Jason Dias's Blog, page 3
April 29, 2018
Exceprt from Finding Life on Mars
I shook my head, lifted off the helmet, stripped away the mask that covered my mouth and nose. Took one breath, exhaled, replaced the mask. Feeling no ill effects for a minute, I took off the mask again, took two breaths. I repeated the process until I breathed the interior air continuously.
"Why did you do that?" Merlin asked.
"I did not wish to risk you. You are too important to the colony," I said.
"The colony?"
"Yes."
He nodded, turned away so I could see nothing of his face. Then he started to take off his own helmet.
"Too much risk," I said. "If there is some toxin at work in here it may take time to affect..."
"What happens to you happens also to me," Merlin repeated. "You are too important to risk."
"I am of no consequence," I said.
"Perhaps, on the cosmic scale. And while you have some value to the colony, to me you are everything." The helmet was off now, mask lifted to rest on his forehead. He still faced away from me but his voice came clear through the atmosphere rather than through the headset now. "Parents die for their children. It is perverse for children to die for their parents. Illogical and undue."
"Tell me how it was," I said, rather than argue. "The last days on Earth. The first days here. How was it to fly through space?"
"Why did you do that?" Merlin asked.
"I did not wish to risk you. You are too important to the colony," I said.
"The colony?"
"Yes."
He nodded, turned away so I could see nothing of his face. Then he started to take off his own helmet.
"Too much risk," I said. "If there is some toxin at work in here it may take time to affect..."
"What happens to you happens also to me," Merlin repeated. "You are too important to risk."
"I am of no consequence," I said.
"Perhaps, on the cosmic scale. And while you have some value to the colony, to me you are everything." The helmet was off now, mask lifted to rest on his forehead. He still faced away from me but his voice came clear through the atmosphere rather than through the headset now. "Parents die for their children. It is perverse for children to die for their parents. Illogical and undue."
"Tell me how it was," I said, rather than argue. "The last days on Earth. The first days here. How was it to fly through space?"
January 25, 2018
Destiny: An excerpt from work in progress
Destiny
Bishop Clearey stepped into the confessional. He nestled in there in the dark, the only light coming from candles filtered through the screened, latticed window. He moved aside the slide, signaling whoever sat in the other side of the booth that he was open for business.
A woman’s voice. Her voice. “Forgive me, Father, for I am sin. I gave my last confession at the moment of my death.”
He frowned. Reached for the window slide, then let his hand fall into his lap. He started to speak, halted, began again. “It is a grave matter to intrude here. I am here to hear the confessions of priests, a sacred charge. You profane this place with your words.”
“Such is my intent, sir.”
“Who are you? Get out. Leave this place and do not return with your profanities. Our Heavenly Father will forgive you if you repent.”
She chuckled. “There is no forgiveness for us.”
The hairs on the backs of his hands stood on end. The remains of the wispy, white hair on his head did the same. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am. You stole my baby and tortured my lover. I have come for you.”
“No. Demon.” He stood, reaching for the large, wooden crucifix hung from a loop of cloth around his neck. His other hand gripped his stole. “Get out. How dare you come to this place – this church, this holy room? Get out. I command you. Our Father commands you.” He pushed open his door, stepped out, flung open the other door.
The room was empty.
He stood to one side of a chapel. Dark pews made a ladder of shadows reaching back into the depths of the church. From the far side, a priest entered, young and fresh of face, hands clasped around a Bible. “Father?”
“Young Father Bertrand. Come here. Bring out your cross. Hold it up, so. Open that book, boy. The Gospel of John. Read it aloud. Now.”
The younger priest complied, a concern drawing down his brows and confusion making him clumsy. Clearey dropped to his knees on the spot. “Mary, Mother of God, hear my confession. I have been prideful. I have taken it to myself to judge the weak among your Son’s clergy. Now I take it to myself to chase demons out of this most holy of places; necessity does not blind me to the sin of pride. Protect us in our hour of need.” He mumbled something in Latin as Bertrand began to read, also in Latin, from the prescribed verse.
Nothing seemed to change. The confessional remained empty. Candles burned around the place, steady and warm.
Both men finished their benedictions. Bertrand said, “Bishop? What is this about?”
He did not answer. He went to the baptismal font, up at the pulpit. He wet his hands, still muttering in Latin, then returned to the confessional. He sprinkled water from his fingers into the little cell.
Another chuckle rattled through the echoing space of the chapel. It sparkled like the stained glass in the windows.
“Bishop?”
“Keep reading that passage. Repeat it until I tell you to stop.”
“Yes, Bishop.” He began again.
“Demon, show me your face. I command it. The father commands it. The Son commands it. The Holy Ghost commands it.”
Her voice, coy, wheedling: “The Father has turned away from you. The Son died long ago and the Romans lost his body. And ghosts… You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“The Lord will not be mocked.” He turned in a circle, cross upraised, gripping his stole once more. “Show me your face. I command it. Tell me your name.”
In a dark whisper: “Ysabeau!” She sprang out of the air, becoming real, taking shape. She landed on him, knees astride his chest, face in his throat. He stumbled back under sudden weight, crashing into Bertrand. They both fell against a pew. Bertrand splayed out across the floor, losing his Bible but retaining his crucifix. Clearey fell between the pews. He cried out, voice full of fear and pain.
Bertrand gained his feet and rushed at Ysabeau with cross upraised. “The power of Christ! I compel you with his word, his love, with the authority of the risen savior!”
She turned and looked back at him as if her neck lacked bones. “Speak your command, slave of the blood god.”
“Trickster. Heathen devil. The Master compels you with his voice. It is my voice. I fear no evil. Flee this place, demon.”
Blood coated her chin. Her eyes were green and bright in the candlelight. He advanced on her and she did as he said: she fled the cross he held between them. Her body moved away, and then dissipated: a weak fog and then nothing at all, no sign but a dull sigh.
The young priest stood for a moment, victorious and stern, before kneeling to check on the bishop. That man lay with his throat open, pale as a wisteria bloom in moonlight. “Bishop?”
The old man reached up with one hand, gripping the other’s cassock. “You did well, boy. But the devil has many tricks. He will come back. Be ready… for…” His hand fell to the floor.
Bertrand put his ear to Clearey’s chest. He listened, then ran from the chapel. He came back with two nurses, each adorned with habits and crosses.
My eyes cracked open to a scene of faded daylight illuminating a close-up view of my kitchen table. The grains in the wood stood out, a map to the future. Half a pizza occupied an open box in front of me, grease congealed, reeking and alluring at once. I had eaten like a starving woman then crashed hard. Over-salted and dehydrated. My throat tasted like the floor of an abattoir. My head ached, with no intervention needed from my dead roommate.
“Ugh.”
Water. Two glasses, cold. I glanced at the clock on the stove: four twenty. A little daylight left but nothing to be done with it but wait for dark. For Her.
Bishop Clearey stepped into the confessional. He nestled in there in the dark, the only light coming from candles filtered through the screened, latticed window. He moved aside the slide, signaling whoever sat in the other side of the booth that he was open for business.
A woman’s voice. Her voice. “Forgive me, Father, for I am sin. I gave my last confession at the moment of my death.”
He frowned. Reached for the window slide, then let his hand fall into his lap. He started to speak, halted, began again. “It is a grave matter to intrude here. I am here to hear the confessions of priests, a sacred charge. You profane this place with your words.”
“Such is my intent, sir.”
“Who are you? Get out. Leave this place and do not return with your profanities. Our Heavenly Father will forgive you if you repent.”
She chuckled. “There is no forgiveness for us.”
The hairs on the backs of his hands stood on end. The remains of the wispy, white hair on his head did the same. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am. You stole my baby and tortured my lover. I have come for you.”
“No. Demon.” He stood, reaching for the large, wooden crucifix hung from a loop of cloth around his neck. His other hand gripped his stole. “Get out. How dare you come to this place – this church, this holy room? Get out. I command you. Our Father commands you.” He pushed open his door, stepped out, flung open the other door.
The room was empty.
He stood to one side of a chapel. Dark pews made a ladder of shadows reaching back into the depths of the church. From the far side, a priest entered, young and fresh of face, hands clasped around a Bible. “Father?”
“Young Father Bertrand. Come here. Bring out your cross. Hold it up, so. Open that book, boy. The Gospel of John. Read it aloud. Now.”
The younger priest complied, a concern drawing down his brows and confusion making him clumsy. Clearey dropped to his knees on the spot. “Mary, Mother of God, hear my confession. I have been prideful. I have taken it to myself to judge the weak among your Son’s clergy. Now I take it to myself to chase demons out of this most holy of places; necessity does not blind me to the sin of pride. Protect us in our hour of need.” He mumbled something in Latin as Bertrand began to read, also in Latin, from the prescribed verse.
Nothing seemed to change. The confessional remained empty. Candles burned around the place, steady and warm.
Both men finished their benedictions. Bertrand said, “Bishop? What is this about?”
He did not answer. He went to the baptismal font, up at the pulpit. He wet his hands, still muttering in Latin, then returned to the confessional. He sprinkled water from his fingers into the little cell.
Another chuckle rattled through the echoing space of the chapel. It sparkled like the stained glass in the windows.
“Bishop?”
“Keep reading that passage. Repeat it until I tell you to stop.”
“Yes, Bishop.” He began again.
“Demon, show me your face. I command it. The father commands it. The Son commands it. The Holy Ghost commands it.”
Her voice, coy, wheedling: “The Father has turned away from you. The Son died long ago and the Romans lost his body. And ghosts… You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“The Lord will not be mocked.” He turned in a circle, cross upraised, gripping his stole once more. “Show me your face. I command it. Tell me your name.”
In a dark whisper: “Ysabeau!” She sprang out of the air, becoming real, taking shape. She landed on him, knees astride his chest, face in his throat. He stumbled back under sudden weight, crashing into Bertrand. They both fell against a pew. Bertrand splayed out across the floor, losing his Bible but retaining his crucifix. Clearey fell between the pews. He cried out, voice full of fear and pain.
Bertrand gained his feet and rushed at Ysabeau with cross upraised. “The power of Christ! I compel you with his word, his love, with the authority of the risen savior!”
She turned and looked back at him as if her neck lacked bones. “Speak your command, slave of the blood god.”
“Trickster. Heathen devil. The Master compels you with his voice. It is my voice. I fear no evil. Flee this place, demon.”
Blood coated her chin. Her eyes were green and bright in the candlelight. He advanced on her and she did as he said: she fled the cross he held between them. Her body moved away, and then dissipated: a weak fog and then nothing at all, no sign but a dull sigh.
The young priest stood for a moment, victorious and stern, before kneeling to check on the bishop. That man lay with his throat open, pale as a wisteria bloom in moonlight. “Bishop?”
The old man reached up with one hand, gripping the other’s cassock. “You did well, boy. But the devil has many tricks. He will come back. Be ready… for…” His hand fell to the floor.
Bertrand put his ear to Clearey’s chest. He listened, then ran from the chapel. He came back with two nurses, each adorned with habits and crosses.
My eyes cracked open to a scene of faded daylight illuminating a close-up view of my kitchen table. The grains in the wood stood out, a map to the future. Half a pizza occupied an open box in front of me, grease congealed, reeking and alluring at once. I had eaten like a starving woman then crashed hard. Over-salted and dehydrated. My throat tasted like the floor of an abattoir. My head ached, with no intervention needed from my dead roommate.
“Ugh.”
Water. Two glasses, cold. I glanced at the clock on the stove: four twenty. A little daylight left but nothing to be done with it but wait for dark. For Her.
January 5, 2018
Movie review: Dracula Untold
I’m behind the times. So sue me.
Finally got around to Dracula Untold. Approached it without much enthusiasm, low expectations. 2nd tier Orlando Bloom did about as good a job as you’d expect from the guy who looks like the guy who plays Legolas – he was OK. Charles Dance classes up any movie, so there’s a high point.
The history is all wrong, wrong, wrong. That’s an annoyance. I thought the whole enterprise was weird, though. First, we want to have a vampire who isn’t really evil. Story-telling wise, the moral conflicts added some much needed tension to the otherwise not-that-interesting story arc.
Here’s the problem: our expectations have gotten really high. We aren’t impressed with turning into smoke or moving kinda fast. We’re not impressed with pretty fangs and frock coats. The movie turned Dracula into a superhero.
He can fly. He morphs into a cloud of bats that can fly faster than bats, and can also do other handy things – like turn into God’s Fist. In his first scene as a vampire confronting an army, he wipes out the whole army, by himself, in a few seconds.
Go back and watch the old Conan movies. Arnie was so huge, the directors had a hard time presenting him with and serious challenges. They had to resort to football players and basketball players to find people who existed on his scale. At the end of Destroyer, he fights a costumed Andre the Giant.
The Superman franchise jumped the shark a long time ago. In the 40’s, he beat up mob bosses and jumped over cars. Now he throws continents into space and bullet bounce off his eyeballs.
Whatever.
No realistic threats. No limitations. Snooze.
The thing is, really the only threat to Dracula, once he meets the ex-machina Charles Dance Master Vampire in a cave, is the moral question: he’ll have to do some unpleasant things to protect his people. That could have been played much stronger. But it wasn’t. In the end, his Turkish enemy inexplicably manages to sneak into the castle while Dracula is distracted fighting the army. Equally inexplicably, his mortal enemy seems to know what vampires are and that they don’t like silver. These things are corrections to the godlike power given the title character which itself covers up for poor story telling with spectacle.
There is some spectacle. Almost-Orlando-Bloom is almost as pretty at Orlando Bloom; he looks pretty good in his armor. The special effects are OK, if you’re into that kind of thing. But I just couldn’t maintain serious interest in this film.
Finally got around to Dracula Untold. Approached it without much enthusiasm, low expectations. 2nd tier Orlando Bloom did about as good a job as you’d expect from the guy who looks like the guy who plays Legolas – he was OK. Charles Dance classes up any movie, so there’s a high point.
The history is all wrong, wrong, wrong. That’s an annoyance. I thought the whole enterprise was weird, though. First, we want to have a vampire who isn’t really evil. Story-telling wise, the moral conflicts added some much needed tension to the otherwise not-that-interesting story arc.
Here’s the problem: our expectations have gotten really high. We aren’t impressed with turning into smoke or moving kinda fast. We’re not impressed with pretty fangs and frock coats. The movie turned Dracula into a superhero.
He can fly. He morphs into a cloud of bats that can fly faster than bats, and can also do other handy things – like turn into God’s Fist. In his first scene as a vampire confronting an army, he wipes out the whole army, by himself, in a few seconds.
Go back and watch the old Conan movies. Arnie was so huge, the directors had a hard time presenting him with and serious challenges. They had to resort to football players and basketball players to find people who existed on his scale. At the end of Destroyer, he fights a costumed Andre the Giant.
The Superman franchise jumped the shark a long time ago. In the 40’s, he beat up mob bosses and jumped over cars. Now he throws continents into space and bullet bounce off his eyeballs.
Whatever.
No realistic threats. No limitations. Snooze.
The thing is, really the only threat to Dracula, once he meets the ex-machina Charles Dance Master Vampire in a cave, is the moral question: he’ll have to do some unpleasant things to protect his people. That could have been played much stronger. But it wasn’t. In the end, his Turkish enemy inexplicably manages to sneak into the castle while Dracula is distracted fighting the army. Equally inexplicably, his mortal enemy seems to know what vampires are and that they don’t like silver. These things are corrections to the godlike power given the title character which itself covers up for poor story telling with spectacle.
There is some spectacle. Almost-Orlando-Bloom is almost as pretty at Orlando Bloom; he looks pretty good in his armor. The special effects are OK, if you’re into that kind of thing. But I just couldn’t maintain serious interest in this film.
November 27, 2017
Pantheon: Excerpt from To Remember Their Names
The notion was not so foreign, not so alien. Kuzan was not a person. People did not live in imaginary spaces under the world. Monsters from stories came from those places. Or gods.
Chess used to tell about a queen who, to save her people, battled hoards of monsters trying to erupt out from under the ice at the top of the world. She fought them with a sword made from the tusk of a walrus that was itself a god.
So what was Kuzan, if not a person? A spirit? A monster? A god?
Seta returned, interrupting his thoughts. “I had your clothes cleaned. And I picked some leaves to make a tincture. But your fever might be made of myths and magic, in which case no leaves dissolved in spirits will avail you.” She set down a bundle on the table next to Guarl’s cooling breakfast. “You should eat.”
“I thought I was eating.”
“You are from far away, so maybe your customs are different. Here, when we eat, we do so by putting food into our mouths and chewing it. Perhaps in Hitai you eat by sitting still and exuding weird blue lights. Let me feel your forehead. Hm. No need for medicine, after all.”
“But I could use the beer. If it isn’t too much an intrusion on your hospitality.”
“For a consort of women from Sheol, I will extend however much hospitality keeps my skin on my back.”
Guarl raised his eyebrows. He could only guess what Sheol might be. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Not afraid of you, boy. Heh. We spent the night together, after all. That thing you came in with, though…”
“Thing?”
“Made of fire and darkness. Evil. There are three powers in the world: madness, rule, and evil. That’s a dark one you truck with.”
He thought some more. Tried to match those ideas up with what he already knew. Seta went into the back room and came back with his pack. She stuffed his clothes into it, then poured him a horn of beer from a gourd over her mantle.
Guarl said, “I know about chaos and order. The blue light you saw is the lake spirit from my home. It rides me like a man might ride an ass. It likes fire and water.”
“Things that boil, that can’t be foretold.”
“Yes. And opposite that spirit, we might imagine there is another kind of spirit. It lives in stone and steel, in things that are hard to change. Things that endure.”
“More than a supposition.” She sat on her low stool next to him. “Long ago and miles away… well, the god that fell into your lands wasn’t the first.”
He stared at her until he was sure she wasn’t going to say anything more. “Now you imagine that the worst impulses of people are a spirit of their own.”
“Imagined it until last night. Then I met the spirit.”
“She would want murder.”
“Stillborn children and curdled milk, fear, slavery.”
He took a deep breath. “Why would a thing like that want to rescue someone like me from under the world?”
“Drink your beer, boy.”
He sipped, then did more than sip. The taste was musty and good. “Is there a fourth spirit? One of virtue and kindness to stand across from evil?”
Seta laughed and spat.
“I should go.”
“I wish you would.” Then, seeing his hurt look: “Sorry, boy. But Hitaians know this thing: when gods walk about on the world, the little people get crushed underfoot. With all the love I can muster, I just want you to go walk someplace else.”
Chess used to tell about a queen who, to save her people, battled hoards of monsters trying to erupt out from under the ice at the top of the world. She fought them with a sword made from the tusk of a walrus that was itself a god.
So what was Kuzan, if not a person? A spirit? A monster? A god?
Seta returned, interrupting his thoughts. “I had your clothes cleaned. And I picked some leaves to make a tincture. But your fever might be made of myths and magic, in which case no leaves dissolved in spirits will avail you.” She set down a bundle on the table next to Guarl’s cooling breakfast. “You should eat.”
“I thought I was eating.”
“You are from far away, so maybe your customs are different. Here, when we eat, we do so by putting food into our mouths and chewing it. Perhaps in Hitai you eat by sitting still and exuding weird blue lights. Let me feel your forehead. Hm. No need for medicine, after all.”
“But I could use the beer. If it isn’t too much an intrusion on your hospitality.”
“For a consort of women from Sheol, I will extend however much hospitality keeps my skin on my back.”
Guarl raised his eyebrows. He could only guess what Sheol might be. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Not afraid of you, boy. Heh. We spent the night together, after all. That thing you came in with, though…”
“Thing?”
“Made of fire and darkness. Evil. There are three powers in the world: madness, rule, and evil. That’s a dark one you truck with.”
He thought some more. Tried to match those ideas up with what he already knew. Seta went into the back room and came back with his pack. She stuffed his clothes into it, then poured him a horn of beer from a gourd over her mantle.
Guarl said, “I know about chaos and order. The blue light you saw is the lake spirit from my home. It rides me like a man might ride an ass. It likes fire and water.”
“Things that boil, that can’t be foretold.”
“Yes. And opposite that spirit, we might imagine there is another kind of spirit. It lives in stone and steel, in things that are hard to change. Things that endure.”
“More than a supposition.” She sat on her low stool next to him. “Long ago and miles away… well, the god that fell into your lands wasn’t the first.”
He stared at her until he was sure she wasn’t going to say anything more. “Now you imagine that the worst impulses of people are a spirit of their own.”
“Imagined it until last night. Then I met the spirit.”
“She would want murder.”
“Stillborn children and curdled milk, fear, slavery.”
He took a deep breath. “Why would a thing like that want to rescue someone like me from under the world?”
“Drink your beer, boy.”
He sipped, then did more than sip. The taste was musty and good. “Is there a fourth spirit? One of virtue and kindness to stand across from evil?”
Seta laughed and spat.
“I should go.”
“I wish you would.” Then, seeing his hurt look: “Sorry, boy. But Hitaians know this thing: when gods walk about on the world, the little people get crushed underfoot. With all the love I can muster, I just want you to go walk someplace else.”
November 25, 2017
Free stuff
Happy small business Saturday.
Almost all my books are free on Kindle for the next two or three days. The best way to support authors is to review their works on Amazon.
https://www.amazon.com/Values-Pain-cu...
Almost all my books are free on Kindle for the next two or three days. The best way to support authors is to review their works on Amazon.
https://www.amazon.com/Values-Pain-cu...
November 23, 2017
History: An excerpt from To Bury Their Parents, coming soon
History
Jul woke up from a nightmare. Fires. Walking over hot coals, being chased by his mother in her headdress and golden beard, many big men behind her, all with gold and turquoise headdresses.
Awake was hardly better than asleep. The soles of his feet hurt not from his dream but from his punishment. And the room was full of thunder. It rolled off his door, over his rugs, into the softness of his bed, and into his aching head.
No, not thunder.
Someone was knocking on it. Someone strong.
“Come,” he said, voice weak with self-pity. And, when they kept knocking, “Open the door, damnit!”
The door creaked open, letting in a cool draft from outside. Jul pushed his feet out from under his furs and let the breeze caress them. Then he looked at the man who filled his doorway.
He was not tall, at least not compared to other men around the palace. Maybe for a peasant. But he was wide, as wide as two men. And old: at least fifty, twice Jul’s mother’s age. Bald head, lines around his mouth and eyes, broken teeth in his smiling mouth. And a limp.
His skin was dark as Jul’s own, palms golden. This marked him as one of The Blood. But his clothes...
“What are you?” Jul said.
The man laughed. “Not what, fool. Who.”
“Fool?” Jul started to get indignant.
“Ah, be calm. I am a Prince as you are a Prince, boy. Yes. You have neither sisters nor brothers, have you? You mother could not bear to have to kill them, or watch you do it. You’ve never met someone so high in The Blood as you, have you?” He laughed again.
“A Prince? Really? I do not believe you. All my mother’s family are dead. And you are too old.”
“Too old to be a prince? I suppose you’re right, boy. I’ve been away. Slaving, trading. Exiled. Your father’s brother, not yours or your mother’s. See these furs? Ice bear, this one.” He pointed to his cloak, an extreme affectation in this hot place. “Wolf here.” The skins that covered his chest and arms. “Plain cow for the leggings and boots. Good Northern steel in the scabbards.” He wore several knives and swords – in the presence of the heir.
“My father? You knew him?”
“Oh yes,” he said, coming in. He sat on the end of Jul’s bed. It sank under his weight. His eyebrows raised, and raised more as he glanced at Jul’s feet. “Your mother did this to you?”
“Punishment,” he said. “Slaves did it.”
“Oh. Well, your father was no better, in the end. It was exile for me, or else death. That’s the way of it here. And make no mistake, boy: those are your choices, too. You kill her and you do it her way, or else she’ll murder you out of hand. She won’t like it, no, but she’ll do it.”
“You came to tell me that? I have ten years. This much I know.”
“Well,” the man said. “A smart boy, then. You will know to keep me a secret, if you’re that smart.”
“She doesn’t know you’ve come back?”
“She thinks I’m dead. They all do. I played them a game. A lifetime ago. Now I’m just a poor trader named Chans. Haha. Soon, though, maybe I’ll be Ergol once again. Ergol with the club foot.” He reached under his fur shirt and pulled out a pouch, tied around his neck with a strip of leather. “Bones, boy. Ankle bones. Whole thing hinges on these.”
While Jul’s eyes were on the bag, the Chans’ other hand slipped to his waist, loosened a knife. He pulled it, tossed it onto the boy’s chest. It dropped into his lap.
“Always watch both hands,” Chans said. “Never look where you’re told to look.”
“I won’t.” He took the knife in one hand, found it to be sized and balanced for a child. Steel, rippling in the light. “Good knife.”
“Worth more than your ass,” Chans said, and laughed at Jul’s shocked look. “Told you, I’m a common sort, have been since before your mother’s mother snuck into her father’s bed. Oh yes, more secrets, boy. She told you your father was her father, didn’t she? Stupid cow. She never saw it. I saw it. Or my spies did. No matter. You can shake this place up, if you want to. I’ll help. Only, don’t tell anyone about me yet.”
“I won’t,” Jul said.
“I’ll be off now. Guards will be by this way soon and if they find me here, they’ll ask some questions I can only answer with murder. It isn’t time yet for any murder.”
Jul did not want him to go. Only a few minutes, but more words, more honesty than he had ever known. A peer, even an ancient one, was something he had missed from his life and never known. But Chans was up and gone before Jul could mount much of a protest.
Jul woke up from a nightmare. Fires. Walking over hot coals, being chased by his mother in her headdress and golden beard, many big men behind her, all with gold and turquoise headdresses.
Awake was hardly better than asleep. The soles of his feet hurt not from his dream but from his punishment. And the room was full of thunder. It rolled off his door, over his rugs, into the softness of his bed, and into his aching head.
No, not thunder.
Someone was knocking on it. Someone strong.
“Come,” he said, voice weak with self-pity. And, when they kept knocking, “Open the door, damnit!”
The door creaked open, letting in a cool draft from outside. Jul pushed his feet out from under his furs and let the breeze caress them. Then he looked at the man who filled his doorway.
He was not tall, at least not compared to other men around the palace. Maybe for a peasant. But he was wide, as wide as two men. And old: at least fifty, twice Jul’s mother’s age. Bald head, lines around his mouth and eyes, broken teeth in his smiling mouth. And a limp.
His skin was dark as Jul’s own, palms golden. This marked him as one of The Blood. But his clothes...
“What are you?” Jul said.
The man laughed. “Not what, fool. Who.”
“Fool?” Jul started to get indignant.
“Ah, be calm. I am a Prince as you are a Prince, boy. Yes. You have neither sisters nor brothers, have you? You mother could not bear to have to kill them, or watch you do it. You’ve never met someone so high in The Blood as you, have you?” He laughed again.
“A Prince? Really? I do not believe you. All my mother’s family are dead. And you are too old.”
“Too old to be a prince? I suppose you’re right, boy. I’ve been away. Slaving, trading. Exiled. Your father’s brother, not yours or your mother’s. See these furs? Ice bear, this one.” He pointed to his cloak, an extreme affectation in this hot place. “Wolf here.” The skins that covered his chest and arms. “Plain cow for the leggings and boots. Good Northern steel in the scabbards.” He wore several knives and swords – in the presence of the heir.
“My father? You knew him?”
“Oh yes,” he said, coming in. He sat on the end of Jul’s bed. It sank under his weight. His eyebrows raised, and raised more as he glanced at Jul’s feet. “Your mother did this to you?”
“Punishment,” he said. “Slaves did it.”
“Oh. Well, your father was no better, in the end. It was exile for me, or else death. That’s the way of it here. And make no mistake, boy: those are your choices, too. You kill her and you do it her way, or else she’ll murder you out of hand. She won’t like it, no, but she’ll do it.”
“You came to tell me that? I have ten years. This much I know.”
“Well,” the man said. “A smart boy, then. You will know to keep me a secret, if you’re that smart.”
“She doesn’t know you’ve come back?”
“She thinks I’m dead. They all do. I played them a game. A lifetime ago. Now I’m just a poor trader named Chans. Haha. Soon, though, maybe I’ll be Ergol once again. Ergol with the club foot.” He reached under his fur shirt and pulled out a pouch, tied around his neck with a strip of leather. “Bones, boy. Ankle bones. Whole thing hinges on these.”
While Jul’s eyes were on the bag, the Chans’ other hand slipped to his waist, loosened a knife. He pulled it, tossed it onto the boy’s chest. It dropped into his lap.
“Always watch both hands,” Chans said. “Never look where you’re told to look.”
“I won’t.” He took the knife in one hand, found it to be sized and balanced for a child. Steel, rippling in the light. “Good knife.”
“Worth more than your ass,” Chans said, and laughed at Jul’s shocked look. “Told you, I’m a common sort, have been since before your mother’s mother snuck into her father’s bed. Oh yes, more secrets, boy. She told you your father was her father, didn’t she? Stupid cow. She never saw it. I saw it. Or my spies did. No matter. You can shake this place up, if you want to. I’ll help. Only, don’t tell anyone about me yet.”
“I won’t,” Jul said.
“I’ll be off now. Guards will be by this way soon and if they find me here, they’ll ask some questions I can only answer with murder. It isn’t time yet for any murder.”
Jul did not want him to go. Only a few minutes, but more words, more honesty than he had ever known. A peer, even an ancient one, was something he had missed from his life and never known. But Chans was up and gone before Jul could mount much of a protest.
November 22, 2017
The duty of teachers: An excerpt from To Bury Their Parents
"He is not a bright boy, I am afraid to tell My King," the teacher said.
"Intellect is rarely a virtue of the rulers," Dllyx admitted. "I suspect he is his father's son more than his mother's, and his father always ruled by force of arms over swiftness of wit. Still, there must be some way to get the histories into his mind."
"My King, it might be helpful to know what it is you want him to know, and then just tell him. He does not seem the type of boy to learn by inference."
"A direct approach, Wyrrn?"
"Yes, My King."
Dllyx thought. "Then drop history completely. Teach him how to poison and check for poison. Teach him how to plant sharp objects in fruits. How to distract with a false plot within a false plot while constructing a real one. How the simplest tricks are the most effective."
"Pardon my stupidity, Great King, but do you wish him to kill you?"
"Do you think me stupid enough to be killed?"
"No, My King, please forgive such an allusion. Rather, the histories are replete with kings who allowed themselves to die so that their children could ascend unharmed."
"Ah. No. But let him know I know every trick, every plot, every device. Let him learn to be wary. Let him grow sleepless with worry. In the long run he will benefit. When he is a man he will have to beware every lover and every girl who offers her hand. Even I shall have to send the occasional assassin if for no reason than to maintain appearances or to keep him sharp. If he dies he deserves to."
"As does his teacher?" asked Wyrrn.
Dllyx only smiled.
"Intellect is rarely a virtue of the rulers," Dllyx admitted. "I suspect he is his father's son more than his mother's, and his father always ruled by force of arms over swiftness of wit. Still, there must be some way to get the histories into his mind."
"My King, it might be helpful to know what it is you want him to know, and then just tell him. He does not seem the type of boy to learn by inference."
"A direct approach, Wyrrn?"
"Yes, My King."
Dllyx thought. "Then drop history completely. Teach him how to poison and check for poison. Teach him how to plant sharp objects in fruits. How to distract with a false plot within a false plot while constructing a real one. How the simplest tricks are the most effective."
"Pardon my stupidity, Great King, but do you wish him to kill you?"
"Do you think me stupid enough to be killed?"
"No, My King, please forgive such an allusion. Rather, the histories are replete with kings who allowed themselves to die so that their children could ascend unharmed."
"Ah. No. But let him know I know every trick, every plot, every device. Let him learn to be wary. Let him grow sleepless with worry. In the long run he will benefit. When he is a man he will have to beware every lover and every girl who offers her hand. Even I shall have to send the occasional assassin if for no reason than to maintain appearances or to keep him sharp. If he dies he deserves to."
"As does his teacher?" asked Wyrrn.
Dllyx only smiled.
Back-cover matter for To Bury Their Parents.
Coming soon on Amazon.
In this sequel to For Love of Their Children, the village of Starfall is confronted with the costs of winning the war ten years ago. They sacrificed more than they knew: lives, virtue, and the innocence of their children.
Now, as Gareth and his friends come of age in a frightening and chaotic world, the past comes back to haunt them. Long-forgotten enemies rise up to find no heroes left at the Starfall. Old heroes will awaken from their slumber and new heroes will be forged.
Far away, south of any lands on the maps in Hitai, a new threat rises. An emperor driven by another fallen god strives to perfect all the people in every land - or kill them in the attempt. Hitai and the Starfall lay in her path.
Virtue and innocence are for the living. The god of the lake knows nothing of these things. Once again, war is coming, and it will use Gareth and his friends to get what it wants: fire and blood.
In this sequel to For Love of Their Children, the village of Starfall is confronted with the costs of winning the war ten years ago. They sacrificed more than they knew: lives, virtue, and the innocence of their children.
Now, as Gareth and his friends come of age in a frightening and chaotic world, the past comes back to haunt them. Long-forgotten enemies rise up to find no heroes left at the Starfall. Old heroes will awaken from their slumber and new heroes will be forged.
Far away, south of any lands on the maps in Hitai, a new threat rises. An emperor driven by another fallen god strives to perfect all the people in every land - or kill them in the attempt. Hitai and the Starfall lay in her path.
Virtue and innocence are for the living. The god of the lake knows nothing of these things. Once again, war is coming, and it will use Gareth and his friends to get what it wants: fire and blood.
August 4, 2017
Excerpt from Values of Pain
As Jacqueline Simon Gunn says, in her interesting and provocative book Bare: Psychotherapy stripped:
"My running coach, Chantal, had me performing innumerable track workouts in preparation for my long-distance road races. They were painful; and the pain was different than what I experienced during endurance training and longer races."
And:
"The ability to stay relaxed and focused in the face of pain and exhaustion is essential to being a successful long-distance runner. This may not seem like much fun, but the sense of strength and power that comes from running is like nothing else I have ever experienced. For me, this is the psychological component of the "runner's high." When the pain seems most intense and you really want to stop, somewhere you find the strength to keep going. Continuing in the face of such a rigorous effort endows you with all the power you'll need to push on. This, then, for me at least, supplies an inner strength that is needed to move past the pain into a sort of spiritual transcendence."
This is overcoming pain as a discipline. The runner knows something the rest of us are busy forgetting: to get stronger, you have to go on until you are uncomfortable, and then go on a while longer. It is in that place where discomfort happens but activity is still possible that growth and development happen.
Whatever exercise you choose this is true. If you stop because you are tired or a little bit uncomfortable, the exercise is wasted. You never get better at the exercise you are doing. You must slightly exceed your limits each time, and this is an act of will, of discipline. This requires knowing about pain and pushing through it. Without the knowledge of pain this exercise becomes dangerous, enabling the runner or cyclist or swimmer to exceed their limits to the point of serious injury or death. Thus the distance runner has to know they have pain or discomfort, measure whether it is serious enough to attend to, and table the awareness of such pain for the good of the activity.
"My running coach, Chantal, had me performing innumerable track workouts in preparation for my long-distance road races. They were painful; and the pain was different than what I experienced during endurance training and longer races."
And:
"The ability to stay relaxed and focused in the face of pain and exhaustion is essential to being a successful long-distance runner. This may not seem like much fun, but the sense of strength and power that comes from running is like nothing else I have ever experienced. For me, this is the psychological component of the "runner's high." When the pain seems most intense and you really want to stop, somewhere you find the strength to keep going. Continuing in the face of such a rigorous effort endows you with all the power you'll need to push on. This, then, for me at least, supplies an inner strength that is needed to move past the pain into a sort of spiritual transcendence."
This is overcoming pain as a discipline. The runner knows something the rest of us are busy forgetting: to get stronger, you have to go on until you are uncomfortable, and then go on a while longer. It is in that place where discomfort happens but activity is still possible that growth and development happen.
Whatever exercise you choose this is true. If you stop because you are tired or a little bit uncomfortable, the exercise is wasted. You never get better at the exercise you are doing. You must slightly exceed your limits each time, and this is an act of will, of discipline. This requires knowing about pain and pushing through it. Without the knowledge of pain this exercise becomes dangerous, enabling the runner or cyclist or swimmer to exceed their limits to the point of serious injury or death. Thus the distance runner has to know they have pain or discomfort, measure whether it is serious enough to attend to, and table the awareness of such pain for the good of the activity.
Dedication to Values of Pain
This book is dedicated to my dog, Scooby Doo.
If that seems unusual, allow me to explain. I buried my friend today. He has been dying for a few weeks now, the good days growing ever less frequent, the bad days less tolerable. He was thirteen or fourteen - nobody rightly knows as he was a shelter rescue. He has been part of our family for twelve years, and you could not ever ask for a better dog or a more loyal, loving companion.
The last couple of years I have worked mostly from the couch where I'm sitting now, writing this dedication. Aside from a few classes a week at the community college, most of my students reside inside the computer. So I have been able to be here with Scooby as he slowly exited this world, bit by bit. He did not suffer much and I was able to fill his last weeks with fun, adventure, tasty snacks and companionship.
Dogs are not able to choose the extent to which they will suffer, or the causes for which they might suffer. They derive meaning, so far as we are able to guess, just from their relationships. When Scooby's last good days seemed to be behind him - Thursday, two days ago, he ate some raw meat from my hand and perked up for a couple of hours - we took him to the vet and pet him, the whole family, while an overdose of anesthesia took his final breath. The last thing he saw was everyone who loved him crying and smiling, making contact.
All the time I have been gamely tapping away at these keys, trying to discover and explore and explain something about pain and what it means to people, I have known this day was looming. And looming ever faster, at that. I can only hope some of that love and pain and yes, even hope, is somewhere between these pages.
Goodbye, Scoobs. You were a good friend.
If that seems unusual, allow me to explain. I buried my friend today. He has been dying for a few weeks now, the good days growing ever less frequent, the bad days less tolerable. He was thirteen or fourteen - nobody rightly knows as he was a shelter rescue. He has been part of our family for twelve years, and you could not ever ask for a better dog or a more loyal, loving companion.
The last couple of years I have worked mostly from the couch where I'm sitting now, writing this dedication. Aside from a few classes a week at the community college, most of my students reside inside the computer. So I have been able to be here with Scooby as he slowly exited this world, bit by bit. He did not suffer much and I was able to fill his last weeks with fun, adventure, tasty snacks and companionship.
Dogs are not able to choose the extent to which they will suffer, or the causes for which they might suffer. They derive meaning, so far as we are able to guess, just from their relationships. When Scooby's last good days seemed to be behind him - Thursday, two days ago, he ate some raw meat from my hand and perked up for a couple of hours - we took him to the vet and pet him, the whole family, while an overdose of anesthesia took his final breath. The last thing he saw was everyone who loved him crying and smiling, making contact.
All the time I have been gamely tapping away at these keys, trying to discover and explore and explain something about pain and what it means to people, I have known this day was looming. And looming ever faster, at that. I can only hope some of that love and pain and yes, even hope, is somewhere between these pages.
Goodbye, Scoobs. You were a good friend.
