The Future of Freedom by Fareed Zakaria

The most interesting thing about this book is that it was written in 2003.

The party is, at most, a fund-raising vehicle for a telegenic candidate. If a candidate is popular and wins the nomination, the party becomes supportive. That candidate then benefits slightly by getting more resources, organizational support, and new lists of potential donors. In fact, primary candidates find it useful to run against the party establishment. It gives their campaigns freshness and the appeal of the underdog battling the machine -- an approach that worked for George McGovern, Ronald Reagan, and Jimmy Carter. Today, however, this strategy is more difficult because there is no longer an establishment to run against. Who was the Democratic establishment’s candidate in 1992? Bill Clinton, Bob Kerry, or Paul Tsongas? None of the above. The success of George W. Bush was due not to his being  the candidate of the establishment but to his being the candidate of his family; he had the two things you need in a partyless system -- name recognition and a fund-raising machine. Anyone who has both, whether they have any experience in politics or not, is now at a huge advantage. Thus, in this new, more “democratic” system, we have seen many more political dynasties, celebrity officials, and billionaire politicians than before. And this is only the beginning. As the political party declines further, being rich and/or famous will become the routine path to high elected office.

For most of American history, presidential candidates were reflections of their political parties. Today, parties are reflections of their candidates. If the candidate moves to the center, the party moves to the center. If the candidate bucks left, the party bucks left. Once Clinton was elected as a “New Democrat” it became difficult to find any old Democrats in Washington. And when George W. Bush announced that he was a compassionate conservative, the rest of the Republican Party discovered that was what they had been all along. The political party today is an empty vessel, waiting to be filled by a popular leader.

That’s some pretty good analysis of what we have, in fact, witnessed in the twenty years since it was written.

And there’s another section that seems eerily prescient -- although much less intentionally so. In describing the rise of fascism in Germany in the 1930s, Zakaria says this:

Germany at the turn of the century seemed to be moving in the right direction toward democracy. Then came World War I, which killed 2 million Germans and left the country devastated and was closed with the punitive and humiliating peace of Versailles. The years after Versailles saw the mass flight of ethnic Germans from Poland, Russia, and other eastern lands into Germany (a migration that produced immense social turmoil); hyperinflation; and finally the Great Depression. The liberalizing strains in German society were overwhelmed by much darker ones, and political order collapsed. In particular, hyperinflation -- which Niall Ferguson has aptly called an “anti-bourgeois revolution” -- wiped out the savings of the middle class and utterly alienated them from the Weimar Republic. The country became easy prey for extreme ideologies and leaders. It is common to read history backward and assume that Germany was destined to become what it became under Hitler. But even the United Kingdom and the United States had their ugly sides and desperate demagogues who grew in strength during the Great Depression. Had those countries gone through twenty years of defeat, humiliation, chaos, economic depression, and the evisceration of their middle classes, perhaps they, too, would have ended up being governed by demagogues such as Huey Long and Oswald Mosley rather than the statesmen Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill.

And now here we are, twenty years later, twenty years filled, for some sectors of our society, with defeat, humiliation, chaos, and the slow eroding of our middle class, and here we find ourselves more susceptible than ever to demagogues instead of statesmen.

But the best part is the piece that hits home what is only slightly alluded to there. Why didn’t the demagogues who grew in strength during the Great Depression take power in the United States, as they did in Germany?

Supporters of free markets often make the mistake of thinking of capitalism as something that exists in opposition to the state. When it is time to pay taxes, this view can seem self-evident. But the reality is more complex. Although in the twentieth century many states grew so strong as to choke their economies, in a broader historical perspective, only a legitimate, well-functioning state can create the rules and laws that make capitalism work. At the very least, without a government capable of protecting property rights and human rights, press freedoms and business contracts, antitrust laws and consumer demands, a society gets not the rule of law but the rule of the strong. If one wanted to see what the absence of government produces, one need only look at Africa -- it is not a free-market paradise.

In the developing world, the state has often had to jump-start capitalism. Again this mirrors the European example, where modern capitalism began with the state taking large tracts of agricultural land from the hands of feudal lords and using it in ways that were more market-friendly. This move broke the back of the large landowners, the most politically reactionary group in society. As important, millions of acres of land were moved out of stagnant feudal estates, where they lay underutilized, and into a market system. The new owners, often the farmers who tilled the land, used the land more efficiently, since they now had an incentive to do so, or they rented or sold the land to someone who would. In other words, it took a massive redistribution of wealth to make capitalism work.

They didn’t because the state provided the infrastructure necessary for capitalism to survive, much like the redistribution of land in Europe that helped capitalism take over from feudalism. In one of those weird coincidences of life, on the day I am writing this I began reading The Common Good by Robert Reich, in which he makes the same point even more bluntly. To paraphrase, the government and capitalism are not in opposition to one another. In the sense that it is the government (or the Leviathan, if you prefer) that provides the infrastructure of laws and property rights that allows capitalism to function, the government is capitalism.

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This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

A Holiday Break: The Color of Money by Mehrsa Baradaran

Books are always the best holiday gift for me. The only thing I like better than the anticipation of reading a long sought after title is the fondness that comes with remembering the discovery of an unexpected treasure.

As I look back on all the books I've profiled here in 2024, the one I'd most like to revisit is The Color of Money by Mehrsa Baradaran, which I blogged about in April.

Here's how that post began: 

This is an incredible book. Given the subtitle, “Black Banks and the Racial Wealth Gap,” and the quote from The Atlantic on the cover: “A deep accounting of how America got to a point where a median white family has 13 times more wealth than the median black family;” I decided to start counting all the ways in which, throughout American history, the deck was knowingly stacked against the economic freedom of black people. Even I was surprised by how many instances I was able to count. 

There are, in fact, 27 items on this list, and they represent a troubling set of actions taken in the United States, perpetrated over the entire course of American history, to curtail the economic development of its black citizens.

It's a list worth revisiting ... as so much of it seems to fall out of our awareness. But so is Baradaran's closing diagnosis, a description of why the system perpetuates, and what, if anything, can be done to reverse course.

There have been major political and social roadblocks to dealing effectively with the wealth gap, and each of history’s potential reformers has faced them. The biggest roadblock is inherent in majoritarian democracy itself. If reform is seen as zero-sum, the institutional structure of American government resists any wealth transfer viewed as a benefit to a minority of the population. However, there is a way to overcome the resistance by convincing the majority that reforms aimed at a segment of the population will benefit the entire population. For example, passage of civil rights laws was made easier when policymakers became aware that communists and other foreign enemies were exploiting Jim Crow and using it in propaganda against the United States. When civil rights came to be seen as a matter of critical foreign policy import, it was actively pursued. To point this out is not to cast doubt on the sincerity of individuals or groups pursuing reforms or to throw an overly cynical taint on monumental changes, but it is to acknowledge the reality of human nature and democratic governance. Then, as now, the public must be convinced that their own interests are aligned with the advancement of racial minorities or that they will not suffer when others are promoted.

As you enjoy your holiday break, I hope you find some time to curl up with a good book. I know I will.

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This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK ONE:

STONE TO FLESH

When my grandfather, Gildegarde Brisbane, was eighteen, he was selected by the priests as the first Riser. They said that devotion such as his was rare in a man so young and that, with continued dedication to Grecolus and his laws, my grandfather was destined for greatness. While serving his squireship under Sir Gregorovich Farchrist II, it was his job to perform all the menial tasks his Knight gave him. Care of the weapons, tending of the horses, shining the armor—Gregorovich II was known to say that he never before had met a man who threw so much of himself into everything he did. It was as if the young Brisbane only wanted to do the best he could do.

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Roundtower awoke near sunset. He emerged from the tent with the look of health and the complaint of hunger. Brisbane went about heating him up what was left of the stew. Roystnof and Shortwhiskers sat stiffly nearby, as if afraid to ask Roundtower about his ordeal.

Roundtower began to eat and an oppressive silence hung around the campfire.

“Ignatius,” Roystnof said, his voice sounding too loud over the crackling firewood. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“Yes,” Roundtower said in a distant voice, not looking up at the wizard. “But I do not understand it.”

“Do you remember the creature you saw in the garden?” Roystnof said. “The large lizard you were going to point out to Nog?”

“Yes,” Roundtower said, speaking into his stew. “It was brown and it had eight legs. And its eyes. Its eyes…” He trailed off.

“Ignatius,” Roystnof said. “It is called a basilisk. It has the power to turn men to stone by its gaze. When you looked into its eyes, you were so effected. You have been standing as a statue of stone in that garden for more than two weeks. Nog witnessed your transformation and came to me with the news. It is my magic that has freed you. Do you understand what has happened? Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Roundtower lifted his head and gave the wizard a long stare. He then looked at Shortwhiskers, who nodded his head in verification. Roundtower swallowed hard and mumbled very quietly to himself.

“I thought I had died.”

Only Brisbane was close enough to hear these words.

“You must remember,” Roystnof went on, “who you are and what your life has meant before this transformation took place. Now, is there anything—”

“Roystnof,” Roundtower said, snapping into a normal tone of voice and cutting the wizard off. “I appreciate what you have done for me, and what you are trying to do now. It is hard for me to accept what has happened. I have never heard of such a creature that can turn men to stone, but I can only trust what you say as the truth. The time I then spent as stone,” his voice faltered, “was difficult and trying for me on a very personal level. I expect it will be some time before I am over the experience. But I do remember who I am, and I have every intention of continuing on with the natural course of my life.”

Roystnof said he was glad to hear Roundtower speak so, and quickly dismissed the subject out of respect for the warrior’s wishes. Shortwhiskers then commenced in telling Roundtower all that had happened since his original transformation to stone. The dwarf’s search for Roystnof, his meeting Brisbane—whom he called Parkinson as Brisbane himself had done to Roundtower—the journey to the garden, and the process of transforming Roundtower from stone back to his own flesh. Intentionally, or so Brisbane thought at the time, the dwarf left out the part about Roystnof teaching Brisbane how to cast shocking grasp. It really wasn’t all that important to the story, as Brisbane had not used the knowledge in the one circumstance when it might have proved helpful. The battle with the ogres, however, was the only part of the story where Roundtower showed any true enthusiasm.

When Shortwhiskers finished his tale, Roystnof brought up the subject of exploring the garden in the morning.

“I am very curious,” the wizard said, “about the stone structure that Nog saw at the center. I am sure it will at least give us a clue as to why this oasis is here.”

“But what about the basilisk?” Roundtower asked.

“It is an obstacle like any other,” Roystnof said. “I am confident it can be avoided or overcome.”

“I would not like to be turned to stone again,” Roundtower said. “And what of the three of you?”

“Anyone,” Roystnof said, “who has the misfortune of being turned to stone, I will be able to transform back.”

“And you?” Brisbane said. “What do we do if you meet the monster’s gaze?”

There was a silent pause before Roystnof answered.

“I will not.”

Brisbane and the others could not argue with such conviction, although Brisbane found it a bit foolhardy. He had known Roystnof for a long time, but was just now beginning to see another side of him. Brisbane was not sure he liked it.

“I suggest,” Roystnof said, “that we vote. I say we investigate the stone structure tomorrow. Nog?”

Shortwhiskers nodded. “My curiosity has been tickled. I will go with you.”

“Gil?”

Brisbane looked at Roundtower before he answered. The warrior was clearly wrestling with the decision. “I will go as well, Roy.”

Roystnof smiled. “And Ignatius?”

“Friends,” Roundtower said in an ominous tone. “For a reason I do not understand, I feel compelled to join you in this endeavor. Perhaps, inwardly, I wish my revenge on this basilisk, but the reason is really not important, for I am coming along.”

Brisbane was relieved to hear this. He was already beginning to like Ignatius Roundtower and wanted

to get to know him better. Both Roystnof and Shortwhiskers were wearing broad smiles.

“However,” Roundtower continued. “I must say that this will be the last such adventure we will share. Something happened in the time I spent as stone that has made me realize the path my life has taken. This experience has allowed me to see how I have lost sight of my own dreams. I will join you on this one last excursion, and then put an end to this part of my life. Afterwards, I will leave for Farchrist Castle, and start my squireship as soon as one of the good Knights will have me.”

No one seemed pleased with Roundtower’s decision, Shortwhiskers perhaps getting more emotional than he would have wanted to appear, but Roundtower held firmly to his words. Roystnof suggested that they get some sleep before the morning and Shortwhiskers reluctantly agreed, grumbling that he would have a hard time falling asleep. Roundtower volunteered to stand first watch, as he had slept most of the day away. Brisbane felt a little foolish remembering that they had forgotten to post a watch the previous night. Of course, it had been pouring rain. Roundtower surprised Brisbane when he asked the young man to sit up with him for a while.

Roundtower sat down on a large rock and Brisbane settled on a smaller one next to him. The warrior gazed up at the first twinkling stars for an extended moment. Brisbane sat and stared at him. Roundtower was out of his armor now and wore clothing so plain they could only be meant to cover his nakedness. His hair was sandy brown and cut short in a rumpled mop on his head. His muscles were large, but not as large as Brisbane’s. He looked like someone who could stumble into The Quarter Pony and receive no odd stares from the regular patrons.

“I have heard the others call you Gil,” Roundtower said, still looking into the sky. “May I call you this, too?”

“I wish you would,” Brisbane said.

Roundtower looked at Brisbane with troubled eyes. “Gil,” he said. “I need guidance of a sort I do not expect you will be able to give, but I also feel compelled to speak of my ordeal. I’m sure either Nog or Roystnof would be happy to listen to me, but neither of them share my faith, and because of that, I do not believe they would truly be able to understand my plight. I will seek out a patriarch when I have the chance, but for now, I feel I must share a portion of my suffering with someone who keeps the proper beliefs.”

Brisbane twitched inside at these last three words. He had seen this attitude before and it had always left him idealistically parched. The worship of Grecolus was widely accepted by its followers as the only true religion. When it recognized other beliefs at all, it characterized them as a mythology constructed to answer philosophical puzzles or an underdeveloped culture’s interpretation of the works of the single holy god Grecolus. Brisbane had not had much experience with other religions, but he did not think this viewpoint was as widespread among them. Hadn’t Shortwhiskers said something about dwarven and human gods?

Roundtower must have caught an indication of Brisbane’s discomfort on his face. “Oh,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry if I have made an incorrect assumption. I just thought that since you have lived your whole life in the Valley of Farchrist that you would have been raised in the King’s faith. Have I made an error?”

“No,” Brisbane said, unsure of what he should reveal to this total stranger whom he wanted to be his friend. “No, I have been raised in the worship of Grecolus. My mother and stepfather have seen to that.”

Roundtower smiled knowingly. “It can often be difficult when you are young. Things can seem so uncertain without the benefit of experience.”

Brisbane sat before the warrior in silence for a few moments, not knowing how to respond to his comments. “Please,” he said eventually. “Tell me what you planned to.”

Roundtower nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “As I said, I plan to seek the advice and counseling of a church patriarch when I can, but there are things that I need to work out now. There are some issues that have been forced upon me that cannot wait for that. You see, when this basilisk creature turned me to stone as Roystnof says it did, I thought it had killed me.”

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “I heard you mumble that earlier. I’m not sure I understand the significance.”

Roundtower looked at Brisbane with eyes wide in amazement. “I am killed by a sneak attack by some foul lizard,” he said melodramatically, “an attack so swift that I neither see nor feel the approach of death, and when it is complete I find myself in an afterlife of total emptiness. There is nothing there. No light, no sounds, no scents. It is an infinite plane of void, in which I find myself and nothing else. I do not even have a physical form or, if I do, I cannot perceive it in any fashion. I am merely my thoughts, my consciousness, alone in a universe unto myself.”

Roundtower shuddered again at the memory and Brisbane began to realize how horrible that fate could be. Not just for Roundtower, but for anyone. The isolation, the utter seclusion, with not even the inanimate to occupy your attention. It would drive anyone mad after a while. But it was Roundtower who had been cursed with this glimpse at such a nihilistic afterlife, and it was Roundtower who had such a strong faith in the wisdom and goodliness of Grecolus.

Roundtower cleared his throat. “I cannot describe to you the betrayal I felt. I was actually angry at first. Here I had spent my entire life in merciless devotion to Grecolus, following the doctrine he set down for his servants to live their lives by, and when I did finally pass from this world into the next, I find myself abandoned and alone. Eternal life is one of Grecolus’ promises to his flock, that all who believe in him shall not truly die, but live forever with him in the heavens. If I had died, why did I not see the holy light of Grecolus? Why did I not hear his powerful voice speaking my name? Why did I not feel his guiding hand on my shoulder?”

Roundtower had held his watering eyes up to Brisbane’s face, but now he hung his head and folded his hands between his knees. “That is when I stopped being angry and began to feel my true anguish. The answer to those prideful questions suddenly stared me in the face like all the evil creatures I have killed with my blade. I was not in the heavens because I did not deserve to be there. The holy life I thought I had led had really been a sham.”

Roundtower went suddenly silent and Brisbane felt very uncomfortable during the quiet. He did not know what to say to Roundtower, or even if anything should be said at all. Personally, he still was not sure whether he truly shared the warrior’s faith or not, but he felt like an impostor here. He felt like an unbeliever sitting there listening to Roundtower’s pain.

“Your life has not been a sham,” Brisbane heard himself say, hoping even as he said it that Roundtower would not leap up and ask him just how the hells he knew that.

“No, no,” Roundtower said, wiping moisture from his eyes. “It has, it has.”

The tone of Roundtower’s voice was beginning to make Brisbane’s stomach churn. He began to feel nausea washing over him and he did not know why. Brisbane didn’t really care why, he just did not want to get sick. Brisbane stood up and began to walk aimlessly away.

“Gil?” Roundtower said, his face popping up.

Brisbane stopped at the edge of the campfire’s glow. His back was to Roundtower.

“Please, Gil,” Roundtower said. “I need to finish this.”

Brisbane slowly came back and sat down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am not feeling well.” He put a delicate hand on his stomach. “I think it’s something I ate.”

Roundtower swallowed hard. Brisbane realized the warrior was now going to rush through what he had left to say for Brisbane’s sake. That made him feel even worse.

“My faith is strong,” Roundtower said. “I am sure of that. But now I can see all the mistakes I have made in my life. I now realize that I have not been a sinless servant to my Lord.”

“No one is,” Brisbane said automatically.

“Yes, no one is without sin, I know. But the things I have done. I cannot begin to describe what evil I have seen in my travels. I set out on these journeys originally to eradicate that evil from the earth—to do Grecolus’ work—but in the prison in which the basilisk trapped me, I began to see my adventures in a different light. I saw that my intentions had slowly changed, their focus moving from completing a holy mission to obtaining a personal wealth and power. No longer was it my purpose to destroy evil in order to tip the balance of universe to the holy, but I killed the evil creatures I encountered to steal the treasures they hoarded in their caverns.”

Brisbane did not say so, but this transformation Roundtower had undergone reminded him of what Shortwhiskers had said about the dwarven god Abbathor, the Great Master of Greed. If Roundtower thought his change in purpose had been brought about somehow under the influence of Damaleous—who Brisbane was trying to equate in his own mind with Abbathor—he might have found yet another similarity between the human and dwarven mythologies.

Roundtower paused to look into the sky at the white moon Grecolum, still full to visual observation. “I hate to admit it,” he said quietly, “especially to you, Gil, but I can only say that my associations have taken me away from Grecolus and brought me slowly under the influence of the Evil One.”

It was at once what Brisbane had wanted and what he had not wanted to hear the warrior say. Linking his personal shortcomings to Damaleous was one thing, but to his associations?

“What do you mean by that?” Brisbane asked.

Roundtower looked back into Brisbane’s tense face. “I am sorry,” he said with deep sincerity. “I can tell you care for him a great deal, and over the years I too have come to consider him my friend. But I must face facts. He is a wizard. He does work magic. Even if he does not recognize it, Roystnof can only be considered a servant of Damaleous.”

Brisbane no longer felt sick to his stomach. He was quite suddenly burning with rage. He stood up and stammered over some syllables, trying to find the right and most appropriate thing to say. How can you say that after he saved you from your stone prison came to mind, but that was off target. He considered flatly denying the accusation, claiming that Roystnof was not a servant of Damaleous, but he knew that argument would be fruitless with Roundtower. He almost allowed himself to call Roundtower a horrible name, but even that, Brisbane decided, would not be direct enough. There came a moment when Brisbane didn’t think he would be able to say anything at all, and it was then that the perfect words came into his mind.

He flavored them with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Are you trying to tell me that you have decided to try and kill Roystnof, too?”

Roundtower stood up. “Gil, please. Sit down. I could no more kill Roystnof than kill myself. Let me finish.”

Grudgingly, Brisbane sat.

Roundtower lowered himself onto the rock and continued in a low voice. “Being dead, or rather turned to stone, showed me one other thing. It showed me that my own judgment could not be relied upon when choosing what evil to combat and why. When I first took up my blade, it all seemed so clear cut. Good and evil. Black and white. But when I look back upon things, I see that life is not that simple. There is a lot of gray in my black and white world, and a lot of things that defy definition as either good or evil.”

Brisbane’s temper was cooling as the warrior spoke. He was beginning to feel ashamed that he had reacted so uproariously.

“This is in part the reason I have finally decided to try and become a Knight a Farchrist. I have a strong arm in combat, and I have always wanted to use this skill against the enemies of Grecolus. But for too long now I have been going at it alone—choosing my own evils to destroy. I shudder to think of the numbers of errors I may have made in judgment. But the Knights are a holy order, and it is said that the King can talk to Grecolus himself. There, I would receive the guidance I need to really put my sword to the use of good. There, I would never be unsure in my conquest of evil.”

Brisbane could understand this reasoning, but he did not see how one man’s judgment would be better than another’s. Not in matters as difficult to define as to what is good and what is evil. “And what is the other part of the reason you seek the knighthood?”

Roundtower’s eyes grew dark. “Because I want to make certain that when I really do die, I will stand with my creator in the afterlife.”

Brisbane pursed his lips and thought again of how little faith he had in the religious instruction he had been given. He knew it would be easy to accept what he had been taught, easy to follow the words of Grecolus, easy to live life according to his scriptures. Easy, peaceful, and comforting, yes. But was it right? That’s what kept Brisbane guessing. Was it right?

“I hope you do,” Brisbane said.

Roundtower smiled and stood. Brisbane felt he was expected to stand as well, so he did. The warrior extended a hand and Brisbane shook it.

“Thank you, Gil,” Roundtower said. “Thank you for your attention and your kind ear. There is more to tell, but I already feel purged enough to continue with an untroubled mind. Go now and sleep well. I will stand watch. If I tire, I will wake our friend Nog to relieve me.”

“I’m sure he will appreciate that,” Brisbane said with only a touch of sarcasm.

Roundtower laughed. “Yes. I’m sure he will.”

There was no rain to warrant crowding the tent with a third body, so Brisbane spread out his bedroll on the grassy earth, took off his boots, and laid down on his back. He folded his hands behind his head and began to think of all the things Roundtower had said as he stared at the stars and waited for sleep to overtake him.

I must share a portion of my suffering with someone who keeps the proper beliefs.

The proper beliefs. Didn’t all religions consider their beliefs to be the proper beliefs? They must. Only a fool would worship a god he knew to be false. But if all faiths considered only themselves to be the true one, how could the actual true religion make itself known? No religion, as far as Brisbane knew, had concrete evidence of its veracity. If one had, wouldn’t everyone follow that one? Why could the dwarves envision more than one god and humans could not?

I thought I had died.

Roundtower certainly found himself unprepared to face death and Brisbane wondered how he would fare. If there was no afterlife, there was nothing to prepare for. You live and you die. If he died slowly, Brisbane thought he might feel regret for things he had or had not done in his life, but a quick death would leave no time for such worries. He would blink out of existence and that would be it. If there was an afterlife, however, and it was as he had been taught it was, Brisbane felt he would be unprepared for his demise. He may shuffle himself back and forth between belief and disbelief, but he knew that Grecolus would easily and justifiably label him an unbeliever and that he would spend eternity in any one of the Nine Hells. That seemed unfair to Brisbane, that he should be punished for not believing things that could not be proven. It was his nature not to believe in things blindly, and that nature had been created as a part of him. But if Grecolus did exist with his infinite powers, would it not be wise to do his bidding regardless of your own personal beliefs? And if there was an afterlife, but it was unlike anything Brisbane had been taught, how could he possibly prepare for it, not knowing what it was? He may actually be unconsciously prepared for it now, and any conscious attempt to prepare for it may make him unprepared.

Roystnof can only be considered a servant of Damaleous.

Brisbane still fumed at the accusation. He knew little of the worship of the Evil One, but he did not see how Roystnof could be practicing it. Brisbane had known him for six years and they had been close from the start. Throughout the time he had secretly studied magic under Roystnof’s tutelage, the wizard had never mentioned Damaleous as the source of his power. He had said the power came from within the magic-user. It was an inherent force present in everyone, larger in a few and barely detectable in most. When Brisbane cast his first cantrip at the age of thirteen, he did so without selling his soul, signing a contract in blood, summoning a demon, or fornicating with one. He had just reached deep inside himself, concentrated on what he wanted the cantrip to do, and tapped into an unrealized power to make the study door unlock by itself. Either Roystnof practiced devil worship in secret and had sold Brisbane away to evil forces without his knowledge—an idea Brisbane found ludicrous—or his magic was not derived from the Evil One.

Brisbane yawned, starting to get sleepy.

Or maybe, the power inside himself that Brisbane could tap into actually was Damaleous, living inside Brisbane’s own body.

There is a lot of gray in my black and white world.

Black and white. That was what Otis had taught Brisbane the world was like. Good and evil. A man either gave his heart to Grecolus or he did not. Those who did were christened the Good, and those who did not were labeled the Evil. But wasn’t it only the Good who did this labeling? What did the Evil think of the label given to them by the Good? What did the Evil call themselves and what did they call the Good? What does a bat call the daytime? Roundtower said there was a lot of gray in this supposedly black and white world, many things that avoided the labels of both the Good and the Evil, and Roundtower had certainly seen more of the world than Brisbane’s stepfather. Besides, Brisbane already knew about the existence of the gray. He was about as gray as one could get.

It is said that the King can talk to Grecolus himself.

Conversations with a god? What would one say? How could one assume a friendly tone when speaking with an Almighty? The maker of heavens and earth? Brisbane could only imagine it as the most humbling experience. Wouldn’t even the most saintly cleric feel like a sinful wretch under such a commanding stare? What if one said something to displease the god? The worrying alone could drive one insane.

Brisbane was now beginning to drift off into slumber. His thoughts strayed to dream-like sensations of reality. He imagined his mother was still alive, as he often did, her face clean and smooth, without a trace of age, decay, or death. He remembered the time Roystnof gave him the silver pentacle pendant, which now lay still in the crevice of his throat. He imagined rushing home to show his mother and Otis the gift, but instead of Otis, in the wandering of his mind he replaced his stepfather with his real father, the man he had never known. The senior Brisbane hugged his child closely and told him to keep his pendant safe and to treasure it.

Just before he fell asleep on that night spent outside the strange oasis in the Windcrest Hills, Brisbane thought automatically of Allison Stargazer, and without the restriction of reflection he imagined the warmth of her body pressing against his.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Sex and Rockets by John Carter

If memory serves, I got this one on a two-for-one deal with Ritual America by Adam Parfrey and Craig Heimbichner. That makes sense. The subtitle of Sex and Rockets is The Occult World of Jack Parsons, and Jack Parsons is one of the many people “profiled” in Ritual America.

Profiled is in quotation marks because, much like Ritual America, Sex and Rockets is a book -- in this case a kind of biography -- that talks about the secrets of the universe without ever saying what the secrets of the universe are.

Parsons became “Frater T.O.P.A.N.” and was known as “Frater 210” for short. His wife became “Soror Grimaud.” The initials in Parsons’ magical motto stood for ‘Thelemum Obtentum Procedero Amoris Nupitae,’ Latin for “the obtainment of thelema -- Will -- through the nuptials of love.” The initials T.O.P.A.N. were also a declaration of Parsons’ dedication: To Pan. In Hebrew the enumeration for T.O.P.A.N. is 400 + 70 + 80 + 1 + 50 = 601. Parsons counted it as I.O.P.A.N., giving the more desirable sum 210, with “Io Pan” being Greek for “Hail Pan.” Indeed, Crowley’s “Hymn to Pan,” which Parsons had memorized and often recited, begins, “Io Pan! Io Pan Pan!”

The numbers 1 through 20 add to 210. In the book 777 Crowley also speaks of certain numbers important to each of the sephiroth (spheres) of the kabbalistic Tree of Life. The first has the value 1, the second 1 + 2 = 3, the third 1 + 2 + 3 = 6, and so on; there are 10 altogether. Although Crowley does not say so, a little quick math will show these 10 values add to 210. In 777 Crowley calls the meaning of 210 “too holy” to divulge, an allusion to the “N.O.X. formula.” N.O.X., Latin for “night,” is akin to “L.V.X.” or “Lux” -- light. Both are portrayed during simple rituals of Crowley’s that came from the Golden Dawn.

Coincidentally, the interstate highway running through Pasadena which makes a 90-degree turn due north of the beginning of South Orange Grove Ave., heading straight to JPL, is numbered 210, as if some cosmic force numbered the highway in Parsons’ honor.

It never gets any deeper than this. Numerical coincidences and rituals and mottos built on their supposed magical properties.

Parsons, a rocket scientist in the early days of the space program, is a member of a bunch of secret societies, and somewhat obsessed with the secrets that they might reveal, especially, as his “magical motto” describes, through sex practices frowned on by his straightjacketed culture of the 1950s and 1960s. Hence, Sex and Rockets.

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This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

CHAPTER SIX

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK ONE:

STONE TO FLESH

All Knights of Farchrist placed death before dishonor. It was a code as strictly adhered to as the ritualistic worship of Grecolus himself. Honor was difficult to define, but it was always obvious when it was breached. It took years of faithful service to the cause to acquire it, and those who found it in their lifetimes radiated it out like the sun shines light to the dark planets around it. Many searched all their lives to find it. Most, however, could only truly find honor in their deaths, as my grandfather did in the cave of Dalanmire and as my father did on the rocks below Farchrist Castle.

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They spent a rainy night within sight of the walled garden of which Shortwhiskers had spoken. It was a horrible night, wet and uncomfortable. Shortwhiskers pitched a small tent he had packed on his mule, but it was not meant for three and it leaked. Brisbane tossed and turned throughout the night and did not drift off to sleep until very late.

The rain stopped during their fitful slumber and the morning greeted them with warm sunshine. The dwarf carefully rolled his leaking tent up and strapped it again to the mule, which they had leashed and staked to the ground during the night. They ate a quick breakfast of preserved meat and fruit and began to discuss how they hoped the day would go.

“How far in from the wall is Roundtower?” Roystnof asked the dwarf.

“Less than a hundred yards,” Shortwhiskers said. “It won’t take long to find him.”

Roystnof hummed. “I was just wondering what else we might find in there. Someone or something built the wall and planted the trees for some reason. This is obviously not a natural oasis. I’m thinking that once I restore Ignatius, we should explore it. See what we can turn up.”

“You can restore him, then?” the dwarf asked.

Roystnof’s brow furrowed. “I should think so, yes.” He withdrew his red book from a large pocket and opened it. “The spell is really not so difficult. Once you understand the magic that structures it, that is.”

“I’m sure,” Shortwhiskers said.

“Roy?” Brisbane asked.

“Yes, Gil?”

“About exploring the rest of the garden,” Brisbane said. “What if we should come across this basil-creature?”

“Basilisk,” Roystnof said matter-of-factly. “The garden encompasses a fairly large area. I’m hoping we can evade it if necessary.”

“But what if we can’t?” Brisbane said. “Or what if there is more than one?”

Roystnof did not have a quick answer for that one. Shortwhiskers looked at Brisbane like he agreed with the young man’s way of thinking.

“Well,” Roystnof said finally. “We’ll deal with that when need be. Look, we don’t have to scour the place. Just a quick look around. I think it’s a little odd that this kind of place a day out from Queensburg could be kept hidden for so long. I mean, I’ve never even heard rumors about this place. Have you, Nog?”

Shortwhiskers shook his head. “But not many folks come into the Windcrest Hills, what with the orks and all.”

“The orks do not dwell this close to the Mystic,” Roystnof said.

Shortwhiskers nodded. “True. But most people don’t know that.”

Brisbane briefly wondered how they knew that. “Maybe it’s the basilisks,” he said.

“What?” Roystnof asked.

“Maybe everyone who comes here gets turned to stone,” Brisbane said, swallowing hard before continuing. “They never return and their families and friends assume the orks got them.”

Shortwhiskers gave Brisbane another look like his last.

Roystnof dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Unlikely. Someone would have returned.”

“How do you know?” Brisbane asked.

“Because Nog did,” Roystnof stated. “And he’s never the first to do anything.”

There wasn’t much argument after that. Roystnof begged for some moments alone to prepare his spell, and Brisbane helped Shortwhiskers suit up in his chainmail. Soon they were marching to the spot in the wall where the dwarf indicated he and Roundtower had climbed over previously.

There was no discussion. Shortwhiskers led them over the low wall and into the thickly vegetated region. The trees were placed close enough together that they nearly formed a canopy overhead, and the grassy floor was cluttered with small bushes and undergrowth. Brisbane was sure that at any moment a basilisk monster would drop from a tree or spring from the brush and turn them all to stone. He unsheathed his short sword and held it tightly.

They slowly made their way through the plants and were abruptly confronted with the statue of Ignatius Roundtower. Brisbane walked slowly around him, taking in every detail he could. It all appeared surrealistic in its final shade of granite gray. The figure was otherwise entirely lifelike and Brisbane expected it to move at any moment.

Roundtower was a tall man, just inches shy of Brisbane’s height, and had the build of a veteran sword swinger. A stone helmet was perched on his stone head, his face cleanshaven with the skin pulled tightly over his prominent features. He was dressed in stone chainmail much like Shortwhiskers’, but of a much finer quality, and a full-length stone cloak that wrapped loosely around his frame. One hand still pointed a finger at the large brown lizard he had seen seventeen days ago while the other held a massive stone shield. His belt held a stone scabbard as long as his legs, the stone hilt of a sword jutting from its end.

Roystnof kept his voice low. “Nog, scramble up a tree and keep a sharp eye out. If you see your basilisk friend coming, give a holler and we’ll make for the wall.”

“What about me?” Shortwhiskers said.

“Shut your eyes and keep quiet,” Roystnof said. “Basilisks can’t climb trees and can’t turn you to stone unless you meet their gaze.”

The dwarf looked at the lowest branch on the nearest tree, a foot above his head. Brisbane saw his dilemma and rushed over to give him a boost.

“He always gave the orders before we parted ways, too,” the dwarf grumbled as he made his way up and into the tree.

Brisbane went back over to Roystnof and the frozen Roundtower. The wizard was standing in front of the stone figure, his left hand held palm up at chest level, a small pinch of dirt resting in its center. Between the thumb and index finger of the same hand he held a slim needle.

Roystnof began to chant softly in the ancient tongue of magic. Brisbane knew better than to disturb him at this point, so he backed off and watched the scene from a distance. The wizard brought the index finger of his right hand down upon the needle held in the other and drew a red bead of blood to its tip. Holding the punctured finger above the pinch of dirt, and squeezing it between another finger and his thumb, he deposited a single drop of his lifeblood on the pinch of earth.

Brisbane could see no change in the statue that was Ignatius Roundtower. He looked up into the tree to see if he could see Shortwhiskers but the foliage was too thick. Brisbane turned his attention back to Roystnof.

The wizard’s chanting had grown louder and he was mixing his blood and the earth in his left hand with the ring finger of his right. He approached the statue and brought his left hand up flat to his lips. He had dropped the needle he had held and, when he stood only inches in front of Roundtower, he abruptly stopped his chanting and blew the smudgy contents of his palm into the statue’s face.

Roystnof quickly stepped back as his wet bloodmud hit the granite face of the warrior. Brisbane watched with fascination as the filth appeared to dry off the face within a few short seconds. It quickly lost all of its moisture and the dirt left behind flaked off harmlessly. Brisbane realized that the blood was actually soaking into the pores of the rock figure.

It was with that realization that Brisbane began to see the color return to Roundtower’s form. His helm, chainmail, and shield began to change to a bone white. The plumes jutting from the peak of the helmet turned red and the shield began to show a red decorated ‘I,’ hidden before by its plain gray face. The cloak became red as well and the rocks that had studded the scabbard began to glow like the colorful jewels they were. Finally, his face and hands grew a tanned and healthy brown.

The colors reached their peak intensity and Ignatius Roundtower stumbled out of his stone coma.

He immediately slapped his hands over his eyes, dropped to his knees, and cried out as if in agony. Brisbane approached him in concern, but Roystnof held him back with a cautionary hand on his broad chest. Roundtower curled himself up into a ball, squatting on the garden floor, and began to whimper. Brisbane heard a rustle behind him and turned to see Shortwhiskers descending the lookout tree in haste. The dwarf reached the lowest branch and dropped himself squarely to the ground. He started for the weeping Roundtower, but Roystnof stopped him as well.

“Do not touch him,” Roystnof warned.

“But what is wrong with him?” Shortwhiskers cried.

“All will be explained,” Roystnof said. “But for now, do not disturb him.”

The three of them turned to look upon Roundtower. The warrior’s cries had fallen to low moans of terrible sorrow, but he still hid his face in his hands. Slowly, those hands came away from his face and he blinked his red eyes at the ground again and again. His body was shuddering with sobs, but he stifled all sound coming through his throat.

Roundtower quickly looked up at the small group of companions, his face wet with tears. He looked each one over carefully, recognition vacant from his eyes. Brisbane stared back into the warrior’s eyes and the sorrow he saw there made him feel weak in the knees.

Roystnof took a step forward. “Ignatius,” he said, his voice soft and calming. “You are free. We are your friends. We have returned you to the world you know.” He spoke as if trying to pacify a snarling dog.

“My God,” Roundtower said, his voice cracking horribly. He got shakily to his feet. “Roystnof.”

Roystnof nodded, smiling.

Roundtower approached the wizard on staggering feet and embraced him. Roystnof stiffened in the warrior’s arms, but quickly relaxed and returned the hug. Roundtower shortly broke the embrace and turned to the dwarf.

“…and Nog Shortwhiskers,” Roundtower said softly.

Shortwhiskers smiled at the mention of his name and quickly shook Roundtower’s hand as the warrior was crouching down to embrace him, too.

Roundtower awkwardly regained his feet and turned lastly to Brisbane. Roundtower’s face put the vacant stare back on, but now it was lined with puzzlement.

“Do I know you?” Roundtower asked.

“No, you don’t, sir,” Brisbane said, somehow feeling that the ‘sir’ was necessary. “My name is Gilbert Parkinson. I am…well, I am a friend of Roystnof’s.”

Roundtower nodded slowly to Brisbane, some measure of understanding highlighting his features.

Shortwhiskers stepped forward. “Are you truly all right, Ignatius?” he asked. “When you came out of it you were so insane.”

Roundtower spoke to his dwarven friend but kept his eyes on Brisbane. “Nog, I have been through a terrible ordeal.” His voice faltered for a moment. “A very terrible one, indeed. I would like to rest before I speak of it.”

“A wise idea,” Roystnof said quickly. “Come. Let us leave this garden. I don’t think it would be safe to make camp here.”

The others agreed and all made their way back to the garden wall. Brisbane remembered the danger of the basilisk and again expected the party to meet up with it before climbing the wall. But the basilisk was not to bother them this day. They left the garden and walked back to the campsite the three of them had used the night before.

They made camp in silence. Roundtower helped Shortwhiskers pitch the tent, and, when it was erected, the warrior stripped off his armor and crawled inside. Roystnof and Brisbane went about fixing a small meal and before the fire had thoroughly warmed their stew, they heard soft snores coming through the tent’s fabric.

Brisbane scooped out a plate of stew and handed it to Roystnof. “Roy?” he said.

“Yes, Gil?” Roystnof said, blowing on a spoonful.

Brisbane served a second plate to Shortwhiskers. The dwarf sat near the fire.

“What was the matter with Roundtower?”

Roystnof swallowed the stew he had put in his mouth. “What do you mean?” he said.

Brisbane dished himself out a plate of the stew.

“You know damn well what Gil means,” Shortwhiskers snapped. “Why was he crying like an infant when you turned him back?”

Roystnof ate a few more spoonfuls before he said anything. “What happens to someone when they are turned to stone?”

“Isn’t that what we’re asking you?” Shortwhiskers scoffed.

Brisbane raised a placating hand to the dwarf. “How do you mean, Roy?”

“I mean,” Roystnof said, “that for the time the physical body stands immobile as stone, what becomes of the consciousness?”

“It’s froze,” Shortwhiskers blurted. “Time stops for the individual…doesn’t it?”

Roystnof shook his head. “No, my friends, time does not stop. Ignatius spent the entire time—over two weeks—in a conscious state.”

“Well, big deal,” Shortwhiskers said after a moment’s reflection. “Sure, it might get dull looking at the same bush for the whole time, but that hardly explains his reaction.”

Roystnof shook his head again. “Ignatius could not see with stone eyes. Nor could he hear with stone ears. He spent that time without any worldly stimuli, completely alone with his consciousness.” Roystnof looked toward the tent in which Roundtower slept. “There’s no telling what effect this deprivation has had on him. I have read of instances such as this in which the victim has gone mad.”

The dwarf did not have a snappy retort here. Brisbane thought of Roundtower’s plight. He tried to put himself in the same situation, but his mind could not rationally imagine the isolation involved. Totally devoid of all one’s senses for more than two weeks? There’s no telling what one’s mind would do in such a circumstance. Brisbane was sure, however, that after even a short time of such deprivation, the passage of time would lose all of its significance.

“Do you think Roundtower will be okay?” Brisbane asked Roystnof.

“I don’t know,” the wizard said. “He is strong and apparently aware of what happened, but he also has obviously gone through some sort of trauma. When he wakes it will be important for him to talk about what he went through. But it is much more important that he not forget who he is and the things he has done. That is often all too easy in cases like this.”

They finished their meal without talking more about Roundtower. None of them were tired so they began the arduous task of waiting for Roundtower to wake up. Roystnof spoke again of his desire to explore the rest of the garden, and Shortwhiskers mentioned that he had seen a small stone building in the center of the oasis from atop his lookout tree. Roystnof decided that tomorrow, if Roundtower was able, they would make for that building.

After that the wizard buried his nose in his red book and left the other two alone. Brisbane tried to get Shortwhiskers to tell him more of the story, but the dwarf said his tongue wasn’t in the mood to tell it. Instead, Shortwhiskers decided to pass the time by showing Brisbane some of the finer points of swordplay. Roystnof looked up from his book as the dwarf was demonstrating the proper grip for an effective thrust. His mouth curled into an unconscious frown and he returned to his magical writings.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

The Once and Future Liberal by Mark Lilla

In this short book, Lilla attempts to describe “how we got here,” meaning at this nihilistic moment in the political history of the United States, and then to call on his fellow Liberals to seize the moment, change their drift, and provide a new (but old) compelling vision for the country and the electorate.

He does an admirable job with his first task. Much less so with the second.

The essential summary of “how we got here” comes late in the book.

Democracies without democrats do not last. They decay, into oligarchy, theocracy, ethnic nationalism, tribalism, authoritarian one-party rule, or some combination of these.

For most of its history the United States has been lucky enough to evade these classic forces of entropy, even after a devastating Civil War and mass immigration. What’s extraordinary -- and appalling -- about the past four decades of our history is that our politics have been dominated by two ideologies that encourage and even celebrate the unmaking of citizens. On the right, an ideology that questions the existence of a common good and denies our obligation to help fellow citizens, through government action if necessary. On the left, an ideology institutionalized in college and universities that fetishizes our individual and group attachments, applauds self-absorption, and casts a shadow of suspicion over any invocation of a universal democratic ‘we.’ This at a time when, precisely because America has become more diverse and individualistic in reality, there is greater, not less, need to cultivate political fellow feeling.

The idea that really strikes me is this “death of the ‘we,’” as in, supposedly, “We” the People. Lilla sees this trajectory on both the right and left, but his deepest analysis on this point actually leans more left than right.

The more our student gets into the campus identity mind-set, the more distrustful she will become of the word ‘we,’ a term her teachers have told her is a universalist ruse to cover up group differences and maintain the dominance of the privileged. And if she gets deeper into “identity theory” she’ll even start to question the reality of the groups to which she thinks she belongs. The intricacies of their pseudo-discipline are only of academic interest. But where it has left our student is of great political interest.

An earlier generation of young women, for example, might have learned that women as a group have a distinct perspective that deserves to be recognized and cultivated, and have distinct needs that society must address. Today the theoretically adept are likely to be taught, to the consternation of older feminists, that one cannot generalize about women since their experiences are radically different, depending on their race, sexual preference, class, physical abilities, life experiences, and so on. More generally, they will be taught that nothing about gender identity is fixed, that it is all infinitely malleable. This is either because, on the French view, the self is nothing, just the trance left by the interaction of invisible, tasteless, odorless forces of “power” that determine everything in the flux of life; or, on the all-American view, because the self is whatever we damn well say it is. (The most advanced thinkers hold both views at once.) A whole scholastic vocabulary has been developed to express these notions: fluidity, hybridity, intersectionality, performativity, transgressivity, and more. Anyone familiar with medieval scholastic disputes over the mystery of the Holy Trinity -- the original identity problem -- will feel right at home.

That is some really deep philosophical shit, but it does work to explain the death of the ‘we’ from the left, something that seems more elusive than the more obvious death of the ‘we,’ or at least the exclusion of only certain classes of the ‘we,’ on the right.

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This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

CHAPTER FIVE

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK ONE:

STONE TO FLESH

In Farchrist Year twenty-five, the son of the Peasant King founded the Knights of Farchrist. The King dubbed his son a Knight, and Sir Gregorovich Farchrist II began to teach three other young men the knightly virtues he had mastered. First and foremost, essential to the knightly way of life, was an undying faith in Grecolus, the creator of the universe and most holy god. One of the three young men—called Squires—was found to own a small magic book that contained pictures that moved as if they were alive. It was called a grave sacrilege and he was expelled from the Order immediately.

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The small party left Queensburg early the next morning. They were dressed and ready for battle. Shortwhiskers wore his chainmail under his dwarven cloak. In his left hand was a small unadorned shield and his right hand firmly gripped his belt, from which hung his jeweled-scabbarded sword. He wore his broad-brimmed hat and led his pack mule laden with supplies and spare weapons. Brisbane was garbed simply in his studded leather jerkin, tan pants, and boots. He walked with his blonde hair untethered and it fell loose past his shoulders. He held a short sword that the dwarf had lent him. Roystnof was, as always, dressed in red and black, his attire changing little for combat. He needed no blade to kill an opponent and no armor to protect himself.

They followed the shoreline of the Darkmarine until they reached the Mystic River. There, they turned southward and into the Windcrest Hills. The August sun was hot and soon the march became tiring and tedious. To pass the time they made conversation among themselves, but all seemed to avoid the topic of what lay ahead for them and for Ignatius Roundtower.

“What did Stargazer mean about your ribs?” Brisbane asked the dwarf at one point, referring to the night before.

Shortwhiskers grunted. “I took a nasty fall once and broke a few of them. She patched me up.”

Brisbane nodded. “Have you known her long?”

Shortwhiskers paused before he answered. “Yes.”

“How did you meet?”

“Listen, Gil,” Shortwhiskers said. “The tale of Allison Stargazer and myself ties in with the tale of your forefathers that I promised to tell you. I can begin that tale today if you like.”

Brisbane nodded. “I wish you would.”

The dwarf looked at Roystnof who was walking on the other side of him. The wizard nodded his head once as if granting permission. Shortwhiskers then turned back to Brisbane.

“It is a long tale, Gil,” he said. “And parts of it are painful for me to tell. I will begin today and stop when I choose, and I do not want to hear you begging me for more. You will hear it all, but only when I am ready to tell it. Agreed?”

“I think I can discipline myself,” Brisbane said.

“Very well then,” Shortwhiskers said. “Your grandfather, Gildegarde Brisbane, became a Knight of Farchrist in what you would call Farchrist Year fifty-four. He was the first of the Risers, select boys taken from the lower classes and trained to be a Knight from youth.”

That reminded Brisbane of his own boyhood. Had his father remained a Knight and lawfully married his mother before his conception—but no, wait a minute, his mother was of the lower class and Knights were in the upper class, whether they started as Risers or not. Their union was and would be forbidden regardless. Brisbane had often found this restriction silly, but it seemed that social standing was more important to members of the upper class.

“I know little of your grandfather’s history before this time,” Shortwhiskers said. “He was born and raised in Raveltown, and was chosen as a Riser because of his service to the temple of Grecolus. He was a bit of a prodigy student there, and the priests looked favorably upon him. He served his squireship under Gregorovich the Second, the then heir to the Farchrist throne and the traditional Captain of the Knights.”

Brisbane understood this. Since the conception of the Knights of Farchrist, it had always been the heir to the throne who acted as Captain, leader of the Knights. His knighthood was usually granted at birth, but still had to serve a token squireship at the proper age. At the current time, Gregorovich IV sat on the throne and his son, Gregorovich V, was Captain of the Knights.

The dwarf continued. “Now, although the Knights formally consider themselves a happy brotherhood, there were and still are personal conflicts and rivalries among them. Throughout his squireship and knighthood, your grandfather carried on a rivalry with Gregorovich the Third. They competed with one another in all their duties, but unlike some others in the Order, their competition was born out of the purest friendship and love between the two men. They felt that constantly challenging each other only increased their skill and bettered their values. When the Peasant King died in Farchrist Year fifty-eight, Gregorovich the Second became King and it was Gregorovich the Third’s turn to assume the position of Captain. His first official act in that office was to name Brisbane his second-in-command, Commander of the Knights of Farchrist.”

Brisbane knew that his grandfather had held this rank, but he did not know of his close friendship with the then heir to the throne. It explained much of how his grandfather could rise from a small peasant boy to perhaps the most famous Knight of the realm.

“It was at this time,” Shortwhiskers said, “that I entered the picture. The Kingdom of Farchrist began formal relations with the dwarven nation to which my clan belonged in the mountains not far from the plateau on which Farchrist Castle stood. I was chosen as an ambassador of my people and journeyed to the castle to meet with the King and his court. The reception my aides and I received was gracious, and we began to discuss what our people could do for each other. We spoke of trading goods—our metals for their agriculture, for example—and mostly of things my clan had anticipated and were ready to comply with. But the King surprised us with one request for which we were completely unprepared.”

Brisbane took a moment to look at Roystnof. The wizard seemed to be staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. Brisbane returned his attention to the dwarf.

“You see,” Shortwhiskers said, “Gregorovich the Second grew up in the aftermath of Dalanmire’s attack in Farchrist Year four. His young and impressionable eyes had seen the years of feeble harvests that the dragon-burned fields produced. He had seen the rubble-filled streets of Raveltown and the slow rebuilding done by the over-worked peasants. He had seen the poverty, hunger, disease, and despair that followed Dalanmire’s attack. But most of all, he had seen how the dragon tax took a gigantic bite out of what little his people managed to collect from year to year. He had made an oath to himself at a very young age; an oath that, when he had the power to do so, he would see the evil lizard who had cause so much pain skinned alive.”

Brisbane looked again at Roystnof. He was still staring off into the distance.

“The King wanted the dwarves,” Shortwhiskers continued in a quiet voice, “to guide an armed party through the Crimson Mountains and across the Desert of Despair to Dragon’s Peak, where the party would destroy Dalanmire.”

“Nog,” Roystnof interrupted, pointing into the distance. “Look. Atop that hill at ten o’clock.”

Shortwhiskers and Brisbane looked in the direction Roystnof had indicated. Brisbane saw two fuzzy figures standing atop a hill ahead of them. He could make out no finer details.”

“Ogres,” Shortwhiskers said. “And we’re upwind of them. If we can see them…”

“…they can smell us,” Roystnof finished for him.

Roystnof put down his pack and his staff. He brought out his red book and began flipping through it. Shortwhiskers drew his sword and tightened his grip on his shield. Brisbane looked off into the distance and saw the two figures quickly descend the hill in their direction.

“What’ll we do?” Brisbane said.

“Stay put,” Shortwhiskers said.

“What?!” Brisbane realized he was more than a little scared.

“Gil,” Roystnof said. “We cannot escape them. This is their country and they are much better at chasing than we are at running. We will stand atop this hill and wait for them to arrive. They will tire themselves running to us and, when they are within range, I will let one of them have it. The other I trust to Nog’s skill with his blade.”

Brisbane looked at Shortwhiskers.

“No problem,” the dwarf said.

“You just stay behind us,” Roystnof told Brisbane. “Now don't interrupt. I have to prepare this spell.”

Brisbane took his place behind his companions like a frustrated child. He stared out over the dwarf’s head and saw the approaching ogres top a nearer hill and rush down its other side. Now he could see that they were big creatures, much taller than he and burly as well. Dressed in tattered skins and furs, they were covered in yellowish-brown hair. Roystnof had put his book down and now had his eyes closed and was mumbling to himself. The dwarf was standing still.

“Don’t you have a crossbow or something?” Brisbane asked Shortwhiskers.

“No,” he said curtly.

The ogres were closing the distance rapidly. They crested the hill directly adjacent to the one Brisbane stood upon. Their hair covered their heads and backs while their chests were bare with dull yellow warty bumps covering them. Each carried a massive wooden club in its hand and their features were twisted and grotesque.

Suddenly, Roystnof flipped open his eyes and threw his arms into the air. Red lightning crackled out of his fingertips, shooting through the warm air and striking one of the ogres in the center of its warty chest. There, the lightning exploded with a flash that knocked the ogre off its feet. When the smoke cleared, one ogre stood over the crumpled form of its comrade. The remaining ogre let out a roar and rushed its attackers.

It seemed like the ogre was upon them in an instant. It charged at the dwarf with ferocity, and Brisbane saw just how large the creature actually was. It made him look like a child and Shortwhiskers like an infant. Brisbane did not see how the dwarf could stop it.

The ogre charged up the hill impossibly fast. Shortwhiskers set himself against the charge, swung his blade at the proper time, and cut deeply into the abdomen of the monster. The ogre, however, did not stop. It had its club held high as it ran over the dwarf, trampling Shortwhiskers under its feet. It was upon Roystnof in a second, who quickly bent down to pick up his staff. The ogre brought its club down on the back of the wizard and Roystnof crumbled flat under the blow.

Brisbane’s short sword was in his hand as if by its own volition. Brisbane did not have any time to think. He knew only two short and sudden things. One: if he did not stop this ogre, all three of them were going to die and, two: the short sword Shortwhiskers had lent him felt good in his hand. Brisbane leapt into battle with shocking grasp the last thing on his mind.

The ogre lifted its club and swung it sideways at Brisbane’s head. Brisbane ducked under the heavy wood, and then sprang up, burying his sword right below the protruding chin of the ogre. Blackish-red ogre blood rained down upon him. The creature had swung too hard, expecting to connect with Brisbane’s head, and was now losing its balance. It began to fall over as Brisbane pulled his weapon out and took another swing at the ogre’s neck.

Roystnof, although hurt, was still wise and able enough to scramble out of the way of the falling ogre. Shortwhiskers was shaken, and was just regaining his feet as Brisbane chopped into the side of the ogre’s neck. The ogre crashed to the ground and Brisbane brought his blade down a third and final time on the creature’s neck, this time severing its head. Brisbane kicked the grotesque thing and it bounced and thumped down the hill.

Brisbane stood at the crest of the hill with the short sword clenched in a white-knuckled fist. His arms and the front of his leather jerkin were soaked rich in ogre blood. Shortwhiskers stood on one side and Roystnof sat in the sparse grass on the other, both silently watching him.

Brisbane shook off a chill and crouched down beside Roystnof. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Yes,” was the only reply the mage could manage.

Brisbane helped him off with his shirt and he laid the wizard face down on the grass. His back was already black and blue, and by poking and pressing Brisbane judged that no bones had been broken. Shortwhiskers was scratched and sore, but no worse for the trampling he had received. His biggest injury may have been to his pride. He rummaged through the bags on his mule and, when he returned, he had a small jar of ointment with him.

“Something Allison gave me some time ago,” the dwarf explained as he rubbed the salve on Roystnof’s bruises. “It’ll ease the pain and quicken the healing.”

“What happened, Gil?” Roystnof’s voice was muffled by a face full of grass.

“What do you mean?” Brisbane said.

“I think he means,” Shortwhiskers said, “that not only did you forget to use the spell he taught you, but you used my short sword like you and it were old friends.”

Confronted with it, Brisbane thought about what he had done for the first time. It puzzled him even more than it did his friends. He had never used such a weapon before. Thinking back, he saw that the use of arms was the only part of his knightly raising to have been left out. But he had used the short sword like he had been trained in its use. The hilt of the blade had felt not only good in his hand, it had felt reassuring. Like it was all he needed to make sense out of things and separate right from wrong.

These thoughts made him shudder a little, and then he remembered Roystnof and Shortwhiskers waiting for his reply. Brisbane lamely shrugged it off as a heat-of-the-moment thing and quickly excused himself to wash the gore off himself in the river.

Brisbane went down to the Mystic, removed his leather jerkin, and began washing it and himself in the cool water. Most of the ogre blood was washing off his armor, but it was going to leave a stain between the metal plates. Brisbane started to reflect on his actions again. He had murdered. Regardless of whether he had done it by sword or by spell, he had taken a life. His knightly disciplines told him this was wrong except in self-defense or against inherently evil creatures. Brisbane knew his situation was a case of both of these conditions, but these rationalizations were not enough to account for how unremorseful he actually felt. If, at any time in the past, someone had given him the hypothetical kill or be killed situation, and had wanted to know what Brisbane would do in such a circumstance, Brisbane would have said that he would protect himself the best he could and, if the death of his opponent resulted, he would feel strong pity but a wavering justification about it. But now that the hypothetical case had occurred, Brisbane was shocked to find himself feeling no pity at all—only strong justification. What he had achieved with his blade had been right. The ogre had deserved its fate and Brisbane was forced to admit that he had only been too glad to deal the cards.

Shortwhiskers called to him from atop the hill. Brisbane threw on his dripping jerkin and scrambled back up the hill. Roystnof was now clothed and stood stiffly next to the dwarf, leaning heavily on his staff. The three looked each other over for several silent moments.

Finally, Shortwhiskers spoke. “Well, Gil. I don’t know what it was that possessed you to fight like you did, but if I had any doubts to your heritage before, you and this ogre have helped me to overcome them.”

Brisbane smiled, feeling oddly proud of his true family name. He looked at the wizard with caring eyes.

“Yes,” Roystnof said murkily. “You have certainly shown what color blood runs in your veins.”

Brisbane looked pleadingly at Roystnof, like a scolded pup.

Roystnof shook his head and placed a hand on Brisbane’s shoulder. “No, Gil. You did what you had to do. You can do no less.”

They resumed their march south after the dwarf searched the bodies of the ogres, first the headless one at their feet and then the charred form on the next hill. He turned up a handful of gold pieces and a small opal gem. Shortwhiskers put them all in a sack on his pack mule, saying that he would keep them safe.

As they walked, Brisbane tried to get Shortwhiskers to continue his story about Brisbane’s family history, but the dwarf gruffly said that he had told enough of it for one day. He reminded Brisbane not to pester him about it and walked on in silence.

Brisbane spent most of the rest of the day wondering if ogres had a god to whom they prayed.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.