tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43491927734500409162024-03-05T03:48:10.584-06:00LacunaA Journal of Historical FictionUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-3698257653612183422013-10-15T00:11:00.000-05:002013-10-15T17:38:26.437-05:00Issue 9: October 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilANI8jo97w3TZo9Hi44b43mfqQErhtRLZHSkqY_o2E1z-g6tFB-8i9J6n-ckCL3ikRhs3LSYBaW5QZ-GdZVlUoai4YvsOq5se-_xfMwXQG1PG8yusnRclM4SENRl0mfWnNmvjUlz3AnE/s1600/Oct2013+Lacuna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilANI8jo97w3TZo9Hi44b43mfqQErhtRLZHSkqY_o2E1z-g6tFB-8i9J6n-ckCL3ikRhs3LSYBaW5QZ-GdZVlUoai4YvsOq5se-_xfMwXQG1PG8yusnRclM4SENRl0mfWnNmvjUlz3AnE/s1600/Oct2013+Lacuna.jpg" /></a></div>
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<strong> If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.</strong><br />
<em>~Rudyard Kipling</em></center>
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<strong>Contents</strong> </center>
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<blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/to-lead-to-follow.html" target="_blank">To Lead; To Follow</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Nathan%20C.%20Juhl" target="_blank">Nathan C. Juhl</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/caught-on-film.html" target="_blank">Caught on Film</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/WC%20Roberts" target="_blank">WC Roberts</a></div>
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<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/breaking-law.html" target="_blank">Breaking the Law</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Marilyn%20Levy" target="_blank">Marilyn Levy</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/death-of-enlil.html" target="_blank">Death of Enlil</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Dawn%20Albright" target="_blank">Dawn Albright</a></div>
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<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-eternal-flame.html" target="_blank">The Eternal Flame</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Cynthia%20D.%20Witherspoon" target="_blank">Cynthia D. Witherspoon</a></div>
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<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/riley-forkluck-davis.html" target="_blank">Riley Forkluck Davis</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Rigina%20Gallagher" target="_blank">Rigina Gallagher</a></div>
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<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/paganinis-secret.html" target="_blank">Paganini’s Secret</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/David%20Wright" target="_blank">David Wright</a></div>
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<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/instructions-given-for-discovery-and_15.html" target="_blank">Instructions Given for the Discovery and Eradication of Apostasy</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Justin%20Evans" target="_blank">Justin Evans</a></div>
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<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/julia.html" target="_blank">Julia</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Susan%20Phillips" target="_blank">Susan Phillips</a></div>
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<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/a-sword-for-king.html" target="_blank">A Sword for the King</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/G.%20K.%20Werner" target="_blank">G. K. Werner</a></div>
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<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/10/why-fiction.html" target="_blank">Why Fiction? </a>by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Matt%20P.%20Jager" target="_blank">Matt P. Jager</a></div>
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<strong>Introduction and Farewell</strong></center>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Dear
Readers,<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">With mixed
sadness and relief, I welcome you to the final issue of <i>Lacuna: A Journal of Historical Fiction.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">When <i>Lacuna</i> first closed to fiction and poetry
submissions last August, I had intended to continue the journal in a new
format at a later date. This trial hiatus, however, has reminded me how much time and energy I was
sacrificing to keep up with submissions, editing, and formatting. The
<a href="http://meganarkenberg.blogspot.com/2012/06/lacuna.html">reservations</a> that I expressed last June about the quality of submissions
and my own qualifications as an editor of historical fiction remain, and are
compounded by a number of recent changes in my personal and professional life:
a cross-country move, a new occupation as a graduate student, the need to focus
on my own writing, and the desire to make myself more available for new editing
projects. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">I
acknowledge and regret the continuing dearth of markets for short historical
fiction. Lacuna readers will be excited to discover (if they haven’t already discovered)
<a href="http://circajournal.com/">Circa: A Journal of Historical Fiction</a>, edited by Lacuna contributor <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennifer%20Falkner">Jennifer Falkner</a>, which has already released two fantastic issues. If you are
considering opening a historical fiction journal and need advice or publicity,
please feel free to <a href="mailto:markenberg@yahoo.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">contact me</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Editing
Lacuna was an experience - at times exciting, at times draining, always instructive
and enlightening. I am honored to have been able to publish so many original,
creative, resonant works of fiction and poetry. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Thank you for reading. When you
have finished enjoying this issue, please browse the many fantastic stories and
poems in our archives.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">I am happy
to answer any questions in the comments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Sincerely,
and with gratitude,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Megan
Arkenberg</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Editor</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-42966868163073085032013-10-15T00:10:00.000-05:002013-10-15T17:41:26.420-05:00To Lead; To Follow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qrdZoNZKxSN0WHkHrEP8_wbroildLZX2XPLU2OVIhzOAQ-k2SlBCer7omzICoSSYSRvcKAcIjMCyv8azWAY3W_CNWO7yRjP0ea2ekYPtUVVdH9Q7fg3VxM1i6XguWtZddrNYjmZU52g/s1600/To+Lead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qrdZoNZKxSN0WHkHrEP8_wbroildLZX2XPLU2OVIhzOAQ-k2SlBCer7omzICoSSYSRvcKAcIjMCyv8azWAY3W_CNWO7yRjP0ea2ekYPtUVVdH9Q7fg3VxM1i6XguWtZddrNYjmZU52g/s400/To+Lead.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>To Lead; To Follow</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>by Nathan C. Juhl</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Overture</b></i></div>
The two men walked slowly into the room, each at his own pace. One led, the other followed. The first, a younger man, gestured toward a chair sitting in the corner as he took his jacket off. Before the follower, an older gentleman, reached the chair, the young man stretched out and took the follower’s ivy cap, overcoat, scarf and gloves.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The first man took the articles of clothing and laid them down one at a time. The cap, slightly slanted at the front. The long overcoat, black and gray with small clumps of matter caked into the fabric. The gloves, a rich black leather with a fur-like interior. The scarf, dark gray to match the coat. Each was set gently on top of another and placed on the gold and red couch. The younger man moved over and shut the door, taking his keys out and setting them on the polished wood table beside the door.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Can you sit in the chair for me?”<br />
<br />
His words were soft but held a firm tone, the statement less a question and more of a command. The follower nodded weakly and put his hands in his pockets. He stopped in front of the chair, turning slowly to face the leader. He calmly reached down and tugged his own pants at the knee, dragging them higher so that his socks showed. Looking up, the follower once again glanced at the leader’s face, and then sat down, connecting with the chair with a soft <i>thud</i>.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Over There</b></i></div>
“Corporal Barnett, you’ll be commanding the squad moving beyond those hills. Keep close with the rest of the platoon. Is that understood?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
I look up at my commanding officer; his face is filled with the same emotionless expression I’m so used to by now. His helmet has been shot at least once, grazed to the right by a stray bullet. The joke is that he keeps it on for good luck, though the man seems to care little for such things as luck.<br />
<br />
“Yes sir, those hills, sir. It’ll be done.”<br />
<br />
I salute him and walk over to my squad. It has been two weeks since we landed at Normandy, in that bloody mess of Omaha Beach. Every man in the 30th Division has thanked God that he didn’t see any of the action there. The men I’m to lead are huddled together, as privates often are before the battle. Of course, how the hell would I know. This is my first engagement too. Seeing the elephant, they used to call it. I sure don’t see any damn elephants here.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Alright men, the Krauts are just over those hills. We’ve got air support coming in on their position to give us the leg up. A lot of it’s going to be us though.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
This is the first for all of us. But we’re going to take Saint-Lô come hell or high water.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Stop Being Passive</b></i></div>
He had left in ’41 in love with her. He returned a somber stump. He wasn’t the man she had loved, wasn’t the same twenty-first year old who had gone off in glory.<br />
<br />
“Harold…”<br />
<br />
He was silent, didn’t look up to her. A small glass of scotch sat idly in his hand.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Harold, please talk to me. I can’t… I can’t do this. I can’t follow you around like this anymore. I can’t be the only one who cares about us.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
He still didn’t move. Her words seemed to echo, hitting every inch of the room except for him.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Harold Barnett, you look at me! I’m tired of it! I’m through!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She stomped out of the room, not looking at him. Not noticing the tears in his eyes.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Timing is Everything</b></i></div>
“The air was thick and the clouds were low, but I still should have seen it coming. Saint-Lô was right there, and the Germans were close, but I still missed our planes overhead. Why would I notice them? I didn’t. Not until the red smoke hit my face and their first bomb fell into our ranks.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>How Kids Have Their Phases</b></i></div>
The boy held the stick close to his chest, one hand high and the other low. The foliage covered much of the area and the angle of the valley made it a much better hiding spot. The other boys, their own sticks held close like his, hadn’t spotted him yet. His own group all lay around the area, on their stomach and awaiting his order. Their spot was too good. He smiled.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Jumping up just as the last boy walked past their position, he shouted, “Attack!” Harold and his ragtag eleven year old force pounced in an ambush, his stick troops fighting to victory.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>The Dream, The Nightmare</b></i></div>
“They were falling again. And again. And again. Each one exploding and hurling earth into my face. The air grew hot from it all. I began to run, trying to find the cover that wasn’t there. Finally it came, the hit I was waiting for. It knocked me on the ground, the upheaved ground throwing itself at my face. I could feel my leg, feel it like I never had before.”<br />
<br />
Harold burst from the mattress, sweat sliding down his skin. The blanket stuck to him like metal to a magnet. He would have to get to sleep soon. His Dental Admission Test was tomorrow, and he had to do well on it.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Come hell or high water.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Appointments</b></i></div>
<i><u>Schedule for November 22, 1963</u></i><br />
Mrs. Eleanor Miller- Toothache<br />
Mr. John Erickson- Dental Extraction: Molar<br />
Master Daniel Barnum- Cavity<br />
Master Matthew Barnum- Cavity<br />
Miss Sarah Barnum- Cavity<br />
Mr. Christopher Barnum- Grinds Teeth in Sleep<br />
<i>Dr. Harold Barnett: Dentist</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Down and Out</b></i></div>
“Bring the litter over!”<br />
<br />
“How is he?”<br />
<br />
“Seems to have a concussion, maybe a few broken bones. His leg is pretty torn up, though.”<br />
<br />
“Alright, get him outta here. Hold on, Corporal. You’ll be okay.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Read All About It!</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
THE TIMES</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
June 26, 1944</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FRIENDLY FIRE ON THE FRONT!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
AT LEAST 100 DEAD!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
LT. GENERAL DEAD!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
General Eisenhower states that yesterday the American 30th Infantry Division was accidentally bombed by Allied planes. At least 100 dead, including the first death of an American general, Lt. Gen. Leslie McNair. President Roosevelt has yet to address this incident.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Slide. Thud.</b></i></div>
Slide. Thud. Slide. Thud. Slide. Thud. Sit. Silence.<br />
<br />
“Harold, we’ve got your test back. You’ll be able to walk again, and soon. But it won’t ever be quite the same. After the physical therapy that limp should go away, though… Harold? Are you listening?”<br />
<br />
Silence. Stand. Slide. Thud. Slide. Thud. Slide. Thud.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Goodnight</i></b></div>
The leader had already stripped down the follower and replaced his clothing. The outfit he now wore was loose around his body. No longer were there shoes on his feet, which annoyed him. Instead the follower wore thick socks that made him slide on the wood floor. The younger man walked in front, escorting the older man to the mattress. The leader tapped the soft comforter.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Sit right here for me.”<br />
<br />
The old man nodded softly, going over and sitting down on the spot that had been touched. Sensing what was next, he stretched out and laid his head down, bringing his legs and feet over the edge of the mattress and onto its warm surface. The young man pulled the blanket over the follower’s body and watched as he grabbed and pulled it over his own head. The leader smiled slightly, and then turned away. He grabbed his coat and his keys and opened the door, looking into the room. His hand found the switch on the wall and one last time he smiled.<br />
<br />
“I’ll see you in the morning, Doc Harold. Have a goodnight.”<br />
<br />
The ninety-one year old man in the bed mumbled something, which satisfied the nurse.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Nathan C. Juhl </b>is a senior in college in Kentucky. He writes all forms of genres, mainly horror and historical fiction. He has been writing since he was eleven. Since then he has written two plays, one musical, and a collection of poems, songs, and short stories. This is the first time that he has been published. Nathan plans to not only write more short stories, but to get non-fiction work published as well. <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.234375px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nathan would like to dedicate this story to Eleanor Juhl (1941-2013), who always wanted to see him published.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<b>Where do you get the ideas for your stories?</b></div>
<div>
Well, it really depends on the story that I’m writing. For instance, this story was inspired by a man I took care of when I worked in an assisted living facility. While not completely his story, it is inspired from his life and I hope that I’ve done justice to him. Usually I get my ideas from books or movies that I read, my mind wanders off to, <i>What if this happened? What if it was told from this perspective?</i>, and it just rolls off from there.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction story?</b></div>
<div>
The most important part of any story is plot and characters. A story that isn’t well developed isn’t worth reading. What makes historical fiction different is that you have to actually try and make a place that hasn’t existed for years come back to life. While science fiction does this, it creates its own world, but in historical fiction you are taking something that actually happened and putting in on the page. The most important part of historical fiction writing is understanding that, understanding that when you write you are talking about real people, a real time period that existed. People lived, loved, were sad and happy and confused and disappointed just like you were. They were real, as real as anyone you know. You have to respect and cherish that.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<b>What advice do you have for other historical fiction writers?</b></div>
<div>
Research. Research research research. Know what you are talking about. Because you don’t want a reader to get two paragraphs into a story and stare at some phrase you used that didn’t exist during the time period. It will throw them off and that ruins the experience for them. The most important thing to do is understand the culture that you are representing. You might not need to read every book written on the subject (though I’ll admit I try), but you need to be able to understand who you are writing. Pick a period that you love and have a passion for. Make characters who you would want to be or who you would want to watch. And have a hell of a good time doing it.</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-23154582569460645802013-10-15T00:09:00.000-05:002013-10-15T00:09:00.548-05:00Caught on Film<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTr3A4riW0hK88FxTpMGm9tUD9Y-wbPDvJzrQF_PNaDpM6TGPzqgksI2qZi1Mk63Ti1rCmWbb-S0bYBq-dVrrLnRO4YB3dmuOuvV4JMntQ71vd9NT3b7F43ljF-N0zs_iQpvHtgldldM/s1600/Caught+on+film.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTr3A4riW0hK88FxTpMGm9tUD9Y-wbPDvJzrQF_PNaDpM6TGPzqgksI2qZi1Mk63Ti1rCmWbb-S0bYBq-dVrrLnRO4YB3dmuOuvV4JMntQ71vd9NT3b7F43ljF-N0zs_iQpvHtgldldM/s400/Caught+on+film.jpg" width="270" /></a></div>
<center>
<br />
<strong>Caught on Film</strong><br />
<em>by WC Roberts</em></center>
<br />
We marched on Washington like step-children in a fairy tale<br />
no bread crumbs but the Bill of Rights a spray of pansies<br />
clutched in our hands following the Socratic death <br />
of Hollywood Ten defender Bartley Crum <br />
a handful of reds washed down with fire hoses<br />
our cries for help drowned out by boos and raspberries<br />
blown from the steps of the whites-only Capitol.<br />
Tubes under the banks of the Potomac whisked us <br />
from one sterling prison to the next,<br />
a disquieting vision produced <em>in camera</em><br />
where every cell turns black by light of day <br />
drawn out and desiccated by a thirst for things <br />
we do not -- indeed, cannot -- know: <br />
the evidence in our case; their case against us. <br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
<strong>WC Roberts</strong> lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in WC's own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes, and has had poems published in <em>Strange Horizons, Apex, Space & Time Magazine, Mindflights, Aoife's Kiss, Scifaikuest, Star*Line</em>, and others.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction poem?</strong><br />
<br />
There are many parts. It’s most important they work together, and make a plausible whole.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-51607359510172428492013-10-15T00:08:00.000-05:002013-10-15T00:08:00.045-05:00Breaking the Law<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpkW_VLTbqgPUKvGZIn8iNDeThcJIOxL4-7sMiAQxs9mYz0UqA42cTIBqQQn0r3DTi9FI0Kjpl26eURzUnCOA1BeMD1xGQmzUlKy5M01zvWxBjmJdA4t4Gl_uiGprwhDgvOjXOU2Eyyk/s1600/Breaking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpkW_VLTbqgPUKvGZIn8iNDeThcJIOxL4-7sMiAQxs9mYz0UqA42cTIBqQQn0r3DTi9FI0Kjpl26eURzUnCOA1BeMD1xGQmzUlKy5M01zvWxBjmJdA4t4Gl_uiGprwhDgvOjXOU2Eyyk/s400/Breaking.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Breaking the Law</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>by Marilyn Levy</i></div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She marks off the days on the calendar. She knows she should call to confirm her appointment, but she’s too jittery. Unfolding her still lean body, she walks to the closet and drags out her khaki jacket which has seen better days that she can barely remember. When she reaches into the pocket where she stores her money, she finds that it’s empty. She rifles through all the other pockets; they’re empty, too. She quickly tries to calculate what she’s done with the alimony.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Unable to come up with an answer, she sits on the floor and watches the light penetrate the dirt-streaked living room windows forming a pool on the faded fake Persian carpet. Somehow the light’s persistence encourages her.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She walks back into the kitchen overrun with dirty dishes and empties the contents of three drawers onto the linoleum floor. Then she gets down on her hands and knees and picks through the assorted debris – several half-used candles, rubber bands, pieces of foil, scraps of paper, empty prescription bottles, newspaper articles, candy wrappers. Finally, she scavenges three dollars in change. Leaving the mess on the floor, she scurries out of the house.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
Sitting on the El, she forgets where she’s headed and why. After a moment, she tells herself, “Get off at Congress.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“What?” the young black woman sitting next to her asks.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Nothing,” she answers. Then asks if she should get off at Congress if she’s heading to Grant Park. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“You going to the demonstration?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina nods.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“You look kind of familiar,” the black woman says. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina looks at her but doesn’t quite see her.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Were you in Kaplan’s Contemporary Lit class last year?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I think so.” As soon as she says it, Sabina knows she sounds idiotic and wishes she could take it back.<br />
<br />
Wishes she were wearing her hooded black sweater so she could hide inside of it, erasing her identity. She feels the black girl slide closer to the window. “Pynchon,” she says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The girl doesn’t respond.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“We read Pynchon in the class.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
When they get to their stop, Sabina slowly unfolds and rises. The girl pushes past her and empties out of the train before Sabina reaches the door. By the time she climbs the stairs to ground level, Sabina wants to turn around, head home and find a way to numb her brain. But she pushes toward the park and wanders around in a daze. Battered by the crush of thousands of anti-war demonstrators. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Time evaporates. Hours, maybe days later, maybe minutes later, she isn’t sure - she’s caught in a rush of blue undulating towards her. I’m drowning, she thinks. And she tries to swim out of the park. But she forgets how to move.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Hey! Hey!” someone yells at her.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She turns around.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Hey,” she hears again. “Girl from the El – from Kaplan’s class...”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina tries to focus.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Are you on something?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina stares at her.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“You tripping?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“No,” she says. But wishes she were.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“You can’t just stand there. Jesus.”<br />
<br />
Just then a guy explodes in front of them. Blood hurls out of his head and dances in the air. She doesn’t realize it’s just his long, wild red hair. Doesn’t know that hours later, his head will, in fact, explode.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The girl grabs Sabina’s arm and drags her along, zigzagging towards Michigan Avenue.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Minutes later, they fling themselves into a crowd of demonstrators heading in the same direction.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“What time is it?” Sabina asks, anxiously.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Almost four.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina groans, remembering her seven o’clock appointment. “It’s now or never,” she says to herself.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<br />
“Right on,” the girl says. And Sabina sees that she’s shaking. “What were you doing – just standing there, girl?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Guess I was in shock. All the blood.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“You saw blood?” <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Maybe not.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Before they hit the street, Sabina feels that the panic in the park has subsided for the moment. But she doesn’t trust her instincts anymore. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“It’s okay. We’re safe,” the girl says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina tries to slow down her breathing. But now that the adrenalin of panic has been unleashed inside of her, she has no control over her body, and she exhales in staccato bursts. “Have an appointment. Gotta go,” she says. And she compels her legs to carry her out of the park to the subway, even though she’d feel safer crawling. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
When she gets home, she empties out the drawers in the bedroom. She can’t come up with enough money. She wanders back to the kitchen, looks through the mess on the floor, looks at the wall phone, then empties out a cabinet. Still no cash. Finally, she picks up the phone and dials her father’s store.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Berman’s Shoes,” he says, with a slight Eastern European accent. It always shocks her to hear her father’s voice over the phone. In person, she doesn’t hear the accent; over the phone the contours of his face, blurred by time, morph into an amalgam of others faces. She listens to him as if he were a stranger. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Berman’s Shoes,” he repeats.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Daddy,” she whispers, choking on the word.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
There’s a long silence. She can hear him breathing. He inhales a cigarette, then exhales. He’d been told to stop smoking years ago.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“You all right, Sabina?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She tries to answer. But she can’t. She knows if she even attempts to open her mouth, grief will pour into the phone and electrocute her father on the other end.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Binnie?” he asks, calling her by the nickname no one ever uses anymore.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She puts the phone back on the hook; then she returns to the living room and watches the sunlight slowly disappear.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
She hears him pull up in front of her house. The blue Chevy sedan, old-fashioned even before he brought it home from the dealer, slides to the curb with an audible sigh. He gets out, coughs a few times; then slams the car door shut. She hears him run up the grey, rotting, wooden porch steps, almost tripping on the third one. She hears him stamp out his cigarette. She sits there, motionless. He walks to the dirt-streaked window, puts his hand on the glass and peers in. When he sees her, he points towards the door.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Like a zombie, she gets up and walks to the hallway, brushing against the coat rack laden with the ghosts of old sweaters whose inhabitants had long ago disappeared. She ignores the musty smell, opens the door, and lets her father into her life.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The small-boned man, bent more from sorrow than fatigue or old age, and the taller young woman, coming apart at the edges, stand looking at each other, feeling like father and child again. Like a father who’s been gone for a long time and has returned to find that his child has grown up without him. Both are sorry, but there’s nothing they can do to make up for lost time.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Finally, he moves toward her. Tentatively, he puts his arms around her and strokes her long, limp hair, as he used to when she was a little girl. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The touch of his hand on her hair conveys more tenderness than she’s felt for months. More than she can bear. She buries her face in his shoulder and begins to sob.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She tries not to think about her mother, but she can’t help herself. She remembers the last time they met. “You’re a selfish girl,” her mother said. “Always thinking about yourself and no one else. Your nose in your books all the time.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Selfishness isn’t what plagues me, Sabina thinks and wishes she could stop crying.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
When the sobbing finally tapers off, she realizes her father’s shirt is soaked.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I’m sorry,” she says, running her hand down his white cotton shirt with its button-down collar, the kind he’s worn to work every day for the past 30 years.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Don’t worry. Salt is good to take out the stains.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Daddy...”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I’m here to listen,” he says. “But first, could we sit?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina leads him into the living room and pushes aside a pile of books so he can sit down on the old couch, draped with what once had been a colorful Indian bedspread. Faded by the sunlight, it now covers torn spots and material worn thin from years of abuse. The bedspread, still smelling of spices from the Far East, lends an exotic feel to the room filled with mismatched furniture bought at Good Will. Despite her circumstances, Sabina still has an eye for beauty. And even at her lowest point, she’d somehow been able to coax the room into an almost artistic whole. She’d finagled a chair from a second hand shop, walked home with an old globe a neighbor was trying to sell, and made a table from a huge spool for wire that someone had left in her alley. Still, she wishes at that moment that she could be like the children of her parents’ friends, if not for her sake, then, at least, for her father’s.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I’ve made a mess of things.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“But you always remember my birthday and Father’s Day,” he says, quickly. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
It’s so ludicrous, it makes her laugh.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“If I did, I’m glad.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“People make mistakes.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“It’s more than mistakes.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I know.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“It’s right that you should call me.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Your hair is grey.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“From old age – or maybe worry.”<br />
<br />
“Or maybe worry,” she repeats.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, sadly. “Should I come, or shouldn’t I? If I say something, will I make it worse? Maybe it’s not as bad as I think it is, I tell myself.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I’m not blaming you.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Looking away, Sabina nervously runs her finger back and forth across the fine scar separating her left eyebrow into neat halves. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Everybody’s descent is different,” she says slowly, feeling her way into unfamiliar territory, “but I guess we all wind up the same way. We just keep on going down until we’re there – and that’s it – we’re at the bottom. And there’s no place else to go.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“But up. You can go up from there.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She wishes she could hold onto the hope in his voice and keep it inside of her for just a moment, so she can remember what it feels like.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Maybe.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“You need my help, you got my help,” he says, without really looking at her.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I want you to know...”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I don’t have to know. You ask me for help, and I give it to you because I’m your father.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I want to tell you.” <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Do you need money? If you need money, I have it for you. Take it,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
He hands her three one hundred dollar bills.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“How did you know?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“A growing girl always needs money. Take it. Take it.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I need money so I can...”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Buy yourself a lipstick, some clothes, whatever. You’re a smart girl, Binnie, the smartest in your class. You’re thirty-three years old. You’re still young. You can still make something out of your life. It’s not too late.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I have to see a doctor later.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Good. It’s good you’re finally taking care of yourself. You look too thin. Next time I come, I’ll bring chocolates.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“His office is in Skokie.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Her father reaches into his pocket again. “I’ll leave you the keys. I’ll get the car tomorrow. Brian will drive me over.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I’m scared.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Everybody’s afraid to go to the doctor,” her father says, quickly. “These days you could have a million different things and not know it.” He puts the car keys in her hand.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Remember the pink Caddy?” she asks, suddenly.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Yeah,” he sighs. “That was a car.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Where’d you get the money you just gave me?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Robbed a bank.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Gambling? That’s how you got the Caddy, isn’t it?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“How I lost it, too.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I thought mom made you sell it.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Nah. Don’t blame her for everything. She does what she can.” <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
He pauses for a long moment in mid-decision. “The money’s from her,” he says, finally.<br />
<br />
Sabina refuses the information. She hands the keys back to her father. “My friend said she’d drive me.” <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<br />
“Okay, then. Okay,” he says, with obvious relief. He clearly loves the girl, but he’s already overburdened by the vicissitudes of his own life. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina fingers the money and feels angry – angry because she has to take it from him. Angry because he’s bought her off so easily. Angry because he’s dammed up her insides to prevent the real catharsis, the flood which he knew was coming but which had frightened him so much that he’d stuck his finger in the dike to stop the flood. And angry at herself because she knows that if she had had a choice, she would have chosen the money over the confession, anyway. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;">* * *</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgin2smzrXeUM9yu_0Z_w6ZVmdzUp4FKNQ4cnjMRAdKUmH-WMsvv3GQ5sJKmt4wSrmnE3xS6q564dlWDkyFgOD2SBerP5dYBmfxphyoq9cck5X3WE7Wv0-CnKbmOpX9yqM28xr3TfPiFZE/s1600/Breaking+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgin2smzrXeUM9yu_0Z_w6ZVmdzUp4FKNQ4cnjMRAdKUmH-WMsvv3GQ5sJKmt4wSrmnE3xS6q564dlWDkyFgOD2SBerP5dYBmfxphyoq9cck5X3WE7Wv0-CnKbmOpX9yqM28xr3TfPiFZE/s640/Breaking+2.jpg" width="456" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span>
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* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
“Cash in advance,” Naomi says, as they walk towards her brand new 1968 Oldsmobile. “That’s what they all want. At least, you found a real doctor.” She gathers up her red and yellow ankle-length cotton skirt and slides into the driver’s seat.</div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina, now dressed in a similar skirt with ties at the waist and a loose v-neck top, doesn’t respond.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I went with my sister – to some dump on the south side. I don’t know who was more scared, her or me. You feel like you’re committing some crime, or something.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“It is a crime.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Okay. So maybe it is. But it shouldn’t be. Don’t worry; you’ll be fine,” Naomi says, as she reaches over and turns on the car radio.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Fuckin’ A,” she shouts as soon as the news comes on to round out the hour. “It was bad down there today.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Where?” Sabina asks, as she bends down to buckle her sandals.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Jesus, Sabina, the demonstration at Grant Park.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
In the recesses of her mind, Sabina remembers wandering through the park just a few hours ago.<br />
<br />
Remembers the explosion of blood. She gags, afraid to think about her appointment. More blood. She thinks about the black girl from the lit class. “I was there,” she says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Okay. I know this isn’t easy for you.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Pynchon,” she says suddenly.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Pinchin’ who?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Thomas Pynchon. Never finished the book.” She chalks that up to another thing she’d planned to do that never got done. She vaguely wonders why time, now that she has so much of it on her hands, has closed in on her and has kept her static, rather than allowing her to expand. When Jesse and Marty lived with her, she’d been able to do three or four things at once. She amends that to: when Jesse and Marty lived with me before I began ingesting those little magic pills.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Yeah, she thinks. The two of us were inseparable – me and the lady in white. She called her the heavenly nurse because she came to administer the healing as soon as Sabina pushed the right button. She did everything for Sabina, and in return Sabina was totally dedicated to her. And sometimes long into the night, she felt that she was on the verge of a real breakthrough, a real understanding of something profound. She felt as if she were getting closer and closer to “it.” But then she’d forget exactly what the “it” was that she was pursuing. So she’d pick up one of the books strewn around her room and begin reading, starting sometimes in the middle, sometimes at the end. She’d finish in erratic spurts. And if the book gave her some clue, she’d start at the beginning. If not, she’d toss it aside.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She’d thought she was on a roll then, though occasionally she realized that something was wrong and that on some level, she knew she’d essentially checked out of her children’s lives.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina cringes as she glances at Naomi, who’s concentrating on the road and on the news still blaring out of the radio.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Did you hear that?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“What?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“The cops are still busting heads!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“The police are chasing demonstrators through Grant Park and across the street to the Hilton Hotel,” a disembodied male voice on the radio breathlessly announces.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
For the second time that day Sabina starts to cry. I should have stayed, she thinks. She cares about the demonstration in Grant Park. She cares about what is happening to her country. The war has eaten its way into her very being and is irrevocably tied to her personal battles. Though she tries to concentrate on the radio, her mind keeps slipping back to that inevitable day. She has trouble remembering future appointments and past indiscretions, but that particular scenario never changes no matter how many times she replays it. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She’d been sitting on the floor of the living room, wondering if she could do what the Berrigan brothers had done. She thinks about Daniel, who’d been arrested after the March on Washington, which she has a vague memory of attending. She flashes on Philip pouring blood over draft records in the Baltimore Customs House. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina longs to be a Berrigan. She wants to be brave, like the Berrigans. When the Berrigans broke the law, they made a heroic choice, she thinks.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Sabina had also begun meditating on other choices on that day she’d been thinking about the Berrigans. And she’d suddenly wondered who’d made the right one, Dedalaus or Icarus. When she resurfaced from her meditation, to her great shock, she saw Marty rummaging through her purse.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“What are you doing!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I’m hungry. There’s nothing to eat.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Some rational part of her remembered that she hadn’t cashed the child support check, hadn’t bought groceries, hadn’t done any of the things mothers do. But the memory seemed stuck on the other side of a tunnel she couldn’t quite back into, so she heard herself telling him that “Man does not live by bread alone.” She’d been so sure that this was not only brilliant, but correct, because she couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last. And she’d never felt more fulfilled in her life than she had at that moment.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She’d smiled at Marty. Even now, sitting in Naomi’s car, she feels her whole mouth stretching out across her face. She’d felt ecstatic then, so she was surprised when tears began rolling down his cheeks.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Let’s go for a run. Come on. You’ll feel better.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She sped through the house, out the front door, leaving it open so Marty could follow her. When she turned around to say something a few blocks later, she noticed that he wasn’t there, but she couldn’t stop. Running made her feel like Icarus. If she just stayed on course and didn’t fly too close to the sun, she’d make it.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She was barely winded when she got home and almost happy to see Frank’s car in front of the house. But as soon as she walked through the doorway, he began spewing the kind of venom she thought was reserved for rapists and murders. For a moment, she had no idea why he was so angry. Then her head cleared, and with complete clarity, she saw herself as Frank saw her. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“When you want help, give me a call.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She didn’t want help. But as long as he stood there glaring at her, she couldn’t shake the fear running up and down her spine. She believed that if she remained perfectly still and willed it, her body would disappear from the room and leave only electricity. Then she could return as her real self, her old self. And he wouldn’t look at her that way.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“I’m taking the kids with me. Do you hear me?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She didn’t answer because she didn’t want to break the spell.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Naomi settles into a chair in the waiting room and gobbles up “Time Magazine” as Sabina grows agitated, picking at her cuticles. The room is modern, spare, with bland art. It’s after hours, so Sabina is the only patient; even the receptionist has left.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The nurse, whose brisk manner immediately makes Sabina even more nervous, finally ushers her into an examining room, which is ice cold. Peeling off her clothes, as she’d been instructed to do, Sabina shivers. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She lies down on the narrow table and covers herself with a sheet. A pale blue sheet, the same color as the medical equipment and the walls.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The nurse plunges an IV into Sabina’s arm and begins a morphine drip. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Then it’ll be all over. It’ll just feel like a bad cramp.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“It’ll hurt,” Sabina says as the nurse leaves the room. She tells herself not to be scared and wonders if she’s said it out loud.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Maybe I shouldn’t do it, she thinks suddenly. I can change my mind. It’s not too late. She laughs, suddenly feeling light-headed. I’d be a better mother this time.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She’s afraid this is her last chance. She’s afraid if she lets this baby go, her whole life will fall apart. There will be nothing to anchor her. She’s afraid she’ll simply float away – but she doesn’t know how she will support the child.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“God will provide,” she hears a far off voice say.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Oh right,” she answers. “Like she has so far. Provided me with enough LSD to help me cross the border into infinity and come back empty.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
No, she thinks. When I had the chance, I blew it. Will my kids hate me like I hate my mother? She thinks of her mother’s little life of discomfort, waiting and hoping for her children to provide the satisfaction she could never provide for herself. It’s a life of mismatched appetizers without a main course. Sabina is filled with regret. My mother’s saving money for their plots, hers and my father’s, and she has no idea they’re already dead. If only he’d kept the pink Caddy.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Suddenly, she hears a smattering of conversation outside of the room.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
I’m not ready yet. She sits up in a panic as the doctor enters.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
I’m an unnatural mother. Worse than Medea. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Okay, slide down a little,” the doctor says, without any formalities. He’s dressed in blue to match the office.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
My mother used to say, “Everyone’s out of step but Johnny.” I always wanted to meet Johnny. I figured we must be soul mates. Only my mother would never tell me where I could find him, so I went looking for him in all the wrong places.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Whatever I choose to do, it will be the wrong decision.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“Lie still; don’t squirm.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The voice was becoming more and more insistent. She tried to listen to it. She just needed a little more time to decide whether she could trust that voice. She wanted to. But after all, it was the same voice that had whispered to her before, wrapping itself around her, enticing her to follow the Pied Piper to an unexpurgated happiness.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
“All done,” the doctor says, as he gathers up his tools.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
She lies there, feeling empty and deprived. Then she looks out of the window and sees a sliver of moon tipping in her direction. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
I’ve made my own heroic choice, she thinks. I’ve broken the law. I’ll strap on a pair of sturdier wings. Then I’ll find the Berrigans. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Marilyn Levy</b> says: I grew up in the midwest, went to Northwestern, and taught at Roosevelt University. I began writing YA novels in the early 1980s and have been lucky enough to have had 18 published (Ballantine, Houghton Mifflin, and JPS). Several of my novels have been selected as Best Books by the ALA and have won other accolades, as well. My last YA, <i>Checkpoints</i>, received a silver medal from the National Jewish Book Award. I wrote the screenplay for <i>Bride of the Wind</i>, also historical fiction, based on the life of Alma Mahler, married to Gustav Mahler, Franz Werfel, Walter Gropius, and mistress of other great and famous men of her time. The movie, directed by Bruce Beresford, was filmed in Vienna.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I've had several careers. Besides teaching and writing, I have an M.A. in Psychology, see clients, and work with seniors in high school on their essays for their college applications.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I live in Santa Monica, California.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Where do you get the ideas for your stories?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Sometimes I read an article or a book that provokes me and won't let go until I sit down to write about it. At times, people tell me their stories, and I feel that everyone should be able to "hear" those stories.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>What inspires you to write and keep writing?</b></div>
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It's not as much inspiration as it is need. It's like a itch. It's not always there, but when it is, I have to scratch.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction story?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
An historical fiction story, I feel, must be true to the time while also giving an individual spin on it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>What do you think is the attraction of the historical fiction genre?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
History comes alive in this genre. Personally, I could never keep the "facts" straight when I took history classes in school, but once I began reading about people who were part of history, the history became real, and I began to understand and retain what I read. I'm also attracted to a perspective that might not have occurred to me. In writing <i>Checkpoints</i>, I studied both the Israeli and the Palestinian points of view on the current situation in the Middle East; I wanted readers to see that history is not only malleable, but that there is often more at stake than who's right and who's wrong.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>What advice do you have for other historical fiction writers?</b></div>
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Do enough research to feel as if you're living in that time; feel comfortable with the language, the clothes, everything about the period; then write.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-7340618406368575782013-10-15T00:07:00.000-05:002013-10-15T00:07:00.055-05:00Death of Enlil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<center>
<br />
<strong>Death of Enlil</strong><br />
<em>by Dawn Albright</em></center>
<br />
The soldiers had cut off the satrap's head and were trying to find a way to mount it on the city gate. They jammed the bloody neck onto a short spike and wedged the spike into a weak spot in the clay, but the weight of the head pulled it out.<br />
<br />
Amat cried out when the head fell into the dust. The temple girls cried out too and pushed closer to the window.<br />
<br />
"What is it, Mother Amat?" the ones too far away to see said. "What are they doing to him, what's happening?"<br />
<br />
She drew back from the window with a shudder and let them press forward to see for themselves. <br />
<br />
"Careful," she said, and reached into the group to pull out one of the smaller girls, who looked like she might faint. <em>I should think of some work for them to do,</em> she thought. <em>I shouldn't let them stand around and scream like this.</em> Before she could think of anything, the Entu, the wife of the God, came down the stairs from the upper level. Amat jumped to intercept her before the girls besieged her with questions.<br />
<br />
"What does Lord Enlil have to say?" she said in a whisper, motioning her behind the stairway, out of sight of the girls. Lamari stared at the floor. Amat looked at her face and then dragged her further behind the staircase. Normally, she wouldn't have touched Lord Enlil's wife like that, but seeing the girl's white face reminded her of the time when she had been the God's wife and Lamari had been a scared child deposited at the temple for teaching. When she was sure the girls couldn't see, she slapped the priestess hard on the cheek.<br />
<br />
"No tears," she hissed. "We're depending on you. What did the God have to say?"<br />
<br />
The young priestess still stared ahead, making noises in her throat.<br />
<br />
"I know they killed your brother," Amat said in a kinder voice. "That's our loss as well as yours. He was a good satrap. But there's no time to mourn him yet, not when Naram-Sin's soldiers are all over the city. They'll be here soon, and they'll want to talk to you. Are we going to surrender or will the God help us?"<br />
<br />
"I can't tell you," the younger priestess said.<br />
<br />
"They're coming," one of the girls at the window shrieked. "They're coming this way, Naram-Sin and his soldiers."<br />
<br />
Amat looked back for a second and then turned back to the Entu. "Don't tell the others, but tell me. What did Lord Enlil say to you?"<br />
<br />
"He said nothing."<br />
<br />
"Don't tell me such obvious lies, child. I saw you go up to the blue-tiled room and I know you were there all night. What did he say to you?"<br />
<br />
"He said nothing, Mother Amat, nothing. Leave it at that. I know we need guidance, but we don't have it. Make up something to tell the temple staff, anything you think wise."<br />
<br />
A crash shook the temple. The temple girls and the Entu both cried out. Amat pushed her way back to the window. "They're trying to break down the doors," she said. "They're impatient." She considered the women around her. Damgala looked the calmest of them, but she was dressed in a rough woolen kilt for the messy job of tending wounded soldiers. They couldn't afford to insult Naram-Sin by sending a priestess who looked like a servant. Nitidam wore the blue robes of the ceremonies of Ishtar, but her tears had smeared her kohl down her cheeks. Amat grabbed one of the other girl's sleeves and used it to wipe Nitidam's face.<br />
<br />
"Can you be in control of yourself by the time you get to the door?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"If I have to be, Mother Amat."<br />
<br />
"You do. You and Damgala go down and let them in. If you can stall them, do so, but bring them here before they get impatient."<br />
<br />
Nitidam nodded. Amat turned to Damgala. "Can you take care of that?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, Mother Amat." Damgala took Nitidam's arm and led her down the stairs. They heard another crash.<br />
<br />
"And hurry!" Amat called after them. "You girls keep watch at the window. Someone make sure we have food and wine to offer our guests." The girls milled uncertainly. She sighed. "You three stay at the window," she said, pointing. "You others make sure the kitchen is ready." Without looking to see if they obeyed her, she hurried to where the Entu waited under the staircase. "Now, tell me what he said."<br />
<br />
"Don't ask me that."<br />
<br />
"I was the Entu once myself. I'll do what Enlil wants, don't worry about that. I can't make up a story to tell Naram-Sin unless I know the truth. Forget about your brother, and tell me what happened last night."<br />
<br />
"But he's dying, Mother Amat."<br />
<br />
Amat resisted the urge to shake her. "Your brother is already dead. I suggest you don't look out the window. What did you see last night?"<br />
<br />
"Not my brother. Enlil. Enlil is dying."<br />
<br />
Amat grabbed the girl's shoulders. She would have run up the stairs to the blue-tiled room herself, forgetting that she was no longer the Entu and no longer permitted on the highest level, but screams stopped her.<br />
<br />
"We don't have time to discuss this," she said in Lamari's ear. "Naram-Sin is here. Are you telling me the truth?"<br />
<br />
The girl nodded. Amat's eyes closed. "Then help me, Lamari." They stepped out to where Naram-Sin and his soldiers were waiting. One of the soldiers held Nitidam by the elbow. What had remained of the kohl on her eyelids ran down her cheeks again. Damgala was nowhere to be seen.<br />
<br />
Naram-Sin looked much like he had five years ago, when he had come to Enlil's city to be crowned King of the Four Regions. He had let his hair grow past his shoulders so he resembled the statue of the winged bull that guarded the doorway of the temple. His hair had been curled and oiled. Amat didn't think he had seen any of the fighting himself, with his hair arranged so carefully.<br />
<br />
"Greetings, Naram-Sin," she said, surprising herself with how calm she sounded. "I am the priestess Amat, and this is Lord Enlil's wife, Lamari. We remember you from when you were crowned King of Sumer and Akkad."<br />
<br />
"I remember you as well, priestess. How soon can you get your people out of the temple?"<br />
<br />
"How soon... I don't know. Where do you want me to take them?"<br />
<br />
The Entu whimpered.<br />
<br />
"I don't care. But clear the temple."<br />
<br />
"I will have to ask the Entu for Enlil's permission. What shall I have her say?"<br />
<br />
Naram-Sin laughed. "It hardly matters, does it, priestess? I know that Enlil won't answer. Do as I tell you or I'll burn the temple around your ears."<br />
<br />
"I won't be frightened with silly threats."<br />
<br />
"He means it, Mother Amat," Lamari said. "I saw it last night. He means to kill Enlil now that he's ill, kill Enlil and destroy the city completely. If he destroys the temple here, then the worshippers will go to his patron Ishtar in Akkad."<br />
<br />
Amat opened her mouth to say that no one could kill a god, but the words dried in her throat when she looked at Naram-Sin. Already, people said that he was a god himself.<br />
<br />
"Priestess, I am allowing you until sundown to have your people out of the temple. Your priestesses can enter the service of Ishtar. You can stay dedicated to Enlil if you choose. I don't begrudge him one worshipper. But get your people out of the city."<br />
<br />
He turned to his soldiers. "Search the temple and bring what you can find." He bowed to Lamari and Amat. "I'll see you both outside the city in a short time. Entu, I look forward to our next meeting." He left the hall alone, his soldiers running ahead to search for temple treasures. Shrieks followed them. Both women shuddered.<br />
<br />
"You clear the temple," Amat said. "People and food first, relics if you have time. Forget the tablets, a fire will only bake them. Can you handle it, Lamari?"<br />
<br />
Lamari nodded.<br />
<br />
"Find Damgala if you can. I've got other work to do. I should meet you outside the city by sundown."<br />
<br />
"Where are you going, Mother Amat?"<br />
<br />
"Never mind that. Just get everybody out and take care of yourself. And leave by the garden," she added, remembering the satrap's body outside the front gate.<br />
<br />
"Yes, Mother Amat."<br />
<br />
Amat waited for her to disappear towards the kitchen in the back building, then headed up the stairs, towards the highest level. She wasn't going to stay away from Enlil now. It had only been five years ago that she had been deposed from her position, and then only because Naram-Sin had wanted a younger, prettier priestess to serve in his coronation and the satrap wanted his sister to have the power of being the God's wife.<br />
<br />
She ran up the stairs, past the foreigner's shrines with war-pitted statues of strange gods taken from other cities, past the levels where the temple whores celebrated the rites of Ishtar, past the libraries where schoolchildren learned to scribe in the fresh smell of unbaked clay. Finally, she came to the blue-tiled room, the flat top of the ziggurat with the sky for the ceiling.<br />
<br />
She closed her eyes as she pushed the tapestry aside and climbed the last few steps. She had climbed it so often in the past that she knew when she reached the top step, and her eyes opened. The room hadn't changed. She walked around the edge, checking the sights that she had enjoyed five years ago. Fires burned in spots, but the damage looked slight from that distance. The sun lowered towards the horizon. She wondered if Lamari had time to get the temple staff out.<br />
<br />
She walked towards the couch in the center of the platform and sat at the floor next to it. "Lord Enlil?" she said softly, wondering if he would be angry she had come. When she had been removed as the Entu, she hadn't been allowed back up to say goodbye to him. She had asked Lamari if he had anything to say to her, but he never gave Lamari a message.<br />
<br />
At first, she saw nothing and thought she would have to use an invocation. She knew invocations to speak to the winged bulls, to speak to the captive foreign gods of the hall below, to speak to the demons. But the Lord of the Earth and his family came when they wanted, not when they were called. She had decided to try a more respectful version of the winged bulls' invocation when she noticed a mist on the couch.<br />
<br />
Enlil had always appeared a little transparent to her, and so she wondered at first if maybe this new cloudiness was a result of her lessened status. She looked up at his face and cried out -- even if she saw a solid man with that face she would have known at once that he neared the Underworld.<br />
<br />
"Lord Enlil, what's happened to you?" She forgot that he was a god and she was no longer his wife and threw her arms around his neck. He didn't seem to be in pain, didn't seem to even notice her presence. He looked tired, like an old man. She tried to examine him as she would have examined any sick man brought to her, but he wasn't a man. She knew all the common demons that plagued man. They all obeyed her when her divinations convinced her to put forth her full effort to exorcise them. She didn't know the demon that besieged Lord Enlil.<br />
<br />
"Lord Enlil, tell me what to do for you," she whispered. "Tell me how to help."<br />
<br />
"Leave me alone."<br />
<br />
Did he speak? She could hear the words, but his face remained motionless. Nonetheless, she answered.<br />
<br />
"I can't leave you alone like this." She heard nothing else. "Your daughter Ishtar has sent armies against us. She wants you killed, so she can keep your worship and be King of Heaven." Amat stared at empty space for a moment before she realized that the God was gone. She backed away and stared at the couch, until she remembered that she didn't have much time. She ran down the stairs like a schoolboy who forgot he was in the temple, down to the large chamber where she and the priests gave the blessings of Enlil to the city people. There stood the body that Enlil wore when he led the armies or gave blessings, the great wood and clay monument that the greatest artisans of the city's earliest days had carved out for him, to show his strength and majesty to those he couldn't show himself to directly. She touched the statue's chest and felt the warmth that meant Enlil was there. She didn't think he had the strength to travel up to his home in the sky.<br />
<br />
She bit her lip. The monument was mounted on wheels, a precaution that the dead satrap had commanded in order to bring Enlil out to bless the army, but she knew she couldn't drag him alone. They usually used twenty slaves for the job, although two large men would suffice for a short distance.<br />
<br />
Naram-Sin's soldiers found her after sundown, when the shadows were bluing. A dead soldier lay twenty feet before her with a bronze knife in his throat. She had moved the statue five feet. She strained at the harness and wept when she saw the men enter the room. She pulled another knife from her girdle and tried to throw it at them, but her arm was so tired that the knife fell far short.<br />
<br />
A soldier pulled her away from Enlil and she let him drag her out of the temple. The others followed with the statue.<br />
<br />
Outside, Naram-Sin sat on a large couch that had obviously been pulled from one of the large manor houses, with several urns of wine from the same source. His soldiers fought for the drinking tubes from the urns, passing the straws around, sloshing wine on each other. Naram-Sin had his own uncontested urn. His curls drooped.<br />
<br />
He held Lamari next to him by a tight grip around her waist. Tears streaked her face. He looked at Amat with no sign of surprise and smiled at the soldiers who had brought Enlil out of the temple.<br />
<br />
"Torch it first," he said, with no sign of drunkenness in his voice.<br />
<br />
Lamari and Amat both screamed. The soldier who dragged Amat out of the temple grabbed her arms and pulled her back from the statue before she could plunge one of her remaining knives into the back of the man striking the flint. He wrestled the knives away from her and by the time she had given up on her weapons, the aged wooden parts of the statue were burning.<br />
<br />
Amat tore herself away from the soldier and threw herself on the statue, struggling to get past the flames to touch the heart, to see if Enlil was still in it. The soldier pulled her back and slapped the cinders on her linen wrap with his hand. Then he encircled her with his arms and dragged her further away from the blaze.<br />
<br />
"Mother Priestess, you could have hurt yourself," he said reproachfully, his mouth near her ear. Amat laughed, and her laughter and tears both lasted until the fire burned out and the other soldiers kicked the brittle clay that was left into dust.<br />
<br />
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<br />
"My quarrel wasn't with the people of Nippur, but they have suffered for the pretensions of their priests and their God," Naram-Sin said when it was over. "Many of them died today. Those who are left need blessings from their God to start their life over. They need to lay their dead to rest and be comforted."<br />
<br />
Lamari said nothing. Amat drew herself straight and forced herself to speak. Wisps of singed hair fell from her hair net.<br />
<br />
"You have so generously made them citizens of Akkad, sir. Your priests and priestesses will teach them the ways of Ishtar soon. I'm sure the lady will comfort them in their losses."<br />
<br />
Naram-Sin smiled; if Amat hadn't seen the last few hours, she would have called it a compassionate smile on his broad face. "Ishtar is a strange goddess to them. They want their familiar god. Give them Enlil's blessing."<br />
<br />
Amat swayed on her feet. "I can't give them a blessing that doesn't exist. Enlil isn't there to protect their dead. I can't do the ceremony."<br />
<br />
"The dead are dead. Don't dismay the living more than needed." Naram-Sin turned and left without further argument, as if he had spent enough of his time on a trivial matter.<br />
<br />
"I'm not giving the dead to Enlil," Amat said to Lamari. "The ceremony would be a farce."<br />
<br />
But three of Naram-Sin's soldiers stood by. They had heard their emperor say that a blessing ceremony should be held, and they didn't care if the god was in a condition to give blessings or not. Amat crossed her fire-reddened arms across her chest stubbornly.<br />
<br />
Lamari touched her shoulder. "He's right, Mother Amat. It will only scare them to hear that Enlil is dead. I'll do the ceremony for them, and I hope that it does comfort them."<br />
<br />
Amat spun around. "You mean that you won't tell them? If they don't know, they'll pray to a god that's not there for the rest of their lives. They'll commit themselves to nothing when they die. Their pain now is nothing to that."<br />
<br />
Lamari shrugged. "What could Enlil do for the dead when he lived? Didn't you ever hear cynicism in his voice, Mother Amat? Didn't you ever wonder just what he could do for us?"<br />
<br />
Amat stared at her for a long time. "I knew Enlil when he was strong, healthy. I know what he was capable of."<br />
<br />
"He spoke to me of the past. I don't think there was ever a time when he could touch the dead. All he could do was comfort the living, and he can still do that."<br />
<br />
She turned towards the soldiers. "Do you know where I can find what remains of the temple supplies?"<br />
<br />
"Certainly. The emperor told us to give you some of the artifacts."<br />
<br />
Amat left them. Lamari didn't need her to perform the ceremony. The girls were busy tending the wounded or performing the rites of Ishtar with Naram-Sin's soldiers. No one needed her at the moment.<br />
<br />
She wandered through the camp of refugees, seeing the injured and the healthy trying to set up camp with whatever necessities or trivialities they had been able to carry away from the city with them. To her left, she could see the city. The walls had been smashed down, as well as the temple and the largest of the manor houses, the grass roofs of the smaller houses burnt along with most of the contents. Other than that, the city wasn't destroyed as thoroughly as Naram-Sin had boasted. The clay walls of the houses stood where they hadn't been battered down by hand. As soon as the army left, many of the inhabitants would straggle back in to replace the roofs and whitewash the soot away. Others would leave with the army and go to Akkad, others would probably wander south to Shuruppak or Erech. Refugees, recognizing her as a priestess, tugged on her arms and tried to ask her for blessings or medical help, but she only suggested that they find someone else.<br />
<br />
One tug became insistent, wouldn't let her go. "Mother Amat, the ceremony is starting. Come listen to it with us."<br />
<br />
Finally, she heard the voice, heard the horns blowing to tell the worshippers to come. She turned and saw Damgala.<br />
<br />
"I was worried about you," she said, surprised, remembering the girls in her charge.<br />
<br />
"We were worried about you too, Mother Amat," Damgala said, smiling through a bruise on the side of her face. "The Entu said that you stayed in the temple, and we thought you intended to burn in it. Then she said you were injured, hurt in the head." Damgala's fingers stroked her temples. "Did something fall on you? Where does it hurt?"<br />
<br />
"I don't remember anything falling on my head." Gently, she pushed Damgala aside and held her hand out to the other girls, greeting them all.<br />
<br />
"If you're all right, then come along to the ceremony. We need a blessing."<br />
<br />
"I'm not going to the ceremony. Enlil's dead. There's no one to bless us."<br />
<br />
Damgala frowned at the girls. "You'll feel better soon, Mother Amat." Gently, the group of girls pushed her along, with the growing crowd of refugees moving towards the sound of the horn. "It's been so long since you watched the blessings instead of conducted them, I'm sure you'll enjoy it."<br />
<br />
Amat let herself be pushed towards the ceremony and let the girls guide her to a dry seat on the ground. Around them sat a crowd who looked much like the city -- scorched in places, but more alive than Naram-Sin had led them to expect.<br />
<br />
The horn stopped and Amat saw Lamari and Nitidam standing on a platform with some of the other priestesses. They began to sing, a tuneless drone that reached to everyone in the crowd, and lit incense in front of the one of the lesser statues of Enlil that had been saved from the city square. Amat could feel its emptiness and coldness from where she sat. She thought everyone would know the truth, that their God was dead, when they saw that statue's empty-eyed stare.<br />
<br />
The choir of priestesses went from the invocation to the song giving the dead to Enlil. Beside Amat, Damgala lifted her arms over her head, swaying and moaning a soft descant. The other priestesses raised their arms, and then others in the crowd. Soon, Amat was the only one with her hands in her lap. She could hear scattered weeping.<br />
<br />
Then the song changed. Nitidam picked up a tambourine and the other priestesses raised little drums and the song became a wordless tone that rose over the beat. Lamari beat her hands together, and the crowd started to move, dancing to thank Enlil that they had survived the destruction, thanking Enlil for saving all that they had saved. Amat sat still on the ground where all around her people danced and laughed through their tears. Soon, she knew, the sacred whores of Ishtar, the temple boys and the girls who didn't have the patience to be priestesses, would melt into the crowd and direct the dancing for a while before going off to lie with those who wanted to feel the comfort of Enlil more directly. The rest of the crowd would probably sleep wherever they stopped dancing, with their grief and worries danced out of them for a night.<br />
<br />
"Oh, Enlil, Enlil, watch my son." she heard a woman pant, near enough to be heard over the singing and the drums. It was an old woman who looked like she couldn't possibly move as gracefully as she did. Her eyes were closed and she didn't realize when she stepped on Amat. Her face was serene.<br />
<br />
The old woman danced further and further away, her face happy in spite of the tears streaming down it. Amat looked intently at the crowd, and couldn't see anyone who felt that the God was dead. The ceremony was as effective as all the ones she had performed in her years at the temple.<br />
<br />
Amat looked up at the platform with the empty statue, and at Lamari shaking a tambourine with the other priestesses in front of it. She could tell by the beats Lamari missed that one other person felt Enlil's absence.<br />
<br />
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* * *</center>
<br />
<strong>Dawn Albright</strong> is a statistician who lives outside of Boston. She is married with two children, and several cats, rabbits, and lizards. She is the editor of the arts and poetry webzine Polu Texni, which can be found at www.polutexni.com. She thinks historical fiction is like fantasy in building a different world from the one we live in, but one with a connection to our own lives.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-18780682655125019792013-10-15T00:06:00.001-05:002013-10-15T00:06:00.177-05:00The Eternal Flame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<strong>The Eternal Flame</strong><br />
<em>by Cynthia D. Witherspoon</em></center>
<br />
God abandoned us on the day of September 8, 1900. Those possessed with their grief shouted out among those of us who remained, screaming over their Bibles that we would see the end of the world in less than an hour's time. Yet their hour of supposed deliverance passed into the next, and all I could see were the wretched and swollen bodies of those less fortunate than I. Or perhaps they were the fortunate ones, for they were no longer present to witness the aftermath of the worst storm ever experienced by man on Galveston Island.<br />
<br />
I picked my way through the mounds of fallen beams now serving as grave markers for those we hadn't found to go towards the town center. They shifted beneath my steps, threatening to drop me beneath their heavy weight where the darkness could swallow me whole and I would no longer be forced to deal with the weight of our plight. But I was not so lucky; for they stayed solid despite their movements until my feet dropped down to the cobblestones of the town center. <br />
<br />
It was the first place cleared of the wreckage so that men could meet. Planning our glorious revival, they said. Yet these brothers of mine were crazier than those feverish with their religion. Galveston could be rebuilt of wood and nail, that was certain. But a return to our days of glory would never be. There was too much fear now. Too much damage to ever resemble what we once were. <br />
<br />
“Mr. Grant, over here, sir!” <br />
<br />
I glanced up to throw a wave at Mr. Joseph Irwin, the new mayor of our town. The old one was laying at the top of the putrid pile that he and the others had gathered around. It was my neighbor who spoke up with the disgust that only a Catholic could feel at what was being purposed on this horrible day.<br />
<br />
“You can't be serious, Mr. Irwin!” George Smith grabbed the mayor's arm to capture his attention. “How will their souls know where to go, if they are to become nothing more than...”<br />
<br />
“The very same way they knew when we threw them into the gulf.” Mayor Irwin pulled his arm free. “If we are ever to rebuild, we must clear them away, George. I am sorry...”<br />
<br />
“Sorry? Sorry for doing the Devil's work?” Smith snorted as he turned towards me. “Tell him, Grant...tell him that he can not go through with...”<br />
<br />
His words faded into the creaking of wagon wheels coming ever closer to our location, and I fear I had to put my sleeve up to my nose to cover the stench. The bodies of our comrades, our families, and our children had become a blight most dangerous. It had been three days since the storm ravaged Galveston. Three days spent gathering our dead and giving them a burial at sea most becoming of the men and women of port. Yet now, God continued to mock us with each body that washed ashore on His tide. Perhaps the Jesuits were right. Perhaps we were all damned. But at this time, we had no other choice. If the rest of us were to survive, there was only one action to take.<br />
<br />
“I can't argue, Smith, for if you wish to continue to live, then we must do something. This is just as good as any.”<br />
<br />
“Then it shall be you that will light this hellfire. I'll have no part in it.” <br />
<br />
I considered the man a good friend. Sheltered him through the storm in the underground bunker I'd built after my childhood filled with the wind storms that often ransacked my home in Kansas. Yet, he turned away from me. From his beloved Galveston as Mayor Irwin handed me one of three torches. He took another, and the other was passed to the only priest who survived his God's wrath. Mayor Irwin nodded that we should begin. I stopped, staring at the flame in my hands before looking around at the crowd that stood on the shifting beams to watch us. They were the very same that had been screaming to the heavens for their deliverance. Yet now, they were silent in their prayer.<br />
<br />
I moved then, closing my eyes as I touch the torch to each bloated hand or head within my reach. I couldn't bear to look at them, for if one face became recognizable, then I would have dropped the flame and ran. Joined Smith in his coward's station amongst the ruins. The air became putrid, rich with the sweetness of death. It wasn't until the crackle of their clothes and the flesh began to melt from bone that I stepped back with the others.<br />
<br />
Watching the eternal flame that would burn through the days and nights. The light of hell had come to the shores of Galveston, and here, it would be fueled by the souls of those we had known. Loved. Laughed with. Lost forever from God's grace and our own remembrance as their ashes drifted down to blanket what was left of this unholy place. <br />
<br />
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* * *</center>
<br />
<strong>Cynthia D. Witherspoon</strong>’s publication experience includes “Something’s Got to Give” (2004-2005 <em>The Concept</em>) as well as “Chorus of the Dead” in Whortleberry Press’ short story collection entitled <em>It Was a Dark and Stormy Halloween</em>. For 2012, her accepted stories include “The Necklace” (<em>No Rest for the Wicked</em>), “Angel of Destruction” (<em>Dark Tales of Ancient Civilizations</em>), and “Black Widow” (<em>Nasty Snips II</em>). Under the pen name Cynthia Gael, Witherspoon has had several stories published with K.G. McAbee. Her first novel collaboration with K.G. McAbee, <em>Balefire and Moonstone</em>, reached #65 on Amazon.uk’s Love and Romance Bestseller List in November 2010.<br />
<br />
<strong>Where do you get the ideas for your stories? </strong><br />
Anywhere and everywhere. I can see a news article or be walking through a parking lot. Inspiration can hit you at anytime.<br />
<br />
<strong>What inspires you to write and keep writing? </strong><br />
My love for the art of writing. There's nothing like creating new worlds and people to go in them.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction story? </strong><br />
What they tell us about human nature. We all think of history as dates and names, but we forget those names had lives and loves attached to them.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the attraction of the historical fiction genre? </strong><br />
There is a fascination with the past, I think, that goes hand in hand with our need to understand our human natures.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-25854215194196813822013-10-15T00:05:00.000-05:002013-10-15T00:05:00.046-05:00Riley Forkluck Davis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<strong>Riley Forkluck Davis</strong><br />
<em>by Rigina Gallagher</em></center>
<br />
Riley walked at a forward angle down Main Street, his neck and head craning forward to the point of his long, cavernous nose. His suitcase was raised to chest level, just under his craning chin, so that it appeared to be held up in an effort to either protect or hide himself.<br />
<br />
Walking past the dirt-caked buildings on Main Street, he came to a stop by a water trough set up for the horses while their owners were in Sal’s Saloon. As he did so, a horse jostled down the street pulling the slump of a starving, maddened family. Frontiersmen as the history books would call them, luckless fools as they were called now. <br />
<br />
During a certain time in his life years before, Riley would stare after the frontier horses. He concluded that the horses knew what the families could not bring themselves to see. He supposed the horse, after tugging the heavy wooden barrel into the desert, after carrying <em>her</em> small rotting carcass without food and water, realized its course was unnatural. That was what made them adopt a ghostly expression in the eyes, what made some horses just lay down in the soil and die. But then there were others, others (like this horse here) that managed to pass through towns alive. Some, instead of choosing to die rather than continue, continued until they died. Shortly after that observation, Riley stopped looking at horses. <br />
<br />
So he did not notice how, with his craned neck, and dropped head, and cavernous, sloping nose, and pocked, hollow, sagging cheeks peeking out from his plastered-on straw hat while he hid behind his raised valise at the trough, very closely he resembled the frontier horse passing him by. Right now, he was too occupied staring into the trough waters. The desire to seep under its surface and go into a long slumber flashed across his mind.<br />
<br />
But because Riley was a drifter, not a man of action, he realized it would be easier and less of a radical disruption to get a drink than to drown. He knew what awaited him inside the door, and for a moment he wished to turn around and go back to the trough, but for some whim unknown to him he disregarded the idea with a wince and held his breath as he entered the dark wooden bar. <br />
<br />
The name “Riley!” was fired through the air with one-third contempt, one-third accusation, and one-third welcome, the last inflection constructed by the bartender because Riley was business, and business was always welcome. Riley, gripping his valise tighter and shooting his gaze to his feet, made his way to the stool at the farthest left corner of the bar. It was the best view one could get of the window, as it was the closest one could get to the glass that spewed the outside in while still not having to turn to face the bar counter. <br />
<br />
“What da ya want? Your scotch?” The bartender had already lifted the bottle from the dark mysterious pit under the counter.<br />
<br />
Riley’s eyes still searched the window light as he echoed back “Yeah. A scotch.”<br />
<br />
A few moments of silence elapsed as the bartender filled the glass and set it before Riley. One could hear the turning of gears in Riley’s head and the silence of the absolute concentration of the bartender on the glass. Suddenly, a woman only Riley saw sauntered by with a parasol in a white, green trimmed dress. Riley looked away from the window with a wince just as the bartender moved away from the filled scotch glass. <br />
<br />
“Hey, Riley.” The disembodied voice came from Ned.<br />
<br />
People were always kicking Riley’s valise. Sometimes they didn’t mean too, a man with a cane would be walking by with his lady and accidentally rack the case. “Sorry, old chum,” he would say as Riley continued to look after him until the gentleman disappeared from view or an old lady cast a suspicious eye in his direction. Other times when townsfolk did it, it was intentional. (Riley had been to so many towns so many times (on account of his poor success) that now most of the people in any given town in the western states knew him or of him.) <br />
<br />
“You got any more of those oxen tail strings?” continued Ned with a hawking laugh. Riley was about to answer No, sold the last one yesterday even though he still had a full inventory in his valise. But then he realized that whatever he said would be turned against him in mockery, and Ned was sitting off to the wall some distance behind him, so he, Riley, did not necessarily have to answer. <em>Not like if someone was siting next to him,</em> thought Riley. <br />
<br />
Riley did lower his gaze under his hands, clapped on the bar table, and followed the peeling cloth patterns of his valise. He got lost in them. He had not always been a salesman. No, Riley remembered back to when he was in college. <br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
In May of 1879. Riley was one of the three-hundred-and-seventy-eight black globular forms clustered on the hot summer lawn of Bowdoin College. He was one of the black garbed figures off in a cluster to the front left of the field, close in front to podium and to the Maple trees and pines that fenced the open field. He stood, his form slightly hunched as he looked into his feet. Unlike most of the other twenty-one year old men, Riley did not extend his face in an elastic grin at the president. Nor were his eyes clinging about thirstily, seeking out certain faces in the crowd, the faces of his friends-the brothers-he would never see again. His face held no recognition of time at all. It was frozen-for the moment outside the realm of time. His taut skin, brought in by ruminating, nervous lips into a cloak of dried tenacity, transformed his cheeks into sea cliffs. <br />
<br />
It was not until the president called his name and Riley looked up onto that blank, wide-open stage that he realized he was graduating.<br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
Had a wife too. She got married in a white dress with green lining on the sleeves and about the bodice. Her name was Lena, and she was the most beautiful woman Riley had ever seen. At the ceremony, everyone, including Riley’s uncle Billy, said they would make a great pair. The world better watch out, because the two of them could do anything together. Riley’s uncle Billy was a quiet man who spent most of his time at parties in different corners. Billy had hawks’ eyes and Riley was convinced that Billy did not like him. His past and how he got enough money to wear a different set of gold cufflinks for every occasion (no one had ever seen him wear the same ones twice, and one pair even had diamonds the size of Riley’s pinky nail in them) were unknown. Riley had remained subconsciously aware that uncle Billy did not like him, or anyone for that matter, until two hours before his marriage to Lena when Billy had caught him in the dressing room tying his green bow tie that was to match the embroidery on Lena’s white dress. <br />
<br />
Billy didn’t knock. He simply opened the door, which from Riley’s view in the mirror resembled Dracula opening his coffin, and quietly, composedly, walked into the room. He said nothing. He smoked his cigar and let his eyes loosely touch on everything in the dark closet of a room: the ceiling, the floor moldings, the carpet, the space between the chair legs. It looked as if he was in a dream and could have just as easily been perfunctorily scouting out the bathroom. After he had finished his reconnaissance at the other side of the room, he said with no warning and to no one in particular, “You two will make a good team.”<br />
<br />
Riley smiled, but knew that Billy did not see because Billy’s back was turned to the mirror. <br />
<br />
Riley was able to get in a quick “Thank you,” as Billy approached the door. Billy nodded with the rim of his hat and disappeared. <br />
<center>
<br />
<br />
* * *</center>
<br />
But there had been no children. The doctor quietly came out of the room holding his hat in his hand, eyes wet. Instead of finding one dead corpse, Riley found two. Lena and the baby had died in childbirth. The first thing Riley did was run down stairs and reach for the bottle of gin under the fine china cabinet (the one Lena’s brother Ramon had given them for the wedding), and had been doing it ever since. <br />
<br />
The worst part came later, when they carried Lena and Abigail (that was what Riley and Lena had agreed to call the child if it were a girl) into the parlor. Riley had walked right into the parlor (he did not know that they would be placed so close to the entranceway) and saw them dead and thought Abigail plastered on top of death. (Ten years later when Riley came across a girl named Abigail in a white dress with pink ribbons in her hair he gave her mother an extra spool of pink yarn at no extra charge and found himself on the verge of tears for no explicable reason as he made his way down the road) Then, Riley was left with the haunting loneliness that inhabits the hollow corners of an empty place that should be filled. Lena was not there anymore. Only empty frames were. After three days and two nights he could not take it anymore (he heard voices in the walls) and walked out. <br />
<br />
He could not go back to the house. He could not go back to any house. He did not know how long he would have to remain outside, but he just knew that right now he could not go back into any house. So, interim (until he regained the ability to wipe his feet on a door mat) he took a job as a traveling housewares salesman. <br />
<br />
Riley could say that he had no home anyway, that he could never go back to a home anywhere because being in one alone would remind him to much of being alone without Lena, and that getting married again was unthinkable, but he didn’t. He never said anything.<br />
<br />
Last Tuesday, Riley had woken up on his birthday to the fact that he was fifty-two years old and had been a salesman for thirty. It came to him that he was too late to start out on a new career. In fact, most men that he had seen his age on his rounds had already retired and were waiting out in their porch rockers to die. <br />
<br />
It was in such a state that Riley had wandered into the streets of Sans Palos like a horse, which knew its fate was sealed and its end near, wondering if all the toil had been worth anything.<br />
<br />
Off in the back, at a small table, the wind of a conversation between Ned and Fin could be heard. <br />
<br />
“I wonder what his son thinks,” Fin pondered softly.<br />
<br />
“Ole Riley, with kids?” laughed Ned.<br />
<br />
Riley, awoken from his rambling thoughts, slammed his empty glass on the table, and keeping his eyes fixed on the space where the door met the window light, he walked out. <br />
<br />
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* * *</center>
<br />
Riley sat on a log beside one of the side roads, staring into the puddle in front of him.<br />
<br />
“Hey Mister,” piped a small voice. <br />
<br />
Riley raised his head to a silky mat of blonde shinier than the hide of a newly brushed black stallion and as light as ribbon. Riley, caught off guard, realized the head was a good four feet under his own.<br />
<br />
It took Riley a few moments to right himself and adjust his sight to the image.<br />
<br />
“Yes?” <br />
<br />
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get a line of twine, would you?”<br />
<br />
The child appeared to have in his left hand a stick with a thin clear line attached to the end, and in his right more of the thin clear line attached to a small, sharp fishhook. Riley processed that the boy had broken his fishing pole line and was searching for a way to fix it. <br />
<br />
For a split second Riley was overcome with a revelation. He stared not at the boy or himself but at the lighted space between them, which the side of the boy touched on. There was something about the boy, how his conversation was only of fishing poles and watering holes; how it wasn’t about a person, and how it wasn’t about anyone in particular at all. It was completely centered in the present. No past at all. He didn’t even know who Riley was. He had no idea about his misfortunes and failures. To him, Riley was not a failed human being. He was just a man. <br />
<br />
“As a matter of a fact I do.”<br />
<br />
Riley kneeled down to open his suitcase on the ground. With alacrity he flipped up the locks and reached into the yellow, stale-breathing insides, into the back left corner, and pulled out a spool of oxen tail thread from a neatly organized group. Then, he reached into the top pocket compartment and took out a pair of cutting scissors. <br />
<br />
“About how long?” Riley asked as he unspun the spool.<br />
<br />
“About there would be good mister,” responded the boy, gesturing to the spot on the line of unwound string. Riley cut near his fingers and replaced the spool and scissors in his bag, closed it, stood up, and handed the string to the boy.<br />
<br />
“Gee, thanks. I woulda never thought someone would have had string sitting around in his suitcase and all.”<br />
<br />
Riley smiled as he watched the boy tie the string to the end of his stick.<br />
<br />
“About where do you go to catch ‘em? Are there any good fishing holes around here?”<br />
<br />
“Yep. We go over to Marlin’s Pier. It’s a mile or so down there,” the boy turned to point to a place down the river behind him. <br />
<br />
“Ya get anything good?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. There’s trout and sometimes even fluke in there. You should come sometime mister, if you like fishing and want something good to catch.”<br />
Riley looked past the boy into the spaces of the trees.<br />
<br />
“The name’s Davis, son, and do you know there’s a better way to carve out a fishin’ pole then that?”<br />
<br />
“No. This is the only way I ever learned.”<br />
<br />
“Here,” Riley took out a leather handled blade from his suit pocket, one of many he had stocked in his suitcase. He then picked up a large branch near his right foot, “I’ll show ya how to make it and you can take me to this fishing place you’re talking about. I could use some fishing.”<br />
<br />
“Sure,” responded the boy and Riley followed him into the pine droves of the forest. <br />
<br />
Later that evening, Riley could be seen walking off from the Main Street of Sans Palos, holding his valise at knee length, although still bent forward, but in a dreamlike daze in the warm, red-orange and yellow hearth tones of the setting sun. <br />
<br />
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<br />
Sheriff Tim and Nathan were splitting logs down the street, across from A.S. and Co. Bank, but Nathan had since stopped and stood against his axe to watch Riley and his valise go off.<br />
<br />
“How’s Maggie and Charles, Tim?”<br />
<br />
“They’re alright,” Tim responded, lowering the ax into the log. “Maggie’s had a bit of a cough, but she’ll be out of it soon.” Tim lowered the ax and wiped his forehead on the already soiled cuff of his sleeve.<br />
<br />
“Why do you ask?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, we were just talkin’ about ol’ Riley there,” here he gestured toward the distancing Riley with a flick of his neck, “at Sal’s today.” As he paused they both stood looking out after Riley, “And I’ve just got to say I sure am glad ol’ Riley never had kids.” He paused again, his eyes locked steadfast on Riley, “Would’ve had ‘em all for the wrong reasons.”<br />
<br />
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* * *</center>
<br />
<b>Rigina Gallagher</b> is studying literary arts at Brown University. Her previous work has appeared in the magazines <i>Fade, On-Verge,</i> and <i>Connections</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction story?</b><br />
Personally, I am drawn to a piece of historical fiction if the story transcends time and place. If a character experiences feelings of love and despair, or is involved in universal situations, I think the time period of the story takes on a fresh meaning for the reader.<br />
<br />
<b>Where do you get the ideas for your stories?</b><br />
Really from people's flaws. This was strange to me because I always thought I would write about characters I would admire. But somehow it seems that, like that one dirty spot on the wall, whatever it is about the "flaw" that bothers me, bothers me until I can channel all it out into a piece of writing. Usually the story then builds up around a character.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-85843250799372097682013-10-15T00:04:00.000-05:002013-10-15T00:04:00.065-05:00Paganini's Secret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<strong>Paganini’s Secret</strong><br />
<em>by David Wright</em></center>
<br />
Draco Donatello entered the director’s office visibly distempered—shirttail loose, bow tie missing, wine stains on his high-necked, starched-white collar. The director felt his afternoon yogurt turn immediately sour in the pit of his formidable stomach.<br />
<br />
“Herr Donatello, what on earth has happened to you?”<br />
<br />
“You will not believe it. I dare not say.” Draco plopped himself into one of the director’s aging velvet chairs and began, with great dramatic effect, to dab the sweat from his forehead. <br />
<br />
“But the concert! You have only a few hours to prepare. Are you ready?”<br />
<br />
Draco waived away the question with a flurry of his pink pouf. “There will be no concert tonight nor ever. Can you not see my state of mind? I am harrowed, vexed, perplexed and aghast all at once. No, no. A concert now is out of the question, especially not after what I have just seen.” Draco’s eyes grew to the size of ripe grapes.<br />
<br />
The director waited patiently, but Draco said no more, returning to the foppish task of dabbing his perspiration with his pink pouf. The director thought of the money he had already invested in this temperamental artist and the sour feeling in his stomach blossomed into a full-blown bellyache. He was merely Munich’s Senior Concert Master and could not afford to lose his temper. Herr Donatello, on the other hand, was a delicate genius and an Italian. He could do what he liked. <br />
<br />
“What have you seen, Herr Maestro?” the director asked carefully, his voice as gentle as the e-string on Draco’s Stradivarius.<br />
<br />
“Magic! Wonders beyond your wildest dreams.” <br />
<br />
And thus began his story.<br />
<br />
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* * *</center>
<br />
I arrived at the house of my friend Paganini just before noon. My carriage had bogged in the mud making me almost a full hour late. And yet apart from the grim-faced servants flanking the doors, the parlor of Paganini's luxurious Munich townhouse was completely empty. I beat the rain from my beaver-felt, top hat and advanced on the lonely figure in front of the hearth. There the noble Paganini sat quietly brooding on his lush, rosewood sofa, smoking an opium pipe and sipping mulled brandy. My heart went out to him.<br />
<br />
“Blessings be on you, my dear friend,” I said by way of greeting. Paganini looked up from his pipe, slightly bemused. Despite the many years which had passed since our last meeting, he looked not a day older. <br />
<br />
“I'm surprised to hear you wax so holy in the presence of the world's most famous devil.”<br />
<br />
“Balderdash. You are a sinner, yes, but no more the devil than I. In fact, you are much better than most. Perhaps your only true sin, apart from the occasional smoke of that wretched substance, is being blessed by God with the fingers of angels.”<br />
<br />
“Or devils.”<br />
<br />
“Pff.”<br />
<br />
Paganini grimaced as if in pain, put a brandy in my hand, and motioned for me to sit in one of the opulent armchairs (upholstered in authentic Indian silk) that were before him. <br />
<br />
Ever since Paganini had first graced the European concert stage, he had been a sensation. His command of the violin, viola and cello were unparalleled. He was a genius among geniuses, and hated for it. It wasn’t long before the rumors began—secret nocturnal meetings, pagan rituals, occult practices. In the parlors of the rich and indolent, foolish women and spiteful men were saying that the great Paganini had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his incomparable musical talent. It was balderdash, of course. Could they not see that this man, this great man, was simply blessed by God?<br />
<br />
“You were always a good friend, Draco,” Paganini said sadly. “And, as it appears, my only friend. But now, I'm afraid, I have to ask you in the name of friendship to break your honor as a gentleman. For I have a secret truth that cannot be spoken to anyone, but must be covered up with more lies.” <br />
<br />
“What secret, my friend?” Draco felt his heart sink with doubt. Could there be any truth to the spiteful lies?<br />
<br />
Paganini paused a moment in silent contemplation, sniffing his brandy, and then all at once made up his mind. “The great Paganini that you see here before you is a robot.”<br />
<br />
I shrugged. I had not heard the word ‘robot’ before and supposed it to be some foreign term that he had picked up on one of his many travels abroad. <br />
<br />
Paganini smiled again. “An automaton, a machine—like some elaborate wind up toy or that ridiculous old grandfather clock that paces over there in the corner.”<br />
<br />
“You are speaking metaphorically, of course.”<br />
<br />
“No, sir. I am speaking quite literally.” Paganini put his brandy down on the rosewood table before him and began to unbutton his tunic.<br />
<br />
“Really, Niccolo. I don't think that's quite necess-- Good heavens!” <br />
<br />
I cannot relate to you in words the sight that was before me—half-man, half-machine. My brandy dropped to the floor, the crystal shattering into a million pieces and the wine spilling into an irregular stain on the Persian rug's finely knitted mosaic of the woman at the well. Paganini shook his head and buttoned up his tunic. When I had sufficiently recovered and my glass of brandy had been replaced, Paganini began a tale of the most baffling and remarkable nature.<br />
<br />
Paganini came, as it turned out, from a far away place and a far away time where men and women live like angels or gods with power over life and death and all creation—a place where there is nothing left to discover, and nothing left to do but to watch the ticking clock and wait for oblivion. While some of Paganini's kind were content to live out this destiny of devils, Paganini was not. Stripping himself of almost all his powers, he became pure thought, and traveled backwards through time. Because of the indomitable rules of the universe, the speed of light and the fabric of space, only pure thought can travel through time, or so he explained.<br />
<br />
After sampling the minds and madness of the ages, Paganini possessed the mind of a poor Italian farmer, his own Geppetto so to speak, on the man's sixtieth birthday. He possessed his aging fingers and brain with knowledge and skills far beyond the sages of his time, to build a boy, the boy that God had never given him, out of ceramic, iron and glass. He labored without eating or sleeping for three days, and when he had finished, Paganini (although that was not yet his name) was born anew into a perfect body that would never age and would always be subject to his will. The robot boy stayed with his new father for five years, faithfully playing the part of a model child and giving his earthly father nothing but happiness in his final days. When death at last claimed the old man, the robot boy set out into the world to start his new adventure.<br />
<br />
On the road to Venice, he came across an unfortunate fellow who had been thrown from his horse. His back was broken and he had been lying in the mud for a day and half. With his dying breath, the man whispered his name, “Paganini.” The name meant nothing to the boy but the man's clothes were well crafted, his perfume pleasant. The boy thought he might like to have such a life, to own such things as fine clothes and perfume. So when the boy was sure that Paganini was dead, the boy assumed his clothes, his stature and his face, and headed into town.<br />
<br />
“Paganini!” A man was yelling from somewhere in the crowded train station. “Paganini!” Suddenly, the man became visible—short, round, bald—as he burst out from behind the mass of regularly sized Venetians and travelers. <br />
<br />
“Yes, I am Paganini.” <br />
<br />
The man ran up to Paganini and grabbed his arm. “Come on. The train is leaving.” The man talked incessantly about schedules and rehearsals and other things about which Paganini, in his new limited form, knew nothing. Paganini listened, his recording device working while his higher brain functions concentrated on more important events like the rapid passing of the canals, trees and buildings outside his window. He had never been on a train. The speed was exhilarating. <br />
<br />
“Do you understand?”<br />
<br />
Paganini replayed the recording as he carefully regarded the short, fat, bald man whose name was Ralpho. “The train will arrive in Paris at 6:00, and I am to perform at 7:00.”<br />
<br />
“Good.”<br />
<br />
“May I ask what I am to perform?”<br />
<br />
Ralpho looked at Paganini as if he had suddenly transformed into the antichrist. “The Tchaikovsky! You can't go changing repertoire at so late a date. The brochures have already been printed. Contracts have been signed.”<br />
<br />
“The Tchaikovsky will be fine.” Paganini nodded knowingly, although in actuality he knew nothing of Tchaikovsky or his music. Fortunately, his human father had known enough about music to bang out a few folksongs and hymns on the guitar.<br />
<br />
“Do you, perchance, have the score?”<br />
<br />
Ralpho squinted in apparent agony, as he dug through his bag. “I might have it here somewhere. I don't know why you want to look at it now. You've played it a thousand times. Here it is.”<br />
<br />
Paganini looked at the cryptic notations, placing his finger on his lips and again nodding. He was sure of one thing. This was not guitar music. “I'm sorry to trouble you, Ralpho. One last question—What instrument will I be using?”<br />
<br />
Ralpho began to laugh as tears welled in his eyes and streamed in unison down either cheek. A moment later, he was running down the train aisle, pulling at his hair and mumbling curses into the air. <br />
<br />
By the time the train arrived at the Paris terminal, a shaking Ralpho had recovered enough to lead Paganini to the concert hall in the heart of Paris. Promptly at seven, a Stradivarius was placed in his hands and Paganini played the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto Number One with flawless, robotic perfection.<br />
<br />
And the rest, as they say, is history.<br />
<br />
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<br />
* * *</center>
<br />
An hour after Draco Donatello had finished his remarkable story and left the concert hall, the director was still in his office staring at the empty velvet chair in front of him, his eyes larger than grapes, perhaps the size of new plums. He heard some words in Italian and looked up. Paganini was standing in the doorway with his diminutive but portly manager, Ralpho.<br />
<br />
“The Maestro wishes to know if you are well,” Ralpho said. Ralpho spoke German with a thick Italian accent. Paganini spoke no German at all.<br />
<br />
“Yes, yes. I am quite well, thank you.” The director stood up, slightly embarrassed. “Please come in and make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you some refreshment?”<br />
<br />
“Opium?” Ralpho asked immediately.<br />
<br />
The director cringed. “No, I’m afraid not, but I have a lovely brandy.”<br />
<br />
The Maestro and his manager exchanged a few fleeting words in Italian and then sat down in the director’s aging velvet chairs. “No, thank you, but the Maestro wishes to know why you have sent for him early. He is not due to perform for another week,” Ralpho continued.<br />
<br />
“Ah, yes. Well.” The director put his fingers together thoughtfully. “Draco Donatello is, well, ill. I’m afraid tonight’s concert will have to be cancelled unless…”<br />
<br />
“Unless the Maestro can take his place? <em> Tonight?</em> Why, that is preposterous.” At this exclamation, Paganini touched Ralpho’s arm ever so slightly. Ralpho’s indignity vanished like a gentle spring Zephyr. “The Maestro agrees. What is he to play?”<br />
<br />
“It is a new piece.” The director handed Paganini a weighty manuscript. “But of course the Maestro is welcome to play whatever he likes.”<br />
<br />
Paganini flipped through the score with disinterest and then nodded.<br />
<br />
“The Maestro will play the piece,” Ralpho interpreted.<br />
<br />
The director laughed. “So it is true.”<br />
<br />
Ralpho and Paganini exchanged a quick glance. “The Maestro would like to know what you mean by that. He does not enjoy being laughed at.”<br />
<br />
The director cringed. “Oh, my good sirs, please forgive me, but I am not laughing at the Maestro. It was just something Herr Donatello said. It is of no consequence. I believe he was a colleague of the Maestro.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, but they had a bit of a falling out of late. The Maestro would like to know what his colleague is saying about him behind his back.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, no. It is nothing like that. Herr Donatello speaks quite highly of the Maestro. He told me about his amazing ability to memorize an entire concerto at a single glance.”<br />
<br />
“Yes. The Maestro is an unparalleled genius. What else did Draco Donatello have to say?”<br />
<br />
“It is nothing, as I said. Herr Donatello is quite ill.” The director felt the sweat bead on his brow and reached for the pink pouf that Draco had left on his desk. He felt the Maestro’s eyes bearing down upon him and knew he must confess. “He said that it was impossible for a human being to do such things. He said that Paganini was a ro-bot.”<br />
<br />
Ralpho’s bushy eyebrows lifted quizzically. “Please forgive me. My German is not perfect. What is a ro-bot?”<br />
<br />
“A machine of some sort, like a train or a clock.”<br />
<br />
Ralpho stood up, his face bright red with sudden fury. “What an outrage! How dare he speak such things? We are leaving immediately.” There was a short exchange in Italian and once again Ralpho’s anger evaporated. “The Maestro will agree to play tonight.”<br />
<br />
The director clapped his hands together. “That’s wonderful.”<br />
<br />
“Upon one condition.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, anything.”<br />
<br />
“All proceeds from tonight’s concert will go directly to Herr Donatello’s medical treatment.”<br />
<br />
The director thought again of all the money he’d sunk into tonight’s concert. Would he get nothing for his investment? But there was something other than mere money to think about. There was his reputation. Canceling a concert of this magnitude could ruin him. <br />
<br />
“Agreed,” he said at last and then all eyes fell on Paganini. The silent Maestro nodded slowly, and then something like the workings of a great clock clicked in his neck. It was a loud noise, impossible to miss, especially in the small confines of the director’s office. Nevertheless, the director pretended not to notice.<br />
<br />
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* * *</center>
<br />
<strong>David Wright</strong> is a writer and teacher living on Canada’s majestic west coast. He has a lovely wife, two sparkling daughters and more than forty published short stories. His work has appeared in a dozen magazines including <em>Larks, Nautilus Engine</em> and <em>Neo-opsis</em>. His latest eNovels, <em>Elf Lord, Codename Vengeance</em> and <em>Flight of the Cosmonaut</em>, are available at Smashwords.com. Visit his website at wright812.shawwebspace.ca.<br />
<br />
<strong>Where do you get the ideas for your stories?</strong><br />
<br />
I'm often inspired by what I read, whether history, fiction, news or science. Sometimes I think I only read to be inspired. In the case of "Paganini's Secret," however, I was more inspired by what I heard. Paganini was an unparalleled genius of his art. What could possess a man to play the violin as he did? What could drive him to such fevered excess of skill? Well, I guess now we know. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-91076175097831767682013-10-15T00:03:00.000-05:002013-10-15T00:03:00.591-05:00Instructions Given for the Discovery and Eradication of Apostasy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Instructions Given for the
Discovery and Eradication of Apostasy</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">by Justin Evans</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br />
<b>1. Justification</b><i>(i)</i><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Some jobs
scream for committee―<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Say, the
delegation of authority in the education<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">of our
children, labor according to ability,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">building
an irrigation ditch to the Union Bench, or<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">a mud
wall for practicality and protection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">But there
comes a time when God comes first,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">when the
consensus of one community should be<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">to fall
behind one man, submit to a greater voice, where<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">the
formation of lots, the division of the land<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">among the
families according to need must be heeded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">When the
requirement of obedience cannot be met<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">there is
no room for a split amongst the saints,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">no place
for the voice of dissent to reside. Either<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">one must
go, or the other, and there can be no accord.<br />
<br />
<b>2. Procedure</b><i>(ii)</i><b> </b><br />
<br />
Because there can be no trust between the faithful<br />
and those who will not heed the call, secret meetings<br />
will be held. Confederates will be appointed<br />
to infiltrate their numbers for the purposes of discovery.<br />
<br />
These men will report from time to time upon<br />
the disposition of the unfaithful, guiding them<br />
to their destruction at the appointed hour. They will<br />
be certain to give signs and tokens to verify their true faith.<br />
<br />
We must always prepare for the taking up of the sword<br />
when called by God or his appointed prophet. There can be<br />
no wavering, no departure without correction.<br />
<br />
This done to preserve the order in accordance with<br />
the Living Prophet's direction, as these times call out<br />
for obedience and preservation amongst the saints.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">3. The Tragic End of Wm. & Beason Parish</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>"Old arguments die hard and they can
travel </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> the length of a
continent if they are nurtured."</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> - James Albee Cox, 1855</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Staring
up at the night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">desert
skies<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">the final
moments <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">of a
man's life entangle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">with the
dark <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">silhouette
of clouds<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">shape
shifting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">take up
the soul into its wisped <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">ethereal
composite<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">of
humidity and vapor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">carried
eastward again<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">across
the plains<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">4. The Testimony of Abraham Durfee</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>(Found
Poem)(iii) </i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Bird was lying in the corner of the fence </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">as Parrish and Potter walked along the fence. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Bird said he shot Potter, whom he supposed </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">to be Parrish; that after, he wanted </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">to know if it was him that had shot; he said </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Parrish had his gun in his hand, laid it
down, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">and they (Parrish and Bird) clinched
together. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">As they clinched Bird drew his knife, worked </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">the best he could in stabbing Parrish. Bird
said </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">after Parrish was down, he gave him a lick </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">which cut his throat. He never said anything
about </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">any other persons being there helping him. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Bird said, after he got through with the old
man </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">he took Potter's gun and his own, got in the
corner </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">of the fence again to be ready for us. He said he
laid </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">there till we came up—the Parrish boys and
myself. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Bird fired and he saw one fall. He was afraid </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">the person he had shot would run off, fired
again. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">When Orrin and I started, said he came out </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">from the fence and shot at Orrin. Said he saw
me </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">or he supposed it was me. When I ran into the
hollow </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">he asked me if I heard him call; I told him I
did. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">He wanted to know why I did not come to him; </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I told him I did not like to, that I did not
know </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">what it meant. The next-morning after the
murder </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I heard Bishop Johnson and Bird talking
together. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">He blamed Potter and Bird for not going </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">further away with them. The Bishop said he
wanted </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I should be satisfied about the affair, not
tell </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">who was in it― that if I did, they would serve
me </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">in the same way. I did not know the Parrishes </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">were to be killed. I sup-posed from what </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Potter told me they were to be brought back. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">In the second meeting I attended there were
some </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">what wanted to see blood run. It was </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Wilson Bird that called me. Bishop Johnson</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">some two or three days before the murder told
me </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">take a gun out with me. The Parrishes had no
gun. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">The morning of the hearing, myself and Orrin
Parrish</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">before John M. Stewart, I knew Bird was the
man </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">but I was afraid to state it. Bishop Johnson told
me </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">what evidence I should give, and he said if I
told </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">what I knew, they would send me the same way. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I spoke what the Bishop told me to say.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">(i)
"On 'the 14th of March. 1857, occurred the first tragedy to blot our fair
history. We would fain pass over this dark spot, and let the foul crime be
blotted from the minds of men. but like Banquo's ghost—'it will not down.' The
elder had been a Mormon, and in the early history' of the church, his name had
figured prominently. The son had also belonged to the church, but for some
cause, had. like his father, withdrawn from the faith. They intended going to
California and had started on their journey, it is said, that fateful
night." Don Johnson, <i>A Brief History of Sprinville</i> (Springville:
William F. Gibson, 1900), 40-41.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">(ii) "They nominated persons to learn when the Parrishes
were going to leave. My name (Abraham Durfee) was mentioned, and I objected to
it. Then they mentioned Potter's name; then the Bishop decided that both Potter
and myself should try to learn when the Parrishes were going to leave the
Territory. The Bishop said he did not wish any one to decline when he was
called upon. I then told the Bishop that I would do as well as I knew how; and
Potter assented to the same; I can't recollect that Potter made any
reply." Abraham Durfee<i>, "</i>The Mormon Murders," <i>New
York Tribune</i>, October 17, 1871.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">(iii)
Durfee, "The Mormon Murders," <i>New York Tribune</i>, October
17, 1871.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><b>Justin Evans </b>lives in rural Nevada with his wife and sons, where he teaches at the local high school. His books include four chapbooks and a full length collection of poetry. His most recent is the chapbook <i>Friday in the Republic of Me</i> (Foothills Press, 2012). His book <i>Hobble Creek Almanac</i> is forthcoming from Aldrich Press. Recent poetry has been published in <i>Weber: The Contemporary West</i> and <i>diode.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.7pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">What do you think is the most important part of a historical
fiction poem?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">The poem
needs to serve the aspects of poetry and good writing first and foremost.
After, a historically themed poem should make the reader question how much of
the work is art and how much is reality. The reader should not come away with
any absolute answer for that question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-90882879053101492652013-10-15T00:02:00.000-05:002013-10-15T00:02:00.733-05:00Julia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<strong>Julia</strong> <br />
<em>by Susan Phillips</em></center>
<br />
Now, when it is too late to do anything—too late to act, too late to regret—now I wish that I had been guilty of even half the wicked acts that I was accused of. I would have interesting things to think about now, reliving wild pleasures I have never known. As it is, although I am not a pure woman—and what matron of Rome is these days?—I find myself wondering. Could any woman have done all that they said I did? How could anyone sneak off, unseen, night after night? Why would anyone perform those horrid acts? Although I have been married three times, there is much I never learned. And I will never learn it now. <br />
<br />
My childhood was innocent and happy enough. My father, the Emperor Augustus, did all he could to protect me from real and imagined harms. I have since learned about the scandal of my infancy: my father Augustus divorced my mother Scribonia the very day I was born. He then insisted that Tiberius’ father divorce Livia. Three months after their marriage, Livia gave birth to Drusus. Despite great longing, she never did get pregnant by Augustus. I was lucky to be a girl. Otherwise, I might not have lasted Livia’s stepmothering. <br />
<br />
I grew up in a noisy household, full of children—Livia’s sons, Augustus’ nephews and nieces. We all learned philosophy and rhetoric; we girls also learned the arts of spinning, weaving and sewing. For years I thought this work a waste of time. But now, with little else to do, the old womanly arts keep me occupied. I wonder sometimes what will happen to all my piles of cloth when I am gone. <br />
<br />
Augustus was strict with us. Our food was simple, our surroundings plain, our clothes undistinguished. I suppose he meant us to grow up humble and pure. Instead, I grew up envying the daughters of senators and other rich men, who dressed so beautifully and wore different jewels every day. My life has turned full circle. I live now even more simply than in my young girlhood. <br />
<br />
Despite the plainness of my dress, I had admirers, although Augustus discouraged them. Once at Baiae, Lucius Vinicius, a perfectly nice young man from a respectable family, came to pay his respects to me. He was charming and handsome, and I dreamed about him for weeks on end. But I never saw him again. My father wrote to him, calling his visit immodest. That reproof was enough to keep Lucius far away from me. <br />
<br />
But it was also enough to make my father realize that, at fourteen, I was becoming a woman. So quickly, in consultation with Livia and his sister Octavia, Augustus decided that I should marry my cousin Marcellus, a sweet but shy boy, not much older than I. <br />
<br />
We were happy for a time. We had our own suite of rooms, in a quiet section of Augustus’ palace. There we discovered, though awkwardly at first, love. We spent hours talking to each other—of what, I no longer remember. But I do know that at the time every conversation was important—more important than anything else around us. My father hoped that Marcellus, his favorite nephew, would one day succeed him. We must have talked of that. We must have planned our future, the great works we would provide Rome together, as a team—much like Augustus and Livia themselves. Had he lived, Marcellus would have been the greatest of all Roman emperors. But he did not live. Two years after our marriage, my beloved Marcellus died—and part of me, I now believe, died also. <br />
<br />
Oh, I wept—how I wept for weeks and weeks, crying myself to sleep at night, my nightmare sobs waking me in the middle of the night. I had never known loss before, and it frightened me. I feared that I would just keep crying, day after day, night after night, for the rest of my life. <br />
<br />
My father was sorry, too, for the loss of his favorite nephew. But already he had other plans for me and for the future of Rome. Had I been asked—even before my marriage to Marcellus—I would have said that I wanted to marry Tiberius, Livia’s elder son. He was so handsome then—tall and straight, with skin so smooth any woman would long to touch it His red-gold hair grew in perfect curls around his beautiful face and down his neck. I suppose I had always been in love with Tiberius, from the time I was first aware of him. I used to follow him around when I was a little girl, longing to do anything, everything that he did. And Tiberius tolerated me more than the other boys in the household did. But he did not love me. He played with me, as children do, but he did not say anything when my marriage with Marcellus was arranged or when I became a young widow. <br />
<br />
In fact, Tiberius only loved two people in his life—his brother Drusus and his first wife Vipsania, the daughter of Augustus’ old friend Marcus Agrippa. <br />
<br />
I tried to like Vipsania for Tiberius’ sake. I hoped that I could become closer to him if I were closer to her. But she had no use for me. That may have been because I was so besotted with Marcellus and later so overcome with grief at his death. <br />
<br />
But my father—who had listened so carefully to my childhood prattle, who had urged me to keep daily diaries, who had taken such pride in my youthful sewing that he wore whatever I made, even the first, ill-fitting garments I produced—my father stopped listening to me. And so he decided—probably in consultation with Livia, who seemed to dislike me more the older I got—that I should marry Agrippa. At forty, he was old enough to be my father. In fact, he was Augustus’ age. But no one considered that a problem or considered my feelings. Ever since my marriage to Agrippa I have felt, even when I was happy, that I was a pawn—like the small coins that my cousins used to collect and trade for hours on end. “I’ll give you this if you give me that,” they would go on for hours. I never understood the game or its fascination for them. Just as I never really understood why marriage to this one or that one was so important to my father that he—who divorced my pregnant mother to marry the pregnant Livia—felt compelled to manipulate my life completely, even down to my bedroom. <br />
<br />
But I am not being fair to Agrippa. He was a kind husband. He bought me lovely dresses and jewels, such as I had never owned nor even worn before. We gave parties and attended others. We met people who were more interesting than anyone in my father’s household—men and women who admired my style and praised my beauty, who laughed at my witticisms and asked for my opinions. When Agrippa was around, life was exciting. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, he was not often at home. Augustus was clearly training his old friend to be his successor, which struck me as odd, as they were both the same age. So Agrippa was often away—at war or, when he was home, consulting with my father. <br />
<br />
But he did give me what Marcellus had failed to: a family. One after another my beloved children were born—Gaius, Lucius, Julia, Agrippina. I loved all my little ones. They amused and consoled me when I was alone and kept me from overwhelming loneliness. I suppose I could have had even more children. But Agrippa fell suddenly ill and died when I was pregnant with our last child, whom I named Agrippa Postumus in honor of his father. <br />
<br />
Strange, I did not mourn so deeply for the father of my children as I had for my youthful husband. I was shocked when he died, but I had known all along that I would outlive him, although I had not expected to be widowed so young. My children, my poor children, were overwhelmed with grief at the death of their beloved father. True, he was often away, but he always returned with gifts for them. Like Augustus, he would spend hours playing with them, telling them the thrilling exploits of his life, listening to their childish complaints and triumphs. How different it would have been had Agrippa lived longer! He would have taught our children, he would have sheltered and protected them, just as he tried to protect me. <br />
<br />
For I needed protection. I will admit that the flattery I heard so often went to my head. Jealous women and frustrated men spread rumors about me. To his credit, Agrippa ignored them. I was clever, perhaps too clever for my own good. After hearing, over and over, surprise that all our children looked like Agrippa—when I was rumored to be having too many affairs to count—I finally retorted one day, <em>“ Numquam enim nisi navi plena tollo vectorem;</em> I never take on a passenger unless the vessel is already full.” <br />
<br />
Agrippa laughed when I repeated the story to him. I am sure he repeated it also, until Roman gossips believed it to be true. <br />
<br />
To my surprise, I found that I missed Agrippa. Unlike most of the people we knew, he always thought the best of me. Even my father was pulling away from me. One evening we all arrived at a dinner party at the same time. As soon as we entered and I had removed my cloak, I noticed Livia staring at me; her eyes traveled down and then up again until she was looking straight at me. She turned to Augustus and he, too, looked at me, frowning slightly. I could not imagine why. Unlike Livia, dowdy as ever, I had dressed properly for the occasion, in the new Roman style. I did not wish Agrippa to be tempted to stray from me. In that glittering Roman society in which we moved, women were less to be trusted than men—at least when it came to other women’s husbands. <br />
<br />
The next day I took the children to visit their grandfather. I had dressed hurriedly, in an old frock that I had sewn myself years before. As soon as he saw me, Augustus said, “Now isn’t this dress more suited to the daughter of Augustus?” I shook my head slightly. “Today I am dressed for my father’s eyes; yesterday I dressed for my husband’s.” <br />
<br />
With Agrippa gone, I felt lonelier than ever. He had often been away, but his homecomings had been joyous for the children and for me. Now I would have no one to hold me or love me. And my last child would grow up without a father. Poor Agrippa Postumus never knew the love of a father. <br />
<br />
And so my father now granted me what had once been my most fervent wish: marriage to Tiberius. But what we wish for, and what we get, are not always the same things. <br />
<br />
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Tiberius was married already to Vipsania Agrippina, the daughter of my late husband. I never felt I was a stepmother to her, perhaps because she was several years my elder. She and Tiberius had a son, Drusus, named after his brother, the only other person Tiberius ever loved. At the time Vipsania was pregnant again. Despite knowing of their great love and devotion, Augustus now felt it was his duty to protect me and my children before anyone else in Rome. Or perhaps he wanted to protect my eldest sons, his beloved grandsons Gaius and Lucius, whom he had by now adopted as his own, just as years before he had adopted Tiberius. So my old childhood playmate and I were, in a way, brother and sister. Who, I sometimes wondered, would protect Tiberius’ sons—Livia’s grandsons and the grandsons of Augustus’ adopted son? <br />
<br />
But my father did not always look to the end of any road he traveled. “<em>Festina lente</em>,” he used to say over and over again. “Make haste slowly.” But this time he did not think out what he was doing. <br />
<br />
With much anguish, as he later told me over and over again, Tiberius divorced the pregnant Vipsania and married me. He saw her again only one more time. Like a lovesick boy, he followed her on the streets for hours, weeping as he walked. When Augustus heard the story, he quickly arranged another marriage for her. They moved away, and we heard no more about them. They were probably happy together. Vipsania was always a calm, simple woman, who made a point of listening carefully to whatever another person said to her, always trying to understand the other. Or perhaps it was her coolness that Tiberius found so intriguing. Had I been walking in the marketplace, followed by my weeping, adored and adoring ex-husband, I would have run to him and consoled him, any way I could. Surely, if Vipsania had loved Tiberius half as much as he loved her, she would have known, would have sensed his presence and said something to him. <br />
<br />
Or maybe she, like I, was used to being told marry this one, marry that one. Perhaps she had forgotten that both men and women could love. <br />
<br />
I should have been happy then. And for a time I was. Once I realized that my old dreams had come true, I fell joyously in love with Tiberius once again. My love for him burned within me. After a while, I realized that fire cannot melt every substance. There I was, a woman in her prime, in love with her husband. In those days in Rome, that was in itself an oddity. I did my best every day to seduce him into loving me. I remembered how Marcellus and I had come to love each other through our long talks. And Agrippa had shown his love me in other, more intimate ways. Tiberius seemed content for a while, though never really happy. He listened to my chatter, nodded solemnly when I spoke of rhetoric or the latest literature or read to him the newest works of my friend Ovid. He followed my lead in our bedroom; I was only teaching him what I had learned from Agrippa. <br />
<br />
But after a while, nothing worked. He began by being bored with my talk and my friends. He would doze off whenever I began a conversation, no matter what the subject. When our only child died in infancy, he accused me of neglect, as if it were my fault that I was so sickly after the birth. When I wished to assume marital relations with him, he called me ugly names, asking which of my lovers had taught me this or that trick. Although I had a sharp tongue and quick wit in those days, I felt it immodest to point out that his former father-in-law had taught me well in the art of love. <br />
<br />
For Tiberius, there was no art in love, at least not with me. It is possible he saw or thought of Vipsania when he was with me. I tried—I tried every ploy, every womanly art I knew. I consulted friends but this, I later realized, was a grave mistake. When I innocently asked questions of how to kindle love in a man, they all assumed was asking how to seduce a new lover. So I stopped asking. Besides, whenever I would try a new trick I heard about, Tiberius assumed I learned it from another man. Never did I imagine that marriage to a man I had loved all my life would end up being so difficult and so sad. <br />
<br />
Our problems grew. Instead of growing closer, we drifted farther and farther apart. And then he left. First he left my bed, then our home; soon he had left Rome altogether and retired, so he said, to Rhodes. I have not seen him since. <br />
<br />
For a long while I waited and hoped that Tiberius would return to me. Weeks, months went by, and I received no letter. He never even sent a message. I grew lonely—as what woman would not? I was still beautiful then and much admired by many men. Soon I found myself falling in love with Iullus Antonius, Mark Antony's grandson. As always, I hoped for the best. <br />
<br />
And why not, I thought. My father Augustus and stepmother Livia decided that Tiberius and I should divorce—and so it happened. I was not told of the event until after it happened when Livia showed me a letter that Tiberius sent Augustus, suggesting that I keep my share of any inheritance. <br />
<br />
When I read that note, I felt utterly destroyed. I thought of pleading with my father, with Tiberius, but my pride would not allow it. Instead I fell into the arms of Iullus. He was kind and gentle, and I thought he loved me. But I was sadly mistaken. <br />
<br />
By now I had learned much of philosophy, rhetoric, art and literature. I read late into the night and listened carefully to conversations at dinner. There was, however, one subject that bored me—politics. How foolish I was! That was a subject I should have paid the most attention to. <br />
<br />
And so, I fell for the charms of Iullus and believed him loving and faithful to me. He had other things in his mind, however. He and other friends of his, calling themselves the Lovers of Julia, were plotting against Augustus. Livia heard of the conspiracy and immediately told Augustus. As it turned out, Iullus and his band had told vicious lies and stories about me, which Livia also told Augustus. <br />
<br />
Without asking me what had happened, my father took serious action against me. I do not know which betrayal hurt me the most. I was not surprised by Livia’s; by then she was a bitter woman, capable of loving only Augustus. But to learn on the same day that my lover had used me as a political pawn and that my father believed every filthy lie he heard about me made me lose any spirit or will to fight back that I might have had. For days I took to my room, not even crying, just sitting there, alone. No one but my freedwoman Phoebe visited me. She told me the news and urged me to disguise myself and flee the city. But I lacked the energy to do anything. “All of this will blow over soon,” I told her. “My father will beg my pardon for even listening to these cruel lies.” <br />
<br />
What an innocent I was then! Too foolish and trusting to live, one might say. Augustus did not apologize; he has not spoken to me since. Instead, he banished me to the island of Pandateria, off the Campanian coast. A more barren place you have never seen. It was all rocks and stumpy bushes. The fog was thick and heavy, and I rarely saw the moon or stars or even the sun. My father forbade me wine, which I missed because I could not sleep well. I would have liked to have drunk enough to fall into a deep sleep. <br />
<br />
He also made sure that no young man would ever talk with me. But that was a blessing to me. When a woman is betrayed by as many men as I have been, she loses all desire for any man’s company. And so, once again, I took up my old womanly arts. To keep the old men who guarded me from resenting me too much, I wove them warm blankets and cloaks and sewed them tunics and togas. I left the gifts where the guards could easily discover them. <br />
<br />
I heard no words of love or comfort from anyone, but Livia was sure to write me whenever disaster struck. So I heard that Iullus Antonius was forced to commit suicide, and that the other “Lovers of Julia” were exiled. If Livia thought that news would sadden me, it only proved how little she knew me. <br />
<br />
But the other news she sent—oh, that hurt bitterly. Poor Phoebe, afraid for her life or her reputation, hanged herself. When my father heard the news, he declared that he would have preferred being Phoebe’s father to mine. <br />
<br />
Livia made sure to tell me when my beloved sons Lucius and Gaius died. Augustus banished my daughter Julia and even my poor fatherless Agrippa Postumus. How it hurt to learn this news—only a mother truly knows. <br />
<br />
No matter how often the Senate or the common people themselves begged for my recall, Augustus refused to even hear of it. Each time, Livia wrote me a long letter, describing in detail what the people had asked and how my father always replied, “If you mention this matter again, may the gods curse you with daughters as lecherous as mine; or let your wives turn out that way also.” <br />
<br />
I don't know why I continued to read her letters. Perhaps to remind myself that I was safer and better off on this barren island than in Rome. <br />
<br />
My mother, Scribonia, absent through much of my life, joined me in exile. For that I was grateful. While she lived, I had a companion. We wove and sewed together and told each other the stories of our lives. If I had lived with her when I was young, I would have learned much that might have protected me. But it is useless to wish for the impossible. Being with her as I was—grown woman to grown woman—at least with her help I have been able to make sense of my life. <br />
<br />
And so these years of my exile have passed. Had Livia died first, I am sure my father would have come to his senses and recalled me from exile. But when I heard that he died, so died my hope. Tiberius, now Emperor himself after my father became a god, will never forgive me for the humiliation he suffered. A stronger man or perhaps a less ambitious man would have fought for his first marriage, I now believe. A man with more love and passion inside him would have appreciated his second wife. I have heard that he did not remarry after our divorce. Once I overheard the guards gossiping about Tiberius and his life first in Rhodes and then back in Rome. From what they said, I wondered if both his marriages had been shams after all. <br />
<br />
But it is best not to think about that now or wonder about what could have been. Tiberius made only one acknowledgment of my exile—and that was to have me moved to Rhegium. If it is not exactly a pleasant spot, it is at least less barren and cold and larger than Pandateria. For this I was at first grateful. <br />
<br />
Lately, however, I have become lonely again. I eat less and less each day, and my fingers work my wool more and more slowly. I tire easily and cannot say that anything interests me any longer. I rarely hear news of Rome, but actually I am grateful for that. I do not trust what Tiberius has done or will do to my daughter Agrippina or to any of my beloved grandchildren. I doubt I will survive another year here. Although the breeze is more pleasant here than the stiff, cold winds of Pandateria, I feel every bit of coolness as chilling. <br />
<br />
When I realized finally that Tiberius would never forgive me, that he would let me live out my days in exile, I began to lose all hope. And what, after all, could he forgive me for? For loving him too well and too long. <br />
<br />
Fear not, Tiberius. Your actions have long since killed the love that I ever felt for you. <br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
<b>Susan Phillips</b> is a Boston area writer, photographer and teacher, whose work has been published in many newspapers and magazines. Her short stories have been printed in over ten literary magazines, including <i>Poetica Magazine, Living Tex</i>t and <i>Wild Violet</i>. In addition, two stories were published in the anthology <i>All the Women Followed Her</i>. She is currently working on an historical novel about King Agrippa I and three collections of short stories: women in the Hebrew Bible, Talmudic figures and fairy tales.<br />
<br />
<b>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction story?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
For me, the characters and the history have to be logical, have to make sense, have to fit together somehow. When I read historical fiction, I want to know what happened when and why. And I want the characters to be believable, even when that means that I don’t like a protagonist. I try to write what I like to read.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-82023877299456049942013-10-15T00:01:00.000-05:002013-10-18T10:46:20.890-05:00A Sword for the King<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJGIkOS18brd2HAR8m1fOeCkyz5LQLvZygYU7BYCutcSFk08xbXylOi1ge7J0tWEHAKljnYkpDIW7ssx6iD4jqTF8Pe4q-z9aRAZVL8O57km2d1aEkfmxVIKLLxvbRqbvJ13Fx0JFfQbA/s1600/Glastonbury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJGIkOS18brd2HAR8m1fOeCkyz5LQLvZygYU7BYCutcSFk08xbXylOi1ge7J0tWEHAKljnYkpDIW7ssx6iD4jqTF8Pe4q-z9aRAZVL8O57km2d1aEkfmxVIKLLxvbRqbvJ13Fx0JFfQbA/s1600/Glastonbury.jpg" /></a></div><center><br />
<strong>A Sword for the King</strong> <br />
<em>Translated by G. K. Werner</em></center><br />
Translator’s Note: <em>Like Robin Hood, Arthur Pendragon’s legend grew in the telling, from the 6th century tales of Taliesin and other Welsh bards (later collected in the 14th century Mabinogion), to an explosion of medieval romances culminating in Malory’s </em> Morte d’Arthur (c.1470). <em>And of course, as with Robin Hood, modern movies and novels abound. </em><br />
<em> <br />
Geoffrey of Monmouth’s</em> History of the Kings of Britain (c.1139) <em>popularized King Arthur’s exploits for the Clerk’s generation. The Normans loved it. But for them, Geoffrey’s ‘history’ was a two-edged sword. It portrayed Arthur as their ancestor, bequeathing Normans a heroic past comparable to the legends of Charlemagne. But, by not recording Arthur’s death, Geoffrey may have inadvertently fostered their foe’s eternal hope: the Welsh hope that Arthur, Wales’ greatest warrior, would return at the time of Wales’ greatest need. And what greater need could there be than freeing Wales from the Norman yoke?</em> <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<em>From the Clerk of Copmanhurst’s first letter</em>: Robert Hood rode and hunted and dined with Henry, accompanying the king in all his endeavors (save womanizing)—and Robert a Saxon! Such a thing had been unheard of in past reigns, but Henry was marvelously open-minded. And Robert was a man of learning; this above all the king admired in him. Henry devoured books as voraciously as he did women and kingdoms. He gathered to his side the scholars and wise men of the day, men like Foliot of London, Walter Map, and John of Oxford—men like Gerald of Wales and Thomas a Becket, he who had once been Henry’s best friend, a man Robert greatly admired. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<em>The Tale:</em> <br />
<br />
<center>I <br />
Glastonbury Tor(1), October, 1163</center><br />
The small party approached the hill on foot from the southwest, following a barely discernable twilit path through treacherous bogs and low-lying mist. Gerald of Wales(2) guided them, followed by Robert Hood, the king’s builder; Brother Michael Tuck of Fountains Abbey; Thomas a Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury; and several monks from nearby Glastonbury Abbey. <br />
<br />
Robert’s eyes were on the hill rising above Gerald’s head, eyes wide with hope and excitement despite his better judgment. Could this towering hill, this tor, as the locals called it, indeed be Avalon, the legendary isle to which mysterious damsels had ferried Arthur to heal his mortal wound? More to the point, could it be the place in which even now Excalibur(3) rested? <br />
<br />
It certainly looked like an island in the twilight, rising out of misty marshland. The only dry approach was Pomparles which they had crossed—the Bridge Perilous spanning River Brue at the point where, according to legend, Bedwyr returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake after the Battle of Camlann. Robert had always loved tales of Arthur Pendragon. The name, Avalon, had something to do with apples, he recalled; and sure enough, apple trees grew here in abundance. Ynys Witrin, the ancients had named this hill—“The Island of Glass,” Robert translated aloud. <br />
<br />
“And the remains of Caer Wydyr?” Michael suggested, pointing to the man-made terrace, an ancient structure as old as Stonehenge, winding its way around the tor’s base. “FORT of Glass!” Michael boomed suddenly in the misty stillness as though he could shatter it. <br />
<br />
“Caer Wydyr also happens to be one of the names for the Celtic Otherworld,” said their guide, Gerald of Wales. “Some ancient sources maintain that Glastonbury Tor is hollow and its summit conceals the entrance to Faerie.” <br />
<br />
“The place to which druids sent dying kings.” Michael made his voice quake with awe. “Perhaps we’ll discover their ghosts.” He winked at Robert who had missed his old friend, seldom together in recent years. But Michael’s habitual playfulness seemed irreverent in this place. <br />
<br />
“It is my hope,” said Gerald, ignoring Michael’s mocking tone, “that we will discover merely Arthur Pendragon’s tomb, and unearth his sword for Henry. Though I did choose this night, the eve of All Saints(4), as our best chance of entering Faerie, should we have to, and if in fact is this place touches it.” <br />
<br />
“A magical place,” muttered one of the monks who had accompanied them from Glastonbury Abbey. <br />
<br />
“Ho ho!” burst from Michael’s huge belly. “Magic, you say? What sort of magic might that be?” Michael performed magic these days—so Robert had heard. In addition to plying his gift for languages and marvelous swordplay, Michael had become Fountain Abbey’s first physician and surgeon. To the folk knowledge acquired from his mother he had added the medical experience of Hippocrates and Dioscorides. After translating Pliny’s <em>Historia Naturali</em> he had planted Fountain’s first medicinal garden(5). Plants and minerals surrendered their secrets to him one by one. <br />
<br />
“Folk have had visions up there,” said the Glastonbury monk. <br />
<br />
“Hah! Visions!” said Michael. “What sort of visions, brother? Visions conjured by unseen agencies? Or visions carried up with them?” <br />
<br />
“Carried with them? How so?” <br />
<br />
“In a flask, brother! In a skin!” <br />
<br />
The monk pondered this as the path turned up the hill, and then suddenly looked indignant. “I should hope not, Brother Michael. We discourage lingering over the wine-cup.” <br />
<br />
“Now there’s an evil practice!” said Michael, not specifying which he meant—the lingering or the discouraging. “Who has had these visions then?” <br />
<br />
“Why, our own Saint Collen(6), for one.” <br />
<br />
“Did he have a vision of Arthur’s ghost?” <br />
<br />
“Nay. Visions of the Fair Folk and—“ <br />
<br />
A sign from the Archbishop silenced the monk. At forty-six, Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, was a man in his prime: tall, vigorous, dark-haired and handsome despite a pale complexion and prominent nose. He spoke with gentle authority. “This place was sanctified, long since. Let us not speak of those defeated at the cross.” Demons, the Archbishop meant, disguised as ghosts and faeries. Robert had discussed the topic with him more than once—theoretical discussions disturbingly relevant here and now on their way to opening a hoary king’s grave at twilight of an All Saints eve for the purpose of stealing his sword. <br />
<br />
They climbed out of the heavy mist that soaked hair and tunic, and the buildings on the tor’s summit came clearly into view against a dark blue velvety sky. <br />
<br />
“Your Grace,” said Michael, “do you believe the little church up there was truly founded by Joseph of Arimathea?”(7) <br />
<br />
“Holy Writ does not reveal the answer to that, Brother Michael,” Thomas replied. Like Michael, he had read the Bible cover-board to cover-board and possessed a remarkably keen memory. “And there is no reliable evidence to suggest that Joseph ever set foot in England.” <br />
<br />
“But what of the Thorn?” asked Michael, and everyone glanced back at Wearyall Hill, another ‘isle’ rising above marsh and mist. At its summit a lonely wisp of a tree, permanently bent by the wind, leaned against the full moon. “Thorn trees are not indigenous to our land. Could that indeed have sprouted from Joseph’s thorn-staff as these scholarly monks maintain?” Robert knew his friend loved a good folk tale or legend, but gave little credence to either. <br />
<br />
Thomas glanced at Robert as if to say, <em>You invited him along, can you not contain him?</em> “Who is to say?” said Thomas aloud. “This ground has been called by some ‘the holiest earth in all the land’. Only here has there been an unbroken line of Christian worship in England from the first missionaries till now.” <br />
<br />
This comforted Robert, somewhat. Not that he was any more superstitious than Michael. Father Wilibald had taught him better than that, and Christ in him would keep him safe from demons, or whatever ghosts and faeries might be. <br />
<br />
Their path now became quite vertical as they climbed rough-cut stone steps leading to Glastonbury Tor’s summit. To dispel the gloom, Michael broke into a song about midnight rambles and chance meetings, a dalliance and a duel. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The Archbishop fell into step with Robert. “Did he learn that ballad at Fountains?” <br />
<br />
Robert shook his head. Michael enjoyed scandalizing fellow monks with tavern songs he picked up on his ‘pilgrimages’. “Not at Fountains Abbey, your grace.” <br />
<br />
“I am relieved to hear it, Robert. It would be dull business to follow a sword quest with an abbey inspection.” He leaned close to Robert’s ear to speak beneath Michael’s ribald song. “You know why Henry chose you for this ‘quest,’ do you not?” <br />
<br />
The question startled Robert. But the answer was obvious. “Because, I am his builder. I know stone work and the cairn up there must be opened with respect and safety. And if there is a passage leading…elsewhere…I may judge its safety as well.” <br />
<br />
“Is that the only reason? Think about it.” <br />
<br />
What was the archbishop after? Why the conspiratorial tone? “Henry trusts me,” said Robert, remembering the king’s words: <em>You alone I trust to fetch my sword—you, my Bedwyr. </em><br />
<br />
Thomas raised a ringed finger. “Why does he want the sword?” <br />
<br />
<em>The blasted Welsh still stand in my way,</em> Henry had raged at Thomas a Becket not many days ago. <em>Why should I not claim Arthur as my beloved forefather and, with his sword, unite all of England under my rule? Norman, Saxon, Welshman, and Scott? Can you imagine?</em> Then he’d gone a step too far for the pious archbishop, Robert there to witness. <em>The secular and the divine united in the God-given sword of my ancestors! </em><br />
<br />
<em>Folly!</em> Thomas had countered. <em>If the sword ever existed and is, in fact, now revealed to us—it is a sword, not of God, but of the Devil. <br />
<br />
Fashioned in the world of Faerie, Becket. <br />
<br />
Destined for Hell, Henry. <br />
<br />
Destined for my hand. A legend unearthed in our day—a miracle, surely. </em><br />
<br />
The Archbishop’s mastery of extemporary speech and debate was only ever foiled by Henry. <em>The Father of Lies performs miracles as well, Henry. False miracles! <br />
<br />
Bah! And so we should let it lie for any Tom, Dick or Harry(8) to dig up? I tell you, I shall have Excalibur. </em><br />
<br />
“The king wants to keep it from falling into the wrong hands,” said Robert. <br />
<br />
“Then why did he not come for it himself?” asked Thomas. <br />
<br />
And why did you? Robert wondered. He and Michael and their guide, Gerald of Wales, had been surprised to find Canterbury’s Archbishop waiting for them at an inn along the way, cloaked against the chill October weather, deep-hooded and, most surprising of all, unattended. Robert was pleased to have Thomas’ company, but strongly doubted Henry knew of it. Or that Henry would be pleased! <br />
<br />
“Nearly there,” Gerald called down to them. The tall young man paused on the hillside for everyone to almost catch up, before springing onward and upward, skipping steps like a mountain cat, his enthusiasm drawing them up and up and up toward the cairn. <br />
<br />
Robert had witnessed how Gerald’s energy and self-assurance had immediately endeared him to Henry. That, and his scholarship—particularly his research into a certain prophecy attributed to Merlin, recorded on an ancient parchment and buried in Glastonbury’s extensive archives—a prophecy that had apparently sent him galloping off to the king in London—and back again to Glastonbury to guide them up the tor to the ancient cairn he hinted was the entrance to Faerie, the very place to which the Lady of the Lake had taken Arthur and his sword. <br />
<br />
“Ask yourself this, as well,” said Thomas at Robert’s ear. “How it is that a novice finds a parchment-prophecy missed by archivists and scholars for more than six centuries?” <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
Atop the tor, Gerald ushered them across open turf. They passed a large stone cross, (Saxon-built, Robert noted); the Old Church, fallen into disrepair, a wattle and daub(9) structure far older than the cross; several wooden buildings with extinguished hearths; an abandoned furnace and rotting bellows; a latrine of later design—and arrived at the cairn, a mound of stones as large as a small, upside-down ship of Danish design. <br />
<br />
“Here it is,” Gerald declared, his strikingly handsome face glowing with excitement. <br />
<br />
“By <em>it</em>, do you mean what I think you mean?” asked Michael. <br />
<br />
“According to my sources, this is Arthur’s tomb, possibly the entrance to Faerie.” <br />
<br />
“An ale-barrel’s a more likely entrance to Faerie Land than a barrow.” <br />
<br />
Ignoring Michael, Gerald addressed the party: “Within this mound—” <br />
<br />
“Where is the entrance to Faerie’s entrance?” asked Michael. <br />
<br />
Gerald indicated a stone that only a giant could have placed. “Beyond this door-stone—“ <br />
<br />
“How do you propose we move it, brother?” Michael asked. <br />
<br />
“The monks of Glastonbury Abbey have graciously supplied us with tools.” Another flourish of Gerald’s hand drew their attention to pikes and shovels lying nearby in the short grass. “And a man of your prodigious strength, coupled with my own—” <br />
<br />
Michael groaned loudly. “The stone’s thrice my size!” <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
But proved easier to move than any would have guessed. It popped off and rolled down the hill, missing toes by inches. <br />
<br />
They stood before the open grave, a hole in the hillside that led to hell for all any of them knew or guessed, a gaping maw out of which might crawl all manner of fell creature. Everyone crossed themselves, some muttered prayers, leaning on shovels and pikes or hunching with hands on knees to peer into its depth (at a safe distance), their breath ghosting in the cool night air. <br />
<br />
“The land of the dead,” someone said. <br />
<br />
“Not by its aroma,” Michael noted. “Earthy and old in there. A bit mildewy perhaps, but hardly the stench of death.” <br />
<br />
“The cairn is ancient,” said Thomas. “Its occupant long since decayed.” <br />
<br />
“Unless,” said Gerald, eyes sparkling in the torchlight, “it was not built as a tomb.” <br />
<br />
Thomas shook his head. There was no love lost between these two churchmen, not since Thomas learned of Gerald’s heart’s desire—the Bishopric of Saint David’s(10) independent of Canterbury’s authority—the very thing Henry would contrive for Gerald if he successfully delivered Excalibur. “It is simply the grave of a forgotten warrior,” said Thomas. <br />
<br />
“And yet,” said Gerald, “according to my sources, raised upon the very spot in which Faerie touches our world. In fact, ‘tis said, on this night each year, at midnight—” <br />
<br />
“And you believe this drivel?” said Thomas. “You, who aspire to become a Christian bishop?” <br />
<br />
Gerald scowled at him. “Drivel? Does Your Grace so readily dismiss supernatural agencies? According to my sources—” <br />
<br />
“A mythical wizard’s prophecy? Retold by a legendary bard, and recorded by an unknown cleric?” <br />
<br />
“A divinely inspired unknown cleric.” <br />
<br />
Thomas snorted derisively. <br />
<br />
“Why not, Your Grace? Have you ever considered that the Fair Folk might be an angelic order, and not mere superstition?” <br />
<br />
“Yes I have. But <em>whose</em> angels would they be?” <br />
<br />
“Shall we enter and see for ourselves?” asked Gerald, bowing. <br />
<br />
Thomas lifted his eyebrows. “You first.” <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
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</div><center>* * *</center><br />
Gerald had no intention of allowing anyone else to be first, though Robert who had strung his bow, and Michael who “Miracle of miracles!” had discovered a sword in his suspiciously rigid bedroll, both volunteered. That left Thomas a protected fourth in line, and the Glastonbury delegation to bring up the rear. <br />
<br />
A narrow corridor led through the cairn’s interior. By torchlight they made their way down its length. Inspecting the walls as they went, Robert assured them the structure was sound despite great age. From outside, the stones appeared to have been haphazardly placed, but the corridor within had been built with close-fitting, well-placed stones, framed by heavy rectangular supports at regular intervals, and capped by flat, rough-cut slabs. The corridor ran north fourteen paces and ended in a small hive shaped chamber. <br />
<br />
“Watch your step here,” said Gerald as he entered the chamber. <br />
<br />
The others filed in to discover, several steps away, a pit yawning before them, a circle within a circle at the center of the dirt floor. <br />
<br />
“What do you suppose this could be?” asked Michael. <br />
<br />
“A well?” one of the monks suggested. <br />
<br />
“In a tomb?” <br />
<br />
“It could be a fire-pit,” said Thomas. “Some ancient tribes burned their dead as heathen Vikings do.” <br />
<br />
“No scarring from fire,” said Robert on one knee, examining the stone rim. “And no bottom in sight,” he added, holding his torch over the opening. “Crematoriums would not be so deep.” <br />
<br />
“Where does it end?” whispered a monk. <br />
<br />
“In Faerie, no doubt,” said Michael, and his laughter echoed loudly in the chamber, causing the Glastonbury monks to cross themselves again. Robert found a small stone and tossed it in. They waited six heartbeats for it to strike bottom. No splash—a dry well, if well it was. “The land of Nudd(11) has solid ground at least,” said Michael. <br />
<br />
Thomas clucked his tongue disapprovingly. <br />
<br />
“Ho!” Michael boomed. “That is why we have come, is it not? To find Faerie? To seek the lost Excalibur?” <br />
<br />
“Or prove the fallacy,” said Thomas. <br />
<br />
He and Michael stared at each other. <br />
<br />
“Agreed,” said Michael. <br />
<br />
Thomas smiled. <br />
<br />
Gerald looked askance at them, put out by their exchange. <br />
<br />
“I find no evidence of a concealed closet or nook,” said Robert who, torch in hand, had been working his way around the chamber’s wall, running his fingers over the stonework, here and there applying a pry-bar from his tinker’s kit. <br />
<br />
“Our quest lies beneath our feet,” said Gerald. “According to my sources—” <br />
<br />
“No steps,” said Michael. <br />
<br />
“I have the next best thing,” said Gerald, producing a coil of rope from his pack. <br />
<br />
“What foresight!” said Michael. “Though I’d hardly call it the next best thing.” <br />
<br />
Robert dropped his torch into the shaft. The stones appeared to be rough-cut but with no outcroppings or jagged points to tear skin or crack pates(12). Neither did he spot handholds in the torch’s swift plunge. “The floor looks flat down there,” he said. “I think the shaft ends some feet above it, which indicates an open area, a gallery or man-made chamber.” <br />
<br />
“Safe, do you think?” asked a monk. <br />
<br />
“Relatively,” said Robert. <br />
<br />
“But what might greet us down below?” asked another. <br />
<br />
Robert looked at Michael. Michael shrugged. <br />
<br />
“The Fair Folk of the Undying Realm,” said Gerald, tying his rope to a jutting stone. <br />
<br />
“Do you believe in goblins as well?” asked Thomas. <br />
<br />
Robert and Michael studied the pit. “Close quarters for a bow,” said Michael. “Close quarters for a sword,” said Robert. <br />
<br />
“No need for either,” said Gerald, tossing the other end of his rope down the shaft. “According to the old legends, the only evil in Faerie is that which a man brings with him.” <br />
<br />
Robert and Michael, unconvinced, slung longbow and broadsword to their back and drew their shorter sax-knives in preparation for the descent. <br />
<br />
But, once again, Gerald took the lead, nimbly slipping over the rim and down his rope. <br />
<br />
<center>II <br />
The Underworld</center><br />
“Sheath your blades, my friends,” said Gerald as Robert and then Michael dropped down beside him. “Mustn’t insult our hosts.” <br />
<br />
Was he serious? <br />
<br />
The shaft ended ten feet above their heads, and a crystalline gallery opened in every direction. Its rocky formations glistened in their torchlight—a palace of columns and spears and intricately tapestried walls—a breathtaking sight. “The Isle of Glass indeed,” muttered Michael. <br />
<br />
“Nudd’s palace?” asked Gerald. “Truth behind the legend?” <br />
<br />
Thomas arrived with a grunt. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing,” he said, then noticed his surroundings. “Miraculous!” he managed after a moment. <br />
<br />
“Your blades,” said Gerald. Robert and Michael complied this time, reluctantly sheathing their sax-knives. <br />
<br />
The three monks from the abbey descended the rope without incident, young men, chosen for strength of limb as well as honest witnessing. <br />
<br />
“Which way?” asked Robert. There looked to be four passageways leading in four different directions. <br />
<br />
“This one,” said Gerald, pointing to the widest. <br />
<br />
“Why?” asked Thomas. <br />
<br />
“North,” replied Gerald. “Faerie always lies north.” <br />
<br />
“According to your sources?” asked Thomas. <br />
<br />
“Common knowledge,” said Gerald. <br />
<br />
“The wide road that leads to destruction?”(13) Michael suggested. <br />
<br />
“Watch out for gaps and precipices,” Robert warned as they set off, Gerald, as always, in the lead. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The passageway, dazzling by torchlight, twisted this way and that till all sense of north was confounded. It descended in slopes and ankle twisting, step-like formations. At length they came to believe they had passed beneath ground level under the tor. If the passageway had branched at any point, they would have been lost, but as it was, they need only go back the way they had come to reach the cairn’s shaft. <br />
<br />
The crystalline nature of the rock darkened into grey surfaces as they descended. <br />
<br />
“How far must we go before giving up the ghost?” asked Michael. Though one of the party’s youngest, the night’s exertions winded him the most. <br />
<br />
“A little further,” Gerald urged. <br />
<br />
Around the next bend, the passageway widened suddenly into a small gallery, its walls and vaulted roof pure crystal once more. At its center, stood a block of crystal cut in the shape of an altar and impaled by something tall and slim—an empty, jewel encrusted scabbard which, by its size, must once have held a mighty broadsword. <br />
<br />
“But where’s the sword?” someone asked as they cautiously approached it. <br />
<br />
“And what is that?” asked Robert, pointing to a darkness at the altar’s center—a huge, man-size object. <br />
<br />
“Who is that, you mean,” said Michael. <br />
<br />
A red-bearded, red-maned giant of a man lay within. He wore a blue robe, trimmed in white fur, beneath which could be glimpsed silver mail. A simple gold ring encircled his lofty brow. His fist gripped the point of the bejeweled scabbard that penetrated the altar. “Is he dead?” someone asked. <br />
<br />
“It’s like he were frozen in ice,” someone else said. <br />
<br />
The giant’s eyes snapped open; everyone took a step back—and crossed themselves and gaped, speechless—even doubting Thomas a Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury—even the skeptical Brother Michael Tuck of Fountains Abbey. <br />
<br />
“A corpse’s reflex,” said a monk knowingly though tremulously. <br />
<br />
“In a centuries old corpse?” murmured another. <br />
<br />
The giant’s eyes found Robert’s, and his hand opened. <br />
<br />
“I’m thinking not,” said Michael. Robert stood speechless, heart racing. <br />
<br />
The giant did not move again, but he had released the scabbard! He stared at Robert. <br />
<br />
“Take it,” Gerald urged him. “In behalf of the king.” <br />
<br />
Robert looked to Thomas. The Archbishop nodded. <br />
<br />
Robert warily approached the altar, examined the scabbard, and then drew it forth from hand and rock. <br />
<br />
A blinding flash of light burst from the altar. And, when their eyes refocused, the giant was gone. Vanished! <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
“Ho ho!” laughed Michael, leaping forward to examine the empty altar. “Now that is what I call magic!” <br />
<br />
The Glastonbury monks gathered around Robert, ogling the scabbard, chattering nervously about the apparition—Arthur’s ghost?—a faerie prank?—or was it Arthur himself, alive in the flesh? Could it be? Gerald, in their midst, nodded sagely. Thomas stood apart, brows knit in deep thought. <br />
<br />
“A fine scabbard,” said Michael, turning to examine its rubies and sapphires. “Must be worth a king’s ransom!” <br />
<br />
“The legend is that while Arthur wore it, he could not be slain,” said Gerald. <br />
<br />
“Henry will love that!” said Thomas. <br />
<br />
“What next?” asked Michael. “Where <em>is</em> the sword?” <br />
<br />
“And which way do we go now?” asked one of the monks excitedly. There were several dark passageways descending off the crystalline gallery. <br />
<br />
“Listen!” said Robert. They heard a faint trickling. <br />
<br />
“An underground stream?” asked Michael. <br />
<br />
“Possibly,” said Robert. <br />
<br />
“The Lady of the Lake could have brought the sword here by means of some hidden waterway,” said Gerald. <br />
<br />
“Do you think so?” asked Michael, rolling his eyes. <br />
<br />
Following the trickling sound of water, they proceeded on by torch light, a fairly straight course. But the passageway soon ended and an enormous, high vaulted cavern opened before them, filled with water that lapped within inches of their boots—a large hidden lake. At its far end an underground stream cascaded into its depths. Cavern, fall and lake glowed with an eerie green luminescence. <br />
<br />
“Look!” cried a monk. His trembling finger pointed at the lake. <br />
<br />
Everyone leaned forward, eyes bulging to penetrate the water. Something glowed whitely beneath the surface. A filmy white flowing something! And it was rising. Drawing nearer! <br />
<br />
For the second time since their descent, the party, collectively, took a step back—then two or three more. Ever close to thought’s surface lay the eldritch explanations for unexpected drownings, the old tales of nixies and nightmares—and the Lady of the Lake! Was that a woman’s shape within the diaphanous white gown? <br />
<br />
She rose to the surface, floated on her back, slender feet pointed toward them. A woman—no doubt now—tall, slender and shapely, her golden hair elaborately braided and coiled. A great, two-handed broadsword lay lengthwise on her body. Her hands enfolded the gilded hilt, pressing it to her breast. The silver blade flashed like a star. <br />
<br />
“Is she dead too?” The monk’s question was shockingly answered. <br />
<br />
She rose from the surface of the lake, stiff as a corpse, pivoting upright till she stood before them, tall and straight, regal as a queen—standing barefoot on the surface of the lake itself! The sword’s pommel contained a blue gemstone the size of a plum. It winked in the torchlight. <br />
<br />
Then her eyes snapped open. And everyone gasped and crossed themselves again, everyone except Thomas and Michael. Like the red-bearded giant, her eyes found Robert’s. “From the king who was,” she said. Her voice matched the musical quality of the bubbling cascade at her back. She proffered him the sword, the guard resting on her open palms, its gold and silver resplendent upon the water. “To the king who is,” she said. <br />
<br />
Gerald nudged Robert with an elbow. <br />
<br />
Barely breathing, Robert stepped to the edge of the lake and held out the scabbard, not daring to accept the sword with his own hands. Solemnly, she slid the broadsword home. With a whoosh, a shimmering golden mist filled the air. At Robert’s back monks cried out in awe. <br />
<br />
The lady smiled. She had a wide mouth and smiled like a cat. Robert felt, as the king’s emissary, he ought to say something in behalf of Henry. But she raised a hand in farewell and abruptly sank, dropping beneath the surface like a rock, her gown fanning out, winging her into the depths. <br />
<br />
Another whoosh, and more gold dust mist filled the air. Someone coughed. Then several others as Robert examined the sheathed sword in his hands—the strong, simple design—elegant—unlike its gaudy scabbard. Save for the clear blue gem, it was a practical weapon—a warrior’s weapon. A giant warrior’s weapon! It weighed more than a stone-cutters mallet. Michael coughed nearby. Should he allow him to hold it, intended as it was for the king’s hand? Surprisingly, Michael was not interested in the sword. He stooped to pick something up—an ordinary reed, like those growing by any lake in England. He turned it over, and over again in his big, thick hand. “Hollow,” said Michael, silently mouthing the word, a quizzical look in his eyes. <br />
<br />
Of course it was hollow! Weren’t all reeds hollow? <br />
<br />
“Tar,” Michael whispered, pointing to the reed’s lip. <br />
<br />
Whoosh—the golden mist thickened. <br />
<br />
The others had gathered around him now, awed by the sword, but babbling as incoherently as Michael. <br />
<br />
Gerald smiled smugly, and then laughed aloud. <br />
<br />
Thomas was shaking his head. <br />
<br />
Robert had trouble focusing his mind. The sparkling dust filled his vision. <em>Glamour</em>(14), he wanted to say to Michael. But, his senses swam, and he suddenly feared he was sinking, drowning in golden stars! <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJHy1R6dBAmdgnsSWl1TuRctYMoxgjW9Qd4dS0N5akGDjBP1cZ4mJC-9YC0JLApgMg_fEDiPwv6irmzX4I3A5uUM_M8gPdEeo-wFbXIfGNyiwBnE2mUvsSCMNTCNRLLNm7xCKJ6o9q4o/s1600/SwordforKing3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJHy1R6dBAmdgnsSWl1TuRctYMoxgjW9Qd4dS0N5akGDjBP1cZ4mJC-9YC0JLApgMg_fEDiPwv6irmzX4I3A5uUM_M8gPdEeo-wFbXIfGNyiwBnE2mUvsSCMNTCNRLLNm7xCKJ6o9q4o/s1600/SwordforKing3.jpg" /></a></div><center><br />
<br />
III <br />
The Tor, reprised</center><br />
Robert awoke on the tor, flat on his back, staring at the stars—ordinary stars in an ordinary night sky. <br />
<br />
His bow! He sat bolt upright. There it was, lying at his right hand. The others lay about him, most on their backs. Some stirred, rolling over or scratching drowsily as though awaking at an inn. Michael snored loudly. <br />
<br />
The cairn rose stark in the now moonless night. The stone covered the entrance again. <br />
<br />
Had it all been a dream? No. There was the sheathed sword, lying at his left hand. <br />
<br />
“Hah!” cried Michael, springing to his feet, his own sword on guard in a battle stance. <br />
<br />
“Good morning,” said Robert, impressed with Michael’s sprightliness. <br />
<br />
“Well now,” said Michael, embarrassed by his reflexes. He cleared his throat and sheathed his blade as others rose wide-eyed, gathering their senses. <br />
<br />
Thomas sat up slowly, looked about himself, made the sign of the cross, and immediately bowed his head in prayer. <br />
<br />
“How did we get here?” asked a monk. <br />
<br />
“Who sealed the cairn?” asked another. <br />
<br />
“The Fair Folk!” said a third, crossing himself. <br />
<br />
“Or that Arthur fellow,” said Michael. “He’s big enough to carry us out and replace the stone in one go.” <br />
<br />
Gerald yawned, sighed, and then sat up, bemusement vying with amusement on his face. “What happened?” he asked. <br />
<br />
“We thought you might tell us,” said Michael. <br />
<br />
“Hmm,” said Gerald, rising and dusting himself off. <br />
<br />
“Excalibur,” breathed one of the monks gathering around the sword. “Excalibur,” the others repeated, making it almost a chant. <br />
<br />
“The work of angels?” asked Thomas, on his feet now, adjusting his robes. “Do you think?” <br />
<br />
“Anything is possible, Your Grace. This may be the holiest ground in all England, as you yourself have said.” <br />
<br />
“Did I say that?” Thomas smiled, and it was like the dawn in its sudden warmth. “Well, I’ll say this, young man—most impressive!” <br />
<br />
Gerald beamed. <br />
<br />
Thomas turned to Robert and Michael “Was that not the most impressive ceremony you ever witnessed?” he asked them. <br />
<br />
Robert nodded. <br />
<br />
“I could not believe my eyes or my ears,” said Thomas, and he was known for possessing exceptional sight and hearing. <br />
<br />
“Neither could I!” said Michael. <br />
<br />
And they both turned to Robert, who immediately became suspicious. Things subconsciously noticed fell into line like neatly cut stone: The ease with which a stone set in place centuries ago had moved; Gerald bringing a rope to explore a cairn, insisting their weapons be put away; Michael examining the crystal altar instead of a legendary scabbard and an ordinary reed instead of the most famous sword in Christendom—a reed by an underground lake? Gerald’s warning: <em>Watch your step here.</em> Michael’s words—<em>Now that is what I call magic!</em> (He and Michael had often debated the supernatural back in their days together at Fountains. Michael defined sleight-of-hand, and illusions like sword swallowing or flame breathing as <em>magic</em>—fakery for entertainment purposes as distinguished from witchcraft or sorcery.) And Thomas’ question—<em>You know why he chose you for this, do you not? </em> Robert did now! King Henry knew how much Robert loved tales of Arthur and his knights. He felt so gullible. And resentful! “Unbelievably wondrous!” said Robert, raising the sheathed sword to salute his two friends. <br />
<br />
Thomas nodded, still smiling. “Then we’ll leave the sword in your care Robert, and we’ll leave Michael to lead you in prayer and meditation concerning its disposition. Come Gerald.” Thomas put a brotherly arm across Gerald’s shoulder, turning him toward Glastonbury Abbey and the path down to it. “Let us hasten back to Abbot Henry(15) to herald this wonder.” <br />
<br />
Gerald apprehensively glanced back at Robert and Michael more than once as he, Thomas and the monks descended the tor. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The moment they passed out of earshot, Michael began sermonizing his observations and deductions. <br />
<br />
Robert had to agree, corpses and disembodied spirits had as much use for hidden passageways in crystal altars as Lake Ladies had for lungs; reeds could be strung together with tar or pitch and, with practice, breath could be drawn through their length. He had missed the opening Michael had observed beneath the altar and never dreamed of a breathing pipe. <br />
<br />
“What would it take to mechanically raise the Lady of the Lake?” asked Michael. <br />
<br />
Robert thought a moment. “Well, an armature, pivoting on another rotating from a crossbar. Much like a catapult or stone-hurler.” <br />
<br />
“Something like this?” asked Michael, handing him a parchment. <br />
<br />
“Where did you find this?”—a sketch of a machine of some sort. <br />
<br />
“In Gerald’s satchel among his <em>sources.</em>” <br />
<br />
“You pilfered it?” <br />
<br />
“Borrowed is a more precise term.” <br />
<br />
“When?” <br />
<br />
“While following him through Faerie Land. I was only after a bit of marzipan(16) he’d promised me for breakfast.” <br />
<br />
“Clever!” <br />
<br />
“Thank you.” <br />
<br />
“I don’t mean you, you thief. The ropes and pulleys indicated here and here, would enable someone to raise the lady’s board, right it, and later release it, all from concealment. A simple design really.” <br />
<br />
“And the perfect setting,” said Michael. “I believe the ancient druids of this place discovered the crystal cave and lake while drilling a well.” <br />
<br />
“The luminescence is a natural phenomenon, I suppose.” <br />
<br />
“Phosphorous,” said Michael. “And some sort of algae.” He knew a great deal about minerals and their properties. “Who knows how many legends began in the druids’ secret passageways.” <br />
<br />
“What about the flash of light that cloaked Arthur’s exit?” <br />
<br />
“Greek fire(17) of some sort. Or a powder(18) from the east I once saw demonstrated in London.” <br />
<br />
“The glamour?” asked Robert. <br />
<br />
“A powerful sleep inducing drug, pulverized, mixed with gold dust and cast into the air somehow. Perhaps through a pipe with a bellows. The scabbard must have contained some too.” <br />
<br />
“And the sword?” <br />
<br />
Michael drew it from the scabbard in Robert’s hand, examined it thoroughly. “A fine sword, beautiful and well-balanced. Expertly crafted. Worthy of a king, no question!” <br />
<br />
“Arthur’s?” <br />
<br />
“Not old enough. A warlord in Arthur’s day would have used a sword similar to the Roman spatha(19). Two-handed broadswords of this kind only came into use much later.” Michael knew his swords too, of course. He examined the pommel, and then the scabbard. “The jewels are genuine. The scabbard is very old. But again not old enough. Perhaps handed down in Gerald’s family.” <br />
<br />
“This is rich!” said Robert. <br />
<br />
“Worth a king’s ransom, I should think,” said Michael. <br />
<br />
“The plot, I mean,” said Robert. “It’s worthy of a king as well.” He plopped down on the tor and stared at the abbey roofs far below. <br />
<br />
“Any king in particular?” asked Michael. <br />
<br />
Robert groaned. “What do I do now?” <br />
<br />
“Report the truth to Henry, of course. Why so despondent? We have proof of the plot, even without re-entering the tor and scavenging around. Although if pressed we could disassemble the machine and find Arthur and the Lady.” Michael snapped his fingers. “Bellows! And a specially forged sword! I seem to recall a certain sword-smith in Derbyshire—a very tall sword-smith in Derbyshire, as a matter of fact, who—“ <br />
<br />
“Henry wanted the sword. Arthur’s sword!” <br />
<br />
“He’ll be disappointed, I warrant you, but—” <br />
<br />
“It’s no good! I’m sworn to fulfill my quest.” <br />
<br />
“And so you shall. We discovered Gerald’s duplicity. Hah! We’ll be heroes!” <br />
<br />
“And if Henry does not want the truth?” <br />
<br />
That gave Michael pause. “Is it really possible? Henry hatched the scheme himself?” <br />
<br />
“Entirely! You don’t know Henry as I do. And Thomas suspects him too, if the questions he asked me coming up here mean anything.” Robert related them to Michael. <br />
<br />
His Grace secretly joining us is further proof,” said Michael. “And we don’t know who else may be involved. Abbot Henry for one! He’s probably turned a blind eye hoping to attract pilgrim donations and royal patronage."(20)<br />
<br />
“Possibly,” said Robert. <br />
<br />
Michael plopped down next to him. “It’s unhealthy to cross a king’s will.” <br />
<br />
“But I’ll have no part in a lie,” said Robert. <br />
<br />
“Neither shall I,” said Michael quickly. “Even a lie of such magnificence!” <br />
<br />
Robert folded his arms across his chest and dropped his chin on his chest to pray. <br />
<br />
“What to do! What to do!” said Michael. <br />
<br />
They sat and prayed on the tor as the stars winked out one by one. But, with the morning sun’s first gleaming, Michael brightened. “Ha! I have it!” He slapped his knees and sprang to his feet. “Up! Up!” he cried. “You must ride like the wind.” <br />
<br />
“Where to?” <br />
<br />
“I’ll tell you.” And he did. And then he told Robert his plan. <br />
<br />
“But how do we manage such a fantastic—?” <br />
<br />
“Leave it to me,” said Michael. “Leave it to me. I know a little magic myself, you know. Ho, ho!” <br />
<br />
<center>IV <br />
Glastonbury Abbey, that night</center><br />
The Glastonbury monks spent the day preparing a feast in honor of their legendary hero whose home they shared, and the king who would now wield his sword. They gathered that evening in their refectory to celebrate. Rules of conduct and diet were relaxed for the occasion, and the brotherhood waxed downright boisterous. Abbot Henry alone sat dour faced at table while his monks sang and jested, feasted and toasted—to King Arthur and King Henry, England’s glorious past and present! <br />
<br />
A narrow table beneath the refectory’s cross held their prize. A plain white cloth draped the table and Excalibur was surrounded by dozens of candles lit in its honor—a simple shrine between two tall windows with stars twinkling beyond them. A special mass was planned for later in the evening. <br />
<br />
Robert and Michael had delivered the sword to the abbey at sunrise and ridden off in a hurry. They returned late to the feast. “Where have you been all day Master Robert?” a monk called across the table. “Saw ‘im riding east fast as the wild hunt,” said another. <br />
<br />
That was too close to the mark. While Michael spent the day in Glastonburytown purchasing certain materials suitable for the night’s entertainment, Robert had spent the day hunting down their elusive quarry. <br />
<br />
“I had an errand,” said Robert. “King’s business.” <br />
<br />
“To the king!” pronounced Thomas at Robert’s elbow, raising his cup. <br />
<br />
“God bless the king!” cried one and all, raising theirs. Welshman toasting a Norman king! That wasn’t something you saw every day. Or did they toast Arthur? <br />
<br />
As conversation and jests resumed around the table, Robert tilted his cup in thanks to Thomas’ timely distraction. “I know why he chose me,” said Robert, answering the question Thomas had posed on the tor. “I’m gullible.” <br />
<br />
Thomas spoke beneath revelry’s din: “I have never considered you gullible. Inexperience is nothing of which to be ashamed. And, he chose you for your honesty, hoping his liege men and allies, even his enemies, would trust your word as a witness, your judgment as a man of good sense and discernment.” <br />
<br />
Robert flushed. Trust him to stupidly support a royal subterfuge! <br />
<br />
“However,” Thomas put his hand on Robert’s forearm, “a word of caution. Follow no man blindly. You are somewhat in awe of him.” <br />
<br />
nd of Thomas a Becket also, Robert realized in that moment. Thomas and Henry—great friends and archrivals! Between them, they could rend lesser men. <br />
<br />
An owl hooted outside the refectory’s tall windows. It sounded reasonably like an owl anyway. It was time. Robert rose and lifted his cup to the assembly. “I would like to propose a toast as well,” he said. The assembly rose, dutifully turning to him and lifting theirs. But just then, Robert’s eyes widened, and all eyes sped to their target. <br />
<br />
“Aiiiiiiii!” cried a monk at the far end of the table, closest to Excalibur’s shrine. <br />
<br />
A tall, lean figure stood on the small table, black boots straddling the sword, black robes a-swirl. His long-fingered hands gesticulated wildly in the multiple-candlelight to send shadows whirling like spectres in the vaulting. His long white hair and beard bristled like porcupine quills, even his eyebrows. His nose was a stabbing knife, and his bloodshot eyes pierced all they met. <br />
<br />
“Merlin!” gasped a monk, jumping to his feet and upsetting his chair. <br />
<br />
“Can it be?” asked another. <br />
<br />
“I think not!” shouted Gerald, rising. <br />
<br />
“He’s after the sword!” cried a lay brother as everyone came to their feet. <br />
<br />
“Somebody stop him!” somebody cried. <br />
<br />
“Excalibur is Arthur’s!” Merlin proclaimed in a raspy voice, lifting the sword from the table. “And Arthur’s alone!” <br />
<br />
“Nay!” cried Michael. “The Lady of the Lake has bequeathed Excalibur unto King Henry Fitz-Empress.” <br />
<br />
“It was no longer hers to give,” Merlin nasally intoned. “I shall hold it against Arthur’s return.” <br />
<br />
“You shall not!” <br />
<br />
“It is preordained!” <br />
<br />
“Preordained, my arse!” cried Michael, and the monks gasped in unison. He whisked his sword from beneath his chair. “Cold steel will determine the matter!” He leapt onto the long dinner table and gathered himself for a charge down its length. But Merlin struck first—a long slim finger pointed at Michael’s blade, flicked aside, and the sword flew from Michael’s hand to strike the stone flooring with a spark and a resounding clang. <br />
<br />
Everyone gasped again. <br />
<br />
Merlin held Excalibur triumphantly above his head and opened his mouth for some fell pronouncement. An arrow struck the blade and Excalibur hit the floor with a bigger spark and a louder clang than had Michael’s sword. <br />
<br />
Robert stood in the doorway, having retrieved his bow and quiver from the corridor, a second arrow pointed at Merlin, his bowstring drawn to his ear. “Henry shall keep Excalibur against Arthur’s return,” said Robert, quietly but firmly. <br />
<br />
“It is not his task, but mine,” snapped Merlin. He pointed at Robert’s bow and flicked his finger. The arrow jumped sidewise off the string to land harmlessly at Robert’s feet. <br />
<br />
But Robert’s hands moved like magic, and a third arrow appeared on his string, drawn to his ear. <br />
<br />
Merlin answered with a point-flick, and Robert’s bow jerked aside flinging his arrow into a nearby chair. <br />
<br />
Again Robert nocked and drew. But, of course, pointing and flicking is quicker. Like the others, this arrow struck where Merlin gestured, this time splintering against a stone wall. <br />
<br />
A fifth arrow leapt out the open window at Merlin’s side. The next skidded across the floor. Wherever the ancient wizard pointed, there flew Robert’s arrow, monks scattering for safety behind columns and buttresses. <br />
<br />
The ninth, Robert’s last, quivered in a rafter high above Merlin’s head. <br />
<br />
Robert drew his sword and Michael, still atop the table, drew his sax-knife, but Merlin shoved at the air with both hands as though taking his turn in a game of buffets. Robert and Michael fell off their feet like bowling pins. <br />
<br />
Merlin laughed—a wild, mad, high-pitched laugh, and vanished with a boom in a cloud smoke. When it cleared, Excalibur was gone as well. <br />
<br />
The monks dropped to their knees, murmuring and crossing themselves repeatedly. Thomas helped Robert and Michael to their feet. Enraged, Gerald rushed to the small table, frantically looked out first one window and then the other, lifted the table cloth. “Thieves!” he cried. “Thieves!” <br />
<br />
Abbot Henry sat quietly at the table, smiling now, and nodding to himself. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmMP5OrwNnv-E0sOKCKasUa5X7GzTsedcEVMiKrQ1vU6co0Ronw2315eHR50V8ORKKmAqKBMqZ2VcWigMarmvVZSD63LUYGfqXug0Byv2_JLKbBLLon0oV6LiZBBh3nMFtxO4Qx9ohW4/s1600/Merlin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmMP5OrwNnv-E0sOKCKasUa5X7GzTsedcEVMiKrQ1vU6co0Ronw2315eHR50V8ORKKmAqKBMqZ2VcWigMarmvVZSD63LUYGfqXug0Byv2_JLKbBLLon0oV6LiZBBh3nMFtxO4Qx9ohW4/s1600/Merlin.jpg" /></a></div><center><br />
V <br />
Hathersage, Derbyshire, several days later</center><br />
They rode down out of the Pennines, Robert and Michael, still laughing about rewriting the ending to Gerald’s play. <br />
<br />
“I could have hugged the monk who cried <em>Merlin</em>,” said Michael. <br />
<br />
“The abbot was pleased,” said Robert. “Did you see?” <br />
<br />
“Grinning ear to ear,” said Michael. <br />
<br />
“A wise man to see through our jape.” <br />
<br />
“Apparently not so willing an accomplice in Gerald’s plot as we might have supposed.” <br />
<br />
“No,” said Robert, “but I feel sorry for his flock. They seem to have been taken in completely.” <br />
<br />
“Gerald was trapped,” said Michael, “just as we thought—couldn’t expose his players without exposing himself.” Michael laughed again, holding his belly with one hand and the reins with the other, before managing to speak. “Gerald’s eyes nearly popped out of his head!” <br />
<br />
“An eye-opening experience for me too, this quest to Glastenbury Tor,” said Robert, thinking about Henry’s motives and likely complicity. <br />
<br />
In Hathersage they inquired the way to the smith and soon dismounted before his shop. A tall young woman with long, flowing blond hair came to the door and saucily looked them up and down. “I suppose you’ll be wanting it back,” she said, arching an eyebrow. <br />
<br />
“Only the scabbard and pommel stone,” said Robert. Gerald’s family heirlooms as Michael had supposed. Gerald could hardly claim them without incriminating himself, so Michael intended selling them to feed the poor. Scabbard and stone would feed a lot of poor. <br />
<br />
“Not the sword?” she asked. Gerald had commissioned her husband to forge it—a time-consuming project to judge by such quality workmanship. <br />
<br />
“Nay, it is yours to keep,” said Robert. <br />
<br />
“Payment for your additional aid,” said Michael, who undoubtedly desired it himself. <br />
<br />
“My thanks,” said the giant red-bearded sword-smith, arriving at her back, a merry gleam in his eye. The sword’s gold and silver inlay was worth a small fortune to them. “Of course,” he added, “a good jape at Norman expense is payment enough.” When Robert overtook them on the road, he and his wife had readily agreed to Michael’s playacting, caught as they were in their own for which Robert, as an officer of the crown, could have arrested them. <br />
<br />
“Your winsome wife was superb, Master Smith!” said Michael. “—a convincing Lady of the Lake and a convincing Merlin not twenty four hours later. Magical!” <br />
<br />
She smiled wryly and exaggerated a curtsy. <br />
<br />
“I would give a hundred swords to have caught her performance first hand!” roared her huge husband who had been waiting beneath the refectory’s window with a length of reeds, a bag of ash from his shop, and his hand-bellows which had previously blown glamour in their faces. <br />
<br />
“At least you caught her exit,” said Michael. “With both hands!” Or she’d have leapt through the window to her death. <br />
<br />
The four had a good laugh at Norman expense. <br />
<br />
“Well met!” cried Robert who had not had such fun since the last time Michael was with him. <br />
<br />
“Well met indeed!” cried Michael. “What a merry band of jesters the four of us would make! Heh? If ever our Norman betters should disown us."(21)<br />
<br />
“It occurs to me,” said Robert, “we don’t even know your names.” <br />
<br />
“Kerry,” said the willowy woman. <br />
<br />
“Eric Little,” replied her husband. <br />
<br />
“Eric Little?” cried Michael, and he howled and ho-hoed till his belly almost shook loose and rolled down the lane. <br />
<br />
“My mum named me,” said the giant quite seriously. “She was Danish. Wanted me to have a good Viking name.” <br />
<br />
“It’s not the Eric part,” Michael barely managed between guffaws. <br />
<br />
<center>VI <br />
Tintagel Head, many weeks later</center><br />
Gerald and Henry met over a chessboard on Tintagel Head. Chamberlains had set out a table and two chairs on the grassy height above Cornwall’s granite coast. The sea surrounded them, a turquoise vastness stretching into distant mystery, save where a narrow strip of rock connected Tintagel Head to the mainland. Gerald fully appreciated Henry’s wry choice of meeting places; however, contrary to legend, there were no buildings on this headland, beaten by wind and sea, no evidence of anything ever having been built here, let alone the fabled castle in which Arthur Pendragon was conceived. <br />
<br />
They sat alone, Gerald and Henry, playing chess in a silence broken only by the cry of gulls reeling and plunging in the sea-spray, the crash of surf on jagged rock far below, and the snap-crack of the royal standard whipping in the wind above their heads. Henry was not smiling. Gerald extricated himself from one trap after another, wondered if losing would improve his future chances of winning the independent bishopric of Saint David’s, or at least keep him from ending his days on the rocks below. But Henry thrived on challenges and despised fawning courtiers. “If only you had taken on the quest yourself m’lord, in order to—“ <br />
<br />
“In order to be made a fool of in person?” Henry shouted into the wind. “Nay! I did well to distance myself from such incompetent playacting. You and those silly monks, and that confounded smith and his wife!” <br />
<br />
<em>You approved it,</em> Gerald could have said, but thought better of it. “The Hathersage couple’s complicity will keep them silent,” he said instead while attacking Henry’s bishop with his rook. “The abbot and his monks have sworn never to repeat the tale, for their own reputations sake as well as their sovereign’s.” <br />
<br />
“And I don’t want to read of it in some clerk’s ‘history’ either,” said Henry. <br />
<br />
Gerald assured him posterity would be none the wiser. <br />
<br />
Henry grunted skeptically, and captured his rook. <br />
<br />
But Gerald knew should the story spread, Henry’s favorite Master Builder had loyally provided his king with a most logical explanation for the Glastonbury gambit and its outcome. Gerald had read Robert’s letter—a daring masterpiece. <em>My thanks beyond words, for the spectacular magic prepared for us in Glastonbury,</em> Robert had written his liege lord and king (sounding more like a certain renegade monk of Fountains Abbey, if anyone asked Gerald—which they had not.) <em>I feel as though I truly was on a quest for Arthur’s sword. Your engineers and actors faithfully revived my favorite hero for a splendidly original play. What trouble and expense to take in behalf of your humble servant! The fact that you remembered my interest in matters Arthurian would have been gift enough. </em><br />
<br />
“I don’t suppose the bishopric of Saint David’s is entirely out of the question,” Gerald chanced despite the king’s demeanor. <br />
<br />
Henry glared at him. <br />
<br />
“After all, it was a daring gambit. A good faith effort.” <br />
<br />
Henry burst out laughing. “Gerald—I like you!” <br />
<br />
“So you will arrange—” <br />
<br />
“Just as soon as Hell freezes.” <br />
<br />
Gerald sank in his chair. His chin dropped to his chest. <br />
<br />
“Unless,” Henry added reflectively, a few moves later. <br />
<br />
Gerald sat up. “My liege?” <br />
<br />
“Well, if we can’t have Arthur’s sword, let us have him confirmed dead and in the ground.” <br />
<br />
“A thing entirely possible,” said Gerald enthusiastically. “Arthur has certainly outlived his usefulness.” <br />
<br />
“May he rest in peace!” said Henry, smiling again.(22) <br />
<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><em>Endnotes:</em><br />
<br />
1. <em> tor</em>: the peak of a bare or rocky mountain or hill (Celtic—rocky height; Welsh—heap, pile)<br />
<br />
2. <em>Gerald of Wales</em>: Giraldus Cambrensis; scholar, courtier, churchman, outlaw, naturalist, traveler and diplomat; respected historian and author of seventeen books; great-grandson of Rhys ap Tewdwr, the Prince of South Wales on his mother’s side, and the son of William de Barrie, a Norman knight; born in 1145, he would be nineteen here, making the Clerk’s history the earliest record of Gerald’s activities.<br />
<br />
3. <em>Excalibur:</em> Frenchified version of Caliburn, the name given Arthur’s sword in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s <em>History of the Kings of Britain.</em> The Clerk uses the name <em>Caladfwlch</em> throughout his letter, Arthur’s sword’s name in the earliest stories, derived from the Welsh <em>Calad-Bolg</em>, “Hard Lightning”.<br />
<br />
4. <em>All Hallows Eve</em>: In 835, in an effort to wipe out pagan holidays, Pope Gregory IV changed the Church’s May 13th celebration for martyred saints to the Celtic November 1st festival of Samhain during which it was believed the dead returned to mingle with the living and goblins and faeries roamed the night.<br />
<br />
5. Elsewhere in his letters, the Clerk describes the thrill he experienced as a scribe translating Hippocrates’ Greek and the <em>De Materia Medica,</em> (50-70 AD) of Dioscorides, a Greek army doctor who built upon Hippocrates’ work. Together with Pliny the Elder’s, these writings would eventually form the basic curriculum studied by late medieval medical scholars.<br />
<br />
6. <em>Saint Collin</em>: a 7th century hermit who, according to legend, visited a Fairy Palace beneath Glastonbury Tor, sat through a fairy banquet refusing to eat anything, and escaped by flinging holy water all around, whereupon the palace disappeared.<br />
<br />
7. <em>Joseph of Arimathea</em>: a wealthy Israelite and member of the Sanhedrin; he became a disciple of Jesus of Nazareth to whom he loaned his tomb for three days.<br />
<br />
8. Since our Clerk loves puns, is he referring to Thomas a Becket, Richard (Henry’s son), and Henry himself here? Did Henry II actually say this? Previously traceable to the 16th century, this is now the earliest recorded occurrence of the saying.<br />
<br />
9. <em>wattle and daub</em>: walls formed of twigs and branches surfaced with clay<br />
<br />
10. <em>Bishopric of Saint David’s</em>: a post formerly held by Gerald’s uncle, David FitzGerald<br />
<br />
11. <em>Nudd</em>: Gwynn ap Nudd, the main Otherworld Celtic god, whose palace was believed to be beneath Glastonbury Tor<br />
<br />
12. <em>pate:</em> head<br />
<br />
13. Jesus speaking of himself in Matthew 7:13-14: “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.”<br />
<br />
14. <em>Glamour</em> (glaymor, glamarye, or glamalye): possibly akin to fairy dust; the power by which elves reputedly transform or transport themselves, create illusion, or allow humans to see them or their world.<br />
<br />
15. Henry of Blois, Abbot of Glastonbury 1126-1171<br />
<br />
16. <em>Marzipan</em> (march pane, march bread): a confection of sugar and almond meal, probably originating in Arabia, where an almond paste is mentioned in <em>The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night.</em><br />
<br />
17. <em>Greek fire</em>: an inextinguishable “liquid fire” weapon that burned even on water, said to have been invented by Callinicus, a Syrian engineer (673 AD). Eastern Roman Emperors kept its formula secret for centuries and even today, its exact chemical composition remains a mystery.<br />
<br />
18. The earliest reference to gunpowder?<br />
<br />
19. <em>spatha</em>: an ancient Roman cavalry sword, 25-38 inches long, a highly versatile weapon used for thrusting as well as slashing.<br />
<br />
20. In his writings, Henry of Blois describes the deplorable condition in which he found the abbey upon his appointment as abbot. The community was nearly ruined, buildings crumbling, monks struggling at subsistence level.<br />
<br />
21. Prophetic words, as witness the Clerk’s third letter.<br />
<br />
22. Eric Little’s last days are chronicled in the Clerk’s tale, “The Log-Bridge Quarterstaff Fight”.<br />
<br />
Gerald of Wales never did receive his heart’s desire—the Archbishopric of St. David’s on a par with Canterbury. In 1190, he returned to Glastonbury to witness the opening of a grave, purportedly Arthur’s. Gerald wrote two accounts of the exhumation: one in “Liber de Principis Instructione” (c.1193), and the other in “Speculum Ecclesiae” (c.1216).( Both can be found at <a href="http://www.camelot.celtic-twilight.com/infopedia/gerald_wales.htm">www.camelot.celtic-twilight.com/infopedia/gerald_wales.htm</a>.) Two remains were found: the skeleton of a huge man, and a smaller skeleton with “a tress of woman’s hair, blond and plaited and coiled with consummate skill.” The Clerk’s revelation of Gerald’s earlier Excalibur ‘find’ does not conclusively support modern scholars who have accused the Glastonbury monks of a publicity stunt in regard to finding Arthur’s body, but it certainly provides a motive for Gerald. Could he have engineered such a ‘find’ at the expense of two people who had crossed him? Not likely. Based upon reliable sources, Gerald could be accused of repeated opportunism, but not murder. That the bodies were those of Eric and Kerry Little is pure speculation. In any event, his second foray into Arthurian drama met with greater success than his first. Unfortunately for Giraldus Cambrensis, Henry II had died in 1189 and his son Richard cared little for Gerald’s ambition, Glastonbury’s claims, or his father’s promises.<br />
<br />
<center><em><em>* * *</em></em></center><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Glastonbury_Tor_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1272713.jpg">Image</a> of Glastonbury Tor by Michael Ely. </div><br />
<br />
<center><em><em>* * *</em></em></center><br />
<strong>G. K. Werner</strong> teaches in adult prison education and the martial arts when not writing genre fiction from a Biblical perspective. In addition to <i>Lacuna</i>, his stories have appeared in <i>Tower of Ivory, The Sword Review</i> and <i>Fear and Trembling</i>. He lives in ‘slower lower’ Delaware with his wife (author, poet, songwriter and homemaker Virginia Ann Werner), their cats and collie (who have many tales, but never tell). Visit their blog, <a href="http://www.gkwerner.blogspot.com/">Narrow Way Storytellers</a>. <br />
<br />
<strong>Where do you get the ideas for your stories?</strong><br />
<br />
Hal Foster's Prince Valiant, '<i>In the days of King Arthur</i>', is a close second to my number one favorite fictional hero, you know who. Like Robin Hood's father, my father's favorite stories involved King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. In childhood, I read the edition he read in his childhood by Henry Frith, which included such memorable lines as "clave thy pate in twain", and great illustrations by Rowland Wheelwright (depicting knights in anachronistic 15th century plate armor). From my teen years on, I read and collected the fine-art newspaper comics masterpiece, <i>Hal Foster's Prince Valiant </i>(a little more historically accurate). Imagine my delight when I read Geoffrey Ashe's <i>The Quest for Arthur's Britain</i> in my early twenties and discovered that, unlike Robin Hood, substantial evidence points to a historical Arthur Pendragon (though not so named). Later, I came across Gerald of Wale's accounts cited above, and the tie-in with Robin Hood emerged from Avalon's mists—well, from my Arthur-saturated mind.<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-29038010380833595932013-10-15T00:00:00.000-05:002013-10-15T17:44:03.668-05:00Why Fiction?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<center>
<br />
<br />
<strong>Why Fiction?</strong><br />
<em>by Matt P. Jager</em></center>
<br />
I knew a man, let’s call him Clair, who didn’t let his grandkids swim on Sundays. Dancing was also strictly prohibited, no matter when. Clair himself only read biographies or histories. He never bothered with fiction. He said he’d watch the news before a movie. For him, fictions were indulgences of pleasure – not pleasure in terms of happiness or satisfaction, but rather the fools-in-the-house-of-pleasure sensibility of an older America that saw as many merits in baseball as we do today in first person shooters. Clair asked, with manful disregard for the pastimes of children, “Why would I spend my time with something made-up?” <br />
<br />
To demonstrate that real life was more interesting than fiction, he told me a story that began with him strapping on his revolver to evict some reefer pushers renting his property in the 1950s, and ended with a pair of lesbians moving in. In between was tension, humor, and carefully selected details. The lesbians were the punchline – as in, he’d gone to so much effort to run off the pushers only to have them replaced by – <em>ba-dum ching</em> – homosexuals! That’s the joke: Lesbians are less desirable than criminals. It takes a heck of a storyteller to make me overlook such an unpleasant premise, but Clair was among the best I’ve known. Not only that, the stories from his life were <em>true.</em><br />
<br />
Or were they?<br />
<br />
Recent neurological research suggests the <em>act of remembering</em>alters a memory. As we relive a story, whether in our heads or to an audience, the remembering imprints onto the memory of the event, until we remember the story as much, if not more, than the incident itself. <br />
<br />
For instance, one spring night when I was two and a half, my mom offered to race me home from the babysitter’s house across the road. Mom had a car. I had little velcro shoes. She won the race. I’d only made it halfway across the street when she pulled into the drive and her taillights blinked off. In the sudden black I realized I didn’t know the way, and I turned for a moment, lost. That’s what I always tell people who ask about my earliest memory. But if I close my eyes and actually try to recall living through the event, I can’t summon the feel of the weather or the shape of the houses or even the name or face of the babysitter – just an awful confusion in the darkness.<br />
<br />
Clair had been telling his story about the drug dealers and the lesbians for at least fifty years. Suppose he could travel in time to relive that particular eviction. He would probably find half a century of practice had taught him how to reduce life’s strange web of causation into a single narrative thread complete with jokes and inflections at the right points to thrill an audience. <br />
<br />
Every human encounter in the world undergoes a translation from the external reality, what I call truth, into a memory that binds that encounter with a narrative scaffold. This capacity of forming narratives from signals around us appears to be hardwired. According to one theory, the narrative instinct allowed early humans to extrapolate increasingly complex sequences of events from signs in the environment – in other words, by inventing explanations for how this blade of grass bent, or how that footprint appeared in the sandy soil – allowing the tracking and hunting of prey over ever longer distances.<br />
<br />
Selection for this capacity brought along with it a whole basket of other potentials. The creation of narrative fictions allows us to neuter the specter of death – the terror of the world from the outside – by inventing comforting stories about what happens after. Think of the inquisitiveness of a child, or of the just-so stories we use to answer their endless interrogations. A narrative gives answer to the search for a causing agent. Of course, the closest a narrative can claim to the infinite subtleties of truth is a sidelong ricochet. When Job complains at the injustice of bad things happening to good people, the answer from the whirlwind is to point at the mysteries outside human experience. <em>You think you know what makes rain? How birds fly? Why water freezes?</em><br />
<br />
What can be more coldly indifferent than a life stripped of its fictions? Take a momma duck waddling at the head of a string of little fuzzballs – the very picture of devoted motherhood. But if an orphaned duckling tries to join in the gang, momma will do her damndest to trample or drown the thing. That is the external reality. That’s truth. It’s our narrative fictions that make our hearts melt at the sight of momma duck stopping traffic, and makes our hearts ache when she seizes a bobbling fuzzball by the neck and holds him underwater.<br />
<br />
Even our most distinguished histories bend truth into narration. It’s no accident Herodotus is known both as the father of history and the father of liars. Thucydides, the immediate successor of Herodotus, writes dramatic speeches and debates that he, like a hunter cutting sign through the woods, extrapolates from guesswork and common sense. “My method has been,” Thucydides writes, “while keeping as closely as possible to the general sense of the words that were actually used, to make the speakers say what, in my opinion, was called for by each situation.” The term for this is historical fiction. <br />
<br />
In the thousands of years since Herodotus and Thucydides, our approaches to history have evolved. Peer review by a towerful of scholars helps weed out the real humdingers. In fact, I wonder if Herodotus wouldn’t be happiest today as a historical novelist. Either way, the essence of history as an interpretation of evidence remains the same. History is an art, not a science, and like all other artistic fictions, its most astonishing works are feats of imagination. <br />
<br />
If we direct the meaning of “historical fiction” away from literary taxonomy and toward any narrative interpretations of times gone by, its scope spills across nearly every chit of human contemplation. All the sagas from Homer to Roland? Historical fiction. Michaelangelo’s <i>David</i>? Historical fiction. The Dogfish Head microbrewery has a whole line of recreated tipples bringing life to ancient flavors unearthed in tombs, or brewed from recipes originally described in hieroglyphs. That's historical fiction too. If the act of remembering fictionalizes even our own personal histories, then our memories themselves are historical fictions. <br />
<br />
There is a long and distinguished chronicle of behaviors identified as the difference between us and animals. There is an equally long history of disproving those claims. We know now that geese mourn their dead. Prairie dogs communicate in vocabularies. Coyote pups ostracize bullies. Rats repay charity. Chimpanzees go to war. But if our fiction is the narratives of memory and sympathy and imagination – if it’s recipes and art and sculpture and comedy and drama and paintings and poetries – if it’s a journal of historical stories or a selection of works on a theme – no matter what the vehicle, it may refer less to a literary genre than to the being of human. And that, I think, is worthy of a grown-up investment.<br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
<strong>Matt P. Jager</strong>'s writing has been published in books, newspapers and magazines around the world.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the attraction of the historical fiction genre?</strong><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Historical fiction, like history, is an interpretation of sources. The practice of history differs from the writing of historical fiction, but the two are on the same spectrum. Both inform the present with a particular outlook on the past.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-79910292117147462502013-04-15T00:10:00.000-05:002013-04-15T06:14:16.714-05:00Issue 8: April 2013<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/April2013_zpsba1e9ec2.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/April2013_zpsba1e9ec2.jpg" border="0" alt=" photo April2013_zpsba1e9ec2.jpg"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong> History is the Devil’s scripture.</strong><br />
<em>~ Lord Byron</em></center><br />
<center><strong>Contents</strong></center><br />
<blockquote><a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/history-poems.html">History Poems</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/M.%20V.%20Montgomery">M. V. Montgomery</a> <br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/ufuve_15.html">Ufuve</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Maude%20Larke">Maude Larke</a> <br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/death-of-virgin.html">Death of a Virgin</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennifer%20Falkner">Jennifer Falkner</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/jailbreak.html">Jailbreak</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/A.%20Miller">A. Miller</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/his-lovers-keeper.html">His Lover’s Keeper</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Brenna%20L.%20Aldrich">Brenna L. Aldrich</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/i-went-to-museum-to-see-mans-soul.html">I Went to the Museum to See a Man’s Soul…</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Day%20Al-Mohamed">Day Al-Mohamed</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/death-in-paris.html">Death in Paris</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Ted%20Witham">Ted Witham</a> <br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/tranquility-hill.html">Tranquility Hill </a>by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Joseph%20%20Rubas">Joseph Rubas</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2013/04/a-knight-in-fountains-abbey.html">A Knight in Fountains Abbey</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/G.%20K.%20Werner">G. K. Werner</a><br />
</blockquote><br />
Questions, comments, or concerns may be e-mailed to the editor at markenberg[@]yahoo.com. <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-6051030821605578062013-04-15T00:09:00.000-05:002013-04-15T09:16:33.683-05:00History Poems<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/HistoryPoems_zps33763ecd.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/HistoryPoems_zps33763ecd.jpg?t=1365863801"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>HISTORY POEMS</strong><br />
<em>by M. V. Montgomery</em></center><br />
<strong>The First Emperor Speaks</strong><br />
<em>Qin Shihuangdi, 259-210 BCE</em><br />
<br />
I have crossed into a world of stone, where my palace rises, <br />
guarded by generals, archers, and infantrymen. In this place, <br />
there can be no death or desertion. My followers are legion. <br />
I command charioteers, armored cavalry, and saddled horses. <br />
Advisors and scribes stand by to receive my instructions.<br />
<br />
Let musicians play their tunes while royal birds step and bob <br />
their necks. Let a strongman astound all with feats of strength. <br />
Let acrobats balance balls while standing on one leg. If clay <br />
summons no more life than this, then mix in the bones of live <br />
followers. Their spirits dare not stray without my authority. <br />
<br />
A model of my empire has been built with quicksilver rivers <br />
flowing past mountain palaces to the Yellow and Yangtse, <br />
then on to the ocean. Here I preside, beneath a vault of stars, <br />
over all the known universe. My reign has not been disturbed.<br />
<br />
<strong>Leonardo at Play</strong><br />
<br />
According to Vasari, there never was any mystery to Mona Lisa’s smile. <br />
Leonardo had brought in jesters and musicians to amuse Giocondo’s wife <br />
as she sat: her lips have the curl of a woman trying to keep a distinguished <br />
countenance, and not quite succeeding. Perhaps she also laughed inwardly <br />
at this Florentine genius who could not himself sit still, a super-strong child <br />
who rarely finished what he started. Who felt so deeply that sentient beings <br />
should not be caged he bought birds in the marketplace just to release them, <br />
or shaped balloon animals out of soft wax and blew life into them himself, <br />
laughing at each nascent creation. Father of conspiracies? Secret societies? <br />
While he loved nothing so much as diagrams and intricate plans, it is hard <br />
to imagine enough patience for the follow-through. Consider, this man <br />
who created <em>The Last Supper</em> once bought intestines from a butcher and <br />
inflated them with a bellows until they filled a whole room, shocking those <br />
who came for a look at divine artistry with the sight of outrageous anatomy. <br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/HistoryPoems2_zps67155a55.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/HistoryPoems2_zps67155a55.jpg?t=1365863862"/></a></center><br />
<strong>Cleopatra</strong><br />
<em>for Nardi T.</em><br />
<br />
I.<br />
<br />
Named for a daughter of the North Wind, Boreas,<br />
she was descended of incestuous marriages <br />
for four generations, a Macedonian princess<br />
who ruled the Greek capitol of Alexandria.<br />
<br />
Her great-great descendant Ptolemy Philadelphus<br />
is described by Theocritus as light skinned,<br />
blue eyed, and fair. Shakespeare may have<br />
been right, after all, to describe her as <em>tawny</em>.<br />
<br />
Her image, recently found on a coin, might belie<br />
the myth of a great beauty—but that, my friend, <br />
is in the eye of the beholder. <br />
<br />
II.<br />
<br />
More apparent today are her considerable <br />
intellectual gifts. Schooled from an early age <br />
to assume the throne, she is said to have <br />
mastered nine languages. <br />
<br />
She accomplished what more powerful rulers <br />
could not, holding the Roman empire at bay.<br />
And did so cunningly, through staged pageants,<br />
masquerading first as Isis, later as Venus.<br />
<br />
She knew others believed in a show of faith <br />
and a queen need not care about effrontery.<br />
When Caesar fell, she recast him as Osiris,<br />
exchanging her role of god for consort. <br />
<br />
III.<br />
<br />
Roman poets and chroniclers who came later<br />
―Lucan, Josephus, Plutarch, Suetonius—<br />
let us call them all out. Males, all driven <br />
by lust, even at a hundred years’ remove. <br />
<br />
They could not see past the Great Men of history <br />
to a woman who was emperor to their emperor. <br />
Whose only surviving words, <em>Let it be done</em>,<br />
might have been all she ever needed to say. <br />
<br />
<strong>La Mallebarbe</strong><br />
<em>July 1596</em><br />
<br />
She was an unwilling Scheherazade, a sixty-year old woman who for years earned <br />
nothing but the scorn of her neighbors. Unable to live in exile either, she decided <br />
to trust enough in the goodness of human nature to return to the village of Charmes. <br />
That was unwise. Under threat of torture, she began to tell stories about causing <br />
the deaths of cows and horses of villagers who had disliked her or refused her alms. <br />
Her interrogators developed a taste for more of the same, perhaps secretly hoped <br />
she might be holding back. So they threatened her again, and she readily confessed <br />
to other crimes, such as poisoning a man who had called her an <em>old bigot and a witch. </em> <br />
Only once did she tire and falter, perhaps temporarily depleted of her stock of folktales. <br />
But after being “gently” racked, she found words again. This time her tales of powers<br />
extended far beyond common knowledge, far beyond anything she could ever have<br />
imagined of herself. She told of transformations into cat-form, of spells to raise fogs <br />
or destructive storms, of evil commands spoken by crows, of secrets heard in the wind. <br />
They wore her down further until she had confessed to dozens more unsolved crimes, <br />
named “accomplices,” and provided testimony of Devil-powers that would serve as <br />
a template for the trials to come. In some stories, Barbe stood up to her Dark Master <br />
and tried to persuade Him to spare the crops, or her fellow poor (she was a day laborer), <br />
but He would not listen and continued to coerce her. Her accusers were indifferent <br />
to such motives. After a fortnight of increasingly fabulous confessions that only served <br />
to reconfirm their beliefs in <em>maleficium</em>, they paid to her the only respect they could <br />
to a convincing foe: strangulation at the stake, death before final obliteration in flames. <br />
<br />
<strong>Death’s Head</strong><br />
<br />
There is nothing to unsettle the gentry <br />
in a Victorian death’s head. These are like <br />
Raphael’s cherubim, heads resting on wings. <br />
Eyes rolled heavenward, as if too enthralled <br />
to attend to a plaintive call.<br />
<br />
The eighteenth century death’s head is asleep <br />
in the meadow, dreaming of Elysian fields.<br />
Eyes shut in eternal rest. But neutered- <br />
looking, sans flowing locks, as if to say <br />
<em>All are anonymous in death.</em><br />
.<br />
As we turn the historical page, cheeks grow <br />
more sallow, and eyes are reduced to sockets. <br />
No wings, just crossed bones. Death is death, <br />
and we are solemnly shown how <em>Each of us <br />
faces that judgment alone. </em><br />
<br />
And what a rogue is this? Ho-ho!—gnashing <br />
a femur in its teeth like Dante’s Ugolino. <br />
No more than a vacant skull, a study in crude, <br />
the Puritan death’s head stood as a warning: <br />
<em>Death is for all but the few.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Nightingale</strong><br />
<br />
After the papers fell like soft petals in the bower where Keats <br />
sat for hours, making notes, his friend Charles Armitage Brown <br />
found the scraps. The poet smiled, giving Charles permission <br />
to edit the poem however he wished. He was done with it—<br />
but the world of the Ode would never quite finish with him. <br />
In his mind, he could still hear the sound of the songbird’s call <br />
from various perches; and the smell of the plum tree, blended <br />
in his imagination with the scent of violets under fallen leaves, <br />
was so pungent that it slugged him like a narcotic. He had, <br />
in any case, become drunk on a single wished-for sip of wine. <br />
The power of that suggestion still left a tart taste on his lips. <br />
He had visited with death, too, and death promised to return. <br />
But the conversation that summer morning had left him entirely<br />
without fear—only in a peaceful daze, relaxed to the last muscle. <br />
<br />
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<strong>Yellow House</strong><br />
<em>December 23-24, 1888</em><br />
<br />
It’s now alleged that it was after wounding his friend <br />
that Gauguin fled to the South Seas, sending his ego<br />
on long safari into the primitive. He might have felt <br />
all was tit for tat, however: the Dutch chatterbox <br />
had talked <em>his</em> ear off with plans for a quasi-religious <br />
community at Arles. Vincent was quite boyish in his <br />
affection, which it was not his nature to suppress. <br />
He planned meals and bonding rituals, even wished <br />
to share secret symbols such as the fish (<em>ictus</em>). <br />
<br />
These attentions soon become intolerable to Gauguin. <br />
He had left wife and family in search of adventure <br />
and didn’t care to babysit this lonely soul indefinitely. <br />
Worse, he couldn’t seem to shut him up. He had, <br />
it’s said, a streak of cruelty, and freely took advantage <br />
of the other’s vulnerability, often threatening to leave, <br />
sometimes wickedly brandishing fencing foils in the air <br />
above van Gogh’s head. Vincent had a deathly fear <br />
of the weapons, calling them <em>engines of war</em>. <br />
<br />
He was right: <em>ictus</em>, the catchword of their partnership, <br />
was also a brisk French fighting salvo. Intentionally <br />
or not, during that one fateful argument (which spilled <br />
into Christmas Eve), Gauguin appears to have scored <br />
a hit. Characteristically, his initial relief at his friend’s <br />
silence would turn to envy. He perceived that the story <br />
of self-mutilation served to diminish his own reputation <br />
as a swordsman. <em>The murderer took flight,</em> he wrote, <br />
to try to glorify himself in retreat. Then, in a sketch, <br />
he drew a small ear inscribed with that word again: <em>ictus</em>. <br />
<br />
Vincent would never see it. Two years later, removed <br />
from the Yellow House by his brother Theo, he was dead <br />
by his own hand, his dream of an ideal artists’ community <br />
thoroughly routed. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<strong>M.V. Montgomery</strong> is an Atlanta professor and the author of nine books. His most recent collections of poems are <em>What We Did With Old Moons</em> (2012) and <em>The Island of Charles Foster Kane</em> (2013). Visit his blog at: http://mvmontgomery.wordpress.com/<br />
<br />
<strong>Where do you get the ideas for your poems?</strong><br />
My dream journal is my best source, but I also take notes on what I read and what interests me. <br />
<br />
<strong>What inspires you to write and keep writing?</strong><br />
Since I'm an English and film professor, I stay in touch with the literary canon, with a special focus on world lit and cinema history. Paradoxically, it's when I'm overworked grading papers, falling behind on household work, commuting, or left with no time to spare that my mind becomes inconveniently flooded with ideas. I tend to write them down in short bursts; and then, over the winter and summer breaks, try to expand on the crib notes and create. Or I might decide to discard them in the name of inventing something new.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction piece?</strong><br />
It has to be honest, and because of its power to perpetuate myth or spawn revisionist myths, sure of itself (i.e., well researched). <br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the attraction of the historical fiction genre?</strong><br />
It’s probably an age thing for me (I'm fifty-one), but these days when I read for entertainment, I often feel I'm wasting my time if I'm not learning something too. I will read most anything from pulp to Proust, but if a writer like Matthew Pearl or Caleb Carr teaches me a little at the same time, it can help me to fill in some blanks in my memory. <br />
<br />
<strong>What advice do you have for other historical fiction writers?</strong><br />
I'm not in the historical fiction encampment often, but when I am, can see the danger of a writer going about the business too schematically. History has to try to adhere to the fact, but "everything is the proper stuff of fiction," as Virginia Woolf said, and so when starting out, a creative writer still has to let the atoms "fall upon the mind" where they may. That means writing it out first, then worrying about editing/separating out what isn't "fact" later. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-1868853830690522732013-04-15T00:08:00.001-05:002013-04-15T00:08:00.329-05:00Ufuve<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Ufuve5_zpse2b96feb.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Ufuve5_zpse2b96feb.jpg?t=1365864467"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>Ufuve</strong><br />
<em>by Maude Larke</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Introduction</strong></center><br />
These four fragments seem to be all that exists of the tale told in them, and indeed of the culture that produced them. They are believed to have been carved into their support (a block of wood which seems to have formed a pillar or doorpost to a house) by the sea captain himself; his exact reason for referring to himself in the third person and for speaking in the past cannot be explained.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, other such fragments will be found in the same bed of sedimentary rock that is being excavated in Ashkelon. They should both give us more information on the culture referred to and confirm or correct the translation presented here. We thank Professors Burgess and Lodge, members of our team, for their competent study and able rendering of his extinct language.<br />
<br />
Dr. F. I. Iskandar<br />
Head of Operations<br />
Ashkelon Archeological Project<br />
<br />
<strong><center>I</center></strong><br />
<br />
Hsn, the Unnamable, the Warning, spoke its name with each clawing on the edge, eternally murmuring of its dread longing. The dwellers by the rippling blue beast readied their sea-houses, their light tundi-hsndi, to take the good hand of the deep motion, and to step through the claws to their neighbors, the Fen-hsndi.<br />
<br />
They were an old people, older than the enduhdi along the shore to the north, and little understood the ways of the new-comers. The Fen-hsn writings were like the knock of their mattocks against their ship timbers; but they, the Elioduhdi, wrote like the waves, like the blowing sands about them, like their home. And the Fen-hsn worship was strange, and was scorned by the Elioduhdi, for they worshipped only the white head of Zyrj, and believed not in the old Waiting.<br />
<br />
Zyrj is a beast that turns its cold back outward when it sleeps and its warm belly when it is awake. Its belly is bright blue, its back black, dappled white. Its eye is bright and its head is white, and sometimes when it sleeps it covers it head with its black paws. Sometimes the beast is molbrunu, angry, and its fur is ruffled and gray. This the Elioduhdi say.<br />
<br />
By a cord around the neck of Zyrj hangs Elio, that which was. And under Elio is Ufuve – the Ending.<br />
<br />
“Elio ihto Ufuve,” the priest, the qelduh, chanted every morning to the fishermen as they prepared, and to the traders of goods as they made ready.<br />
<br />
               Elio ihto Ufuve,<br />
               Ufuve ino qelde;<br />
               Elio grinta huldo,<br />
               ui Ufuve mol huldo . . .<br />
<br />
And on they chanted to protect the men.<br />
<br />
                “The Earth hung over the Abyss,<br />
               The Abyss lay under waiting . . .”<br />
<br />
On, while Hsn the Unnamable Warning, the blue claws of Ufuve, struggled to pull firm Elio into itself. And on the prows of their ships was written to defy the claws, the waves,<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Ufuve_zps37a0947c.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Ufuve_zps37a0947c.jpg?t=1365864626"/></a></center><br />
“Elio grinta huldo”; the Earth was called bright.<br />
<br />
The ships were loaded, the qelduhdi ended the ritual drone, and the leader of the trade ships signaled to his men. The long tundi-hsndi were thrust into the hands of Hsn, and the men felt the smooth stroking motion of the blue paws. They worked quickly, lightly, they knew by the gentle rocking that the beast was not hungry today, that they were far from Ending and Elio was still strong and bright. And they gloried in the breath of Zyrj giving them speed, and its bright eye approving their sailing, and the strength of their tun-hsn prows.<br />
<br />
And when they went far, and saw the sands of the Fen-hsn shores, they turned to Elio and the blue claws lifted them to the beach, thrust them there, carried them vigorously to the shore and the welcoming cries of the Sea-comers.<br />
<br />
The men all knew each other, greeted each other with their own people’s words, gave news to each other. They had traded together a long time; they worked together, easily loading and unloading the foods and cloths and animals and woods from ships to land and land to ships. When the work was done, they sat together and shared their meal.<br />
<br />
One of the Fen-hsn leaders began talking good-naturedly with the Elioduh captain in the old tongue. “It seems your old beliefs have spread. We hear of a man to the east, a Hipporu. We hear he is building a great tun-hsn, and he wants to put his own Elio inside it. He says the voice of Zyrj came to him, telling him of Ufuve, and how this man must save life from it.”<br />
<br />
“He is a madman,” replied the captain. “Everyone knows that there is no saving life from Ufuve, should it choose to come.”<br />
<br />
“Well, he is serious, and has done great work. He has three eliedi, and they are helping him.”<br />
<br />
The captain was more solemn then. All his people worshipped their own eliedi, and were glad for having them there, a sign, a proof of the strength of Elio. He himself, this captain, had an elie, now grown, and ready to become a qelduh, one who waits.<br />
<br />
The Elioduh captain, all the Elioduhdi, respected the Hipporudi, but stayed apart from them. Hulduhdi they called them, Those with Names, for they had come to the land from the east with their own name, and held strongly to their own ways. They did not wait either, but worshipped a being called He Who Is Called So by the Elioduhdi, for they gave him no name, these strange people. Marvelous and strange they were, and the Elioduh captain wondered that a man who ran from the Warning Sea and lived in land could build a tun-hsn, and teach his eliedi to build also.<br />
<br />
The captain then laughed and said to the fellow-captain of the Fen-hsndi, “The ways of the Hipporudi have always been strange, and they often seem to be more molenu than we. This must be simply another example. And if the eliedi follow their elqeldo in his madness, it shows that madness comes from the father as beards do.”<br />
<br />
And he stood and called to his men to re-enter the grasp of Hsn.<br />
<br />
Time passed, Zyrj rolled his blue belly and black back and flashed his bright eye, and the tradesmen forgot about the crazed Hulduh. The great Warning grasped at the sand, the priests chanted, and the people continued their simple lives by the sea.<br />
<br />
<center><strong>II</strong></center><br />
The captain worked, kneeling under the bright eye, scraping the bottom of his hollow ship out of reach of the claws. As he worked and his brown arms flexed, his elie, dark and lean, came to him.<br />
<br />
He watched his father work hard, waited until he stopped to breathe, and spoke to him.<br />
<br />
“Elqeldo, father, . . .”<br />
<br />
The strong father turned and placed his strong back, shining like Hsn, against the still wooden curve of his strong tun-hsn, and smiled. But he saw the eye of his son, dull like the eye of Zyrj in the cold, and waited for him to speak. The eye searched longer, like an Elioduh too far from shore, and the younger one said, “Strength to strength.” The words were enzyrjuha, a breath from the sky.<br />
<br />
“What is this, ‘strength to strength’, enogrintaduh?”<br />
<br />
“I see your back, strong, against the ship, strong. Strength put to strength . . . That is what Ufuve will be like.”<br />
<br />
“Ah, elendo, you are inu-uha. Sit here in the warm sand by me.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I am inu-uha, my elqeldo, and I am uhazyrjenu, too.” He sat down and folded his legs. “I am restless. It is Ufuve, the strength of Zyrj to the strength of Hsn, pulling at Elio like pulling apart water reeds. It is a world of pulling, like the oarsman against the waters, until the oarsman’s strength fails.”<br />
<br />
“Elie elendo,” spoke the father, “you see too much the mol, the dark of things, and not enough of the grinta. You see strength to strength, and you think Ufuve. I see strength to strength, and I think Elio. I see the strength of my back and the strength of my tun-hsn. When we are out on the blue claws, these strengths are together and together they keep us from Ending. Together they bring us to Elio.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, father, you are right. I see too much the mol.” He stopped and looked out along the still sands. Then he said suddenly, “Elqeldo, they say that I may not become a priest. They say that the qelduhdi may choose against me.” He lowered his head.<br />
<br />
The captain looked at the young bowed head, and knew a sad heart held it bowed.<br />
<br />
“Yes, my son, that may be so. The qelduhdi remind us that we are still waiting, and that we will still wait. They are our strength in Elio, and our trust in it.”<br />
<br />
“And I,” spoke the son with gloom,” with my spirit molenu, cannot keep this trust. Because ‘the Earth is named bright’ but I see just the dark. I cannot be a qelduh if I cannot see the bright.”<br />
<br />
“But you can see the bright,” the father answered, and sat up to his son. “You see it often, but you forget, you let the darkness come in like molzyrj. Yesterday you rejoiced in the ihtuzyrjuha, as it only lifts its wings and Zyrj brings it upwards to him. ‘The small creature is nothing but trust,’ you said, ‘and its trust is its brightness.’ You saw grinta and Elio in the little ihtuzyrjuha, and the brightness was in you too for the rest of the day. If you had not been uhazyrjenu and molenu when you came to me, you would have seen Elio in my strong back and tun-hsn, too, as I did, and you would have felt the brightness again. The trust of the Waiting is in you. You need only keep your sight from being drawn away. You need only keep the mol away for a while, then you will become a qelduh, and then you will be able to keep the brightness always in you.”<br />
<br />
The son lifted his head. “Yes, father, you are right – and it is always better when I talk to you.” And he said, “Yes, they say that when a man is a good qelduh he never sees molzyrj again, for the brightness is so much with him. If molzyrj will be gone, so will the inner darkness, and I will not be molenu . . . I want to be a good qelduh.”<br />
<br />
The father smiled, and turned from his son to work at his boat again. “It is good to see grintabrun in you.” He scraped a while and said to his son, with a larger smile, “You are like an old Hulduh, you are.”<br />
<br />
“I, and old Hulduh? Why do you say that, elqeldo?”<br />
<br />
“Because they think of the mol, like you do, but more. They have rarely the bright in them. Their smile is of craft, not joy. They know too little grinta, and it makes them foolish, even before they are old. I have had news. There is one now, an old foolish one, so foolish his own people laugh at him. He has heard someone talk of Ufuve, and it has him so frightened that he is trying to build a tun-hsn large enough for Elio. I am glad that you are not a madman like that.”<br />
<br />
He looked up from his work and wished that he had said nothing, for he saw the eye of his elie, dull like the eye of Zyrj in the cold.<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Ufuve5_zps18d019ac.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Ufuve5_zps18d019ac.jpg?t=1365864404"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>III</strong></center><br />
The men stood outside the great tun-qeld of the Elioduhdi, the wooden temple, made from Fen-hsn wood bought with Elioduh fruit and sheep. They were waiting for the priests to come with their sons, waiting for the ceremony that would bring qelduhdi among the eliedi to continue the Waiting. Zyrj was molbrun, ruffled, gray.<br />
<br />
One group stood apart from the rest, talking loudly with many gestures. With them was the tun-hsn captain, looking serious and thoughtful.<br />
<br />
“He has a tun-hsn, very large, built of timbers and pitch, standing on dry land, far from any river. He is filling it with food, and pairs of animals, and is shutting himself and his family inside,” said one.<br />
<br />
Another joined, “And his eliedi! One elie has a name like the sea, has the name of the Warning. He is called Shm.” He pronounced the son’s name well, in spite of the strangeness of the sound for Elioduh mouths.<br />
<br />
The captain spoke quietly. “This Noa is a Hulduh, and knows nothing of the Waiting, or of the sea. The Hulduhdi do not speak the words of the sea, so the name of his elie means nothing. He is a madman. He heard of the Waiting, and it made fire in his broken head.”<br />
<br />
“But he has built,” said another. “He has built a tun-hsn, and his people know nothing of ships and seas. He has talked of the waters, and his people know nothing of Ufuve. He has – ”<br />
<br />
“What do the qelduhdi say?” asked the captain.<br />
<br />
“Nothing. They still ponder,” said one.<br />
<br />
“Do you mistrust your own priests?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“No,” they answered.<br />
<br />
“As you trust, they will tell you. And if they only ponder, and do not tell you, then it is because it is not yet time, I believe. Ufuve is not yet. Trust the qelduhdi.”<br />
<br />
As he said this, the chant began, and the priests walked slowly through the crowd of men and entered the wooden temple. They were followed by the eliedi of the people, coming to be made into those who wait for the others to come. The sea man watched as his own elie walked by, young and lean and dark and straight, calmly walking to enter the temple. The elie looked up at dull, molbrun Zyrj, and his eye became dull. He looked back at his father and his dull eye became wide. His father wondered at this.<br />
<br />
The men waited and stayed outside, and listened as the tale began,<br />
<br />
               Elio ihto Ufuve,<br />
               Ufuve ino qelde;<br />
               Elio grinta huldo,<br />
               ui Ufuve mol huldo;<br />
<br />
As the men stood outside waiting, rain began to fall.<br />
<br />
<center><strong>IV </strong></center><br />
In the rain, the gray, heavy rain, the captain ran and stumbled through the rivers in the lanes of the village. Muddy water to his knees hid the mud of the street, and he stumbled and lurched and pulled his feet from the mud as he ran. He ran from the village, through the flooded fields with rotting grain, past the fields where sheep lay sick or dead in the water. He ran for his house, his tun by the Warning, his hut by Hsn that held his family, stumbling in the pounding rain.<br />
<br />
His face was a block, but his eyes were bright as he ran up to his doorway and went in to where the members of his family sat on the table to keep their feet out of the water.<br />
<br />
He walked up to the table and stood in the pool of water in his own house. He looked at his wife and said, “Ufuve.”<br />
<br />
The word, half whispered, sent a trembling through his wife. The children looked up in wonder.<br />
<br />
“If it is the Ending, then why are your eyes so bright?” the wife asked.<br />
<br />
“Because it was our son, our own elie, who knew and proclaimed the ending. Our son was the one who knew.”<br />
<br />
The captain waded to the window and looked out on the hard rain pouring and felt the chill from the dampness. He watched as he knew the Warning would rise up and grip him in its blue claws and swallow him, and he was happy because he was dying proud of his son who knew of Ufuve. He had trusted in the qelduhdi, and Elio had given him reward by learning of the world’s end from his own elie.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<center>APPENDIX A<br />
LANGUAGE OF THE ELIODUHDI</center><br />
The language of the Elioduhdi is like the languages of other Middle Eastern peoples in the use of diacritic marks for vowels and in the writing of the language from right to left. It is unlike the other languages in that its letters are formed in a curvilinear style, while those of the other languages use mostly squared or angular shapes.<br />
<br />
The Elioduh language was apparently borne of imitation of the sounds of nature, most particularly the sea by which they dwelt.<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Ufuve2_zps8a61d9cf.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Ufuve2_zps8a61d9cf.jpg" border="0" alt=" photo Ufuve2_zps8a61d9cf.jpg"/></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Ufuve3_zps3bee5981.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Ufuve3_zps3bee5981.jpg" border="0" alt=" photo Ufuve3_zps3bee5981.jpg"/></a></center><br />
<center>GLOSSARY</center>brun – eye<br />
brunzyrj – “eye of the sky”; sun<br />
el – first<br />
elendu – “first-come”; first-born<br />
elie – “he who is”; son (pl. eliedi)<br />
Elio – “that which was”; Earth<br />
Elioduh – “he who was”; member of the Elioduh people (pl. Elioduhdi)<br />
elqeldo – “first-waited”; father<br />
enduh – “comer”; a stranger or member of another people<br />
enduhgrinta – “one who came bright”; a term of affection<br />
enogrintaduh – “one who came bright”; a term of affection<br />
enya – to come<br />
enzyrjuha – “a breath from the sky”; inspiration<br />
f – of<br />
Fen-hsn – “sea-comer”; a member of the people living north of the Elioduhdi (pl. Fen-hsndi)<br />
grinta – bright<br />
grintabrunu – “bright-eyed”; happy<br />
grintazyrj – “bright sky”; day<br />
Hipporu – man of a people living inland of the Elioduhdi (pl. Hipporudi)<br />
Hsn – the sea (thought to be part of Ufuve)<br />
Hulduh – “the one named”; the Elioduh name for the Hipporudi (pl. Hulduhdi)<br />
Huldoduh – “he who is called so”; Elioduh name for the Hipporu god<br />
huldya – to call or name<br />
ihtuzyrjuha – “over sky’s breath”; bird<br />
ihtu – over<br />
ihtya – to hang over<br />
inu – under<br />
inu-uha – “under breath”; physical or mental doldrums, listlessness, melancholy, sadness<br />
inya – to lie under<br />
mol – dark<br />
molbrunu – “dark eyed”; angry<br />
molenu – “come dark”; pessimistic, depressed, negative; mad<br />
molzyrj – “dark sky”; night<br />
molzyrju – “dark-skied”; tired<br />
qelduh – “one who waits”; an Elioduh priest<br />
qeldya – to wait<br />
tun – house<br />
tun-hsn – “sea-house”; boat, ship<br />
tun-qeld – “waiting house”; temple<br />
Ufuve – “Ending”; the Abyss of Elioduh mythology<br />
uha – breath<br />
uhazyrj – “breath of sky”; wind<br />
uhazyrjenu – windy (day); restless (person) <br />
ui – and<br />
Zyrj – the sky<br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
APPENDIX B<br />
THE RELIGION OF THE ELIODUH PEOPLE</center><br />
The only surviving portion of the Elioduh liturgy is a set of phrases contained in one of the extant fragments found so far.<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Ufuve4_zpsd2117cab.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Ufuve4_zpsd2117cab.jpg?t=1365709131"/></a></center><br />
the Earth hung over the Abyss<br />
the Abyss lay under waiting<br />
the Earth was named bright<br />
and the Abyss was named dark<br />
<br />
This people’s faith seems to have been rather apocalyptic, involving waiting for a cataclysm.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<strong>Maude Larke</strong> has come back to her own writing after working in the American, English and French university systems, analyzing others’ texts and films. She has also returned to the classical music world as an ardent amateur, after fifteen years of piano and voice in her youth. Winner of the 2011 PhatSalmon Poetry Prize and the 2012 Swale Life Poetry Competition, she has been published in <em>Naugatuck River Review, Cyclamens and Swords, riverbabble, Doorknobs and BodyPaint, Sketchbook, Cliterature</em>, and <em>Short, Fast, and Deadly,</em> among others.<br />
<br />
<strong>Where do you get the ideas for your stories? </strong> <br />
This story was inspired by my probing of Biblical texts. Often they put me in a "what if" or "what was it like before this" mode.<br />
<br />
<strong>What inspires you to write and keep writing?</strong><br />
MUSIC. I need to choose carefully what I listen to while I'm working.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction story?</strong><br />
Creativity. Historical fiction can become very mechanical. Lobbing in the facts rather than creating the scene. <br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the attraction of the historical fiction genre?</strong><br />
The recreation of the scene, the "what was it like" question answered.<br />
<br />
<strong>What advice do you have for other historical fiction writers?</strong><br />
Read Dorothy Dunnett's "King Hereafter". <em>THE</em> piece of historical fiction, in my humble opinion. I cried at the end.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-57950406613432347732013-04-15T00:07:00.000-05:002013-04-15T00:07:00.086-05:00Death of a Virgin<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/DeathofVirgin2_zpsd41e8d29.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/DeathofVirgin2_zpsd41e8d29.jpg?t=1365864919"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>Death of a Virgin</strong><br />
<em>by Jennifer Falkner</em></center><br />
<strong>Rome, 44 AD</strong><br />
<br />
The shrill scream streamed down the hall and into my room, causing the slave who was braiding my hair to give it a hard, unintentional tug as she jumped.<br />
<br />
It was the first of March, the day of the traditional re-lighting of the sacred flame to mark the new year and Thetis was helping me weave the elaborately braided crown of false hair into my own, the traditional style for a Vestal Virgin on parade, a style which took hours to achieve. I was remembering the first time I was having my hair arranged in this way. Nine years old and full of pride at being selected as an initiate in the service of the goddess Vesta. And terrified of leaving my family for the first time, leaving my brother, my only playmate. Thetis, with a fistful of my own curls, yanked me out of my memory. Vibia burst in just as I was rebuking the slave.<br />
<br />
“What is it? Has something else gone missing? Thetis has told me she can't find my hair pins.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, Valeria, it's horrible. Cornelia Quinta is dead!” There were traces of tears that had rivered down her cheeks and her voice trembled, but her eyes gleamed with excitement.<br />
<br />
“What do you mean dead?”<br />
<br />
“Aemilia Cana found her. She went to wake her early this morning, but she --” At this, the poor girl's chin trembled and I could see hysteria was going to triumph over excitement. I handed her over to Thetis' care with instructions to make her some hot borage tea, while I went with hair half-braided to see what was going on. <br />
<br />
Aemilia Cana, the Chief Vestal, sat at the foot of Cornelia's bed with the dignified stillness of a statue. I entered softly.<br />
<br />
“What happened?”<br />
<br />
She gestured with one graceful, ringed hand to Cornelia's head. I took a closer look. Her skin had become an inhuman waxy shade and the blueness of her lips made me shudder. The blankets looked dishevelled and the plain woollen shift she wore at night had bunched around her body and under her arms, as if she had been flailing and tossing in her sleep. <br />
<br />
When Aemilia Cana finally spoke, her voice was thick. “There was a wine cup on the floor. It smelt of honey, but just to be certain I gave it to the dog. Poor Argus.”<br />
<br />
Poisoned. <br />
<br />
“Are you alright, Valeria? You've gone quite grey.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, yes, I'm fine. What is to be done?”<br />
<br />
“We must continue with the ceremony. And I,” she said, as if trying to summon the strength, “must send word to the emperor. He is returning from Britain this month.”<br />
<br />
The death of Cornelia Quinta brought the number of Vestals living in the temple down to six. Traditionally only six virgins are needed to serve the goddess Vesta: two initiates, two performers of prescribed ritual and two senior Vestals to instruct the youngest. Until that summer there had been eight of us, including the Chief Vestal. Two of our most senior Vestals preferred not to leave the security of the temple when their thirty year tenure ended. Who could blame them? To go from being among the most venerated personages in the city to the relative obscurity and dependence of unmarried women thrust back into the arms of a family that thought it had done with them. I certainly wouldn't. But Numeria Publia, a frail, well-meaning old thing, was taken by fever last August, and we became seven.<br />
<br />
Now we are six.<br />
<br />
The body was removed. I had somehow to put it from my mind. It was the first of March and the sacred flame had to be relit, preparations for the sacrifices to follow still had to be made. Cornelia and I had always shared this duty. Now I took Hortensia Calvina with me as my assistant. She and Vibia Paulina were our youngest members and were only meant to be students for their first ten years as Vestals. Eight years had to be enough. I couldn't do this alone. The three senior Vestals, including Aemilia Cana were suddenly nowhere to be found, and Vibia herself was too emotional to be reliable.<br />
<br />
Hortensia Calvina walked close beside me as we were escorted by our eunuch guards through the chilly grey dawn to the circular Temple of Vesta. Modelled on the wooden huts of our Etruscan ancestors, it was made eternal in marble. Already a crowd had gathered in front of the temple steps; it parted politely as we approached. Hortensia leaned in and asked me if I thought it was suicide.<br />
<br />
“Whatever makes you say that?”<br />
<br />
“Because if it wasn't suicide, then it must be murder, mustn't it? At least, that's what Vibia says. Vibia says that Cornelia Quinta had a lover and they were about to be found out, so rather than be buried alive, she --”<br />
<br />
“Killed herself,” I finished. “I think that is highly unlikely. Besides, where would she find the poison?” Cornelia Quinta was possibly the least likely of any of us to have a lover. Her mannish features, blunt and heavy, made one wonder why the fates should form the rest of her as a girl. It is true she did have a gentle, almost musical voice and her every action and gesture was possessed with a delicacy which was not without its attraction, even if it were only cultivated to compensate for the masculinity of her appearance. But Cornelia was so very proper. It was hardly credible that she should find a lover, let alone arrange secret trysts, when she felt it barely appropriate to appear in public outside of the performance of her duties to the goddess. Truth be told, I've seen her completely abashed into an awkward silence when merely addressed by a member of the opposite sex. No, our Cornelia Quinta could not have been on the verge of discovery in the arms of a man. It was impossible.<br />
<br />
“Until Aemilia Cana has given us instructions, I think it wise not to discuss the matter at all.” <br />
<br />
The relighting of the flame and the sacrifices that followed proceeded well. Since Cornelia and Hortensia were much of a height, and Vestals are heavily veiled in public, I don't think anyone even noticed the last minute replacement. I admit that had been one consideration when I selected Hortensia to assist me over the diminutive Vibia. It would never do to upset the populace and produce all kinds of rumours of heavenly disfavour on an auspicious day. The augurs would never hear the end of it and certainly our movements would be curtailed. Better to wait for Aemilia Cana to give us instructions.<br />
<br />
I raised my arms to the sky and prayed to the goddess, while Hortensia expertly relit the flame. Its smoke floated through the vent in the roof. As the expectant hush was relieved by exclamations of joy and general rejoicing, I felt a familiar tremor of pride. I was proud to be able to serve the goddess and the Roman people in this way. They looked to me for assurance of their safety and prosperity. They prayed to me for guidance and succour. For a moment I quite forgot the events of the morning and, caught in the drama of ancient ritual, gazed triumphantly on the crowd. One of the temple slaves led the two white cows to the small stone altar at the foot of the steps. Their throats were quickly slit and Hortensia and I held silver bowls up to their spouting wounds, another offering for the goddess.<br />
<br />
Soon it was over and the large fire at the temple steps was roasting the goddess' offering and the afternoon's feast. The acrid smell of burning flesh rose through the cool spring air. Without warning the memory of the morning returned and a lump of bile rose to my mouth. I could imagine in a very short time inhaling the same furls of smoke, this time emanating from a funeral pyre. Fortunately a Vestal's veil can obscure many things.<br />
<br />
When we returned, Aemilia Cana solemnly led us into the dining room. She was quiet in a way that checked our own desire for talk. Small fragrant dishes of dainties had been prepared and presented on the two circular tables, a tradition on the sacred day and a contrast to the plainer fare we normally endured. At any other time they would been quickly demolished by our mob of hungry women, but today they remained untouched.<br />
<br />
The Chief Vestal spoke. The thickness in her voice from this morning had been washed away, replaced by grim determination. “I have received word from the emperor.” That got our attention. Even Hortensia and Vibia, who had been eyeing the fragrant dainties on plates, looked up sharply. The emperor was also by virtue of his office the Pontifex Maximus and as such bore the responsibility for the priestesses of Vesta. Replacing our fathers, he was our sole earthly authority. “He is on his way home from the campaign in Britain and has already re-entered Italy. He is concerned and deeply saddened by the death of our sister, Cornelia Quinta. He is also concerned by the possible ramifications of her death. If it was accidental, he would like to know and have the possibility of future accidents removed. If it was suicide, he would like to know that as well.”<br />
<br />
“What if it was murder?” Of course, it was Vibia who had piped up. Aemilia Cana stared hard at the girl, who wilted only slightly under her glare.<br />
<br />
“Do you have reason to believe it was murder, Vibia Paulina?”<br />
<br />
Vibia shook her head mutely.<br />
<br />
“Well then I would thank you not to add the possibility of scandal to our personal tragedy. We shall all feel the loss of our sister very deeply.” Oh yes, I thought drily, glancing at the two senior Vestals, Fulvia and Laelia, who now whispered together at one end of the far table. Very deeply, I'm sure.<br />
<br />
Aemilia Cana did not stay to eat with us. Which was just as well, considering the gossip the others girls were dying to indulge in before the emperor's arrival.<br />
<br />
“Herminius Gallus returned today,” announced Vibia, her blue eyes gleaming.<br />
<br />
“How do you know?” I couldn't help asking.<br />
<br />
“Thetis said her sister saw him in the Forum.”<br />
<br />
“Do you think there is any truth in the rumour?” Hortensia said.<br />
<br />
“You mean, him and Cornelia? I should hardly think so. But then, it is a bit of a coincidence that he should have returned today. Or possibly late last night.” <br />
<br />
“That's quite enough, Vibia.” I couldn't keep the sharpness out of my tone. Hortensia's eyes widened, but Vibia simply smirked.<br />
<br />
“You're quite right. We wouldn't want such evil tales polluting the ears of Aemilia Cana's favourite, would we?” Before anyone else could interject, Vibia flounced out of the room.<br />
<br />
Laelia leaned in toward me confidentially. “It could be murder though. We shouldn't rule it out.”<br />
<br />
“What makes you say that?”<br />
<br />
“Don't you remember? Six years ago, when Numeria Publia dropped the lamp containing the sacred flame and the old emperor was furious. He whipped her. The old pervert. It happened right here, in this room.”<br />
<br />
How could I not remember? It had been a horrific sight. He attacked the poor woman with the beaded leather whip used on slaves and criminals, spittle flying out of his mouth. His eyes glittered with perverse excitement. At least the current emperor, Claudius, with his stammer and his limp, seems, if not harmless, at least less ruthless. Quietly exiling criminals to the furthest reaches of the empire seems more his style. Like Augustus sending Ovid to Tomis on the Black Sea.<br />
<br />
“What's that got to do with Cornelia?”<br />
<br />
“Why, she informed on Numeria. Aemilia Cana wanted to cover up the mistake. It was a private ceremony, nobody needed to know. But that Cornelia was such a stickler for doing things by the book. Didn't want the improper observance of ritual to anger the goddess and endanger the city, or some such nonsense. As if the goddess cares about a silly mistake like that. She insisted the ritual be performed again and when Aemilia Cana refused, she informed the emperor. Went right over Aemilia Cana's head. Neither Aemilia Cana nor Fulvia fully forgave her.”<br />
<br />
“Are you saying one of them --”<br />
<br />
“Shhh. I'm not saying anything. Just that I haven't seen Fulvia Petreia shed a tear. Or look all that surprised when the alarm was sounded this morning for that matter.” <br />
<br />
“But she's dotty. She wouldn't --”<br />
<br />
“She might. They were very close, Fulvia and Numeria, remember.”<br />
<br />
<center>* * * </center><br />
We Vestals are not so secluded as many would think. Not that we are able to walk freely down the street or attend the more licentious satyr plays on state holidays. But we do have our own special boxes at the Circus, opposite the Imperial boxes. We have our own litters and slaves ready to take us, as long as we return before curfew. Many noble matrons are honoured to have one of our number drink tea with them and their friends in the afternoons. Even attending dinner parties, as long as Aemilia Cana gives her permission, is not unheard of. If a lover were desired, an enterprising Vestal could find a way to manage it. Hortensia's suggestion was perhaps not so far-fetched, if it weren't for considerations of Cornelia Quinta herself. No doubt this is why the punishment for an unchaste Virgin is so severe. Live interment near the Colline Gate. I shudder when I think of it. Being led down rocky steps to a small room dug out of the hill, left with a small amount of food and oil for the lamp, enough to last maybe a day or two. Enough that her judge and jury, the emperor and senators, could pretend they weren't her executioners as well. And then to have the entrance closed up with earth. The small mound would be made smooth so no one could ever tell where the entrance had been. I used to have nightmares of being trapped between earth walls beneath the city, gasping for breath, forgotten.<br />
<br />
I had no lover, nor wanted one. These nightmares were not the product of a guilty conscience. But I did regret having to refuse my invitation to dinner at the house of Rufus Calvinus. Calvinus had chosen his wife well and the dinner parties she gave were lavish affairs and often advantageous to their guests in ways they couldn't at first guess at. There was a lot of frivolous conversation, fine food and political back-scratching at these gatherings, and a Vestal properly on the outside of such wheelings and dealings had a fund of amusement provided for her in the antics of others.<br />
<br />
There were to be no antics that night. We were still within the nine days of official mourning and the boughs of cypress nailed to our door had not yet begun to wilt. The hush within the walls of the House of the Vestals and the muted sounds without made it difficult to believe there was anything but mourning in all of Rome. I couldn't stand the silence beating on my ears any more. I sought out Aemilia Cana.<br />
<br />
I found her in her room, gazing through the narrow window toward the temple, as still and vigilant as the marble statues of previous Chief Vestals that watched over the flame from the long courtyard outside. The flame glimmered palely in the inky darkness. She was perched on the old curule chair. Only a few members of society had the honour of sitting in a curule chair, a symbol of authority; the emperor, consuls, senators, the Chief Vestal. Aemilia Cana had appropriated this one, with its flaking gold paint and faded importance, for personal use after Senator Vibianus, Vibia's father, had donated a new one last year. <br />
<br />
“Mother,” I began respectfully, keeping my head bowed, “I seek permission to leave the House of the Vestals.”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” she sighed, turning to me. “I expected this. This is about your brother?”<br />
<br />
“He hasn't got long left.”<br />
<br />
“No, he hasn't. These are special circumstances. Under no other would I allow anyone leave for visiting during the period of official mourning. You may go tomorrow. You will return within two hours and take the plainest of the litters, so you don't draw attention to yourself. Do you understand me?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, Aemilia Cana.” <br />
<br />
She got up slowly, carefully closed the door I had left open, poured us each a small glass of wine and returned to her seat. Age seemed to have caught up with Aemilia Cana very suddenly. Her hand trembled as she sipped.<br />
<br />
“I've just learned that the Emperor has returned to Rome. He is concerned about the current state of affairs and what, if anything, can be done to limit any rumours that could be detrimental to the House of the Goddess. I would like you to come with me to the Palatine the day after tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
“Me?” <br />
<br />
She looked hard at me. “You've always been a bright girl. Level-headed. I'm sure your contribution would be welcome. And,” she said, softening, “you've been such a comfort to me since Numeria Publia was taken from us last summer.”<br />
<br />
I was speechless. I had been invited to a private consultation with the Emperor himself. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/DeathofVirgin_zps838c96ac.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/DeathofVirgin_zps838c96ac.jpg?t=1365864975"/></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
My mother held herself stiffly, as if she could repel any intrusive word or touch simply by the stillness of her posture. Her voice at first sounded forced, but even that could not disguise its soft, vaguely musical cadence. I noticed that despite the official period of mourning after Cornelia's death and the precarious fortunes of the family at the moment, my mother had not neglected the elegantly styled and absurdly tall wig that was the height of fashion just now. Her make-up was also flawless, her green eyes outlined in kohl with a steady hand, her face properly paled with white lead. As if being perfectly coiffed could stave off disaster.<br />
<br />
“Have you seen him? How is he?” Her body barely moved as she reached forward and tightly grasped my hand.<br />
<br />
“Not yet. I'll visit him after I leave here. I wanted to see you first.”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” she said absently. “Yes, that's nice of you, dear. I'll send a basket with you, some bread and sausage. He loves my Lucanian sausage. Do you have any news?”<br />
<br />
“I do. Because the city is in official mourning, no executions can take place for nine days. We have some time.”<br />
<br />
She allowed a ripple of relief to lighten her features before they hardened again, this time with resentment. “My poor boy. And what did he do to deserve this? Merely quash a rebellion of dirty barbarians and save Roman lives. This is how Rome thanks him.”<br />
<br />
“It wasn't quite like that, mother.” I tried to correct her gently, but her attitude was beginning to irritate me. Titus was no more a hero of Rome than I was. Heroism does not run in our family, I think. Though I would like to think there was a streak of pragmatism in there instead.<br />
<br />
My brother, Titus Valerius Fulvius, always had an uneasy relationship with his commander in his posting in Gaul. No doubt his commander distrusted Titus' pragmatism. He would rather get things done, usually by doing them himself, than jump through the necessary bureaucratic hoops. In order to facilitate the delivery of certain necessary supplies, Titus told me he often made deals with the locals. That way they didn't have to wait months for requests and replies to make their way through the official channels. Forms written in triplicate sent to Lugdunum or Rome for approval. In one such deal, he caught wind of an uprising, took some men with him, threw their muscle about in a local tavern, roughed up a few malcontents. It was a small skirmish, as these things go, but the commander, his pride wounded, and possibly more than a little afraid of Titus, had him arrested for insubordination and mutiny. There was only one punishment. <br />
<br />
Generally such things are executed with despatch, but my mother has powerful friends. She managed to have Titus brought to Rome, but no more. She couldn't prevent or downgrade his sentence, although she had already spent a fortune on lawyers trying. If only Titus had had a greater respect for protocol, we wouldn't be in this mess.<br />
<br />
I stood up and pecked her on the cheek.<br />
<br />
“Can't you do something? Run him over in a carriage or something? Isn't that how Vestals achieve pardons for criminals? Can't somebody do something?”<br />
<br />
“Mother,” I sighed. “I have to go.” <br />
<br />
From my mother's formal and fashionable house on the Esquiline, I turned back toward the Palatine Hill, heading to the Tulllianum prison.<br />
<br />
Titus' face had a grey cast, as if part of him had already begun its journey to the underworld. A dusty marble statue, not yet adorned with the garish colour we Romans seem to like so much. I kissed his cheek but it raised no answering colour. He gripped my hand, but, unlike our mother's, his grip was not strong. He clung to my hands as if they could stop his from trembling. Skin hung slackly from his cold fingers.<br />
<br />
“I was hoping you would come. Tell me, what is happening?”<br />
<br />
“One of the Vestals, Cornelia Quinta, is dead. The city is in mourning, so you have another chance. We've got nine days.” I whispered into his cheek as we embraced. Always mindful of who might be eavesdropping.<br />
<br />
“Poor Cornelia. I knew her brother. This is not how things were supposed to turn out, is it? I don't think it's worth it. You should just leave me be.”<br />
<br />
“Have you ever heard about anything between Cornelia and Herminius Gallus?”<br />
<br />
“No,” he said, surprised. “That would be suicide, wouldn't it? Herminius is far too ambitious for that. Why? Was there something?”<br />
<br />
“No. I don't know. It's not important. The important thing is we have another opportunity to get you out of here. Wait for word from me. I'll send it the usual way if I can't visit you myself.”<br />
<br />
“Calvinus?”<br />
<br />
I nodded. “Don't lose hope.”<br />
<br />
“Lollus might need something extra this time.” He gestured to the closed door, behind which I had no doubt the guard was listening to every word he could. <br />
<br />
I sighed. More money.<br />
<br />
“I'll take care of it. Don't worry. Just wait for a message from me.”<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The following day passed slowly. There was more sun and warmth that we usually had in March and we were all glad of the chance to sit outside in the garden for a few hours after being cooped up in small rooms, made stifling by braziers and smoking lamps, while we waited for the cypress boughs to wilt. Laelia Longina brought out cushions for the stone benches that we used for dining in the summer. The angle of the sun meant that we had to squint at each other but our bodies were gently and evenly warmed. The breeze was soft and sweet, wafting away any lingering plumes from this morning's pyre. I stretched out like a cat and watched from the corner of my eye the industrious spinning of Hortensia and Laelia Longina. By the nimbleness of their fingers and the grace with which they pulled the long thread from the wooden spindle, the difference in their ages seemed to melt away. Vibia was as idle as I was and Fulvia Petreia, our oldest member, was snoring gently in the far corner. But slowly the relief elicited by the sun was overtaken by the needling irritability that had plagued all of us for days. <br />
<br />
“How many brothers do you have, Valeria?” Vibia, again.<br />
<br />
“Just one. Why?”<br />
<br />
“You seem to be visiting him a lot then.”<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about, Vibia?” Hortensia seemed to be as tired of Vibia's malicious tongue as I was.<br />
<br />
“Nothing. Just that Valeria seems to be going out all the time. All these little trips by herself. We are supposed to be mourning. I don't know why Aemilia Cana allows it.”<br />
<br />
“You're just jealous. Your family is quite happy not to receive any visits from you.” She turned back to her spinning. <br />
<br />
The sun passed over the tile roof of the peristyle and the caress of the early spring breeze became colder.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The first thing to go wrong was the litter Aemilia Cana selected. Vibia Paulina had asked permission to dine with Geminus Gallus, who was celebrating his son's return from studies in Athens, and the Chief Vestal had allowed her the use of her own highly decorated litter. Mourning or no, Vibia usually got what she wanted. No doubt she was trying to ferret out any truth to the rumour about Herminius and Cornelia. Another possible complication. Aemilia Cana told me she preferred to travel discreetly, in one of the plain litters that looked like a thousand others in the city. It was quite late and the ban on wheeled traffic within city walls had been lifted for the night. The narrow streets were echoing with the thunderous rumbling of wooden wheels dragged heavily over cobblestones. I kept peering out of the gauzy yellow curtain, hoping to see Titus. He should be somewhere on the Clivus Capitolinus, near the Basilica Julia, which lay between the House of the Vestals and the prison. <br />
<br />
“I had a visit from Cornelia's father this morning. He was beside himself, poor man. He thought I had been concealing her illness. As if I would, after the fuss he kicked up the last time she was ill. Do you remember, Valeria?”<br />
<br />
“I remember.”<br />
<br />
“It was only a bad cold. But only his doctors were good enough, only his slaves could nurse her properly. I had to swear then on the spirits of my ancestors that we would take her to his house if she was ever taken ill again.”<br />
<br />
“But there wasn't time.”<br />
<br />
He would be looking for Aemilia Cana's trademark litter, with its figures carved in relief and painted and its multicoloured drapery billowing from the windows with each sway of the litter, not this nondescript box. I had to give him some sort of signal. If I could see him.<br />
<br />
“No, there wasn't time. I think we're passing the road to his house now. Have there been any more thefts, Valeria?”<br />
<br />
“Hortensia mentioned a pair of earrings, and I lost some ivory hair pins the other day.”<br />
<br />
“Not the ones I gave you? With the heads of the Graces carved on them?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I'm afraid so.” It was impossible to see anything. The traffic, the unevenly lit street. I didn't even know which side of the street he might be on. <br />
<br />
“I hate to say this, but I think we'll have to get rid of Thetis. You girls trust that slave far too much and left temptation in her way. Never trust a Greek.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, Aemilia Cana.”<br />
<br />
“Are you even listening to me, Valeria?”<br />
<br />
We might have already passed him. <br />
<br />
“Of course.”<br />
<br />
Then, suddenly, there he was.<br />
<br />
“Valeria, replace that curtain at once. Do you want all of Rome to know our business?”<br />
<br />
I waved a hand quickly, jerkily, in his direction before pulling it in and folding it on my lap. I couldn't be sure he had seen it. All he had to do now was cross in front of the litter before being recaptured by the guards. Oh, they were being patient tonight, I must reward them doubly in the morning. Worth all the jewellery and hair pins in Rome, because when Titus had crossed the path of a Vestal, he would have to be pardoned.<br />
<br />
The noise outside increased. There was shouting, a scream. Our litter stopped.<br />
<br />
“What is it?” I was anxious now. “What's happened?”<br />
<br />
“Ask one of the litter bearers. He would be able to tell you better than I.” Aemilia Cana sounded irritable. I stuck my head out the window, the soft curtain attaching itself disagreeably to my hair.<br />
<br />
“Glaucus?”<br />
<br />
“There's been an accident, my lady. Someone's been trampled. Some tramp, it looks like.”<br />
<br />
Up ahead in the dim light, almost obscured by a crowd of gawkers closing in on the sight, I saw a heap of dirty tunic and over-long hair lying pathetically in the middle of the street. He should be alive, if he was trampled he could be seriously injured, but still alive. Still alive. Why wasn't he moving?<br />
<br />
A man was berating the crowd. “What was he doing in the middle of the street like that? Idiot. My horses didn't have time to stop. Wagon rolled right over him. Someone pull him to the side of the road. I have to get a move on or I'll be late with my deliveries.” <br />
<br />
Having justified his actions to his own satisfaction, the driver and another man began dragging the body, one on each end, out of the way of the backed-up traffic. I don't remember even leaving the litter, or Aemilia Cana's protestations, though knowing her there must have been many. It was all so improper. I was just there, at his side, holding his dirty face between my hands, trying to wash it with my tears. His torso had an oddly crushed look and his legs were bent at an unnatural angle. He wasn't moving. He didn't breathe. <br />
<br />
For a long while, neither did I.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
Someone handed me a beaker. It was warm, steaming. Borage tea. I didn't want it but held on to it anyway. I lacked the thought processes necessary to find a table in order to put it down. Its heat began to scald my palms. There were murmuring voices of a man and a woman on the far side of the room. It was an enormous room, lavishly frescoed. Good acoustics. I recognized one of the voices. My own voice leapt from my throat to accuse her.<br />
<br />
“You killed him, Aemilia Cana! You took the wrong litter and you killed him. My brother!”<br />
<br />
“I?” Aemilia Cana turned from her interview with the Emperor to look at me. “I did nothing. Perhaps it was you, doing rather more than you should. What was Titus doing on that road?”<br />
<br />
I couldn't answer her. Where I thought there was one man, I realized there were two. They were both familiar, one from the coinage and one from countless dinner parties.<br />
<br />
The Emperor Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus spoke. “Valeria Fulvia. My friend Rufus Calvinus has told me about some interesting acquaintances of his wife's. Herbalists, some of them. They enjoy a good dinner party, these herbalists, though I can't think I would enjoy a meal as thoroughly if I were sharing a table with them. Would you, Valeria?”<br />
<br />
I said nothing. I wondered if I could now sip my tea and not appear rude; I was starting to shiver.<br />
<br />
“It was very imaginative of you to have planned for your brother to cross the path of a Vestal this evening in order to achieve his pardon. I'm sorry it didn't work out quite as you hoped.” His voice was gentler than I expected. So different from his predecessors. Tears pricked my eyes and I looked deeper into the brown tea. Small dark flecks, pieces of borage leaves, circled in its murk.<br />
<br />
“It wasn't the first attempt, I am given to understand. Was Cornelia Quinta supposed to have crossed paths with him first?”<br />
<br />
I said nothing. I couldn't speak.<br />
<br />
“She had an unfortunate and, I hope I may say, unplanned reaction to the drug you gave her. Mandrake, wasn't it, Rufus? Enough to make her feel ill and want to return to her father's. Where Titus would be waiting to cross before her litter.” He paused and I looked up. His expression held such sadness. <br />
<br />
“And now, what are we going to do with you, Valeria?”<br />
<br />
I sighed; it was all finally over. <br />
<br />
Vesta would need two new attendants for her flame.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<strong>Jennifer Falkner</strong>’s stories have appeared or are forthcoming in <em>THEMA, The First Line, OneTitle</em> and <em>Flashquake</em>, among others, and last year she received the Reader's Choice Award from Fiction Fix. She lives in Ottawa with her husband and daughter.<br />
<br />
<strong>What inspires you to write and keep writing?</strong><br />
<br />
The best way I can answer this question is by quoting Kurt Vonnegut. “The arts are not a way of making a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-55538561435788313222013-04-15T00:06:00.000-05:002013-04-15T13:54:20.651-05:00Jailbreak<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Jailbreak2_zps94d62a2b.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Jailbreak2_zps94d62a2b.jpg?t=1365865325"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>Jailbreak</strong><br />
<em>by A. Miller</em></center><br />
The first thing I did was steal my dad’s gun. I needed one because I knew there’d be soldiers at the racetrack, and Dad’s got an old Colt from when he was guarding a bank back in Stillwater. He says he never killed anybody with it, but I figure that’s just modesty. I figure the only person tougher than my dad is Joe Louis, and even then you never know. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, the next thing I did was take a Red Car trolley all the way past Pasadena to Arcadia. It was Saturday so I had to leave from Sixth Street, and that’s where I fouled up the first time. One of the conductors came walking up in his uniform and asked me where I was headed, calling me “little fella” and all that. Well, I was so keyed up I said right out:<br />
<br />
“To the racetrack.”<br />
<br />
Now everybody knows Santa Anita’s been closed since the war started, so he kind of squinted and looked at me funny. <br />
<br />
But I handled it all right. I told him my aunt lived right by the track and I always went to see her on Saturdays. “On account of she’s dying,” I said, and that did the trick: the conductor gave me a real serious nod and patted me on the head, and then I was on the trolley and we were chugging east into the mountains.<br />
<br />
I can’t remember when I first got the idea of breaking Mike out of prison. I guess it was when he sent me that letter about how he had to leave but he’d be back in no time and we’d go find the gold. The truth is we’ve been friends pretty much forever--six months, at least--and he’s the only person at Calvin Coolidge who isn’t an idiot.<br />
<br />
Calvin Coolidge is full of idiots. I always thought Mike was an idiot too till the day Bobby Healey pinned me down on the concrete for insulting his girlfriend, who’s a big tall girl who looks just like a horse except no one will ever say so since Bobby Healey’s so mean. Anyhow, there I was getting the skin rubbed off my face when Mike walks up and says:<br />
<br />
“You better watch out, Bobby, because Mr. Symes is coming and he looks mad.”<br />
<br />
Well, as soon as he said that Bobby jumped up and let me go, only Mr. Symes wasn’t even at school that day--it was all a lie, and I knew right then that Mike wasn’t an idiot. After that we were best friends. What we both like most of all is history, and we always go to a little table in the corner of the library and look at books together--big old books that Mike picks out because he’s got the best eye for books I’ve ever seen. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, one day Mike brings this dusty old book over to the table and sets it down real careful, like it’s made of jewels. And what do you think was inside? Maps. Probably the oldest maps ever made, all about the early days of California, when the Spaniards had an empire and they were always sending priests and other people up through Los Angeles and other places to build towns and convert the Indians, who were heathens. <br />
<br />
Well, Mike and I knew something about Spaniards. What they liked best of all was gold, and they sent it all over the world in these big old ships called galleons, and these ships were always wrecking on rocks and cliffs and things and then people had to go down and pick up all the gold that was scattered on the ocean floor. So Mike looked at me and said in that quiet voice of his:<br />
<br />
“I bet those priests had gold too, when they came up here. I bet there’s gold buried under all the missions they built.”<br />
<br />
Well, you see now what kind of brain Mike has. That’s logical deduction pure and simple, and right then we decided we ought to go dig for gold at all the missions, starting with the one at San Gabriel.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, that was our plan, but then one day Mike wasn’t at school, and the next day I got that letter in the mail, telling me where he was and why he had to go, and that’s when I decided to steal my dad’s gun and take that trolley out to the racetrack. <br />
<br />
Of course I wasn’t stupid: I got out a few stops before the track and walked the rest of the way. I figured it’d take me ten minutes or so, but do you know what? It took me two hours--two hours of dead walking right along the road with that pistol in my satchel. By the time I finally saw the track I probably had forty gallons of sweat on my body and what I wanted most of all was a Coke; but of course I didn’t have one, so instead I checked my pistol to make sure I had enough bullets to shoot a few soldiers if I had to. And I did: six in the chamber and two more in my pocket, just in case it turned into a firefight.<br />
<br />
Now I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the racetrack at Santa Anita, but it’s a nice place. There’s a big fancy building for people to sit in and watch the races, and then there’s stables and things and a big dirt track and a bright green infield that’s full of the lushest grass that grows anywhere in the world.<br />
<br />
Or at least that’s the way it used to be. Now it’s all different. Now they got a big barbed wire fence that goes all the way around the track, and big searchlights up on platforms that they can sweep around at night to check for jailbreakers, and miles and miles of little buildings covered in tarpaper, which is where Mike and everybody else has to sleep, on account of there not being enough room for them in the horse stalls. <br />
<br />
But the main thing I was interested in was the soldiers, and there was a heck of a lot of them. Somehow in my mind I’d always pictured just one soldier standing over Mike with a rifle in his hands, and me throwing a rock or something or distract his attention, and then me and Mike taking off for the road before he’d even noticed us, and then me maybe having to murder a few people with my gun if they tried to stop us.<br />
<br />
But do you know what? When I stopped there on the road and looked down at the track, I could see thousands of people moving around--just <em>thousands</em> of them: civilians and soldiers and I don’t know many million Japanese. It was like a whole city. And the worst part was, I couldn’t tell where Mike was, or which building he lived in, or whether one of the kids I saw walking around was him or not, because from that distance everybody looks the same.<br />
<br />
Well, you can imagine how mad I was. Of course the war’s pretty important, and when a war comes along you have to do everything different and everybody has to sacrifice; but when you think how Mike and I were just about to become millionaires on account of all the gold we were going to discover--well, it made me furious that he got locked up. And anyway I don’t see why it matters if he’s a Japanese. Me and my dad come from Oklahoma, and if you’ve ever been there you know Oklahoma’s just as far from California as Japan is.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, that’s another way I fouled up. Because while I was standing there on the road being furious, a car came up behind me and this pretty woman leans out the window and says in a real sweet voice:<br />
<br />
“Are you lost, little fella?”<br />
<br />
Well, I suppose now I should’ve shot her. But the gun was in my satchel, and to tell you the truth I don’t think you ought to shoot a lady unless you have to, especially if she’s pretty. So I just kind of mumbled something and started walking again, but she drove along real slow beside me, asking me who my parents were and what my address was and all that kind of thing.<br />
<br />
And do you know what happened? I got kidnapped. Somehow that pretty woman convinced me to get in her car, and the next thing I knew I was in some office at the racetrack and the woman was telling some sergeant or something how I was a lost little boy and then all these people were asking me more questions than I’d ever been asked in my entire life.<br />
<br />
I was so mad I started to cry. I’m not ashamed of it. I was mad at myself, mostly, because I saw how I’d gone about rescuing Mike all wrong. What I should’ve done is come at night, and we should’ve worked out some kind of signal between us, a bird call or something, so that I could give a squawk and then he’d give a squawk, and that way I’d know where he was and I could go straight to him instead of getting kidnapped.<br />
<br />
Well, you can probably guess what happened after that. That sergeant got real serious and made me tell him my phone number, and then he called my dad, and then about an hour later my dad came bursting into the office all covered in sweat and looking like he was just about nuts. <br />
<br />
Now you’ve never heard cussing till you’ve heard my dad. I figure if there was some kind of cussing competition he’d win it every time, and he did pretty well there in the sergeant’s office, going on and on for about ten hours and saying things like “I damn near had a heart attack” and “Don’t you know how goddamn worried I was about you?”<br />
<br />
I said I didn’t care if he was worried or not because I was on a rescue mission, and rescue missions are more important than anything else; but he didn’t care about that. Nobody cared except that pretty woman, who was a secretary or something. <br />
<br />
“Now who was it you were planning to rescue?” she asked in that real sweet voice.<br />
<br />
Since she asked so nice I told her all about Mike, and how we were going to find the gold, and how I don’t mind sacrificing things for the war but the one thing you shouldn’t have to sacrifice is your friends, because you only get so many friends at a place like Calvin Coolidge, especially when you’re small.<br />
<br />
Well, I guess that finally made them think, because after that they all got kind of quiet and the sergeant told the secretary she ought to look up Mike’s name and see where he was.<br />
<br />
So she went through about a thousand pages of this big book, looking at names and dates and who knows what, and then she got real sad and said she was sorry, but Mike and his folks had only been at the track a few days, because the track’s only kind of a holding station, and eventually everybody gets sent up north to a place called Manzanar.<br />
<br />
“The Nakashimas left on Monday,” she said. <br />
<br />
“But you don’t have to worry about them, son,” the sergeant put in real quick. “They’ll be just fine up there. We just have to keep an eye on their kind and make sure they don’t do any spying for the enemy.”<br />
<br />
At least that’s what I think he said. The truth is I was so mad and crying so much I didn’t even know where I was. If I’d remembered that pistol I probably would’ve massacred the whole bunch of them, but then Dad picked me up and threw me over his shoulder and carried me out to the big old Packard he’d borrowed off Mr. Newhall to come and get me. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, we drove home after that. I figure that was probably the worst car ride in the history of the United States. Dad talked straight through the whole time, telling me how bad I was, and how if I ever did anything like that again he’d whip me till I died, and how the sergeant and the people at the track were just good folks who were defending our country and that’s why they’d locked up Mike.<br />
<br />
Well, I couldn’t take that. I knew he’d whip me for it, but I told him only an idiot would lock up somebody like Mike, who was probably the best treasure hunter I’d ever met, and I said one day I’d break him out of Manzanar and we’d go dig up the gold in those missions and be millionaires, and if that sergeant ever came up to our mansion we’d tie him up like a bandit and have him shot.<br />
<br />
And I meant it, too.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Jailbreak1_zps8ee22a02.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Jailbreak1_zps8ee22a02.jpg?t=1365865367"/></a><br />
<br />
* * * </center><br />
<strong>A. Miller </strong> lives in Los Angeles and has stories forthcoming in <i>Kaleidotrope</i> and <i>Big Pulp</i>.<br />
<br />
<strong> What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction story?</strong><br />
<br />
For the writer, I'd say that finding the right balance between historical accuracy and vivid storytelling is the most important part of a historical fiction story. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-8845611878265532992013-04-15T00:05:00.000-05:002013-04-15T00:05:00.527-05:00His Lover's Keeper<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/LoversKeeper2_zps61f6b963.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/LoversKeeper2_zps61f6b963.jpg?t=1365872863"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>His Lover’s Keeper</strong><br />
<em>by Brenna L. Aldrich</em></center><br />
“Matthew!” Rick felt he screamed the name, but couldn’t distinguish his own voice above the cacophony rattling the air. Sound was a beast standing over the trenches, chewing metal and spitting mortar. Rick’s ashen lungs wheezed, and he imagined he was exhaling smoke. His once rich baritone was hoarse, his blue-eyed vision blurred, his sharp hearing clogged, but his purpose was clear. It was the clean, cold terror of loss that drove him on; a splinter of ice in his consciousness that sharpened to a brilliant stab of premonition: he would not die today. Not before he found him.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
A painful blaze of camera flash cast the room into a dingy rainbow of ghostly figures. Rick pinched the bridge of his nose and laughed as Matthew wiped trails of moisture from his eyes. <br />
<br />
“Your mothers are gonna’ love that one, gentlemen,” cooed the photographer. Rick didn’t doubt it. He knew from a life-long stream of compliments that he was photogenic, and the uniform only increased his clean cut, all American brand of appeal. His blue eyes would still glitter in the black and white print, and his features would arrange themselves pleasantly. Glancing at Matthew, he knew the camera would be less kind to the boy: soft bone structure, slicked curls that refused to yield even to obscene amounts of pomade, and an awkward posture born of timidity. Nevertheless, Rick would have liked to have a copy. It was probably the only photograph of the two standing side by side, holding one another, which would ever exist.<br />
<br />
“Now let’s get the happy couple!”<br />
<br />
Rick stepped into the crowd as a short, freckled, young woman with eyes so huge and dark they were too big for her head, looped her arm into Matthew’s. Rick’s throat constricted. <br />
<br />
“To Jenny and Matthew!” someone shouted. <br />
<br />
Congratulations and a second blinding streak from the camera answered. <br />
<br />
The crowd returned to mingling when the flash wore off, allowing Rick to slip back in beside Matthew. Jenny begged off to check her mascara. <br />
<br />
They wandered happily until a pot-bellied, bi-focaled relative materialized out of the crowd of party guests.<br />
<br />
“It’s darn fine of you boys, joining up so late,” said the relative.<br />
<br />
Rick threw his arm round Matthew’s shoulders and smiled.<br />
<br />
“Thank you, sir. But heck; we’re only late because Mr. Wilson’s had cold feet for three years.”<br />
<br />
The beer gut with glasses patted Rick’s shoulder. “Of course,” he said. “Anyways, it’s a fine thing you’re doing. Why I’d go myself if I was still young enough to raise a little hell.”<br />
<br />
As he wandered off, Matthew lifted his glass of punch and muttered behind its lip.<br />
<br />
“What’s the count?”<br />
<br />
“Five ‘raise’ hells, two ‘give ‘em’ hells and one ‘teach them kraut bastards the meanin’ of’ hells.”<br />
<br />
The two battled laughter for a few moments then resumed wandering through the crush of celebrants. <br />
<br />
“I’m horrible,” Matthew said at last. <br />
<br />
“How so?” Rick asked, refilling his friend’s glass and passing it back to him. A slight tremor gripped Matthew’s hand as he reclaimed the drink. <br />
<br />
“I’m poking fun like a spoiled brat. They mean well and I’m…”<br />
<br />
“Following my lead?”<br />
<br />
“As always.”<br />
<br />
Rick smiled. “We can’t break tradition now. We’re about to become inseparable.”<br />
<br />
Matthew swallowed the rest of his drink in a single gulp. “Right,” he said, casting a terrified glance at his fiancé. <br />
<br />
Rick gripped Matthew’s shoulder, masking intimate pressure in a brotherly pat. “It’s okay,” he said. He raised his eyes to the crowd and continued to flash his perfect smile to keep them reassuredly distracted. “You won’t be alone over there.”<br />
<br />
“I’m not afraid of the war,” Matthew answered, eyes still fixed on Jenny’s lumpy figure. “I’m afraid of coming home.” Rick sensed Matthew step closer; so close that he could feel the heat of him and scent the cloying aroma of pomade. <br />
<br />
“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” Rick said, his voice flat and hollow. “Heck, do you think I’m not shaking in my shoes? I’m just better at pretending than you,” he said, slipping an arm around him. Matthew shrugged gently, just enough to dislodge Rick’s grip. <br />
<br />
“I wish I could pretend the way you do,” he said with a sad smile.<br />
<br />
Rick watched Matthew wind through the press of bodies, too aware of him for the sight of his frame to melt into crowd. Across the room, Matthew took up the arm of his fiancé and plastered on a brave face. No. Matthew was no good at pretending.<br />
<br />
And at that moment, Rick doubted he was either. In fact he was quite convinced that the pain of watching the man he loved pretend to be happily engaged was clearly etched upon his face. <br />
<br />
It was the oldest fact his Rick’s life: he loved Matthew. It had the purity of inevitability which cleared the feelings of guilt or shame. Childhood adoration had matured, become shadowed by physical longing, and escaped the horrors of a conflicted conscience, untainted and unquestionable. That Matthew shared the core of those feelings was Rick’s only comfort as he watched him try, and fail, to put on a good show.<br />
<br />
Not for the first time, a spasm of regret seized Rick. As naturally as he’d taken his own emotions in stride, he’d understood that Matthew would struggle with the feelings. The two had always been opposites: Rick outgoing where Matthew was shy, athletic beside bookish, and comfortable with a level of necessary dishonesty that Matthew’s candid nature deplored. And even knowing all of this, Rick had rushed him anyway. He inwardly cursed himself and the thirty-year-old scotch he’d stolen from his father a few short nights ago. Animated in part by drink, and in part by the looming agony of the idea war might separate them forever, he had kissed Matthew. It had been sweet and lingering, yet all too brief. When he’d leaned in to kiss him a second time, Matthew had recoiled in shame. <br />
<br />
A shift in the conversations around Rick interrupted his thoughts, rendering him stunned to find that the crowd had carried Matthew and Jenny near. A moment more found the pair separated, and Rick in closer proximity to bug-eyed and trembling fiancé. Pity for her shyness swelled to drown his envy, and he crossed to her. <br />
<br />
“Left you at the vultures’ mercy, has he?” Rick asked with a gentle smile. Jenny’s large eyes bulged, but she nodded. He offered his elbow. “Then allow me to rescue and return you where you belong,” he added. She accepted the proffered limb with all the enthusiasm of a dishrag. <br />
<br />
“Thank you,” she said. <br />
<br />
“My pleasure.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t believe we agreed to this,” she muttered.<br />
<br />
“You mean the party?” he laughed. “I’ll admit, I was… puzzled when Matthew suggested it.”<br />
<br />
“He hates crowds as much as I do. That’s why we combined the going away bash with the engagement party. I wish we’d done neither.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure you’d have both been more comfortable. Did he give you any idea why he agreed to the dreaded ‘social soirée?”<br />
<br />
Jenny shrugged against his elbow.<br />
<br />
“He said he wanted me to have the ‘full show.’ I suppose he was just being sweet, but I wouldn’t have cared regardless. I wouldn’t even mind if we got married before he left. Something small and private,” she sighed, and looked a little tearful. “There’s no time for a big ceremony, you see, but Matthew’s still insisting on having everything ‘traditional.’ He told me he doesn’t want me to miss out on anything. He’s so thoughtful.”<br />
<br />
“He is.”<br />
<br />
“He gave me a beautiful promise ring. It’s not the same as an engagement ring, he can’t afford that yet, but it’s still pretty.” She held out her hand. A silver, Celtic tangle encircled her stubby finger. “It was part of a matched set. He has the other one,” she said.<br />
<br />
Rick paused to take in the ring, then looked hard at Jenny. The pang of envy he’d felt at the beginning of the night was fast receding. Her description of her fiancé’s behavior was pitifully false. Matthew was pretending to give Jenny what a girl should want for her wedding day, but because he wasn’t really in love with her, her real wants were lost on him. But Rick could see in her face and hear in her trembling voice that <em>she</em> adored Matthew. He recognized the emotion to well to mistake it. For the first time in his life, he felt guilty about loving Matthew. Not for his feelings, but for the fact he’d been in such a damned hurry he’d pushed the man into unwittingly making a victim of Jenny. She might not be now, but she would be in the future. Whether Matthew actually married her or no, the fragile creature on Rick’s arm was going to end up with a broken heart. <br />
<br />
Matthew suddenly loomed into view. Rick turned to face the fiancé and lifted her hand to his lips. <br />
<br />
“You’re a very nice girl, Jenny Philips. You deserve to be happy,” he said. She blinked at him and smiled.<br />
<br />
“You’re a lot sweeter than you act in front of crowds,” she said. <br />
<br />
He winked. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret,” he whispered loudly. That brought a real smile to her lips. <br />
<br />
As he moved away from her, he locked eyes with Matthew whose intent gaze hovered somewhere between stricken and puzzled. Rick tried to meet his eyes with a reassuring look, but knew that his emotions had driven his expressions beyond his control.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/LoversKeeper1_zps86198ea0.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/LoversKeeper1_zps86198ea0.jpg?t=1365873048"/></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
The bullets and shrapnel were coming less frequently now that the retreat was almost over. It made it easier to see and concentrate, but Rick’s panic increased nonetheless; he was nearly out of time.<br />
<br />
He retraced the steps he’d taken at the start of the battle, desperately attempting to find where he’d first been separated from Matthew. Stumbling, he fell against a bloody stump. <br />
<br />
It took a few moments for weight, texture and scent to attest to the reality of the discovery. Harnessing the urge to vomit as he examined the object, Rick found the stump was indeed still attached to the blackened, oozing, reeking remains of a human being. He caught a glint of silver out of the corner of his eye, looked close enough to see it was glittering around smoking bone, then turned away.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The Philips family had a pretty living room. It was simple, modestly populated with the kind of furniture that the rich purchase by the truck full and the poor spend a lifetime scrounging to buy. No doubt the whole room was the product of years of saving and careful collection. Rick doubted they could have afforded a large wedding even if Jenny had wanted one. <br />
<br />
She was sitting across from him now, burrowed into a leather wingback, and burying her face in her hands. She’d been quietly sobbing for full on ten minutes. <br />
<br />
“So he didn’t suffer?” she asked at last.<br />
<br />
“No ma’am.”<br />
<br />
“And you know it was him?” she asked. Rick swallowed back the knot in his own throat and fished a small ring-box out of his pocket. He extended it to Jenny who took it, opened it, cried afresh and nodded. “Thank you for coming to tell me,” she whispered.<br />
<br />
He nodded and watched her cry for a few moments more. She was a dignified weeper, which was unexpected, and he admired her for that.<br />
<br />
“I can’t stay,” he said.<br />
<br />
“I understand. I think mother wanted you to, but it’s not necessary. I’m just grateful you could be the one to tell me.”<br />
<br />
He half smiled. “Being wounded in battle has its advantages,” he said, then choked. “I just wish it had been me instead.”<br />
<br />
Jenny nodded. “So do I,” she whispered. <br />
<br />
When he had almost reached the door to leave, Jenny’s mother stopped him. She was a stooped, fretful little woman covered in a tight, dehydrated brand of wrinkles. She looked like she’d been steeped to make tea.<br />
<br />
“Thank you for coming, dear. God was watching out for my Jenny when he saved you,” she said. She wrung her hands nervously, as if she were unsure of whether or not to speak. She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder at the door of the living room. “You know you can come back and see her anytime you please. I think she’d like that.”<br />
<br />
Rick stared at the woman for a long moment, then followed the line of her backward glance. <br />
<br />
“Come back” of course was a euphemism for “see Jenny.” Like a thousand mothers of homely daughters before her, Mrs. Phillips was terrified of seeing her one and only confined to the ignominy of spinsterhood. But Rick didn’t think of that. Instead he considered the plausibility of the circumstance. He could come back. He could cultivate, if nothing else, friendship with this bereaved girl, the only other human being who could possibly understand the depth of his loss because she shared it. And, technically, one could argue he was partially responsible for her devastation. Had he not, in kissing Matthew, frightened him into getting engaged to her? Had he not driven that sweet, beautiful star into her the sphere of her drab little world? He didn’t envy her for loving Matthew; how could she fail to love him? And now, how would she ever be able to love someone else? He thought of her living room. Its meager elegance, and the huge wedding the poor girl was to have had and that would forever remain a ghost in her imagination. Could it be he owed her some penance for having unwittingly ruined her life? <br />
<br />
He looked down at the wizened, fretful little woman before him and gently shook her hand. <br />
<br />
“Thank you Ma’am. I will come back. I promise.”<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
It was a small wedding, but the reception was still populated by most of the town, being a small enough town to be accommodated in the high-school gymnasium used for such occasions. Rick had overheard one of the better known gossips comment that they were a fine couple, but the saddest pair of newly-weds she’d ever seen. He’d almost laughed at her perception.<br />
<br />
Rick stood beside the radio and listened to the crackling strains of a classical piece so garbled with static that he could hardly recognize it. He had a bourbon in one hand and Matthew’s army photograph in the other. Alternately, he drank and cried, choking on the liquor, but forcing it down anyway. <br />
<br />
“Rick?” called Jenny.<br />
<br />
He roughly wiped at his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. “Yes, sweetheart?” he said.<br />
<br />
“Are you coming to bed?”<br />
<br />
Rick fingered the picture in his hand, running his thumb softly along the line of Matthew’s cheek.<br />
<br />
“Be there in a moment.”<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/LoversKeeper3_zps18e4bd85.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/LoversKeeper3_zps18e4bd85.jpg?t=1365873334"/></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
<strong>Brenna L. Aldrich</strong> says: I am a writer, English tutor, and Alumnus of the Masters in Professional Writing program at Kennesaw State University. My short fiction has been published at Armadillidium Publishing. Though I have written in numerous genres, the heart-line shared by each work is a fascination with stories that confuse, teach, and change me.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the attraction of the historical fiction genre?<br />
</strong><br />
For me, the attraction of Historical Fiction lies in the fact that history, cultures, and eras may change, but human nature does not. No matter what period the story is set, good historical fiction is peopled by recognizable characters, characters who though constrained by a different set of social strictures, still think and feel as familiarly as our close friends and neighbors. When we as readers can recognize our own struggles across time, we are attracted to the characters within the story, no matter what the era. As a writer, I appreciate the distance Historical Fiction imposes on certain issues. Issues that might be timeless, but perhaps too personal or close to examine via a story that takes place in a modern setting. <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-13687082092539191962013-04-15T00:04:00.000-05:002013-04-15T00:04:00.430-05:00I Went to the Museum to See a Man’s Soul…<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/b20d1a0f-0362-4283-a112-925867704d2e_zps58296b2b.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/b20d1a0f-0362-4283-a112-925867704d2e_zps58296b2b.jpg?t=1365960950"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>I Went to the Museum to See a Man’s Soul…</strong><br />
<em>by Day Al-Mohamed</em></center><br />
I went to the museum to see a man’s soul<br />
Wrought in armour, engraved and embossed<br />
with gilt seams and jeweled plates.<br />
Powerful, resolute, heroic - only a shell,<br />
to encompass the dreams of a generation.<br />
Dreams of virtue and honor, of knights chivalrous,<br />
damsels saved; dragons vanquished.<br />
And even trapped behind the glass exhibit<br />
I can hear the echo of peasant crowds cheering their monarch<br />
and feel the thundering hooves as man and horse, clad in armour,<br />
this armour, shook the world.<br />
<br />
My fingers ache to touch the cool metal behind the museum’s velvet rope.<br />
To feel every divot, every scratch;<br />
seeking the flaws in the armor<br />
and the men who wore it - only a shell,<br />
that still vibrates with the beating of a charger’s heart<br />
that carried the privileged as they haughtily oversaw<br />
a nation’s-worth of bullion.<br />
The ringing jangle of kingdoms bought and sold.<br />
Cultures oppressed and people enslaved;<br />
the crude metal a mute witness and violent protector<br />
of a glorious empire.<br />
<br />
Standing at attention for five hundred years,<br />
representing authority and affluence;<br />
the men who wore them long gone.<br />
The cracked and aging metal remains - only a shell.<br />
We all dream of glory and might, but what lasts is the craft<br />
of a common man. Creator not destroyer, ruled not ruler;<br />
an artist whose goal was to create something beautiful<br />
wrought by hammer and sweat, sinew and forge.<br />
Etched with images of Saracens and flowers,<br />
sacraments and bloody swords. History’s remnants-<br />
God-inspired, human-made.<br />
<br />
We are moved by what we see, what we desire. Symbols.<br />
Of heroism and triumph; of power and wealth;<br />
of splendor and skillfulness. Only a shell?<br />
It is why we crowd forward, our breath hot on the glass;<br />
our eyes glazed-over with our own dreams.<br />
Sometimes as fragile as the gossamer threads of gilt and<br />
other times as harsh and immovable as the blackened steel<br />
Of a suit of armour, that is only a shell.<br />
I went to the museum to see a man’s soul<br />
and left behind a piece of my own.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<strong>Day Al-Mohamed</strong> is co-editor for the upcoming anthology, “Trust & Treachery” and hosts the multi-author blog <a href="http://unleadedwriting.com/">Unleaded: Fuel for Writers</a>. Her publications have appeared in “Space and Time Magazine,” "Comets and Criminals," and “Daily Science Fiction.” She is an active member of the Cat Vacuuming Society of Northern Virginia Writing Group, and Women in Film and Video. When not working on fiction, Day is a policy advisor with the U.S. Department of Labor, and has also worked as a lobbyist and political analyst. She lives in Washington, DC in a house with too many swords, comic books, and political treatises. You can find her online at <a href="http://www.dayalmohamed.com/">www.DayAlMohamed.com</a> or @DayAlMohamed.<br />
<br />
<strong>What inspires you to write and keep writing?</strong><br />
<br />
What inspires me to write and keep writing is often the amazing things I learn about, things I see or do or hear about. As an example, this poem is inspired by the National Gallery of Art's exhibition, "The Art of Power: Royal Armor and Portraits from Imperial Spain." Sometimes writing comes from the pages of history, both known and lesser known, other times experience, and sometimes, from a moment where you catch yourself pausing and thinking, "Wow, that takes my breath away." Having those experiences and moments of philosophical clarity are great but as people I think we are pushed to capture and share them. <br />
<br />
<strong>What advice do you have for other poets?</strong><br />
<br />
The best poetry is personal. Regardless of what the poem itself is about, it is the all-too-human moments that linger and truly connect with readers. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-52481754627617487572013-04-15T00:03:00.000-05:002013-04-16T06:08:14.111-05:00Death in Paris<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/DeathinParis1_zpsa9146430.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/DeathinParis1_zpsa9146430.jpg?t=1365895347"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>Death in Paris: A Fiction</strong><br />
<em>by Ted Witham</em></center><br />
Giovanni hurried out of the side door of the Franciscan College. It was cold, and he tugged his tattered habit tight around him intoning his favourite prayer for warmth: “Father Francis, if you had lived in Paris, you might not have insisted on sandals.” The icy wind curled around his ankles.<br />
<br />
He turned the corner from St Hilaire’s Church as his tall slim figure rushed through a narrow alley towards the great Boulevard of St Genevieve. Thomas had asked to meet him in Rue St Nicolas, but as always in Paris in November, the streets were crowded and it would take Giovanni the time of Vespers to reach him.<br />
<br />
Thomas’s message was urgent, but unclear. The messenger had slurred, whether from beer, running too fast, or simply being nervous in his presence, and all Giovanni had understood was “<em>corpus sal… sal… sal,</em>-something”.<br />
<br />
As he walked under the grey sky, Giovanni tried to unravel the message. “<em>Corpus</em>” was easy – a body. But then, what sort of body would interest Thomas? Certainly not his own great hulk, which had earned Thomas the nickname of “The Dumb Ox”. A corpse, perhaps, but why? More likely a body of work, a new manuscript, or even his ever-expanding <em>Summa</em>!<br />
<br />
And <em>sal</em>- could mean ‘dirty’. It did in their native Italian. A dirty body. But it could be the start of <em>saliens</em>, a jumping body, a leaping body, maybe a body in the process of resurrecting. Now, that would be interesting. But then, Giovanni thought, it might be something central to their work as <em>doctores</em> on ‘salvation’: the salvation body. But then why an urgent message, and not the usual scroll? No, nothing really fit.<br />
<br />
Students were everywhere, many drunk. The smell of piss was strong on the air. Giovanni heard a group of young Poitevins, their yellow scarves proud around their necks, abusing Bretons for their fickleness. Leather-jerkined German youths shouted boisterously that they were proud not be drunk like the English. Giovanni felt homesickness pull at his stomach when he heard an Italian accent in the crowd. It could even have been a Viterban from Giovanni’s home province just north of Roma.<br />
<br />
Giovanni pushed his way through the rowdy crowd. Some made way when they saw his brown habit and tonsure. A friendly voice greeted him, “<em>Ave, Magister</em>” and he recognised a student from his class seated on a rough chair in the shade of the building. “<em>Ave, mi fili,</em>” he called back cheerily and hurried on.<br />
<br />
Giovanni loved this town, its chaos, its boisterous students, its love of learning, its devotion to God and the saints. He turned the corner of La Marche, the Lombard College, into Rue St Nicolas. The smells of stale beer turned to cabbage from the kitchen where the cooks were preparing stew for their resident students.<br />
<br />
He saw his friend straight away, standing and waving to him from a doorway. “<em>Salve, Tommaso,</em>” he smiled. “In here.” Thomas waddled through the door. Giovanni followed, his mind still trying to work out the message. <em>Sal-, salve,</em> maybe, but surely Thomas wanted to say something more than just ‘hi.’ Greetings were rare in Thomas’s conversation.<br />
<br />
Thomas filled most of the dark room, and Giovanni could just make out a body on the floor. “<em>Mortis,</em>” Thomas grunted in Latin. A large sword had entered the body just below the rib-cage. Illumination flushed through Giovanni, almost as though he were deeply embarrassed. “<em>Corpus alienum,</em>” he whispered. A medical term. No wonder the messenger had macerated it. “<em>Oc.</em>” ‘Yes’ in the language of the south. “<em>Corpus alienum in corpore,</em>” finished Thomas.<br />
<br />
“But why call me?” asked Giovanni. “What has it to do with us?” Thomas lit a small torch from the one candle in the gloom. “<em>Perspice.</em> Look,” Thomas pointed to the floor next to the body. Giovanni was feeling queasy, and the flame showed a large pool of blood. Thomas saw his friend hesitate. “Concentrate,” he said. “It can’t hurt you.” On the edge of the blood was a piece of scroll. The blood has soaked into it part of the way, leaving a few words visible: <em>…gne Dominus diiudicatur et in gladio suo …</em> <br />
<br />
“<em>Fratre piccolo</em>,” Thomas’s choice of title was intimate, “you know your Bible.”<br />
<br />
“<em>Quia in igne Dominus diiudicatur et in gladio suo ad omnem carnem et multiplicabuntur interfecti a Domino,</em>” Giovanni quoted fluently.<br />
<br />
“I knew you’d know it, I knew you’d know it.” Thomas jigged incongruously about in the small space. “The prophet of Emmanuel, isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
Giovanni was surprised. “Yes, the great Isaiah. But my friend, you didn’t recognise it?”<br />
<br />
“No,” Thomas replied. “But now I do.” He repeated the verse, “For by fire will the Lord execute judgment, and by his sword, on all flesh; and those slain by the Lord shall be many.<br />
<br />
“Some one believes this is judgement,” Thomas continued, “but I do not believe it. I do not believe it, because I know it cannot be true.” Thomas crossed himself, and Giovanni noticed a tear beading in his friend’s eye. He couldn’t bear to hold Thomas’s look and turned his eyes back to the corpse. The robes were grey, like Thomas’s. The face was young, much younger than the two <em>doctores</em>. The hair had not been tonsured, so this young man could be a novice or postulant.<br />
<br />
In horror, Giovanni asked, “Who?”<br />
<br />
“Brother Corrado,” Thomas clenched his teeth as he mentioned the name. “They think I did it.”<br />
<br />
“Who? The university <em>proctores</em>?”<br />
<br />
“Non,” whispered Thomas, “<em>mi fratelli</em>. My brothers. That’s why I called for you.”<br />
<br />
The situation was beginning to become clear to Giovanni. He knew his friend evoked a variety of strong responses among the Dominican brothers. Some, particularly the novices of latter years, believed him to be a saint and a genius. Giovanni suspected they might be right. For other brothers, Thomas was a cause of fun, the lumbering ox who couldn’t tell a lie, the social incompetent who, while dining at the royal palace, simply because a thought struck him, took out his scroll and quill. Many were jealous, especially those who knew that he had turned down the Holy Father’s invitation to be a cardinal. Others, knowing that his writings were known throughout Christendom, took an ignorant pride in their local celebrity. It was this group that was pushing for him to be Regent of the University of Paris, a position Thomas knew could bring him into conflict with his friend Giovanni and the Little Brothers, and so was resisting this pressure.<br />
<br />
Thomas and Giovanni had agreed that the times were becoming dangerous, but had determined whatever the politics to continue as friends.<br />
<br />
For the first time since entering the tiny room, Giovanni looked to the door. Two burly novices stood there, one nearly as big as Thomas himself. Thomas followed his eyes. “It is so,” he said. “You and I need protection, and I want you to help me survive what’s happening.”<br />
<br />
Giovanni was moved by the pleading in his friend’s eyes, but felt bewildered. “What can I do for you, <em>mi caro</em>, besides locate a quote?”<br />
<br />
“Help me unravel it, <em>fratello piccolo</em>. It’s a puzzle, and if I don’t understand it, then who knows who else could receive a <em>corpus alienum</em> thrust through their ribs? When will it start; the many being <em>slain by the Lord</em>?”<br />
<br />
There was a commotion at the door. “Brother Thomas, Brother Thomas, it’s time to go,” one of the novices said. “Come with us, Brother Thomas, come with us, Brother Giovanni.”<br />
<br />
Without thinking, Giovanni scooped up the torn scroll from the flag stones and thrust it into the interior of his habit.<br />
<br />
As Giovanni came back out into the street, he noticed that dark was fast approaching. The two novices threw their cowls over their heads and set off at a pace, the two <em>doctores</em> having no difficulty keeping up. Both were fitter than they appeared, accustomed as they were to walking to Rome every three years or so. They headed up with the crowd along the Great Street St Vitor, and headed towards the great complex of St Vitor. A side gate opened and suddenly they were out of the noise and crush and in the monastery garden. Birds were singing in the trees, and they could hear the mighty Seine lapping on its shore over the great wall.<br />
<br />
“Wait here, Brothers.” Brother William rushed into the kitchen door of the monastery, and returned several minutes later with Brother Cook.<br />
<br />
“Will the Benedictines come to our aid?” whispered Giovanni to Thomas.<br />
<br />
“Indeed,” said Thomas. “Brother William is the brother of the Cook.”<br />
<br />
“<em>Ave</em>, Brother Thomas. <em>Ave</em>, Brother Giovanni. <em>Dominus vobiscum</em>.” The Cook inclined his head in a reverent bow, and kissed the hands of each of the mendicant brothers. “The Lord has brought us together, and salvation is on His mind.” He smiled. “At least, I can help with your present salvation, Brothers. The kitchen barge awaits you on the other side of the wall. Brother William will take you to the barge-driver, and will escort you down river. Your destination will become clear. But go, the swords of the Lord are beginning to gather.”<br />
<br />
A few moments later a small gate on the river side of the garden opened. The two novices ushered the older friars through the gate, hurried them down the barge path, and jumped on to the barge. Thomas and Giovanni followed.<br />
<br />
“Brothers, an honour. But there is no time to waste,” the barge-driver rasped out in his Parisian accent. He cast off, ran to the back of the barge with a huge pole and guided the flat boat down-stream. They slid under cover of the growing darkness under the looming tower known as Latournelle.<br />
<br />
Soon the lights of the monastery of Notre Dame de Paris and the great church itself were coming into view.<br />
<br />
“Notre Dame?” queried Giovanni.<br />
<br />
“<em>Non</em>. Before then, I think,” said Thomas. “The great church stands out, but St Denis de Paris comes first.”<br />
<br />
St Denis shares l’Île de la Cité with Notre Dame. In the citadel of St Denis, French kings were buried, but it was the monastery at which the barge tied up.<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/DeathinParis2_zps82a6a844.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/DeathinParis2_zps82a6a844.jpg?t=1365895458"/></a></center><br />
“<em>Le bon Dieu te bénisse.</em>” Thomas bowed to the barge-driver, who was clearly surprised that this scholarly cleric would address him in his own dialect.<br />
<br />
Brother William escorted the <em>doctores</em> off the barge and directly to the reception room in the abbot’s house. He and Brother Novus bowed to Thomas and Giovanni “We leave you here, good Brothers, where you will be safe, at least for tonight. Novus and I are attached to Notre Dame, so we can make our way home without drawing attention to your presence here. May our Lord Jesus bless you and keep you safe, holy fathers.”<br />
<br />
They withdrew, leaving Thomas and Giovanni alone in the room. They looked about them at expensive furnishings and draperies. A huge gold crucifix hung over the main door, and a lavish tapestry showing the foundation of the monastery of St Denis covered the main wall. The room was lit by an opulent candelabra and twelve sconce candles along one wall. A large fire burned in a huge fire-place, and for the first time that day, Brother Giovanni felt warm. Both men knew that few places in Paris boasted such space and comfort. They moved to the fire, took their hands out of their large sleeves and held them to the warmth.<br />
<br />
After some time, an internal door opened. A Benedictine appeared, his rank immediately clear by the pectoral cross glinting about his fat middle. Both friars bowed, muttering, “<em>Dominus vobiscum, Pater</em>,” and receiving a quickly traced benediction in reply.<br />
<br />
“Welcome, little brothers,” the Abbot began smoothly. “I am glad you have been brought here. You will be safe. Dedicated to your studies, you may not have noticed passions are inflamed at the University, and you are unwittingly the cause of them.”<br />
<br />
<em>Labbra lusinghiero.</em> The Italian phrase came unbidden to Giovanni’s mind: ‘Flattering lips.’<br />
<br />
“There are certain factions among the Dominicans, Brother Thomas, who would have you appointed as Regent to the University. As you now know, the faction has started to use violence to push your claim.”<br />
<br />
“Father,” said Thomas impatiently, “You know I cannot accept the appointment. Such a move would cause great division between the Preachers and the Little Brothers, some of whom are representing Giovanni here to be Regent.”<br />
<br />
“No,” gasped Giovanni.<br />
<br />
“Neither do I wish our brother here to be elevated to Regent. I fear our Master could not control the Dominicans if a Franciscan were appointed, and our scholarly work would be lost in the ensuing hostilities.” Thomas spoke passionately. “It has always been the Benedictines who can supply the balance and continuity for these great positions, and there are one or two and at Notre Dame who would be much preferable to either of us humble friars. Dom Justine, for ex--”<br />
<br />
“No,” the Abbot cut across firmly though courteously. “There is no monk who brings the same intellectual and scholarly weight to the position as you do, Brother Thomas. The name Benedictine would be a laughing stock if I even proposed the name of Dom Justine. And there is another reason that you must accept.”<br />
<br />
He paused, and rang a small bell. A novice nervously entered and bowed to his Abbot.<br />
<br />
“Show our visitor in, Brother,” the Abbot ordered.<br />
<br />
Just as quickly, the novice disappeared. The door opened again and a secular man in fine, brightly coloured court clothes entered, and bent to kiss the abbot’s ring.<br />
<br />
“<em>Dominus vobiscum,</em>” said the newcomer.<br />
<br />
“<em>Benedicamus te,</em>” replied the Abbot. Giovanni gasped as he recognised the newcomer and registered the Abbot’s ambiguous phrase. A benediction, of sorts, true, but it sounded like the Abbot was condescending to the royal person by arrogating the royal we to himself.<br />
<br />
Giovanni bowed. “<em>Altissimo,</em>” he breathed.<br />
<br />
Thomas grunted. “<em>Domino mi.</em>” Thomas’s obeisance was considerably shallower than Giovanni’s. Giovanni could see Thomas’s decreasing patience with what appeared to be an elaborate courtly game.<br />
<br />
“Highness,” said Giovanni, “Father Abbot says one of us must accept the position of Regent. Both Brother Thomas and I are highly flattered by this attention, but must decline if only because the appointment of either of us would inflame the situation between Franciscans and Preachers. What can Your Highness say to attempt to change our minds?”<br />
<br />
“Brother Giovanni,” said the Dauphin, “you saw the man who was killed. The <em>corpus alienum.</em> Did Brother Thomas tell you the man’s name?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, Lord,” Giovanni replied. “Brother Corrado.”<br />
<br />
“And his last name?” queried the Prince. Giovanni looked at Thomas, who averted his gaze.<br />
<br />
“No, my Lord.”<br />
<br />
“Would it shock you to know that ‘Brother’ Conrad was not a brother at all. His last name is d’Aquino.” Thomas continued to look away from his friend.<br />
<br />
“Thomas,” said Giovanni. “Your kin.”<br />
<br />
“And not just cousin to Brother Thomas, but son to the King of Sicily. A prince, like myself, sent to discover the court in Paris.”<br />
<br />
“Then, Lord, what caused Prince Conrad to …?” Giovanni’s question trailed away.<br />
<br />
The Dauphin looked at the two friars grimly.<br />
<br />
“Our cousin the King of Sicily sent his son to be under our protection,” the Dauphin explained. “Conrad quickly became bored with our court and wanted to experience the University. But he was a prince, and we could not allow him to mingle with the students when there was a threat of violence. We approached the Master of the Preachers and persuaded him to disguise the Prince as a Dominican novice so that he could pass unnoticed through the streets. But somehow…”<br />
<br />
“Somehow,” Giovanni continued “the pro-Thomas <em>idiotes</em> picked him off.”<br />
<br />
“No, Brother,” the Prince shook his head. “It is more complicated than that, and that is why we sent for you to help us unravel the mystery. We believe the hand that plunged the sword into Conrad’s heart is working to undo the court of my father the King of France. It is convenient for him to have us believe that it is motivated by the cause to promote Brother Thomas.”<br />
<br />
Giovanni withdrew from under his habit the scroll, still soaked on one corner in Prince Conrad’s blood and examined it thoughtfully using the light of the chandelier.<br />
<br />
“Do you see this mark?” He pointed to where the paper was torn. The Prince saw as if engraved into the paper a crude shield with a crown above and a griffin on one side. Presumably a twin griffin was on the other half of the shield.<br />
<br />
“A watermark,” said Thomas. As scholars, both were intrigued by this new technology.<br />
<br />
“Sicily’s arms!” exclaimed the prince.<br />
<br />
“It does confirm what your Highness has told us,” said Giovanni.<br />
<br />
A bell tolled, its great voice muffled by the thick stone walls of the Abbot’s house. Giovanni pictured several hundred monks blearily rising from their cots to make their ways to the great churches on the island, those of St Denis and Our Lady.<br />
<br />
“Only the Holy Father can command,” continued the dauphin, “but you would earn the gratitude and friendship of this prince if you could discover who committed this ignoble murder, and reflect on the invitation to you both to serve as Regent of the University.”<br />
<br />
The prince turned and swept out of the room. Giovanni and Thomas made their bows to his retreating back.<br />
<br />
“But I do command you,” said the Abbot, smiling. “you are my guests and you must stay overnight or until the culprit is found. Here you will be safe.”<br />
<br />
Thomas thought for a moment that such hospitality was akin to that of the governor of a jail, but forced a smile nonetheless.<br />
<br />
“We are honoured to be your guests,” said Giovanni, reflecting that St Francis would have accepted the offer of hospitality with an open heart and deep gratitude.<br />
<br />
A novice showed the two mendicants to the Abbot’s guest room.<br />
<br />
Both Thomas and Giovanni ignored the beds with their soft furnishings and took covers and laid them on the wooden floor as sleeping mats. Not only was this in accord with their Rules, but they were more comfortable sleeping as they normally did. Just before he blew out the candle, Thomas reached out an arm and lassoed a pillow to place under his head. Giovanni smiled in the darkness.<br />
<br />
The two brothers lay in silence for some minutes. Giovanni was not about to sleep.<br />
<br />
“Thomas,” he said, “remind me of why the Trinity is indivisible.”<br />
<br />
“It’s after <em>Nocturna,</em>” grumbled Thomas.<br />
<br />
“You know that I am not permitted to attend your lectures, and it would give me great pleasure to hear you lay out the argument.”<br />
<br />
Thomas grunted, and sat up in bed. “<em>Questionis: Cur Trinitatis indivisibilis?</em>” he began. “<em>Responsus: Primo</em>: Each member of the Trinity is bound to the other and is ever found in company with the other two. <em>Secundo:</em> The Trinity itself is uncaused, but the action of one member on another causes movement in the world. With each action of love in the world, there may be a different face of the Holy Trinity, but the effect of its action is one. <em>Tertio: ergo</em>, the effects of the movements of the Trinity in the world will appear consistent as they arise from an indivisible first cause.”<br />
<br />
“<em>Sequi</em>,” Giovanni smiled. “I follow. When you see a unified effect, the three elements of a trinity have acted in concert to produce that action. Thank you, Brother.” He fell silent again.<br />
<br />
Some minutes passed. Giovanni could hear the earliest roosters greeting another day. It was still dark in the guest room and would be for some hours. The roosters were full of optimism, but Thomas began to snore.<br />
<br />
“Brother,” said Giovanni, “help me again.”<br />
<br />
Thomas rolled over on his mat, and tried to settle into sleep on his left side, the pillow tucked up between his shoulder and huge neck.<br />
<br />
“What, Brother?”<br />
<br />
“Tell me the tale of the disgraced Sicilian.”<br />
<br />
“Now, Brother?”<br />
<br />
“If you please. You tell these stories of intrigue so beautifully.”<br />
<br />
“Seven summers past, a Sicilian called Gennaro Luigi from Roccasecca, my town, came to the University. He was an aspirant for us Preachers. He did some study, but he was a wild man, and assaulted some of the King’s men in the street. The Prince sent him back to Roccasecca in disgrace. But Gennaro Luigi was a clever man, and vowed to take revenge on princes everywhere. News about his disgrace had travelled before him to Sicily, so he changed his name to Cropus Aliud – the Other Cropus, borrowed a brown habit from a passing friar, leaving the Little Brother naked on the hills outside Rome, and continued on to the court of Sicily. There he claimed to be a priest, a <em>doctore</em> like us. His Latin was polished, and his appearance sufficiently ecclesiastical, for him to gain entry to the court. He involved himself in all manner of scandal in the court, robberies and assaults, and disappeared about two years ago when the King of Sicily threatened to have him imprisoned. No one has seen or heard of him since. Now, why all these questions, Brother?”<br />
<br />
“A trinity of things is acting together,” Giovanni replied. “The watermark on the blood-stained paper, the quotation from the Prophet, and the message brought to me. The paper can only have come directly from the Sicilian court, which is where Cropus has been making havoc. The writing can only be that of a literate man who has attended this University, or perhaps Padua or Genoa. The quotation was of revenge. And the messenger told me his name. Not <em>corpus sal</em>, but Cropus Aliud.”<br />
<br />
“But where will we find him?”<br />
<br />
“Here: in the monastery of St Denis, pretending to be a monk, and hiding as near to the French court as possible.”<br />
<br />
Thomas was waking up. “So Father Abbot was wrong to think we would be safe here.”<br />
<br />
“Indeed, Brother, this is the place of least safety in the whole of the city of Paris. And more than that. Father Abbot of the flattering lips <em>knows</em> Cropus is here. Brother, we are not safe.”<br />
<br />
“He will not act against us while the Prince knows we are here,” Thomas stated. “But we will not be able to leave this place until the Highness if informed.”<br />
<br />
The two friars listened as the monks shuffled to Lauds and back and then to Prime, and the sun eventually rose over Notre-Dame de Paris, bringing a new crisp day. The friars recited their offices in the guest room.<br />
<br />
Well before Terce, Brothers William and Novus appeared. Giovanni related to the two brothers the conclusions that he and Thomas had reached during the night.<br />
<br />
“Go to the Dauphin with a message from us,” they asked, “and request His Highness to come here to the Abbot’s house. Only he can ask the Abbot to deliver up Cropus Aliud.”<br />
<br />
An hour later, an embarrassed Abbot stammered to the Dauphin that he hadn’t really known who the stranger from Italy in the other guest room was, but he owed him the ministry of hospitality.<br />
<br />
The Dauphin called soldiers while the Abbot summoned the accused. The moment Thomas addressed him in Sicilian as <em>Frate</em> Gennaro, Cropus turned to the dauphin and begged for mercy.<br />
<br />
“Do come and enjoy the ministry of hospitality at the palace of St Denis,” the Dauphin said grimly and nodded to the soldiers to escort him to a lower level of the citadel. “We will keep him there for some time,” he assured the Brothers. “You may now go home with our thanks and friendship.”<br />
<br />
The two friars blessed the Prince and he bade them godspeed.<br />
<br />
The next day a messenger from the Prince arrived at the Dominican friary. “The Dauphin thanks you for the service rendered to him and his father the King. The court is more deeply convinced that you are the only one who can be Regent of the University. Would you consider the post if a <em>tabulam</em> of Benedictines and Franciscans, led by Dom Justine of Carcassone, care for the University day to day, and you would then be free to continue your lectures and be for the University a symbol of the best it can be.”<br />
<br />
Thomas grumbled, but to the Dauphin’s surprise sent back a message of acceptance.<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/DeathinParis3_zps50bee65b.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/DeathinParis3_zps50bee65b.jpg?t=1365895536"/></a></center><br />
Ten days later on the Lord’s Day, the Franciscans had celebrated their great Mass, and then gathered in the refectory to break the fast together. Giovanni took his turn in the kitchen, and plunged his hands into a great bowl of water filled with dirty plates. He smiled, thinking of his friend Thomas, who had been asked not to present himself for kitchen duty at the Dominican friary. Too many plates were broken, and too often the dishes had to be done again. Thomas composed his <em>Summa</em> in the kitchen, as in every other place.<br />
<br />
There was a disturbance behind Giovanni. “The Pope’s messenger,” excited voices called to him, and indeed a messenger pushed into the kitchen, knelt before Giovanni and extended to him a red hat. “His Holiness has work for you in preparing for the great Council,” said the messenger.<br />
<br />
There was a long pause. All in the kitchen were silent.<br />
<br />
Giovanni smiled. “Hang the hat on the tree outside until I’ve finished the dishes,” he said, “then I will wear it in all humility.”<br />
<br />
<center>* * * </center><br />
<em>Historical note: <strong>Bonaventure of Bagnoregio</strong> (baptismal name Giovanni) and <strong>Thomas Aquinas</strong> were the two leading intellectuals in the University of Paris through the 1250s. They graduated Master in the same year and must have at least been acquainted with each other, but the historical record does not speak of any friendship such as I have described here. Thomas was first appointed Regent Master in 1257. It was actually not until 1274 that Bonaventure finally accepted the Cardinal’s red hat. He was elected the Minister General of the Franciscan order in 1257.</em><br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<strong>Ted Witham</strong>’s stories, memoirs and poems have been published in journals in Australia and in the US. As well as a compulsive writer, Ted is an Anglican priest and a Franciscan tertiary. He lives in the beautiful south-west region of Western Australia. <br />
<br />
<strong>What inspires you to write and keep writing?</strong><br />
<br />
Often words and phrases are the ignition to begin writing a story, but as I write I like to create a world by describing and naming specific details. This accuracy is for me the key to historical fiction, but characters I can empathize with, as with all story writing, are the main attraction of the genre. Writing historical fiction is getting inside the head of a character or two and seeing their world through their eyes. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-70448445023250045052013-04-15T00:01:00.000-05:002013-04-15T00:01:00.545-05:00Tranquility Hill<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Tranquility2_zpsb48af47a.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Tranquility2_zpsb48af47a.jpg?t=1365901823"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>Tranquility Hill</strong><br />
<em>by Joseph Rubas</em></center><br />
Before Route 33 enters the small roadside village of Brandywine , it slides into the greenery of the George Washington National Forest and crosses a dry creek bed with no name. If you look to your left as you slowly pass, you will notice a narrow dirt road twisting up into the tangled wilderness along the north bank. Some of the old timers say it leads up to a little cabin where a man went insane one snowbound winter and killed his wife with an ax before wandering off to a frozen death. They say his ghost walks in the woods at night, trying desperately to get back from some terrible white limbo.<br />
<br />
Even though most residents of lower Pendleton County are unaware of the road’s existence or of the fiendish legends surrounding it, nobody is keen on being out after dark. As soon as the sun is low the entire county from Circleville to Lookout Mountain closes up shop, the locals compelled by an organic and inexplicable terror to drop whatever they are doing and rush home to wait out the desolate night. Nights in that part of the state are indeed unsettling, with the towering mountains running like ink into the sky, with the noise of bobcats in the hills and the company sometimes of only a neighbor two or three miles distant, but the natives’ fear boarders of obsession. During day they are as rational as you and I, but as the sun sinks, sucking the light from the sky, they transform into superstitious Salem peasants. Nary can a car be found astir south of Franklin at night; even state patrolmen refuse to police the highways after nightfall.<br />
<br />
Some of the old timers are adamant that the fear is an instilled personality trait of a natural valley residents, that generations had passed it down until it became ingrained, the cause forgotten. Either they lie or are honestly ignorant. <br />
<br />
The strange road leads up through the primal forested hillside and let’s out after several miles in a grassy meadow which overlooks rolling mountains, rushing rivers and mile upon mile of pastureland. The forest encloses it on three sides, and in the summer and spring it is a very beautiful spot. Though there are no outward signs (the low stones are hidden by the tall grass), this quiet meadow, feared even in obscurity, was one of the largest cemeteries in the county. <br />
<br />
The land was taken from its owner in 1859, an Englishman named Billingsly, a slight and sickly fellow described in contemporary reports as gaunt and handsome. He lived on the hill for several years before fleeing under the cover of midnight; his cabin was later found burned, bones fragments within giving testament to his wife’s demise (this is perhaps where the ax murderer legend comes from). He was captured by lawmen near Keyser in late July attempting to flee across the North Branch of the Potomac into Maryland . At his trial the story he told convinced even the no nonsense judicial system of the time that he was mad. It was never officially written down, but was recorded in the diary of a spectator who was in the hot courtroom that August day. Sadly the book was lost in a paddleboat explosion on the Mississippi after the war, but a friend who had seen it claimed that it spoke of the wife dying in childbirth and then returning from her grave under the full moon.<br />
<br />
The county was only too happy to have the land, and quickly established a new cemetery, as the older ones were nearing their capacity. The first person to be interred was a flamboyant French Cajun named Jeffers, an old local character known and loved by all from the mightiest landowner to the lowliest slave. He claimed to have fought in the Mexican-American war under General Zachery Taylor, suffering a serious injury to his right leg at Monterrey which left him with a galloping limp.<br />
<br />
In the winter of 1860, Jeffers was returning from church when he slipped on the icy road and slid off and down a steep embankment. No one knows if he froze or died in the fall, but either way he was dead when he was found in a swollen river come March.<br />
<br />
He was put to rest with great pomp, his funeral supposedly attended by everyone within thirty miles. A fiery sermon was spoken by the Reverend Haskins and a children’s choir serenaded the mournful.<br />
<br />
As Jeffers didn’t have a stone befitting a man of his kindness and faith, some of the local ladies took up a collection to have one made for him. But before their plan came to fruition, Fort Sumner was attacked by the Confederacy and the War Between the States began. The money was quickly sent to the Richmond , even though at that time the valley was torn over who to support, as was much of western Virginia . Capitalizing on the wide unionist sentiment in the mountainous districts, Abraham Lincoln relieved Virginia of its furthest counties and created a new state: West Virginia .<br />
<br />
Between 1861 and 1865 the sons of the valley left for war, some for blue coats and some for gray, most for the grave. During the struggle many heroic young men returned in boxes, and in Tranquility Hill they went. It was once suggested that the war, or the bodies created by it, was what sparked the events of the next fifty or so years, as though the activity awakened the Hill from an infernal slumber.<br />
<br />
Indeed, it wasn’t until January of 1864 that the first manifestation of the supernatural took place. Brandywine’s only business in those days was an old trading post, owned by a man from the Susquehanna region of Pennsylvania; a rabid loyalist who was rumored to have something to do with the Underground Railroad. He wasn’t a popular man with his neighbors, but was never molested in any way until a dirty and scar-studded tramp entered the post during a hard blizzard and shot him in the head with a pistol. It just so happened that the sheriff in those days, a Steadman Harker, was in the store, browsing the barrels of tobacco along the back wall, when the killing occurred. He wasted no time in retaliating.<br />
<br />
When the snow let up, he rode fast for help. Soon, the store was crawling with men. The doctor came to examine the bodies, and on turning the vagrant over the man paled and fainted. The collective gasped, struck with horror. They recognized the face as belonging to 18-year-old Donald Himmler, who had returned home the previous summer after being cut down during Pickett’s Charge.<br />
<br />
Passing the resemblance uneasily off, the men only discovered the terror the next day, when the killer was to be buried. What happened was never recorded, but a Steven Vandevender told his wife, years later on his death bed, that they had found Donny Himmler’s grave open and vague tracks leading from it right up to the trading post. He claims that the body was then treated as a vampyre.<br />
<br />
In 1865, after General Lee’s surrender to General Grant at Appomattox , many battle weary souls began returning to the valley. Among the final stream to cross Mount Shenandoah before it was closed by snow was William Haskins. He was a wholesome young man, the son of Revered Haskins, who had heeded God’s call by joining the Army of the Confederacy. He was a strapping lad when he left, but on his return he was drawn and gaunt, pale and haggard. His mind, however, was stronger than ever, so there is no doubt whatsoever as to the validity of his claim to have seen the late Jeffers sitting on his porch. Haskins said that he happened to look up as he was passing the cabin, and was nearly killed by a hammer of shocked fright when he saw the decayed man in his old rocker. He said that Jeffers treated and spoke to him with uncharacteristic hostility, taunting him about things that only Haskins and God himself had any business knowing.<br />
<br />
Terrified, he rushed to the trading post and spilled out his story. The same men who had dealt with Donny Himmler the previous year happened to all be there, and at once organized.<br />
<br />
They shortly rode out to Jeffers’s cabin, a small shabby place built of dark logs. They found the old man in a corner near the fireplace, his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth. His face was hidden in the shadows, but his hands weren’t; they were obviously skeletal and dirty.<br />
<br />
He said things to them, things that were true, things that each man hid deep within himself. Hollis Cole, who was there that day and later recorded it in his diary, says only that Jeffers knew of Hollis’s sexual relationship with a neighbor girl…or rather a neighbor’s twelve-year-old slave.<br />
<br />
The monster was killed by the lead of the group, identified only as Mr. Puffenbarger, most likely Lawrence “Butch” Puffenbarger, a local plantation owner who, after the war, raised steer and, per Jeffers, pimped out his two teenaged daughters. The men then torched the cabin and vowed to God that they were never speak of the incident again.<br />
<br />
The Jeffers affair was impossible to keep under wraps, though, as there were several others in the post when Haskins burst in. Rumors of course began spreading like wildfire, and seemed to be substantiated by a series of gruesome murders and attempted home invasions by gray faced things scratching at nighttime windows. The men who had handled the Himmler and Jeffers incidents pushed for the abandonment of Tranquility Hill at one governmental meeting in 1866, but refused to cite a reason other than the place was “evil.” Their efforts were not in vain, though, for while official interments continued, the vast majority of valley dwellers damned the place, and some even had loved ones removed from the sour ground.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, from this time to about 1888 there were dozens of bizarre and ghastly happenings ascribed to Tranquility Hill. In the winter of 1868 there was a spat of ax murders, the culprit, a ghoul from the Hill, was lynched in Franklin by a posse, presumably the same one from 1864-1865. Following this several children vanished from their homesteads, the last of which escaped from the clutches of something stinking of decomposition in 1874. Two years later a unionist carpetbagger was found in a stand of bushes near the road. It could have been a routine hate-murder, if his face hadn’t been mauled and his throat ripped out.<br />
<br />
One of the most grotesque horrors to occur during this time, however, was the murder of the Wimplinger family in 1882. They were a deeply devout and pure group, and one crisp morning when they failed to appear at church the Reverend and several worried townspeople rode out to their isolated homestead on forested Charlotte ’s Ridge, perched above a bend in the Iron River . Inside, the party encountered a savagery to this day not entirely confessed. The father was in front of the door in a pool of his own blood, his eyes gone and his lower jaw sat upon his chest. The mother was near the fireplace, her head bashed in with a stone. The young daughter was found on her bed, playing a happy game of patty cake with her brother Robert, who had died the week before.<br />
<br />
The fire that claimed the Wimplinger cabin was explained as an accident, and the girl was packed off to live with relatives in either Baltimore or Boston. <br />
<br />
The last official burial in Tranquility Hill was in September of 1891, a horseman who was thrown from his animal in mid-jot. He was killed a second time when he was found strangling a young girl behind the Brandywine schoolhouse. Thereafter the cemetery was forsaken.<br />
<br />
Human nature, though, led to sporadic incidents over the years, only a few archived in any detail. In 1898 a grieving father reburied his 11-year-old son there, only to have the boy die again. He returned during a blizzard, and managed in his second life only to drag himself fifty feet from his grave before freezing. In 1914 several brothers, referred to as the “Bonner Boys” put their infant sister in Tranquility Hill hoping to revive their inconsolable mother. The girl came back to life, but wasn’t able to escape her grave. She was found by a hunter drawn by her sickly cries, and was mercifully killed where she lay.<br />
<br />
Today Tranquility Hill sits beyond the cusp of memory, seen in modern times by only the occasional sportsman or backpacker. Its pre-1850s history is still an utter mystery, and not many hypotheses have been forthcoming regarding the ground’s inability to retain its dead. A local historian who lived in the twenties theorized that Tranquility Hill was once an Indian village where the natives turned to cannibalism one extreme winter. This, he said, invited a demonic entity known as a Windigo, which feeds on the evil of the place and animates the dead.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the dark secrets buried in the ground there will never be known, and most likely wouldn’t be understood if they were. One can only hope that never again will this place be used, and pray that there aren’t any more like it.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
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* * *</center><br />
<strong>Joseph Rubas</strong> is the author of over 150 short stories, many of them in the horror genre. They have been published in a wide array of places, including: The Storyteller (literary magazine); Eschatology Journal (ezine); and Zombie Lockdown (anthology). A collection of his fiction, Pocketful of Fear, was released in 2012. He currently resides in Massachusetts with his fiancé, Brenda, who is also a writer.<br />
<br />
<strong>Where do you get the ideas for your stories?</strong><br />
For me, story ideas abound. On a good day, anything and everything inspires me.<br />
<br />
<strong>What inspires you to write and keep writing?</strong><br />
Writing to me is what breathing is to others. If I don’t do it, I turn blue and die.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction story?</strong><br />
The most important thing about historical fiction is authenticity; you have to make the reader believe.<br />
<br />
<strong>What do you think is the attraction of the historical fiction genre?</strong><br />
History is fascinating in general. But the real draw of it is emotion. In the text books, guys like Robert E. Lee and J.F.K are dry and one dimensional. We have to remember that they were human too, with hearts, minds, and personalities.<br />
<br />
<strong>What advice do you have for other historical fiction writers?</strong><br />
As one great writer put it: Leave out all the parts readers skip. I suppose that goes for every genre.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-35402843050434184052013-04-15T00:00:00.000-05:002013-04-15T00:00:01.856-05:00A Knight in Fountains Abbey <center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/FountainsAbbey1_zpsd81c82b4.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/FountainsAbbey1_zpsd81c82b4.jpg?t=1365902664"/></a><br />
<br />
<strong>A Knight in Fountains Abbey</strong><br />
<em>Translated by G. K. Werner</em></center><br />
<em>From the Clerk of Copmanhurst's first letter</em>: When Empress Maud's son, Henry, came at last to the throne in 1154, he brought an end to the feudal misrule of Stephen, his predecessor, and the blood-drenched anarchy of baronial warfare. Upon the foundation of traditional local law, he built a legal system common to both Norman and Saxon that restored justice to every shire and borough, and protected the rights of free men, if not villiens. He abolished trial by ordeal and trial by combat, introduced trial by jury, and appointed itinerant justices to roam the shires judging infractions and dealing with legalities. His court was constantly on the move. Lion-like, he sprang from task to task, personally involved in the minutest detail concerning his kingdom’s governance. The people of England breathed a sigh of relief, and the Hoods of Wakefield, like other Saxons throughout the land, looked for better times to come with this robust young king on the throne. Little did they suspect that one of their own would…<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<em>The tale:</em><br />
<br />
<center>Fountains Abbey, October 1160</center><br />
Steel on steel rang in the twilight; an unlikely ringing of a remote Yorkshire Abbey nestled between river’s rush and forest's hush. Had Viking baresarks come as of old to pillage, slay and burn? But the clash and clangor of sword on sword raised nary a tonsured head meditating in the cloisters, sped nary a sanctified heart singing in the choir, paused not a single monkly quill copying in the scriptorium nor unbent a single monkly leg kneeling in the nave. The Abbot himself, deep in chapter house conference with prior and cellarer, heeded not the cry of steel that in a bygone day would have sent his monks fleeing for their lives.<br />
<br />
Captain Hood and Brother Michael wielded their long swords with practiced ease, two-handed and shieldless. Blades whirled in cut and parry, cut and parry, feint and lunge, cut and cut and thrust as they danced round and round the secluded outer courtyard merrily striving to disembowel one another. Though younger, shorter, and heavier than Robert Hood, Brother Michael stepped, lunged and struck with smooth, swift self-assurance, his priestly gown’s hem tucked into his belt so as not to trip him, its wide sleeves rolled up to expose muscular arms and legs more than twice the thickness of his opponent's. It was all Robert could do to hold his own against Brother Michael's unpredictable storm.<br />
<br />
Both swordsmen ignored the shadow in a shadowed alcove, a gaunt, stone-faced monk whose flinty eyes never missed a sword's flicker or snick—a long-faced monk who watched them like shrouded death silently awaiting the final thrust.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the steel whirlwind ceased, blades obstinately pressed. Robert and Michael glared at one another. Nose to nose, lips furled, they breathed like a pair of bucks, antlers locked.<br />
<br />
“Yield!” cried Michael.<br />
<br />
“Never!” cried Robert.<br />
<br />
“Never?” said Michael. His meaty shoulder butted Robert, sprawling the slimmer man to the ground with a clatter of helm and sword. Casually, he kicked Robert's sword aside and stepped forward placing the point of his blade to Robert's throat. “Yield, I say!”<br />
<br />
“Never, I repeat!”<br />
<br />
“Then you leave me no choice.” Brother Michael drew back his sword. “I’m off to supper! I'm famished!” He extended Robert a ham-like hand. “Care to join me in a mutton joint or three?”<br />
<br />
Brother Michael had grown so stout he hardly resembled the little boy who had arrived at Fountains Abbey years earlier, a Londontown merchant’s youngest son, sacrificed to the Church in expiation for a father’s life of material excess.<br />
<br />
Robert retrieved his sword to follow his friend kitchen-ward.<br />
<br />
“Hold!” rasped the long-faced monk, stepping from the alcove.<br />
<br />
“Hold?” Michael inquired. “How do you say hold, Brother Newman?”<br />
<br />
“With resolve, Brother Michael.”<br />
<br />
“But shall we hold a trencher(1) or an ale-pot? A banquet perhaps?”<br />
<br />
A heavy hammer must have been used to chisel Brother Newman’s perpetual frown. “You will hold your bellies,” he said, “while I assess your wretched swordsmanship!”<br />
<br />
The sword lessons were Michael's idea—a tribute to his ingenuity in Fountains peaceful society (as was his girth in Fountain’s spare larder). He had recognized Brother Newman as his father's old acquaintance—Sir Rutherford of Grimsby, an impoverished knight turned dualist. Grimsby had killed many a man in trial by combat, fighting in behalf of wealthy barons who, even if they believed God to be on their side, took the precaution of assisting the Almighty by hiring professional proxies to settle their disputes. Soon after King Henry outlawed trial by combat, Sir Rutherford had been reported dead in a common street brawl.<br />
<br />
<em>Imagine my surprise, finding you cloistered away in Yorkshire</em>! Young Michael had exclaimed. <em>A new man!</em><br />
<br />
Brother Newman had regarded Michael in silence that day, his eyes, perched with a falcon’s intensity on the rocky height of his craggy face, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. His grimness had made Robert regret letting Michael talk him into this—their newest monk, clearly a dangerous man.<br />
<br />
<em>Safe-guarding the secret of a ghostly(2) brother's unsavory past ought to have its reward,</em> said Michael, recklessly.<br />
<br />
<em>A good turn is its own reward,</em> the former dualist riposted.<br />
<br />
<em>Ho, ho! A good turn deserves another.</em><br />
<br />
<em>And what will your silence cost me, boy?</em><br />
<br />
<em>Lessons in the sword!</em> said Michael, smiling innocently. <em>For my friend and me.</em><br />
<br />
Brother Newman glanced at Robert, then back at Michael. <em>A guardsman interested in the sword I understand, but a fellow monk?</em><br />
<br />
<em>It is not without precedent(3),</em> said Michael, uncommonly well-educated for a merchant’s son.<br />
<br />
<em>But I have repented of my evil ways and taken vows as penance,</em> Brother Newman protested.<br />
<br />
<em>For which you have my utmost respect, </em> said Michael. <em>And, I fervently pray, our brethren’s continued respect</em>—meaningfully. Michael and Robert had not known at the time that Brother Newman’s identity was well known to Fountains’ monks.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the retired dualist-turned-priest had missed the sword more than he admitted, even to himself. How else to explain his becoming their mentor in the sword, as Father Wilibald had been Robert's in the bow.<br />
<br />
Thanks to Brother Newman’s instruction over the past several years, Robert had an edge over the average man-at-arms, though he would never match his friend Michael who showed promise of one day surpassing even their infamous instructor’s skill, a fact Robert was certain secretly pleased the old flint.<br />
<br />
“Brother Michael!” rasped Brother Newman. “Shouldering your opponent to the ground? Who taught you that base trick?”<br />
<br />
“The heat of the moment, sirrah,” Michael replied easily. Though you would never guess it from his tone, Michael idolized <em>Grinsby,</em> as he called him.<br />
<br />
“Heat, Brother Michael? Battle wants a cool head.”<br />
<br />
“And a crafty. All's fair in battle.”<br />
<br />
“And practice-shortcuts lead to battle-sword-cuts.”<br />
<br />
“A good saying,” Michael had to admit.<br />
<br />
Robert snorted.<br />
<br />
“Captain Hood!” rasped the old monk, rounding on him. “Dropping your sword when you fall? Do you expect your foe to hand it back? That would be stretching an over-rated code of chivalry a bit too far, would it not?”<br />
<br />
Robert smiled meekly and opened his mouth to return he knew not what sort of reply when a pounding at the back gate saved him the embarrassment.<br />
<br />
“Who could that be?” asked Michael.<br />
<br />
“At this hour,” commented the old monk.<br />
<br />
“At this gate,” added Robert. Guests always arrived before nightfall, and at the gatehouse by the highroad, not the west gate by a dark wood.<br />
<br />
The three stared at the gate through a second set of poundings.<br />
<br />
“Shall I call my men?” Robert quietly asked. In such dangerous times, with outlaws on the loose, it was unwise to open a back door to strangers after dark.<br />
<br />
“Tosh, man!” Michael loudly replied. “You have your bow nearby, and I my stout blade in hand. Lend your sword to our champion of the sword here, and let us see what man or demon knocks at our gate from the land of twilight.”<br />
<br />
Robert hesitated—neither a man to shun risk, nor one to risk an entire abbey to prove his valor.<br />
<br />
More pounding, violent enough to make the solid oak jump on its hinges.<br />
<br />
Robert turned to Brother Newman. “What say you?”<br />
<br />
“Open the gate, you miserable wretches,” roared a leonine voice from the other side.<br />
<br />
Brother Newman turned pale as a ghost. “Open it. I know that voice.”<br />
<br />
Robert shrugged and sword in hand unlatched the gate—leapt aside as a big boot kicked it wide.<br />
<br />
A powerfully built man in the worn leather armor and unmarked tunic of a lesser knight strode in as though he owned the abbey and all it contained. He held a double-headed ax in one hand and a mighty two-handed sword was sheathed at his side. A thick hunting bow hung over his shoulder and four or five arrows were in his belt. His broad freckled face was stained with sweat and dirt, and his short-cropped red hair bristled with twigs and leaves. His eyes blazed with a demon's intensity at each of them in turn.<br />
<br />
“What have we here?” he thundered, stabbing a thick index finger at Brother Newman, “Can it be?” He flung himself upon the dismayed monk, dragged him into a bear hug, vigorously clapped his back, pushed him off to arms' length, and looked him over. “Is that you in there, Grimsby? The dead, inhabiting priestly vestments?”<br />
<br />
Brother Newman raised an eyebrow.<br />
<br />
“So, the rumors be true? From man of the sword to man of the cloth? And back again?” he added, gesturing with his ax toward Robert and Michael's weapons.<br />
<br />
“Not I,” countered the monk.<br />
<br />
“Oh no! Not likely. Are these men brigands then? Assaulting a defenseless, unarmed monk?” He tapped Brother Newman’s chest with his ax. “Shall I defend you?” He clapped Brother Newman on the shoulder. “Hah! I once saw three men fall to his sword-edge,” he told Robert and Michael, “and one to the point, all in a single motion. It has been a long time, friend Grimsby. I miss your battle prowess.”<br />
<br />
“I thank you most humbly, my—ugh!”<br />
<br />
A thump to Brother Newman's chest knocked the title off his tongue. “I am here to worship with the monks of Fountain's Abbey,” the knight told Robert and Michael, “and would leave my name and deeds outside these walls, the better to seek the Lord in humble mien, being sorely in need of His mercy and grace. Will you honor this whim of mine?”<br />
<br />
Robert and Michael bobbed their heads in agreement. Who was to argue with a square-built, muscle-bulging warrior with double-headed ax in hand? A warrior, furthermore, who even intimidated dour old Grinsby!<br />
<br />
“May I bide among you this night, Captain?”<br />
<br />
“If it please the Abbot, sir,” replied Robert.<br />
<br />
“It will please him,” said Brother Newman. “Brother Michael, run and inform his worship that we have received a late visitor, a man known to me as a most pious knight.”<br />
<br />
The knight winced as though pierced by a crossbow's bolt. “Your tongue is as sharp as ever, Grimsby. Where might I wash up a bit before paying my respects to the Abbot and attending mass? I have not missed the last service have I?”<br />
<br />
“No, Sir Knight,” replied Robert. “I will take you to the guesthouse and have our washing lavatory prepared.”<br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
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* * *</center><br />
Word of the knight’s presence spread rapidly. Some monks and lay brothers actually ran to mass.<br />
<br />
“Who do you suppose he is?” Michael asked on the way to the nave.<br />
<br />
Robert shrugged.<br />
<br />
“Think you he flees justice?”<br />
<br />
If so, it would be Robert’s responsibility to take him and hand him over to the sheriff in York. No safe task, that! “Well,” said Robert, “Brother Newman has vouched for him.”<br />
<br />
“And who might a reformed demon vouch for, eh?” said Michael.<br />
<br />
Robert considered this.<br />
<br />
“Who is he?” Michael repeated.<br />
<br />
“You will know if and when he wills it,” said Brother Newman, appearing at their back.<br />
<br />
Michael cleared his throat. “Er, that bit about a reformed—“<br />
<br />
“I am surprised he remembers me, one knight among hundreds. But that is like him—never to forget a companion in arms.”<br />
<br />
Rounding a corner, they found the knight conversing with their abbot surrounded by a swelling crowd on the steps to the nave’s entrance.<br />
<br />
“What led you to our wilderness gate, good sir?” Abbot Fastolf asked. “A knight, unattended?”<br />
<br />
“A wild boar the size of a young cow. Nay, I swear by the Good Book. I spurred my steed after it, but my hunting party of knights and squires fell behind in the forest.”<br />
<br />
“Not the first time you lost your party, ay?” someone suggested, and Abbot Fastolf glared into the forest of white frocks and homespun tunics.<br />
<br />
The knight straightened to his full height, eyeing the abbot, fists on hips. “What is he implying, abbot?”<br />
<br />
Abbot and knight scowled at the innocent upturned faces and then burst into laughter. The crowd as well.<br />
<br />
Michael elbowed Robert who nodded agreement—here was a well-acquainted pair! They could hardly remember their abbot chuckling, let alone belly-laughing like Michael.<br />
<br />
“Tis said,” said the abbot, recovering himself at last, “a man-eating giant boar haunts the woods and forests in these parts. Legend has it the Bleakstone Ogre bred it. Away south in Wakefield there’s even an inn named after it. Was the beast blue?”<br />
<br />
“It could have been. But it was certainly the biggest boar I ever laid eyes on. And I’ve been to court.” More laughter. “I chased that boar through forest, field, and fen. Up hill and down dale. And lost it, I'm ashamed to say. But thereby found myself in your pleasant wood, even at your very door.”<br />
<br />
“Your loss is our gain,” said Fastolf. “Laudate Dominum!”(4) <br />
<br />
The knight bowed. “I have decided to step out of the world for a time,” he said, “that I may meditate and fellowship in your holy community. If you will have me that is.”<br />
<br />
“We are honored by your company, Sir Knight.”<br />
<br />
Noises of agreement and welcome issued all around. Even Brother Newman nodded vigorously and smiled so broadly Robert half expected his head to crack open.<br />
<br />
Did everyone know this knight save themselves? It was like a game, the monks pretending ignorance, the knight smiling and winking, while addressing them as strangers.<br />
<br />
“For a knight who would leave name and deeds outside our walls,” said Michael, “our guest is a singular failure.”<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
After mass, the monks and lay brothers were sent to their separate refectories for a second meal of the day normally only served in summer months. A kitchen adjacent to both halls served meals in both directions by means of an ingenious turntable Robert much admired. “Who is he?” asked Robert as he and Michael parted.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
“Who is this privileged knight?” said Michael afterward, having joined Robert in Fountain’s library. “Do you know, just as mysteriously as he appeared at our back gate, a huge mutton leg appeared for him in the turntable hatch.”<br />
<br />
“A mutton leg?” exclaimed Robert, setting the chessboard for play. A piece of bread and two vegetables—that was the monks’ fare. <em>Barely above subsistence level!</em> Brother Michael often grumbled. <em>Thin milk and the coarsest wheat bread in Creation! Served in stone pots and worn trenchers! The wool trade feeds our coffers to bursting(5) and yet we starve. Who benefits from such wealth? Has it translated into magnificence or even comfort? Oh no! Not here! No colored glass or gold or silver or jeweled alter vessels for the Cistercians. And heaven forefend we should have linen next to our skin, or even fur-lined garments to keep out the cold.</em> Their white habits of coarse, un-dyed wool had given Cistercians the name ‘white monks’ and Michael a rash. <em>Makes him grouchy,</em> Robert would tease. <em>Drafty! </em>Michael would add. <em>And hungry! If I’m to be forbidden clothing, I’ll need more flesh.</em> Robert, his abbey guardsmen and the lay brothers(6) in the lay refectory enjoyed more substantial fare, but even on their trenchers, meat only appeared during high holidays. “A leg of Mutton?” Robert’s mouth was watering despite having finished a second supper.(7) <br />
<br />
“And a keg of heavy ale to wash it down!” said Michael. “Our knight chomped his mutton and guzzled his ale so merrily he drowned out the reader(8) who may have chosen gluttony as his text for all I could tell.”<br />
<br />
“So much for <em>summum silencium</em>!”(9) <br />
<br />
“Exactly,” said Michael.<br />
<br />
“Although, you mostly compose nonsense verses while the reader pronounces God’s.”<br />
<br />
“I am sorry I ever told you that.”<br />
<br />
“Forgive me, Michael. You know the Word better than anyone I’ve ever met, save only my old gaffer,” as Robert had come to fondly name his foster-father, Father Wilibald. Michael had even memorized much of Scripture. In fact, Michael had petitioned the abbot to be put in charged with translating it into their own Saxon tongue. Through Londontown contacts, Michael had even acquired the Venerable Bede’s unfinished translation of John’s gospel and intended to start by finishing it.(10) <br />
<br />
Now Michael was scowling down at the chessboard between them—the jolliest lad Robert had ever met looked ready to bite the head off one of the figures.<br />
<br />
“Well,” said Robert. “Let us not allow some nameless knight to ruin our nightly game.”<br />
<br />
Robert and Michael had first met in this alcove off the cloisters that contained a small collection of books, scrolls and parchments, some musty with age, some bound in iron or half-bindings, others with wooden boards and sewn spines in the newer style, many colorfully rendered in ornate script or ‘illuminated’ with intricately detailed designs and drawings.<br />
<br />
<em>How now, Bowman!</em> Michael had boomed, a boy with a mighty wind. <em>I see we permit riff-raff to invade a library’s sanctity these days.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Not really,</em> Robert had softly returned. <em>But, I’ll allow you to stay if you repent and keep the library’s peace from now on.</em><br />
<br />
And a jollier, more scholarly lad Robert had never known. The pair, evenly matched in chess, scholarship and debate, was often alcoved past midnight, huddled over their wooden chess board, embroiled in challenging play and heated debate. Tonight’s topic—a nameless knight.<br />
<br />
“Filling his gullet at our expense!” Michael grumbled as Robert opened conservatively with a pawn to king three.<br />
<br />
“It’s the Church’s duty to serve,” Robert reminded him playfully.<br />
<br />
“We served him right well,” said Michael, mirroring his opening. “And better fare than myself?”<br />
<br />
“Ah, now we come to the heart of the matter. Or should I say the belly.”<br />
<br />
“Nay good Captain, I’m ready as the next man to feed the poor. Must we also feed the rich?”<br />
<br />
“Rich? You wouldn’t know it by his wardrobe.”<br />
<br />
“Well he’s stout as a rich man.”<br />
<br />
“That would make you wealthier than the king.”<br />
<br />
Michael grunted, uncharacteristically failing to take the bait.<br />
<br />
Robert gave up and concentrated on the game. Michael’s play was superficial, his ranting so out of character. Something else was on his mind. Or was it all a trick to put Robert off his guard, trap a key figure somehow? “Your queen is in jeopardy, Brother Michael.” A courtesy. Only the king in check required notification.<br />
<br />
Michael scowled at the board for a very long time.<br />
<br />
“Give up?” asked Robert.<br />
<br />
No response.<br />
<br />
“Mind if I nap?”<br />
<br />
Michael glanced up. “The abbot denied my petition.”<br />
<br />
“Oh no!” So that explained his mood. Now Robert frowned also. “When did you find out?”<br />
<br />
“Abbot Fastolf was good enough to inform me as we quit the refectory this very eve, on his way to ‘sack(11) and discourse’ with our guest.”<br />
<br />
Robert had not expected this. Translating Scripture into their native tongue was a project near and dear to Michael’s heart, and it certainly seemed like a good idea to Robert. Michael had studied Greek at Fountains and planned to help. “Did the abbot give a reason?”<br />
<br />
“The sacredness of the task!”<br />
<br />
“What?”<br />
<br />
“I am not holy enough it seems.”<br />
<br />
“Who is, by that line of reasoning?”<br />
<br />
“<em>Norman</em> scribes, apparently.”<br />
<br />
“Ah! There it is then.”<br />
<br />
“Aye,” said Michael. “Yet another means of subjection. Why should common folk trouble themselves studying Scripture, with our Norman friends ready and willing to interpret for us?”<br />
<br />
“Fastolf always seemed a fair Norman.”<br />
<br />
“It probably wasn’t his decision. Fair or not, he won’t disobey his superiors.”<br />
<br />
“You must appeal to Canterbury,” said Robert.<br />
<br />
“It would do no good.”<br />
<br />
“No good? It is only good you would do in behalf of our folk.”<br />
<br />
Michael shook his head. “Power! It is always about power with Normans.”<br />
<br />
Robert sat back on his stool and surveyed his friend. “Is this Brother Michael sitting at the chessboard with me? Surrendering <em>before</em> battle?”<br />
<br />
Michael sank into himself. His ample face transitioned from rage to perplexity to reflection. Finally, a huge grin appeared. “Surrender? Not I!” he boomed, and the shelving shook. “It occurs to me,” he continued sotto voce, “that, with God’s help, good may be done beyond these walls without troubling the souls within or the Archbishop in Canterbury.”<br />
<br />
Robert raised an eyebrow. “You would flaunt the edict of Norman prelates?”<br />
<br />
“With ease! We can work here, nights. We’re never disturbed.”<br />
<br />
“What of your vows?”<br />
<br />
“Vows?”<br />
<br />
“Obedience in particular.”<br />
<br />
“Obedience to God supercedes obedience to Norman prelates.”<br />
<br />
“Do you think so?”<br />
<br />
“Indeed I do!”<br />
<br />
“You’re a heretic, Michael! Hard to believe you’ve come to an abbey at all!”<br />
<br />
“Or that they’d have me!”<br />
<br />
They both laughed.<br />
<br />
“So you’ll help?” Michael asked.<br />
<br />
“I would have helped as scribe, but now perforce as guardsman.”<br />
<br />
Michael laughed heartily. “You see! You’re as radical as myself.”<br />
<br />
“But only half the size!” said Robert.<br />
<br />
A sound at the door cut short their laughter—the scrape of a hob-nailed boot on stone flagging. The oak door sprang open with a whump-squeal. And there stood the knight. Torchlight cast his shadow over them. “So!” he roared. “This is where you hide when not on duty or at devotions.”<br />
<br />
“Does your hand ever open a door?” asked Michael.<br />
<br />
The knight charged in, and Robert and Michael shot to their feet.<br />
<br />
“Sit, sit, my good fellows.” The knight chose to misinterpret their battle stances. “No need to stand on my account.” He cleared a bench of tomes and parchments and sat down. “The most fascinating conversation struck my ears as I passed your door just now.”<br />
<br />
Robert and Michael sat, red-faced. “Conversation?” said Robert. “And what conversation might that be, Sir Knight?” said Michael. They could be excommunicated for such talk!<br />
<br />
“Come now,” said the knight. “Discourse with your abbot runs a predictable course. I crave controversy, debate on the great issues! How say you?”<br />
<br />
Robert and Michael looked at one another. This mysterious knight and their abbot seemed hand in glove. Was he baiting them only to report them later? To what purpose?<br />
<br />
“Come, come, sirs,” the knight urged. “I’ll start us off. Are kings God ordained? He stared at them, thick, flame-red eyebrows raised. “What say you?”<br />
<br />
Despite their qualms, the knight’s frankness drew Robert and Michael into one controversial discussion after another. His rough exterior disguised a quick and inquisitive mind. Like them, he was well read and possessed a memory for detail. He quoted freely from ancient sources in support of his own contentions, and sprang from issue to issue like a big cat pouncing on prey.<br />
<br />
“If you were commanded by the king to do one thing and the Archbishop another, who would you obey?” he asked suddenly.<br />
<br />
Robert and Michael shifted uneasily in their seats, both now certain he was trapping them.<br />
<br />
“Interesting question,” Michael commented. “Scripture teaches that all authority is God given(12) and we must obey and pray for those in authority over us.(13) Unless they oppose God, and then ‘we ought to obey God, rather than men’ as Peter and the apostles told the Sanhedrin when its high priest ordered them to cease proclaiming the risen Lord.”(14) <br />
<br />
“I suppose it would depend upon what I was being asked to do rather than who was doing the asking,” said Robert.<br />
<br />
The knight slapped his knees and a fit of laughter rocked his bench back and forth. “Have neither of you respect for King or Archbishop?” He sprang to his feet. “By Saint George and the dragon, there’s more independent thought in this little alcove than all of London. Let us adjourn to the back gate.”<br />
<br />
“The back gate, sir?” said Michael.<br />
<br />
“For a bit of play.”<br />
<br />
“Play, sir?” said Robert.<br />
<br />
“Such play as that in which you were engaged when I arrived.”<br />
<br />
Robert and Michael looked innocent as babes. “And what play might that be, Sir Knight?” Michael ventured.<br />
<br />
“Nothing but swordplay by the clatter I heard through the gate. Father Newman, as you call him, obviously shares his secrets with the pair of you. I’ll test his instruction. Come, come! No further equivocation.” He drew his sword. “To the field!” And dashed out the door as though charging into battle, expecting them to follow.<br />
<br />
Which they did!<br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/a706be5d-fc3d-41c0-a2e7-88ec9d4a2620_zps7577c404.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/a706be5d-fc3d-41c0-a2e7-88ec9d4a2620_zps7577c404.jpg?t=1365990648"/></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
The knight matched swords with Robert first, obviously holding back, sporting with the young man. Then he showed him a few tricks and had him practice them against his own blade.<br />
<br />
Next, he matched swords with Brother Michael. Now the knight had to keep his wits about him lest the lad ring his helm or step on his toes or tweak his nose while locking his blade with his hilt (a favorite trick of Michael's); or perform some other miraculous mischief with his blade. But, eventually, the overwhelming strength of the knight’s arm, and the fury of his assaults defeated even Michael’s prodigious arm and unpredictable trickery.<br />
<br />
“Ho, ho! You play rough, sirrah,” said Michael.<br />
<br />
“And you are rare paradox,” said the knight. “A man of the cloth and a man of the steel.”<br />
<br />
Michael’s chest swelled, and his stomach with it. “Had enough?” he asked.<br />
<br />
The knight’s thick eyebrows went up. “Not yet!”<br />
<br />
Michael missed Nocturn as they plied their swords into the morning hours, Robert spelling Michael now and again.<br />
<br />
“I hear,” said the knight as dawn set the nearby wood aglow, “you have some little skill with the bow, Master Robert.”<br />
<br />
“<em>Little </em>skill?” cried Michael. “Hah! Fetch your bow Robert, and we shall have our vengeance upon this indefatigable swordsman!”<br />
<br />
Robert’s longbow intrigued the knight. “Welsh. Rarely have I seen its like. A deadly weapon in the right hands.”<br />
<br />
“Or wrong!” quipped Michael.<br />
<br />
The bow in Robert’s hand came alive like the sword in Michael’s. Robert won each flight, though the knight was a keen bowman consistently placing his arrows near Robert's, which never failed to strike the pin.<br />
<br />
“Never in all my days have I met a finer bowman,” said the knight.<br />
<br />
“Father Wilibald taught me when I was a lad.”<br />
<br />
“Another weapons-master in the priesthood? What is the church coming to? The clergy used to be men of peace you know.” He laughed heartily at his own jest. “I must meet this paragon among archers.”<br />
<br />
“Alas, sir, he went home to the Lord this winter past.”<br />
<br />
“Pity,” said the knight.<br />
<br />
“He was like a father to me, having lost my own in childhood. But, he lived a full life.”<br />
<br />
“And a merry,” said Michael, whose life he had also touched.<br />
<br />
The knight laughed. “Well, the pair o’ you made my life merrier this night.”<br />
<br />
“Ho, ho! A fine form o’ meditation and fellowship to have received in a holy community,” said Michael, mocking the knight’s earlier request to the abbot.<br />
<br />
At Michael’s suggestion, the three merry companions visited the kitchen with its two great cooking-fireplaces and several larders, and then settled into the brew house for brandy and more talk and jests before ending the night-turned-day.<br />
<br />
“A toast!” said the knight, lifting his cup. “To the finest swordsman and the finest bowman an abbey ever birthed.”<br />
<br />
The abbey bells rang. Michael looked up and leapt to his feet. The abbot stood in the brew house doorway, arms folded across his chest, foot tapping. Michael had missed matins, both prime and terse.<br />
<br />
“Stay,” said the knight. “I’ll have a word with him.”<br />
<br />
Amazingly, Michael received only a mild rebuke for missed offices and unscheduled meals.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
Robert never did get to bed.<br />
<br />
Of all times to have lost a night’s sleep, it was the day for the first keystone to be set in a window-arch for the nave’s expansion presently under construction, and he was in charge of it. A tall wooden frame held the pulley that would hoist the keystone to the arch’s crown. The nearly completed arch, braced with temporary beams, looked like an upper set of teeth with its center tooth missing.<br />
<br />
Rough masons’ hammers rang like church bells cutting stones to size, and carpenters’ saws buzzed like giant bees cutting support beams for other windows. But this was his arch! The Master Builder had left its construction entirely in his hands. Robert’s smaller hammer and chisel punctuated the din with carefully chosen cuts, finishing the delicate tracery of flower and cross decorating the huge keystone.<br />
<br />
He glanced up again from his work. The knight and Abbot Fastolf still conversed on the far side of the site. The knight had also missed an entire night’s sleep, yet he spoke animatedly, one hand on the abbot’s shoulder, the other periodically gesturing Robert’s way. In contrast, Abbot Fastolf did not look happy. His shoulders slumped as though he would shrug off the knight’s hand if he dared. He hardly spoke and kept shaking his head.<br />
<br />
Robert’s mistrust of the nameless knight returned.<br />
<br />
“What bee do you suppose buzzes twixt that pair?” said Michael, arriving at his side with bloodshot eyes.<br />
<br />
“A bee that stings our abbot, from the looks of things,” said Robert.<br />
<br />
“And might well sting us,” Michael agreed.<br />
<br />
The knight left Abbot Fastolf’s side and strode toward them. At his back, the abbot bowed his head in prayer.<br />
<br />
“How is it,” asked Robert, “that a knight of such apparent renown should take an interest in the pair of us?”<br />
<br />
“Speak for yourself, sirrah!” said Michael. “I’m a rare paradox. Cloth and steel, don’t you know?”<br />
<br />
“Fountains has grown more than one building since last I visited,” the knight shouted over the hammering and sawing as he joined them.<br />
<br />
“With the king’s peace his subjects prosper,” said Michael. “For every unlicensed castle Henry tears down, for every rebel earl and baron’s stronghold he reduces to rubble, a hamlet, town, market place or church sprouts or grows.”<br />
<br />
“Our own building program is unmatched anywhere save Ripon,” said Robert.<br />
<br />
“And he should know!” said Michael. “With leave to visit Ripon whenever he pleases.”(15) <br />
<br />
“The Archbishop Roger of York’s cathedral,” said the knight. “I know it well.”<br />
<br />
“So does Robert here,” said Michael. “Did you know it is built on an old Saxon church’s foundation?”<br />
<br />
The knight harrumphed loudly.<br />
<br />
“Ripon’s architecture is Romanesque,” said Robert, and launched into a description of round arches and vaults, the replacement of columns with clustered vertical piers, and the extensive use of arcades, like the one in Fountains’ refectory. “It’s a new style. Small, slim masses, pointed arches, rib vaulting, and flying buttresses. We should have more of the like here.”<br />
<br />
“He’ll bend your ear all day if you let him,” said Michael. “He’s been apprentice wright and rough mason, journeyman and free mason. Presently, he’s the Master Builder’s right hand. Building is his passion.”<br />
<br />
“More than the bow?”<br />
<br />
“I nearly believe so. His dream is to go to Rome and Athens to study—“<br />
<br />
Robert’s chisel jabbed Michael’s ribs.<br />
<br />
The knight grinned, and wandered over to a table where Robert’s drawings were held down with rocks.<br />
<br />
“Hie lad!” said Robert. “Will you be giving him my life’s story?”<br />
<br />
“Only the interesting bits,” said Michael. “It’ll be a brief history.”<br />
<br />
“And what do we know of him?”<br />
<br />
“Well, he’s a merry fellow.”<br />
<br />
“And that’ll suffice?”<br />
<br />
“You liked him well enough not many hours ago,” said Michael.<br />
<br />
“Not many hours before that you wanted to steal his supper and set him on the road,” said Robert.<br />
<br />
“Oh, that was before I knew he’d a sword arm to match my own, and an eye for the grey goose(16) almost the match of yours.”<br />
<br />
“Impressive!” said the knight, returning. He held Robert’s sketch of the window-arch with the calculations in Robert’s neat hand. “So, you are a student of architecture, and therefore a mathematician and artist as well as Captain of the Abbey Guard, linguist, and bowman par excellence. Is there no end to your masteries? Why have you not taken Holy Orders?”<br />
<br />
Robert shrugged.<br />
<br />
“The Church is too political these days for his taste,” said Michael.<br />
<br />
Robert could have cracked Michael’s pate,(17) but his crew was ready for the keystone’s placement. Robert gave the process his full concentration. A burly stone mason cranked the pulley. The keystone rose slowly; the heavy ropes trembled with the strain. The wedge-shaped stone truly was <em>key</em>. It alone locked the other pieces in place—but only if successfully placed. It had to be finessed into position. The stress had to be perfectly calculated, perfectly balanced. The question always was—would an arch stand when the support beams were knocked down? <br />
<br />
The keystone eased into its prepared place. The men with hammers went to work. No one breathed.<br />
<br />
The supports tumbled.<br />
<br />
The arch held!<br />
<br />
Applause in the courtyard.<br />
<br />
“Well done!” cried the knight. “I have a proposition for the pair of you. But I’ll need your answer by nightfall.”<br />
<br />
“Nightfall?” said Robert.<br />
<br />
“You leave so soon?” said Michael.<br />
<br />
“The crown summons me,” said the knight.<br />
<br />
“Doesn’t the king ever rest?” asked Robert.<br />
<br />
“Not for long,” said the knight.<br />
<br />
“And your proposition?” asked Michael.<br />
<br />
“Here it is,” said the knight—a proposition that left Robert and Michael speechless.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/user/Mirror_Dance/media/Fountains3_zps73a7fd0c.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Fountains3_zps73a7fd0c.jpg?t=1365904406"/></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
Twilight again. Robert and Michael watched the knight saddle his horse. He yanked the strap tight across its great belly. The war-horse stamped and snorted, eager to run. The knight was leaving under the cover of darkness by the back gate through which he had entered. “I will have your answer, sirrahs,” he said.<br />
<br />
“Forgive me, Sir Knight,” said Michael. “But are you certain the king will approve what you offer us?”<br />
<br />
“The King and I are closer than sword and hilt. Meet me at Windsor’s archery butts on the last day of May, and a post in the royal guard is yours for the asking, Brother Michael. I also think that our God-ordained king will authorize certain translations, though a hornets’ nest be stirred within Church walls.” And he laughed as though the prospect delighted him.<br />
<br />
Michael shook his head. “As enticing as your offer is, Sir Knight…sad to say…I must turn it down. I have chosen the Church, for better or worse, and made my pledge and taken my vows only this past year. She and I may not be a perfect match, but I will not willingly forsake her.”<br />
<br />
A heavy silence filled the outer courtyard for many heartbeats before the knight spoke. “And you, Robert Hood? The king has need of skilled engineers, not to mention officers who can shoot and lead men as well. Will I see you in Windsor come May?”<br />
<br />
“I will prayerfully consider it, Sir Knight,” said Robert. “Or should I call you Sire?” he added, dropping to one knee before King Henry, for that, as you may have guessed, was the knight's true identity.(18) <br />
<br />
Henry laughed, grabbed Robert’s collar, lifted him to his feet and clapped him on the back. “Learned, well read and impudent besides! You <em>will</em> meet me at the butts next year.” He mounted his charger. “I'll not suffer two refusals in a single eve.” He set spurs to its flanks. “Till then!” he shouted as horse and rider sped through the gate into the night.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<em>The Clerk’s letter:</em><br />
<br />
As the Good Book says: “See thou a man, diligent in his trade? Before kings he shall stand.” Thus, the following May, Robert Hood parted company with abbey life, bade farewell to his young friend, Brother Michael Tuck, and cantered off to London and the court of King Henry the Second, Fitz-Empress.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
Translator's Note: <em>This tale never found its way into balladry, although Gerald of Wales, a 13th century Churchman and historian respected by modern scholars, has also mentioned the night King Henry II spent incognito at a Cistercian abbey after losing his company on a hunting expedition. Perhaps the numerous tales of kings in disguise among the people grew out of this event recorded in the Clerk of Copmanhurst’s earliest letter.<br />
<br />
–GKW, Seaford, 2010 </em><br />
<br />
<center>* * * </center><br />
<em>The Clerk’s tale of Robin Hood’s father continues with “A Sword for the King”.</em><br />
<br />
Endnotes:<br />
<br />
1 <em>trencher</em>: wooden plate<br />
<br />
2 <em>ghostly</em>: spiritual—however, a double meaning is certainly implied, given the Clerk’s penchant for punnery throughout his letters<br />
<br />
3 Warrior priests were not unknown in medieval Europe, the Templar and Hospitaller knights being among the most famous.<br />
<br />
4 <em>Laudate Dominum</em>: Praise the Lord.<br />
<br />
5 Thanks to wealthy patrons and sophisticated animal husbandry techniques, Fountains had already become one of England’s wealthiest abbeys in the short time since its founding in 1132.<br />
<br />
6 <em>conversi</em>: people from lower classes who wanted to enter monastic life. The Rule of Saint Benedict forbade monks to travel more than a day’s roundtrip beyond the abbey, so the lay brothers tended the abbey’s vast and increasingly widespread flocks.<br />
<br />
7 Our clerk-chronicler has much to say in his letters concerning sustenance and the culinary arts. He typically provides his reader with full descriptions of his characters’ meals—recipes and commentary I have mostly excluded from these translations of his tales<br />
<br />
8 A monk who sat in the arcaded gallery above their heads, reading from Holy Writ<br />
<br />
9 <em>summum silencium</em>: the monastery’s rule of silence at table in the refectories<br />
<br />
10 Bede left off with John 6:9b –“but what are these among so many?”<br />
<br />
11 <em>sack</em>: sherry imported from Spain<br />
<br />
12 Romans 13:1,2<br />
<br />
13 I Timothy 2:1-3<br />
<br />
14 Acts 5:12<br />
<br />
15 Ripon Cathedral is four miles northeast of Fountains Abbey, easily accessible to a determined young man despite 12th century road conditions. Church records and contemporary histories support the Clerk’s history at this point also. Extensive construction was underway at both places in 1160.<br />
<br />
16 Feathers from the grey goose were favored as inexpensive arrow fletching in the Clerk’s time.<br />
<br />
17 <em>pate</em>: head or skull<br />
<br />
18 Historical sources place Henry in Normandy between August, 1158 and January, 1163. The Clerk, whose narratives have otherwise proven historically accurate, contradicts them. However, a secret visit to inspect England’s administration in his absence, which would be much inkeeping with Henry’s personality and hands-on governing style, easily explains the discrepancy.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<strong>G. K. Werner</strong> teaches in adult prison education and the martial arts when not writing genre fiction from a Biblical perspective. In addition to <em>Lacuna</em>, his stories have appeared in <em>Tower of Ivory, The Sword Review</em> and <em>Fear and Trembling</em>. He lives in ‘slower lower’ Delaware with his wife (author, poet, songwriter and homemaker Virginia Ann Werner), their cats and collie (who have many tales, but never tell). Visit their blog, <a href="http://www.gkwerner.blogspot.com/">Narrow Way Storytellers</a>. <br />
<br />
<strong>Where do you get the ideas for your stories?</strong><br />
<br />
My subconscious, surprisingly. In recent years, I've collected DVD's of movies and TV shows I loved in childhood. I'm shocked when I see an element or device I subconsciously poached for my fantasy and historical tales. (No copyright infringements thankfully, so no fear of a sheriff hunting me.) Richard Greene's British TV Robin Hood show and the famous Errol Flynn film still hit the mark for great fun and first place as influences on my outlaw tales.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-89942255776916108892012-10-15T00:12:00.001-05:002012-10-15T12:12:30.864-05:00Issue 7: October 2012<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/?action=view&current=LacunaOct12.png" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/LacunaOct12.png" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
<strong> History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.</strong><br />
<em>~ James Joyce</em></center><br />
<center><strong>Contents</strong></center><br />
<blockquote><a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/cotton-duck.html">Cotton Duck</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Samantha%20Kymmell-Harvey">Samantha Kymmell-Harvey</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/two-surgeons.html">Two Surgeons</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Ned%20Thimmayya">Ned Thimmayya</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/if-portrait-was-painted-of-roger.html">If a Portrait was Painted of Roger Williams Leaving Salem</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Jack%20Carenza">Jack Carenza</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/what-ifs-are-purview-of-charlatan.html">What ifs are the purview of the charlatan</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Jessica%20Willis">Jessica Willis</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-house-divided.html">A House Divided</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Gary%20B.%20%20Phillips">Gary B. Phillips</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/shanghai-1937.html">Shanghai 1937</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Bryant">Shelly Bryant</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-long-flight-of-stairs.html">A Long Flight of Stairs</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Caleb%20True">Caleb True</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-cavalrymans-saber.html">The Cavalryman's Saber</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/C.%20R.%20Hodges">C. R. Hodges</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/he-would-have-made-great-rick.html">He Would Have Made a Great Rick</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Grove%20Koger">Grove Koger</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-day-in-dealey-plaza.html">That Day in Dealey Plaza, I Remember You Were Wearing Pink</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Katherine%20Lynn%20Weldon">Katherine Lynn Weldon</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/george-morris-brothers-dirty-old-shoe.html">The Strange Fate of George Morris’ Brother’s Dirty Old Shoe</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/T.%20C.%20Powell">T. C. Powell</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-beauty-of-wynona.html">The Beauty of Wynona</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/D.%20Thomas%20Minton">D. Thomas Minton</a><br />
<a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2012/10/an-indomitable-will.html">An Indomitable Will: Hannibal Barca and the Start of a World War</a> by <a href="http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/search/label/Michael%20Shammas">Michael Shammas</a><br />
<br />
<center>Reviews</center><br />
<em><strong>The Class Harmonica</em></strong> by Dorothee E. Kocks<br />
<em><strong>The Pilot</em></strong> by Jerold Richert<br />
</blockquote><br />
Questions, comments, or concerns may be e-mailed to the editor at markenberg[@]yahoo.com. <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-85925146133890326402012-10-15T00:10:00.000-05:002012-10-17T22:26:18.167-05:00Cotton Duck<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/?action=view&current=CottonDuck2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/CottonDuck2.jpg?t=1350144507" border="0" alt="CottonDuck2"></a><br />
<br />
<strong>Cotton Duck</strong><br />
<em>by Samantha Kymmell-Harvey</em></center><br />
“Come on, Mary! No one’s gonna see,” I say, removing my apron. I pull my linen dress over my head then hang both on the dogwood branches. If my mama knew I was out here buck naked about to jump into the Jones Falls, she’d tan my hide. <br />
<br />
“Eliza, you know I’m not gonna take my clothes off. What if Johnny sees me?” She folds her arms across her chest and cocks her chin up like she’s a proper lady. <br />
<br />
She’s worried he’ll catch her naked before their wedding night, which isn’t until her daddy comes marching home with the rest of the Union soldiers. Johnny hasn’t asked his permission yet. I still can’t believe they’re getting married. Just a few years ago, the three of us were playmates. Then we traded childhood for wages at the cotton duck factory. <br />
<br />
Mary stumbles as she descends the hill to the tree stump where I’m poised to jump in.<br />
<br />
“You don’t look so good. You look pale,” I say.<br />
<br />
She cracks a weak grin. “I’m always pale.”<br />
<br />
“A swim would do you good.” <br />
<br />
But she shakes her head. I haven’t been able to convince her yet this summer. <br />
<br />
I jump.<br />
<br />
The cool water extinguishes me; I wonder if I’ve left steam on the surface. I linger, letting the cool water wash my sticky sweat away. This August heat is like Hell come to Earth. Every lunch hour I thank God for the falls. <br />
<br />
“Eliza,” Mary says when I resurface. She’s got a pile of dandelions she’s working into a braid. “Any news? Is your daddy coming home?”<br />
<br />
I shake my head. “Last letter we got, he was marching toward Richmond. That was nearly eight months ago now.” <br />
<br />
“But they say General Lee surrendered. That means they gotta be coming home soon, right?” <br />
<br />
A signature doesn’t instantly end a war. But I don’t tell her that. She’s an optimist, and they’re rare these days. <br />
<br />
Floating on my back, I close my eyes. It reminds me of the pond on our farm back north. After me, Mama, and Daddy finished the harvest, we’d always go for a swim. But then Daddy got this crazy idea that working in the factory would provide better, so he sold the farm and we moved to Woodberry. The name’s fooling. There are no woods. No berries, either. Only machinery.<br />
<br />
The tinny scream of the whistle jolts us. I scramble ashore, hurrying to pull my clothes back on. If we’re late again, Mr. Brody will beat us for sure. Mary crawls up beside me. Her bony fingers nimbly braid my wet hair then she pins it into a bun. I hate my hair net, but Mary puts the snood on me anyway.<br />
<br />
“Where’s your snood?” I notice she doesn’t have one.<br />
<br />
She shrugs. “I left it on the kitchen table. But these braids are tight. I’ll be fine.” <br />
<br />
We hear Johnny’s voice, sharp and sour, echo in the distance. “You take that back!”<br />
<br />
Mary and I exchange glances. Our friend’s already on probation for his temper. Mr. Brody gave him a bloody nose last time he threw a punch on the job.<br />
<br />
We both take off racing up the hill toward the path. Mary’s footsteps dissipate behind me, but I don’t slow. Something just beyond the trees cracks loudly, but it’s not my boots against fallen branches -- it’s Johnny’s fist against ribs. <br />
<br />
“Stop it!” I sprint toward him. He’s sitting on top of Thomas, knees digging into his shoulders. Thomas holds his hands up to his face, deflecting Johnny’s blows. <br />
<br />
“No one calls me a coward! Next time I’ll cut your tongue out!” Johnny punches him again.<br />
<br />
“Hey!” I grab him by his shirt with all my strength. “You promised you weren’t gonna fight anymore.”<br />
<br />
He pulls away from me, ripping the fabric right down his sleeve. With Johnny distracted, Thomas seizes the moment to shove him backwards, rear-end-first into the dusty red clay. <br />
<br />
“Johnny!” Mary finally emerges from the forest, her face as white as that sail cloth we make. “I don’t believe you!” <br />
<br />
He digs his heel into the ground. “He deserved it.”<br />
<br />
“Oh quit your jawing.” Mary says, her eyes narrowing. Johnny clenches his teeth. <br />
<br />
I kneel beside Thomas and take his arm to help him up, but he shakes me off. He wipes his bloodied mouth on his sleeve then stands on his own. I hand him his crutch. Though he came home last month with only one leg, he’s proud of his battle wound. He’s proud of his sharper tongue too, but if he keeps it up, Johnny’ll give him a wound he won’t be so proud of.<br />
<br />
Johnny’s not as much a blowhard as everyone thinks. His row with Thomas started long before the factory work did. He lost his front teeth in a fist fight with Thomas the year before Fort Sumter. Then my daddy was called to war, and his daddy was too, then all of Johnny’s friends. But he was told to stay home -- turns out losing your front teeth means you can’t enlist. They’ve got a whole mess of defects they don’t accept. The Union Army doesn’t want damaged soldiers.<br />
<br />
Mary clings to Johnny’s arm, steadying herself. He knits his eyebrows in a frown, glancing from her to me, then back to her. I link my arm around Mary’s, sandwiching her between us. “Let’s hope they won’t notice how late we are. Come on,” I say. <br />
<br />
It’s four o’clock, boiling point inside the factory. My dress is soaked with sweat again. The humid air reeks of body odor, forcing me to breathe through my mouth. My fingers work the cotton thread onto the spoolers, then Mary feeds it onto the weaving frames. I glance up. Poor Mary’s starting to bend like a cattail, inching closer to the frames than she should. Her braids have come loose again. Wisps of her long blonde bangs dangle in front of her eyes like spider silk. <br />
<br />
We know each other’s rhythms. Like a hellish dance, we spool from eight in the morning until eight at night. We didn’t always have to work twelve hours, but ever since the war started, Mr. Brody’s been keeping us longer. He keeps the little ones longer too. They’re the only ones whose fingers are slender enough to reach the clogs and untie the knots. And when another child ends up strangled by the knot she’s just undone, Mr. Brody gets a replacement. He always finds more skinny children. <br />
<br />
“It’s so hot.” Mary wipes her bright red face on her apron. Her fingers shake so badly she can hardly get the thread onto the frames.<br />
<br />
“Careful,” I say without looking away. It only takes one mistake. <br />
<br />
A deep voice startles me. “Late again, Eliza.” It’s Mr. Brody. He pulls me away from the machine. “And you too, Mary.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry, sir.” I keep my eyes down. “It won’t happen again.”<br />
<br />
“You’re right it won’t happen again, you know why?” he says. “Because after today, Johnny’s done.”<br />
<br />
Mary grits her teeth and bites her tongue. I touch her shoulder, hoping she won’t say something she’ll regret. They can’t both be unemployed. Mr. Brody turns and walks away. When I release Mary, she sinks to her knees.<br />
<br />
“What’s wrong?” Her forehead feels ablaze.<br />
<br />
“Water,” she whispers. <br />
<br />
“Mr. Brody!” I shout. “She needs water. Please!”<br />
<br />
He stretches Mary’s arm around his shoulder and lifts her to her feet. “Not on my clock. You should have drank water instead of cleaning up another one of your beau’s messes. You know he’ll never stop. Now get back to work before I fire you too.”<br />
<br />
As he leaves us, I watch Mary teeter back to her station. She’s hardly standing straight. I look away, just for a split second, to get my spoolers running. That’s all it takes. I know when I hear her shriek. Helpless, I scream as the other workers hurry to shut everything down. By the time the machines all come to rest, it’s too late. Mary’s twisted in the loom, her blonde hair pulled tightly round the spoolers, shreds of calico dress snowing onto the factory floor.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/?action=view&current=CottonDuck3.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/CottonDuck3.jpg?t=1350144626" border="0" alt="CottonDuck3"></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
When I come through the door, Mama’s waiting for me. Her eyes are red and swollen. She wraps me in her arms running her hands though my hair like she did when I was little.<br />
<br />
“Thank God!” Her grip tightens. “When I heard a girl’d been killed today . . .” She loses composure, holding her hand over her mouth. Tears start fresh again. “They wouldn’t tell me. They wouldn’t even let me go see.” <br />
<br />
Mr. Brody employs Mama in the upstairs office because she knows how to read and write. At least the room she works in has a fan. She can wear her hair how she likes.<br />
<br />
I wipe my eyes on her sleeve. “Mary.” It’s all I can say.<br />
<br />
Mama rocks me as if to soothe away my nightmare. I scream again and again, my ribs aching each time I gasp. Little bloody half-moons rise up on her arm where I’d been digging my nails in.<br />
<br />
“Don’t make me go back there. I’ll die. Please, let’s just go back to our farm. We could leave tonight.” I choke out between sobs.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry, Eliza,” Mama says. “We’ll starve otherwise.”<br />
<br />
I weakly wrestle her away and dash down the dark hallway to my bedroom. I slam the door. By the flame of my kerosene lamp, I fish the scissors from my sewing basket and cut my hair right down to my pale scalp.<br />
<br />
I feel nothing. I lie on my bed staring at the shadows cast upon the ceiling by my flickering lamp. For a moment, I think I see Mary’s willowy silhouette. She’s watching me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, sitting up. The kerosene lamp dims then extinguishes. Mary’s gone. <br />
<br />
I tiptoe past Mama’s bedroom and leave our apartment. Johnny’s family lives just below us. I crouch on the steps and tap on his window. Johnny knows my knock. It only takes him a moment to let me in. <br />
<br />
He sits by the hearth drinking whiskey and playing with cotton cord in the fire. He ignites it then passes his fingers through the flame like a sideshow magician. I curl up beside him and lean my head on his shoulder.<br />
<br />
He jumps. “Eliza, what have you done?” He backs away, eyes wide.<br />
<br />
My eyes feel raw and though I want to cry, I have no tears left. “Who would have braided my hair?” <br />
<br />
Pressing his lips together, he settles up next to me once more and runs a hand over my smooth head. “Run away then. General Grant would never guess you’re a girl with that hair cut. At least you could fight.”<br />
<br />
“His war’s not mine,” I say. “I just wanna go back home to the farm. What about you, Johnny? Will you run away?”<br />
<br />
He doesn’t answer. I see the fire in the black of his pupils as he passes his finger through the flame once more. “There’s nothing left for me here now,” he says and he plunges the cord into the bucket of water. That’s four he’s burned.<br />
<br />
“Nothing left for me either.” <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
I bathe in the falls alone. It’s been a week since I lost Mary. I imagine her braiding a dandelion crown for my hairless head. She’d have shaved her head too ‘cause that’s what best friends do. And I smile imagining the funeral we’d hold for our hair nets.<br />
<br />
The whistle sounds. <br />
<br />
Taking a deep breath, I plunge under the water. My muted ears can’t hear the whistle, the looms clapping, or ribs cracking. The cold current tempts me to give into its pull. I know I’m replaceable. <br />
<br />
But my burning lungs force me to surface.<br />
<br />
“Eliza!” <br />
<br />
Johnny’s waving his arms at me, his tongue flicking the gap in the front of his mouth as he tries to pronounce my name. From the fresh black eye he’s sporting, I know he’s in one of his moods. <br />
<br />
“Leave on time today. Don’t wait too long. You hear me, Eliza?” he says.<br />
<br />
I nod. “I hear you.”<br />
<br />
At eight I leave the factory with everybody else. When I get home, Mama’s got the fish kettle over the fire. Oysters again. I try to sneak past her to my room. <br />
<br />
“Eliza, take some money out of the jar and go buy a can of kerosene.” Mama’s voice startles me. “I can’t believe we’re out again. You must think we’re rich. What are you using it all for?” She doesn’t look at me. She can’t stand to see what I’ve done to myself.<br />
<br />
I don’t answer her. It’s better if she doesn’t know. I don’t bother to take money from the jar either, instead I open the closet. That’s where the empty potato sacks are.<br />
<br />
Moments later, the apartment shakes and glass rains onto our building, tinkling against the slate roof. Mama runs to the window, oblivious to my packing. I see it too, though. Charcoal black smoke rises, blotting out the sky. The factory’s ablaze. Mama emits something like a stifled cry. I crouch by the door listening for his footsteps; my heart pounds like marching soldiers. There’s nothing more to do except wait. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/?action=view&current=CottonDuck4.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/CottonDuck4.jpg?t=1350144734" border="0" alt="CottonDuck4"></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
Mama’s finally quiet. She sits by the window watching the firefighters crawl all over the factory like ants. My ears sharpen in the silence. I hear the steady rhythm of boots thudding against steps. Then the door clicks open. It’s Johnny, tracking ashy footprints across the floor. His face is freckled with soot. The air reeks of kerosene.<br />
<br />
He takes a letter from his pocket and hands it to Mama. It has a fancy wax seal on it -- the Union’s seal. “They’re not coming home.”<br />
<br />
She collapses, crumpling the letter between her fingers. I can’t hold back my tears. “Come on,” I say, taking her hand, but she twists out of my grasp. “We have to go now. It’s what Daddy would want.”<br />
<br />
But it’s as if she can’t hear me. She rocks on the floor moaning.<br />
<br />
I take Johnny’s hand instead and he looks at me with those wildfire eyes. He grits his gapped teeth. “You ready?”<br />
<br />
I know I can’t look at Mama. She won’t go, but I will. I sling my sack onto my shoulder. “Yeah.” <br />
<br />
At least this battle, we won. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
<strong>Samantha Kymmell-Harvey</strong> is a French teacher and medievalist residing in Baltimore. Her fiction has appeared in <em>Fantastique Unfettered</em> and <em>Underneath the Juniper Tree</em>. She is a 2012 graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop. Check out her blog at:http://samanthakymmell-harvey.blogspot.com/<br />
<br />
<strong>Where do you get the ideas for your stories?</strong><br />
<br />
I am often inspired by my travels. I like collecting folktales and fairy tales and I try to give them a new spin in my stories. “Cotton Duck” though was inspired by something I see just about every day. Old mills still line the Jones Falls in Baltimore City, only now they’ve been converted into swanky condos, craft workshops, and a farm-to-table restaurant. But you can still feel the ghosts of the past when you enter one of these renovated mills. I knew then that this was a story I absolutely had to tell.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4349192773450040916.post-21902969363594337782012-10-15T00:09:00.000-05:002012-10-16T10:25:47.965-05:00Two Surgeons<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/?action=view&current=TwoDoctors4.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/TwoDoctors4.jpg?t=1350143342" border="0" alt="TwoDoctors4"></a><br />
<br />
<strong>Two Surgeons (1570)</strong><br />
<em>by Ned Thimmayya</em></center><br />
James awoke to the crackle of the hearth. He could see Felix stooping close to the floor in front of the flames. The bony chin and the handle snout barely poked out of the hood. He was killing cockroaches again. <br />
<br />
As James stretched in bed, he watched Felix drive several of the insects off the wall using his rag-wrapped broomstick. These ones arrived on the floor alive, but on their backs. The legs carried on running over the empty air and the lobed heads ticked from side to side. James wondered whether they could see death approaching behind all their thrashing about. If they see it, he thought, what does it look like? <br />
<br />
Sometimes Felix raised a booted foot and stomped upon these survivors. Other times he applied the broomstick. <br />
<br />
James rose from his bed and submerged his face in a basin of water. He wanted to enter and leave the churchyard well before dawn. He liked to have a few hours of night to spare after a job. <br />
<br />
Felix squeezed out the cockroach-laden rag in a pail of dirty water. He had most likely been awake for hours, brooding over manuals and treatises. James’ glance at the cluttered desk confirmed this. <br />
<br />
“There will be fog in the churchyard tonight,” Felix told him. “It should be quite safe.” <br />
<br />
James nodded while he surveyed London’s dark rooftops through his window. There was no looking forward to the task. There never was on his part. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The churchyard was suffocating that morning. It might have been due to the blinding fog. The gravestones protruded from moving walls of gray. The two students passed between the stones in single file. Above all the vapors, the black cross at the tip of the church’s steeple provided a landmark. Between them they carried two shovels, a pickaxe, iron wedges, and a sledgehammer. It was James’ turn to push the wheelbarrow. They usually tossed all the equipment in it, but tonight they were leery that someone concealed in the fog might be close enough to hear them. They couldn’t afford any rattling.<br />
<br />
This time Felix had received direct instructions from the head physician. This body had to be intact—no broken necks, quartered limbs, or decapitations. The college had received too many of those from the city council as of late. No, what the head physician needed was a fresh cadaver unmarred by torture or execution. An anatomy of an intact corpse was rare. For Felix, this was their most important assignment so far; the body was their greatest prize.<br />
<br />
All the glory associated with providing the specimen was something of little gratification to James. He was only trying to keep his scholarship. Felix was the one who went in for the heroic and risky. James thought that maybe it was because Felix had less to lose. He didn’t have a friend, a woman, a humor, or a care. <br />
<br />
James caught the wheelbarrow on a fallen tombstone. He fought to free it while he watched Felix wind his way down the moving gray corridors with back bent and disregard for the struggle.<br />
<br />
Then again, thought James, Felix always did pursue his duties as a student and apprentice with a messianic sense of importance. It was Felix’s sense of duty more than the poverty of his personality. At present his north star was that cross atop the black triangle of the steeple. It was all Felix slowed down for. He lifted his hooded head, found the cross among the thick fog, then clambered on, never breaking his habitual stoop. <br />
<br />
They stopped at a mound of naked earth. James dropped back into the fog to guard the approach while Felix penetrated the soil with the edge of his shovel. He then drove it in deep using the flat of his boot.<br />
<br />
The shape of a body eventually appeared. The corpse itself was hidden under dirty linen. <br />
<br />
“It doesn’t even smell,” James whispered. “A bit eerie to disturb such a fresh grave, even more so because it’s unmarked.”<br />
<br />
“Better to know the name and family of whom you’re digging up?” replied Felix irritably. “This is the north side of the churchyard. Only papists and sinners up here. This body could have been buried months ago or just last week. It can’t have been too long as the earth above is fairly fresh. But the gases might have been released already.”<br />
<br />
James shrugged and dropped into the grave. At least they hadn’t had to break through a coffin. He could be grateful for that. <br />
<br />
He raised the torso by hooking his forearms under the armpits, and after he passed the weight to Felix, who knelt at the grave’s edge, he moved to lift the legs. They thus exhumed the body. <br />
<br />
Felix arranged a woolen blanket over the limp corpse. They quickly returned the dirt to the grave, stopping now and then to listen for a disturbance in the bored hum of the crickets. Slinging their tools over their shoulders using ropes, they toiled through the fog and broken ground until they came to the cart. It sat along a lonely sunken lane. The head physician had left this cart at their apartment earlier in the evening and they’d used it to carry their tools to the churchyard. <br />
<br />
Felix pulled two planks off the cart until the ends of each rested on the ground and formed a ramp. James pushed the wheelbarrow up onto the cart. Felix climbed up behind the horses and took the reins while James, between furtive sideways glances, quietly fed the planks into a slot of space next to the wheelbarrow.<br />
<br />
They passed across the countryside. The city remained quiet and dark when they rolled up to the cellar stairs behind the college. Descending the steps, they sought out the usual vault, and within this isolated chamber, behind a stack of casks, they deposited the body. <br />
<br />
James set the horses to a casual tramp on the way back to the gate though he was eager to be rid of their tools and the cart. Once outside the college grounds, he stirred the horses to a trot. They cast fearful glances into each dark window they passed along the way home.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The first day of the anatomy was like any other anatomy of a less pristine corpse. The gallery of students shaped an arc halfway around the floor’s edge. Four surgeons shuffled around a table beneath a raised chair. In this chair, Master Bridgewick sat, never raising his eyebrows. He tapped a scepter against the toe of his boot while the surgeons prepared the corpse and tools. <br />
<br />
In a gallery of seats below James, closer to this scene, Felix had his head down and his pen busy. An anatomy usually lasted four days and James had never seen Felix’s posture change during the duration. Behind Felix, students craned their necks and leaned backwards and forwards. No seat was quite good enough. Even in the very front, in Felix’s row, they all seemed to think there was something more to been seen than that which was in front of them—all except Felix. <br />
<br />
The dirty linen with which James and Felix were familiar was pulled off the body in one hasty tug.<br />
<br />
It was a woman in the early stages of decay. The face was green and the textures bloated so that her countenance was plump and bumpy. The body was less disfigured. The veins showed as a red net ensnaring the whole corpse. The hair remained only as dark wisps over a cracked and peeling scalp. James wished the decay had been speedier in its work. This wasn’t a corpse so far removed from life as to not recall it, but the pageant of veins and the hollow eyes led death’s victory march. The conquest was so fresh as to be more apparent, as if the body was still dying before his eyes. The decline was still advancing. There was much worse in store for her.<br />
<br />
The surgeons cut a sure and steady pair of incisions. The first was a long cut from the breastbone down to the end of the abdomen. The second ran along the waist like a belt. After flipping the flesh back, one surgeon drew out the stomach, which dangled some intestinal tubing. Master Bridgewick rested his chin in a hand and stuck his elbow to an armrest while somewhat wearily reciting the Latin describing the anatomy. <br />
<br />
And then James decided that the sight wasn’t so ghastly. Under the skin, all the corpses looked the same unless justice demanded the executioner break their necks or behead them, remove their entrails or cut them into four quarters. This corpse had evaded such judgment and such consequences. This corpse had been more fortunate than others. <br />
<br />
James looked to his notebook, now conscious that his mind was wandering. He had to restrict himself to his studies for another half hour. James was much too far away to make effective sketches, but it didn’t matter because he’d copy from Felix later. Everyone in the back three rows would have to copy diagrams from someone. Right now he would simply record the lecture. Though he did his best to register every word parting Master Bridgewick’s lips, the significance of the day kept teasing him out of the lecture hall. <br />
<br />
It was the first day of a four day autopsy on a body he had personally supplied to the college, and not just a mere body; it was a body with all four limbs and a neck that hadn’t been snapped or severed. Also, Alice was to arrive in London that very afternoon. Alice. It would probably be the last time she’d visit him while he was a student. He had but one year left of his seven year course. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/?action=view&current=TwoDoctors5.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/TwoDoctors5.jpg?t=1350143406" border="0" alt="TwoDoctors5"></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
She arrived on a ship. She had stayed in Reading for a few days to visit her aunt and uncle before continuing on to London. James felt a flurry of joy when he saw her speculative face appear above the gunwale, but this feeling deflated just as quickly when he could see that she was miserable. <br />
<br />
Alice had been ill on the ship. The malady was not caused by the trip itself but rather bad cheese she’d eaten in Reading. Her aunt had warned her against ‘white meats’, but she’d wanted to go and eat somewhere other than her aunt and uncle’s manor. Their cooks were so staid and predictable. This was one reason she was very keen to move to London as soon as James began his practice. She didn’t think city culture was as confining to a young woman as the manorial life. James never understood her beliefs regarding this matter because it seemed to him that she was often unhappy when visiting London. <br />
<br />
Having escorted Alice to her uncle’s house in Southwark, James returned to his apartment and began to shave in preparation for dinner. Felix was slumped over the desk as he always was during the afternoon hours, when he suddenly threw down his quill in such determined resolve that James loosened his shaving blade. It clattered against the shaving basin and fell to the floor, sticking in the oak after a brief rattle.<br />
<br />
“What is it?” cried James. <br />
<br />
“You and Alice should join me and my mistress tomorrow. We shall tour part of the city this side of the river.”<br />
<br />
The idea that Felix had a mistress stunned James, yet he did not reveal his surprise for fear of offending.<br />
<br />
He saw no reason that he and Alice shouldn’t accept the invitation, and he agreed to meet Felix and his mysterious woman the next day. Besides, he wasn’t going to be doing much studying in the next two days since Alice was in the city. He regretted failing to warn Felix that Alice was ill; he conceded to himself that she did not always offer her best side when she was not feeling well. Then again, perhaps by tomorrow the evil cheese would have exhausted its mischief and Alice would be in fine spirits. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The next day, they met Felix outside of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He insisted on standing in the middle of the street, and the people hurried past them expressing annoyance. Alice was not feeling better. She was sniffing, and she kept pulling her hat further down her forehead. Now and then she aimed a disapproving glance at Felix. James figured they most have appeared as a pathetic little party, with Alice in the doldrums and Felix wearing his notorious hat. <br />
<br />
It epitomized his tasteless fashion. Aside from its cavernous proportions, there was a patch of wolf fur sewn on the crown. He couldn’t afford to buy a hat without a tear and thus he required some kind of patch, and it damn well wasn’t going to be plain leather. A garish brass pin hitched the brim to one side of the crown.<br />
<br />
James admitted to himself that he was ashamed to appear in public with them that day; they were such a sorry lot. But his self-consciousness vanished when she appeared.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
This Persephone skipped out of the preoccupied urban turmoil like a kiss of pure countryside born from the furrowed lips of rich, unspoiled earth. Her eyes blazed as comets in wise orbits. She wore no whitener and her face was the color of sun-blessed soil on a fine summer day. Though many precious stones sparkled out of her hair, the onlookers could not figure whether they were gems or diamonds. It did not matter; the stones excited little attention compared to the delicate curve of her nose tip and the precious arc of her chin. And yet her gown was that of any common place seamstress; it had simple bows tied above the shoulders and appeared to contain nothing more than course cotton. Its willow color did not complement her but rather basked in its wearer’s natural and generous beauty.<br />
<br />
Despite her unconventional makeup and rather immodest stride, all the awkwardness of the situation belonged to Alice, Felix, and James. They were speechless—even Felix who had presumably shared the company of his mistress before. Each was consumed by his or her own singular reaction to the woman. They did not possess words equivalent to their thoughts, and yet they were untroubled by their own muteness. The face and eyes, the two gentle waves of her lips, possessed a depth so inviting that James thought that by merely standing near her one could keep dry in a rainstorm. She invited, received, and encouraged. <br />
<br />
Alice, her hair deChristinated by her own most valuable jewels, released a long sigh. James didn’t know whether she reacted to Christina’s outlandish lack of whitener or her undeniable beauty.<br />
<br />
At last Felix took her hand, kissed it, and formally introduced her to them. The gesture was laughable and pointless, like someone telling you the iron is hot after you’ve already scalded yourself. <br />
<br />
Christina suggested that they climb to the top of the cathedral. After absorbing her unexpected initiative and Felix’s unexpected enthusiasm, James said it was an agreeable plan. Christina led the way as Felix happily swaggered behind her. Alice and James followed, each possessing a curious sense of trepidation. <br />
<br />
Alice whispered that Christina was certainly beautiful but that she should have worn a doublet under her gown so that her chest and neck were not so exposed. James told Alice that the woman could have avoided becoming such a spectacle if she’d simply drawn her hair back. She would have looked just as beautiful that way. <br />
<br />
But to himself, James couldn’t imagine her hair any other way but tossing freely on the breeze. He secretly looked forward to the top of St. Paul’s, where the wind would increase and the locks would dance with even less restraint. <br />
<br />
Yet when Alice and James reached the roof, they were arrested by a horrifying sight.<br />
<br />
Christina had leapt atop one edge of the buttress positioned over two hundred meters of air. She was examining some feature of the façade, irresponsive to the windy death lurking behind her.<br />
<br />
James called for her to return to the roof but she seemed to pay no notice and instead turned to Felix. He seemed caught between awe and fear. <br />
<br />
She beckoned for him to join her but he said no. She asked him again to come and see the view from the buttress. He again said no and replied, “I can always come back here again. Maybe next time I will see it more fitting to risk my life for the sake of a view.”<br />
<br />
Unwilling to interfere, James watched them in fascination. <br />
<br />
“You can never be sure of returning to any place,” she said. Felix nodded but did not budge.<br />
<br />
Finally, she hopped back to the roof proper. Relieved, James and Alice leaned on each other. Felix glowed with admiration. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/?action=view&current=TwoDoctors1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/TwoDoctors1.jpg?t=1350143485" border="0" alt="TwoDoctors1"></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
James pulled him back as the women reentered the stairwell. He demanded to know where this strange woman had come from. Felix told him such questions were unbecoming, but he was willing to forgive one such trespass on the part of a longtime academic colleague. <br />
<br />
Christina had been cast out of a great kitchen in Yorkshire when her employer parceled out his estate. She’d come to seek a means in London. Felix met her up at Curtain Close while he was attending a play. He was standing towards the back of the yard, when his enjoyment of the play was interrupted by him noticing something peculiar towards the front of the audience. Up there at the foot of the stage, among the backs of many hats and heads, was Christina’s splendid face. Staring right at him and disregarding the performance behind her, seeming to recognize him, she raised a slender arm. They’d gotten along quite well after that.<br />
<br />
James begged to know how she could have recognized Felix if he’d never met her before Curtain Close. And how could she afford the theatre if she’d come to London penniless? <br />
<br />
Felix insisted the answers to these puzzles were of no consequence and if James had any more prying questions about his beloved then he would be met by a duel instead of a retort. <br />
<br />
Dismayed, James let the matter rest, and they set off to see a minstrel perform in Smith Field. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
They hired a coach and the whole way Christina took delight in pointing out the best features of the ride, familiar sites they had long ago let fade behind all the complications and problems they confronted in their daily lives. <br />
<br />
When they arrived at Smith Field, all in good humor after the invigorating tour, Christina danced to the music of the minstrels’ shawms and sackbuts. <br />
<br />
As the performers puffed into the instruments, she caught the attention of all the onlookers and they smiled at this unexpected wonder. Many soon felt very fortunate to have come to Smith Field that day. It was as though they had happened upon a legend and recognized the telling aura even before the myth was fully shaped. They were soon clapping along to encourage her, even Alice, who helped keep time between pushing a handkerchief to her nose. Others just stood and watched in a haze of adulation. Felix was one of them. <br />
<br />
They went to another end of the lawn and saw a puppet show. The crowd stood in riven expectance, withholding all applause and appreciation while the ridiculous figures bobbed back and forth across a miniature stage. But when Scaramouche scuttled around aimlessly, Christina’s rollicking laughter seared the very air. As though her reaction released a compressed spring, everyone burst out. Christina continued laughing with them and it seemed to James that everyone watching the show was more festive after Christina had blessed the performance with her merry approval. <br />
<br />
In fact, James was very much enjoying the day’s activities when Alice began complaining about her stomach and requested that James escort her back to Southwark. Christina and Felix exhorted them to stay and then sadly waved them off when they refused. <br />
<br />
Alice gazed out the coach window the entire ride back to the Thames. When James looked at her to say something, he saw the removed look in her eyes, and so he chose to hold his words. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The second day of the anatomy was difficult for James. He found it hopeless to attend to his notes. His mind was fraught with gnawing thoughts concerning Felix and his Christina. He supposed Alice’s poor health also hindered his concentration. Down in the lowest row of the gallery, Felix sat hunched over, pen busy, a beetle plotting mischief. <br />
<br />
Using tongs, the surgeons unrolled the small intestine. They passed around the liver until it reached an examination pedestal right at the feet of Master Bridgewick. He sat on the throne and tilted his chin to take in the red lump. He droned on until James saw the tall windows of the hall grow dark, the stained-glass figures fading into the night of their own private world. <br />
<br />
James replaced the anatomy with the image of Christina dancing in Smith Field. He forsook the bloated, violated creature before him for the bounce of rolling tresses and the sweet understanding of deep-set eyes. The Latin crumbled beneath her laughter as she strode closer and closer until her ringing laughter fully embraced his ears.<br />
<br />
He leaned back and sighed. Below him, scarcely noticed by James, the surgeons were driving a saw across the corpse’s breast bone. The grinding sound hung just below the lonely laughter, and when James grew aware of the raspy undercurrent, it toed his spine and chilled his body.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
Considering Alice’s condition during the previous day, Felix and Christina agreed to accompany James to Southwark instead of making Alice cross the river to join them. James intended for them to meet Alice at her uncle’s townhouse and then carry on to Bankside and perhaps see a bear-baiting. <br />
<br />
He could scarcely keep up with Christina and Felix the whole way across the bridge because Felix was doing all he could to maintain Christina’s pace. She jumped from merchant to merchant and ruffled the shoppers perusing the wares. Whether a nobleman atop a carriage or a servant preoccupied by an errand, whether barring their teeth at her audacity or grinning at her stunning appearance, they all took notice. <br />
<br />
Felix was one of the grinners, of course. James kept obliquely glancing at him, altogether uneasy at the visible transformation in his colleague’s bearing. <br />
<br />
But he soon convinced himself it was only the suddenness of the shift that troubled him. It was a change for the better after all. As the three of them walked down the middle of the thoroughfare, he and Felix took to comparing the most spectacular baitings they’d attended. James said he’d once seen a dog rip the bear’s tongue right out of its mouth. <br />
<br />
The mood soured when they realized Christina had become still and quiet. Her scattered forays to either side of the bridge in response to some fresh curiosity had transformed into an uneasy shuffle of soft, tentative steps. It was only when James traced the direction of her upward gaze did he begin to understand.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
She was stuck upon the battlements of the Southwark gatehouse. Mounted on pikes, human heads rose above the turrets and stared at all those who passed below. The flies flew around their twisted gray tongues and ventured into the eye hollows where decay had delved tiny caves. Some wore mantles of tar that had crawled down to the ears.<br />
<br />
The heads of these executed criminals worked a spell on Christina. It was startling to find an enchantress herself bewitched. She responded to none of her companions’ inquiries and remained morose until they passed beneath the bridge and had put the heads behind them. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
They met Alice and she seemed to have recovered well from her ailments of the previous day. She and James shared some memories as the four of them took a carriage from her uncle’s townhouse to the recreations of Bankside. It seemed it was now Christina’s turn to become unwell.<br />
<br />
Though not as despondent as when they passed beneath the severed heads, she was very pale and quiet for the remainder of the afternoon. Her cheeks had lost some of their earthy luster and at their centers they had dried up to the color of a dove. Yet she did not complain once, instead leaning on Felix and casting weary glances around her.<br />
<br />
Alice was quiet beside James. He knew that her health had improved and that her restraint was now related to Christina’s mild affliction. She dared not appear too content while a friend was ill.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The bear baiting turned out to be a many-phased contest. Alice, James, and Felix all sat forward, nearly on their toes, ready to leap up when the tension broke. The dogs were swift, but the bear was massive. The dogs were never able to close with the bear. They nipped and lunged and dodged while the bear flailed and rolled its eyes.<br />
<br />
At one point the assailants drew back some steps and seemed to reconsider whether it was all worth it. Then one nimble dog leapt up on the bear’s shoulder and tore out a crimson slab of flesh. This heartened the rest of the dogs. They resumed their leaping assault, and though some limped away with a whimper and a mangled ear, there was never a respite for the tiring bear. <br />
<br />
One dog stumbled away from the carnage and found its way to the corner of the garden where the four friends sat. It fell down, convulsed in futile resurgence, and perished. <br />
<br />
The bear’s resistance now eroded and the dogs began stripping its hide as fingers peel an orange. They’d catch a mouthful of its back or shoulder, and though the bear would toss the dog, the jaws remained clamped and would always take part of the bear with them. The black bear became a red bear. Its movements became labored. Its tongue lolled. After one last drunken spin of defiance, it toppled beneath a bloom of dust.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The audience exhaled a collective breath. An elated Alice turned to Christina’s seat but the bench was empty. She alerted the two men and Felix wasted no time in charging through the departing crowd in an effort to find the missing woman. James and Alice attempted to follow him but the jostling spectators came between them. James shouted for Felix to halt his rush against the tide of bodies but Felix paid him no heed, and so James left Alice at the entrance to the garden and jogged after him. <br />
<br />
<br />
When James found him, Felix was outside the bear garden, under an archway spanning an empty lane. James spotted the pained countenance of Christina, and so he held back and let the two carry on their discourse without imposing himself. Though he ducked into a doorway, he could still make out their murmurs coming down the street. <br />
<br />
He gathered by their words that Christina’s condition had plummeted during the bear baiting and she thought she could only find relief by leaving the garden. She apologized to Felix for her unsettled health. He swore before God and the Queen that his enjoyment of the day had not been impaired and that he would want nothing more than to spend each and every day with her whether or not she was feeling the least bit fatigued or ill. James heard a rustle and crooked his neck around the indentation of the doorway to see Felix step towards her, grab her hand, and pull her to him. He gave her a soft kiss on her lips, then let her hand fall back to her side—but her ring finger remained in Felix’s hand. <br />
<br />
In a moment of denial, Felix held the detached finger and looked at it as if it wasn’t a finger and he couldn’t quite identify the object. His blankness turned to perplexity. Christina laughed in the way of gentle rain gliding through the lane and playing upon the cobblestones. Felix began to laugh.<br />
<br />
James thrust himself back into the alcove and gagged, throwing a hand to his mouth in order to not emit a sound. No, his eyes could not have betrayed him. He let on nothing when the pair had finished their talk and he ambled out of his hiding spot as though just arriving. The pair exuded contentment and the three of them retraced their steps to locate Alice.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
Later that evening, when James had finished his studies and stretched out in his bed to issue a thankful yawn, Felix explained the finger without provocation. Perhaps he realized that it could not be kept secret for long and he wanted to diffuse the inevitable shock.<br />
<br />
When she was a child and her mother worked in a Yorkshire kitchen, Christina would often sit at the table beside the chopping block. Sometimes, during the long days, she fell asleep at this table while her mother and the other cooks bustled about. On one feast day, a frantic cook used the block even though Christina’s little hand was cast across its edge. His hasty blow severed her ring finger just above the middle joint. <br />
<br />
The “finger” that Felix had pulled from her hand that afternoon was made of balsa wood stained to emulate the color of flesh. It had a simple hinge at the knuckle, and the wooden ring finger was attached to her intact middle finger by a looped thread so that she could form a fist and feign a complete hand. <br />
<br />
James told Felix that this deformity was another reason to be cautious.<br />
<br />
“That is one reason against a thousand reasons I should not be cautious,” Felix replied. Then, with spite, he added, “I should feel cheated if I were to court any other lady.”<br />
<br />
“Even if her dowry is that of a cook’s daughter?”<br />
<br />
“That is not so much a concern to me as my own family is well enough off.”<br />
<br />
“It may not concern you, but it might concern your family.”<br />
<br />
“And that it should not, and you either. Why at this time do you talk to me of something other than medicine?”<br />
<br />
James withheld an answer. <br />
<br />
“Why has this matter called forth your opinion?” asked Felix. “Why are you so sure that I should cast aside this woman who causes me great happiness—no, the most happiness?”<br />
<br />
“I must put out the candles,” said James. He had no good answer, and Felix had made him feel sorry for wishing he had one. “Tomorrow morning the anatomy begins early.”<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
James’ attention switched to Felix when the lecture reached a phase he was uninterested in. He knew very little of Felix’s family or of Felix himself. His habits were apparent to James, but his thoughts concerning matters unrelated to medicine had long been concealed. James had never tested the secrecy, probably because he thought that there wasn’t much to be uncovered anyway. <br />
<br />
Felix was a man who James supposed could go through life without marrying and become a crumpled hermit sealed up with his books and scarcely ever venturing beyond the walls of a university. Felix’s self-imposed seclusion wasn’t the only reason for James’ supposition; it owed more to the actual qualities of the unshapely body, charmless expressions, and lopsided glares. <br />
<br />
Now Felix was in love, requited love with a woman, a woman who was—an absolute splendor. <br />
<br />
Along the low tier of the gallery, James’s eyes fixed on the large round back and the dropped head. He wondered at how this man before him, the man who shuffled through life like he was anxious to be rid of it, was the same gregarious and dignified man who had escorted Christina on the sojourns of the previous two days. <br />
<br />
Tomorrow Master Bridgewick would oversee the anatomy of the thorax. One more day and the anatomy of an intact adult cadaver would be complete. Their cadaver. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/?action=view&current=TwoDoctors2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/TwoDoctors2.jpg?t=1350143585" border="0" alt="TwoDoctors2"></a><br />
<br />
* * *</center><br />
In the afternoon, Christina and Felix expressed a desire to leave the tumult of the city and see the countryside. Alice suggested a coach ride through the fields between Southwark and Lambeth. Everyone agreed that it was an excellent idea, and soon the four of them were in a coach trundling through the autumn pastures.<br />
<br />
The day was cool rather than cold, and a breeze was just restless enough to give life to Christina’s unbound hair. The tresses weaved around the dark interior of the coach like streams of lava over a pumice landscape, while the locks on the side of her head facing the window cast to the kindred warm colors of the countryside and disappeared when they overlapped the wheat, as if returning home. The ends inside the carriage tickled Felix’s face and he paid no mind at all. <br />
<br />
Alice talked of her family in Reading and her aunt’s theatrical neighbor Ms. Cone. Yet she was not very engaged in her own story. She kept loosing the string of her thoughts; she often paused. James noticed these pauses came whenever she stole a glance at Felix and Christina’s side of the coach. It was easy for James to detect her preoccupation because he felt his own curiosity drawn again and again back to Christina. <br />
<br />
All at once, Christina cried out that they had to stop and picnic. According to her, they had reached a perfect spot. Unimpressed, Alice glanced around and frowned. James pointed out that the immediate fields were cow pasture and sure to be unfit for picnicking. But Christina said she hadn’t meant the field. She sailed out of the carriage and gestured into a belt of trees dividing the present field and the next. They could only suppose a field lay on the other side because the green barrier was thick and they couldn’t see through to the open ground. The pasture they currently stood in sloped down to where the shrubbery began overtaking the grass. The grove was shimmering with glossy hawthorn leaves and shaggy with the seeds of ashes. It was a dense arrangement, and Alice protested immediately when Christina again suggested they move into the trees. James was about to reinforce his mistress’ disapproval, when Felix bounced out of the carriage and actually began making his way to the tree line. <br />
<br />
“Let us lunch down by the water,” said Christina to all of them. “I can hear the brook. It sounds too pleasant to forsake, wouldn’t you agree?”<br />
<br />
And it was then that James noticed the water’s plea. It was young and mournful, promising and fragile. And though it was typical of these wooded boundaries to hide a brook, he thought it was quite strange that he hadn’t noticed the sound before Christina had mentioned it. <br />
<br />
Alice glowered at James while he sought concurrence for his wife’s refusal to hearken to the alluring call. But he was only trying to convince himself. <br />
<br />
“Go there if you desire to,” he said. “Alice and I shall meet you back here.” <br />
<br />
Felix and Christina pleaded with them to come, but James knew that Alice would not compromise, and he wished them a pleasant lunch. <br />
<br />
While Christina and Felix picked their way through the underbrush, snapping twigs and catching their cuffs and ruffles, James and Alice arranged their lunch in the weedy corner of the pasture. Not far away, their driver sat in the carriage and lit a pipe. An old cow hobbled around to their corner of the pasture and boomed a greeting so close to Alice’s ear that she yelped. They coughed when the wind blew the road’s dust at them. Alice whispered that it was a terrible decision to stop there for picnic, but James was pondering the trail of Christina and Felix. And as Alice followed his gaze through the thickening greenery she came to think it was not as much a look of curiosity as it was a look of longing. James became aware of his wife’s scrutiny and met her stare. She refused to break the lock, and James, guessing her thoughts, set about slicing their mutton pie and hiding his face. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
After the separate picnics, three separate picnics since Alice and James had said scarcely a word to each other through the duration, they carried on to the parish church. Christina and Felix waxed long regarding the beauty of the small gully in the belt of trees. <br />
<br />
The brook they’d found formed a shallow pool before narrowing and resuming its course. Many stepping stones broke the surface and the two had raced across several times. They had found a family of ducks winding through the secluded water, and they had spotted a kingfisher watching over them from a low limb. <br />
<br />
James thought it all sounded far more enjoyable than his own lunch, but he knew that no matter how they described the gully, Alice would never sway from her belief that the decision to stop was absurd. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
They arrived at the parish church. Christina and Felix took a walk around the chapel while Alice and James crossed the road to seek out a soft patch to rest upon. The Thames hooked south just north of the parish church and it was a novelty for them to enjoy the wide river without all the urban confinement of London choking off its soothing qualities. <br />
<br />
As James and Alice surveyed the water together, their silence became less of an unspoken displeasure and more of a soporific blessing. They fell asleep, and when James came to, scratching his head and situating himself in time and place, he saw that the undersides of the walnut leaves were catching a lime green. The sun was dipping. Alarmed at having lost track of time, he woke Alice and told her that they should prepare to return to the city. She was happy to remain lying on the soft bank while James located the others.<br />
<br />
He had passed halfway around the chapel, moving towards the rear, when he heard the harpsichord notes fluttering from the front of the church. Retracing his steps, he found that the chapel door was a bit ajar. It was from here that the music came. <br />
<br />
The sun seemed to be sinking ever so fast, the highlights under the leaves had departed and the colors of the riverside had become dull. The fleeing daylight caused James to pause, but he was still ignorant of the powers that kept his feet on the threshold and only permitted him to poke his head inside the doorway. <br />
<br />
Torches lit the chapel. They were mounted in the iron holders attached to the columns running down the length of the nave. He followed their flickering vigil to the altar where he saw the lonely dance for the first time.<br />
<br />
It was a country step but not one James had seen before. They seized their legs and each others; they wound their torsos around each other and seemed to sway more often than step. Though they kept time to the harpsichord’s song, they did not obey its command, instead complimenting it. Felix swam on in between her arms and rose up to take her cheeks in his hands and kiss her. They held this kiss for long time while the rest of their bodies remained engaged with the harpsichord. Then Christina leaned close to his ear and spoke.<br />
<br />
When she was finished, Felix drew back and seemed to wrestle with her message. He was about to speak when the harpsichord ceased mid-measure and a lute began chirping a feisty jig. Then they bounced and clapped as though the whispered words had never been.<br />
<br />
James pulled his gaze away when the lute replaced the harpsichord, and in one low transept of the church he found a short and bubble eyed man playing the instrument. He was so large-skulled it was as though he wore a helmet under his skin. He plucked the lute with such flare in the wrinkles of his forehead that he might never have had the opportunity to play these compositions until now. They were tavern melodies unfit for mass or even an empty chapel.<br />
<br />
A hand dropped upon James shoulder and he drew his head out of the doorway. Alice was standing behind him with crossed arms and a slightly guilty tilt in her brow. She apologized for disturbing him, but she did want to get back to Southwark before it became very late. She asked James whether their two companions had now taken to making love on the altar. James told her not be scandalous. She told him that she wouldn’t be surprised by anything at that point. Hearing the music, she stood on her toes and leaned to either side of James with half-hearted interest. <br />
<br />
Of all James’ possible actions at that single moment, that never-to-be-recovered position half-in and half-out of the festive little chapel, the last action he expected to take was lunging at his woman’s waist, embracing her, and then pulling her into the torch light of the church. It was wholly unforeseen that they should join hands and jig in front of the altar, beside Felix and Christina’s consummate patterns. They would kiss and caress without stopping their dance and without testing the other’s reception. Like they were somewhere else. Like this was the world they actually called home. <br />
<br />
To the end of his life, James could never solve the mystery of how something so vivid turned out to be impossible in the end. Instead of pulling Alice into the church, he stepped back into the gloom of the encroaching evening, took his woman’s hand, and announced he would enter the chapel and end the sacrilegious dance. Alice thanked him for being sensible.<br />
<br />
Felix and Christina were happy to accommodate them. The parish musician wished them a good night, and instead of returning his lute to its hidden drawer, he gave it to Christina as a tribute to her dancing, though had he chosen otherwise he could have honored any number of her other incomparable qualities.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The ride back to Southwark was quiet in the way when something is hanging in the air and blotting out any would be conversation. James did not know whether Alice felt it; she was tired and kept nodding off. Felix was preoccupied, and stared through the window and bit his thumb while sorting out his thoughts in the blue evening. After they were well away from the parish church, Christina took up the lute and played a meandering and dipping poem that made James forget about their lack of words. The silence shed its heaviness. Her skill was remarkable. If he hadn’t already known her for two days he would have been shocked at her capability.<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
That evening, Felix was about to put out the candles when he asked James whether Alice and he would join them for one more evening’s entertainment before Alice returned to Dorset. <br />
<br />
“I suppose so,” said James. “With one day of the anatomy remaining, it will be fitting. A celebration.”<br />
<br />
“I think a better reason is that Christina will not be joining us again after tomorrow,” said Felix. He’d spoken as though reciting notes in preparation for an examination.<br />
<br />
“Why is that?” James replied, equally as didactic. <br />
<br />
“She has to leave. And she won’t be coming back. She extends her gratitude for your and Alice’s company over the past three days but the circumstances demanding her departure are insurmountable.”<br />
<br />
<em>Insurmountable</em>, thought James. He wondered whether that was the way Christina had described the circumstances when she had whispered to Felix in the chapel.<br />
<br />
Felix sat down at the desk. <br />
<br />
“But she insisted I thank you, you even more so than Alice. She was very grateful for both of us helping her to enjoy London. She said she could not have had such a merry time without us attending to her.”<br />
<br />
“We were blessed by her company,” said James. His enormous degree of gratitude was unmeasured by his words, though his words were true. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
The next day, the final day of the anatomy, the dissection of the unbroken neck excited the students more than any other topic. Yet the description of the rarely-intact spinal cord passed so swiftly into an examination of the brain that James slumped under the weight of anticlimax. The secret trek to the graveyard, all the shoveling and bumbling through the night, resulted in nothing more than a fifteen minute lecture.<br />
<br />
He spent the remainder of the anatomy in quiet frustration, shooting glances down at Felix and wondering whether he felt the same disappointment or whether he was wholly preoccupied by Christina’s imminent departure.<br />
<br />
The surgeons were now cutting open the extremities. James drifted among descriptions of the bicep, forearm, and wrist. The surgeons took up tiny blades and sliced down the center of each finger to the palm. There was then a disturbance among the surgeons. They scratched their beards and held up their hands.<br />
<br />
Now James sat up and refocused his attention on the anatomy.<br />
<br />
Master Bridgewick leaned from side to side, attempting to identify the distraction. The surgeons parted their ranks and looked up at the head physician as if for instruction. Hushed words passed between the surgeons nearest to the high chair. Now all the students were peering over each other’s shoulders to glimpse the cause of the surgeons’ consternation. At last Master Bridgewick announced: “Digitus Ligneus.” A wooden finger. A wooden finger!<br />
<br />
Ice drove deep into James heart. He grabbed his chest. Next his eyes shot down to Felix. He could only see the back of the man’s head but the body was paralyzed, the hands somewhere in front of him beneath the study bench, out of James’ sight.<br />
<br />
After the anatomy, as soon as Master Bridgewick had dismissed the lecture hall and disappeared to his private quarters, James bounded through the university halls to seek him out.<br />
<br />
The head physician instructed him that he was to re-inter the body at his convenience. <br />
<br />
“I believe,” suggested James, “that it will serve our practical concerns to burn this body rather than return it to its former grave. The churchyard need not be revisited and suspicions rekindled. There will be fewer tools and delicacies required.”<br />
<br />
“Is she not a Christian, deserving to be returned to consecrated ground?”<br />
<br />
“No, she is not, master. If I may—you may recall we removed the corpse from the north side of the churchyard. She’s unbaptised; that I am certain of.”<br />
<br />
“Then let the corpse burn. The wagon sits behind the college.”<br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
Not long after James departed Master Bridgewick’s quarters, Felix dashed in from the opposite direction, wild with an urgency that alarmed anyone he passed in the corridor. But Master Bridgewick was gone; the door to his quarters bolted. For a long time, Felix rapped his fists against the oak, but his only reward were tender sores across his dry knuckles. <br />
<br />
<center>* * *</center><br />
And so James burned the corpse. He took it that very night out into the fields beyond the city walls and brought with him a cauldron and an ax. He chopped the body into pieces. Without ceremony, he scooped up the parts and cast them all into the iron pot. He poured oil back and forth over the heap of flesh. Setting it ablaze, he stepped back as his pulse relaxed and his heart thawed. He whispered prayers until the fire had dwindled to glowing embers. <br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/?action=view&current=TwoDoctors3.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii65/Mirror_Dance/Lacuna/TwoDoctors3.jpg?t=1350143641" border="0" alt="TwoDoctors3"></a><br />
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Felix and James never discussed the anatomy or the corpse. James did not dare broach the subject since he had always been generally unacquainted with Felix’s personal matters. They had much difficult study ahead of them, and the distraction of those unnatural four days would have done little to aid their concentration. They carried on as they had before the anatomy, studying medicine another year until they had achieved their degrees. Felix became more like Felix than the original Felix. He acknowledged nothing but the tip of his pen. Though surrounded by men of like-minded scholarship, everything living passed before him as though shades, dead and phantasmal. He was uncouth and uncaring, and most came to think he was as worthless as the value he placed on others. <br />
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After completed his studies, James returned to Dorset to marry Alice and practice medicine. Felix melted into the tangled fabric of London. James once heard about him practicing in the East End but did not know precisely where he practiced or for how long, and soon Felix became little more to James than that pedantic and grim colleague from the past who had said little to anyone. <br />
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It seemed to James that Felix so often paid less attention to society than the cockroaches he used to kill each morning when James was sharing a room with him. The swat of his broomstick often served to wake James for his morning prayers. On occasion the creatures would wiggle their feet in the air after a glancing blow knocked them on their backs. It was a hopeless, hysterical flight from death. Yet as James watched Felix brush others from the walls, he noticed that some did not twitch. These floated to the floor with grace and patience.<br />
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<strong>Ned Thimmayya</strong> is a lawyer who lives in Brooklyn, NY. His writing has previously appeared in Slice Magazine, the Foundling Review, Up the Beanstalk, and the Brooklyn Journal of International Law. He has read his work at the Franklin Park Reading Series, the Renegade Reading Series, and Hallopalooza 2011. He grew up in the lovely town of Kinderhook, NY.<br />
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<strong>What do you think is the attraction of the historical fiction genre?</strong><br />
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History, after all, is in and of itself the ultimate story. All fiction, whether due to the narrative's setting or the circumstances of the author, emerges from our species' history or notion of that history. I believe historical fiction is only distinguished as such by the fact it calls greater attention to its place on the historical timeline than other fiction. Therefore its appeal rests in those eras that readers and writers continue to find most compelling. Elizabethan England, World War II, Medieval Europe, Renaissance Italy, and the Roman Empire all come to mind as periods that continue to fascinate readers and writers of fiction in the Western hemisphere. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0