Monday, August 25, 2025

Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor

This one definitely needs a re-read.

I was looking for something to do, and came across an online course on YouTube: The American Novel Since 1945, taught in 2008 by Professor Amy Hungerford of Yale University. I looked at the books included in the syllabus, recognizing some that I had already read and others that I wanted to read, and I thought: “Hey, wouldn’t it be fun if I took this course (i.e., watched these videos and read the books discussed at the same time)?”

Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor was one of those books.

The only thing I knew about Flannery O’Connor was that he (turns about he’s a she) is mentioned in that Grayson Capps song I like: A Long Song for Bobby Long.

And I didn’t get much out of the book. It struck me as one of those allegorical tales in which the allegory is so abstract, or at least so specific to the author’s time and place, that it comes off the page as a story that actually doesn’t make any sense. I mean, I know the broken down car represents something. But what does it represent? And why?

Well, the online lecture helped me break the code, and now I want to read it again to see all the things I missed. 

Let’s just leave the summary on the back cover here as a placeholder. 

Wise Blood, Flannery O’Connor’s astonishing and haunting first novel, is a classic of twentieth-century literature. It is the story of Hazel Motes, a twenty-two-year-old caught in an unending struggle against his inborn, desperate fate. He falls under the spell of a “blind” street preacher named Asa Hawks and his degenerate fifteen-year-old daughter, Sabbath Lily. In an ironic, malicious gesture of his own non-faith, and to prove himself a greater cynic than Hawks, Hazel Motes founds the Church Without Christ, but is still thwarted in his efforts to lose God. He meets Enoch Emery, a young man with “wise blood,” who leads him to a mummified holy child and whose crazy maneuvers are a manifestation of Hazel’s existential struggles. This tale of redemption, retribution, false prophets, blindness, blindings, and wisdom gives us one of the most riveting characters in American fiction.

When I do get around to reading it again, I’ll be sure to watch these videos first:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjplQUPhES4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COzAb8FyIis

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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.


Monday, August 18, 2025

Terms of Endearment by Larry McMurtry

This post was originally published on a now-retired blog that I maintained from roughly 2005 to 2013. As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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I think I like Larry McMurtry. I've read enough of him now that I feel safe in making that assessment. I like the way he incorporates poignant commentary about life into the fabric of his stories, like:

Rosie tried to smile but wanted to cry. Seeing Emma sitting there, so trusting and goodhearted, such a happy-looking young woman, filled her with memory suddenly, until she felt too full. She had come to the Greenway house two months before Emma was born, and it was all so strange, the way life went on and seemed the same even though it was always changing. It never quite slowed down so you could catch it, except by thinking back, and it left some people more important than others as it changed.

And:

Aurora put her hand on Vernon's arm. Life was such a mystery, and such a drama. She had just seen two grown women moved to tears by the sight of the pale bandaged hulk of Royce Dunlup. Few bodies could have contained less of human grace than Royce's, it seemed to her, and she could find nothing at all to say about his spirit, since in her presence he had never shown any. Royce was as near to being a human zero as she had encountered, and yet her own Rosie, a woman of morality and good sense, was ruining several Kleenex over him as she and Vernon watched.

"I better tell her he can have his job back," Vernon said.

"Oh, be still," Aurora said. "You can't cure all the ills of humankind with your jobs, you know. You'd do better to cure a few of your own and let the rest of us flounder."

This is a book that is really two books, and they are two very different ones. The first book is called "Emma's Mother" and is 363 pages long. It takes place in 1962 and Aurora is the protagonist. The second book is called "Mrs. Greenway's Daughter" and is only 53 pages long. It takes place between 1971 and 1976 and Emma is the protagonist. Book I is about Aurora and her less-than-serious search for a good man from among a variety of doting suitors. Book II is about the mistakes she has made in her life and the way her existence narrows through a battle with cancer. Book I has a lot of dialogue and day by day descriptions of activity important and frivolous. Book II is more retrospective, meaningful scenes played out in between stretches of narrative summary. Book I makes you laugh. Book II makes you cry.

You've probably guessed that I liked Book II better than Book I. The highlight of Book I (for me) was Chapter XIII, which takes a departure from Aurora to tell the story of Royce Dunlup and his dim-witted actions when he discovers that his wife (whom he has left to shack up with another woman) is out on a date with two other men. The chapter reminds me of a lot of other McMurtry that I've read and I've liked—with well-drawn characters acting in ways you wouldn't but in ways that make total sense for them. The characters are by-and-large dumb, and McMurtry is at times clearly writing for comedic effect, but the characters are real and true to themselves in a way that's refreshing.

The title of the book is taken from a paragraph late in Book II, when Emma and her husband Flap, knowing that Emma is going to die, argue about who is going to raise their three children. They've been estranged for some time, both having affairs with other people.

They looked at one another, trying to know what to do. Flap's cheeks had thinned, but he still had something of his old look, part arrogant, part self-deprecating—though the arrogance had worn thin after sixteen years. Somehow that look had won her, though she couldn't remember, looking at him, what the terms of endearment had been, or how they had been lost for so long. He was a thoughtful but no longer an energetic man, and he had never been really hopeful.

This is a good description of many of the relationships in the book. These characters have ties that bind them together, even if they have forgotten long ago what those ties are.

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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.

Monday, August 11, 2025

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FARCHRIST TALES
BOOK TWO:
THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

Gildegarde Brisbane II took to his Knighthood like a fish takes to water. In the first year of his service he spent more time in the field than he did at the Castle, scouring the land for monsters and enemies of the King. In a short time, his reputation grew to fantastic proportions and even those who thought he had lucked out in life due to his birthright began to find respect for him. Many wondered when his quest for victory would end and, as accomplishment piled on top of accomplishment, they began to think of him as invincible. But all this was not done without reason. Brisbane had a plan, and these adventures in the field were part of it. He was training himself in battle, not against men, but against monsters. For when he felt he had gained enough skill, he fully intended to ride to Dragon’s Peak and take on Dalanmire, the monster who had killed his father and raped his land.

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The journey continued south at dawn. As the third day wore on, the Crimson Mountains loomed closer and the party eventually left the Windcrest Hills and entered the beginning foothills of the mountain range.

Brisbane, more so than usual, avoided all contact with Dantrius, seriously worried about what the mage might do. Physically, he was no match for Brisbane and even a sneak attack from him would most likely fall in Brisbane’s favor. But it was Dantrius’ magic which Brisbane feared. Roystnof had said Dantrius was just as powerful a wizard, if not more, as he was, although Dantrius’ magic was of a different nature. Brisbane thought about the level of power Roystnof had at his command, the lightning bolts especially, and then shivered to imagine a power like that brought against him.

At one point during the third day of their journey, Brisbane told Shortwhiskers what had happened between him and Dantrius, interested in seeing what the dwarf’s reaction would be to Dantrius’ threat. Shortwhiskers laughed a great deal, obviously amused by what Brisbane had done with the burning log, but eventually he calmed down and was able to see the seriousness of the situation.

The threat did not sit well with Shortwhiskers, for he knew how devious Dantrius could be, but even so, he had trouble imagining this grudge being held for any great length of time. If someone had done that to him, Shortwhiskers said, he would probably be mad for a time, too, but eventually he would see the error of his ways and, after the pain had gone away, forgive the person. Of course, Shortwhiskers conjectured, if it had really been his turn to stand watch, he would have gotten up and done it in the first place. Shortwhiskers told Brisbane to try not to worry about it and together they would keep an eye on Dantrius.

Brisbane also told Stargazer about the situation and she seemed to agree for the most part with Shortwhiskers. It had perhaps been a foolish thing for Brisbane to do, she said, but she couldn’t imagine an ordinary person holding a serious grudge about it. But Stargazer also conceded that Dantrius was no ordinary person and, to him, revenge over things like this probably had a somewhat sweeter taste. She also advised Brisbane to sleep with one eye open.

Brisbane was walking off by himself considering what his friends had said when an unusual idea overcame him.

Angelika? he thought, reaching out to the consciousness living in his sword.

Yes, young Brisbane? came the immediate reply.

Brisbane was a bit surprised he had reached her. He had never initiated any contact with her before; she had always been the one to speak to him first. If he could reach her at any time and carry on conversations with her in his head, there was no telling what effect it would have on their already awkward relationship.

What do you think of all this? Brisbane thought.

Fear not, young Brisbane. He cannot harm you while I am at your side. My eyes are always open. I can warn you of any action he might take against you.

This did little to assuage Brisbane’s fears. Angelika, he thought, is Dantrius evil? The sword always seemed to know when evil was about.

It is hard to tell with humans, Angelika replied. They are not creatures of pure good or pure evil like others in the universe. Dantrius is capable of doing evil.

Angelika’s words bothered Brisbane and he began to feel ill as he always did when she spoke to him. There was something unnatural about the connection Brisbane didn’t like, something cold and alien.

Do you want to kill him? Brisbane thought.

Angelika’s reply was delayed. In due time.

Brisbane tried to break the connection, having some initial trouble coming away from her commanding presence, and had to concentrate much harder on coming back to himself. Eventually, he severed the link and Angelika fell from his mind. He immediately felt better, but he knew he would worry over what she had said for a long time to come.

But that was not the most disturbing thing that happened that day. As they followed the curves of the Mystic, they wove in and around a lot of hills, and the way ahead could often not be clearly seen. At regular intervals they sent someone up to the top of the closest hill to scout the area for possible unfriendlies. This quickly became a tiresome duty as no one spotted a potential threat to their safety since leaving Queensburg.

It was near the end of the day, and they were pushing ahead to cover some more distance before nightfall, when they rounded the contour of a hill and nearly stumbled into the midst of a large party of orks.

There was no hope to elude them; the orks spotted Brisbane and his friends immediately, and they all took up weapons and rushed at them. The orks were fearsome creatures, humanoid in appearance, the shortest being a full six feet, burly, and having ugly pig faces, complete with small tusks, atop their broad shoulders. Their skin color was a sickening brownish-green with their snouts and ears a tender shade of pink. They all wore sloppy suits of mismatched armor, were all armed with rusty swords, and each bore a round black shield with a single red eye painted upon it for decoration. There were eight of them in all.

Brisbane and his friends had no choice but to fight them. Shortwhiskers called out to Brisbane to follow him and he charged into battle, leaving the wizards and Stargazer behind. Brisbane unsheathed Angelika and joined the dwarf.

They crashed into combat with the two orks who led their own charge and were able to stop their forward progress. The other six, however, simply flowed around them and closed on the rest of the party. Brisbane was sure he couldn’t get them all, but Angelika encouraged him to concentrate on one at a time, and promised she would make sure each strike he made was a mortal one.

Brisbane thrust aside the attack of his opponent with his shield and thrust Angelika deep into the ork’s exposed abdomen. As he pulled his sword free and the ork collapsed to his knees. Brisbane swung Angelika again, for good measure, and nearly separated the ork’s head from his body. The ork fell over dead and Brisbane quickly turned back to the party.

What he saw amazed him. One ork already lay dead, his head charred and blackened as if it had been left in a fire. Two others were attacking Stargazer, but the woman was adequately fending them off with her long staff for the time being. The other three were standing in a moment of indecision as they faced what had amazed Brisbane more than anything else.

There was not one but five figures of Dantrius, five exact copies of Illzeezad Dantrius standing in a line, each with his fists on his hips and each laughing at the orks’ surprise. As the opponents stood there, Roystnof pointed his finger at one, sending a fiery missile out of his hand to crash into the head of the ork. The missile exploded and dropped him with nothing but a blackened stump above his neck.

Shortwhiskers finished off his ork and, with Brisbane, rushed back to the party to help. Stargazer cracked one of her combatants against the side of the head. The ork fell to the ground, dead or unconscious, and she slipped back into her defensive posture with the other ork. It was obvious to Brisbane she had used her staff in combat before. The metal hand that topped it made it a rather effective mace.

Each ork facing the five Dantriuses chose one and swung their rusty swords at the figures. The Dantriuses offered up no defense, still laughing with their fists planted on their hips. The ork blades passed effortlessly through the figures and they blinked out of existence. There now remained only three copies of Dantrius.

Brisbane and Shortwhiskers arrived and they cut down the two orks facing the Dantriuses. Roystnof turned and fired another of his magic missiles at the remaining ork on Stargazer. As with the others, the glowing arrow struck the unsuspecting ork and burst into a flash of fire, killing him instantly.

Brisbane could not believe it, but all eight orks lay dead at their feet and none of them had received so much as a scratch.

The deed is done, Angelika tolled in Brisbane’s head. Praise Grecolus for his wisdom and Brisbane for his courage.

The first thing Brisbane did after sheathing Angelika was to go over and see if Stargazer was all right. She assured Brisbane she was fine and Brisbane told her how surprised he was at the way she had used her staff.

“You’re not the only one who has gone off on adventures before,” she reminded him and gave him a hug.

Shortwhiskers came over to search the bodies of the orks. As he was checking the one Stargazer had smashed with her staff, he announced that he was not yet dead.

The rest of the party came over, Roystnof and the three copies of Dantrius, to decide what should be done. The ork was bleeding profusely from a nasty head wound, which was very messy and probably accompanied by a shattered skull.

“Put him out of his misery,” the three Dantriuses intoned as one, more disgust than compassion in their voices. “He’ll die soon anyway.”

Brisbane looked closely at the ork’s pig-like face and let his mind wander. This was the first time he had ever met any orks and he had said hello by killing them. This fact alone did not bother him so much. After all, it had been the orks who had initiated the aggression, but it left Brisbane a little upset at the way things worked in the world. All he knew about orks came from what he had heard people say about them, some of them reliable and some of them not. He had heard many conflicting stories about their nature, their origins, and their motivations. What it all boiled down to was that he knew almost nothing about orks, and what he did know was most likely hopelessly tainted by prejudice and unfounded opinion.

But now, here he was, participating in a vote to decide whether an ork should be killed or left to die what was probably many miles from home. The vote went around the circle, the dwarf making doubly sure Dantrius got only one vote for his three copies, and not one of them, not Shortwhiskers, not even Stargazer, suggested they try to help the wounded ork.

They all agreed to put the ork out of his misery and when the vote came to Brisbane, he only nodded his head and walked slowly away. They all moved on to explore the orkish campsite and left Shortwhiskers behind to finish the deed and to take any valuables the ork might have had.

“What’s the matter, Brisbane?” the three copies of Dantrius mocked. “Get squeamish at the sight of blood?”

Brisbane looked at the three men. “How long is that spell going to last, Dantrius? One of you is quite enough.”

“My magic powers can last forever,” they said with some pride. “This particular spell will last until someone strikes down my duplicates.”

Brisbane drew Angelika. “Do you mind if I have the honor?” he asked the Dantriuses. “I think I would derive some sort of symbolic pleasure from it.”

The three smirked. “I’m sure you would. Go right ahead.”

Brisbane swung Angelika in a great overhead arc and sliced her through one of the Dantriuses. The sword met no resistance and the figure vanished in the blink of an eye. Two Dantriuses remained.

“Very good,” the remaining two said. “You’re quite good at instilling fear in me.” Their tone was far from complimentary.

“One down,” Brisbane said as he stepped up to the next Dantrius.

The others in the party stood silently by as this little game went on. Brisbane thrust Angelika through the chest of one of the remaining figures, again meeting no resistance and dispelling the phantasm.

“Thank you very much,” Dantrius said. “You can put your sword away now.”

“Two down,” Brisbane chanted mechanically, ignoring Dantrius’ words. “And one to go.”

Brisbane brought Angelika up to strike the last Dantrius. Frightened, the mage let out a little squeal and skipped back a few paces. Brisbane, laughing at the joke he had played, brought his sword harmlessly down and sheathed her. Dantrius burned Brisbane with a look of utter hatred and was about to say something nasty when Roystnof stepped in.

“But how did you know he would save the real one for last?” he asked Dantrius. “What would have happened if Gil had struck the images in a different order?”

Dantrius turned away from Brisbane. For a moment he looked at Roystnof with a look of utter contempt on his face. If his glare could have spoken in that moment, Brisbane thought, it would have called Roystnof an ignorant fool and dismissed him like a backward child. But the look lasted for only a moment, and it was quickly replaced by a face exuding with friendship and equality.

“It’s worked into the spell,” Dantrius explained. “My life force is actually split between all the images. When one of the images is destroyed, my life force is redistributed amongst those remaining. When the second to last image is destroyed, my entire life force enters the final one. Simple.”

“Simple,” Roystnof repeated, obviously thinking the process was something more.

Dantrius began walking towards the ork campsite and Roystnof trotted after him. Brisbane looked around and saw Shortwhiskers watching the wizards leave.

“You know, Gil,” the dwarf said quietly. “I used to think Roystnof was about the smartest person on earth. But why he follows such a jackass around is beyond me. Doesn’t he see that Dantrius thinks he’s a fool?”

Brisbane shrugged. “I don’t know. Roy told me he knows what kind of snake Dantrius is, but they learn so much from each other that the relationship is worth it.”

Shortwhiskers spat. “If Roystnof still has things to learn, then we are all but school children.” He, too, then marched off in the direction of the ork campsite.

Stargazer came up to Brisbane and slipped her hand into his.

“I’m scared, Allie,” he said. “I really am. I’m afraid for our safety. That Dantrius is gray skies and some day he’s going to rain all over us.”

“He is an evil man, Gil,” she said, moving close to him. “Have you talked to Roystnof about him?”

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “He says he knows what he’s doing and that he can handle Dantrius.”

“I hope he’s right,” Stargazer said.

Brisbane looked down into Stargazer’s face. “Allie,” he said. “Have you changed your mind about Roy? I mean, about his magic?”

Stargazer looked down at the ground. “I’m not sure, Gil. Since I’ve met you I’ve re-examined a lot of things I used to take for granted. I believe this is a healthy thing for me to do and, in most cases, it has only reinforced my faith in Grecolus. Your friend Roystnof, however, is still something that puzzles me. You say he does not worship Damaleous and, objectively, his use of magic is the only proof I’ve seen that he does. I suppose, I’ve come to question the validity of that proof. I am not decided. But even if Roystnof is a servant of evil, I sincerely hope no harm comes to him because I know you love him.”

Brisbane looked off in the distance at Roystnof. “I do love him,” he said, the words coming out of him with little control. “With the exception of Dantrius, I think I love everyone here.”

Stargazer eyed him sheepishly for a moment and then smiled wide. “Come on,” she said, starting to pull him along. “Let’s go catch up with the others.”

Looking back on it, Brisbane was pleased with Stargazer’s reaction to his roundabout admission of his love for her. He hadn’t meant to say it, but he was not unhappy he had. Although she hadn’t come right out and say she loved him, too, the indications were positive. She could have done any number of things to dispel from his mind any delusion he might have had about her loving him, but she hadn’t done any of them. Brisbane thought that was a good sign.

The search of the ork campsite was quickly conducted and it profited little of any worth. Shortwhiskers had turned up a few gold pieces on the bodies of the orks, and the campsite yielded a few more to his trained eyes, but nothing of any shocking value. But even this small amount of treasure was enough to set off an argument from Dantrius, who thought all gain should be divided among the party members immediately. Shortwhiskers, who was so used to packing what was found on the mules to be split up at a more convenient time, was actually accused of thievery by the quick-tempered mage. A long tirade between the two followed, comprised mostly of name-calling, and lasted until Roystnof put his foot down and demanded that the two pipe down before they brought the whole of the ork nation down upon them. Roystnof quickly called for a vote on the matter and all but Dantrius agreed to let Shortwhiskers collect the coins to be divided up later. Again, Dantrius was forced to drop his argument.

Also found in the ork camp was a small keg of ale which Shortwhiskers tasted and declared unfit for consumption, even by sewer rats. Brisbane noticed the dwarf lashed it to one of the mules anyway.

Brisbane asked Shortwhiskers what he thought orks were doing so close to the Mystic and the dwarf postulated that perhaps they were some sort of scouting party.

“Scouting for what?” Brisbane asked.

Shortwhiskers shrugged. “Slaves, maybe.”

“Slaves?”

Shortwhiskers nodded. “Oh yes. Orks are real big on slaves. They use them for all kinds of things. One of their favorite things to do with captured slaves is to torture them to death and then eat them.”

Brisbane’s stomach lurched. “They eat people?”

Shortwhiskers looked up at Brisbane. “Well, what did you think they did with the people they captured? And why do you think they keep capturing new ones? Orks have big appetites. I hear they like elf meat the best but it’s too hard to find.”

A strange mix of images flared up in Brisbane’s mind, all leaning on a cannibalistic theme. He thanked Shortwhiskers for the information and quickly walked away from the dwarf with one hand on his stomach.

Sunset was upon them but no one wanted to bed down in the same place the orks had been, especially with their dead bodies nearby, so they pushed on for an extra mile or two before setting up camp for the night. Brisbane drew no watch that night so he went to bed right after the evening meal and a cup of the ale declared unfit for rodents.

He was tired and fell asleep almost immediately, but before he did he spent some time in a half-awake half-asleep state where dreams are most disguised as reality. He thought about orks while in this state, their large humanoid bodies and their pig faces crowded around him in numbers unheard of. They eat human flesh, Shortwhiskers had said and Brisbane saw hundreds of them swarm out of the hills to descend upon Queensburg and drag screaming victims off to their skewer knives and fire pits. He saw the eight they had killed rise up and scream out at the injustice of their deaths, scrambling around frantically, begging for another chance to redeem themselves.

And lastly, before he fell completely asleep, Brisbane saw a single huge ork come walking over the hills, his head in the clouds and one great eye burning like a red beacon in the center of his brow, and crush each of the reborn orks beneath his massive feet.

Brisbane awoke briefly in the middle of the night, when Stargazer crawled into the tent after her watch, but he had already forgotten these images. Stargazer snuggled close to Brisbane, resting her head on his chest and draping a slender arm over his body.

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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.


Monday, August 4, 2025

Allow Me To Retort by Elie Mystal

This was a refreshing read.

Our Constitution is not good. It is a document designed to create a society of enduring white male dominance, hastily edited in the margins to allow for what basic political rights white men could be convinced to share. The Constitution is an imperfect work that urgently and consistently needs to be modified and reimagined to make good on its unrealized promises of justice and equality for all.

That’s the opening paragraph of Mystal’s Introduction, and if you’re not on board with that premise, you’re not going to enjoy the rest of his book, deliberately subtitled “A Black Guy’s Guide to the Constitution.”

White supremacy runs consistently through Mystal’s analysis, especially as he goes through the amendments in the Bill of Rights, and exposes everything that is wrong with them (and a little bit about what can be done to fix them).

Let’s take a look at some of the highlights.

Everything You Know About the Second Amendment Is Wrong

There was an original purpose to the Second Amendment, but it wasn’t to keep people safe. It was to preserve white supremacy and slavery.

Here’s a history that I have never seen so explicitly told.

The Second Amendment is in the Constitution because Patrick Henry (Virginia’s governor at the time that the Constitution was being debated) and George Mason (the intellectual leader of the movement against the Constitution, the “anti-federalists”) won a debate against James Madison (the guy who wrote most of the Constitution and its original ten amendments). Henry and Mason wanted the Second Amendment in there to guard against slave revolts.

Although, overall, white Southerners outnumbered their enslaved populations, that numerical advantage did not hold in every region. In parts of Virginia, for instance, enslaved Black people outnumbered whites. Predictably, whites were worried about slave revolts because, you know, holding people in bondage against their will is not all that easy to do without numerical and military superiority. The principal way of quelling slave revolts was (wait for it): armed militias of white people. Gangs of white people roving around, imposing white supremacy, is nothing new.

That will give you a sense of the tone Mystal uses throughout the book -- a strange combination of militant anger with his tongue held in his cheek. It’s not lost on me, at least, that the book’s title, Allow Me To Retort, almost certainly comes from that iconic scene in Pulp Fiction in which Jules brings his “vengeance down upon thee.”

But, back to the history:

But the slavers worried that the new Constitution put the power of raising militias with the federal government and not with the individual states. That would mean that the federal government, dominated by Northerners, could choose to not help the South should their population of oppressed humans demand freedom.

In a May 2018 New York Times article, Professor Carl Bogus of Roger Williams University School of Law explained the argument like this:

“During the debate in Richmond, Mason and Henry suggested that the new Constitution gave Congress the power to subvert the slave system by disarming the militias. ‘Slavery is detested,’ Henry reminded the audience. ‘The majority of Congress is to the North, and the slaves are to the South.’”

Henry and Mason argued that because the Constitution gave the federal government the power to arm militias, only the federal government could do so: “If they neglect or refuse to discipline or arm our militia, they will be useless: the states can do neither -- this power being exclusively given to Congress.” Why would the federal government “neglect” a Southern militia? Henry and Mason feared the Northerners who “detested” slavery would refuse to help the South in the event of a slave uprising.

Madison eventually gave in to the forces of slavery and included the Second Amendment, along with his larger Bill of Rights.

So that’s how the Second Amendment found its way into the Constitution. As usual, in my googling around, I could find lots of references to the “fact” that James Madison included it to “placate various fears regarding the military, the balance of power between the federal and state governments, and the use of standing armies,” but almost no mention that those “fears” were based on the need to maintain white supremacy in the South.

Mystal may go on to explain why.

In 2008, Antonin Scalia wrote the majority opinion in District of Columbia v. Heller, the case where the Supreme Court created an individual right to own a gun for self-defense, for the first time in American history. Pay close attention to how Scalia whitewashes the nature of Henry and Mason’s reasons for wanting the Second Amendment to exist in the first place, as part of Scalia’s effort to sanitize the Amendment from its slavers’ rationale:

“The Antifederalists feared that the Federal Government would disarm the people in order to disable this citizens’ militia, enabling a politicized standing army or a select militia to rule. The response was to deny Congress the power to abridge the ancient right of individuals to keep and bear arms, so that the ideal of a citizens’ militia would be preserved.”

The original public purpose for a citizens’ militia was not some theoretical worry about standing armies or an idealized right of citizens’ militias to resist federal power. Instead the original purpose was a practical concern that the antislavery North would leave the South vulnerable to slave revolts. Scalia omits that rationale. And of course he has to. Because grounding the case for “self-defense” that satisfies the NRA’s permissiveness of shooting Black children walking home with Skittles, in an amendment designed to help slavers keep people in bondage, would be a little too on the nose. If Scalia told the truth about the original purpose of the Second Amendment, people might realize that the Second Amendment is illegitimate, or that looking to the original intentions of the people who wanted it is monstrous, or both.

As Mystal deftly points out, this obscuring of the original intent is necessary if the Second Amendment is going to survive under an originalist’s interpretation of the Constitution.

Now, one can argue that the Second Amendment has evolved, past its purely evil original intent, to encompass a right to self-defense. I’d be willing to hear such an argument, because I don’t think the Constitution means only what slavers and colonizers wanted it to mean. But conservatives won’t make that argument. Here we see another example where making the intellectually stronger argument doesn’t take conservatives where they want to go. If they accept that the Second Amendment has evolved to protect a different right than was originally intended, then they’d have to admit that gun restrictions can also evolve to better protect our modern society.

The Founders didn’t know that guns would be used in over half of the nation’s suicides. We know. The Founders didn’t know that guns would be used in over half of domestic partner homicides. We know. If the Second Amendment has evolved to incorporate the right to self-defense, surely it’s evolved to allow us to make it harder for people to kill themselves or their spouses.

But conservatives don’t want the Second Amendment to evolve, because they don’t actually have a problem with the original slavers’ purpose of the thing. If you gave these people a truth serum, they’d tell you that the Second Amendment is working “as intended.”

If you’re an originalist, you can't claim people have the right to self-defense if you don’t believe the right to self-defense is in the Second Amendment. But here’s where Mystal really brings his perspective on this issue home.

Which brings us back to the ammosexual in your life, caterwauling about how they need their gun for “self-defense.” Gun rights are not about self-defense. They literally never have been. Gun rights are about menacing, intimidating, and killing racial minorities, if necessary. That’s why Reagan and company had no problem restricting gun rights when the Black Panthers started to use them; that’s why the NRA never speaks up when a “law-abiding gun-owner” who happens to be Black is executed in the streets by a cop. The Second Amendment could be rewritten to say: “White Supremacy, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of white people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed,” without any appreciable difference to the laws and rights of gun ownership as currently experienced.

People think that the continued mass murder of innocent civilians will, one day, shake Republicans loose from the thrall of the NRA. That will not happen. Republicans will not make the killing stop, because they still think that near-unfettered access to guns is the only thing keeping them safe from Black people.

Attack Dogs Are Not Reasonable

I also learned a lot from Mystal’s chapter on the Fourth Amendment -- which evidently shouldn’t be about the Fourth Amendment at all.

But when it comes to police violence against Black people, justice, civility, and basic common sense are thrown out the window. The police have a license to kill Black people, as long as police argue that they were so afraid they wet themselves. Police are the only people whose own cowardice and hysteria can be used to justify an objective misreading of the facts. When and how much force a police officer is entitled to use is left almost entirely to the discretion of the police officer, which means my constitutional rights and physical safety hinge on whether a guy like Darren Wilson [police officer who killed Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO] is afraid I’ll use my big lips to suck in his soul from ten yards away.

That rule comes directly from the Supreme Court, in a 1989 case called Graham v. Connor. There, the Court ruled that a police officer’s use of force must be judged from the perspective of an officer at the scene of the crime or altercation. Graham v. Connor is why police officers always claim they “feared for their life” after they shoot somebody to death. Graham v. Connor is why those claims, no matter how ridiculous, make it difficult for good prosecutors to bring indictments against police officers, and easy for corrupt prosecutors to let their law enforcement buddies walk free.

Graham v. Connor is an interesting case for lots of reasons, but the biggest might be the switcheroo the Court performed on it -- swapping the initial Fourteenth Amendment claim being alleged for a Fourth Amendment one.

Graham in Dethorne Graham, a black man brutalized by North Carolina police officer M. S. Connor in 1984.

Graham filed a lawsuit against the police for excessive use of force, under the 1871 Civil Rights Act. That’s not a typo. The 1871 Civil Rights Act is, more or less, the statutory provision that makes the Fourteenth Amendment prohibition against racial discrimination a law, in the same way that the Volstead Act is what made the Eighteenth Amendment’s prohibition on alcohol a thing.

But instead of applying the Fourteenth Amendment to the case, the way Graham asked, then chief justice and hard-core conservative William Rehnquist decided that the Fourth Amendment was the proper principle under which to assess police misconduct. The Fourth Amendment prohibits “unreasonable search and seizure,” and Rehnquist only asked if Connor’s treatment of Graham was “reasonable” under that amendment, as opposed to a violation of Graham’s civil rights under the Fourteenth.

Mystal makes the point that this is the entirely wrong question to ask -- did the police officer act as any reasonable police officer would in the same circumstances -- especially given the special powers that police officers have in the system.

Judging the reasonableness of violence from the perspective of the officer who committed the violence, or the officer who witnessed the violence but did nothing to help, or even the alleged “good” cop who knows damn well that one of his colleagues is a violent hothead but does nothing to stop him, is the entirely wrong way to go. Police officers are agents of the state. They are authorized to have a monopoly of force: they can hit you but you can’t hit them back. They can execute on the street -- I mean they can literally impose the death penalty upon you without a fair trial or a right to appeal -- if they feel you’re a danger to others. Holding them to a standard somewhat beyond what they themselves think is reasonable is not too much to ask.

The Fourth Amendment does not say: “The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated … unless the state employs hysterical racists and cowards who are afraid of Black people, in which case failure to immediately comply with their unconstitutional orders is a capital offense.” The Fourth Amendment does not say that “only other police officers” can determine what a reasonable or unreasonable search and seizure really means. One does not judge what is “food” based on whether or not a dog will eat it.

And what’s especially refreshing in this chapter is Mystal’s proposed solution -- something he himself understands would be called “extreme” by most.

I favor a straight-up objective standard for cops. Their actions should be reasonable with 20/20 hindsight. They should look reasonable on a camera phone. They should appear reasonable to a crowd gathering around asking what the cops are doing. If the cop believes a person has a weapon, that person better damn sure objectively have a weapon. “Oops” is not a good enough answer from agents of the state who shoot Black people armed with cell phones.

And if the cop is objectively wrong or unreasonable, they should be prosecuted. We have a sliding scale of homicides and all other types of crimes, and there’s no reason we can’t apply such a thing to various levels of police violence. Maybe a cop who shoots “Hulk Hogan” after a fight catches a manslaughter charge, while a cop who shoots an unarmed man seven times in the back, as a Wisconsin police officer did to Jacob Blake, gets charged with attempted murder? Or maybe a cop who uses his gun to kill somebody gets murder, whereas one who merely chokes the life out of an unarmed Black man in broad daylight gets a reckless homicide charge? I can be reasonable about how long these violent police officers need to spend in jail. I am anti-carceral, after all. But the idea that a cop who kills or attacks somebody should walk away without punishment because other cops are just as violent and depraved is not a constitutional principle I accept.

This point of view may be extreme, but perhaps it is only more so when viewed from the place of fear that Graham v. Connor evidently enshrined in our society.

It’s Not Unusual to Be Cruel

Another eye-opener was the chapter on the Eighth Amendment -- the one against cruel and unusual punishments. In it, Mystal asks one of the most crucial questions about how it -- and the entire Constitution -- should be interpreted.

A standard as vague and subjective as “cruel and unusual” is one begging future generations to figure things out from themselves. In 1787 it was normal and appropriate to beat children with tree branches and condemn people for witchcraft. Now, we’re not supposed to do those things. Times change. Standards and practices change. The Eighth Amendment is a little bit of a “living constitution” written into the old parchment. It’s a facially subjective standard that can be applied to our own situation as we see fit.

Unfortunately, we share the country with people who will not let us have nice things. These people are called originalists, and they will not allow our polity to function rationally. They think the Constitution can be only as good as the worldview of the small-minded slavers and colonists who wrote it, and because of that they insist the death penalty must be constitutional.

This seems absolutely crucial to interpreting the Constitution. Does it mean what the people who wrote it think it means? Or does it mean what we, today, think it means? And what about the parts, like the Eighth Amendment, that seem to invite a contemporary interpretation?

To my mind, the Eighth Amendment is the cleanest battle to be had with originalists. It’s the easiest place to drop out all of the legalistic claptrap and doctrinal fencing to get down to the guts of the thing. The framers wrote something down. That something is vague. Originalists say that we can understand what they really meant by looking at what they did. I say I don’t give a fuck about what those depraved assholes actually did. I will stipulate that the people who wrote the Constitution had a sense of humanity that was so underdeveloped they could eat sandwiches while watching a man being hung from the neck until death. But so what? The Constitution does not require me, or my country, to be forever hobbled by their sociopathy.

And Mystal’s argument is supported by the many things we do in the world of crime and punishment that do not align with the thinking of these “depraved assholes” from the late eighteenth century.

Indeed, we are not hobbled by eighteenth-century thought bubbles when it comes to what we define as capital crimes. There’s no great accounting of how many crimes were punishable by death in America at the time the Constitution was ratified, because for the most part putting people to death was squarely in the purview of state law. But, at the time of the founding there were well over two hundred crimes punishable by death in England, including crimes as common as stealing and as nonserious as cutting down someone else’s tree. Over time, here in America, the states have been able to cull the number of offenses that could get a person executed, without the need of an entire constitutional amendment.

It makes no sense that we’ve been able to remove ourselves from an eighteenth-century view of who gets punished but remain locked in an eighteenth-century view of how to punish people. That goes beyond the death penalty. For instance, some form of solitary confinement has been viewed as a fairly standard and appropriate punishment since forever. But now, with our modern understanding of, you know, human psychology, studies suggest that solitary confinement is especially cruel. It’s torture for your brain. James Madison did not understand this and likely wouldn’t have cared if he did. Why in the hell should that matter now? We know. We are the ones who know. And we are the ones who have the option of making cruel punishments, like solitary confinement, unconstitutional. To not do so because some old dead white people didn’t have the knowledge or decency to do the same is not an alternative theory of legal interpretation. It's the promulgation of evil hiding behind the banality of cowardice.

It really opens the head on the meaning of the words in the Constitution. We do know cruelty in a different way than the framers of the Constitution did. Does that make what we know as cruelty not cruelty?

The Framers Weren’t Always Wrong

Let me end with this thought.

Beyond the obvious and purely evil reasons for denying the right to vote to women, Blacks, and indigenous Americans, the founders had theoretical concerns about extending suffrage even to all white men. Some of those concerns were legitimate and even prescient. The founders were worried about the uneducated masses voting for idiots and con men more interested in the accrual of power than the functioning of government. They were worried about these demagogues inflaming the passions of the majority and using it to trample minority rights.

Anybody want to tell them they were wrong? The founders didn’t want poor, uneducated white men to vote, because they pretty much anticipated that poor, uneducated white men would elect a person like Donald Trump. If only they had fully empowered women and minorities, and especially minority women, to counteract their “economically aggrieved” brethren, the country they founded might be less of a mess today.

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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.


Monday, July 28, 2025

Where the Sea Used to Be by Rick Bass

This post was originally published on a now-retired blog that I maintained from roughly 2005 to 2013. As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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I discovered Rick Bass in the book of short stories that won O. Henry Awards in 1989. His contribution was called “The Watch,” and I said it was my favorite, not because of the subject matter but because of the prose. This was June 2006, and shortly thereafter I found his only novel, Where the Sea Used to Be, at Half Price Books, and I added it to my collection.

Now, after having completed it, I’d have to say that I’m just as impressed with Bass’ prose. His command of language is inspiring, as is his attempt to capture in a human story the universal forces that shape our world and all the life that lives upon it.

The bulk of the story takes places in a barely populated valley in far northern Montana, a place that gets snowed in every long and dark winter and which experiences brief and glorious springs and summers when the natural verdure leaps backs into existence before dying and getting buried under feet of snow.

The landscape and its change of seasons is practically another character in Bass’ story, almost the antagonist, as he uses it to great metaphoric effect in showing how it shapes, threatens and sometimes takes the lives of the story’s human characters. Like this scene from early in the book:

Mel turned and began moving hard to the right—almost a lunge—and Wallis nearly lost his grasp on her. She traveled another ten steps and then stopped again. They stood there in the blizzard like ghosts.

Mel was looking hard in one direction, her stare fixed at nothing. Wallis watched too. It was as if she were listening to something, though all of the senses were gone, rendered unintelligible, meaningless. There was only the weight and pull of gravity beneath their feet.

Her tenseness eased. Her breathing steadied. She continued to watch in the one direction, as a hunter watches a meadow. Wallis could see it, then—or thought he could see it. A paleness in the storm disappeared when he looked at it, but when he tried to look away, it came back again: not a glow, by any stretch of the imagination—not the thing they were looking for—but a lessening, a gauziness, which was inviting. It tempted them to step through it.

Wallis wanted to move toward it immediately. Pants cuffs frozen solid. Shaking and rattling, shivering like a sack of bones. Mel held her ground: watched that different patch of storm as if challenging it.

It began to storm harder, and the patch, the place of nothing they were looking at, disappeared. Mel took a full step toward it, and then another, and then she began moving toward it quickly. It reappeared, and now it had the faintest yellow color to it, and then more, until it was a glow, and it was exactly the opposite of how the light had gone back into the lantern.

Inside, the boards beneath their feet. The familiar objects on her shelves, when they stepped inside: feathers, stones, shells, and the sprawl of closed, silent books—each one of them swimming with millions of hieroglyphics that were designed, upon being scanned, to ignite into light and knowledge, into images and scents and sounds.

The pine planking of her floor. The dishes from their meal, the cold stone fireplace, and the cold air in the cabin, the lantern’s bright light, and the snow not yet melting from their boots, for already the cabin had grown so cold. Only a degree or two—the tiniest bit of correction to the angle of their arc, in the beginning—separated them from all the snow beyond, and so much cold—too much cold, even for Mel.

Mel is a native, born and raised in the valley. Wallis is a newcomer, a geologist sent by Mel’s father, Dudley, to determine if there was any oil to be drilled in the valley. Dudley is everyone’s least favorite character in the book, an intentionally despicable person who is nonetheless necessary to set all the drama into motion. Long swatches of the book are excerpts from Dudley’s youthful journal, which Wallis finds in Mel’s cabin and reads. The excerpts are overly poetic and indecipherable, and a stark contrast to the vile and pragmatic man who shows up at various episodes in the novel.

My favorite character is Colter, and teenage boy who eventually leaves the valley and the story, never to return. We are introduced to Colter the same way Wallis is, when he and his mother are pointed out by the proprietor of the town’s lone tavern.

“That’s Amy,” Danny said, “and her boy, Colter. Her husband, Zeke, died last spring. He went through the ice,” Danny said. “He was a trapper. You can still see him down there,” he said, and at first Wallis thought Danny meant you could see Zeke’s likeness in the face of the boy. “He’s only about twenty feet down,” Danny said, speaking quietly beneath the noise of the bar. “The water is as clear as gin, cold as hell. Everything’s still the same on him, same as it was the day he went in. He’s got his arms raised up like this”—Danny demonstrated, as if signaling a touchdown—“and his hair is still waving in the current, black as his over there”—he pointed to Colter—“only longer. It kept growing after he died.”

This stark apparition of his father hangs over Colter for his entire time in the story, and eventually he and Wallis go to see the old man. Their short journey together is one of my favorite passages in the novel. It’s rich with symbolism and there’s something compelling in the way the younger Colter becomes a kind of guide in what is to Wallis very much a foreign landscape. They collect the fallen antlers of deer as they go, which Colter sells for money.

They skied on without speaking after that, their skis cutting fresh powder, and the antlers in the bag thrown over Colter’s shoulder clunking together and rattling. Sometimes bucks who still had their antlers would hear the dull sound, and would suddenly appear a short distance from them, eyes bulging, nostrils flared, and they would stand there as if planning to stop the skiers’ passage, wanting to fight: believing that the sounds they heard were the rattlings from two bucks fighting over a doe. The first rut had occurred a month ago, but now there was the secondary estrus, twenty-eight days later, and whenever the bucks that still had antlers would appear before them—just standing there, plumes of frost jetting from their nostrils—Colter and Wallis would have to stop and wait for the bucks’ adrenaline to subside before they could pass safely.

The confusion of the bucks is understandable—the humans are the intruders in this landscape, and they act in ways that seem out of kilter with the natural order of things. Colter goes on to explain how the natural world uses the fallen antlers.

“The squirrels and porcupines chew on them in the spring for the minerals,” he said, “which is when they need nutrients, because they’re pregnant. But the hawks, owls, and eagles have their little ones to take care of then, too. They can’t eat antlers the way a rodent can. So they pound on the squirrels and chipmunks, and get the antlers’ minerals that way. When you stop to think about it, it’s pretty wild,” he said. “This spring when you see a hawk flying through the forest, it’s going to have part of one of those antlers inside it.” He picked up another small antler, which had been shed so recently—perhaps in the night—that it still had a ring of blood and damp flesh around its base. Colter tossed the antler into the woods. “Think of it,” he said. “A flying antler.” He spoke not of his toss, but of the hawk carrying the rodent carrying the antler inside it.

“Did you think that up, or did your father tell you about it?” Wallis asked.

“You don’t have to think it up,” Colter said. “Hell, you look around and you just see it.”

Like Colter, Bass’ prose allows us to see a lot of the natural order of things, and it is a nature that is often grisly, but always calculated, and often predictable once you learn its ways.

The deer had herded into larger numbers than ever, and no longer possessed any discernible grace. Their ribs heaved gaunt as they limped along the narrow icy trails of their own making—they slipped often—and yet if they tried to venture off of those trails they would become even more exhausted. Sometimes they would do so, anyway—striking out through the drifts toward the top of some distant, unbrowsed bush, barely visible above the top of the snow—but they would not make it, and would instead simply disappear beneath, like a swimmer going down in heavy surf. They would not rise again, but would come to rest several feet below the surface, where they would remain for the rest of winter, perfectly preserved in the blue grip of ice; and only later, in the spring, would the tips of their ears, and then their heads and shoulders, and then the rest of them, become visible once more; and the coyotes, wolves, ravens, and eagles would gnaw on them as the snows receded, as if the wolves and coyotes were erasing them.

Bass’ characters generally fall into two stripes: those who live in community with this natural order of things—characters like Mel who has spent twenty years following and documenting the movements of wolves through the valley—and those who exploit that natural order for purely human purposes—characters like Old Dudley, who recruits young geologists like Wallis to bend that natural order to his own will. Dudley, in fact, sums up his approach to the natural world in this little speech about the taming of falcons, delivered to a rapt group of valley dwellers at the tavern.

Dudley picked up his megaphone again. “There are two theories why the falcon returns to the falconer,” he bellowed, as if preparing his listeners for an exam to be given later. “One is that the falcon is conditioned to its hunger pains: that it has learned to associate its master with food. But the other theory is that the falcon truly loves the falconer, and returns solely out of love.”

“Which do you think it is?” Mel asked.

Matthew was listening intently.

“Both,” said Old Dudley. “I think we manipulate them coming and going. I think the poor creatures are born with exquisitely pure souls which only through superior association with beings such as myself are able to be bent and retrained. I think we teach them to confuse hunger with love, and love with hunger. I think we mix it all together, and that only when they’re way the fuck up there, half a mile above, can they draw things back out pure and separate once more: a distillation of how it was when they came into the world, and how they are really supposed to be.

“But it’s too late. They are owned by another. They have lost their ancient selves. They are but feathered ghosts.

“Shit,” he said, “it’s a miracle they can still hunt, when we get through with them.

Matthew is Mel’s former lover, and the last geologist Dudley sent into the valley looking for oil, and the parallels between Dudley’s approach to falconry and his approach to hiring geologists are apparent throughout the book. And hunting is another extended metaphor that takes on much significance in the novel’s subtext.

For a moment, Wallis saw it all with clarity, as with a sudden gust of wind that brings new scents—an understanding, where before there had not even been a question. He saw how the long, sleepy moments of things lie in calm stretches, eddies, which we continue to believe are peaceful, serene moments—nothing more than slow passages of time—but which are really only a coiling and deepening in preparation for the sudden, near-frantic weaves and pursuits—the lusts. He saw how in the hunt, it all falls into place—how all the elements that seemed previously to be meaningless become now spurred into action: how every element, every atom, has meaning—and how this is the perfect desire of nature, the moment toward which all waiting, which is not really waiting, moves.

Mel is one of the most philosophical of characters, and she struggles against the inevitability of being Dudley’s daughter the way the deer struggle against the inevitability of winter.

She tried to hold back. She had hoped to make it to April—to resolve things with Matthew in mid-March, and then move on, in one direction or another—but she found now that she had fallen several weeks shy of that goal, like the deer who did not carry quite enough reserves to take them across that last white expanse. She saw them every year by the hundreds: deer that were whittled down to next-to-nothing—brown tufts of hide stretched taut across knobby bones—deer that had plowed through five months of snow only to lie down at the edge of the end of snow, starving—lying with heads outstretched, no longer able to break through the shell of ice covering the world they’d known—only to have the bare brown ground begin opening up, revealing itself days after their death: bare earth, and then green shoots appearing right in front of the deer’s unseeing, unmoving eyes.

Every year it was this way—as if spring could not occur without it; as if this falling just short were a pattern for most of the world: as if it took exceptional grace or strength or cunning to cross that last bridge.

Ultimately, Mel has the exceptional grace needed to cross her bridge away from Dudley’s manipulation of nature, and so does Wallis, but Matthew does not. He ends up dragging the old man around in the snow in a kind of travois, an apt metaphor for the way the old man and the force he represents has come to be Matthew’s master.

Other intriguing concepts we’re introduced to as part of Mel’s thoughts or through the way she experiences the world include…

She continued to use up her days like sticks of firewood, of which she had only so many, tossed on some fire that was providing light for no one other than herself, and keeping no one warm but herself.

And:

A thing could be either one way or another. There didn’t need to be any more variance in the universe than that most basic rule of binary. A thing—glacier, fire, flood—happened or didn’t. A thing came or it went. A thing was either being born and was growing, or was dying. And with only those two possibilities—the day and night of things—transcribed across every object of the world, came all the mystery and richness one could ever hope to seek. For even in the act of grasping one thing, and achieving knowledge, there was always somehow and inversion that occurred, where the thing that you grasped or knew revolved back to mystery. The pulse. Within this pulse, day was but a variation of night. The pulse was always moving back toward its other.

And:

Perhaps it is not the flesh that is mortal, she would think, but time. Perhaps time moves in cycles—is born, lives, then dies—while the physical materials are constant, like some residue of time’s passage.

The thought would invariably make her feel small, strangely unclean, insignificant: as if she were merely the spoor of some mindless thing.

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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.

Monday, July 21, 2025

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FARCHRIST TALES
BOOK TWO:
THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

A Squire must serve at least three years under a Knight before he can be considered for the knighthood himself. However, a man must also be twenty-one to become a Knight. These laws were set down at the beginning of the Order and are unbreachable. As a result of this, Gildegarde Brisbane II was forced to serve five years as the Squire of Sir Reginald Ironshield. As soon as he became eligible, Ironshield stood before the old King and announced that through faithful and exemplary service to him, Gildegarde Brisbane II had earned the right to become a Knight of Farchrist. The ceremony was held in the King’s own chambers. It was an exclusive affair with only the King, Ironshield, Brisbane, his mother Madeline, and dwarf named Nog Shortwhiskers in attendance. When King Gregorovich Farchrist II brought his father’s sword, the sword of the Peasant King, down on the shoulders of my father and proclaimed him a Knight, the only sound in the chamber had been that of Madeline’s quiet tears.

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As it turned out, things were much better in the morning. Brisbane awoke feeling somewhat refreshed and, when he emerged from the tent, the first thing he saw was Stargazer sitting on the ground with her legs crossed, her eyes closed and her hands folded in her lap.

Brisbane quietly went down to the river to relieve himself and, when he returned, Stargazer was standing there waiting for him. There seemed to be no one else around.

“Gil,” she said. “I would like to speak with you.”

“I’m sorry, Allie,” Brisbane blurted out. “Please, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Stargazer smiled. As soon as Brisbane saw that he knew everything was going to be all right.

“I know you are,” Stargazer said. “But it is I who should be apologetic. I have thought a lot about what you said and, although your words did hurt me, I realize there was no real malice in them. You are, of course, right in the matter of Roundtower and your sword, Angelika. He could no more become a Knight with it than Roystnof could with his spells.”

Brisbane did not like the nature of her analogy, but he accepted it and kept his mouth shut. Stargazer was doing her best to deal with the situation.

“I have perhaps lived apart from the world for too long,” Stargazer went on. “Many things have passed me by. The humans have made many advances in the administration of their religion. I am perhaps a fossil in their midst.”

Brisbane also did not like to hear Stargazer speaking so, no matter how true he thought the statements to be. “Allie, please. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“No, Gil,” she said. “As you are so fond of doing, I am just saying how things are. But, don’t you see, all of this only further resolves me to stay apart from the organized religion I deserted years ago. They, the priests and patriarchs of Grecolus, they have in effect banished him from the earth. They control his worshippers and they have denied his works. They claim all magic is the tool of Damaleous, but they don’t know that Grecolus has a magic of his own. How could he perform creation without it?”

The logic made sense to Brisbane. “But how is one to tell the difference?”

Stargazer smiled. “That is the problem the priests had. For them, it got to the point where magic was so intricate that they threw the whole lot away and tagged it as evil. But there still is a difference.” She put her hand over her heart. “The difference is here.”

“I don’t understand,” Brisbane said, but he thought maybe he did.

Stargazer’s took Brisbane’s hand and placed it against her chest. Brisbane tried to pull away when he felt her heart thump but Stargazer held him firmly.

“Don’t you see?” she said. “People have such a hard time distinguishing good magic from evil magic because only the person who uses the magic really knows which her body is being used for. I know in my heart I am serving Grecolus and so my healing power is good magic. You know you are serving Grecolus, so Angelika is good magic, too.”

She was beginning to go beyond Brisbane’s understanding of things. “But what about Roystnof?” he asked.

“What about him?”

“He is serving neither Grecolus nor Damaleous,” Brisbane said. “Where does his magic fall?”

Stargazer paused. “Now, Gil,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings either, but I am going to tell you how things are.”

“Go ahead,” Brisbane said, mentally cringing at what she might say.

“If Roystnof is not serving Grecolus, whether or not he actively worships Damaleous, his magic is evil and he is being used by the Evil One. Magic power comes from one or the other. It does not come from man.”

Brisbane wanted to explode but he refused to react as Stargazer had the day before. He was going to see this through calmly, rationally.

“So you’re saying Roy could be misguided, but you couldn’t be. Is that it?”

“What do you mean?” Stargazer said, dropping his hand from her chest.

“If Roy is serving Damaleous without realizing it, then how do you know you’re not serving him, too?”

“Gil, I serve Grecolus. My powers are his.”

“That’s what you believe,” Brisbane said, his voice rising. “But what if the priests are right? What if all magic, even yours, is the tool of Damaleous? What if he has only duped you into thinking your magic is good? He is supposed to be the Father of Lies, you know.”

Stargazer shook her head. “No. This cannot be.”

“But how can you know?” Brisbane asked. “How can anyone know?”

“I have faith,” Stargazer said. “Don’t you?”

A flap on one of the tents was suddenly pulled back and Roystnof stepped out into the campsite. He greeted both Brisbane and Stargazer with a cheerful good morning and then made his way down to the river. Brisbane’s eyes followed his friend.

“Well,” Stargazer said guardedly, drawing Brisbane’s attention back to her. “They’ll all be up soon. I just wanted you to know I forgive you for your callousness and that I’m not mad at you.”

Brisbane heard Shortwhiskers cough from inside one of the tents. “Yes,” he said, trying to forget all the questions and ideas their little talk had brought to his mind. “Well, I’m glad for that. I never meant to offend you, Allie. It’s just that life is confusing, more so when you try to make sense out of it.”

Stargazer kissed him on the cheek. It was a part of their relationship he was really beginning to enjoy. “You’re young, yet,” she said. “Wait. It gets worse.”

He tried to grab her for that but she playfully drew away and he soon found himself chasing her around the campsite as if they were two schoolchildren.

Roystnof returned and soon the whole camp was up and about, fixing breakfast and discussing plans for the day. In actuality, Stargazer was the only one who truly wanted to go into the garden and explore the shrine, but whereas Roystnof, Shortwhiskers, and Brisbane didn’t mind the delay on their journey up the river, Dantrius showed he was dead set against the foray. He argued there was nothing to see there anyway, four of them had already been there and had seen nothing but rock—after the death of the demon, of course—and he didn’t see why they should waste their time on the whims of only one of their number. But his complaining was largely ignored as the others saw it as no bother and they knew Dantrius was not about to journey on alone.

A surprising amount of time, however, went into deciding just who would go into the garden. Roystnof suggested they all go to preserve party unity, but again Dantrius dissented. He declared he would not again set foot in such a place and said anyone who would was nuts. There could, after all, be any number of basilisks still wandering around in there and he wasn’t going to take that risk for no good reason.

Brisbane could see some sense in Dantrius’ argument, especially after what the mage had been through with the basilisk he had met those many years—and Brisbane still didn’t know just how many years—ago. But as Shortwhiskers had felt when he witnessed Dantrius arguing against sending the expedition to Dragon’s Peak, Brisbane now sensed Dantrius was arguing for all the wrong reasons. He was hiding something, and Brisbane suspected it had something to do with the demon they had destroyed.

Shortwhiskers finally said, fine, let Dantrius sit outside by himself, but Roystnof refused to let that be the end of it. He said no one should be left alone out here in the hills, and at least one of them should stay with Dantrius. As there were no volunteers, and as it had been Roystnof’s idea, he agreed to stay with Dantrius while Shortwhiskers and Brisbane went with Stargazer into the garden.

Brisbane did not like the idea of going in without the magical protection of one of the wizards, but there seemed to be no other way around it. Roystnof assured Brisbane basilisks were extremely rare creatures and that he very much doubted there would be any more waiting for them.

So Brisbane reluctantly entered the garden from the southern side with Stargazer and Shortwhiskers. It occurred to Brisbane that because of the placement of their camp, they would have to walk through unfamiliar territory in order to get to the shrine at the center of the garden. He mentioned this to Shortwhiskers but the dwarf did not seem worried about it. Brisbane tried to put it out of his mind.

This part of the oasis looked about the same as the part they had already seen and, as he walked, Brisbane began to experience the same worries about a basilisk surprising them as he had the last time. He was at the back of the line with Stargazer between him and Shortwhiskers, but this position did nothing to allay his fears. As he remembered, the basilisk they had encountered before had crept up on them from behind.

The trees and the underbrush thickened as they continued on until it seemed they were walking through a small forest. The whole garden seemed to be set up like that, with the clearing where the shrine stood in the very center, surrounded by a forest of trees that thinned as they radiated outward.

Brisbane walked with Angelika drawn in his right hand and his undecorated shield in his left. It seemed like hours, but the sun had barely moved when the trio found the clearing and cautiously stepped into it.

It was almost unnaturally quiet. There seemed to be no life anywhere around them. The circle of trees defined the limits if their vision and in its very center stood the cube of stone Stargazer had come to see.

“That’s it?” Stargazer asked Shortwhiskers.

The dwarf silently nodded his head.

She began to walk towards the structure, Brisbane and Shortwhiskers following closely behind her. They approached the back of the shrine without incident and began to circle around to the front. When they got there, they found the portal, and Stargazer began examining the strange writings that outlined it.

“Roundtower was right,” she said aloud. “These are ancient runes used in the worship of Grecolus. Here is the one meaning peace and safe passage.” She pointed to the glyph directly over the portal.

“Can you read the rest of them?” Brisbane asked. “Ignatius couldn’t.”

“Oh yes,” Stargazer said. “And it is a good thing I can.”

Shortwhiskers came forward. “Why is that?”

Stargazer indicated the two columns of markings, one on each side of the doorway. “Well, first of all, this line verifies the temple at the source of the Mystic, the one we seek, does indeed exist and that it is devoted to the ancient worship of Grecolus.”

Shortwhiskers’ ears seemed to perk up. “Does it say anything about how much treasure there is?”

Stargazer laughed. “No, Nog. But this second line tells me something much more important.”

“What’s that?” Brisbane asked.

“It says the entrance to the temple is trapped. Only the faithful can enter.”

Shortwhiskers wrinkled his nose. “Trapped? Does it say how the entrance is trapped?”

Stargazer checked again. “No.”

“Well, what good is that?!” Shortwhiskers said. “Only the faithful can enter? Is that supposed to be a clue or something?”

Brisbane thought about it. It made no practical sense to him.

“It probably means,” Stargazer said, “the ancient worshippers knew a secret way in to avoid the trap. A secret that has probably been forgotten long before even you were born, Nog.”

“Swell,” Shortwhiskers said.

Brisbane examined the markings around the portal with renewed interest. “Allie,” he asked. “Do they say anything else?”

Stargazer shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing special. Those two lines on the sides are really the only two that say anything definitive. The rest just convey ideas like the marking representing safe passage. The one next to it is the symbol for hope. That kind of thing.”

With nothing else to see on the outside of the shrine, the trio entered the structure. It was just as Brisbane had remembered it. The staircase, the kneeling benches, the cobwebs, and the mural. He and Shortwhiskers stood off to one side as Stargazer went about, taking great interest in everything she saw. Brisbane was amazed to see that the place still glowed with the light spell Roystnof had cast months ago. Stargazer didn’t notice or just didn’t comment on the unusual light source.

As Stargazer went about the room, examining every little detail, Brisbane tried to take the faded, rotted place and, in his mind, restore it to what must have been its original splendor. He pictured the kneeling benches freshly carved and varnished and the mural of the parting hands still wet with the paint that defined it. He saw small groups of simply-dressed people shuffle into the shrine, take their places on the benches, and offer their silent prayers up to their deity. With this image fresh in his mind, it saddened him to see the place in such ill repair. Who knew how many other places like this were scattered across the land, forgotten by the people who no longer needed them? It started him thinking about history, about the scores of people who had lived before him and of whom he would never know anything. For how many years had there been people on earth? Brisbane didn’t know. The scriptures said Grecolus had created everything “in the beginning,” but they didn’t say when that beginning was. And if the ways of religion could change so drastically in the few centuries since this shrine was a living part of society, how much could things change over the course of human history? How many gods had lived and died before Grecolus came into being?

Stargazer said she was done looking things over and was ready to proceed downstairs. Shortwhiskers took the lead and they went down the stairs in the same order they had walked through the garden. Brisbane tightened his grip on Angelika as the place he had battled the demon came into his view.

The place was as barren as it had been before, an empty twenty square feet of stone still lighted by Roystnof’s magic. The far wall had a large, smeary red stain upon it an innocent-looking pile of ashes lay in the center of the floor.

“So this is where it happened,” Stargazer said quietly as she went up and poked the end of her staff through the ashes.

“This is where it happened,” Shortwhiskers confirmed as he came up to look at the black remains.

Brisbane stayed at the foot of the stairs.

“It must have been huge,” Stargazer said. “There are a lot of ashes here.”

“It was at least nine feet tall,” Shortwhiskers said. “Its muscles made Gil’s look like empty flour sacks.”

Stargazer turned to Brisbane. “And with Angelika you were able to defeat such a monster?”

Brisbane looked at his sword. “Without Roy’s slow spell,” he said purposefully, “even Angelika would not have been enough to defeat it.” He met Stargazer’s eyes and she did not seem pleased with his statement.

No, Angelika said to him. It was you and me. Together there is no evil we cannot defeat.

Stargazer went over to the stain on the far wall and ran her hand down the crusty remains of blood that had once formed the magical pentagram.

“Who could have done this?” she said, more to herself than to her companions. “Who could have done such an evil thing in such a reverent place? It is the highest sacrilege.”

“Ignatius felt the same way,” Shortwhiskers said.

Stargazer seemed to whirl on the dwarf. “Was it Dantrius, Nog? Did he do this?”

“He says no,” Shortwhiskers said. “We have no proof against him. We found him as a stone statue outside the shrine. He could have been coming or going.”

“Which way was he facing?” Stargazer asked.

“As if he was arriving,” Shortwhiskers said. “But a basilisk had turned him to stone. He could have turned any which way in the melee.”

Stargazer looked at the remains on the wall and then back to the ashes on the floor. “Why did you let Roystnof restore that man to…” she said, trailing off and searching for the right words. “…to his fleshy form,” she said eventually with some distaste.

Shortwhiskers shrugged. “I did not recognize him. We took a party vote. They thought they would be helping an unfortunate victim.”

Stargazer shook her head. “They were wrong.”

“We all are, at times.”

Stargazer looked upon the dwarf with caring eyes. She placed a soft hand on his shoulder. Shortwhiskers patted it with his own and they passed a moment in silent communication.

“I am ready,” Stargazer said. “Let us leave this place.”

Shortwhiskers and Stargazer rejoined Brisbane at the foot of the stairs, widely skirting the ashes of the fallen demon, and together they left the shrine. They quickly and quietly made their way out of the clearing and back into the trees. Apprehension tried to overcome Brisbane as they walked through the garden for the last time, but he was able to hold it in check. Soon they were back at the low stone wall and soon after that they were in the campsite.

Roystnof and Dantrius were sitting outside waiting for their return and they all immediately found themselves in a discussion about what the three of them had seen on their little trip. Stargazer told the two wizards what the ancient runes on the shrine had told her about the temple they were seeking and Roystnof, intrigued by the information, began drilling her on all she could remember. Roystnof, however, could make no more use out of it than Shortwhiskers had. Still, there was a moment in the discussion where Shortwhiskers made it clear to Dantrius the delay of their intended journey had been more than justified by the knowledge they had received.

The decision then had to be made about what to do with Stargazer. She had originally intended just to see the shrine and then turn back for Queensburg, but now that she knew the nature of the temple at the source of the Mystic, she wanted to tag along the rest of the way. Again, this probably would not have been a problem if it had not been for Dantrius, who was dead set against the idea. Everyone else felt Stargazer’s presence could only be an asset to their expedition, but Dantrius was defiant. The argument went on for some time but eventually Roystnof stepped in and said unless Dantrius could come up with a valid reason why Stargazer could not accompany them, she would be allowed to continue with them. Dantrius was unable to come up with a proper restriction and the matter was finally settled.

Little of the day had been used up with these proceedings and all decided to use the rest of the day to make more progress up the river. They packed up the camp onto the mules and were off before noon. They stayed as close to the river as they could to avoid the orks which Roystnof and Shortwhiskers said lived in the hills to the east. The farther south they went, they warned, the more hostile the area was likely to become. As they neared the Crimson Mountains, they would have to be prepared for sudden attacks, not just from orks, but from other creatures that made the area their home.

But the rest of their second day from Queensburg passed uneventfully. The day seemed to go quickly for Brisbane, who spent most of his time chatting with Stargazer and Shortwhiskers. Their main topic of discussion seemed to be Illzeezad Dantrius and how much of a pain he had been on the journey so far.

They camped at sunset and this time Brisbane drew the first watch. After the evening meal had been devoured, everyone went quietly to bed as Brisbane sat outside, keeping the fire low and his ears open.

It was a terrifying night for him, and although their camp was unmolested in the three hours he had to sit up, he was all too glad to wake Dantrius and tell him it was time to relieve him. It was dark out, darker than Brisbane thought it could get. Grecolum was up, but it was waning and the red moon, Damaleum, was growing conversely larger every night. Brisbane remembered the Festival of Whiteshine, when Grecolum had been full and Damaleum new, and he had seen Stargazer for the first time. It was a happy memory for him but it did little to calm his nerves that night. He couldn’t keep his mind off the waxing Damaleum, and every little sound he heard in the night he knew was surely an approaching evil creature, ready to celebrate the festival of its moon a little early with the spilling of Brisbane’s blood.

Finally, Brisbane’s shift was over and he went over to Dantrius’ sleeping form and shook him awake.

“What?” Dantrius mumbled, his voice groggy and his eyes shut.

“It’s your turn to stand watch,” Brisbane said. “Get up.”

Dantrius turned and looked at Brisbane. “Go watch yourself,” He said and snuggled back down into his sleeping bag.

Brisbane looked at Dantrius’ shadowy form in the dim firelight. He considered yelling at Dantrius but decided arguing with the mage usually did little good. He reached over and carefully withdrew a burning log from the campfire. He held the lit end, slowly smoking and glowing orange, up to his face and smiled. He deliberately pressed the hot end of the log against Dantrius’ sleeping bag, approximately where he judged the mage’s hind end to be. Brisbane held it there for perhaps two seconds.

Dantrius leapt clear of his sleeping bag with a yelp of pain. He stood on the bare ground, rubbing his backside and giving Brisbane a venomous look.

“Now that you’re up,” Brisbane said calmly, “you can stand your watch.” He handed Dantrius an hourglass. “In three hours, you can wake Roystnof to relieve you. Good night.”

Brisbane abruptly turned away from Dantrius and crawled into one of the tents. When he was inside, he heard Dantrius’ voice through the tent fabric.

“This is not over, Brisbane,” the mage said. “Laugh all you want now, but there will come a day when you will regret what you just did to me. There will come a day.”

Brisbane looked over at Shortwhiskers who was still sleeping in the tent. His snores were soft and consistent. It was quite a while before he fell asleep himself.

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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.