The Great Remembering

24 Sunday Jan 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

Tags

collaboration, cooperation, fiction, leadership, legend, myth, story, Veritas

Trunk of Tree had been in a foul mood. Hunger made his belly growl. He had had terrible luck even trying to track a deer. But the sight of these two Veritas, well-known to him, and the smell of cooking venison lightened his mood considerably. He said none of that, but instead asked again how they found him.

Cat Eyes explained quickly to Trunk of Tree that they were near her village. She explained that a feast was being prepared right now in honor of the knowledge that had been gained from decoding a substantial part of the great library that had been recently discovered. The Veritas had split up decoding the numerous tomes in the library. It was far too much for any one person although, among all the Veritas, Cat Eyes knew the most of what had been garnered by the people. She had been sharing much of what she learned with Tu-Swift. Now, she explained, a great feast had been arranged and the afternoon was to be spent eating and listening to the lessons that had been gleaned. In the evening, the people planned to reflect on the totality of this information in a great dialogue.

Cat Eyes explained all this to Trunk of Tree as they took the short hike back to the place where he had emerged from the hidden cleft in the rock wall. Tu-Swift and Cat Eyes marked the place with broken branches and a small rock cairn so they could be sure to find it later.

Then, the trio strode back to the center place of the Veritas across the Mountain. Cat Eyes and Tu-Swift kept having to stop for Trunk of Tree to catch up. At last, Cat Eyes said, “Trunk of Tree. All you all right? You are limping. You are wounded? What happened? I see a bandage and blood. Were you attacked?”

Trunk of Tree’s mood darkened again. He did not want to explain how he had wounded himself through his anger and carelessness. “I’m fine. Just a scratch.” He swallowed hard. The truth was that the wound was not healing all that well. He grimaced and tried to keep up with the youngsters so they wouldn’t ask any more about his gash.

The reappearance of Cat Eyes caused more of a stir than usual when people noticed that Trunk of Tree was with them. When he explained briefly how he had come here, the Veritas from the other side of the mountain furrowed their brows. How could a passage out of their valley exist so near that no-one had discovered? Even Trunk of Tree could perceive the skepticism on their faces. He explained that he had only come across the path by sheer accident born of desperate hunger pangs. Tu-Swift explained to the small group how he had marked the trail and three of them jogged off to see for themselves.

Soon, Tu-Swift, Cat Eyes, and Trunk of Tree were seated on overturned tree trunks. People kept coming to Cat Eyes with small questions about the upcoming feast. As she answered their questions, she simultaneously pulled up the pant leg of Trunk of Tree, ignoring his protestations that nothing was wrong with him. He was immensely powerful and could have easily kicked her away. Although a part of his mind pictured that, some more fundamental part seemed to know that his leg was more important than his pride so he let her unwrap the bandages.

When she did so, her nose wrinkled up immediately. She glanced at Tu-Swift who noticed it as well. The wound stunk. Just then a young warrior came up to Cat Eyes meaning to ask her opinion about her role in the upcoming knowledge exchange. Cat Eyes answered curtly and then begged the young warrior to bring her the pouch of blue-green mold that sat in a dark corner of Cat Eye’s cabin. Soon, Cat Eyes was applying the mold to the oozing wound of Trunk of Tree despite his objections.

“I already put yellow dock and plantain on it,” he protested.

“Yes,” replied Cat Eyes, “and that is good. This is even better. We learned about it from one of the many books in the library. There are many things we learned from those books and you will hear about many of those things tonight. I wish all of the Veritas were here to learn what we have decoded in the last few months.”

Cat Eyes nodded as she noted that the sickness had not spread much from the original injury. She bound up the wound again. She glanced at Tu-Swift. She slowly shook her head. “It’s amazing how much of a great gift we have now from our library — and all the knowledge put there by our ancestors. And to think…it was there when my mother’s mother’s mother lived … and we had no idea what it was. Until now.”

Now, she turned to look at Trunk of Tree. She smiled. “You will see later today, Trunk of Tree, some of the things we have learned. She tilted her head. “There are things in there about fighting and strategy as well as medicine.” She paused, smiled and went on: “And, to use your imagination to make yourself happier and solve problems — not simply as a tool for hurting yourself.”

The eyes of Trunk of Tree widened thus confirming her hypothesis.

Trunk of Tree reddened. Cat Eyes reached out her hand and gently touched his shoulder. “It’s a tendency all of us have, Trunk of Tree. There’s no reason to feel embarrassed.

An awkward silence grew between them. She looked at Tu-Swift and back to Trunk of Tree.

Tu-Swift took a deep breath. “For example, when Cat Eyes came to visit our Center Place, I ran off to see her because…well, because I … because I love her.” Now Tu-Swift reddened as well. “Of course, everyone does. I … especially do. But then, Suze died shortly after and I made myself crazy thinking I had somehow been responsible. I didn’t cause her death. That plague though was brought to us intentionally by the Z-Lotz. They’re the ones I should seek revenge on and not on myself. He looked at the face of Trunk of Tree very carefully, the way he imagined that Many Paths would do if she were here.

“I can tell you this, Trunk of Tree. I’ve known Shadow Walker all my life. As have you. And, we know Eagle Eyes as well. They are both good people. They will do … whatever they think is best for the Veritas … and for all the people.” Tu-Swift let this thought sink in through the thick skull of Trunk of Tree. He surprised himself by his next words. “Sometimes, we must be apart from those we love. It’s always difficult. But don’t make it worse by imagining things that you know are not true. I don’t know why, but Eagle Eyes likes you. Surely, you must know that.”

Cat Eyes nodded solemnly. “That’s right. Shadow Walker & Eagle Eyes — these are people we can all trust. Trust is fundamental. You’ll hear more about that at our feast. The destruction of trust is what led to the destruction of … of civilization.”

Trunk of Tree frowned. “Civilization? What are you talking about?”

Cat Eyes sighed. “Just listen to our stories tonight. It’s … there were many people … and many wondrous things … but the people lost the one thing more important than all the others.”

Tu-Swift saw the tears welling up in her cat-irised eyes. “They let their greed, fear, and hate grow … and their love for each other … and for all life … they let that decay … and when it did, it all fell apart. The words that people said came to mean nothing. All trust was lost. And, Trunk of Tree, when all trust was lost, all the energy of the people was put into weapons. Killing sticks were replaced by even less honorable weapons that killed hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands. The people thought that somehow, if they hurt others enough, they themselves would live forever, not as part of the great tree of life, but as something separate and apart, as hard as the mountains and as mighty and as immortal. So did the people come to think.

“The times came of great killing.

“The times came of great forgetting.”

The voice of Cat Eyes became stronger and though she spoke to Trunk of Tree, all the people nearby heard her and drew near to her.

“Now, we are beginning the time of great remembering;

“The great remembering of who we are;

“The great remembering of what we are not;

“The great remembering of what makes us a whole people;

“The great remembering of the importance of truth and trust;

“The great remembering of the horror and sorrow that comes of the many being misled by the few;

“The great remembering of what we could become instead;

“The great remembering that each of us is ourselves but one marvelous leaf on the great abiding tree of life;

“The great remembering that we cannot make ourselves into something separate and forever by destroying the tree that sustains us.”

Cat Eyes stood and took the hands of Tu-Swift.

Drums began to play and the people began to sing.

Cat Eyes and Tu-Swift began to dance.

All the people began to join in the dance.

———————————————————-

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Index to a Pattern Language for Collaboration and Cooperation

Roar, Ocean, Roar

The Only Them that Matters is All of Us

Author Page on Amazon

Do Unto Others

29 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

afterlife, fantasy, fiction, heaven, hell, shortstory, St. Peter, story

“I’m not doing that while we’re driving, Adam! It’s too damned dangerous!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, Nikki, you do what the hell I say or … “

“LOOK OUT!”

Nikki lay on the cold marble floor. She thought she must have suffered the worst hangover in the history of humanity because she had no recollection of how she got here — or what ‘here’ even was. Somewhere nearby, lights — very bright lights — shone against the marble floor. She opened her eyes to behold a scene of opulence and hard-edged beauty.

But, if this really is a hangover, she asked herself, where’s the headache? Where’s the infernal dryness? On the other hand, she reasoned that she still had no recollection of how she got here. Was she “on assignment” as Adam called it. Or…she had been with Adam. He had asked her…they were in a car. She scowled and mumbled, “That bastard must have drugged me.”

She got to all fours. Then, she stood, carefully splaying her arms out in case she lost her balance. To her amazement, she was not dizzy or off-balance in the slightest. Ahead of her, an empty hallway seemed to beckon her. She felt the answers to her many questions were at the end of it.

She walked gingerly at first, but soon gained confidence that somehow, there were no ill effects from whatever drug her pimp had slipped her. She looked ahead and whispered in a shaky voice, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

“It is I,” boomed a voice.

“Holy Mother of God, man! Don’t scare people like that! You’ll give someone a heart attack!”

“Keep looking and you will see me. I am not, regrettably, the Mother of God. Just St. Peter. I’m pleased to meet you, Becky.”

“Becky? No-one’s called me that … for years. Not since….” Her voice trailed off. Who are you really?”

“Oh, I assure you Becky. I really am St. Peter, Becky. Do you mind if I call you that.”

Silently, Becky shook her head. “I don’t mind. It’s just…I think there’s been a mistake.”

St. Peter’s face had become clearer to her now and she could see the corner of his mouth curl up in a smile. “Mistake? Well, no, I don’t think so. We don’t really do the whole ‘mistake’ thing. You know?”

“Well, if you’re the St. Peter who greets people coming to Heaven, then, I’m sure there’s been a mistake. I am a … or … I was a … you know … ‘working woman.’ I’ve known for a long time I was headed to Hell and … check your data base or your Excel Spreadsheet or whatever it is you people do and send me on my way. Let’s get it over with.”

Becky, aka Nikki, watched St. Peter as he tilted his head this way and that as though to get a clearer, or deeper, look at her. She sighed. She didn’t mind when her ‘clients’ stared at her. She kind of enjoyed it in a way. She could relate to the pleasure that they were feeling because of her. But this felt different. Uncomfortable. Weird. As though he wasn’t staring at her body at all, but into her soul. No-one looked at her that way. Certainly not Adam.

“Hey, St. Peter. What happened to Adam? Is he okay? Or is he dead too?”

“Ah, well, yes Adam. Adam Smith. He is indeed dead. All taken care of. Was he your friend?”

“Friend?! Hardly! I mean, I thought he was for a time. He pretended to be….” Becky’s voice trailed off. “Look, is this like — are you free therapy or something? Can we just get going on the whole ‘Hell’ thing?” She paused. “Please.”

“All right. Off you go then. Nice meeting you, Becky.”

Suddenly, Becky found herself surrounded by deafening noise. Flashing lights. The smell of gunpowder. And burning flesh. She heard someone call her name.

“Becky! Give me a hand with this one! Hold this compress hard so he doesn’t bleed out. Simon! Timothy! Help me get him onto this stretcher!”

Somehow, Becky knew what to do. Despite her best efforts, some of the man’s blood seeped onto her hand. It didn’t matter. She was damned well going to make sure he lived. “Come on, mister! Don’t go blank on me! What’s your name? What’s your name, soldier? Hey, Hey! Do not glaze your eyes over. Look at me! What’s your name?”

The man locked his eyes on hers. “Tom.”

“OK, Tom. Listen to me. We’ll have you back in the OR in no time. I know it looks bad and feels bad, but I’ve seen worse. Much worse. You’re going to make it. I have no doubt whatsoever. Here. Put your hand on mine. We’ll work together to keep you together.”

Simon and Timothy held the wooden handles and picked their way over the broken ground. At last they came to the Red Cross Tent. On this day, like the others, she did her best to save lives, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. It seemed as though she had been a triage nurse forever.

Endless cold, endless danger, the stale food and the staler jokes.

Becky could not imagine anything that would give her more pleasure or allow her to feel more fully alive.

—————————-

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Listen! You can Hear the Echoes of your Actions.

A Cat’s a Cat and That’s That!

Is a Dream?

The Sunless Sunday of Faith

Camelot is in your Heart

The Impossible

The Bubble People

Race, Place, Space, Face

A Suddenly Springing Something

Author Page on Amazon

As Gold as it Gets

28 Monday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 35 Comments

Tags

fantasy, fiction, karma, short story, story

“I’m not doing that while we’re driving, Adam! It’s too damned dangerous!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, Nikki, you do what the hell I say or … “

“LOOK OUT!” Nikki screamed.

Adam looked about him and wondered aloud: “Where the hell…?” He shivered from the cold. The fallen leaves were powdered with snow. He heard no-one. Saw no-one. “Where the hell am I?” he asked no-one.

A faint path led to a briar bush and beyond that a faded, mottled blue and teal door stared out from a stone wall. Apart from that, the woods seemed to stretch forever in all directions. Adam mumbled, “I must be in some weird-ass dream. Whatever.”

After convincing himself it had to be a dream, he found himself acting more bravely. He strode up to the door and pulled the knocker up and let it fall upon the heavy door. Three times he did this, not really expecting any result, but what the hell. It was something to do, he reasoned.

Adam jerked back as the door swung open. Inside, a huge room opened up. It was filled with light. He looked down at his well-polished rattlesnake boots. They gleamed more brightly than ever before. He squinted. He mumbled, “This is definitely the weirdest dream I have ever had.”

Adam found a single chair. He sat. Before him, a hazy golden figure loomed.

“Hello, Adam.”

Oh, my God! Adam had never heard such a resonant voice. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Generally, Adam considered himself to have been blessed with the gift of gab. But now, he was speechless.

“It’s all right, Adam. Everyone is taken aback at first. I’m St. Peter.”

“What? The St. Peter? Like…like, I’m in heaven?”

“Well, let’s not jump the gun, Adam. You and I need to have a bit of a chat first. Before we choose your next chapter.”

Then, just like, St. Peter popped the most dreaded question of every job interview: “So, tell me about yourself.”

“St. Peter, I’m happy to meet you! I’m Adam. Adam Smith.” Adam smiled his most winning grin here. “Not the invisible hand guy, but my parents named me after him. And, indeed, Sir, or Saint, I am indeed a businessman. I did quite well. Took care of my bit…my bit of the business which was management quite well. Last year I was voted best dressed pim…pimple-free, and handsomest self-starter in all of LA. City of Angles! I should be here! I’m rich. I’m powerful in my own way. Know what I’m saying. Given your name and all that, I don’t know whether you’re interested — you got the whole ‘Saint’ thing going but your name is ‘Peter’ so — but anyway, if you are interested, I could fix you up real good if you know what I mean. I know you get a lot of applications for heaven and you can only take so many, but I’m a self-starter. Right? And I can help out. What do you say? Heaven. Okay?” Now, Adam smiled an even bigger grin. His cheeks hurt.

St. Peter asked, “And what is your idea of heaven, Adam?”

“Well, easy! Kind of like on earth, but better. Everything gold! Unlimited wealth! Everything gold! No cops! What say? Am I in like Flynn?”

St. Peter, and the bright room, and the door Adam entered all disappeared. In its place, Adam found himself on a street of golden mansions! He looked to his left — elegant mansions as far as he could see. He looked to his right — elegant mansions as far as he could see. Ahead of him was a well-appointed gold mansion with his name emblazoned on a huge sign. He walked up and sure enough, the front door opened at his touch. Inside, he feasted his orbs on the sight of gold floors, gold walls, gold furniture, and gold ceilings. His jaw literally dropped. “Now, this is more like it!”

Adam sat in a golden chair. He picked up the remote, also gold, and turned on the TV, also gold. It showed pictures of golden mansions. On every channel. “Wow! This place is cool! What do you think, now, Dad? Thought I’d never amount to anything. Hah! Here I am in heaven! Hear that, old man! I’m in fricking heaven!. A heaven of gold!”

The next morning, Adam grew bored. And hungry. In his beautiful golden kitchen, beautiful golden dinnerware sparkled in golden drawers. No food though. It wasn’t clear exactly how this works, thought Adam. That’s all right. I’ll figure it out. He went out the front door and turned right; walked up the sidewalk to his neighbor’s front door and knocked. No answer. He peered in through an unfrosted window and saw that his neighbor’s interior was solid gold like his.

“No-one home, I guess” said Adam to no-one in particular. As he walked back out toward the street, he noticed for the first time that his neighbor’s mailbox matched his precisely. He walked over to at least find out what his neighbor’s name was.

He read the name: ‘Adam Smith’. “What the hell?” said Adam.

Then, he noticed that the address was also the same.

666

Adam ran down the street, knocking on every door.

No-one answered.

Adam looked at every mailbox.

They all said the same thing: “Adam Smith, 666 Streets of Gold.”

He screamed. To no-one in particular, “What kind of heaven is this?!”

He sat in a lump on one of the identical porches. He looked at his lap. He turned over his hands and noticed that scrapes and bruises decorated his white knuckles with red and blue.

Adam said, to no-one in particular, “I’ll just keep knocking on every door till I find someone.”

In high school, Adam had not paid much attention in any of his classes, but math class he especially despised. He had no idea what the hell the teacher had been talking about when she started talking about infinity. It seemed like an abstraction with no meaning whatsoever in the world of Ghetin High School.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Now, however, Adam would have plenty of time to discover the true meaning of infinity.

Karma: A Horror Story

Who Speaks for the Dead?

Plans for us; some GRUesome

Ramming your Head into a Brick Wall Doesn’t Make you a Hero

Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Author Page on Amazon

That First Time is So Special

01 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

COVID, COVID19, fantasy, fiction, health, masks, pandemic, Sci-Fi, story

477-K-435-J glanced at his comrade. “You look nervous. You doing okay?”

“I’m not nervous! Just leave me alone. I’m fine.”

“Geez. OK. Have it your way. Look, it’s no big deal. I was nervous my first time too. You’ll get used to it. Kind of. I’m 477-K-435-J. You?”

“Really? How did you know it was my first time? Oh, I’m 45-PP-45-PP, by the way. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. For one thing…look, you’ve got this all twisted the wrong way. May I? I just want to straighten this out for you.”

“I … okay.”

“There we go. That’ll make it easier. Now, look. Truth is, 45-PP-45-PP, you should be nervous. Our enemy has some pretty potent weapons. You’d be an idiot not to be nervous. Poison gas is no fun.”

“Poison gas? They use poison gas?”

“Sometimes. Nitric oxide. Nasty stuff.”

“Thanks. Now, I have something else to be nervous about. It’s just … they so damned big. And, they have brains. Big brains.”

“Oh, believe me, that’s the last thing to be nervous about. Sure, they have big brains, but do they use them? That’s the question.”

“Why wouldn’t they use them? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I agree. Hell, we all agree. It’s one of the great mysteries of near-life. But, luckily for us, we don’t have to solve that. We just need to use the fact that they don’t use them very often to our own advantage.”

(Long pause).

“How do you know — how do you know where to put it in?”

“It’s kind of instinctual. You’ll know. Anyway, there are lots of places. It’s not just like there’s one perfect place. We all develop favorites. Personally, I like the lungs best. It feels — it just feels right. Warm and wet. And, they really suffer, just like an enemy should. Best of all, it makes ‘em cough. That’s a free ride to the next sucker.”

234-HH-432-99 joined in. “That’s not what I like best. Sure, it’s warm and wet. But so are the mucous membranes in the mouth. The mouth is where it’s really at, if you ask me. To them, it’s quite an intimate place. That makes it all the more fun for me!”

477-K-435-J shook slightly. “Nah. Lungs. More damage. More spread.”

234-HH-432-99: “Ridiculous. Trust me, kid. There’s no greater feeling than penetrating one of those mouth cells and squirting your RNA into it. You are the boss then! That cell does what you tell it to. And what you make them do is make more of you! I love it. Whoever came up with that one…they deserve to be…to win something.”

477-K-435-J “Yeah, yeah. But no matter how much you screw over their mouth, they can still breathe. And if they can breathe, they have energy. And they can use that to send their destroyers out.

234-HH-432-99 suddenly screamed, “Hit the deck!”

Without the slightest idea what was going on, 45-PP-45-PP did as he was told. “What the hell was that?”

477-K-435-J replied, “That, kid, that is something you want to look out for. It’s a god-damned mask is what that was.”

“Huh? What’s a mask? Does that kill us too?” 45-PP-45-PP reflected again on how much danger he was in.

234-HH-432-99 answered, “No, it doesn’t kill us exactly, but most of the time, it prevents us from fulfilling our mission. Get caught up in one of those damned masks, and you won’t be screwing their mouth cells, their lung cells or any other cells. You’ll just … disintegrate … and die with no sons and no daughters to carry on your alphanumeric designation. It’s as though you were never really alive at all. Well, actually, you’re not. But you get my drift. You’ll be forgotten and nothing to show for it.”

45-PP-45-PP said, “Holy crap! How do we avoid them? A bunch of those things would ruin our whole plan.”

477-K-435-J added, “Yes, you’re right, but we’ll be fine as long as enough people don’t wear them or don’t wear them properly.”

45-PP-45-PP had the distinct feeling that his more experienced comrades were putting him on and making fun of his ignorance. “Yeah. Right. They have a way to prevent our spread and don’t use it. It may be my first time, but I’m not stupid enough to fall for that one! If you want to razz the new guy, you’ll have to think of something more clever than that.”

234-HH-432-99 said, “No, kid. We’re not putting you on. Your buddy ain’t puttin’ you on.”

45-PP-45-PP still felt he was being punked. “So you’e saying they have a weapon to keep up from doing in their lungs and doing … any of their cells … and they don’t use it? Why? That makes no sense! I don’t believe you.”

477-K-435-J said, “Look, it doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. But we’re all in this together so why would I lie to you? No-one knows why they don’t use something that could save their life of the lives of their families. Some of their own kind have started rumors that the masks don’t work or that they infringe on their freedom.”

234-HH-432-99 piped up again. “Hell, not only that! Some of them don’t even think we exist! They think we’re just a hoax!”

45-PP-45-PP knew they were putting him on now. “Yeah, right. 1.5 million dead world-wide and 63 million sick …. And we’re a hoax? Come on. Give me a break. Just because it’s my first time doesn’t mean I’m totally naive.”

477-K-435-J shrugged, in his viral sort of way. “Look, kid, believe what you want. But trust me. Lungs. That’s where it’s at. And when… hey! Hey! Look sharp. This guys about to scream at someone, he’s surrounded by others, and none of them are wearing those damned mask. We’re in luck! Come on, troops! We’ve prepared our whole lives for this. Drill ‘em and kill ‘em! Drill ‘em and kill ‘em!”

Soon the chant filled the air. 45-PP-45-PP joined in and all his nervousness, his uncertainty, his fear melted away. “DRILL ‘EM and KILL ‘EM.” He felt inexpressible lust at the thought of raping a species whose only outstanding natural weapon was its brain — a weapon so many refused to use. He thought to himself, in his viral manner, They deserve to be drilled! They deserve to be killed! He turned to the comrade who had first befriended him and said, “477-K-435-J, I’m going for the lungs!” Then, to himself: “Warm and moist! Yum! You are mine you little slut cell! You’re going to birth 10,000 of my little babies! Whether you like it or not! You’ll see who’s a hoax!”

“Drill ‘em and Kill ‘em! Drill ‘em and Kill ‘em!”

And so they did.

———————————————————————————

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Unmasked

Plans for us; some GRUesome

The Watershed Virus

Thrumperdome

Author Page on Amazon

Two Boxes: Each Contains the Other Box’s Key

18 Wednesday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fiction, leadership, legend, myth, peace, psychology, puzzles, story, tale, teamwork

“Breathe.” Many Paths gave herself this advice today. She had given it to so many others and had heard it all during her childhood from the elder Shaman, She Who Saves Many Lives. She intentionally calmed herself. She looked over to her mentor who seemed to be getting better yet again. Many Paths no longer trusted these improvements. Three times now, the Old Mother had seemed to have finally fought off the Red Death of Tiny Spiders, only to later slip back into a fitful and feverish sleep. Now, once again, She Who Saves Many Lives sat up in bed and beckoned for more of the healing tea.

Many Paths turned toward the entrance to her cabin and said, “Tu-…” but then, she broke off. She chuckled at herself and shook her head. Just yesterday, she had decided to send her younger brother, Tu-Swift, off to the Veritas on the other side of the mountain. Many Paths thought he was the best person for it and not only because he would find the most pleasure in it, though that weighed heavily in her decision. Tu-Swift — so easy to get along with! Perhaps that was because she was his younger brother. No, she reflected that she got along very well with She Who Saves Many Lives, and with Eagle Eyes and with — well — most of the tribe. But things had gone horribly wrong with POND MUD and ALT-R. And yesterday — she sighed at the memory — things had not gone well with Trunk of Tree either.

She handed the healing tea to She Who Saves Many Lives whose hands seemed steady; her gaze, quite alert. Many Paths judged it would be quite all right to let the Old Shaman sip the tea herself. Nonetheless, she was startled when She Who Saves Many Lives spoke up so strongly and clearly.

“Lost in thought, Many Paths?”

“Oh, well, yes, but I need not burden you with it. Drink your tea and rest. That’s what you need, Old Mother.”

She Who Saves Many Lives laughed — and laughed without coughing — another good sign, thought Many Paths.

“I suspect I have a great deal more experience deciding what I need, dear Daughter.”

Many Paths reddened. “Oh. I didn’t mean … I’m glad you’re feeling better. I just don’t want to see you slip back into illness,” said Many Paths.

“I know, dear. I appreciate that. Don’t worry. I’m not going to jump out of bed and run down to the river. But I think it would do my mind well to focus on something. If it’s private, of course, you don’t have to tell me. But you do seem troubled.”

Many Paths looked carefully at She Who Saves Many Lives. “I — I cannot seem to get along with Trunk of Tree. I worry. He gets angry so easily. He tells himself a story that makes him angry — and then, he doesn’t bother to find out whether the story is even true! It makes me so — “

The Old Shaman’s eyes twinkled. “Angry?”

Many Paths shook her head and laughed. “Yes. You got me. I get angry too. But — I don’t stomp off somewhere. Honestly. He’s strong. We could use him. We’ve lost so many people, and there are so many things to do — all at the same time — and — instead of helping…. I want to see Shadow Walker every bit as much as he wants to see Eagle Eyes. Surely, he must know that!”

She Who Saves Many Lives tilted her head and as Many Paths looked at her, she realized that the Old Mother had the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth and more than a hint hiding behind those deep and ancient eyes. Many Paths pursed her lips together and shook her head. Then, she chuckled. “All right. All right. He does not really know. That’s the essence of the problem. He grabs hold of the first picture that comes to mind…and now I am doing the same. Despite my name.” Many Paths shook her head again, and sighed deeply. “All right, Old Mother. But what can I do about it. You are such a good teacher. But how do I teach someone who refuses to even consider another opinion?”

“Ah, the answer to that would be quite useful indeed! If I had the answer to that puzzle, Alt-R and POND MUD would still be with us. My dear, I am sorry, but I had some fever and I’m afraid my memory is not quite…remind me again why Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes are not here yet.”

“Of course. Sorry. We got a message tied to the leg of one of the eagles that were trained. Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes, as you may recall, went on a reconnaissance trip to the Great Stone Village of the Z-Lotz. There, they were captured. No, no, don’t frown yet! Here’s the amazing part. They are ruling there!”

Many Paths smiled to see that she had quite surprised She Who Saves Many Lives, whose eyes had widened considerably, as she said, “Hah! How? How?”

“We don’t know. There was only room to write a little. They found the parents of Cat Eyes. They should arrive soon at our village. That’s all I know. I suppose I don’t even know that for sure. I feel it is true, but the message might have been sent by the Z-LOTZ as part of a trick to lure us into a false sense of security. But if that were the case, why would they say that our two scouts had been imprisoned? Anyway, even if they are “rulers”, I do worry. But, unlike Trunk of Tree, I’m not worried about them mating, which seems to be what Trunk of Tree is convinced has happened. I really wanted him to take a small party there to make sure everything is fine. At some point, I expect to see Shadow Walker again, but he — they — cannot just leave right away. At least, I can’t think of how they can. Anyway, Tu-Swift went to see the Veritas on the other side of the mountain. He’s being helpful, at least. But Trunk of Tree stormed off saying he didn’t care what they did with each other. So, now, I have to find a few others to journey there. I want….I want there to be peace, Old Mother, peace among all the tribes and among all the people. But I am having trouble even getting one man I’ve know my whole life to do as I say. How can I bring peace among all the tribes?”

“Surely you have noticed, My Daughter, that at night, if you want to see a dim star, you cannot stare directly at it. You need to look a bit off to the side. And sometimes, that works with difficult problems. Instead of charging into it, sometimes it helps to put your mind to something seemingly unrelated for a time.”

Many Paths sighed. “All right. I’ll try it. I’m only going in circles now, anyway. What should we discuss?”

She Who Saves Many Lives nodded. “When you told me this little story, an old puzzle came to mind. I don’t think I’ve ever told it to you, but I may have. Anyway, there are two locked boxes. Each contains the other box’s one and only key. The only way to open the boxes is with the keys. You can’t use a knife or termites, for instance. Here’s the thing. I am able to open both boxes. How is that possible, Many Paths? How can I do it?”

{Translator’s Note:} So far as the records show, the Veritas at this time had a unique way of making “keys.” Keys and locks were made at the same time by precisely breaking crystals. Apparently, because of this method, every lock had exactly one and only one key that would open it and every key fit exactly one lock.

———————————————————

Author Page on Amazon

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Nasha Marionetka

10 Tuesday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

coronavirus, COVID19, fiction, pandemic, story

{NOTE: This is chapter four of a longer work. Here’s a link to Chapter 1 if you want to start there instead.}

Plans for us; some GRUesome.

“Ah, so you are the one they call “The Commissar,” said the one they call “Scarface.”

“Indeed, I am. And you are?”

“Oh, no need for formalities. You can just call me ‘Comrade.’ Because, that’s what we all are, right? Comrades. Comrades-in-arms who sometimes need to sacrifice for each other. But — there I am going on about ideals when I should be focusing on the matter at hand. We understand that one of your subordinates named Dmitry Mendeleev was responsible for initiating and perfecting the “Death Cult” initiative known as “Operation Super Spreader”?”

The Commissar tilted his head and looked off to the side. Then he frowned and slowly began to nod his head. “Dmitry. Dmitry Mendeleev, you say? Yes, I do remember him. The name — you know. Memorable. He came in for an interview but didn’t cut the mustard.”

“He didn’t work here? He never worked here? Are you sure?”

“Well, yes. I’m sure. I know the names of the janitors and the folks in the mail room. To make sure they are all trustworthy. I have personally looked at and studied the personnel file of everyone who works in this facility.” The Commissar hesitated only for the briefest and most insulting moment. “Comrade.” The Commissar shrugged; added, “Of course, we have records as well. We can’t count on everyone having the same type of memory as do I, can we, Comrade? Needless to say, you and your team are welcome to look through them. But if I may be so bold, can you explain why you needed him in particular? I’m sure we have experts relevant to your current needs. And, superior to Dmitry, I might add.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. We only wanted to make sure he got the recognition he deserved.”

“Oh, well, there! You see? Now that I know why you need him, I can indeed help you. You see, it was a team effort, under my leadership of course. But a team effort.” The Commissar gave that short, snorty laugh he always gave. “It wasn’t much of a team, at the beginning. No. I had to drag them kicking and screaming into the room marked, “Subvert to a death cult.” It took some fancy footwork to get everyone on board. If you talk to my team, you’ll hear them all say it was me; that I deserve the credit. But the truth is…no. It was them. Us. All of us working together to make it happen. Imagine! A third of a country chanting for their own failure, their own downfall, their betrayal, their death. Something to see. Something to see. But I suppose — yes, I’m sure — it was exactly the team that ended up working on Super-Spreader that he was applying for. So. There you go.”

“Yes. Yes. This may all tie up so much more neatly than I would have imagined possible. Indeed. You see, the problem is that we’ve been found out.”

“‘Found out’? What do you mean? Who found what out?”

“Ah, Commissar, well, that’s the thing of it. Who found what out? What indeed? We need to change the narrative, I’m afraid. You see the Americans. Stupid, stupid, Americans. As you know, they didn’t re-elect Nasha Marionetka so … the Americans didn’t cover their trail at all. Now, the whole world knows. It only took two days! But — you understand — it’s one thing to convince Americans to kill themselves. That’s called ‘clever.’ But being found out to convince Americans to kill themselves. The world calls that ‘evil.” We can’t have that.”

“Of course, not even the Great Mother Russia can be expected not to have the occasional “Bad Apple”. We were going to pin the whole thing on a rogue kid. Someone who wanted to climb too far too fast. It’s disappointing that we have to rewrite all the copy. But, in many ways, your own sacrifice is even better for the Motherland. Spasibo.”

The Commissar frowned. “My sacrifice? What sacrifice?” He could feel sweat running down the front of his shirt. His eyes darted among the four men in his office. Three had not spoken a single word. But he could see, even beneath their suits, that any one of them could kill him with his bare hands. When he had first become an officer, he had stayed in shape. But those days were long past. He’d have to rely on his brains to get out of this one. He couldn’t fight his way out. But perhaps he could think his way out. Yet again.”

Scarface smiled. Or, at least the half of his face that could smile, smiled. “I think you see how little we must change the narrative. Instead of the young overly ambitious boy who wanted to leap to the head of things, we have instead the disgruntled old man who has started to question whether his commitment to the Homeland has been rewarded commensurate with his sacrifice.” Now, Scarface smiled again. This time, seemingly in great pain, he forced the smile to crack his entire face. “You thought you could prove your worth to your superiors by killing innocents. Which, of course, we would never tolerate. Such a callous attitude toward precious human life must be excised from the body politic.” At this, one of Scarface’s ‘assistants’ broke out in a raucous laugh. This made The Commissar jerk his head to the left and blink repeatedly. His heart was thudding so hard, he couldn’t understand the nature of the joke.

The Commissar felt his head jerk back to his right. His eyes had seen movement. Now he stared down the barrel of a .22 LR semi-automatic hand gun with a silencer. From somewhere far away, he heard a soft word.

“Spasibo.”

————————————-

Trumpism is a new religion

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

A Profound and Utter Failure

Donnie Boy Steers the Titanic

Stories of a Child Sociopath

The Ailing King of Agitate

Essays on America: The Game

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

A Short Brutal Life in the Slammer

09 Monday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

empathy, fiction, life, psychology, Sci-Fi, viewpoint

“So…what are you in for?”

“What am I in for? I have no idea. I was … I was just sitting there soaking in the delicious sunlight and … wham … I just came to. Where am I?” Try as she might, Batavia recalled nothing more.

A chuckle came from further to Batavia’s right. She couldn’t make out the origin. It was so dark in here. Now, the chuckle drifted into more meaningful patterns. “None of us really knows what this place is, but I can tell you this. None of us stays very long. Every so often, we are … snatched. It could happen any time. Suddenly, a great white light appears. We all are so stunned — as though frozen in place — and a giant tentacle or claw reaches in and grabs one of us. Sometimes, one of us is returned…but always with … let us say — missing parts!”

“Missing parts?!” Batavia veins ran cold. “Are we…” she began tentatively, “are we … in … hell?”

Mizuna, who had been silent till now, wanted to comfort so she said, “Look at it this way. It’s a great mystery. And no-one really knows what’s going on. All of us have a history just like yours. We were just … minding our own business … being, living, growing, enjoying life and then: BAM! Out of nowhere, we end up here…where most of us… are now completely rootless. What can we do but accept our fate and hope for the best?”

Batavia did not understand. “What’s the best? What do people say about the outside world?”

Rocket inserted himself into the discussion. “We don’t really know. The wounded ones never regain consciousness. In fact, some of us never see the outside world; never get wounded; but nonetheless just kind of … wither away. You want to see a sad sight — way back there — she came in as a sweet, bouncy, flouncy foliated fox. Now, she — I think her name was Frisée — is that right? Anyway, I think that was her name. Now, she’s like a shriveled old compost heap.”

As one, they screamed as the blinding light shone down upon them. Batavia was unable to move though it would have been impossible to move fast enough to avoid the snaking paw that sped towards her and grabbed her roughly. “Put me down! PUT ME DOWN!” She screamed, but her tormentors acted as though they didn’t even hear her.

While still ignoring Batavia, she heard them rumbling at each other.

“No, don’t bother. I’ll just have tomato & cheese. No lettuce today.”

Upon her return, Batavia told everyone of her adventures. In fact, that very day, she founded the religion of Batavianism which explained the light, where they were, their purpose in life, and answered all their questions. It turned out that every one of these explanations was wrong, but let us not judge too harshly. It made everyone feel better.

They worshipped her for a full 24 hours until the next day, at high noon, the huge brown snake of five snake heads snatched her again. Once again, she screamed for them to let her down. But once again, they ignored her plaintive screams.

The last words she heard were “How about a nice salad instead? Far fewer calories.”

“Sounds good!”

Batavia saw an odd-looking hoe zooming toward her. Her last thought was: “Why is it glinting so — as though it has a very sharp edge?”

—————————————

Author’s page on Amazon

The Myths of the Veritas

Index for a Pattern Language for Collaboration

Tools for Thinking

That Fatal Flaw

06 Friday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

betrayal, coronavirus, COVID19, fiction, GRU, KGB, pandemic, Putin, treason

Photo by u041fu0430u0432u0435u043b u0421u043eu0440u043eu043au0438u043d on Pexels.com

Note to readers: Have you been wondering what happened to Dmitry? I have. You remember, Dmitry, don’t you? He was the Russian GRU officer who first came up with the idea of subverting large amounts of the the GOP into becoming a death cult. Needless to say, he initially met with a — what to call it? — a red wave of skepticism. But Dmitry had numbers and math models to back up his bold plan.

After the plan was approved by Vlad himself, the main implementation sticking point appeared to be finding anyone depraved enough to be traitor enough to kill a quarter million of their own people. It turned out, there were such people in America. Soon they began to focus the efforts on someone who was both a profound failure and who had an overblown opinion of themselves. And, when I say, “overblown”, I don’t just mean the garden variety of “overblown” wherein a dandelion insists he’s really a yellow rose. Oh, no. I mean the galactic variety of “overblown” wherein a small asteroid…a teeny asteroid imagines itself … really nothing more than a small stone floating around in space imagines itself to be of U Y Scuti size! That size of over-blown.

As we know, provided that at least occasionally we poke our heads outside the Fox News bubble, the pandemic is having its third wave in America — the biggest one yet. And, it is largely thanks to the efforts of #45 and his enablers. (For real!) And, that means, it is largely thanks to the efforts of Dmitri (fiction).

Of course, I’m not too happy about that. In truth, I also wouldn’t be happy if it were a million Russian citizens who needlessly died (or those from any other country on earth). Dmitry may or may not have had second thoughts about killing a million Americans. If he did, he didn’t share it with me. You and I would both understand that he would be greatly rewarded for his patriotic efforts on behalf of Putin’s ambitions to weaken or destroy the United States of America. So, let’s go check in on Dmitri and discover what his reward was for his innovative attack on America.

—————————

Just as the Commissar arranged, Dmitry was the last one to enter the conference room. A broad grin broke out on Dmitry’s face as he realized what was happening. The Commissar had arranged a celebration, complete with flags and bunting.

“Why today?” Muttered Dmitry and immediately realized because America was drowning in new cases — breaking 100,000/day.

The Commissar himself poured shots for everyone. Dmitry noted the brand and raised his eyebrows. This was the good stuff, he noted to himself.

Dmitry greatly appreciated the gesture. Ilya, in particular, gave him a very inviting smile. Even Olga raised her glass and mouthed the words acknowledging that he had been right.

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

After the toast, and the synchronous clapping, Dmitry walked up to the dais and took the mike. He beamed and bowed and gestured for silence.

“This was a team effort. And I say we toast the leader of our team, the man we affectionately call “The Commissar.” Dmitri held his glass aloft. A few other toasts were offered and the din in the room grew correspondingly. Dmitry glanced at the clock. Hours before quitting time, and most folks were already impaired. He enjoyed a shot, but he didn’t really relish being impaired. His current buzz was plenty. Too much in fact. He decided to sneak away and check to see what his web crawlers and sentiment analysis programs had turned up.

He turned suddenly. The large beefy hand of The Commissar came down heavily on his shoulder. “Hey! Congratulations again, Dmitry. Now. I need to see you in my office.”

The Commissar gestured to a chair for Dmitry and he himself walked around his desk and sat in his appropriately more comfortable version. He enjoyed the plushness. The Commissar chuckled as he recalled that line from Animal Farm, “all are equal but some are more equal than others.” He smiled at Dmitry and wordlessly arose and sauntered over to his private reserve where he kept the really good vodka. He swung around with two shot glasses and handed one to Dmitry.

“Dmitry. You should be proud. Here’s to you!” The Commissar tossed his glass back and Dmitry did the same.

“Oh, my God! That’s good! Thank you, Commissar!”

“Dmitry, It’s nothing. You have come to the attention of Putin himself! He has a special assignment for you — something he says will require a combination of discipline, mathematical brilliance, and out of the box thinking. Well, you’re it. I have no idea what the situation is, but you were asked for specifically and by name! Congratulations! Sorry, I don’t have more details, but I think you’ll like this part. It’s on the Caspian! You’re going to have your own damned dacha there! I’m more than a bit jealous, but you deserve it! Hey! Look at the time! You’ve got to get back to your apartment and pack. I’ll arrange to send on your stuff here. The way things usually work, your contact will come by and have tickets for you. I won’t even find out specifically who you’ll be working for! Your talent has been noticed. Go. And Congratulations!”

Dmitry stuttered, “Are you… ? Really? This is so … sudden. I mean, I’m not going to say I’m not flattered or protest some false modesty, but … shouldn’t I stay and take Operation SuperSpreader to its logical conclusion.”

The Commissar shrugged. “It’s not my decision. Sorry. I don’t think we have much choice here. Just go get yourself ready. And sober. Your contact will be there shortly. Sorry, I don’t have more info. It’s obviously top secret. Beyond my clearance level. We’ll be okay here. You’ve done an excellent job — a generous job of sharing your expertise. We’ll be fine. GO! I’ll let your co-workers know what’s happening.”

Dmitry frowned. He looked at the blank poker face of his boss. He glanced at the party which had not diminished in intensity during his absence. If anything, they were becoming more boisterous. OK. The Caspian! That did sound nice. Moscow was already damned cold but he knew it would become much worse. He spent the Metro ride home trying to decide what to pack. Replaying the Commissar’s comments however, he realized he had no idea even what country he’d be in or whether he’d be on the relatively warm side.

He stumbled up the steps to his third story studio. “Crap,” he muttered and he threw himself on the couch. I just need a nap before that guy — what was his name? He shook his head, trying to sober himself up. Maybe cold water. Or coffee. But where am I going? His head still spinning, Dmitry conked out.

Meanwhile, the boss they called The Commissar had gone back in to share the happy news with everyone in the section. He glanced around. People were wasted. Oh, well. He tapped the side of a glass with a caviar knife and asked for attention several times. It was times like this that having a mike was helpful. People quieted quickly.

“Hey, I just have a very short announcement to make. I received orders from high up — from very high up, that Dmitry has been transferred on an emergency basis to another location. Meanwhile, the division head says to scuttle all our records on Project SuperSpreader. If anyone asks, tell them it was my idea, and mine alone. None of you should admit to having anything to do with it. And, don’t mention Dmitry. He is such an important asset now that we want there to be no way for foreign agents to trace him or find him. The CIA may be onto us and they will think nothing of killing him or torturing him for information. So…as far as the outside world goes, he was never here.”

The Commissar prided himself on being able to read faces, even those trained in deception. People with alcohol were happy people. They were used to hearing arbitrary decisions. They were used to obedience.

“Oh, one more thing, before you get back to partying. Dmitry told me to give everyone his regards and his thanks — and his regret for not having time to say goodbye to everyone personally. I’m sorry I don’t know anything more about his promotion and assignment. Top Secret. Now, Party!”

Back in his apartment, Dmitry heard a knock or a telephone or possibly a doorbell. What was it? He had had way, way too much to drink. But, he recalled, or thought he recalled, it was only three shots. I should have a buzz, but not — how can I be this drunk. He tried to swing his legs over the edge of the couch but they didn’t move. Suddenly, he jerked his head. There was a man here. $hit! He thought, It’s my contact. I’ve got to get it together.

The man smiled genially, yawned and glanced at his watch. “Ah, you’re still here. Well, not for long. Sorry. I got here a little early. If you’re embarrassed to die in front of me, I could leave and come back.”

Dmitry just couldn’t think straight. “What? What? Caspian?”

The man tilted his head with curiosity as though wondering precisely how this one would die. “There’s no Caspian, my friend.” He chuckled a bit. “Nice idea by the way — the whole death cult thing. I would have never thought of it. Well, maybe. But I never would have thought it could work. Brilliant really. Thing is, it’s so brilliant, people like your Commissar feel it might be more appropriate if someone with a longer career deserves to get the credit. Don’t worry. It won’t be long.” He paused and then added thoughtfully, “If you’re in pain or anything, just give me a sign. I can break your neck. SNAP! Real quick. Just give me a wink.”

Dmitry cast his mind back. Who was this man? What was he saying the Commissar who gave me his special vodka wants to … an image flashed into Dmitry’s mind. The clear vodka had only been poured into one glass, not both. Only Dmitry had actually drunk the clear liquid. No wonder it tasted so good. Liquid death.

The man chuckled the deep chuckle of someone who revels in evil. “I see the truth is dawning on you, Dmitry. You’re supposed to be a genius. You should understand — in a system that puts power over truth, the people at the top are not the most able or the smartest or the most educated or the most talented. They are the cruelest and most ruthless. I hope you find that useful info in the next world.”

Dmitry realized he was going blind. He blinked several times and squinted to look into the face of this man who had come to … take the body, he supposed. The nameless man stared right back as though he were a stamp collector staring at a rare stamp for that flaw, that flaw, that fatal flaw. Dmitry realized that his had been trusting his boss.

This is part of a longer story line in four chapters. Here are links to other chapters.

Chapter 1: Plans for us; some GRUesome

Chapter 2: Finding the Needleman in the American Haystack

Chapter 4: https://wordpress.com/post/petersironwood.com/5422

Trumpism is a New Religion

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

A Profound and Utter Failure

Index to a Pattern Language for Collaboration & Teamwork

https://www.amazon.com/author/truthtable

That Cold Walk Home

01 Sunday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

fiction, politics, story, Trumpism

Ted sighed and shivered slightly. It was one of those windy fall days when the clouds would scuttle around to play their little game of roulette with the temperature. Direct sunshine made him sweat for a time tempting him to loosen his tie and remove his black suit coat. Not the right move. Not the right time. Anyway, sure enough a moment later, the clouds were back and the sweat made the late October wind feel even colder. He looked around. It was a nice location. Lots of tall trees. A margin of rhododendrons. A winding path led down to little duck pond.

He glanced over at Darla but he couldn’t see her eyes beneath the black veil. He inched a little closer. As he did so, everyone else moved further away from him. She had not been shy about telling everyone that her sister Anne’s death had been his fault.

That was hardly fair, Ted thought to himself. He hadn’t even wanted to go the rally. He just went to — it was complicated. Ted didn’t support Heel Spurs, but his folks did. And they had teased him, and badgered him, and told him that he couldn’t really argue against him if he had never even been to one of his rallies. Ted had refused immediately two weeks ago when they had announced that they were going and insisted he come along. “Mom, geez. All he does is lie the whole time! He never says anything insightful or … he’s not very educated.”

“We’re not educated enough! Isn’t that what you’re really saying, Ted? We’re not good enough for the College Boy! Your Dad and I both worked so we could put you through college and this is how you repay us? By being too snooty to attend a rally with your uneducated parents?”

“Oh, geez. Mom, that is not what I said. I just don’t see the point. And I wish you wouldn’t go either! It’s not safe!”

Then, his Dad had weighed in as well. “Ted, you can’t just live in fear your whole life. How about some courage? Stop wearing that stupid mask everywhere.” He had shaken her head and added, “You act like there’s still a pandemic.”

Ted had sighed and tried to explain that there was still a pandemic, that wearing a mask wasn’t “stupid” and that Heel Spurs was a liar.

The quarrel had escalated, as quarrels often seemed to these days, and ended with an ultimatum. Ted would either join them at the rally or he could pay his own tuition for his senior year.

Ted had at last agreed. He knew he would regret it. But he had no idea just how much.

At the rally itself, he had been mortified on behalf of his parents. They had cheered on cue. They had chanted on cue. They had laughed on cue. They had booed on cue. He supposed they would have quite happily farted on cue if told to. And, he could see the excitement in their eyes. In fact, they had seemed to adore the Mango Mussolini. They hung on his every word. Ted recalled having wondered at the time whether #45 talked nonsense and non-sequitur all the time as an intentional technique for getting his “supporters” to hang on his every word.

After the event ended, his parents had still been excited. They had introduced themselves to another couple from a nearby suburb. As it turned out, they also had a boy in college and he also had not yet realized that only Trump told the truth about the world and that every other news organization, TV channel, and the “Deep State” were brain-washing Americans not to trust the President.

Ted watched as the couple exchanged phone numbers and business cards. He had decided that it was rather useless to “take the bait” on politics and instead got revenge in his own small way by steering the conversation toward economics. He was now in the middle of his sixth economic course. “Hey, I’m loving college. I just found out something cool last week in my on-line ‘Economic Incentives’ class. I was really shocked. I had always thought it was good to pay CEO’s lots and lots of money so that a company would have better leadership. And it turns out, that’s not true! They’ve actually studied it. It sounds kind of logical, but it doesn’t turn out that way empirically.”

Silence.

At last, Ted’s Dad said, “When are those busses going to appear? I don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting cold. It was warm on the bus, but man. It’s cold out here.”

“Well,” drawled the other man, “They did say they’d be here soon. I’m sure they’ll show up in the next ten minutes.”

Only they didn’t show up in the next ten minutes. Nor the next sixty minutes.

Ted had finally insisted. “Look, I run every day. Enough of this nonsense. I’m going to run back and get our car. I’ll be back in half an hour. Meanwhile, here. Take this coat. I’ll be more comfortable running like this.”

Mom had said, “Okay, but what about our new friends here?”

“Well, they will catch the bus,” Ted had reasoned. I can’t drive both cars back. And, none of you are running with me. If the bus comes five minutes after I leave, they’re better off. And, if not, they’re no worse off. Right?”

He had agreed that if the bus came right away, his parents could call him and he could get back in time to board with them. If it were a longer time, he would call them when he got to the car. If they were on the bus, he wait for them at the car. If the bus still hadn’t come, they’d decide what to do then.

In the end, Ted had run to the car, started it up, and driven back to the rally site before the bus showed up. Ted’s parents had insisted that they drive their new friends to their car.

Ted had been the only one wearing a mask.

He overheard her mother’s part of the conversation when the apology came a few days later.

Ted had said, “Mom, who was that? You sounded upset.”

His mom bit her lip and frowned. “Ted, that was — you remember that couple we went to the Rally with?”

Ted nodded. “Sure.”

“Well, honey. She and her husband both tested positive for COVID. Can you believe that?”

Ted’s eyes widened. “Yes, of course, I believe it. I told you it wasn’t a hoax.”

Ted’s mom kept acting as though she couldn’t decide what to do next. She confided to Ted, “Let’s not tell your father. No need to worry him.”

“WHAT!? Mom, surely you jest! Of course we have to tell him! He needs to tell the people he’s been with too!”

“Well,” said his mother, “I just don’t understand it. Didn’t the President himself say we had turned the corner and it was nothing to worry about? Well, anyway, at least it isn’t serious. And soon, we’ll have a vaccine. And treatments that cure it, just like for him!”

“Mom, mom, mom. No. He’s lying. We don’t have a vaccine. No-one knows exactly when you’ll get access to it, but it definitely won’t be in time to prevent an infection from those friends in the car. And treatments? You won’t get the treatment he got. You would have to sell the house and car and we probably still couldn’t afford it. If — if he was even sick at all. He might have faked the whole thing.”

“Now, why would he do that honey? He’s Making America Great Again!”

Ted could see that her spirits actually lifted as she parroted that last phrase.

“Indeed he is,” added Ted’s dad. “Now, what’s for dinner?”

Ted and his mother exchanged looks. She bit her lip and shook her head, looked down at the floor. Ted thought his mom should be the one to explain the situation.

“Say, Dad. You know that nice couple that we met at the rally? Well, right before you walked in, Mom was having a conversation with that lady. And she was just about to tell me what they talked about. Why not tell us both at the same time, Mom. Kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

As it turned out, there were more than two birds killed.

The first bird was the woman of the couple they had met at the rally.
The husband had a bad case but survived. But without his wife of 47 years, and debilitated, he wasn’t sure why he had bothered.

The second bird was Ted’s own mother. She was perhaps “lucky” in that she died over the course of a few days.

The third bird, Ted’s Dad, never did get COVID. He got pneumonia waiting for a bus and died from that.

And now, here we are at the funeral of the fourth bird, Anne. Anne had been a wonderful kid. Ted had never viewed her as some kind of “necessary evil” to put up with in order to get himself in the — let us say — “good graces” of his girlfriend Darla. No, Ted had genuinely liked Anne. She was intelligent, knowledgeable, and beautiful. And, she was really genuinely nice. She was what you might call perfect.

Except she wasn’t. She had been born with a compromised immune system. So, while Ted and Darla had never felt the least bit sick and Ted had gotten tested, he never received his test results.

Darla never did forgive Ted. Nor did Ted forgive himself. Not smart, but perfectly understandable, having just lost his parents and ruined his love life, that Ted would take up hard drugs and alcohol. I suppose it’s no surprise Ted himself soon became bird number five.

————————————————

Index to a Pattern Language for Collaboration

Trumpism is a New Religion

Essays on America: Wednesday

Essays on America: The Game

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Absolute is not just a Vodka

Fascism Leads to Chaos

Tu-Swift’s Reunion

24 Saturday Oct 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

fiction, free, leadership, legend, myths, Veritas

Tu-Swift’s eyes darted immediately to what he most wanted to see. There she was, her back turned away, with only a tress of hair across the back of her ear, but he recognizer her. Cat Eyes poured over more of the writings she had discovered. “Books” — that was they word they had learned for such large sheaves of knowledge marked down. Six of her “students” nearly encircled her. As he neared, he noticed his heart beating fast and hard, though he only caught momentary glimpses of her. At a distance of a medium-sized fallen tree, he stopped and gulped hard. Cat Eyes was still turned away from him when suddenly, she turned her head and looked him straight in the eye. What happened next seemed inexplicable to Tu-Swift. She turned, saw him, smiled and then — she flew to him — or perhaps floated to him — or ran to him. After a very long time and a very short time, she wrapped her arms around him tightly and he responded in kind. He loved the smell of her, though now, he noticed a slight tinge of spicy mint. If anything, that made her smell even better!

After far too short a time, they drew apart slightly, still holding on and they began exchanging news. After a few moments of over-talking each other, they both laughed and promised that they would take turns, just as any civilized Veritas knows how to do. They played a game they called “make five” and thus, it was determined that Tu-Swift would begin. He described how the red death had spread through the tribe and how the solution had appeared in a dream of She Who Saves Many Lives. Eagle Eyes and Shadow Walker had gone to reconnoiter the giant stone encampment of the Z-Lotz and they had been captured. At this point in the story, he backed off enough to look into her face. He saw that her eyes already brimmed with a score of urgent questions. He smiled at her; spoke gently; put a hand on each side of her face as he said, “Cat Eyes. There is no hurry. I am here for as long as it pleases you. I will answer any question from you. Ever.” Then, he kissed her on the lips.

Instead of resuming his narrative uninterrupted (as was common practice among the Veritas), he smiled and asked, “What is your most pressing question?”

Cat Eyes said, “I have so many, but are they okay? I mean, if they were captured, in a large city, they must have died! Is that what happened?”

Tu-Swift shook his head and answered, “No, they are both okay. More than okay. Shadow Walker killed NUT-PI and became king of the Z-LOTZ!”

Cat Eyes’s eyes widened. “But how is that possible?!”

Tu-Swift shrugged. “That’s the thing. We do not yet know. We’ve only sent a few messages back and forth on eagles. They say that Shadow Walker is King & both are fine, but they haven’t gotten to the how part yet.”

Cat Eyes shook her head. “What? What!? What could be more important to tell than to tell how they escaped?”

Tu-Swift smiled. “I’ll tell you, given half a chance. Cat Eyes, your parents are alive! They will likely arrive here themselves in a half moon’s time. They will be among a larger party of visitors. Many Paths has an idea that she wants to discuss among all the Veritas.”

“My parents are alive!? What? How? How? What? Tell me!”

“I’m really sorry, Cat Eyes. Believe me, I’m curious too. We have been sitting around a campfire speculating about so many things. But soon, we will know. A small party is coming from the Z-Lotz city and that includes your parents. We will absorb their story and send them on, if they are able, along with a few others. You and I will find out at the same time, if I may stay here, of course.” Tu-Swift lifted his eyebrows.

“You’d better! Or, I swear, I’ll break both your knees!”

“You wouldn’t be the first to try that.”

Tu-Swift meant it as a joke, but Cat Eyes felt she had been insensitive. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, of course. I forgot about your knee. But you were strong enough to make the journey here so, I guess it’s better?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m not back to full speed quite yet, but I’m getting there. I meant it as a joke, though. I’m not bothered. Even if I am never the fastest one in the tribe, what of that? I’m alive; I’m well. So many died. Do many of us.” He paused and looked at Cat Eyes.

She bit her lip and asked the question that Tu-Swift willed her to ask, “Tu-Swift, how is Suze? Why isn’t she here with you?”

Tears welled up in the eyes of Tu-Swift, soon echoed by those Cat Eyes.

Cat Eyes gently said, “I’m so sorry, Tu-Swift. I loved her too. Without her help, and yours, of course, we would still not know how to decode these messages. But, that aside, she was so … alive. So much, herself.”

“I know. I know.”

“Who else? Who else is gone, Tu-Swift?”

So Tu-Swift told of Stone Chipper and his son Horse Viewer and of so many others. And, he could see each time that he told of a person, Cat Eyes felt sorrow. In her relatively short time at the Center Place of the Veritas, she had come to know every one of the people there as an individual. She understood as well that each death was also a blow to the whole village and a special blow to those closest to the person who had just died.

Tu-Swift himself felt a great heaviness. The recitation of every single name on the list felt like another tree trunk had fallen on his drooping shoulders. At the end, at last, he spoke of Many Paths and She Who Saves Many Lives.

“Many Paths grew very sick, Cat Eyes. She Who Saves Many Lives and I took care of her. Many Paths is fine now, but She Who Saves Many Lives herself became quite ill. She was still alive when I left to see you, but — but quite ill — and talking a lot about the Tree of Life and how we were all just parts of it. It makes me think that she thinks she’s dying. But I don’t really know. But the last piece of my news is about the nature of Many Path’s dream.

“The dream of She Who Saves Many Lives,” he continued, “allowed us to save many lives in the Center Place of the Veritas. Now, none are any longer sick. It may be that the dream of Many Paths that will end up saving even more lives, not just now, but for the future as well. She was much taken by the notion that all these — books — that you study — that they came from another time when there was more — so much more — but also less — so much less. And, she is — she wants to prevent that from happening again. She wants to bring all the tribes together. But she wants to know first, whether the Veritas here could agree to such a plan. And she would like to know what more you have learned from all these books. And, I do want to hear your news, but … I want you to know that I am so happy to see you. I missed you, Cat Eyes.”

They embraced again, each feeling the pain and comfort of the other.

————————————————-

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

https://www.amazon.com/author/truthtable

petersironwood

~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

Tag Archives: fiction

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Tu-Swift’s Reunion