The Moral Animal: Why We Are the Way We Are: The New Science of Evolutionary Psychology by Robert Wright

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 As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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Can you beat a book with two colons in its title? Or maybe that’s not the title, because on the first page it just says The Moral Animal, and on the second page it says The Moral Animal: Evolutionary Psychology and Everyday Life. Whatever the book is called, it’s both a real mindbender and probably the best book I’ve read on evolution. Wright gets my special praise primarily for the following passage:

Before we return to Darwin’s life, one caution is in order. So far we’ve been analyzing the human mind in the abstract; we’ve talked about “species-typical” adaptations designed to maximize fitness. When we shift our focus from the whole species to any one individual, we should not expect that person to chronically maximize fitness, to optimally convey his or her genes to future generations. And the reason goes beyond the one that has so far been stressed: that most human beings don’t live in an environment much like the one for which their minds were designed. Environments—even the environments for which organisms are designed—are unpredictable. That is why behavioral flexibility evolved in the first place. And unpredictability, by its nature, cannot be mastered. As John Tooby and Leda Cosmides have put it, “Natural selection cannot directly ‘see’ an individual organism in a specific situation and cause behavior to be adaptively tailored.”

Hallelujah. This is the first time I’ve seen it explicitly stated that people don’t necessarily consciously act in a way designed to move their genes into the next generation. In stating that humans live in an environment today that is radically different from the one in which we were shaped by evolution, Wright is making an essential point often overlooked or taken as given in other evolutionary texts. As he says:

Of course, the designs don’t always work. Individual organisms often fail, for various reasons, to transmit their genes. (Some are bound to fail. That is the reason evolution so assuredly happens.) In the case of human beings, moreover, the design work was done in a social environment quite different from the current environment. We live in cities and suburbs and watch TV and drink beer, all the while being pushed and pulled by feelings designed to propagate our genes in a small hunter-gatherer population. It’s no wonder that people often seem not to be pursuing any particular goal—happiness, inclusive fitness, whatever—very successfully.

But I still have a complaint. I wish the evolutionists would stop using verbs like “design” when talking about natural selection. There is no design in natural selection. There is no envisioned end product that natural selection is working to bring into existence, and too often the language that’s chosen to discuss the subject belies that reality. Wright is cognizant of this, and often uses quotation marks to indicate that he doesn’t mean what he’s saying literally, but feels compelled to use the convenient language.

Naturally, the level of the organism is of primary concern to human beings; human beings are organisms. But it’s of secondary importance to natural selection. If there is a sense in which natural selection “cares” about anything—and there is, metaphorically—that thing isn’t us; it’s the information in our sex cells, our eggs and our sperm. Of course, natural selection “wants” us to behave in certain ways. But, so long as we comply, it doesn’t care whether we are made happy or sad in the process, whether we get physically mangled, even whether we die. The only thing natural selection ultimately “wants” to keep in good shape is the information in our genes, and it will countenance any suffering on our part that serves this purpose.

I won’t beat Wright up too much over this. Although he flirts too frequently with the contradiction, he repeatedly tells us that he is flirting, and has helped me think about evolution in ways I haven’t before. I believe natural selection itself is a misnomer, as nothing is actually being “selected” by it. Natural selection is a result of what happens when certain genes that embody certain traits survive and proliferate over several generations and other genes that embody other traits don’t. Species adapt and change, but none of that is because they were selected to do so or designed for some specific end. As gravity is to mass, evolution is to reproduction—a quality inherently present in the medium.

But here’s the mindbending part:

It’s always hard to be sure that people really believe such excuses. But a famous series of experiments shows (in a quite different context) how oblivious the conscious mind can be to its real motivation, and how busily it sets about justifying the products of that motivation.

The experiments were conducted on “split-brain” patients—people who have had the link between left and right hemispheres cut to stop severe epileptic seizures. The surgery has surprisingly little effect on everyday behavior, but under contrived conditions, strange things can happen. If the word nut is flashed before the left eye (which leads to the right hemisphere), but not to the right eye (which leads to the left), the subject reports no conscious awareness of the signal; the information never enters the left hemisphere, which in most people controls language and seems to dominate consciousness. Meanwhile, though, the subject’s left hand—controlled by the right hemisphere—will, if allowed to rummage through a box of objects, seize on a nut. The subject reports no awareness of this fact unless allowed to see what his left hand is up to.

When it comes time for the subject to justify his behavior, the left brain passes from professed ignorance into unknowing dishonesty. One example: the command walk is sent to a man’s right brain, and he complies. When asked where he’s going, his left brain, not privy to the real reason, comes up with another one: he’s going to get a soda, he says, convinced. Another example: a nude image is flashed to the right brain of a woman, who then lets loose an embarrassed laugh. Asked what’s so funny, she give an answer that’s less racy than the truth.

Michael Gazzaniga, who conducted some of the split-brain experiments, has said that language is merely the “press agent” for other parts of the mind; it justifies whatever acts they induce, convincing the world that the actor is a reasonable, rational, upstanding person. It may be that the realm of consciousness itself is in large part such a press agent—the place where our unconsciously written press releases are infused with the conviction that gives them force. Consciousness cloaks the cold and self-serving logic of the genes in a variety of innocent guises. The Darwinian anthropologist Jerome Barkow has written, “It is possible to argue that the primary evolutionary function of the self is to be the organ of impression management (rather than, as our folk psychology would have it, a decision-maker).”

One could go further and suggest that the folk psychology itself is built into our genes. In other words, not only is the feeling that we are “consciously” in control of our behavior an illusion (as is suggested by other neurological experiments as well); it is a purposeful illusion, designed by natural selection to lend conviction to our claims. For centuries people have approached the philosophical debate over free will with the vague but powerful intuition that free will does exist; we (the conscious we) are in charge of our behavior. It is not beyond the pale to suggest that this nontrivial chunk of intellectual history can be ascribed fairly directly to natural selection—that one of the most hallowed of all philosophical positions is essentially an adaptation.

That’s right. We’re not really conscious beings, different from all the other animals on the planet that run purely on instinct. We have no free will. Our illusion of consciousness and free will is an evolutionary adaptation that has survived and flourished because it has better adapted us to our environment. Belief in our own consciousness and free will makes us more socially adaptable to our ever-changing environment by making us better able to convince others that our intentions are socially acceptable and not necessarily “driven” by our genes’ “desire” to survive into the next generation. I’ve heard theories of everything before, but this one really takes the cake. Want to get rid of God? Here you go. Evolution will not only destroy the biblical myth of creation, but will completely erase the concept of the soul. What is the soul of a man? Adaptable traits inherited by our procreating ancestors.

Even Wright seems blown away by this concept, that natural selection is responsible not just for our physical traits but our sense of superiority and the higher purpose in our lives:

One striking feature of the rewards and punishments dished out by the conscience is their lack of sensuality. The conscience doesn’t make us feel bad the way hunger feels bad, or good the way sex feels good. It makes us feel as if we have done something that’s wrong or something that’s right. Guilty or not guilty. It is amazing that a process as amoral and crassly pragmatic as natural selection could design a mental organ that makes us feel as if we’re in touch with higher truths. Truly a shameless ploy.

God help me, I can hear Rick Warren squirming on his cross when I read this. Brother Robert! Your conscience is not a shameless ploy of natural selection. It is the voice of God desperately trying to reach you. But Wright’s mind is closed to that possibility—more closed I think than anyone else I have ever read. He doesn’t even consider the alternative. For him evolution has to explain it all, and this is the best way he can find to explain things like the conscience and consciousness through evolution. If there is a hell, Wright is going to one day find himself in the hottest lake of fire it has.

But wait. Here’s where it goes from mindbending to freaky:

There are various ways to answer this question. Today, among biologists, one common answer is that evolution has no discernible end. Spencer, at any rate, believed evolution had tended to move species toward longer and more comfortable lives and the more secure rearing of offspring. Our mission, then, was to nourish these values. And the way to do so was to cooperate with one another, to be nice—to live in “permanently peaceful societies.”

All of this now lies in the dustbin of intellectual history. In 1903, the philosopher G. E. Moore decisively assaulted the idea of drawing values from evolution or, for that matter, from any aspect of observed nature. He labeled this error the “naturalistic fallacy.” Ever since, philosophers have worked hard not to commit it.

Moore wasn’t the first to question the inference of “ought” from “is.” John Stuart Mill had done it a few decades earlier. Mill’s dismissal of the naturalistic fallacy, much less technical and academic than Moore’s, was more simply compelling. Its key was to articulate clearly the usually unspoken assumption that typically underlies attempts to use nature as a guide to right conduct: namely, that nature was created by God and thus must embody his values. And, Mill added, not just any God. If, for example, God is not benevolent, then why honor his values? And if he is benevolent, but isn’t omnipotent, why suppose that he has managed to precisely embed his values in nature? So the question of whether nature deserves slavish emulation boils down to the question of whether nature appears to be the handiwork of a benevolent and omnipotent God.

Mill’s answer was: Are you kidding? In an essay called “Nature,” he wrote that nature “impales men, breaks them as if on the wheel, casts them to be devoured by wild beasts, burns them to death, crushes them with stones like the first Christian martyr, starves them with hunger, freezes them with cold, poisons them by the quick or slow venom of her exhalations, and has hundreds of other hideous deaths in reserve.” And she does all this “with the most supercilious disregard both of mercy and of justice, emptying her shafts upon the best and noblest indifferently with the meanest and worst…” Mill observed, “If there are any marks at all of special design in creation, one of the things most evidently designed is that a large proportion of all animals should pass their existence in tormenting and devouring other animals.” Anyone, “whatever kind of religious phrases he may use,” must concede “that if Nature and Man are both the works of a Being of perfect goodness, that Being intended Nature as a scheme to be amended, not imitated, by Man.” Nor, believed Mill, should we look for guidance to our moral intuition, a device “for consecrating all deep-seated prejudices.”

In other words, our nature, be it bred into us by natural selection or breathed into us by God, is something that we are to overcome, to rise above.

Darwin doesn’t seem to have spent much time agonizing over this conflict between natural selection’s “morality” and his own. If a parasitic wasp or a cat playing with mice embodies nature’s values—well, so much the worse for nature’s values. It is remarkable that a creative process devoted to selfishness could produce organisms which, having finally discerned this creator, reflect on this central value and reject it. More remarkable still, this happened in record time; the very first organism ever to see its creator did precisely that. Darwin’s moral sentiments, designed ultimately to serve selfishness, renounced this criterion of design as soon as it became explicit.

But can we do this? If consciousness itself is merely an adaptation of natural selection, a ploy to keep us from realizing we are acting on pure instinct so we can reason our way through changes in our environment, if free will is only a part of this parlor trick our own minds have been constructed to play on us, how can we possibly step outside of that paradigm and reject it? If natural selection explains it all, even consciousness and the illusion of free will, is it possible for us to have this kind of independent thought? Or isn’t it more likely that any act we think we might take to reject the logic and values of natural selection is one taken by our evolutionary doppelganger instead, and therefore part of the larger force we think we have rejected? Makes your head spin, doesn’t it?

There’s a few other random bits that seemed worth quoting:

One factor is the vulnerability of offspring. Following the generic male sexual strategy—roaming around, seducing and abandoning everything in sight—won’t do a male’s genes much good if the resulting offspring get eaten. That seems to be one reason so many bird species are monogamous, or at least relatively monogamous. Eggs left alone while the mother went out and hunted worms wouldn’t last long. When our ancestors moved from the forests out onto the savanna, they had to cope with fleet predators. And this was hardly the only new danger to the young. As the species got smarter and its posture more upright, female anatomy faced a paradox: walking upright implied a narrow pelvis, and thus a narrow birth canal, but the heads of babies were larger than ever. This is presumably why human infants are born prematurely in comparison to other primates. From early on, baby chimps can cling to their mother while she walks around, her hands unencumbered. Human babies, though, seriously compromise a mother’s food gathering. For many months, they’re mounds of helpless flesh: tiger bait.

The whole first part of this book is about men and women, about why they do the things they do in reproducing and how evolution and natural selection created it all. And it’s also where Wright rams home one of the central points of his book—that we are a species that live in an environment very different from the one we were adapted to by natural selection. I noted the above paragraph because it helps illustrate this. Why are human babies so helpless when they are born? Why are their heads so big and malleable? If you believe in God the answer is simple—because that’s the way God made it. If you believe in evolution—the answer is infinitely more complex. Nothing evolves simply or in a direct fashion. Everything is the result of an untold number of variables at play with one another. Our intelligence, walking upright, the pain of childbirth, the vulnerability of our young, our need to care for them. They’re all inter-related in ways we’ll probably never understand.

It is ironic that hints of mortality can draw a man into marriage, for often it is these same hints, much later, that drive him out, to seek fresh proof of his virility. But the irony dissolves when reduced to ultimate cause: both the impulses to profess lifelong love to a woman and to wander lie within a man by virtue of how often, in his ancestors, they led to progeny. In that sense, both are an apt antidote to mortality, thought in the end futile (except from the genes’ point of view), and, in the latter case—wandering—often destructive as well.

I’m not sure I’ve even touched on this one yet, that emotions themselves are a product of natural selection, meaning we only feel the things that have been useful in propagating our species. The love I feel for my wife, according to this perspective, is only there because millions in the past who didn’t express such feelings did not reproduce and millions more who did express them did.

Morality is the device of an animal of exceptional cognitive complexity, pursuing its interests in an exceptionally complex social universe.

Somewhere along the way in the book Wright refers to the stages of moral development as expressed by Lawrence Kohlberg in 1971. The seemed interesting to me so I went out to the Internet and found them:

Stages of Moral Development

by Lawrence Kohlberg (1971)

I. Preconventional Level

At this level, the child is responsive to cultural rules and labels of good and bad, right or wrong, but he interprets the labels in terms of either the physical or hedonistic consequences of action (punishment, reward, exchange of favors) or the physical power of those who enunciate the rules and labels. The level is divided into the following three stages:

Stage 0: Egocentric judgement. The child makes judgements of good on the basis of what he likes and wants or what helps him, and bad on the basis of what he does not like or what hurts him. He has no concept of rules or of obligations to obey or conform to independent of his wish.

Stage 1: The punishment and obedience orientation. The physical consequences of action determine its goodness or badness regardless of the human meaning or value of these consequences. Avoidance of punishment and unquestioning deference to power are values in their own right, not in terms of respect for an underlying moral order supported by punishment and authority (the latter is stage 4).

Stage 2: The instrumental relativist orientation. Right action consists of what instrumentally satisfies one's own needs and occasionally the needs of others. Human relations are viewed in terms such as those of the market place. Elements of fairness, reciprocity, and equal sharing are present, but they are always interpreted in a physical, pragmatic way. Reciprocity is a matter of "you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours", not loyalty, gratitude, or justice.

II. Conventional Level

At this level, the individual perceives the maintenance of the expectations of his family, group, or nation as valuable in its own right, regardless of immediate and obvious consequences. The attitude is not only one of conformity to personal expectations and social order, but of loyalty to it, of actively maintaining, supporting, and justifying the order and identifying with the persons or group involved in it. The level consists of the following two stages:

Stage 3: The interpersonal concordance or "good boy-nice girl" orientation. Good behavior is what pleases or helps others and is approved by them. There is much conformity to stereotypical images of what is majority or "natural" behavior. Behavior is frequently judged by intention -- "he means well" becomes important for the first time. One earns approval by being "nice".

Stage 4: The "law and order" orientation. The individual is oriented toward authority, fixed rules, and the maintenance of the social order. Right behavior consists in doing one's duty, showing respect for authority, and maintaining the given social order for its own sake.

III. Post-Conventional, Autonomous, or Principled Level

The individual makes a clear effort to define moral values and principles that have validity and application apart from the authority of the groups of persons holding them and apart from the individual's own identification with the group. The level has the two following stages:

Stage 5: The social-contract legalistic orientation (generally with utilitarian overtones). Right action tends to be defined in terms of general individual rights and standards that have been critically examined and agreed upon by the whole society. There is a clear awareness of the relativism of personal values and opinions and a corresponding emphasis upon procedural rules for reaching consensus. Aside from what is constitutionally and democratically agreed upon, right action is a matter of personal values and opinions. The result is an emphasis upon the "legal point of view", but with an additional emphasis upon the possibility of changing the law in terms of rational considerations of social utility (rather than freezing it in terms of stage 4 "law and order"). Outside the legal realm, free agreement, and contract, is the binding element of obligation. The "official" morality of the American government and Constitution is at this stage.

Stage 6: The universal ethical-principle orientation. Right is defined by the decision of conscience in accord with self-chosen ethical principles that appeal to logical comprehensiveness, universality, and consistency. These principles are abstract and ethical (the Golden Rule, the categorical imperative); they are not concrete moral rules like the Ten Commandments. At heart, these are universal principles of justice, of the reciprocity and equality of the human rights, and of respect for the dignity of human beings as individual persons.

After reading them, I’m not sure they were all that interesting after all.

One more thing about The Moral Animal. It was confusing as hell. Interesting and thought-provoking, but confusing as hell. It was clear that Wright was trying to argue a consistent point of view throughout, but his subject matter is so opaque, he could have said the direct opposite thing on page 400 that he said on page 4 and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

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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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK THREE:

THE UNDERGOD

I took the pendant home and showed it to Otis and my mother, liking its shape and the way it glinted in the sunlight. What followed was as big a shock to me as the medallion was to them. My stepfather took the trinket from me and then violently shook me until I told him where and how I had gotten it. Crying, I told him all I knew. I was spanked and punished, and then Otis lectured me on what the five-pointed star stood for and the dangers of associating with men who bore it as their symbol. I said I was sorry and that I had not known and together, Otis and I, we prayed to Grecolus for forgiveness. The matter was settled, even though I still was not sure exactly what I was asking forgiveness for, and Otis threw the pendant deep into the small copse of trees that grew behind our home. It took a long time, skipping out whenever I had an hour or two of free time, but eventually I found it and secretly hid the medallion in my room.

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Dinner was, in many ways, not what Brisbane expected it to be. After Smurch had helped him into his robes—Brisbane did not seem able to prevent the service—the half-ork took him directly to the banquet chamber where members of the klatru were already gathering to feast on what was their only meal of the day.

The chamber itself was conveniently located at the other end of the main corridor, opposite the bath chamber, and was by far the largest chamber Brisbane had seen so far. Gigantic might have been an understatement. It was so huge Brisbane could not even guess at its dimensions. It was roughly oval with plenty of exits scattered around the walls and a high, vaulted ceiling. Like the other main chambers in this complex, it was lit with torchlight and, in the very center of the room, a huge stone table stood surrounded by numerous stone benches.

There were several orks already seated at the table, none of whom Brisbane recognized, all dressed in black and drinking from great tankards. Smurch stopped Brisbane at one of the portals into the chamber.

“I am forbidden to enter until the time has come to serve the meal,” the half-ork said. “I must go to the kitchen now. Enjoy your meal, Grum Brisbane.”

Smurch walked quickly away from Brisbane and turned down one of the side tunnels. Brisbane raised a weak hand in a wave and said goodbye to his friend under his breath. Suddenly, he wasn’t so eager to go in there and get his dinner, even though he had eaten nothing but prison rations for the last two days. He took a small cautious step into the chamber and, when none of the orks at the table took notice of him, he took another. Soon he was moving steadily towards the center of the room and he did not stop until one of the orks looked up at him.

Their conversation suddenly went silent and all their heads pivoted up to look upon Brisbane. Brisbane stood frozen in their gazes and, for the briefest of moments, he was deadly sure they were going to rise up and snuff out his life.

“You that human Grum?” the ork who had first noticed him asked.

Brisbane could not find his voice. There were eight orks at the table, all of them larger than Brisbane and all of them more fierce-looking than any creatures he had ever seen. He might have turned and fled in fear if a sarcastic vein in his body hadn’t ballooned up and said to his mind, What the hells kind of question is that, dumb ass? Who else would I be, an unarmed human so deep in the lair of a clan or orks?

“Yes,” Brisbane said finally.

The ork nodded his head and fell back into conversation with his comrades around the table. They were speaking orkish and Brisbane couldn’t help but think they were doing that just to spite him. He still did not feel comfortable enough to go on over and take a seat at the table, a seat Smurch would probably have said he now deserved, so he stood lamely in place and tried to will someone he knew into the room. At this point, he would have even been glad to see Wister.

Fortunately, it was not long before Ternosh entered the chamber with Wister right on his heels. The Grum went over to take his place at the table while Ternosh spotted Brisbane and came over to him.

“Well, Brisbane,” the Grumak said kindly. “I see you are now properly attired. I hope you are taking easily to your new life. I imagine it is quite different from the one you knew before.”

Brisbane was still not used to the Grumak’s friendliness. Until what had happened with the Demosk, Ternosh had seemed ready to gut Brisbane with a paring knife, and now it was all warm greetings and friendly overtures. Brisbane did not trust it.

“Things are going okay,” he said cautiously.

Ternosh actually smiled. “This will be your first dinner with us. I’m glad I have a moment to talk to you a little bit before the meal begins.”

“Go ahead,” Brisbane said.

“You may have noticed,” the Grumak said, “that dinner is the only meal we grugan eat in the day.”

“I have,” Brisbane said as he held his stomach.

Ternosh chuckled. “Yes,” he nodded. “Very good. Perhaps because it is our only meal, it has taken on quite a bit of importance in our lives. It’s more than just a meal, it’s a gathering time, when peers come together to eat, drink, talk, and celebrate. The grugan word for it is draknel.”

“Kind of like a holiday feast every day?”

“Yes,” Ternosh said, sounding surprised. “That is one way of putting it. Now, since this is your first draknel, and you are still learning our customs, I think it would be best if you kept to yourself as much as you can. Eat your fill, by all means, but do not initiate any conversations. If questions are put to you, answer them simply and respectfully, but do not offer any needless information. I am telling you to do this for your own safety. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Brisbane said.

“Fine,” Ternosh said. “When we take our seats at the table, I will sit between you and Wister and you will sit on my left. You may pour yourself some ale and drink it if you wish, but you are not allowed to eat anything until Clan Chief—we call the position Sumak—Tornestor has been seated and has begun to eat. Is that clear?”

Brisbane looked briefly over at the table of orks. Wister was not drinking nor was he conversing with the others.

“I’ll just follow your lead,” Brisbane said. “I won’t do anything unless you do it first.”

The Grumak clapped Brisbane on the shoulder. “That will probably be the best way to handle it. Are you ready?”

“I suppose so,” Brisbane said, not really sure if he was or not.

Ternosh led him over to the table and they took their seats, Brisbane on the Grumak’s left just like he had been told. The black-clad orks were separated away from Brisbane and the red-eyed orks by the many angles cut into the edge of the table. It was a huge sprawling thing, roughly oval but with many sides to it. At one end of it sat a stone chair, not a bench like everyone else was sitting on, but a chair. A throne perhaps, with a high back and regal arms.

Ternosh poured himself a tankard of ale and then poured one for Brisbane. Brisbane took the drink and sipped it, lighting a small fire in his belly and reminding him just how hungry he was. The ale was a fine brew, probably stolen from some merchant on one of the roads, and was much better than the swill Shortwhiskers had taken from the orks on the bank of the Mystic River. They had red eyes on their shields, Brisbane reminded himself. They were members of this clan. When he had first seen their shields, Brisbane had wondered about the great red orbs on them. Now he knew they were representations of the one great unwinking eye of Gruumsh One-Eye, a god Brisbane now had to feign allegiance to. Until he could find Angelika and escape with her, Gildegarde Brisbane III was now Grum Brisbane, wizard and priest-in-training of Gruumsh One-Eye.

A silence fell over the orks at the table. Brisbane looked up and, at one of the many entrances to the chamber, he saw an ork who could only have been Sumak Tornestor.

The chief was huge. His pink pig ears twitched nearly seven feet above the floor and his shoulders stuck out from his neck like the wings of a great bird of prey. Like the orks at the table, he was dressed all in black—black boots, black trousers, and black tunic—but he had a red sash draped over a shoulder that crossed his body on a diagonal. He strode into the room like he owned it which, Brisbane thought, he probably did, followed by two more black-clad orks, these two each with a red stripe on their right sleeves, and sat heavily on the stone chair at what now was no doubt the head of the table. The two orks who followed him sat on benches on either side of the Sumak.

“The Clan of the Red Eye,” Tornestor said in a voice like sandpaper, “extends welcome to Grum Brisbane on the occasion of his first draknel.”

“Welcome,” a chorus of deep voices chanted all around the table.

Ternosh leaned and whispered in Brisbane’s ear. “Say, ‘Thank you all.’”

“Thank you all,” Brisbane said, pitching his voice as low as possible.

Tornestor nodded his head as he appraised Brisbane with his eyes. “And now, before I have the food brought in, does anyone have any statements they wish to make?”

Heads turned back and forth up and down the table. There were perhaps twenty seconds of silence before Wister rose to his feet.

“Grum Wister,” Tornestor said gravely. “You wish to invoke your right of statement. What do you say?”

Brisbane took another sip of his ale and shifted his weight on his bench. He was doing just what Ternosh had warned him to do, minding his own business.

Wister cleared his throat. “I would like to issue a challenge, Sumak Tornestor.”

Mumbles bounced around the table. Tornestor’s brow wrinkled and Brisbane did not think he looked pleased.

“A challenge has not been issued in this hall for quite some time, Grum Wister,” Tornestor said. “But that does not prevent you from issuing one now. You may continue.”

“I do not issue it lightly, Sumak Tornestor,” Wister said. “I have given it a great deal of thought. I have decided I cannot share my position in this clan with a human. I challenge Grum Brisbane.”

Brisbane heard his name called out and saw all the eyes around the table turn to him. He did not know what this challenge meant, but he had the feeling it was not good news.

Ternosh leapt to his feet.

Tornestor turned to his brother. “You have something to say, Grumak Ternosh?”

“I do, Sumak Tornestor.” Ternosh gestured towards Brisbane. “He was sent here by Gruumsh One-Eye. His purpose among us in still unknown, but it must be direfully important for Gruumsh to send a human to do it. We cannot allow him to face Wister, or anyone else, in a challenge. What would happen to us all if Brisbane were to lose? Gruumsh’s purpose would go undone.”

Tornestor faced Wister. “Grum Wister?”

“I have considered this, Sumak Tornestor,” Wister said carefully, “and it means nothing to me. I will not share my position in this clan with a human. My oath to Gruumsh compels me to no other action.”

Brisbane tried to rise to his feet but Ternosh pushed him back down with a hand on his shoulder. He still didn’t know what this was all about, but he was getting tired of the way Wister said human. Brisbane figured Wister had been planning this since he first heard the news about Brisbane. That’s why he was so rude to me in the work chamber. He wants nothing to do with me.

Tornestor rubbed his chin. “Ternosh, did your Demosk say Grum Brisbane was to receive special considerations while he lived among us?”

Ternosh paused. “No, Sumak Tornestor.”

“What exactly did it say about Brisbane?”

Brisbane’s ears perked up. This was exactly what he wanted to know.

“The Demosk said three things about Brisbane,” Ternosh said. “First, it said Brisbane’s blood carried the bane of Gruumsh One-Eye. He can work magic and is entitled to possess the pentacle medallion he wears around his neck. Second, the Demosk said Gruumsh had granted this power to a human because he had a special plan for Brisbane among us. And thirdly, it said Brisbane was to be treated as a member of our clan.”

“That is a bit vague,” Tornestor said.

“Information gathering with my Demosk can be a time-consuming practice,” Ternosh said. “That is all I have had time to discover so far.”

Both Ternosh and Wister were still standing while they argued their cases before Tornestor. All the other orks remained seated, quietly drinking their ale. Brisbane could tell some of them were very interested in how this all turned out. Others, Brisbane felt, could not have cared less about it and were just waiting for their dinner to be served.

“It is my job as Sumak of this clan,” Tornestor said, “to listen to the information my Grumak receives from his Demosk and decide how that information would best serve the clan. Is this not true?”

“Of course it is,” Ternosh admitted.

“Brisbane is to be treated as a member of our clan, the Demosk has said,” Tornestor went on, his brow wrinkling as he forced the logic out of his mouth. “This, I have seen to. His blood bares the bane of Gruumsh One-Eye and, even though he does not have red eyes, I have allowed him to assume the position of Grum among us. This is how any grugan with the power of magic would have been treated. This is just and right.”

Brisbane tried to stand up again but Ternosh firmly pushed him back down on the bench.

“However,” the clan chief said, “the rights of challenge and the pit of combat are also part of our society and Grum Brisbane, as a member of the Clan of the Red Eye, should not be exempt from them. Grum Wister is just in issuing his challenge, his rights shall not be denied because of Brisbane’s mysterious origin, and after this evening’s draknel, in the traditional manner, Wister’s challenge shall be answered.”

Both Wister and Ternosh slowly bowed and then reseated themselves.

“I, Sumak Tornestor, have spoken.”

Tornestor clapped his hands twice and immediately the table erupted again in loud conversations and servants entered the chamber carrying platters of food.

Brisbane turned to Ternosh as a steaming plate of potatoes and vegetables was set near him. “So what was that all about?” he asked the Grumak softly. “What exactly does this challenge mean?”

Ternosh picked a plate off a nearby pile and began to spoon potatoes onto it. “Wister has challenged you to combat. After the draknel, you two will fight and the winner will retain the right to be my Grum.”

The smell of the food was inebriating. Brisbane took a big platter of sliced meat from the ork on his left and began to fill his plate. “And the loser?”

Ternosh spooned some potatoes onto Brisbane’s plate. “The loser will be dead. It is a fight to the death.”

To the death.

Swell.

Brisbane stole a couple of looks at Wister, but the Grum ignored him completely. The ork was of average size for his race, which meant he was about Brisbane’s size. Brisbane may have been somewhat of a giant among humans, but among orks, he was as average as the night was dark. More food was passed around the table and Brisbane continued to pile his plate high with a little bit of everything.

“Do we use weapons or something?” Brisbane asked the Grumak. He hated the thought of hand-to-hand combat to the death. He wasn’t very good at street fighting.

“Armor and weapons,” Ternosh said curtly. “Now shut up and mind your manners.”

By this time, all had their plates full and their forks poised. Brisbane remembered not to start eating until Tornestor did, but the aroma coming off his plate nearly drove him mad. He joined everyone else at the table in silence and in staring at the Sumak.

Tornestor paused for a dramatic moment and then dived into his food. A second later, Brisbane and the other orks did the same. The food was delicious. Brisbane ate with an abandon he was sure Otis would have called gluttonous. Brisbane didn’t care. Let Otis have only six small strips of salty meat for two days and then serve him a feast like this and see how much he ate.

Brisbane devoured helping after helping, but through it all, his thoughts were on the challenge Wister had issued to him. Evidently, it wasn’t an ork’s right to refuse a challenge. At least, no one had asked him if he wanted to pick up the glove Wister had thrown down. But Brisbane guessed that wasn’t important for, even if he had been asked, he would not have turned down Wister’s challenge.

He could not, as Brisbane saw it. If he was ever going to get Angelika back, he had to mold into the society of the clan, and this challenge and the pit of combat, whatever that was, were obviously very important to the life of the klatru. Brisbane could not let himself be excluded from that. Ternosh had seemed displeased with Tornestor’s decision, but Brisbane had heard the reasoning behind it and he agreed with it.

Also, Brisbane knew, Wister’s feelings, his hatred of Brisbane because he was human, could not be a sentiment exclusive to Wister. If Brisbane somehow shirked the challenge, what would the orks who hated him for being human think of him then? Brisbane remembered the faces around the table when Tornestor had been casting judgment on Wister’s challenge—the ones that had seemed lined with concern over whether or not Brisbane would be forced to face the challenge—and he thought he knew which ones resented him on the basis of his position and his race. To face Wister in combat was perhaps to gain respect in their eyes.

But then again, this was not an arm wrestling contest. This was a fight to the death. Ternosh had said the combat would be done with armor and weapons, and Brisbane was glad for that. In his opinion, a sword in his hand increased his odds of winning to a more comfortable margin. If he could somehow use Angelika against Wister, he would have no doubts about winning the contest at all.

Eventually, the meal was finished and servants re-entered the chamber to clear the table. Brisbane saw Smurch was among them, but the half-ork paid no attention to his new master and soon he and the other servants left the chamber with the many dirty dishes and the few leftovers.

Brisbane was full, fuller than he had been in a long time, but he had stayed away from too much ale to keep his head clear in the coming battle. He noticed Wister had done the same. Just as he began to wonder what was going to happen next, Tornestor rose to his feet and addressed the table.

“Gentlemen,” the Sumak said. “In the tradition handed down through generations, a tradition begun in the time Gruumsh One-Eye himself walked the earth, a challenge, a masokom, has been issued by one of our number against another. We have all heard the reasons for this masokom. Are there any here who would deny Grum Wister his right in challenging Grum Brisbane?”

The table was silent.

“Then let us move to the pug-trolang, the pit of combat, to settle this masokom before our own eyes.”

All around the table the orks got to their feet. Brisbane, imitatively, did the same. Tornestor and the two orks with the red stripes on their sleeves began to move towards a wide exit from the room, opposite the one Brisbane had used before the draknel. The other black-clad orks soon followed and, when he was given a little shove from Ternosh, so did Brisbane, the Grumak, and Wister.

Brisbane was not sure what lay in store for him at the pit of combat, the pug-trolang, but he was sure he was doing the right thing in facing Wister. He was confident he could defeat the Grum and he was ready to show the rest of the klatru he wasn’t some puny human they could push around like the ones they kept in the circus wagons on the surface.

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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.

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel

Here’s the blurb from the back of my paperback:

Kirsten Raymonde will never forget the night Arthur Leander, the famous Hollywood actor, had a heart attack onstage during a production of King Lear. That was also the night when a devastating flu pandemic arrived in the city, and within weeks, civilization as we know it came to an end.

Twenty years later, Kirsten moves between the settlements of the altered world with a small troupe of actors and musicians. They call themselves the Traveling Symphony, and they have dedicated themselves to keeping the remnants of art and humanity alive. But when they arrive in St. Deborah by the Water, they encounter a violent prophet who will threaten the tiny band’s existence. And as the story takes off, moving back and forth in time, and vividly depicting life before and after the pandemic, the strange twist of fate that connects them all will be revealed.

That accurately describes the book I read and the story that Station Eleven is. But that, strangely, is not what I was told Station Eleven was about.

Station Eleven is copyrighted 2014, but it seems to have really grown to prominence in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic. To one extent, that makes sense. It is, after all, about a pandemic, an apocalyptically deadly one, and about the hellscape that comes after.

But in another sense, that doesn’t make any sense, because Station Eleven takes place before and after a deadly pandemic, but it’s not really about the pandemic and the hellscape that follows. It’s really about Arthur Leander and his quest for connection. The pandemic and the hellscape are just the tableau on which that quest takes place.

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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.

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

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. 

+ + + 

The new audiobook is Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Not sure what possessed me to get this one. Fifty bucks and twenty-four cassettes. I hope I like it because I’m going to be listening to it for some time to come.

So far there’s this guy, Ablomski (it’s Russian literature and I’m only listening to it; I’m going to get all the names wrong), who’s had an affair on his wife with their children’s governess, and his friend, Levin, who’s come in from out of town to propose to Ablomski’s wife’s sister. Anna Somebody is coming to visit, but it’s not Anna Karenina. At least not yet. I get the sense that this Anna will become Anna Karenina when she marries another character named Karenin. We’ll see. 

The writing is good and in a style that isn’t used much any more. We spend some time inside Ablomski’s head and his sensual-seeking, upper class, unredeeming state of mind is on full display.

+ + +

Levin went ice skating with the woman he intends to propose to -- her name is Kitty -- and although he was filled with love, he had too much self doubt to pop the question. Then he went out to dinner with his friend Ablonski (I think it’s Ablonski, not Ablomski) and Ablonski told him that he thought Kitty would agree to marry him, but only if he hurried up and asked her. Levin has just returned to Moscow after a few years in the country and while he was gone a rival had appeared on Kitty’s horizon. This news both encourages and frightens Levin.

+ + +

Levin proposed in a clumsy fashion to Kitty and, although Kitty’s heart was momentarily filled with joy at receiving a proposal, she realized that she truly loved Vronsky and so turned Levin down. Vronsky himself then makes an appearance, along with Kitty’s mother who openly favors Vronsky over Levin for her daughter’s nuptials. Kitty’s father favors Levin, and he comes in as well.

+ + +

Not sure I’m going to make it through all 24 tapes of Anna Karenina. Much has happened since last time I wrote, but I’m not sure I remember much of it.

Anna Something is Anna Karenina. The Something was evidently her middle name or the feminized version of her father’s name or whatever crazy thing those nutty Russians do. Vronsky has fallen for her but she’s married to a famous guy and has fled back to Petersburg but Vronsky has followed her. Levin has gone back to live in the country. Ablonski and his wife have reconciled, but Ablonski’s eye is starting to wander again. Kitty has gotten sick and she and her family are planning to go abroad to help her recover. The current action is taking place in Petersburg with Anna and Vronsky and the social circles in which they move. Anna finds herself drifting from one circle to another since her return from Moscow, the modern and bohemian suddenly more attractive that the traditional and stodgy.

One thing I do like about the novel is the way the characters lead their separate lives but are all interconnected through love, friendship and/or family relation. It makes me realize how much drama there is in the day-to-day reality of people and their relationships.

+ + +

Lenin and Ablonski argued over Ablonski selling a forest he owned to another guy for what Lenin thought was well below its value. The argument included different perspectives on what it means to be an aristocrat and what it means to be working class, and I could tell that Tolstoy was making commentary on Russian society. I couldn’t tell what the commentary meant -- just like I can never tell what the social commentary means in Russian literature (except for the scene in Crime and Punishment with the old man whipping his lame horse to death; I know what that social commentary meant but only because I read the Cliff Notes) -- but I could tell commentary was being made. Vronsky and Anna have begun an affair and Anna has just told Vronsky that she is pregnant.

+ + +

Long passages in Anna Karenina about Levin and his laborers working in the fields, mowing the grass and bailing the hay. Levin’s half brother has come to the country to stay with Levin, and they have opposite perspectives on the country. To Levin, it is a place free of the corruption of the city, where work can both fortify the body and heal the soul. To the brother, it is a place to relax and do as little as possible. Again, the social commentary is fairly obvious, especially when Levin and his brother get into an argument over some of the social reforms that the brother supports and Levin opposes. Ablonski also wrote and asked Levin to visit his wife Dolly and their country house, where she is staying with the children for the summer. Levin agrees, only to find out after he arrives that Kitty will also be visiting there.

+ + +

Levin is so enamored with the pastoral way of life led by his peasants that he decides to adopt it wholly for himself, but then goes to visit Kitty and is smitten again with her and the “civilized” circles in which she moves. The triangle between Anna, her husband and Vronsky gets more complicated as Vronsky decides that since she is carrying his baby Anna has to leave her husband and pledge her life to him. Karenin decides that he won’t let Anna go because to do so would make her happy and publicly bring scandal down upon his good name, and Anna waffles helplessly in between.

The character study is quite well done, with each set of thoughts and motivations being presented and explained in turn. Tolstoy does a good job making each character’s position seem logical and true given what information they have, but ultimately, each is limited not only by the partial vision each have of the situation, but also by the acts of the other two on which their considerations are only a reaction.

+ + +

Finally finished this audiobook. I did not enjoy it. It was probably a mistake to begin trying to log this one on a day-to-day basis. My god. So much going on. So many characters. No clues as to which ones really matter. Maybe that was the point?

+ + +

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

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK THREE:

THE UNDERGOD

We called the game “kick-the-can,” and I’m sure children have played and will continue to play it for years under that name or under some other simplified nomenclature. I was “it,” and I had just counted up to the mandatory fifty, when I saw the horse-drawn wagon come crawling down the street. The man who drove it was still young, but obviously an adult, and he wore red clothes and a black beard. Behind him, the wagon absolutely tottered with piles of books and boxes, loosely held together with a piece of tarpaulin. The man stopped the cart right beside me, in front of a house that had been vacant for months and whose yard my friends and I had been using as a playground of sorts. He asked me for some help in unloading his wagon. Without much thought I agreed, figuring his books and boxes might be more interesting than another round of kick-the-can. He asked me my name and I said Gil. I asked him his and he said Roy. When the work was finished, and I had seen dozens of things that made my eyes swim with fascination, the man took me aside and pressed a small silver pentacle medallion into my palm.

+ + +

Brisbane did his best to make out Ternosh’s vague form as they walked down the dark tunnel. Every once and a while, he would unconsciously slow down and Vrak would give him an angry shove from behind. In that way, at least, it seemed like old times.

“As I said before,” Ternosh said as he led the way into the ork tunnels, “I pretend to neither understand nor agree with the information I have received from my Demosk, but I do not for a moment doubt its veracity, nor will I shirk my obvious responsibility in the matter.”

Brisbane noticed how talkative Ternosh was being. He decided to try and take advantage of it. “Just what exactly did your Demosk tell you this time?”

Ternosh turned down a side passage and Brisbane quickly followed him, eager to hear anything the ork might say. Ternosh was silent for a moment before he answered.

“I might as well tell you, I suppose. I’m going to have to tell you quite a bit I’d really rather not tell you before this is all over.” Ternosh continued his fast pace down the tunnels and into the earth as he spoke loudly enough for Brisbane to hear. “My Demosk again asserted the bane of He-Who-Watches was in your blood and he also revealed something about his intentions in granting you such a responsibility. I was told even if given the chance, you would not flee from the settlement because you had a job of sorts to do here. I admit I do not know what this job is. I was also told you were to be treated like any other Grum, or Grumak-in-training. This I will do even though I do not know what will possibly result from it.”

Ternosh continued to lead the way through the countless tunnels and corridors. Brisbane was not sure if he was being taken to the same chamber he had been to before, but he did not think so. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and occasionally they would pass near a room or through a corridor that was lit by torchlight.

“Other than that,” Ternosh went on, “I really am not yet sure what He-Who-Watches, Or Gruumsh One-Eye as I am now allowed to refer to him as in your presence, has in store for you. I do know I will continue to ask my Demosk for information, but that can often be slow going. Whatever reason Gruumsh has for this situation, it must be unusual and very important for him to go to these extreme measures.”

Shortly the small party arrived at a small chamber that seemed to be a laboratory of sorts. It was lit by torches and contained workbenches covered with books, glassware filled with liquids, and jars filled with solid ingredients. A single ork stood at one of the workbenches, dressed in red robes like the ones worn by Ternosh, except his had white stripes running down the sleeves and wide white streaks in the folds that fell beneath the waist. The ork seemed busy at working with the liquids and glassware. When he turned to meet the group entering the chamber, Brisbane noticed he had two red eyes.

Ternosh turned to face Brisbane and saw Vrak standing there behind the human. He raised his voice in several curt orders and Vrak quickly turned and fled from the chamber.

“I’m afraid Vrak has not yet accepted the fact that you are no longer a prisoner. It is a problem you are likely to have with the majority of us. I will do as I am told, but I cannot force anyone to treat you cordially. Wister?”

Ternosh addressed the ork in the red and white robes and he stopped his work to come over by the pair at the doorway.

“Brisbane,” Ternosh said, “this is Wister, a Grum like you. I have already discussed your new position with him and, as I am needed elsewhere at the moment, he will have to continue with your indoctrination into our ways.”

Brisbane looked at Wister and nodded his head. “Hello.”

Wister said nothing and turned his red eyes away from Brisbane.

“By the way,” Ternosh cut in. “My name is Ternosh.”

“I know,” Brisbane said, trying not to feel insulted by Wister’s rudeness.

“You know?” Ternosh said, his brow wrinkling. “How would you know that?”

Brisbane did not want to go into what had happened between Smurch and himself. “I heard your Demosk call you Grumak Ternosh. I knew Grumak was your title, so I figured Ternosh was your name.”

Ternosh seemed puzzled. “You can speak our language? That of the grugan?”

“No,” Brisbane said honestly. “The Demosk was speaking the common tongue.”

“You heard your own language?”

“Yes,” Brisbane said.

“Fascinating,” Ternosh said. “This is something I will have to look into.” He snapped out of his puzzlement. “Oh well, no matter, I must be off. I will leave you in Wister’s capable hands.”

Ternosh turned to leave but before he had gone a full step he stopped and turned back. “Oh, Brisbane. Now that you are a member of the klatru, our upper class, you have the right to retain a personal servant. Shall I assign you one or do what want someone in particular?”

“What do you mean?” Brisbane asked.

“Well,” Ternosh said, “if you wanted to pick Vrak or someone else in the party that captured you, they would have no choice in the matter. They would be forced to serve you.”

Brisbane thought about it. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to make any friends that way.”

Ternosh nodded and then focused his attention on the side of Brisbane’s neck. The Grumak reached out and tore off the healing patch he had placed there. Brisbane’s hand went up to his neck and he could feel no trace of a scab or scar.

“So,” Ternosh said. “I’ll just assign you someone.”

“No, wait a minute,” Brisbane said. “Smurch. I would like Smurch to be my personal servant.”

Ternosh looked at him oddly but he eventually nodded his head. “Fine. I’ll have him sent down. Now, I really am leaving. Brisbane, Wister, I’ll see you both at dinner.”

Ternosh spun and this time he did leave the chamber. Brisbane watched him go and when he turned back to the chamber he saw Wister had returned to his workbench. The ork was mixing liquids together in exact amounts.

Brisbane slowly went over to Wister’s work table. It was cluttered with an array of various-sized bottles, but a small work area had been cleared in front of Wister. The ork had a large book open before him and a large vessel in which he was mixing small amounts of the different liquids. Brisbane heard a squeak and amidst all the bottles he saw a small wire cage holding a large black rat. The rat’s body filled the entire cage and left no room for the animal to move around.

“What are you doing?” Brisbane asked.

Wister said nothing. When he had mixed his ingredients to the proper amount, he picked up what appeared to be a small arrowhead on a stick and began to dunk the barb into the mixture he had created. The potion was syrupy and it clung to the arrowhead like glue. When Wister had the point coated with the substance, he brought the small weapon to bear on the rat’s cage. The ork quickly struck the arrow in between two of the bars and into the hide of the rodent.

Brisbane stepped up next to Wister. “What are you doing?”

Wister put out an arm to keep Brisbane away from the rat. The ork kept his eyes on the animal in the cage and Brisbane could do nothing else but watch.

The rat, which had squeaked loudly when the arrow had pierced it, was now silent and stood on shaky feet with its beady black eyes wide open. The wound in its side was not great, and it appeared the sticky potion had actually stopped some of the bleeding, but the rat did not look well. Its whole body was quivering now with rapid muscle spasms and in a short period of time it fell over and stopped moving altogether.

“Is it dead?” Brisbane asked.

Wister still said nothing. Completely ignoring Brisbane, he picked up a quill pen and began to make notes in the book that lay open before him. The script he wrote in was both strange and somewhat familiar to Brisbane.

Poison, Brisbane thought. It must be some kind of poison. Killed that rat quick and easy. Is that what this Wister is doing here? Developing different kinds of poison?

Brisbane decided to try one more time. “Is that some kind of poison?”

To Wister, it must have been like Brisbane was not even there. For a moment, Brisbane considered Wister might in fact be deaf, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Ternosh would have told him that, he thought, and besides, Wister had not only not spoken to him, the ork had paid him no attention whatsoever.

To the hells with him, Brisbane thought. If that’s the way he wants to be—fine. Brisbane could play that game, too. He stepped away from Wister and began to move around the chamber, looking at the other work tables and the things on them. They were all similar to Wister’s table and Brisbane quickly lost interest in them because nothing was being worked on at them. He wasn’t about to go wandering around in the dark tunnels, so it seemed he would have to sit and wait for something to happen. Brisbane squatted down against one of the walls and did just that.

He began to turn the situation over in his mind. He did feel more in control than he had in his cage, but he was in no way near to having control over it. There were still a lot of things that were up in the air, things he didn’t understand, and things of which he wasn’t sure.

What exactly had the Demosk told Ternosh about him? The Grumak had acted like he was coming clean with Brisbane, but Brisbane doubted Ternosh would actually tell him everything he knew. Brisbane could not forget the countless faces that had passed by his cage earlier that day. Whatever was going on, as Ternosh had said, it was not a normal situation. Traditions were going to be suspended, policies changed, and feelings hurt. He was going to have to tread very lightly if he wanted to make any progress.

Brisbane was playing along with this charade just long enough for him to get Angelika back. He knew that on the surface, but he still did not fully understand the deep down importance of such an action. To him it was a rational decision, he figured as long as he still had his life, he had a chance to steal back his sword from the orks. The thought that in his quest for Angelika he might very well lose the life Ternosh had granted him had never occurred to him, nor did the thought that the decision to stay might not have really been his.

Thoughts of Angelika made Brisbane realize he was now in the same caves in which he had seen Vrak take his sword and he may, in fact, be close enough to her to re-establish contact. He didn’t seem to have anything else to do—Wister was still working at his table, oblivious to Brisbane—so he closed his eyes and opened his mind, reaching out in all directions for her.

And ever so quietly, behind all his brain’s activity, underneath even the currents that beat his heart and digested his food, Brisbane could hear that soft, seductive voice he had longed for so much.

—Brisbane? Is that you?—

Brisbane’s heart raced. Angelika! Yes, it’s me. Where are you?

—I am nearby, young Brisbane. I am glad you have found me.—

Where are you? I’ll come and get you right now.

—No. Remember what I have told you. We have the chance to do great good in this den of evil. Be patient and be strong. Vengeance shall be ours.—

Angelika. I’ve missed you so.

—As I have missed you, young Brisbane. Never before have I been wielded by someone with such potential. Our conquests will be written in the Book of Time. Together we will destroy terrible evil. I yearn for our next battle.—

Angelika’s words left Brisbane a little empty. No, Angelika. I need you. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your voice in my head.

—Be patient and be strong. In your hands, I shall draw evil blood again.—

Angelika?

Her voice was gone. Brisbane felt unusually uneasy. Normally, a little discussion with Angelika would have supported him, given him a boost of confidence to continue facing the odds in such an unfriendly situation. But this time, her voice left him feeling just the opposite. He felt a little bit more alone in his strife, a little less confident, and a little less able to deal with the mess his life had become. It was a feeling he tried not to dwell on. He tried to reassure himself, forcing himself to be nurtured by Angelika’s words, and tried to forget he had never had to force himself before.

There was a noise at the entrance of the chamber, someone clearing their throat in order to draw attention to themselves. Brisbane opened his eyes to see Smurch standing there, dressed in his plain gray clothing. Brisbane quickly got to his feet and went over to his friend. Wister took no notice of them.

“Jack,” Brisbane said in a low voice. “It’s good to see you again.”

Brisbane extended his arm for a handshake but Smurch ignored it. Instead, the half-ork bowed respectfully.

“I am honored,” Smurch said to the floor, “that you have chosen me, Grum Brisbane. I pledge myself and my service to you until such time as you deem it unnecessary.” He slowly straightened back up.

Brisbane tried not to blush. He looked over at Wister and spoke in an even lower voice. “Is there somewhere we can go for some privacy?”

Smurch answered in monotone. “I can show you to your chamber, if that’s what you mean.”

Brisbane turned back to his servant and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Smurch did not move. “Grum Wister,” he said to the ork in the red and white robes. “Do you have any further need of Grum Brisbane?”

Wister did not turn around. He continued his work, mixing different liquids together to make strange potions. Brisbane heard the ork speak for the first time.

“No.”

“Then I shall take him to his chamber,” Smurch said.

The half-ork turned and left the room. Brisbane quickly followed him. They walked down many of the twisting tunnels and Brisbane made a mental note that sometime soon he was going to have to learn the layout of these caverns. He couldn’t very well have Smurch take him everywhere he wanted to go. Brisbane tried to memorize the way from the work chamber to his personal one, but there were so many twists and turns he would not have bet on his ability to find his way back.

Finally, they came to a small corridor branching off one of the main tunnels. It went back about twenty feet and ended in a portal with a dark curtain hanging in it. Next to the portal, in a wall bracket, was a burning torch and under the torch, carved into the wall, was a large cubbyhole, about big enough for a man to lie down in. The floor of the cubbyhole was blanketed with thick animal furs.

Smurch stopped and pulled aside the dark curtain. Brisbane could see a roughly square chamber about twenty feet across. In the center of the room was a low table, and on the table was what appeared to be an oil lantern. A crude bed sat against one wall, a well-worn mattress laying on a wooden rack to keep it off the floor and heaped with old blankets and furs. The room appeared to be otherwise empty.

“This is it,” Smurch said as he went in and set about to lighting the lantern.

Brisbane stepped in and let the curtain swing shut behind him. “A bit frugal, isn’t it, Jack?”

Smurch was getting a warm glow from the lantern. “Only the Grumak and the Sumak have finer accommodations, Grum Brisbane.”

“Jack,” Brisbane said. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.”

Smurch stood up and looked at Brisbane. “Are you not my master? Have you changed your mind? Are you going to choose another to be your servant?”

“No, dammit, I’m not going to choose another. I chose you because I wanted someone I could talk to.”

“I will obey your every command,” Smurch said.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Smurch made a face as if he was trying to think. “Grum Brisbane, I must treat you with due respect in the presence of others. If I do not, you will become a laughing-stock among the klatru. They will think you are unable to control your own servant.”

Brisbane nodded. “Okay, fine. But we’re alone now. I want you to drop this ‘Grum Brisbane’ horseshit. My name is Gil.”

“Is this an order?”

“If it has to be,” Brisbane said. “If that is the only way I can get you to treat me as an equal.”

Smurch’s eyes went wide. “Grum Brisbane, we can never be equals.”

Brisbane shook his head in frustration. “Then how about friends?”

Smurch did not say anything, but the look on his face was not promising. Brisbane’s stomach suddenly rumbled loud enough for Smurch to hear it.

“Dinner is less than an hour away,” the half-ork said. “If you do not wish to wait until then, I can send for some food to be brought here.”

Brisbane shook his head. In a strange way, he had almost become accustomed to his hunger.

Almost.

“I guess I can wait,” he said. “What else is there to do?”

Smurch looked shocked. “You may do whatever you wish. You are Grum Brisbane.”

Brisbane was really getting sick of that. “What would you suggest I do with my time?” he snapped.

Smurch sniffed the air. “Well,” the half-ork said slowly. “No disrespect intended, but it would not be proper for you to show up in the banquet chamber smelling the way you do. As a member of the klatru, it is now your privilege and duty to bathe regularly.”

Brisbane lifted his arm and took a whiff. “I am a little ripe,” he said after his eyes stopped watering. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had a bath.”

Smurch nodded. “Shall I take you to the bath chamber?”

“This place sure does seem to have a lot of chambers.”

Smurch said nothing to that.

“Yes,” Brisbane sighed. “Please do.”

Smurch extinguished the lantern and then led Brisbane out of his personal chamber. They turned down the main corridor and began to make their way to one of its ends. Small tunnels branched off the corridor at regular intervals, all of them ending in torchlight and a dark curtain. Brisbane could only assume these were more living quarters for other members of the klatru.

When they reached the end of the corridor, Smurch led Brisbane into another lit chamber. High up on one of the walls, a spout of clear water tumbled out a rough crack in the stone and fell to gather in a large pool that dominated the floor of the room. Next to the pool, freakish and out of place in the rough stone cavern, was a small wooden towel rack, like you would expect to find in someone’s home, stuffed with towels and cakes of soap on a small shelf.

Brisbane looked at all the water before him and had to decide whether he was going to drink it or bathe in it. Both, he decided liberally. I’ll drink from the spout and bathe in the pool.

Smurch was at his elbow. “Would you like me to bathe you, Grum Brisbane?”

“No,” Brisbane said, laughing inwardly at the idea. “There are still some things I prefer to do myself.”

“I understand,” Smurch said. “With your permission, I will go and procure some clean garments for you to wear.”

Brisbane nodded. “That will be fine, Jack. Thank you.”

Smurch stiffened. “I will be back shortly,” he said. “Enjoy your bath, Grum Brisbane.”

“Gil,” Brisbane corrected him, but the half-ork had already turned to leave the chamber.

Brisbane began to remove his clothing. He was still wearing his tanned leather pants and the blue tunic his mother had made for him, but they were filthy, caked with mud and waste. Wash them, he thought. I’ll wash them, too. Smurch was going to bring him new clothes, but he still did not want to get rid of his old ones. He could still remember his mother’s hands as she had stitched the tunic together and had put the gold needlework around the collar. Brisbane put the tunic and the trousers carefully by the side of the pool and removed the tattered remains of his underclothing.

When he was naked, he found some stone steps leading down into the pool and he slowly immersed himself in the water. It was warm and only about waist deep, but Brisbane dunked himself down all the way, and he stayed under for as long as he could hold his breath. He felt good under the water like that, better than he had in a long time. His body was buoyed in the water and it felt like he had left the confines of the earth and was floating in some thick soup that existed between the stars. His eyes were closed so he could see nothing and the only sound he heard was the muffled rumble of water falling into the pool.

When his breath ran out on him, Brisbane resurfaced. He moved over to the rack to get some soap and he began to wash himself. He soaped up and then moved over to the waterfall to rinse off. He turned his face up into the spray and let the water cascade down around him. He took a drink and, although the water was warm, it was clean and refreshing.

Brisbane surveyed his own body as he washed it. The effects of his injuries were diminishing—the swelling on his face had gone down considerably and his abdomen was only a little tender to the touch. This pleased him, the fact that he was healing, but there was something else that disturbed him. His eyes saw a body that was much thinner than the one he had known before. His muscles were noticeably, perhaps only to him, smaller and there seemed to be less fat padding them. He looked hardened, more angular, and different. It was as if he was slowly changing into something else and these were the first steps in the metamorphosis.

Brisbane tried not to think about it. He was a member of the klatru now and, along with bathing, he was sure to get all the food he could ask for. Smurch had said dinner was less than an hour away. Brisbane would then see to putting some meat back on his bones.

He continued his bath, washing out his hair and his clothes when he had removed the grime from his skin. He felt refreshed and invigorated when Smurch returned with his new clothes, red and white robes like the ones Wister had worn. Brisbane felt ready to eat an entire horse at dinner.

Smurch offered to towel dry Grum Brisbane.

Brisbane refused him.

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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.