Category Archives: Writing

The Leaf

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The sun had not even risen, and yet already the work bosses were gently awakening the harvesters with their batons. Pere was roused from his deep slumber by the shouts of the bosses and the grunts of his fellow pickers; but he remained motionless, gathering his energy. An almost casual blow from one of the bosses was his cue to open his eyes. He groaned concilatorily. The boss hammered him with the standard morning greeting.

“Get up! Heavy harvest today!”

There was usually a “heavy harvest” during the rainy season, of course; but the bosses always felt that this motivating comment stimulated work. So, subsequently, regardless of the night’s ripening of the Q’jall plants, each day (each boss, actually) promised a “heavy harvest.”

Pere rose from his grass tick and pulled on his jerkin. It reeked of Q’jall juices and sweat, but break day was four days away, so he tried to ignore the smell. A couple of the harvesters had already left for their morning meal; others were still struggling on their mats to resist gravity. Fortunately for the latter, the bosses had a blow or two to offer for added motivation. Pere’s back was beginning to cramp, and this only added to his hurry. He bolted out of the quarters and into the dawn.

Nearly one-third of the blue dwarf sun was above the horizon, and with its hazy glow came a flush of heat. The day was not even begun and already the temperature hovered around 110 degrees. Pere found the warmth pleasing, but then realized the high temperatures it forecasted. He was surprised at the dryness of the air and, looking up through the porch’s woven awning, saw only a few patchy cirrus clouds. This bothered him. Without the cooling rains, harvesting under the 160 degree sun at mid-day would be awful. He thanked Primar that his skin had purpled quickly this season.

He jogged across the dusty yard between the harvester’s quarters and the mess hall. His feet smarted initially, but he soon felt their tar glands ooze out enough of the sticky substance to cool them. As he burst past the mess hall’s hanging mat for a door, his nose was assailed with the scent of
charred flesh and mildew. Half of the plantation’s harvesters were seated at long wooden tables gorging themselves on what appeared to be a paste made of ground swervahs grain and fried strips of grastuh meat.

Pere understood their rush and hurried into the line of men waiting to be served. The food today seemed fairly good, but that was not what impelled him. It was what the master gave the harvesters after they arrived at the fields that he most wanted. The leaf. The line inched along, but eventually he would have it.

Pere waited impatiently and finally was given his food. He dropped into the nearest seat and began to gobble it. Within minutes, the tray lacked any trace of the “morning’s delight,” as the bosses put it. Pere leapt up and moved to drop his tray in the barrel of water at the door and get to the Q’jall fields.

When he arrived, panting, at the harvester’s stopping place the night before, Pere saw others already fighting for position in line to get their leaves and begin picking. The field master stood on the back of the huge Hover-carrier, the vehicle whose four Galactic ton bed the harvesters would have to try to fill. Beside the master sat an enticing pile of Q’jall leaves. Pere stared hungrily at the pile as he moved into line. He could almost taste the sour juice. He could feel the familiar tingles in his mouth….

His back broke his trance with a preliminary little jolt of spasming. Pere anxiously surveyed the line. Nearly all of his group of pickers had arrived; soon his torturous wait would end.

As if cued by Pere’s cravings, the master passed the top leaf to the first man in line. The man jammed it into his mouth and began chewing vigorously. The master struck the man with his energy prod, barking, “Not so fast, warth! If you collapse out there, don’t plan on getting back up!” The man obligingly began the accepted, bovine chewing taught by the masters. He was, however, already beginning to smile, and he seem to be moving jerkily as he shouldered his pick-sack and walked into the fields. One by one, each harvester was handed a leaf, and he would head for the fields chewing the precious plant.

At about half way through the stack of leaves, Pere stepped up to face the master and be given his leaf. The master started to hand it to him, but then stopped, much to Pere’s disappointment, and stared at him.

“Ah, yes…Pere,” said the tall, pressure-suited man. “I shouldn’t even give you this, what with all the extra leaf you ate yesterday!” Pere froze, terrified. He had thought that his pilfering had gone unnoticed. He cringed, apologetically, praying to Primar that he not be denied his leaf. “If I catch you stealing Q’jall today, I will see that you are cut off from future rations. You would not like that, would you, Pere?”

“No, field master,” Pere squeaked. His stomach and back tightened more, as if to emphasize his response.

“Then don’t do it, warth!” the master bellowed, tossing Pere’s leaf to the ground. Pere stooped down, retrieved it, and placed it in his mouth. The flood of sour juices nearly gagged him, but they quickly numbed his taste buds. He walked, chewing, into the huge waving field of Q’jall, and the near magical effects of the leaf began to come.

Despite the dryness of the previous night and morning, there was a good harvest on the plants after all. The plants were covered with large, dark red leaves and fluffy yellow flowers. The masters wanted only the flowers and the darkest of the leaves. These were the most valuable off-world. Although Pere knew that purchasers of the Q’jall rarely chewed the stuff like the harvesters, he was not certain of how the powerful drug was ingested. He had heard rumors that off-worlders stuck patches soaked in some extract of the plant on their skin, but he would never try that. Pickers were warned to wear gloves when working, and he could only assume that was to avoid skin contact with the juice. This, actually, he knew was the reason, because once a friend of his had died from picking all day without gloves on. How his friend had lost them, he could only guess.

Pere began to pick his row of Q’jall, pondering the nature of the plant, just as his leaf began to say hello to him. He chewed and chewed, picking flowers and choice leaves as he went. Soon, he realized he was speeding up his motions. Typical. He picked faster and faster, pausing only to drink from his water bottle. His hands started to blur, but he knew his speed had peaked. He had been a harvester for many years; he knew his pace. The leaf could be thanked for the blur, which was slowly getting longer and longer. Within an hour after starting, he was an eighth or so of the way through his row and he could see the complete path his hands took from plant to bag and back to plant.

The sun was bearing down hard now, and the temperature had risen to about 120. Pere, however, was oblivious to the heat… and to the building clouds. He had become a picking machine; his actions were lightning quick and sure. He had fallen into rhythm and his mind began to float on the Q’jall. He thought of his parents.

They died in the wars over this planet between the Atatians and the Rumares. They had wanted to leave the planet and were saving up to do so when the wars broke out. Pere remembered the looks of terror on their faces as the Atatians, garbed in their strange pressure suits and armed with concussion rifles, marched into his home village, pulverizing its inhabitant’s bodies with their brutal blasts. Pere brushed the chilling image aside as he glanced at an ulooloo bird flying overhead. He saw it as a spacer streaking to some distant galaxy with his leaves. He hated the ulooloo. The leaves he picked were his, damn it! Those warths off-world should come down here and pick their own, if they wanted it so bad! He reached out and plucked a deep red, almost purple, leaf and, looking hurriedly around, defiantly stuffed it into his mouth to join the gummy leaf already there.

He began picking again, gnawing on the new leaf. He swallowed frequently, impatient for the next rush. He was not kept waiting long. The field seemed to swim about him in the wind. The sky darkened as clouds built, yet Pere saw everything become brighter. The blood color of the leaves seemed to leap off of them and the yellow flowers all developed faces. The faces regarded him, grinning sardonically.

“So, think you can handle more, huh, warth?” one of the faces asked.

“I did yesterday,” Pere replied obstinately.

“Oh, right! Weren’t you the one that field master Domery was yelling at about that? My brothers,” the flower said to the other faces, “perhaps we should call field master Domery and tell him.”

“N-no! Please!” Pere begged, but the flowers had already begun hailing Domery. They alternated between yelling for the master to come and jeering accusations at him. He snatched them off the plant in an effort to silence them. Their dying screams echoed in his head.

“Great Primar, but you’re a brute!”

Pere looked to the voice’s origin, but saw only a mouse, seated at the base of a Q’jall stalk knitting three-toed socks. It looked at him pityingly.

“I’m supposed to,” Pere responded, but the mouse said nothing; it just kept knitting. “Damned fool mouse,” he muttered and resumed picking. The flowers had quit yelling and simply cowered, frightened. Pere laughed to himself as he viciously plucked them. “This’ll teach you to try to get me in trouble. You’re mine for the taking,” he said venomously. As he reached out to pluck the next leaf, he noticed something wrong with his glove. He distractedly picked a couple of flowers, then looked down at the glove’s palm in which they lay. He realized that it had lost the look of grastuh hide and now resembled steely pressure suit gloves. Puzzled, he glanced at the flowers’ now cadaverous faces. They resembled… no, they were his mother and father’s faces.

Horrified, Pere stuffed the buds into his sack. When he withdrew his hand, his glove was its normal, brown, stained self. The flowers on the plants had resumed their normal appearances as well.

“Strong Q’jall,” Pere muttered to himself. His hands began their streaking ministrations once more.

As quickly as the sun crossed the sky, Pere moved along his row. The building clouds had threatened to break earlier, but now, with two hours until dusk, were firmly blanketing the sky. Around mid-day, Pere had decided to curb a slight hunger with a small portion of Q’jall. Now, as the wind picked up and shook the plants to life, he could feel a building oppression in the air. The Q’jall’s waltz seemed to sway towards him, threatening to absorb him into their midst. Then, the plants relaxed their assault on Pere and began to bow, rhythmically, towards the sun. Pere ceased trying to pick the now frantic plants and turned to face the object of their supplication. The sun’s glow through the clouds seemed to grow in size, and the winds from it swelled further.

Quite suddenly then, the sun blinked out, the winds died, and an inch of rain dropped. Pere mimicked the Q’jall in squatting to the ground beneath the heavens’ aquatic onslaught. He cowered in fear for several moments before the memory of his task found its way back into his consciousness

Pere rose to a half-stand and resumed his methodical pickings. He went but a few meters down his row before he stumbled over something and fell into the thickening mud. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and peered back, nearly blinded by water, to regard what tripped him. It appeared to be a large purple foot. Not large, but colossal, in fact. As his gaze traced up the purple leg connected to the foot, his vision blurred for a moment. Then, a hazy ray of sunlight found a hole in the blanketing clouds, and his eyes snapped back into precise focus. He realized to what the Q’jall were bowing. He found himself regarding Primar.

The towering figure had to be Primar, so regal was his bearing, so mightily he stood gazing down at the smaller Rumare. Pere could only stare back, dumbfounded. The Q’jall, now, so ruled his psyche that he no longer acknowledged its presence. For him, he was now seeing his god. He quickly responded by dropping flat to the ground. He bowed, fearing to meet Primar’s stare.

“Why do you grovel before me so?” Pere nearly swooned. The High One spoke to him! Him! A lowly harvester. “Well…?”

“I…I fear your visit forebodes ill omen, High Primar,” Pere responded.

“When has the presence of Primar forecast thus? I am of your people. I come for you.”

“No…not to take me away!” Pere shook with fear and felt a frosty hand grip his stomach.

“Not FOR you; in your favor, Pere. I have been here for your people, our people, for eons. I have seen our planet’s plight. I know your suffering, I feel it. It should end.”

“Will you destroy the Atatians?”

“Feel you not the emptiness about you?” Pere noticed that, despite the rain and wind, the fields seemed remarkably still. He rose to his full height to look over the Q’jall. He saw no one. No Atatians or harvesters.

“Have you sent them away?” Pere felt his face flush with joy. His heart raced in excitement. He, for the first time in so many years, felt the burden of laboring for the Atatians lifted. He had almost forgotten, or grown to accept, the harshness of his conditions until, in retrospect, he now viewed their basic cruelty from the lofty height of freedom. The Rumare were once again a free people. The full weight of this realization buoyed Pere’s emotions even higher. He began to shout praises to Primar as the smiling god faded from view.

The Q’jall then, predictably, dropped Pere. He was asleep before he hit the ground.

A pain. A pain… in his side. That is what pulled Pere from the depths of the dreamworld. In his dreams, he roamed the fields, talking and dancing with other Rumare. He felt elated and content. Even though he knew it was a dream, he was assured—by Primar himself, no less!—that his dream life was a reflection of his long forgotten, but newly regained, way of life. He eagerly awaited the next day, but was content with the sleep. That is why the pain in his side was such a bother. More than a bother, now, for the next pulse from the master’s energy prod was of a far greater voltage. Pere convulsed upward into a nearly seated position, arms flailing about for purchase and eyes bugging.

Over Pere stood field master Domery and three lesser bosses. Domery glared down at him.

“Well, now, Pere… You seem to have fallen asleep,” the master’s hollow, echoing voice stated from within his pressure suit. “Have you any particular explanation for your slumber, warth? Up too late last night?”

“N… no, uh, field master,” Pere groggily stuttered. “Uh, I mean ‘yes,’ field master.” Pere waited for the inevitable.

“LIES! ALL LIES!” the field master screamed, fogging his helmet’s visor. “You’ve been in the Q’jall, eating stock! Holper,” he beckoned one of the waiting bosses, “He is to be restricted from any more leaf and kept in the watched fields. If there are any more transgressions…,” and here Domery savored Pere’s anxiety before continuing, “…have him dig himself a grave and kill him.” With a flourish, Domery spun on his heels and stepped onto his Hoverboard. The boss named Holper manacled Pere and began leading him out of the fields as Domery soared away.

Pere was put into an individual cell not even large enough in which to lie flat. He was told, as Holper turned the latch to his door, to expect no evening meal as further punishment. He could, however, look forward to “morning’s delight” before beginning work in the guarded fields. Oh, and without any Q’jall. As the light in the hall switched off, Pere slumped into a ball in the corner—and center—of his room and waited for the back pains to come. If he was lucky, they would wait until morning.

Affidavit Of The Defendant

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Affidavit – Criminal Court of Oslo, Norway

The following testimony of Richard Straffborn, accused of murder in the first degree,
in the case of Norway vs Straffborn, case number CC-113/092189
is hereby given freely, under oath, on this the Nineteenth of September, 1989.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, though I realize that my future—nay, my very life—rests upon the proceedings there today in your esteemed courtroom, I fear that I will be unable to attend the trial on my behalf. To step out of the confining safety of these hard bars would mean my certain destruction, as you may soon understand if you will keep open minds and read this testimony with unprejudiced eyes. The tale I have to tell of the events of July 19, 1987 is one of dark history and the folly of the naive. Much, though, leads up to the crescendo for which I must bear witness; the recounting of it all is crucial for your understanding.

On May 5, 1987, the archaeological book concerning Ardurst Castle was reopened by an student of Norwegian history named Josh Sturguild. It seems the boy, in his curious studies of the more arcane and mysterious pages of this land’s past, uncovered references to the ancient owner of the keep, Anathor the Outcast, in those yellowed records. The information he uncovered told of the expulsion from court suffered by Anathor, once a powerful and respected advisor to the thirteenth century King of Norway, Olag. It was here, however, that the name Anathor disappears from the annals of time… until about forty years ago. If you will recall, Ardurst Castle was discovered, in ruins, in 1946. A fisherman out of Belivack noticed the main tower of the structure peeking over the crest of a cliff along the shore of northwest Norway, near the Russian border. Though the scientific community was in as much disarray as every other element of society following the second World War, a team was dispatched by the NAC—the Norwegian Archaeological Community—to set up a dig there.

As a purely inquisitive venture, the dig was a striking success. The existence of such an isolated, yet strong and obviously self-sufficient, miniature fiefdom surprised the NAC’s team. To enumerate the many finds would require, essentially, rewriting the 127-page report which the team eventually submitted to the NAC after “completing” their study. Suffice it to say that the centuries-dead owner was a learned, just, and intelligent man. His name, they discovered, was Anathor: a personality unheard of until Sturguild’s hapless discovery.

Josh was one of my students at Middlesex at the time of his findings. Knowing that I hold a profound interest in Mideval history, he came to me to tell of the connection Anathor had with the old Norwegian court. A great connection it was, too; Anathor’s past and therefore Castle Ardurst’s prenatal history was a grand curiosity among scholars of such musty things. Needless to say, my imagination was sparked by the boy’s report. Unfortunately, being still a fledgling in matters of comprehensive research, he failed to reveal the whole story behind Anathor, or, more specifically, Anathor’s expulsion from Olag’s court. It, therefore, took me nearly a week of tedious cross-analysis and historical backtracking to procure the complete history. It seems that Anathor was involved in experimentation with mystic or magical forces which Olag could not accept or comprehend. His departure was not the expulsion of a counselor fallen from favour, but rather the banishment of a feared “warlock.”

I am not certain at what point I was enchanted by the mystery and intriguing implications of my study. I only know that, once finished with it, my resolve to journey to Norway to conduct my own research on site was adamant. I hurriedly contacted my friends Doctors Kierkegard Brozney and Henreich Dovensh and, having told them of my findings, asked them to travel from their respective countries to meet me at the closed site. They agreed to the importance of further investigation—Henreich especially—and we arranged for Kierkegard to travel from Poland to meet Henreich and myself there in ten days, on May 22. I, myself, traveled then to West Germany to join forces with Dr. Dovensh. Together, we journeyed by train, auto, and foot until at last, on May 23, we stood on a bluff locked in perpetual conflict with the Arctic Sea and overlooked Ardurst Castle.

The weathered keep stood upon a craggy, broken cliff nestled in a wide, south-facing notch. My heart leapt immediately; the cracked, brown photos from the Forties’ dig had done little to exhibit the exquisite architecture and ingenious design of the fortress. The rock notch’s north wall defended the rear of the castle, thus explaining the lack of defensive emphasis back there, while the steepness of the slope leading up to the fore provided certain security from the rush of hordes. Viewing this awesome spectacle, I could little comprehend the archaeological evidence I had read, as well as obvious visual evidence, that the place had been besieged and over-run.

“I wonder at the magnitude of the army which brought down that place,” I commented to my German companion as we descended down to the ridge joining our bluff with the cliffs. He did not immediately reply, though, as he was lost in distant thoughts, his gaze locked upon the keep. I knew not to bother him further, for the many years of friendship we shared taught me to recognize this, his far-staring, glassy scrutiny. You see, Dr. Henreich Dovensh was, aside from being a noted Euro-Slavic historian, a great sage in arcane matters. He exhibited unparalleled prowess in parapsychological and paranormal comprehension and ability. You may scoff… but I knew him. He was gifted in ways of which the average man merely dreams. It was for this reason that I had invited him to join us, considering the curious facts of Anathor’s past. I felt he might notice evidence of the mystical before a historian or a linguist.

In time, we reached the base of the slope which vaulted up to the bailey and moat of the structure. From this nearer vantage, the cracks rending the exterior walls resembled great slashes in the hard stone.

“Those cracks, there, Henreich… Something is strange about them.”

My friend returned from his mental “wanderings” and looked towards me with a curious expression on his face.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” I replied, “if the place was besieged as the NAC dig supposedly revealed, wouldn’t the cracks cleave inward?”

“That is your field, friend. I could not say.”

“Yes… yes…. Well, these cracks appear to yield outward, and directly from the ground. How could this be? Or, rather, how could this have gone unmentioned by the NAC?”

“Why don’t we head up and check it out ourselves? I’m anxious to see Kierkegard, anyway.”

We began the wearisome trudge up the rise, our feet skittering and sliding out from beneath us with each step. Before too long, we gained the top and stood beneath the tall, dark, basalt walls and parapets. Even in the failing light of coming evening, the walls’ rifts revealed themselves to be protruding both out and inward and beginning at ground level.

“If I did not know better,” I proclaimed, “I would swear that these cracks were seismic in origin.”

“What, precisely, is your ‘better’ knowledge? Forty year old reports from rushed Norwegian geologists?”

The truth of Donvensh’s statements was, as usual, incorrigible. The NAC team had been hard-pressed to wrap up the dig, though for what reason, no text could say.

“But no fault lines lie along this coast.”

“At least, no tectonic fault lines…,” Henreich replied cryptically before lapsing into another trance-like silence. Shrugging, I reached into my pack for a lamp, but found I did need it. A yellow glow slipped around the edge of the fallen front gate to bathe the two of us in light.

“Always a day late, Richard. Never a pound short, though, eh?”

The glare of the lamp flashed into my eyes, blinding me, though I needed no vision to recognize the man behind it.

“Kierkegard!” I cried, striding toward him. “I must beg your apology, noble Pole, for I fear that our rental gave us a bit of trouble in Grathnow. We would have—”

“Offer no excuse, mate,” he interrupted, “the spare day has not been an idle one for me! I’ve something quite interesting to show you, come morning. For now, though, enter, enter. I’ve set up camp in the courtyard; some bean stew is burning as we speak.” He ushered me past the gate, then turned back to Henreich, who was staring, apparently unseeing, at the ground before the walls. “You also, old friend. Leave your augury to come sit by the stove. I’ve need of your special advice this evening.”

Starting as one frightened out of a deep sleep by a nightmare’s terror, Henreich looked, wide-eyed, at Brozney.

“Uh, yes… of… of course,” he answered. Then, a smile smoothed his previously drawn and worried visage. “Although I worry about your infamous bean stew.”

Later, reclining comfortably about a small fire and enjoying the aftertaste of the heavy dinner, our talk turned from the cheerful banter of reunited friends to the solemn discussion of professionals.

“Kierkegard, tell me of your findings,” I opened. “Are they anything new?”

“‘Are they anything new?’ Hah! You’d better believe they’re new. I don’t know how the NACs missed it—maybe they were too busy poking about for bright gold or antique blade—but at the rear of the main tower,” he pointed over his shoulder to the black cylinder jutting up against the dim sky, “I noticed some interesting runes written in an old Norwegian script.”

“What did they say?” asked Henreich, a curious glint in his eye.

“Essentially they were the equivalent of an ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ sign. What was so confusing about them was that they rested over a mound of rubble: fallen masonry from higher up the tower. Anyway, I spent all of today moving it out, and you’ll never guess what I found.”

A stillness had crept over the courtyard; not even the once-ceaseless howl of the offshore wind echoed through the area. I shifted uncomfortably, wanting the Pole to continue his narrative, yet inexplicably afraid to break the silence to encourage him. The others seemed to be equally affected by the foreboding quiet, and it was only after a long moment that Kierkegard resumed, in a hushed murmur, his story.

“There is a doorway, still locked, there. I’ll need your expertise to get it open,” he said, looking to me. The strange dread again brushed my heart. I shrank away, inside, from the request.

Then, feeling quite silly at being spooked by the Pole, I loudly proclaimed, “Certainly, certainly! We tackle it first thing in the morning.” I then, with much bluster and pomp, commenced curling up in my sleeping bag. “Good night, lads!” I said, looking at each. Kierkegard smiled and nodded, but when I looked to Henreich, I met only that piercing gaze of his, the one that feels like it is boring into one’s very soul. I glanced away after being momentarily transfixed by the depth of his eyes, the purity of their blue. “G’night, Dr. Dovensh,” I mumbled.

“Try to sleep well, Richard,” he whispered.

For a time, the camp was quiet; then, comfortingly, the wind’s cry returned, filling the dark vessel of silence. The other two spoke softly for a bit about the evolution of the dialect used in this area of Norway, but after a brief, pensive lull in the discussion, Kierkegard skipped to a different subject.

“You know something of the nature of dreams, don’t you?” he asked Henreich.

“Something about some types of dreams, though I don’t want to hear the sordid details of your latest REM romance.”

The Polish linguist laughed hollowly; it failed in the air, dropping to a nervous chuckle and finally dying in a long pause. “No… no, it’s nothing that… good, I fear. You see, Henri, I had a pretty bad… uh, I guess, nightmare last night.”

“Why do you ‘guess’ it was a nightmare?”

“It seemed so… real… or surreal. It was simply unlike any dream I’ve had in my life. The intensity….”

There was a long pause during which, though my back was to the men and the fire, I was certain that Kierkegard was under one of the Guru’s piercing stares.

“What happened?” the German eventually muttered.

“Well, it’s not quite clear to me. All that I remember is terror… and pain… searing, frigid pain. And I couldn’t wake up, Henri! I was… trapped… doomed. I was helpless.”

Throughout this discourse, Kierkegard’s voice had developed a tremble, and the closing “helpless” came out as a squeak, his voice cracking. A thrill ran down my spine; I empathized with the Pole; I chilled at the imagining of anything which could so shake the unflappable, ever-jovial Brozney.

I heard then a rustle from where Henreich sat and heard him say, in a intoned, uninflected voice, “It is no more; it is not real. Sleep.”

I softly rolled over to see him leaning towards Kierkegard. His right arm was outstretched, the fingertips of its hand rested lightly on the Pole’s forehead. Beneath them, Kierkegard’s eyelids had begun to droop and, within seconds, he slumped slowly sideways and lay still on his blanket. Henreich covered him, then laid down himself and, humming his mantra softly in his chest, he drifted off.

I awoke the next morning in shadow, though bright blue sky smiled over the walls. The day was no more than an hour old, meaning I had slept but six or seven hours. I, nonetheless, felt curiously refreshed—as if rousing from one of those Sunday twelve-hour sleeps—and, though I remembered the previous night’s talk, I could hearken no dream to the forefront of my mind.

Henreich was still in the same position in which he had fallen asleep, but his eyes were now open and his light gaze rested upon my rising form. The air of mystery from the previous evening was burned away like the moors’ fog, and I asked him, jokingly, about his “magic trick.”

He looked thoughtfully at me for a heartbeat or three, then asked, “Why don’t you ask Broz about that?”

I shook the snoring Pole out of his slumber, greeting him to the new day. He was slow to awaken, but once he did, his eyes shone brightly and a grand, silly smile bloomed on his face.

“Ingred came to me last night. Wonderful as ever, she was.”

Laughing, we began preparing breakfast. The darkness, the silence, and their numbing grip fled to catch their departed mother, Night.

We cooked and ate quickly, and while we were busy cleaning up the dirties, I ventured a suggestion.

“Well, what say we do a survey of the rear courtyard and towers; try to find something of interest?”

Henreich looked at me and said, “No, I think we need to look into Kierkegard’s door.”

To this day, I know not if I had forgotten about the discovery or had merely hidden it from myself. A brief revulsion at its mention, though, stirred my breakfast. Yet the sun shone now, warm upon my bald, scientific head; I cheerfully consented, and the three of us shouldered our daypacks and headed for the high wall dividing the fore and rear courtyards.

The back yard was a far worse sight to behold than the one in which we camped. Much more evidence of the raiders’ destruction was revealed by stone piles and, strangely enough, jagged crevices which broke the dirt and rock ground into four islands. The northeast tower was no more; strife and time had reduced it to boulder, rubble, and dust.

Kierkegard led us around the curve of the center tower to a large stone door recessed into the corner where the tower and east wall met.

“Here it is,” the linguist said. “Notice the writing above it? Though the message is clear enough—to one who understands it, of course—the etching seems a bit extravagant, eh? I suppose its merely the engraver’s flourish.”

“I don’t think so, Doctor,” said Henreich. His face was chiseled into stern concentration, an unnerving duplicate of the classical mask of Banquo’s ghost in theatre. He reached up to trace the swirls of the rune, but sharply retracted his hand upon touching them. “No, no. Most definitely something more. I think we should proceed with extreme caution, gentlemen. These words do not offer a shallow warning.”

“Well, whatever you think is best, Herr Doktor,” I replied, feeling more than a little exasperated by his theatrics over something so straight-forward. I stepped up to examine the lock and hinges of the portal. “It opens out, so I anticipate stairs beyond. The lock is quite amazingly preserved; must be something in the air.”

“Right, salt…,” the German mumbled with the tone I knew he reserved for children and “non-believers.”

Undaunted, though resentful of his condescension, I reached into my bag for a lockpick and screwdriver. After about fifteen minutes of fruitless struggle with the lock, I cast down the pick in disgust and, proclaiming the lock’s tumblers to be rusted, I dug into my pack for a chisel and mallet. A sigh escaped Henreich’s lips, and with an effort I suppressed the urge to lay into him and his mystical mumbo-jumbo. After a few moments of chipping at the doorjamb, I was able to break out the bolt’s slot. It was with a smug smile of success that I turned away from the effectively unlocked door to face the two men.

Henreich’s face clouded upon seeing my smile, and Kierkegard seemed suddenly quite interested in a bit of mortar protruding from the wall.

“After you, O Cautious One,” I sniggered. The German stepped up to the door and, grasping its ring, hauled it wide.

The first thing which I noticed was the stench that billowed out of the dark beyond the portal. Its fetid talons snatched out at the pit of my stomach, twisting and clawing my gut without remorse. I remember Dovensh retching and doubling over, crying out something about death. The fear which had but visited me the previous night assumed residence in my heart; and there was a moment where, had my reason not been my master, I would have turned and ran the entire route back to London.

Covering my nose with a kerchief, I stepped up abreast of Henreich and peered down into the gloom. For down it was, because beyond the thick oaken door was a spiral staircase boring into the rocky ground. The air in the stairway carried a cold moisture which, even under the late spring sun, clung uncomfortably to my skin and felt as if Death himself had wrapped his heavy cloak about me. Brozney drew an electric torch from his pack and stepped around us to shine it on the stone steps. They were smoothly chiseled, polished, and surprisingly clean.

“Hmmm, friends,” said Kierkegard. “Shall we descend?”

No was whole-heartedly my vote, but I feared embarrassment more than the unknown, so I nodded quickly. Henreich’s response was to step through the door and begin walking softly downward. Brozney followed, and I took the rear, feeling quite reluctant to leave the sun’s shining gaze for the lamp’s hazy glow.

The stairs twisted down for many steps, soon passing the line of permafrost and still winding towards Hell. Part of my mind tried to keep count of the stairs—for the record—but the building reek of decay and increasing chill smothered my attention. Each step down, I could feel, brought me closer to something unspeakable. I was about to suggest abandoning the whole thing when I noticed the echo of our steps swell and saw Dovensh step onto a level floor. I reached his side, and in the dim yellow light, I saw the chamber into which we had arrived.

It was but a short room—almost a hall—running away from the stair’s exit and ending, thirty feet away, in the most amazing set of doors which I had ever seen.

The double doors stood nearly eight feet high and seemed to be made of solid, polished steel. A brass ring was set in the center of each door, and intricate engravings coiled out from their fastenings like the serpents of Medusa’s hair. Most of the etchings appeared to be just decoration, yet some consisted of what obviously were runes. It was these features that made up the doors’ creation; more still made up their present form. Along the seam of the steel slabs there was a dried line of red wax, completely covering it. Furthermore, scrawled runes blazed in some kind of yellow paint on each door. My gaze drank in the scene of these doors in an instant then traveled right with the beam of Brozney’s torch to fall upon the cause of the room’s stench. Lying prostrate against the right wall was the remains of a man, wrapped in a purple and white robe. Henreich strode up to the body and rolled it over to expose the face.

The face was exposed… twice. First when Donvensh turned it; the second time when the head, which separated from the body, complete one roll across the floor.

Kierkegard dropped to his knees, tears dampenning his eyelids, and began mumbling some Polish prayer. Henreich stared at the corpse for a moment; I stared at him. He looked to me, a frightening, stern expression on his face. He then turned to the kneeling Brozney, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Come, Kierkegaard, can you weep so for such an ancient death?”

Looking up with shining eyes, the Pole replied, “When unconsecrated, yes!” He cast his gaze downward again, and shrouded it with respectful eyelids. He continued his prayer, shifting at one point to Latin. I was recovering from the gruesome shock by this point; and though none too steady yet, I was intrigued by the massive doors and what untouched mysteries they so stolidly interred.

“Hey, so what have we here… other than preserved organic material? No offense Broz.”

I stepped up to the wanly shimmerring brass and picked at a hardenned rivulet of wax.

A slight shock stung my fingertip just as Dovensch bellowed, “STOP THAT NOW, RICHARD STRAFFBORN!”

I froze with surprise, whether at the shock—which I presumed to be static—or at Henreich’s harsh words, I am not sure. Then I bristled.

“Just who are you to order me around, Doktor Dovensch?” I snapped, turning on my heels.

“The one you invited to advise you on paranormal phenomena, Doctor Straffborn,” he replied calmly, if a bit coldly. “That wax is a material focus for a psionic seal on this door. You distub it and those yellow wards on the doors’ faces will have their way with your body and leave it a little, smouldering cinder slowly cooling and dampenning on this chamber floor.”

The chamber suddenly seemed quite cloistering, stifling.

“Conversely,” he continued, “if you disturb said wards, the seal will flare, heat, and weld these doors permanently closed, probably also impacting your body and ours in much the way the wards would, only incidentally.” He must have seen my apprehension, for a long, quiet, low laugh echoed from his broad chest. He was not, however, smiling.

“Well,” I retorted weakly, “I don’t know if I believe all that, Henreich. I invited you here for your knowledge of folklore”—I was lying now to save face—”but, just in case you’re right….” I stepped to one side to let Dovensch through to further inspect his hoodoo.

He peered closely, his nose inches from the wax, eyes squinting tightly. I realized, after a moment, that he had shut his eyes. He hummed quietly to himself, a rhythmic throb that seemed to amplify, though I knew it did not. It got warmer… from our body heat, no doubt.

Suddenly, Henreich stood, knuckled his eyes and behind his temples, stretched, then turned to me and said, “You may remove the wax now and begin working on the locks on the door. I’m going to get some air.” He stepped over to Brozney, who all the while had been watching the two of us as if we were playing tennis. “If you would like to come along, Kierkegaard, bring the remains as well and I will assist in their burial once I’ve rested a bit.”

Brozney nodded after glancing red-eyed at me. He seemed to be somehow apprehensive of me, perhaps because of my outburst, my strangled outburst….

To quell this, I cried, “I’ll be up once the doors are unlocked, lads! We’ll all relax a bit and have a bite, eh?” I heard the quiver in my voice, and was embarrassed.

But my collegues looked back at the stair bottom and smiled calmly at me, nodding slightly.

“Yes, Richard,” said Brozney. “But don’t be too long, alright. This place is doing more than ‘preserve organic matter.'”

Their light swam around the stairs’ centerpost, faded to brown shadows. The echo of their footsteps blended with the occassional drip of white damp, then died.

.
. [Work In Progress]
.

Signed,
Dr. Richard Straffborn

Witnessed by,
David Artman

On Machiavellianism

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Niccolo di Bernardo Machiavelli was born May 3, 1469, with a modest future. Yet, after ten years in Florentine government he wrote some of the most influential works ever. His experiences as well as those in power around him greatly affect his views, and these views would greatly affect the world.

From the start, Machiavelli admired the Romans. He felt their government was one of the best established in history; and he would, in his works, often cite their methods. This, early on, set up his support of a return to earlier governing forms. He also highly regarded the Latin classics, the “golden words.” He was named gonfaloniere for life in 1502 but was purged from office in 1512 after Medici rule over Florence was installed. Machiavelli, however, learned much in ten years that would later benefit him. His encounters with Louix XII and the cardinal of Rouen as ambassador establish, for him, a basis for analysis of powerful rulers. He also visited Pope Julius II, and from that visit produces his discussion of damaging ways of middle behavior and how noone is capable of being totally good or totally evil. It was the son of Pope Alexander VI, Cesare Borgia, who proved most influential in the formation of Machiavelli’s ideas. During his three encounters with Borgia, he saw in him the prototype of a modern ruler. It was at this time he formed one of his main themes on what makes a ruler. All in all, it was his diplomatic experiences which had the most influence on him. They provided him with a ready source of examples to compare against those in his favorite classic authors and supplied him with a “laboratory” in which he could compare his budding theories to these examples.

It is after expulsion from office that Machiavelli begins his intense writing. It is now that he puts the ideas previously mentioned on parchment. The aforementioned theme he formed around Borgia described what causes someone to have a historical impact: ability or ingenuity (virtu) and good fortune (fortuna). It is in 1513 that Machiavelli’s virtu and fortuna theme (and others, to be later mentioned) is developed in the one work upon which most of his fame sits, The Prince. This work caused quite a stir initially, as Machiavelli intended; he wrote it as cause to unify Italy against French invasion. In it, he lays down his second famous theme, “Si guarda al fine” — one must consider the final result of questionable acts. He praises a beneficial goal, regardless of the violence involved in obtaining it. He also ties the first theme in with this theme by examining individual virtu and the influences of fortuna in human affairs. Another famous work of Machiavelli’s, Discourses, contains his more comprehensive studies of human nature and political theory. He more thoroughly analyses virtu and fortuna. Each ,according to him, make up half a person’s life, and no person lacking in either will become truly great.

Together, these two influences may allow a man to take advantage of a historical opportunity, or occasione. With regards to political theory, Machiavelli locates the standard of excellence for a government in the past. He asserts that present leaders should strive to reach the classic ideals of his favorite authors. He also aligns himself with classical theorists by feeling that a mixed form of government is the most stable. He sees that the conflict created by such a mix insures stability based upon dynamic equilibrium. Machiavelli therefore sees as necessary inner conflict within a state. In like manner, he expects war out of state, and calls for a citizen militia to fight it; this came from his admiration of ancient Rome or Sparta. Lastly, he sets down policy for the workings of a government. He states the need for ordini, meaning a constitution for the organization of aspects of the state. He also praises the conflict between Roman plebeians and aristocrats because it was carried on without partisans or factions. Discourses, therefore, was his most elaborate discussion of how a state should be set up and how the leaders of that state should rule.

The influences of Maciavelian works on more modern history become readily apparent now that his beliefs have been analized. Throughout history his ideas have been used for everything from a dictators propaganda to the foundation of a nation. In the worse extreme, such dictators as Mussolini and Castro have twisted his theme of using final analysis to judge actions to justify their oppressive rules. On the other hand, the United States was founded on many of his ideas. The entire mechanations of the U.S. government are layed out in the constitution, and the central government is built around a system of checks and balances, thereby creating Machiavelli’s all-important inner conflict. The first president of the U.S. was noted for his condemnation of political factions, and the first military system set up by Americans was a militia. These same impacts are seen in other governments also, which futher goes to show the impact of Machiavellianism. He did much of his writing with intent to unify Italy and instill the desire for a stable government in the people. But not only did he influence his nation, but his writings went on to influence the world.

The Cottontail Legacy: Part II

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Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a rabbit by the name of Paul Cottontail. If you think you’ve heard the name “Cottontail” before, you probably have. The illustrious Peter Cottontail was the great rabbit who, against the warnings and instructions of his mother, infiltrated Farmer John’s garden to swipe some “easy” grub. Well, Paul Cottontail is Peter The Great’s (as he had been called) son.

Paul was always very proud of his father. However, there was one thing about him that tended to bother Paul. It seems that Dear Ol’ Dad had somewhat glorified the original story of his narrow escape from death by hoeing to the point that he’d actually subdued Farmer John with his fighting prowess and had enjoyed the garden at his leisure. This fabrication really was not so bad, but it tended to make Paul feel like he was never “his father’s son.” Every time he would meet somebody around the warren, they’d always ask, “How’s that father of yours, Paul?” never “How have YOU been, Paul?” Therefore, Paul wanted very much to be a hero himself, instead of the son of one. One day, he finally figured out how.

Paul’s basic plan was simple. He’d duck into the garden, hop about a bit to prove his bravery, then grab a carrot or some lettuce and bolt. He was lucky in that he had inside information about Farmer John’s garden from one who should know: his father. However, he had to be clever and eke information from his father without arousing his suspicions (for were Peter to know of his intentions, Paul would never be let out of his sight again). This task proved to be more difficult than Paul expected. The actual truth about his father’s actions had been so muddled in exaggerations and half truths that he was only able to glean a piddling few true facts. One was that the gate to the garden was just high enough for a slight rabbit to squeeze under, and this gate led right to the cabbage section. Also, he learned that, since his father’s escape, the farmer had acquired a dog.

Paul was unsatisfied by these few solid givens, so he decided to embark on a simple reconnaissance mission one afternoon. By ambling along the chicken-wired picket fence, he was able to discern that Farmer John’s dog was a tired, mangy old Setter who answered to the name “Fritz.” As for the space under the gate, barbed coils had been affixed to the gate bottom. He also noticed that there were some curious lumps just inside the gate and down the garden rows. Oily-smelling lumps. When there seemed to be nothing more to learn, Paul hopped home to mule over his findings. He figured that some specialized help would be needed, so he decided to take a chance and confide in his friend Guido.

Now Guido was a strange kind of rabbit. He kept to himself and had no friends other than Paul. This had something to do with his favorite hobby: Human Warfare. Paul moseyed over to his den and told Guido his plan and what he had discovered on his preliminary cruise by the garden.

“Hmmm,” Guido mused, “I don’t like the sound of this P. What about these ‘lumps?'”

“C’mon, I’ll show you,” said Paul, and they hurried to the garden gate. Night had fallen, and the gibbous moon illuminated the area fairly well. The two rabbits arrived on the scene, and Guido scrutinized the lumps as closely as possible.

“Just as I thought,” he said, “Anti-personnel, pressure- sensitive incendiaries. Mines. Are you sure you want to do this, Paul? Those things’ll blow you to the moon!”

“Yes, I want to do this. But what can I do about these mine things and the barbed wire under here,” replied Paul, pointing at the bottom of the gate.

“Well,” Guido replied, “the wire is easy. I could loan you some cutters for that. But the mines… those you’ll have to just avoid. It should be a snap. It doesn’t look nearly as tough as everyone makes it out to be!”

“Yeah, well just don’t get any ideas!”

“Oh, not me! I wouldn’t want to take even the little risk there is. By the way, what plans do you have for the pooch?”

“Oh him! He’s nothing. He’ll probably be asleep tomorrow afternoon when I do it.”

“Good… good.” And with that they returned home to bang out the final plans.

The next afternoon the area outside of the garden fence was swarming with bunnies from everywhere. It seemed that Guido had informed all of the nearby warrens of “Paul the Dauntless’s attempt on The Garden.” Tickets were only half-a-root and tee shirts were available. Guido had assumed managerial control of our contender and was now standing in the bushes by the gate, working crowd control. Off by the side of the fence stood Paul’s father and mother, looking angry and worried, respectively. Paul, however, was nowhere to be seen; but then again, the designated hour had not yet arrived.

Finally, the crowd’s buzzing, like a wave, began ceasing as Paul came strolling nonchalantly down the gate path.

He was laden with a variety of accoutrements. Over his shoulder was slung a pair of binoculars; on his back was a metal detector; and in his hands, a large pair of wire cutters. The area fell completely silent as Paul stepped up to the gate. He dropped to his knees and quietly began cutting away the barbed coils. He looked up and saw that Fritz had raised his head from his paws and fixed a bored stare upon Paul. He tried not to falter under the dog’s scrutiny as he carefully pulled away the wire. Handing the cutters to Guido, he dropped prone and surveyed the garden with the binoculars.

“C’mon, Paul,” whispered Guido urgently, “Everybody’s waiting.”

Paul looked at the rabbits hiding in the brush by the path. He noticed his father staring intently at him, his expression one of anger and great anxiety. Paul shrugged off the gnawing fear in his gut, ignoring his screaming instincts for the sake of glory, and removed the detector from his back. He slid it under the gate and wiggled after it. Fritz perked up enough to almost get up when Paul stood, took the detector in hand, put on the large earphones, and began gingerly walking toward the cabbage, swinging the detector to and fro before him. He advanced all of the way to the first vegetables with no incidents. Fritz continued to half-stand as Paul looked around and bent to pluck the first leaf.

Just as he touched the head, Fritz let out a yelp/howl, claxons began “whoop-whooping,” sirens screamed, and bells clanged. Paul spun and began to clamber and stumble back to the gate, tangling in his equipment.

The back door of Farmer John’s house banged open.

Paul scrabbled closer to the gate and the faces of his family pressed against the wire. However, just as he was about to scoot under, bars sprang up from under the ground, lining the garden’s perimeter and imprisoning Paul. He fearfully turned back toward the house just in time to see Farmer John raise his rifle and fire.

Paul’s last thoughts, as he slid into oblivion, were “Damn! I knew I should’ve packed Guido’s .45”

MORAL: Anthropomorphism is silly… especially when applied to humans.

Commando

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I sat atop the bunker, silently surveying my surroundings. Nothing moved across the battleground save a few pigeons: carrion feeding on the fallen. Not a sound was carried upon the autumn breeze, but that was not surprising; the enemy was advancing from downwind.

Finding the silence quite unnerving and realizing that I was fairly visible, I jumped down from the Dumpster into a crouch. The stick slung over my shoulder scratched my cheek, drawing blood. Yet, so intense was my pursuit, I ignored the pain and focused my attention on the slight movement at the corner of the dilapidated, burned out hovel. My enemy, most hated foe, doer of evil deeds and war criminal who must be vanquished. I gripped my machine pistol more tightly and began advancing upon the villain’s hiding place. The closer I got, the more my insides churned and swirled, the more nervously excited I became. I reached the corner of the house, raised my pistol, and dived around the corner, gun blazing.

“Bu-du-du-du-du-dang!”

I saw the fiend’s eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in anger. He raised his machine gun and fired at me as I hit the ground.

“Ba-a-a-a-a-am! Gotcha!”

“Nu-uh, I had you before you even saw me!”

“Bull, man, you missed ’cause you was jumpin’! You’re dead, stupid!”

“You’re the one’s who’s dead, you cheater!” I yelled at him. He threw down his machine gun, causing the rotting stick to break.

“If you won’t play right and die, I quit!” And with that said, my best friend stalked angrily homeward. I turned; and, with the hose nozzle that had served as my pistol hanging loosely from my hand, I walked, victorious and defeated, towards the distant light shining into the deepening dusk. Headquarters.