alexmorrall

[alexmorrall]

The Emerald Seer

Chapter One

 Kaelyn woke to an empty bed, cool with morning dew. She rolled over, spraying a puff of sawdust from her mattress. Water flicked off her nose and soaked her blanket. It bled through cracks in her walls from the drip of trees above. A small price to pay for each day to begin with birdsong. Amaris was nowhere to be found. She couldn’t sleep like Kaelyn could, even wet and cold. An arrow thudded into a strawman outside. She bolted up, remembering this was her first Harvest Feast since turning sixteen. It was the last day of summer, and knights would arrive soon to pass judgment.

When her feet touched the dirt floor, she shivered. Something furry passed over her ankles. Straining her eyes, she saw Whiskerwinks dart back into the pantry. This time she rode five miles to Cyan Lake with the mouse, borrowing a horse from Remy’s stable. Leaving him in the forest, she said a solemn goodbye. Yet here he was, nibbling on bread and cheese once more. Kaelyn crossed their one room house to the pantry. Giving it a good kick, she hoped he’d come out easy. When he did not, she sighed and stepped outside.

Amaris brought an arrow to her ear. Both girls had green eyes, but little more in common. Kaelyn’s hair was silver and often tangled where her sister’s locked in red braids. Ami’s never got in the way when she swung an axe or shot a bow. Kaelyn’s was often caked in mud. Releasing the string, Ami’s arrow pierced the strawman’s heart. She knocked another arrow to her longbow, the weapon as tall as she was. Taking aim, lines in her muscles showed. Kaelyn had never seen a woman so strong. Her second arrow slid into straw beside the first.

“Enjoying the show?” Amaris gave her a wry look.

“I love to watch you shoot,” Kaelyn approached her sister.

“Too close,” Amaris brushed her away and took aim again.

“Did I break your concentration? In battle you won’t be so lucky.” Then Amaris turned, aiming the bow at Kaelyn’s feet. The girl jumped away. “Ami!”

“Want to take some shots? It’s time you hit the mark. Today could be your lucky day.”

“You know I can’t even pull the string...”

“I won’t always be here, Kae. When the knights come, what will you do?”

“They’ll not take me,” Kaelyn gave Amaris a long look. “I wouldn’t last a day in the mines. But you’d make them a fortune... I can see why you practice.”

“They won’t need to take me.”

“How come?”

“They just won’t, that’s why,” Amaris snapped. “Now, your garden looks like a weed bed. At this rate you’ll be selling dandelions this season.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

Kaelyn went about her chores. She plucked weeds from her flower and vegetable beds, removed deadheads, and checked for mold. Then she brought a bucket to the town well. Remy’s villagers came for water to wash and cook for the feast. Listening to some women, she heard Lord Ryndale hired a new knight named Godfrey. He was said to be crueler than most and drank Karnath dry in one night. Hearing this, the local tavern owner Gascoyne abruptly left line. Waddling back to the Suckling Pig, he rolled his casks safely into the cellar.

It took Kaelyn an hour to fill her bucket, then she barely got back to the house without spilling half. Amaris was still shooting strawmen.

“Do you expect an army to come up out of the hills?” Kaelyn wondered.

“No, but perhaps some knights, a few rebels or if I’m lucky… Garzians.”

“You’ll take ‘em all on yourself, eh?”

“They’re just men, and they can be killed.”

“Can’t believe you’re working today of all days. You know the knights could kill you for dodging judgement.”

“Someone’s got to.”

“Well, don’t be late for the shift that kills you,” Kaelyn sucked air between her teeth, face going scarlet. She stalked away, grabbing a copy of Wilderwood Beasts and Legends on her way out the front door.

“Mornin’, Kae,” called Luc. The old man with blue eyes and skin like worn leather, stacked wood outside her door. Her house stood in the shadow of Edgewood Lumbermill. Luc helped them build their house, with wood gathered by Amaris and the other foresters. When Amaris turned sixteen, she asked to sign up for the war. She planned on marching west to kill the Bandit King. Hearing this, Luc adopted both sisters the same day. They were only with him a year, as Amaris was desperate to live under her own roof. Kaelyn could’ve stayed longer.

“Morning, Luc,” she waved. “Wonderful day for Harvest Feast, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’ll be a beaut’,” he nodded and grinned, going back to his stacking.

Kaelyn turned north, taking the main cart road. It wound for half a mile before leading to a meadow of bloodred poppies. As sun smiled down, she basked in Daphne’s grace. Finding her way to the river that curled around the Fairy Tree, she reclined on its bank. Warm light washed over, as fish looked up, bubbles rising to the surface. A breeze passed through the old oak, and sometimes it whispered to her. Soft, kind words eased her mind. It was a needed escape from villagers who called her “ragamuffin” and “witch” for her silver hair. It made her look old, and sometimes she felt it.

When she looked at the Fairy Tree, she thought of the Wilderwood. Its ancient groves grew tall as the sky. The Fairy Tree was much younger, but Luc told her it grew from a Wilderwood seed blown east on the wind. This made it a holy relic, and none would cut it down. Its branches spread like powerful arms to either side. Sometimes Kaelyn pressed her nose against its bark, hoping it would give her a hug. Ami had not given her one in so long. The trees, and the river, and the fish never looked at her with scorn. It was here her thoughts could wander in peace. When she cracked open her book, she found herself in the Wilderwood.

Kaelyn returned home at midday to break her fast. With a yelp, she remembered Harvest Feast was in full swing. In her excitement to leave the house, she donned a crown of daylilies but forgot to eat anything. Racing to Remy Square, a basket swung from her fingers, filled with blossoms and apples. Her pace slowed as people blocked her path. They wore their Daphne’s Day best: brightly colored tunics and dresses, hair braided or slicked with grease. Seeing Kaelyn, covered head to toe in mud, they let her pass. Slipping through, she avoided their glares, approaching the main event.

Arriving in Remy Square, Kaelyn delighted in the smells and sights of harvest’s bounty. The aroma watered her mouth and rumbled her stomach. Noise and light warmed the Suckling Pig. Gascoyne roasting a boar on the common, its flesh sizzling over hungry flames. Every man, woman, and child lined up for his famous pork, two if patience held. Children watched him cut, moving dutifully forward in line. Gascoyne handed one boy a wine-braised rib, his eyes turning big as apples. He tousled the boy’s hair, smearing it with grease, and called, “Next ‘un up!”

Nearly every villager of Remy filled the square, sauce spackling their faces. They drank ale, mulled wine, and mead, ate fresh bread with black jellies and buttery cheeses. Mashed turnips, glazed carrots, and buttered onions slipped from plates into mouths. Kaelyn offered flowers and fruit to those who had no meat and looked as poor as she. Most were too proud to accept charity, least of all from her. They slapped her offerings away. Most often her hands and hair were dirty, and today was no exception.

A mother steered her children away. “That girl’s mad,” she said, “Sleeps too much in the woods. Fairies addled her brain. Stay away now.”

Moving on, she found a hungry-looking child who might be more receptive. She offered her an apple and the girl took it, but her father’s face soured. “Oi, that’s Luc’s waif, ain’t it? Always said they live too close to th’ woods. That’s where demons’ll get ye. Drop the apple, lass. Leave it fer the worms.”

The girl dropped the apple and Kaelyn picked it back up. As they left, a dull ache throbbed in her head. It wasn’t just hunger. She wished she could tell these people they were wrong. Her brains weren’t addled, and she had no demons. Nowhere was the goddess closer than in the peaceful woods. So many forgot her way, claiming the gods turned their backs on the world. They’d never listen. None thought it wise for the sisters to live by themselves. Most were jealous they’d been taken in by Luc, the richest man in town.

Hands clapped, lutes strummed and proud songs of Larasu rose on their lips. She tapped her foot to the music and began to dance. As she moved, she caught the eyes of Laran, who also kept his distance. Wine and ale flowed like rivers, and the day passed in a haze. Villagers chose to numb their fears by singing songs of the rangers. Misha the Mouse, Sir Cadmus Featherstroke, Sheon the Silver Lady, Grian the Giantslayer, and Bloodless Barric, the Lion of Larasu. Most were still alive, yet many had begun to despise the rangers. Still, the songs were sung, and though few sought to join their ranks, many praised their deeds.

Amaris loved these songs, and never had she missed a feast day. All year the sisters looked forward to Gascoyne’s pork, Olson’s White Delcins, and the songs of Harvest Feast. More than enjoyment, Kaelyn wanted her sister here for what was to come. Soon knights would arrive for judgement. Any who failed to appear in Remy Square could be punished with death. Kaelyn would stand for judgement as she turned sixteen. It brought another jab to her belly, and she looked at the line for boar.

Last year they took children to work the Karnath Mines. Small bodies fit into tunnels and little fingers could repair tools. Few lived to twenty anyways. Their parents were paid, and the children got food and lodging for winter. Even if they came back whole, they were never the same. Their hands were claws, eyes creased, and backs bent. Light faded from eyes, and skin turned ashen gray. Just from looking, you could tell if someone had been taken, or Daphne forbid, taken more than once.

Kaelyn noticed the six robed men who inspected Remy’s three carts of grain. Stable boys hitched the collectors’ carts to horses. Each year ‘standard cartful’ seemed to grow a little larger. Going easy on them this year, the collectors climbed aboard their carts. They rolled from Remy Square, heading west back to Raven’s Hill, leaving a trail of grain. Any who went to gather the grain were bludgeoned by Remy’s bounders. Each winter a child died of hunger, and Kaelyn gave their family some flowers. These were rarely rejected.

“Line up!” bellowed Chief Olson, slamming a club on his shield. He was in a poor temper, as he usually was. Wearing leather armor, and a bronze badge of office, he and his men enforced Ryndale’s laws whenever possible. This was their proudest event of the year. With a twinkle in his blue eyes, he bellowed, “Judgement time.”

The crowd turned quiet, songs trailed off, and Gascoyne doused his cookfire. “Welp, fun’s over,” he announced. “Join me at the Pig if ye’ve seen one too many o’ these traditions.” Lumping the half-eaten boar over his shoulder, he carried it away. Most of the villagers over thirty years shuffled after him. They were exempt from being taken and refused to watch their children’s judgement.

Bounders slammed clubs on shields, barking at Remy’s younger villagers to form a line. A couple bounders were Kaelyn’s age, exempt from judgement due to their service. Under the hail of shouts, Remy’s men and women, boys and girls, age sixteen to thirty moved forward. Kaelyn joined them, pulling hair over her eyes, and smearing mud on her smock. She had no finer clothes, nor did she want to look pretty this day.

A thunder of hooves filled their ears. In years’ past, it gave Kaelyn chills. Now, it made her stomach turn in a knot. Three men in scalemail armor appeared on the cart road. A large man with a yellow mustache led the way. Dismounting before Saint Remy’s statue, a boy brought them ale. Under his helm, the mustache did little to cover pockmarks and scars that riddled his face. He gulped from a jug and dropped it to crack on the ground. The boy knelt to pick up the pieces. Heat welled in Kaelyn’s chest, despising this man already.

“I present you with Sir Godfrey,” said the bounder. “A knight from Annandale, newly entered into our lord’s service. He’s been honored with the passing of judgment this year.”

Godfrey growled, spittle flying from his cheeks as he advanced on Kaelyn and the others. Ripping off gloves, he revealed hands as rough as boulders. His mustache must have itched because it bristled as he looked them over. Kaelyn stifled a giggle, trying to ease her fear. When his roving eyes looked for her laugh, she was too short to be seen.

“First order of business: Lord Ryndale needs soldiers to keep the rebels at bay. Men, step forward,” his voice scraped like hooks on gravel. They advanced, some flexing or making fists. Godfrey walked the line, observing them in turn. “I see none. You’d not make it to sixteen in Annandale.” The men frowned, looking to each other and the ground. “You’re free to go. Blessed by your meekness. But if I see one of you at the Pig, you’d better buy me a drink.” A few men nodded and saluted. “Get out of my sight.” Most walked home or found spots to watch the finale, while a few marched to the Suckling Pig.

Godfrey paced before the women and girls now. They stood straight and tall, forgetting to breathe. Kaelyn slouched, breath catching in her throat. She was Remy’s youngest prospect, and under the dirt her face was smooth, free of blemishes. In childhood she rarely suffered flux, sweats, or pox. Most orphans were not so fortunate, and their faces bore the scars. Smearing dirt from her hair onto her face, she looked to the knight.

“Not sure how you put up with those men,” Godfrey chuckled, shaking his head. “Now ladies, I see some of you in gold or silver, trying to look your prettiest. If you’re wearing fine metals or stones leave them at the foot of Saint Remy. Then you may go.” To Kaelyn’s surprise, a handful of women came forward. She never knew such riches existed in Remy. Not that she owned any that may have helped her.

“Now,” his tone brightened. “I’ve an exciting announcement. Lord Ryndale seeks a new handmaid. All girls older than twenty may be dismissed.”

This left six girls and Kaelyn was one of them. Four of them were from good families. They trembled, tears filling their eyes. Next to her was a fellow orphan, Kendra. Raven hair fell to her shoulders and she wore a deerskin jacket and breeches. A dagger rested on each hip. Last time Kaelyn saw her, she’d been sixteen, of an age to leave the orphanage. Departing Remy, she went out into the wilderness and no one knew where she’d been the past four years. Now she returned on judgement day.

Though Kaelyn was called strange by many in town, Kendra was considered far stranger. Like Kaelyn, she suffered little in childhood. Her skin was pale as snow, from years in the orphanage library. While Kaelyn read much, she did so under the sun, listening to birds and squirrels. Kendra took to dark, cramped places, ones filled with spiders. She slept some nights in the orphanage attic, where she emerged covered in cobwebs, wasps buzzing in her hair. Not once was she caught for stealing books, though Kaelyn knew she had them. Abbot Arden deemed her the perfect disciple of Daphne and lamented her leaving town.

Godfrey marched down the row of girls. With each step, blood beat in Kaelyn’s ears. Finally, he came to stand before her and Kendra. Looking both over, he stroked his mustache.

“You,” Godfrey said, pointing at Kendra, “you’ll join me at the Pig. We’ve much to discuss.”

Kaelyn let out a breath she’d been holding for weeks. In the corner of her eye, she swore Kendra smiled. As villagers resumed festivities, she sprinted from Remy Square.

[alexmorrall]

Charles the Hammer

724

I

When dinnertime came, Duke Grimwald sat waiting for his niece. Swanhild arrived fresh from the garden, knees and forearms besmirched with soil. Wiping her hands on the tablecloth, she left it smeared with grime. Grimwald’s thick brows furrowed as he muttered into his plate.

“You’re nothing like a lady… How will I find you a husband? I’ve half a mind to send you to a convent. But you are sixteen this year and we require an alliance with Alemannia. I’ll arrange a meeting with the earl.”

“God-father,” Swanhild spat the word, “I don’t suppose I have any say?”

“I don’t suppose you do,” he sipped ale.

“I’ve not much of an appetite. May I be excused?”

“You’ve barely touched your sausage.”

“I see only the men you killed in the square today.”

“Leave me then. You’re not the best dinner companion. Rolf, bring in the dancers.”

He kept one bushy brow raised as Swanhild carried the tray away, before remembering their serving staff was executed that day. She had been close with some of them, and that is why they died. Now that she was sixteen he kept her locked up like a prized jewel. Once she was through the kitchen doors, she shushed the remaining cooks, and left out the back. Making her way down the servants’ hall, she took turned down a dank corridor that led to the dungeons.

Two guardsmen stood before an iron door. They allowed Swanhild to pass, after a round of questions, and tousling her golden curls. Growling, she pushed past, marching down the stairs. Moving to a dark cell, farthest from any window, she found the man she sought. He tumbled forward, newly alert eyes glinting in firelight. Scarred hands gripped the bars, pulling his red-bearded face closer. Setting down her tray of sausage, bread and beer, he dove forward. A moment later it was gone, as he gasped for breath.

“Swanhild…” he belched. “Yer blessed by the gods, milady.”

“God,” she corrected. “There is only one, Jorg. I’ll make you a Christian yet.”

“Perhaps yer father had a chance,” Jorg grumbled. “Ye’ve got none, milady.” She smiled, smoothing embroidered skirts before sitting on the grimy stone floor. “Have ye come with news, or just me dinner?”

“Much news, godfather Jorg.”

“That title’s not for me. Not since yer father fell... A caged man does ye no use.”

“Both wrongs will be righted. And now I know how. Charles Martel has risen to unify the Franks and defeat the Saxons to our north.”

“Ah, I know the man… Charles, the Hammer, that’s what they call him. A good man, bastard born, but so am I. Fights like a demon. I served him once, six years ago.”

“You served the Franks?”

“Briefly, we fought Saxons then too. Pushed them back to the Weser, Lippe, and Ruhr. Then they caught us marching back in Teutoberg Forest. Fearing no man, Charles took the vanguard with me in it. I hurling my Francesca into a Saxon bigger than a tree. They came on, raging… Again and again they broke on our shield wall. Seeing them bloodied, we followed Charles in his charge, and chased them to their holes… Good days under a strong leader. If Bavaria’s dukes were half as brave, they’d keep their heads for more than a fortnight.”

Swanhild’s face shriveled up, eyes watering.

“I do not mean yer father... He was a stout warrior. His death was my failing. Once I’m freed, yer uncle will pay fer what he’s done. You’ll be the duchess, milady, I swear it. Forgive me, an old brute loves to reminisce… Why do ye tell me of Charles now?”

“His wife has just died. Tell me, is he kind?”

“I saw little of him in Paris, great man that he was even then. Never saw behind closed doors, or in private with his wife. On the battlefield, he was honorable. Those who surrendered were given food and quarter. Chiefs who bowed to him kept their heads. I may not have been so merciful as Charles, but I know yer father would have. In that way they were alike.”

“That is good to hear… I thank you, Jorg, for years of service and your remembrance of my father. Now to right these wrongs, I wish to make Charles a proposition.”

“Ye’d be so bold? I feel I know what ye plan. Perhaps yer the brave man Bavaria needs.” Swanhild smiled back, bright as a summer day. “Well, if yer made up... Its in Charles we trust.”

Swanhild returned to her chambers that night, taking to quill and parchment. She wrote to Charles Martel, giving condolences to his late wife. In the same letter she offered her hand in marriage, if one day he would give Bavaria freedom from Frankish rule. She knew it was only a matter of time before the Franks conquered all Germania, and this may save her people suffering.

Six months later, a letter came back.

II

Several letters followed between Swanhild and Charles Martel, ruler of the Franks. At first, he asked much of her and her claim to the dukedom of Bavaria, wondering if it was legitimate. She professed that her father was the late Duke Theodo, deposed by his brother Grimwald. Now she and her father’s greatest warrior Jorg lived in shame. She asked that Charles march east to set those wrongs right. Seemingly satisfied, Charles asked much of Bavaria, the number of troops they could raise, the size of Salzburg’s army, and the castle’s layout. Knowing the danger if she was deceived, Swanhild told him everything. In return he told her his day of arrival.

Rousing early, she waited in the early morning light. From her window, salt barges sailed the river below.

Warhorns broke the quiet still.

Men shouted in the castle, and soon a thousand torches appeared in the valley. Moving into the village, hoofbeats thundered like a wave over Salzburg castle’s bridge. Finally, they swarmed the keep, arriving in silver mail, crested helmets and gold arm rings. German guardsmen cried as arrows lanced down at the Franks. It was not long before a battering ram smashed against Salzburg’s gates. Again and again it crashed on oak, men screaming on both sides. Swanhild covered her ears, sliding to the floor. Instantly, she regretted bringing such wrath on her people. How many would die for her foolish pride?

Then she recalled Jorg’s words. Charles was kind and just, sparing the defeated and standing with his men in the shield wall. Swanhild donned a green dress that would still allow her to run if need be. Passing out into the hallway, she determined to face her suitor. Nobles filled the halls, chattering like chickens before the slaughter. Charles promised Swanhild there would be no undo bloodshed, but some of these men deserved it for they had betrayed her father. Descending the main stairway, she reached the entrance hall where men gathered before the keep’s doors.

“Milady, return to your chambers!” they pleaded, but she stood her ground.

When the doors slipped open and Germans rushed out to defend Salzburg, Swanhild swan the outer wall. Its oaken doors were shattered by the Frankish ram. Horses trotted, blades flashed in dawn’s light and men died in the streets. Dread welled up inside once more, as cabbage and cheese rose from her stomach, onto the floor.

Grimwald and his men burst through the door as they shut behind. “Cowards! Retreating from one Frankish charge… You’re not men, you’re sheep!”

Grimwald wore the battle-glory of Bavaria, a winged helmet and mail with a bastard sword at his hip. A pine shield painted with the black bear of Freising was strapped to his arm. In his haste to join battle, a silver circlet that offered no protection made its way onto his bald, sweaty head. Swanhild pitied her uncle, beaten already by a foreign invader and soon to be at his mercy, all for her doing.

“My Duke!” cried a soldier. “Charles Martel demands we free the traitors loyal to Theodo. He wants to speak with one prisoner, Jorg of the Baia. Will you have us free them?”

“Jorg?” Grimwald roared. “I thought he died years ago. Bring up what’s left of him... How a man can live in darkness fed on gruel I’ll never know.”

“Soon you will,” Swanhild whispered to herself.

With a violent crash, an axeblade appeared in the door by Grimwald’s head. He jumped three feet, nearly losing his circlet. Wild eyes turned as more brutal blows tore the door to pieces. An invader peered through, gnashing teeth. “Surrender, Grimwald, and you may yet live,” boomed an imperious command from beyond.

Grimwald drew his sword, crouching low. Dark eyes flew to his men who slowly drew their steel. A thousand men beat their shields and cried, “Martel!” from the streets beyond. As soon as the spark lit in Grimwald’s eyes, it was snuffed out. The tip of his sword wilted to the ground and was sheathed. He signaled to his guards.

Oaken doors burst wide as Frankia’s ruler stepped forward. Charles stood between six and seven feet, a gilded axe in hand, the same that rent the door. He wore a neat beard, brown locks fell to his shoulders, and his crown was adorned with the Fleur de Lys. Mailed arms and chest rippled as he strode forward. Blue eyes bore into Grimwald, giving an unspoken order. The duke growled, falling to his knees and tearing off his circlet.

Shouts sounded down the hall as bootsteps rang in their ears. Swanhild gasped as Jorg ran ahead of guardsmen, a battleaxe in his hand.

“Draw yer blade,” Jorg spat, approaching Grimwald. The duke’s eyes went to Charles who nodded, backing away.

Grimwald leapt to his feet, drawing his sword in a flash. Jorg’s axe struck his sword like an anvil. The red-bearded warrior howled, hacking at Grimwald’s defenses. Shocked at the man’s strength after five years of darkness and gruel, Grimwald lost ground. He could barely block his foe’s vicious axe before one cut made it past. Jorg’s blade sank into Grimwald’s shoulder, crippling the Duke’s sword arm. He fell to his knees once more.

“Finish it,” Grimwald snarled, clutching the arm.

“Jorg, please!” Swanhild called from the stairs. “If you have any love for me, spare my uncle. He is selfish but deep down there is good.”

Jorg’s axe lowered to his side as rage subsided. “Death is too kind fer ye, traitor.”

“Jorg,” said Charles Martel. “Though I’ve come for Swanhild’s hand and the loyalty of her people, I see your mettle has not dulled.”

“Ye remember me, king?” Jorg asked, eyes gaining light.

“I’m no king… But serve me once more and I vow that before my death Bavaria will be free.”

Jorg knelt, bowing his head.

[alexmorrall]

Johan of Moor Hall

 874

 I

Johan picked his way nimbly over the fens, leather boots darting from one patch of grass to the next in a brisk run.  As he passed, he made sure not to put too much weight on one foot or linger too long on one patch else brown sludge would creep up over his boot and soak it through.  He was making a long loop around his estate, surveying the grounds for wolves.  His boy had sighted one the day before but last night had been plagued with mist and so it was a drinking night. This night was clear and so he ranged.  Like a true ranger, Johan was always prepared for wolves. He carried a two-edged sword strapped to his back, a long knife on one hip and a short seax knife on the other, with a longbow and quiver slung over his shoulder.  Coming to stand at the bottom of a hill from which he could survey his lands, he stopped, his breath pouring white into the night air.  The puffs rose up over a full moon of silver, pouring over the land and giving the moors below a vast, rolling landscape of bristles and clods.  The mounds and planes reminded him of an undulating sea or unbeaten iron before the forge, both pleasing sights to his mind.

 He had seen the Saefern Sea only once when he was a boy. Johan’s father had taken him there on his way to business in Gloucester.  Here in west-central Mercia, outside the village of Wenlock, they were far from any glimpses of sea, but he did not mind.  Johan was still young, only twenty years of age, and life was good. He had large fields of onions, peas, parsnips and cabbage, a strong hall that stood through many winters, and a loyal woman who had borne him a boy and two daughters.  He often helped his neighbors clear their farmlands of boars or wolves.  Such beasts could kill children with ease, and often did, as the boys of the frontier village of Wenlock never missed a chance to prove themselves to their fathers.  He was well-respected in Wenlock, and the elders had urged him to take the position of reeve, but he preferred to live on the heaths outside the village in his home they called Moor Hall.  Johan had even led men of Wenlock to raid the Welsh on occasion, since they were so close, their cattle so fat and they often did the same.

 Beginning his ascent up the hill, he checked the brush that clung to both sides of the hill at the edges.  It ran like an adder up the right side of the hill in purple patches of heather and bramble, swaying gently in a chill breeze.  Bending low and advancing in a crouch, he moved swiftly to the brush line, gray eyes piercing through its darkness.  Then, a sound alerted him to the presence of a creature and he drew his seax, gripping it point down so that he was prepared to stab whatever laid within.  A grassy clod rose up from the heather, speeding through the air to hit Johan in the side of the face.  He sputtered, wiping dirt from his mustaches and spitting profusely.  A round of giggles streamed up out of the brush and he lunged forward with his free hand, pulling a pale arm up into the moonlight.  His wife lurched to her feet and once he saw her blue eyes he let go.  Wrapping arounds around him she continued to laugh.

 “I am sorry, my love,” she whispered between chuckles, “it was just too tempting.”

 “Elesa,” Johan sighed, “I nearly spitted you like a boar.”

 “Well, let’s not rule anything out.”

 The beauty with deep red braids of hair kissed his rough, grimy cheek and pressed her head against his chest as she squeezed.  He had been prepared to kill whatever laid in the heather and the blood still pulsed in his temples.  He should have been sorely cross, and many other men would have hit their wife for such a game, but he had never done so and the sight of her was too much for him to resist.   Taking her apple-shaped face in both hands, he kissed her deeply on the lips, sheathing his seax as he did so.  Moaning a little, her hands cradled his own strong chin, nails dragging on his cheekbones as he grunted softly.  Bending low to the earth once more, he took her down with him, laying her back on the heather.  Those bright eyes looked up at him in expectation as he tugged back her skirt, luminescent orbs filled with silver from above.  Her lips curled back and she laughed again, as coarse hands ran over her flat stomach.

 “There is none to watch the children at this hour. We should return to the hall,” he spoke first, rising to sit.  His bare chest heaved a spout of white into the cold night air.  She still laid under his bear fur cloak, peeking up at him with scolding eyes.

 “All day I watch the children, and read to them the gospels like a good Christian wife while you teach farmers how to hunt.  They cannot sit still for a minute because they are your children, you wild man!  You go out every night after dinner and return when I am abed, thinking to steal some love.  I cannot remain there all my life.  I must walk out under the moon some nights or I will die of such purgatory.”

               “Until you learn to hunt, your place is the home and mine is the fields.  If I knew how you felt about motherhood perhaps I would not have sired them on you.  Your father offered me six sheep to choose your sister.”

               “Why yes, because,” Elesa smiled, “well, have you seen her?”

               “So now I am a poor man with a pretty wife.”

               “You do well enough with your hunting and the work you do for farmers.”

               “They pay me in turnips.”

               “But you are well-loved by them and all the townsfolk. And by the children and myself. Is that not enough?”

 Johan stared off, over the crest of the hill, to the rolling, uneven countryside, unbeaten iron, that stretched endlessly before them.  Life was good, it was true, but there was always something more.  Serving as good Samaritan to the village could only bring him and his family so far.  What would he leave behind for them when he was gone?

 “Perhaps you are right,” Elesa sighed. “Let us return to the children.”

 II

They descended the great hill, overlooking Wenlock, a briskness added to their step.  The smoke fires and the lights of the hamlet below faded disappeared from their gaze.  Johan had done his best this eve to find the wolves, he had been out for hours.  The wolves were getting desperate now as the summer had sweltered the crops and now early frosts had put an end to plant life on the moors. This meant their prey had starved for lack of food and they too would be going hungry now as winter approached. The prospect of going to winter’s sleep on an empty stomach was not a pleasant one.  It was a wonder Elesa was able to find him so far afoot.  Though he prided himself on stealth, she must have seen him coming, and hid in the low brush before he could glimpse her.  Johan had been right to suspect wolves, but instead the creature lurking in the heather had turned out to be his wife.  At sixteen his eyes had been sharp as an eagle, every May festival was marked with him winning Wenlock’s archery games.  He wondered if he was losing his touch.

 As they covered the last few rises and falls of the hills, they speculated on what condition they would find their hall in. 

 “I put them to bed,” Elesa defended herself.

 “That does not mean they’ll stay abed,” Johan grumbled.

 “It’s true.  Little Johan may have eaten all the oatcakes by now.”

 “I can seen him,” Johan smiled. “Running around, naked to the waist, crumbs falling from his cheeks.”

 Then they rounded the last bend before laying eyes on the hall. 

 The hall was on fire.

 A half dozen men stood in a half circle around the hall, whose timbers had caught in full and cackled loudly.  It was a hall he had built himself, stripped the great boughs of oak and planed them with saws borrowed from village farmers. Hammered with wood nails and roofed with thatch, it had kept them warm for six years. The men’s faces leered into the flames, eyes glowing with firelight, bearded men who clutched axes and spears.  Johan’s hand whipped out, pulling Elesa back behind the bend of a grassy mound.  The sight was too much to bear.  Elesa’s eyes locked on Johan’s in fright, her chin trembling, her small form shaking as she bent into him.  Her nails tore into his forearms that held her steady and wrapped around to keep her from falling.  A wheezing sound erupted from deep within her and Johan moved to cover her mouth, wild gray eyes drawing her attention.  He guided her to the earth and raised a finger to her lips, pressing it firm before turning away.  Sidling up to the edge of the mound, Johan’s nostrils flared, jaw shifted to the side as he tipped his head forward to see them.

 They were Danes, hair and beards wild and unkempt, some covered in tattoos, arms banded with silver rings.  Gnashing their teeth and howling like wolves before the inferno that rose up over Moor Hall, Johan’s eyes filled with water as he drew his longbow.

 “Elesa, return to the hill we made love on,” Johan whispered urgently.  “Hide in the heather as you did when I found you.  Do not come out until you hear my voice.”

 “That is miles away,” Elesa choked, “I cannot leave you and our children.”

 “You must, Elesa,” tears rolling down his cheeks, “I am going to attack them and if I fall, I cannot let them find you.  We have lost enough today, we must not lose each other.  I will be after you once I kill these men.”

 “But…”

 “I must attack them while our children still live and I will not do so until you are gone.  Now, go.”

 Elesa rose slowly to her feet and started to trudge away, looking back at Johan and shaking, as tears spilled over the grass.

 Johan turned back to the Danes, fitting an arrow to his bow.  He looked them over: four spear-Danes and two axe-Danes, who looked similar, tall and broad-shouldered with braided blonde hair.  These two, who appeared as brothers, seemed to hold more authority.  Their eyes were circled in tattoos of black ravens and their axes were double-bladed, of fine tempered steel that shone in the moonlight.  The spike atop each axe had a wolf’s head carved into it.  Johan had never seen such intricate craftsmanship.  Johan decided they would die first.  One brother bellowed at the flames, babbling in Danish and waving them larger with his axe blade.  Johan’s arrow hit him in the side of the neck, an impact that almost went unnoticed at first.  A great paw rose up to slap at the quivering shaft, as if at a flying insect.  When he found the arrow in his neck, he cried louder as warmth spread down his chain shirt and fell to his knees, gasping for breath.  His brother knelt at his side, screaming, “Harald!” and Johan knew that was his name.  He barked at the spear-Danes, who then advanced toward Johan’s mound.  Johan had his next arrow trained on the lead spear-Dane and let it fly, saw it sink into his heart.

 Feral roars filled the night as the now three spear-Danes sprinted to close the distance.  Pulling back beyond the mound, Johan dropped his bow and drew his sword and long knife.  He waited just outside the firelight, and when they came into darkness, his blades were waiting for them.  His sword swept low, smashing the ankle of the first Dane who fell face forward. Next, his kidney suffered the bite of Johan’s long knife, as he writhed in the grass like an eel.  The last two spear-Danes and had stumbled upon their foe, readying weapons as the ranger rolled away, back into the brush.  Thrusting their spears to root him out, they prodded relentlessly until one cried out, his body falling forward as his heel was sliced open. 

 Johan rose up before the final spear-Dane, flicking his blades out to either side.  The Dane snarled, charging ahead with a spear lunge that Johan parried with both blades. However, the Dane’s shoulder blasted him in the face as he tried to hold his ground and nearly bowled him over.  Off-balance, Johan could do nothing as the Dane grabbed him with his free hand, dragging him to the ground.  Slamming the butt of the spear against Johan’s temple, the ranger’s vision went white for a moment before the Dane started to beat him bare-handed.  The blows kept falling, and Johan felt his teeth loosen, as welts replaced his eyes and he bit off part of his tongue.  Warm blood filled his mouth as he went numb, and the sickening smack of the Dane’s fists on his face registered only as if from far away.  Then they stopped, and he felt the Dane slump off him.  Johan tried to open his eyes but they were nearly swollen shut.  He glimpsed Elesa, holding a seax that dripped red.  She helped him to his feet, and he nearly told her she should have stayed hidden, but held his tongue.  They peered out at their hall which was now in ruin, its roof half-collapsed and smoke hazing the stars above. 

 The brother axe-Danes had gone into the night.

 Elesa ran to the burning structure, crying out for her children.  They heard nothing in response, and did what they could to peel back timbers but the inferno burnt their skin.  They watched for the next few hours as the hall collapsed completely.  There was no response from Wenlock.  In the valley below their hall, they could see the village was burning as well.

[alexmorrall]

Seabloom

I am lost adrift a midnight sea; waves crushing down, burying me.

My only console: agony,

Traced not from brief-lost memory.

Long has sorrow, darkness pained;

What was lost shall be regained. listening to that angel sing, a melody mine ears doth ring.

So sincere sweet a pledge of love,

Lost and fleeting as gun-shy dove. hold dear damsel, to secure. another bliss I shan’t procure. wrap me now in folding words, held aloft amongst white birds.

Day and night, love doth roam,

Snare my heart with salty foam, pray soft secrets for your doom,

yonder petals blossom, bloom.

 ~From Sir Walter Raleigh to Queen Elizabeth’s lady-in-waiting, whom he was imprisoned for loving.

[alexmorrall]

Out on the Waves in the Night

The night was a thick, hazy black, stars shrouded in darkness. An iron screw steam ship crossed the roiling seas, a white sliver on a plane locked in motion. The crew clung to their bunks for some sense of peace, but the walls kept moving. Its floor rattled in protest as Poseidon did his best to make an appearance. Trying desperately to poke through, the watery king of old drove his spear against the ship’s belly. A young woman of eighteen laid on the cargo hold floor. Every minute or so, Caroline’s head was knocked by swells. She ached, stung and sore, but she did not move. It was deserved, God willed her pain. Setting her neck against the floor beneath and biding her time, she took each blow, dreaming of a safe place.

White sands stretched out before her, caressed by equatorial rays. Her toes found respite beneath the sun-roasted surface. She turned over, her fiancé lying close.  Neil’s breathing was slow and relaxed as he gazed up, bowler hat over his eyes. As she laid her fingertips on his skin, she felt his heat inside. Wanting nothing more than for this to last forever, she sighed, lying back. Their time together in the sun melted away as he rose, shaking off the sand. He adjusted his hat, before striding away across the beach. Rising heat boiled the white plain as he walked away, fading into the jungle.

Enraptured in the ever-present aura of warmth, her mind looked back and inward. She saw herself as a child of four, playing in a sandbox. When she viewed her future, she never envisioned lying on a beach in Fiji. She saw herself as a cowgirl roaming the saloons for bandits, a revolver on both hips. With small hands, she built an Old West town. She walked its streets with undaunted swagger.  A cowgirl in the sand, she marveled at the monument of her dreams, until a gust of wind swept through. In an instant, hours of work reduced to a few random clusters of sand.

Woken from her reverie, she heard languid footsteps growing nearer. Resuming occupation of a severely sun-burnt body at the waters’ edge, she peered up at Neil. He had emerged from a shady grove that stood over freshwater streams emptying into the Pacific.

“Darling, I found the most remarkable crab. He had more colors than the sun, and the flowers here! They are magnificent, not to mention the palms, so many varieties…”

He had captured the flora and fauna with his Eastman Kodak, which he packed up. Deeply proud of his photographs, and the newly purchased camera, he too hoped to hold onto this forever. This was the vacation they’d scrimped, saved and longed for. Caroline had seen his pictures, all black and white and grainy. It would retain nothing of the trip’s true beauty, its legacy lost to time.

It would all be over too soon, and their carefully laid plans erased. She remembered the Ford they’d rented on the road to Paradise outside Glenorchy. It chugged up the cliffside for a rainbow glimpse, spilling over a lakeside waterfall. Alas it was but a mere vision, taking up a brief second in their lives. 

The memory-laden camera fell into his hat as he dropped it into the sand. Taking her in his arms, he kissed her neck, which stung with burns. She groaned, which he mistook for arousal.

“I’m burnt to a crisp. I need to get inside, and some aloe on my skin.” They picked up the towel, the hat with the camera in it, and went on their way back to the resort.

It drifted into the recesses of her buffeted brain as another wave rocked the steam-powered vessel. A scuffling sound from a shadow in the ship’s belly made her peer to the left.  Glad to focus on something beyond memory, she locked eyes with a bright-eyed boy. His hair was jet black, skin a deep chestnut and eyes shone a disarming blue.  He sat small as a mouse, silent as one too.  His eyes, like sapphires in the night, begged recognition.

“Where did you come from?” she asked, “I didn’t see you when I came down.”

“I snuck in from the sea,” he yawned, stretching bronze legs. He wore green trunks. “There’s a hole in this ship, don’t you know? There is with most things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Things don’t always add up. There’s always something you can’t account for, something that can’t be controlled. Something always gets lost or doesn’t turn out the way you expect.  How does one explain a lost stocking in the wash?”

“Is that what you are? You’re nothing more than a lost stocking in the wash?”

“Aren’t we all?” he chuckled.

“What’s your name?”

“Geoff.  What’s yours?”

“Caroline.  It’s nice to meet you, Geoff.  How old are you?”

“Six.”

“Six?  You look at least ten.  Are you a Fijian?”

“My father is. My mother is French.”

Caroline recalled Neil’s promise they would honeymoon in Paris. They laid out their futures so precisely. After making love in a Rotorua hot spring, they decided to name their first son after her father.  That would bring him back into her life, she told herself.  She always wanted to make him happy, but she knew he wanted a son. A grandson could have sufficed but not now. The thought made her bite back her tears.

“Oh,” Caroline swallowed, bleary-eyed, “how did they meet?”

“My mother was on vacation here. She hiked to a waterfall one day and my father was her guide. He told her of his life, growing up in Fiji, and she fell in love. My mother decided to stay in Fiji, sharing the shelter of his single bed. She’s the one who taught me proper English, but that’s enough about me. Everyone onboard is Fijian merchant marine. Who are you?”

“My name is Caroline. I’m from Auckland.”

“The City of Sails! Is that where we’re going?”

“Why, yes. Shouldn’t you know? Well, my fiancé and I came to Fiji after he came into inheritance. Then… the only way back to New Zealand on such short notice was on this old cargo ship.”

“This isn’t just any old ship. It’s haunted.”

Caroline remembered a dream from an afternoon long ago, sitting in her grandmother’s attic.  A haze of musk hung over cedar boxes filled with books from the nineteenth century.  Each yellowed page was a relic to her, as she inhaled the scent of forgotten knowledge.  In the dark corners of the attic, a creaking sound resonated, carrying along the walls and causing her to lift her eyes to follow its passage.  Puffs of sawdust leaked through the walls.  Caroline broke into a coughing fit. When she opened her eyes, she saw yellow handprints spreading across the walls.  Spreading from the far wall, they inched their way until the attic became a prison of light.

She hadn’t eaten much then, and she wasn’t eating now, not since the accident.

“Is that right?” Caroline shivered in the hold of the ship.  “There are ghosts on board?”

“They are all around,” Geoff whispered, eyes darting left and right.

“I came here with my fiancé, hoping to add memories to the life we were planning, and now he’s dead.  Maybe his ghost is here too.”

“What happened to your beau?”

“We canoed beyond the reef, and he broke the blade of his oar. It started to sink, and he reached for it. He… fell into the ocean.” Caroline paused, her eyes watery green now.

“The people at the resort told us to never go beyond the reef, and he learned why.  The undertow carried him out. I watched him go. There was nothing I could do.”

“You couldn’t reach him with your canoe in time?”

“I… didn’t try. It was horrible. He was gone so fast. He was too big. He would have pulled me in with him. Then we both would have drowned.”

“That is very sad. I am sorry,” Geoff nodded silently, his black hair bobbing in the dark. “How long will it be until you love again?”

“I do not know… I still feel the pain. I must feel it. You were right, it was my fault. I let him die. I’ve been punishing myself but its right. I need to suffer.”

A loud crash was heard from above and Caroline looked up to see the Fijian captain descending a ladder.

“We’re going to make it,” he said, “the storm has passed.”

She turned back to the shadows and looked for Geoff, but he had vanished.

“Geoff?” she called into the darkness.  “Geoff, are you there?”

“Who is this Geoff now?” asked the captain. He carried a bowl of stew, nearly dropping it as the ship rolled. “Is there someone else down here?”

“Yes, isn’t there a boy of six named Geoff on this ship?”

“No, there’s no boy named Geoff,” the captain frowned, offering her the stew. “Now, you should eat. You’ve not eaten since we picked you up in Suva three days ago.”

“My fiancée is dead. I cannot eat. Now, Geoff, I did see him, I know it.”

“Perhaps you were dreaming. How anyone could sleep right now, I cannot say.”

“But I told him everything. It must have been real.”

“I have seen the limits of the Pacific, the greatest expanse on earth,” the captain began.  “I have seen the glory of this world, and I know if you can see it in your mind, it already exists. We humans live more in our minds than in flesh. Out on the waves, I dream much. I’ve come to think dreams are just as real as waking life. I’ve never felt more than in a dream. Who is to say we are more real than they?”

“I’ve had enough dreaming, good captain,” Caroline sighed. “I’ll sleep now. When we return to Auckland, I’ve got some letters to write. I’ll have to write Neil’s mother, inform her of his passing. It will break her heart, but I will make it up to her. Perhaps it is for the best. I always liked his brother better.”

“Let’s start with dinner,” said the captain, handing her the stew. This time, she took it.

[alexmorrall]

A Secret of Steel

Her sister was gone.  She had to accept it.  Life would never be the same. She would never see her smile or play games in the woods.  Everything had changed.

That was how it felt as the wagon clattered its way into the village.  A tired nag sneezed dust, driven by a boy of sixteen summers. At his side was a girl of fifteen.

Night drove like a dagger into the land of summer.  Darkness crept over pines, and hills, and lakes deep as time.  Woodland beasts stole away to burrows and dens.  As light faded from the lakelands, Kaelyn desired warmth.  She wanted a voice other than Remy’s.  She needed hope, some sign of her sister.

They offered to muck the local stable for lodging their horse overnight.  While cleaning, a grey mouse approached Kaelyn, crept up her leg and nestled in her road satchel.  

“Hello there,” she grinned.  “You are brave, aren’t you? Warm in there?”

Leaving the horse at a stable, they walked to a tavern. The sign outside read, “No weapons.”

Kaelyn noted the sign, a knot in her gut.  Taking seats at the bar, they ordered pea soup. When it came, they basked in its steam. As the barkeep returned, Kaelyn asked for bread.  The warm round barely left his hand before she took a bite. Tucking a piece in her satchel, she heard nibbling.  Then she lowered the bag to the floor, letting its inhabitant out.

“Go find what you can,” she whispered to the mouse.

“Would Amaris go after him alone?” asked Remy.

“She might,” Kaelyn returned.

“Then she’s being held by… the bandit king.”

“I don’t care what they call him. He’s a man and he can be killed. I’m not giving up.”

“Kill him? What hope do we have? I can barely hold a sword and you…”

“What about me? I practice every morning.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“You’re asleep.” Kaelyn shook, golden curls nearly spilling from her kerchief.

“Pretty lass, what brings ye to Arden?” asked the barkeep.  He sniffed. “Is that lavender?”

“We’re heading east,” she said. “Passed a field earlier.”

“Strange, never seen lavender outside Duskfall.”

“Left Duskfall two days back,” Remy lied, “must’ve caught a sprig in her hair.”

“Lovely!” bellowed the barkeep.

Kaelyn wished she had not bathed, but the lavender soap was a gift from her sister. Amaris was the only mother she ever knew. Her tunic was grimy, but beneath it lay something no stable girl carried in all of Kemp. Its cool steel made her wince every so often.  She kept it with her always, for it too was from her sister.

“Have you seen a man with grey hair and piercing blue eyes?” Kaelyn asked. “Fifties, travels with other men, armed and cloaked?”

“A group like that did come in day before carrying a bundle wrapped like a log.  They drank all night, but I went off to bed.  Left my barback to tend ‘em.”

“I don’t see your barback.”

“Yes, it’s odd.  He’s running late tonight.”

A chill swept through the tavern with six cloaked men. Villagers parted, gawking at the strangers. Their leader sat next to Kaelyn. A line scored one wrinkled brow, but his eyes whipped like a snake.  Twelve gold lilies appeared on the counter.

“Six Deerpeak Lagers.”

“Fresh out of Deerpeak.”

“What kind of backwater is this?”

“Arden, sir,” said a cheerful villager.  “A pleasure.”

“Raven’s Hill Riesling then,” the leader scowled.

“No Raven’s Hill out here.”

Remy nudged Kaelyn and tipped his head to the man beside her.

“What do you have then?” the leader demanded.

“House ale and gutdrink.”

“Six ales and six gutdrinks then. But this ale better not taste like piss.”

“Look at his face, it’s going to,” chuckled another cloaked man.

“What else does this place have?” the leader asked. “Rats? Better not be.”

When the ale came, the six men clinked their flagons together and drank.

A nibble on her boot brought Kaelyn’s gaze low again.  She reached down to pick up the mouse, hearing a few “meeps.”

“That bundle is in the cellar,” Kaelyn whispered to Remy. “He would’ve chewed rope, but it’s bound with chain.”

Remy’s eyes grew as he saw the mouse.

“You’ve been busy. Well, what you’ve got can cut any iron or steel,” he grinned.

One of the men stood and approached Kaelyn.  Her hands were smooth, face unblemished by sun, eyes like sunlit forests.  He tugged her kerchief back. Kaelyn slapped at his hand, as Remy stood up.  The bandit snorted and drew a knife.

“No weapons!” the barkeep slammed a flagon on the bar, as hands turned to fists.

With a crash, the tavern door burst open. In strode a ranger and two militia men.  They led a man bound in chains.

“This man serves the bandit king,” said the ranger. “Has anyone seen men like this?”

The six men at the bar slowly turned.  The stranger started to move away.

“You, hold there, let me see your face.”

“Well, seems you’ve found me,” the stranger turned. When pale blue eyes came into view, he sprang toward Kaelyn, setting a knife against her throat. “Stand slow now, girl.”

The bandit king guided her to the rear of the tavern.  As shouts erupted, they descended the cellar stairs.

Kaelyn was brought into darkness, as her wrists were bound with twine.  Light spilled in as two more bandits entered.  Kaelyn peered through barrels to a bundle at the rear. There it lay, covered in wool but betraying the shape of a female form.

As his two men braced the door, the bandit king paced. Soon, there was a tremendous crash.  Still it held, but the bandit king raged with curses.  Drawing broadswords, they readied themselves.  Kaelyn closed her eyes, thinking how foolish she had been, captured along with her sister who she had come to find.  She feared also for Remy, her escort who may now be dead.

The cellar door burst open, knocking the first bandit off the stairs, onto a crate of melons that sprayed juice. Remy was there, holding a broadsword.  He dueled the second bandit at the top of the stairs.  Surprisingly, he seemed to hold his own.  Kaelyn wiggled her waist, spread her legs wide and reached her bound hands beneath them, catching a falling object.  It was a dagger of blue steel which cut the twine like mist. She kept the blade behind her back.  

The bandit king pulled Kaelyn up, knife at her neck again.  She felt its cold blade bite her flesh.  She heard the bundle squirm at the rear of the cellar.

Then Kaelyn brought the dagger around at the bandit king’s heart.  He grabbed her hand as the dagger’s tip pierced his cloak, revealing armor beneath. The armor too was torn, and blood drawn.  She saw now, he wore crimson scalemail that burned with inner fire.  His hand clamped on her wrist.  Dropping from her fingers, the blue steel blade clattered to the floor.

Kaelyn heard a groan and looked to see Remy fall with blood flowing from his head.  The bandit king bent to retrieve her dagger, but Kaelyn kicked. The dagger scuttled through barrels to the cellar’s rear.  Cursing again, he almost went after it when he saw a mouse scurry over his path.  

“Rats! I knew there’d be rats,” he growled.

Then he looked to the stairs.  The ranger was there, thumping his sword hilt against the last bandit’s temple.

Snarling, the bandit king moved Kaelyn between himself and the ranger.

“Release her if you are a man.”

The bandit king drew a golden rapier from within his cloak.  Then he threw Kaelyn to the floor and lunged at the ranger.  He parried the blow and countered with a punch to the bandit’s gut. Pulling back his hand, the ranger grimaced.  Launching a flurry of jabs, the bandit king pressed his foe into a corner.

Kaelyn watched as Remy rose, gripping his sword. He moved to intercept the bandit king, but his target saw him and pierced his shoulder.  As Remy fell again, sound caught in Kaelyn’s throat as she forced down a scream.  She pushed the fear away and crawled forward, grabbing Remy’s sword.  Rising, she moved behind the bandit king.

When the ranger finally fell, Kaelyn knew it was her time. She brought both hands across in a mighty slash fit to tear the bandit in half.  Instead, the blade slammed into his hip and went no further.  His red scale armor shone through a torn cloak.  

“Dragonmail,” coughed the ranger. At the same time, Kaelyn heard a sound of steel cutting iron.

Cackling, the bandit king disarmed Kaelyn with a flick of his wrist.  She backed up to the wall, eyes searching.  With a smile, the bandit king readied his blade to run her through.

“Wait!” Kaelyn cried, catching a glimpse of gold. “You’d be wise to spare my life.”

“Oh yes? What good are you now? I’ll hack my way out of here.”

“All bandits desire gold, yes? Well, you should know… I am a princess.”

“Two?” the bandit king’s eyes doubled in size and narrowed again as he thought.

Then Kaelyn saw her move behind him, green eyes and golden locks much like her own. Amaris perched just over his shoulder, before sinking the blue steel dagger into his back.  He crumpled to the floor with a groan.

“Sister,” she said, helping Kaelyn to her feet, “Lovely time for a visit.”

[alexmorrall]

Wheel of Fire

Gasc awoke on a stone floor, bathed in darkness.  He shivered, hugging his knees for warmth.  In his cell, he glimpsed what appeared to be a man with a bull’s head, chained at wrist and ankle.  It was full eight feet of muscle corded like bands of iron.  How such a creature had come to be, who could know? Finding his feet, Gasc moved to a window overlooking the river.  Yesterday, he was to buy passage across the Western Sea.  No more would he scrub latrines in his father’s temple.  Yet, it was his father who placed him in jail for attempting to pawn the family cutlery.

Between the bars, Gasc spied a red dot in the sky above. As he watched, it seemed to grow, descending toward the city. Carriages sped merrily along the river, oblivious to the scarlet light above. Unable to look away, the crimson orb burned with streaks of flame.  It seemed to slow as it hung over the water.  Gooseflesh rose over his body, tapping horror that made him wheeze for breath.  He nearly lost his supper.

The minotaur thumped his head on the wall, groaning.  Suddenly, the orb burst in a red flash that illuminated a cloudy night. Claws of flame lanced out over the river and formed a turning wheel of fire.

Out from the wheel, an otherworldly shape slipped into the river.  The lad had seen it.  Though it dwelled now beneath the ripples, the sight lingered as his mind reeled in attempts to explain. A spectacle that could be ignored no longer, drivers stood from carriages. Onlookers babbled as they approached the shore, drawn by invisible threads.  Gasc’s eyes poured over gentle, black waters, finding nothing.  Then, with a terrible roar, the wheel collapsed. A yellow mist remained, obscuring the waters below. City-dwellers turned with disinterested shrugs and chatter, about to go on their way.

As they lingered, a gangly appendage emerged from the river. 

“H-hey, bull-man,” Gasc stammered.

“Minotaur you mean?” he growled. “Sounds like you slept through Classics. Name’s Mard.”

“You can talk?” Gasc’s head turned on its side, then he shook it. “Mine’s Gasc. Minotaurs aren’t real though. Where did you come from?”

“Oh, it’s a long story, portal from the past, demon war and all.”

“Tell me later. There’s something in the river! It’s about to eat those people.”

“Do I look like a hero? Here we go again.”

Flexing, Mard’s manacles and shackles burst to pieces. 

“Might want to stand back.”

Gasc dove out of the way as Mard charged forward. He burst through the brick wall as if it were parchment, dropping into the river. Drawn by the great splash, the appendage slipped back underwater. A current marked its passage beneath the river away from its civilian prey to the jail. Soon, it lurked beneath Gasc, as he peered through a minotaur-shaped gap in the wall.

Slowly, the bulbous head of the beast emerged.  Twelve mad eyes regarded its prey.  Gasc quivered as six tentacles converged, and fetid breath poured from its fanged maw. Then with a howl, the jaws slammed shut, and the beast reeled away.  Spinning, the beast thrashed as Gasc spotted a form clinging to its backside.  Seeing his chance, Gasc climbed out the jail’s shattered wall, over the river. Then he sprinted down the street beyond.

Arriving out of breath before his father’s temple, the man himself stood outside, holy book nestled under an arm.

"Inside with you!" his father reached a hand, but Gasc slapped it away.

"No, father! A monster has fallen from the stars. I will not hide while it lives."

"Gascoigne! Get inside now!" His father reached again, still clutching the book. "Your mother would go mad if I lost you to a star beast!"

"No!" cried the boy, slapping the book out of his father's hand. It fell binding up in the mud.  His father bent to cradle the book in his arms.

Gasc returned to the river. Geysers erupted from the struggle beneath its surface.  A wave swept in, leaving tentacles that clung to the shore. Each limb ended with a spiny mouth.  Mard was hurled through the air, tumbling across the bank behind Gasc.  The minotaur rose and tore a wheel spoke from a broken carriage.  Churning waves lapped the shore, foul breath poured out and a terrible hiss rent the night.  Gasc scrambled away but fell in the mud.  Before tentacles reached him, Mard plunged his wheel spoke into an eye of the beast. A chorus of mind-piercing screeches numbed their senses.

“Begone, foul demon!” Gasc heard a voice behind. The aged man clutched a longsword in one hand, his holy book in the other. Gasc tried to cry out, but it was too late. 

Lured by bold words, the beast leapt fifty feet from the shallows to the street above. Its tentacles lashed around the holyman, and his longsword clattered to the cobbles.  Each spine tentacle hooked into his flesh and convulsed as the priest screamed. Its fanged jaws grew bore down, until the longsword appeared in the back of its head.  Writhing madly, its tentacles whipped back, tearing the minotaur’s flesh.  Mard roared, as he plunged the longsword through the beast’s brain.

#

Gasc rolled off his flour bag bed. Stretching his legs, he sat up, rubbing his head. Surely, it was all a dream, a sick manifestation of his desire for adventure.  Then, he heard a low chant from downstairs.

Descending, he found Mard in the sanctuary.  On the altar was Gasc’s father, covered in a wet blanket.  Before the altar was a strange, bearded fellow.  The man wore green velvet robes, a staff in his hand.

“Good Gascoigne, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. Your father was my student in life and I hope to guide him in death as well.  His order knows me as Life Priest.”

“Well, it seems you are too late. My father lies dead on this altar.”

The Life Priest reached out and placed a finger on Gasc’s forehead.  The lad almost knocked the hand away, as he had done his father. Numbness consumed him as he fell to his knees.

“Your father can still serve and so can you,” said the Life Priest. “For his sacrifice he will be granted eternal life. As it is written. Father and son, now forever one.”

#

The priest awoke all at once, head flying up to bring him to sitting, almost propelling him off his rump and into the air.  His body felt amazing, like nothing he had ever experienced.  Then he looked down at his hands, supple and strong!  Leaping from his bed, he padded to his bedroom mirror.

He saw only his son but knew it was he who remained.

And his son was no more.

[alexmorrall]

France Trip Nov 2019

Wednesday Nov 6, 2019

Flew with Mallory on Swiss Air to Zurich overnight from Boston. 

  Thursday Nov 7

Transferred to Paris and picked up our Renault 4-door sedan rent a car for the paltry sum of $150 for four days.  Drove in Parisian rush hour through the outskirts of the City of Light on the highway four hours to meet Zack’s girlfriend Natalie in Angers.  Formally the seat of the Dukes of Anjou, ancestors of the Plantagenets (Henry V.) Their descendants were the Lancasters of which George RR Martin’s Lannisters in Game of Thrones are based.  Arriving in Angers that night, we had a wonderful dinner hosted by Natalie.  She had two types if plain sausage prepared, one with mushrooms, as well as salad, cheese, wine and rabbit pate.  Her hospitality was incredible the whole time we were there.  She was very happy to have visitors too, as we brought a little bubble of America with us for Nat to enjoy.  As we ate, Nat regaled us of having to deal with leaking bloody fluids from alcoholic medical patients in her study program in Angers’ Med School.

  Friday Nov 8

Natalie’s parents’ apartment was very nice and we stayed on the pullout couch, sleeping late then wandering toward downtown Angers to experience local French culture for the first time. I ordered in French and surprised myself with how much of the language I could get by with.  Throughout the trip, I proved fairly capable of ordering, and making my way along, asking where the toilet was, “Ou est les toilette?” etc. I ordered “deaux café, sil vous plait” (two espressos) which came with a little slice of banana nut bread neatly perched on the saucer. The café was colorful, its walls lined with local artists’ paintings for sale.  There were brochures for local bands and comedy acts and a  few local women hanging out. The French dressed incredibly sophisticated almost always and Mallory and I tried our best to follow suit.  I wore dress shoes, black jeans, button up shirts and my peat coat the whole time while Mallory wore a collection of attractive sweaters, a wool headband, jeans and four different pairs of stylish boots.

  It was early in our relationship to be traveling so far to Europe (I must say) but two weeks prior we had celebrated our three month anniversary and I had told her I loved her. It was an unforgettable experience for the two of us traveling so far outside our comfort zones. We frequented game shops where the owners scratched their heads at the prospect of us buying board games in French when we didn’t speak the language. Then we made our way to the river and a view of Chateau D’Angers from below.  Later we would see it from on high and within but today we met Natalie for lunch at a sophisticated spot for lunch called Restaurant Sens.  The server was extremely friendly and knowledgeable, speaking superb English and indulged me to order and ask thigs in French as well.  We had a wonderfully buttery hazelnut and artichoke soup with great local red wine, braised lamb and another café for dessert.  Next, we walked about Angers, past craft beer stores, whiskey stores, bars, restaurants, game and record shops. I scored some sweet French comic books and returned to Natalie’s to head out in her little snub nose cherry red Wingo Renault four door sedan to cruise up to “FL” vineyard in the Loire valley countryside.

  Our sommelier guided us through four white wines and a red before allowing us to buy some (which Natalie informed us was highly encouraged after imbibing.)  I snapped a photo of our sommelier with Bill Murray taken a few months previous and Mal and I bought a bottle of white each. Nat bough four for her family and we returned to Angers for dinner at Chez Remi, a chic, homey restaurant where we had veal, lamb and a delicious chocolate cake for dessert.  We walked up to Chateau D’Angers that night, picked up some bleu cheese, truffle cheese, camembert and smoky cheese.

  Saturday Nov 9

Made it downtown with Nat to see the bustling farmers’ market’s last hour of business.  It was a great vibe, better than America by far and an eye-opening experience to see the vast varieties of food and care that went into their preparation and presentation.  Normally I would feel some semblance of agoraphobia surrounded by so many strange people but here I felt at ease amidst the French locals.  We tasted olives and marinated roasted red peppers on baguette from an Italian vendor and bought some ashy one-month aged cheese. I bought two jams for my parents and we purchased a plethora of pastries as well to add to our eventual dinner.  For dejeuner (lunch) we had savory breakfast crepes (ham, sausage and cheese) with a bottle of chilled local cider poured into porcelain mugs.  Apparently, the French drink hot wine but never hot cider.

  Next, we went to Joker’s Pub and got caught in the rain after enjoying the massive mural of musicians behind our table, a couple IPA’s, including Hellfest and one covered in Vikings battling a giant squid (a scene right out of my current DnD campaign I was running with Eddie and other Viking employees.) Caught in the rain our flan got squished under all our goods in the market basked but we returned with beaucoup de (plenty of) food before heading back downtown for four dollar mojitos.  We watched Julie and Julia (which I surprisingly enjoyed) that night over a bottle of wine, and fantasized about all the wonders of French cooking.

  Sunday Nov 10

Mal and I headed to Chateau D’Angers for a tour of the amazing castle built originally in 970 but rebuilt in 1234 and many times since. There, we witnessed the largest tapestry in the world: the Apocalpyse tapestry depicting the “Fall of Bablyon” (a metaphor for any great civilization of the time.) The tapestry displayed many-headed lions and dragons facing off against crusader swordsmen and the ending resulted in a rapture-like deliverance to New Jerusalem.  I scored some sweet photos of the Maine River, surrounding city of Angers and the gardens up on the walls of the chateau including roses and grapes for wine. We met up with Nat for local burgers that tasted more like steaks, less chewy and coarse than American burgers, paired with lightly-fried, buttery frites (fries) and mayo.  Then we headed out into the country to Chateau Brissac, a beautiful castle, owned by the same family since the year 1500.  In the stables, down some paths we found a menagerie of taxidermy animals: deer, boars, wolves and bears.  Stags were very common on French coats of arms and I remarked via text to my friend Joe Quinn that it was like Baratheon land.  The tour of the castle was twenty Euro each and all in French so we declined, opting to taste wine instead.  They had two great roses and a sweet cabernet that was basically rose (of which we bought two, in addition to two “real” reds.)

  Next, we wandered into the local village of Brissac for a café where they were celebrating the weekend of Armistice Day (which was the next day.)  A bunch of locals (including the servers) were seated, drinking and laughing in the middle of the café.  We ordered trois cafes on the back patio and discussed how funny it was that a donkey at the chateau took a serious liking to Mal (eating a fallen yellow leaf out of her hand.) We dubbed her the Donkey Whisperer.  We got onto the topic of Dr. Doolittle and I asked Mal if the movie inspired her to become a veterinarian.  She said no.  Growing up with dogs and horses was most likely “why” and I love her golden retriever Baylor (he’s my phone lock screen and background) and Maine Coon mix Beasley.  

  Returning to Natalie’s abode, then hitting the town for beers and smoked sausage (saucisse) at Berthems bar then Delirium Brewing Company where we got a free round because the bartender screwed up (she mistook my request for the check as asking for another round, which I then paid for one round.)  Walked out feeling pretty tipsy for Punjab, an amazing Pakistani-owned Indian style restaurant where all the servers were men in grey loose uniforms.  The food was out of this world, easily the best Indian and some of the best overall food I’ve ever eaten: chicken masala, beef korma, and paneer with amazing garlic naan and half a bottle of vin rouge (red wine.)  Returning to Nat’s apartment to drink a bottle of cabernet (rose) and watch “Our Planet” on Netflix while Mal slept on me (again, but I never mind because I find it adorable.)

  Monday Nov 11 (Armistice/Veteran’s Day)

Awoke for French press café with Nat then hit the road in the rain for Paris (specifically CDG airport) to return the rental car. As I tried to fill up some gas early in the trip, I found all my cards were not working (Fraud alerts, credit limits or American Express which they just wouldn’t accept in France.)  We continued on, able to pay inside a gas station for half a tank with my remaining Euro cash (it would have cost $100 US to fill the whole tank because of France’s gas taxes!) This explained the protest of the yellow jackets and those who have to drive on their daily commute into French cities.)  Then, before us stretched a broad assembly of thirty toll booths. I chose one toward the right hand side of the road (but not far enough right as it would turn out.)  Pulling up to the toll booth’s barred gate, none of my cards would work and I was now fresh out of cash.  Defeated, I exited my car and approached the driver of the car behind me who understood my English. Then I went to the next one in line, a French woman who spoke no English.  Eventually I got all five cars behind me to back up into oncoming traffic.  Then we somehow merged at a perpendicular angle to the right, avoiding hordes of approaching cars. Reached a government office building next to the toll booths on the right hand side of the road and parked in front.  I got out of my car and was about to approach the office before a woman on its second floor window closed the blinds on us.  We had no other choice and merged back behind a car, tailing them to sneak through before the toll gate dropped on my rental car.  We made it without a scratch!

  Feeling a rush of adrenaline we sped on our way to CDG and dropped off the rental.  Then we had to buy an RER train ticket to Paris.  This I feared, especially when all three of my cards failed once more.  But I added my Paypal account to Google Pay while standing at the ticket machine (not sure which account it was linked to but it worked!)  Zooming into Paris, we arrived at Gare Du Nord (North station, same name of the Boston station I used on my commute every day of work at Viking downtown.)  We took the Metro a few stops to Republique and exited for our first street view of Paris: teens skateboarding and hundreds of people milling about for Armistice Day.  I considered visiting a battlefield this day but they were all northeast of Paris and we had to return the rental car by 2:30pm.  Walking twenty minutes with our suitcases, from Republique to our Airbnb near Pere Lachaise (we could’ve used the Metro but walking was good exercise after enjoying so much extravagant food all weekend in Angers.  Made it all the way to the Airbnb, hosted by Quentin, who was nowhere to be found.

  Instead there was supposed to be a girl named Nastya waiting there for us (but not yet.) We went to a nearby café for an hour and I finally got my Bank of America account unlocked so I could get 100 Euro out of an ATM which was about the best feeling ever!  I feel like I will always carry some local cash with me wherever I go after that… hopefully it’s true, haha.  Nastya then let us in, a petite French girl in urban wear (sweatshirt, skullcap, skinny jeans) The apartment was small but nice and homey with plenty of Quentin’s 3D paintings on the walls.  The bedroom was perfectly sized for us (Mal loved it!) A winding staircase that gave you a dizzy head (mal a la tete) or a too-tight elevator (where you basically had to make out with the person sharing it with you) separated the fourth floor from the first.  We departed the apartment, leaving Nastya (who seemed surprised that we had immediate plans in the city) sitting on the living room couch. We were on our way to meet up with Anneli (newly “officially” engaged to Eddie, wearing a Sterling silver ring she had crafted with him on their recent trip to Dublin.)

  We met in Jaures (northeast Paris) with Anneli at Paname Brewing Company on a little canal that was cute and hip, lots of dogs, families and joggers.  We had a huge charcuterie (meat and cheese board), beers, plus a lamb burger and heavenly fries.  Anneli regaled us with stories of a last minute Airbnb in Dublin where their host kept two different African wives and a son.  We discussed if Eddie was really moving out to marry her and live together in an apartment outside Paris in either April, July or September or next year. Anneli and I agreed Sept. was the soonest possibility based on the fact that France requires proof of three month’s income in France and Anneli was graduated at the soonest in June.  Returning to Pere Lachaise, we said goodbye to Anneli and found sleep.

  Tuesday Nov 12

Our final full day in Paris (and France), we did all the touristy things.  We took the Metro west to walk down past Notre Dame (which was under construction because of the fire a year previous) then headed to the Pantheon (a Greek-style building with beautiful statues, massive columns and Anneli’s favorite view of the Eiffel Tower: it was alright, not my favorite.) It was then that I realized just how amazing the architecture was in this city. What would dwarf the finest architectural marvels in many first-class cities of the world, these previously mentioned monuments I could tell were merely an “amuse bouche” to what wonders awaited us that day. The University of Paris was nearby (as well as a Pita Pit, a chain that was common to both my alma mater UMass Amherst and that of Mal) and I wondered what it would be like to go to school here. I could already tell Paris was the most impressive and old city I had ever seen in terms of beautiful, classical architecture and art.  

  We made our way down to Luxembourg Gardens, which was as Anneli said, “a little sad in November” but it was still a grand garden with elegant statues of kings and queens as well as a palace and fountain we photographed.  Next, was our walk to the Louvre and lunch at a café, croque monsieur (ham and cheese sandwich) for Mal and croque madame (ham and cheese sandwich with egg) for me.  It started raining super hard as we were at the café and droves of Parisians and tourists flooded inside, which our snappy and humorous server welcomed in and easily accommodated.  The rain did not let up during our lunch and we decided to embark into the rain without hats, rain jackets or umbrellas, walking several blocks down the Seine River in a torrential downpour past chic luxury shops that sold clothes, furniture and art.  Sheltering briefly in one woman’s clothing store, before a finley dressed manager asked if we could be helped and we shook our heads, taking that as our cue to leave. 

  We finally made it to Musee D’Orsay (France’s leading French art museum.) We saw a few Van Gogh’s originals (portrait of the artist and Starry Night II) as well as some Monets, Manets and Renoirs.  My favorites were the Realist historical depictions of Charge of the Light Brigade, WWI, Burial of Alexander, the Spanish Inquisition, the Decadence of Rome, Moroccan Harems, Normans setting sail to conquer England, the Hunt for Diana and the excommunication of Robert the Pious.  A Burial at Shanghai was featured and it was sprawling and powerful, taking up an entire wall.  We also walked through the featured Degas opera exhibit then departed for Place De La Concorde (fortuitously buying two umbrellas from an insistent Indian vendor upon exit from the museum before hail dropped on our heads.)  Walking along the Seine, we view the voluminous Louvre, and found a place to cross over to Place De La Concorde. It was now a massive rotary around a 3,300 year old central obelisk to Rameses II that was donated to France in 1829 by Egypt in front of the huge Greek-style Palais Bourbon, once a Royal Palace and now home to France’s National Assembly.  Later we learned the place of the obelisk was where the guillotine was set up and King Louis XVI as well as Marie Antoinnette were beheaded.

  The Place De La Concorde offered a straight-shot view all the way up Champs-Elysees to the Arc De Triomphe atop a sloping hall.  We walked up Champs Elysees, seeing beacoup de cafes, cinemas and designer clothes stores including loads of tourists waiting outside Louis Vuitton.  Then we backtracked a bit to the Seine and a ride on a bateaux mouche river boat to see all the monuments we had just walked to and more from the river.  Sunset on the bateaux mouche under the Eiffel Tower was splendid, snapping lots of selfies of Mal and I.  Then we returned to Champs-Elyssees (the so-called “most beautiful road in the world,” it was pretty nice but very commercial and crowded.)  For my niece Tigerlily, I bought a Mickey Mouse shirt from the Disney store that said “Paris” on it and I bought a Paris St Germain soccer shirt for $40 US which was a little pricey but definitely cool. We checked out the Addidas flagship store which was awesome, including a treadmill to run in new sneakers before buying.)

  Then we returned to the Seine for dinner aboard a stationary “Alexandre III” bateaux mouche (we had to because it had my name on it, and the other more hip one named Float was not yet open.)  I had escargot, red wine, and local French steak frites and Mal had salmon.  Then we walked over to the Eiffel Tower for a selfie of our two smiling faces directly beneath it, all lit up at night.  At this point my phone died so we wandered about in search of bathrooms and the Metro.  Little grocery stores had none and we found a café but were too afraid to use its bathroom which was through the kitchen after our server yelled at us for not ordering full meals.  Back into the night, we found a free public toilet on a street corner with a little old woman inside.  She was in there for about 15 minutes so I knocked twice and she emerged, berating me in a hilarious French deluge that I could not understand, merely shrugging.  I peed while Mal held the door close because its automated function keep trying to open it but the toilet was so trashed and stinky that Mal refused to use it.  We found the Metro soon after and returned to Pere Lachaise, however, I almost forgot our apartment access code and we were locked out in the cold for 10 minutes while I jammed in different passcodes… Finally I got it right and we retired after more wine to lighten the load in our suitcases.

  Wednesday Nov 13

Woke up, got deaux café and observed a hectic rush hour before making it over to Gare Du Nord for the RER train to Paris and our return to Zurich. Overall it was one of the best trips of my life, top highlight being Natalie’s hospitality in showing us Angers, plus Mal and I loving every minute together.  Mal was a perpetually calm, supportive, enthusiastic and appreciated companion who I cherish dearly. We watched four movies on the way back: the Art of Driving in the Rain, Guardians of the Galaxy, Yesterday and Stuber, staying up all night so that we could fall asleep on time with good old Boston EST and avoid jetlag.

Bon voyage indeed!

[alexmorrall]

Prince of Chaos Pitch

An ailing sovereign sends his fifteen-year-old daughter far from home to keep peace with his oppressor: the barbaric "ram-king."

Long ago, in the land of everlasting summer, there existed a prosperous nation called Kemp. Three hundred years ago, invaders from across the northern seas rowed to their shores and waged war. After generations of bloodshed, peace was instilled. The time has come to renew that peace. The king of Kemp is forced to send one of his daughters north as a diplomat and he selects his youngest child: a girl of fifteen years. With the protection of Kemp's greatest swordsman, the princess travels across sea and land to the palace of the ram-king. Join a world of mystery and intrigue, where agents struggle to advance themselves on a political stage that spans a continent. War is coming to Kemp. The warriors of winter are on the move, but the true purpose of their crusade remains to be seen.

[alexmorrall]

Letter to New Zealand

Kia ora, friends!

  In my visit to New Zealand a year ago I witnessed firsthand the wonderful compassion of Kiwis and found that it would be an ideal environment for the expansion of I am reaching out to you from across the Pacific to garner some interest in the teachings of one of America's foremost improvisational gurus, David Shepherd.  My mentor, Mr. Shepherd, had the pleasure of working with such comedy greats as Alan Arkin, Alan Alda, Ed Asner, Shelley Berman, and Jerry Stiller throughout his illustrious career, establishing the Compass improv theatre (first improv theatre in America) which was the basis for Second City in Chicago.  You may have heard of Second City as it was the launchpad for the careers of comedy greats such as John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, and Gilda Radner. 

  Our next project is to bring Life-Play, a revolutionary game of words, to New Zealand.  Life-Play is an improv game that is used to bring people closer together through use of games that can be played over the phone or in person.  One example of a game is Ideal Meal where one person pretends to be making a meal in their kitchen, detailing the process and environment, while another player asks questions and allows the "cook" to flesh out their imaginary world and all of the arising scenarios therein.  The strength of Life-Play is in keeping people connected who are far away or cannot easily see each other.  It has great potential to be used for people who are traveling, incarcerated, or home-bound seniors in retirement homes or assisted living residences.  Life-Play's cognitive stimulation is capable of forestalling the development of Alzheimer's or Dementia in seniors specifically.

  The game has had great success in the high schools and colleges of the Los Angeles area under the guidance of Michael Golding, and is currently being operated through phone chat rooms by voice actor Howard Jerome from Toronto.  Howard has implemented the idea of creating a new name and identity for oneself during the duration of the game, to further improve one's cognitive workout.  Mr. Shepherd is willing to train any and all who are interested in learning the games of Life-Play, and is an incredibly generous and creative man looking to spread his legacy overseas so that it will grow and know life beyond his years.  We urge you to reach out to us, because this opportunity has vast potential.

  Thank you for your time,

  Alex Morrall

[alexmorrall]

Life-Play Press Release

Dear Life-Players and future Life-Players,

Here is an update to people who know about Life-Play and others who might be interested in learning about its fun and medically helpful techniques.

Life-Play was started five years ago by three men Carman Dewees, Chris Britt and David Shepherd.  It has been used since then to connect people in the Pioneer Valley.  It began on the porch at David's home in Belchertown, MA, but the versatility of Life-Play can be enjoyed over the phone at any time, making it extremely adaptable and marketable for homebound people especially.  Life-Play has seen growth in LA and Toronto as well, under the guidance of Michael Golding and Howard Jerome respectively.  

Michael Golding is using Life-Play at High School and College Classrooms in LA.  In his workshops he has used the Life-Play games mostly as group activities, either as a warm-up or closure portion of the session.   Each game emphasizes specific theatrical skills. Four Sided-Where (staging), Zoom Story (directing/story telling), Two Views (collaboration) and Never Say (emotion).

Howard Jerome has been helping people acquire new identities by asking them what their new name should be.  This allows the player to create an imaginary world from the ground up.  Solo play is another interesting new idea that allows for someone to mediate disputes by taking a step back and gaining new perspective on any given situation or by engaging in a purely self-exploratory process of improv.  Currently he is looking for someone in the  communications industry who can take Life-Play to the next level.  Life-Play needs a media partner interested in money, to build an automated system that would allow people to call in and play 24-7.  Life-Play needs someone who knows how to sell the games, as subscription or pay per call.

Recently David Shepherd met a new player named Anne Grossetette at an improv conference.  She proved to be one of the best players, a French woman who is also interested in investing.  This is exactly the type of enthusiasm and initiative Life-Play needs.  Life-Play could become massive with similar financial support, able to start an automated phone service connecting people with audio recordings of Howard Jerome's illustrious voice guiding the exploratory process.

After five years this group has the marketable potential to grow into a global pastime for creating connections across all natural and psychological barriers.  The target market for Life-Play's most effective use is homebound seniors.  I have sent information to Assisted Living places and Nursing Homes throughout Massachusetts for Life-Play to be adopted as a medicinal practice.  The medical health benefits for seniors using Life-Play are combating the development of Alzheimer's, as well as promoting emotional health by keeping in touch with family, friends and meeting new people.  

Life-Play has the ability to keep people in touch over expansive distance.  Here in America we are thinking of expanding to areas such as NYC, northern Cali, Boston, Chicago.  Life-Play also has an opportunity to become a mainstay on a global level by expanding across the seas to different English-speaking countries.  New Zealand is one such target for expansion, where conversation is considered one of the major forms of entertainment.  Skype is one medium which could be used to engage with people free of cost overseas.

With all of these exciting new developments going on, Life-Play is primed for expansion not only in the US but overseas.  Please let us know if you are interested in learning more or wish to adopt these techniques to better your life!  Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Alex Morrall

(facilitator of David Shepherd)

PS: here's a link to multiple visual interpretations of Life-Play

http://www.life-play.com/sweet-home/

[alexmorrall]

Consignment and Gift Shop opens in Barre

By Alex Morrall

Barre Gazette Intern

Quabbin Plaza’s Second Time Around Consignment and Gift Shop has recently opened, combining the existing gift shop with a consignment shop.  The store opened two months ago next to Barre Foods.  General Manager Marie Oldakowski has staffed the store with employees from Barre Foods and claims that the store has already experienced success.  This is due to its central location, she says, which is conveniently close to other businesses and offers a quick stop to buy or sell affordable clothes and decorations.

The Gift Shop offers a wide range of goods, which includes sterling silver jewelry, seasonal items, incense, and locally made soaps. The store has great atmosphere and is very aesthetically pleasing.  Mums will also soon be on sale this summer.  Other upcoming items include new clothes and back to school items.  The recently added consignment shop is attached to the main gift shop area.  It is spacious and well stocked, offering a variety of marked down clothes as well as local handmade crafts such as scarves, mittens, jewelry and pottery.  

The store is currently accepting donations of clothes and local handmade crafts of a certain quality with compensation for donors.  If you have old clothes that are not used, the Second Time Around Consignment Shop could be the perfect place to cash them in. Give us a call at 978-355-3500 and bring down any clothes or crafts you would like to donate.  The store is open seven days a week: 10am to 6pm Monday through Saturday, and Sunday 10am to 5pm.

[alexmorrall]

Bruso's Liquors opens Barre store

By Alex Morrall

Barre Gazette Intern

Barre - Bruso's Liquors, having experienced success in Ware and Palmer, has now moved to the center of Barre, two doors down from Quabbin Seafood and Pizza.  Owner Dan Bruso recognized Barre as a friendly community where he could expand his business.  Located at the intersection of routes 122 and 62, Barre's common serves as a central location to do business at the heart of a picturesque New England town.  He is optimistic about growing the business and will be offering lower prices on bourbon, whiskey, tequila and vodka.

Bruso's Liquors Barre store has taken over the sport where Dean's Liquors once operated.  His wife, Holly Bruso, manages the Barre Store.  The couple will be making structural and inventory changes to the location.  Some of those changes are already evident.  Holly has already taken down the existing wine room and integrated it into the main room's format.  Improvements have been made, including an expanded wine selection, removal of some walls, addition of beer shelves and lowering of racks in the center of the store for greater visibility.  She plans to further expand the store's selection in the future.

Apart from liquor, the store will be offering cigarettes, lottery tickets, and various kinds of snack chips as well as Coca Cola products.  The store's hours will be 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. on Mondays through Thursdays and 9 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays and noon- 8 p.m. on Sundays.  Bruso's Liquors, 15 Exchange Street, will be hosting a grand opening featuring free raffles in early August.  People should look for an advertisement in the Barre Gazette to be appearing in the near future regarding the grand opening.

[alexmorrall]

Petersham Country Store to reopen in Fall

By Alex Morrall

Barre Gazette Intern

Petersham - On Tuesday, June 11, Petersham Town Selectmen held a meeting to determine the Petersham Country Store's future.  With the help of donations from local residents, the East Quabbin Land Trust (EQLT) was able to purchase the store from POLUS.  The property sale closed on June 6.

The EQLT wishes to continue its mission of promoting local agriculture by providing a market for locally grown vegetables, cheeses, and meats.  Ari and Jeaneane Pugliese will be operating the store as they did in 2006 and will continue to operate their restaurant Picasso in Barre.  The store will be offering a diverse selection of grocery items from local sources, with a cafe, deli, gifts/ antiques, offering breakfast, lunch, catering services, and ice cream.  They plan to develop a store brand of pestos, sauces, and rubs.

Chuck Berube, a previous owner of the store claimed that the difficulties of running a country store are that it is hard to be a small business and even harder to provide a diverse range of goods and services.  One of the problems that cause the store to close on Sept. 20, 2012 was energy costs from an antiquated refrigerator.  The refrigerator will be replaced as revenues allow in the future.  Berube estimates that the real estate values of Petersham will increase by 10 percent when the store is reopened.

The EQLT is currently seeking volunteers in the area to staff committees focused on building refurbishment, maintenance, establishing a store membership base, administration and finance issues.  Donations are greatly appreciated as there is still $75,000 needed to improve the facility as a store, cafe, and gathering place,  People that wish to donate time or money to the cause, may contact Mick Huppert at 978-724-3368 or Cynthia Henshaw at 413-477-8229.  The target date for the reopening of the store is Tuesday, Oct, 1,

[alexmorrall]

Father of the Transparent Eyeball

February 22, 2009

            "Self-Reliance" is considered one of Ralph Waldo Emerson's greatest essays because it instills in its readers a confidence that their own intuition is the highest form of truth.  To Emerson, self-reliance is achieved when an individual has stripped away all tuitions, or teachings, and thinks solely for himself.  Emerson rouses the reader to adopt an opinion and commune with his inner self by trampling the institutions of family and religion in favor of optimistic individualism.

            We must rely upon our "self" because only within it can we peel away the years of blindness with which society has buried us.  A self-reliant person is as an expectant, yet carefree boy who speaks truthfully and without hesitation.  Youths are innocent, devoid of society's taint and therefore we must aspire to cleanse our minds and see as they do.  "A boy... cumbers himself never about consequences, about interests: he gives an independent, genuine verdict," (Emerson, 127.)  To be self-reliant one must live true to their passions and remain as immune to society's fangs as a wanton boy.

            Emerson adds a flavor of humility to the American archetype of the rugged individualist by saying, "To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true to you in your private heart, is true for all men, that is genius," (Emerson, 125.)  This statement affirms Emerson as a believer in the ideal that all of mankind is naturally honest, cognizant and good.  For precisely this ideal of man's innate goodness, he insists that people must rely upon their "self."  Within us all lays intuition, the wisdom to succeed and achieve happiness.  Any amount of truth is originally one unique opinion from one individual.  Truth can be found nowhere else than in reflection, not even in the comforting consistency of social institutions.

            The quest to becoming self-reliant is arduous because we must extricate ourselves from societal concerns, and break the chain of routine that plagues our lives.  "Consider whether you have satisfied your relations to father, mother, cousin, neighbor, town, cat, and dog; whether any of these can upbraid you," (Emerson, 137.) One must throw off these secondary obligations imposed by society and obey the primary obligation to oneself.  One must adopt practices that please not one's family, nor his church, nor government but oneself alone.  Emerson's potentially selfish individualism preserves his own inner mind deep within the structure erected by society.

            As all wise men must, Emerson filters information based upon the vigor of his selective soul.  "I have my own stern claims and perfect circle.  It denies the name of duty to many offices that are called duties," (Emerson, 137.)  Society deems many practices to be a man's duty but only a select few should be considered as such.  The stranglehold society imposes upon us determines our entire lives, dooms us to conform and die in obscurity.  We must grasp neither for our contemporaries, nor even the masters of ages past, but from within our own mind to find inspiration and the means to success.

            Emerson's individualism targets America's most beloved institution: the family unit.  "Infancy conforms to nobody: all conform to it, so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the adults who prattle and play to it," (Emerson, 127.)  Emerson strategically places these lines to stimulate opinion and rile oppression from parents and America's conservative family values which were at their strongest during the pre-Civil War time period he wrote in.  By cultivating public opinion, Emerson forced his readers to learn more about their own identities, enabling them to become more self-reliant.

            Almost all of society's institutions are targeted by Emerson to stimulate response from his readers, including religion.  He does this to formulate ideas that are unique to each and every reader, furthering their individual journey toward transcendence.  Transcendence is to rise above this physical world and connect to a truer reality, the spiritual world called the oversoul in which all mankind is linked.  It is the duty of us all to envision our own perfect being, a person we must admire and strive to become.  "Yet when the devout motions of the soul come, yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape and color," (Emerson, 130.)

            Emerson's many contradictions begin with his religious disposition.  He was once a Unitarian preacher but since has reverted to his own school of thought.  Only by his inner reflection, the analysis of what truly makes one happy, can a glimpse of God be achieved, not by sitting in church and listening to prattling preachers.  As men's prayers are a disease of the will, so are their creeds a disease of the intellect," (Emerson, 139.)  A creed is a divine rule all must follow.  Emerson would not have his followers worship creeds but instead the creed of their own nature.  The laws of nature are not determined by any disciple's writings, any prophet's recollections, but by each man's distinct, rational interpretation.

            If Emerson believes that neither a government official nor preacher can shed more light on your mind than you yourself, how can his directives be any different?  Despite Emerson's insistence that truth can only be achieved by listening to the callings of your own nature and no one else, he often adopts a commanding, authoritarian tone in "Self-Reliance."  "And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny,"  (Emerson, 126.)  This is ironic because Emerson's central message is that truth lies within and in this line he seems to be prescribing it to us like medicine.

            This is contrary to Emerson's later statement describing society's overbearing influence upon each American citizen.  By saying, "Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members" (Emerson, 127) the father of transcendentalism contradicts himself.  Emerson said earlier that it was the responsibilities of the individual to peel back the years and witness with the eyes of an innocent boy to see genuinely.  His current philosophy appears to be that society undermines and figuratively castrates us, delivering us to a boyish state without manhood.

            Emerson's writing was surely ahead of its time and goes too far in assuming that what lies within one's soul must be the ultimate reality of their existence.  He asked the people of nineteenth century America to throw away those constants which make us most secure: our family and our religion.  Even if those two most vital components of one's life could be removed from consideration, what should remain?  Would not a member of Emerson's reading audience be hopelessly perplexed by the possibility that their entire perception of the world was fundamentally flawed because it followed along with the majority?

            In this sense the explanation for Emerson's widespread success is curious.  In "Self-Reliance" the father of transcendentalism merely challenged the beliefs that we hold dear by contradicting himself many times.  These contradictions do not seem to me to be provoking theories as much as blurring Emerson's true intentions into an indecipherable mass of independent paragraphs aimed at unsettling the minds of his audience.

            If one's past is harrowed with abuse and they long to lash out at the world, no amount of reflection will cure them.  In fact, deep reflection and recognition of repressed memories may even cause them to stir to violence.  Emerson says that if he were the Devil's son he would live from the Devil which is contradictory because he reminds us that we must look to no other but our self for guidance.  He is selfish and immoral because he accepts any dark identity in the guise of supposed enlightenment.  Finally we discover what the law of nature residing within us truly is: greed.  An opinionated self-reliance brings great power and power goes hand in hand with corruption.  "That a man or a company of men plastic and permeable to principles, by the law of nature must overpower and ride all cities, nations, kings, rich men, poets, who are not," (Emerson, 135.)  The law of nature determines that those who have delved within and believe themselves to possess true principles will push these principles upon others and establish their own corruptive schemes.

            While praising individualism and building the illusion of free-will throughout this entire essay, Emerson contradicts himself severely by returning to a fate or god scenario.  "When we discern justice, when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but allow a passage to its beams," (Emerson, 133.)  In this interpretation, there is no rationality within the inner mind, but merely an injected ideal left by some alien entity we cannot quite label as god or inspiration.

            Emerson's expectations for us all could be a little too extreme in the sense that they demand we isolate ourselves from society and remain untouched by its rosy fingers.  "The great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude," (Emerson, 129.)  Must we remain neutral without playing upon the many chessboard battlefields of institutions?  To live is to be a part of this whole world and certainly there is some good that comes from the collaboration of minds into one uniform theory or standard.

            Despite his nauseating stream of consciousness essay structure, Emerson's style is eloquent and as thick with metaphor as poetry.  "Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string," (Emerson, 126.)  The sheer power of the individual is expressed here, that one can cause ripple effects that many must cope with.  According to Emerson, institutions are the shadows of men.  Emerson would consider those men who forged institutions to have brought their purest, inmost thoughts outward to poison the attempts of all mankind in its crawl toward transcendence.  This is untrue because institutions, like Emerson's oversoul, are constructions of man's rational thought processes, merely projected onto a larger scale.

            By criticizing the obligations of family, mocking organized religion, and pursuing a lone individualism, Emerson delivered a warhead of controversy to the sheltered minds of readers in the mid-nineteenth century.  Only by forgetting all that one has learned can one learn what is most valuable: the truth of the self.  In nature we must capture our youths and recall a time when family did not nag upon us and religion did not harry us with guilt.  To be able to bridge this lofty gap and reflect on what is good for our soil at will is to live with self-reliance.

[alexmorrall]

Community of Souls

            Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" is a call for all people to join their souls together in a global brotherhood.  His first five lines of section seventeen convey the major theme of universal equality.  If words cannot be related as true for all people then to speak them to another is meaningless.  Throughout his collection of poems Whitman attempts to bridge the gap between one's body and one's soul, and the gap that keeps each person's soul apart from another, using common acts of acceptance and compassion.

            Whitman tells us to lean always our minds forward, to accept new ideas and people with unbiased mindsets and not to dwell upon the past.  "Back I see in my own days were I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders, I have no mockings or arguments... I witness and wait," (Whitman, ln 71-72, p 157.)  Whitman presents himself as neither one who sways others with speech or nor one competing for a prize, but as a neutral observer.  He analyzes America and witnesses the common struggles between us all, pitted together like gladiators in an arena.

            Whitman confesses that the purpose or structure of life itself is to love one another when he says, "And that a kelson (reinforcing beam) of the creation is love," (Whitman, ln 86, p 158.)  All life, from the irksome weed to the scuttling ant, possesses within it the capacity for love, as if all are marked by the same hand.  Whitman indeed uses religious reference when he speaks of grass as designedly dropped handkerchiefs bearing the name of the Lord.  In a methaphoric sense, grass is all that we leave behind.  Literally, it results from our time on earth as our nutrients decay into the ground and spring fresh sprouts from soil.  Grass, which can be interpreted as our influences upon other people, ensures that all life has purpose and that is to give life away so that future generations might live and prosper.  If one has not given love, or left a smoother passage for the next traveler then they are worth nothing to their fellow man and nothing to themselves.

            To die is lucky because it means your grass remains to nourish future generations and that you will live on in that generation's love.  Thus immortality is attained through a succession of life and he linking of soils together in one chain.  "They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprout shows there really is no death," (Whitman, ln 116, p 159.)  As Whitman believes that all people and creatures must be loved he relies upon the immortality of the virtue of good will to one's neighbor.  He so abhors selfish thought that he decides it is "nothing" if it cannot apply to all people and serve the greater good of humanity.

            Though Whitman forbids selfishness, his tone and theoretical approach is decidedly individualistic.  "The young fellow drives the express-wagon... I love him thought I do not know him," (ln 274, p 166.)  By focusing on one person at a time Whitman admires the strength of their character, in this case, the tenacity of youth and can find that same beauty in all people who have lived.  Whitman's love is not merely for the young fellow but for all of the competing laborers he mentions previous: the machinist, the farmer, the carpenter, to name a few.  These determined workers' efforts of the body together forge the vibrant soul of America.

            Whitman recognizes that the goose calls not merely for other geese but for him and any other who will follow.  "The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night.  Ya-honk!  He says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation," (Whitman, ln 238-239, p 165.)  This is because nature is innocent and includes all in its endeavor, it alienates none from its vast community.  One problem is that those prideful people who consider themselves talented will never see as deeply as Whitman because they elevate themselves above society.  "The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky," (Whitman, ln 240-241, p 165.)

            Walt Whitman reveals the duality of our existence through his complex metaphors and paradoxes.  Furthermore he attempts to draw connections between all people, for only in doing that will his words be worth the paper they are printed on, worth the beauty they occupy in the air.  Whitman sees the spirit of competition, the undying chain of compassion between all people, and the innocence of nature in relation to man.

[alexmorrall]

Medieval Romance Narratives

Alex Morrall

English 311: Arthurian Legends

                The conventions of medieval romance narratives differ from modern narrative conventions in that medieval romance narratives do not adhere to a theory of psychology in their characters and also are sometimes tediously repetitive.  An example of this is seen in the Prose Merlin in which a baby Merlin requests for the judge to allow his mother's chastity to enter into the trial of Merlin's life because the baby is accused of being a demon.  In all likelihood a judge would not consider the testimony of an eighteen month old let alone allow the case to involve a matter so personal as his mother's fidelity or lack thereof.  With complete disregard for what would be the expected psychological reaction of one whose very lineage is being questioned, at a time when lineage was considered crucially important, the judge seems to have no problem diverting the focus of the trial to his legitimacy as his father's son.  Today this event would be far less believable even allowing that the reader accepts advanced logic.              Secondly, medieval romance narratives differ from modern narratives  in that repetition is used far more frequently.  To a modern reader this would be considered unoriginal, tedious and formulaic.  For example, the description of every female character, save Cundrie, in Wolfram Von Eschebach's Parzival is described as having fiery red lips and pale as snow complexion.  This lends directly to the poetic conception of beauty but is far less stressed in modern texts, with more exotic variety as a norm, starting with Shakespeare's sonnets of the dark, wiry-haired mistress.  Lastly, the conventions of medieval narratives were such that tales were assumed to be borrowed whereas modern narratives are assumed to be original, and lack merit if proven otherwise.

                  The Knight of the Cart predominantly praises Courtly Love by allowing Lancelot to perform superhuman feats when within sight of his beloved Guinnevere.  Lancelot is able to fight with numerous injuries, and poison-drench bandages covering them, defending himself behind his own back while staring up at his queen in the tower during his first battle with Meleagant.  Lancelot is also rewarded throughout his journey for acting courteous toward females.  He kills the enemy of Meleagant's sister at her urging, foregoing the chivalric code of sparing one's defeated enemy who begs mercy.  For this act of dedication to the maiden he is later rewarded when she gives him a pickaxe to free himself from the tower with n door and heals his wounds.  Lancelot is freed and allowed to fulfill his obligation of returning home and fighting Meleagant because he acted within the parameters of courtly love, humbly serving a lady though she may appear poor riding a mule, out of no personal gain.  Lancelot also goes unpunished for laying with Guinnevere and is able to bend the bars of her chamber for his entry once she has told him she wishes it.  With supernatural strength and the good grace of fate on his side, Lancelot is rewarded for acting within the parameters of courtly love by the definition of fulfilling a lady's wishes and also protecting her honor.  This is the first time a man was made capable of such acts from his devotion to a woman as compared to devotion to love so it should be noted that Chretien's work praises the ability of courtly love to allow one to transcend physical limitations.

                                In Beroul's Tristan and Isolde, romance elements and vulgar (popular) elements are married together in such a way that there can be no distinction between them.  Tristan is firstly sent on a quest to slay a dragon, an immensely popular element of medieval tales.  He first becomes close with Isolde as a result of this trial when she heals the poison inflicted upon him by the dragon.  Later when Isolde's chastity is called into question, which is another reoccurring element, Tristan saves her from the band of lepers she has been given to.  The use of lepers as despicable and sometimes malevolent beings dates back to the Bible and Tristan's dedication to preserving Isolde's honor is clearly an act of chivalric courtly love, reminiscent of the first Romance of Western Text: the Knight of the Cart.  Another element similar to Chretien's text is the tournament in which Tristan goes disguised as a despicable figure to prove his lady's honor.  By carrying her across the river she is able to honestly testify that only the leper, and King Mark, have been between her legs, just as Guinnevere is able to testify that she never committed adultery with Gawain (for she committed adultery with Lancelot instead.)  These white lies shielding the truth preserve the identity of courtly love and allow the queens in question to retain their honor.  Tristan was willing to appear humble and defenseless before his aggressor Mark because of his devotion to proving Isolde's innocence, a decidedly romantic yet also immensely popular act.

                  Gawain is able to maintain his courtliness while rejecting the advances of his host's by complimenting her and allowing a fraction of what she demands from him.  She is able to stay within the rules while talking suggestively because to say she gives up her body to him at that time meant the same as "I allow you to serve me."  Gawain is obligated to fulfill his desires as she requests as is stated in the knight's code of compassionate behavior toward women but he never actually consummates their relationship, merely accepts her  kisses and embraces.  She acts as if she is completely at her disposal but that was also what was expected of a host during that period so by her words alone she is not acting unfaithfully.  She compliments his ability to woo and love which he returns with the fact that she is likely far more experience than he, always responding as a courteous guest.  Gawain constantly deflects her leading observations by regarding her words as evaluations of his knightly conduct and not necessarily his physical desirability.  In this way she is able to innocently obtain a kiss by saying how perfect Gawain is in his interactions with women that to be courteous he must now desire to kiss her.  So he allows her to kiss him as would be expected of a knight of his caliber, but permits no more.

  The ideals presented in the text of Wagner are decidedly Christian because the truest motivation of every character save Kundry is to secure the Holy Grail and thereby serve God.  Parsifal is obsessed with remaining chaste in the face of Kundry's advances, as the Bible forbids fornication, and pursuing the redemption of Amfortas and the retrieval of a holy relic: the spear which wounded Jesus on the Cross.  Because Parsifal has faith he is able to accomplish astounding feats: defeating every knight in Klingsor's service, abstaining from temptation with Kundry and the flower maidens and in Act Two he is protected by an act of divine intervention.  After coming so far he stands below Klingsor, vulnerable to a spear throw from that deadly weapon of holiness but because the weapon is holy, or because God is on his side, the projectile hovers above his head, as if gifted him by Heaven.

                Parsifal is many times compared to Christ, called the Redeemer, and his feet are bathed by Kundry who is a converted wretch similar to Mary Magdalene.  He then is able to bestow the mercy of death upon Amfortas while simultaneously forgiving him of his sin in laying with Kundry, and forsaking the Grail.  As a representative of Christ in this text, Parsifal is the most appropriate choice to be king and guardian of the Grail Procession as is ordained at opera's end.  Proof of Christian ideals in Parsifal is irrefutable as evidenced from the themes of redemption, forgiveness, martyrdom (death of Amfortas), temptation, divine intervention, and faith.  Even Klingsor is once one who seeks to serve the Grail and be good though he takes the dedication too far by mutilating himself, his original intentions are to serve God and from this high place he falls into darkness, resembling a Lucifer figure.