“Convicted here is Dontan. Charges are as follows: conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to do grievous bodily harm, attempted assassination of our king, and disrupting the peace. How do you plead?”
A small, wiry man struggled to his knees from where he had been thrown onto the ground and addressed the guard and the constable who stood opposite him on the wall.
“Cut the mockery we know what you intend to do so be quick about it for I have no intention of playing along with these pointless formalities.”
“Hmm, such fire, Dontan, your spirit would have done good work for the empire, your espionage skills however need improvement.” The constable smirked and strolled over to the edge of the wall, he peered into the darkness below him and kicked a stone from its crevice on the roof. It fell silently and it could not be heard when it struck the bottom of the cliff.
“Shall I follow the rock? Or what else have you planned?” inquired the prisoner. The guard uncomfortably shuffled his feet and took a step back, the light of the torch he was holding followed him.
“In the end you might follow the stone, but for now we will have to suffice with less simplistic means of ending your life.”
“Perhaps a hanging then? Or death by fire? You said I had fire in me, maybe it should consume me?”
“I was thinking of something else first,” the constable flicked his wrist at the guard. The guard, at the signal, hoisted the prisoner from where he lay and dragged him over to the long stake that poked from the wall. Carefully, he slid the prisoners arms over it and began to retie the bonds to an iron ring at the base of the stake.
“I must know, why did you come after me? There was an equal chance your arrow would have struck our majestic king, but to attempt at me?”
“Quite simple, in the war I saw more crimes and indecencies at your hand than any atrocity committed by him.”
“You were in the war?” said the constable, he crouched before the prisoner and peered directly into his eyes. “You must have known that war to be unwinnable; the resistance was outnumbered and unequipped for every skirmish? It was a dying cause anyway.”
“It was not for the victory but for the idea. The corruption that has curled beneath the already fetid system has become too much to bear, it was time someone took action. My only mistake was not ensuring the people understood the depth of this rotten government. But I take heart that the government is rotten, for you shall be all the easier to fell now. The thousands who were butchered on the plains of Genesseret will live on through the dreams of the free men.”
“Pity you can no longer breathe the free air.”
“I have always tasted the free air.”
The constable was mislead by the thought that there were only two people in this conversation for there were three men on the wall. He did not know why he did it, it was totally irrational but the guard did it nonetheless. The consequences of his action were impossible to predict though this would surely have been on the list of anticipated outcomes.
The guard snuck from his pocket a small knife and as he pretended to be tightening the bonds of the captive he instead sawed the coarse rope until it broke free. The prisoner was on the constable in moments. The pair fell from the wall so far that it was impossible for the guard to hear them strike the bottom.
“The dream will live on,” whispered the guard.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The fields of Anachoma
So this is probably the best short I have written to date and one of my most favorite pieces.
It has woven into it some Greek Mythology, the myths of Actaeon and Orion. I recommend reading the myths(they are very short) if you read this story because I think it adds quite a bit of depth to the characters.
“Do you know why you are here, codename Oenopion?” A man, his feet and wrists bound to a simple wooden chair, he shook it violently with wide, wizened eyes. A lock of grey hair swept against a dirty gag, normally it would be brushed back in personal vanity to rest behind an ear, but now the man was too fearful to care about his appearance.
“You may recall,” stated the speaker, “the fields of Anachoma…”
* * * * * * * * * * *
“Orion,” called Actaeon, “we are due for patrol. Operative Diomedes is waiting.”
“Yes, I am coming,” replied the soldier, “the Anatoli will not make any advances for a week, you do not need to be so eager.”
“It is not I who is eager,” retorted Actaeon as he readjusted his breastplate under the strap of his longsword sheath, “but Diomedes.”
As they walked along the bunkers, Orion and Actaeon noted the common soldiers that huddled around smoldering campfires, basic troops derived from the masses with slim training in the art of war, unlike themselves who were of the best instruction in Dytikos. They had been assigned codenames to conceal their identities so they could fight without mercy and without connection to the common soldier and their fellow operatives.
The pair paced the stony trench to where a grizzled soldier stood still, his weathered eyes scanning a distant tree line and past that a ridge where slim spirals of smoke snaked towards the clouds.
“The enemy’s camp is still for so late in the morning,” noted Diomedes as the two approached.
“They must be out hunting for a stag for the morning meal,” joked Actaeon.
“Or a Dytikos warrior on patrol,” returned Orion more seriously, then, “they would have no luck hunting, we already hunted the herd from this valley,” he added with a wink to Actaeon.
“Be on your guard,” said Diomedes, “the air is too still.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
“So have you heard from her lately?” whispered Actaeon to Orion softly as they crept through the foliage below two high crags.
“No, since we burned Diadromos there has been no word.”
“I am sure she is fine,” consoled Actaeon, “she is the daughter of an enemy operative…”
“Oenopion’s firm hand is a factor I could do without,” returned Orion, his voice elevated slightly.
“Hush,” whispered Diomedes, “let us not forget ourselves.” Orion nodded and checked his composure.
“Still,” hissed Actaeon, “there must be news, she did reply to your apology.”
“A courtesy,” said Orion doubtfully, “she has every reason to detest me for that action.”
“But she won’t, she still cares for you…”
“Shh…” repeated Diomedes; a twig cracked not twenty yards from them.
“Anatoli,” breathed Actaeon and he drew his blade.
“They have marked us,” said Diomedes drawing his own weapon.
A sword flashed across their vision and sliced Orion across the forehead, the soldier cried out as blood streamed into his eyes. Actaeon engaged the assailant, a man in light metal armor with green war paint smeared across his face.
“I am blinded,” roared Orion slashing wildly to his right and left.
Diomedes dispatched a second attacker with a few quick slashes of his sword. A third man had flanked Orion and buffeted him from behind with a shield, the Dytikos warrior fell to the ground unconscious. Diomedes knocked this Anatoli away as well and picked Orion up like a child and threw him over his shoulder.
“Actaeon,” called Diomedes, “fall back!”
“I will cover you,” replied the soldier.
“Don’t take too long,” roared Diomedes as he struck the third so hard he spun dizzyingly to the dust, then fled up a shallow ravine towards the Dytikos lines.
Actaeon’s brow was furrowed with lines of concentration as he fenced with the Anatoli operative. From his peripheral Actaeon spotted a fourth Anatoli sprinting towards their position. The new warrior cried “Oenopion!” and hurled his spear at Actaeon.
* * * * * * * * * * *
“Rise,” commanded the Anatoli commander.
Actaeon rose groggily to his feet under the weight of new armor, heavy Anatoli breastplates, pauldrons, and a helm now burdened his shoulders. The whole of his body stung with a fiery pain.
“Run,” ordered the man Actaeon now recognized to be Oenopion.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Actaeon sprinted under the weight, he was free of the trees, Anatoli armor was not so heavy as he had first thought. Behind him an entire contingent of Anatoli warriors were in pursuit; seventeen gold marks had been placed on his head by Oenopion to the one who brought him back. Actaeon’s feet pounded against the ground, sweat dripped down his forehead and caused it to mix with a substance that had been painted there, it dripped onto his eyes. Casually, the Dytikos soldier wiped the back of his hand and his eyes grew wide as he realized it was green Anatoli war paint. He was wearing Anatoli armor. Actaeon lifted his eyes to the Dytikos defenses not two hundred yards ahead of him.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Wax dripped from the stand to the wooden floor in a slow fall, the light provided by the candle barely illuminated the chair’s prisoner in the middle of the room. The figure who quietly paced circles around the exterior of the dim lighting was barely revealed. A black coat was tight around his torso fell loose to his feet and black bands of cloth were wrapped tightly about his hands and up the sleeves. Black hair fell over black eyes and was ruffled unchecked by the slight breeze that passed between the wooden walls. A dark scarf wrapped around his face revealed only the eyes. Above the eyes, a razor thin white line, straight as the edge of a sword.
From in the folds of the coat a knife was drawn, slender and dark as it’s bearer. The captive’s eyes grew wide once again and he began to shake the chair and cry out through the gag.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Orion grazed his hand along a taut white bandage that held the cut on his forehead closed. Then that hand seized the arrow from his quiver and notched it to string. Fifteen other Dytikos soldiers had done likewise and they now trained them on the contingent of Anatoli soldiers who were charging up the field. One brave soldier was far ahead of the rest, he would be the first to die. The Dytikos released their shafts at the oncoming Anatoli.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Diomedes and Orion walked out to where the Anatoli soldier lay dead on the field, as soon as they had slain him the whole of the contingent fled back towards the trees, a strange tactic to be used by an army. Orion wished his shot had killed the Anatoli, since Actaeon had not returned he was ever more apprehensive of his returning friend. He had thought for a moment that the man who broke from the trees was Actaeon disguised in Anatoli armor but the warrior was wearing green paint and Actaeon would have no access to that.
Orion fell to his knees as he saw who the fallen warrior was, a tear trickled down his cheek at the sight. The helmet had come askew from Actaeon’s head and revealed the familiar curves of his face. But that was not the worst of it, fresh weld marks connected each individual piece of armor to Actaeon’s body. The armor must have been applied searing hot to his skin and then hammered together while on his body so it could not be removed. Green paint was still damp, either from being freshly applied or from the sweat of Actaeon’s exhausted body. It was a truly barbarous thing to cause a soldier to flee for his own countrymen only to trick him into his death.
Orion’s gaze was shifted from his friend as the tears continued to come in a heavier stream than the first. From behind the watery haze Orion’s eyes settled on an Anatoli looking smug at the tree line.
* * * * * * * * * * *
“And so I tracked you here,” said the dark man, resting his hand on the captive’s chin. He sharply pulled it up to look into his eyes, blood trickled over those eyes from a fresh slice along his forehead. “You knew I was coming, you saw signs. I got to Catreus, Glaucus, and Asterion and you knew it was only a matter of time. I found out what you did to her too, in a drunken rage you killed her because of me. You killed your own daughter. This is why you built the high walls of this castle and this is why you dug the moat so deep, yet here I am.”
The prisoner had begun to sob and the sound he made through his gag sounded similar to the bleating of a sheep. The dark man took his hand away from wretched soul and commented,
“at least Catreus, Glaucus, and Asterion died with honor, to protect you, to protect you. I hope they know their sacrifices were not in vain.”
The old man had begun whimpering now almost uncontrollably, he was mumbling something through the gag. The dark man cut it with a quick slash of his knife.
“Have mercy,” choked the wretched one.
“There is no mercy for you, only judgement,” whispered Orion.
It has woven into it some Greek Mythology, the myths of Actaeon and Orion. I recommend reading the myths(they are very short) if you read this story because I think it adds quite a bit of depth to the characters.
“Do you know why you are here, codename Oenopion?” A man, his feet and wrists bound to a simple wooden chair, he shook it violently with wide, wizened eyes. A lock of grey hair swept against a dirty gag, normally it would be brushed back in personal vanity to rest behind an ear, but now the man was too fearful to care about his appearance.
“You may recall,” stated the speaker, “the fields of Anachoma…”
* * * * * * * * * * *
“Orion,” called Actaeon, “we are due for patrol. Operative Diomedes is waiting.”
“Yes, I am coming,” replied the soldier, “the Anatoli will not make any advances for a week, you do not need to be so eager.”
“It is not I who is eager,” retorted Actaeon as he readjusted his breastplate under the strap of his longsword sheath, “but Diomedes.”
As they walked along the bunkers, Orion and Actaeon noted the common soldiers that huddled around smoldering campfires, basic troops derived from the masses with slim training in the art of war, unlike themselves who were of the best instruction in Dytikos. They had been assigned codenames to conceal their identities so they could fight without mercy and without connection to the common soldier and their fellow operatives.
The pair paced the stony trench to where a grizzled soldier stood still, his weathered eyes scanning a distant tree line and past that a ridge where slim spirals of smoke snaked towards the clouds.
“The enemy’s camp is still for so late in the morning,” noted Diomedes as the two approached.
“They must be out hunting for a stag for the morning meal,” joked Actaeon.
“Or a Dytikos warrior on patrol,” returned Orion more seriously, then, “they would have no luck hunting, we already hunted the herd from this valley,” he added with a wink to Actaeon.
“Be on your guard,” said Diomedes, “the air is too still.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
“So have you heard from her lately?” whispered Actaeon to Orion softly as they crept through the foliage below two high crags.
“No, since we burned Diadromos there has been no word.”
“I am sure she is fine,” consoled Actaeon, “she is the daughter of an enemy operative…”
“Oenopion’s firm hand is a factor I could do without,” returned Orion, his voice elevated slightly.
“Hush,” whispered Diomedes, “let us not forget ourselves.” Orion nodded and checked his composure.
“Still,” hissed Actaeon, “there must be news, she did reply to your apology.”
“A courtesy,” said Orion doubtfully, “she has every reason to detest me for that action.”
“But she won’t, she still cares for you…”
“Shh…” repeated Diomedes; a twig cracked not twenty yards from them.
“Anatoli,” breathed Actaeon and he drew his blade.
“They have marked us,” said Diomedes drawing his own weapon.
A sword flashed across their vision and sliced Orion across the forehead, the soldier cried out as blood streamed into his eyes. Actaeon engaged the assailant, a man in light metal armor with green war paint smeared across his face.
“I am blinded,” roared Orion slashing wildly to his right and left.
Diomedes dispatched a second attacker with a few quick slashes of his sword. A third man had flanked Orion and buffeted him from behind with a shield, the Dytikos warrior fell to the ground unconscious. Diomedes knocked this Anatoli away as well and picked Orion up like a child and threw him over his shoulder.
“Actaeon,” called Diomedes, “fall back!”
“I will cover you,” replied the soldier.
“Don’t take too long,” roared Diomedes as he struck the third so hard he spun dizzyingly to the dust, then fled up a shallow ravine towards the Dytikos lines.
Actaeon’s brow was furrowed with lines of concentration as he fenced with the Anatoli operative. From his peripheral Actaeon spotted a fourth Anatoli sprinting towards their position. The new warrior cried “Oenopion!” and hurled his spear at Actaeon.
* * * * * * * * * * *
“Rise,” commanded the Anatoli commander.
Actaeon rose groggily to his feet under the weight of new armor, heavy Anatoli breastplates, pauldrons, and a helm now burdened his shoulders. The whole of his body stung with a fiery pain.
“Run,” ordered the man Actaeon now recognized to be Oenopion.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Actaeon sprinted under the weight, he was free of the trees, Anatoli armor was not so heavy as he had first thought. Behind him an entire contingent of Anatoli warriors were in pursuit; seventeen gold marks had been placed on his head by Oenopion to the one who brought him back. Actaeon’s feet pounded against the ground, sweat dripped down his forehead and caused it to mix with a substance that had been painted there, it dripped onto his eyes. Casually, the Dytikos soldier wiped the back of his hand and his eyes grew wide as he realized it was green Anatoli war paint. He was wearing Anatoli armor. Actaeon lifted his eyes to the Dytikos defenses not two hundred yards ahead of him.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Wax dripped from the stand to the wooden floor in a slow fall, the light provided by the candle barely illuminated the chair’s prisoner in the middle of the room. The figure who quietly paced circles around the exterior of the dim lighting was barely revealed. A black coat was tight around his torso fell loose to his feet and black bands of cloth were wrapped tightly about his hands and up the sleeves. Black hair fell over black eyes and was ruffled unchecked by the slight breeze that passed between the wooden walls. A dark scarf wrapped around his face revealed only the eyes. Above the eyes, a razor thin white line, straight as the edge of a sword.
From in the folds of the coat a knife was drawn, slender and dark as it’s bearer. The captive’s eyes grew wide once again and he began to shake the chair and cry out through the gag.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Orion grazed his hand along a taut white bandage that held the cut on his forehead closed. Then that hand seized the arrow from his quiver and notched it to string. Fifteen other Dytikos soldiers had done likewise and they now trained them on the contingent of Anatoli soldiers who were charging up the field. One brave soldier was far ahead of the rest, he would be the first to die. The Dytikos released their shafts at the oncoming Anatoli.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Diomedes and Orion walked out to where the Anatoli soldier lay dead on the field, as soon as they had slain him the whole of the contingent fled back towards the trees, a strange tactic to be used by an army. Orion wished his shot had killed the Anatoli, since Actaeon had not returned he was ever more apprehensive of his returning friend. He had thought for a moment that the man who broke from the trees was Actaeon disguised in Anatoli armor but the warrior was wearing green paint and Actaeon would have no access to that.
Orion fell to his knees as he saw who the fallen warrior was, a tear trickled down his cheek at the sight. The helmet had come askew from Actaeon’s head and revealed the familiar curves of his face. But that was not the worst of it, fresh weld marks connected each individual piece of armor to Actaeon’s body. The armor must have been applied searing hot to his skin and then hammered together while on his body so it could not be removed. Green paint was still damp, either from being freshly applied or from the sweat of Actaeon’s exhausted body. It was a truly barbarous thing to cause a soldier to flee for his own countrymen only to trick him into his death.
Orion’s gaze was shifted from his friend as the tears continued to come in a heavier stream than the first. From behind the watery haze Orion’s eyes settled on an Anatoli looking smug at the tree line.
* * * * * * * * * * *
“And so I tracked you here,” said the dark man, resting his hand on the captive’s chin. He sharply pulled it up to look into his eyes, blood trickled over those eyes from a fresh slice along his forehead. “You knew I was coming, you saw signs. I got to Catreus, Glaucus, and Asterion and you knew it was only a matter of time. I found out what you did to her too, in a drunken rage you killed her because of me. You killed your own daughter. This is why you built the high walls of this castle and this is why you dug the moat so deep, yet here I am.”
The prisoner had begun to sob and the sound he made through his gag sounded similar to the bleating of a sheep. The dark man took his hand away from wretched soul and commented,
“at least Catreus, Glaucus, and Asterion died with honor, to protect you, to protect you. I hope they know their sacrifices were not in vain.”
The old man had begun whimpering now almost uncontrollably, he was mumbling something through the gag. The dark man cut it with a quick slash of his knife.
“Have mercy,” choked the wretched one.
“There is no mercy for you, only judgement,” whispered Orion.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Per Nocte
This short has a title in Latin, it means "Through the Night." So that might give away to the content a little bit but I feel many people might not know that so I'll just tell you in advance and save some time.
1654, The New World
James looked over his shoulder at the sinking ship behind him. At approximately midnight a pirate galleon had sailed from around the peninsula before them and opened fire. In response the Cormorant fired her own cannons into the pirate vessel, Wayward Sword. A brief encounter had ensued, crippling and forcing the Cormorant to flee. She would have made it to safety under more normal circumstances, but she was punctured in the bows and taking water.
Salvation seemed close when an English battleship appeared in the distance. But once in range the pirate galleon unloaded a full broadside on the vessel, causing critical damage all along the hull. Left to sink, the English ship sailed towards the shore, men scuttled like ants over the masts and riggings, desperate to reach safety before the ship went down to the depths.
The sacrifice was not without gain. Preoccupied, the Wayward Sword took several evasive decisions that caused a rift to grow to the Cormorant. The holes now filled and most of the water bailed, the Cormorant struck up a new course farther around the upcoming headland.
Every ten minutes or so, a new shot was released from a forward cannon on the Wayward Sword, judging and recalculating the distance between the two vessels. With every shot the distance lessened. What is more, several of the leaks had broken open again piling more water into the cargo hull.
James strung an English flag to the top most mast. Port Royale was ahead along the coast and outfitted with several English warships and outposts all along the shore in defensive positions.
A great cracking rolled over the water, it shattered the sound of the rolling waves as they broke over the bows. James whipped his head back in the direction of the Wayward Sword. The pirate vessel had taken the heading close and was now stuck fast in the maw of a nasty coagulation rocks that were concealed just below the tide line. The crew of the Cormorant gave a ragged cheer as they sailed out of sight of the broken ship.
Not one hour later the Cormorant sailed around the final peninsula before Port Royale. Sunlight splayed in radiant beams over the hills behind the city. The Cormorant docked beside a crude brown dock. The crew dispersed into the city, visiting bars and markets of the English capital. James found himself relating the tale to a group of weathered seamen in a bar just above the lower city. He had just finished when an old sailor stood up and made a remark.
"I have fished those waters for ten years and there is no rock head out that way for four miles. In fact, it is one of the deepest sections of water around."
1654, The New World
James looked over his shoulder at the sinking ship behind him. At approximately midnight a pirate galleon had sailed from around the peninsula before them and opened fire. In response the Cormorant fired her own cannons into the pirate vessel, Wayward Sword. A brief encounter had ensued, crippling and forcing the Cormorant to flee. She would have made it to safety under more normal circumstances, but she was punctured in the bows and taking water.
Salvation seemed close when an English battleship appeared in the distance. But once in range the pirate galleon unloaded a full broadside on the vessel, causing critical damage all along the hull. Left to sink, the English ship sailed towards the shore, men scuttled like ants over the masts and riggings, desperate to reach safety before the ship went down to the depths.
The sacrifice was not without gain. Preoccupied, the Wayward Sword took several evasive decisions that caused a rift to grow to the Cormorant. The holes now filled and most of the water bailed, the Cormorant struck up a new course farther around the upcoming headland.
Every ten minutes or so, a new shot was released from a forward cannon on the Wayward Sword, judging and recalculating the distance between the two vessels. With every shot the distance lessened. What is more, several of the leaks had broken open again piling more water into the cargo hull.
James strung an English flag to the top most mast. Port Royale was ahead along the coast and outfitted with several English warships and outposts all along the shore in defensive positions.
A great cracking rolled over the water, it shattered the sound of the rolling waves as they broke over the bows. James whipped his head back in the direction of the Wayward Sword. The pirate vessel had taken the heading close and was now stuck fast in the maw of a nasty coagulation rocks that were concealed just below the tide line. The crew of the Cormorant gave a ragged cheer as they sailed out of sight of the broken ship.
Not one hour later the Cormorant sailed around the final peninsula before Port Royale. Sunlight splayed in radiant beams over the hills behind the city. The Cormorant docked beside a crude brown dock. The crew dispersed into the city, visiting bars and markets of the English capital. James found himself relating the tale to a group of weathered seamen in a bar just above the lower city. He had just finished when an old sailor stood up and made a remark.
"I have fished those waters for ten years and there is no rock head out that way for four miles. In fact, it is one of the deepest sections of water around."
Merciless Consequences
So no matter what I do I cannot find a new title for this piece. I am not especially fond of the current one for some reason; it just bothers me. Anyway this particular story is one of my favorites and one of the better of the "older" stuff I have written, though older is barely a year.
As the blog progresses I will probably put my better writing out, right now it is submitted so I want to wait for the conclusion of that before it becomes more widely known, though right now I suspect no one has read anything prior to.
Coenred road his horse hard with his body pressed low upon it; the beast’s flanks were matted with sweat after a hard days ride. Blood and dirt clogged a wound on Coenred’s shoulder where he had been shot with an arrow earlier that day, it was nothing serious though it hampered his own ability to fight and ride.
Nearby were the Mercian Invaders of the north. Their army was powerful and he had been sent by the peoples of Wessex, his own southern land, to scout them and relay information. A quick and decisive maneuver by the Wessex forces could halt the invasion and turns the odds to their favor for the war as a whole. Currently the army was camped in a vulnerable location, if he could successfully determine the Mercian’s location the Wessex troops could move to one of two positions and defeat the enemy lines, but if the Mercian’s had advanced farther than anticipated there would be no chance of reaching the position in time to fortify it and defeat the Mercians.
The woods Coenred had been riding through thinned out and ahead, over a wide grass field, a house became visible. A small copse of trees that was near to the house with a river running around its far side. It appeared abandoned and Coenred would not be surprised if it was. Trains of refugee fleeing the war front had been marching past the Wessex camp for days.
There were four horses picketed out front of the home, it was impossible to tell to which army the beasts belonged. Coenred concluded it must be his own for it was infeasible that the Mercians had advanced this far already. The scout, however, veered towards the river, he could converse with his fellow soldiers later, first he should get his wound clean lest it become infected. In the army’s camp, Coenred had seen more than one unfortunate soldier’s wound turn foul and lead to horrible consequences because he did not tend to it immediately.
Coenred dismounted at the water’s edge and began to sop the wound with water until it was clear of dirt. It stung like hell and Coenred winced visibly with the first few splashes, but he knew it would benefit him later.
A twig snapped on the far bank. Out of instinct Coenred retreated into the bushes and thick foliage behind him, his horse had wandered a short way up the bank and was almost invisible behind two thick forest giants.
A man clad in a brown tunic wearing a chainmail vest and small iron cap emerged; a Mercian scout. He had a thick red beard that sprouted from his chin and curled forward in a way found most handsome for the times.
Coenred gasped, the Mercians should not even have scouts this far south. If the Wessex army proceeded any farther it would spell certain disaster for his homeland. He cautiously pulled the bow from his back and quickly but quietly strung an arrow against the yew wood. He aimed and tensed himself for the shot; it was less than twenty yards, an easy shot. The man’s companions would not hear him fall, his body would be muted when it fell to the soft forest loam.
The enemy crouched by the water and filled his canteen in the slow current the returned through the woods back to where the house was. A bead of sweat trickled down Coenred’s temple. The enemy’s back proffered and easy target. Coenred rose and took careful aim, extending the bow to its full capacity. He knew he could make the shot, he had done so dozens of times at the range in camp. Then suddenly he changed his mind, unstrung his bow and slipped it back into its buckskin tube. He replaced the arrow as well then returned to his horse. He mounted swiftly, eager to return to the safety of the Wessex army. Now there could be no doubt the Wessex army should move to the second location.
His horse trotted around the fringe of the trees and towards the road; Coenred’s logic was the Mercians would go up the road while he returned back down to where the Wessex army base camp was. Instead as he rounded at the edge of the copse he came face to face with the four scouts. Their horses nickered as the Mercians struggled with their weapons. Coenred forced his horse into an all out gallop, trying to flee the enemy scouts. His horse was fast, even though it was deadbeat tired it could still outrun the heavier stallions of the north; southern horses were always faster.
An arrow zipped past his head, missing him and his mount by a hair’s breadth. A second shot, further to his right, missed him again. He was almost out of range when three shafts passed around him. He was safe now, out of reasonable range.
A lucky shot with slightly more distance and accuracy buried into his back. Coenred crumpled in the saddle and fell limply from it as his horse rode on. The scout’s foot was caught in one of the stirrups and he was dragged several yards before his body came to a rest.
The Mercian scouts patted the back of the man who had made the shot; he had a thick red beard that sprouted from his chin and curled forward in a way found most handsome for the times.
As the blog progresses I will probably put my better writing out, right now it is submitted so I want to wait for the conclusion of that before it becomes more widely known, though right now I suspect no one has read anything prior to.
Coenred road his horse hard with his body pressed low upon it; the beast’s flanks were matted with sweat after a hard days ride. Blood and dirt clogged a wound on Coenred’s shoulder where he had been shot with an arrow earlier that day, it was nothing serious though it hampered his own ability to fight and ride.
Nearby were the Mercian Invaders of the north. Their army was powerful and he had been sent by the peoples of Wessex, his own southern land, to scout them and relay information. A quick and decisive maneuver by the Wessex forces could halt the invasion and turns the odds to their favor for the war as a whole. Currently the army was camped in a vulnerable location, if he could successfully determine the Mercian’s location the Wessex troops could move to one of two positions and defeat the enemy lines, but if the Mercian’s had advanced farther than anticipated there would be no chance of reaching the position in time to fortify it and defeat the Mercians.
The woods Coenred had been riding through thinned out and ahead, over a wide grass field, a house became visible. A small copse of trees that was near to the house with a river running around its far side. It appeared abandoned and Coenred would not be surprised if it was. Trains of refugee fleeing the war front had been marching past the Wessex camp for days.
There were four horses picketed out front of the home, it was impossible to tell to which army the beasts belonged. Coenred concluded it must be his own for it was infeasible that the Mercians had advanced this far already. The scout, however, veered towards the river, he could converse with his fellow soldiers later, first he should get his wound clean lest it become infected. In the army’s camp, Coenred had seen more than one unfortunate soldier’s wound turn foul and lead to horrible consequences because he did not tend to it immediately.
Coenred dismounted at the water’s edge and began to sop the wound with water until it was clear of dirt. It stung like hell and Coenred winced visibly with the first few splashes, but he knew it would benefit him later.
A twig snapped on the far bank. Out of instinct Coenred retreated into the bushes and thick foliage behind him, his horse had wandered a short way up the bank and was almost invisible behind two thick forest giants.
A man clad in a brown tunic wearing a chainmail vest and small iron cap emerged; a Mercian scout. He had a thick red beard that sprouted from his chin and curled forward in a way found most handsome for the times.
Coenred gasped, the Mercians should not even have scouts this far south. If the Wessex army proceeded any farther it would spell certain disaster for his homeland. He cautiously pulled the bow from his back and quickly but quietly strung an arrow against the yew wood. He aimed and tensed himself for the shot; it was less than twenty yards, an easy shot. The man’s companions would not hear him fall, his body would be muted when it fell to the soft forest loam.
The enemy crouched by the water and filled his canteen in the slow current the returned through the woods back to where the house was. A bead of sweat trickled down Coenred’s temple. The enemy’s back proffered and easy target. Coenred rose and took careful aim, extending the bow to its full capacity. He knew he could make the shot, he had done so dozens of times at the range in camp. Then suddenly he changed his mind, unstrung his bow and slipped it back into its buckskin tube. He replaced the arrow as well then returned to his horse. He mounted swiftly, eager to return to the safety of the Wessex army. Now there could be no doubt the Wessex army should move to the second location.
His horse trotted around the fringe of the trees and towards the road; Coenred’s logic was the Mercians would go up the road while he returned back down to where the Wessex army base camp was. Instead as he rounded at the edge of the copse he came face to face with the four scouts. Their horses nickered as the Mercians struggled with their weapons. Coenred forced his horse into an all out gallop, trying to flee the enemy scouts. His horse was fast, even though it was deadbeat tired it could still outrun the heavier stallions of the north; southern horses were always faster.
An arrow zipped past his head, missing him and his mount by a hair’s breadth. A second shot, further to his right, missed him again. He was almost out of range when three shafts passed around him. He was safe now, out of reasonable range.
A lucky shot with slightly more distance and accuracy buried into his back. Coenred crumpled in the saddle and fell limply from it as his horse rode on. The scout’s foot was caught in one of the stirrups and he was dragged several yards before his body came to a rest.
The Mercian scouts patted the back of the man who had made the shot; he had a thick red beard that sprouted from his chin and curled forward in a way found most handsome for the times.
Now for something completely different
I hopped the pasture one-day with my pal Flippity – because Glimmin could not make it that day. The grass was long and had preened itself to glistening straight points of fiber.
“Glimmin,” I says to my friend, “we should hop down to the water hole and go for a swim.”
Glimmin happily responded that he would not go, so we set off immediately with high spirits – alcoholic – at the general consensus, that was achieved. The river that led to the watering hole was a winding path and as I strode over the soft blue ripples it occurred to me that we did not own a musical instrument.
“Glimmin,” I said again, “we need a more powerful voice.”
The young hare in question paused to give the trifling issue the due thought it deserved. I patiently awaited an answer that I soon realized was not forth coming. Poor Glimmin had thought himself into a stupor that nothing but the gloriously shining petals of a wolfsbane plant grown in the shade of stately oak could save.
“My friend,” I chimed, small hare lungs singing lustily, “I will find you nightshade, grown with dew drops glistening gently on its petals and sepals.”
New quest in hand I started off to the mountain that grew high in the distance, I searched desperately in the murky depths of its cave but to no avail. All the nightshade had left.
A passing beaver caught my attention; its teeth were heavily bandaged in coarse strings of rhododendron. I was moved by its pleas and stopped for a brief conversation.
“Good Beaver,” I confronted it haughtily, “your teeth are so obscure they could be hidden from even the keen eyes of a bat. Would you grace me with the knowledge of this unfortunate event?”
“I would indeed,” the jovial animal responded, flat, plank tail resplendent in its glory. “A termite colony had moved into my central home, their tiny mouths hungry for the solid timber of my dammed home. I was complacent at first, delighted to share the fruits of my prosperity. But the bugs bit and bit through all but two of my timbers, my humble home fell down.
“I was driven away by their hordes of angry carpenters. I came for solid granite stone stalagmites and stalactites that would be impossible for their cursed jaws to chomp through. Alas I was mistaken myself and forgot the most dreadful thing. My own incisors could not manage the rough stone and I broke both my front teeth. Now I wander back to the surface of these dark depths that have long since entrapped me in their devilish jaws.” I listened to the whole of the beaver’s tragic tale and wept bitter tears at the cruelty of the world, termites were so villianous.
“Good Beaver,” I said again, “I quest for the sepals and petals of nightshade, known to cure any ailment and double the strength of the injured, come with me and your teeth will be able to cut the hardest granite.”
“Quite willingly!” exclaimed the beaver, “Away we shall go!”
Without but no more words we proceeded through the murky dark of the caverns and emerged in a glorious forest of stately elms and oaks. The elms were all smaller but the oaks were old and majestic. I stopped at the base of a younger oak with small plants at its base, there were a great many leaves of nightshade obscuring a few smaller wolfsbane plants.
“Beaver,” I said, “eat to your heart's content of the nightshade, but touch not the wolfsbane for it is dangerous to those who swim in water.”
“You speak wisdom,” complied the darkly furred animal, “i will do as you say, o sagacious one.”
The beaver ate and ate all the nightshade but I was left with a conundrum, I had the wolfsbane I intended but no way home.
I would be lost forever in that forest but for the listening oaks who knew my plight.
Climb, they said, go to the top of our leafy boughs and you will be taken home...
I was at first afraid, the height was so great to reach the summit of even the smallest of the mightiest oaks. But I remembered Flippity back in the meadow and found in myself the courage to ascend the great trunks. Using naught by my own two teeth, I quickly scrabbled to the very highest branch so high I was above the clouds. Then it came to me, the route home was through the air itself.
Jumping from the tree, I landed upon a powdery cloud and drove it like a cart back to the very beginning. Glimmin was where I had left him in the meadow with Flippity and the others prancing all around him in a great circle, trying to dance him back from his stupor.
They seemed to have things under control and I was loathe to relinquish my cloud car, it occurred to me that some snow from the mountains would be a nice treat for all concerned. So once again I zipped away to the bitter crags above the caverns I had traveled not long before. The snow was resting there in gentle reclination, eager to be taken away from its resting ground I scooped it into two cones and proceeded back to the place where Glimmin and Flippity and the others all were gathered.
It was night now, the sky was bright, and the down was dark to contrast. Flippity and the others had all gone home, their dancing now ineffective, and I descended to the very spot where they had abandoned. Poor Glimmin had built up an awful rash on his bottom from siting on the pointy grass all day.
“Glimmin!” I cried, I spewed the petals and sepals of the wolfsbane at him and they swirled around him in a flurry. Glimmin immediately came to leapt from the spot into the greater of the two snowcapped cones. I never saw him again and knew no more powerful voice.
“Glimmin,” I says to my friend, “we should hop down to the water hole and go for a swim.”
Glimmin happily responded that he would not go, so we set off immediately with high spirits – alcoholic – at the general consensus, that was achieved. The river that led to the watering hole was a winding path and as I strode over the soft blue ripples it occurred to me that we did not own a musical instrument.
“Glimmin,” I said again, “we need a more powerful voice.”
The young hare in question paused to give the trifling issue the due thought it deserved. I patiently awaited an answer that I soon realized was not forth coming. Poor Glimmin had thought himself into a stupor that nothing but the gloriously shining petals of a wolfsbane plant grown in the shade of stately oak could save.
“My friend,” I chimed, small hare lungs singing lustily, “I will find you nightshade, grown with dew drops glistening gently on its petals and sepals.”
New quest in hand I started off to the mountain that grew high in the distance, I searched desperately in the murky depths of its cave but to no avail. All the nightshade had left.
A passing beaver caught my attention; its teeth were heavily bandaged in coarse strings of rhododendron. I was moved by its pleas and stopped for a brief conversation.
“Good Beaver,” I confronted it haughtily, “your teeth are so obscure they could be hidden from even the keen eyes of a bat. Would you grace me with the knowledge of this unfortunate event?”
“I would indeed,” the jovial animal responded, flat, plank tail resplendent in its glory. “A termite colony had moved into my central home, their tiny mouths hungry for the solid timber of my dammed home. I was complacent at first, delighted to share the fruits of my prosperity. But the bugs bit and bit through all but two of my timbers, my humble home fell down.
“I was driven away by their hordes of angry carpenters. I came for solid granite stone stalagmites and stalactites that would be impossible for their cursed jaws to chomp through. Alas I was mistaken myself and forgot the most dreadful thing. My own incisors could not manage the rough stone and I broke both my front teeth. Now I wander back to the surface of these dark depths that have long since entrapped me in their devilish jaws.” I listened to the whole of the beaver’s tragic tale and wept bitter tears at the cruelty of the world, termites were so villianous.
“Good Beaver,” I said again, “I quest for the sepals and petals of nightshade, known to cure any ailment and double the strength of the injured, come with me and your teeth will be able to cut the hardest granite.”
“Quite willingly!” exclaimed the beaver, “Away we shall go!”
Without but no more words we proceeded through the murky dark of the caverns and emerged in a glorious forest of stately elms and oaks. The elms were all smaller but the oaks were old and majestic. I stopped at the base of a younger oak with small plants at its base, there were a great many leaves of nightshade obscuring a few smaller wolfsbane plants.
“Beaver,” I said, “eat to your heart's content of the nightshade, but touch not the wolfsbane for it is dangerous to those who swim in water.”
“You speak wisdom,” complied the darkly furred animal, “i will do as you say, o sagacious one.”
The beaver ate and ate all the nightshade but I was left with a conundrum, I had the wolfsbane I intended but no way home.
I would be lost forever in that forest but for the listening oaks who knew my plight.
Climb, they said, go to the top of our leafy boughs and you will be taken home...
I was at first afraid, the height was so great to reach the summit of even the smallest of the mightiest oaks. But I remembered Flippity back in the meadow and found in myself the courage to ascend the great trunks. Using naught by my own two teeth, I quickly scrabbled to the very highest branch so high I was above the clouds. Then it came to me, the route home was through the air itself.
Jumping from the tree, I landed upon a powdery cloud and drove it like a cart back to the very beginning. Glimmin was where I had left him in the meadow with Flippity and the others prancing all around him in a great circle, trying to dance him back from his stupor.
They seemed to have things under control and I was loathe to relinquish my cloud car, it occurred to me that some snow from the mountains would be a nice treat for all concerned. So once again I zipped away to the bitter crags above the caverns I had traveled not long before. The snow was resting there in gentle reclination, eager to be taken away from its resting ground I scooped it into two cones and proceeded back to the place where Glimmin and Flippity and the others all were gathered.
It was night now, the sky was bright, and the down was dark to contrast. Flippity and the others had all gone home, their dancing now ineffective, and I descended to the very spot where they had abandoned. Poor Glimmin had built up an awful rash on his bottom from siting on the pointy grass all day.
“Glimmin!” I cried, I spewed the petals and sepals of the wolfsbane at him and they swirled around him in a flurry. Glimmin immediately came to leapt from the spot into the greater of the two snowcapped cones. I never saw him again and knew no more powerful voice.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Island
http://thethoughtsofjager.blogspot.com/
Description:
This is a story that I finished today and do not have any particular fondness for but really just wanted to finish it.
Patrick leaned against the railing of the ship and mopped his brow with a dirty rag, no matter how many times he brushed the sweat away it repooled and trickled down his face. They had been at sea for months, making the trip from England to India. It was his third time on the voyage and each time it got no easier, each squall was still as frightening as before and each time an outbreak of scurvy occurred he was returned to his knees in fervent prayer he would not be touched by it. The first time he was at sea he contracted the disease and almost lost teeth, since then he had found only a few liver spots on his thighs every now and again.
The ship he was currently sailing on, the Cormorant, had just come through a particularly vicious storm and so the crew was hard at work repairing from the damage. Currently Patrick was nailing splints to the main mast where it had cracked but not fallen, in order to do so he had to shin up the mast and hold on using only his legs while his hands held the board, nail and mallet. Ideally he would hang from the crossbeam to do such work but in this case the structural integrity of the mast was in question.
“Patrick,” said Michael, “they’ve spotted land.” Michael was a good friend of Patrick and it was only because of him that Patrick was even on this voyage. Patrick had received a job as a dockworker on one of the main wharfs in London and so there was no reason he should continue these trips. But the ship needed another hand and as a favor to Michael, Patrick had sullenly agreed to postpone his work on the wharf and return for a last journey around Africa and to India.
“Is it India?” inquired Patrick.
“Not there yet,” replied Michael, “they’ve no idea what landmass it could be, the storm blew us farther off course than anyone has anticipated. The Cap’n is studying the charts as we speak.”
“As if that will do us any good,” snorted Patrick, “he can barely read a map and navigate.” Captain Samuel Andrews was not a sufficiently competent navigator as it had become evident throughout the voyage when he mistook the Cape of Good Hope for Australia.
“Boys,” roared a voice from the cabin, “we are putting into land, take her over.”
“Thankfully,” said Michael dryly, “the ketch is gone so we won’t have to worry about getting to shore.”
As it turned out the ship did not make it that far towards the land. Approximately a half mile from the sandy beach they struck a reef and ripped a great hole in the hull. Shortly after that the ship began to break apart as though it was matchwood. True, The Cormorant was not a war ship and did not have the strongest of hulls but she should be resilient to a few rocks beating on her hull.
Patrick attempted to look down at the reef but he could see no rocks, what appeared to be a long ribbon falling was all he could see. The ribbon flashed and turned and at some points even seemed to come closer to the surface. It appeared to be scaled and tapered to an end, it was too deep for Patrick to see the other end.
“Patrick!” exclaimed Michael, “hurry and get onto this raft.” The sailor was referring to a hastily cobbled together mass of empty barrels and spare timber. The raft was thrown from the side of the ship and after it jumped the small crew of sixteen. Most of them succeeded in climbing onto it or at least finding a spot around the side. But by the time they had steadied themselves on it there were only fourteen of them left.
“Where are Pierre and Jean?” yelled Andrews, “I saw them jump, where are they?”
Patrick looked about him from where he clung to the raft, true, they were nowhere to be seen and he could not help but wonder if they were taken by this mysterious ribbon he had seen. Michael was fine, he had perched on the raft nearby the Captain and he clutched an oar in his hands which he was attempting to use to row the overcrowded craft to the shore.
“Get us to shore,” ordered the Captain, somewhat redundantly as everyone was already pushing the raft as best they could in the direction of the landmass. Patrick swore silently to himself that if they were forced to sacrifice a crew member for whatever reason Andrews should or should be volunteered for that role.
When they reached the shore there a small amount of dissention among the crew. Andrews had done little to aid the struggling crew and they were all exhausted. Patrick had never been marooned on an island before but he imagined it would be similar to the current situation.
The group set up camp on the beach and watched as pieces of their ship floated ashore. No pieces of the ship could be used for anything, not even firewood as the wood was soaked to the core from the sea.
“Form into pairs and look in the jungle for fruit or something to eat,” commanded Andrews, “Patrick, Michael, you two help me pull this wood on shore so it can dry.” The pair grudgingly obliged, they would have much rather been sampling fruit types or getting a cool drink of water.
The sun crossed the sky and soon it began to sag low behind the trees, still no one had returned from the expeditions into the jungle. The wood had dried out and a fire was now going; Andrews wore spectacles and they proved to be a useful tool in getting the fire started. Andrews paced constantly with his eyes fixed on the leafy interior of the jungle, it was unsettling.
“Maybe no one will return because they found a settlement on another part of the island,” whispered Michael to Patrick, “and they do not want the captain to be rescued as well.”
“I would not put it out of the realm of possibility,” said Patrick, “but I suspect the meaning is far graver than that.”
“What do you mean,” asked Michael seriously.
“As they ship went down today, in the stead of a reef, I thought I saw a sea serpent descending into the depths below the ship.”
“That is unnerving but it would be in the water and not on the land,” argued Michael.
“Have you ever heard of a sea serpent attacking a ship?” inquired Patrick.
“Not with any seriousness to the matter.”
“Which leads me to believe that this is a mystical island, and leads me to believe that we are in grave danger.”
“Speculation,” growled Andrews as he finally sat from his time of pacing.
“Superstition,” agreed Michael.
“Get some shut eye,” said Andrews, “in the morning we will look for our fellows I the jungle, but not at night.”
Patrick was surprised upon awaking the following morning to find his body unharmed for he resolutely believed that this land was a cursed one. Michael was biting into a mango and Andrews picking through remnants of the ship until he found a stiff piece of timber which would double as a club. He swung the long piece so that it made a whistling sound as it passed through the air.
“What do you need that for?” inquired Michael.
“Protection,” growled Andrews.
“From what?” pursued the subordinate.
“Whatever might be in there,” he pointed with his club at the jungle. Michael rolled his eyes and Patrick sighed sadly that his friend was not taking the perilous nature of their situation seriously.
The trio embarked into the jungle and were instantly struck with how quiet it was. The only sounds they could hear were their own muffled footsteps. Each net of vines and tapered tree seemed threatening, the slightest wisp of the wind that ruffled a leaf caused Patrick to snap his head back. Once he though he saw a man dart behind a tree far in the distance but he rubbed his eyes and looked out and saw nothing.
It was nearly noon and they had been traipsing through the trees for the whole of the day when they came upon a curious carving in a tree. Michael approached it and as he stood before it a net swung up from around his feet and wrapped him up a good ten feet above the forest floor.
The sailor struggled wildly but only succeeded in further disorienting himself. Patrick saw no way in which to deactivate the trap so he ran towards the tree, he ran up the tree then pushed off and snagged his hand on the net. The two sailors hung there as Patrick tried to climb up to the top of the net where it appeared the most knotted.
Below the Captain was whirling rapidly looking for another trap or the people who set the trap. Seeing neither he returned his attention to the sailors scrabbling around with the net. Patrick managed to maneuver his way to the top and he began to attempt to pry open some of the knots but made little accomplishment.
“Cap’n,” he called down, “is there a sharp rock down there?”
“Get me out!” exclaimed Michael from his place in the vine web.
“Try this said Andrews throwing a rock up to Patrick, the sailor caught it deftly and began sawing at the fibers until the broke one by one. Patrick was not a fool and so he did not cut the few vines that held the whole contraption together but instead located several main components to the web and sliced each of these in turn until it appeared to be nothing more than a rope ladder. The pair half slid, half climbed down to the jungle floor.
“That is strange,” remarked Michael, only slightly shaken from the ordeal.
“Why could there by a trap in the jungle,” inquired Andrews, it was the obvious question, unfortunately none of them had the answer.
“It is possible others are caught in a similar situation,” hypothesized Patrick.
“Then why have we neither seen nor heard them?” debated Michael, “it has taken us the whole of the morning to find the one, it is unlikely we will find another anytime soon—” he was cut off as he spoke by three men who had approached out of the jungle. Patrick looked dumbly on the newcomers, they did not resemble the savages accustomed to a tropical island, they wore short robes and carried very sophisticated looking spears. They held them up in a menacing way and spoke in an alien tongue.
Patrick turned around only to see four more of the newcomers were behind them as well. Andrews raised his club threateningly but was struck from behind by one of the new four. Michael and Patrick were likewise buffeted unconscious.
“Patrick,” said a voice, neither Michael or Andrews, “wake!” it commanded. Patrick rose sharply from where he lay, he was in a cell, the walls were made of sandstone but there were wrought iron gates. The voice who addresses him was John, a sailor who had been on The Cormorant. John had been searching the jungle for food and now had a small cut on his temple.
“What has happened?” inquired Patrick, slightly groggy from waking.
“We have been captured by the inhabitants of this island,” replied John.
“What do they want?” continued Patrick’s questioning.
“That is the grizzly affair,” shuddered John, “it appears that we are in some sort of coliseum in the heart of the island. So far we have been forced to fight strange beasts only known from legend.”
“We are like gladiators?” said Patrick fearfully.
“I wish,” said John gravely, “at least gladiators had weapons.”
“Have you seen the Cap’n or Michael?”
“They are a few cells down,” replied John, “with them there are only five of us left.” John walked over to one of the two doors and looked out at an arena, Patrick stood and followed him. There was a high wall surrounding a sandy arena, on the wall seating for around one hundred people was visible. In the sand, there were bones.
“Soon they will come for us again,” said John, then he looked at Patrick, “I never thought I would die this way.”
“I don’t think anyone has,” replied Patrick.
Just then the door to the arena was pulled open, behind them guards jabbed through the slots with their spears to force them out. John turned and seized a spear haft and pulled sharply, the whole spear fell into the cage and he dragged it with him into the arena. The spears were quickly drawn back into their grooves and the door to their cage shut. John broke the spear in two and gave the blunt half to Patrick.
“Just a fighting chance,” said John morosely.
“Don’t consign yourself to death yet,” consoled Patrick.
“If we don’t die today, we die tomorrow,” argued the other sailor, “might as well be today lest it be another day of fear.”
On the far side of the arena Michael, Andrews, and Francis, the other sailor, had emerged from a cage and were wandering towards the center of the arena. Patrick and John went over to them.
“Where did you get the weapon?” inquired Andrews.
“Stole it from a lazy guard,” responded John.
“Well give me half, I’m captain,” he made to snatch the weapon from John.
“To each his own,” growled John.
“No, we must stay together,” rationed Francis, “there is strength in numbers.”
“The only strength is the probability you will be picked off last,” growled John. Patrick was inclined to side with John, he wanted to be with John because out of all the men here, he was the only one with a substantial amount of courage.
“Look,” said Francis, “our spectators.” Michael waved cheekily while John howled and beat the spear half against his chest.
“Fight me!” he yelled, “don’t send your beasts send yourselves!” The crowd seemed to think this was amusing and they waved back and yelled things in their own language, whether they were taunts or encouragement it was hard to determine.
“There,” exclaimed Patrick, “they are opening a gate.”
“That gate leads into the jungle,” said Francis a little miffed.
“Does anything come through it?” inquired Michael, sobering up as the realization of nearing death became apparent.
“Let us see,” stated John, he took a fighting stance and stared fixedly on the entrance.
A shrill and piercing scream rent the air. Patrick jumped in his skin and whirled to see Andrews looking at a different gate where a beast had just appeared. It had a glossy black coat of fur and stood on its hind legs, it appeared humanoid but for the head of a bull that was mounted on its shoulders. It lowered a pair of great horns, grunted, and began to paw the sandy turf.
“Run,” said John quietly, then he roared, “run!” the party of shipwrecked sailors didn’t need to be told twice, they split towards the gate to the forest. All except Andrews, the captain showed his true colors now, he stood his ground and wet himself. He was scared stiff and could not find the power to move his feet until the Minotaur knocked him from them.
“There,” gasped Patrick, “there are walkways all above us.” So it was, above them an intricate web of platforms and paths were linked between the trees and on those a people cheered and yelled. Behind them, they could hear the people in the arena quieting down.
“The beast must be done mauling the Cap’n,” noted Michael, doggedly jogging along. Patrick himself would have stopped running long ago if fear had not kept him going. Spending several months on a ship leaves little time for calisthenics.
“Keep going,” encouraged Francis, who was probably doing the worst of all of them. “There, in those trees, lets take a break,” suggested John. The four stopped and warily looked at the jungle around them. John and Patrick still held their spear halves but the other two were unarmed.
“I think I can reach the branch,” breathed Francis heavily, he was referring to a stout timber six feet from the trunks behind which they were protected. Without waiting for permission he scurried out and scrabbled for the bough. He got it and stood erect and jogged back towards to trees, the minotaur did not wait for Francis. It bowled into him from behind and pinned his corpse up on a tree not two feet from Patrick. Francis’ head lolled to the side and he stared with dead eyes at his compatriots.
The beast’s arms were swinging wildly at its sides so John snuck low at it and drove the spear into its left leg. It howled in pain and the crowd booed, John whirled towards the people in the branches and roared out an ultimatum to them.
“I told you to come!” he yelled, “but you sent the beast! Come down and we’ll see if your blood runs as red as mine!” The beast released its hold on Francis and it sunk to one knee and pulled the spear from its leg and then faced John’s exposed back and raised the weapon like a club.
The world seemed to slow down for Patrick, he laid out entire arguments for himself, to run and live or to stay and fight like John had. In the end he recalled John’s rationing.
“We are dead today or tomorrow,” he said quietly to himself then he threw his body into the minotaur’s side. The pair fell to the ground together tangled in eachother. Patrick extricated himself as quickly as he could and scrabbled away from the beast. It growled and lashed its head, trying to get its horns lodged in the sailors fleeing body. John had turned and picked up the spear shaft Patrick had dropped and he clubbed the beast in the side of the head, it fell to the side again but it was not hurt at all.
“John, run!” yelled Michael who was already a good twenty feet away from the beast. Patrick seized John’s arm and began to drag him along behind him until the man willingly ran as well. Patrick chanced a look back and saw the beast was up on all fours now, it tried to stand on two legs but could not so it went back to all fours and began to run slowly and lamely on three after them.
Suddenly the trio burst out onto the shore. They looked wildly to their left and right, looking for a place to run.
“The ketch!” exclaimed Michael. There it was, the little boat had washed up onto the shore and was lying on its side like a beached whale. The trio immediately began to run for it as quickly as they could, behind them the beast burst from the trees and rolled onto the sand.
Patrick and John tried to right the ketch while Michael pushed it towards the water. They experienced little short term success, a few drag marks in the sand were the only signs that they had made the slightest progress.
“The beast grow closer,” growled John. True, the minotaur had made significant progress towards them despite being on all fours. It galloped toward them bleeding and tossing is bovine head.
“No!” yelled Patrick and he redoubled his efforts. He had had enough of this strange island and it was time to get off of it. The ketch moved ever so slightly into the surf but it was enough for the small ship to get into the water that there was some bouyancy.
Patrick and Michael crawled into the ketch until only John was left forcing it into the waves. Within the small ship they found a pair of oars which had miraculously not been washed out in the storm. John clung to the back of the ketch as it was drawn out into the sea, the minotaur pursued them into the surf. By now the vessel had managed to get out into the deep on the water. Patrick hauled John into the ketch and together they put up the sail.
“How can it still pursue us?” questioned Michael. Patrick turned his head to where the minotaur had managed to form an awkward swim technique and was managing to swim faster than they could row. The sailor then turned his head down into the deep where the silver ribbon had appeared.
“It will not be a problem,” said Patrick. The next moment a great serpentine head reared out of the water and seized the significantly smaller creature in its mouth and then returned to the depth. Patrick took one last look back to the island, the inhabitants were down on the shore now with their weapons raised high over their heads in jeering anger.
“So long,” waved Michael as the ketch skipped over the waves.
Description:
This is a story that I finished today and do not have any particular fondness for but really just wanted to finish it.
Patrick leaned against the railing of the ship and mopped his brow with a dirty rag, no matter how many times he brushed the sweat away it repooled and trickled down his face. They had been at sea for months, making the trip from England to India. It was his third time on the voyage and each time it got no easier, each squall was still as frightening as before and each time an outbreak of scurvy occurred he was returned to his knees in fervent prayer he would not be touched by it. The first time he was at sea he contracted the disease and almost lost teeth, since then he had found only a few liver spots on his thighs every now and again.
The ship he was currently sailing on, the Cormorant, had just come through a particularly vicious storm and so the crew was hard at work repairing from the damage. Currently Patrick was nailing splints to the main mast where it had cracked but not fallen, in order to do so he had to shin up the mast and hold on using only his legs while his hands held the board, nail and mallet. Ideally he would hang from the crossbeam to do such work but in this case the structural integrity of the mast was in question.
“Patrick,” said Michael, “they’ve spotted land.” Michael was a good friend of Patrick and it was only because of him that Patrick was even on this voyage. Patrick had received a job as a dockworker on one of the main wharfs in London and so there was no reason he should continue these trips. But the ship needed another hand and as a favor to Michael, Patrick had sullenly agreed to postpone his work on the wharf and return for a last journey around Africa and to India.
“Is it India?” inquired Patrick.
“Not there yet,” replied Michael, “they’ve no idea what landmass it could be, the storm blew us farther off course than anyone has anticipated. The Cap’n is studying the charts as we speak.”
“As if that will do us any good,” snorted Patrick, “he can barely read a map and navigate.” Captain Samuel Andrews was not a sufficiently competent navigator as it had become evident throughout the voyage when he mistook the Cape of Good Hope for Australia.
“Boys,” roared a voice from the cabin, “we are putting into land, take her over.”
“Thankfully,” said Michael dryly, “the ketch is gone so we won’t have to worry about getting to shore.”
As it turned out the ship did not make it that far towards the land. Approximately a half mile from the sandy beach they struck a reef and ripped a great hole in the hull. Shortly after that the ship began to break apart as though it was matchwood. True, The Cormorant was not a war ship and did not have the strongest of hulls but she should be resilient to a few rocks beating on her hull.
Patrick attempted to look down at the reef but he could see no rocks, what appeared to be a long ribbon falling was all he could see. The ribbon flashed and turned and at some points even seemed to come closer to the surface. It appeared to be scaled and tapered to an end, it was too deep for Patrick to see the other end.
“Patrick!” exclaimed Michael, “hurry and get onto this raft.” The sailor was referring to a hastily cobbled together mass of empty barrels and spare timber. The raft was thrown from the side of the ship and after it jumped the small crew of sixteen. Most of them succeeded in climbing onto it or at least finding a spot around the side. But by the time they had steadied themselves on it there were only fourteen of them left.
“Where are Pierre and Jean?” yelled Andrews, “I saw them jump, where are they?”
Patrick looked about him from where he clung to the raft, true, they were nowhere to be seen and he could not help but wonder if they were taken by this mysterious ribbon he had seen. Michael was fine, he had perched on the raft nearby the Captain and he clutched an oar in his hands which he was attempting to use to row the overcrowded craft to the shore.
“Get us to shore,” ordered the Captain, somewhat redundantly as everyone was already pushing the raft as best they could in the direction of the landmass. Patrick swore silently to himself that if they were forced to sacrifice a crew member for whatever reason Andrews should or should be volunteered for that role.
When they reached the shore there a small amount of dissention among the crew. Andrews had done little to aid the struggling crew and they were all exhausted. Patrick had never been marooned on an island before but he imagined it would be similar to the current situation.
The group set up camp on the beach and watched as pieces of their ship floated ashore. No pieces of the ship could be used for anything, not even firewood as the wood was soaked to the core from the sea.
“Form into pairs and look in the jungle for fruit or something to eat,” commanded Andrews, “Patrick, Michael, you two help me pull this wood on shore so it can dry.” The pair grudgingly obliged, they would have much rather been sampling fruit types or getting a cool drink of water.
The sun crossed the sky and soon it began to sag low behind the trees, still no one had returned from the expeditions into the jungle. The wood had dried out and a fire was now going; Andrews wore spectacles and they proved to be a useful tool in getting the fire started. Andrews paced constantly with his eyes fixed on the leafy interior of the jungle, it was unsettling.
“Maybe no one will return because they found a settlement on another part of the island,” whispered Michael to Patrick, “and they do not want the captain to be rescued as well.”
“I would not put it out of the realm of possibility,” said Patrick, “but I suspect the meaning is far graver than that.”
“What do you mean,” asked Michael seriously.
“As they ship went down today, in the stead of a reef, I thought I saw a sea serpent descending into the depths below the ship.”
“That is unnerving but it would be in the water and not on the land,” argued Michael.
“Have you ever heard of a sea serpent attacking a ship?” inquired Patrick.
“Not with any seriousness to the matter.”
“Which leads me to believe that this is a mystical island, and leads me to believe that we are in grave danger.”
“Speculation,” growled Andrews as he finally sat from his time of pacing.
“Superstition,” agreed Michael.
“Get some shut eye,” said Andrews, “in the morning we will look for our fellows I the jungle, but not at night.”
Patrick was surprised upon awaking the following morning to find his body unharmed for he resolutely believed that this land was a cursed one. Michael was biting into a mango and Andrews picking through remnants of the ship until he found a stiff piece of timber which would double as a club. He swung the long piece so that it made a whistling sound as it passed through the air.
“What do you need that for?” inquired Michael.
“Protection,” growled Andrews.
“From what?” pursued the subordinate.
“Whatever might be in there,” he pointed with his club at the jungle. Michael rolled his eyes and Patrick sighed sadly that his friend was not taking the perilous nature of their situation seriously.
The trio embarked into the jungle and were instantly struck with how quiet it was. The only sounds they could hear were their own muffled footsteps. Each net of vines and tapered tree seemed threatening, the slightest wisp of the wind that ruffled a leaf caused Patrick to snap his head back. Once he though he saw a man dart behind a tree far in the distance but he rubbed his eyes and looked out and saw nothing.
It was nearly noon and they had been traipsing through the trees for the whole of the day when they came upon a curious carving in a tree. Michael approached it and as he stood before it a net swung up from around his feet and wrapped him up a good ten feet above the forest floor.
The sailor struggled wildly but only succeeded in further disorienting himself. Patrick saw no way in which to deactivate the trap so he ran towards the tree, he ran up the tree then pushed off and snagged his hand on the net. The two sailors hung there as Patrick tried to climb up to the top of the net where it appeared the most knotted.
Below the Captain was whirling rapidly looking for another trap or the people who set the trap. Seeing neither he returned his attention to the sailors scrabbling around with the net. Patrick managed to maneuver his way to the top and he began to attempt to pry open some of the knots but made little accomplishment.
“Cap’n,” he called down, “is there a sharp rock down there?”
“Get me out!” exclaimed Michael from his place in the vine web.
“Try this said Andrews throwing a rock up to Patrick, the sailor caught it deftly and began sawing at the fibers until the broke one by one. Patrick was not a fool and so he did not cut the few vines that held the whole contraption together but instead located several main components to the web and sliced each of these in turn until it appeared to be nothing more than a rope ladder. The pair half slid, half climbed down to the jungle floor.
“That is strange,” remarked Michael, only slightly shaken from the ordeal.
“Why could there by a trap in the jungle,” inquired Andrews, it was the obvious question, unfortunately none of them had the answer.
“It is possible others are caught in a similar situation,” hypothesized Patrick.
“Then why have we neither seen nor heard them?” debated Michael, “it has taken us the whole of the morning to find the one, it is unlikely we will find another anytime soon—” he was cut off as he spoke by three men who had approached out of the jungle. Patrick looked dumbly on the newcomers, they did not resemble the savages accustomed to a tropical island, they wore short robes and carried very sophisticated looking spears. They held them up in a menacing way and spoke in an alien tongue.
Patrick turned around only to see four more of the newcomers were behind them as well. Andrews raised his club threateningly but was struck from behind by one of the new four. Michael and Patrick were likewise buffeted unconscious.
“Patrick,” said a voice, neither Michael or Andrews, “wake!” it commanded. Patrick rose sharply from where he lay, he was in a cell, the walls were made of sandstone but there were wrought iron gates. The voice who addresses him was John, a sailor who had been on The Cormorant. John had been searching the jungle for food and now had a small cut on his temple.
“What has happened?” inquired Patrick, slightly groggy from waking.
“We have been captured by the inhabitants of this island,” replied John.
“What do they want?” continued Patrick’s questioning.
“That is the grizzly affair,” shuddered John, “it appears that we are in some sort of coliseum in the heart of the island. So far we have been forced to fight strange beasts only known from legend.”
“We are like gladiators?” said Patrick fearfully.
“I wish,” said John gravely, “at least gladiators had weapons.”
“Have you seen the Cap’n or Michael?”
“They are a few cells down,” replied John, “with them there are only five of us left.” John walked over to one of the two doors and looked out at an arena, Patrick stood and followed him. There was a high wall surrounding a sandy arena, on the wall seating for around one hundred people was visible. In the sand, there were bones.
“Soon they will come for us again,” said John, then he looked at Patrick, “I never thought I would die this way.”
“I don’t think anyone has,” replied Patrick.
Just then the door to the arena was pulled open, behind them guards jabbed through the slots with their spears to force them out. John turned and seized a spear haft and pulled sharply, the whole spear fell into the cage and he dragged it with him into the arena. The spears were quickly drawn back into their grooves and the door to their cage shut. John broke the spear in two and gave the blunt half to Patrick.
“Just a fighting chance,” said John morosely.
“Don’t consign yourself to death yet,” consoled Patrick.
“If we don’t die today, we die tomorrow,” argued the other sailor, “might as well be today lest it be another day of fear.”
On the far side of the arena Michael, Andrews, and Francis, the other sailor, had emerged from a cage and were wandering towards the center of the arena. Patrick and John went over to them.
“Where did you get the weapon?” inquired Andrews.
“Stole it from a lazy guard,” responded John.
“Well give me half, I’m captain,” he made to snatch the weapon from John.
“To each his own,” growled John.
“No, we must stay together,” rationed Francis, “there is strength in numbers.”
“The only strength is the probability you will be picked off last,” growled John. Patrick was inclined to side with John, he wanted to be with John because out of all the men here, he was the only one with a substantial amount of courage.
“Look,” said Francis, “our spectators.” Michael waved cheekily while John howled and beat the spear half against his chest.
“Fight me!” he yelled, “don’t send your beasts send yourselves!” The crowd seemed to think this was amusing and they waved back and yelled things in their own language, whether they were taunts or encouragement it was hard to determine.
“There,” exclaimed Patrick, “they are opening a gate.”
“That gate leads into the jungle,” said Francis a little miffed.
“Does anything come through it?” inquired Michael, sobering up as the realization of nearing death became apparent.
“Let us see,” stated John, he took a fighting stance and stared fixedly on the entrance.
A shrill and piercing scream rent the air. Patrick jumped in his skin and whirled to see Andrews looking at a different gate where a beast had just appeared. It had a glossy black coat of fur and stood on its hind legs, it appeared humanoid but for the head of a bull that was mounted on its shoulders. It lowered a pair of great horns, grunted, and began to paw the sandy turf.
“Run,” said John quietly, then he roared, “run!” the party of shipwrecked sailors didn’t need to be told twice, they split towards the gate to the forest. All except Andrews, the captain showed his true colors now, he stood his ground and wet himself. He was scared stiff and could not find the power to move his feet until the Minotaur knocked him from them.
“There,” gasped Patrick, “there are walkways all above us.” So it was, above them an intricate web of platforms and paths were linked between the trees and on those a people cheered and yelled. Behind them, they could hear the people in the arena quieting down.
“The beast must be done mauling the Cap’n,” noted Michael, doggedly jogging along. Patrick himself would have stopped running long ago if fear had not kept him going. Spending several months on a ship leaves little time for calisthenics.
“Keep going,” encouraged Francis, who was probably doing the worst of all of them. “There, in those trees, lets take a break,” suggested John. The four stopped and warily looked at the jungle around them. John and Patrick still held their spear halves but the other two were unarmed.
“I think I can reach the branch,” breathed Francis heavily, he was referring to a stout timber six feet from the trunks behind which they were protected. Without waiting for permission he scurried out and scrabbled for the bough. He got it and stood erect and jogged back towards to trees, the minotaur did not wait for Francis. It bowled into him from behind and pinned his corpse up on a tree not two feet from Patrick. Francis’ head lolled to the side and he stared with dead eyes at his compatriots.
The beast’s arms were swinging wildly at its sides so John snuck low at it and drove the spear into its left leg. It howled in pain and the crowd booed, John whirled towards the people in the branches and roared out an ultimatum to them.
“I told you to come!” he yelled, “but you sent the beast! Come down and we’ll see if your blood runs as red as mine!” The beast released its hold on Francis and it sunk to one knee and pulled the spear from its leg and then faced John’s exposed back and raised the weapon like a club.
The world seemed to slow down for Patrick, he laid out entire arguments for himself, to run and live or to stay and fight like John had. In the end he recalled John’s rationing.
“We are dead today or tomorrow,” he said quietly to himself then he threw his body into the minotaur’s side. The pair fell to the ground together tangled in eachother. Patrick extricated himself as quickly as he could and scrabbled away from the beast. It growled and lashed its head, trying to get its horns lodged in the sailors fleeing body. John had turned and picked up the spear shaft Patrick had dropped and he clubbed the beast in the side of the head, it fell to the side again but it was not hurt at all.
“John, run!” yelled Michael who was already a good twenty feet away from the beast. Patrick seized John’s arm and began to drag him along behind him until the man willingly ran as well. Patrick chanced a look back and saw the beast was up on all fours now, it tried to stand on two legs but could not so it went back to all fours and began to run slowly and lamely on three after them.
Suddenly the trio burst out onto the shore. They looked wildly to their left and right, looking for a place to run.
“The ketch!” exclaimed Michael. There it was, the little boat had washed up onto the shore and was lying on its side like a beached whale. The trio immediately began to run for it as quickly as they could, behind them the beast burst from the trees and rolled onto the sand.
Patrick and John tried to right the ketch while Michael pushed it towards the water. They experienced little short term success, a few drag marks in the sand were the only signs that they had made the slightest progress.
“The beast grow closer,” growled John. True, the minotaur had made significant progress towards them despite being on all fours. It galloped toward them bleeding and tossing is bovine head.
“No!” yelled Patrick and he redoubled his efforts. He had had enough of this strange island and it was time to get off of it. The ketch moved ever so slightly into the surf but it was enough for the small ship to get into the water that there was some bouyancy.
Patrick and Michael crawled into the ketch until only John was left forcing it into the waves. Within the small ship they found a pair of oars which had miraculously not been washed out in the storm. John clung to the back of the ketch as it was drawn out into the sea, the minotaur pursued them into the surf. By now the vessel had managed to get out into the deep on the water. Patrick hauled John into the ketch and together they put up the sail.
“How can it still pursue us?” questioned Michael. Patrick turned his head to where the minotaur had managed to form an awkward swim technique and was managing to swim faster than they could row. The sailor then turned his head down into the deep where the silver ribbon had appeared.
“It will not be a problem,” said Patrick. The next moment a great serpentine head reared out of the water and seized the significantly smaller creature in its mouth and then returned to the depth. Patrick took one last look back to the island, the inhabitants were down on the shore now with their weapons raised high over their heads in jeering anger.
“So long,” waved Michael as the ketch skipped over the waves.
The purpose of the blog?
So I am trying this blogging thing to post some selected short stories i wrote. I dont expect anyone to comment or read unless they actually want to so if you dont just stop now because I dont want to waste your time on my petty past times. Dont plan on elegantly crafted stories since I do not consider my writing to be up to that caliber.
Happy reading if you so desire. Comments help my self esteem, even if they are degrading i get to promote the disillusion people are reading.
P.S. for anyone who happens to read both bennett and my blog know that I am copying the template he used.
Go ahead and follow this url there: http://thethoughtsofjager.blogspot.com/
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