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.

Rum Punch by Elmore Leonard

This is the novel on which the film Jackie Brown is based. 

That’s probably why I picked it up at some long forgotten used book sale at the local library.

I don’t have anything else to say about it.

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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.

Hannibal by Ross Leckie

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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This is a historical novel written from the point of view of Hannibal, the Carthaginian general who took elephants and an army across the Alps in the wintertime in an attempt to conquer Rome.

It was a good read.

One of the things that comes out quite starkly in the book is how violent and perverse the society of the powerful in Hannibal’s time was.

Hannibal himself had had enough people impaled in order to know how to do it so the person would die slowly or die quickly.

Hannibal’s father had given his 14-year-old daughter away in a political marriage, only to have her die of an infection caused by her husband stuffing her vagina full of ripe plums to provide a more sensuous cavity for his penis.

Crucifixion was a regular punishment for cowardice or failure in battle and prisoners were routinely beheaded or buried alive.

After the Battle of Cannae in 216 B.C., in which Hannibal wiped out an entire Roman army by allowing his line to bend in on itself, creating a concave pocket in which to trap his opponents with his cavalry, Hannibal had the hands cut off all the Roman corpses and sent back to Rome to show them the damage he had done. When the hands of the dead did not add up to a full legion, he had an appropriate number cut from the living prisoners to round out the group, and then forced the mutilated men to haul the tribute back to Rome themselves.

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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 TEN

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK ONE:

STONE TO FLESH

King Gregorovich Farchrist II did not rule his kingdom alone. There has never been a successful King who has. They are leaders, and like most leaders, they are usually figureheads for an organization of people trained to make their leader seem independent and absolute. Gregorovich II was no different. He had a group of advisors whose job it was to protect his image. None of them liked the King’s plan to send an armed party to Dragon’s Peak, but one of them, the King’s most trusted man, argued against the decision for weeks. The advisor’s name was Illzeezad Dantrius, and the day the party left for Dalanmire’s lair, Dantrius left his position behind and fled from the castle. He left no word of his destination or reason for his departure. Gregorovich II never saw his chief advisor again.

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Shortwhiskers, Roundtower, and Brisbane stood at the entrance of the shrine and watched Roystnof work his magic on the stone statue they had discovered earlier. Shortwhiskers had a nasty bump on his forehead from the swat the demon had given him, but some of his healing salve had been gently rubbed on it and some of the swelling had already gone down. Roundtower had hurt his knee in the fall he had taken when the demon dropped him, but like Shortwhiskers’ injury, it was not serious and would only ache for a few days.

Brisbane stood with his back straight in his leather jerkin and the sword called Angelika strapped to his side in her ornately-carved scabbard. Roundtower had told him as much as he knew about the sword, but most of it was still a mystery to Brisbane.

Roundtower had found the sword on one of his first adventures with Shortwhiskers and Roystnof. They had been exploring some uncharted lands in the east and they had uncovered a burial tomb of an ancient warrior-king. Angelika had been buried with the corpse, and as soon as Roundtower had picked her up, the voice Brisbane had heard seated herself in Roundtower’s mind.

She had told him what she was, a holy sword created centuries ago to help pious knights vanquish the forces of evil. She had had many owners, and each time she exchanged hands, it had been to someone with more potential for conquering evil than the last. Just as she had passed from the warrior-king to Roundtower, she had now passed from Roundtower to Brisbane.

Her communication with her wielder was telepathic in nature and usually only occurred when there was evil near to be vanquished. The consciousness present in the sword was not a human one, Roundtower had told him. She was not quite alive, but neither was she a cold blade of simple steel.

Brisbane was not sure what he should make of any of this. Angelika was a fine weapon and she was obviously magical. He had been more amazed at his skill with the blade than anyone else had been. It had almost been as if he had been using Angelika for years—he was that sure and confident about what he could do with her. It scared him somewhat when he thought about it. Something was present in the sword, something living but it was not warm. Roundtower believed the presence came from the blessing of Grecolus himself, but Brisbane was not so sure.

The sword had not spoken to Brisbane since the defeat of the demon and Brisbane found that he liked it that way. There was something too intimate about the connection. It was almost as if Angelika was more in control than Brisbane was. He might be better off without her, but he already knew he would not let her go. He would keep her until she found someone with more potential, and then she would leave him like she left Roundtower.

But now Brisbane was more concerned about the man Roystnof was about to transform back into flesh. Shortwhiskers was still set against the idea and, if anything, he had been even more gruff about it than he had been the last time. Brisbane suspected that his getting knocked out of two battles in a row might have had something to do with his attitude, but he could not figure out why the dwarf chose the stone man to pour his frustrations upon. Roundtower was still all for the transformation, but now Brisbane was having his own reservations. He was no longer sure it was such a good idea to bring the man out of his sensory coma after such a long time. Roundtower had been livid when his senses had come flooding back in on him, a condition that had been thankfully temporary. But Roundtower had only been alone for two weeks. If this man had been imprisoned as stone for as long as perhaps decades as Roystnof said, Brisbane wondered if his period of lividness would ever end. Who knew what sort of world the man had created for himself for all those years, and who knew what would happen when that world came tumbling down?

But the spell was being cast. There was nothing to do now but watch. Roystnof mixed the earth with his blood and, just as he had done with Roundtower, he blew the mixture into the statue’s face. Brisbane and his two companions took a few anticipatory steps forward as the liquid soaked into the pores of the stone and the dirt flaked off onto the ground.

The color slowly began to return to the figure. The long tunic turned a dirty blue and his trousers took on the cracks of mistreated leather. His hair came in jet black and only served to accentuate the paleness of his skin. It was almost as if Roystnof’s spell had worked on the man’s clothing alone, leaving his flesh virtually the same gray-white color his stone had been.

Roystnof backed away from the figure and joined his companions. Brisbane was fully prepared for an agonizing scream when the spell worked itself to its conclusion.

There was, however, no deafening screech from the man as his senses hammered their way back into his deserted mind. The man made no sound at all at first. He stood there like the statue he had been for an unknown number of years and then slowly raised his head and looked off into the sky. He stood like that for perhaps ten seconds as Brisbane and his friends stood quietly by, waiting to see what the man would do. Eventually he lowered his eyes to the group of people in front of him and Brisbane noticed their icy blue coloration for the first time. Brisbane’s eyes locked with the freshly restored orbs of the man and he saw the stranger whisper something. He spoke too quietly for Brisbane to hear the sounds, but his lip movements were unmistakable.

The man said, “Bris-bane.”

Roystnof took a step forward with open palms outstretched. “Hello,” he said to the man. “Do you realize what has happened to you?”

The man looked Roystnof up and down. “Who are you?” His voice was cool and measured.

“My name is Roystnof.”

“Unusual name,” the man said. “Is it your first or your last?”

Roystnof opened his mouth to answer but was cut short when Shortwhiskers suddenly stepped forward and spoke aloud.

“Don’t answer him, Roystnof. He doesn’t deserve any of the help you are trying to give him.” The dwarf then addressed the man who had been stone. “I told him not to restore you, Dantrius. You couldn’t poison anyone with your presence petrified here in this garden. If I had been sure it was you, I would have taken a war hammer and pounded your statue into gravel.”

The man named Dantrius turned his icy blue eyes upon the dwarf. “Why, Mister Ambassador,” he said in a tone that was a mockery of cordial, “it is good to see you again. But whatever happened to that long beard of yours?” He began to chuckle.

Roystnof turned to the dwarf. “Nog, what is going on? Who is this man?”

Both Roundtower and Brisbane gathered close. Brisbane was as much in the dark about what was going on as anyone else. He did not like the way this Dantrius had come out of his coma. It mocked the suffering Roundtower had undergone. He was too calm and prepared, this Dantrius, almost as if he had known exactly when and how he was going to be revived. Brisbane also did not like the way Dantrius had seemed to recognize him.

Shortwhiskers spoke as if Dantrius was not there. “In the years that I served as an ambassador for my clan, Illzeezad Dantrius was the chief advisor on the court of Gregorovich the Second. He was a major opponent to the King’s decision to send an armed party to Dragon’s Peak and, after the Knights had set out, he vanished from the kingdom and was never seen again. How he got himself here, I have no idea.”

“I see,” Brisbane said. “That explains how he recognized you and why he called you ‘Mister Ambassador.’ But how does he know me?”

“What do you mean?” Shortwhiskers asked.

“After he came out of it,” Brisbane said, “he looked right at me and said my name. I couldn’t hear him but I could read his lips. He said ‘Brisbane.’”

Shortwhiskers looked back at Dantrius.

The man smiled innocently back at the dwarf.

Shortwhiskers turned back to Brisbane and shrugged his shoulders. “Must be your grandfather, Gil. You do bear a striking resemblance to the man. He and Dantrius never got along very well, as I recall.”

Roystnof stepped up to Dantrius. “Your time has passed, Dantrius. You have spent some time as a statue in the garden lair of a basilisk. The grandson of your King now sits on the throne, and the man you recognize as Brisbane is that man’s grandson as well.”

“I know,” Dantrius said.

“You know?” Roystnof was puzzled.

“I am aware of what has happened to me. The basilisk that turned me to stone was not the first one I encountered. I killed the first one.”

Roundtower stepped forward. “You killed one?”

Dantrius’ eyebrows flew up. “And who might you be?”

Roundtower stood proud. “My name is Ignatius Roundtower.”

“Well, yes then, Ignatius Roundtower, I did kill one.”

Brisbane still did not like the man’s tone. He spoke to Roundtower like he was some kind of child. Dantrius claimed to have killed a basilisk, a feat that obviously impressed Roundtower, and yet he had no visible weaponry and treated the deed with the off-handedness of swatting a fly. Brisbane was quickly beginning to dislike the man.

“How did you accomplish it?” Brisbane asked.

Dantrius turned his gaze upon Brisbane. “Accomplish what, young Gildegarde?”

“You bear no weapons. How did you kill the basilisk? With your bare hands?”

Dantrius laughed. “No, no. I am afraid I am much too physically weak an individual for such heroics. Like your friend Roystnof here, I too am trained in the magical arts.”

“A wizard!” Roundtower thundered. “You mean to tell us King Gregorovich the Second had a wizard for his chief advisor? I don’t believe it.”

“Fortunately,” Dantrius reassured the warrior, “the King never suspected I had such talents. You’re right of course. Had he known, I doubt he would’ve allowed me so far into his confidence.”

Brisbane looked at Shortwhiskers and wondered how much the dwarf knew about these things. He was still being unusually close-mouthed about the whole affair. Even now, he seemed to be brooding about something. Brisbane would make it a point to question the dwarf later.

“What spell did you use?” Roystnof asked, cutting Roundtower off before he could exclaim anything else.

“A simple one, really,” Dantrius said. “I call it gaze reflection. I turned the basilisk’s gaze back upon itself and caused it to turn to stone instead of me. Simple.”

Roystnof nodded, obviously impressed. “Simple.”

Roundtower jumped back in as Roystnof paused. “How did you get here? What were you doing at this shrine?” His tone was very demanding.

“Gentleman,” Dantrius said, putting up placating hands. “I am sorry, but I feel very fatigued. Perhaps you have struck a camp somewhere nearby?”

The silence that followed was complete.

“Yes,” Roystnof said finally. “We have a campsite just outside this garden. Perhaps it would be best if we all got some rest before we continued this discussion. If you will come with me, Dantrius, I will take you there.”

Dantrius grinned. “Please. Call me Illzeezad.”

Roystnof then led the small group out of the clearing and toward the oasis wall. Dantrius walked with him, and the two wizards carried on a very hushed conversation as they made their way through the trees. Roundtower walked a few paces behind them, his eyes fixed on Dantrius’ back. Brisbane and Shortwhiskers brought up the rear.

“Nog,” Brisbane said. “What is going on? Who is this Dantrius? What do you know that you’re not telling?”

Shortwhiskers was silent for perhaps a minute before he answered. “Not now, Gil. I will tell you all I know and fear, I promise you that. But not now. Let’s just get out of this place.”

Brisbane could not argue with that. He knew Shortwhiskers would keep his promise and, right now, getting out of the garden did seem more important. The feeling that had visited Brisbane twice before had returned, the feeling that they would inevitably stumble across the basilisk creature. This time, however, he was not to be disappointed.

They were almost to the wall. Brisbane could see parts of it through the foliage up ahead. The path they were following curved away from a large clump of bushes and just as Brisbane made the turn, the bushes rustled and out of the corner of his eye he saw a sleek brown shape slowly move out onto the path.

A strange, almost alien compulsion came over Brisbane to turn and look the creature full in the face. It was almost painful for him to resist it. Without thinking about, he drew Angelika from her scabbard.

Immediately, the sword’s soft and reassuring voice filled his head.

—The beast will not harm you if you do not attack it and do not look at it. Stay calm, brave Brisbane.—

Shortwhiskers must have heard the creature behind them as well, for he began to turn around next to Brisbane.

“No!” Brisbane shouted as he suddenly tackled the dwarf, first clamping one of his hands across Shortwhiskers’ eyes and then knocking him off the path. They tumbled together into the brush. They rolled and got turned around and when they came to a stop, Brisbane instinctively brought his head up. He found himself looking directly at the basilisk.

It was large, much larger than Brisbane would have thought a lizard could be. Its eight legs were like small tree trunks and its body was like a barrel of ale. It was covered in brown scales and had beady yellow eyes.

But the monster was not looking at Brisbane. It was looking down the path at the figure of Dantrius. Dantrius was just standing there, a gaunt pale man with sunken cheeks, one hand extended before him with the palm flat to the basilisk. He was moving that hand slowly in a circle and he was softly chanting. The words were unfamiliar to Brisbane and were like none he had ever heard Roystnof use. As Brisbane studied Dantrius, he realized that his cheeks were not just naturally sunken. The erosion that had marred his stone face was now present in his fleshy one. It was as if the top layer of his skin had been melted and washed roughly off his face.

Brisbane looked back at the basilisk and saw the unbelievable happen. The brown scales were quickly turning stone gray and the movement of the lizard’s tongue and tail were becoming more and more jerky, until they stopped altogether. Before Brisbane could realize what was happening, the basilisk had become a solid chunk of stone, molded exactly in its own image.

“Gil, get off me.”

The voice belonged to Shortwhiskers and it made Brisbane jump. He quickly got to his feet and picked up Angelika, which he had been forced to drop when he had tackled the dwarf. The party quickly regrouped around the stone basilisk.

“I take it that was gaze reflection,” Roystnof said.

“Yes,” Dantrius said. “Have you not seen it before?”

Roystnof cleared his throat. “It is a different kind of magic than what I am used to. I think we will be able to teach each other quite a bit, Illzeezad.”

“I quite agree,” Dantrius said. “Now, come. Let us make for the camp.”

With that Dantrius spun on his heel and continued down the path, Roystnof falling into step right behind him. The three others stood around the stone basilisk, Brisbane watching Roystnof follow Dantrius like, he thought, some kind of servant.

“I don’t like that man at all,” Brisbane said.

Roundtower spat upon the basilisk. “He did destroy this foul thing for us. We owe him something for that, don’t we?”

“Do the chickens owe the farmer anything for keeping the weasel away?”

Roundtower and Brisbane looked at Shortwhiskers.

“What do you mean, Nog?” Brisbane asked.

“The farmer keeps his chickens safe from the weasel so he can steal their eggs and eventually eat them himself. He is nothing but a bigger and more intelligent weasel.”

Not waiting for additional comments, Shortwhiskers stomped off in the direction the two wizards had gone.

Brisbane looked at Roundtower. “Ignatius, what is going on here?”

Roundtower shook his head. “I don’t know, Gil. But I hope things are clearer tomorrow.”

The two men left the stone basilisk behind them and trotted after Shortwhiskers.

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

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre by B. Traven

The only thing I knew about this book was that I liked the movie that John Huston made out of it in 1948. The movie has a different feel than most of what comes out of Hollywood, then and now: grittier, and a little subversive. Humphrey Bogart plays a delightful Dobbs -- a man who is neither hero nor villain, someone worth rooting for and against, a man who gets both a raw deal and what’s coming to him.

Little did I realize how subversive the movie’s source material actually was. And the mystery surrounding it and the identity of its author -- B. Traven, evidently a pseudonym for an author who managed to remain hidden for his entire career and, seemingly, to this day. 

The book, like the movie, is, at its core, a parable on the moral disintegration that accompanies greed. In its chosen idiom, the moral action of the narrative manifests in three people and their quest for gold in the mountains of the Sierra Madre.

“Anyway,” Howard, the old fellow, said, “anyway, gold is a very devilish sort of a thing, believe me, boys. In the first place, it changes your character entirely. When you have it your soul is no longer the same as it was before. No getting away from that. You may have so much piled up that you can’t carry it away; but, bet your blessed paradise, the more you have, the more you want to add, to make it just that much more. Like sitting at roulette. Just one more turn. So it goes on and on and on. You cease to distinguish between right and wrong. You can no longer see clearly what is good and what is bad. You lose your judgment. That’s what it is.”

Howard is the oldest and most experienced “prospector,” played by Walter Huston in the movie, and he lays out the overall theme pretty clearly, both in the movie and in these opening pages. He tells the others, Dobbs and Curtin, young and leaner men, about how in previous expeditions he had been on, once the gold started accumulating, the partners began turning on one another.

“You said it,” Dobbs nodded. “That’s exactly what I say. It is that eternal curse on gold which changes the soul of man in a second.” The moment he had said this he knew he had said something that never had been in his mind before. Never before had he had the idea that there was a curse connected with gold. Now he had the feeling that not he himself, but something inside him, the existence of which until now he had had no knowledge of, had spoken for him, using his voice. For a while he was rather uneasy, feeling that inside his mind there was a second person whom he had seen or heard for the first time.

It was right about here where I asked myself if this was not just a parable about greed, but more generally one about market capitalism -- and that perhaps that “second person” that Dobbs here meets for the first time is the “invisible hand” that guides it? 

In that context, Curtin’s response becomes even more curious.

“Curse upon gold?” Curtin seemed entirely unmoved by this suggestion. “I don’t see any curse on gold. Where is it? Old women’s tattle. Nothing to it. There is as much blessing on gold as there is curse. It depends upon who holds it -- I mean the gold. In the end the good or the bad character of its owner determines whether gold is blessed or cursed. Give a scoundrel a bag with little stones or a bag with silver coins and he will use either to satisfy his criminal desires if he is left free to do as he pleases. And, by the way, what most people never know is the fact that gold in itself is not needed at all. Suppose I could make people believe that I have mountains of gold, then I could arrive at the same end as if I really had that gold. It isn’t the gold that changes man, it is the power which gold gives to man that changes the soul of man. This power, though, is only imaginary. If not recognized by other men, it does not exist.”

That sounds a lot like libertarianism to me. It only has value because we say it does. The market has no external power. It doesn’t shape the nature of man -- it only reveals it. Man, ultimately, is free to make his own moral choices.

Once primed for this interpretation of the novel -- a treatise on the effects of market capitalism, with the characters each representing a certain psychological perspective or economic theory -- one begins to understand where Traven’s actual sympathies may lie.

The discussion about the registration of their claim brought comprehension of their changed standing in life. With every ounce more of gold possessed by them they left the proletarian class and neared that of the property-holders, the well-to-do middle class. So far they had never had anything of value to protect against thieves. Since they now owned certain riches, their worries about how to protect them had started. The world no longer looked to them as it had a few weeks ago. They had become members of the minority of mankind.

Those who up to this time had been considered by them as their proletarian brethren were now enemies against whom they had to protect themselves. As long as they had owned nothing of value, they had been slaves of their hungry bellies, slaves to those who had the means to fill their bellies. All this was changed now.

They had reached the first step by which man becomes the slave of his property.

Class. Proletarian. Property. We now begin to enter the actual vocabulary of Marxism. And it is a clue for what is to come.

The scene with the bandits is a memorable one. Holed up in the mountains, working in secret for months on a productive gold claim, the three prospectors are ever cautious about others snooping around and trying to horn in on their claim. When a troop of bandits arrive, their greatest fears are almost realized.

“Oiga, senor, listen. We are no bandits. You are mistaken. We are the policia montada, the mounted police, you know. We are looking for the bandits, to catch them. They have robbed the train, you know.”

“All right,” Curtin shouted back. “If you are the police, where are your badges? Let’s see them.”

“Badges, to god-damned hell with badges! We have no badges. In fact, we don’t need badges. I don’t have to show you any stinking badges, you god-damned cabron and ching’ tu madre! Come out there from that -- hole of yours. I have to speak to you.”

We don’t need no stinking badges! It’s almost comic in the movie -- and certainly made comic by others as it has been almost meme-ified in the decades since. But there is something deeper going on even here. Badges are emblematic of the state, and its monopolization on violence, especially in its protection of the propertied class. Of course, these bandits don’t have badges. But the more revealing line is the one in which they claim no need of them.

These men are never at a loss about what to do and how to do it. They are well trained in their churches from childhood on. Their churches are filled with paintings and statues representing every possible torture white men, Christians, inquisitors, and bishops could think of. These are the proper paintings and statues for churches in a country in which the most powerful church on earth wanted to demonstrate how deep in subjection all human beings can be kept for centuries if there exists no other aim but the enlargement of the splendor and the riches of the rulers. What meaning has the human soul to that branch of their great church? No follower of this same church in civilized countries ever seems to question the true origin of its grandeur or the way in which the riches of the church were obtained. So it is not the bandits who were to blame. They were doing and thinking only what they had been taught. Instead of being shown the beauty of this religion, they had been shown only the cruelest and the bloodiest and the most repulsive parts of it. These abhorrent parts of the religion were presented as the most important, so as to make it feared and respected not through faith or love, but through sheer terror and the most abominable superstition. This is why these men were wearing upon their breasts a picture of the Virgin or Saint Joseph, and why they go to church and pray an hour before the statue of San Antonio whenever they are on their way to commit a wholesale murder or a train-assault or a highway hold-up, praying to the statues before and after the deed and begging the saint to protect them in their crime against the shots the victim may fire at them, and to protect them afterwards against the authorities.

One might just call them anarchists. But they are actually much more than that. They are part of the ordered society, taking things just as the state has done, taking in the name of the religion that goes everywhere hand-in-hand with the state.

It is, in fact, theft, theft of all stripes, which undergirds this society and its class system. With the agents of the state -- badged and unbadged -- as its greatest perpetrators.

He knew how the big oil-magnates, the big financiers, the presidents of great corporations, and in particular the politicians, stole and robbed whenever there was an opportunity. Why should he, the little feller, the ordinary citizen, be honest if the big ones knew no scruples and no honesty, either in their business or in the affairs of the nation. And these great robbers sitting in easy chairs before huge mahogany tables, and those highwaymen speaking from the platforms of the conventions of the ruling parties, were the same people who in success stories and in the papers were praised as valuable citizens, the builders of the nation, the staunch upholders of our civilization and of our culture. What were decency and honesty after all? Everybody around him had a different opinion of what they meant.

In this world it is Dobbs who makes the greatest transition -- as alluded to earlier, from proletariat to bourgeoisie. He constantly looks for the protection typically afforded to his new class…

These sounds gave him a great feeling of security. They were the sounds of civilization. He longed for civilization, for law, for justice, which would protect his property and his person with a police force. Within this civilization he could face Howard without fear, and even Curtin, should he ever show up again. There he could sneer at them and ridicule them. There they would have to use civilized means to prove their accusations. If those bums should go too far, he could easily accuse them of blackmailing him. He would then be a fine citizen, well dressed, able to afford the best lawyers. “What a fine thing civilization is!” he thought; and he felt happy that no such nonsense as Bolshevism could take away his property and his easy life.

…but tragically, seldom finds it.

Turning his head in the direction the voice had come from, he saw three ragged tramps lying in a hollow under one of the trees farthest away toward the field. They were mestizos, unwashed, uncombed, with ugly faces, types that are frequently met on the roads in the vicinity of cities, where they can sleep free of charge and wait for any opportunities the road may offer. Their look alone gave evidence that they had not worked for months and had reached the state where they no longer cared about finding a job, having tried in vain a thousand times. They were the human sweepings of the cities, left on the dumps of civilization, possibly escaped convicts, outlaws, fugitives from justice. They were the garbage of civilization with the headquarters near all the other garbage and junk a modern city spits out unceasingly day and night.

This, more often, is what Dobbs finds -- the dregs and dark side of the civilization he so covets, a civilization based on the integrity of property rather than human well-being. These three “mestizos” will kill Dobbs a few pages later, they will cut his head off with a machete, not even out of greed to rob him of his gold -- they don’t even recognize the “sand” in the bags tied to his burros as gold -- but in a short and brutish battle instigated more by Dobbs than by them.

Dobbs is alone when this happens because he has already separated himself from Howard and from Curtin in an attempt to steal all the gold for himself -- indeed, in the case of Curtin, Dobbs tries to murder him by shooting him several times in the back. As such, his murder by the “mestizos” is truly a tragicomic end to the story that has largely been his throughout the novel -- and one that is well summarized by Howard in the closing pages as he and Curtin, unaware that Dobbs is dead, reflect on their adventures with him and the way the gold “curse” seemed to overcome Dobbs and his humanity.

Howard meditated for a while; then he said: “Come to think of it, you can’t blame him.”

“Meaning what?” Curtin asked, as though he had not heard right.

“Meaning that I think he’s not a real killer and robber, as killers go. It’s rather difficult to explain it to you, with the slugs in you. You see, I think at bottom he’s as honest as you and me. The mistake was that you two were left alone in the depths of the wilderness with almost fifty thousand clean cash between you two. That is a goddamned temptation, believe me, partner. Being day and night on lonely trails without ever meeting a human soul -- that gets on your mind, brother. That eats you up. I know it. Perhaps you felt it, too. Don’t deny it. You may have only forgotten how you felt at certain times. The wilderness, the desolate mountains, cry day and night in your ears: ‘We don’t talk. It will never come out. Do it. Do it right now. At that winding of the trail do it. Here’s the chance of your lifetime. Don’t miss it. You only have to grasp it and it is yours. No one will ever know. No one can ever find out. Take it, it’s yours for the taking. Don’t mind a life, the world is crowded with mugs like him.’ If you ask me, partner, I’d like to know the man on earth who could resist trying it without nearly going mad. If I were still young and I had been alone with you or with him, to tell you the truth, Curty, I might have been tempted too. And I wonder, if you search your mind very carefully, if you won’t find that you had similar ideas on this lonely march. That you didn’t act on them doesn’t mean that you felt no temptation. You may have got hold of yourself just before the most dangerous moment.”

“But he had no scruples, no conscience, I know. I knew it long before.”

“He had as much conscience as we would have had under similar circumstances. Where there is no prosecutor, there is no defendant. Don’t forget that. All we have to do now is to find that cheat and get our money.

Dobbs is not really to blame, for he is not the moral agent in this tragedy. He acts the way the system designed him to act; no more, no less.

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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.