On the longest day of the summer, it was their custom to stay awake around the central fire and dialogue. This particular year, they found themselves arguing about which animal was the most dangerous to the tribe.
No, the most dangerous is NOT the seagull.
One spoke: “Crocodile has many teeth and strong jaws. Besides, he can creep silently along, looking much like a floating log until it is too late.”
Another spoke: “True enough. Yet, what of Panther who lies still and unseen upon a tree branch in the night? Then, he pounces with teeth and claws?”
Yet another spoke: “Terrible indeed. But what of Rattlesnake? He can lie unseen in deep grass and though he is small, he injects a poison that can kill? And, there are many more of them than there are Crocodiles or Panthers.”
Photo by Donald Tong on Pexels.com (not a rattlesnake, but you get the idea).
On through the night, one by one, they would bring up dangers to the tribe. At first, they spoke only of animals, but one pointed out the danger of lightening and another of flood. Another spoke of the year without summer and others pointed out the red pox had killed many.
At last, a short time before the sun began to re-emerge over the horizon, and the sky paused on the brink of deciding to stick with the mild pink color or paint a different scene, they began to speak no more, awed into silence by entire sky aflame in a sea of crimson.
And, they all knew.
They all saw it.
They all realized it was more deadly than anything they had discussed before.
And they all realized it was up to them to tame this monster.
As a ploy to prod productivity, I often write with a different “theme” or “genre” for every day of the week. Today is “Sonnet Sunday.” The basic idea is to write a sonnet every Sunday. Lately, in light of the Extreme Court ruling that states cannot enact laws that abridge the rights of guns but they are free to enact laws to abridge the rights of women, I decided that instead of the traditional five feet in every line of the sonnet, I would put an extra foot everywhere it doesn’t belong — just like the Extreme Court. So, instead of writing in iambic pentameter, I’m going for iambic hexameter.
————
Fertilized human egg above. Having trouble seeing it? Look more carefully! It’s a person, a person with more rights than you have. Unless, you’re a guy, of course.
You ever see Alito’s photograph with egg?
I speak of human egg of course: unscrambled dot.
Or, even posed with toddler twins who peed his leg?
Fred shook his head as he clicked off his cellphone and laid it down carefully on the bedside table charger. His reading light was still on. He glanced over and saw that Geri was awake. He wished for a moment that the phone call had never happened; that it had just been a bad dream. He could see from Geri’s expression that she knew he was upset.
“Well?” She began. “Was that who I think it was?” Her exasperated tone, Fred knew, wasn’t a reproach to him. He shrugged. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Of course. He’s coming over in the morning on his way to close a big important deal, so he says. Wants to share the fruits of his genius by showering the boys with gifts.”
Geri sighed. She was, by now, quite familiar with Uncle Donnie’s “gifts” to the boys. The first such gift had come somewhere around their seventh birthday, he had “gifted them” bee bee guns. That would have been bad enough, but Uncle Donnie didn’t stop there. He regaled them with stories about his “bravery” in the “big war” and how he had shot many more “Japs” (as he called them) than he had ever gotten proper credit for. Of course, like all of Donnie’s stories, he completely fabricated this one. He had never been drafted and he certainly never volunteered. He never served in armed services. So far as Geri could tell, he’d never served anywhere for anything. Nonetheless, when she looked at the glowing faces of her admiring twins, she didn’t have the heart to debunk his tall tales. Donnie had left soon after an enormous breakfast to close an ‘enormous’ deal, the details of which he couldn’t disclose for legal reasons, but he assured them all, they’d soon be reading about it in the paper.
Donnie’s parting words had been: “Tell Daddy to take you to Dick’s soon! They have your rifles waiting for you! Who knows? Maybe some day, you’ll be a war hero too!.”
That evening, Geri & Fred had had the worst fight of their marriage. She couldn’t understand why Fred had not told the boys they weren’t old enough to have bee bee guns and that their Uncle Donnie had told them a pack of lies. Fred had ended up yelling and saying things he didn’t mean. Geri had ended up yelling and saying things she didn’t mean. They had never really “resolved” that conflict. But they eventually moved on. Since Uncle Donnie’s visits were only occasional, they came to an uneasy cease-fire about the necessity of debunking his lies. Geri promised not to burst the bubble of Donnie’s lies, but Fred understood that if she were ever asked directly, she would tell the truth. Fred said he would do the same. As it turned out, the boys never asked either of their parents whether Uncle Donnie’s tales were true.
Now, Fred regretted not havingmcalled Donnie out on his lies when he first told them. Well, Fred reasoned, now it was ‘water under the bridge.’ Hopefully, this visit wouldn’t last too long. Fred turned the light out. He knew he’d no longer be able concentrate on his book. Sleep would take awhile. He knew there was no point in worrying about Donnie’s visit or trying to guess what lies he would fill his sons’ heads with next. But that knowledge didn’t bring sleep.
Geri for her part, also lay awake in the dark, struggling to find the argument that would convince Fred to permanently sever ties with his brother. How do you convince someone to forsake their demented and destructive brother? She worried about Donnie’s impact on her sons. What of them? They were bright boys, so their teachers all said. How could they keep falling for Uncle Donnie’s lies? Of course, when the four of them had arrived at the gun shop, Donnie had not paid for the rifles. What he had done was to have the stocks engraved with the boy’s names: “Teddy” and “Ronnie.” Uncle Donnie had assured the store owner that his brother Fred would come by and pay for the rifles and the engraving. Normally, the store owner insisted on cash up front for engraving, but after Donnie explained his status as a war hero and explained that he needed every cent right now to buy the old armory downtown where he was going to make a “first class” shelter for homeless veterans, the store owner agreed and even contributed twenty bucks of his own money.
Fred had paid the two hundred bucks for the air rifles and engraving. Every time Uncle Donnie visited from then on, Donnie had reminded the boys how he had “bought them” engraved air rifles and asked how their target practice was coming. They complained that their Dad had insisted on strict rules about using the guns. For one thing, they had to wear safety goggles. For another, they could only aim and shoot at paper targets stapled to trees. Uncle Donnie had clicked his tongue and wondered aloud what was wrong with his brother. “When I was in basic training, you know what we did? We shot at each other with live ammo! That way, we learned to duck and aim quickly so when I finally took all those island back from the Japs, it was easy. You don’t get to be a soldier by being a coward! Tell you what, boys, I’ll talk to brother Fred & see whether I can talk some sense into him!”
Geri swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She could tell that Fred was awake and upset too. She said, “Fred, I’m going to make some chamomile tea for myself. You want me to make you some too?”
Fred sighed. “Yeah, I suppose. Thanks, sweetheart. Actually, how about that Sleepy Time Tea instead? That has hibiscus too. I think it works better.”
The tea quickly sent Geri into dreamland, but Fred still couldn’t get to sleep until about 3 am. He kept going over the other disastrous “gifts” that Donnie had promised over the years. He couldn’t think of a single time that his brother had actually paid even a single dime for any of the gifts he had promised the twins. Nonetheless, the boys kept accepting the idea that Uncle Donnie was their generous and prosperous benefactor. On the few occasions when Fred had tried to set the record straight, the boys just looked at each other and shook their heads. Usually Teddy would pipe up first with a comment like: “It’s okay, Dad. We understand. Uncle Donnie explained it to us. You pay for our house, our clothes, Christmas and birthday presents. And, you’re not rich like Uncle Donnie. He says we shouldn’t expect you to buy extra gifts and that he’s happy to do it.”
Fred had not wanted to come right out and call his brother a liar. To the boys, Donnie was a war hero and a rich successful businessman. To Fred, it was more than a little maddening. After all, the boys had been there when he went to pick up their rifles. Apparently, they had been so focused on how “cool” the rifles looked and were so busy imagining getting a chance to shoot, that they had paid no attention to the fact that he, their father, had paid for the rifles and the engraving.
It seemed to Fred, only moments after he finally fell asleep that he heard the front doorbell ring. “Crap,” he muttered aloud. He rolled over. Geri was sitting up in bed. Then, Fred heard the the twins sprint down the upstairs hallway and piston their feet down the stairs. He could hear the happy greetings though he couldn’t make out what was being said. Fred & Geri exchanged a look. Fred took a leak, did a cursory job of brushing his teeth and ambled over to the bedroom door. He turned to look at Geri. “Are you coming down soon?”
Geri frowned. “Geez. It’s only 6:30 am! Who visits someone that early on a Saturday morning?”
Fred nodded. He said, “We know who. My brother. Donnie. Anyhow, I’m awake. You ready for coffee or breakfast?”
Geri half-smiled. “Coffee sounds nice. I’m not ready for breakfast. Tell everyone I’ll be down in a little while. We should use up those eggs. Maybe an omelet for everyone? You can just leave a bit for me?”
Fred smiled. After all, he did enjoy his life. Most days. They were a very lucky family, he reminded himself. His wife had barely survived having the twins. Lost a lot of blood. It had been touch and go. But all was well. And then, there was the accident. Randy could have easily lost his right eye. Probably would have if the bee bee would have struck a quarter inch over. After that little incident, Fred had put away their rifles for a month and made them promise to always wear their goggles no matter what his demented brother Donnie said.
Fred reached the top of the steps and heard the front door slam. Had the boys gone out for a walk? He took a quick detour into the boys’ room and peered out into the soft predawn. He saw the boys pile into the back seat of Fred’s “custom-made luxury car.” At least, that’s what Fred called it. Where the hell was he taking them? Not exactly cool not to discuss with us. Probably just driving around the block, Fred supposed.
Fred supposed wrong.
The boys did not return for breakfast. Or lunch. Geri and Fred were both worried, though Fred was reluctant to call the cops on his own brother. Donnie didn’t answer his cellphone. Nor did the boys. Upon checking their room, he found both cellphones on the nightstands. The boys hadn’t known they were going to be away long. Even Uncle Donnie couldn’t have kept them from wanting to text their friends. Their friends! Fred tried calling some of the friends of the twins. None of them admitting to know of any plans. In fact, Judy & Jill had expected the twins after lunch to come study algebra together.
Fred was fighting a feeling of dread. He felt the shadow of Geri in the doorway and looked over at her. She just stared at him. Fred nodded. “Okay. Okay. I’ll call.”
Fred still felt bad about calling the cops on his brother. He explained the situation and, in turn, the cops explained that since the man was a close member of their family, there was nothing to be worried about and that, in any case, their hands were tied for 24 hours. Fred wanted to explain that Uncle Donnie wasn’t an “ordinary” Uncle. He wanted to make them see that his brother was a liar; unreliable; a cheat. But he didn’t know these police officers. To them, it was just an Uncle out for a joy ride and all would be well by dinner time. Fred reassured himself that the police were likely right. He supposed the twins would be back by dinner.
Fred supposed wrong.
Geri didn’t exactly blame Fred. But when the weeks dragged on and no leads arose, Geri stopped crying audibly. Her cheeks bore the light little tracks of tears, silently shed, and she moved on past chamomile tea to heavy drinking and then to opioids. Fred became obsessed with finding the twins. Everyone at work understood. Nonetheless, he was eventually put on unpaid leave. On the few occasions when he tried to concentrate on some time-critical problem, he utterly failed.
Fred combed the neighborhood for the third time, hoping to trigger the memory of someone who might have seen Donnie’s wreck of a car and noted which way it had turned. But only one jogger, Alice, had noticed the car. At that point, the car was still going the same direction Fred himself had seen although Alice noticed that the car had no plates. But questioning her for the third time turned up nothing new.
When Fred returned home from a day of canvasing, Geri was gone. Geri’s clothes were gone. On the kitchen table, she had left a short hand-written note:
Horrors! People! No more pooping!! In a single day, a person may destroy 10**11 epithelial cells from the intestines! I’m talking about living human cells! This dwarfs the abortion epidemic by many many orders of magnitude! Just to understand the scope of this crime, remember that there are fewer than 10 billion people on earth. Ten billion is only 10**10th. So every day, you are murdering TEN TIMES the population of the entire earth!
Now, some people will argue that these cells are not really human beings, or that such cells cannot viably exist on their own and that there is a medical benefit to shedding these cells. To which I reply: “So what!!?” Each has the *potential* to become a fully functioning human being!”
From now on, each of these cells must be rescued from your poop. Then, from each cell, the nucleus must be extracted. This nucleus shall then be put into a human egg cell and implanted in a baby incubator device (sometimes jokingly referred to as a “woman”). Wait nine months and *voila!* a new and precious human baby will be born. Best of all, during that time, most rich, old, white, males won’t be the least bit inconvenienced.
I realize that some people will argue that such a procedure would be absurdly expensive and inconvenient. So what?! We cannot allow abortions simply because having a baby might be beyond the economic capabilities of a family or that it would disrupt their lives or reduce their ability to care for their other children or endanger the life of the mother. It certainly doesn’t matter that saving these babies lives would hasten the destruction of the ecosystem all humanity needs in order to survive. Well, it’s the same thing with all those babies-that-could-be in your bowel. Who knows? One of them could be the next Einstein or Saint Teresa.
Please save these unborn babies out of your poop! Don’t let them be wantonly destroyed!! Write your Senators and Representatives today! And whatever you do, stop pooping until the proper procedures and mechanisms can be set up to save all these potential babies! Until then, simply hold it. Of course, it isn’t merely your own poop that you must be concerned with. You must do your part to make sure your neighbors also hold it till we’re ready to save the babies. Needless to say, what applies to your right to control your neighbors bodily functions goes doubly for your own family. So make sure your kids don’t poop either. No-one’s ever too young to avoid becoming a parent.
Oh, and you’ll be happy to know that the Bible agrees with me 100%. Well, not really the Bible, per se, of course, but the Bible as interpreted by a small number of people. You’ll also be happy to know that the US Constitution also agrees with me. Well, not really the Constitution, per se, but what the founders meant by what’s in Constitution as magically divined by the Extreme Court.
By the way, you may want to lay off the grains & greens until everything’s set to make sure we save the babies!
Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com (A self-made ant)
The Self-Made Man
The Self-Made Man awoke. That is to say, his eyes snapped open, as they typically did, one minute before his alarm setting. He quickly turned the alarm off. After all, it was only a back-up system. His superior brain constituted alarm one.
The Self-Made Man swung his legs (legs that evolved courtesy of the four-billion year old evolutionary struggles of his ancestors) over the edge of his memory foam bed. (Memory Foam had been invented in 1966 by NASA. NASA was America’s space agency. The tax dollars of US citizens paid for that, and for many other inventions).
The Self-Made Cucumber
The Self-Made Man didn’t believe in paying taxes. Taxes, he thought, were for suckers. The Self-Made Man, according to his judgment, spent his money on things he found worthwhile such as making more people like himself. Why should he send his hard-earned money to Washington DC and let the government of the people decide where his money should be spent? That made no sense; after all, it was his money! (Money, by the by, was invented about 2000 BC, approximately 4000 years before the Self-Made Man was born.)
The Self-Made Man slipped his feet into his slippers. Slippers, of course, provide an easy way to add protection to your feet. Slippers are not unlike the moccasins that many Native Americans used for over ten thousand years before Europeans came to destroy most of them with germs and guns. The moccasins of The Self-Made Man were not made of deer skin or moose skin, but of synthetic fabrics which had been developed over the preceding century by thousands of scientists working for “rubber” companies and chemical companies. Some of this research was funded by US taxpayers but the money spent on tires for their cars paid for most of the research.
As The Self-Made Man slid his feet into his slippers, he did not think about these things. He was thinking about a speech he would be giving later that day encouraging people to fight for lower taxes, especially for the wealthy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, The Self-Made Man, was vaguely aware that poor people tended to waste their money on such mundane things as clothing, shelter, food, healthcare, etc. How tedious! Rich people were far more imaginative and spent money on important things like golden toilet seats, yachts that were so large they couldn’t enter harbors, cryptocurrencies, and politicians.
The Self-Made Poppy
The Self-Made Man didn’t waste much time thinking about poor people at all. They were fools anyway and actually worked for their money. How stupid is that, when you can be rich enough to own things and make more money from owning things than anyone could possibly make from simply doing things that provided value to others.
The Self-Made Man picked up his smart phone and “dialed” his head speech writer. The “smart phone” of The Self-Made Man had grown from technology that was largely, though not entirely paid for, by the taxes of US citizens. No matter. Of course, the very smart people who developed that technology had been able to do so largely because of their education. Most of that was paid for by taxes of US citizens. But that education itself depended upon thousands of years of development of language, mathematics, science, etc.
The Self-Made Man showered in hot water and cleansed himself with soap. Having hot water at his fingertips grew from the magic of yet other inventions. Without thinking much about it, he not only cleansed himself of dirt and dead skin but also benefited from the action of soap to kill some of the germs that lived on him. Indoor plumbing itself had been invented about 6000 to 7000 years earlier in India. Sometimes, the Self-Made Made let the shower water trickle into his mouth. Luckily, government agencies had ensured that this was safe to do. Those agencies had been paid for by the tax dollars of ordinary US citizens who were too stupid not to pay taxes.
The Self-Made Man dressed and went to his home office to take a last look at his speech. He quickly accessed all his needed information using protocols that had originally been developed by DARPA using the tax dollars of ordinary US citizens who had paid their taxes. He scanned through the speech. The Self-Made Man thought it merely adequate. He reckoned it did a nice enough job of arguing as to why The Self-Made Man was the most important kind of man in the world. But something was missing. The speech, in a way, was the heaven part. It explained why The Self-Made Man and others of his ilk were bringing about a veritable heaven on earth. That was fine. So far as it went. But where was the “Fire and Brimstone” part? Where was the part that aroused the hatred of unions and workers who supported them? Where was the part that would make the audience be willing to do anything to keep the rich and powerful in control? Missing. The Self-Made Made shook his head sadly. Using the Internet protocols and hardware inventions of generations of scientists and engineers, he fired his main speech writer and alerted his second violin speech writer to add the “Fire and Brimstone” part. “Demonize these people the way they deserve to be!”
Firing people always gave a little thrill to The Self-Made Man. Firing was always a “Triple Play.” First, it made “The Self-Made Man” feel good immediately. Second, it taught the person fired a valuable lesson. Third, it rekindled the fear in his other employees that they too could be fired at a moment’s notice if their work wasn’t up to snuff. And, it worked. As it almost always did. The “Second string” speech writer added some nice demonizing text and even included a Bible verse about the value of hard work.
Soon, The Self-Made Man’s chauffeur zoomed them along an Interstate highway system (paid for by US taxpayers) toward the airport (which had largely been paid for by tax dollars). The Self-Made Man’s limo was a marvelous example of pollution whose external costs were almost all borne by others. The land beneath which the oil lay had mainly been stolen without compensation from the Native Americans (and other indigenous people throughout the world) who had lived there for tens of thousands of years. The extraction of the oil and its refinement to gasoline polluted air and water and required the dangerous labor of many. The combustion of the gasoline poured still more pollution into the air including carbon dioxide which was warming the planet so quickly and so radically that every year, people died from various climate catastrophes.
Photo by Chokniti Khongchum on Pexels.com. (The Self-Made Medicine)
The Self-Made Man soon arrived at the Conference Center (paid for largely by tax dollars, because, after all, conventions brought business to the downtown). His speech was well-received and several Self-Made Men walked up afterwards and congratulated him on his brilliant speech. Three from The Self-Made Man’s social media team tweeted and instagrammed excerpts from his brilliant words. These were soon echoed by several of the politicians he owned.
The Self-Made Man was too busy to stay and chat long. One of his assistants handed The Self-Made Man a cup of coffee as they rushed out to the waiting limo. As he began to take a sip of the beverage which had been invented far away and long ago, the top came off and burned the thumb and index finger of The Self-Made Man. He noisily fired his assistant on the spot. He shook his head sadly as he slid into the rear seat. The Self-Made Man began feeling the scald in earnest and therefore began screaming at his chauffeur. “Where the hell is the damned ice! Can’t you see I burned myself?!”
The limo was a marvel of sound isolation, and in fact, the chauffeur had not known anything about the spilled coffee. “There’s ice right beside you in the champagne bucket,” the driver said matter-of-factly.
The Self-Made Man wasn’t about to reach all the way across the back of the limo to get his own damned ice! He screamed: “Pull over and get me the damned ice!”
The limo driver sighed. “Sir, there’s no place safe to pull over right here. I can pull over … “
The Self-Made Man screamed even more loudly. “What the hell’s wrong with you?! Pull over NOW!”
The chauffeur complied.
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com (The Self-Made Tank)
Meanwhile, the bus driver behind them had his own issues. Of course, it wasn’t really the bus driver’s fault that the airline schedules were all bolloxed up. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, the disgruntled passenger must have known that too. But it didn’t keep him from screaming at the bus driver just long enough to prevent the bus driver from noticing the oddly parked limo.
Before the crash rendered everything in the limo burned beyond legibility, there had been a prominent sign in its passenger compartment which read:
“Please buckle up! It’s the law.”
The Self-Made Man, of course, felt himself much too important to follow laws of any kind.
Although The Self-Made Man was rushed to a hospital (mainly paid for by tax dollars — but not his) and once there, received trauma treatments developed by thousands at a cost of billions of dollars and thousands of lives, his particular and largely insignificant leaf detached and fell from the Great Tree of Life and was no more.
Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com (The Self-Made Merry-go-round)
Many Paths & Shadow Walker glanced at each other. Instantly, each saw that the other had also heard the shuffling. Shadow walker continued in the same tone of voice he had been using, being careful not to inflect his voice with any hint of worry or concern. “Perhaps the next persons with whom we should dialog are Tu-Swift, Cat Eyes and her parents, Tree Vines and Gathers Acorns. These are the people who best understand the Z-Lotz.”
Many Paths nodded. “I believe that Tu-Swift and Cat Eyes are going to share their recent findings with us tonight or tomorrow and then, they will be headed back to the library that lies over the mountain. We can talk with them and perhaps accompany them to gather still more information from her parents.”
Shadow Walker replied, “Great. I’ve had enough blackberries anyway.”
They began to stroll off. Once they judged to be far enough away, they split up and stalked back to the blackberry thicket from two sides, like the pincers of a crab or the jaws of a cougar. Weapons drawn, they moved only when the wind stirred.
For his part, Shadow Walker was sure their “mystery guest” was human. At first, he considered that it might be a small child from the Veritas hiding among the old stems of the blackberry bush hoping to overhear some adult talk that could be shared with friends. It would be a secret kind of knowledge and the child would gain status but providing this little seed of truth. His friends would plant that seed in their play activity and eventually try to grow a story, or even a whole moon’s worth of inter-related stories. A smile flitted across his face as he recalled doing this himself. As he re-neared the blackberry bush however, the sounds seemed too loud to be caused by the movements of a child. Whether child or adult or someone in between, the sounds were far too unskilled to be anyone from among the Veritas.
For her part, Many Paths considered a large, clumsy animal to be the most likely cause of the sound. She kept imagining various animals and dismissing them, one by one. At last, she was left with an odd sensation. What is this thing, she wondered. It’s clumsy, large, but … apparently wants to stay hidden. It can’t be a boar who would simply crash out. She noticed the teeny hairs on the back of her neck stood up as though a sudden chill wind stirred.
In a single moment: a scrambling figure in a dark cloak; a trap sprung, the jaws snapped together; scrambling, strong but ineffective struggler; same figure pinned by Shadow Walker while Many Paths stood near with long knife close enough to the stranger’s face that he could not avoid seeing it. “Who are you?” Shadow Walker insisted but the stranger screamed something back that was completely unintelligible. Shadow Walker looked at his adversary more closely and realized that he seemed vaguely familiar. He glanced at Many Paths. “This man is Z-Lotz or at least is dressed as one. This is exactly how the priests dressed. I saw a few on execution day. Some “priests” making a sport out of killing innocent people.” He turned back to the priest. “So, why are you here?” Then, he realized speaking in Veritas would not reveal much. He tried to think back to his time in captivity — and as king — where he had learned a bit of Z-Lotz. At last, he said haltingly, “You Z-Lotz. This is Veritas. You Z-Lotz. Why? Why you are here? What do you desire? Blackberries? I don’t think so!”
Many Paths glanced at Shadow Walker. His face: a storm front; his forearm ready for a deadly strike. “Shadow Walker, my dear heart. I do believe this man has some very useful information for us. I’m quite curious to hear his story, just like you. But let’s hear the story to see whether it satisfies us. If it does, we may chat still more. If and when his story gets woven into some web of lies, we will recreate this wonderful scene and you will be free to break his throat if you wish.” During this time, the arrow eyes of Many Paths connected completely with Shadow Walker. She did not even glance at the Z-Lotz.
Shadow Walker nodded, “Well said Many Paths. That is the wiser course. Now, who are you?” Shadow Walker grimaced as he remembered the language barrier and he repeated his last question in that tongue. “You name is?”
“OLIE” the subdued man replied.
Many Paths drew near. Removed her dagger from the sightline of OLIE but kept it close at hand. “I am curious how you came to be here. You must have a good tale to tell. It isn’t at all common to see an individual Z-Lotz. So, go on. Earn your dinner with your tale. We have more to offer than blackberries.”
Shadow Walker narrowed his eyes and stared at Many Paths. What is she doing, he asked himself. She’s being nice to him. Why? Another part of his brain was processing the reactions of the stranger. Many Paths is being nice on purpose. She thinks he may volunteer the truth. I should have thought of that as well. Then, once again, the thought struck him that he could be more effective in life, if he would sometimes ask himself, “What would Many Paths do?”
Shadow Walker’s attention now zoomed in on what the man OLIE was saying. Shadow Walker listened intently, but still couldn’t comprehend very well so he asked the man to supplement his telling with the more universal sign language. The stranger complied and Shadow Walker found he could apparently understand the basics of what was being said. Shadow Walker made it clear that he could get up and they would sit together but not to run. Here then, is OLIE’s tale. Shadow Walker translated to Many Paths.
“I was born, of course, in Read-It, the chief and most populous home of the Z-Lotz. My family was in the priest class and I did well in my studies so that I became a priest as well. I’m here basically because there is nowhere else to go. Read-It is gone. Z-Lotz are gone. I mean, most are. Many died in a plague. Then, we — ?! You are he! You are the king who left! Never in history has someone volunteered to step down. There was much chaos about the line of succession. Finally, the priests stepped in and said, “Look. This is absurd. We’re killing each other off. We should all work together as one team. When he said, ‘all’ he meant men. Men. Not women. So, the priests took over, including me. But soon, women started rebelling. The priests had gone too far, and fighting and chaos broke out. Many wanted to kill the priests. I barely escaped with my life! I didn’t have time to even grab my robes. I only had a simple shirt. But I found this on a dead priest. I looked at him and thought how that could be me. I took his cloak. I was hungry. I ate some blackberries. Then I heard someone coming. You two. So, I hid among the blackberry stems.”
To Shadow Walker the story seemed plausible, but he knew that did not make it true. It could just as well be that he’s really here to find out where our defenses are, how many of us are there, what are good places to attack from. Or, he could be bearing another sort of poison for us — different but equally effective as the last nasty stuff they left behind. He glanced at Many Paths. If she were having similar thoughts, nothing in her face gave such thoughts away. Shadow Walker realized that his own face was not so well trained as that of Many Paths. He replaced his angry face with an inscrutable one. Over the next few minutes, Shadow Walker noticed both that OLIE continued to become apparently more relaxed and that after he put a neutral face on, OLIE began to glance at him as well.
At the same time, Shadow Walker decided he would test whether OLIE truly understood Veritas. He added this phrase to his translation to Many Paths: “I wonder whether we’d be better off torturing him for information. That’s what they do.” He carefully observed the face of the priest and saw no clue there that OLIE had understood. Many Paths frowned and then her eyes widened. Shadow Walker added quickly, “Sorry. I was just testing whether he knows Veritas.” Again, he looked carefully at OLIE and saw no sign that he did.
After a long silence, Many Paths spoke, using Shadow Walker as her interpreter. She said that she appreciated his story. She said that she would like to learn more about the Z-Lotz. She said that she would like to invite him to a dinner where he could feast on more than blackberries. But she explained that not everyone in her tribe would be immediately trusting of the Z-Lotz. She described the strange stuff that had been given as a “gift” but that destroyed the arms of Stone Chipper. She described the plague which had nearly killed one of the tribe elders, their former chief, She Who Saves Many Lives. She did not describe how her own brother T-Swift had been stolen by the ROI as part of their agreement with the Z-Lotz.
“I see. Yes.” OLIE’s reply seemed insightful, yet blind. Shadow Walker & Many Paths waited for him to elaborate; perhaps, even to apologize. OLIE made no move to flee, nor did he seem to show any interest in conversing. He glanced back at the blackberry bush. Despite the predations of at least the three of them, there were still plenty of berries left.
Many Paths smiled. “Let us return to the Center Place of the Veritas. I will introduce you to a few people first and explain your circumstances so that you will be safe. In order to do that, and ensure your safety, it will necessary to know a little more. Do you believe you are being pursued by any of the Z-Lotz?”
OLIE made a quick, almost ritual, shake of his head. “No. No-one would bother. People are hungry and tired of fighting as well. For a short time, it seemed as though we might conquer the disease. Just as you said.” Here, the man looked directly at Shadow Walker. “But, you see, there was the matter of who was to be leader. After you left, fighting broke out. Many wanted to claim the throne. The fighting meant … everyone got close to everyone and there was little time for medicine or rest. Some few, including me, never got sick. We may have claimed…some may have claimed that it was because they followed God’s directives more fervently. At first, this sounded like a good plan. Many tried to be more pious, but they got sick anyway. And, then, they became quite angry with us. They were angry at the priests who had given such useless advice, but the anger spread to all priests.”
OLIE paused and looked down. Shadow Walker & Many Paths glanced at each other. “The priests are perhaps responsible partly. But…” He glanced at Shadow Walker. “When you left so suddenly and unexpectedly….it made everything worse. We didn’t know what to do. We made up new rules and tried to give the men privileges. They were pleased, but eventually, it backfired. Too much violence. My faith…? I don’t know. I don’t know. But without the Book, without God, what is there? Once the people stopped doing what we said, how could they be in tune with God. Imagine what would happen to your people with no-one to tell them how to interpret the Book.”
Many Paths looked intently at OLIE’s face. She was astounded. Many Path saw no hint that OLIE was trying to deceive her. Yet, it seemed to her impossible that the Z-Lotz, or at least this one, would know so little about the people they made their enemy. She frowned. Could they possibly know that the Veritas had no real “Priest Class”? Could it be that the Z-Lotz hadn’t known that the Veritas were ignorant of books until a few months ago? Or, that everyone among the Veritas created or discovered their own relationship to the Great Tree of Life? She took a deep breath. She tried not to scoff at OLIE’s apparent ignorance but instead to use it as a guide to reflecting on her own ignorance. What had she, or indeed, any of the Veritas, known even a few years ago about the Z-Lotz or the ROI or the Cupiditas? About the Fierce and Formidable warriors from the frigid north or the Nomads of the desert? The Veritas had not even known for certain that there were more Veritas on the other side of the mountain. Many Paths thought back to the empathy test that required them to try to see the world through the eyes of various animals. Even before those tests for the Rings, every hunter learned the ways of those who would be prey or predator. How was it then that the Veritas as well as the Z-Lotz had learned so little of the ways of their neighbors?
(For a time, Sunday’s are for sonnets. We begin with free, chaotic verse that coalesces into a sonnet, but with ABBA stanzas, rather than the more traditional ABAB of Shakespearian sonnets).
PREAMBLE:
A loser.
More than anything. A loser.
Love: A loser.
Business: A loser. Bravery: A loser.
Elections: A loser.
No creator, just a hater. A waiter for the Putinate.
The dawn upon the lawn
Shows the blood of many innocents.
Not a teacher, not a preacher. If he can, he’ll try to reach her, Stick his sickly sticky stubby hands
Beneath her bands. It’s his closest approach to broach
The subject of true love. Lady Liberty he’d gladly grope
petersironwood 