Tag: adventure

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Here There Be Dragons

The ruin of the battle was strewn as far as anyone could see. Lifeless and dying bodies lay tangled and piled, smoking, bleeding and stinking. There were carrion birds and other vermin feasting. Yendor awoke and the smell alone made him retch. As his consciousness came into focus on his surroundings, he fought back another gagging reflex. It was late in the morning, but other than that, Yendor had no idea how much time had passed since he had lost consciousness, but the last thing he remembered was facing three hulking soldiers. They marked the points of the compass in front of him, he realized, so he must have won that contest, but he could not bring his memory to show it to him. Presumably, he had passed out after that. He burned with the sting of a hundred cuts, but none seemed serious. He must have succumbed to exhaustion. He still had the Crescent Moon and all his other belongings on him. Somehow he had been spared by the robbers who swarm the dead for treasure as soon as they feel safe from the bloodlust of the soldiers. He had heard tales of warriors seeing their fallen comrades robbed of their belongings, fall upon the the human vermin with as much gusto as any enemy. There was no other warrior awake in sight. The armies had moved on. He remembered vaguely being told to reconnect with the rebels to the south afterwards, if he was separated. Yendor took a deep breath. He would not be rejoining the army.

He sat among the carnage and contemplated his place in the world. He had been raised a musician. It had been impressed upon him that artists were proudly peaceful members of society. They were honorable. They added value to people’s lives with entertainment and the history and news they disseminated. He had abandoned all that without a second thought when he met Danse. Their short time together was like a distant dream. He had searched for her, he had become a wizard for her. He had become a warrior for her. And he had failed at every turn. What an absolute failure he had turned out to be. The chosen one? Him? He was going to vanquish Incarnate? What a joke. What hubris. He was worthless. He had become a killer, no better than those he called enemy. What was left for him?

He found his way back to the camp. His tent still stood, though the rest of the army had fled. They had left in such a hurry, they hadn’t bothered to try to save or steal any of his things. Was this some kind of pattern? Was their defeat so crushing that no one dared linger? There was the usual abandoned garbage left of the camp, but it was more. They had left in a panic. His was not the only tent left. If what remained was any indication, their army had been decimated. He rolled everything into his pack, and turned decidedly north. Away from the rebels. Away from civilization. Away from his past. Away from everything. He set off towards the wastes. “Here there be Dragons” he muttered under his breath and disappeared into the growing mists.

 

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The Blade of the Crescent Moon

The Hall of the Palace Guarde was an ancient an honored place. It was made of stones hewn from fine quarries from all over the archipelago. The outer walls gleamed with the naturally occurring sparkle within the marble, and granite. The inner rooms were inlaid with rare and exotic woods. There was a library with priceless tomes of Immaculate pedigree. There were private rooms for conferences downstairs and upstairs rooms to accommodate the weary traveler, also of Immaculate pedigree. The high ranking and well to do officers of the Elite Sorcerer’s army came here to impress each other with their accolades and fine acutrements. The jeweled swords they wore had mostly never seen battle. More important even than impressing each other, these fine weapons served the purpose of impressing the officers with themselves.

Weapons crafted by Stradivarious, or Fabrige, there were rapiers, dirks, broadswords, spathas, cutlasses and scimitars. Many carried lengthy stories of the exploits of previous owners; sorcerers, brigands, princes, slayers of hideous beasts. One such weapon was the blade of the crescent moon. Fashioned into its rain guard was a jewel: a diamond in the shape of the new moon. It was a long, thin, double edged blade.

The fable went that it was among the first of the thin bladed swords that would come into fashion in the centuries to come. It was fashioned to be lightweight, fast but able to stand up to sparring with heavier blades. Currently, its handle was a leather wrapped around a sturdy iron hilt. The blade had been used by pirates, princes, sorcerers and thieves.

Its current owner, Captain Branghost, had acquired it in a shop while stationed in the farthest reaches of the archipelago in the south east. He had been searching for a blade that was both beautiful and legendary. There were fancier swords, bigger swords, more expensive swords, but few had such a distinguished pedigree. The captain had never used in combat. Whenever he had to go into the field, he used a regulation bastard. This sword was for the Hall. The captain came here when he could. He liked to be around the elite. Of course there was no “Royal Guard”, nor had there been since Incarnate had become Sorcerer Supreme. There was no higher rank in all of Fawn of the Ta Sea. The kings and queens had all bowed down to Incarnate as he defeated island after island. Here on Fawn, the Hall and the Palace had become the sorcerer’s headquarters. It was said more plans were laid at the Hall. Incarnate himself traveled extensively and was rarely here. His own castle, the Black Keep, was Incarnate’s home and he spent most down time there. Incarnate rarely held court, though when he did, he came to the Palace here in Fawn.

Captain Branghost finished his brandy, which had been served to him in a jeweled goblet. He stood at the bar a moment longer, looking at himself sidelong in the polished silver mirror on the wall next to the bar where he stood. His dark mustache was loosing its curl on one side and the captain decided it was time to call it a day. He smiled at his comrades, most of whom smiled back. The captain, like many the the elite “Midnight order,” had a backstabbing reputation. It would not do to cross him. He was zealous in his work, which was collecting zeros as he referred to the riff raff that filled the prison camps. They were the rebels, the undesirables, the homosexuals, the deviants, the poor, the darks, the malformed. There were so many. The problem was they were allowed to exist on the fringes, breeding like vermin. They had to cross some line to be erased. The captain was given broad discretion when it came to determining what that line was, but still, they seemed to come in unending supply.

The captain stepped out into the night to discover a cold drizzle had come on since this afternoon. He wrapped his cloak about him and set off for home. He began loose his cheery disposition as the rain crept inside his uniform. Like most officers, he wore the helmet d’shon, which showed his rank and caused everyone he came into contact with to show him great deference. It’s size prohibited the captain to don the hood of his cloak and did not offer him equitable protection. He was debating taking it off so he could put his hood on and so was deep in thought when he collided with someone on the street.

“Look where you’re going, you oaf!” he said, without really looking.

“Beg your pardon, sir!” said the young boy, who was about to flee for his life.

“Stand to, boy!” said the captain in his captain’s voice. “Where are you going in such a rush?”

“Oh, home, sir! I just wanted to get out of the cold.” The boy was dressed in rags, no cloak or coat, his face filthy. He was skin and bones.

“You think you can just run into an officer of Incarnate’s elite and expect to go home unscathed?” bellowed the captain, warming to his sudden evening’s entertainment.

The boy fell to his knees, “Please, sir, I’m just trying to get home! I meant no harm.” He clasped his hands together, pleading. Pathetic.

Captain Branghost was already bored. There was no spirit in this one. He pulled his sword, unsure if he was going to beat the child or run him through. The boy saw the sword and let out a scream that immediately gave the captain a headache. He raised his sword, still unsure how he would employ it, when he got a surprise. A lithe figure, dressed in black, stepped between he and the boy. Things were looking up again. The intruder wasn’t more than a boy himself.

“Well, let’s hear it!” said the captain. “‘Oh, let the poor boy go! He’s just a boy! He’s unarmed!” Here the captain employed what he thought of as a stage woman’s voice. He was already telling this tale to his friends in his head.

The brigand drew his sword, slowly, still silent. It was chipped and without any shine. The edge was probably as dull as the finish. Captain Branghost smiled.

The captain brought his sword down, aiming for his opponent’s blade. He assumed he would chop it right in half, but the lad was quick and parried by catching the attack at the cross guard. Then he kicked captain Branghost in the stomach. The captain staggered back but recovered quickly. Probably this ruffian had been in a scrape or two but he had never faced a captain in the elite army before! Branghost stepped back into the fray slashing at his opponent furiously, never giving him an opportunity to take the offensive.

Branghost decided the boy had no formal training but had learned to handle himself, probably on the streets. He must be a thief. Perhaps a highwayman. The boy they were fighting over was long gone. If he did have a home to go to it wasn’t in this district. The boy was probably homeless and was a cut purse. Maybe these two were working together to rob passersby, and they had made the wrong mark.

The captain could tell his foe was desperately looking for an opening, so he decided to give him one. He pretended to slip in the rain and feinted left as if he were losing his balance. The fool went for it and lunged. Branghost pulled the thief by his wrist, using his own forward momentum against him and throwing him off balance. He placed his blade at the whelp’s neck.

“Say ‘goodbye,’ zero.” He said.

Instead of his foe’s eyes filling with fear as he had expected, they grew furious upon hearing this. No matter, just a moment…

Suddenly, there was a searing pain in the captain’s calf. The thief used the moment to break free. He had turned his sword down and stabbed Branghost in the leg, even as his sword arm was pinned. Treachery! The time for banter was over. The cut wasn’t deadly but is was more than a scratch. It was hard to put weight on that leg now. He held his blade up and waited for an attack.

Zero. That’s what the man who had taken Danse had called them. They must be from the same regiment. Yendor could see that this man was a superior swordsman. He had gotten careless with his feint, but Yendor wouldn’t get so lucky a second time. The officer was extra cautious. He was hurt, but not badly. Yendor was under strict orders not to use magic or he could expose the coven. They only ever practiced in their cavern where they couldn’t be detected by the sorcerers. The wizards would be furious that Yendor had even defended the boy at all. Keeping the coven safe was their highest priority and not even the life of an innocent boy was worth exposing them. They dreamed they’d save humanity one day, but how no one knew.

Yendor had stabbed the guy’s left leg so Yendor circled to his left, forcing the man to reposition that leg repeatedly. Yendor feigned an attack a few times but the officer was not fooled. Yendor felt energy flowing through him as when he had during the concert. He realized he had never held back before. He wasn’t sure that he could. It would be better to do it on purpose than let it come out accidentally. His back was actually burning now with the unreleased force.

Branghost could see the boy trying to figure out what to do next. He was preoccupied. He might not get a better opportunity to attack. He lunged and thrust at Yendor’s chest, and Yendor, surprised pointed his sword at the officer and a bolt of lightning pulsed from it, striking the captain in the chest. The captain fell to the ground, smoking. Yendor saw the sword. It was beautiful. He had never seen anything so beautiful. And now it was his.

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The Wizards

As far as Yendor could see, he was the only witness to the parade. The sun had come out and shone upon them in that way that looks like a blessing from above, streaks of sunbeams spotlighting the park. They had staves topped with crystals, some glowing, others plain. Their holy garments were trimmed with sigils of unknown meaning which gleamed in the light. The procession came complete with choreographed gestures and chanting in archaic languages. It was glorious. One man held a brass pole atop which flowed two banners hung from a crossbeam. One banner was a deep blue with a dragon etched in gold, the other was a brilliant orange with a tiger outlined in black embroidery. One kept time on a drum while another accompanied with a flute.

When they were done, the one in red, who had winked at Yendor, turned to him and gestured for him to join them. Yendor came out and walked to them as if in a trance. His very being felt like it was covered in pins, he tingled all over. His ears were hot. The sensation was similar to when he had met Danse.

“We don’t usually have an audience.” Said the man in red. “I’m Nicholas. These are my compatriots.”

“I’m Yendor.”

“We shall have a feast, which is only symbolic, I’m afraid. And then we shall have another procession. Will you join us?” His smile was warm and genuine, and Yendor had not seen one in a long time. Even the Solstice folk had not seemed so welcoming.

“Aren’t you late?” Yendor asked.

“Not at all. The ancients kept a different calendar. We go by the old ways.” A table had been set up and the food was being laid out. It wasn’t a lot, but it was fancy. Cheeses, expensive meats, wine.

The conversation Yendor wanted to have was dangerous but what choice did he have. He had been taught his whole life not to talk about such things. He had nervously talked with Danse about these things, but that seemed almost a lark between friends. This felt official, but he had to do it. “You’re wizards.” He said.

Nicholas said nothing, but his smile did not falter.

“I am also. That is I want to be.” Yendor felt very hot. He voice trembled and he shook a bit.

“Are you now?” said the man in purple. Like Nicholas, he had a beard. They appeared to be of an age.

Suddenly Yendor felt like a child being questioned by an elder.

“Yendor, this is Konstantine.” said Nicholas. Konstantine did not have Nicholas’s smile.

Yendor remembered his actions at the detention camp. He looked around and came to his senses. He could probably take these old men if they gave him trouble.

“I am.” He said with confidence.

“You’re a wizard if I say you are.” said Konstantine sternly. Nicholas seemed to demure to him.

“When I was born, I was delivered by Gwenchlan. Who told my parents I was to be a wizard. Do you gainsay him?” Yendor said. He hadn’t meant to speak like that. He wasn’t sure where that came from. Had he ever even said the name aloud before?

“He has a tongue, this one.” said a woman wearing blue and silver. She didn’t sound critical, but amused.

A man wearing a claret color stepped in. “Where did you hear that name, whelp?” This one was hostile. Yendor knew how to respond to that.

“My master told me, as I was given up to him upon the news.” Yendor stood a little taller.

“Speak to us with respect, or not at all!” demanded the wine colored wizard, imperiously.

Yendor was ready with a retort, when Konstantine intervened. “That’s enough.” he said. “I’ve not heard the name Gwenchlan in an age. It is not well known. How did you find us, then young Yendor?”

Yendor calmed himself. He had had little interaction that wasn’t violent in some time. “I sought you out. I came from Elphendor here to dawn to the library to find clues. The song of the Goddess, told of the parade of the solstice. I reasoned that since these traditions were popular in ancient times but no more, that they were wizard traditions. It was coincidence that it took me so long to find the right clues that it was time for the solstice.”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence, boy.” said the woman in blue.

“He is a spy!” said the claret colored one. “We are found out! This foolish adherence to tradition has been our doom!”

“I’m not a spy. I am a wizard. I need training. My power is unmanageable.”

Nicholas laughed at that. “What power is that, young wizard?”

“He has no power.” Claret said.

“Be quiet, Ambrosius.” Said the woman in blue. “I am Sapphosia.” She said. She produced a red crystal from within her garments. The coven took a step back, seemingly anxious at seeing it. “would you hold this crystal? It is the root, the muladhara. It is the beginning.

“Fool! You act impetuously. We must fly before his sorcerers arrive to destroy us forever!”

Sapphosia rose to her full height, stretched out her arms and held her scepter topped with a matching blue crystal which was now glowing furiously. “I said quiet!” So brilliant was the glow that beyond it all seemed dark. All the coven bowed before her. After a moment all returned to normal. Yendor’s heart beat within his chest. What have I gotten into? he thought.

She turned to him, smiling, to calm him. “Will you take the stone?” she asked.

He took it from her.

“Can you light it?” She asked.

The crystal was the size of a pebble. Yendor closed his fist around it, unsure how to proceed. He opened his hand and held the crystal aloft. Nothing happened.

“You see, he is a fraud!” hissed Ambrosius. Everyone glared at him.

Yendor strained, but still nothing happened.

Ambrosius could hardly contain himself. He shook his head. Yendor could hear the winter birds chirp in the nearby trees as the seconds passed. Some of the wizards shifted the weight from one leg to another.

Finally, Ambrosius could take it no longer. “He is a nothing! He dooms us. Let us forget our task and tarry here no longer.” Ambrosius moved to snatch away the stone and as he did, Yendor’s temper flared. A bolt of lightning came down from the sky and lit the stone a blinding white. Ambrosius leapt back in the nick of time. “Sorcerer!” he said, pointing.

“You see, I have trouble controlling it.” said Yendor.

Another woman, wearing brilliant white with white shiny sigils trimming her garments came forward. “May I?” she asked. Yendor nodded. She took the stone, which shone still. “It is not hot.” she said. “Yendor, I am Hildegard. We are the Coven of the Sacred Deer. Perhaps we are all that is left of the wizards.” She gestured to the others. “You have met Nicholas, Ambrosius, the priestess, Sapphosia, and our leader Konstantine. In the orange is Brigitte, wearing yellow is Tertullian. That fellow clad in green is Isidore. In the black is Aphrahat. He looks gloomy, but his harp and his cooking will bring you warmth. In the indigo is Taliesin. Wearing forest green is Ygraine.”

“That is eleven.” Said Yendor. “I thought there was supposed to be twelve. Plus the devil of course for thirteen.”

“The Goddess is thirteen. It is the evil one who calls her the devil.” said Sapphosia.

“Perhaps you will be our twelfth.” Said Hildegard.

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Koan

It was getting a bit chilly for camping. In retrospect, Damien had made some poor choices. referring to his current situation as camping was probably the least of them. It had been an emotional experience. They had been trick or treating and his kids had not been paying attention, so they had gone on ahead while Damien had struggled to adjust his cloak. It had gotten caught on a thorn bush and he didn’t want to rip it. His wife had made it for him a few years back. That was the year they were Jedi. Then he had been Robin Hood, and this year, he was a wizard. Stupid. So, when he had caught up to his kids, he was already irritated about the thorn bush, and them not staying with him. They were young and small for their age. It had only been a minute, less than that, surely. These kids were so excited about Halloween that they wouldn’t listen to any instructions. All evening this had been a problem. They didn’t realize how dangerous it could be. He was constantly worried something was going to happen. They were his whole world. How was he going to protect them if they wouldn’t stay with him? And now, here they were, being shaken down for their candy by some older kids.

Well, by the time they got home, the kids were crying, they couldn’t get the story out coherently to their mother. He tried to explain, but she seemed to reach her own conclusions before he could get the words out. “Not the first time,” she had said. It rang in his ears. It reminded him of just before he had gotten sober, how the incidents seemed to beget each other, as if he were caught in some spider’s web, some thorny bush!

He wasn’t a violent person. He didn’t think of himself as one anyway. Not the first time.

She asked him to leave right then. For the children’s sake. She was concerned for their safety. Not the first time.

He had still been wearing the costume. the wool cloak, the boots, the dagger, the staff, the whole nine yards. He grabbed the tent, and the camping pack with all the gear in it, the speckled cookware, the lantern, and stove, bedroll, sleeping bag tied to the bottom and took off. He just set out walking. He didn’t want to take the car, she would need that. He didn’t want to spend money on a motel, they couldn’t afford it. Maybe he was punishing himself. His heart was beating harder than it was during the incident. Was he being a martyr? Probably.

Damien had made some very quick, very rash decisions at that point. If he couldn’t be around his kids, he was done. He was done with the rat race, done with civilization, done with hiding who he was.

Maybe he wasn’t wearing a costume. Maybe this is who he was.

Those older kids weren’t with their parents. They weren’t wearing costumes. They were teenagers and they hadn’t wasted a moment to bully a couple little kids who had gotten away from their dad for a second.

“Give us your candy, you little turd!” one was saying as he pulled on Damien’s daughter’s arm.

The memory seemed to actually sear Damien’s brain. He walked on. Lowami woods shouldn’t be far. He had never walked it before. Maybe He should have headed for Memorial off of Garden Home… There were plenty of wooded areas right in the midst of SW Portland. He was sure he could find a spot to pitch his tent, even if it was illegal. He wasn’t sure. One night, surely would be ok. Then he could figure it out tomorrow. He didn’t want to join the homeless in a patch by a freeway onramp. This was Oregon. Why camp in civilization? He’d see whether that dagger was just for show or not. Maybe catch a rabbit, they were everywhere. Damien had picked up the medieval replica at one of those cutlery stores in the mall. The kind that had pocket knives, kitchenware, and swords. Of course, he had wanted a sword, but he had been unable to bring himself to spend the money. This 2ft miniature had been considerable more money than the hunting knives, but he had suspected it was just for show. He had displayed it on the wall when he was a bachelor, but married with kids, it stayed in a box in a drawer until Halloween.

Now he could concentrate on becoming one with nature. Get away from the concrete jungle and be more spiritual. He could finally learn to control his Chi, let it flow through him, instead of building up inside and exploding out… That’s what he was being guided to do, right? Of course, this kind of behavior, this kind of thinking would not play well in a custody hearing. The rational, right thing to do, would be to go to a motel, and seek counseling. Where did spiritual people get counseling? Was there a priest of Chi? Where can you find a Shaolin temple when you need one?

Then, there in the concrete jungle, just as the drizzle began, came the neon glow of the sign he was seeking.

Damien entered the little house and a bell rang as the door struck it. He had been by this place dozens of times, driving to Target. He had never thought to visit before. Who goes to places like this? Now that he was here, he worried maybe it would cost more than a motel. He had a twenty on him and had vowed an hour earlier not to use his debit card tonight. The rain picked up in earnest outside. Portland.

Dimly lit, ambient music played in unseen speakers. This part of the house had been converted into a lobby, deep red walls, with purple wall hangings. Batiks, abstract, soothing. Well worn carpet, a couch against the wall to the right. No one in sight. Who comes to places like this? Not the first time.

Damien removed his hood and shook out his graying, windblown hair. Curly enough to never look combed. His middle age was beginning to show on his lanky frame. The dim light made his eyes seem to recede into their sockets. His mustache and beard needed trimming. He needed a shave. Portland.

A door opened and a woman appeared. What had he been expecting? She had a scarf on her head and hoop earrings. She had a bunch of jangly bangles on her wrist. She had a vest over a paisley blouse that gathered at her wrists.

He had on a damp woolen cloak.

He had completely forgotten he was wearing a costume. He even still had the staff. A branch from their parking lot. It had broken off during a windstorm and landed on the car.

Maybe this is who you are.

Jesus Christ, what was he thinking?

“Come in,” she said. He walked through the lobby into the room she had just come from. Another dimly lit room. The most electricity the place used was the sign outside: “Psychic.” “I’m Marla.” she said. She looked at slightly sideways, waiting.

“I’m Damien.” he said. He felt ridiculous. He was sure he was as red as a beet.

“Have a seat, Mr. Damien.” she said. In the middle of the room was a table. it was wooden and had a tasseled table cloth in deep red paisley over it. There was room for a tarot reading, or a crystal ball. Neither was on display. He sat down. “What can I do for you, on this Blessed Samhain?” She asked. She pronounced the word “Sowen” He knew it was the Wiccan word for Halloween, the night that the great goddess slept or died, and the horned god reined for the dark winter months. How did he know this? He had studied. Damien had taken a comparative religion course in college.

“Blessed be.” he said, making blessed two syllables. He had never heard the phrased aloud.

“Blessed be, indeed.” she said. one syllable. Was she correcting him, or did it matter? He decided it didn’t matter.

“I need direction.” he said. “I’m lost.” he cast about for where to begin.

She smiled. “You are not lost. For the first time, maybe in your entire life, you’re home.” This was exactly what he wanted to hear, but he suspected she knew this. She stood up and went to a shelf against the wall. Were these walls black? It was too dim to be sure. She came back with a pitcher and a cup. A chalice, really. Really? A fucking chalice.

“The chalice with the palace has the brew that is true.” invaded his memory. A Danny Kaye movie.

She poured.

“I’m sober.” he said. “I don’t drink.”

“It’s not that.”

“Or drugs. I’m sober.”

“It’s not that.” she repeated. “It’s the cost of your visit.” she said.

What the hell? He hadn’t been to a meeting in years. Tonight would have never happened if he had. He took a sip. It was like an herbal tea, but fortified somehow. Thick.

Just then, the bell rang. She did not look surprised, but her smile left and her jaw set. She stood. She didn’t say, “Just a minute,” or “I’ll be right back,” she just went to the door. Her stride was different. Defiant. She opened the door to the lobby. His back was to it. He couldn’t see. As he turned, she blocked his view. She was diminutive, but he was seated. What was in the tea?

“Ah, Marla. There you are. Look at you, dressed like a Gypsy for Halloween. How apropos.”

She’s wearing a costume? thought Damien.

“You are not welcome here.” she said. She spoke with authority that Damien found surprising. He stood up. Huh, any effect of the tea had been ruined by this interruption. He felt normal again. In fact, he felt calm, detached.

“Marla, you need to rethink your situation. You’re in no position to give orders.” Damien came up behind her and saw that there were four large men in the small lobby. They wore black. They had slicked back hair. The leader had a black blazer. Were they dressed for Halloween too? If so, the main guy was missing a fedora.

Marla was barring the door. Damien understood why he was there. “let me through.” he said. She looked up at him, unsure. He wasn’t much bigger than her. “I’m who you asked for.” he said. She looked at him, this costumed dad, out of place everywhere. He would have to do.

Damien stepped into the room.

The men chuckled. “Ok, Gandalf, we don’t want any trouble.”

“That is simply not true, is it?” said Damien. The men smiled.

The main guy shook his head, chuckling. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. It would sound like an old episode of Batman or something. He didn’t have to say anything. They spread out along the walls of the small room. They had no idea.

It came up through from the ground through his feat, an energy that was warm. It gathered in his chest and he swung his arms in a kind of Tai Chi motion, which culminated as if he were striking the two outermost men, even though they were about five feet away each. A beat later they each slammed against the walls hard, their faces looking like they were experiencing mach 2 G force. Taking his staff in both hands, he pointed at the guy coming at him from his left and hit him with it, end first like a spear, knocking him back. The last guy was going for his gun and had it out fast, pointed at Marla. Without thinking, Damien pulled the dagger from its sheath at his belt and flung it. It embedded itself in the crook of the man’s arm, causing him to drop the gun as it went off, spoiling the shot.

The main guy’s eyes were wide but recovering. His mouth was set in a closed line. He and Damien faced off across the room. thirty seconds had passed. The guy looked at Marla but didn’t speak. He shook his head and left. The others all followed warily out the door, bleeding and leaving the thin weapon behind.

Damien turned back to Marla. She smiled. “Welcome home.” she said.

 

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Books

 

Currently each of these books are available on amazon.com. Click on an image to find out more and to order order your copy today. My author page is here. This page displays information on books I have published. To see more about books I’m working on, or anything else in the “book‘ category, click here.

Robin Hood
Dinosaur Space Pirate
St. Bernadette
Marina
Tao of the Dragon
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Robin Hood: In Nottingham 9

 

News of the Shrove Tuesday carnival did not pass by the greenwood unnoticed; many of the wives took their children to church and Father Cedric was promoting this year’s festival with unusual fervor. The children especially wanted to attend. It seemed living in the woods had its attraction for children, but the prospect of sweets was hard to pass up. Holy days were considered a general amnesty for outlaws not wanted for heinous crimes. People would come from the entire shire and though the outlaws were many, they were a small percentage of the entire countryside. Tom was on the mend, and he and Robin were determined to take place in the festivities. “You could win the archery contest, hands down.” said Tom. Robin had been teaching the men of Sherwood Forest to shoot as well as make their own bows and arrows. He didn’t fancy trying to feed the whole forest. He had gained quite a reputation in the greenwood.
“Archers like me are common enough.” said Robin. “But I will be happy to give it a go.”

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Most things needed by man can be made from nature, and the people of the greenwood had little need to venture into town, save one: it was their rightful home. There was a degree of shame that came with being an outlaw. That you were outcast. With the new found pride and comradery that the people of the greenwood felt, much of the shame they had felt, dissipated, and they began to venture into the neighboring towns. Tom wanted to go into town to obtain some cloth for his wife and children to have new clothes in time for the festival. He and Robin ventured into Nottingham one cold and windy February morning. In the marketplace, there were several weavers; some with stalls, others had shops. Robin preferred the stalls, but Tom liked the shops, and as it was cold, they lingered inside examining fabrics they would never buy.
The door opened with the wind forcing its way in ahead of the woman. The lanterns flickered a bit in the breeze. The new customer lowered her hood and shook her hair. She brushed it out of her face with a hand that had long, delicate fingers. Her cloak was deep blue, and her dress underneath was a blue so pale that it was almost white. Her auburn hair was somewhat windblown, stray hairs danced in the breeze. The effect was that of an intimacy; to be seen in an unguarded moment.  Her face was flushed from the cold and the color in her cheeks resembled a nimbus. Her eyes were the blue of a cool pond reflecting the evening twilight. Robin heard music playing somewhere nearby. She met his gaze coolly and walked past him to the counter.
The proprietor was an elderly woman with her hair in a bun and a knit shawl around her shoulders. She beamed at Marian though she could barely make her out. Her vision had been waning for years and she relied mainly on instincts to substitute, and for her this worked quite well. “Good Morning, Marian!” the old lady said in a paper thin voice.
“Good Morning, Gladys.” Said Marian.
Robin had been transfixed by Marian from the moment she walked into the shop. The music he heard was heard by no one else. He heard birds singing too, though it was only February. Tom walked up to Robin and whispered, “Close your mouth before something flies into it. And don’t stare! Your worse than Henry.”
Robin Blushed and turned to Tom to retort, but the music stopped. Confused, Robin turned back to Marian, and sure enough the music started again. a fife and a lute, and birds.
“What brings you here today, dear one?” asked Gladys of Marian. The old woman looked like a shrunken apple come to life and had a rosy complexion that came through in her personality as well.
“I will have to cancel my order for the new fabric, Gladys.” said Marian.
“Whatever for?” said Gladys.
Marian bit her lip trying to decide how much to reveal to Gladys. “The money is needed for the festival.” she said. “The children need it more than me.”
“Posh!” said Gladys. “That fabric was made literally for you! It’s deep blue, like the night, just after the last of the light has gone. Why it’s your color, dear!”
“Gladys, I can’t.” said Marian.
“How much is it?” interrupted Robin.
“I will thank you to mind you own business!” The girl said. “This is a private conversation. Why, I don’t even know you!”
“Allow me to introduce Robin of Sherwood.” said Tom.
“And you are….?” asked Marian.
“This is Tom.” said Robin. He looked to Gladys as if for conformation. She continued to beam at them. Robin produced some coins from his purse at his belt. “Will this be enough?” he said. “And for the orphanage.” he said producing more.
Marian looked Robin up and down, taking in his ragged yeoman’s clothes that had spent the winter in the forest, and she looked at the money he was offering. “You’d best be careful with your purse, sir. There’s thieves about.”
“Is there?” asked Robin.
“Aye. They live in the forest.”
“We’ll keep an eye out Ma’am.” said Tom.
“It’s Miss”
“Miss?” said Robin. “Miss what?”
“Miss me every time.” said Marian.
“We should be going.” said Tom, who thought it was a bit early for spring. He pulled Robin by his arm.
“Wait.” Robin said. “Here, Miss. Miss Marian. Take it. Give it all to the orphanage if you won’t take it for yourself.”
“Give it to them yourself, Sir” said Marian and turned back to Gladys.
“Let’s Go.” said Tom. “It’s a bit stuffy in here.”
“But…” protested Robin. Tom pulled him outside. “But she’s beautiful!” said Robin.
“Aye.” said Tom. “She’s trouble, that one.”
Back inside the shop, Gladys said, “Oh, he seems nice.”
“Gladys, your blind as a table leg. He was a vagabond.”
“Even a blind table leg knows it can’t hold the table up by itself.” said Gladys.

“Where should we go now?” asked Tom.
“Why, to the orphanage, where else?”

 

St Anne’s Orphanage was a series of wattle and daub  buildings on the outskirts of the property of St. Mary’s Church. It was run by the monks and nuns who also maintained quarters elsewhere on the vast acreage of St Mary’s. St Mary’s had been around since before the Normans, and it was rather large for a church in the midlands. Whereas in neighboring Derbyshire there were churches in each village within the shire, St Mary’s was the main church for the county. To be sure, there were churches in each village in Nottingham, they looked to St Mary’s for festivals, holidays and large gatherings. The monks had elected Cedric to the position of Vicar since the death of the previous vicar nearly ten years past.
There was a boys dormitory on one side and a girls on the other. The office, school, and cafeteria were in the middle. The entrance to the grounds on the south side led to the office, and at the other end past the cafeteria was a garden. beyond that was a field for games. Beyond the field at the north end was the greenwood. Sherwood Forest proper was in the north of the county, but the primeval woods of which it was a part extended throughout the county (and indeed throughout the midlands). The greenwood was a term that referred to the whole area of wilderness.
The path leading to the office had a lawn on either side and was officially off limits to the children. Presently, two boys were running around on the lawn, chasing each other. The one being chased was taller, had a shock of red hair and was named John. The chaser was a runt. A little blond boy who made up in ferocity what he lacked in stature. His name was Eric. After some valiant zigging and zagging, there was an “oof!” followed by a thud and some rolling about. After a moment the boys got up, laughing and covered in the dead grass of winter. Eric looked up and stopped laughing and John looked up to see what had caused the suspension of antics and stopped laughing too. There were two specters of men standing there looking at them, older versions of themselves.
“Well don’t stop on our account.” said Robin. “We were just looking for the office.” The taller boy shook his head as if such information was not to be given out, while Eric pointed to the obvious building that the path the men were on led to. Johnny cuffed Eric on the shoulder and shot him a look. Eric cuffed Johnny back and it was back to rolling on the lawn.
Inside the office, there was a rotund young tonsured monk sitting at a desk, making every effort to fill in a ledger. At the sound of the two men coming in he endeavored to finish his entry lest he have to start again. When he looked up, he saw Robin and Tom waiting patiently, their hoods down and smiles on their faces. He returned the smile.
“What can I do for you fine gentlemen?” he asked.
“We would like to make a donation.” said Robin.
“We understand the orphanage is in need.” said Tom.
“A recent robbery.” said Robin.
At this the monk’s smile faded, which is not what you would expect from an offer of a donation. “There has been no robbery.” said the monk. “I didn’t get your good gentlemen’s names.”
“This is Robin, and my name is Tom. We didn’t mean any disrespect. If you don’t need the money, we’ll be on our way.”
“Maybe that would be for the best.” said the monk and returned to his ledger which, if you could read it, would say that any donation would be greatly appreciated.
“Wait.” said Robin. “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.”
The monk looked up and regarded the men for a moment. “Where did you hear we had been robbed?”
“A young lady. Miss Marian.” said Robin watching for and seeing recognition in the monk’s eyes.
“Shut that door.” said the monk. He himself locked the door behind him after checking that there was no one behind it. “Marian told you we had been robbed? How do know Marian? When did she tell you that?”
“We were in the dress shop…” started Tom. and the monks eyebrows went up.
“His wife needs a new dress. We were shopping for cloth” said Robin. “And in comes this vision.”
“Marian.” said Tom.
“At Gladys’.” said the monk.
“Right.” said Tom.
“And she says she has to cancel her order, because the orphanage needs it.” said Robin.
“Because we had been robbed?” asked the monk.
“No.” said Robin. “I offered to pay, and she said to be careful of robbers.”
“She was implying that WE are robbers, Robin. Can you blame her? Look at us.” said Tom.
“Why didn’t you say that before?” said Robin.
“I thought it was obvious.” said Tom.
“Because we have money? And look like this?” Robin was getting angry. There’s nothing like a time released insult to get to you.
“So you’re not robbers?” said the monk.
“What? No!”
“How is it then, that you look like that, and yet have money to give away?”
“I didn’t get Your name?” said Robin.
“Tuck. Friar Tuck; at your service.” Tuck smiled. “So, you’re not robbers then?”
“You know, I wasn’t really there.” said Tom. “Let’s hear it again.”
“Tom! I was on an errand for your Maggie!”
“And I am grateful.” said Tom.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the sheriff’s taxes, would it? And certain Parishioners having a few extra coppers come Sundays lately? Would it?”
The two stopped and looked at Tuck with eyes that were impressed when they saw a bulls eye. There was a bit more checking that there was no one listening at the doors and then Tuck poured them all a glass of wine.
It was getting dark when the three men emerged from the office. Tuck had sent to the cafeteria for lunch. “Well, what’s to be done?” said Tuck. “We will just have to raise more money.”
“Or…” said Robin. There will have to be another robbery. This time on purpose.”

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Robin Hood: Outlaws of Sherwood. 4

Tom’s House was unusually quiet, when Robin came to visit. Robin had decided that he would try to maintain friendships in town, and if people did not want to be seen with an outlaw, that was something he could not blame them for. So far, he had had better luck than he expected. The townspeople hated Bill and cursed him for taking their money and filling his pockets with it. The Stanhopes had fed Robin and told him how they had planned to open a tavern but now could not because the sheriff had found out about their savings and taken it on the pretence of a fine for selling ale without a permit. Villagers throughout Edwinstowe had similar stories. Robin began to form a plan for getting his land back. He did not say anything to anyone, because it was dangerous and illegal and probably treason. He would need help, and he had an idea where to start to look for it.
Tom was the last friend on his list, before heading back into the forest. He knew Audrey was ill and so was the baby, and he was loathe to put them out. A visit required an offer of a meal and pleasantries that Robin was sure Audrey was not up to, nor could Tom afford. Robin knocked at the door. Through the thin walls, he heard muffled movement, and Audrey shushing their oldest, Bridged. “It’s me Robin.” He said through the door. “I can leave and come back tomorrow if that’s better. I’ll bring you some fish if you like.” Robin mentally berated himself for not thinking to bring them something.
He heard little Henry say, “It’s Robin!” and scramble to open the door. Robin’s face lit up at the sight of little Henry. Henry’s dirty face showed the boy felt the same.
“Oh, Hank! You are a sight for these eyes!” Robin scooped the boy up in his arms. “Is your Da at home, Henry?”
“Da got hurt.” the child pointed to a dark corner of the room where Audrey, Bridged and Maggie sat over Tom who lay on a straw pallet. The breath went out of Robin as he put down Henry and went to Tom’s side. Tom had bruises all over his face; his lip swollen, his eyes both blackened and his cheeks were raw. His clothes were ragged and bloody and every inch of skin that showed through was covered with cuts, abrasions, bruises and scabs. Tom tried to force a smile for his old friend.
“Bill?” asked Robin. Tom nodded.
“They are going to take our home and kill us!” wailed Audrey who had been holding it in until now. Now she let her fears out. She needed someone to know. “They beat poor Tom just to show him they could! They had no call! He’s done no wrong!” She was sobbing uncontrollably now. Robin took her in his arms.
“Hush, now Audrey, nobodies going to hurt you or the children. Tom and I will see to that.” Robin said to be soothing.
Now Audrey became suddenly angry. “How can you make such a claim?!” She yelled. They run you off; they took your home. They will take ours too as sure as the Virgin’s in Heaven!” The children were all crying now as well, and Tom tried to sit up to reign in the situation.
Robin scooped up Henry and Bridged. “I said we’d see to it!” he said, trying not to be caught up in the emotion. “Maybe they will take your home, for now; but we will all be gone from here! Get your things. Tom, can you walk? We’re leaving right now!”
The Outlaws of Sherwood

As dusk found Sherwood Forest, the sun turned the sky orange behind the silhouetted trees, and the whole forest was in shadow. The quiet was broken by a loud call. “John!” said the voice. “Little John! Where are you?”
Finally, John came out into the clearing. “Robin! Stop your shouting!” Then he saw that Robin was carrying two children and had their parents and a baby in tow. “Blessed Mary, Mother of God!” said John, getting a good look at Tom. “What’s the meaning of this?” said John.
“Where are the rest?” said Robin.
“The rest of what?” said John.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Little John. The rest of the outlaws; where are they?”
“We are here.” said a burly man emerging into the clearing with several others. They came to stand around Robin and Tom. No one needed to ask what had happened to Tom. They had all experienced the same treatment. Men were still coming into the clearing. Robin could not believe how many. He knew there would be a lot, but he had not taken into account all the towns in Nottinghamshire, the number of years it had been going on, nor the size of the sheriff’s greed, nor the size of his evil. Robin thought, the good of the forest seems big enough to overcome the evil.
“Damn that man!” said Audrey seeing all the pain she felt in all these men’s eyes.
“They have seen us all together.” said one of them to another.
“They belong with us now.” was the reply.
“Is that true?” said the first man to the newcomers. “Will you not give us up to the sheriff? Will you swear to not give away our location? Can we trust you?”
“Aye.” Said Robin. “We are all in this together, no? The sheriff drove us out of our home once, we will not allow him to do it again!” The crowd gave a resounding “AYE!” Robin felt it was enough for now. First they would accept him. He would show them what they had. He would show them that they were an army with a common enemy.

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INTO THE WILDERNESS

That morning, Sarah had dressed herself properly after bathing with the fine ewer her father had only recently succumbed to letting her use. Previously he claimed that she was too young to use it, and might break the expensive porcelain. But she was older now and her father had consented to her bathing with it some months ago. In her estimation she was becoming a proper young lady, and would one day be the talk of all Salem. She had made sure her soft golden hair was modestly secured beneath her starched linen cap.
After helping with the morning chores, she had sat down to a light breakfast of bacon, porridge, eggs, fresh milk, & bread. Her mother had commented on the beauty of the rising sun as she broke her fast with her parents. It had been a typical morning with the promise of a new and enchanting day lain before her.
Now she enjoyed a morning constitutional walk as she had some free time before the afternoon chores. A mist had settled on the coastal village in the night, and it was presently lifting as Sarah followed a well worn path into the woods surrounding the village. She loved to hear stories of the hunters and trappers and their encounters with wild animals and wild natives. The stories were frightening and thrilling, and it scandalized Sarah to imagine herself embroiled in one of these adventures. There were stories of pirates and Indians; even cutthroats from the colonies themselves! They were surely the devil’s servants as the minister said. At least the natives and the beasts were ignorant of the fruit of the tree of good and evil. Only the children of Adam bore the sin of their forefathers. Some said the natives were men and in need of salvation, others said they were little more than beasts themselves. Sarah’s grandfather said the great Calvin had surmised that only a select few could earn passage to paradise, most were consigned by the Lord Himself to damnation from birth. Surely the naked savages were among the damned.
The fog was thicker in this part of the woods. Sarah couldn’t see her house from here. She couldn’t see any houses. Was that a war whoop she heard? Just a bird, surely. These trees; they hung on to winter longer than the others. Their long, leafless fingers seemed to beckon to her. Perhaps this part of the forest was enchanted? Sarah thought she had best not think such thoughts but they came to her unbidden. Had she no control over her own mind? Perhaps she should be getting back to the house. Through the whispering mists emerged a beautiful purple bush. What plant was this? It was like lavender, but smelled differently. What lovely flowers! Sarah had never seen any blossom so tempting! They must be safe, they weren’t apples as had tricked Eve and Adam so. Maybe with some nutrients in her stomach she could make sense of her surroundings. She picked several blossoms and gathered them in her skirt like she did when harvesting from the garden. She had seen the cunning folk gathering herbs out this way. Maybe these were some of their healing plants.
With something in her stomach, Sarah felt better. She began to hum a tune to herself that she had heard her mother sing. It was a mournful song about the Angels coming to gather a dying man to heaven. Though they sang a Capella, Sarah could hear the soft, distant drums of the natives and subconsciously sang in time to the earthy rhythm.
Sarah emerged into a thicket of ferns that were strikingly green after such deadened terrain. Sarah heard the crunch of a branch nearby, and let a gasp escape her lips. After a moments hesitation, she saw a boy her own age emerge from a crouch where he had been hiding. He was a native Wampanoag, naked except for a slim strip of leather which hung between his legs. Sarah could see it did little to cover the boy. He was dark brown and his skin glistened in the hazy light. His eyes were deep black and so beautiful! He had lashes like a girl, thought Sarah. His straight black hair framed his face and his lips parted in an unspoken question. Had he been following her?
“Were you spying on me?” she asked. She put her hands on her hips trying to take charge of the situation the way her mother did. She gripped her hips to steady her shaking hands. She wondered if the naked savage could hear her heart pound in her chest. As her mind whirled at the huge consequences this could have for her, she involuntarily took a breath to scream. The boy brazenly leaped right up to her and put his hand over her mouth, making her panic more acute. With his free hand, he put his finger to his lips and she could see that he was about as scared as she was. He took his golden hand away and motioned for her to crouch down as he did the same. He pulled aside a fern branch and she saw a group of naked savages armed with bows, knives and spears creep silently away. These were grown men on the hunt, she realized and this boy had just saved her from being discovered by them.
“Wuneekeesuq,” he whispered to her.
“Hello,” she replied. Everyone spoke a few words of Algonquin, and most of the savages spoke a little English too. He pointed in the opposite direction from the way the hunters were headed and the two crept silently in that direction. Sarah was fascinated by the naked boy. She had dreamt many times of meeting a native, and now that she had she could hardly believe it. He smelled of earth & pine; clean but aromatic somehow at the same time.
After a time, they came to a copse with a little hidden clearing in the middle hidden from view. Sarah felt safe here. “I’m Sarah” she said, motioning to herself.
“Little Bear,” said the boy, mimicking her motion.
“How come you’re naked?” she said in a scandalized whisper.
“How come you are not?” asked Little Bear.
This was a ridiculous question, Sarah knew, but as she was about to say this, she realized that it must be what all the Indians thought about the Puritans. “God has commanded that we cover our selves to hide our nakedness!” She hissed. She was sure that she would get a lickin’ for having such a conversation with a boy, let alone a naked savage boy. She was thrilled.
“The Great Grandfather of all has not shared this instruction with our people.” said Little Bear, “But most of the women do wear the two hide dress.” he conceded. “We all wear clothes in the winter.” A moment went by and the children began to look around for something to talk about. After a moment, the boy said, “Want to see some magic?” Sarah’s heart did a flip flop. She was both fascinated by and scared to death of real magic. This was a compelling blend of emotions that seemed to coming to her in wave after wave today. She swallowed in her suddenly dry throat and managed to nod. They sat facing each other with a little space between them. He reached behind her and pulled a leaf off of a plant and showed it to her. Little Bear put the leaf in the palm of his left hand and then cupped his right hand over it. “Aquit, Nees, Nis.” he said. “Now blow!” He held up his cupped hands for her to blow into, which she dutifully did.
Little Bear opened his hands and a butterfly with leaf shaped winds flew out and fluttered away. Sarah gasped and clapped her hands. “That is wonderful!” she said. Little Bear beamed happily.
“Now you.” he said.
“Me?” asked Sarah. “O.K.” she said. She thought for a moment. She didn’t know any real magic. But she had played games with her friends behind the neighbor’s barn after supper sometimes. The girls liked to cast the future and see who they were going to marry. Sarah drew a circle in the dirt between them. “Spit.” she commanded. She had learned from these games that it was important to act the part when it was your turn to cast a fortune. Little Bear spit into the circle causing an irregular, organic shape to form on the packed, damp earth. Sarah stared at the circle wondering what she should say. Boys liked mystery over romance, she was pretty sure. Indians sought adventure and glory.
“You will grow to be a powerful warrior.” she said. She saw his chest swell and he smiled. He was magical. “Your people will hold you in high regard. But there is one who will be your enemy. You will be rivals for the same woman. I cannot see who will win. You will face many dangers. In your old age you will be a tribal elder but you will still be bitter that you never vanquished the rival of your youth.” Sarah looked up to see the boy looked stunned. In fact, he was a little bit frightened. “Well,” she said, “What did you think?”
“That is almost word for word the same fortune the old shaman told me at my last birthday.” Little Bear said. He looked pale. There was another awkward silence. “I had better return to camp.” he said.
Sarah suddenly became aware that time had passed. But she also felt she had done something wrong. She hadn’t meant to frighten him. “Will I see you again?” she asked.
“Yes. Tomorrow. Same time if you can.” He was getting up to go.
“How do I get back home?” she asked.
“Your village lies toward the setting sun” he said smiling, and was gone.