CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK TWO:

THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

Although some may claim that it is impossible for one so young to make such a commitment, young Gildegarde Brisbane II chose to become a Knight of Farchrist the day Nog Shortwhiskers told him of his father’s death. While his formal education would not begin until he entered the King’s School at the age of six, his mother read to him from the scriptures and taught him many of their lessons before that required age. When young Brisbane did enter the School, his masters were amazed at his knowledge of the holy works of Grecolus and the lessons they dictated.

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The name of the tavern was The Lazy Dragon. It was early December and the snows had begun to fall. Shortwhiskers and Brisbane sat at a small table in one of the corners of the common room. Each had a large tankard of ale set before him. The tavern was quiet and not crowded.

Brisbane had been spending a lot of time at The Lazy Dragon lately. Roystnof was still tied up with Dantrius, and now with Roundtower gone, Shortwhiskers was the only true companion Brisbane had. The dwarf liked to spend his winter days and nights next to the warm fireplace of the nearest tavern, so Brisbane invariably found himself in the same places.

Brisbane had not liked the taste of ale the first time he had tried it. All the years he had helped Otis in The Quarter Pony he was not allowed to sample any of the drinks he had served. Not only had Otis thought Brisbane was too young for alcohol, the older man had considered it beneath the station of a Knight-to-be. Pure body and pure spirit.

But the events of the past months and Shortwhiskers’ insistence had changed Brisbane’s outlook. Otis and The Quarter Pony seemed leagues away and Shortwhiskers had taken it upon himself to declare Brisbane old enough.

His first taste was awful. It was a bitter liquid that always felt like it was fighting against Brisbane’s swallow. After he had taken his first sip, he was dismayed at the size of the vessel he would have to drain. He thought it would take him all winter. But each drink he took was a little easier to down than the one before it, and soon he could take a healthy swig without wrinkling his nose or squeezing his eyes shut.

Whereas Brisbane was still not crazy about the way the drink tasted, he was certainly becoming a fan of the way it made him feel. He could understand why so many people drank the stuff and why so many people had trouble controlling how much they drank. He had seen people sick on the drink plenty of times, back at The Quarter Pony and here at The Lazy Dragon. Brisbane never wanted that to happen to him so he made Shortwhiskers promise to cut him off whenever the dwarf felt he had had enough. So far the system had worked, but it was often called very close. Brisbane had fought a lot of skirmishes and so far he had won them all.

For the most part, Brisbane enjoyed these times he spent with Shortwhiskers. The dwarf was a good drinking companion and Brisbane liked him. He only wished he could spend more time with Roystnof.

The drink tended to loosen Shortwhiskers’ lips, which Brisbane enjoyed, and often they found themselves discussing things freely that Shortwhiskers would have normally been close-mouthed about.

It was a day like any other they had spent in the tavern. Sitting around the fireplace, watching the snow fall, sipping ale, and listening to stories of past adventures told by Shortwhiskers and other regular patrons of the tavern. It was late afternoon and the sky was darkening when the door to the tavern swung open and The Lazy Dragon received a trio of the most unusual customers.

The first man who entered the common room was unusual in no other way except for the uniform he wore. It was dark blue, neatly tailored to fit the man’s body perfectly. He wore riding boots and a long riding cloak. The uniform bore no rank insignia but the visored hat the man wore bore a shiny silver badge on it. Behind him entered the two other men, huge and bulky figures dressed in chainmail, helmets, and red capes. They wore the Farchrist Crest above their left breast.

The three quickly surveyed the room and went over to the bartender. Everyone, including Brisbane, knew what the three men were here for. Brisbane had seen three similar men come into The Quarter Pony every year around the same time. The man with the badge on his hat was the tax collector. The other two were guards to make sure everyone gave Dalanmire his due.

Brisbane and Shortwhiskers watched as the tax collector went through a large account book the bartender had produced for him. He ran a stiff finger down a column of numbers, and when he had found what he wanted, he brought out a book of his own and began making notes in it.

“Every year,” Shortwhiskers spat. “And all over the kingdom. Sometimes I feel like it’s my fault, Gil. Did you know that before the expedition to Dragon’s Peak, the dragon tax came due only once every three years, and the King only had to tax the citizens of Raveltown to meet it?”

Brisbane nodded. He knew. Shortwhiskers had told him many times.

“Now it’s every year and all over the kingdom. All because the King defied Dalanmire and sent the two Knights to confront him. I shouldn’t have gone along, Gil. I shouldn’t have guided them there.”

Brisbane shrugged. “Someone else would have,” he said simply, taking a drink of his ale.

One of the guards had produced a small cash box and the bartender was slowly counting coins and dropping them into it. The tax collector kept a close eye on the procedure.

Shortwhiskers put down his ale. “Would they have?”

Brisbane nodded. “Of course. The King was so much in favor of the mission nothing could have stopped him. You’ve said so yourself. If the dwarves had refused to help, the King would have found some other way if he had had to go there himself.”

“Yeah,” Shortwhiskers said, picking up his ale again. “I suppose you’re right. I still feel guilty about it, though.”

“Drink your ale,” Brisbane instructed.

One of the guards snapped the cash box shut and the tax collector spun on his heel to leave. The two guards followed him out the door and to the next place of business. Soon, Brisbane supposed, the trio would show up at the cabin they had rented and demand a percentage of whatever money was on hand. It didn’t worry Brisbane much, he was broke, living off the charity of his friends. He didn’t know how much gold Shortwhiskers and Roystnof had accumulated over their travels, but he assumed it was quite a bit. He also believed it was the kind of income that no one really kept track of and which would be hard to tax.

Shortwhiskers called for two more ales and the bartender, who had seemed defeated at the loss of his hard-earned money, hurried over with hopes of keeping this year in the black.

“Someday, Gil,” Shortwhiskers muttered. “Someday I’m going to go back to Dragon’s Peak and put an end to this tax nonsense.”

Brisbane chuckled. “Okay, Nog. Just don’t leave without me. We’ll skin that dragon alive.”

Brisbane was joking but he could tell by Shortwhiskers’ eyes that the dwarf was serious. “Yes,” he said resolutely. “We’ll make daggers out of his teeth and shields out of his scales.” The dwarf drank his ale.

“Nog?”

The voice was feminine and came from over Brisbane’s left shoulder. Shortwhiskers looked up and Brisbane turned in his chair to behold the form of Allison Stargazer. At first, Brisbane didn’t recognize her, but he soon placed her face in his memory and let a smile escape him. She was dressed much as she had been when Brisbane had first met her, in a simple blue dress with intricate lacing at the bodice. Her honey hair fell loose to her shoulders and her green eyes sparkled in the firelight.

“Hello, Allison,” Shortwhiskers said. “You startled me. Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you,” Stargazer said, taking a seat between the dwarf and Brisbane on the other side of the table.

“You remember my friend, Brisbane,” Shortwhiskers said.

“Yes,” Stargazer said. “How are you, young Gildegarde?”

“I’m fine,” Brisbane said. “Please, call me Gil.”

Brisbane was suddenly nervous, but he thought he had handled that first exchange well. Stargazer was the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

Stargazer smiled at Brisbane and then turned to the dwarf. “Nog, I heard you were back in town and figured you would be in one of the taverns. How many have you had today?”

Shortwhiskers shrugged, pulling his ale a little closer to himself. “Who counts?”

Stargazer turned to Brisbane and her gaze reminded him of the way she had referred to alcohol when she had been treating that old man. He suddenly felt ashamed about all the ale he had been drinking.

Stargazer looked at Brisbane but spoke to Shortwhiskers. “Look what your influence has done to your young friend here. Really, Nog, I wish you would be more aware of what is going on around you. Young Gil simply admires you.”

There was no malice in her voice and as soon as she had said it, Brisbane realized that it was true. It wasn’t something he could have decided or admitted to before, but after Stargazer had said it, Brisbane saw it had never been any other way. He did admire Shortwhiskers.

Shortwhiskers laughed. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, so I guess I won’t hold it against him.”

Stargazer turned back to the dwarf, smiling. “So anyway,” she said. “How was your little adventure? Profitable?”

Shortwhiskers shook his head. “Educational.”

Stargazer’s eyebrows flew up. “Now that’s a new one. How so?”

“Something you may be interested in,” the dwarf said. “Did you know that only one day south of here there is an ancient shrine of Grecolus?”

“Nog, don’t kid me.”

Shortwhiskers reached out and took her hand. “No kidding, Allison. One day south.”

Stargazer eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know it’s devoted to Grecolus?”

“Ignatius confirmed it for us,” Shortwhiskers said. “You know, Ignatius Roundtower. You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

The conversation was staying away from Brisbane but he didn’t mind. If he had to talk, he would be too nervous not to come off sounding like a dope in front of Stargazer. He was content to just sit there and look at her.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m surprised he’s not here with you.”

“He’s gone on to Farchrist Castle to try for the knighthood,” Shortwhiskers said.

“Wonderful!” Stargazer exclaimed. “I will pray for him.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate that,” Shortwhiskers said.

“And he said this shrine was devoted to Grecolus?” Stargazer asked, looking doubtful.

Shortwhiskers nodded. “Said there were ancient worship symbols or something on it. One he recognized had a circle with a bunch of wavy lines crossing it.”

“Safe passage,” Stargazer whispered.

“Yes, safe passage,” the dwarf said. “That’s what Ignatius said. “Didn’t he, Gil?”

Stargazer suddenly turned to Brisbane. Her eyes were anxious, glowing with an intensity all their own. The color was high in her cheeks and for the first time Brisbane noticed that her ears came to a slight point.

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “Peace and safe passage for all loyal to Grecolus.” His voice was cool and confident. “That’s what Ignatius said. We went right in.”

Stargazer smiled and turned back to Shortwhiskers. “I would very much like to visit this shrine, Nog. Do you plan on going back there?”

Shortwhiskers nodded. “In the spring. We will be going south to investigate rumors of a forgotten temple at the source of the Mystic. We can take you by the shrine on the way.”

“Is it a temple of Grecolus?” Stargazer asked.

“I don’t know,” Shortwhiskers said. “It could be. There’s really no way to tell until we go there.”

Stargazer nodded. “I think I will be coming with you in the spring, my friend. I have been settled here in Queensburg for perhaps too long. It’s about time for a sabbatical. If that’s okay with you.”

“Fine by me,” Shortwhiskers said. “It’ll be nice to have you along. Could have used your skills once or twice on the last excursion. What do you think, Gil?”

Stargazer again turned and looked at Brisbane.

Brisbane remembered how she had taken that old man’s pain away and the various injuries his friends had sustained on their trip. “Yes,” he said. “Her services would certainly have come in handy.”

“But, Allison,” Shortwhiskers said. “There’s more. We saw some things you may not like.”

Stargazer sobered. “Like what?”

“Like Illzeezad Dantrius.”

“Illzeezad Dantrius?” Stargazer said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“He was Gregorovich the Second’s chief advisor,” Shortwhiskers said. “You remember.” Shortwhiskers turned to Brisbane, gave him a very strange look and then turned back to Stargazer. “The one who argued against the expedition to Dragon’s Peak and then disappeared from the kingdom after the party left.”

“Yes,” Stargazer said oddly as she too gave Brisbane a strange look. “I remember you telling me about him. Where did you find him?”

“He was standing before the shrine as a statue of rock. He was the victim of what Roystnof called a basilisk. Do you know what that is?”

“I believe so,” Stargazer said. “It is a large lizard that can turn people to stone.”

Brisbane sat helplessly as he wondered what was going on. Both Shortwhiskers and Stargazer were talking guardedly in front of him and both of them had given him a strange look at the mention of Dantrius. They were sharing some kind of secret and Brisbane wanted to know what it was.

“That is how Roystnof described it,” Shortwhiskers said.

“Roystnof?” Stargazer said, searching her memory. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “The wizard you travel with.”

Brisbane did not like the way she said the word ‘wizard.’ She made the word sound like a curse. She said ‘wizard’ almost the way the demon from the shrine had said ‘paladin.’

“Wait a minute,” Brisbane said, trying to think of something of some consequence to say.

“Nog,” Stargazer said before Brisbane could collect his thoughts. “Perhaps we should discuss this another time.”

Shortwhiskers looked at Brisbane. “Yes, I think that might be best.”

“Fine,” Stargazer said. “Another time, then. I regret that now I must leave.” She rose from her seat.

Brisbane and Shortwhiskers awkwardly got to their feet.

“I have business across town,” Stargazer said. “But I’ll be sure to see you again before our departure.”

“You know where to find me,” Shortwhiskers said.

Stargazer gave the dwarf a slanted look. “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid that I do. Farewell, Nog.”

“Farewell,” Shortwhiskers said.

Stargazer took Brisbane’s hand in her own. “And farewell to you, Gil,” she said, trying his informal name for the first time. “I hope to see you before the spring as well. Take care.”

“Take care,” Brisbane repeated as Stargazer turned and left the tavern. Brisbane and Shortwhiskers sat back down.

“Nog?” Brisbane said.

“Yes, Gil?” Shortwhiskers said, picking up his ale again.

“Do you think that was really such a good idea?”

“What?”

Brisbane lowered his voice. “Inviting Stargazer to come along. Won’t it be dangerous?”

“Allison?” Shortwhiskers seemed shocked.

“Yes, Allison,” Brisbane said, raising his voice. “What the hells was that just all about?”

Shortwhiskers hid behind his drink. “What do you mean, Gil?”

“Okay,” Brisbane said as he quickly leaned back in his chair. “So don’t tell me what’s going on between you and Stargazer.”

“Gil, please,” Shortwhiskers said. “Don’t get all worked up. I’ll tell you but must promise never to repeat what I am about to say. Not,” the dwarf stressed, “even to Roystnof.”

Brisbane swallowed hard and leaned closer to the dwarf. “I promise.”

Shortwhiskers paused. “It’s something she doesn’t want to be widely known, but I don’t think she’ll mind if I tell you.”

“What is it?” Brisbane begged.

“The expedition to Dragon’s Peak. I told you your grandfather, the Prince, myself, and a High Priestess of Grecolus made the journey.”

Brisbane was confused. “Yes?”

“Allison Stargazer was that High Priestess.”

Brisbane sat back. “Stargazer? How can that be, Nog? That was forty-two years ago. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.”

“Keep your voice down,” Shortwhiskers admonished. “I know how long it’s been. Allison Stargazer is sixty-seven years old.”

Brisbane felt like he had been slapped. He felt like he had when Shortwhiskers had said that he was a hundred and sixty-three years old. But Stargazer was no dwarf.

“How can that be?” Brisbane asked.

“She’s not wholly human, Gil. It’s not that noticeable, but she has elven blood running in her veins. Her mother was an elf, her father a human.”

“Elven?” Brisbane said, looking back at the door as if Stargazer was still standing there. “How could she be a High Priestess of Grecolus if she was a half-elf?”

“Well,” Shortwhiskers said evasively, “she wasn’t a High Priestess for long.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Shortwhiskers sighed. “Whenever Knights go on long journeys away from the kingdom,” he explained, “a High Priest or Priestess is sent with them to tend to their spiritual needs. When news of the expedition to Dragon’s Peak reached the Temple in Raveltown, none of the clerics there were willing to go along. They thought no one would ever come back from such a mission. So they took little Allison Stargazer, then more of a girl than a woman, gave her the title of High Priestess, and sent her off with me and the Knights.”

“Did they know she was of elven stock?”

“They might have,” Shortwhiskers said. “It might have helped them decide to send her. But she took her new position seriously. She actually thought she had earned the promotion, even though she had previously been serving the Temple as a simple Acolyte. It wasn’t until after we got back that she realized they had sent her only because they were all too afraid to meet Dalanmire themselves. Too weak in their faith, Allison called it.”

“What did she do?” Brisbane asked.

Shortwhiskers drained his mug of ale before he answered. Brisbane watched him take the swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Brisbane didn’t think he could ever drink that much so quickly. It would certainly make him sick.

“She left,” Shortwhiskers said. “She said she was through with organized religion and went off to worship Grecolus in her own way. She’s been traveling ever since. She settled here in Queensburg just a couple of years ago.”

Brisbane thought about it. He had never known an elf before but had heard a lot about them. But they were a very reclusive people so Brisbane figured most of what he had heard was probably rumor. There were no full-blooded elves living in the kingdom, though. At least none that anyone knew about. They were slender, wilderness folk who were said to live impossibly long lives, some a thousand years or more. If Stargazer were indeed a half-elf, Brisbane supposed she could very well be sixty-seven years old and appear no more than thirty.

But if what Shortwhiskers had told him was true, and Brisbane had no reason to doubt it, that would mean that Stargazer was yet another person who had known his grandfather. He remembered a time when Stargazer had said she respected the name of Brisbane, and that memory now made Brisbane feel oddly proud. The more he traveled, it seemed, the more he learned about his family’s past. It was strange, in Scalt, Otis had always told him to revere his family name but he had never told Brisbane much of his family’s history or tradition.

“Bartender!” Shortwhiskers called out. “You want another?” he quietly asked Brisbane.

“No,” Brisbane said, still having half a mug of ale left.

“One more ale,” Shortwhiskers said when he could tell he had the bartender’s attention. The man brought the drink, placed it in front of Shortwhiskers, and left before the dwarf and Brisbane exchanged any more words.

“Nog?”

“Yes, Gil?”

“How do you think Stargazer will react to traveling with Roy?”

Shortwhiskers shook his head. “She won’t like it. But she’ll put up with it if I know her. She really wants to see that shrine.”

“She’ll think Roy is evil, won’t she?” Brisbane still found the idea ludicrous.

“He works magic,” Shortwhiskers said. “That will be all the proof she needs. If you want to stay on her good side, I wouldn’t let her see that medallion you wear.”

Brisbane pulled on the chain around his neck and drew out the silver pentacle that had been hidden behind his shirt. “Nog,” he said, “I don’t wear this because I worship Damaleous. I wear it because Roy gave it to me.”

“I know that and you know that,” Shortwhiskers said. “Allison doesn’t. If she sees it around your neck, she’ll draw her own conclusions.”

Brisbane examined the small piece of metal. “Does it really mean that much?”

“To her, yes. Trust me, Gil. Keep it inside your shirt.”

Brisbane pulled on his collar and dropped the medallion inside. Shortwhiskers returned his attention to his ale and Brisbane moved his chair a nudge closer to the fireplace.

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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.

Ironweed by William Kennedy

So, there was a time when I was blindly buying novels that had won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Ironweed is one of those, a book I knew nothing about but, there it was, on my reading list.

Turns out it is the third book in something called Kennedy’s Albany Cycle, evidently a series of books that take place in Albany, New York, with some recurring characters and themes.

I liked Ironweed a lot -- both for its theme and for its style. 

Here’s the theme.

When Francis opened the trunk lid the odor of lost time filled the attic air, a cloying reek of imprisoned flowers that unsettled the dust and fluttered the window shades. Francis felt drugged by the scent of the reconstituted past, and then stunned by his first look inside the trunk, for there, staring out from a photo, was his own face at age nineteen. The picture lay among rolled socks and a small American flag, a Washington Senators cap, a pile of newspaper clippings and other photos, all in a scatter on the trunk’s tray. Francis stared up at himself from the bleachers in Chadwick Park on a day in 1899, his face unlined, his teeth all there, his collar open, his hair unruly in the afternoon’s breeze. He lifted the picture for a closer look and saw himself among a group of men, tossing a baseball from bare right hand to gloved left hand. The flight of the ball had always made this photo mysterious to Francis, for the camera had caught the ball clutched in one hand and also in flight, arcing in a blur toward the glove. What the camera had caught was two instants in one: time separated and unified, the ball in two places at once, an eventuation as inexplicable as the Trinity itself. Francis now took the picture to be a Trinitarian talisman (a hand, a glove, a ball) for achieving the impossible: for he had always believed it was impossible for him, ravaged man, failed human, to reenter history under this roof. Yet here he was in this aerie of reconstitutable time, touching untouchable artifacts of a self that did not yet know it was ruined, just as the ball, in its inanimate ignorance, did not know yet that it was going nowhere, was caught.

Francis Phelan is an old man now, a bum, with broken teeth, living on the streets of Albany, but once, once in the past, he was young and healthy and a ball player with the world at his feet. Ironweed is a novel about this reconstituted past, seen only through the lens of the present day, the promises it once offered now less potent, but never really gone, not at least to anyone who had the sense to remember and hope.

And as for the style, that past and its unfulfilled promises are gloriously there on every page and in every scene.

Katrina unwrapped the parcel on the dining-room table, took Francis by the hand, and pulled him up from his chair. She unbuttoned the buttons of his blue workshirt.

“Take that old thing off,” she said, and held the gift aloft, a white-on-white silk shirt whose like was as rare to Francis as the fruits de mer and Chateau Pontet-Canet he had just consumed.

When his torso was naked, Katrina stunned him with a kiss, and with an exploration of the whole of his back with her fingertips. He held her as he would a crystal vase, fearful not only of her fragility but of his own. When he could again see her lips, her eyes, the sanctified valley of her mouth, when she stood inches from him, her hands gripping his naked back, he cautiously brought his own fingers around to her face and neck. Emulating her, he explored the exposed regions of her shoulders and her throat, letting the natural curve of her collar guide him to the top button of her blouse. And then slowly, as if the dance of their fingers had been choreographed, hers crawled across her own chest, brushing past his, which were carefully at work at their gentlest of chores, and she pushed the encumbering chemise strap down over the fall of her left shoulder and he trembled with pleasure, and sin, and with, even now, the still unthinkable possibilities that lay below and beneath the boundary line her fallen clothing demarcated.

There it is. Hope. The unthinkable possibilities.

“Do you like my scar?” she asked, and she lightly touched the oval white scar with a ragged pink periphery, just above the early slope of her left breast.

And there it is. Like the scar on Katrina’s breast. The reconstituted past.

“I don’t know,” Francis said. “I don’t know about likin’ scars.”

“You are the only man besides my husband and Dr. Fitzroy who has ever seen it. I can never again wear a low-necked dress. It is such an ugly thing that I do believe my poet would adore it. Does it offend you?”

“It’s there. Part of you. That’s okay by me. Anything you do, or got, it’s okay by me.”

“My adorable Francis.”

“How’d you ever get a thing like that?”

“A burning stick flew through the air and pierced me cruelly during a fire. The Delavan Hotel fire.”

“Yeah. I heard you were in that. You’re lucky you didn’t get it in the neck.”

“Oh, I’m a very lucky woman indeed,” Katrina said, and she leaned into him and held him again. And again they kissed.

He commanded his hands to move toward her breasts but they would not. They would only hold tight to their grip on her bare arms. Only when she moved her own fingers forward from the blades of his back toward the hollows of his arms did his own fingers dare move toward the hollows of hers. And only when she again inched back from him, letting her fingers tweeze and caress the precocious hair on his chest, did he permit his own fingers to savor the curving flow, the fleshy whiteness, the blooded fullness of her beautiful breasts, culminating his touch at their roseate tips, which were now being so cleverly cataleptic for him.

When Katrina put the new shirt on and threw the old one into the back of Rosskam’s wagon, he saw Katrina standing on her front steps, across the street, beckoning to him. She led him into a bedroom he had never seen and where a wall of flame engulfed her without destroying even the hem of her dress, the same dress she wore when she came to watch him play baseball on that summer day in 1897. He stood across the marriage bed from her, across a bridge of years of love and epochs of dream.

Do you see how the past just intruded onto the present -- almost seamlessly that you may not have noticed? That’s the style that Kennedy executes so well and so often -- merging past and present into one tale of both hope and unrequited sorrow.

Never a woman like Katrina: who had forced him to model that shirt for her, then take it home so that someday she would see him walking along the street wearing it and relive this day; forced him first to find a hiding place for it outside his house while he schemed an excuse as to why a seventeen-year-old boy of the working classes should come to own a shirt that only sublime poets, or stage actors, or unthinkably wealthy lumber barons could afford. He invented the ruse of a bet: that he had played poker at a downtown sporting club with a man who ran out of dollars and put up his new shirt as collateral; and Francis had inspected the shirt, liked it, accepted the bet, and then won the hand with a full house.

His mother did not seem to believe the story. But neither did she connect the gift to Katrina. Yet she found ways to slander Katrina in Francis’s presence, knowing that he had formed an allegiance, if not an affection, for not only a woman, but the woman who owned the inimical tree.

She is impudent, arrogant. (Wrong, said Francis.)

Slovenly, a poor housekeeper. (Go over and look, said Francis.)

Shows off by sitting in the window with a book. (Francis, knowing no way to defend a book, fumed silently and left the room.)

In the leaping windows of flame that engulfed Katrina and her bed, Francis saw naked bodies couple in love, writhing in lascivious embrace, kissing in sweet agony. He saw himself and Katrina in a ravenous hunger that never was, and then in a blissful stroking that might have been, and then in a sublime fusion of desire that would always be.

Did they love? No, they never loved. They always loved. They knew a love that Katrina’s poet would abuse and befoul. And they befouled their imaginations with a mutation of love that Ketrina’s poet would celebrate and consecrate. Love is always insufficient, always a lie. Love, you are the clean shirt of my soul. Stupid love, silly love.

Francis embraced Katrina and shot into her the impeccable blood of his first love, and she yielded up not a being but a word: clemency. And the word swelled like the mercy of his swollen member as it rose to offer her the enduring, erubescent gift of retributive sin. And then this woman interposed herself in his life, hiding herself in the deepest center of the flames, smiling at him with all the lewd beauty of her dreams; and she awakened in him the urge for a love of his own, a love that belonged to no other man, a love he would never have to share with any man, or boy, like himself.

“Giddap,” Rosskam called out.

And the wagon rolled down the hill as the sun moved toward its apex, and the horse turned north off Colonie Street.

The past is so present in this novel -- the way it is, I suppose, in our minds. The past and the present existing in the same overlapping moments of sensation and sanctuary.

The applause was full and long and gave Helen strength to begin “My Man,” Fanny Brice’s wonderful torch, and Helen Morgan’s too. Two Helens. Oh Helen, you were on the radio, but where did it take you? What fate was it that kept you from the great heights that were yours by right of talent and education? You were born to be a star, so many said it. But it was others who went on to the heights and you were left behind to grow bitter. How you learned to envy those who rose when you did not, those who never deserved it, had no talent, no training. There was Carla, from high school, who could not even carry a tune but who made a movie with Eddie Cantor, and there was Edna, ever so briefly from Woolworth’s, who sang in a Broadway show by Cole Porter because she learned how to wiggle her fanny. But ah, sweetness was Helen’s, for Carla went off a cliff in an automobile, and Edna sliced her wrists and bled her life away in her lover’s bathtub, and Helen laughed last. Helen is singing on a stage this very minute and just listen to the voice she’s left with after all her troubles. Look at those well-dressed people out there hanging on her every note.

Helen closed her eyes and felt tears forcing their way out and could not say whether she was blissfully happy or fatally sad. At some point it all came together and didn’t make much difference anyway, for sad or happy, happy or sad, life didn’t change for Helen. Oh, her man, how much she loves you. You can’t imagine. Poor girl, all despair now. If she went away she’d come back on her knees. Some day. She’s yours. Forevermore.

The entire novel is like this -- every character clouded in their own reveries, lost and stumbling between the blissfully happy and the fatally sad.

It is glorious.

+ + +

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

The Pilot by James Fenimore Cooper

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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One of Cooper’s early and lesser known books, written in 1823, the same year as the first Leatherstocking Tale.

Most interesting thing is the character of Long Tom Coffin, a sailor who is in many ways the same character as Natty Bumpoo.

Well, not so much the same character as the same kind of character.

Long Tom is a sailor through and through the same way Natty is a frontiersman. His speech and thoughts are composed in nautical themes and metaphors, the same way Natty’s are based on a life on the woodland frontier. 

Second most interesting thing is the pilot (who is supposed to be John Paul Jones, but is never named as such) and his tentative ability to lead the other characters in the novel through the shoals of good and morality as well as those of the sea.

It’s not fully developed here as it is with Natty, especially in The Pathfinder, but it is there, and I think you can see Cooper beginning to tinker with the idea.

If I had nothing but time, I would go back and re-read The Leatherstocking Tales and see just how much Natty is a combination of Long Tom Coffin and the pilot.

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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 TWELVE

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK TWO:

THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

After the dwarven ambassador had told the King of the fates of his son and Sir Gildegarde Brisbane, it was his sad duty to report the same news to Madeline Brisbane, the wife of the famous Knight. When the story had been told, and Madeline had hidden her teary face in her hands, young Gildegarde Brisbane II, then only three years old, entered the room and began to cry at the sight of his mother’s frightening sorrow. The child screamed, wanting to know what had happened to his father. It was Nog Shortwhiskers who took the young boy aside and told him his father had gone to see his maker, and that his father would never be coming back.

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They spent the winter in Queensburg. It was a decision easily made with autumn coming on fast. The more experienced members of the party did not want to get stuck by the winter snows when they followed the Mystic River into the Crimson Mountains in search of the forgotten temple of which Shortwhiskers had heard rumors. They rented a cottage just outside of town for the season with some money Shortwhiskers had put away in the Royal Bank of Queensburg, moved in, and waited for the snows to come.

It turned out to be a very important winter for Brisbane. At first he wasn’t sure how he should feel about it, spending so many months living with this small group of people. It wasn’t that he was concerned about getting along with Roystnof or Shortwhiskers or even Roundtower, who had elected to stay with them for a short while before moving on to Farchrist Castle. What worried Brisbane the most was having to spend that time with Illzeezad Dantrius.

Roystnof had asked the mage to stay and Dantrius had readily agreed. They had worked out some sort of partnership and over the winter they planned to spend much of their time together, combining their magical knowledge together and seeing what they could teach each other. Roystnof had asked Brisbane if he wanted to sit in on these little sessions and, at first, Brisbane had agreed, more so he could spend time with Roystnof than to pick up any magical information.

“Roystnof tells me you were once his apprentice of sorts,” Dantrius said to Brisbane at the first such meeting.

“Well,” Brisbane said defensively. “We were a little closer than that.”

“Oh sure, sure,” Dantrius said. “I just meant that he has already taught you some magic.”

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “That’s true.”

Dantrius seemed to grow before Brisbane’s eyes. “Like what? I mean, how far has your training progressed?”

Brisbane felt like he was being interrogated. “I don’t know. Not far. I really only know one spell.”

Dantrius grinned. “Well, maybe I can teach you something more impressive. Would you like that?” Dantrius laughed.

Brisbane did not attend any more of the meetings. Dantrius was spooky and Brisbane did not trust him a single bit. His face was scarred from the erosion that had taken place when he had been a stone statue in the basilisk’s garden, and the sight of him made Brisbane sick to his stomach. Roystnof had said before he had transformed Dantrius back to flesh that the years the mage had spent in solitude could well have driven him insane. Brisbane became more and more sure of that fact as the days of that winter in Queensburg wore on. Dantrius was insane. He was not a raving psychotic lunatic, but rather he had gone quietly insane and it was only a matter of time before he hurt someone. Brisbane’s feeling was that the weasel Shortwhiskers spoke of was in hiding, patiently waiting for his moment to strike.

In one of the few times Brisbane could get Roystnof alone that season, he told his wizard friend all about his fears and the things Shortwhiskers had told him about Dantrius and the expedition to Dragon’s Peak.

“I did not know any of this,” Roystnof said, referring to Shortwhiskers’ story. “But I can only take Nog’s word for it.”

“He betrayed his King,” Brisbane said. “He was a spy working for Dalanmire.”

“That is what Nog believes,” Roystnof said. “I don’t know about you, but I have known our dwarven friend to be wrong before.”

“Are you calling Nog a liar?”

“No,” Roystnof said. “Of course not. All I’m saying is that Nog has no proof Dantrius was in league with Dalanmire. You said he said that himself. It was only a feeling he had. A feeling he felt was too strong to be incorrect. All I am saying is that Nog could be mistaken.”

Brisbane conceded. “Okay, maybe Nog is wrong about that incident. I still think Dantrius is dangerous. You saw how he reacted when you transformed him. Or maybe I should say how he didn’t react. He stepped out of his decades-long coma like he was stepping out of the rain, and Roundtower…the way that Roundtower—” Brisbane’s voice was rising.

“Gil,” Roystnof said. “Calm down. Why are you getting so upset?”

Brisbane held his breath. “Roy,” he said in a measured tone. “Can you explain to me why Dantrius didn’t emerge from his coma like a screaming lunatic as Ignatius did?”

“No,” Roystnof said. “I cannot. All I can say is that the experience of being turned to stone affects different people in different ways. Ignatius was ignorant of what had happened to him. He suddenly found himself alone in a world of void. He existed in the conscious state for two weeks but he could perceive nothing around him. He may have even thought that he had died.”

Brisbane looked at the ground.

“Illzeezad,” Roystnof went on, “on the other hand, is a wizard like myself and knew about things like basilisks and petrification spells. You saw him use gaze reflection. He must have known what had happened and that knowledge left him better prepared to deal with the situation. He may have been able to actually sleep those years away. It all depends on how relaxed he was.”

Brisbane didn’t buy it. “Roy, when Dantrius came out of it, didn’t you feel for just an instant that he had known when he was going to be revived?”

“Gil, I—”

Brisbane did not let Roystnof continue. “Did you or did you not feet that?”

Roystnof paused. “For a moment, yes, I did. But it would be impossible.”

“Roy, according to Nog, it has been forty-two years since anyone saw Dantrius alive. Now, there’s no way to tell how many of those years he spent in that garden, but from the way his statue had eroded, he had obviously been there for quite some time.”

“Yes,” Roystnof agreed.

“Forty-two years, Roy. Forty-two years. I don’t care how mentally prepared you are, no one can spend forty-two years in that kind of solitude and not be affected by it.”

“I never said Illzeezad wasn’t affected by his experience.”

“Don’t call him that!” Brisbane exploded. “You say his name like you guys are brothers or something. You don’t know anything about him!”

Roystnof stepped back. Brisbane was immediately sorry he had shouted. He had not wanted to do that.

“Gil,” Roystnof said gently. “What is this really all about?”

Brisbane looked into his friend’s eyes and let the truth spill out of him. “I don’t like him, Roy, and I don’t like the way you two have been inseparable since you transformed him. I don’t trust him and he scares me. There’s something wrong with him and the things Nog has told me about him do not help to calm my nerves. He’s a man from another time and he doesn’t belong here. Why are you becoming so chummy with him?”

Roystnof sat down. “Gil, this is going to be hard for me to explain. I do not doubt anything you have told me about Dantrius, for indeed, I have felt many of these things myself. And I also have my own fears about him. Do not forget how much time we have spent together. I am not blind during our meetings. I see what kind of man Illzeezad Dantrius is.”

“What do you mean?” Brisbane asked.

“He is planning something. I do not know what it is but everything he does is done to forward this plan. I am somehow part of it. He is taking the new type of magic I am teaching him and crafting it to his own purpose. He is, in effect, using me.”

Brisbane was baffled by the admission. “Then why on earth do you let him do it?”

“Because I am using him, too. I am learning so much from him. His magic is unlike anything I have seen before. It deals almost entirely with illusion, whereas my magic, the kind I taught you, actually alters things in the material world. Dantrius’ magic only appears to change things.”

Brisbane was puzzled. “But isn’t that weaker than your magic?”

Roystnof shook his head. “Weaker? No, Gil, it is not weaker than our magic. It is more subtle, but it is not weaker.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Roystnof smiled. “I don’t understand it fully myself, yet. But I don’t want you to worry about things. I have the situation well in hand. I am aware of the potential danger Dantrius represents and I am on the lookout for it. Believe it or not, I am a very careful person by nature.”

Brisbane smiled, too. “Okay, Roy. I just wanted you to know how I felt.”

“Message received. I expect sometime this winter Illzeezad and I will run out of things to teach each other and we will go our separate ways.”

Brisbane had hoped so. He was glad that Roystnof hadn’t accused him of being jealous of Dantrius, although it was probably true and Roystnof probably sensed it. But just because it was childish to be jealous of Dantrius for occupying Roystnof’s attention, that did not keep Brisbane from feeling that way.

As a result of this discussion, and similar incidents throughout the season, Brisbane found himself spending less and less time with Roystnof and more and more time with Shortwhiskers and Roundtower. It wasn’t long before Roundtower took it upon himself to teach Brisbane the proper use of weapons. It had been a crash course, for Roundtower had wanted to leave for Farchrist Castle before the first snows came. But this was just as well, for Brisbane proved to be a fast learner.

Brisbane quickly picked up all the lessons Roundtower gave him and it wasn’t long before the two were seen parrying expertly with each other in the yard behind their cabin, the steel of their swords clanking loudly against each other. Brisbane did not use Angelika in these lessons, Roundtower had insisted upon that. A true Knight had to learn to fight without the aid of enchantment. Roundtower did not want Brisbane to be unprepared when Angelika decided to leave him and, besides, he would be able to use Angelika even better if his skill with a normal sword increased.

But it wasn’t just the sword that Brisbane set out to master. Roundtower showed him the proper use of a myriad of other weapons as well. The battle axe, the spear, the pole-arm, the dagger, even the mace. Brisbane quickly caught on to the strategies needed to effectively wield all of them. He even received training in the use of the bow and arrow, and eventually could hit a bullseye at fifty paces.

But of all the weapons Brisbane practiced with, it was the sword with which he showed the most promise. His skill with the blade was easily twice as great as his skill with any other weapon, and it was by far his favorite. It was the weapon of the Knight, combining infinite degrees of finesse with the brute force needed to overcome opponents. Late at night, after, a day of practicing with Roundtower, Brisbane would reach under his bed and pull out the wool blanket in which he had wrapped Angelika. He would uncover her with reverence, marveling at her naked pale green blade as he ran through his training exercises with her, spinning and flashing her against and around invisible opponents.

It wasn’t long before Angelika began to talk to him during these midnight disciplines, her deep and seductive voice breathing in his mind like a lover. She sang praises to him, telling him of all the evil they would destroy together, of all the good they would do for Grecolus.

And Brisbane found himself buying into it, letting Angelika sing his praises, and relishing in the music. He wanted to set out and adventure with her, to see what kind of legend he could fashion for himself. He began to anticipate the spring, when they would set out on their trek up the Mystic to find the forgotten temple.

Roundtower left for Farchrist Castle on the morning of the first frost. He had purchased a horse from the Queensburg stables for the journey and he stood beside it as all the companions gathered to wish him well. He was dressed in his chainmail and heavy furs to ward off the chills, his plumed helmet perched atop his head and his decorated shield strapped tightly to the saddle.

They stood in a line to see the warrior off, and Roundtower walked by each of them, stopping to say a few heartfelt words.

Dantrius was first, more to get him out of the way than anything else, Brisbane thought. Even though Roundtower had been one of the main forces that had led to the transformation of Dantrius, since that time, the mage and the warrior had not gotten along at all.

There were just fundamental philosophic differences between the two men that could not be bridged. Roundtower, as a rule, was against wizards in the first place, and whereas with Roystnof there had been a friendship bonded through years of association, no such situation existed for Dantrius. Roundtower considered the mage a devoted servant of evil, and if they had met under different circumstances, Roundtower might have tried to kill him.

Equally, Dantrius held Roundtower’s entire chosen way of life in contempt, the mindless devotion to an unseen god, the self-sacrificing attitude; it was all foreign and somehow obscene to Dantrius. There were no tears shed when these two stiffly said goodbye and good riddance to each other.

Next, Roundtower moved on to Roystnof. He extended a hand and Roystnof shook it firmly.

“Well,” Roundtower said. “This is goodbye.”

“For a time, Ignatius,” Roystnof said. “For a time. I believe our paths will cross again.”

Roundtower smiled. “I hope they do.”

“Good luck with your dream,” Roystnof said. “You will make a fine Knight.”

“Thank you, Roystnof,” Roundtower said. “Thanks, for everything.”

Roystnof nodded and Roundtower moved down the line to Shortwhiskers.

“Next May I expect to see your name tacked on the wall of whatever tavern I happen to be in,” Shortwhiskers said. “I expect to see your name on the list of men chosen as Squires to the Knights of Farchrist.”

Roundtower laughed as he pumped the dwarf’s hand up and down. “I hope that tavern is somewhere in the kingdom, Nog. You watch out for these guys while I’m gone, you hear?”

“No problem,” Shortwhiskers said. “Don’t you worry about anything, except getting the name ‘Sir Ignatius Roundtower’ on a second list three years after the first one.”

Roundtower laughed again, patted the dwarf soundly on the back, and moved down to stand in front of Brisbane.

“Well, Gil,” he said. “We only met a short time ago but I think I may miss you the most of all.”

Brisbane felt choked up. “I will miss you too, Ignatius.”

Roundtower embraced him. Brisbane could feel the warrior’s cold chainmail against his body and it gave him a chill.

“May Grecolus always be with you,” Roundtower whispered into Brisbane’s ear. “And take care of Angelika. Keep her close to your heart and you won’t go wrong.”

Roundtower broke the embrace and took a step back. Brisbane was at a loss for words. The two men locked eyes for a moment longer and then Roundtower turned to the group and addressed them as such.

“Well, this is my farewell, then,” he said as he climbed aboard his horse and settled into the saddle. The beast snorted out puffs of fog in the crisp morning air. “Wish me luck,” Roundtower shouted as he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and moved off.

Brisbane waved with the others, watching Roundtower ride off into the distance, away from their cabin and away from Queensburg. “Good luck, Ignatius,” he mumbled to himself as he wondered if he would ever see the warrior again. Brisbane watched until Roundtower’s form passed behind a hill and out of sight. When he turned back, Shortwhiskers was still standing by his side. Roystnof and Dantrius had already gone back into the cabin.

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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.

It Can’t Happen Here by Sinclair Lewis

I have to admit, I was disappointed with this one. The illumination that usually accompanies Lewis’s novels is frustratingly absent from this one. Things here just kind of happen. And their implausibility make for a frustrating read.

The Introduction by Michael Meyer summarizes the problem well.

Unfortunately, his writing displays the haste in which he wrote -- and so do the book’s reviews. R. P. Blackmur laments that “there is hardly a literary question that it does not fail to raise and there is hardly a rule for the good conduct of novels that it does not break” (Nation, October 1935). Despite the many reviewers who complained about the novel’s loose melodramatic plot, flat and even corny characters, weak cliched dialogue, padded political discourse, awkward sentimentality, and heavy-handed satire and irony, many also judged the book to be a timely caveat and applauded its propagandistic value against fascism.

I found the work to be all of these things. Fatally unserious, to my way of thinking, until, suddenly, it becomes deadly serious. As my old creative writing teacher used to say, none of that is earned.

Famously written during the time of rising fascism in the 1930s, it is about full-throated fascism taking over America during that same time period. In this fictionalized counter-history, there are many early signs of American fascism -- as there actually were in the 1930s and 1940s -- the patriots of the America First movement, with their charismatic leader and their purity tests and a collection of semi-organized brownshirt militias ready to enforce them extralegally. But when their leader, U.S. Senator Berzelius "Buzz" Windrip, wins the presidential election, the remaining dominos fall in rapid succession.

Solemnly, for once looking a little awed, a little like a small-town boy on Broadway, Windrip took the oath, administered by the Chief Justice (who disliked him very much indeed) and, edging even closer to the microphone, squawked, “My fellow citizens, as President of the United States of America, I want to inform you that the real New Deal has started right this minute, and we’re all going to enjoy the manifold liberties to which our history entitles us -- and have a whale of a good time doing it! I thank you!”

That was his first act as President. His second was to take up residence in the White House, where he sat down in the East Room in his stocking feet and shouted at Lee Sarason, “This is what I’ve been planning to do now for six years! I bet this is what Lincoln used to do! Now let ‘em assassinate me!”

Aw shucks, Mr. Lewis, you shore seem to be lambasting those self-important small town folks like you do in all yore other novels, ain’t you? 

Except, this ain’t one of his other novels.

His third, in his role as Commander-in-Chief of the Army, was to order that the Minute Men be recognized as an unpaid but official auxiliary of the Regular Army, subject only to their own officers, to Buzz, and to High Marshall Sarason; and that rifles, bayonets, automatic pistols, and machine guns be instantly issued to them by government arsenals. That was at 4 P.M. Since 3 P.M., all over the country, bands of M.M.’s had been sitting gloating over pistols and guns, twitching with desire to seize them.

Fourth coup was a special message, next morning, to Congress (in session since January fourth, the third having been a Sunday), demanding the instant passage of a bill embodying Point Fifteen of his election platform -- that he should have complete control of legislation and execution, and the Supreme Court be rendered incapable of blocking anything that it might amuse him to do.

By Joint Resolution, with less than half an hour of debate, both houses of Congress rejected that demand before 3 P.M., on January twenty-first. Before six, the President had proclaimed that a state of martial law existed during the “present crisis,” and more than a hundred Congressmen had been arrested by Minute Men, on direct orders from the President. The Congressmen who were hot-headed enough to resist were cynically charged with “inciting to riot”; they who went quietly were not charged at all. It was blandly explained to the agitated press by Lee Sarason that these latter quiet lads had been so threatened by “irresponsible and seditious elements” that they were merely being safeguarded.

And things get violent from there, with riots, and concentration camps, and political murder. It all happens in too rapid succession. Maybe it felt like these things were possible in 1935, but none of it feels remotely possible, even speaking now, in another time of rising fascism.

Case in point:

None of the changes was so publicized as the Presidential mandate abruptly ending the separate existence of the different states, and dividing the whole country into eight “provinces” -- thus, asserted Windrip, economizing by reducing the number of governors and all other state officers and, asserted Windrip’s enemies, better enabling him to concentrate his private army and hold the country.

What? Really? The president abolished the states? By fiat? Yeah. Good luck with that.

The tale is told through the eyes of one Doremus Jessup, a newspaper editor who sees Windrip's fascist policies for what they are ahead of time and who becomes Windrip’s most ardent critics, despite the acquiescence of members of his own family. It is in this argument with his son, Lewis manages to place in Jessup’s mouth perhaps the best line in the entire novel.

“The only thing you ought to think of Windrip is that his gangsters murdered your fine brother-in-law! And plenty of other men just as good. Do you condone such murders?”

“No! Certainly not! How can you suggest such a thing, Dad! No one abhors violence more than I do. Still, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs---”

“Hell and damnation!”

“Why, Pater!”

“Don’t call me ‘Pater’! If I ever hear that ‘can’t make an omelet’ phrase again, I’ll start doing a little murder myself! It’s used to justify every atrocity under every despotism. Fascist or Nazi or Communist or American labor war. Omelet! Eggs! By God, sir, men’s souls and blood are not eggshells for tyrants to break!”

Men’s souls and blood are not eggshells for tyrants to break. I just wish such a line was in a novel that took itself seriously. It would have likely had much more resonance there. As would this other wonderful lesson:

“More and more, as I think about history,” he pondered, “I am convinced that everything that is worth while in the world has been accomplished by the free, inquiring, critical spirit, and that the preservation of this spirit is more important than any social system whatsoever. But the men of ritual and the men of barbarism are capable of shutting up the men of science and of silencing them forever.”

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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.

Secrecy by Daniel Patrick Moynihan

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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An interesting little read that explains the culture of secrecy that has permeated the U.S. government since World War I and blames it for a lot that has gone wrong with our foreign policy over the years. 

The most damning accusation is the misguided path administration after administration took trying to beat the Soviets during the Cold War that ballooned deficits and obscenely increased the number of nuclear weapons that must now be disarmed or otherwise dealt with, all based on faulty information provided by “experts” about how the Soviet economy was growing by leaps and bounds over the American and about the need for America to speed up to eliminate the predicted “missile gap.”

The information was dead wrong, 180 degrees wrong, but nobody dared question it and nobody could double check it because all the sources were classified.

Moynihan argues that a society in which nearly everything is open is much better able to deal with reality because it provides itself with discussion and debate on the real issues, not the worried imaginings of what the government is keeping secret.

As Moynihan says, a government that hoards secrets breeds a society that hoards conspiracies, and that, at least, seems like a pretty accurate description of the times we live in.

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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 ELEVEN

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK ONE:

STONE TO FLESH

Only the dwarven ambassador and the high priestess of Grecolus returned to King Gregorovich Farchrist II from Dragon’s Peak. Upon their arrival at Farchrist Castle, they were quickly given a private audience with the King, where it was their sad duty to report that both the heir to the Farchrist throne and the Captain of the Farchrist Knights had been killed in battle with the evil dragon Dalanmire. The King wept openly at the delivery of this news and was unable to compose himself for many minutes. When he finally had himself under some measure of control, the dwarven ambassador informed him that because of his insolent disobedience, Dalanmire had demanded that the dragon tax be tripled.

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They started back for Queensburg at dawn. They had spent a quiet night at the campsite outside the wall of the oasis and all had awakened refreshed and ready to travel.

They started their march north in a group, but as the day wore on, they found themselves separating into three distinct communities, each far enough away from the others so no conversation could be overheard from group to group. Roystnof and Dantrius walked ahead of them all, followed by the solitary Roundtower, and finally the pairing of Brisbane and Shortwhiskers.

The two wizards seemed embroiled in a debate of their own. Earlier, when they had been close enough for Brisbane to hear what they were saying, they had been talking about magic. Brisbane was sure that was normal—people of similar professions often had much to talk about that others could not understand—but Brisbane did not like the way Dantrius had occupied Roystnof’s entire attention since his transformation. Part of it was childish jealousy, Brisbane knew. He had always been Roystnof’s confidant and he did not want to see another take that position, especially someone he disliked so. But there was also more to it than that.

Brisbane had thought a lot about what Shortwhiskers had said about the chickens, the farmer, and the weasel, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt that perhaps Dantrius was just a bigger weasel as Shortwhiskers had tried to imply. He seemed to have sneaked his way into their little group without anyone really asking him to. He was physically frail, but he seemed to treat everyone like an inferior, or worse, like bumbling children. Brisbane did not want to wonder what might happen to their party if Dantrius continued to travel with them. He hoped they would turn him loose on the streets of Queensburg and never see him again.

Roundtower walked alone in some kind of trance and, as Brisbane turned his gaze upon the warrior, he supposed Roundtower was thinking about the path his life was taking. As far as Brisbane knew, Roundtower still planned to leave for Farchrist Castle and to try to become a Knight. As Roundtower had said before, there was no longer anything to hold him back. The experience with the basilisk had convinced him he was on the wrong path, and his magical blade, which no self-respecting or Grecolus-fearing Knight would carry, had been safely transferred to Brisbane. It had always been Roundtower’s dream to become a Knight of Farchrist, and now Brisbane presumed he would allow himself the freedom to follow it.

Brisbane would miss him. In the short time he had known Ignatius Roundtower, Brisbane had grown to like him. He felt strangely attached to the older man and realized that, in effect, he would be taking Roundtower’s place in the party. He hoped Roundtower approved of such a replacement.

At last, Brisbane turned to Shortwhiskers. The dwarf had been quiet all morning, but Brisbane felt he had just been waiting for the right moment to start talking. Now, Shortwhiskers looked around at the others, all far enough away not to hear whatever it was the dwarf might say.

“Where was I?” Shortwhiskers asked.

Brisbane knew what he meant. “The king wanted the dwarves to guide an armed party through the Crimson Mountains…”

“…and across the Desert of Despair to Dragon’s Peak,” Shortwhiskers continued, “where this party would destroy the dragon Dalanmire. It was a fool’s mission from the beginning, but nothing could dissuade the King from his plan. It was a goal he had set his sights on from the time he had been a child. It was probably the main reason the Order of Farchrist Knights was founded in the first place. Everyone argued against it. I argued against it and, at first, even your grandfather argued against it. But out of everyone, the man who argued against it the most was the King’s chief advisor, a man named Illzeezad Dantrius.”

Brisbane looked up at Dantrius at the mention of his name. He was still deep in conversation with Roystnof. Brisbane had trouble believing that this could be the same man of whom Shortwhiskers spoke. That man had been alive in the time of Brisbane’s grandfather. If the man talking to Roystnof really was the same man, he would have had to have spent an impossible number of years as a statue in that forgotten garden. Brisbane thought again of how Dantrius’ reawakening had compared to Roundtower’s and he found himself hating the man all over again.

“It was a good argument that Dantrius made,” Shortwhiskers went on. “But it seemed to me like he was making it for all the wrong reasons. There has always been something odd about Illzeezad Dantrius, something that has always made me distrust him and wonder about the secrets he must be hiding. It was something I could never put my finger on, but it has always been there. He argued not to send Gregorovich the Third and your grandfather to Dragon’s Peak, true, but unlike all the rest of us who argued against it, I don’t think Dantrius cared one bit about the incredible danger the mission would force upon the Knights and the entire kingdom. It seemed to me that Dantrius was more concerned about the small danger the mission would have placed upon Dalanmire.”

Brisbane looked at Shortwhiskers with a confused stare. He too had noticed something odd about Dantrius, something unexplainable that tainted everything he did with suspicion, but Brisbane still was not sure what the dwarf meant by his last remark.

“It was a thought I could not have articulated at the time,” Shortwhiskers said. “Before we left I only knew that I didn’t trust anything that Dantrius said or did. It wasn’t until we got to Dragon’s Peak and I saw Dalanmire that I began to put things together.”

For perhaps the first time it hit Brisbane was his friend, Nog Shortwhiskers, had actually been inside Dalanmire’s cave—and that he had lived to tell the tale. In fact, he and a past high priestess of the Royal Temple of Grecolus (whoever that had been) were the only two people in the history of the world who had ever done that. Sir Gregorovich Farchrist III and Brisbane’s own grandfather—the greatest Knights of their and perhaps of all time—had gone there and had been killed by the dragon. But little Nog Shortwhiskers and some mysterious woman had been allowed to survive.

“What is he like?” Brisbane asked.

“Who?” Shortwhiskers said.

“Dalanmire.”

“Like nothing you could ever imagine, Gil. Cold. Calculating. Completely evil. His body is the size of a castle and his wings could shade an entire village. His scales are so blue they are almost black and his voice—his voice would drive the righteous insane.”

“He talks?” Brisbane was surprised.

“Oh yes,” Shortwhiskers said. “He talks. I pray no one ever has to hear his voice again. When he spoke to me, when he called me by my given name, it felt like my bones had shrunk inside my body.”

Shortwhiskers was silent for a few seconds as he looked up into the sky and absently rubbed his beard. Brisbane waited patiently as the dwarf reflected on the experience.

“Where was I?” Shortwhiskers said finally.

“It wasn’t until you got to Dragon’s Peak and saw Dalanmire that you began to put things together.”

Shortwhiskers nodded. “It was something the dragon said as he met your grandfather and the Prince. He said he was unhappy to see our party there because it meant that someone wasn’t doing his job. It didn’t seem like much at the time, but it struck me kind of funny. I thought about it later and the answer just clicked in my head. It wasn’t a logical deduction by any stretch of the imagination. It just came to me. But all the same, I knew it was true. The way it felt, it just couldn’t be anything else.”

Shortwhiskers pointed. “That man, Illzeezad Dantrius, chief advisor to King Gregorovich Farchrist the Second, had made some sort of deal with Dalanmire. He was working for the dragon in some way, spying on the King’s court and keeping the King from trying to do Dalanmire in. I was sure of it then and I am still sure of it now. Although I have never uncovered any proof that ties Dantrius to Dalanmire, as far as I’m concerned, he is forever under the control of the dragon.”

“What do you think he was doing in that garden?” Brisbane asked.

“I don’t know,” Shortwhiskers said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he had something to do with that demon you killed. You saw the pentagram. Somebody conjured it up.”

Brisbane remembered the bloody circled five-pointed star on the wall of the shrine and thought absently of the silver pendant he wore around his neck. It had always been the symbol of wizards and magic. Otis’ teachings had told him it was the mark of Damaleous and was used to conjure demons from the Nine Hells, but Roystnof said that kind of magic could be done without the pentagram and that the demons conjured came not from the Nine Hells but from the caster’s own nightmares.

“I don’t know,” Shortwhiskers said again. “I would just feel better about the whole situation if Dantrius was still a pillar of sour granite in that forgotten garden.”

Brisbane looked up ahead at Dantrius. He wondered how a man could be in league with a dragon, especially one as diabolical as Dalanmire.

“Nog,” he said. “How did you escape from Dalanmire’s cave?”

Shortwhiskers nodded, as if he had been expecting the question. “You mean,” he said, “why am I alive and your grandfather dead?”

Brisbane looked hurt at the accusation.

“No, Gil,” the dwarf said quickly. “I don’t think you harbor such sentiments. And even if you did, I wouldn’t hold it against you. There’s no real reason for why I survived and your grandfather did not. It’s not because I was somehow a better man than he, which I wasn’t and don’t think I ever could be. I’m alive today because I am who I am and your grandfather was who he was.”

“What does that mean?” Brisbane asked.

“Your grandfather was a symbol of the resistance against Dalanmire. The dragon said so much himself. From the standpoint of defending himself against attackers, Dalanmire had every right to take your grandfather’s life. He ended it and the resistance in one swoop. I, however, was only their guide. I was against the mission from the start and entered unarmed into Dragon’s Peak. I had no intention of acting for or against the dragon. I was just there to see how things turned out.”

Shortwhiskers paused. “Besides,” he said sarcastically, “Dalanmire needed someone to go back and tell the King to triple the dragon tax.”

“What about the high priestess you spoke of?”

“What about her?” Shortwhiskers asked.

“Dalanmire spared her life, too, didn’t he? Did he want her to serve as his messenger, too?”

Shortwhiskers shook his head slowly. When he spoke, he spoke distantly, almost as if he was no longer walking next to Brisbane but was back inside Dalanmire’s cave in Farchrist Year Sixty-Two.

“The high priestess did not enter Dalanmire’s lair. She stayed at our camp on the south face of Dragon’s Peak. Dalanmire may not have even known she was there.”

Brisbane did not understand the significance of the dwarf’s words. “So Dalanmire just let you go, then?”

Shortwhiskers snorted, snapping back into the present day. “Not quite, Gil. You see, Dalanmire, apart from being a gigantic winged lizard, is also a sorcerer, and can work magic darker than any our friend Roystnof or even that Dantrius have ever dreamed of. I didn’t know why he did it, and I guess I still don’t. Whether it was to teach me a lesson or just because he felt like it, I never found out, but Dalanmire put a curse on me before I was allowed to leave his cave.”

“What did he do?” Brisbane asked.

Shortwhiskers did not answer Brisbane’s question. “Dwarves love their beards, Gil. You have to understand that. To a dwarf, a long beard is a symbol. It is a symbol of his masculinity, of his strength, and of his skill in his chosen profession. A dwarf without a long beard is not a dwarf and can never be regarded as such among any dwarven community. Perhaps it is a bit silly, but that is the way things are.”

Shortwhiskers paused again.

Brisbane said nothing.

“After Dalanmire had killed the two Knights,” Shortwhiskers said, “their shattered bodies laying crumpled at his taloned feet, he looked up at me, standing on the platform that was the entrance to his cave, and said five words. He said, ‘Dwarf, I name thee Shortwhiskers.’ And in that moment, for the first time since the days of my childhood, my face became smooth and clean of any trace of hair.

“It has been forty-two years since Dalanmire said those five words to me, time enough for a dwarf to grow a beard yards long if he wished, and in all that time, this moss is all the fruit my face had yielded.”

Brisbane could say nothing. Shortwhiskers had obviously been hurt by the dragon’s actions and, if facial hair was half was important to dwarven society as Shortwhiskers had said it was, Brisbane could easily understand why. This then was why Shortwhiskers had abandoned his political past and had fallen to freebooting and adventure. He was an outcast, rejected from his own community because of a dragon’s curse. Brisbane felt sorry for his friend, but still he felt like he couldn’t, could never, really understand the extent of the dwarf’s sorrow. Brisbane’s life must seem like a happy daydream compared to Shortwhiskers’.

“That’s enough, Gil,” Shortwhiskers said in a quiet voice. “I’ve about talked myself out.”

Brisbane nodded. “I understand,” he said and slowly dropped back to give the dwarf some time alone with his thoughts.

The day was nearing its end and the little group from the forgotten garden would be reaching the outskirts of Queensburg shortly. Behind everyone, Brisbane could see the backs of all the others as he marched along in the haze of sunset.

Closest was Nog Shortwhiskers, who he had just learned had been named by the dragon Dalanmire on the day the monster had killed Brisbane’s grandfather. Brisbane had thought about asking the dwarf what his given name had been, but thought better of it now. He had never heard anyone else use it and he imagined it must be a touchy subject with the dwarf. Dalanmire had named him Shortwhiskers and Brisbane supposed he would remain Shortwhiskers until he died.

Farther up ahead, still walking by himself, was Ignatius Roundtower, warrior and, if his own plans worked out, Knight-to-be. Brisbane felt a certain affinity for the man and wondered if ten years from now he would be anything like him. The faith of Grecolus was strong within Roundtower and he had lived by only that faith and his magic sword for years. But now Brisbane had Angelika and Roundtower was going off to a place where his faith was all that was needed or desired. It was a dream of Brisbane’s as well, not necessarily to become a Knight, but to live by a code of ethics that was personally understandable and unbreachable. Brisbane seriously doubted, however, that he would ever find such contentment.

Still farther up ahead, still deep in conversation with Roystnof, was the newcomer, Illzeezad Dantrius. The man was hopelessly tainted in Brisbane’s view, not only because of what Shortwhiskers had said about him, but because of Brisbane’s own personal observations. Dantrius was like a weasel, sneaking into the hen house that was their small circle of friends. And weasels only did that to steal eggs or kill chickens. Brisbane did not want to think about what Dantrius might do if he was given too much freedom. Roystnof seemed to like him, but the wizard did not know what Shortwhiskers did.

And finally there was Roystnof, the man Brisbane had known as Roy Stonerow for six years. But more than the wizard’s name had changed in the last week or so. Brisbane had seen a side of his friend he had never seen before. Roy Stonerow had also been like an older brother to him, someone who Brisbane could go to with anything that troubled him without fear of misunderstanding or rejection. But now Roy Stonerow was Roystnof, a traveling wizard who lived by his magic and faced peril beyond reason. Perhaps this was the kind of life Roystnof had wanted for Brisbane, and that was why he had begun to teach Brisbane magic. But Brisbane now knew that could never be. He hoped Roystnof did not hold it against him, even though he knew their relationship could never be the same. Brisbane was still Roystnof’s friend, but he was no longer his apprentice.

These were the thoughts that ran through Brisbane’s mind as he topped the last hill and saw the lights and buildings of Queensburg in the distance. A cold breeze came off the Sea of Darkmarine and made Brisbane pause to look at the scene around him. Behind him were the Windcrest Hills, rolling until they met the southern arm of the Crimson Mountains. Queensburg lay at his feet, and beyond that he could see the dark clumps of the Shadowhorn Forest. His friends had already reached the bottom of the hill when Shortwhiskers turned around and, seeing Brisbane had fallen behind, stopped.

“Gil,” he called, his voice bringing the others to a stop. “What’s the matter?”

Brisbane looked up into the sky. Grecolum was setting and was just past full. The stars were twinkling brightly. Brisbane couldn’t help wondering to himself how long the stars had been there and for how much longer they would shine.

“Gil?” Roystnof called, concern in his voice.

“I’m coming,” Brisbane said and he hurried down the hill.

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FARCHRIST TALES

END OF BOOK ONE

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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.