King Ethelred IV Part 2

The next morning dozens of pages, squires, and aides were attempting to organise the departure of the king and his retinue. Among them was Albert, manservant to a minor noble whom, when not forgotten, was dutifully ignored. Albert, in observing his many cohorts bustle about, was struck by how much energy was being spent. There was no precedent for such frenzied activity in the marble halls, at least not for the last twenty years that he had worked in the building. He was speaking to the Chancellor’s aide, who was often the most useful in matters of royal logistics. “Can m’Lord, receive instructions as to where in the procession his carriage will be located?”

“No, indeed he cannot have that information.”

“And why, sir, may he not?”

“Aahhh, well there is no known ordination of carriages at this juncture, and so I cannot inform you as to where to put said carriage.”

“Indeed... might you hazard a suggestion?”

“I suppose that I shall at that. Your lord may follow Lady Hillary, which I believe will put you forth in the line.”

“Are you certain sir? That accords my lord far too high a standing.”

“Yes, I am certain. That is precisely where you should position your carriage. Now be gone, the Chancellor will be upset that I have achieved anything whatever towards this morning’s departure.”

A Ship Cursed Part 2

As it bore down on me I thought of what I owed, and what I was owed. But at the last instant the ship swerved; narrowly avoiding the docks, it careened into the beach, and the hull shattered. Wood splinters flew every which way.

The man was thrown to the deck. I sent my apprentice to fetch the doctor. I ran to the side of the ship, climbed up to and swung over the railing. I landed on the slopped deck and stumbled—I’m not as young as I once was. I saw that there had been fighting on the deck, and hoped the man at the helm was my son, that he had not died in the battle. The hull and masts were, or had been before the beaching, in good condition. There was no sign of any treasure either. This ship had seen a second mutiny. But where was everyone? Where was my son? Even if the man at the helm was the only survivor, he was in no condition to have cleaned the deck of bodies.

‘Sam?’ I called, hoping he was below, or was the man on the bridge, and would answer me. The only sound that answered was the creak of the masts in the wind, and the wiping of sails that billowed, cocked half way to the wind.

My knee was sore; it had been a long time since I had done much of anything and the climb to the deck had been long. It shook as I climbed the stairs to the bridge: remembering the old injury, from my days raiding the Spanish Main. I had settled in Tortuga with the first English colonists, about 15 years ago, on a handsome sum as compensation for my injury. The Spanish had come and gone, fighting all the way. As I topped the stairs, I saw him. He was thinner than I had thought was possible. Most devastatingly though-he was not my son.

Dusk, Part 2

As she continued walking she heard soft footsteps behind her, and as she turned she saw Gregory, a young boy who lived down the street. He was hunched in on himself and looked furtively about as he hurried along. Still looking at his feet while walking, he put his finger to his lips, and as she was about to speak, whispered, "shhh, they remember."

"What," she whispered back, "do they remember."

"Blood." Gregory said, glancing from side to side, nervous.

Francis made to speak, but could not. So he continued, "ancient blood spilled in this valley. Over a thousand years past, and they remember, and come remembering the feast past."

In the silence that followed, even the sound of flapping wings ceased. "Whose blood?"

He raised his head, and with a deep seeded fear in his eyes said, "the blood of gods, sacrificed to themselves by their worshipers. A right of incredible power, giving all who eat of the flesh, immortality."

A single crow cawed, Gregory flinched and mewed as though struck.

Quietly, Francis said, “There are no gods, Gregory. I’m sure they are on their way to their nests.”

“No. They remember because…” The rest of his words were drowned by the screams of tens of thousands of crows, and the sounds of their furiously flapping wings. Gregory turned and ran as murder upon murder of crows descended on him. His screams reached Francis over the near deafening noise, “Because they were there!” As each bird landed, it struck with its beak, and took flight again, dripping gore, red on the pavement.

George: The Columbia, Part 2

Cold fresh air blew up out of the canyon, and through the cracks between the columns. The breeze refreshed his mind; it was a relief after the hot and arid plain above. He found himself more alert, and he could concentrate on the path at hand; which had become progressively more challenging the further down he went. The columns were six sided, caused by shapes that the crystals had formed as they cooled. The heat from the molten rock had dissipated slowly, evidenced by the large size of the pillars. The path wove around the pillars, a result of their shape, and George followed them back and forth and down deeper into the cool air. Ever downward into the darkness, where the sun only reached through the occasional space between the pillars. At these, George would look out on the lush green growing on the banks of the river, a change from the dusty plain and occasional dunes that he had been crossing, up and down, since shortly after he had left the coast.

The trench wound down and down, with what appeared to be stairs, crafted eons ago by a completely incompetent mason--chock-stones in reality, boulders and other debris fallen from the narrow gap at the top; which was receding further and further above, providing what little light there was. The spaces between the stones were filled with gravel, dust, sand, and dead plant parts (trees and brush) blown from the west. In places the stairs would stop and he would walk along a path full of wind, dust and stone.

Once, about halfway to the valley floor, the trail leveled and exited on to a shelf that ran along the cliff. It was several hundred meters wide, and while still too dry to be home to a large number of plants, the sage, aloe, and other succulents provided something for George to chew on while he searched for another path to lead him to the bottom of the gorge. There was a vaguely trail-like parting in the plant life which he followed, and it eventually led him to a path that would take him down to the Columbia.

The path he found was in an old washout, a huge fan of rubble, composed of sections of the columns above and to both sides of him. Here the trail was hard to follow; he guessed at where to step by looking for where there was wear on the rocks. Occasionally, there would be marks scratched into the rocks pointing to the safer path, or cairns leading the way. Back in the sun, George found it very hot, but the trail became easier to follow the lower he went, until a few hours after leaving the plain, he arrived at the bottom and could relax, drink fresh water, and rest for the night.

Alice's Part 2

The next time they talked, it was Ray’s birthday, and his father was helping him pack his bags. Ray was leaving to join the Army as he had always wanted to, but it wasn’t supposed to have gone this way.

‘So, you’re leaving,’ he said to Ray. ‘Well, that will make life easier.’

‘I’ll send what money I can,’ Ray replied. He half expected his father to smile: to show the same pride that he had shown when Ray first mentioned the army.

‘Well, do what you can,’ his father said, as he turned to leave Ray’s room. ‘Just don’t get yourself killed, alright?’

‘Sure,’ Ray said. He shivered; the heat had been cut off again.

Ray’s family was poor, and they could seldom afford to pay all the bills at once. They got paid on a rotating basis. Sometimes the heat would be turned off for months at a time. These months were often the coldest of the year. The state power company only seemed to notice the late bills when it was well below 20˚.

The alarm went off. Still with tears in his eyes, Ray hit the snooze button. It was 4 am. He had three hours to decide. He couldn’t accept that in a few short days he would be driving the streets of Fallujah; he would be an occupier in a country that had done nothing to deserve the treatment it was receiving.

For his entire basic training, he had been a model soldier. He’d been on the verge of promotion, when everything changed. The Twin Towers fell. Within a few short months, the lame duck president was leading the nation to a quick victory. Ray had felt left out when his unit had been left behind. Shortly afterwards, though, the president was talking about going to war in Iraq. Ray had been overjoyed: finally he could be a hero.

Ray had called the G.I. help line the night he received his orders to ship out, at the end of January. ‘Hi, I don’t want to go to Iraq, and I’m wondering what my options are.’

The man on the other end of the line sounded tired. ‘There’s a couple of things you can do,’ he said. ‘You can apply for Conscientious Objector status, or you can go AWOL. I’ll warn you, though; the Army won’t like what you’re doing.’

‘’Kay, thanks. I’ll think about it.’ Ray had never run away in his life. He’d been forced away more than once, but to actually flee was beyond anything he had ever considered.

The alarm began again. Two hours forty-five minutes. Ray reached over, and hit the snooze again: he still wasn’t ready.

There had been protests around the world. Ray had watched them on T.V. He‘d been fascinated by the size of the crowds. There were hundreds of thousands of people on the streets in every country on earth. Ray was amazed that so many people could be against what his country thought of as so right. His friend, Alice, had gone to the ones at the base.

Alice owned a little diner--built from two airstreams welded together--where Ray felt at home. He wasn’t quite sure what it was about the place. Maybe it was the food--which was the same as every other diner everywhere else--or it may have been the juke box, or the chrome and vinyl booths. In any case, she had been kind when he’d first come in, uniform and all.