horrible sensation in her neck that made her shudder uncontrollably. Almost immediately afterward, she heard the Dolerin commander’s voice curse. “I told you I wanted him alive!”

Ardith knew Saul’s neck had been broken. The pain had ended as abruptly as it began. She began to cry. He was gone. Saul, her husband, the love of her life, was dead. Murdered. They had barely been married for a month, and he was gone.

When she came to her senses, she was alone. The absence of human sounds led her to believe the army had moved on. But had they taken Saul’s body with them? A few moments of walking took her to the remains of their camp. Saul’s body was at the edge of the clearing, and by the position, he had been carelessly discarded before they moved. Ardith gingerly touched a shoulder; of course, there was no response. She turned his body over, from his side to his back. She fought the tears, but it was no use. She burst into sobs, cradling the body of her dead husband to her as if afraid what was left of him would disappear if she let go. She was only dimly aware of the rustling of foliage nearby.

“He’s gone, Ardith. He hasn’t breathed in a number of hours.” Elias’s voice still held that unsettling calm of his that made him seem older, but the sympathy in his tone could still be heard.

Ardith looked up at the young man, her face pale and red a the same time; wet trails left by her tears covered her cheeks. Though she knew he told the truth, that Saul was no longer alive, her eyes displayed her refusal to believe him.

“You will need to move on, Ardith. There is nothing you can do for him.”

“But you can, can’t you? You opened the wall, and you quickened the healing of our tattoos! You can bring him back!”

Elias shook his head slowly, his dark hair falling to make a sort of drape over his eyes.

Ardith clutched desperately at his cloak. “You can bring him back, Elias! You’re a Mage! I know you can! Please, don’t let him be dead! Don’t let him stay dead!”

Elias gently knelt and helped Ardith to her feet, leaving Saul’s body against a tree at the edge of the clearing where he had been murdered. Sobbing the entire time, Ardith let Elias take her to a nearby village untouched by the invading army. He left her in the care of a woman at the village’s lone inn, and he disappeared again.

It was last in the evening on the third day after Saul had been killed when Ardith finally seemed to recover her control and stopped crying constantly. She contented herself (as well as she could) with helping earn her keep around the tiny inn, sweeping, cleaning, cooking, and other such jobs. It was hardly a week after he had died when Ardith began to feel ill in the mornings, and a woman came to see her and told her that she was with child. Ardith’s heart leapt and sank in the same moment; this was Saul’s child, and she prayed every night that it would be a boy, but she wept that Saul would not be there to know the child, and the child would never know its father.

Days more passed, and the news came that the Dolerin army had been defeated and was being removed from the kingdom.

Ardith stayed in the little village, earning her keep in the inn and counting the months and weeks and days before her child would be born, for a long time. After four months of pregnancy, she was showing, and the summer months came nearer. As summer came into full heat, the Dolerin army came to invade again, and the people of the village grew nervous. The inn door was soon locked every night, at earlier and earlier hours.

One night, during a storm nearly six weeks after word spread that the Dolerin army had returned, someone pounded on the door to the inn. The pounding was forceful and seemed urgent, but the fierce wind and rain made hearing the shouting (if any) unintelligible. The innkeeper, a very pudgy red-faced man, hesitated for some minutes before finally opening the door to allow a drenched figure in a cloak to enter.

Ardith was tidying the common room of the inn as she watched the cloaked man– she assumed it was a man, since no woman would be foolish enough to travel in that storm– found a place by the fire and asked in a hushed voice for some food and ale. The hood was pulled back, revealing dripping black hair that fell limply around tanned skin. From her vantage point sweeping, Ardith couldn’t see the man’s face, though why that bothered her, she couldn’t say. The innkeeper approached her. “Ardith, go fetch some of the chicken and some ale for our guest.

“Ardith?” came the man’s hushed voice. He turned round, his brown eyes reflecting the firelight. “Ardith? My Ardith?!”

“Saul?” Ardith’s eyes and ears were surely deceiving her. This man could not be her Saul, but... his eyes didn’t lie. The man had his face, his eyes, his hair– if it was too long, dripping wet, and looked as though it hadn’t ben washed in days. He looked gaunt, like he had bene underfed lately.

“Ardith?” Saul suddenly had her in his arms, and he was sobbing into her shoulder in disbelief.

“How... how?” Ardith could only get the one word out between her sobs. She had her arms around him, holding him to her as well as she could with her pregnant belly between them.

“Ardith... what’s this?” Saul took a step backward and put a hand on her stomach.

“It’s our child, Saul! Our child!”

“Your son.”

The door was open again, revealing another cloaked form against the backdrop of the storm. He pulled back his hood. It was Elias.

“Elias! You...”

“You could say I’m responsible... I know you’re going to ask to repay me, but don’t.”

“But..”

“I said don’t. Just do me one favor.”

“Anything, Elias. We owe you everything.”

Elias shook his head, spraying water droplets everywhere. “Don’t name him Elias. He’ll hate it.”

In a flash, he was gone.

____________________________
"Bound By the Knife" I will admit, I am not too fond of. It was a good idea, but I didn't pull it off very well. It would be more suited to a novella than the short story I tried to cram it into.

The idea was supposed to be that Elias was actually their son, grown into a young man, coming back to make things better before he was born, because he was a Mage and had that kind of power. That kind of thing. Clicheed, I know, but hey, I was like 17 or 18 when I wrote this.

People Watching

2011-05-04T04:35:00.000-07:00

The boy wore a black parka, a matching ski cap, bluejeans, and sneakers; he appeared to be five years old; and he was weeping. He was alone, standing on the sidewalk at one corner of a busy intersection. Cars whizzed by as the traffic lights changed colors, people strolled lazily across the crosswalks or strode with the pace of important businesspeople when the sign said WALK, and the boy stood there, weeping. He didn't seem to be looking for anyone; he wasn't searching the faces of the crowd for missing parents, or craning his neck to see through the sea of people, or turning around and around in place trying to find whoever had left him. Even between his tears, he didn't sniff, or wipe his nose on the sleeve of his parka, or even reach up to wipe his eyes.

No one paid him any mind. The fact that a small boy was standing on a street corner weeping wasn't enough to stir any of the hundreds of passersby to pause for a single step or even glance down at him. And the fact that he was dressed so heavily in the middle of July wasn't enough cause for comment, either.

The boy was pale, as if he hadn't seen the sun for weeks. from under his ski cap, tufts of coppery hair stuck out in odd places; tears streamed from green eyes made bright by the contrast of his black parka and cap. Only the color of his eyes and the red rims around them gave his face any real color.

I watched the boy for a long time, watched buses and taxis and patrol cars pass by, watched people enter and exit the cafe and the handbag store that were on the same corner as the little boy. Hours passed. Morning turned into afternoon, and still, no one paid so much a one second of attention to the boy. And still, his weeping did not cease.

The bells in city hall chimed the half-hour, ringing loudly over the business district. At the very moment the sound faded from my ears, the boy stopped his weeping. Like flipping a switch, he was done. Now, his head turned this way and that, not in a searching fashion, but simply looking. He must have met the eyes of a dozen or more people, perhaps two or three dozen, even. Even from the distance I was, I could tell that even though the people were looking straight at him, straight into the bright green eyes of the little boy in the parka, they still did not see him.

A woman in a pinstriped business suit who had her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail came up to the corner, purposefully walking like only self-important executive-types can. The boy met her eyes, and she met his. Without missing a step, she walked straight through him. In the blink of an eye, the boy was gone.

I stared until the clock chimed again. And again. A full hour I stared at the place where the boy had been, as if by keeping my eyes locked on that very spot, I could make him reappear. I worked over in my mind what the significance of the boy might have been, why his crying had ended when and how it did, the meaning od his behavior, what the woman meant, and the suddenness of the boy's disappearance.

I could think of nothing. At first.

Some time ago, I read a joke called "The death of common sense". As I sat staring, it came to mind again. Had something else died?

As abruptly as the thought of that joke had come to me, I had an answer to the significance of the boy. I know what died. Can you really look at society right now and honestly say that common decency is still alive?

--------------------
"People Watching" was written, as many other of my recent short stories, for a First Line Fiction contest.

Those of you who read it, I'd be curious to hear your perceptions of it. This is one of few stories that I actually (intentionally) wanted to be seriously symbolic. Thoughts?

They Were Chanting Again

2011-04-27T04:39:00.000-07:00

They were chanting again.

Every night, to another star.

“Shine down on us.”

“Give us your light.”

“Brighten our lives.”

“Brighten the sky.”

“Come and take us”.

“Give us your light.”

The dim embers of the fire-that-was-never-put-out sat at the top of the hill, surrounded by a circle of twelve stones– one for each Zodiac sign. Whoever fell first would be the one to tend the fire during the light hours as a penance for falling. So they danced, and they were chanting again.

The boy who called himself Kiran danced and chanted to Tegmine, a star of Cancer’s constellation, determined not to be the first to fall again. The girl who called herself Bertina danced past him and smiled. Like the dozens of other people dancing, and like Kiran himself, she was completely naked with the constellation Cancer painted on her chest. Mid-chant, Kiran smiled back, forgetting where he was for just a moment. Bertina swayed in rhythm with their chanting and with the music. Roughly-made drums and pipes played by the Twelve– six men and six women named for the Zodiac– set the pace for the dancing and chanting. It was hypnotic, but he was brought out of his reverie when he nearly stepped on Pisces’s foot. He apologized profusely and rejoined the dance.

Cristophe sat unhappily on the grass, poking at the fire with a long stick. A pile of firewood he had gathered sat next to him. The grass underneath him was stomped flat, and there were patches where the trampled earth showed through. The grass and the trodden dirt was still damp, not from dew, but from the torrents of sweat that had fallen there the night before. Cristophe found himself wondering if the hilltop was ever really dry.

Like the ground beneath him, Cristophe was heavily damp with sweat. His hair was weighted down with it, and the collar of his shirt was dark with it. He hadn’t bothered to put on socks, hoping the sunlight and the tiny bit of heat from the fire would help dry his feet.

He poked at the fire again and tossed another bit of wood onto the fire. If it was allowed to go out– he didn’t know what the penance would be, but he was certain it would be harsh. He yawned; it was barely past midday, but he longed for sleep. He dared not; should someone show up and find him sleeping, especially one of his older friends...

“Oh, hello!”

He hadn’t heard anyone approach, but Cristophe was glad that is someone had to visit him, it was her: Carmen.

“Hi.”

She sat down on the grass next to him. She smelled like flowers. “You’ve been here a lot lately.”

He shrugged. “I kind of like poking at the fire. It’s peaceful and quiet. I can think here.”

Carmen leaned back on her hands and looked at the clouds. “It’s such a pretty day out. Just a little breeze, and not too hot for summer.”

“It does feel good out here.”

Carmen leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder. “You’re dripping wet!”

“It’s sweat.”

“It’s not like it’s that hot out here.”

“I know. You can get off if you want. I probably don’t smell very good, either.”

“No, it’s okay. I kind of like sweaty guys.”

Cristophe grinned as he blushed, poking at the fire with a stick.

They were chanting again.

Every night, to another star.

“Shine down on us.”

“Give us your light.”

“Brighten our lives.”

“Brighten the sky.”

“Come and take us”.

“Give us your light.”

The boy who called himself Kiran danced and chanted to Ras Alhague, a star of Ophiuchus’s constellation, determined not to be the first to fall again. The fire-that-was-never-put-out glowed in the circle of twelve stones, surrounded by the Twelve, who played their roughly-made drums and pipes while Kiran and the others danced naked, each with Ophiuchus painted on his or her chest. Bertina smiled at Kiran as she danced by him, swaying in time with music. He smiled at her and moved so he was beside her, dancing together but not quite touching.

Hours passed, and Kiran and Bertina danced side by side among the dozens of other dancers. The moon was well past its peak, and Kiran felt his body starting to slow. Bertina seemed to be slowing, as well, as did many of the others except the Twelve. Dozens of bare forms glistened with sweat, and the painted figures of Ophiuchus were unrecognizable where they were not already washed away.

In the corner of his eye, Kiran saw the girl who called herself Lucerne collapse where she was: the first to fall. Kiran did not drop; though he was not the first to fall tonight, he did not want to be the second, either.

One, two, three more people fell almost as soon as Lucerne’s body hit the ground. The Twelve played on, not stopping, and Kiran and Bertina kept up the dance, though the chanting was lost in the huffs of the exhausted dancers.

“You are not meant to tend the fire today,” Bertina whispered to Kiran as she danced by him.

He smiled and dropped to the ground at almost the same time as she did.

They were chanting again.

Every night, to another star.

The boy who called himself Kiran chanted softly while he was being painted with the constellation Draco. Tonight they chanted and danced to Dziban. Scorpio painted him with the stars across his chest. Nearby, Bertina was being painted by Virgo. He looked at her and gave her a small smile, hoping Scorpio would not see it. But he did.

“You fancy Bertina, son?”

Kiran stopped chanting and bowed his head. “I do, Father Scorpio.”

Without turning his head, Scorpio looked at Bertina. She was smiling back at Kiran, oblivious to Virgo’s rather pleased look. Virgo looked at Scorpio and nodded. Scorpio nodded back.

“You will be given to each other.”

Kiran almost allowed his jaw to drop. Saving himself at the last moment, he bowed his head instead.

“It would be good to have another child born to us, son. It has been some time since Meira had her child.”

“I understand, Father Scorpio.”

They danced and chanted to Dziban. Kiran was determined not to be the first to fall again. He danced again with Bertina, whose wide smile never wavered for the entire night.

“We are to be given to each other,” she whispered to him.

“I know,” he replied.

“Does that make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Come and take us.”

“Give us your light.”

Hours passed, and Kiran and Bertina danced side by side among the dozens of other dancers. The moon was well past its peak, and Kiran felt his body starting to slow. Bertina seemed to be slowing, as well, as did many of the others except the Twelve. Kiran felt his legs begin to give out beneath him, and as he was about to fall, Bertina’s hands came and helped hold him up. But it was too late, and Kiran’s body was slick with sweat. He fell– the first to fall.

Dimly, in the back of his exhausted mind, Kiran heard the drums and pipes stop. The rhythmic pounding of feet stopped, and the chanting faded to silence.

“The first has fallen,” Aries said. “Tonight, we stop.”

Cristophe sat unhappily on the grass, poking at the fire with a long stick. A pile of firewood he had gathered sat next to him. He was worn out and drenched with sweat. His arms and legs ached, and his throat was hoarse. He tossed another piece of wood into the fire.

“Hey!”

He hadn’t heard anyone approach. But suddenly Carmen was next to him, leaning back on her hands in the damp grass, looking at the sky.

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

“I know.”

“It’s kind of a good thing. You weren’t so sweaty yesterday, I bet. You probably got to take a shower instead of sitting here all day.”

He let out an airy laugh and nodded. “Yeah.” He poked at the fire with his stick. “Wait, I thought you said you kind of liked sweaty guys.”

Carmen shrugged. “I do, but I like dry guys, too.”

“Well, which do you like better?”

“You, whichever you are at the moment.” Carmen tossed a piece of wood on the fire. “That fire should be okay on its own for a while.”

Cristophe smiled and took off his shirt.

“We do not chant to a star tonight,” Capricorn announced to the dozens of nude people gathered around the fire. The fire-that-was-never-put-out was far more than dim embers; it was a great blaze that gave off an intense heat, making everyone sweat despite their stillness.

“Tonight, the Sun rides the Moon. We celebrate Kiran and Bertina, who have agreed to be given to each other.”

They were chanting again, dancing in circles as Kiran and Bertina made love in the grass. Kiran had been painted in bright yellow-gold, Bertina in the palest pearly blue.

“Let us pray to the Sun, our Father!”

“Let us pray to the Moon, our Mother!”

“Give us another star!”

They were chanting again.

Summer had given way to autumn and then winter. They danced and chanted to Ankaa, a star of Phoenix’s constellation. Kiran danced and chanted, determined not to be the first to fall again. Since he and Bertina had been given to each other, he had not been the first to fall on any night.

Bertina danced next to Kiran, her growing stomach bearing the constellation Hydra, which would be in the sky when the little star was to be born. Phoenix dotted her chest, as it did Kiran’s and all the others’. Bertina smiled at Kiran and rested a hand on her stomach. She was often the first to stop these nights, but since she carried a little star, she was never considered the first to fall. If Kiran stopped early, he would not be granted that luxury.

“Hey!”

The music faltered and stopped. The chanting faded, and the dancing ceased as a stranger approached the circle around fire-that-was-never-put-out.

The Twelve quickly stood from their seated positions around the fire and approached the stranger. “You do not belong with us.”

“Leave.”

“What’s going on here?”

The Twelve closed in around the stranger. They formed a line– the barrier between the stranger and the fire.

“Don’t touch her!”

The voice came from the crowd of chanters. Kiran pushed his way to the forefront.

The heads of the Twelve snapped to look in his direction, severe looks on all twelve faces. “You speak for this outsider, son?” asked Leo.

Kiran pushed his way between Libra and Capricorn and looked over the stranger. “I speak for her.”

The stranger whispered to Kiran. “Cristophe, I’m scared. Who are these people?”

Taurus’s voice boomed. “Why do you speak for one such as this?”

“She carries my child!”

The chanters gasped collectively. The Twelve only managed to look angrier. “You have gone outside the Sky?”

Almost as one, the Twelve and the chanters began forward, hands raised, ready to seize Cristophe and Carmen. He knew the penance for this: burning alive slowly over the fire. The boy who called himself Tab had tried to leave a year ago. He had been found and burned alive; the image was still strong in his memory.

“Wait!” Cristophe threw his arms out to either side, trying to put as much distance between Carmen and the Twelve as he could. His normally timid voice echoed unnaturally, stopping everyone for a moment. There was a pause, and he lowered his arms. He looked past the Twelve, to where Bertina stood. “You have a little star to replace me. I was a pitiful star to begin with.”

He took a small step backwards, towards Carmen. He took another. Another, and he was able to take her hand. They turned and began to walk down the hill. There was a moment when Cristophe thought they would be able to leave uncontested, then he heard taurus’s booming voice.

“After them!”

They were chanting again.

“After them!”

“To the fire!”

It was one of the most frightening things Cristophe had ever heard.

They were chanting again.

The fire-that-was-never-put-out was a blaze. The traitor Kiran’s screams had faded an hour ago, after two nights over the dim flames. The blaze had been built to wear away what was left.

Aquarius looked over the slowly charring remains. Sagittarius approached the fire and stopped beside her.

“We never found the outsider.”

“She is nothing to us. He was the one we needed to make an example of. The penance for treachery has been paid.”

They were chanting again.

The boy who called himself Kiran would never join them again.

Carmen never went back to the hilltop. In April, she bore a little girl. She named her Star.

-----------------------
They Were Chanting Again was written a few years ago. Astronomy and astrology have always interested me, and the concept of a cult based on them resulted in this story. At least, it touches on the subjects.

Feeling White

2011-04-20T03:35:00.000-07:00

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I could actually feel the stuff coursing through my system. It wasn't something I had been unprepared for, but the actual sensation caught me by surprise. Looking back, I can only really describe the feeling as white. I suppose the closest analogy I can come up with is that it felt like liquid light flowing through my veins alongside my blood. They told me the stuff would mix well enough with my bloodstream, but it felt separate, kind of disconcerting. Liquid light flowed through me, but there was no heat to it, just the shining white feeling.

Judging from Theo's and Avery's faces, they were feeling the same effects I was. At least there was no pain.

By the time we found Barstow, drove across town, left the jeep in a hotel parking lot on the far side of town, and started out into the desert on foot, I knew the drugs were only a handful of moments away from taking full hold on me. We turned separate ways once we were out of town, each just picking a direction and going.

I stumbled in whatever direction it was chance had given me, willing the ticking seconds to stop feeling like they were an hour long each. The men had told us the name of the drug, but it was one of those ridiculous forty-seven-letter-long names that were impossible to pronounce unless you had a Ph.D., and I hadn't cared to listen anyway. They had also told us to hold off succumbing for as long as we could to get the full effect, so I focused as hard as I could on the sand in front of my Reeboks.

The soft thud that came from behind me and to my right told me one of the others had gone down. Forcing the muscles of my neck to obey, I turned to look, only then realizing my eyes were clouded. But I knew it was Avery that had given way.

A second sound of impact told me Theo had collapsed, but then I realized I was lying on my side in the sand. I had let it take me. Sweet dry heat flowed over me; gritty, odorless sand made my bed. I had a dim awareness of my surroundings as the drug penetrated every last bit of what was me.

I opened my eyes and I was flying. I knew I was a hawk; that's what the people called me. Hawk. But the word wasn't what my heart said I was. In my heart, such things didn't matter. Food, hunting, flying, mating-- it was the instincts that took over. This wasn't some acid trip or hallucinogen effect; the men had explained...

Explained what? What men?

White. White air. Bright sunlight surrounded me, clean clear air supported me and gave me lift. It took no thought to find thermals to give me lift, to adjust the tilt of my wings and tail to dive or bank. This was pure joy, to live.

The noise sent me into a panic. I didn't know what it was, by my every instinct said to fear the sound. It was a crack, loud and short. It came again, and a third time. That third crack came along with great pain in my little body. I was wounded. All my efforts to control my accelerating descent failed, and I cascaded to the ground.

I opened my eyes and I was surrounded by white. My talons clenched weakly. I hurt, but I would heal. To the depths of me, I knew that.

Faces. There were faces. My eyes darted around, taking in my surroundings. This was not my forest home, or a desert-- where that fact came from, I didn't know at the time, but looking back, I can remember the thought and identify it. This was the kind of place I avoided, where the ones who looked at me and said, "Hawk" made their nests.

Nearby, on a medical table-- again I can only put words to it from looking back-- was me, my body. My human one. The one I came back to once the drug had run its course.

***

The purpose of the drug was never fully revealed to me. Once I'd come to-- come back to my human body again-- I saw the hawk I'd been. He's perfectly fine, a fully-functioning, normal bird. His wing healed without a problem; they hadn't aimed at me to kill, just to wound. I can only guess at the reasons behind it all. "To study animal life more intimately" is the phrase I decided on about a year afterward. I was questioned again and again about my experiences as the hawk-- the ten hours and fourteen minutes I'd spent being him. My reports had been added to their findings, filed, copied, distributed, discussed, refuted, defended, shredded, recopied, refiled, and all those things that happen with research findings. I actually got contacted by a wildlife researcher in the Netherlands to discuss my experiences.

There are a few things I was told outright afterward. One was that there were certain reasons we'd had to go to Barstow and wander into the desert as part of the experience. The "why" was, to my growing frustration, not told to me.

Second, Theo came through the process as easily as I did. He returned in the body of a black bear cub. The cub is fine.

Avery never came back.

I received my pay and eventually stopped hearing anything involving the drug. About four years later, they stopped testing it, for classified reasons.

I think I know the reason: sometimes, when I wake up, I'm still a hawk.

-------------------------------
"Feeling White" was, like many of my most recent short stories, writted for a First Line Fiction contest. It won third place in the month it was entered.

Stalker

2011-04-13T03:42:00.000-07:00

“She’s a local. The number’s in our area code.”

“What makes you think she’s a ‘she’?”

“Who else would text you this late on a Tuesday to tell you you’re cute? Unless you came out while we were at the club this weekend and didn’t tell me.”

Cal opened his phone and pulled up the text again. You’re a hottie. “Beats me,” he said, snapping the phone shut again. “How drunk did I get?”

Monty shrugged. ““You think I remember how drunk you got? I was the one who passed out, remember? After throwing up in your lap on the bus home.”

Cal did remember. Nasty. He hadn’t even tried to clean those pants-- just threw them away. “So I probably gave my number to someone. Maybe a few someones… and now one of them is actually texting me.”

“I thought girls usually called.”

“This is the texting age.”

“Maybe she’’s a hottie. You tend to have pretty good taste, even when you’re drunk.” Monty grinned. “Text her back. Ask if she has a sister.””

“I don’’t even know who she is!”

“Why should that stop you?”

He shook his head, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “I’m not going to do anything. If she-- whoever she is-- isn’t just messing with me, she’ll text again. Maybe then I might reply.”

***

Cal’s phone vibrated, rattling against the glass of water on his nightstand. The clinking woke him up.

New Text Message

He flipped it open and opted not too look at it right away. Instead he checked the time. 2:57 stared at him. Cursing, he opened the text, looking first at the number. It was the same one.

On my mind on my mind!

Grumbling, he closed the phone and went back to sleep.

***

Monty stared at the screen on Cal’s phone, looking at the texts Cal had saved in the memory, all from that same local number. “They were all sent late, like after midnight.”

“Except for that first one. That one was at quarter till. Big difference, I know.”

“She’s texted you almost every night for three weeks. And you’ve done what?”

Cal shrugged. “Been jerked out of sleep for every damned one of them.”

Monty thrust the phone at him, pushing it into his chest. “I’m telling you, this girl’s got a thing for you. Text her back!”

“No way, man! This is kinda creeping me out at this point. I mean, look at some of those last ones. Check the one from Monday.”

Sighing, Monty opened the phone and pulled up the text. “Baby you there? I like tomatoes and bagels,” he read aloud, trying hard not to laugh and making a strangled snorting sound instead. “She does sound hot.”

“This isn’t funny, Monty. I’m starting to get weirded out by this. I mean, I haven’t answered a one of her texts, but she keeps texting me almost every night.”

In Monty’s hands, Cal’s phone began to vibrate. “I’ll check it,” he said, flipping it open. Cal peered over his shoulder.

My pockets are greasy.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Some new weird stalker pickup line?”

The phone vibrated again. Sorry baby I forgot something.

Again. There’s a taco in there.

Ow! Stop it!

I’m stealing your pillow.

The phone was receiving texts faster than they could read them.

C’mon let’s go upstairs.

I’ll tell u when i’m finished.

u don’t like me

nononono

“I think she just lost it,” Monty said. “I’m calling her.””

“Monty, don’t!”

Cal heard the phone ring three times before a voice picked up. “Hello?” She didn’’t sound to alert.

“Yeah, hi. Um… I keep getting texts from this number. Really weird ones. Mind explaining?”

There was a pause, and Cal heard a yawn on the other end of the line. “Who is this?”

“Cal.”” Monty made a face at Cal as he said his name.

“I don’’t know a Cal.”

“I think we might have met at The Cave, on Third Avenue, maybe three weeks ago? I can’’t think of anywhere else I might have given out my number.”

“Oh! Oh my god, I’m sorry! I think… have I been texting you?”

Monty rolled his eyes. “That’s kind of what I said.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I… I’ve been known to sleep-text. I’ll delete your number.”

Before Monty could respond, she hung up the line. Monty slammed the phone into Cal’s hands. “Guess you’ll have to find a new secret admirer, bro.”

________________
This was written for the First Line Fiction contest that I also wrote "Pickup at the Joint" for. This was my actual entry. It didn't win.

The idea came from my friend Tara, who told me once about a friend of hers who actually does sleep-text. I couldn't resist. Also, one of the texts in this story is one of the ones her friend sleep-texted to her. Guess which one!

Pickup in the Joint

2011-04-05T19:40:00.001-07:00

“She’s a local.”

That one sentence in itself would have been enough to make any man in The Joint think twice about crossing the floor and talking to the woman. Actually, it would make any sensible man think more like a dozen times before taking that first step. There was something about women from the downtown area of Low Bluff that kept men away.

Gary ignored the advice of his friend and kept staring at her. There was something more to her, something… far-from-local. Buried deep underneath that all-too-purposefully plain appearance. A depth behind those unremarkable brown eyes, something alluring in the brain beneath that limp brunette hair, some meaning behind the unpainted fingernail she flicked at him, beckoning. So she’d noticed him looking.

Without hesitation, Gary stood.

“Did you not hear me,” Anthony said. “I said she’s local, Gary. Local!”

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute,” Gary replied, waving a dismissive hand at his friend. It took him less time to cross the floor to her table than it had to shut Anthony up.

She looked up at him, those nondescript brown eyes almost blank. “I’m Failadre.”” She almost purred her name. He was right! There was something besides those boring looks! Her voice! He wanted to drool.

“I’m interested,” he replied before he could think, sitting clumsily in the chair that wasn’t right next to her but wasn’t across from her either.

And he stared.

Failadre smiled at him occasionally, but otherwise ignored him. All the time in the world could have passed, and Gary wouldn’t have noticed a moment of it. He was lost in those ordinary features. Lost and with no hope of return, and he didn’t have a clue.

But Anthony saw. Saw the woman’s hand moving surreptitiously beneath the tabletop, saw her slowly inch her chair closer to his so she would be within arm’s reach of him, saw her bite her lip eagerly thinking about what she was about to do. Something glinted in her hand; her mouth turned from shy-looking lip-biting to a smile of surprising beauty in that unexciting face. The shiny object ever-so-slowly came closer to Gary.

There was a flick. The razor-sharp blade disappeared from sight as soon as it had done its work. A moment later, the woman was gone, out the door with her prize in tow, and Gary was on his back on the floor, bleeding and screaming, but with a faraway, entranced look still in his eyes. That look would fade, as would the bleeding eventually. The screaming… some men went years before they stopped feeling the loss.

But his tail would never come back. Anthony felt sorry for Gary, but it would have been stupid to try and interfere. She would have gotten his, too. The poachers on Low Bluff were good at what they did.

____________________________-
This story was written as an entry in the First Line Fiction contests some time ago. It was the first story that I did for this line, but it wasn't the story that was entered in the contest. It's a bit confusing and abrupt, I know, but I really doubt it's an idea I would pursue further, so this is it in its entirety.

Change of Plans

2011-04-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

Well, readers, I know I promised you the epic poem The Trials of Hallac, but I have to cut off what I'm posting on here now that we've reached the end of Part II. Why?

Because it's being formatted for publishing. Can't give away the ending now, can I?

Hopefully, it will be out in paperback form like my first published work, Empeddigo, by the end of June, 2011.

For the time being, I will be returning to my previous type weekly posts, short stories. Hope you enjoy!

Also, don't forget to check out my page on facebook: A. F. Grappin's Writing. Look for updates, chatter, all that.

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-03-30T04:55:00.000-07:00

Tears streamed down the face
Of King Socestrian and the faces of his good guests.
Sobs filled the chamber,
From peasants and courtiers all.
Hallac gave a questioning look,
Wondering why ev’ryone cried.
“‘Tis the sad fate of those that you saved
That makes my people cry so strongly,”
Gave Socestrian in answer
To his nephew’s look.
“At first, we cried for that frightful fate,
But now we cry for joy, for they’re free.
Have I now a question for thee, Prince,
That I bid you answer truthfully:
What of thy fate, my wand’ring nephew?
Once the city did fade, what of thee?
And of thy goddess, her strange answer
Given whilst thou were lying down parched
So near death. She was whom thou had seen.
What of the riddle, she said you’d need
More than life-giving water and food?”

Said Hallac to his king uncle,
“That is, I fear, an answer for
A time not now, a time later.
Now all thy guests have a great need
For wet cloths to wash tears from eyes
And bright redness from their faces.
There is work to be done, uncle,
In farms and fields and in craft shops.
I ask if there is a place here
Where I may give service or use?
Few skills have I, and none for trade,
But harvesting or tending crops
Is something I might be used for.
Allow me to earn my keep here.”

All eyes stared at the prince and king,
Waiting for reply.
Did say His Highness,
“Rest is due to thee, nephew Hallac,
For you do enough service to us
By telling of thy marvelous deeds.
Take thyself to a chamber and rest.
My people will work with their own strength,
Emboldened and powered by thy tale.
An example have you made for us,
Of how to work and how to live well.
Wish we to follow this path of yours
And do what is right by our own strength.
So take thee rest, prince, and recover.”

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-03-23T04:56:00.001-07:00

I should not have been so surprised
By the actions of the ghost King,
But surprised I was at his thanks.
I did give him my thanks for his words,
Complimenting my quality
And offered him my strongest hopes
That his people would find shelter
In the mercy of Feraketh.
He and all his people brightened
Upon hearing those, my blessings.
Smiling, their ghostly visages
Began to fade away, lighter
And lighter until they were gone.
The men and women and children
Disappeared into nothingness,
The King himself faded as well
Until I was completely ‘lone
With the priest, their jailor and judge.
Did the priest then turn toward me,
Saying nothing, and smiled with thought
As if piercing through me, knowing.
That knowledgeable smile was strong
And sent a weighed feeling through me,
As though I was beign sized up.
But still said the priest not a word,
Disappearing too, as the ghosts
Had left the big palace chamber.
All around me, in a second,
Not even a moment after
The priest’s ghostly disappearance,
The world fell into deep darkness,
So black I could see not a thing,
Not even a hand ‘fore mine eyes.

There is no way to count the time
All around me remained so black,
But I can guess it was some hours
That I stayed in place, standing still
For when in an unfamiliar, dark place, ‘tis best to stay put
So one doesn’t get lost or hurt.
The duration of the darkness
Saw me in the chamber, waiting.
I took that time again to pray,
Eventually knelt on the spot
Sending more prayers for all people:
Those ghostly folk of Ounceireile,
Jaldest, in the sea beast’s belly,
The priest whose name I did not know,
The army, all my father’s men,
My good royal father, of course,
And my scheming elder brothers
Even though I knew they wanted me to die rather than come home.

When the light returned, it did so
In the breadth of an inhale.
So abrupt it was my heart skipped
And I was blinded by light,
For the whole brightness of high noon
Spilled in through the glass-filled windows.
That observation made me start.
The windows were now filled with glass!
‘Twas well-made, no bubble nor scratch,
That let the sunlight through in streams
To sparkle on the marble floor.
I would not have recognized the room had I not known where I was
Everything was different and new:
The columns were whole veined marble;
Some of the windows had stained glass
That turned the sunlight all colors;
Many of the walls bore carvings
Masterfully-detailed reliefs;
Gilded candlesticks and stand lamps;
A massive silver chandelier;
Colorful woven tapestries;
And all manner of decoration that befit such a palace.
Desiring to see more, I walked
Out to the sunlit city streets.
Around me, all had been restored
‘Twas not a ruin in eyesight!
The buildings were whole; the streets too.
Flowers and trees and greenest grass,
Even water was all about!
No longer in barren desert,
This place was lush and fine and fair,
A marvel to behold and see!
But saw I still no more people,
For I knew all had passed to death.
There was no more reason for me
To remain in this dead city,
This deserted place where none lived,
So wished I luck under my breath,
Once more to the Ounceireilens,
Then left the grand city at last.
North I headed again, making for the woods, to get a good glimpse
Of the city in its wholeness.
Reached I within an hour the crest
Of a high-topped forested hill.
When I turned and looked, a second
Did I see the glorious place,
For only a second I saw
All the buildings great and so fine,
The manicured trees and gardens.
After that second, it too went,
The city whole flashed and faded,
Leaving behind lush prairieland
Dotted with colorful wild blooms
That faded to beach, then ocean.”

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-03-16T02:37:00.001-07:00

The silence was broken, shattered
By the priest’s address of the folk’
‘Ask I now,
For the truth
To be given from the lips
Of all you who kneel before.
I charge thee
Not to be falsified lest
Thou condemn all the city
By thy lies.
Tell me true,
People of damned Ounceireile:
From this moment, for all time,
Who wilt thou give worship to,
Wilt thou praise,
Wilt thou be the servants of?’

As one in reply, the folk spake:
‘Feraketh! Feraketh! King of gods!
To him will we lift up praises!
To Feraketh do we all submit.
‘Tis right to praise him, just Feraketh,
And hope to serve him in the next life!’

At their words the priest seemed well pleased,
But I could not say was convinced.
Chose he from the people gathered
One man, one woman, and one child,
With no care who they were or to what station in life they belonged.
Stood each one before him, waiting--
The child did sink to shaking knees--
As the priest gazed into their eyes.
Nodded he at what he saw there,
Looking pleased at what was in them.
Again did he speak then, saying,
‘I have seen
To your deepest hearts, people
And pass upon this judgement:
‘Tis the will
Of the god
Feraketh--
May his godly name be praised!--
That thy lesson has been learned!
Humility is now part
Of thy souls,
And welcome
Will be granted to thee now.
I release thee from chains of
Thy penance.
Go now away from this place
And pass to the next living
For all time!’

A great cheer did rise from the folk
Who still knelt on the chamber floor.
Did the priest make a gesture then,
Dismissing the ghosts from this life.
But did the King first cry loudly,
‘Wait! Before we depart, I beg one last act
Ere I begin my eternal slumbering.’
Rose he to his feet, head still bowed
And approached me where I still stood.
All others stood, imitating,
Watching as the king approached me.
When face-to-face with me he was,
Knelt he to the floor before me,
And grasped my hands within his own.
He bowed his head over our hands,
Trembling a bit with soft sobs.
Felt I a single tear on skin
As it hit the flesh of my thumb.

‘Heartfelt thanks do I offer to you, soldier,
Good Hallac, who with thine own humility
Hath been our savior, salvation, and our hope.
Thou hath saved us, humble and good soldierer,
By being just what we people should have been
Whilst still we were amongst those who were living.
For being the gracious voice of our lesson
And bringing our humility to the priest,
On behalf of Ounceireile, I give thee thanks.
If ever any man had within himself
The makings of a king, the needed wisdom,
Goodness, nobility, all that is needed,
That man is you, my good Hallac. Fare thee well!’

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-03-09T04:34:00.001-08:00

I accepted his praise, bowing
And replied only with request
That he accompany me back
To the ghostly royal city.
There he could meet the ghosts himself,
Observe them, and pass the judgement
Over them himself, as was wont.
Agreed he to come with me then,
And did follow me silently
As southward we went from the woods
Back to the deserted city.
Led I the way south, he behind.
Walked we not far before we came
To the very edge of the woods.
Surprised I was that we reached it
So quickly, for entering there,
The path had taken me longer.
Said the priest nothing as we walked,
Though I suspected he was behind our abrupt exit from there.

Found we our way into the city, and then to the great chamber
And waited we there ‘til nightfall
When the red light came at sunset
Then the ghosts did fade into sight,
Doing their nightly rebuilding,
Replacing what the day’s wind moved
Out of place, ‘til night was half gone.
Once their job was finished came they,
As a group again to that room.
The King again, had his place
Upon his broken pillar seat,
And stared he at the godly man;
Did the priest stare calmly at him,
Unmoving, seemingly careless.
Not a word was spoke for some time,
Seemed like hours, did the silence,
Though my heartbeats that did pass then
Could I count on one hand’s fingers.
Finally did the seated king
Rise from his pillar sitting-place,
Descending to the ruined floor
Then take his stride to the priest’s face.
All at once he went to his knees,
Kneeling before the godly man
He removed the ghostly jeweled crown
That did rest upon his high brow.
This did he lower, placing it
On the floorstones at the priest’s feet.
Then back away a few paces’ length,
The King continued his kneeling,
Then lowered himself down further,
‘Til his nose was touching the floor
And he was nearly flat, much like
A servant to lord or mistress
Or a supplicant to his sire.
Spoke he strong, and his voice did ring
Throughout the ruined hall, as if
The place were still in its grand state
With walls that would echo thusly,
‘To thy judgement, and to thy great god, do I
Once a ruler in mine own right, submit.’

As the echo of his voice fell,
Did the other ghosts in chamber
Follow the actions of their king,
Each man, woman, and all children
Whether noble, common, or base;
Dressed in incorporeal silk
Or plainly in ghostly woolens;
All fair or fine or of dark skin
Smooth or callused; workman or lord;
All went to their knees, one by one,
Then all the way to the floorstones,
Prostrating themselves before him
In imitation of their king.
Came from their lips, whispering
But growing in volume as each individual’s voice joined in,
Statements of their own acceptance,
Their willingness to submit and accept the judgement of the gods.
The priest did then survey the room,
Looking over all the people
Of the wounded, proud Ounceireile.
Noticed I that only two stood,
Myself and the priest, still standing.
Tried to remain still, I did,
Still and silent and unmoving
So not to disturb this moment.

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-03-02T04:29:00.001-08:00

Rest did I take those last hours
That still held the darkness of night,
Guarded by the ghostly people
While others slowly rebuilt walls,
Making headway over tomorrow’s windy and sand destruction.

I woke before the morning sun,
When that fiery ball did rise,
Rising up past the horizon,
The ghostly people faded, their forms disappearing where they stood,
Leaving me alone with the day.
Got I to my feet quickly, ignoring the hunger in my gut
For I had a promise to keep,
Service that I had sworn to do.
North I turned, searching for forest
And the priest who dwelled within it.
The welcome shade of the treetops
Was a blessing after the beating sun of the desert city;
Relished in it I did, and found,
Upon bushes scattered around,
Fruits on which I filled my stomach.
A clear stream I passed and drank of,
Quenching my thirst and washing up.
The whole while I ate and drank well,
I maintained my search for the priest
But saw no sign of a man there.
Morning went by, and then did noon,
Worried I became that the priest was, in fact, now dead and long gone,
That this search was to be in vain.
Then lo, before me, swathed in the bright light of midday sunshine,
Was a man, poorly clothed, unarmed.
He had been following, I knew,
Though he said not a word of it.
There was no hut near, no hovel--
Even the clearing we were in
Could hardly be called a clearing.
I knew this was not where he lived,
But I said not a word of that.
‘Knowest thou why I am here, sir?’
Asked I quietly of the priest.

‘Know I do,
Thou good man
Why thou hast come to this place.
For those dead
In the ruined Ounceireile,
On the behalf of those men
Whose pride led
To a sudden, harsh downfall
Do you come.
One question
In regards to those people
Must I ask:
Tell me, thou errand-boy of a dead king:
Think’st thou that they have learned well
Their lesson?’

Considered I long this question,
Debating whether I did think
The ghosts had achieved this high goal.
An answer did I reach, and spake,
‘A simple soldier am I, priest,
Not meant to judge this type of thing,
Nor to pass another’s judgement.
‘Tis not my place to make this call
To declare their lesson well-learned.
Also, it is not in my place
To argue for or against them
As I am truly not involved
In this; ‘tis between you and them.
I came because I owed service,
And ‘twas their request that I come.
That I have done; the rest is yours.’
The priest did nod and smile at me.

‘That is true,
Well-spoken,
And honest.
Understand thee well, good man,
The lesson I have tried to teach them.
‘Tis good humility that
Stayed thy tongue.
Perhaps if you had been king
In his place,
Ounceireile
Would never have been destroyed.’

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-02-23T04:46:00.000-08:00

At this did he end
His tale of that kingdom of old
And Hallac did nod
In his approval.
Sat Socestrian
Back in his throne then
And looked expectantly again at his royal nephew.
“So tell me true, Hallac, do you still
Claim that this dead place to which you came,
This city of ghosts, is Ounceireile,
Which fell before even thy father’s
Grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather
First mewed his birth cries? Tell now the truth.”

Replied Prince Hallac,
“‘Tis the truth all told, mine uncle,
And did I hear this same story
From the lips of the ghostly king.
More details he had, which he imparted to me as he did tell:
‘Came we then to another chosen warfield,
Expecting to find there an opposing force,
The army of another king I’d challenged,
Come to defend his territory from me.
Such surprise was there when all we saw standing
Was a single man, weaponless, poorly clothed.
Thinking he was all that stood in our pathway,
My general looked to me for his command.
That I did not give, but instead went forward,
Alone to meet with this strangest of all men.
Asked I who he was and how dared challenge
The might of Ounceireile alone, without aid.
Calmly-eyed, replied this man simply to me,
‘A man of the gods am I,
Follower of Feraketh,
Whom thee have long abandoned
For thyselves.
So much fault
Have thy people in thy faith,
For you only give worship to yourselves,
To thy works,
And in only yourselves have you trust.
Abandoned the gods have you,
Men of kingdom Ounceireile!
For this err,
Grievous fault,
Fatal flaw,
This horrendous grave mistake,
Will you fall.
So says the god Feraketh!’
Scoffed I at the foolishness of this madman
At the gall he had to stand up to my force
And denounce us all as unbelieving men!
Rode I back to my general, gave order,
Setting my soldiers to ride the madman down.
Stood the fellow his ground, moving not an inch
Even as my bloodthirsty soldiers neared him.
In a breath’s length, the man raised his arms and called,
Naming Feraketh again as his patron.
The skies opened up at his call to the god,
Raining down some awesome power of firelight,
Solid golden sunlight that fell upon us,
Devastating my men, killing what it touched,
Man and horse alike, ruining our machines,
‘Til all that was left on the field were bodies,
Corpses of the men who had followed my rule.
As the golden light came nearer to my place,
Did I feel its warmth, then a feeling of air
And I found myself back here, in my palace,
Among the dead bodies of those who had stayed,
Women and children who dwelled in my city.
Even the walls had fallen, like as you see
They are now, tumbled and broken, in ruins.
Noticed I then that though the bodies were still,
Hazy forms of the people stood near their flesh,
Looking down at the bodies they were wrenched from
And looking at mine own hands, saw them like this:
Ghostly and only half-formed, as I am now.
Said the priestly man to me at that moment,
‘Punishment
Has been set,
One that you all well deserve.
Thy city
In ruins,
Thy bodies
Ripped away.
Here is thy holy sentence:
Every day will the wind and the sand
Break it down
Into pieces, bits, and shards
Which you will need replace
With the strength of your own hands and your backs.
Rebuild your shameful ruins.
When whole they are once again,
Will you have learned of true humility.
That way will you earn your peace.’

Set we about our tasks now, every night
We replace what has been moved from its right spot
By wind or by sand or by live hands like yours.
Still have we not earned that peace we were promised.’
The King of Ounceireile did end
His narration with that statement.
Then did he tell me he believed
That he and all of his people
Believed they had learned their lesson.
Humility was no longer
Stranger to the ghostly people.
Begged me then he did, as service
To take word of their lesson learned
To the priest who had condemned them.
For no doubt did the man still live,
So favored was he by the gods.
Bid me to take those words to him,
And of course I made agreement,
Since I had offered my service
And the King had accepted it.
The priest, they thought, lived in forest
That bordered on the desert’s edge.
If I made my way north, doubtless would I find the priest there somewhere.

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-02-16T04:30:00.001-08:00

Answered I to the ghostly king,
‘Noble King of those ghostly, who takes domain over this city,
Meant I no offense when I came.
I am but a soldier myself,
Of a far and distant kingdom–
The palace of which pales to this,
For even I can see how August it must have been in the past–
But that kingdom is no longer
A welcoming place I call home.
Cast out, I was, by my brothers
Who wished to rob me of birthright–
Or so that is the only reason for their acts I can fathom.
Have I now only the clothes, now rags, that I wear on my person
And this, my broken-shafted spear.
I can claim no lands of mine own.
But, King, do not misunderstand
And think that I meant to invade
This goodly dead kingdom of yours–
What man alone could take this place!–
My presence here has one reason:
Sought I shelter, for I had none.
Knowing not my error, I made my bed in one of thy buildings,
I do admit to my folly
In thinking this place was empty.
Rather than asking forgiveness,
I do beg it, King of the Ghosts,
And would beg, also, to leave you.
Grant me that permission, and never bother again will I.
If thou do decide against that, I offer my service to you,
In hopes that it counter my wrong.’

At my words and at my request,
The King blinked and looked a bit shocked,
As if he had expected something
More arrogant and snide from me.
Once he recovered from that shock,
He eyed me strangely, thinking hard,
Considering how to reply.
The ghostly people around me
Whispered amongst themselves softly,
So soft that I could not hear well.
After a few moments of thought,
Their King motioned them to quiet
And spoke loudly to me again.
‘Have you a name, wandering landless soldier?’
So I told him my name but not of my birth, for fear it would seem
An attempt to curry favor,
Or a demonstration of pride.
Then did he reply, his voice low,
‘Thou art a noble man, so it seems, Hallac.
Will I gladly thy humble service accept.
Tell me, soldier, hast thou ever heard the tale
Of the long-fallen kingdom of Ounceireile?’”

Those unforeseen words,
The mention of that old kingdom,
Did cause the king, Socestrian,
To jump from his seat,
Interrupt the tale,
And let out a blustery shout.
“Ounceireile?! That old kingdom gone lost,
Reduced to ash and dust through their pride,
Disappeared from maps long ages gone!
Only a man of madness would claim
To know of or be of that city!
Claim you to have seen it, young Hallac?
Is this evidence of a madness
That hath taken hold of thy senses?”
At this did Socestrian turn
And address those gathered to hear.
“People of my court and those common,
Let me explain of this dead city
That you may know why I doubt this man
The witness he claims to have made there.
Ounceireile was a kingdom from time
Of my forefathers’ fathers, of old.
Had their people extensive knowledge,
Greatness of minds, such clever ones, they.
That things called ‘machines’ did they create
And employ; tasks could these machines do.
Their weaving, their spinning and plowing,
Their sewing and their plant watering
And all manner of laborsome task
Had they some other means of doing.
So too had the kingdom Ounceireile
A formidable military,
An army, thousands of men in size
With weapons that others could not fight.
No defense against them could be made.
So proud were their people of their strength,
Such arrogance was there in their king,
That he decided it was his wont,
His right as commander of those men
And as ruler of those clever minds,
To take all the world under his rule,
Then be the only monarch so left.
Sent he out his army then, his tools
And his machines so meant to make war,
Bringing challenges to his neightbors,
Eventually defeating them
One by one on bloody battlefield.
Those he decided were enemies
Became his next targets, ‘til many
Good and just men had fallen to him.
‘Twas an unstoppable force, he was,
The arrogant King of Ounceireile,
Until came his army to a field
Where stood a single, unarmed fellow.
History tells us little detail,
None of the battle or the man’s name,
Nor of what country or birth he was,
Save this: that in that field came defeat
First defeat, bitter for those soldiers,
Glorious for those who opposed them.
In that defeat by the unnamed man,
Was their whole army and city fell,
Reduced to dust and left for all time.”

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-02-09T04:35:00.001-08:00

As my wits came slow back to me,
I watched them as one does a foe
With them eyeing me the same way.
I was unable even to lift my spear, not a hair’s length high,
When ghostly hands fell upon me,
Wrenching away my good weapon,
Overpowering me simply.
Bodily I was lifted up,
Carried by only a few men.
Amazed was I by these folks’ strength,
For even though they weren’t solid,
Not by my sight, anyway,
They easily lifted and carried me away from my building.
As they bore me along with them,
Soft chanting did I start hearing,
Too quiet for me to make out.
Dozens of voices of these folk
Joined in together, saying words
I strained hard, not understanding.
As traveled we along, more joined,
Gathering in a crowd ‘round me
And those that were carrying me.
Voices added to the chanting,
Their number growing the volume,
Until it grew so loud that their words did come clear in my hearing:
‘The King! The King! The King! To the King!’
So repetitive were their chants
That it like to make me drowsy
When I knew I should stay awake.

The greatest of the ruined city’s structures loomed ahead of us:
A great crumbled palace, topped with eight of the royal flag standards.
The place was massive, of a size
To dwarf even my father’s home,
The great castle in Farleintown,
Or even this castle of yours,
My dear Uncle Socestrian.
The walls were falling broken, though once they were made of veined marble,
White and black and green, strongly-wrought,
Carved by masterfully-skilled men
But now in shameful ruined state.
Entered my bearers with me here,
And moved we into a chamber
Not unlike this one, mine uncle.
Dropped sudden to the floor was I,
Barely managed to catch myself
And stay standing before this crowd.
There was a place for a king’s seat,
But no seat was there in that place.
Instead, s atop the broke remains
Of a supporting stone pillar,
Sat a man, ghostly in form too,
Like the others of this city.
Kingly he was, regal in face,
Regal in form, even in state
Such as he was-- less than solid--
He brought to my mind my father.
Went I to my knees before him
When that face came before mine eyes,
So startled was I, missing him.
But this incorporeal man
Was not my king father, I knew.

As I knelt before him, he spake.
‘Who art thou, stranger, that thou hast entered here
And disturbed the peace of our ruined city?
Why came thou to these walls, and why didst thou stay
When it can easily be seen ‘tis no place
For those who still draw breath and whose heart still beats?
Why come you, living man, to the dead city?’

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-02-02T04:46:00.000-08:00

Now, to my shock, the rocks did move!
The stones I had set as my walls
Were lifting of their own accord,
Floating back out into the street!
Once a large enough hole opened
In my structure, I followed one,
Back to the streets, where it did settle in the place whence I’d brought it!
All the stones were moving thus, back to their original places,
As if protesting having been taken in the first of places.
No move to harm me did any
Of these seemingly bewitched stones
Make, so I had no fear from them.
Walked I back to my now-bare place
In the corner of the building.

Outside, the red light from sunset
Faded to pink, deepest dark pink,
Then to the blackness of nighttime.
Stars came out that I could see ‘tween the cracks of my walls and the roof,
Twinkling ‘round a full blood moon.
In that orangey blood moonlight,
As it shone, penetrating all,
Came into my sight suddenly
Ghostly shapes, outlined by twilight.
These were people, men and women,
Children some, too, that saw me not
Or seemed not to see me at all
Who were moving the stones, lifting
And carrying them back to their places in the streets and by walls.
These translucent folk were many,
As many as filled a city,
Some dressed finely, some as craftsmen;
The nobles and peasants all told
Walked the streets, moving the rubble.

I stayed frozen in my corner,
Watching these ghostly-clear people
Passing by my door, doing work,
Remaining well out of their way.
Even when the thick, dusty air
Tickled my nose and made me sneeze,
And I made a loud noise and moved
With the violence of that act,
No notice of me did they take.
Thinking myself safe from these folk,
I grew bold again and went out
Walking among them in the streets,
Watching them do their work,
But still keeping out of their ways.
By the light of that full blood moon,
Hundreds of them did I see there,
Ghostly men in aprons, in hats,
Women in shawls with layered skirts,
Children barefoot, too, in the throng.
All walked soberly, moving stones
Back in place, even pebbles.
Some were ushering even the wind-kicked-up dust back to its place.

The moon went its path through the sky
As I walked around the city,
Watching the people at their work.
All through the streets I was ignored
By all I passed as I observed
Them putting the city to rights.
Even the ruins need guardsmen--
I supposed guardsmen these folk were--
And did they their job very well.
I circuited the city walls,
Ending once again back at the building where I’d claimed my corner.
Once I looked in there, the last of the stones I’d moved was being brought
Back to the spot where it belonged.
Watched I as the man bearing it
Trod down a rock-paved alleyway
And set it down quite gingerly.
At the moment the masonry
Settled into its correct place,
A collective, loud gasp sounded
From the mouths of those around me.
Spun each one of them to face me,
And all eyes landed upon me.
Their gazes did seem to pierce me,
Penetrating to my soul’s core,
Freezing the deepest part of me
‘Til I felt that I could not move.

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-01-26T04:59:00.000-08:00

Once I breached the city’s guard walls,
Without challenge or questions asked,
Did I then notice the state of the buildings that surrounded me.
A great many of the stone walls
Were crumbled with rooftops missing.
Wooden window slats were broken,
Cotton curtains shredded or torn,
Stone and wood and tile debris sat,
Littering the sides of the streets.
Only the banners I saw flap
Looked whole and untorn, yet unstained
As the wind whipped them on their poles.
Stared I at the sky a moment,
Feeling a wrongness descending--
Something of this place was amiss.
Stood I there, trying to identify this feeling of wrongness
As the sun beat down, baking stones
That surrounded me, all the walls
Of this uninhabited place.
With a shiver did I realize what had me so unsettled:
Wave the banners and pennants did--
In a breeze that was not blowing!
Not a stir of wind could I feel
Caressing my overwarm skin.
Warily I placed my steps now,
Uncertain of the near buildings
And the people that were not there.
Shivers made their way down my back
As I still did not feel a breeze,
No wind to throw up dust from the rock-paved roads between the buildings.

Unmolested, I felt boldened
And began to peer in buildings,
Searching for someone who lived here.
Found I, after many hours passed:
Nothing, not a man or a beast,
No animal nor human left,
Not even so much as remains
From those who one time had lived here.
No sign was there at all that ever had anybody lived here.
What people had made these buildings,
Those who had lived in this place,
Were long dead and ages far gone.
Except for what was left on and in the buildings, there was nothing.
Wondering what this dead place was,
I found a tall structure with stairs
That were still well intact and whole
And did climb the three levels up
Until I was near the roof tiles.
Spied I then from that lofty height
The banners and pennants flapping,
Hoping that a sigil I would recognize would be before me.
Many different houses were there, marked by many foreign signs,
Heraldry that I did not know:
Three green stars on white and black stripes,
Silver fish on royal purple,
Arrow and anchor grey on blue,
Soaring emerald eagle on golden yellow slashed with orange,
Rising sun on a maroon field,
And numerous other sigils.
Most easily noticed of these
Was the one sported on the most and the highest of the towers:
A silver trident over a black six-pointed star on green field.
This was no doubt the crest of the city and of its ruler’s house,
But recognize it I did not.
I did not know to where I’d come.

I descended from my viewpoint,
For the evening dark was nigh.
Searching about me, I looked for anything that might threaten me,
Something that might my safety crush.
But found I there nothing to fear,
So looked I then for a shelter,
A place where I might be guarded
And rest the night in peaceful sleep.
Unblowing wind unsettled me,
Still putting chills within my heart.
Found I a sturdy, strong corner
Where I could construct a good bed
And pass the night in peacefulness.
Stones I gathered, those fallen down,
Broken masonry from the walls,
Moved them inside my chosen room
And set up new walls to surround my corner and protect me there.
In my makeshift fortress I stayed,
Settling in for the night’s length.
Dusk came in a hurry, fading,
Blanketing all in hazy grey.
The sun set outside my shelter,
Taking with it the light and warmth
With surprising speed, it was gone.
In that last moment between sunset and full dark, something happened:
Bright red light spilled into my room,
Flooding me in a crimson glow,
Filling the room so it looked like blood covered each of the stone walls.
I jumped to my feet, armed myself,
Backed into the corner I’d chose,
Waiting for the source of the light.
Of a sudden, a stiff breeze swirled,
Kicking up clouds of dust and sand
And sending the pennants flapping, I saw as I peered through wall-cracks.
This was the wind I had not felt
The whole time I traversed the streets.
Upon this wind did come, too, sounds
Of voices without their speakers.
Crying I heard, and whispering,
Disembodied and frightening,
But the words I could not make out.

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-01-19T14:25:00.000-08:00

‘Silence, child,’
Said she amid my wordless cries,
Between the noises that I made,
Calming me with gentle gestures
Until my senses returned, and I was able to quieten.
‘Water and strength come and go,
As do the good and evil,
Life and death,
Sun and rain.
I tell thee,
Good Hallac,
Son of good King Quereneth,
Man of honour despite thy
Baser birth,
It is not water you want,
Not strength need.
What you need:
A riddle.
Remember this well, Hallac.
A riddle.
Thy salvation is in this.’

Though her words did confuse me well,
I gave her honest, heartfelt thanks.
Blessed goddess! Then knelt she near,
Reaching down, lifted she my head,
And poured sweet water in my mouth.
Never hath anything tasted
Sweet as that water did then taste.
All other food and drink, Uncle--
Even these fruits so ripe and these good cheeses and this finest wine--
Have since to me tasted of sand
When compared to that clear water.
With a farewell did she leave me,
And I rose again to my feet.

Walked I again, moving westward.,
This time certain ‘twas the right way,
For from the west and to the west
Had fair Senaru come and gone.
Passed I over a rocky ridge
And looking down to a valley,
Broken and barren as all else,
Didst see a city, large and great!
Buildings many the city had,
Some large enough to be manors,
Palaces or great rich houses,
That flew banners and long pennants
That did flap gaily in the wind
Atop parapets and towers.
Rushing down into the valley,
I hurried to the city walls,
Hoping that the one who ruled here
Would see the good in sending me on my way back to Farlein home–
Or at least allow me to rest
Without fearing again a knife
Or having to fend for my life.

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-01-12T05:00:00.000-08:00

With respectful nod, Hallac spake.
“As you hath said, Uncle I tread water, watching the beast depart
In sight of land didst find myself.
With no knowing what land this was,
Except that ‘twas my salvation,
I swam for the nearby shoreline.
Come onto a sandy beachfront,
Did I, all fine, but deserted.
Joyous at still having my life,
I went far from the waterline
And sank to the ground to recover my wits, my breath, and to pray.
Thanks did I send up to Senaru, my glorious goddess guide,
And to Feraketh, her father,
Lord of the gods and my father’s patron, who hath delivered me
Again back into the sunshine,
That bright and fortunate domain.
Once I ended my thanksgiving,
Then did I survey this new land.
Sere, it was, rocky and barren,
Without tree or shrub or flower,
Absent of all that flourishes
And grows with a lively green.

Happy was I just to be free
Of the water again, landbound
Where mine own legs could carry me
Rather than the waves and the tides.

Inspecting my spear for damage–
For I had feared it breaking when I stabbed the creature’s mouth inside–
I was pleased to find it still whole,
Though stuck to the point was a string,
A length of sinewy tissue
From inside the squid-whale’s mouth top.
Decided I to hold to it,
To as a trophy keep of it.
So I removed it from the blade
And in my small belt pouch placed it.

Sitting in one place was not getting me closer to my answers.
I made myself get to my feet
Leaving the oceanfront behind.
Trodding inland, I passed-- nothing.
All was rocky outcrops, cracked ground.
Amazed was I that such parched land--
So broken, barren, and lifeless--
Could be near the life-giving sea.
For days did I wander this land,
Never seeing more signs of life
Than a pathetic clump of grass.
Not so much as a tiny lizard was there here, or a songbird,
Or even a beetle or snake
To suggest this place could bear life.
No landmarks were there to guide me,
Lost did I quickly find myself,
Unsure of direction and path,
Except from the sun-- the constant sun, guided by good Feraketh--
To help me find my way westward.
Why I chose westward, do not ask.
Seemed it the right way, when I thought,
But was it right? I do not know.
Still westward did I march, for days
Til those days became a whole week.
Was I then as parched as the land,
For no drink had I come upon,
No food had tasted this whole time
The sun beat down hard upon me.
Finally from hunger and thirst and from my extreme exhaustion,
And from the constant heat of sun,
Did I collapse where I had stood,
My throat thickened with dryness
So that I could not raise my voice to speak aloud my final death prayers.
Pray I did, for water and strength,
Begging again for Senaru
To show me her mercy and grace.
Not even near last of my strength--
I still felt I had time before the end of my life did come--
As even I lay there praying,
The blessed came to me again!
Tried I again to raise my voice,
To praise her and give humble thanks,
But so parched was I that nothing,
Not more than a strange strangled noise,
Came from my mouth and could be heard.

The Trials of Hallac- Part II: The Dead

2011-01-05T04:58:00.000-08:00

Through the night, word spread
Passing from mouth to mouth, gossip
Heard by all with ears
Of the strange story
King Socestrian’s nephew told.
By sun’s first showing, all ears knew
That the castle doors were open
To all who would hear
The foreign prince speak.
The King’s great chamber,
Used for audiences daily,
And most often sparse
Holding few people,
Was this morning full,
Nearly to bursting,
By those wanting to listen to the stories of Hallac.
Courtiers were first,
Sitting on cushions,
Their silks embroidered,
Their hands not calloused,
Noses and chins high in the air,
Holding perfumed silk handkerchiefs.
Behind the nobles,
Peasants lined the walls,
Standing on their feet,
Wearing woolen clothes,
Rough and without ornament,
Their hair, hands, and manners more rough,
Though they waited just as silent.
Servants had Socestrian brought,
Laden each with food,
Fruits and softest breads,
Fine cheese and sliced meats.
And some carried wine,
Of good vintage but not too fine,
Or punches made of sweet juiced fruits.
Among not only the nobles
Did the servants walk,
But also to the commoners,
For all are equal before the King in his chamber–
Though the servants proffered trays to the nobility first–
After, of course, the King himself
And Hallac had wet their throats and filled their empty stomachs.
In his throne sat Socestrian,
Regal as should be,
Upon the dais
Raised five steps above
Where those others were.
A well-padded chair,
Soft and comfortable and fine
Sat near the high throne,
Meant for Prince Hallac,
But in it he did not sit down.

Said Socestrian,
“Now have all recovered themselves well
From the toils of yesternight’s tale,
And bid thee, nephew, do I, resume
Thy tale and recount thy awesome deeds
For those here who desire to listen.
When left we, thou were in water deep,
Afloat, just left the squid-whale’s gullet.
Continue thy adventuresome words,
Telling those gathered what hath happened
After that. Enlighten us all now.”

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-12-29T11:38:00.001-08:00

Left I her mumbling company,
Determined to find my escape
And my way back to my father.
Only in returning to Farlein would I be able to get
That which I desperately need:
Answers to questions from my kin.
Why did my brothers want me dead?
Had I made some offense grievous,
An error that angered them so?
Did they perhaps fear I had gained our father’s preference
And would therefore receive the crown?

I made my way then to the mouth,
Thinking it would be the best way
To find an exit from this place.
The mouth was closed tight, and I saw
Not like I’d thought. The beast had teeth
That were not sharp as they had seemed,
But made of stiff hairlike brushes,
So stiff and strong they could break wood.
These clamped closed teeth did I prod hard
With the broken butt of my spear,
In hopes that it might encourage the beast to open up for me
That I could then swim my way out.
At my prod, though, it did not move,
Nor open even the slightest,
Though it did let out an unhappy grunt, so that I knew it felt
Upon its insides what I’d done.
Undulations I did then feel,
And knew the squid-whale was moving.
Then did I notice moving air,
Felt it gently upon my face
And looked around to find where from
That stream of moving air did come.
Above my head, on the mouth’s roof,
A goodly way out of arm’s reach,
Was a small hole, deep in the flesh
No doubt used for the beast’s breathing.
The air did move from and to there.
Wondering, I poked that too with the jagged end of my weapon
And was rewarded with a pained squeal from the monster, and with,
More importantly, a narrow opening of the creature’s mouth!
Then could I not help but grin wide,
Brace myself, and thrust not the butt
But the point of my spear hard into the air-moving opening.
There was a high vibrating scream!
I was spewed out of the great mouth,
Broke the water’s surface, flew an uncounted number of arm-lengths,
And landed back in the water
With a splash that made me cry out,
So painful was it when I hit.
Once I surfaced, seeing the sweet sunlight-- for all of the morning
I had been inside the creature--
Turned did I, to see the retreat
Of the fins and tentacles of the monster’s body, submerging
And going away from my place.
So was I free, still in one piece.”

Silence filled the room,
The chamber where Hallac was telling his danger-filled tale.
Not a breath stirred from those gathered
As they stared raptly,
Intent on the storyteller.
Socestrian, too,
Fair and wise monarch,
King with years of hearing stories
Far-fetched and detailed,
Was bound, enthralled by his nephew
And the tale he told.
Faces in the wall tapestries
Seemed entranced also,
With the words from the princeling’s mouth.

As was his privilege as King,
Socestrian stood
And proclaimed aloud,
“Believe I that everyone tires
And is in dire need of peaceful rest,
For your recounting of thy travels,
My most arduous royal nephew,
Are wearing to the body and mind.
Doubtless every soul in the room
Empathizes with thy grand story,
Each man and woman must feel as worn
As thou didst when the monster squid-whale
Spewed you from its mouth to the water.
Tired must thou be, too, bold Prince Hallac,
For thy tale seems quite far from done;
Doubtless you need rest more than any.
Bid I now all to adjourn. Retreat.
Head to thy homes and thy chambers, all,
That we may meet again in the morn’
To continue hearing Hallac’s tale.
So to bed now must we all withdraw,
Sweet sleep to my fellows and kin.
Meet we on the morrow. Farewell all!”

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-12-22T04:56:00.000-08:00

Deeper in the dark ocean depths
A creature, even greater than
The serpent in strength and power
With mouth like a whale but with the form and tentacles of a squid,
In size, about like a village–
A small one– the beast that massive!
This new beast eyed the serpent as a hungry man eyes nearby food,
And in the blink of an eye, struck!
The battle between the two began, though the serpent still held me.

Taking advantage of the serpent’s distraction,
I repeatedly thrust
The point of my spearhead
Into its tail, weakening its hold upon me.
Between my attacks and
The attacks of the beast, which was fierce by itself,
The serpent’s blood flowed fast,
Staining the water red.
With the serpent’s thrashing
Was I thrown about, and occasionally I
Broke the water’s surface,
Taking quick breaths of air.
So very abruptly, the serpent’s movement ceased.
The monster was deceased;
The larger set to feed.
Bite by massive bite the whale-like squid did devour
The serpent, until the waters were full of chum,
Bits of serpent floating.
Still caught was I, afraid,
Struggling to come free.
The huge open mouth neared,
As I hacked at my bonds,
Unable to get loose.
Drawn into gaping jaws,
Trapped by my leg’s bondage,
The last of the serpent’s body swallowed-- with me.

As the mouth closed with me inside,
I heard a snap of breaking wood.
The teeth had caught my spearshaft’s end,
Biting right through the hardened oak
Phierine’s craftsman had made it from
So that the spear kept its good length
But ended in a splintered way.
Finally able to catch my breath, for the water was low here,
I stayed in the mouth cavity,
Slashing and hacking at the tail
That was still wrapped around my leg.
I freed myself, severing it,
Releasing the deathgrip it had had upon me when it had died.
Then did the great squid-whale swallow,
And I was washed to its stomach.
As I said before, it was likened to the size of a village
Wandering this cavernous gut,
Exploring as I would the wild,
To my surprise I came upon
A person’s hut! All made of bone.

‘Who is that there? Who is approaching?’
From in the hut came a woman,
Wearing ragged remains of clothes
That might have once been quite common.
Her hair was unkempt, her eyes wild,
And she gave a sense of madness.
Spake she well, though, like a learned one.
When I asked who she was, her answer she gave, that I disbelieved.
‘A woman of adventures, was I,
And known through a great many countries,
As a doer of deeds and slayer,
Mercenary to causes noble.
A name had I then, I was Jaldest,
Heroine of wars and of battles!
How came I to be here, you will ask,’
Said she, though spake she to the air
As much as she did speak to me.
‘’Twas a job paid me by King Banserfe,
To eliminate a sea-bound threat
That took down ships and many sailors.
Out on his largest ship did I go,
With all manner of weapons in hand
Meaning to find and kill my quarry.
So surprised was I and the ship’s crew
When we were beset by this monster,
The ship capsized, and most men eaten.
Some drowned, others simply stopped trying,
But I will not give my life over!
A year, two, maybe more than two years
Have I been in here, still living strong.
For two more years, even more than that
Will I keep up and never lose hope!’

After this did her words turn from coherent to soft mumbles
And she went about her hut, busying herself in checking things,
I suppose for strength and firmness.
Not convinced of her saneness was I,
So back away did I slowly,
Leaving her to her work and words.
Surely of Jaldest heroine
You have heard, my royal uncle
For her tales are told across lands,
Throughout kingdoms great and those small.
Believe that woman to be the hero, I most certainly do,
Though raving she was, her eyes told
Of battles and of horrors seen,
Killing and all manner of things
Such as a heroine would see.
It is known that Jaldest vanished
Some time ago, she disappeared.
Who is to say she is not still alive and in the belly
Of a monstrous seabound creature?

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-12-15T04:45:00.000-08:00

I rushed at her and tried to wrest
My spear from her malicious hands,
Though I made no attempt to kill.
I am not a murderous fiend!
And evil or not, she was still of royal blood, and a woman--
Both are never meant to be harmed.
Disarming her after a handful of seconds of struggling,
I resolved to take my leave from her so-called hospitality.
In the hall outside the room,
I knew there would be men, soldiers--
Who she could call to stop me and would do so in a heartbeat’s time--
That could overwhelm me quickly.
Spied I then the window and made to it, looking to the moat.
The moat of the castle is in all reality a river,
Which had been diverted decades ago and been split onto two paths
That surrounded the castle on each side, then joined back up after.
Without hesitation, I leapt
Throwing myself out the window,
Plummeting into the rushing churned river waters far below.
As I fell, I remembered the words my patron goddess told me,
Warning me of Cludawal’s rage.
Knowing I would lose ground fighting,
I swam instead with the current,
Following the river through the nearby port and to the ocean.
As I paddled for the shoreline
And its eventual safety,
Currents from the river kept picking up and pushing me more out.
Desperately I tried to get my feet underneath me, searching
For the floor and footing and ground,
But before I gained full balance,
Something wrapped around my submerged ankle and pulled me to the sea.
All underwater I was dragged;
Holding my breath, I twisted ‘round
And saw my assailant: monstrous!
A great massive ocean serpent,
Twenty times as long as a man--
Perhaps more-- and thick as a tree!

Green and blue it was scaled,
Tail crushing my ankle,
Many-toothed mouth agape,
Ready for its next meal.
No plans had I to be a meal to a serpent,
Or to anything else,
And struggle did I much,
Twisting, writhing, pulling,
As what air I had managed to take in was spent.
I even tried stabbing,
Thrusting its tail with spear,
But it would not be pierced.
My strength began to fade,
The serpent saw its chance,
Began to wrap itself in tight coils around me.
It squeezed me so tightly
I like to lost all breath.
As it was, I knew that I was well defeated.
I could not escape this.
The gods, though, disagreed,
And thanks to their mercy
The serpent released me,
Though still held mine ankle.
Soon I saw the reason.

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-12-08T12:15:00.000-08:00

Slept I well that night, assured that soon I would return to Farlein,
Though wakened was I by the sound
Of an intruder opening the door of my borrowed chamber.
The stranger crept in the nightly darkness toward the bed where I lay;
I saw then, glinting in faint light,
A blade like that on a dagger.
This intruder had in mind to slay me whilst I remained asleep!
Jumped from the bed quickly, did I,
Striking out with fist, since spear would be difficult in this close space.
The killer and I grappled fierce,
He trying still to stab my chest,
I simply aimed to stay alive.
Finally did I manage to use my regained and throw him,
Whole bodily, to the flagstones
That made up the bedchamber floor.
The dagger was dropped, and he stunned.
Dared I then to light a candle
And shed light on my assassin.

‘Twas the Queen!
My hostess, the widow Phierine!
As I had lighted the candle,
She’d sprung and took hold of my spear.
‘I demand an explanation!’
Said I as she eyed me, searching for her next opportunity.
‘Why hast thou tried to kill me now,
When I have been thy guest so long?’
Sneered she at me, her face twisted
With hatred and her eyes burning.
‘A message came to me,
Bargain from thy brothers.
Etseon’s words offered
Thy brother Lestrian
In marriage as a husband, that I may be twice queen
To Farlein and Rinelderal, both together,
For the price of your head.
‘Tis time your life ended,
Wretched, dreadful bastard,
At the point of thy spear!
Thou shalt not leave this castle of mine whilst thou still live!’

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-12-01T04:53:00.001-08:00

The journey was calm and easy.
We reached Rinelderal’s city
Without incident, and I was greeted warmly by Her Highness,
Fair Phierine, since though I am base
And was born to a peasant maid,
I am still of a royal line.
As a welcome, she made a feast
At which I was introduced to her daughter, of an age with me:
Gralise, whose fairness surpassed even that of her royal mother’s.
Seated next to her, was I then,
She asked how I came to be lost,
In need of rescue by their ship.
I replied in telling her all
I have so far told you, Uncle,
And asked her of her thoughts on the lot she had been given in life.

‘I will be Queen after my mother’s reign ends--
Gods send her a long and fruitful queenship--
But it may not extend as long as she wants.
With my father already in the next life,
Our rule states that she has but three years to rule
Without a husband. With her first year near gone,
In two years my mother must needs marry, else
I take the throne in her stead, and a husband
Will be chosen for me. ‘Tis a sacrifice
I am willing to make for my countrymen,
Though if I find a husband myself ere then,
I believe I will live much more joyfully.
Hope I to find a strong husband, hale and good,
A warrior as my father was, ‘fore his death.’

Then was our conversation cut,
As the good queen did wish to speak with me alone and directly.
Offered she to keep me as guest
Until word could be sent to my father, telling him where I’d come.
Thought I of Senaru’s warning,
That my eldest brother Lestrian prayed for my early demise.
Fearing he might intercept a message sent to my dear father,
I gave my thanks to the good queen
And instead asked that the message might be sent to another kin:
My second. brother Etseon.
The message was dictated by me to a scribe, and then sent off,
Making way for my good brother.

During the wait time for reply,
The days ‘twould take for its travel,
I remained in the palace as guest to Her Majesty the queen
And of her beautiful daughter.
A weaponsmith of their own did they set to repairing my spear;
The blade and point were still fine, though he had to replace the whole shaft.
Wondered I again if it would keep the blessings the gods had gave.
Not a day went by I did not converse with the fair maid Gralise,
Hours we spent talking ‘bout all,
Subjects from life to farms and hopes,
Wishes and commoners and such.
Oft she came to the yards to watch,
As I did continue my work
In training the spear, newly fixed.
Near a month passed, then came reply
Paper sealed with Etseon’s sign.
‘Remain in the castle,
If you will be allowed,
As guest of the good queen.
Our good father’s soldiers are still abroad with the war,
Though I am pressing to arrange for an escort
Of men to travel there
To Rinelderal’s city
And retrieve your person.
You are well missed at home;
Father is eager to have his youngest son returned.
But wait for now, brother
Until men can be spared.’

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-11-24T04:23:00.000-08:00

Once my breath and control returned,
I stood and surveyed the land to which I had come to inhabit.
Larger than some others, it was
Wide enough for a peasant house
And even bearing stunted plants:
Brushy bushes an a small tree,
Which, to my surprise, bore flowers
Not yet bloomed: pale pink and blue buds.
Desiring nothing more than to sit and let myself heal,
I sat and leaned against the tree,
Ignoring the aches of hunger and thirst that were tugging at me.
Just above my head, where the flowers
Nestled unbloomed, I kept my eyes,
Relishing the colors in a place as dismal as this one was.
Came into the air pleasant scent,
Floral and well enjoyable,
Not unlike a bouquet of blooms
Or the heady smell of gardens.
These buds’ aroma relaxed me
And breathed I in that scented air,
Calming and letting go of cares.
Though there was no wind nor a breeze,
The buds commenced to tremble hard,
Shivering and swaying under no outside force’s influence,
One by one slowly opening before my disbelieving eyes.
Then did I realize that the flowers were not simple tree blossoms,
But formed the wings of small-bodied creatures, not unlike to fairies,
Yet these were not gentle fairies.
Dozens of small blue and pink Harpies were they, clawed and vicious-eyed,
Glaring at me as intruder–
As was their, I must admit.
Scarcely had I time to get up
And make myself ready for the attack I knew was soon coming.
Quick they were, swarming at my face,
Swiping with their claws no larger than the tines of a dining fork,
Though they were sharper than needles.

So small and rapid were the brutes
That using the point of my spear
Was impossible for defense.
Hence I swung the broken shaft hard,
Trying to knock them from the air.
Success did I gain, as their swarm was so thick it was almost hard
Not to hit one or two each swing.
Howled I as claws reached my jawline,
Clutched at my cheeks and barbed my nose.

The florid scent the Harpies gave
Was o’erpowered by scent of blood–
Mine own blood, dripping down my face.
I felt the sticky warmth trickle
Down my neck and onto my back,
But still I swing with all my strength,
Bringing down Harpies in clusters:
Twos and threes, singly and in groups.
They let out cries, shrieks as I hit.
So disoriented were they
When they were struck that none arose;
In turn to each did I then impale their bodies with my spearpoint.
My face was dripping with blood from dozens of tiny, deep claw marks–
You can still see the scars from them,
If you really search, dear Uncle–
Still I was better than they were;
The ground was littered with the corpses of the Harpies, each hand-sized.
My desire to look somewhere else
Made me turn my eyes more upward,
Where the ocean rolled off to the horizon, blue and clear and calm.
Out there on the water, well within eyeshot and hailing distance,
Was a many-oarred sailing ship,
Her oars out and her sails lowered.
The banner she flew I did know,
Black scorpion and blue flower on a shimmering field of gold,
Bordered around in blackest black.
‘Twas a ship of Rinelderal,
Kingdom of His Highness, Banserfe,
A warrior of great reknown,
Whose skill with the halberd is the source of envy for my teachers--
They did try to mimic his form
To teach me to wield like he does.
His kingdom has long been neutral
With Farlein, so I did not fear going aboard one of their ships.
I made my attempts hail them,
Waving my arms and spear and raising my voice to call to them.
Lo, did they hear me! They sent boat,
Smaller craft manned by three strong men,
En route to my little island.
Quickly was I taken to the larger ship and made quite welcome;
Food they did offer me, and drink
‘Til my hunger and thirst were slaked.
Only once I was cared well for did their captain begin to ask:
My name, station, and home, were what?
Eagerly I answered him and his sailors all that they queried,
I made plain I had no secrets,
And in turn begged them to make haste
To the city of their own king,
That I might request of him aid.
‘Alas for our King, noble Banserfe!
At hunting nearly a year ago,
Was he slain by a fearsome black bear.
Only have we of Rinelderal
A queen now, King Banserfe’s gentle wife,
Our Phierine, whose generosity
And kindness are known as her great strength.
Still, take you to the city we will,
That you may petition her instead.’

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-11-17T05:07:00.001-08:00

Her breathtaking face disappeared,
My eyes opened, and I awoke.
‘Twas a golden sun-lit morning,
Cool-aired and pleasant, though I was still trapped within the riverbanks.
Even through my sleep had I clutched my longspear; it was still with me
As I began searching for my freedom from the water’s current.

The river had reached a spread-point
Where it became a deltaland
Before pouring into ocean.
The river split into many paths, dotted with scattered islands,
Uninhabited and flooded.
Tried then did I to make my way,
Swimming feebly towards one island.
As my feet found bottom and my hands groped around to find purchase,
The current rushed up, catching me,
Dragging me away from safety.
A second time did I set sight
On one such patch of solid ground.
This one, did I manage to take hold of a small, briar-strewn shrub,
Keeping grip while trying to stand.
The briars bit into my hand,
I held on hard through the pain.
Even as I pulled up the bank,
The roots of the shrub, unsteady in earth most swollen with water,
Gave way themselves, pulling free from the ground and severing my hope.
I was swept away once again.
The shore of the ocean was near;
A final attempt to walk onto land would I have before washed
Away into the sea I’d be.
A third time I staked out a spot,
My target for mounting dry land,
And as I brushed past, my spear I thrust into the silted upslope
Of the island, sinking the blade deep into the waterlogged ground.
It held, as I held the broke shaft,
Pulling against the current that threatened to carry me away.
I found then my purchase; my feet hit bottom, and I took a step
Then another, a third, a fourth,
Emerging from the water as a baby from its mother’s womb.
As I breathed the air and felt wind on my overly-sodden clothes,
I felt as does one born again,
Never having known such sweet bliss as the solid ground beneath me.

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-11-11T05:48:00.001-08:00

The sun set and twilight settled,
Night swallowed the world around me,
Turning all beyond the banks of the river in which I traveled
To darkness I could not see through.
Feeling the water over me,
I grew suddenly aware
That I still could feel the poison
In my bloodstream, rushing strong.
Even as I struggled to remain above the water’s surface,
I sank towards a troubled slumber
And still floating, I fell asleep.

I saw a face then, in my dream,
The likeness of... cannot be told.
Words would fail me if I so tried
Describing the face that I viewed.
I knew that it was Senaru
Appearing to me as I slept,
Though she looked nothing like any man-made depiction of her form.
Beauty unsurpassed was in her
And of her. Needing to shield my eyes from her glory, my gaze dropped.

‘Fear not, son,’
Said the fair, glorified goddess.
‘I have come
Not to upbraid thee, but to warn.
The fell poison that you bear
In thy blood
Will not end thy earthly life,
But strengthen.
Hast thou a powerful foe,
Good Hallac,
That wishes to see thee dead:
Cludawal,
River god,
Brother of my blood, patron
Of speakers political,
Diplomats,
Statesmen and scheming monarchs.
Favors he
A man whom you do know well:
Thy brother
Lestrian.
I have overheard his pleas,
And I know
Thy brother wishes thee dead.
And my kin,
Cludawal,
Has all intent to oblige.
Fear thee well,
Brave Hallac,
The waters of the river,
For they are Cludawal’s hand,
The currents are his fingers.
Means he to drown thee, princeling,
Ensuring the throne for one
That worships him faithfully.
Beware, then
Once to thy home, thou come
For challenges will await,
Though firstly,
If thy life thee wish to keep,
Must you then find a way out
Of his grasp.
Free thyself
From the pull
Of water,
The river that surrounds you.
Escape from his might grip.
Live, Hallac.’

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-11-03T20:05:00.000-07:00

I woke, and imagine my shock,
For I had been certain that I would never see the earth again.
As the sun shone down through the trees
And fell upon my upturned face,
I basked in the feeling of being alive, and sent up my praise
For the mercy of my goddess
And those other goodly members of the gods’ holy family.
Then did I remember the gift
Given to me through my longspear:
That whilst I held it, I would not fall subject to death’s finale.
Wondered then I if those gifts still held true, since the haft of the spear
Had been broken, the end splintered.
I chose not to dwell on it, but to trust the gods to get me home.
Weakened and weary did I stand,
Making my way slowly outside
Into the forest that surrounded the spiders’ web-covered lair.

Found I the river I knew would pass homeward, to the Farlein gates,
And began then to follow it
As the clear water flowed swiftly in the opposite direction,
For upstream would it me home.
But so feeble were my legs still,
That I stumbled on rocky ground,
And my feet slipped upon the bank,
Tumbling my whole form headfirst into the rolling, streaming waters.

So deep was the river, and so quick and strongly did the current flow,
That the waters swept me away,
Too weak was I to swim against,
Or even make headway towards shore.
Even as I gripped my spear,
I again saw my death looming.
The land whipped by me, passing fast
So that I went far out of sight
Of Farlein, my home and my father’s great palatial castle.
Many miles was I carried on,
Well out of the forest and into the plains that stretched beyond it.
There, whilst I was still in the river, did I pass by a set camp,
In which the men of my father’s army, all my soldier brethren,
Were waiting for their next battle.
Already the river had borne me to the borders of Farlein,
Still giving me no leeway out.
My fellow soldiers saw my plight,
Hurrying to aid my struggle,
And attempted to throw me ropes and branches that they’d pull me out.
Alas, though, for the ropes fell short,
The branches broke in twain, or slipped
From my grip, as I refused
To drop hold of my longspear and instead grasp the branches with both hands.
The weapon had been a gift of my father and blessed by the gods;
Loathe was I to relinquish it.
So swept past the camp was I then,
A drifting, dying man, hopeless,
Fearing I would never again be with those I had protected.

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-10-27T04:46:00.001-07:00

Tired was I then, for I had got no sleep since the battle’s start.
Through a patch in the tree canopy did I finally see the sky,
Black as pitch, well into the night.
So wanted I to give into the sweet sleep of pure exhaustion,
To rest one hour for every minute I had fought the beast
But I was not allowed that gift.

As I knelt to rest, came a fast scuttling sound
From deep within the cave.
Grew it did, the sound multiplied by echoing
Until it seemed I was surrounded by the noise.
Not far from the truth was that thought, to my despair,
For no sooner had the sound reached its loudest peak
Than I was in truth surrounded by more spiders,
None big as Naenesis,
Though many were most large,
Perhaps in size like horses or even wagons;
The smallest sized as cats.
These were, without question, Naenesis’s children,
Numbered as men in a village, and all thirsty
To see my life vanquished.
Understanding now Naenesis’s retreat here,
I cursed the name of the spider to the goddess
I claim as my patron,
Fair Senaru, the kind,
Who heals and tends to those who are in need of strength.
To her I cursed the beasts,
Even as I prepared myself to die fighting.
Came into my head again my father and kin,
And I resolved again not to die easily.
So then did I put to the test my studying,
All the years I spent learning to do fierce battle.
So, one at a time, I fell those children evil
The numerous spiders of Naenesis’s lair.
But exhausted still, was I
From my lengthy bout with their dam, and so fell I,
Stumbling, off my balance.
Then felt I a pierce, a bite from one of my foes,
Knew I then that I was beset by the poison
Each one carried in it.
Like a foreign river,
Green and purple and wrong,
I could feel the deadly stuff flowing through my veins,
Ensuring my slow and agonizing demise.
Not much longer would my heart maintain its strong beat,
My blood course, my lungs breathe.
Preparing myself for that ultimate release,
I gave up prayers to the deities up above,
Even as I spent strength,
The last of what I had,
To finish the few remaining devil spiders.
There, amid the corpses of slaughtered foes,
I laid myself down, already spent and prepared
For the end of my existence to come on here.

As I lay, my eyes fell heavy,
The world around me grew hazy.
In those last few moments, I thought I saw more of the damned spiders--
Perhaps a few I had not killed--
Skittering away, back into the tunnel depths, where their webs are,
Though my vision was clouded, and I cannot be completely sure.
Then the world fell into blackness, and darkness enveloped my soul.

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-10-20T05:09:00.001-07:00

In only my swiftness and my spear to place trust,
With my mind as my only human advantage,
I threw myself to fight
To the path of death and
Naenesis, worthy foe.
The forest canopy overhead blocked the sun,
So the passage of time I could not well surmise;

The hours could very well
Have passed many or few
Without my knowing, days or nights or weeks flying
As Naenesis and I did our battle enact.
‘Twas a speedy demon,
Moving in fits and starts,
Darting to left and right,
Even jumping around
When space allowed it to.
I moved quick as I could
But was still the slower.
Drenched did I get with sweat
As the beast and I danced.
Times unnumbered did me the beast try to crush,
Slamming that massive form into the earth below,
Hoping to pin me ‘twixt trees or against boulders
There to finish my life.
Through luck and skill managed I to keep my footing,
Not to fall before it
As it tried to slay me.
The fearful jaws snapped, threatening to break a limb.
There was poison in them;
No doubt was in my mind
This foe seemed too much for one man to dare challenge.
But thinking of my father and those folk frightened,
Those lives that were resting on my victory there,
Did I find a new strength
And my resolve grew thrice.
Naenesis- I, its bane.
Myself renewed, I set my longspear to attack,
Thrusting, feinting, whirling,
Arcing, parrying oft
All the while turning the tables on the fell beast.
Stab and slash did break flesh,
Drawing lifeblood from the repulsive arachnid.
Managed I to slow it
When a leg, unguarded,
Came within my arm’s reach,
I thrust out hard, slashing;
The squelch of cutting flesh filled the air ‘round mine ears.
The foreleg came away,
Whilst screaming sounds it made,
Ensuring me of my impending victory.
Sudden retreat commenced.
Such withdraw was not my goal, to my great despair;
I pursued the spider,
Racing o’er uneven ground, rocks and fallen boughs
Only just keeping feet
As I strained to keep up.
The creature was perilously quick in its haste
Though by some miracle I managed to keep pace,
Thus following to a darkened mountain cavern
So strung with webs it like
To make me quiver with a new sense of terror.
Just inside the mouth did the wounded spider rest
As if waiting for me,
Or perhaps wanting naught but to die in its home.
Final fight did it try,
Though its strength was well spent,
And a breath away it was from its ending rest.
Did I then plunge the point
Of my blessed longspear into its abdomen
Putting to death the night terror of the farmers.

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-10-14T04:55:00.000-07:00

At this nodded Socestrian,
For his nephew had the right of propriety in it:
Such blessings were between only
Those giving, those receiving, and
The god or goddess invoked.
“Tell us then, Hallac, what befell you
Once you departed Quereneth’s home.”

With a bow, he said,
“My charger bore me from my home
And out of the city, past where the farmers grow numerous crops,
That nourish and sustain those who live and work their trades and their crafts
Within the walls of the city.
Beyond the farmlands, there are trees,
An expansive forest, dark and thick and dense where one might be lost.
At the edge I left my charger,
Then proceeded into the trees afoot, with my weapon hefted,
Surveying and keeping a close watch for the target of my quest.
Naenesis came upon me first,
Sneaking amid the trees behind me so that I had scarce warning
Until I was set upon and could barely defend myself from
A pair of pincing mandibles
That were like the size of greataxes.
Fending off and stepping back as much as the cramped space would allow.
The hairy Naenesis was far larger than I had imagined--
Possibly larger than even my father’s and brother’s worst dreams.
The eight-legged monster was well the size of a moderate hut,
With legs thick as a fit man’s thighs.
Coarse, wiry dark hair stood out all over the monster’s great body,
Some colored brown, some more maroon,
With black stripes at the knees and toes.
Dwarfed by the monster’s size, was I,
Not ashamed am I to admit I was filled with intense fear.
I could see the great many eyes
That scrutinized me and sized me up to see if I was a threat
It was in that moment that first came a lunge and again I dodged;
In earnest the battle began.

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-10-06T05:03:00.000-07:00

To bid me farewell didst my sire
Arrange a sending, proper for one of more nobility and
Station higher than I can claim.
A banner of mine own was I given, its sigil a lion,
Coloured black upon gold and quartered with my father’s own emblem
That is known so well through the lands, as it is carried by his men:
The horned pegasus, pearly white and backed on a field of purple.
With this banner would I ride forth.
Also was I gifted with a newly-forged weapon: a long spear,
Made by the foremost of Farlein’s most talented and skilled craftsmen.
Five and a half feet was the haft
And the spearhead added one more,
So that the spear was longer than I am tall, but so well-made
Of such perfect balance that I,
When holding the butt and extending it full out, I’d not tumble.
Such a reach would be a boon when came time to face the great spider.
Was I then told of the qualities of the weapon I’d received:
For enchanted it was, blessed with gifts from the god who my sire
Claimed his patronage and favor:
Mighty and just Feraketh, who oversees the sun and the moon,
The turning of the earth, and the light of the thousands of sky-stars.
From Feraketh were these traits of my longspear bequeathed as a gift:
That the blade would never shatter,
That the weapon would always find its way home to me its master,
That so long as I kept the weapon in my hand, I would not die.
‘So keep firm hold on the spear lest death take you,’
Said my noble father, and with his words did he bestow on me,
Before the gathered men and women of the court of good Farlein,
His silent paternal blessing,
The words of which I’ll not repeat,
As they are between us alone.”

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-09-29T04:48:00.001-07:00

Then came one day a messenger,
A man beaten and bloody and torn so that he was like to die,
Who brought with a message so dire:
Settled in the farms of Farlein,
Those that sat in the outskirts of the royal capital city,
Had come a great spider, by name
Naenesis, who came out by night
And did terrorize and slay numbers of His Majesty’s subjects.
Then was my father at a loss,
For there was no one he could spare
From the ranks on the battlefield
And dispatch to slay the massive eight-legged slaughtering creature.
Many an hour and day passed
While my father the King pondered,
Searching for an answer to this predicament: who to send out,
How could the evil Naenesis
Be defeated with the greatest of the kingdom’s warriors gone?

‘Noble Father and King,’
Soon said my brother Etseon,
‘Can you not send Hallac?
For years now he has studied, learning soldiers’ art,
Tested his skill on his teachers only, not on foes.
Surely the ability he has honed will be more,
More than enough to overwhelm this horrible beast
That plagues our home’s outskirts.
Were our brother to go,
The road is not long; he would stray not far from our walls;
He could return in days,
Leave at morning’s light and be safe in our walls most soon.
No doubt, royal Father,
As well as young Hallac has been trained, he will soon win
Honourable victory over this beast from Hell,
Only proving the nobility that lives in him.
How venerable would he become in the folks’ eyes
When they learn the common son of an uncommon King
Has put to risk his life
And quashed the threat that Hell has sent to loom over them!’
Over this did my father think,
Weighing both sides of argument:
To send his youngest son to risk life and test his might against beast,
Or to keep me safe and send another at the army’s expense?
Long did he take, thought long did he not have, as the spider continued
Plaguing the outskirted farmers.
‘Sons, a decision have I reached for this plight,
To deal with the threat that so looms over us
And the people we are pledged to keep secure.
The words of my wise son Etseon are good;
He sees with eyes clear and with mind wide open.
Foolish is the man who challenges his wit
Or who does not follow his sagely advice.
Therefore have I decided to take his course
In contending with Naenesis the spider.
Hence shall I send my heart’s child, youthful Hallac
For his hands are indeed sure and his wit strong
In martial matters.
Faith I have in his strength
And do so trust him to make good my will.’

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-09-22T04:45:00.000-07:00

“As is well known, Uncle and guests,
My birth is not high; a peasant
Was my dam, though my father is of a noble royal line.
Two brothers have I, born of a noble woman of my sire’s
Choosing: Lestrian, the elder, whom my father has groomed well
To take his place one day as King.
The second brother I can claim
Is Etseon, whom scholars praise
For his sharp wit and vast wisdom,
Since his tutors have taught him well.
To these brothers am I the youngest, and to these brothers must
I be compared; as one may guess, I have much to live up to.
I fear, though, that in my youth did the tutors I learned from say
I would never be like Eteson,
Not a scholar in mind, nor be
A diplomat to advise my brother Lestrian the heir.

What talents I began to show
Fell in the physical men’s realm.
I did so desire to see my father proud of my manhood,
As any son should so desire,
Hence I took to the training yard
Where the soldiers of Farlein’s mighty army spend hours in sparring.
From these men of strength and speed and cunning would I acquire my trade:
To defend my father’s kingdom
And the people who dwell within
Would become the work I set my life to, as a dutiful son
And as a boon to my brothers.
As I had hoped, my sire was proud,
He sent out for the greatest men
Of the swordart, shield, spear, and bow to become my greatest teachers.
So from them didst I study all weaponry and the arts of war,
Until proficient I became in many manners of fighting
But still had I never tested,
Against a truly armored foe,
My mettle on the battlefield.
There was some amusement, some laughter I endured from my brothers,
As they teased me for being an untried, unblooded warrior,
Until the day Farlein found war,
Declared upon by enemies
Foreign and hostile neighbors
Jealous of the productivity of the kingdom I call home.
The armies marched, but my father,
Wise King, was reluctant for me,
His youngest son, so very dear,
To march with my teacher to fight.
‘Woe would fall upon me, should I lose my son,’
My noble father dist then say,
‘And I cannot in sound mind send you abroad,
Where the blade or arrow of a foe might strike
And fell the child of my heart, my brave Hallac.’
So it was, Uncle and guests, that I did not go to war; instead
Did I return to my practice.
There in the yards didst my brothers often come to observe my hours.

On went the war, and the soldiers of Farlein fought battles bravely,
Falling for King and kingdom, hundreds and more gave their lives and died,
For a year the battles went on.
Many reports did my father receive, telling how the fights fared,
Though our generals won and our ranks far outnumbered our foe’s men,
No sign of end did the war show.

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-09-15T04:48:00.000-07:00

Kneeling as was proper for him,
Hallac presented his uncle
With the Dragon’s head,
While offering blessings for his uncle’s longevity.
Once he duly had spoken thus,
Only then did Hallac stand straight
And speak as was bid.

“Of my father’s health I have heard no news, great and kingly uncle,
And of such news you have I beg.
Tell me what has become of my father, since I have been gone long.”

“All too gladly would I give such news,
Though the news itself is far from glad,
But I must know first, my dear nephew,
What has sent thee so far and so long
From thy home and thy kin. Tell me first
Why thou departed and where thou went
Instead of remaining by the side
Of thy father, my dear sister’s mate.”

At those words did Hallac give way,
Knowing his uncle had the right
In wondering why
Hallac had strayed far
From the company of his sire.
Softly said Hallac,
“Any good son would beg to be told first of his father’s faring,
But you are a King too, Uncle; I cannot but do as you bid.
First do let me begin with words that will tell your courtiers of me
For they do not know my upbring.”
Indeed had the chamber come full
With eyes and ears strange to the youth:
All those who attended His Grace
The King of Tomolle.
Curiously they watched the Prince,
With ears turned in well
To hear his story
And to learn of his upbringing.

The Trials of Hallac- Part I: The Beasts

2010-09-08T07:45:00.000-07:00

Bent and bleeding and
Gasping for air, Hallac straightened
To his feet and stood
With his prize in his callused hand:
The Dragon of Tomolle he fought
And defeated with naught but his spear and wits to aid
Him and keep his life.
The head of the beast
Glittered, its scales as gems sparkling
In the pale light of morning’s glow.
Emerald blood, steaming and thick,
Dripped from the severed head and the blade of Hallac’s great spear,
Sizzling on the rocky ground where
Hallac took his stance.

The aerie gave view
Far beyond the forest and leaves
To where a castle stood in the distance, many miles out
That Hallac knew well
As the castle of his uncle.
Socestrian was his uncle,
Thought not of his blood,
For Hallac the prince was not of
Reputable birth.

Socestrian’s sister had wed
The King Quereneth,
Father of Hallac and two more,
Sons all three noble,
But the mother of young Hallac
Was a peasant maid,
Not the Queenly mother of the
Two older sons.
Lestrian and Etseon’s dam
Had been the wife of one king and
Sister of a second ruler.
King Socestrian’s young sister
Had fallen to death
In bringing forth her second-born son, the man Etseon
But had never given birth to Hallac the bastard prince.

Hallac set his feet,
Moving to the castle, carrying his dragon’s head prize
Knowing and wondering if the
Great king his uncle would deny
Him a hospitable welcome
Since he was not blood
Not blood relation to His Grace.

Fearing unwelcome,
The young dragon slayer rapped twice
Upon the great gate
Of his uncle’s stone-walled castle.

Lo, to his surprise
Came great hellos and inquiries
From lords and ladies
Asking of his sire and brothers
And toasting their health.
There amid the throng
Did appear his uncle the king,
Socestrian of Tomolle, lord
Fair and wise, king of lands stretching to the far horizon.
Heavily did the crown sit on
Socestrian’s head,
For though the mourning period
Of his sister’s death was long past,
The weight of the loss held him down
Pressing on his mind.

“Be welcome in my halls, my nephew,”
The grieving King softly declared,
“But tell me why thou art here, for I
Have heard no news that thee were abroad.
Wherefore hast thee left thy King father
Since his health has so begun to fail?
Mine eyes can see thy deeds have been great
For thou hast slain the fearsome Dragon
That has plagued Tomolle for many years.
Still, I question again why thou hast
Left Farlein when thy father is ill.
Speak, my nephew, of why you have come.”

The Trials of Hallac- Invocation

2010-09-01T11:14:00.001-07:00

Unnamed muse, light of those creative, who
Bestows upon those of the pen her grace
To write of great deeds and men of honour,
Help this humble soul to tell of Hallac
Of the trials of the spear-wielding Prince,
Son of Quereneth, fair King of Farlein,
Youngest of his heirs.
Allow me the words to expound his deeds,
The tests he faced, the people he aided,
Many beasts and villains who barred his path
To keep him from the throne of his father.
Aid me in telling of Hallac, youngest
Brother of Lestrian– the eldest son,
Great diplomat and silver-tongued speaker,
Friend of men and women with influence.
Unnamed muse, let me tell of young Hallac,
Brother of Etseon– the second son
Scholarly wise man,
Schemer and power-hungry middle child.
Hallac, the third of three sons, bastard-born
Boy to a peasant mother, furthest from
The throne both by blood and by common birth,
But welcomed by his father to royal life,
Guarded by soldiers, trained by generals,
Made into a warrior by the time
Of his adulthood.

Great being of inspiration, assist
This simple bearer of the pen and ink,
Teller of stories, in detailing feats,
Feats that brought the throne
To Hallac, youngest of the great King’s sons:
The slaying of the beasts he faced alone:
Naenesis, the gargantuan spider,
The many Harpies of the delta lands,
A great unknown, unnamed beast of the sea,
The Sphinx of the cave,
And the vicious, huge Dragon of Tomolle.

Include in my verses the people, who
Stood barring his way:
Phieraine, widow-Queen of Rinelderal,
The priest, and the men and women of dead
City Ounceireile,
And men of his own family: brothers
Lestrian and Etseon, and their men.

O inspiration, sweet ideas’ onset,
Form the letters and words to write of the
Great Dreamers’ Battle,
Where lordly Hallac fought his two brothers
For the throne of their father’s vast kingdom,
So that those who wish to know of the deeds
May learn of the valiance of the Prince
And know how verily he did deserve
More than his brothers,
To gain the crown and to lead the people
In the days and years following his late
Return to Farlein.

Make my syllables flow like sweetest wine
That any who read may drink and be filled
By the power of what is written here.
Help the lessons taught by Hallac’s goodness
Nourish and help those who would be like him,
For the virtues he embodies are great
And worthy for anyone to seek out.
Help my words well define and explain, too
The badness and evil in the villains,
Those who surrendered to evil vices,
And make my poem a lesson there, as well
That readers will see the mistakes they made,
The follies and crimes they all committed
And know them for the wrongness that they are.
Make this humble poet a plain teacher,
Though the deeds written here are the lesson.

Tell now of Hallac, his journey’s begun
Set far from home to trek companionless
Only to return home and fight for life.

The Trials of Hallac- Introduction

2010-09-01T11:12:00.000-07:00

In May, I took part in a challenge to write 5000 lines of epic poetry in 31 days. I succeeded, and my "epic" poem, "The Trials of Hallac" ended right smack dab on the 5000th line. It's no Odyssey but it's something, I suppose.

I chose to forgo attempting to write in rhyme, but instead focus on syllabic count. Depending on what sort of text you're reading, the number of syllables changes. For reference, here's how things break down:

General exposition has 5, 8, or 14 syllables to the line
Hallac speaks in 16 syllables to the line
Good characters speak in 11 syllable-lines
Evil characters use 6 or 13 syllables
Neutral characters speak in 9 syllable lines
Deities use 3 or 7 syllables to the line
Battle scenes have 12 syllables to the line
Prayer is spoken in 10 syllable lines

For flow purposes, I do on occasion use the half-line. Much of the first three parts of the poem are spoken and described by Hallac, so to keep him from being too long-winded, some lines are only 8 syllables rather than the full 16. Some battle scenes have 6-syllable lines, etc.

Enjoy!

Thank You for the Blogject (Mere Acquaintances)

2010-08-30T18:31:00.000-07:00

The project known as the Blogject (the serial novel entitled "Mere Acquaintances") was not a solitary effort. The ideas for it were provided by numerous friends of mine, everything from character names to plot elements. It is time for all of these people to receive their thanks. Already, they have each had a character in the Blogject loosely named after them. Here, in no particular order: contributor, contribution(s), and character.

Dawn H.- character background- Don Harson

Cheyenne F.- character and place names and descriptions- Cheyne Firdin

BJ D.- place names and descriptions- Banjay Advissen

Erin K.- moral support and character backgrounds- Rin Ramkan

Theo K.- item descriptions and character names- Hoeth Karzark

Alex L.- plot ideas- Lexan Halech

Clara A.- plot ideas- Ara Fusica

Clara R.- character ideas- Berrot Larac

Sami F. plot ideas and character names- Masithina Crasier

Misty B.- character names- Masty Boroksen

Becky S.- character names- Becca Smitts

Andrew P.- character names- Endren Prake

Kirsten S.- character names- Kristen Censor

Brian B.- character names- Rabian Hartume

Jon K.- place names- Jonal Keffinen

Sarah K.- place names and descriptions- Sara Kenney

Jade A.- character names- Carolyn Anderson

Laura P.- title ideas- Prett Moura

Travis C.- title ideas- Lec Ravits

Chuck N.- title ideas- Needrenghusshuck

Mary Lee F.- title ideas- Maria Ferrera

Mere Acquaintances- Epilogue

2010-08-24T18:00:00.000-07:00

It had been like flicking a switch. Becca couldn’t believe it, but the evidence was there in front of her. Whatever had happened between the five Sonsedhor patients and their alternate personalities, everything had come to an end. At least, it seemed to be at an end.

Things had seemed so calm for so long. For months, Emery’s violent streak had seemed contained, easily averted by restraints, but the events of the night of November fifth had come as a surprise.

Fortunately, his unprovoked attack on Ryan had been thwarted. But then, as he was being restrained, he managed to overpower the nurses and turned his attentions to Lydia. He had been much harder to hold back then.

No one was sure how he managed to get out of his room after being locked in and bound in a straitjacket, but the former policeman had somehow done it. By the time his escape had been discovered and they found where he’d disappeared to, Vale was already dead. His body was removed the next morning. There was no question– he had been beaten to death by the big ex-cop.

Thanksgiving saw Becca in Dr. Anderson’s office, seated in a corner and simply observing as Dr. Anderson spoke to Jo Bailey, whose recovery had come as a surprise. It had been like flicking a switch, she thought again as she studied her former patient. Jo wasn’t even in her wheelchair; walking was difficult in her physical state, but it wasn’t completely impossible. Once she had come to her senses, she had insisted on doing away with the chair and walking under her own power, even though it took her a long time to move across a room. She had spirit, a desire to live in her chocolate-brown eyes.

“I’m ready to go home,” Jo said softly, looking at her hands in her lap. “I believe I’m done here.”

With a nod, Dr. Anderson replied, “I will gladly support that statement. You will be missed around here, Joanna, but it is time you went back to the real world.”

Jo’s head snapped up at that– as quickly as her head could snap, anyway, which was still fairly slow– but she didn’t say anything.

“We will, of course, keep observing you for a few months while you readjust to life outside the Institute,” Dr. Anderson continues, smiling. Becca knew the smile was for the recent bill that had finally passed judgement by the board of directors, renaming the place Ighosia Falls Mental Institution. Jo simply nodded. “And we have, of course, contacted your family. Your parents are ready for you back at their home, since your apartment was rented back out some time ago.”

Jo nodded again.

“You look like you want to say something. Please, go ahead Joanna. Feel free.”

Something familiar to Becca flashed in Jo’s eyes. “I want to see the others.” Dr. Anderson and Becca exchanged looks. Joanna kept her gaze level on Dr. Anderson’s face. “I know there were others. Please, can I see them?” There was no pleading in her voice, just simple need.

Dr. Anderson nodded.

Jo walked with the intern, Becca, down a hallway lined with doors. Dr. Anderson hadn’t come with them, but Jo didn’t care much for the doctor anyway. There was something familiar and warm about the young intern, and she was a welcome guide to her companions. Something told Jo that Becca... understood. She didn’t know what it was about the young woman, but she knew she could trust her, deep in her core.

“This is Lydia,” Becca said, opening a door. The intern entered first, speaking softly and soothingly to the room’s occupant.

In the woman before her, Jo recognized Weslyn, but there was something wrong with her. The woman, Lydia, refused to lift her head. She made no move, gave no inclination that she might speak. Jo didn’t press her; she simply nodded to Becca and slowly made her way out of the room.

“She’s become much more functional since... that night,” Becca explained, “but Lydia’s emotional condition has fallen drastically. She’s battling deep depression suddenly. She won’t speak to anyone.

That’s because she’s dead, Jo thought, but she said nothing. That Weslyn had died was a certainty to her, but she didn’t know how she knew it. She hadn’t seen Weslyn die, but there was no doubt it had happened.

She was introduced to Ryan next, and in him she knew the bard Draegon. But Ryan eyed her askance, darted as far away from her as he could, and cowered in a corner behind a desk chair. Like Lydia, he had regained the better part of his sanity since November fifth, but his temperament was now marked with constant fear and paranoia. Constantly looking over his shoulder, Ryan jumped at the slightest sound or voice. Throughout her short visit, he muttered about constant nightmares, each one of the same thing: murder. Over and over, murder.

Jo remembered seeing Draegon’s body in the chamber... bloody and battered, beaten until he had hardly looked like himself anymore. She didn’t blame Ryan for having nightmares about that.

Becca hesitated over taking her to the last of the others. Emery had killed another patient, she was told. His victim had been Vale Stapleton, who had also been one of the others involved with her, Lydia, and Ryan. At the name Emery, Jo’s heart skipped a beat. Her recognition came as no surprise to Becca.

“You two knew each other as kids,” the intern said.

“More than just kids,” Jo whispered back.

Nodding as if she already knew that, Becca led her to the last door. This was no simple hallway door with a small viewing window like Ryan and Lydia had. Emery’s door was reinforced metal, and instead of a window, there was a barred panel. They kept him like a prisoner.

Flashes of Kemeny’s and Senne’s memories flooded her mind as she peered through the bars at Emery. The big man sat on the floor unmoving. As if sensing he was being watched, he lifted his head, and a pair of stoney blue eyes met Jo’s. His mouth didn’t move; he didn’t blink or even seem to breathe. But those eyes pierced her to the core. Somewhere deep in the depths of her mind, the parts of her that were Senne and Kemeny trembled.

“I loved you too, once,” she whispered. Turning to Becca, she took the intern’s arm. It helped her walk more steadily to have support. “Now I’m ready to go home.”

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Forty-Eight

2010-08-19T14:50:00.000-07:00

For a long time Roark stood staring at the black wall, waiting for it to devour him. Minutes passed before it occurred to him that the blackness had stopped its approach and gone still, not closing in so much as a hair’s breadth. It had stopped less than a finger’s span from the edge of Weslyn’s dress.

Disbelief that it really had stopped flooded through him, and he waited, now counting the seconds until it moved again to swallow up him and the bodily remains of the sweet merchant woman. Minutes passed by his counting: three, five, eight, eleven. A quarter of an hour went by, and the black wall hadn’t moved a bit.

Weslyn would have lived...

The thought hit him like a hammer. She would have lived. Had he not been so certain they faced their deaths, had he not acted in haste... if only he had put his faith in the Mother to save them, she would still be alive, pulse beating, lungs taking air next to him.

She would have lived...

Falling to his knees next to Weslyn’s cooling body, he threw back his head and howled. Oaths flew from his mouth afterward, shouted curses for everything from himself to the Mother Above to the Dark Father– and everything in between. Time froze as the minutes and hours passed with him damning everything he could think of. Part of him, deep down, pleaded with the Mother to let him take it back, to let him die in her stead and send her back to the living world.

When he finally opened his eyes again, having completely drained himself of tears, the blackness had receded. It had more than receded; it was completely gone. The nothingness surrounding him, swallowing up everything, was gone as if it had never existed at all. Beyond the balcony, the glittering gilded walls of Estria shone in the late afternoon sun. He suddenly became aware that the banging on the door behind him had stopped. When had the Keidenelle given up their pursuit?

Weslyn’s body was gone.

Unbarring the door, he cracked it open, but there was no ambush. There were no Keidenelle savages waiting for him on the other side of the door– in fact, there wasn’t a single soul to be seen in the corridor. Not a bit of dirt from a boot, a shallow depression on a rug from a footprint– there was nothing to suggest people had been in the castle recently.

Warily, Roark explored the castle. He passed through chambers he’d been through before, knowing there should be corpses, bloodstains, abandoned weapons, something! For all he saw, he could have been the only man left in all the world, in all of– what was the name of this place? “Ighosia” came into his head, and he decided that must be the name he was searching for. Was he really the only man left in all of Ighosia?

Weslyn would have survived. If I hadn’t killed her, she would have lived, and I wouldn’t be alone...

The pristine walls that surrounded him were unsettling. Hurrying, with only the echoing sound of his boot heels striking the floor, he strode through the great audience chamber that reminded him of Lady Ara’s and out to the balcony for some fresh air.

He wasn’t the only man left in Ighosia! There were three men lying on the stone floor out here: one was plainly dead; Sonsedhor stuck out from his unmoving chest. The other two were young men– lordlings by their clothes– and both on the brink of death themselves. One had a shard of glass sticking out from his gut, the other didn’t have a mark on him, but not and then his whole body twitched violently. Only the one with glass in him– the young man who had claimed Sonsedhor for himself, Jaidyn– showed any sign that he was aware of Roark’s presence.

Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world– which he really did, he thought with a smirk– Roark sauntered to the body Sonsedhor was buried in. Wrapping his hand again around the familiar hilt, he drew the sword from the corpse’s chest, not bothering to wipe the blackish blood from the metal. Jaidyn didn’t make a sound as Roark stood over him, legendary sword in hand, but his eyes screamed his fear. The other young man still showed no sign that he was alert to anything that was happening around him. Rather than let that young man suffer, Roark decided to put him out of his misery, too.

One well-placed swipe with Sonsedhor ended the lives of both young men.

Roark threw back his head and laughed. Without needing proof, without having to see if it was true, he knew he was the only man left in all of Ighosia. It was his. The world was his.

“Finally mine!” he shouted between hearty laughs.

Chapter Forty-Seven

2010-08-11T04:40:00.000-07:00

Zanthys was amazed he was still alive. Here he was, an untrained swordsman, wildly swinging his sword with no idea what he was doing, slashing without a care who or what he was aiming at, fighting against two men who were so desperate to have their hands on the false Sonsedhor he had had made that neither of them were willing to let a finger of their hands loose its hilt. Jaidyn and the stranger– whom he’d heard Jaidyn curse at multiple times using the name Akotherian– were fighting each other as much as they were fighting Zanthys. Maybe that was the only reason I’m still alive, he thought.

Neither of the other two men seemed at all aware of what was happening outside their little balcony, but Zanthys was. He heard shouts from somewhere, banging, running, screaming, and other evidence of mass chaos and panic. He thought he smelled blood, but even he had to admit that smell was probably imagined. None of the men near him had even a scratch, and who else could be close enough for him to smell their blood?

But the sounds and imagined smells did nothing to frighten him like what he saw did. Every time he let his eyes flicker toward the railing of the balcony where they fought– which was becoming more and more frequent– he could only see that blackness that made bile rise in his throat. It was growing closer. He knew that there was no way something like that could be moving as fast as he thought, but it seemed that every time he looked at the wall of nothing, it had gotten an arm’s length or more closer. He kept telling himself over and over in his head– between clashes of sword on sword– that it could only be an inch closer, or two maybe. But not the whole length of an arm, no matter how much closer it seemed to be.

Akotherian seemed to have the upper hand at the moment in his private skirmish with Jaidyn, and he flicked their shared sword at Zanthys’s head so Zanthys had to duck to dodge it. He stumbled and fell, rolling a bit as he lost his balance. His sword fell out of his hand. He ended up at the railing at the edge of the balcony, his nose an inch from the approaching blackness. The railings had already been halfway overtaken by the nothingness. He scrambled away from it in a poor imitation of a crabwalk, his hands and eyes searching frantically for his sword.

He found it just out of his reach. Jaidyn saw it too, as he struggled to regain the upper hand– or at least an equilibrium again– with Akotherian. But he still had a moment to glance at Zanthys’s sword, grin, and kick it further from where Zanthys was. He resumed his grappling with Akotherian in earnest, Zanthys forgotten in less time than it took to take a breath.

Zanthys crawled around the edge of the balcony, looking frantically for something to use as a weapon. Anything. All that was around him was masonry from the castle, and all of that was still attached and whole. He locked his eyes on his sword and bit his lip, praying that he would be able to get to it before either of the other men came out victorious and ran him through with his prank sword.

As he steeled himself to dash for his blade, he felt something sting his hand and looked down. A line of blood was forming on the palm of his hand. A few large shards of glass were on the floor of the balcony. Looking up, he saw a broken window– one of the decorative colored-glass ones from the audience chamber they had come from what seemed like ages ago. Not caring if his hand got slashed even worse, he grabbed the largest, most pointed shard he could find and got to his feet. The glass shard was colored red– It had probably once been part of some picture– a lord’s robe maybe, but all he could think of was blood. How appropriate. All this had to end now.

In the time it had taken him to stand, while Zanthys hadn’t been looking, Jaidyn had somehow managed to finally wrest the fake Sonsedhor from Akotherian and was standing over Zanthys’s abandoned sword, glaring derisively at the panting Akotherian. The defeated man’s back was inches from the black wall that had now completely overtaken the balcony rails. Fiery hate filled his eyes.

Staggering forward, Zanthys extended his arm towards Jaidyn, planning to bring everything to an end, prepared to sacrifice his own life, if need be. He was ready to be finished with Jaidyn, with his failed prank, with everything. Death would be welcome. As the sharp shard of glass neared Jaidyn’s torso, the man seemed unaware of it. Leaning forward, Zanthys prepared to make a final lunge to close the last few inches of distance, but Jaidyn wasn’t as oblivious as he’d seemed. The mad-eyed hero-wannabe shifted his weight and twisted; Zanthys’s lunge missed his target, and he stumbled, trying to correct his balance. He twisted in turn, his arm brandishing the glass shard flung out wildly. Blood and sweat covered his hand; the glass slid out of his grip as he overcompensated for his fall and instead followed his arm to the side, falling part-backwards, part-sideways.

The feeling that coursed through him as he hit the ground was one he couldn’t easily identify. Every muscle in his body clenched, twitching rapidly. He felt… blue, a crackling white-blue like lightning. His whole body convulsed, but screaming was impossible; any noise he tried to make got caught and fizzled before it left his throat.

It seemed ages before his eyes found their focus. Events were moving in slow motion. Akotherian’s hand was outstretched towards himself and Jaidyn. The forked pale blue lightning that erupted from his fingers had found its home in Zanthys’s chest and was still wreaking its havoc on his muscles. Forcing his head to twist around, he saw Jaidyn, Sonsedhor still in hand, his other hand at his chest. A dark patch of fabric stood out on his shirt towards his stomach, where the shard of glass had struck, sinking deep into flesh. A look of surprise was on Jaidyn’s face, but that quickly gave way to rage.

Akotherian seemed to be trying to pull his hand upward, to move the lightning that was still wracking Zanthys’s body to strike Jaidyn instead, but the sweat and panic that bloomed on the man’s face belied his ability to do it. He looked tired, worn out, used up, and it was all he could do to keep the deadly bolt in existence, much less move it. There wasn’t a doubt in Zanthys’s head that this was his end. He would die from this, here on the balcony.

Despite the growing patch of blood on his shirt, Jaidyn kept his feet and locked his eyes on Akotherian’s face. Zanthys had no faith left in him for mercy; they were all going to die here. Murder was in Jaidyn’s face, as sure as the glass was buried in his gut. He lurched towards his target, stretched out Sonsedhor, and without a word, buried the tip of the steel blade into Akotherian’s chest.

All at once, the twitching, white-blue crackling feeling left Zanthys; the lightning disappeared from sight; Akotherian cried out, his voice echoing, seemingly against the black wall that was so close Zanthys thought he could smell it; and Jaidyn fell to his knees, his hand still gripping Sonsedhor’s hilt. Struggling visibly to control his trembling arm, Jaidyn turned his wrist, twisting the blade into Akotherian’s chest.

Unable to keep his eyes open, and his mind focused, Zanthys tried to his last prayer up to the Mother before he lost himself completely, but once again, the words wouldn’t come out.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Forty-Six

2010-08-03T20:30:00.000-07:00

Roark couldn’t let his remorse for murdering Draegon get to him; he still had Weslyn to protect. They were running now, running through the castle and finding nothing but frenzied people fighting, hopeless people waiting to die, and dead ends that put them face-to-face with the black nothingness that sent cold chills up their spines.

As they ran, they came across numerous Keidenelle. Blood lust had taken over many of the savages, and they were killing people left and right– anyone and everyone they came into contact with, Keidenelle or no. More than once, Roark had to let go of Weslyn’s hand for just a moment to deal with a crazed man or two, terrified that when he went back for her hand there wouldn’t be a hand to grasp anymore. He still had it in his head to save her, no matter what happened. He could still save Weslyn.

But every exit was blocked, opening only to blackness. Even some corridors ended not in a door, but the vast nothingness he didn’t dare get too close to. He had once, he remembered, ages ago as Cheyne. Something told him now that crossing the blackness would be his end.

Save Weslyn. He turned and ran another way, shoving threatening Keidenelle out of the way with his shoulders. What if there was no way out except the black? It was far too unknown; he couldn’t condemn Weslyn to Mother-knows-what. Could he?

He decided he couldn’t. If there was no other way… he could still spare the girl a gruesome or uncertain death. He could give her that. But only if he had to, if there was no other way.

They came to another black dead end. He turned, pushing Weslyn ahead of him. They passed a junction where their corridor met another, and a handful of Keidenelle spied them and gave chase. Urging Weslyn to go faster, he continued to glance over his shoulder at their pursuers. They weren’t gaining much.

Up a set of stairs, through a wooden door, and Roark found himself and Weslyn at the crenellated top of a guard tower. Black surrounded the castle on all sides, even cutting through the walls in some places. What was left of the world was less than half the area of a farmer’s field. Everything outside the castle was just… gone. In a cruel mockery, the sky overhead was pale blue and clear, but still lighting flashed from nonexistent clouds, striking stone balconies that were still undisturbed by the black. Not too far away, the sounds of a heated sword battle came, but he couldn’t see who was doing the fighting. But the shivers that ran up and down his spine at the clanging sounds told him that Sonsedhor was one of the swords being used. That meant the fellow Jaidyn was down there, as well as the man he suspected to be the Dark Father.

The door tried to burst open, but Roark threw his weight against it. Their pursuers must have caught up. Nothing but the unknown before them, and a bloody death at the hands of Keidenelle behind. He fought against the feelings of despair that began to creep up on him, but they were overpowering. There was a way out of everything, but… there was no way out of this.

The Keidenelle on the other side of the door pushed in earnest, but Roark kept his weight against it as much as he could. That was one advantage he had over the Keidenelle– every one of them he’d seen was half his size or less. They were a lean people. Gradually, his weight and strength closed the door. Bit by bit, the gap narrowed, narrowed… closed.

He slid the bar into its slot, keeping the Keidenelle sealed out. Then they began to bang against it, probably using their own shoulders as battering rams.

“Pray,” he told Weslyn. “Pray it holds.”

Turning to look from the door to the merchant woman, he saw her on her knees, staring at the blackness. Was it his imagination, or had it gotten significantly closer while his back had been turned?

“Mother, I beg your mercy, I beg for safety,” Weslyn’s voice was thin and shaking as she stared at the black. She fell to her knees, trembling violently from shoulders to toes. She wrapped her arms around herself, repeating her prayers. Roark could see the blackness approaching, slowly taking over stone after stone of the battlements. Behind him, he heard the wood of the door creaking, cracking, beginning to give. It would only be a matter of time before the Keidenelle broke it down. But would that happen before or after the nothingness overtook him and Weslyn.

There is nothing else, he told himself dismally, trying to separate his emotions and his conscience from what he was telling himself he must do. There is no other way… I can still save her…

Quietly, he stepped up behind the kneeling Weslyn. He held his breath as he reached his hands out for her thin, pale throat. She wasn’t aware of him as she kept mumbling her prayers, her eyes locked on the approaching unknown.

His big hands wrapped around her neck, and he pressed as firmly but as gently as he could. She gasped, the last breath he would allow her to have. Her hands shot up to his, clawing. She leaned back against his legs, her lovely blue eyes looking up at him, pleading, not understanding, begging. He didn’t loosen his grip. He could feel her throat pulsing beneath him, hear her silent screams, feel her body crying desperately and trying unsuccessfully to get air.

Finally, she went still. He gently laid her on the stone floor of the battlement, not letting himself look at her. No… he was simply unable to look at her. Seeing her unmoving form would break him, he knew.

He rose and squared himself to look at the blackness that was still creeping toward his place by the door. He ignored the constant banging on the door behind him; the Keidenelle no longer mattered. His fate was in the blackness; he would wait for it.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Forty-Five

2010-07-28T04:44:00.000-07:00

Everyone’s gone mad, Kemeny thought as she watched the Keidenelle and their prisoners fight mercilessly against each other. Frightened at the chaos that had erupted around her after splitting up with Draegon and Zanthys, she had found herself a hiding place in a large audience chamber, and she was still there. Panic had rushed like a wave through the people, savage and civilized alike, and they had scattered like rice on the wind. One small fight had remained, two men grappling over a sword, and then a third man had joined them, but they were gone now. All that had remained in the chamber with her was a body lying in a pool of blood. She hadn’t seen what had happened to that man– a Keidenelle by his clothes– but she suspected he had been knocked down and trampled in the madness as everyone rushed out.

Before she could squeeze herself out of the low little alcove she had twisted herself into– thank the Mother for her flexibility– the crazed masses had rushed back in, but this time they were fighting each other rather than running aimlessly. Savage fought savage; prisoners fought Keidenelle in pairs, in threes; women brawled with men; people died. Once what seemed like hours had passed and calm settled back in through the chamber, she was alone again, but instead of one body on the floor, there were now dozens. The sounds of fighting still came now and then from the hallway outside.

Trembling, Kemeny squeezed herself out of her hiding place and picked her way among the bodies, not daring to call for Draegon or Zanthys, not sure where to start looking for Weslyn and Roark. Part of her was afraid they she would find one or more of her friends– deep down, she even considered Zanthys some sort of a friend, even if an unwilling one– among the bodies.

It was Draegon she found as she carefully stepped between corpses. His face was battered and blood-covered; his shoulders, chest, and hips looked sunken. He had been dead for some time before she got to him. She wasn’t certain, but she thought he might have been the one who had been trampled–or whatever had happened to him.

She stood in shock, looking down on the lifeless face of her old friend. His eyes were closed, thank the Mother– she thought she might have vomited if he had been looking at her with dead eyes. Even so, her stomach heaved just a bit so she had to turn away from the bard’s body. The tears came then, rushing from her eyes in torrents, turning the rest of the bodies surrounding her into unidentifiable blurs. She was grateful for that; she feared turning around would only bring her to Weslyn’s body, or Roark’s, and she couldn’t deal with that at the moment.

Thunder rumbled outside. She had seen flashes of lighting flickering through the room all during the battle that had taken place. There was no accompanying sound of rain, though. Had the world gone mad?

Stumbling among the bodies, blinded by the tears that wouldn’t stop, she found herself up at the dais where the men had been fighting before. A heavy sob racked her, and she fell to her knees on the rug-covered floor.

Approaching footsteps reached her ears, and she wiped her eyes to look up. A woman had come into the room and was standing a mere six or seven paces from her, across the dais. The woman was lovely and finely dressed, but the look in her face screamed that she had seen and done and endured far more than anyone should have to. She looked tired, defeated, and in a strange way, empty. She was missing… something.

The other woman’s eyes lit up at the sight of Kemeny, and some of that missing something seemed to filter back into her.

“I know you,” Kemeny found herself saying. She stood, and she and the stranger approached each other.

The other woman nodded. “I’m Senne. I… know you, too. You’re……”

“Kemeny,” she finished. They were now so close they could touch without extending an arm very far. For a second that lasted an hour they stared into each other’s eyes. Kemeny felt a smile grow on her face and saw it mirrored in Senne’s.

“Jo…” she said at the same moment Senne said it. She knew who she was, who this other woman was. Jo. She remembered Jo, remembered dancing. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around Senne in an embrace. The other woman held her right back. She felt whole.

If any eye had looked into the room at that moment, they would have found it empty save for dozens of dead bodies.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Forty-Four

2010-07-21T04:45:00.000-07:00

Zanthys had already forgotten who he was supposed to be looking for. The savage fool Draegon had only given him names and vague descriptions anyway, and how was he supposed to find two complete strangers in this chaotic, panicking crowd? People, both Keidenelle and civilized, were running in every direction, cowering in alcoves, breaking things, screaming at the top of their lungs, pushing each other, and everything else people do when they’ve been driven mad by uncertainty.

The great doors of the castle stood open, showing only blackness. That thick, congealed-looking darkness scared him, froze him right to his soul. And what was even more terrifying was that some people were actually running straight out the doors and being swallowed by the nothingness. They just… disappeared. For one moment, they existed, then in a second they were gone, swallowed up so that their screams were cut off completely. They disappeared. Zanthys didn’t want to think about what happened on the other side of that black wall.

He backed away from the open doors, wanting to put as much space between himself and the blackness as possible. Where had that foolish bard Draegon gotten off to, and that girl Kemeny? Zanthys scoffed at the thought of the two of them. He shouldn’t even be here! It wasn’t his fault someone else picked up his fake Sonsedhor! No matter what had happened since then, it was a fake, and if it had caused problems for this Roark fellow, well he shouldn’t have picked it up anyway. Zanthys couldn’t control that, much less reverse his actions now. What were they really expecting, him to apologize and for that to make everything better?

He passed by a wide arch that led into an audience chamber and did a double-take when he glanced into the room. There was a dead body on the floor– Keidenelle by the looks of him– and a pair of men grappling on the throne’s dais.

One of the men he recognized immediately as Jaidyn Huntley. Anger welled up in him at the sight of the man who had ruined everything, all his plans, his prank– it was really Jaidyn’s fault that Zanthys was here, trapped in a castle with scores of Keidenelle savages. He drew his sword. He might not know how to use it– not really, anyway– but he knew which end to stab people with. He rushed toward Jaidyn and the man he was fighting with. He realized they were grappling over a sword, a sword he recognized: his false Sonsedhor.

Jaidyn glanced up as Zanthys hurried forward, sword drawn. His eyes flashed with sick amusement, and Zanthys saw for a moment a very foreign look in his contemporary’s eyes. Jaidyn looked– he couldn’t think of another word for it– possessed. Like someone else had taken him over and was looking through his eyes. Glancing at Jaidyn’s opponent, he saw the very same look mirrored in this stranger’s eyes. It was foreboding, calculating… evil. He shuddered but did not stop advancing.

Somehow, the two other men both got hold of the false Sonsedhor’s hilt and raised it to meet the descending slash Zanthys aimed at them. The fury of a demon came over Zanthys– he wasn’t sure from where– and his sword became a blur as he slashed and swiped with it wildly, pushing the two other men back. Neither of them relinquished his hold on the hilt, and together they parried blow after blow, not struggling for possession of the sword anymore, but for an advantage to dispose of Zanthys. It was almost as if they were of one mind; Sonsedhor moved smoothly, arcing, slashing back, flicking…

The two other men took a step backward. Sweat beaded on Zanthys’s forehead as he pressed on, pushing the mad-eyed men back one step after another. Through an open doorway they went, through a small antechamber, and onto a balcony.

The moment Sonsedhor crossed the threshold onto the balcony, somewhere between the balcony rail and the black curtain that loomed dangerously close, lighting flashed.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Forty-Three

2010-07-17T06:22:00.001-07:00

The great chamber had erupted into madness. An oily-looking man in black and blue clothes had stormed in and without a word, begun attacking the frightening young man who had stolen Sonsedhor. The two men were grappling over the weapon. The Keidenelle were just watching the two of them fight, wordlessly staring. Weslyn was a little surprised they weren’t placing bets like they had with all of Roark’s fights, but then she realized that this new man must be important.

She was standing on the edge of the group of prisoners. They had been untied from each other, but their wrists were still bound. Enough of the Keidenelle were still keeping watch over them that she didn’t dare trying to untie herself.

She watched as the two men kept struggling. For one moment, the youth had the upper hand, then the oily man. It changed with every breath. Even if both men were servants of the Dark Father– she had heard the evil deity mentioned more than enough to suit her for one day– she hoped the man won. The youth frightened her. Anyone who could so quickly come up with two dozen horrific deaths as he did was someone to be feared. She didn’t want to see what he would be like if he had the power to make those torturous deaths happen.

A hand grabbed her arm and began to pull her away from the group. Looking up, she saw a Keidenelle man had hold of her and was trying to make off with her. Wishing she had managed to untie herself, she began beating at him as well as she could, kicking at him, struggling to get out of his grasp. He dragged her past a window, and all she saw outside was black. No streets, no buildings, no golden glint of the dusted and painted city. The black nothingness had reached the outer walls of the castle.

Others noticed it, too, and the prisoners and the Keidenelle broke into a panic almost all at once. People began screaming at the top of their lungs, men and women dashed for the doors– although where they were running to was anyone’s guess. She kept beating at the Keidenelle who had her. He was shouting now, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying in the din. She didn’t care; she’d heard enough of their strange language to know he wouldn’t say much she could understand.

Another hand grabbed her other arm, and she looked up into Roark’s face. Before she even had the time to sigh with relief at seeing the big man, Roark had slammed a fist into the Keidenelle’s face and knocked him to the floor. Pushing Weslyn aside, Roark dove onto the reeling savage and began pounding him with fists, over and over again, beating the man until blood spattered onto the tiled floor.

The savage didn’t stand a chance. He was half Roark’s size and was only weakly able to defend himself. It was a few moments later, when much of the crowd had cleared out of the room and their screams had faded out in the corridors, that she heard her name called.

The Keidenelle man was shouting her name. And Roark’s. He was begging Roark to stop.

Weslyn caught one of the soldier’s big arms and tried to hold him back from hitting the man again. Roark stopped long enough to recognize Draegon beneath him.

By the way he was twitching and the way he groaned and protested when Roark tried to help him to his feet, she knew there had to be a great number of bones that were broken and fractured. Draegon stay lying on the floor in a pool of blood that was slowly growing. His hair was matted with the stuff, no doubt from a crack in his head where Roark had slammed him against the floor, trying to rattle his brains. He feebly moves his arms and legs. “I think… you crushed my shoulders…” the bard muttered faintly. “And my hips.” He coughed; droplets of blood flew from his mouth, dotting his crude clothes and his face with red. His breathing came shallow and with difficulty.

“Kemeny is…… here,” he said despite Weslyn’s insistence that he not talk or try to move. There was a terrible look in his eyes, like he was seeing everything for the last time. He was already convinced he was going to die. She knew it was too late for him, that Roark’s beating had done him in as surely as a knife to the throat, but she didn’t want to believe it. If he just stops talking and stays still, he’ll live, she told herself, even as she chided herself for having false hope.

“Kemeny…… in the crowd… looking for you.” He coughed up more blood this time. His eyes wouldn’t stay open, but she could tell he was trying to keep them from closing. “With Zanthys… lordling… he tricked…” He took in a rattling breath that made his whole body tremble violently. “I love you… Wes…lyn.” His fingers twitched. “Go… get out…”

She felt the tears welling up behind her eyes as Roark grabbed her by the arm again. She stood rooted where she was, not wanting to leave Draegon while he was still alive. She could at least be with him to the end, so he wouldn’t die alone.

“Just…… go,” the bard whispered hoarsely.

Roark pulled at her arm harder, forcing her feet to move. Feeling hollow, she trailed after him, barely registering his voice saying, “I think I saw Kemeny.”

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Forty-Two

2010-07-14T04:42:00.000-07:00

Senne stiffened a bit when the two Keidenelle– a man and a woman– brought Roark into the chamber she was sharing with Akotherian. Without wasting a moment to put on more clothes than the little he was wearing, Akotherian stood and walked to Roark so the two were face-to-face.

“Where’s Sonsedhor?” he demanded.

One of the Keidenelle said in his halting speech that Jaidyn had taken it.

Akotherian went into a rage. “Sonsedhor is mine! You were told to bring it to me, not to him!” He slapped the Keidenelle man who had spoken across the face with the full extent of his strength. The savage didn’t even stumble, but looked at Akotherian with a mixture of defiance and humility. Did the man actually believe the Dark Father had the right to treat him like that? Senne knew she would never understand the savages. She ventured a glance at Roark. He was unreadable.

But Akotherian wasn’t finished with being angry. He seized one of the Keidenelle women who had brought Roark and unceremoniously took her head in his hands and snapped her neck like breaking a twig. Without another word, he dashed out of the room. She felt the tug at her core, the pull she associated with him being further than arm’s length away. Her essence longed to follow, to be near him. It was almost painful. But she could endure it.

The Keidenelle man seemed to have forgotten Senne and Roark were there. When he was certain Akotherian was gone, the man knelt and tenderly lifted the lifeless body of the woman and carried her out of the room, turning a different direction down the corridor than the Dark Father had gone.

She was left alone with Roark. Slowly, the big soldier turned his stony eyes to her. She returned his gaze, wondering what he saw in her eyes, what he remembered from before.

“I loved you once,” he said softly. “I remember.”

Faint remnants of memories tugged at her, but it wasn’t the face before her that she recognized. It was Hoeth, the young, naïve man who held her heart now– what was left of it. She had no love left for this unshaven, blood-covered bear of a man who stood before her.

As if sensing her feelings, he nodded and left.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Forty-One

2010-07-11T13:43:00.000-07:00

Surrounded. By enemies. Even in the middle of a war, Roark had never been completely surrounded by enemies before. It wasn’t a feeling he relished. He now understood what it must feel like to be a wild animal caught in a trap: frightened, knowing that trying to escape would only end in injury or even death, but so desperate to be free that any price is worth it.

It was hard not to lose hope. He had seen the number of Keidenelle he would have to fight through to regain his freedom, and it was staggering. And he and Weslyn had now been separated. She was still in the big audience chamber, but she had been crammed into a far corner of it with a great deal of other prisoners. Sonsedhor was still in the hands of the savage he assumed was the leader of the band that had captured him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind– the part of him that noticed every detail of his surroundings and analyzed them for tactical purposes– he couldn’t help but notice how similar the big audience chamber was to Lady Ara Fusica’s chamber in Necras. The sudden, unbidden thought of the girl hit him like a hammer. What had happened to Lady Ara? He had practically raised her– not alone, of course– but he had been set as her personal guard almost from the moment she had been born. It was only natural that he should feel a fatherly connection to her, but… what had happened to her since he’d left? With everything that was happening in the world… had she been taken by the blackness? Attacked by Keidenelle? Was it possible… could she be among the multitudes of prisoners here in Estra?

Once that possibility entered his head, he couldn’t help but scan the room for her. The large bunch of prisoners in the room were perhaps a twentieth of all the prisoners the Keidenelle had brought. Odds were if Lady Ara was a prisoner, she wouldn’t be in here.

Another movement caught his eye. The Keidenelle man carrying Sonsedhor was approaching the dais in the center of one wall. Atop it was an ornate chair– the ruler of Estria’s chair– and in the chair, a haughty- looking young man sat sideways, one leg thrown carelessly over an arm of the chair. His pitch black, wavy hair was swept aside from eyes that had once surely been handsome but now looked somewhat lifeless. If not for a defiant fiery twinkle in the depths of his eyes, Roark would have thought the young man completely apathetic.

The savage offered the still-sheathed Sonsedhor up to the young man, who practically leapt down form the chair to seize it from him. He rapidly unsheathed the blade, throwing the scabbard aside like trash. He ran a hand up and down the wide blade, caressing it like a lover. Roark narrowed his eyes. He swore he could almost feel those caresses on his soul, sending shudders up and down the core of his soul. From the handful of paces away from the dais, where the Keidenelle were holding him, he could see that Sonsedhor had changed again since he’d seen it last. His bloody handprint was still on the hilt, but the blade– the once brilliantly silvery-white blade– had darkened to the sickening rusty, blackish red-brown of old, dried blood.

The young man kept his grip on the hilt and one hand on the flat of the blade, smiling at it. Roark could see the greed in his eyes, almost feel the desire for power it radiating from him in waves. For a long while, the Keidenelle stood silent, watching him.

“Kill them all,” the young man said suddenly.

The prisoners began to scream and the whole mass of them trembled. The Keidenelle exchanged looks, but it was Roark’s lead man who spoke. “Dark Father orders not to kill man,” he said, gesturing to Roark. “Dark Father’s order first.”

The Dark Father?! They followed the Dark Father? Mother save us all, he thought. They actually received orders from the enemy of all that was good? Roark began struggling against the savages holding him. He had to get out, had to get Weslyn out, to get Sonsedhor out of the hands of the Keidenelle and this sulky youth.

“I said to kill them all!” the young man shouted, his face turning red. The tiny spark of fire in his eyes had turned to a full blaze. He brandished Sonsedhor grandly, holding the blade over his head. Light from outside glinted off the darkened steel, making it gleam sinisterly. “I hold Sonsedhor! I am the ancient hero Cheyne Firdin’s rebirth! I am the legend, the perfect tool and chosen agent of the Dark Father himself! I will be obeyed!” Lowering the sword, he charged through the mass of Keidenelle toward the huddled prisoners. At random, he began pointing them out and ordering torturous deaths for them: boiling in oil, slow skinning and dismemberment, disemboweling, burning alive, and every other horrible fate he could probably imagine.

Eventually, his finger found Weslyn, and he began to detail how she would be enclosed in a metal chamber and have a fire set underneath it so she would roast to death. Weslyn’s eyes grew wide with terror. Roark narrowed his and vowed to himself that he would sooner die than allow someone as sweet as Weslyn come to that sort of a death. Somehow, he would find a way to save her and as many others as he could from the sick, twisted whims of this youth who fancied himself Cheyne reborn.

But how could he do it? Even if he somehow managed to free himself and all the prisoners– a nearly impossible feat in itself– the Keidenelle still outnumbered them at least three to one. Then there was the question of interference from the Dark Father. Was he really able to give orders directly to the Keidenelle and to this youth? If so, could he take action to stop any plans Roark tried to act on?

There was too much doubt. It would be difficult enough getting himself out. Weslyn and Sonsedhor were his priorities. Two people would be easier to get out than four hundred.

The young man was still going on with his torture assignments, but he had moved past Weslyn. The merchant girl caught Roark’s gaze. Her dark rich blue eyes were full of terror.

Swallowing, he made himself a different vow. If there’s no other way… if I must, to save her from a worse fate… I’ll kill her myself to save her.

The young man seemed to have tired of his sport in scaring the prisoners. Or maybe he had simply run out of ideas. Either way, he turned now to face Roark. “You’re the one he wants… you’re the one who found Sonsedhor first.” He sneered. “I can’t believe those filthy hands touched my sword…” He turned to the nearest Keidenelle. “If Akotherian wants him alive, take him to him. Get this usurper out of my sight.”
As a pair of Keidenelle dragged Roark from the chamber, the last things he saw were Weslyn’s terrified eyes and the youth fastening the re-sheathed Sonsedhor to his own belt.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Forty

2010-07-07T04:35:00.000-07:00

Kemeny could see why Weslyn was attracted to Draegon when he stripped down to almost nothing. He wasn’t muscular, but he was well-built and lean, and there was enough definition to his muscles to know they were there. She wondered whether or not Weslyn had actually seen Draegon without his shirt on. If not, she was in for a treat whenever she did. If she ever did. For a moment, Kemeny actually considered stealing him away from Weslyn, but she overcame that desire quickly.

By the time she had decided not to start flirting with Draegon, the bard had crept down the hill and was nearly to the closest Keidenelle wagon. He had chosen his target and waited for the better part of two hours until finally, it was left unguarded. There weren’t any prisoners tied to it, and it was on the outermost edge of the masses. She just hoped he could reach it unseen.

Holding her breath, she watched him approach the wagon, keeping a lookout for unwanted guests. He finally reached it, rummaged around in the back of it until he came away with a large bundle. He hurried back up the hill to her and Zanthys, panting, and showed off his prize: an assortment of clothes, mostly sewn animal hides– some with the fur still on– just like the Keidenelle wore.

He sorted through the bundle until he came across some pieces that looked like they would fit him. Once he had gotten dressed, he looked like he would fit in perfectly with the crowd down there.

“How do I look?” he asked somewhat dismally. She could tell he was having a hard time really coming to terms with what he was doing.

“Silly,” Zanthys muttered.

“Almost perfect,” she replied, drowning out the snide lordling. “Hang on.” She bent down and rubbed her hands in the dirt for a moment, then ran her hands over his face and arms and through his hair. Once she was done, he was thoroughly dirty and had very mussed hair. “Now it’s perfect. I almost don’t recognize you.”

“I you’re sure…” he said, producing a length of rope from his bundle. He bound her and Zanthys’s wrists– with more than a little protesting on Zanthys’s part– and ran between their necks, making them part of his own little prisoner line. “This should work… One more thing.”

He took his instrument cases, wrapped them in a few of the unused articles of Keidenelle clothing, and fastened the whole bundle to Zanthys’s back. “I am not leaving my instruments out here. Well… let’s go.”

“Do you even know how to get in?” Zanthys said suddenly, his face contorted in anger. “These are savages we’re talking about! They’ll mark you for civilized the moment you open your mouth! How can you really expect to pull this off? It’ll never work!”

“I’m working on it!“ Draegon snapped back. Taking the end of the lead line in his hand, he led them down the hill. When they reached the swarm of savages outside the city gates, Kemeny heard Draegon take in a breath and hold it. She didn’t blame him; she wanted to hold her breath, too. But what they needed was for the charade to work. She hung her head, trying to look like a beaten prisoner.

As they moved among the wagons, no one gave them a second glance. Sweat appeared on the back of Draegon’s neck– the only part of him she could really see as he led them. He was terrified. Still, in some distant past, he was one of them. She felt sorry for him.

He led them in a winding pattern, slowly making their way to the gate. He breathed again, and she could tell his ears were cocked, trying to pick up bits of conversation, to learn how they spoke to each other. Kemeny made an effort to listen, too. She picked up broken bits she could understand– fragmented, poorly constructed sentences– that were aimed at prisoners that were still among the wagons. But to each other they spoke a completely different language, guttural and strange-sounding to her ears. Now she was getting frightened. How was he going to pull this off?

They finally reached the gate. Before the bard could open his mouth to say a word to the few lingering savages who seemed to be guarding it, they were swept through by the current of people, and then they were in the city. Letting out a whoosh of air in relief, they kept walking. The current continued to pull them, leading them towards the ruler’s castle.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Thirty-Nine

2010-07-02T00:40:00.001-07:00

Becca could hardly sit still as she looked at the piles of papers and tapes on the desk in front of her. So much information, that before had been nothing but cryptic…… but she thought she might have some answers now.

The personalities her patients had made for themselves… weren’t even part of this world. It seemed painfully obvious now. Even though it had baffled her so long. She felt sheepish that she had let that theory escape her. Just because she didn’t read fantasy novels didn’t mean no one else did. More calls to family and friend contacts had earned her the answers that yes, all five patients were huge fantasy literature nerds. Even Vale hadn’t been able to hide that from his coworkers. Lord of the Rings, The Wheel of Time, A Song of Ice and Fire, Dune… all five were avid readers who, long before coming to Ighosia Falls, escaped into other words via novels. Now their worlds had become real, and they were part of it.

But their profiles suggested that all five had split their personalities before being committed, Dr. Anderson would ask. Becca thought she had her mentor pegged and knew how she would respond to this new theory. If that were true, if their personalities were developed before coming to Ighosia Falls, then how did they become so connected?

Becca thought she had the answer to that, too. The characters Cheyne and Masithina– the names had been given to her by Becky– were already part of the world. Looking back, she knew she had heard those names mentioned before, but not as direct address toward someone, so she didn’t think they were Emery’s or Joanna’s alternate persona. But the world was familiar to both patients. It was contrived by them as an adventure game when they were children. It was only natural that when their minds split, they would cling to something familiar, something from a happier time. That would explain the two of them.

Ryan… his study of mythology, legend, and fantastical writing, as well as his emotional sensitivity and creativity could connect him with them. His recent work on the Tyrfing opera would have given him another tie to Emery’s sword, Sonsedhor.

Lydia was much simpler. She had a need to belong, a desperation to be accepted and loved. That would have been enough to pull her in: the need to be part of a group.

Vale was more difficult. What could draw him into such a group? His coworkers had given her the answer: jealously. He hated being excluded.

Everything made sense all of a sudden. But what to do with this knowledge? Helping her patients was the ultimate goal; understanding them was just the first step. So how could she treat them when they were in a completely different world? Rowarck, Weslyn, Draygun, Sen, Kimminy, Jaden, and Xanthis had no idea where they were really, probably had no clue what a doctor or a mental hospital were. They were so deep in their delusions, their alternate world, that she wouldn’t fit in. She wouldn’t know what to do anyway, to interact with them.

She could very easily turn her speculation and research over to Dr. Anderson for her input, and maybe eventually publish a study about them, but to what end? She still hadn’t cured anything. At best, it was still all conjecture.

What could she really do differently anyway? For months, none of the patients had responded to any sort of therapy, group or individual. None of them had even acknowledged the presence of a psychiatrist. Which of them was the real person now, the body’s identity or the mind’s? Was Emery truly and completely Rowarck now? Was Joanna Sen or Kimminy? Or was she still Jo?

She finally decided that all she could really do was wait and see how things panned out. Would they stay like this indefinitely, or was this their own form of therapy? Things like that had been known to happen. They might just one day snap out of it.

It could go any way.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Thirty-Eight

2010-06-30T04:21:00.000-07:00

“This isn’t exactly what I hoped my first visit to Estria would be like,” Zanthys said.

Draegon couldn’t agree with him more, although he had been to Estria before, multiple times. The Gilded City was just on the other side of the hill they were on. They could see the shining walls– and the blackness around it that unsettled them all greatly– but he couldn’t even begin trying to figure out how to get into the city to talk to Jaidyn. The whole city was swarming with Keidenelle, and they even had numerous camps outside the golden walls.

Wagons were scattered everywhere, and there were people tied in lines to them–prisoners, most likely. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The savages milled about between wagons, some occasionally looking at the nothingness that brought the horizon closer all around them. Looking behind him, Draegon swallowed at the blackness far off behind them. If they had stayed a few more days in Morena… what had become of the city?

He rummaged in his pack for a spyglass, hoping against all odds that he might see some way to get in through the mass of Keidenelle. Before he could even raise the glass to his eye, he heard an uproar from the crowd below him.

A wagon was racing toward them, coming up the road from almost the same direction he and his companions had. A number of Keidenelle and bound prisoners were sprinting next to the wagon, all racing ahead of the blackness that crept gradually towards them all. When it finally reached the edge of the gathered masses, the wagon slowed to a stop. He lifted the glass to his eye then.

He supposed the two big Keidenelle men were leaders of some sort. They were talking animatedly, and one of them began shouting at the other gathered people. They parted, a path opening up to allow the wagon to reach the city gate. The line of prisoners began moving.

Draegon’s heart leapt into his throat. Weslyn was among the prisoners, her wrists bound together and a rope around her neck joining her to the line of other prisoners. Every fiber of him screamed to go and rescue her, but his head cried against it. He would stand no chance of getting in and getting her out in that crowd. Watch and wait for a chance, he told himself. He forced himself to rip his looking glass from her and scanned the prisoner line slowly, searching for Roark. He found the soldier tied separately, at the driver’s seat of the wagon, right behind the horses. He was being kept separate from the other prisoners. He looked dismal, beaten. His hands were covered with some reddish-brown filth. Dried blood? He didn’t have to check to know he didn’t have Sonsedhor on him. The Keidenelle would have disarmed all their prisoners.

The wagon passed into the city. Still peering through the spyglass, he glanced over the interior of the city. The Keidenelle filled the streets. The great ruler’s palace was close enough that he could make out some detail, even at this distance. All the balconies of the great building were teeming with savages, too.

“I’ll wager anything that’s where Jaidyn is,” he said once Kemeny and Zanthys had taken looks into the city. He returned the spyglass to his own eye and watched as the wagon Roark and Weslyn had come with stopped outside the palace. Roark was released from the wagon, and the lead of the prisoner line untied and led into the palace, the whole line– including his Weslyn– trailing after. A Keidenelle woman rummaged in the wagon and came out with a sheathed sword Draegon was fairly certain was Sonsedhor. She followed after the prisoners.

He lowered the spyglass and thought deeply. He began to feel nubm when he realized what he was considering. But it might have been the only way to save Weslyn and Roark.

“Do you think they all know each other?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Kemeny replied. “But there are a lot of them. Thousands. They can’t know everyone, can they? Why?”

“Because…… I think I might know how to get in and save them. But… do you trust me?”

Zanthys opened his mouth, no doubt to respond negatively, but Draegon cut him off. “Zan, you don’t have a choice. You’re to blame for a lot of this as it is; you do what I say. But you, Kemeny, do you trust me?”

After a moment, she nodded.

Draegon was glad his hair had returned to its normal color.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Thirty-Seven

2010-06-26T19:37:00.000-07:00

The café where Becca met with Becky was small enough to be called quaint, but large enough to do very good business. Becca and Becky sat in a corner booth– to minimize the number of people that might overhear private information. Becca set up a small tape recorder with Becky’s permission and asked her to elaborate on her friendship with Joanna.

“Well, like most girls, we played pretend a lot. But unlike most girls, we didn’t just play at being princesses, the damsels in distress who required knights in shining armor to rescue them. We did our own rescuing. We were princesses sometimes, but we were also Robin Hood-esque brigands and pirates and tribal savages and everything we could think of. There were times when Emery would join in, as a soldier or a knight or a nobleman; he never liked playing princes or kings– too boring.

“But it wasn’t just one adventure and then a completely different one next time. Our games were all connected. They could have written a history of their world based on the adventures they had, one after another. The world was the same, with the same places, kingdoms, and all that. Our characters got older, got married, had children…

“Now, when you think of an imaginary character having a child, say… one of my brigands having a daughter… I think most girls would make that daughter, grown up of course, her next character to pretend to be. Not us. We didn’t want to be people from the same family, the same part of our world. We wanted to branch out, to create other families, other pasts that would change who we were when we played. But we didn’t want to just start from scratch with new characters, either. We wanted to be able to remember what we had done in the past, let the villains we made up come back more than once.

“It was Jo’s idea. She had learned about the idea of reincarnation from… somewhere… and she ran with it. Our new characters were our old characters reborn. They were, as we came to term them, ‘rebirths’. A rebirth could remember everything her past lives had done, back for centuries as our games went on.”

Becca thought the whole concept was interesting, but it didn’t really shed any light on her patients’ behavior… or did it. “Does the word Sawnseddor mean anything to you? Or Tyrfing?”

“Sonsedhor?! Oh my God, I haven’t heard that name in a long time! Sonsedhor was Emery’s sword! The sword all his characters used. In all the games he joined in on, it tied his characters together. Since he didn’t always play, his men sort of became legends in our world. Sonsedhor was a legend, too, since no one but Emery’s characters could use it.”

“Was it ever cursed?” Becca asked, thinking of the information she had managed to look up about Tyrfing. A cursed sword from Norse myth, it had forced its wielder to do murder every time it was unsheathed. When Ryan had spoken of it, he had used its name interchangeably with Sonsedhor.

“Cursed? Sonsedhor? Never! It was a great sword, a tool of good. Never evil.”

“So what happened to your friendship. You said Emery and Joanna dated in high school?”

“Mm-hmm. For almost a year. Then, not long before Emery graduated, they got into some big fight, but I don’t know what it was about. A few weeks later, Emery was off to college and Jo and I had fallen apart by then. Everything was just…… over. But our games… what we had… you can’t forget a friendship like that.”

“Do you know if Emery and Joanna kept in contact?”

“I doubt it. Emery pretty much abandoned the family while he was still in college. I can’t see him keeping in touch with Jo after what happened. I think their fight was the last time they saw each other.”

“Until they came to Ighosia Falls.”

Becky nodded.

Becca wanted to burst. Finally, some answers!

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Thirty-Six

2010-06-22T17:11:00.001-07:00

Rebekah chattered about her brother for nearly ten minutes before Becca could get a word in. How was Emery? Was he behaving? Doing well in treatments? Had he asked about her at all? Has he made any friends there or is he still closed up in his shell? If Becca hadn’t known better, she would have thought Emery’s younger sister was actually his mother.

When she finally got to start asking the questions, she mentioned the other patients first, hoping vainly for a bit. The files told her none of the patients had known each other before coming to Ighosia Falls, but she still wanted to have all her bases covered. She didn’t expect to get anywhere with it, but…

“Joanna Bailey? I remember Jo! She and I met in elementary school. Jo’s two years older than I am, but that didn’t stop us from becoming friends! Oh, my gosh, I haven’t heard anything from her for years! Is she a patient there? Pity. What happened?”

As much as Becca wished she could, she wasn’t allowed to give Rebekah information on Joanna’s condition. Rebekah– “Oh please, call me Becky!”– understood completely, thank goodness.

“Jo and I were best friends through elementary school and into junior high. But when I was in seventh grade– Jo was in ninth, and Emery was a senior– the two of them started dating. As much as I hate to admit it, I was angry. Emery did steal my best friend. My and Jo’s friendship sort of petered out that year. But it was okay. She made other friends in high school and I had friends my own age. Things like that happen.

“But while we were friends, we always had our heads together. We played “Pretend” a lot, even into middle school.” Becca thought she could hear the blush in Becky’s voice. “We were both tomboys, so we didn’t exactly pretend we were going out to lunch dates and having tea parties and stuff. We had adventures. Jo loved He-Man.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. Becca wondered if Becky’s cell phone had dropped the call. But then Becky’s voice came back. “Would you like to meet in person and talk more? You seem really interested in this. And I really hate phones.”

Becca couldn’t agree quickly enough.

Weslyn hated watching the nightly ritual that the Keidenelle forced Roark into. Every night, the savages made a ring around him, gave him an opponent, and made him fight to the death. Sometimes the opponents were Keidenelle, sometimes prisoners. Either way, it always ended the same. Roark would fight against the curse Sonsedhor had put on him, fight against his urge to kill the person in front of him, but in the end, he had blood on his hands. The Keidenelle he fought were fighting for their own honor and were determined to make him fear for his own life. Some of the prisoners thought winning could earn them their freedom, or maybe better treatment. Whatever their reasons, they always fought back, and Roark was forced to kill them. She could tell he tried to make it painless, make their deaths as painless and merciful as possible, but sometimes that just wasn’t an option.

Tonight, he was against a slim Keidenelle man who only came up to his shoulder. The little man was quick and held himself ready to attack. He and Roark circled each other, each looking for his opportunity. The ring of Keidenelle onlookers shouted cheers, jeers, and insults at them, depending on which one they had bet on. She had noticed– more than once– weapons, loot, and even children changing hands as betting losses were paid.

The Keidenelle man made a feint, trying to catch Roark off-guard. Roark didn’t even twitch, somehow knowing the feint for what it was. The man feinted again, then stepped quickly the other way, trying to get around Roark. But Roark was having none of it. He twisted to face the Keidenelle man and his hands shot out, grabbing the man by shoulder and wrist. There was a quick jerk, a sick pop, and the man’s shoulder was dislocated. Weslyn had to hand it to the man; his pain tolerance was high. He didn’t let out so much as a gasp or a short shriek as his shoulder came out of place.

She looked at Roark’s hands as he held the Keidenelle man still for a moment. Weeks of fights had left his hands blood-stained. Not all fights went as non-violently as this one had. They never let Roark wash, so the blood of his victims had left his hands a sickly red-brown.

How did they know what Sonsedhor had done to him? They had singled Roark out that second night they were with the band, and he had been forced to fight every night since. Was it mere chance? She didn’t think so. Somehow, the Keidenelle knew.

The fire dance would begin once the fight was over. Every night, after the fight, the Keidenelle dismembered the loser and tossed him or her into the gigantic fire they made. They danced and chanted. It was some sort of ritual, she thought, but she didn’t know what it was for.

“Think of your friends, your family!” Roark’s voice rang over the cheers and insults. Weslyn looked up at him. Or rather, down at him. Roark had fallen to his knees in front of the Keidenelle man, but he wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were focused much further up, to the sky. “There is something to live for. You have lots to live for! What about your parents? Your dreams! There is a future beyond this!”

One of the Keidenelle shrieked and pointed to the sky. Weslyn’s eyes followed her pointing and at first, didn’t know what she was pointing at. But then, in the distance, a star winked out. And another. Minutes ticked by, and stars winked out, like a black curtain was being drawn over them, far away but gradually creeping nearer. Her eyes clouded for a moment, and she closed them to try and refocus. When she closed them, though, a face appeared in front of her. It was a young girl, a teenager, tall and beautiful with sleek brown hair and brown eyes and a petulant mouth. A name popped into her head to go with the face.

“Lauren……” she whispered, bursting into tears. The image inside her eyelids faded and she opened her eyes. But instead of seeing the ring of Keidenelle, Roark and his opponent, she saw a garden in full bloom, a flowering courtyard, complete with a small pond and stone benches. She was sitting on one such bench– she could feel the stone beneath her bottom.

Another name came into her head. Lydia…

She kept crying. She’d never felt more confused or lost in her life. Who were Lauren and Lydia? What was that garden? Where?

A heavy, deep-voiced grunt brought her abruptly back to reality. The slim Keidenelle man had resumed the fight on his own. He was beating the still-kneeling Roark about his head and shoulders with his one good arm and kicking his lower back. Blood began trickling down Roark’s face in a handful of places: his nose, one of his ears, cuts on his scalp and forehead.

The Keidenelle were whooping with excitement. Would Roark be killed? Would they let him die? He had killed so many…

She shouted his name but was drowned out by the din the savages were making. More blows landed on Roark’s ears and shoulders. The Keidenelle man danced around him, taunting in between strikes.

Without warning, Roark bounded into his opponent and knocked him to the ground. He planted himself atop the other man’s chest, seized his head in his hands…

A quick twist, and the fight was over. The onlookers went silent. Wordlessly, Roark rose, strode through the stunned crowd and walked the short distance back to the wagons where Weslyn was. He stood with his wrists together, waiting to be tied back up.

Roark had only glanced at her once, for a brief second, but she had seen something different behind his eyes.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Thirty-Five

2010-06-18T18:21:00.000-07:00

Senne’s view from the balcony in the palace in Estria was really breathtaking. In the fading light of sunset, the city practically glowed, every fleck of gold glinting in the last rays of the day. It would have been beautiful, had the strange black wall not been in the distance.

She couldn’t say where the horizon was, because the black was there, just… cutting off sight of everything. It was too early for it to be night’s darkness, and too solid a black for it to be anything except… what she had seen a long time ago. For whatever reason, she remembered that blackness. It had been all the way across the river so long ago, then just a bit nearer as recently as a month ago. What was happening to bring it so close now?

Akotherian was sleeping in the next room. The man was still adjusting to being worldly– so he said– and he had to rest often. But she wasn’t tired.

“Sonsedhor and Cheyne are coming,” he had told her days and days ago. His servants were bringing them. But how soon would it be there? And would it do for him what he thought it would? He was concerned. The world was shrinking, he had told her, dying. Slowly, all of the world they was giving way to a bleak blackness even he was afraid of.

But Sonsedhor would fix everything. If only he could take hold of it– take hold of the Mother’s gift to the world– he could force the blackness back. With Sonsedhor in his hands, he could even challenge the Mother herself and take control of everything!

She wondered what happened on the other side of the nothingness. How far in each direction did it really go? Her thoughts went to Hoeth for what felt like the thirtieth time this evening. Had he gone through the blackness to whatever lay on the other side? Was it death? Did the man she thought she might have loved even exist anymore?

The man she thought she might hate– who she had made exist– stirred in the next room. He was her soul. And more than once since she had sacrificed that part of her to him, she had come to realize he was sensitive to her. He could feel her emotions, even the faintest ones. Thinking about Hoeth was dangerous, she chided herself. Akotherian could seize on anything, any weakness, and use it against her. She had sworn complete obedience– and Akotherian would abuse that in an instant and order her to kill Hoeth if the opportunity arose again. She wished she could pray to the Mother that Hoeth would never come back for her. If he did, it would undoubtedly mean his death.

The few whispered words to the mother, her prayer, never came to her lips, but even so it was enough to bring Akotherian to her side. Silently, he wrapped a hand around her throat. But he didn’t squeeze.

“Emery was a great cop,” Deputy Chief Don Harson said over the phone. “Even after his health started going, he was a great example of an officer. Not one of those stereotypical desk-job doughnut cops.” He chuckled. Emery’s old boss seemed pleased with his wit– or lack thereof. “It was that jumper that did him in. But I’m sure you’ve seen the files on that, being at the mental hospital and all.” He rambled on for awhile, not really telling Becca anything new, but the man seemed to really have liked Emery. It was good to see that at least one of her patients had actually had a friend of sorts.

More calls told her that Sarah Landers, Emery’s mother, had passed away half a decade ago. His father Andrew was still alive, though, and Becca decided to give him a try. Even the files told her that Emery and Andrew had never seen eye to eye, but it was worth a shot.

Andrew was less-than-forthcoming concerning his second son. He was still helpful in pointing her in the direction of Emery’s sister Rebekah. The two had been fairly close as children– so he thought.

Excited, Becca hurriedly hung up with Andrew and dialed the number he had given her for Rebekah. She was more than happy to talk about her brother.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Thirty-Four

2010-06-16T04:33:00.000-07:00

Denise Pellin was more than friendly on the phone when Becca called. It had been a few years now since she had heard anything concerning her ex-husband, and she was eager to hear how he was doing. Becca didn’t go into all the details; she didn’t want to worry the woman. Besides, since she and Ryan weren’t married any more, she was no longer privy to his medical information.

When Becca started asking about any peculiarities in Ryan’s behavior before his committal, any strange habits or interests or anything she could benefit from knowing, Denise provided.

“Ryan was always obsessed with mythology. It was an interest he picked up when he was still in grade school, and he was something of an expert by the time I met him. Greek, Roman, Norse, Egyptian, you name it, he knew it. The stories, they were his inspiration. The music he composed was always named after, inspired by, or about some myth or another. It even carried over into our personal life. Our son’s name is Owen… Ryan called him Odin, after the king of the Norse gods. It was sort of a pet name. He’s sixteen now, our son, and he’s actually going by Odin in school now. I suppose it’s his one last tie to his father.

“It’s through Odin that I sort of kept tabs on Ryan after the divorce. He had grown so distant I don’t really think I was part of his thoughts anymore. But he and Odin talked on the phone sometimes, even though from what Odin told me, Ryan just talked about his compositions. He wasn’t very fatherly.”

Over the phone, Becca heard a sniff from Denise. Had she begun sobbing?

“The last I heard before we found out Ryan had been committed, he was working on an opera. It was going to be his masterpiece, Odin told me. About some sword. A cursed one, from Norse mythology. Tyrfing, or something like that.”

Becca nearly dropped the phone. Tyrfing? She had heard that before. She politely ended the conversation and rushed to the viewing room, searching through the tapes of Ryan and the others. When she found the one she was looking for, she popped it into the VCR. There was Ryan, the day he had randomly started singing more than usual. She fast-forwarded to where he had started spouting what sounded like an epic poem. She leaned in and turned up the volume, straining her ears to really pick up what he was saying.

There it was! He’d said “Tyrfing”! He kept using it, and using “Sawnseddor” over and over, interchangeably in what she could make out of the tale. Was this text from his opera? It didn’t matter. She knew what Sawnseddor was. It was a sword!

At first glance, Zanthys didn’t recognize the short young man in the streets of Estria. The young man was bruised and bloody, dusty from travel, and all in all looked like he had seen much more of the world than he wanted to see. In peering beneath the bruises and the dried blood and dust, he recognized Hoeth Karzark. At least, he believed it to be the Karzark boy; that whole family was low-blooded enough to be beneath his notice.

The afternoon found Hoeth in his small family manor. Though reluctant to accept guests, Hoeth’s father showed Zanthys, Kemeny, and Draegon in anyway. Who were the Karzarks to refuse Banjay Advissen’s heir?

Hoeth looked as bad as Zanthys had thought. He might have bathed, since much of the dust was gone from him, but he still looked travel-worn and was completely covered with bruises and bandages that concealed half-healed wounds. He rose as Zanthys entered his sitting room, his eyes completely void of glow and emotion.

“I’ll make this quick,” Zanthys said, shooting a quick glance at Draegon and Kemeny. The two bothered him. “When and where did you last see Jaidyn Huntley?”

“I never want to hear that name again,” Hoeth said weakly. “He lied to me for months, then stole the woman I love and had me beaten nearly to death. Whatever misfortune falls on him is well deserved.”

“But where was he last?” Draegon asked urgently.

Hoeth spat and rubbed at the unkempt facial hair growing on his chin with a shaking hand. “Estria. With a man… a man I believe may be the Dark Father incarnate.”

Zanthys let out a snigger. Children’s stories. But Kemeny and the bard looked ready to believe anything. Kemeny immediately touched Zanthys’s arm. “We know where he is. You’re coming with us to talk some sense into Jaidyn. Hoeth, you should come too. Jaidyn knows you.”

“I’m not going back,” Hoeth said, snapping his head up to look at her. His eyes showed the first bit of emotion they had since the audience first began, and it was fiery refusal. “I’ve been fed nothing but lies since I left, and I’m ready to forget the outside world even exists and stay here. So what if I inherit nothing? The only woman I love is gone. Senne sided with that liar and with the Dark Father. I’ll never see Sonsedhor or the true Cheyne reborn– if he even really exists– and I don’t even care anymore. Go deal with him yourself, and good riddance.”

As they left the Karzark manor house, Kemeny commented, “Wasn’t Senne the name of the woman at the river?”

Zanthys had no idea what she was talking about, but Draegon nodded.

A few quick calls to Lauren Rhys and to Vale’s coworkers told her that Tyrfing meant nothing to them. It wasn’t really a surprise to Becca.

Another round of calls gave her nothing but disconnected numbers and hang-ups. Joanna’s family was unreachable. They really had all abandoned her, and some even had “do not contact” notes in Joanna’s files. No wonder the woman had issues.

Through much searching, she had actually managed to track down phone numbers for both of Lydia’s ex-husbands. Her first husband, Robert– Lauren’s father– hung up the moment he heard Lydia’s name mentioned.

Her second husband, Daniel, did talk for a bit. Lydia had been desperate for love the whole time they dated and all through their marriage. He supposed it stemmed from how badly her first marriage had gone. As time went on, she only got worse: more and more clingy, emotionally demanding, and constantly seeking acceptance. It got to be too much for him. Yes, he probably shouldn’t have gotten abusive, but she had deserved it, even expected and welcomed it.

And no, Sawnseddor and Tyrfing meant nothing to him.

Mere Acquaintances- Chapter Thirty-Three

2010-06-12T04:52:00.000-07:00

Lauren, Lydia’s daughter, was living with a foster family that lived an hour away from Ighosia Falls, and Becca was actually invited to meet with her rather than do their talking on the phone. Lauren was now seventeen, tall and beautiful like her mother, but she had the cold resentment of someone abandoned in her eyes.

The girl was snappish when the subject of her mother was approached, and she had nothing positive to say. It was clear that she blamed Lydia for everything, from her first failed marriage to her mental instability. Lauren wasn’t interested in hearing explanations; she pointed the blame at her mother, and that was that. Becca had been able to look at some of the reports from the group home where Lauren had been staying before placed with her foster family. She had been seeing an appointed therapist, and there was improvement behavior-wise, but she still had a lot of therapy to undergo. A brief phone conversation with Lauren’s therapist– no confidential information was shared, of course– told Becca what she had already figured out: that little or nothing Lauren said concerning her mother could be taken at face value. Lauren was an only child, her father and stepfather had nothing to do with her, her mother was out of reach, her grandparents were dead, and any other extended family was far away and out of touch. Lauren was very alone in the world and wrongly held her mother accountable.

So Lydia and Lauren had no extended family to contact. While she was in the city, she found the bank Lydia had worked for and got in to speak with Maria Ferrera, Lydia’s old manager. “Lydia was always a good teller,” Maria said. “She never brought personal drama with her to work, so I have to say it was a surprise when she broke down like she did. No one here, her coworkers or customers, had any idea what she was going through.”

More dead ends. Well, there were still Lydia’s two ex-husbands who might have something new to tell her. She wrote notes to herself to find them ASAP.

Jaidyn didn’t like this new man who was bossing him around. Akotherian. What a silly name. It was worse than the names of the Keidenelle. The one good thing about the man was that he knew Jaidyn was Cheyne reborn and kept helping him fill those holes in Cheyne’s memories. Akotherian told him things should have been readily remembered but could never quite grasp in his mind. Under Akotherian’s guidance, he was growing more and more comfortable in his role as Cheyne reborn. Once, he actually let Akotherian hold Sonsedhor so the man could affirm it was, in fact, the great sword of legend.

What really bothered him was that Akotherian seemed to think he was in charge. He never actually sat in the ruler’s chair or made decrees, but he seemed to think Jaidyn should obey his every word and whim, and he expected that obedience. Well, he never actually gave a real order or made his own decree, but the effect was the same. People he overheard talking in the castle corridors knew that Akotherian was the real power behind the occupation, even though Jaidyn was really the face of it.

After all, wasn’t it Jaidyn who sat in judgment when a pair of Keidenelle had a squabble? Wasn’t it him who decreed that any female prisoners should be brought to him for inspection. He had already, in just a few short days, built up quite a nice little harem. Some part of him remembered passing a decree like that before. He shook it away. Lexan wasn’t barging into his thoughts now. Akotherian did help with that. And wasn’t he the one with Sonsedhor, with the memories of Cheyne Firdin in his head? Yes, they were incomplete, but whose memories of past lives weren’t full of holes?

The ruler’s chair wasn’t a throne, exactly. Arlennia didn’t have a monarch exactly. Estria, the capital, was the seat of the ruling body. A new ruler was voted on every six years. Well, the poor sap who had been occupying the seat was dead now, slaughtered by that woman, Senne, by order of Akotherian. If there was one other person who never took an order from Jaidyn, it was Senne.

He wasn’t completely sure what it was between Senne and Akotherian. Were they lovers? Partners? What? He had finally come to the conclusion that Akotherian might not be the Mother. At least the man didn’t claim to be her anymore, but he didn’t outright say who he really was. Some sorcerer, perhaps. Either way, he was a thorn in Jaidyn’s side. And Senne was right by him pretty much constantly.

Jaidyn sat in the ruler’s chair idly. No one was bringing him any prisoners to look at today, things were going well. Keidenelle kept coming in, the Arlennians were subdued, and surely word was going out that Cheyne’s rebirth was settled in the city. Soon more followers would come. Soon, he would take his army out of the city and search for this false Cheyne he kept hearing about, this man Roark who served the Dark Father, killing everyone he came across. He was giving Cheyne a bad name, putting fear into the people and generally making Jaidyn’s job harder. He would set things right. Soon the whole world would know who the real Cheyne was.

But for the moment, he was bored.

He slid down from the chair and made for the rooms he had claimed for himself. Akotherian and Senne had taken the former ruler’s rooms for themselves, leaving Jaidyn the second-best rooms in the castle. Another slight, but one he couldn’t argue with. There were times he did have to listen to Akotherian. He was the only one who really kept Lexan’s memories at bay. Besides, his rooms were still spacious and very fine. He would have the best rooms soon enough.

Before he even got to the corridor his rooms were in, he happened upon Akotherian and Senne. They were in their rooms, secluded, but the door was open. As he walked by, he just happened to pass closely to the door, and his ear just happened to lean in enough and strain just enough to hear what the man was saying.

“…have him. My servants found him. At this very moment, they are bringing Cheyne and Sonsedhor to Estria.”

It felt like he had run into a wall. What did he mean “they are bringing Cheyne and Sonsedhor to Estria”? They were already in Estra. He was Cheyne, and his sword was Sonsedhor. Akotherian had told him himself, affirming what Jaidyn already knew.

Or had the bastard been lying? Was everything false?

It couldn’t be. Akotherian was playing a joke on him. That was all. He had heard Jaidyn coming and was playing a little joke. That was all.

Trembling, he hurried to his rooms. A part of his mind screamed at him, telling him that this man wasn’t just some sorcerer, that maybe he was... He forced the thought away. He didn’t want to think about the Dark Father right now.

He flew into his room and closed the door behind him. Where had that thought come from, that Akotherian was the Dark Father? He didn’t follow the Mother’s enemy. But… the man had power. With that kind of power, Jaidyn could challenge the Mother herself. She had abandoned him, abandoned him to this suave, oily… very powerful man. Hadn’t he come and gone at will? Wasn’t he giving Jaidyn everything he wanted? Wasn’t he bringing Sonsedhor– Jaidyn’s birthright– to Estria? If he was the Dark Father, so what? If the Mother had really loved him, she would have stepped in herself and saved him.

He stumbled away from the door and to the ornate marble washstand. There was a small mirror attached to it. He looked up at his reflection. “I serve the Dark Father…” he whispered. A smile crept across his face. “I serve the Dark Father, and I have power!”

He let out a loud laugh that echoed through the room.

Mere Aqcuaintances- Chapter Thirty-Two

2010-06-09T04:24:00.000-07:00

As much as she hated telephones, Becca certainly spent most of her morning on it. She spent a good forty minutes talking with the director of the group home where Vale had spent his late teen years, but the woman didn’t have much to say about Vale’s mental faculties. As a matter of fact, the woman was the former director; she had retired six years ago. And the only reason Becca spent so much time talking with her was because she seemed to be one of those aging ladies who was all alone and just loved having someone to chat with. When Becca asked if Sawnsador meant anything to her, she had to repeat the word four or five times before she just dropped it.

Her next call went out to Vale’s former employers at the newspaper. While some of the coworkers of his that she talked to were interested in hearing how Vale was doing, they had no real insight on Vale’s personal life, either. “He was a very private person,” seemed to be the most common description of the former reporter. Sawnsador meant nothing to them, either, nor did any of the other patients’ names.

She hung up the phone and put her forehead on her hands. She’d talked to a handful of his colleagues, and they’d all said the same thing about Vale– almost verbatim. The only one who had deviated from the mantra about Vale’s personality was a girl who had worked in the mailroom and had claimed to see him everyday. “He always seemed to be the jealous type,” the girl had said. “And even though he never was a group person, he seemed to hate being excluded.”

None of the other journalists could give her the names of any friends Vale might have had outside of work. One man went so far as to say he would be surprised if Vale had friends at all. Becca gave that up as a dead end.

The man who slipped quietly into the rented room Draegon was sharing with Kemeny was dressed well underneath a wide cloak that did little to keep his identity a secret. He had to be Zanthys Advissen, the nobleman they wanted to speak with, even though he didn’t waste time with introductions.

“Tell me where that tale you told came from,” he said, more of an order than a request. Draegon didn’t think this young man had ever been disobeyed. “I’ve never heard that one before, but it seemed… familiar. Where was it from?”

Kemeny had agreed to take the lead in this, since Draegon was still feeling a little off from performing the night before. She had told him what had happened, but he didn’t remember anything from what she said happened. He had completely blacked out, felt like he was falling, like he was somewhere else, or even… someone else. It had been distant, though, strange and familiar all at once. It was disconcerting. He was still shuddering now and then just thinking about it.

Kemeny gave Zanthys the whole story, starting from the four of them joining up in the Search and then Roark finding Sonsedhor. She gave him lots of details, from where they found Sonsedhor to the looks on their faces to the colors of the flowers and the scent in the air. Draegon was both surprised and impressed– the girl could certainly tell a story.

When she started detailing just what Sonsedhor had done to Roark– the curse– Zanthys went pale. He said nothing, however, and Kemeny didn’t comment. She just went on and finished the story.

Zanthys swallowed, letting the silence linger, and looked ready to leave. Draegon wasn’t about to let that happen. Something was up here. This lordling was holding something from them. “Now tell us about this Jaidyn,” Draegon said, suppressing another shiver. “You say he’s proven himself to you that he’s Chyne reborn. Tell us how that is, when we’ve seen another man holding Sonsedhor.”

The proud young man eyed the door, looked back at them, eyed the door again, and swallowed. Kemeny, her attention now on him rather than on telling her story, realized what he was considering and pulled a chair between Zanthys and the door, plopping herself down into it. “Yes. We’re very interested in hearing about Jaidyn.”

He went even paler at the sight of his escape route being blocked, and now Draegon and Kemeny had him flanked. He glanced warily from one to the other. Draegon swore he could see the sweat starting to form on the his forehead.

“It was a fake, alright? I had a sword made to look like Sonsedhor! It was just a hoax! Who could believe that the sniveling Jaidyn Huntley was actually Cheyne reborn? I overheard him telling Hoeth Karzark at the onset of the Search, and I thought it would be funny to play a joke on him. It was just a joke! I planted the sword for him to find, but… he never did… where you said this Roark found it…… that’s where I left it. I followed Jaidyn to Dracmere. I knew he couldn’t be the real rebirth… it was a joke…”

All this he spilled out, practically spinning in place to say a few words to Draegon, a few words to Kemeny. The little contortionist glared at him. “Well, Zanthys, my lord, that prank of yours has caused much more trouble than it was worth, and no laughs.”

“Kemeny,” Draegon said, “but if not for that plant, Roark might not have ever found Sonsedhor…”

“Maybe not, but who’s to say it’s really the time for him? I mean… what danger is the world really in that we need Cheyne back? Not to mention the sword is cursed! Maybe this has all gone wrong!”

“The Mother’s plans don’t go wrong, Kemeny.”

“Well, the plans of men do. And I’m not going to let this little prudish lordling get out of righting his wrongs.” She seized Zanthys’s arm. “I’m not sure how, but we’re sorting this out, and you’re coming with us.”

Draegon raised an eyebrow. “Um, Kemeny? Where exactly are we going?”