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A Map, of Sorts

24 Friday Apr 2026

Posted by petersironwood in America, management, politics, psychology, Veritas

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fiction, hope, leadership, legends, myths, relationships, short story, stories, story, truth, Veritas, writing

brown bird flying near mountain

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After Shadow Walker and Tu-Swift had been embraced by all of the Veritas, including Trunk of Tree, they had a chance to circle back to Many Paths, who continued to shower them with affection. Their entire party, including Cats Eyes, the ROI, and the two horses all served as sources of amazement. 

Jaccim and Tu-Swift cautioned people to stay well back from the horses. Even the colt could deliver a serious kick or bite if terror overcame them. Trunk of Tree had followed Many Paths out of the village and had greeted Shadow Walker and Tu-Swift warmly. He quickly understood that he could help by keeping people at a distance from the horses, so he did. 

The Veritas asked more questions than anyone could answer. At last, Many Paths spoke in a loud, clear bell of a voice. 

“We all rejoice in the return of our excellent comrades, Shadow Walker and Tu-Swift. We will hear their tale, as they must hear ours. Such recounting is best done from beginning to end, carefully, and not in answer to a bee swarm of questions. You all know why this is. One must plant the seed in the proper season, let it grow in the proper season; harvest in the proper season. If one is pressed to answer questions out of order, here and there, scattered like dandelion seeds blowing this way and that, one may answer so as to make a good story for the conversation, rather than answering for an accurate reconstruction. 

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“Like you, I am impatient to learn more. And, there is much to learn. But we do not want to corrupt such lessons. After our evening meal, we will hear the tale of how Tu-Swift became not so Swift and of how Shadow Walker became Shadow Limper.”

Titters of laughter broke out among her appreciative crowd.  

“But for now,” she continued, as she held aloft her hands sporting all seven Rings of Empathy, “these rings tell me that I must interrogate Shadow Walker alone for a time, concerning a private matter.” 

Many Paths took Shadow Walker’s hand and she pulled him toward her dwelling. Many of the adults in the tribe chuckled for all knew exactly what kind of “interrogation” Many Paths had in mind. The children of the tribe knew or felt that the words of Many Paths showed one meaning but something else was hidden beneath. They sensed that both from the countenance of Many Paths herself and from the reactions of the adults. What that underneath meaning was, the children, for the most part, could not guess. In any case, they were more fascinated by the odd way that the strangers spoke, the scarred face of Jaccim, by the Irises of Cats Eyes, and the sheer size of the mare. 

Many Paths had fantasized about her next meeting with Shadow Walker on multiple occasions during his absence. They all began with a sudden and violent animal coupling. That fantasy had seemed so real. But in the moment of their actual being alone and lying beside each other at last, she first wanted to drink him in through all her senses, perhaps to convince herself that they shared this here, this now, this moment, and now this moment and yet another. 

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Many Paths, both by natural bent and by training, had lived a life of conscious gratitude. She felt gratitude for the sunrise: its beautiful variety; it’s promise of a new day. She felt gratitude for being alive as she woke; and for the life all around her; for her ancestors. She felt gratitude for being able to relieve herself and for feeling the cold of the morning. She felt likewise gratitude for the sun setting and the warmth of the campfire and for its constant, random flickering. She felt gratitude for her memories and her hands and her skills. 

These were all child’s play — practice sessions, in a way — for the gratitude she felt now that he — Shadow Walker — had returned, alive and whole. Look! Here was another moment of his being real, of his being alive!

Now, they each had much to tell each other. Many Paths had not yet decided how to bring up the several instances in which Trunk of Tree had tried to undermine her authority or convince her they should join forces and “lead together.” Of course, he would have to be told, and soon, but she had to think carefully about exactly how to do that.  

“I am so happy to see you, you cannot imagine,” she began. “And so thankful you found Tu-Swift.”

“Oh, Many Paths, I can imagine because I am so glad as well.”

“Shadow, I really don’t want to spoil your memory, but at least tell me whether you are all right — and Tu-Swift. And who are these people? Did you ever find out why they steal children? How did you find Tu-Swift?” 

“I am glad to see you still have patience enough to wait,” chuckled Shadow Walker.

Many Paths laughed too. “You are right. I’m sorry. But are you both all right? And what is … never mind. All you all right?”

“At one point, we had to run flat out through smoke to escape fire. We all became separated. I turned my ankle and it’s almost healed. I think it would have now been fine except that we had to keep hiking despite any injury. There are so many things to tell, but anyway, Tu-Swift really hurt his knee for the same reason. But his injury — I am not sure whether he will ever heal completely. I guess we will know in time.”

“Thank you, Shadow. Maybe you could give me the outline of the journey you took and you can later relate the story in detail tonight.”

“All right, Many Paths, I shall. Of course, it would be very helpful to have a map of the region.” Shadow Walker gave her a sly smile.

Many Paths’ eyes brightened. “Oh, I have a map if that will help!” She began to rise. 

Shadow Walker put his arm out. “No, no. Your map won’t do. We went beyond your map. But I just need something to frame my story. It doesn’t need to be detailed. This will do for my map.” As he said the word ‘this’ he motioned to the body of Many Paths. 

Shadow Walker began to tell his tale: how they had all been together and how they had followed a trail that was as loud as a thunderstorm. He described the strange door that they had come to, made of something cold, hard and smooth. (He unclasped her belt and slid it aside to dramatize the moment). 

He described how they had rescued Tu-Swift and how he had helped with his own rescue by damaging the weapons of the ROI. He recounted how they had been attacked with fire arrows. (And, he illustrated this by a rain of his fingers landing very gently over her body and sliding away downhill like raindrops or tongues of fire). 

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And he told how that fire had split apart their party. (He gently parted her lips with his own to illustrate the point more vividly). 

He showed her how the flames spread over the hillside and engulfed the ROI village. (Because it was important for the Leader of the Veritas to remember this, he illustrated by rubbing his hands together to warm them and showed her how flames may climb gently but sometimes land on another spot to make a fire).

He spoke of his running headlong to escape the flames uphill and downhill. (He demonstrated by gently tracing the contours of her body). 

He told of his indecision when he woke up all alone about where to go next.  

Many Paths sighed and said softly but firmly, “I know exactly where you should go next.”

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Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

An Essay on Gratitude

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration

The Impossible

Where Does Your Loyalty Lie?

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Ramming your Head Into a Brick Wall

Donnie the Promiser

After All

All We Stand to Lose

The Dance of Billions

The Illness that’s Everywhere

09 Thursday Apr 2026

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, politics, psychology, story, Veritas

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Eagles, ecology, family, fiction, greed, hope, leadership, legends, life, love, mental-health, myths, nature, pollution, story, Veritas, writing

“I don’t really feel sick. Not exactly,” said the white-haired lady.

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Many Paths sat down on the edge of the pine bough bed and looked down warmly into the eyes of She Who Saved Many Lives. She squeezed her mentor’s hand a bit tighter as she asked, “Can you tell me how you feel, Great Leader?” 

She Who Saved Many Lives chuckled a bit. “That’s you now, dear.” She squeezed the hands of Many Paths and returned the warm gaze. “You’re the Leader.”

“It is more like everything feels sick,” Saved Many Lives continued. “Not a lot, but some. I see, feel, hear, sense — an illness that is slight for now but growing and that it is — everywhere.”

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Many Paths now grew worried. Perhaps, as sometimes happened, something bad grew in the brain of She Who Saved Many Lives. Or, maybe she was being metaphorical and vague on purpose. That was one of her many “tricks” to get you to think for yourself. Maybe, thought Many Paths, she is even now about to teach me a lesson. I would certainly welcome it. The mood of Many Paths improved. She at least hoped that her mentor was teaching her. 

She Who Saved Many Lives sighed and continued:“It’s most like a dizziness. As when you spin around in a circle for a long time. Then you stop and the whole world seems to be spinning. You lose your balance and fall. And that is what this feels like as well. Something in the world is very much out of balance. It is falling. And though the earth still lives, there are those about in the world who would make earth herself fall.”

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“And that makes you dizzy?” Many Paths still thought a teaching lesson was not the only hypothesis, but the best. 

“It does when I look upon it. I want to understand what it is and how it came about and how to stop it of course. And when I study into it, that’s when I myself start to feel that dizziness. How can anyone want to destroy life itself? They want it to be imbalanced! They want life to stop!” She Who Saved Many Lives sat up and Many Paths could see her mentor’s forehead was wet.  

Many Paths thought perhaps rest was the most important thing to prescribe for her patient. But her “patient” was anything but; she seemed obsessed with trying to find out what was imbalanced. Many Paths decided to pursue the conversation. 

“How could the world get out of balance? If it were in balance to start with, why wouldn’t it stay in balance?”

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She Who Saved Many Lives nodded, “I have asked myself that same question. As you no doubt would appreciate, there are many possible answers. It might be that none of them are correct. It is possible that the imbalance was always there but too slight for us to notice. Over time, the imbalance became so large that it was impossible to return to balance.”

Many Paths remained more concerned with her patient than with such a philosophical discussion. But her curiosity had nonetheless been engaged. She Who Saved Many Lives had a gift for that. 

“I can see how a small imbalance could lead to a larger one. But it may also be true that imbalance and balance are themselves in a cycle. When a person is a tiny toddler, they fall a lot! They have very little sense of balance. At last they grow into adulthood and they have good balance. Then…no offense meant…but as you get very old, your sense of balance becomes worse. Then, you fall again.”

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“Yes, and of course, each of us individually dies. For us, as a separate being, we grow so far out of balance that we die. And yet normally, the whole of life is not thrown off balance by that. But my sense of things is that people are “falling” at all ages, not just toddlers and old folks. It is something — I don’t think there is a better word than “evil” — some idea or way of thinking that is not only wrong in some circumstances, but actually aimed at self-destruction. I think of NUT-PI and also from our own tribe, ALT-R and POND MUD. But it is not just them. Somehow, they or people like them are infecting others. It may be that I myself am ill. And because of that, I sense illness elsewhere. But I don’t honestly think it’s like that. The illness is everywhere — and it makes me sick to think of it — that there are life forms out there — as recounted in The Myth of the Orange Man — that want to destroy life itself for some trivial greed.” 

For a time, the two women sat in silence, each considering the words of She Who Saves Many Lives. Many Paths at last began, “I have felt something similar. I felt it when POND MUD and ALT-R betrayed us. But after we won the Battle of the Three Paths, it seemed as though the world was well again. Then someone stole Tu-Swift. Stole him. Who would steal the children of others? And then, in trying to find Tu-Swift, others left — and no-one is back. No-one. They may all be dead for all I know. Everything is sick. Yes. Very sick. And I don’t know how to cure it.” 

Many Paths looked for a time into the eyes of She Who Saves Many Lives for an answer, for a clue. Any moment now, she hoped, her mentor would ask one key question and this would all fall into place. At last, Many Paths realized that was not going to happen. Saves Many Lives had not been teaching at all. She was as confused as Many Paths. Saves Many Lives had reminded Many Paths that it was now her turn to be Leader. Many Paths took a deep breath and gave the hand of She Who Saves Many Lives one last squeeze and stood up. 

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“But we will find out how to cure it. We will find out. But for now, let us both get some rest. Tomorrow may bring good news or bad, but it will be another day. Many Paths smiled, turned, and exited the Cabin of her mentor. She looked out onto the Center Place of the Veritas. She smelled the cooking fires, and she heard the happy chatter of her people punctuated now and again with a laugh. It suddenly hit her that she loved this entire tribe and loved it with the same ferocity as a mother grizzly loves her cubs. She would find out what this illness of the world was and together they would cure it. They would fix it. Surely, life itself would come to her aid. 

She walked over to the edge of the broad, swiftly flowing stream. She smiled as she remembered the clever way that Eagle Eyes had turned this stream into a weapon in the Battle of Three Paths. She could see the pink and gold of the sunset clouds reflected yet transformed by the churning water. She knew that somehow and some day, all would be well once again. Life, after all, was robust. It also flashed through her mind that she was only a few feet from the spot where KAVA-NUT had been attacked by a trained eagle. That was something to behold. If we can enlist nature….

flying bird during day

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Many Paths looked upward imagining the great eagle swooping down. She imagined that she could actually glimpse the eagle in the fading light…careening over the trees. No. It was an eagle, she decided, and headed this way! Could it be…? Many Paths quickly flung several folds of her robe over her forearm so that the Eagle could land there. She put her forearm up parallel to the ground and the Eagle alit. 

Many Paths recognized the Eagle as one of the ones that Eagle Eyes had trained. This one appears to have a badly broken leg, she thought. But as she calmed the Eagle, hooding its vision with her hand, she noticed that something was attached to the Eagle’s leg. She had to breathe deeply to calm herself enough to remove the something without spooking the Eagle. It seemed to be some sort of message.

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The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Orange Man: A Parable of Lying and Greed

The First Ring of Empathy (The Start of Book One) 

Fire and Feast (The Start of Book Two)

Previous Most Recent Chapter in the Myths of the Veritas

An Essay on How we sometimes Confuse the Label with the Thing

Author Page on Amazon

My Cousin Bobby

The Stopping Rule

The Update Problem 

You Bet Your Life

Essays on America: The Game

What About the Butter Dish?

Math Class: Who are You?

Too Many Tu-Swifts?

10 Tuesday Mar 2026

Posted by petersironwood in America, creativity, psychology, story, Uncategorized, Veritas

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coping, dissociative state, dreams, fables, fantasy, fiction, gratitude, hope, leadership, legends, myths, psychology, short story, stories, strategy, truth, Tu-Swift, Veritas, writing

{Translator’s Note}: Sometimes, when one finds oneself in an emergency room, they ask you to rate your pain on a ten point scale. It seems that the Veritas had quite a rich and varied vocabulary for pain — and for pleasure. Although it is clear that the Veritas could count (at least that; though the academic debates are raging now about how they could have made the astronomical predictions that they apparently made without advanced mathematics), they would have found the concept of “rating” pain or pleasure bizarre. Even in my own childhood, the idea of rating something as complex as a movie (let alone a human being!) on a numerical scale would have seemed preposterous. As for the Veritas, precisely because they have so many dimensions and nuances of pain, there are not very many instances of any particular token. So, what follows is, as always, my best effort attempt to describe the pain of Tu-Swift. 

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Tu-Swift literally forgot who he was; or, more precisely, Tu-Swift trifurcated. The Tu-Swift that he considered to be him found himself embedded in stickiness, as though he were a hapless bug caught in the web of an onrushing horror of hairy legs and giant fangs. Yet, the more he struggled, the more entrapped he became. He could sense but not really see the spider. He could not even control his eyes. An invisible force focused them on the scene ahead where two other versions of Tu-Swift struggled with each other. 

Tu-Swift (the observer) felt a surge of pride at the image on the right. He appeared taller, stronger, prouder looking than he had ever remembered feeling. But despite the outward beauty, something was wrong here. Instead of being connected to life in general and the Veritas in particular, he felt himself to be “it” – the only thing that mattered. From that odd perspective, he didn’t have to “know” how things worked and how to solve problems. He only had to tell a convincing story convincingly — so convincingly that people would mistake it for the truth. He felt strong when he looked at this shadowy reflection of himself; strong, and a little ashamed. He felt ashamed because he recognized that that had been pretty much how he saw the world when he was yet a toddler. Still, it was tempting. In a way, it would be so much simpler never having to know what is actually true; never having to take the needs of others into consideration.

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On the left, the Tu-Swift avatar looked small and somehow — broken. This version of himself made him feel weak and powerless. It (he) sat cross-legged on the grass and petulantly broke blades off. Tu-Swift spoke to the boy. “Get up! Get up!” 

The boy on the left spoke back. “I can’t. It’s too much effort. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Look!”

The boy pointed at something behind Tu-Swift. He struggled mightily to turn to see what it was, but he could not turn his head. But he could feel the searing heat of the spider. He could only stare at the two boys before him and suddenly, he saw the boys disappear into a web of memories. He did not have to be exactly like the boy on the right or exactly like the boy on the left. He could pick and choose the situations when he wanted to be one or the other, but he was in no way limited to those two boys. He could pick and choose from everyone he ever met. Why had he not seen this before? It was like choosing a mask or garb for a ritual dance. Only … it need not be superficial. Thinking like Many Paths — that was more than putting on a mask. I think better with her.

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He grabbed what he wanted from each of the two boys and immediately felt the searing heat of the monster that burned and blackened everything before it. Tu-Swift began rolling. His pain changed from an ember of deeply burning ruby red to a thunderstorm of flashing blue light and every bolt struck deep into the knee of Tu-Swift. Each bolt exploded outward in further flashes of blue so that, for a moment, his entire left leg erupted in blue pain. 

After a few such rolls, Tu-Swift felt the freezing cold of rushing water. It stung and made him catch his breath, but it felt wonderful and somehow safe. But cold. What’s wrong with my knee, he asked himself. “Where is everyone?” he said aloud. His thoughts now began to once again unravel as he muttered to himself.  

“Need … to take … inventory. Right knee. What is wrong with you, knee?” Tu-Swift, in his altered state, half expected he knew and answered himself back. “But something … something is very wrong. I fell. Need shelter.”

Near the river bank, on one side, lay hard rock cliffs. Tu-Swift managed to crawl into a cleft in such a cliff. His self once more disintegrated.  

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This time, instead of seeing two other versions of Tu-Swift, he saw everyone he had ever encountered, or at least, that is how it seemed. Just as he had always been able to hear the voice of Many Paths offering apt advice, he now realized that he could get advice from anyone in the tribe; or those of other tribes; even from the People Who Steal Children.

Tu-Swift imagined the voice of Shadow Walker calling out and showing him how to speak with drums or the sounds of birds. Those turned out to be important skills and he was filled with gratitude for Shadow Walker. And, he imagined he could hear the memory of Hudah Salah also calling out his name with her strange accent. It was exciting to think that people could speak so that only some might understand. Of course, he had been told that there were other tongues besides that spoken by the Veritas people. But it wasn’t until he had really heard such voices that he understood how important it could be to know other languages. Now, it was real and he was filled with gratitude for Hudah Salah for opening his eyes. 

Tu-Swift realized that his own eyes were extremely tired. And he mentally waved farewell to the multitude of people out there ready to lend their knowledge to whatever task was at hand. He closed the eyes of every Tu-Swift he could and fell into a deep, unknowing sleep. 

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Author Page on Amazon

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

An Essay on Gratitude

Life Will Find a Way

Math Class: Who Are You?

After All

The Self-Made Man

Somewhere a Bird Cries

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Impossible

Is a Dream?

Imagination

Trees Die at the Edges

27 Friday Feb 2026

Posted by petersironwood in America, creativity, psychology, Uncategorized, Veritas

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creativity, despression, fantasy, fear, fiction, hope, innovation, leadership, learning, legends, life, myths, politics, psychology, stories, story, thinking, truth, writing

When Tu-Swift had awakened after his first day of stable duty, he initially thought that these people who stand atop horses must have beaten him. When he considered the matter, he realized it was simply that his body was not used to the particular work. That did not lessen the pain. 

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When he awoke after the second day of duty with the horses, however, he was even sorer and his hands were blistered. As he awoke, and the dim light shattered his night dreams, the physical pain stabbed most when he first began moving. He had long ago learned, as had all the Veritas, to put physical pain out of mind. He chose not to do this. Focusing on his physical pain helped fuel his resolve to escape this place and to take his small companion with him. The aches and burns also kept a deeper, darker pain at bay — the doubt that he would ever be rescued. 

He imagined the voice of his sister, Many Paths, encouraging him not to fill his belly with the first plausible hypothesis that came to mind. Yes, it was possible that the Veritas had been utterly destroyed in the surprise attack, but was it likely? He reminded himself that the Veritas had not only defeated the surprisingly numerous Cupiditas, but also withstood two potential enemies — the Nomads of the South and the Fierce and Formidable Warriors of the North without even fighting them. 

The Veritas might still be engaged in battle with the horse people. Or, they may be on their way to rescue him but it would take longer on foot. They might have already been here with a small party and seen that this compound is too heavily guarded for a small force. That seemed somewhat unlikely, but still possible. Surely, if they had gotten close, they would have signaled or queried him with the modified calls of birds. And, he would have responded to let them know he was here. The modified bird call language was not sufficiently nuanced for him to know how to warn them that there was another child here in need of rescue. 

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He silently thanked his tribe for all that they had taught him about survival. But Day-Nah was a problem. It wasn’t his “fault” that he was so young and small, nor that he knew so little of the language of the Veritas. While even Fleet of Foot could surely not outrun a horse on open ground, Tu-Swift felt he stood a good chance to outrun his pursuers if he could find the right kind of terrain. But Day-Nah? A better option for him would probably be to hide high in a tree or in a small hole until they gave up looking for him. Tu-Swift realized he knew little about these people who stand on horses and steal children. Day-Nah was not much use as a slave so perhaps they would give up on the search without much persistence. 

Three large, well-muscled men came to awaken the children and left them each a bowl of food. Soon, they were pushed and pulled out into the large open place with horses and foals again. The men gestured and made it clear that Tu-Swift should separate and catch more foals and tie them up. As they entered the clearing, Tu-Swift noticed that poison ivy vines hung heavy on the trees surrounding the paddock. 

He recalled the words of She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives when he had remarked to her a few summers ago about the poison ivy in his own village. The elder shaman had explained how trees needed each other to survive high winds and to kill off parasitic intruders such as poison ivy and boring insects. In the manner of such a teacher, she had gone on to say that it was the same with the Veritas. Each member of the tribe helped nurture and protect all the others.

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“Trees die at the edges. That is the way of it. And, so it is with us. A person alone in the vast world is much more at risk than the tribe,” she had pointed out.

At the time, he had take much comfort in her words. 

Today, however, a great sadness and despair threatened to overwhelm him because now he himself was a “tree at the edge.” 

A memory now flashed into his mind — a huge spider web that he and Shadow Walker had happened upon. Shadow Walker had invited him to observe with him for a time. The spider hung out at the very center of his web. Whenever a flying insect strayed into its web, it would rush to the bug, bite it, and wrap it with webbing. Once, however, it happened that two bugs hit the trapping web at the same instant. The spider rushed off to wrap up the larger one for later consumption. Spider then returned to the center. Spider seemed unable to remember where the second insect had landed. One by one, he carefully and methodically thrummed the strings, one by one. At last, one of the strings caused a renewed struggling by the insect. Instantly, the spider travelled up that spine of his string to the hapless bug, bit it, and prepared it for later consumption. Shadow Walker had questioned Tu-Swift who at last saw that the bug’s fear had caused it to give away its position and hastened its own death. 

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Shadow Walker waited until Tu-Swift had seen this before putting it into words. “Fear is natural when one is trapped. But we are humans. We can wrap our fear in our own thoughts for a time and hide it – and ourselves – until we find a way to escape. To further cement the point, Shadow Walker grabbed Tu-Swift by the wrist and held him tight. “Get loose!” 

Tu-Swift had tried to jerk his hand away. He pulled and tugged, but Shadow Walker was much stronger. It seemed hopeless. Then, he realized that Shadow Walker was encouraging him to think — not simply to react. He looked at his wrist and noticed that it was more of an oblong than a circle across. And Shadow Walker’s hand was not a completed circle but a circle with a gap. Rather than struggle, Tu-Swift had relaxed. He imagined sliding the edge of his wrist out through the slight opening where Shadow Walker’s thumb and fingertips came together. Tu-Swift imagined a swift jerk of his wrist through that opening. He forced himself to relax still further. Then…zip! He slipped his wrist out through the gap before Shadow Walker could react.  

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Fear could kill you. And calm thought could save you. Tu-Swift had learned this lessons well. 

Tu-Swift took deep breaths of the cool clean air. Even the horses smelled good to him as he breathed in their sweet odor. He looked around at all the life that thrived around him. None of it survived and thrived through sadness. Feeling sorry for oneself might be “justified” but it was not the path to survival. The path offering promise, the path of resolve spoke to his inner heart of courage. He would wrap his fear and sadness up for now so that these captors of kids could not see it. He would think instead.

He gestured to one of the three burly ones who accompanied Dah-Nah and Tu-Swift to give him a switch such as they all carried to whip the horses with. The man complied assuming that Tu-Swift wished to use the whip to help separate mare and foal. Instead, Tu-Swift used the handle of the switch to draw his plan quickly in the sandy soil outside the paddock. When he began, one of the men reached to take the switch away, mumbling some words in anger. Then, the men began talking to each other in their odd and unfathomable language. At last, they allowed him to continue his drawing.

He first made a drawing in the shape of the current paddock. Then, he showed an addition with many narrow quick turns. Now, he used his hand as a horse to show that his hand was too big to fit through these narrow passages. He reinforced this analogy by making sounds mimicking the horses and whinnying when his hand was “stuck.” He gently took one of Day-Nah’s hands in his and showed how the small boy’s hand would fit through these narrow passages. Then, he gestured out to the horses. He pointed to one of the nearby mares, a beautiful palomino. Again, he showed how his hand unable to get through the passage. Next, he pointed to her foal and used Dah-Nah’s hand to go through the narrow passage. Dah-Nah’s face lit up. He understood. Surely, the men would as well, he hoped. 

Original Masks by Sarah Morgan

Original Masks by Sarah Morgan

And, slowly, one by one, the men’s faces revealed that they all “got” Tu-Swift’s idea. They felt a little chagrin that they had not thought of such an obvious ploy themselves, but the ROI were a practical lot. If they found an idea that they could use, they used it. They did not reject it out of hand as the Z-Lotz might have done simply because they had not thought of it themselves. 

The men made it clear that the boys themselves were to construct this addition. The largest of the burly men pointed to a large set of cut planks that had already been cut to use for fence repairs.

Tu-Swift nodded enthusiastically. He returned to his drawing. He showed how he would keep the existing fence in place while they constructed the maze addition and a smaller place for the foals to gather. When all that was finished, they could remove the piece of fence that would prevent the foals from entering. 

Tu-Swift had transformed his fear and despair into a plan. He thought to himself, “Not all trees die at the edges. Not these two.” 

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Author Page on Amazon. 

The Winning Weekend Warrior focuses on strategy, tactics, and the ‘mental game’ for all sports including golf, tennis, baseball, and others. 

Turing’s Nightmares illustrates possible ethical issues around AI and robotics with 23 scenarios of the future. 

Fit in Bits suggests numerous ways for the ultra-busy to work more fun and exercise into daily activities such as sitting in meetings, walking to your car, shopping, traveling, playing with kids, etc. 

Tales from an American Childhood recounts early experiences and relates them to contemporary issues and events. 

Life Will Find a Way

The Walkabout Diaries: Life Will Find a Way

Your Cage is Unlocked

Somewhere a Bird Cries

Wednesday

Dog Trainers

Tools of Thought

Fish have no Word for “Water”

All We Stand to Lose

—————————————————-

That Very Special Species

07 Monday Oct 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, nature, poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

hope, poetry

The Ostrich is famous for it. 

And the trio of mythical monkeys. 

But here’s the thing: it’s people, people.

Photo by George Becker on Pexels.com

When ostriches see an enemy close at hand, 

They run or fight.

They don’t stick their head in the sand

(Or somewhere worse). 

When monkeys face danger,

They don’t cover their eyes and ears. 

Their senses find the way to fight for fears.

Stubborn as a mule, they say.

And, true enough, mules can be stubborn

When you try to steer them somewhere they don’t wish to go. 

Photo by Zeynep Sude Emek on Pexels.com

And, then, there are the storied buffalo stampeding 

And the legendary lemmings

Who hurtle off a cliff just because they can. 

But surely, people, people are surely the champs!

(At least when it comes to being chumps!)

Humans pride themselves, 

Indeed, Define themselves

As the smartest critter who ever lived

The wise, 

The sapient, 

The *Special*.

Humans write it into many religions:

“We are special!” 

Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

Indeed, we are special. 

Capable of curing diseases. 

And intentionally spreading diseases. 

That’s special. 

Capable of finding other planets in the universe!

And trashing the one we know is habitable.

That’s special. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Capable of building America

And trashing it for a poop bag of lies.

That’s special.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

This evening as we walked along the dark and foggy road,

Sadie-dog spotted a boy—about fourteen—

Riding a black bicycle, 

Wearing gray clothes, 

Fog gray, in fact.

No lights.

(AI-generated image. FYI, I specifically said, “no bike light”)

 

To me, this is foolishness. 

But only if, like me, you know: 

In general, people cooperate.

Photo by Rebecca Zaal on Pexels.com

If instead, you imagine most are out to “get you”

Then, you see your invisibility as an aid. 

How many sand traps (and worse) do we ostriches have our heads in?

How many cliffs do we have yet to go over?  

(AI generated image above)

These are some of the most destructive lies: 

(Sound familiar?)

The myth of the self-made man.
The myth that total competition to the death is what is natural. 

The related myth that most people are only out for themselves.

Photo by Stephen Andrews on Pexels.com

The sand is starting to sift.

The tilt begins to shift.

The night grows longer.

The fog grows stronger..

All it takes is to forestall to think. 

All it takes is an ill-timed blink.

Be the light.

————————

Author page on Amazon

The Dance of Billions

The Joy

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Guernica

Me Too!

My Cousin Bobby

The Update Problem

The Stopping Rule

Wednesday

Labelism

You Bet Your Life!

At Least he’s Our Monster.

The Orange Man

Come to the Light Side

The Self-Made Man

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Where does your loyalty lie?

The 4th of July: Fire Works

03 Sunday Jul 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, fireworks, hope, IndependenceDay, July4, poem, poetry, politics, USA

“A rose is a rose is a rose.” — Gertrude Stein “A fascist is a fascist is a fascist.” — Anonymous

I had a dream, American, (But now I can’t),

Iconic and ironic in its inner core.

The Founding Fathers, somewhat smug & ignorant 

Of Life and Love beyond the European  shore 

Unwittingly might see a noble people dark

As less, and bless twin evils: Slave & Masterhood. 

Yet dimly saw perhaps a democratic arc.

Provide for ways to grow a land of humanhood.

Remember to find the light — wherever you can. And then add to it. No matter how small, it helps.

 

Alas that dream seems dashed upon the rocks of creed

A manic sycophantic oliphant has come

To overturn both logic, love with crap & greed.

Pretending not to notice what we’ve learned; plays dumb.

It tramples rights of non-white, poor, and double X’s.  

Projects itself upon a pedestal, and hexes.

The real strength of the oliphant is less than you think; because it is fragile as anything based on a lie inevitably will be. Strength requires being tied to reality without being enslaved to it. We can imagine and strive toward something better.

Endless support of nature means endless support of beauty. The value of natural beauty on this earth far exceeds even all the wonderful works of artists and artisans in every land. That’s not to say such things aren’t wonderful and up-lifting. They are. But if we destroy the natural world, even if we could somehow live, we would be immensely poorer no matter how “rich” we were.

They practice witchcraft of a very shifty sort

And thus, with evil devils, they themselves consort. 

The logic they pretend to worship, they contort. 

They gorge on earth and every shred of life they can.

They cite the lies with which our history once began

Ignoring all the truths since learned so they can ban —

All life is not black and white. In fact, very little of it is.

The lives and loves of what they do not understand.

They stuff their ears to drown the sound of those they’ve banned.

They cover eyes to blind their brains to flames they’ve fanned. 

The air and sea are fouled: – by blood-soaked, unlearned hand.

They point their blame toward each direction in the land.

If everyone caves, they’ll expand their demand. We’ll all be damned.

Even at sunset, find the light. Even after sunset, find the light. The light will lead to truth and the truth will set you free.

It cannot stand. Fallacious fascism falls and fails. 

It won’t be folx, but traitorous cheats who’ll fill our jails. 

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works: The Fire of Life.

Fulfill America’s Dream. The Dream beneath the Dream. 

Help everyone see and feel the Theme beyond the Theme. 

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works. The Fire of Life.

We need a land that works for everyone who’s here. 

For rich, and poor; for men and women, straight or queer. 

For blue, for yellow, red and white. Behold the Light!

For each heart knows that “Cheat and Lie” cannot be right. 

Divide’s a trap for fools. It’s history that schools:

Don’t follow those who promise jewels then break all rules.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Instead, we’ll stand, hand in hand, across the land. 

We’ll sing a song still better than the one we planned. 

We’ll sing clear air; we’ll sing our forests back to green.

We’ll sing of love; we’ll face the truth; grow strong and clean. 

We need not join dictatorships of scum and hate. 

That’s not the arc of America’s fate. That’s not our gate. 

It’s over on that hill of green. That place of sun? 

That place of light and love? There’s room for everyone!

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works. The Fire of Life. 

The future is ahead of us. A thousand wars of strife 

Will not turn back the seasons nor the sun. The Light 

Will grow the Tree of Life beyond the Fear and Fight.  

Come climb the hill and in the valley far below 

You’ll see the hands around the campfire and its glow. 

You’ll hear the singing. Join and you’ll help quench the strife.

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works: The Fire of Life.

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works: The Fire of Life.


Author page on Amazon

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Dick-Taters

The Broken Times

Sonnet Supreme Sedition

American Dream

American Dream 2

Dance of Billions

The Three Blind Mice

Stoned Soup

Absolute is not just a vodka

We’re all in this together

After All

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Story about a child sociopath

The Extreme Court

Clarence

Fish Have no Word for Water

Guernica

The Crows and Me

Small Steps

27 Sunday Feb 2022

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, hope, Humankind, Kindness, life, Resist, Resistance, Ukraine

Small Steps.

Take small steps. 

Be kind to those around you. 

The ruthless dictators of the world stand poised to take their last stand against democracy; against decency; against a world of enough for everyone.

They need inequality. You don’t. 

They need lies. You don’t.

They need wars. You don’t. 

They pretend they have great power. They don’t. 

If Putin’s army decided to do it, they could turn back and liberate their own people.
If Putin’s inner circle decided he was too unstable to rule, they could put in a new “leader.” If he’s a dictator, he too will eventually become unstable. It’s an occupational “hazard” that is a certainty.  By surrounding themselves with “yes-men” and cowardly sycophants afraid to tell the truth, dictators virtually guarantee that they will overestimate their own power and capabilities over time. The same thing happens to drug lords, autocratic bosses, and abusive spouses. 

Human beings are fundamentally social animals. 

Be kind to those around you.

No matter how strong, or smart, or creative a person is, if they really disconnect from their society and their world, they will accomplish little. They can destroy. Just like cancer, they can kill. But they cannot actually accomplish much. 

No-one has infinite energy and attention. A dictator spends so much energy on protecting themselves and consolidating their power, that they have almost nothing left over for actual governance. In addition, since they surround themselves with feckless chickens, they never even get the information that they would need in order to improve their governance.

Dictators destroy the free press. That helps them mislead the people they enslave. At the same time, in ensures that they lose touch with reality.

How can we help save democracy half a world away? 

Photo by RF._.studio on Pexels.com

Be kind to those around you.

Be vigorous in pursuing the truth.

Be kind to those around you.

Get involved in your local politics. Make sure your own elections are fair. Make democracy strong where you are. 

Be kind to those around you. 

Photo by Eileen lamb on Pexels.com

Dictators and would-be dictators seek to divide the people so they hate each other rather than the one who actually wants to enslave them. 

Be kind to those around you.

Dictators not only know no true love themselves; they hate love. They will seek to destroy it. They need a society where mothers inform on their daughters and sons inform on their fathers; where wives inform on their husbands; where brothers inform on their sisters. The dictator wants all loyalty to accrue to them — though they have zero true loyalty to anyone else.

Be kind to those around you. 

If you feel dislike or hatred for another group, ask yourself who benefits from that. Hint: It won’t be you. It won’t be the person(s) you dislike. So who does benefit? While you’re trying to figure that out, you may as well take small steps toward a better world — small steps that hurt no-one. 

Be kind to those around you. 

Any step in that direction is a step in the right direction. 

——-

Author Page on Amazon

Absolute is not just a vodka

Stoned Soup

The Tale of the Three Blind Mice

Siren Song

If you’re so smart, why aren’t you rich? 

Dictatorships: All for one and none for most

We’re all in this together

The “All for me!” Bee 

Life will find a way

Fish have no word for water

Con-Con Man’s Special Friend

Come together right now

The Mud Pit

Lying to your kids

Happy Darwin Day

The Power of the Unbrella 

P is for Politics

Essays on America: The Game

Brick By Brick

12 Sunday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

bunker, CivilWar, Defense, hermit, hope, poem, poetry, war

Brick by brick.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

Brick by brick, brick by brick.

I built my plastic kevlar house.

I knew I had to insulate myself.

Photo by Thang Cao on Pexels.com

To make it strong, impenetrable, 

I avoided windows, glass of any kind.

No way to break in; no way in at all. 

Photo by ShonEjai on Pexels.com

I painted blue each and every room.
Uniformity is cost-effective, after all.
I knit an outer shell for camouflage. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In my attic: electronics spread galore!
To warn of approaching enemies.
I spent my days staring at orange LCDs.

Photo by Marina Hinic on Pexels.com

Ever vigilant for each and every breach, 

“Safe at last; safe at last,” I told myself. 

This is how I spent those endless days.

Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com



“Safe at last; safe at last,” I muttered.
I thought at last, I’d venture out
I tried to usher courage to my heart.

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com



I had misplaced the key; destroyed Feng Sui.
I couldn’t find the slightest hint of door.
Doors can so easily get unhinged … like me.

Photo by Colour Creation on Pexels.com

I had — had I— forgotten to carve one?
So, now I must begin again. I must unbuild.
Brick by brick. But I cannot find the tools. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I’ve built a prison meant for fools.

Designed by excellent, redundant rules.

My tears, my tears, begin to lake in pools. 

Photo by Sourav Mishra on Pexels.com

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Brick by brick. 


How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Watershed Virus

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Bubble People

Ah Wilderness

Author Page on Amazon

Milkweed Seeds

22 Thursday Apr 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

faith, hope, milkweed

From Wikimedia Commons

I really loved them as a young child. Each one felt so silky! You had to hold her just right so as not to ruffle her delicate “wings.” If you gripped her tightly, you would cripple her and instead of sailing away on the breeze to her destiny, she would plop to the ground at your feet. Then, she would look up and shake her little seed husk at you and wonder how you could be so clumsy.

It wasn’t only that milkweeds looked and felt cool and seemed expressive. According to lore and superstition, they were magic! If you captured one and then made a wish on it, and let it go, your wish would come true! 

Even as a small child, I was rather a doubting Thomas. But then again, even though I could see no possible way it could work like that, why would my parents lie? Maybe it could work. Maybe it would only work sometimes. And even if I didn’t believe my wish would necessarily come true, there was always a chance, right? If this little ritual played itself out with a group of friends, that made it even more fun because they believed it would definitely work. 

Who would imagine that milkweed plants would develop a parachute for their seeds to spread? You know who else likes milkweed plants? Monarch butterflies. And do you know one reason they like them? It makes them taste bad to predators. Since they have a distinctive pattern, the predators avoid them. And not just them. Some butterflies have apparently evolved to look like Monarch butterflies so the predators also avoid them even though they don’t feed on the milkweed and presumably taste bad, though I cannot confirm this with personal observation. I have never tasted butterfly.  (Well, not knowingly). 

Many of those spritely silk spheres fall on fallow ground. Some don’t receive enough water. Some sprout deep in some sad and sunless sewer. Deprived of light, she shrivels and dies. Others may wash out to sea. More than a few swirl helpless into toxic substances. There are a lot more of those around these days. Have you noticed? Milkweed has. And so have millions of other species. Yet, they are surviving. Barely. And the Monarchs are surviving. Barely. 

And what about us? What about we humans? If we are surviving by destroying entire species at a rate to rival a direct meteor hit on our planet, what does that say about us? That we are thriving? Or just surviving? 

Meanwhile, the milkweed seeds still disperse. It seems a fit symbol for hope. Because, every so often, a milkweed finds those perfect conditions and she grows into a beautiful plant who in turn provides nourishment for a beautiful bouquet of butterflies, including the Monarchs. Not all milkweed seeds thrive, but when they do, they really know how to thrive and enjoy their thrivingness. They are an apt symbol of hope.

Called “Butterfly Milkweed” — (not the kind with the large parachute seeds)

If you do something kind for no benefit or reward, that too is a symbol of hope. You have dropped a pebble of kindness into the fountain of society. If enough people do that, the water itself will stay vibrant and healthy. If hardly anyone drops a pebble of kindness, the society will stagnate and stink. I have seen milkweed seeds stuck on the surface of polluted puddles. Such seeds … and deeds … do not always strike fertile ground. But when they do, it can be amazing! 

And  by simply making a wish on the magic milkweed seed; by doing a kind deed; if there are enough seeds, enough deeds — the tree of life will flourish. And so will you.

———————————————-

Math Class: Who are you?

Imagine all the people

Listen: You can hear the echoes of your action

Ripples 

I can’t be bothered

Tit for tat

It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy

Myths of the Veritas: All that Glitters …

08 Wednesday Jul 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, creativity, family, health, politics, psychology, Veritas

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

escape, fiction, hope, innovation, leadership, legend, myth, religion, story, tale, truth, Veritas, Z-Lotz

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Over the next several days, Shadow Walker’s memory and thinking improved. That turned out to be a good thing because otherwise, even though he asked, indeed insisted that Tree Vines tell him in excruciating detail everything he saw from a number of public executions, he himself would have become hopeless. But Veritas were trained from an early age to push away hopelessness and instead to plan. Of course, this did not make them impervious to circumstances. Understanding the reality of one’s circumstances, even if unpleasant, always proved crucial to maximizing one’s chances for survival. 

As Shadow Walker and Tree Vines reviewed the latter’s memories of the killings together, Shadow Walker probed for more and more detail. Veritas early memory training, it became clear to them both, proceeded along similar lines and had similar benefits on both sides of the Twin Peaks. Tree Vines had learned more of the Z-Lotz and ROI languages than Shadow Walker. He explained to Shadow Walker that his friend Eagle Eyes, if she had survived, would likely be in prison not too far away. Rumors were that NUT-PI had planned some sort of giant celebration with lots of torture and killing to take his people’s attention away from a rampant plague that was killing scores of people. Apparently, NUT-PI had at first refused to believe there even was a horrible disease among the Z-Lotz, and then he claimed it was only the impure in spirit or those who were disobedient to him or his interpretations of the Great Sky Bear’s law who had anything to fear. Many from among the most devout of the Z-Lotz had also died. 

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Food and water were scarce. On the one hand, Shadow Walker felt the need to conserve his energy for an escape attempt that might require every ounce of energy. On the other hand, he also needed to keep his bones and muscles strong. So, he exercised for short periods of time, but very vigorously and he encouraged Tree Vines to do the same. The exercises themselves helped them from slipping into a vague and vacant hopelessness. Shadow Walker encouraged the other prisoners to follow suit. At first, only a few joined in, but when the other saw the obvious improvement in mood, they began to join in. 

Shadow Walker avoided dwelling on those aspects of his current reality that most distressed him but he did need to note them. Most disconcerting of all were the uncertainty about Eagle Eyes and the fact that his pouch containing his six Rings of Empathy was missing. He assumed someone had stolen it when he had been clubbed on the head. Somehow, playing with the rings always made him feel closer to Many Paths. Now, he had to be satisfied with closing his eyes and imagining he had the rings. 

Another disconcerting thing was the weight and discomfort of the large extended collar that hung around his neck and then opened up into a kind of chest covering. It seemed to be made of the same stuff as the strange metal door that he had encountered on his first visit to the Z-Lotz and the sword that he had taken in the burnt forrest. All the prisoners had these strange shiny collars. These collars seemed impossible to remove and each prisoner’s had some of the strange marks that Tu-Swift had begun to decode. Every few hours, Shadow Walker’s mind returned to the idea of somehow using these collars as weapons. They should be useful. They were made of the same strange stuff as the swords … but how could they be used when they were so tightly attached? The puzzle maddened him and Tree Vines shared his intuition about their potential value, but other than trying to smash a guard with the chest plate, they couldn’t work out how to remove the blasted thing in order to use it as an effective weapon.

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On sunny mornings, which predominated in the summer, a bright shaft of light streamed into the otherwise dank and cheerless cell. Tree Vines smiled one morning as he sat in this shaft of light and said to Shadow Walker, “Watch this.” At night, a fair number of rats stole into their cell searching for bits of food the prisoners had dropped or overlooked. The prisoners generally shooed them away. Tree Vines used the sun’s reflection off of his metal shirt to chase the rats away. Shadow Walker chuckled appreciatively. “At least, these damned things are good for something.” 

One morning about a week after Shadow Walker’s capture, everyone in the cell awoke early because of a great commotion and chatter among the guards. The prisoners could also hear the hum of activity outside. Their only window was too high up to see anything except sky, but they could tell that a great many people seemed to be gathering and chatting excitedly about something. Soon, the prisoners themselves were speculating, mostly in Z-Lotz, about what was up. The door to the prison cell slid open and many warriors entered along with the guards. For a moment, Shadow Walker considered trying to run out the open door, but there were too many warriors and they were too concentrated. They had swords and clubs and their demeanor made it clear that they would brook no nonsense. They strung a long chain through a hole at the back of the collar. The guards held the ends of the chain and ushered the group outside. 

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They were greeted by a beautiful summer day. They were led over to a long bench. The prisoners needed to squint against the sun which was now high in the sky behind the throne on which NUT-PI sat in his golden crown. Shadow Walker strained to lean forward so he could better look to the left and right. He could see Eagle Eyes! He tried to catch the eye of Tree Vines but with his neck constrained and three people between them, it proved impossible. Shadow Walker caught a glimpse of the man’s face. A worried smile seemed to play over his features like a summer day with racing shadows from passing clouds. Shadow Walker glanced up. There were no clouds today. Only a circling flock of birds high above. 

Shadow Walker craned his neck forward and backward trying vainly to whisper to Tree Vines. He saw that the female prisoners had all been outfitted as well with the same metal collars which, in the case of the women and girls, covered their ribs and stomachs but not their breasts. Suddenly, a loud gong sounded and reverberated through the stone walls of the Z-Lotz city. A man with a very loud voice stood next to NUT-PI intoning: “SILENCE! You may cheer when the rape and torture begin. First, let us hear from our great leader. If you talk while he talks, you will miss the entertainment. You will become part of the entertainment.” Everyone fell silent.

NUT-PI stood and a thick fake smile spread across his lips as he spoke. “Thank you so much for your attention. Our great city has suffered a plague brought by strangers to our fair land. Luckily, because of my leadership, we have defeated this enemy as we defeat all enemies — with strength of purpose and fierce loyalty to me and the words of the Great Sky Bear told through me! Now, that we have defeated this plague, it is time for some much deserved entertainment. First, on offer, we have three score young women and girls. I don’t want to spoil the surprise ending but for starters, they will all be brought before me and forced to look at me.  I can watch them look at my eyes while they are raped. Then, I can watch the life drain out of them as they are slowly strangled. Or not, as is my fancy. Then, we will do the men as well. But first, they can watch their wives and daughters be raped. Guards, bring them one by one over here for my pleasure. Start with the youngest.”

Despite the threat of death, some of the women began to scream and beg for mercy. One voice rang out above the rest. It was the voice of Eagle Eyes. She was not begging for mercy but singing some weird toneless, loud, and long scream. What was she doing, wondered Shadow Walker. She’ll get herself killed right away! He heard a distant echo of her scream from the … no, it wasn’t really an echo, he realized. The pitch was higher. What — ? Then the motion caught his eyes and they reflexively shot upwards. He saw a score of eagles diving toward NUT-PI. A moment later, he saw them them too. At first, his mouth stood agape, but then, he grabbed his nearby Killing Stick and took aim at them. All at once a host of … bees or butterflies flew around his face. He fired the Killing Stick. So far as Shadow Walker could tell, he missed all the eagles, but several of the nearby Z-Lotz screamed and fell. 

selective photography of flying black falcon

Photo by Nigam Machchhar on Pexels.com

Shadow Walker shook his head. He couldn’t believe that someone had trained bees or butterflies to … no, no… he realized suddenly that they were not bees or butterflies. Those are reflections, he said to himself. Eagle Eyes and many of the women were adjusting their shiny collars to reflect the sun into the eyes of NUT-PI so that he couldn’t see clearly. Forgetting the guards warnings, he shouted to Tree Vines. “Focus the reflection of your collar and chest plate onto NUT-PI’s face. Tell the others to do the same!” 

At first, a host of reflections scattered around NUT-PI, the gong, and the throne. NUT-PI waved his hands at them as though he were scattering a swarm of bees. Then, a thin and piteous scream emerged from his lips as more and more of the reflections converged on his face. He dropped the Killing Stick as he tore at his eyes and tried to cover his face with his hands. The back of his hands began to burn. The smell of burning flesh seemed to antagonize the eagles who now pecked at the squirming writhing NUT-PI. Blood began to pour from various places. NUT-PI screamed out, “Kill them! Kill them!” 

His guards looked at each other, wondering who it was they were supposed to kill. Prisoners? Eagles? The Z-Lotz? No-one wanted to be responsible for misinterpreting an order. They were still wondering what possible order to follow as NUT-PI collapsed and fell silent. The voice of Eagle Eyes rung out loud and clear. “Your King NUT-PI is King no more. He dead. He defeated by messenger from the Great Sky Bear. Shadow Walker! Guards! Unchain new King. Unchain Shadow Walker! Fulfill the great prophesy of Great Sky Bear! He has used the power of the Great Sky Bear to become new king!” 

brown bear in body of water during daytime

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Shadow Walker felt even more confused than when he had been banged on the head and awakened in prison. He squinted and frowned at Eagle Eyes. He vaguely felt the chain being slid out of his collar and the guards did something to unlock it. He had constructed numerous example plans for escape but none of them looked anything like this! Eagle Eyes had her own plan apparently. He walked toward the throne, his mind racing about how to embrace and amplify her plan. A conversation with Cat Eyes sprung into his head. Many of the Z-Lotz did not even believe anything about their religion, but they all acted as though they did. If that were true, maybe he could convince them that he was their new king. No, he corrected himself. He didn’t need to convince them. He only needed to act as though he were king and they would accept it. They had accepted NUT-PI as their ruler — clearly a deranged and cruel leader who cared almost nothing about his own people. He had been a coward at the battle of the three roads and he was a coward in ruling and a coward in death. 

Play the part, Shadow Walker told himself. Play the part. Slowly and with as much dignity as he could summon, he strode to the throne. The birds jumped away for a moment as he neared and he noticed among the wreckage of NUT-PI’s finery, the leather pouch which held his Rings of Empathy. He snatched it up. He looked out at his audience of prisoners, ROI, and Z-Lotz. He could see that many were still sick, swaying feverishly and covered with ugly red dots on their faces and hands. This was NUT-PI’s idea of “conquering” the plague? No time for that. People expected him to be leader, so that’s what he needed to be, at least for now. He glanced at Eagle Eyes and allowed the slightest flicker of a smile to cross his face. 

Shadow Walker turned to face the crowd. He wished he could speak more fluent ROI or Z-Lotz, but he didn’t. So he used sign language to enhance communication. He forced himself to speak in a strong steady voice.

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“Greetings, brave and strong people of the Z-Lotz and ROI. I have bested your king. I am now king. That is your way. Our way. The way of the Great Bear in the Sky. The Great Sky Bear told me to come here. The Great Sky Bear said that the Z-Lotz need new King. Old King did not help you cure your plague. Old King was cruel. Old King hated families. Old King liked killing. Great Sky Bear does not like killing for no reason. Great Bear of the Sky loves you. Great Sky Bear loves all things that swim, fly, and walk. Great Bear of the Sky does not love Killing Sticks. Shadow Walker swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he tried to break the Killing Stick. Perhaps it would kill him first. He considered taking it and throwing it in a lake or burying it, but destroying it immediately would be far more dramatic…and far less safe. He noticed where people had been hurt. The Killing Stick was pointed toward them like a spear or an arrow. So, he made sure that part of the Killing Stick was pointed away from everyone as he smashed it against the stones behind the throne. 

After he did that, he heard a cheer. It was Eagle Eyes. But many joined her cheer. He did not want to lose that energy and have people begin to miss NUT-PI. So, he continued to speak. “I bring you great news from Great Sky Bear. No more are we to steal children. The Great Sky Bear loves families. The Great Sky Bear loves families together, not apart. Release the prisoners! The men had already released themselves, but now the guards released the women and girls as well. It seemed that nearly all prisoners were part of families. Shadow Walker reflected that all of these people had come to the middle of town to watch entertainment, so he’d better provide some and quickly, he reckoned. But what? What?

0542E9DA-3F34-462E-BA0D-5EA4FAD2AEF0

—————————————-

The Creation Myth of the Veritas. 

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Myth of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy.

 Author Page on Amazon.

First of several stories about a child sociopath. 

Three poems about a pandemic: 

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

     The Watershed Virus

Trumpism is a new religion. 

 

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