He could hear the bell. It rang softly from the next room as it had twenty times before. However, this dinner had gone on much longer than he had ever anticipated and Arnold Cavenstein felt little motivation left inside. His limbs began to move out of habit; directing him towards the stove to retrieve the final course for his guests.
Each course had lasted two hours bringing the affair to a staggering forty hour siege. He had managed to sleep one half-hour at a time between courses, but became troubled in his rest by the distinct possibility that the bell would ring and that he would miss his window to introduce the next meal. His guests were not entirely forgiving and Mr. Cavenstein envisioned their castigation for such an oversight would be swift and horrifyingly permanent.
He stood, rather haggard and wobbly, over the stove preparing the petit four that had been keeping warm inside the lightly heated oven. As he moved the small cakes into an aesthetically pleasing pattern his mind wandered to the events of the evening. For the past several hours his guests had become very quiet, keeping their conversational volume to a whisper tone and spending most of their time in silence. The only aspect remotely reassuring to Arnold Cavenstein was that it seemed the events of the evening had been as taxing on his guests as they were on him. They were becoming restless. It was as if they were waiting for something, a phone call or a telegram, but nothing had come. Nothing had come.
Mr. Cavenstein, as he had done so many times in the past two days, checked himself in the mirror before making his entrance. Finally, ready to serve, he opened the door, armed with the vast array of miniature deserts. His guests occupied their very familiar positions in front of empty plates. As he gathered their dirty receptacles they broke their collective silence.
“Well,” began Roland, “it seems that Jehovah is finding his match with our escapee.”
“You should have let me after him in the first place,” whispered Simon with his head bowed towards the table.
Roland turned his head sharply and glared at the giant hunched over the small table.
“With how you handled the last delicate job you were assigned you should be thankful that you’re even sitting at this table.”
Simon kicked the chair out from under him and stood up swiftly, towering only inches from the ceiling. He turned towards Roland, raising his arm to strike.
“Simon, please,” hissed the lone woman at the end of the table, “your theatrics might be entertaining to the company you keep outside these walls, but in here it’s ultimately pointless. You know as well as the rest of us the consequences of engaging a fellow Party member. Your death would benefit no one.”
Simon took a step to the side and regained his composure, sliding his meaty hands through his hair. After a moment he replaced the chair he had kicked out to its original position and resumed his place at the table, falling into the seat with a heavier than normal pressure. As he continued to adjust himself Ms. J produced a small compact from her purse and began to check her complexion in its faint reflection. She lightly powdered her nose and placed the compact neatly back into her petite bag.
“Now, as Roland was proposing, we may need to contact an alternate source in locating our man. Jehovah is reliable, but he may be working on a larger timetable than was recommended. I believe we should consider notifying the authorities in the immediate area, warning them of a significant threat on the loose. With the proper description we could have this issue tackled within a matter of hours.”
“That is hasty decision-making,” wheezed the old man, “The release to the general public will threaten the isolation of information. The dreamer has undoubtedly infected enough citizens already. His capture by civilian authorities could result in much larger implications than you realize.”
“Yes,” answered Ms. J, “but our legs are being cut out from under us. As you say, he is infecting more people with every passing hour and he isn’t even aware of his condition. Imagine if he finds out.”
*~~*
Thirty years earlier…
A man and woman sit in a dim and crowded restaurant. They are surrounded by dining parties of a considerably higher social standing, complete with top hats and evening gowns. The nearby tables are boisterous and carefree, spectacles of excessive wealth and privilege.
The man and woman stand out in the restaurant not by appearance, but by their cold and silent demeanor. They pick at their food sparingly and only rarely glance at one another, quickly turning their attention back to the table top. They are a sore thumb, a burning building in a neighborhood of fine townhouses.
“So, when are you leaving to play house?” asks the woman sharply.
The man looks up from his plate, places his silverware on the plate, and reclines against the back of his chair.
“You know I don’t know,” responds the man begrudgingly. “I don’t understand why you’re acting as if this was never going to happen. I always told you that if I was called I would have to leave. You used to say that it added ‘spice’ to our exotic lifestyle.”
“I used to say a lot of things that weren’t true,” spits the woman as she pulls out her compact, “and you always spoke of this ‘call’ as some kind of long shot. As if it would never happen.”
“It is happening, Victoria. I can’t stop it and I can’t avoid it.”
The two sit silently again. The woman powders her nose and replaces the compact in her purse. The man sips at his wine as he stares curiously at his dining partner. Laughter erupts from the surrounding tables, highlighting the heightened tension.
“You know,” he says, suddenly standing up from the table, “I’ve explained this too many times already. I’m not sure why I expected you to respond any differently tonight. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’m leaving now.”
The man takes his suit jacket from the back of the chair and slings it over his arm.
“Don’t worry about my things. I’ve already packed what I need.”
The man takes a silver ring off his fourth finger and places it next to the plate in front of the woman.
“I hope someday you’ll understand.”
As the man turns to leave the woman puts her hand over the ring left on the plate.
“Brisby,” says the woman, her voice shaking, “at least tell me why."
The woman doesn't mover her focus from the plate on the table, her hand covering the catalyst.
“What mission is so pressing, so urgent, that it need break up a marriage?”
The man turns his face just slightly towards the woman, his features masked by the shadows of the room.
“Do you remember the stories I told you about my childhood? How I would shake and shiver in my sleep? The doctors said it was a stress reaction. A symptom of a larger problem. I never told anyone this, but I saw things then. Visions of other worlds, images of fantastic places in that sleep. They put me on medication and the visions went away, the shaking stopped. I’ve never been sure, even to this day, if I really wanted them to stop. Now they’ve found another case of this shaking and they want to take care of him, to teach him. They want a pure case intact, no medication, just in case. In the event that it might be useful. I have so many questions and this may very well be the only chance I ever get to have any answers. They took something from me and I’m going there to get it back.”
The woman turns herself in the chair to face the man covered in shadows.
“Brisby, just…”
“I’m sorry,” interrupts the man as he turns away, “but I have to do this.”
The man leaves the woman alone in the crowded restaurant. She takes the silver ring left by the man and slides it on her fourth finger. A single tear slides down her face as she sits staring at the silver band, now a mixed symbol of unity and heartbreak.
*~~*
“Yes, we must think of the overall containment,” said Roland, taking a small sip of the wine in front of him. “Notifying all the authorities is a bit risky, but as long as they think he is a common criminal there is less of a threat in there being a leak.”
Arnold Cavenstein had finished putting the deserts in front of his guests and, after topping off each of their glasses with his finest wine, turned back towards the kitchen. Upon reaching the door he half-expected to be stopped by his guests for another request, but, being fully enamored with their fresh assortment of cakes, they were silent again. He pushed through the door into the tiny kitchen and promptly started a fifteen minute timer. He would surely be out to see them again, but not before a moments rest.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Chapter 39
The native distrip burst forth with life, a quick and blooming oasis in an arid desert. Shop owners hung their wares from tree branches and erected small stands on the earthen floor. The bazaar centered on a small log building from which several armed men kept watch, presumably the only semblance of law and order in the market. People bustled from one stand to next keeping their heads low and their hands in their pockets, tightly clutching any or all of their currency. The market was in full swing.
Two men entered the distrip from one of the several pathways leading in from the forest. They began to mill about the market, joining the busy throng. The crowd walked in silence, only speaking at stands and, even then, only of business. Of the two men recently arrived one stopped to observe an older gentleman attempting to barter a live chicken for solar panels as the other haggled with a shopkeeper over the price of eggs.
A single shot was fired into the air.
The distrip cleared.
The two men stood next to the now-abandoned stand as a cluster of four men dressed entirely in black approached them. The street was quiet and dusty, hearkening back to an overused cliché. The man who had been haggling the expense of eggs gestured to his observing friend, inferring that he should step to the side.
After his companion withdrew, the other man approached the four clad in black in the middle of the road and drew his sword. The four men drew their pistols, each barrel aimed at a single target.
*~~*
The advantage that a person with a handgun has over an unarmed opponent is undeniably paramount. This singular concept has changed the course of history on multiple occasions and has proven to be the defining characteristic in man’s domination of subservient cultures. Cortes and his Aztecs. Pizarro and his Incans. Etcetera ad Nauseum.
It is, however, just a device. A tool with which there are advantages and disadvantages. Still affected by the laws of physics and still held to the dynamic tenets of chance. These four men felt solidly grounded in their advantage over the man with little more than a stick of steel. Their arrogance was to be their undoing.
*~~*
At first, just one step.
A verbal warning.
The handle rests loosely in the palm of his hand.
He turns the blade just slightly to catch the sun in its surface.
One more step.
A shot is fired and the man dodges to the right.
Eight quick steps and he’s right behind you.
Three where there were four.
Two shots fired at a moving target.
Missed.
Two where there were three.
A quick spin.
One. Just one.
Four shots fired in succession.
The gun falls to the ground with its owner.
*~~*
The man sheathed his sword and walked back towards his companion waiting at the side of the road. Shopkeepers ran from the forest and begin to pillage the remains of the fallen assailants. The people slowly reappeared and the market began to rumble again. The two men disappeared into the sea of the distrip, swallowed by the shuffling feet and downcast faces.
Two men entered the distrip from one of the several pathways leading in from the forest. They began to mill about the market, joining the busy throng. The crowd walked in silence, only speaking at stands and, even then, only of business. Of the two men recently arrived one stopped to observe an older gentleman attempting to barter a live chicken for solar panels as the other haggled with a shopkeeper over the price of eggs.
A single shot was fired into the air.
The distrip cleared.
The two men stood next to the now-abandoned stand as a cluster of four men dressed entirely in black approached them. The street was quiet and dusty, hearkening back to an overused cliché. The man who had been haggling the expense of eggs gestured to his observing friend, inferring that he should step to the side.
After his companion withdrew, the other man approached the four clad in black in the middle of the road and drew his sword. The four men drew their pistols, each barrel aimed at a single target.
*~~*
The advantage that a person with a handgun has over an unarmed opponent is undeniably paramount. This singular concept has changed the course of history on multiple occasions and has proven to be the defining characteristic in man’s domination of subservient cultures. Cortes and his Aztecs. Pizarro and his Incans. Etcetera ad Nauseum.
It is, however, just a device. A tool with which there are advantages and disadvantages. Still affected by the laws of physics and still held to the dynamic tenets of chance. These four men felt solidly grounded in their advantage over the man with little more than a stick of steel. Their arrogance was to be their undoing.
*~~*
At first, just one step.
A verbal warning.
The handle rests loosely in the palm of his hand.
He turns the blade just slightly to catch the sun in its surface.
One more step.
A shot is fired and the man dodges to the right.
Eight quick steps and he’s right behind you.
Three where there were four.
Two shots fired at a moving target.
Missed.
Two where there were three.
A quick spin.
One. Just one.
Four shots fired in succession.
The gun falls to the ground with its owner.
*~~*
The man sheathed his sword and walked back towards his companion waiting at the side of the road. Shopkeepers ran from the forest and begin to pillage the remains of the fallen assailants. The people slowly reappeared and the market began to rumble again. The two men disappeared into the sea of the distrip, swallowed by the shuffling feet and downcast faces.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Chapter 38
Edward walked slightly ahead of Witticker, reminiscent of a samurai being followed by his servant. However, the roles in this case had become slightly reversed. Edward had saved Witticker from several complications already with no mention of restitution or compensation and while Witticker found this to be a rather curious circumstance he did not dare to look the gift horse directly in its mouth.
The two men found a worn pathway leading into the forest in the direction of the native distrip and took it in opposition of hiking over open fields. The heat of the day beat through the light-filtering trees as they wound through the forest pathway, flanked by wild undergrowth. As they began their descent into the valley of the distrip they spotted a small clearing in a grove on the valley’s edge. As they reached the clearing they spied a man alone in the grove, curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and groaning in pain.
“Are you alright, sir?” asked Edward cautiously.
The man looked up at his new visitors with eyes brimming with wild fear and despair. His face was stretched and pulled in agony.
“I’ve got…I’ve got’em in me. Nobody will tell me the truth, but I know…I know they’re there. I can feel’em crawling, calculating. I just need to find one…can you see one?”
Upon saying this, the man released his fetal lock, showcasing his gut, unrecognizable through the red of the blood. His body appeared to have been sliced open at the waist in a most gruesome fashion.
Witticker jumped back as Edward moved closer to the man.
“Who did this to you? Were did they go?”
The man stared madly into Edward’s eyes as he pulled a blade from the ground next to him.
“It wasn’t no one else. I’m gonna find one. I know there’s one inside of me…somewhere. I just have to find it.”
“One what? What is inside of you?”
“A robot! They’re real small…and can look just like all the other stuff in there. It’s a big scam, you see…the doctors put’em in there and the lawyers…the lawyers just cover it up, but I figured’em out. I’ve just gotta find one and then everyone will believe. Everyone will…everyone.”
At this the man opened himself up again and began poking through his wounds savagely, clawing through his own body like an open suitcase. Edward took a step back, removing himself from the man’s activity. He watched as the man dug and screamed in alternation, a horrific self-inflicted torture. Edward took a revolver from his side-holster and aimed it at the man. The gun discharged and the man fell limp to the ground, his extremities idly drawn to the forest floor.
*~~*
Witticker walked back on the path a short way and, after the shot rang through the valley, fell on his hands and knees, heaving in disgust. Edward approached him from the grove and waited in silence.
“What…why did that man do that to himself?”
Edward stood reloading his gun and polishing its metal frame.
“Don’t quite know. Every person reacts to knowledge in a different way.”
Witticker stood up and leaned against a tree, using it for support.
“What does knowledge have to do with what that man was doing to himself?”
Edward slipped the revolver back into his side-holster, concealed beneath his brown vest.
“Imagine it like this. You grow up your entire life with an active imagination. The possibilities are endless. You learn and achieve and acquire and at the end of the tunnel someone tells you that reality isn’t what you learned about all those years. It’s what’s in your head.
“For some people it’s like a new lease on life. They love the control. For some,” said Edward as he pointed towards the grove, “it’s like throwing a brick through a glass window. People just don’t know what to believe and in the breakdown that means they really have no reality. Long story short, Perceptionism isn’t for everyone.”
Witticker leaned against the tree for a long time. He couldn’t get the image of the man’s face out of his head. The way his eyes had communicated such despair. The way his face had stretched out in earnest agony.
Edward waited and, after a time, Witticker moved again. The two men passed through the grove and down the valley, drawing nearer to the distrip.
The two men found a worn pathway leading into the forest in the direction of the native distrip and took it in opposition of hiking over open fields. The heat of the day beat through the light-filtering trees as they wound through the forest pathway, flanked by wild undergrowth. As they began their descent into the valley of the distrip they spotted a small clearing in a grove on the valley’s edge. As they reached the clearing they spied a man alone in the grove, curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and groaning in pain.
“Are you alright, sir?” asked Edward cautiously.
The man looked up at his new visitors with eyes brimming with wild fear and despair. His face was stretched and pulled in agony.
“I’ve got…I’ve got’em in me. Nobody will tell me the truth, but I know…I know they’re there. I can feel’em crawling, calculating. I just need to find one…can you see one?”
Upon saying this, the man released his fetal lock, showcasing his gut, unrecognizable through the red of the blood. His body appeared to have been sliced open at the waist in a most gruesome fashion.
Witticker jumped back as Edward moved closer to the man.
“Who did this to you? Were did they go?”
The man stared madly into Edward’s eyes as he pulled a blade from the ground next to him.
“It wasn’t no one else. I’m gonna find one. I know there’s one inside of me…somewhere. I just have to find it.”
“One what? What is inside of you?”
“A robot! They’re real small…and can look just like all the other stuff in there. It’s a big scam, you see…the doctors put’em in there and the lawyers…the lawyers just cover it up, but I figured’em out. I’ve just gotta find one and then everyone will believe. Everyone will…everyone.”
At this the man opened himself up again and began poking through his wounds savagely, clawing through his own body like an open suitcase. Edward took a step back, removing himself from the man’s activity. He watched as the man dug and screamed in alternation, a horrific self-inflicted torture. Edward took a revolver from his side-holster and aimed it at the man. The gun discharged and the man fell limp to the ground, his extremities idly drawn to the forest floor.
*~~*
Witticker walked back on the path a short way and, after the shot rang through the valley, fell on his hands and knees, heaving in disgust. Edward approached him from the grove and waited in silence.
“What…why did that man do that to himself?”
Edward stood reloading his gun and polishing its metal frame.
“Don’t quite know. Every person reacts to knowledge in a different way.”
Witticker stood up and leaned against a tree, using it for support.
“What does knowledge have to do with what that man was doing to himself?”
Edward slipped the revolver back into his side-holster, concealed beneath his brown vest.
“Imagine it like this. You grow up your entire life with an active imagination. The possibilities are endless. You learn and achieve and acquire and at the end of the tunnel someone tells you that reality isn’t what you learned about all those years. It’s what’s in your head.
“For some people it’s like a new lease on life. They love the control. For some,” said Edward as he pointed towards the grove, “it’s like throwing a brick through a glass window. People just don’t know what to believe and in the breakdown that means they really have no reality. Long story short, Perceptionism isn’t for everyone.”
Witticker leaned against the tree for a long time. He couldn’t get the image of the man’s face out of his head. The way his eyes had communicated such despair. The way his face had stretched out in earnest agony.
Edward waited and, after a time, Witticker moved again. The two men passed through the grove and down the valley, drawing nearer to the distrip.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Side Two
Side Two
“If you’re behind the times, they won’t notice you. If you’re right in tune with them, you’re no better than they are, so they won’t care much for you. Be just a little ahead of them.”
Shel Silverstein
1930-1999
Poet, Musician, Cartoonist, and Author
“If you’re behind the times, they won’t notice you. If you’re right in tune with them, you’re no better than they are, so they won’t care much for you. Be just a little ahead of them.”
Shel Silverstein
1930-1999
Poet, Musician, Cartoonist, and Author
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
The Beguiling Story of Edward and the Broken Sword
At the age of nearly four hours old a boy identified only as Edward was found crying on the floor of an abandoned Methodist Temple in the inner district of the ancient city of Chicago. The savior of the boy was Ricard Touso, a man sent to the temple on business that had nothing to do with collecting a new born infant. However, upon being alerted to Edward’s presence, the good Mr. Touso felt obligated to, at the very least, find a suitable home for the boy. He completed the work he had been sent to do and returned with Edward from whence he had come, which would be the Sanctuary of the Broken Sword.
The Brotherhood of the Broken Sword consists of an elite group of men who were gathered in the wake of the Great Decline and were trained as highly-educated citizen warriors. The organization was begun by the last Pinkerton Agent from the former United States with the intention to maintain a private outlet that could hold a neutral sway in a large scale conflict. While their existence has remained largely unknown to the general public they have been involved in every major event since the Great Decline.
Since its formation more than a century and a half ago the brotherhood has evolved from a professional membership into a spiritual sect. Members are only accepted if found worthy by trial and, pending approval, are educated in all the arts in order to eventually reach the level of warrior philosophers or, in other words, the modern samurai.
Edward, having been brought to the temple by a member, was permitted to be raised by Brother Ricard until the age of twelve. The following is Edward’s account of his twelfth year:
I was not afraid when they took me. My father had told me they would come. As they stole me from my bed I fell limp as I had been instructed. Fighting back would have proved fruitless and shameful. They placed me inside a small dark box where I would remain for nine months. My father explained to me that I was to be reborn inside the brotherhood.
The box was never opened. No sound was heard. Light became a faint memory. I learned to find comfort in the quite place, this forgotten corner. They would pour water through the cracks of the box and slip bread and leaves through in moderation. I listened to my heartbeat, a consistent reminder that I was still alive. I re-lived every moment of my childhood over and over again. Every memory remembered and repeated until they blurred into one consciousness. When the darkness overtook me I chanted the mantra spoken to me from my father. Move forward. Constantly Move Forward.
The days grew darker, but I could feel my mind growing stronger. Stronger against the resolve of a constant darkness. Move forward. As time passed the pails of water through the cracks turned to drips. The bread and leaves were fragmentary, only a bare minimum. Move forward. The final days were spent in drought. Biting fingernails. Holding every ounce of water. Licking the wooden box for any hint of moisture. Move forward.
On the final day the box was lifted and taken before the Master. My box was opened among a sea of like boxes. I stood from the wrecked shell only to find a handful of others rise from the myriad of boxes surrounding us. We few stood shaking, nearly lifeless from the ordeal we had endured. The box on my right housed a boy my same age who had succumbed to the trial. His body had wasted into nothing, gray and lifeless. His arms and legs were extraordinarily long and his joints had swelled from the great pressure of being trapped inside the box. His face was clenched in fear, covered in the shadow of the box. I have never forgotten this expression.
I could not see, for the light was much too bright, but I heard the Master speak. This is what he said:
Brothers, you have arisen from the deepest darkness. You are reborn into this Brotherhood. Do not weep for those around you who have not risen to the task. They have received nothing more or less than what you yourself have undertaken. It was simply their will, their strength of mind that failed.
Never forget what you lost here. The fear. What you have gained is tremendously more valuable and will never be taken from you. Your trial is over Brothers. Now you begin your training.
I would never hear the master speak again. This audience was a gift and was, for most, the only one they would ever receive in their lifetime.
In the following months I was given back to my father. He fed me with food and knowledge, both of which I dipped heavily from. He revealed the secrets of the Brotherhood to me, their history, their mission, and, most importantly, their moral code. We followed the ancient samurai in practice, word, and deed. The tenets of honor, courage, benevolence, respect, honesty, rectitude, and loyalty were shown to me daily in the observation of my father with his affairs.
In my eighteenth year I was taken again. The Brotherhood sent word and I was collected from my father for the final training. In our final days together he gave me my first and last sword. When the day came and I was retrieved he cried. His face was clenched in sadness as I had seen once before. I did not cry, but I felt a heaviness, a sadness I could not describe.
Upon our collection my brothers and I began our final training. The first day we were lined up in a large hall and, after waiting for several hours, were approached by a single man. He possessed no weapons save for his hands and his words. One by one we were all challenged by the disarmed fellow. Those who refused to fight were broken and cast out, the rest of us were merely broken.
We were all housed together in a small barrack with one bed for every three men. We cut the mattresses and made hammocks so that every man could rest without resentment from the next. The next day we were taken to an open field in which the same man who had beaten us the day before instructed us upon our individual weaknesses. We became stronger and able to surpass our own inadequacies. Once a week we were challenged. We were allowed any weapon and were promised that if we were ever to strike our instructor we would be awarded a high place within the order of the Brotherhood. Our teacher was never touched.
In the midst of training we were each given a letter. We were instructed to keep its contents secret from the other brothers with the penalty of sharing the information being death. My letter detailed how my fellow brothers had been plotting against me, fearing my potential and talent. My following weeks were spent in silence; my waking moments spent watching the others. All the brothers seemed to creep in the shadows, hiding from one another.
Weeks later we were informed that the same letter had been sent to every man. This was meant to be our instruction in how to hide when the enemy is all around. How to camouflage our emotions to our closest of comrades.
In the end we were all sent to different places. I do not know what will become of those I trained with. I am to be sent to moderate a faction that has become overly concerned with balance and numbers. This record is my final task before becoming a full Brother.
It will soon be unimportant to continue contact with the Brotherhood. My presence is my purpose. If I fail others will take my place. My life is just begun.
~Edward St. Cavalier
The Brotherhood of the Broken Sword consists of an elite group of men who were gathered in the wake of the Great Decline and were trained as highly-educated citizen warriors. The organization was begun by the last Pinkerton Agent from the former United States with the intention to maintain a private outlet that could hold a neutral sway in a large scale conflict. While their existence has remained largely unknown to the general public they have been involved in every major event since the Great Decline.
Since its formation more than a century and a half ago the brotherhood has evolved from a professional membership into a spiritual sect. Members are only accepted if found worthy by trial and, pending approval, are educated in all the arts in order to eventually reach the level of warrior philosophers or, in other words, the modern samurai.
Edward, having been brought to the temple by a member, was permitted to be raised by Brother Ricard until the age of twelve. The following is Edward’s account of his twelfth year:
I was not afraid when they took me. My father had told me they would come. As they stole me from my bed I fell limp as I had been instructed. Fighting back would have proved fruitless and shameful. They placed me inside a small dark box where I would remain for nine months. My father explained to me that I was to be reborn inside the brotherhood.
The box was never opened. No sound was heard. Light became a faint memory. I learned to find comfort in the quite place, this forgotten corner. They would pour water through the cracks of the box and slip bread and leaves through in moderation. I listened to my heartbeat, a consistent reminder that I was still alive. I re-lived every moment of my childhood over and over again. Every memory remembered and repeated until they blurred into one consciousness. When the darkness overtook me I chanted the mantra spoken to me from my father. Move forward. Constantly Move Forward.
The days grew darker, but I could feel my mind growing stronger. Stronger against the resolve of a constant darkness. Move forward. As time passed the pails of water through the cracks turned to drips. The bread and leaves were fragmentary, only a bare minimum. Move forward. The final days were spent in drought. Biting fingernails. Holding every ounce of water. Licking the wooden box for any hint of moisture. Move forward.
On the final day the box was lifted and taken before the Master. My box was opened among a sea of like boxes. I stood from the wrecked shell only to find a handful of others rise from the myriad of boxes surrounding us. We few stood shaking, nearly lifeless from the ordeal we had endured. The box on my right housed a boy my same age who had succumbed to the trial. His body had wasted into nothing, gray and lifeless. His arms and legs were extraordinarily long and his joints had swelled from the great pressure of being trapped inside the box. His face was clenched in fear, covered in the shadow of the box. I have never forgotten this expression.
I could not see, for the light was much too bright, but I heard the Master speak. This is what he said:
Brothers, you have arisen from the deepest darkness. You are reborn into this Brotherhood. Do not weep for those around you who have not risen to the task. They have received nothing more or less than what you yourself have undertaken. It was simply their will, their strength of mind that failed.
Never forget what you lost here. The fear. What you have gained is tremendously more valuable and will never be taken from you. Your trial is over Brothers. Now you begin your training.
I would never hear the master speak again. This audience was a gift and was, for most, the only one they would ever receive in their lifetime.
In the following months I was given back to my father. He fed me with food and knowledge, both of which I dipped heavily from. He revealed the secrets of the Brotherhood to me, their history, their mission, and, most importantly, their moral code. We followed the ancient samurai in practice, word, and deed. The tenets of honor, courage, benevolence, respect, honesty, rectitude, and loyalty were shown to me daily in the observation of my father with his affairs.
In my eighteenth year I was taken again. The Brotherhood sent word and I was collected from my father for the final training. In our final days together he gave me my first and last sword. When the day came and I was retrieved he cried. His face was clenched in sadness as I had seen once before. I did not cry, but I felt a heaviness, a sadness I could not describe.
Upon our collection my brothers and I began our final training. The first day we were lined up in a large hall and, after waiting for several hours, were approached by a single man. He possessed no weapons save for his hands and his words. One by one we were all challenged by the disarmed fellow. Those who refused to fight were broken and cast out, the rest of us were merely broken.
We were all housed together in a small barrack with one bed for every three men. We cut the mattresses and made hammocks so that every man could rest without resentment from the next. The next day we were taken to an open field in which the same man who had beaten us the day before instructed us upon our individual weaknesses. We became stronger and able to surpass our own inadequacies. Once a week we were challenged. We were allowed any weapon and were promised that if we were ever to strike our instructor we would be awarded a high place within the order of the Brotherhood. Our teacher was never touched.
In the midst of training we were each given a letter. We were instructed to keep its contents secret from the other brothers with the penalty of sharing the information being death. My letter detailed how my fellow brothers had been plotting against me, fearing my potential and talent. My following weeks were spent in silence; my waking moments spent watching the others. All the brothers seemed to creep in the shadows, hiding from one another.
Weeks later we were informed that the same letter had been sent to every man. This was meant to be our instruction in how to hide when the enemy is all around. How to camouflage our emotions to our closest of comrades.
In the end we were all sent to different places. I do not know what will become of those I trained with. I am to be sent to moderate a faction that has become overly concerned with balance and numbers. This record is my final task before becoming a full Brother.
It will soon be unimportant to continue contact with the Brotherhood. My presence is my purpose. If I fail others will take my place. My life is just begun.
~Edward St. Cavalier
Monday, July 2, 2007
Chapter 37
“There is no ‘we’ anymore. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
Edward and Witticker had been walking for the past ten hours in what their white box insisted was east. For the last hour of their hike over the Midwestern hills and valleys Edward had been trying to explain the modern tenets of the society Witticker had stumbled upon, specifically that the concept of an unconscious connection from person to person was outdated. Edward found that a discussion of the events since the Great Decline had been necessary to outline the foundation of his argument.
“When this was an official country ‘we’ were all part of a greater whole. The blanket term of ‘American’ included everyone, regardless of opinion or perception.”
Edward slung himself from tree to tree as he descended a steep hill into the valley below. Each tree acted as leverage against the gravity attempting to pull the man into the crux of the two hills.
“During the downward spiral of the decline the last government exercised the propaganda of a ‘united nation’ a bit too much. People got tired of hearing that everyone was ‘united’. It was easy to say, but then to look outside and watch a neighbor execute an entire city block for a loaf of bread...it was just difficult to stomach.”
Witticker grappled from tree to tree as Edward had before him, but the roots, having been already roughly handled, gave way, sending him sliding down the incline. He reached for a stray root and managed to catch hold before tumbling to the bottom.
“People stopped trusting each other and the idea of a ‘we’ died with the government that espoused it. That’s the way it is now.”
Both Edward and Witticker reached the bottom of the hill and dusted themselves off from the rough descent. As Edward led the way forward he felt the ground below give a little less than it had before. He kicked away the layer of leaves to find a spot of gray pavement peeking from below the blanket of earth.
“I wonder what road we’re on,” said Witticker looking down flattened valley floor before them. He longed for the comfort of steady footing and even terrain that the way would provide.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Edward as he climbed to the next side of the valley. “If we follow a road we’ll be spotted. Come up this way.”
Edward extended his arm to pull Witticker up onto the next hill. Witticker reached for the hand as they began their next ascent.
*~~*
Clouds filtered the light of the sun as the two men rested beside a shady lake. Edward had just emerged from bathing in the water and had taken to drying off by laying on a large rock next to the lake. The boulder extended out a little over the water’s edge and was raised from the ground around it. Edward sat cross-legged, resting his arms on his knees, with his eyes closed.
“What about humans?” asked Witticker; sitting on a rock below soaking his feet in the lake.
“What about them?”
“Well, you say there is no ‘we’, but couldn’t there be an intrinsic connection…being that we’re all the same species?”
“Not really. People only come to that conclusion when something un-human or non-human threatens their existence, but it’s really just an internal desire to keep living. Think about it. If this connection was intact, like you’re proposing, everyone would have rallied together after the failure of the government, but instead they all spread out. They ran away from each other! Most people only come into the distrips once a year. They’re just afraid.”
Witticker looked into the water at his reflection staring back. His face had sprouted a slight beard and his hair, which had always been so well-kept, was sticking out in every direction.
“It’s still there though,” said Witticker, kicking his reflection into ripples, “somewhere inside themselves. People can still identify with each other. A dog will always turn circles before it goes to sleep, even in the desert. It’s still in there somewhere.”
Edward grinned.
“Touché.”
*~~*
“So, why did you burn the house down?”
Edward broke the silence that the two had been walking with for the last three hours. The abrupt question caught Witticker so entirely off-guard that when he replied he felt the answer escape his lips with an unintentional and unfiltered honesty.
“I knew if it was still there I’d go back. I had to do something that would cement my decision to leave. There’s only one option now. I have to find out where I come from. With nowhere to go back to I can only move forward.”
Edward lit a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.
“Good philosophy.”
The two men resumed their silence as they continued to push through the dense forest.
*~~*
As the sun began to set Edward and Witticker had come upon a small settlement amidst a grove of trees. While the food they had brought with them was ample they knew that without replenishing regularly their surplus would eventually run dry. It was inevitable that they would have to make some contact with the world along their journey. However, they decided that for each other’s safety they would keep as much secret about themselves and their journey as possible.
They observed the inhabitant from a distance for nearly an hour. He seemed to pose very little threat, living a quiet life in solitude. Edward approached the grove of trees slowly and hailed the camper from a distance. At first the man was defensive, but after the two agreed to leave all their belongings at a distance and come into the light with their hands raised he became much more agreeable.
They explained their need for food without revealing much of their destination or intent and the man, who identified himself only as Derrik, directed them towards a smaller distrip several miles in the general direction they were traveling. They thanked Derrik for his time and, without even revealing their names, disappeared en route to the next distrip.
*~~*
With little light left to walk by the two travelers decided to stop for the evening at the edge of an open field. The sun was crawling out of sight over the horizon, lighting the tall grass in the field as it danced in the breeze. In deciding to forgo the making of a fire on the off-chance they would be spotted their dinner was limited to dry food. Witticker stood staring into the night sky as he tossed handfuls of granola into his mouth.
“How often do you have…dreams?”
Witticker, shaken from his own thoughts by the question, turned and found Edward sitting on the ground against a tree, staring into his white box.
“I tend to have them pretty regularly, but I don’t know if it’s the same for everyone,” replied Witticker, “I used to have them randomly, but it’s much more consistent now.”
Edward moved his fingers across the white box screen and lights flickered from the screen, his face scrutinizing the contents.
“It was a very strange feeling having my thoughts interrupted. That doesn’t happen to me very often.”
Witticker nodded and turned his attention back to the sky. He had still not grown used to the sight, the vision of the night sky. In the dark night it seemed like each star was a lamp leading to a far-away destination. Witticker followed each star along trying to find an end; only ever discovering another beginning.
“What do the dreams mean?”
“I don’t know,” answered Witticker, “I never thought about them having any meaning.”
Witticker contemplated the new idea as Edward made a final gesture across the white box.
“I guess…I mean, I think they are what are most important to the dreamer.”
The two men sat quietly in the enveloping darkness. Wild sounds rose up from the forest at their back and a cool breeze drifted across the field, lightly bending the grass to its will. Witticker continued to stare off into the endless, starry sky as Edward turned over for the next nights sleep, an adventure of a different kind.
Edward and Witticker had been walking for the past ten hours in what their white box insisted was east. For the last hour of their hike over the Midwestern hills and valleys Edward had been trying to explain the modern tenets of the society Witticker had stumbled upon, specifically that the concept of an unconscious connection from person to person was outdated. Edward found that a discussion of the events since the Great Decline had been necessary to outline the foundation of his argument.
“When this was an official country ‘we’ were all part of a greater whole. The blanket term of ‘American’ included everyone, regardless of opinion or perception.”
Edward slung himself from tree to tree as he descended a steep hill into the valley below. Each tree acted as leverage against the gravity attempting to pull the man into the crux of the two hills.
“During the downward spiral of the decline the last government exercised the propaganda of a ‘united nation’ a bit too much. People got tired of hearing that everyone was ‘united’. It was easy to say, but then to look outside and watch a neighbor execute an entire city block for a loaf of bread...it was just difficult to stomach.”
Witticker grappled from tree to tree as Edward had before him, but the roots, having been already roughly handled, gave way, sending him sliding down the incline. He reached for a stray root and managed to catch hold before tumbling to the bottom.
“People stopped trusting each other and the idea of a ‘we’ died with the government that espoused it. That’s the way it is now.”
Both Edward and Witticker reached the bottom of the hill and dusted themselves off from the rough descent. As Edward led the way forward he felt the ground below give a little less than it had before. He kicked away the layer of leaves to find a spot of gray pavement peeking from below the blanket of earth.
“I wonder what road we’re on,” said Witticker looking down flattened valley floor before them. He longed for the comfort of steady footing and even terrain that the way would provide.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Edward as he climbed to the next side of the valley. “If we follow a road we’ll be spotted. Come up this way.”
Edward extended his arm to pull Witticker up onto the next hill. Witticker reached for the hand as they began their next ascent.
*~~*
Clouds filtered the light of the sun as the two men rested beside a shady lake. Edward had just emerged from bathing in the water and had taken to drying off by laying on a large rock next to the lake. The boulder extended out a little over the water’s edge and was raised from the ground around it. Edward sat cross-legged, resting his arms on his knees, with his eyes closed.
“What about humans?” asked Witticker; sitting on a rock below soaking his feet in the lake.
“What about them?”
“Well, you say there is no ‘we’, but couldn’t there be an intrinsic connection…being that we’re all the same species?”
“Not really. People only come to that conclusion when something un-human or non-human threatens their existence, but it’s really just an internal desire to keep living. Think about it. If this connection was intact, like you’re proposing, everyone would have rallied together after the failure of the government, but instead they all spread out. They ran away from each other! Most people only come into the distrips once a year. They’re just afraid.”
Witticker looked into the water at his reflection staring back. His face had sprouted a slight beard and his hair, which had always been so well-kept, was sticking out in every direction.
“It’s still there though,” said Witticker, kicking his reflection into ripples, “somewhere inside themselves. People can still identify with each other. A dog will always turn circles before it goes to sleep, even in the desert. It’s still in there somewhere.”
Edward grinned.
“Touché.”
*~~*
“So, why did you burn the house down?”
Edward broke the silence that the two had been walking with for the last three hours. The abrupt question caught Witticker so entirely off-guard that when he replied he felt the answer escape his lips with an unintentional and unfiltered honesty.
“I knew if it was still there I’d go back. I had to do something that would cement my decision to leave. There’s only one option now. I have to find out where I come from. With nowhere to go back to I can only move forward.”
Edward lit a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.
“Good philosophy.”
The two men resumed their silence as they continued to push through the dense forest.
*~~*
As the sun began to set Edward and Witticker had come upon a small settlement amidst a grove of trees. While the food they had brought with them was ample they knew that without replenishing regularly their surplus would eventually run dry. It was inevitable that they would have to make some contact with the world along their journey. However, they decided that for each other’s safety they would keep as much secret about themselves and their journey as possible.
They observed the inhabitant from a distance for nearly an hour. He seemed to pose very little threat, living a quiet life in solitude. Edward approached the grove of trees slowly and hailed the camper from a distance. At first the man was defensive, but after the two agreed to leave all their belongings at a distance and come into the light with their hands raised he became much more agreeable.
They explained their need for food without revealing much of their destination or intent and the man, who identified himself only as Derrik, directed them towards a smaller distrip several miles in the general direction they were traveling. They thanked Derrik for his time and, without even revealing their names, disappeared en route to the next distrip.
*~~*
With little light left to walk by the two travelers decided to stop for the evening at the edge of an open field. The sun was crawling out of sight over the horizon, lighting the tall grass in the field as it danced in the breeze. In deciding to forgo the making of a fire on the off-chance they would be spotted their dinner was limited to dry food. Witticker stood staring into the night sky as he tossed handfuls of granola into his mouth.
“How often do you have…dreams?”
Witticker, shaken from his own thoughts by the question, turned and found Edward sitting on the ground against a tree, staring into his white box.
“I tend to have them pretty regularly, but I don’t know if it’s the same for everyone,” replied Witticker, “I used to have them randomly, but it’s much more consistent now.”
Edward moved his fingers across the white box screen and lights flickered from the screen, his face scrutinizing the contents.
“It was a very strange feeling having my thoughts interrupted. That doesn’t happen to me very often.”
Witticker nodded and turned his attention back to the sky. He had still not grown used to the sight, the vision of the night sky. In the dark night it seemed like each star was a lamp leading to a far-away destination. Witticker followed each star along trying to find an end; only ever discovering another beginning.
“What do the dreams mean?”
“I don’t know,” answered Witticker, “I never thought about them having any meaning.”
Witticker contemplated the new idea as Edward made a final gesture across the white box.
“I guess…I mean, I think they are what are most important to the dreamer.”
The two men sat quietly in the enveloping darkness. Wild sounds rose up from the forest at their back and a cool breeze drifted across the field, lightly bending the grass to its will. Witticker continued to stare off into the endless, starry sky as Edward turned over for the next nights sleep, an adventure of a different kind.
Chapter 36
Leon: Weeble. Come in, Weeble.
Dead Air
Leon: Weeble. Come in, Weeble.
Dead Air
Leon: Weeble, you old bastard, come in.
Weeble: Hey. Hey. Sorry, had a spring loose in this thing I found. You’d never believe what this thing can do. I flick it on and it starts…
Leon: I don’t care. There’s some new developments on the lockdown of the Spoon district. Apparently that guy Edward and his buddy got out, but that’s not the half of it. When the acolytes finally got to where he was hiding out it was rigged. They opened the door and the damn hammer dropped. Guys on the ground said fire shot out of that place in every direction.
Weeble: Really? Do they know how he did it?
Leon: No. Didn’t have a chance to check it out. There were explosives on the foundation as well. The whole building went down. This wasn’t a last minute job. This Edward guy must have seen this coming a long way off.
Dead Air
Leon: Anyway, it sounds like the acolytes are up in arms. A whole shit-ton of them started moving east.
Dead Air
Leon: I heard something else interesting when I was listening to those two weapons traders chattering on their walkie-talkies. Looks like Jehovah is moving east too. One of them heard he’s leaving the city for good.
Dead Air
Leon: Weeble? You still there?
Weeble: Oh, yeah. Listen to this. I turned this machine on and it started to pull all the metal in the room towards it, like a big magnet. Not sure if that means its working or not.
Leon: I don’t know why I talk to you.
Dead Air
Weeble: Hmm. Did you get anything else from them?
Leon: No, the line cut off abruptly, but I’m tracking the frequency a lot more often now.
Weeble: Well, sounds like you still have your thumb on the pulse of the world. Keep lookin’ out for all of us. I’ll talk to ya later.
Leon: Ponce de Leon out.
Dead Air
Leon: Weeble. Come in, Weeble.
Dead Air
Leon: Weeble, you old bastard, come in.
Weeble: Hey. Hey. Sorry, had a spring loose in this thing I found. You’d never believe what this thing can do. I flick it on and it starts…
Leon: I don’t care. There’s some new developments on the lockdown of the Spoon district. Apparently that guy Edward and his buddy got out, but that’s not the half of it. When the acolytes finally got to where he was hiding out it was rigged. They opened the door and the damn hammer dropped. Guys on the ground said fire shot out of that place in every direction.
Weeble: Really? Do they know how he did it?
Leon: No. Didn’t have a chance to check it out. There were explosives on the foundation as well. The whole building went down. This wasn’t a last minute job. This Edward guy must have seen this coming a long way off.
Dead Air
Leon: Anyway, it sounds like the acolytes are up in arms. A whole shit-ton of them started moving east.
Dead Air
Leon: I heard something else interesting when I was listening to those two weapons traders chattering on their walkie-talkies. Looks like Jehovah is moving east too. One of them heard he’s leaving the city for good.
Dead Air
Leon: Weeble? You still there?
Weeble: Oh, yeah. Listen to this. I turned this machine on and it started to pull all the metal in the room towards it, like a big magnet. Not sure if that means its working or not.
Leon: I don’t know why I talk to you.
Dead Air
Weeble: Hmm. Did you get anything else from them?
Leon: No, the line cut off abruptly, but I’m tracking the frequency a lot more often now.
Weeble: Well, sounds like you still have your thumb on the pulse of the world. Keep lookin’ out for all of us. I’ll talk to ya later.
Leon: Ponce de Leon out.
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