The Eldritch Carvings and Other Suspense Stories: By Dlsiluk

Incaarnate Darkness (In the Trenches of WWI, 1918)

2009-03-10T17:43:00.000-07:00

Incarnate Darkness
(In the trenches of WWI, 1918)

The sun was hot, they were lazy in the trench, they felt time was their own, and they lingered back and forth within its surroundings. Just beyond them, an ugly black sight lying stretched out were dead bodies of slain soldiers, perhaps from yesterday’s battle, or the day before yesterday, they had just been assigned to this section of the trench, rats were gnawing on them. They were just a foot from the edge of the rim of the trench, “Look,” a voice said, “be careful… though!” (Why he said what he said, and whoever said it, and even if one of the four did say it, or didn’t say it, it would be food for thought at a much later date. But all looked over the trench.)
I don’t know why they all decided to look at the same time, over the edge, but they did, perhaps there is a dominating force which draws on lesser ones to create in the long run, greater ones, at least this perchance could be its base; in any case there was four thuds, all at the same time, in the hot air.

Something, cast a quick downward glance, saw the eyes of the four, fixed on Adolf, the perfect incarnation of hate.
There was a muffled cry, as if it came from the thing glaring down upon the four, a she-devil, or seer-cat, something of that nature, it was gnashing its teeth and its paws and claws.

•

You could hear scattered shots and a few intermittent explosions from hand grenades. Hans and Gunter, Ludwig and Adolf, lie their weapons down in the trench every cell in anticipation that what they had heard might be true, peace was forthcoming this afternoon, and these other sounds were just the enemy using up their ammunition before they to lay down their arms; Ludwig felt whatever comes has got to be better than living with the worms be it put into another man’s jail, or hopefully an Armistice.

•

A death expression came over their faces, frozen in time, the morning fog had lifted, they remained stone-still, for a millisecond, after looking over the rim.

•

Said Ludwig, to the other three, “There is nothing quick in a war, unless death precedes it; and now he could smell it…
“Death is in the air, I smell it, it is with us” he commented.
“What is it?” asked Adolf, sweating.
“I hear a voice, don’t you, it sounds hollow as if in a fog, as if from a grave.”
Said Gunter, randomly, “We are so used to noise, this is really odd. What happened to Adolf?”

(Dark-looming shadows joined the voice, clenched tightly to one another.)

Hans shakes his head, “Maybe we got that peace treaty after all, it’s all so quite.”
“That could be true,” said Gunter.

(The voice laughed, as did the shadows.)

Now the three looked suspiciously for their forth comrade, looked at one another, looked up and down the trench to see if he got shot, if there was an extra body laying about. At the same time, the shadows were stretching themselves out, surrounding the trench, disposing them, cautiously, then they slipped down into the trench.
Ludwig shrugged his shoulders, the voice said: “The rumor is, you are all dead,” then there was laughter among the shadows.
Now the shadows produced growls, the three murmured to one another, “Where is Adolf?”
“Forward! – Forward!” yelped the voice, but the three would not move.

Adolf looked at the voice, and the shadows, and down at his three comrades, laying with the worms, said the voice, “You can stay here Adolf, you need to go up to your destiny.”

Adolf could hear the scraping sounds of belts being tightened around the wrists of his comrades, the spirits within their bodies unable to escape it; and the reeking smell of death suddenly rose, as he heard the shouts of “Armistice!—Armistice!” echo his way.

As Adolf looked back at the bodies in the trench, especially his three comrades, he now saw their heads—it was as if he was blind to them before—their heads with shattered out brains (he questioned himself: ‘why wasn’t his brains shattered out? he was the forth thud’); as the dark swift shadows pulled them along like rugs to their new destiny.

He felt his hands and face, even his legs, pinched himself, as if he might be grotesquely dead, and didn’t know it, like his dead friends; and when he came to the conclusion he was still flesh and blood, in that he was so frightfully real was incomprehensible. His whole demeanor then changed.

3-9-2009

An Interview with Agaliarept, the Henchman

2009-02-25T22:38:00.001-08:00

Interview with:
Agaliarept, the Henchman
(Subservient to, Lucifugus)

An Interview by Chick Evens and

Ruler of the Tenth Hour of the Night
(Tent in Rank, in the Order of Demon in Hell)

Note: This interview is being given to Chick Evens, by of a third party (THN), who is asking Chick Evens’ questions to Agaliarept, since this can not be done in person:

THN: Agaliarept, what’s your nationality?

Agaliarept: Heaven

THN: What is your patriotic allegiance?

Agaliarept: My loyalties are to the Infernal Alliance first and foremost

THN: What is your age?

Agaliarept: for the most part, eternal, perhaps looking 48 or so, it’s hard to tell, I shape change, and can be often seen as animalistic looking

THN: What is your full title?

Agaliarept: I am a demon who is a grand general of Hell and commander of the second legion, I hold sway over Europe and Asia Minor and to control the past and future, Tarihimal is my sidekick, and we are rulers of Elelogap, and we also govern matters connected with water.

THN: What are your characters you’d like others to know about you?

Agaliarept: I am intelligent, not like all my profoundly unwise followers, I am not open-minded, nor care to be, I have no sincerity or sense of justice. I have very little aristocratic appeal, nor am I a gallant gentleman of demons, I am the opposite, and love it; bright lights cause me pain, I am a perfectionist, and have little use for the other type. I voice is hoarse, not soft like, and often not clear, and surely not soothing. I am likened to a brilliant energetic Minister of Hell, a commanding officer, in high rank and I like others to notice that.

THN: What Kind of powers do you have?

Agaliarept: invasion of dreams, choking, and producing nigh mares. These of course are just little ones. I have Telepathy, clairvoyance, flight and teleportation: also capable of generating fire, inducing illusions; able to resurrect corpses, in a zombie like manner, if their souls are hell bound, and cause unconsciousness by a gesture or a hiss to non-Christians. Extensive knowledge in armed and unarmed combat with unnatural strength, speed, agility, stamina comparable to or near to, an angelic being, but far from an archangel.
Ability to manipulate both mortals and immortals into deceit, spite, insanity, hate and pride; also to attain possession of them, for satanic worshippers, make people have ungodly sexual preferences and other ungodly acts: I cannot the present or future, but I can have my Master, Lucifer invest such powers in me for a period of time; I can produce spells to the weaker minds. My invisibility rhetoric, logic, politics and knowledge of many languages allows me to summon in warlike matters.

THN: What is your weakness?

Agaliarept: I’d bet you’d like to know that. Let me just put it this way, the very few that I have are not worthy to tell, but since I agreed to this interview, I’m sure the read would like to know. Angels! I am a demon, not an angel, and I can be removed by them; or a healthy heart towards God, Jesus Christ. Guns, accidents, all those kinds of things I create, they do not harm me; bother me, to the contrary. I don’t enter churches willingly, nor do I care to look at crucifixes, but I can; I avoid them, like holy water, it burns. My brothers often like playing the game of demigod, and when invoked, they try to play Lucifuge Revocable, duplicating him, I don’t care for that game, contrary to my belief, and he is our commander and chief.

THN: What kind of weapons do you use?

Agaliarept: Well, first of all I have them, I do use them, but I don’t need them. Let’s get that clear first. I have can, or sometimes an umbrella, black in color, a silver handle, like my master, it blocks the bright light from me, and I can trip a few folks when I become visible. I do have a concealed 58 cm, blade, a good weapon; it was forged from fires of Hell, it is burning hot, and I start fires with it, and I burn hands with it.

THN: What kind possessions do you have?

Agaliarept: A sliver ring with a big red stone in it, bequeathed to me by Master Focalor that is it.

THN: Who are your closest Friends?

Agaliarept: No sense in using the friend word, I have none, but I do have close affiliations, or better yet, trusted subordinates, whom I really do not trust, such as Buer and Gusoyn, and even Botis; they belong to the second Legion of Spirits, which I command. The assist me in finding out, and discovering the secrets of all the courts in the world.
THN: If I wanted to conjure up a demon, how would I do it?

Agaliarept: First of all, it is not wise to play in areas you are not willing to give your soul to. But on the other hand for the curious minded person, as I know Chick Evens is, you may want to check out, the ”Book of the Key of Solomon” (Sepher Maphteah Shelomoh).

THN: Can you give us the ranks of the underworld?

Agaliarept: The three superior spirits: Lucifer, Emperor, Beelzebuth Prince Astaroth Grand Duke. After that, are six inferior spirits: Lucifuge Rofocale, Prime Minister, Satanachia, Commander-in-Chief, Agaliarept (me), Another Commander, Fleurety, Lieutenant-General Sargatanas, Brigadier-Major Nebiros, Field-Marshal and Inspector-General.

THN: Do Demons Lie?

Agaliarept: That is like asking, “Do humans breath,” of course we lie, it is part of our nature, we are good at it to, professional, we practice it everyday, and even quiz ourselves.

THN: Can you give me the names of some demons off the top of your head working in the world today?

Agaliarept: of course I can, but not sure what for, it isn’t going to do you any good knowing, but ok, I should never have agreed to this review, but you see how I keep my word, make sure, when you write this out, you make me look good. Anyhow, I’ll give you some of the ‘A B & C,’ demon; otherwise this interview will take all week:

AGLASIS; he can transport anything throughout the world.
BARTZABEL: Kabbalistic Demon of Mars. He has the power to raise storms.
Bartzabel has black wings. He is bald with a small black haired ponytail and he is a little chubby.
BECHARD: has power over winds and storms, lightening, rain, hail. BRULEFER: He makes one beloved.
BUCON: He has the power to incite hatred and jealousy between the sexes.
CARNIVEAN: He was a Prince of the Order of Powers. He bestows confidence, boldness and strength.
CARREAU: He was a Prince of the Order of Powers. He gives one control over emotions and bestows strength.
CLAUNECK: has power over goods, money and finances. He can discover hidden treasures and bestow great wealth.
CLISTHERET: She can make day into night and night into day. She is under the power of the Duke "Syrach." She has a green complexion and a large bulbous head like Lucifuge Rofocal and Valefor. She is friendly. -High Priestess Maxine
ELELOGAP: Elelogap is ruled over by Agaliarept and Tarihimal. He has power over the element of Water.

THN: Agaliarept, Mr. Chick Evens, says thank you for the interview, is there anything you’d like to add?
Agaliarept: I kind of operate the secret police down here, and let me warn you up there, there are a number of so called, pantheonic gods who rebelled against being forgotten and, in many cases assumed the names and aspects of a variety of us Demons; so be ware of who you are call up, you may not get what you are looking for, also, a word to the wise, beware of the Demons with cock's heads, huge bellies & knotted tails, they are ruthless.

Written for posterity sake, 2-26-2009

An Ordinary Account of he Evil

2009-02-16T10:40:00.000-08:00

An Ordinary Account of the Evil
(Introduction to the New Suspense Stories)

It has seemed to me, often, perhaps too often, war is paralleled with evil, the ultimate of evil, and all the other evil that surrounds man, is omitted as natural observations of the ordinary. We have many accounts of war by Civil War writers, WWI poets, WWII, historians, Vietnam Veterans; coming home mentally disturbed soldiers from Iraq, and Afghanistan. CNN news, and BBC news, and for that matter, all the news media have written of the horrors of war most interestingly and intensely, whereas, the account of the evil men do outside of war, gets a day’s headlines, and then thrown to the wolves to eat and digest, and never to be seen again. Can we not hope to see the real, if not interesting facts about evil lurking out there in our backyards, down the street, wherever we walk nowadays, for more than a day? And punished accordingly?
When a young lad was taking a bus ride across Canada recently, an ordinary traveler for the most part, was at one period of his course sleeping and a man, surrounded by people, alone, pulled out a knife and cut his head off, considering this evil, it got one or two days in the paper at most, and over the internet, and on television. And thereafter, nothing appearing to remain in the news he existed, thus lie down and die, and make the most of it, the beauty of this evil did not catch the eye of the news broadcasters for very long.
I could not contemplate the evil this man did.
Shortly after this, in Argentina, without the blink of an eye, another human being, with admiration for evil to be done, did it, planted, and watered his plan, to perfection in the obscure part of the world; this evil was quickly hushed up, which appears to be because of tourism, and the evil done was a man in a jealous rage who killed his pry, and cut the victim up, put the person into a suitcase of all things, and the media and its world looked to more interesting things after the first day, with unconcern eyes for the Argentina evil, even the news media in Buenos Aires, where it took place… evidently, the situation and suffering of creatures formed after God’s own image, must somehow produce a more lasting despair to keep the publics interest.
There was a man in Austria, most recently, who had kept his daughter in his basement for twenty-years, having sexual intercourse with her, and producing a number of children by her. His wife and family living upstairs, and oblivious to all this; when he was found out, put into jail, and observed like a rat in a cage by the media, psychologists, and criminal officials, for two weeks, for some reason kept the attention of the media, he protested being called a beast, or alike, and folks looked at him and treated him as inhuman. This beats all of course, here is man who deserves to die, and can’t stand the shame of his own evil, and when looked upon for his evil, as a beast, wants his rights as a civil human being. That’s our society though.
It is a shame we need such misery to moll over, showing disregard, and hunger for disappointed evil, evil man wants to digest, and if it is not tasty enough, then it is not worthy the journey to the movies, or reading the second days issue on the subject. (Why then do I write suspense stories you may ask? To reminded people in the future, the past was black!)
In war the dead are dead and forgotten, like animals, we become a frequently overlooked species, but interest holds because war too often has a certain opportunity to observe, it is in the raw, it is ongoing like a movie, civil life is destroyed around the war, as recently in the war with Palestine, or Hamas, and Israel, it got headlines for 21-days, and even the United Nations cursed the Jews, for killing so many Palestinians, they even started to entertain thoughts, of what really is moral and not moral for the Jewish nation to do, to allow them to do to secure their people, on rare occasions they do that, yet for six months prior to this, the United Nations approved the ongoing rocketing that Hamas did on Israel, and to my understanding, Hamas at times shot 300-rockets a day into the land of Israel (perhaps 10,000-in that six month period), and during the war, it weaned down to 50 or 10 a day. It seemed to the world, and news media, and the UN, a fitting enough sight to watch from the accustomed distance they usually give to Israel, and looked less incongruous there than they would by stepping in and condemning Hamas.
Speaking literally, one can hardly say they really wanted to stop evil, per se, rather they wanted to stop Israel from acquiring a lasting peace, had they continued, they would have destroyed the enemy, as we normally do in a war; now, long dead is this peace that could have been.
Regarding another case, most recently, in a small village in Peru, a sister, took a hammer—over sexual jealousy, and pounded her over the head with it until she was dead. Again the news media, and the officials involved, accustomed to the sight of the dead, shocking as it was when it was, it was soon forgotten.
I remember, when I was fifteen years old, a boy of nineteen I hung round with, just started to hang around with, this person I quite thoroughly thought was of whole mind, killed his two nieces, one eighteen months old and one six years old, in a rampage, it was in the paper for one day. Perhaps the discussing occurrence did not agree with the reader’s reality of horror, it was a quality of unreality, yet fact. It had been so immediate and the event was perhaps unpleasant to write, that was back in 1961, nowadays, it would be in a different category, they would send an expert to obtain accuracy of the observation, to confine himself nearby to get unlimited access to the slayer, and then try to sell the greatest number of papers, withdraw from the project and go onto the next. They do this now so fast; it is bagged and completed before the dead are buried.
As time goes by, decade to decade for me, each day, the races of the world allows more evil to grow unabated, and the dead grow larger, I am waiting for the earth to burst open her guts and vomit out the stink. We’ll have to send them in balloons up to the moon soon, they are scattered about like dead maggots all over the place.

A Dark, Dim-lighted Corner (a short , true, story of how the old die)

2009-02-13T08:39:00.000-08:00

A Dark, Dim-lighted Corner

It was evening and everyone on the upper three floors of the old folks farm (an old building structure that once was a large farmhouse, a barn somewhat attached to the back of it, on the four acres of land that surrounded the premises) were either receiving visitors, or being attended to by nurses, some of the male patients were down on the first floor, in the pool room, talking, playing pool, spitting in the spittoons, some sitting on the stairways to the second and third floors, selling their leather goods, Ariel Shapiro, a young lad of twelve, went down into the cellar, a dim electric light guided the way down the old wooden cracking noisy stairs. The old lady that in the far corner way in the back of the large cellar, was rocking in her rocking chair by the red hot furnace.
He didn’t remember why he went down those stairs that first time, several months ago, but he did, that is when he met her, and now he’d visit her every time he came to the farm, near North St. Paul, off White Bear Avenue, in Minnesota. It was fall, November of 1959, and it was cold, and Ariel could see the red hot furnace glow from the far-off distance.
You could hear the wheels of the cars racing down White Bear Avenue from deep in the cellar; the road was perhaps a hundred feet from the front of the Farm House. It was always busy near twilight.
Far-off in the corner of the cellar, was the old lady rocking in her chair, a fairly small, thin old woman, with tinted greyish hair, lively little eyes, a turned up nose, pale white skin, a glimmer to her, a serious look on her forehead, her voice not high or low, just the right tone, as if she was used to conversations; there she was rocking away, said,
“Is that you Ariel?”
“Yes ma’am…” he said.
“Then it is best you get on over here and warm up by this old furnace its getting colder by the day, going to get colder come December’s, right around the corner!”

He stood against the wall now, the furnace to her other side,
“Sit down on the stood there, did I ever tell you about Ike and me?”
“Kind of,” the boy said.
The boy told himself: she’s talkative tonight, almost tipsy, been drinking that half-pint she keeps hidden behind the brick I bet, to the right side of her; he then noticed she had her pipe lit, barely lit, so the basement wouldn’t fill up with smoke, and she’d be found out, and the nurses would force her to return to her bedroom. She hated going to bed early.
She never seemed in despair, thought the boy, like so many of the old folks in the home, she was almost above that.
There they sat, like two old pals, in a book clamshell.
“Ike, oh I mean President Dwight D. Eisenhower, you know the president, I met him when he was just a general, the Commanding General of Europe, in WWII, I did a small interview, oh just a few answers and questions, I was a reporter back then, back in ’44.”
The boy knew she was not kidding, he had learned better, she didn’t fool a person to make herself look big, she had a picture of her and Harry S. Truman, together, it was in May, 1945, when they had met, and he had his arm around her, he had just become president of the United States a month before. She had told the boy, how he had created NATO, and used the first atomic bomb on Japan, and how people forgot who she was, but at one time she was somebody, a known reporter, and a female reporter at that.
The boy looked about the place, her corner, it was dusty, and it seemed to settle all around her,
“This place is so dusty,” yelled the boy, knowing she was half-deaf, “I could come on in, say Saturday, and wipe this corner down for you?”
“Oh no, no, leave it as it is, it’s fine. I’m not afraid of the bugs, spiders, and dust; I’m too old to be afraid of anything. This year (1959) I’ll be 69-years old.” She commented.
The boy admitted to himself, it was quiet, and tranquil, peaceful, and as he was pondering these thoughts, she said in kind of a slur of words, “I’d commit suicide if I could find an easy way to do it,” and smiled, not looking at the boy right away, then from the side of her right eye, she caught a glimpse of him, then added, “but I’m never quite up to it.”
The boy did not respond to that, wasn’t sure how to, and had he, what would he have said anyhow, he just looked blank, and listened. Then he stood up, started to walk towards the stairs, some fifty-feet away, he turned to see her, and saw her shadow bobbing back and forth as she rocked in her rocker, saw her reflection as she rocked side to side of the furnace, a glimpse each time she got to each side of the old furnace.

(She was once a young girl reporter, met many important people of her day, it was hard for her to lay down and die, hard for her, that to have anyone remembered her, that if she had living family folks, they never came to visit her, the boy never asked many questions into her personal life, did more listening, and therefore never knew.)

He heard the old lady’s rapping of her pipe on the furnace; he stopped to see if she wanted something, he knew sometimes she just wanted to be alone, especially when she started reflecting on her younger years. She meant no disrespect for the boy, by not talking to him, she just zoned off, and so he simply got out of her way. He looked back, he was almost about to walk up the stairs, and he heard her say,
“Come on back here if you got a minute!”
Then Ariel turned about and walked back to her, said, “What is it?”
“Get me my half-pint of whiskey out from behind the brick if you will, I’m very tired and weak, can you?”
“Of course,” said the boy, and quickly removed the brick. She had a glass hidden in her dress pocket, and pulled it out, wiped it with the cuff of her blouse, then gave Ariel a big smile, “Pour,” she commanded, adding, “it helps me sleep, it’s really just medicine, they often used it in the old days, the bible reads, for sleeping.”
The boy just smiled back, there was perhaps some half-truth in what she said, he figured, and he wasn’t going to argue with her, she was too ahead of him, and she most likely knew it.
Several minutes passed, as she rocked back and forth, drank the double shot down. She stopped rocking, put the glass back into her pocket, and had to boy return the half empty pint back to its abode.

It was now 9:00 p.m., and visiting time was over at 9:30 p.m., and bed check for the old folks was at 10:00 p.m., if not in bed, the nurses went on a hunt for them.
“I should have killed myself last week,” the old lady said, opening up her eyes wider than normal, she had shut them for a few minutes, adding, “this is no way to live.”
The boy sat back down, “Thank you,” said the old lady to the boy.
“I have a few shots of whisky every night, almost every night,” she said, in an explanatory tone.
“Why do you want to kill yourself?” asked the boy.
“I suppose, I did all I’m really going to do, worth doing, I have no one really, life is boring, I get sad, and if it wasn’t for my little corner here, I perhaps would have did it long ago. But here I can think.”
“How would you do it?” asked the boy:
“I guess by a rope, tie it around one of those big beams, stand on the stool your sitting on there, and that would be that.”
“You should go now, not listen to such talk of an old lady, and I wish you’d just go.”
“You should get back to your bed before they come looking for you,” said the boy.
“Oh, I never leave before midnight, I told them I’d kill myself unless they’d allow me this little gift; sometimes they find me sleeping and leave me sleep, wake me up for breakfast.”

“How is it,” asked the boy, “to be old?”
“I’m not lonely, if that is what you mean. I have memories, but my dear boy it is nasty.”
“Why is that?” asked the boy.
“You ask so many questions, and you’re so very young. You see, you drop things, and people look at you, and you drop them again. You pay your bills on time, and people take advantage of you, tell you this and that, and build your hopes up, and rob you when they can, because they can. They threaten you if you don’t do what they say. You forget this and that, only remember things when you were young. You know if you don’t give your things away, they’ll take them before you die by force, have you sign this and that, or not feed you.”
The old woman stood up, pulled out an old quarter from her pocket purse, said, “This is the date I was born,” she gave it to the boy, he looked, it read, ‘1891’ it was the same year his grandfather was born, he then gave it back to her, as she sat back down in her rocker.
It was now half-past nine, “Your friends must be waiting for you, you should go home and go to bed.” said the old woman.
“How about you,” said the boy?
“It’s not the same,” she commented.
“What do you mean,” asked the boy.
She didn’t want to be impolite, she was simply in a hurry to get the boy out before someone came looking for him, and discovered her hideaway, other than her personal nurse.
“Youth needs its sleep,” she said pleasantly, “in time you will have everything I had, and more. I want to rest now, so go!
The boy seemed a little reluctant, but he did stand back up and leave,
“Good night,” he told her as he walked away.
“Good night,” she commented back, then she turned off her radio, pulled the string attached to the light bulb, turned it off, and it was dark, real dark, except for the light that shinned down the steps.
The boy looked back, he couldn’t see her, but he heard the rocking chair go back and forth, and he knew she was alright, and somehow he knew he’d not see her again, a sense, intuition, premonition.
The boy smiled climbing up the stairs, met his friend, Jerome, “What you doing down there?” he asked, “you know you can get in trouble.”
He never answered Jerome, they just whizzed off to Jerome’s mother’s car in the parking lot waiting for her to come down from the third floor, she was visiting someone up there, and all was forgotten, until the following week, when he went to see her again, and she wasn’t there: matter of fact, he went down to her corner, and the rocker was gone, the half pint of whisky, was empty but still behind the brick, and it was like, no one had ever been there.

2-12-2009 (Written while in my library in Lima, Peru, this evening)

The Coming War with Russia (Reedited, 2-2009)

2009-02-11T22:27:00.000-08:00

The Coming War with Russia
((Written in April of 2004) (Reedited, 2-2009))
In my book, "The Last Trumpet..." I write about prophecy, and World War III, which I wrote about five years ago (2002, and came from my manuscript from 1984, when I wrote out my visions); thus, I have not wrote much on it since, which I fear, I should have. Many things have happened in the past five years, besides me traveling around the world ten times, and writing book after book, World War III has been gearing up; how so? Let me explain. First of all, I was an Ordained Minister, in good standing, in l993 (I have since left that area, for my own personal reasons); I wrote out the Manuscript, of "The Last Trumpet..." in l984, sent it to three clergy I knew, and one person died of the three, and he misplaced it when I went to find it; so it was lost, as was the second one to the second clergy, and mine was misplaced for 13-years. Then my mother told me I need to get it out no matter what, she died in 2003, I had gotten the book out in 2002, so she got her wish. Anyhow, they use it for Bible Study, for prophecy in Haiti, believe it or not, so the pastor wrote me and told me. But let me get to the premise here. We are presently, somewhat friendly with Russia (in 2008, this has now changed), but it will not remain that way. In the book of Ezekiel, prophecy foretold Israel shall return to their own land and now we see this has come to pass. I do believe Iran will be directly involved with the invasion, as will Russia, as they plan to invade Israel in the near future. That is one of the reasons we are in Iraq, believe it or not; we are a buffer ((this is why now in 2009, Israel wants to destroy the nuclear capability in Iran before Russia and Iran become partners, as has a portion in Georgia, in Europe recently)(and we must not forget they destroyed Iran’s nuclear capability in the 1980s, so they’ve been trying to be the big bomb for 30-years, and dream they hope will come true, and I hope President Obama doesn’t allow it, note. 2-2009)).
Look into chapter 38, verses 1 and 2, Ezekiel mentions Gog, the land of Magog. If you ask a Russian what is the top of the Caucasus Mountains called, he'd say, "The Gogh."
Magog, with his tribe, left Asia Minor and went to the southern part of the land we now call Russia. Thus, Russia is going to play a major part in the war to come in the Middle East.
These are the times, Israel's last Holocaust you could say, is coming (that is, a war, and then the Holocaust). The people to come against Israel will look like a cloud. Two hundred-million, military forces will come against Israel. China can boast that now with their reserves, so it has been written; that is two thirds the population of the United States. Those who have mocked the Bible, look closer skeptics, look at 2 Peter 3:10, there you will find a clear definition of the atomic warfare as is contained in any library. '...the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up."
This is the end, the end times; Russia will hit Israel (once there is an agreement with Iran and Russia) before her last strike; when I say her last strike I'm jumping too far into the future, but not that far. First comes the war with Russia and then the 200-million military force, all pointing to the Battle of Armageddon.
†Part Two: Updated 8-13-2008
Additional Quotes on Gog and Magog
I talked on Gog and the land of Magog, which in essence is Russia. Russia, the words has roots, stems from a Finnish word, meaning rowers of a vessel, And ‘Rosh,’ is a Hebrew word meaning ‘boss.’ (Ezekiel Chapter 27).
What comes next in Zech. 14, we see a man trying to lead an army, seize Israel, and this starts a world war.
“…wake up the mighty men, let all men of war draw near: let them come up…” Joel Chapter three, in the Old Testament is talking about future times.
The superpower here is Gog and Magog, (Rev. 20); the invasion of Palestine by the nations will turn out to be in the long run, the last great battle.
God says to Gog and I shall paraphrase it: are you not the one I foretold would come against my people of Israel? Ezek. 38. All Russian leaders should take not of this.
†
Part Three: Update: 8-15-2008
The Middle East Confederation
Israel Facing the Impossible
I do believe Egypt and Libya will join a Middle East Confederation, or conspiracy against Israel. (Jer. 46)
Turkey will be added into this group, although we are really talking now about three groups in the end days (Russia and Iran, the Middle East Confederation, and China, and even Europe).
The Confederation, the Russians, and the European Union, Ezekiel refers to Turkey as Gomer, it is not Germany, it is in Asia Minor he points, but many have thought it to be Germany.
The point here is, as Russia and Iran are thinking about invasion, so are these other folks, or groups, the other two groups that is, if Russia fails, and Russia will fail, but at what cost? And a cost to what other parties perhaps is the bigger question (America?) On the other hand, America is strong because whoever helps Israel, that country is blessed by God.
The question comes up: will the other groups fail?
Back to Russia, we see the old prophet has named the nations around Israel (these are part of the beast): way in the future, a hard task to do, unless you got God’s notebook.
The other missing link here is America, the United States, where are they going to be in all this mess?
Now who is Magog? It is the beast (Satan’s Armies), as Gog is the individual (The antichrist that is possessed by Satan). In other words, The Beast is the mass group complex. America must be weakened, or tied up, perhaps after Russia invades, and we attack and help, America will be too weak to get involved beyond that. It will all come out in the was I assure you.

Lady Jane La Rosa's Flies and Rats (a short story)

2009-02-11T16:16:00.000-08:00

Lady Jane La Rosa’s Flies and Rats
Of East London, 1717 AD

The Blue Bottle fly, in Europe, was quite known to be a pest in the month of July (Worm Month), these flies had a stout (fat and heavy) nature; the adults soak up surface fluids with mop like mouthparts, they lay their eggs on dead animals, the smell of which can attract them from a distance of several kilometers. They also lay eggs on other decomposing matter and on faeces—the eggs hatch in less than a day, the young insects (larvae) have no opportunity to bury themselves in the ground, thus, they will crawl around until they find a suitable place in which to pupate.
This occurrence, takes place when the fly larvae, found in the house, the abode, nursed by dead nestling birds, or from dead rats, a dead rat will supply or provide enough food for about 4000-maggots, you don’t smell the dead rat anymore because the creeping larvae eat it, within about ten-working days, they work hard at eating hard, the larvae you will not see, they hid from the light, under carpets, and so forth, for their resurrection to adulthood, and destruction of its forthcoming environment. Oh but they do wiggle their way into the light sooner or later, after their full birth, and as a result, fly off to mate again, and the cycle of the fly, becomes endless. So you see there is a surviving connection with the flies and the rats, not a pretty picture by all means, but don’t go away, you haven’t read the good part yet.

Lady Jane La Rosa, of East London (in the year of 1717, July, the worm month, had a rat problem in her home, in her garden, and she killed the rats under her porch, that had a tunnel, that lead to her garden, which had a hole into her garden, and each day the fat headed rat would peak its head out of the whole not fearful of her one bit, and had she not been so fearful, she might have seen the big picture, not the surface issue, and she figured she’d poison it, and she did, and the whole family of rats died, and she was proud of herself, so very proud. And for her victory, she bought cakes and all kinds of good things to eat, even purchased some good beef, and breads, and she never noticed the process I just mentioned to you, about the Blue Flies (or blowflies) their eating and breeding habits, a young Londoner, of twenty-years old, and she woke one morning and there was hundreds of fat flies circling her bed, the kitchen and all over her lower apartment house, she went mad killing the flies, and the fatter they were, the slower they were; but many of these flies had picked up pathogenic micro-organisms, from rat and dog and cat dunghills, and passed their dirty feet and lips onto her every inch of the kitchen, as if they were dancing a ballet, and it was a cursed morning to say the least, she swatted and took the broom and ended up busting this and that trying to get all the flies out, or dead, not knowing the flies were transmitting intestinal infections, landing on foodstuffs, and she was not rich, nor poor, but frugal, and she tried to cover everything, and she did not throw one thing away, no, not the cakes or pies or even the breads and raw meat.
She had really no strict control of where and how she kept her cooked and raw meats, her breads and fruits, thus, everything got contaminated, and she took her meat, and washed it, but the faeces and vomit from the insects remained soaked into the meat, tainted, stained with its vomit, and she quickly cooked it, and invited her friends over to have dinner, thinking, it all was too much for one person, enough for several, and by doing so, she was forced to be more generous, more so than folks knew her to be.
In addition to her stupidly of the foodstuffs, the single, and simple young lady, overlooked that there might be breeding sites yet to clean up, or clean out, she simply had told her parents she wanted to be on her own, and this was her apartment in East London, and knew nothing about anything in this area…how proud she was though for killing those rats, and that would have to be her consolation. Nor did she clean the walls, lamps, mirrors, and so forth, and she had a half dozen families over for dinner that evening, and when they came and they ate, and they touched the walls, new flies appeared everywhere, especially around the lit lamps, and they looked at Lady Jane La Rosa, not the flies, but the folks eating the fly vomit on the meat, and bread, and so forth, and then the re-looked at the food and the flies next to the foods, and they quickly ran home and washed, and in that neighborhood, that following month, Lady Jane La Rosa died an intentional disease, and several of the neighbors died, and the cursed flies were all over, and then someone discovered a hole, and filled it with dirt, it was as simple as that.

Afterthought: It was said by many of that East London Neighborhood, Miss La Rosa confided in a few people during her illness, prior to her death, and she said, in so many words to a dear girlfriend who visited her just before she had her last breath:
‘It was as if they had very aggressive attitudes, as if there was a neurological strain, mental twist, a madness, if not insanity, in the attack on me, and perhaps I got thinking some imps, or devils, demons, you know that sort of thing got into those fat flies, and invaded my house, because I was the most vulnerable, available, I was in that neighborhood, and usable; also to show off to their cohorts how shrewd and witty they were, you know, like people do, and kids to kids for admiration, or how the robber will choose the easiest pray for his vindictive scheme, thus, he picks on the old, the feeble, single and helpless women, old women, children, those who can’t fight back. I don’t disagree the rats had something to do with it all, but for one day, such a horde showing up on your doorsteps, and then zooming by you like a bullet, attacking from all sides. It’s what they did, and had no mercy, if only I could have thought of something creative…!”

2-11-2009

Trapped by Blue Ice

2009-02-10T14:22:00.000-08:00

Just before the Inca conquest of A.D. 1470

White Mountain in the Summer

Snow was falling on a glacier, in the Andes of Peru, on White Mountain (Huaytapallana), in the Valley of Mantaro, and as it felt it compressed itself into its new abode, and became part of that glacier, and the glacier, that winds its way down to the small lake at its feet (two other lakes along its side), during its transverse travel all the air bubbles that were trapped in the ice were squeezed out, thus, increasing the size of the ice crystals, making it clear, so very clear, like a window, with the sun shinning on it, and the blue sky, throwing a slight tint to it.
Toribio stood at the rim of the lake, knew the beautiful blue was the result of an overtone stretched in the water which drew light to it, he knew in some areas of the Artic, where he had been, earthquakes had raised the blue ice above the ground and created formations much like large frozen waves, he actually stood on some of those large waves.

But the more he looked into the blue ice, the more he became mesmerized to it…a mist appeared, it descended White Mountain like an umbrella being folded inward, thus, so was everything around, and it got colder. He knew he’d not make it out of his environment, up the hill, to the winding road down into the valley, and even if he did, he would get lost, he had come into the glacier and lake area too late, thus, he sat on a nearby rock and ate some small fish that was dried, stored and eventually transported inland and somehow—most likely by caravan driven by llamas, making its way to the valley, and eventually to the markets, where he purchased them, and along with some anchovies. This would give him protein to withstand some of the cold, for he had noticed an increase of the winds, they were picking up some moisture as they passed over his head, descended around him, the current’s low temperature resulted in a freezing enclosure, surrounded by the three headed mountain, as if almost enveloped into her womb: now he understood the blue ice, and this areas cold depths.

(Lost in the mist)

He was as if in a canyon, it was different than where he had originally been raised, by the coast, his father was a fisherman, he and his brother, and mother, and grandfather lived together along one street, close by to where they could enter sea every day, where they had their boat, and nets, each proceeding to his own familiar area to fish without competing with others, he was a Chincha fisherman, and he remember his father always being happy he did not have to till the land, his mother would trade her fish at the market for agricultural products they needed, and exchange; likewise for the farmer, with their harvested corps, who wished fish. And when they didn’t fish, like in the valley, when the farmers didn’t harvest or plant, they danced and drank.

He looked at the blue ice, the descending white mist, felt the chill of the winds to his bones, knew he was trapped by the blue ice, he now couldn’t walk around the lake, neither up the glacier, nor any nearer to the mountain; neither escape to the hill tops to find his way down the mountains that brought him up to this very spot, nor make it to the nearby village, Acopalca.

He now thought of when his little brother, now nineteen, he being twenty-one, raised Guinea Pigs, for both food and ritual; often used for curing and divination ceremonies in and around the Valley of Mantaro, from Huancayo, all the way to Concepcion. It had just been recently, he supplied several burials with whole guinea pigs, he wasn’t sure if they were to be eaten or used as substance for the burial, and afterlife, but it really didn’t matter to him.
He looked at the blue ice, kneeled down to look into it, saw ice worms, and a few others things, how pure it was he thought. And as he looked, the young man forgot, or perhaps didn’t notice, or perchance did notice, and didn’t care, no one would really know, but his life functions were diminishing, the cold was bring him, his body and mind, and sensory perception, and nervous system, to a state of being disorganized and indistinguishable performance, his vital functions were ceasing to operate properly, his brain functions, breathing, heartbeat all once maintained naturally, were seeing to be kept somehow functioning artificially.
He had no more fish, or food, just the cloths on his body, and a blanket made of alpaca, one his mother made for him, and he put it over him like a tent.

He had overheard some of the older folks in the lower village on his way up the mountain talking about the mist of the mountain, that it comes suddenly and blankets a person, and once lost, he freezes to death, and he knew by contrast, people, and animals expand a large amount of energy in such activities, and in doing so, allowing their body to break down sooner, and without a fire, or protein, there was no way to repair any damage that might occur, in time to survive the ordeal, once the organisms in the body collapsed, there was no replacement, at death and near death this energy needed to be available, wouldn’t be there, thus it was now inevitable, he had to remain until morning, when the mist would lift and he could make his escape, but he had to have the energy to climb the hills to top, and then down to the village for help.
As the night progress, it was as if he could feel all the cells in his body losing their tails, one by one by one, and death approached all the closer by each dead cell; the blue ice just within his reach.
The non-immortal organisms in his body were dying, and the phantom of death was getting closer. He thought: why must we die, then answered his own question, ‘Perhaps to make way for new ones,’ it was the simplest way of thinking, underneath that alpaca blanket, his home, his burial tomb to be. All that he was, became, was to be, was there, right there, right under that blanket that fell short to even keep his feet from freezing and turning black. He was sensing his body could no longer adapt to the environment.

Then all of a sudden his heart stopped beating, his body had dropped to sixty-degrees, he had been in the cold for hours, it was late in the night past twilight, his body was now ice-cold; his body was literally like a corpse.

The Morning After

In the early morning, Toribio was found by several village folks from Acopalca, he was snow-covered, curled up in a fetal position, inside his blanket-tent, less than ten-feet away from the blue ice, it was as if he had been frozen in chains, there was no visible signs of food about, his hip bones were sticking out; thereafter, his body was taken down to the village, and the best anyone could deduce was that the boy had died from starvation and frozen to death in the process.

Notes: The true fact is, a number of folks have perished in this area of White Mountain, caught by surprise of the mist, and a close relative of mine did get lost in this area, and his family had to seek out a guide quickly to search the area, and he and his son were rescued, this was perhaps some ten-years ago. Not an uncommon story. I have been to White Mountain myself, and it is a most beautiful sight and dangerous area if a person does not know its environment. And the story you have just read has more truth to it, than fiction. Some parts based on fact. Written 2-10-2009 (second title: “Lost in the Mist”)

Buying Days (A short story on prolonging your life)

2009-02-09T12:19:00.001-08:00

Buying Days
(A short story on prolonging your life)

Alabaster Rightfield was getting old, he was 61-years old, in 1940 that was next to old age, perhaps he had a few more years, but not many to live, and he was an advocate, and something of an activist on the concept of: live and let live, and don’t interfere with God’s plan. He was a journalist for a big newspaper in Minnesota, and he wrote a weekly column called “Be as it May!”
Eddie Kindstein, on the other hand, was well known and to some, a great scientist. He was known the world over in his fields of studies: of genetic reconstruction, cell-delay techniques, and the cascade effect for chromosomes, which prolonged age, and rebuilt weak of not broken chromosomes. All in all, he had several PhDs, one in zoology, anthropology, biology, psychology, gynecology, genetics, and was a doctor in medicine, and a few other things I can’t remember.
It all sounds so above the normal, and he was above the normal, so much so, they used his photograph on many of their products, his name likewise, but they hid him so no one could find him, or kidnap him. Oh he had his rights, but the world thought, as did his company, he also had his responsibilities, to them. He was a young man, of only 28-years old, next to middle age, but not quite there yet.
The company he worked for was called “Buying Days!”
They came out with a product in 1933, and the Company was selling days, like wildfire, and Alabaster Rightfield, was a strict advocate against this unethical product.

Narrator’s Interlude

Note: Before I can continue with the story, I must first explain the rudimentary of the product.
It was a chemical, very easy to use, in pill form, no bigger than an aspirin. It didn’t have magical powers or anything like that, but it was assured to its customers, it would allow them to buy more days to their life, providing they purchased the item before any kind of illness occurred.
Let me stretch this out a little further. It didn’t stop the illness; it only prolonged it, giving you more days to life. An example would be, Mr. William Filmier, purchased six pills of Dr. Eddie Kindstein’s product, on October 1, 1939, and he became ill with cancer on December 20th of that year. The pills cost $100-dollars per pill. The doctor gave him twenty-days to live; he died exactly, 26-days later.
If this is not convincing enough to the reader, his wife who pestered him to buy the six pills, bought for herself, five-hundred pills to take, and took them (yes indeed they had a few bucks to spend, isn’t that always the case, the rich get over like fat cats, and us poor folk, go along for the joy ride and observe how they do it). In any case, after her husband died, she got ill over the whole thing, and was diagnosed with pneumonia and would die within a few days, well, she didn’t, matter of fact, rather, she up and died, five-hundred and 7-days later.
Well, I could go on and on with testimony after testimony, but the fact is, no company makes $300-billion dollars in ten-years, from a company that prior to Kindstein coming into the group, was only making $300,000-dollars with pharmaceuticals, unless they got a good product, or a good scheme convincing the public their product is good. The only other one I know that has fooled the public for a generation or two, and made billions in the process, is the cigarette manufactures. So this was the real deal.
So now back to the story.

•

Alabaster Rightfield was a rich man, not filthy rich, but well off. And he had a lovely young wife, and he had five children, and he was kind to them, and all that kind of good stuff, almost a perfect husband and father, and known as a moralist thinker of his time. And on July 15, 1940, he went to the doctor, and the doctor said he had a tumor, a brain tumor, that they were not sure if it was fixable or not, it would have to be extracted, or somehow reduced in size to a residue form and then extracted or perhaps left in a state of inactivity. Well, Mrs. Rightfield went to see the CEO, Mr. Greedland, of “Buying Days” and asked him for pills…to either reduce the tumor in size, or to buy more days.
Mr. Greedland, was sympathetic, and said,
“It would be a shame for your husband to part this world, when he could live other ten-years. You could buy the days for him if you want to,” and he went on to say in essence: that he’d actually give the pills to her free, should he decide to shut his mouth a little on his so called moral and righteous grounds. This being for the most part, an attitude adjustment on his part; thus, he’d give her 3500-bills, free of charge.
On the other hand, Mr. Greedland said, we could do an operation, the good doctor, Kindstein, would even perform it, and it would be an almost guarantee, that he would survive the operation, but for him to take the pills incase something went wrong, it was all going to be free of charge.

Fine, thought Mrs. Rightfield, and she went home to beg her husband to do the deal. But he told her this,
“How can I, after preaching against such devises to keep one alive beyond God’s chosen date, I would be among the class of: hypocrites. I could only do such a thing if I could bring down the company, and force them to walk the straight line, to help people for the sake of health reasons”
“But a live hypocrite,” she murmured with tears running down those white soft cheeks of hers.
So by and by, Mr. Rightfield insisted he could not. And he got ill, very ill, and he was hospitalized, and up to the last minute, his wife begged him, even Mr. Greedland, agreed to do the operation free, and give him the pills free, without any promises to be forthcoming.
Then came a secret from the mouth of Mr. Greedland to Mr. Rightfield—told behind closed doors—of course, he whispered to Alabaster: “My pills work in either case, meaning, if the person was sick the day he bought the pills, or anytime, it doesn’t matter, it was just a gimmick to get the public to deliver the money early on, although the product is as good as gold. The reason we lied to the public was for our company stockholders, and so other pharmaceutical companies would not go out of business. I repeat Alabaster, it was all for an immediate effect: money, money, and more money.”
When Mr. Rightfield heard this, he agreed to the operation and the pills, free of charge, and no promises, and knowing his reputation was as good as their pills, he devised his plan.
Therefore, and thereafter, he was cured, and subsequently in a few months was back on his weekly column, he spread the news, the pills were good even after you got sick; and thus, something strange happened, several worldwide pharmaceutical companies got together and bought the company out, and lost the recipe to the product “Buying Days,” lest they go out of business, and the company soon after that, closed its doors once and for all.

2-9-2009

The Meaning of Danger (non-fiction, short story)

2009-02-07T16:42:00.000-08:00

The Meaning of Danger
(Based on actual events, name have been changed)

It is said when danger lingers about, animals have a sixth sense, and thus move out of its way. So do humans, if only they’d pay attention to it. (Summer of 1962)

Chick Evens

I met a man when I was fifteen years old; he was twenty-years old at the time, a handsome looking fellow, had a car he borrowed always from his brother, he had several of them. They drank a lot, and he seemed to get into trouble without much effort, I only met his brothers once, and that was enough. I remember him saying, the older robust brother of David Osmond’s,
“I want to try your ring on,” is what he said to me, and I said no, and David whispered in my ear, I suggest you do as he asks, he’s a little crazy. The brother was perhaps thirty-five, build like a wrestler. I said no, and he looked at me, and he said, the older brother, “Are you sure you want to keep saying no, because, I heard what my brother said, and he wasn’t kidding.”
I tried to keep my posture, but his eyes told me, something was coming, and quickly, he and three of his brothers were in the kitchen with David and me, and his sister was out in the living room with the two girls, one eighteen-months old, the other around six-years old.
As I pondered on this idea of taking off my ring, and letting him see it, plus, pondering on what was this man really like, I remembered how David drove the car a week earlier, into a fence, and laughed about it, almost killed us. Then I thought about the time we went into the restaurant, and he ordered all these hamburgers, and everything under the sun, and said to me,
“Let’s go Chick!”
And I said,
“We got to pay, you said you’d pay, we can’t leave without paying!”
Then he said,
“Then you stay and pay, and if you can’t I’ll give you a call at the detention center, where the police will take you for thief. And if I were you, I’d not tell my name to the police.”
So I thought all these things within the clap of a second, and he turned to me and said, the big older brother said,
“Have you come to your conclusion?”
David looked at him, said, “Take it easy, he’s just a kid!”
“Yes,” said the older brother, drinking down a third beer, “a kid with an eye for trouble, he sees things, and knows, but won’t give in until I have to tare him apart.”
“He’ll give you the ring back, Chick,” said David, “please let him have it to wear for a few hours.”
“Ok,” I said, but I knew I’d not see the ring again; how did I know, call it intuition.

When you are fifteen, even coming from a rough neighborhood, as I was brought up in, things haunt you; David and I left the place, it was in the housing projects, St. Paul, Minnesota, far out towards the South East part of town, and he took me home, down to Cayuga Street, by the Oakland Cemetery.
“I’ll see if I can get your ring back for you by tomorrow, or if I don’t see you tomorrow, since everyone is drinking at the house, perhaps the following day or two, but don’t expect to see me for at least a few days more, maybe three.”
“No problem,” I said as I got out of his 1958 Mercury.
“Perhaps it would be better Dave if you don’t go back there, all that drinking, and your brother seems out of it.”
“Don’t you start telling me what to do now Chick,” he replied, and I smiled, and simply said “Ok,” and left.

He had went back to his sister’s apartment in the project complex, drank that night, and the next day had stayed over. Give me a call, he said,
“I really got a hangover, can’t see you today, maybe tomorrow or the next day, got to baby-sit the kids for sis tonight. I hate to do it, but I told her I would, her and her husband are going out with my brother, you know the one with the ring, he said he’ll give it back to me tomorrow.”
David was about five foot ten inches tall, dark black hair, very good looking, slim, built well, had spent some time in St. Cloud, reformatory, I had found out, matter-of-fact, I had found out just before he called me, and figured if I get the ring fine, if not, I best stay away from him, lest I end up in prison. My instincts again, and I was learning to cooperate with them.

A day passed, it was a hot summer, I was playing ball in the empty lot next to my grandfather’s house, with the Cayuga Street Gang (the Donkeyland Gang), there were about twenty-two of us, unofficial members, I being one of the youngest, and perhaps the only one that never had been in jail.
I got home that evening, and went to bed as usual, up in the attic bedroom where my brother, Mike and I slept. It was for me, a hard night sleeping, I kept thinking about the ring, but it was really much more than that, it was a premonition, something I didn’t know, but knew something was happening, something that would spoil me getting back my ring, just what I didn’t know, and to quite frank, I would never have imagined had I had a thousand guess.

The following midmorning, I called David’s house up, and he was not there, then I called his sister’s apartment up, and the phone just rang and rang and rang. I told myself I best not bother them too much, his crazy brother will come looking for me and God knows what might happen, so I left well enough alone, and went and ate my cereal.
My grandfather was at work, he owned a restaurant, down on Wabasha Street, St. Paul, and got the paper each day, he had a hard time reading it, the old Russian Bear, we lived in kind of an extended family situation. He owned the house, and my mother bought the food, and furniture, and he paid the utility bills, and did his laundry, and life went on for us four folks.
The paperboy put the paper through the door hole, and it was thin, I picked it up, out on our screened-in porch, put it down onto Grandpa’s sofa chair in the living room, and when I did, the headlines popped up in front of my eyes, like King Kong, it read “David Osmond…!”
I called my friend up, the one that introduced me to him, Richard Z, and said,
“Have you read the paper yet?”
“Yes,” he said.
“About David Osmond?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why in heaven’s name did you introduce him to me?” I asked.
“Whoever would have thought he could do something like that?”
It was of course a rhetorical question, and I told him, I just needed to talk to someone, it was all too much, too unbelievable.

That evening when my mother came home from Swifts (the Meat Packing Company, in South St. Paul), and she asked me, as I was pacing the house from the porch through the living room then dinning room, then kitchen, said,
“You’re getting like your grandfather, pacing all the time, what is the matter with you.”
I had put the paper on the dinning room cabinet, by grandpa’s old black mantle clock, said, “Look at the front page,” and she did.
“Yaw, so what.” she said.
“That’s my friend, David Osmond.”
She looked closer, “Really,” she said, “You just never see him again,” she demanded.
“I don’t think he’ll be out of jail for a very longtime,” I commented.
In the following month, I tried to get a hold of the brother who had the ring, even went over to the apartment, but it was vacant, and he was gone. So I simply assumed right at that moment, this all was to be taken as a good lesson, good lesson for me, to avoid such characters.

•

Now let me explain what took place. That day when he, David and I met his brother, and his brother took my ring, he stayed overnight there, he was at this time, staying with different family members, and borrowing his brother’s car, he had no money to speak of, of his own, only the money he was getting from gambling with his brothers, and a few friends that came over, or was given to him freely by his family members. The following evening he babysat the two daughters, for his sister as he said he was going to do, and he drank that night, as he drank most every night, and his head started hurting. He had been released to my knowledge from St. Peters, a criminal asylum, prior to serving time at St. Cloud, at St. Peters, for evaluation more so than confinement.
His head was hurting as I mentioned, and he had told the older niece, the big sister to keep her little sister quiet, the eighteen-month old child, and she tried, and couldn’t, and he got madder and madder, until he blanked out, and shook the little girl so hard, he shook the wind out of her, and when he set her back into her prior position, she was dead, not breathing, fearful he did not call the ambulance. Now even more frightened, hyperventilating, he had picked up a lamp and swung it at the older sister, and the concussion, killed her likewise, she fell to the floor to her death. Yes, he had killed two young children, in a state of panic and frenzy.
Now supposedly coming to his senses (somewhat), he saw what he had done, and wanted to cover it up and in the process tried to hide their bodies, in the garage.
When the family members came home, he had no real story figured out to tell them except, they took off outside and he couldn’t find them. Then in the process of calling the police and his wailing for his wrong doing, they found the two corpses, the girls in the garage, both of course slain by David.
His case went to court, and there was an insanity plea, and to my knowledge he got twenty-years plus, or until he could show the doctors he was no longer maladaptive.

2-3-2009

The Strange Letters of Amelia, From Nantucket, 1852

2009-02-05T15:37:00.000-08:00

The Strange Letters of
Amelia, from Nantucket, 1852

Advance (narrator): The next to true story, “The Story of Amelia,” is told by herself, in a number of letters to her daughter, whom has discovered them after rummaging through the attic of her mother’s house, found in and among other sailor items in a wooden chest, Judith Cleland, of New England, Stockbridge, Massachusetts.

Amelia, the highlight of her life, and this story, takes place in Nantucket, 1850 – 1852, for the most part, although she spends a decade in Nantucket until she returns to Stockbridge. Judith, is holding the letters, with a few different dates on them, in her hands, about fifteen pages: it is 1872, it is twenty-years since those letters have been exposed to the open air; she is at her mother’s home in Stockbridge at the moment.
She has always been curious why her mother never married, and never talked about her father other than saying he was a sailor, and a hero of sorts to him, and thus, likewise to Judith; Judith is now 21-years old and the letters have to be opened up, so she feels, no matter what, even if it is like opening Pandora’s Box.
It is a story about a man she met, by the name of Gideon Asa Scott (an Irish-Scottish bulk of a fellow, in his middle to late forties).
To repeat myself, Judith finds fifteen pages of letters, her mother wrote and kept for her, not to be read, nor the envelope opened until after her death, she has now brought it to her mother, whom is outside, in the backyard, drinking tea. She lays it down on the table next to her (she is fifty-one years old, Amelia knows right away what it is, looks at her daughter’s eyes) she smiles and says:
“I think you’re old enough to understand why I never married, and to learn who your father really was?”
These were two questions always on Judith’s mind, matter-of-fact; she had asked her mother ever since she was a teenager, those two questions.

On another note, Amelia, had moved with her family to Nantucket for a number of years, it was because of the railroad was being built in that area, and her family thought it best to avoid the raucous and tribulations of the times, and the wealthy had moved in, as did poets and writers.
She had liked writing and had met Catharine Maria Sedgwick, who had wrote such books as ‘Hope Leslie,’ 1827 and ‘Married or Single,’ 1857. She was kind of her idol. Like Catharine, she also was sent to a finishing school in Boston, she was the most talked about female author of her day—this inspired Amelia, and of course, she liked the book Catharine wrote called: ‘Married or Single,’ what it expressed, that being: women should not marry if it involved losing their self-respect, self-worth, identity.
Now I have really said enough to this story, we must now go onto those lengthily letters of hers to find out those two secrets, Judith has waited so long for.

(Amelia is going to read it to her daughter as they sit under an umbrella, sipping tea, but first she makes a statement):

The Letters

Amelia’s Statement to her daughter before reading the letters: “I have read a lot of Cotton Mather in past years; he was very popular when I was a child with my family growing up. Need I say Judith, he was very influential with me, he wrote much, was married three times, had fifteen-children, so I suppose he knew what he was talking about, and put into writing, and many books, and a doctorate degree helped, honorary, but nonetheless, official. He said, “You should be more solicitous that their souls (meaning one’s children) may not be Starved, or go without the bread of life.” I presume some of that bread is understanding the truth, and by telling you the background of those letters, or reading them, shows caring of that nature, especially when you know someone close to you knows and doesn’t tell you—as in the letters you hold in your hand. I felt it would be a bit early to tell you the whole story, how you became you, and perhaps how I became me, or a little more of me, after your father’s death, I was waiting for you to become at least thirty-years old for that news, that is when Christ Himself took up his ministry. Cotton Mather also said in so many words and I hear you cry for understanding: if your dog and child were drowning, whom would you save? A poor example by and large, but it gets to the point. When one’s family member feels under an ill discipline, it is not unusual that it affects other members, so I shall read the letters to you:

Letter One: 1852
The Story

“When I first saw him, more like found him stranded on the beach like a soaked wet rag, or dead seal, and helped him, I said to myself: ‘He looks to me to be an honest and courageous kind of fellow, a sailor, one that would not try to do me harm,’ and once getting to know him, I was correct—for the most part—in my evaluation at first, as well as, he wasn’t too religious which I gathered from the start, unfortunately, but in his quiet way he was a sort of reverential unspoken noble natured person, perhaps a cry for a better worth of immortality, was in his soul…
“He did at the end of our relationship, pretty much make up his mind of what he had to do, and did it, although if you ask me, he had no rest in that anticipation, and beyond human kindness he left me little to hold onto, and hope for in the sense of his return—and for him, he left no definite belief. It is strange how he persists though, on wondering to and fro, around the world on a pile of wood: strange but fascinating at the same time.
“I am thirty-one years old, he is forty-six. There will be no correspondence I fear, between him and I, over our relationship that has lasted only two-years that brought me an abundance of warmth and fellowship. But faded the last season he was with me, which was most recently.
“I liked his name it was different, not his last name but his two other names, first and middle, not real different for an Irish-Scotsman I suppose, Gideon Asa Scott, but different for me.

“When I first found him on the shores of Nantucket, I dragged him a ways, and waited until he was semi conscious, and allowed him to lean on my shoulders, and I brought him to my home, put him naked by the hearth, I found soon after, his resurrection would be complete within a few days. And it didn’t take long for ourselves to get on a pretty much, formal terms.
(You must realize, I am pregnant now, and Gideon never knew this, and I did not know if you were a boy or girl inside of me, perhaps if you are a girl I will call you Judith, I like that name, it seems to have a Romanist ring to it, and thus, you will understand, I’m sure of that; on the other hand, if you are a boy, I dread to tell you, we live in a time, our skirts are made of iron, and the male gender, with all their whoring around, wants to marry a virgin, and I dare say, expects their mother to be one if the father was not properly wed.)

“As I was about to say, before that little interlude, it was perhaps just two weeks, and we became better friends, sociability and our confidence with one another showered in our place!
“Before he left he was or had not been well, of late. And to my guess, suffered from too constant a mental occupation, in pursuit without much success, of whatever he was thinking. Plus, he was drinking, as always, but I did curve that bad habit for him, somewhat.
“For a long while he was happy, and then some kind of morbid depression came over him. Perhaps wanting to go back to the sea, or at least that was, or better yet, is, my conjecture, or better yet, to his wife, Phoebe…whom he said was from New England, not sure exactly where, I surmised from our late night conversations, New Hampshire, he was quite secretive about such matters. My reasoning being, there is an old ruin, ancient archeologically site nearby, deep in the woods and he had mentioned it in relation to Phoebe (“Mystery Hill”).
“When he left he was seemingly not profoundly sympathetic or responsive as he was at first to our relationship that warmth had left.
“As you will know in time, I was born and raised in Stockbridge, moved to Nantucket for a number of years, the railroad had come in and my parents thought it best I live in Nantucket for a decade, and so I did, they feared the raucous, and hard drinking men, and men of no repute might take liberties they were not entitled to.
“When I think of him, it is still with exceedingly warmth and enthusiasm.
“For two-years I had looked into his deep dark eyes, and all I can now see is the story I now live, his story and mine, the one I am telling you, every line to me is a single and sincere longing on my part for him, and for you to know him better.”

Letter Two dated: 1857
Questions

“Here is a question I presume you will be asking: ‘who was he anyhow?’ You are five-years old now Judith and this is my second letter to you thus far.
“For years I have gone over the story me and your father lived, Gideon, He always had a strain on his face, for whaling…a subject rather rhapsody for him.
“But how was he, you will ask, and I will possibly say in passing: he was the ocean, and he left behind the earth, to find the mighty whales, sell their oil, make profit, help the so called original commodity, become what it might become. It might be said of him, as in a fable, he was made out of sterling metal, to me a face imprinted on a coin. And when Dorothea met him, my dear and best friend, she had become very puffed up with smiles, not to count his wealth, for he had none, she bethought herself, she wanted his recognition, with this purpose in view, I pulled him quickly away, like an architect would his plans for a great building, when someone else is peering over your shoulder, that should not be.
“Many a night we passed the evening together, listening to the fresh sounds of the Atlantic with his sailor talk. All jargon to me at first of course, and then I got to know his ways, terminology, and so forth. Actually I started to live his stories, as he relieved them; and it always made for a good stirring evening. He would plough deep into the depths of the ocean bring to surface his rich tales, atheistically. To him it was all a sacred matter, with its exquisite ironies. At times he was on the boarder line of blasphemy.
“As I have not said, but I must, it had already been rumoured in the town of our living together, they all looked at me to no purpose, as if their life was perfect, and undeniable on the right track to heaven’s gates. People are always the more ready to believe the worse of your neighbour, but they’d like to pluck the rose themselves. But as I was saying, or about to say, when I first met him, he was weather-beaten, like crushed marble, his skin like snow, from the long ordeal in the sea. Studded with muscle knobs all over his legs; but on the other hand, when he opened his eyes he saw me, with a gleam, especially beneath his eyelids.

“I do hope you understand, I see you playing at this moment outside on the grass next to my window, as I write, I wish you would have got to know him, perhaps this will help.

“Well, he said he was married, that he had wedded a woman as I mentioned before, named Phoebe, what I neglected to mention though, was she served time in Sing Sing, a prison for women. I doubt he really ever told me the full and true story, it wasn’t his nature to do so, he’d add fiction with non-fiction, to make everything a tinge mysterious. In any case, there were many of those so called prison girls, willing to sleep with the Judges and noble men of the city, sound standing citizens, they’d hide he’d say behind curtains in the prison, and have their orgies.
“Whatever case, he married one he said, and had five-children with her. I kind of frowned on this at first, and then overlooked it, as if there was some truth to it, but most likely, everything had its distortions, and deletions interwoven into it, and generalizations.
“No man had ever put such reality before me, unflinchingly as he did. Conceivably to see my reaction, so I often thought: to see if I got startled.
“He had said one afternoon when we were talking on the porch, drinking lemonade: he said in so many words: his boat had sunk and the ship he was on left him for dead, he was compelled to swim, even unconsciously for hours on end. This I know to be true, for I found him astray, on the coast. And I shall get more into that part of the story, later on, but I must say his sea stories were so good that I scarcely feel he was less of a story teller than Melville himself being a writer, surely, more so than a sailor: he need not have made them any better.
“He was neither a common man, nor that entirely intellectual, or even warm hearted, he was rather a brute of a man, with dirty fingerprints, and he’d leave them all over the house, especially on the walls.
“He was tall, and erect, sincere and somewhat revered or he tried to be with me at any rate, unsure, if he is not a great man in my soul. He seemed to me a man that had seen many things, and explained few, but in his tales he told everything accurately, as he saw them; he had eyes you know not keen eyes, but rather undistinguishable in anyway.”

•

“When he told his tales and in particular his long swim, he was always full of gesture.
“He was not handsome, but brave and manly he was. And once he started his tale he lost himself in it, and somehow he gave it graced and polish. He was, Judith, for the most part backwards you might say, but one could clearly comprehend what he was implying, if his words got into a rambling state.
“He’d give you a strange lazy glance, at the end of each tale as if waiting to get your response.”

Letter Three: 1859
Passion and Pride

“It’s been a few years now, you’re getting bigger, seven-years old now Judith. You are in school this afternoon, and I‘ve been thinking we might be going back to Stockbridge, my hometown, you’ve never seen. But I want to tell you more about your father, and our two-years together, and explain the passion I had for him, if I can in a light form.
“I loved making love to him, he was although a bear in the process, on the other hand, he was respectable being near to, not directly with, an innocence, with his child like mannerisms, and most amiable during the full course of the affair.
“He was in loving making, like he was in his story telling, he got lost in it and there was no stopping him. This he had much knowledge in and I very little, and it was his daily, or almost daily favourite pursuit activity.
“We ate breakfast at 5:00 a.m., sharp. Then we’d take a walk, then he’d say ‘Leave me be…’ and I’d go off some place by myself, after saying goodbye, and we’d meet later.
“We ate late supper usually, and I was always worried of his sleep, he never felt well the next day, if he didn’t get his sleep. The fact is, when your father left he was in a frightfully poor state of health, strain on his face, in his eyes, his mind, afraid to leave, to love, and possibly his body weakened from all those past adventures, and drinking.

“Wherever he was going to go that day, the day he left me, in 1852, which was on one of three ships, it was because he feared if he didn’t, he’d upset his next adventure entirely, as if he was missing something, he knew his work on the ship, nothing else, pride was more costly than he thought, it was, and would be more so, I told myself, that in the future, it would take a toll on him: but working on ships, other than story telling what could he do, I suppose it was a dreadful state of mind to be in, trying to see where he fit in, a condition of anxiety, and story telling was part of his trips, he never read much, perhaps couldn’t.
“The day he left he was more quiet than usual, and I had turned out to be his unpleasant companion. I even told him as we walked down to the shore, ‘Your recluse life on those ships is making you insane.’
“But I knew he was dreaming of those far-off tropic isles, the hard blue waves of the sea, life under the unmoving sun, it was life at its best for him, it was in a way his medicine, if only he could curve his alcohol intake on these adventures of his, he did while staying with me, but the ills of ship life and the world at large, would surely have an impact on him. I find as a woman, we are always trying to be the caretaker of the man we love, my mother does it with my father, and most of the folks I see do it that way, and now here I am doing it also. What can I say?”

Letter Four: 1860
Death

“It’s been a year Judith since my last letter; I keep putting them on top of one another, saving them for when you get older. We will be going to Stockbridge this year, pretty soon. I think I will write about your father’s death, it was an abrupt surprised for me to say the least.
“He was found on the streets of Nantucket of all places, in 1853, you were only a year old then, plus a few months. He had only been gone no more than six-months, and when found on the streets he was delirious, in need of immediate assistance, according to the man who found him—he was hurt, he had fallen over a wooden fence, and punctured his back somewhat, how he came to this drunken condition is all speculation of course, but it is just a matter of fact, drunks do not need to look for disaster, it follows them. He was slightly coherent, long enough to call out a name, before he died, whom exactly he was referring to is unclear, he was in a state of ‘doublespeak’ he wanted to avoid I feel the secret of his love, be it me or his ship it was obscure speech.
“To my understanding, the word he called out sounded like ‘The Amanita, or Amelia’ there was a ship called Amanita, but it was out to sea, and not due for another week.
“Be that as it may, he died it was said of congestion of the brain, coupled with alcoholism. They said, the doctors said, and a few town folks who had seen him in the local bars a few weeks prior to his death, he had the tremors, delirium, his heart wasn’t working right, he fell to his keens a few times.
“I of course arrived too late to be with him, the moment before he expired, perhaps it was best, it would have been quite trying on me.

Letter Five: 1861

“His death did not put me in a stupider, I had you. If anything, I’d have a lot of stories also to tell you Judith, when you got older. We had moved to Stockbridge, and lived now close to your grandparents. I also figured I’d not marry while raising you, it seemed to me, the very image of another man’s property, as Cotton Mather might put it, so is a child, the new father sure enough would not treat you as his own. Plus, I got an allowance from your grandparents, Ernest Cleland was his name, and he was a good lawyer in his youth in Boston, and had written some books, and the sale of them made him a small fortune; books on law.
“And to carry this one more step forward, I do believe the prophecy is true, once married to a man who does not command you, he becomes greatly perplexed, as did your father at times, trying to treat me as an old beggar-woman, and thus, it is best he is gone, lest you be a little beggar-child.
“But what I really wanted to say was when I wrote my father back in ’51, he begged me not to marry Gideon, he tried everything to persuade me different, sent me money, and said he’d support me and you. He called Gideon contamination. Oh I didn’t like his wording at the time, but his words would turnout to be true. How foolish we become when we are infatuated with love…one can’t see the trees in front of the forest, nor what is beyond it.
“I did love his tough, structured mutineer mannerisms, I think every woman does, they just got to realize such men are to be played with, for they are not tameable.

“Many of his stories were of dead sailors coming back as ghosts, subduing the sailors within the ship, and knife fights, in the middle of the night; stabbing and cutting one’s throat. You never quite knew what was real or unreal.
“He would tell me about the South Seas, that all those whales they captured and brought back, their oil supplied Nantucket with fuel for lamps, and therefore illuminated the night, and as for the baleen that is around the whale’s mouth, it was sold and used for women’s corsets, hairbrushes, buggy whips, such things that had previously never occurred to me. In his own world he was very smart.
“All in all, it was a lucrative business I gathered, made many a ports rich, he said, but I knew it was a rough and dangerous life.
“Now I will explain to you the story he told me prior to finding him on the beach, and I shall paraphrase him to the best of my ability:
“The crew and I, he said, took our boats, whaleboats, in pursuit of the objective, which was to harpoon the prey, he successfully speared his whale—not seeing the other two boats in sight, he figured they went after the other two whales, there was three spotted—and I knew in my heart we’d be treated to a …sleigh ride, meaning, that the whale was going to, and did, drag the hunters in that little boat, through the sea, as if on a safari. Then he went onto say, we lost sight of the ship, and as it turned to crash (the whale) us, I escaped, that being after five-hours of drudgery, in the open sea with a mad whale, that was spouting blood, and the mother ship nowhere in sight. It was late, perhaps 9:00 p.m., and he was left adrift. He claimed the whale was a big one, you know, like that Moby Dick, story Melville wrote back in ’51. He said it would have produced a lot of blubber to boil down to oil. He said the whale would have brought some 300-barrols of material; when a normal whale brings in about 150. I think with Gideon, you have to sort out the truth, from fiction.
“Let me continue, the whale was a mile off, it was one huge whale, as I just mentioned, and when we got close to it, or near enough for me to harpoon it, our blood was stirring with eagerness, wherewith to fill the ship’s galley, and hold with whale oil galore.
“We headed after one of the three, I was the oarsman, I held them at a peak, I rose he said, and plunged the harpoon into its flesh, and I did make his spout blood that was when he turned about, turned into us most furiously. The boat spun tossing us all into the air.
“The other two loose boats may have returned to the ship, I never knew.

The Confession
((End Chapters) (not a letter))

“Now I must tell you face to face the hardest truth you will ever endure, and likewise, myself, one I did not write in the book, one I was not going to tell you.
“One afternoon, when the sun was going down, I saw your father, Gideon Asa Scott, standing drunk outside a door of an Inn, in Nantucket; it was in October, of 1853. He had but to lift his eyes, and there I was plainly to be seen, though for him in his drunken stupor, miles away, perhaps with the sunshine brightening on some tropical island.
“And what did he have to say, “Where is the Amoral-Mather,” a ship he was waiting for, the captain’s name being Amoral, and he, like myself, adored Cotton Mather and his works, so he named his ship that. You see he had been on Nantucket for three months; and was only at sea for three months. Some of my good friends, such as Dorothea, a long time friend, was seeing him, he was staying with her. He thought I was her at first, after he called out the name of the ship. Then he recognized me, and was quite uncomfortable, we walked up the hill past the church, to the old meeting house, along the hillside, I love those long and gentle slopes.
“The night was not populous, no one congregated at the meeting house—it was built in the late 1600s, I leaned against the fence, and it broke, and so we moved farther down and leaned on a different section—I had picked up a piece of wood to fiddle with, almost unconsciously. In short, we were having a moderate conversation; his face seemed like always, to be made of stone. He listened, but didn’t hear, he was more a work of nature, than a human being, I dare to say. (Judith looks at her mother puzzled, as if to say, what is all this, where is she going with all this; her mother is starting to tremble.)
“For a while—within the perfectly still night, not a neighbour about, he was in a good mood, there appeared a short lived majestic playfulness in him, then abruptly, he wanted to leave, and I knew where to, Dorthea’s house, and when the Amoral-Mather came in, then back out to sea.
“His back was to me, I remembered now, I had picked up a thin piece of wood from the broken part of the fence, it was old dried up wood, sharp at the tip like a knife, a small harpoon to my mind at the time, grey with age, about five inches long, he was just the proper distance, precisely to stab, as if he was the whale himself, he seemed to me as an enormous giant standing in front of me with his back—a human Moby Dick, as if shunning me, overlooking me as being insufficient. The reason he did not want to make love to me was that I was showing with child, you Judith. I was the talk of Nantucket, that was one reason, I did not want to leave the island, and why I did not want to go to Stockbridge until you got older, so I could tell them my husband was a sailor, and died in the course of his duties on a ship. Matter of fact, I knew the story so well of how he swam for hours in the open sea, that I was going to tell that story, with a few amendments.
“In any case, he and I were no longer a happy lot, I said to myself at that moment: it seemed unfair, positively unfair for him to be alive and do what he felt like doing and having no regard for anyone else’s feelings, that he could hurt at will, and have no penance to pay; he was guilt free: his whole being, just illuminated the clouds over my head with black vapour, I could only think of retribution, and not allow him to glorify the devil and his works any longer, infusing no more tenderness into my life, or anyone’s life for that matter. So I leaped forward, and with all my force, plunged the danger like object through the midsection of his back, I thrust the piece of wood into him, like Abraham was going to do to Isaac, but I did it.”

“Mother,” said Judith, with an even toned voice, while her mother let out a great long sigh of relief, “what did he cry out to the authorities?”
“My dear, you’re not dreadfully angry with me, your countenance says you’re not?” asked Amelia.
Eagerly inquired Judith the second time, “Please tell me what his words were, his last words?”
“Well, ok, the authorities said it sounded like the “Amoral-Mather,” but I was there, I had left and someone found him, and on his dying bed, I had to return, caught or not, and he said, ‘Amelia, murderer!’ but the words were slurred, they came out distorted, and the authorities could not believe such words would come out of his mouth I suppose so it was overlooked, but Dorothea knew what he had said, she was there before me, but she did not disclose my name, in fear of whatever, perhaps, shame for her, or our old friendship, to be mended—I mean dead is dead, and he was no more to her, than she was to him, a think to be used, they both complimented each other’s needs. Whatever the case, it was affirmed and documented as a matter of a deadly assault, and the weapon was gone, I took the piece of wood, and no one was the wiser, they figured he may even have fallen down drunk against the fence, and staggered to and fro, and the fence unintentionally killed him. So there were a few theories, but they went along with the first because he was a short distance away from the cracked part of the fence. But the case was never persuaded beyond that”

†

Judith’s Curiosity

“What did you think mother, after you killed him?” asked Judith.
“By the time I came to, out of some hasty fog, I found myself looking at a poor almost dead old man, much older looking than the time he spent earth, and who was going buried him once he did die, because he hadn’t died yet; perhaps the church or state: and the strangest part of the whole thing was, that his mammon, or his means to survival, which interwoven into his body and spirit, his very existence, had disappeared before me, his death was leaving nothing of him but residue on the walk, as I said, he was old before his time, wrinkled with yellow skin. Melting away in front of me, there was no longer a striking resemblance of the heroic man I thought I knew, betwixt, the ignoble features of this sailor and that majestic glow that was under his eyelid, when he first saw me, was gone, I was although magnificently curious about his face, a mountain of a face, the longer I looked at it, it ceased to honour himself. Who will now honour him in our lifetime I asked me, not me, nor you, nor Dorothea, nor the sailors on the ship, they will drink a toast to him, and say once and for all, farewell. And quietly be consigned to forgetfulness. I will be the only one, and perhaps you Judith, that once in a while will think of him,
“Whatever he was noted for in life, history will not remember him or it, that is what I thought, when I stood over this war-worn veteran, infirmed with age, weary of life’s turmoil, no purpose of returning to life once expired, even if given a chance. As I approached him, looked over him, bent to see his hands and back and neck and profile, beseeching a blessing on the good things he did, so maybe he will be sent to limbo, to right his wrongs, I felt next to anxiousness to get away. I knew soon after, people would congregate about this happening, call it a grand and awful thing…
“He never stepped aside for anyone or from his own path for anyone, but I still wanted my blessing to reach him.”
•

“In answer to your question mother: it’s a good story, but so very old though, that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited the island, the forefathers, you might say, would never take it seriously. I’d rather believe he was the noblest personage of his time, who got lost at sea, doing his duty—thus, this concludes mother my curiosity, so let’s finish tea.”

Afterward (Narrator): Of her (Miss Amelia Cleland) selected collection of strange, rare letters she saved for twenty years, forbidding her daughter to see them, on subjects of her relationship with Gideon Asa Scott, I’d be glad to share more, enough to have you hate them both, but I have a responsibility to a certain sense, not to drag a bundle of nerves like they both had down to a madness, although I shall slip in a few things that took place after the letters were read, and a few years passed.
I tell you, you can’t imagine what the feeling was for good ole Gideon, laying on the ground half drunk, with a five inch knife, an item sharp as a knife, a piece of wood stuck in you, puncturing a lung. I promised my wife to keep you informed over the letters, but to only share the necessary ones, ‘…enough is enough,’ she said, we don’t have to reach the center of the earth you know, with gore. Because in truth, she stuck him several times in the back, she had no remorse, and as you know, her daughter, is much like the mother, to a certain degree. Therefore if I seemed desperately anxious to close this case, it is because my wife when it comes to gory things, she can be inflexible, obdurate.
As this can be remembered, for what it is, though I no longer know exactly, I pieced this story together when I was in Stockbridge, and Nantucket, in 1999, and rewrote it recently, did some research, heard the beginnings of a story, and had to imagine how it ended, and had to fill in the gaps. Oh it is all mine, don’t get me wrong, but much truth interwoven in it.
The story was all discolored from age, and the gravestone that bears Gideon’s name was likewise.
In the lone silence of those long nights after Amelia told her daughter the true story, Judith’s mind conceived the most ghastly fantasies and illusions, nightmares, and even in her room made a grotesque shrine to her father. It was all too much for her, consequently she lived in a shadowy world thereafter, lurking in the dark halls at night; constantly consulting her time piece.
“What are you hearing Judith?” asked Amelia one evening, as she noticed her daughter talking to herself (1875); she said “I’m hearing a voice; it seems to be my father’s.”
“And…” Amelia asked “what did the voice inquire?”
“To be left in alone, in peace, that you were back down to the cemetery, and you pulled back the slab of concrete over his tomb, he said, there was nothing else you could do to him, that he did not want to talk to you so he came to me, to tell you to leave him be.”

She kept on hearing that voice, it was deep and hollow, awakening, remote and unearthly, inhuman, what more can I say, it was a dead man’s voice. And Amelia would not listen to Judith’s request, made via Gideon, and Judith, was experiencing a petrified life, and the haunting voice of her father. Thus, one evening she committed suicide, I need not say how, that is the gory part, the part my wife doesn’t care to see in this story. Perhaps it was Gideon’s revenge on Amelia. And all I know beyond that is she lived to a very old age, and alone, some times screaming for Gideon to talk to her, and sometimes pleading Judith to do the same, but all she got was silence.

Written in Lima, Peru, 4, 5 and 6 of February, 2009

Poetic Review on: Phillip Ellis, Macabre Poet of Australia

2009-02-01T20:06:00.000-08:00

Poetic Review on: Phillip Ellis, Macabre Poet of Australia

Although best known in Australia, for his eldritch style poetic voice, Phillip Ellis (whom now is becoming international), is by nature and choice, a true young poet; he shows us the transcendent world, as did Edgar Allen Poe, in his poetry, and uses imagery like George Sterling. Some of his poetry, superb verse, is in line with Robert E. Howard, whom to me was a better poet than a novelist. I have read in these past three or four years much of his poetry, and the omnibus collection he has recently published “The Flayed Man,” I am waiting eagerly to receive in the mail to read: which I’m sure will become in time a classic in its genre, and sought after for its First Edition series. He might be considered a parallel to Clark A. Smith, Samuel Loveman, or H.P. Lovecraft (or all three), in that, he steps into the science fiction and fantasy world of verse, to metaphysical and psychological depths. Here he mixes the world of the hopeless with the world on its way to hopelessness. He shows us what is left to be exposed, graphed and investigated. Once read, ultimate beauty can be found, along with haunting, and profoundly pessimism dragged to the dark side of the conqueror. Much of his poetry lingers in the macabre: thus, here one can find the timeless gift of restless poetic moments. He is not for everyone, but surely is for the selected readers of this class, that has an immortal romantic path.

Perhaps the end product of Mr. Ellis’ poetry might be put this way: he offers the reader compelling thoughts on his world, society, and philosophy, and once read they are hard to be dismissed.

Lin Carter: Science Fiction Writer (Overview, and Review)

2009-01-27T21:48:00.000-08:00

Lin Carter:
Science Fiction Writer
(Overview and Review)

Here was a man who lived to write, I mean, and I really mean, he lived to write, and did he write, yes indeed, he wrote about 115-books (plus three chapbooks), and his style was that of his hero writers such as Edger Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, Clark A. Smith and L. Sprague de Camp. And he loved himself, so he put himself in his books, why not, if you don’t love yourself, who will? Not a bad group to have for his genre company.
In pure volume, he perhaps has out-written all of those writers combined, I just mentioned (I know ERB wrote about 80-books himself). Some folks would not agree to his quality of writings, but then if they liked the authors I just mentioned above, well, Carter can’t be too far off.
He died at 57-years old, had oral cancer for a while, got therapy, and got the cancer back, but now with alcoholism, yes he had the monkey on his back.
He attended one of the noble universities in the United States, Columbia, and was a war veteran of Korea, not a bad combination, rather good I’d say. He belonged to many a Science Fiction clubs, or groups, which seemed to keep him busy, and perhaps his wife. Born in 1930, died in 1988; actually, prior to his first book, in 1965, which was “The Wizard of Lemuria,” which he rewrote in 1969, a thicker book, with a longer title: In addition, he wrote three chapbooks prior, the third being in 1959, called “A Letter to Judith.”
Of his many books, he finished Howard’s tales on Conan, and in 1975, had a book of poetry released. I don’t want to judge this man on his writings, and there is a reason for that, and there has been many who have, negatively so, saying he was a copycat, and that he had dull plots, and so forth.
Pushing this all aside, I think the problem was, he didn’t care to be an original, he just wanted to jump into space and off he went, and if Burroughs or Howard or H.P. wanted to come along (in his mind) well, all the better.

Incidentally, to my understanding, he had 15,000 books in his library, that to me is a bookstore.

The Demon Lover (A Poetic dialogue between a demon and his lover)

2009-01-23T18:34:00.000-08:00

The Demon Lover
((A Poetic dialogue between a demon and his lover) (witticism at its best))

In their apartment, in ‘Times Square,’ NY, NY

I.

A woman wailing, “No—not a bit bad!” she exclaims.
“Not bad at all—d’you think?” she adds.
“Rather good,” said the demon.
“What time did you say it was?” she asks.

((His eyes tapering—hideous like) (expressing dim
displeasure.))

“Seems I’d said something wrong?” barked the woman.
Said the demon, in a hoarse like voice, “Can’t you
try to concentrate?”
“You bore me to tears,” murmured the demon lover.

II.

The demon, bobbling his head up and down,
back and forth, doing a double-take on that note,
says (with a solid firm tone to his voice)
“What did you say?”

(The lover is fixing her hair, painting her claws;
overlooking his statement, for the moment.)

“I told you already,” she says (bright eyed), you
should have written it down.”
The demon (a noble aesthete) “We never pass out
we just keep going on and on…!”
“I bet,” says the lover, “you think your endurance
is impressive? That’s particularly silly, when you’re a
dead duck! You boast too much, and lay about like
a tank, roll under the table, where you belong.”

“I’m going to the theater,” says the lover.
“Why?” says the demon.
“Here I can’t do any deep thinking! Plus you need
to learn the thing you’re making love to is a woman!”
“My god,” says the demon “is that what it is.”
“I’m tired of you,” she tells the demon, annoyingly.

The demon, as though talking to him, himself that is,
says: “I think after the next round, I’ll go to a musical
comedy.”
“I heard that,” said the lover, “that is your kind of
intellectual libretto.”

Now you could hear the demon groan and grunt,
“You are,” said the demon lover, “a dull meaningless
figure in a dull meaningless world.”

III.

The Demon: “Sex isn’t dull!”
“In itself it is,” she explains, “it does although, make
life more playful!”
The Demon: “Good show baby, you love it!”
“On the contrary,” says the lover, “it’s a lot of work
especially for me with you! You give it a purpose,
otherwise it couldn’t stand on its own.”

“Well,” said the demon, inhaling the unpleasant
atmosphere “in any case, I’m a pragmatist and so
grant a poor demon a… a little you know what?
Matter-of-fact, if everyone believed in what you
say, we’d be out of business.”

“I suppose so,” said the demon lover, “and to anguish
with conventional morality, we’re all borderline heretics anyhow, and you think you’re so sophisticated.
We don’t need demons to teach us this
rot, if anything, it’s our gift to you…!”
“How can that be, I don’t even know what that all
means,” said the demon.
“If only people really knew, how dumb you really are,
they’d not put so much value in your, demur.”

(Here then, came a knock on the apartment door, the tickets arrived for the musical and cinema theaters, and who know what might have gone on, and been said, had they not arrived.)

1-23-2009 (No: 2557)

Late Train to Haguenau ((France, 1974)(Italian Mofia murder squad))

2009-01-14T19:58:00.000-08:00

Late Train to Haguenau
((France, 1974) (Italian mafia murder squad))

Advance: In a Bar in Strasbourg I met a man, and he gave me his card it read “Gun for Hire,” and I almost laughed, until he said, “It’s for real, if you got the money.”
I would find out in time he was part of the Italian mafia murder squad, that had ties with the CIA, in the context of various assignations. Some of this activity was linked to the 1975, Rockefeller Commission cover-up; there was also during these trying days, something called the CIA’s Castro-capers, which involved three high ranking assassinations, along with miscellaneous murders,
In 1975 Charles Ashman was a Los Angeles-based late-night talk show host on syndicated television, and I watched him, but the shows were always old, because we got them in Germany, and they played the following day. I remember he had written many books; books to capture the topical interests of the masses of the day. If anything, they were more interesting than the newspapers I remember. He talked about the mafia, and to my recollection, was in fear for his life by the mafia, also I remember him showing pictures of gangsters of that day, I follower it half-hazardly.

Sam Giancana, a gangster by a few other nicknames, was shot dead, shot a half dozen times in the head and body, June 19, 1975, in Oak Park Illinois, he was the one time leader of the Chicago Outfit (for about 9-years in the 50s and 60s); he liked cigars. And had a long criminal career, and was going to spill the beans to the Senate Committee Investigation, going on at that time on Crime, that might expose the CIA and the Mafia, dealings with the assignations of the Kennedy’s and Martin Luther King. His offshore casinos (in Iran, South America and France) were seized, and taken over by another mafia boss. Around this time he moved into a lavish villa in Cuernavaca, Mexico, where he lived for several years until the Mexican government forced him out, and shipped him back to America, but that is all known history, you are about to read what is unknown, on the train to Haguenau, in 1974.

The Story

He was the same man, I told myself, the one I met in Strasbourg, the one that sat at the bar on a stool, near me, not too near me, but near enough to talk to me and for me to hear him without difficulty. He was in his sixties I believe, but looked more in his late forties. He wore one of those panama hats, white with thick black trim. His suite was dark, pressed, and he had a thin light tie on. Dark glasses,
“Can I buy you a drink?” he said, friendly like.
“Sure,” I said, and smiled.
“Where you headed for?” he asked.
“Haguenau?” I said.
“Haguenau, what in heavens name is there?” he replied.
“Perhaps nothing, but I got mad at the waiter out on the pier where the outside cafes are, that area, and I got mad at a French waiter: are all French people so rude, they’d not let me sit at the table with my sandwich, told me to move, and I should have beat the day-lights out of him but, I didn’t.”
“You look like a soldier, American soldier, right?”
“Yes,” I replied, “on a long weekend with my twin boys, they’re sitting over there at the table drinking a coke.”
He turned about, took a look, “Twins you say, how old?”
“Four years old,” I answered.
“So you got real mad at that guy, haw?” said the stranger.
“I suppose so, why?” then the stranger lit a cigar, blew some smoke in my direction, smiled, pulled out a calling card, it read, “Sam the Cigar,” and in brackets, (gun for hire), I started to laugh, but held it back, and he said with a different tone of voice now,
“It’s for real, but I use it for a joke now and then, but if you could afford me, would you?”
I smiled didn’t really know what to say.
“Got to go,” I told Sam the Cigar, man, and he waived at my two boys as we walked out onto the platform where the trains was waiting. I had tickets to Haguenau, and we sat huddled on one side, inside of a cramped train car, it was more like a second or third class. Several women were about, it was 4:00 PM, we figured we’d get into Haguenau late, about eight or nine o’clock, depending on how many stops the train would make.

About halfway to Haguenau, a woman who was near us asked,
“I see you are going to Haguenau, an American soldier stationed in Germany, is that right?”
“Yes I said, and my two boys, Cody and Shawn, they’re going also.”
“We’ll, by the time you get to Haguenau, it will be late, and the hotels will be shut down, closed. They lock the doors early there. Incidental, I work for the museum there. Your children will be hungry, and so forth.”
“Yes,” I said, and then wondered why she said what she said, and she looked me in the face—somewhat sternly yet concerned for the boys I think, I was twenty-seven years old at the time.
“I know a hotel, my friends own it, and they’ll be glad to take care of you, I’ll bring you there when the train stops in Haguenau, if that is ok with you.”
“Oh yes,” I said in reply (trying not to show my apprehensiveness, but not wanting to lose the opportunity of her goodwill should I need it), “that’s more than ok…” I added to the comment, and I didn’t quite know what else to say, I was mad at all the French people because the waiter had the nerve to kick me and my boys out of the café area in Strasbourg, but I guess she was making up for his bad behaviour. I had told her point-blank, I had intentions of staying in Strasbourg, but was to angry to, so I simply bought tickets to wherever the train went in France, to be able to say, I was in France (it would be my first trip to France, in later years I’d come back four times, but never back to Haguenau), and they said next stop was Haguenau, that is, a city with a hotel in it (the township had perhaps some 20,000 to 25,000-inhabitants).

The train stopped, it was 8:30 PM, and the kind French lady, who spoke some English, slurred and broken, took me and my boys to the hotel. It was locked as she said it would be, and she knocked hard on the door, someone came and looked though the peephole of the door, they saw her, and opened the door,
“These are my friends,” she said to the owner in French, “and also friends of Sam the Cigar, if you know what I mean, take care of them, ok?”
“No problem,” said the owner, and we walked into main room, it was more likened a three story house, with a small dinning area on the first floor to the left in a room, several folks were drinking and looked at me at a round table in the main room, and a stairway was to my left,
”You can have room 202, if that’s fine with you,” said the man, the proprietor, and the lady said, in French,
“Make sure they get something to eat.” But I didn’t quite understand it then, but I would later on. And she left.
“I’d like dinner for me and my boys brought to the room, please,” I told the owner.
“No dinner” he said, “all closed.”
I insisted, “My boys have to eat?” And he looked at his fellow men sitting at the table,
“You want beer?” he asked me.
“No,” I said, I’m tired, just something to eat.”
Then he said,
“Go to room 202, see you soon.”
And we did, and I did have a beer with the fellows just to show them I was ok by them, and sociable, prior to going to the room. Then I went to our room, and to my surprise we had a fine bottle of wine in a silver bucket with ice, and three large sandwiches of ham and cheese, on dark bread. The note read in English,
“Compliment of your friends and this hotel!”
In the morning we went to the park, there the boys played in the fountain, and there was this kind of rotunda, with pillars, they ran around it like little gothic knights. And we caught a train back to Augsburg, Germany at 1:00 PM.

1-14-2009

The Morning Rain (a Mystery story in Villa Rica, Peru)

2008-12-29T08:18:00.000-08:00

That Morning Rain
(The Mountain Girl from Villa Rica)

In the Valley of Villa Rica, there is a small Hamlet, a township of some 10,000-inhabitants, located in the Andes of Peru, the central region, on the edge of a Jungle. It is Coffee country, and there are a lot of plantations there. Mercedes, lives in the hill area, with her husband, Adelmo, they have a small adobe house, perhaps no more than three-hundred square feet. It rains there a lot, and the township is surrounded by mountains, and the mountains are green, full of foliage. The town has only one paved road, Main Street, all the rest are dirt roads, and Mercedes works for a plantation owner by the name of Herbert Sandoval, in the outer part of town by a stream, he lives with his wife Sara: the town’s priest is Father Sarmiento. Mercedes works in the household of Herbert, and sometimes accompanies him to the hillsides where his plantation is. There they also have a cottage for the caretaker.
Herbert, has three children, the oldest is twelve, Enrique, whom often seems to put self-interest before, compassion. The girl, Claudia, she is ten-years old, thinking and acting as if she’s going on fifteen; she is a tomboy, spoiled, and a little reckless. The younger child, is Daniel, a typical young squirt, always wanting his way, but perhaps the more tranquil of the three, the one who listens the most, and blackmails the other two older siblings, by threatening to tell their parents, this or that, if indeed he does not get his way, he gathers all the typical gossip kids like, and don’t know what to do with, because it is normally misunderstood.

(August, 2008) Mercedes, she is working in the yard, at the plantation’s cottage, Daniel is there, she’s watching him, babysitting in a way, for Sara; Mercedes husband is in Huancayo, and if she could have her way, that is where he’d have him stay—Oh, she loves him beyond reproach, beyond good senses, and he is abusive to her, perhaps because she drinks a lot, as he does, and when they are together, it is like two fires blowing in the wind, at each other.

She was just released from jail, for disorderly conduct, and was seen hanging around with the only black man in town, Patrick Lopez, a mixture of black, Mexican, and Peruvian blood.
They had painted the town red—as the old expression goes, and after her yelling and laughing and making all kinds of noise, Herbert Sandoval, came to her rescue, and bailed her out of jail, as he often has, matter-of-fact, Herbert’s wife, Sara, is a little upset because he seems to give her more consideration than her, and for a thirty-year old drunk, shapely and vicious, it is not appealing to her.
But as I was saying, Mercedes is at the cottage, with Daniel, she is a little tipsy, at the moment, had a bottle of whisky hidden in her underclothes, and every so often has went behind the cottage to have a snort.
“Mercedes,” calls Daniel, “a car is coming up the road, it looks like Father Sarmiento, and he’s with that poet and journalist, Apolinario,” but she simply continues drinking as if she didn’t hear but of course she did, Daniel is but a few feet away from here, Daniel adds, “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Of course I heard you,” says Mercedes, “can’t you see I’m busy?” (she takes the bottle of whisky, and swallows a big swallow, then grabs Daniel by the hand) “Ok boy, let’s go see what they want!”
A red truck pulls up to the edge of the road, the house is about three hundred feet from the dirt road, and Father Sarmiento can see Mercedes swaying in the morning wind, he knows she’s drunk, and he sees Daniel.
“You just never learn, do you Mercedes,” says the priest, then pushes her away from Daniel, as if to protect him from her drunken behavior, and she pushes him back, and he kicks her, and she falls down, and he kicks her in the face, and three teeth are broken, “I don’t know if it’s drugs or alcohol, or both, but you are a vegetable in the making, and you shouldn’t be in care of that young boy in your condition.” (He goes to kick her again, but Apolinario grabs the angry priest, says, “I think she got the message Father!”)
Life has not been fair with her, and she has up to now, tried three suicide attempts: once she tried to drawn herself in a lake, but it wasn’t deep enough, Wetland Lake, it was almost all dried up. The second attempt, she tried to hang herself on a banner tree, up in Herbert’s coffee plantation, on the upper plateau area, the branch was too weak to hold her, it broke, only to break the branch, and come tumbling back down, she did although have a headache for a spell. The third attempt, she ran in front of a car, it stopped in time, to be quite honest, not many folks have cars in Villa Rica, and most all streets are gravel roads, as I mentioned before, and to get the car over twenty-five miles an hour on any given street, is a task in itself.

♦

It is now September, 2008, and it is raining cats and dogs, and Mercedes’ belly is getting larger, everyone thinks it’s the black man, who got her pregnant, or at least that is the gossip in Villa Rica. She is at the household of her employer at this very moment, helping Sara with the dishes.
“Mrs. Sara,” says Mercedes, “have you heard anything about Adelmo being back in town, I heard he was this morning when I was cleaning up the backyard, your neighbor said he saw him at the bar last night?”
“I don’t drink, Mercedes, so I wouldn’t know.”
“But if he is, and me having this belly he’ll cut my throat!”
“Well,” said Sara, looking at her boy Daniel “we couldn’t have that, can we!” (Giving her a smirk.)
“Yaw mama, who’ll do all the work then, I hope not me!” says Daniel and runs out into the backroom.

(Evening) “I’ll take Mercedes home, Sara,” said Herbert.
“I suppose it’s because Adelmo might be in town?” replied Sara.
“Yes, that’s it in a nutshell, and he is in town, I saw him myself today walking aimlessly, half drunk down the sidewalks of town,” answered Herbert (Mercedes now trembling, thinking he’ll be lurking someplace around the house, come 3:00 a.m., with a butcher’ knife.
Now Sara had finished her dishes, and Herbert, left with Mercedes, taking her home. The rain was coming down lightly now, fog dropping in the township, and covering the nearby hills. It cooled the hot day making the evening comfortable for sleeping.

The Children want to go with their father, and so they at the last minute jump in the back of his truck, and now Mercedes and Herbert are in the front seat, says Mercedes to Herbert, “You best just drop me off, and get out of sight, I’m afraid once he sees my belly, and I suppose, gossip has told him it was Patrick Lopez, he’ll be coming to cut my throat for sure.
Herbert couldn’t control his tongue, his curiosity, said with a hoarse throat, “Is he the father?”
“I wish he was,” she said then looked out the window, “I suppose it’ll rain all night, and in the morning again, your coffee plants are getting it’s full of rainwater.” She commented.

“I don’t think Adelmo ever cheated on you, did he?” asked Herbert.
“No, and if he did I’d cut his throat, so I can’t blame him any, can I?” replied Mercedes.
Herbert didn’t know what to say, matter-of-fact, he wished he had never said what he did say, he never expected such an answer, then said; I mean, she was near, if not almost ready for him to do her in.
By the time they got to Mercedes’ shack, it was dark, and she quickly went into the hut, lit a kerosene lamp, started to cook hot water for coffee, she knew Herbert like coffee hot, black and with lots of sugar, especially his coffee beans from his coffee plants, and she had some.

“I hope Adelmo don’t kill her,” said Daniel to his brother and sister, I mean, I like her, and whose going to watch me when…” before he could finish his statement, Claudia spoke, “Who wants to raise a black child anyway?”
Said Enrique, indifferent, “Does it really matter, I mean, we all just goin’ to do what we normally do with or without her.”
There wasn’t an ounce of anxiety, in the children, perhaps some ignorance, in what was happening, taking place.
“It’s kind of dark here Enrique, isn’t it,” says Claudia, a tinge scared, a foggy gibbous moon overhead, as she walked by the side of the shanty, and Enrique and Daniel behind her.

Mercedes has left the door open, and Claudia can hear her talking to her father, she’s drinking down shot after shot of whisky, as Herbert listens to her yell about how she’d kill the child of any woman whoever would dare to give birth to a child of her husband’s, and kill him likewise, because he got her pregnant in the first place. Perhaps justifying what she was feeling would happen to her once Herbert left and Adelmo come to the house. At this point, Herbert is unsure of what to do or say, it is out of his hands he feels, as she feels also.
Herbert and the children leave, and in the morning rain, Mercedes walks to work, and as time goes by, several days, Herbert drives her home each night, and Sara is forming some hidden anger on this matter.

On and about the tenth day, that Adelmo has been in town, Mercedes at about 3: 00 a.m., hears sounds outside her hut, and she goes to investigate, she is never seen of again, thereafter. Three days passes and Adelmo is spotted walking the streets of Villa Rica, and is picked up for questioning on the disappearance of his wife.
The following morning, during a light rain—the forth day—Adelmo is picked up for the second time, now for suspicion of murder, Herbert assuming it was a dirty deed, evil he did, and thus called the police and was jailed.
Adelmo agrees he has been out to the hut each night, ready to kill her but he didn’t and although he might have, she wasn’t there the evening before, for him to kill her anyhow. But no one believes him, until his lawyer, Joseph Dudley, an American-Peruvian living in Villa Rica, brings up the question, “Where is Father Sarmiento?” indicating he and Mercedes must have ran off, that she was his mistress. True or not he found the needle in the haystack that cleared Adelmo’s name.

Several months later, Father Sarmiento, was found dead, and buried in a small town called Huacrapuquio, buried in a shallow grave, alongside a new street the townsfolk’s were excavating, Adelmo’s hometown matter-of-fact, of 3600-inhabitants, a township where at one time, it was a terrorist haven, but Adelmo was no where to be found to answer the police inquire into this mysterious investigation. Incidentally, they never found Mercedes, but they found her shoe, it was alongside Sarmiento, in his gravesite.

Written 12-28-2008 (Written in Lima, Peru)

Cleaver Snakes (from the book: "The Jumping Snakes of Bosina")

2008-07-22T09:58:00.000-07:00

Cleaver Snakes!

The old man, as he was called, Mr. Goose, being his proper name, had noticed the snakes had a higher quality of skills during the last twelve months, prior to his end date for his quest to be completed; skills in escape procedures, and although you are aware of all this I shall entertain you with one example, story or call it a sketch, one indeed, and one most flustering for him during that last trying year, so you good reader will be aware of the situation at hand, the problem he was facing, for this of course is but one example, and there are 365-days to a year, and the old man faced many similar to this one, the closer he got to the completion of his final fifth year, the day of—what he called, the snake eater called, his day of triumph, conquest, or perhaps wrecking.

The old man followed a medium size, if not smaller size poskok, into the woods, it was on the roadside kind of daydreaming, he got a peripheral view of it, and it dashed off, as they had been doing recently, and in a way almost challenging him. But he was implacably patient, and followed the snake step by step, into the wooded area, and the snake simply moved quickly away, once he, Mr. Goose, got too close, thus, the snake shifted as quick as a blink of an eye, and blended into the autumn leaves, where it was unseeable for the most part.
The old man shouted curses at the snake, something he usually didn’t do, and as he advanced slowly only to witness the snake slid off and over several logs, keeping his distance from him, slid over old decaying trees, and tree stumps, this sliding was incorporated with its leaping ability, it also slid under several branches of tress laying about, until the and man got tired, then somehow the old man got the snake in a corner of two tress, huddled between them—and he thought he had the snake for certain, but the snake coiled itself, and spun and leaped as if in a karate jump, and whirled across the old man’s path, and the old man tried to grab him, but couldn’t, and so he approached gradually again (black birds perched on branches overhead were even amazed that this one snake was so watchful of every move the old man made—glaring eyes they had—as they watched the snake out- maneuver the old man).
The old man moved his hands wildly to distract the viper, but the snake soared past him in one giant leap again, and then in long leaps and bounds the snake was too far in the distance for even the old man to see. Yet again the old man followed him, went in the direction of where he had seen the snake descend from its last leap.

(I guess it is fair to say, all the snakes were becoming as skilled as this one, and all the old man could do, is what he did do, stand there with out flung out arms in the air, brooding. But it is not to say, the old man didn’t get his fell of snakes to eat, he just didn’t get as many as he used to, and it was less and less he captured as time went one.)

7-21-2008

(Revised, 7-2008) The Tale of the Mumping Serpents of Bosnia

2008-07-20T21:48:00.000-07:00

The Tale of the Jumping Serpents of Bosnia

Legend of the: Poskok (Vipera ammodytes)
A tale for all ages!

By Three Time Poet Laureate,

Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, “Antena Regional”: The best writer for 2006 for promoting culture (in Poetry & Prose)

A Few Illustrations by the Author (in Poetic Prose)
Copyright © by Dennis L. Siluk
The Tale of the Jumping Snakes of Bosnia
Legend of the: Poskok (Vipera ammodytes)

Recent Awards of:
Dennis L. Siluk

Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by
Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma (of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture
Poet Laureate of San Jeronimo de Tunan, Peru (2005); and the
Mantaro Valley (8-2007) (Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006))
Lic. Dennis L. Siluk, awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalist College of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment
On November 26, 2007, Lic. Dennis L. Siluk was nominated, Poet Laureate of Cerro de Pasco and received recognition as an Illustrious Visitor of the City of Cerro de Pasco, and Huayllay
“Union” Mathematic School (Huancayo, Peru), Honor to the Merit to: Lic. (Ed.D.) Dennis Lee Siluk, (Awarded) Poet and Writer Excellence 2007, for contributing to the culture and regional identity, Huancayo. December 1, 2007, Signed: Pedro Guillen, Director

The Sociologist School of Peru, Central Region granted to
Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, Writer Laureate for his professional contribution in the social interaction of the towns and rescue of their identity. Huancayo December 6, 2007 —Lic. Juan Condori –Senior Member of the Sociologist School

The Association of Broadcaster of the Central Region, of Peru, nominated Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Member for his works done on the Central Region of Peru; in addition, the Mayor of Huancayo, Freddy Arana Velarde, gave Dr. Siluk, ‘Reconocimiento de Honor,’ and ‘Personaje Ilustre…’ status (December, 2007).

El Instituto Cultural Peruano Norteamericano Región Centro otorga el presente: “Diploma de Honor”, Al Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk por su valiosa contribución a la difusión de los valores culturales andinos. Huancayo – Peru, diciembre 28, of 2007Directora de Cultura Diana V. Casas R. and Alfonso Velit Núñez
Presidente del Consejo Directivo

For: Rosa (my wife), Elsie T. Siluk (my mother),
and Ximena Herrera. (my Godchild)

Father Manuel Rodriguez of Lima (T.V. Evangelist) & Dennis meet
for the second time during a visitation, And Prayer meeting in San
Juan de Mira Flores, Lima. 6/2008

Poet and storyteller Garrison Keillor, and Poet and storyteller Dennis Siluk
meet at the World Theatre in St. Paul, Minnesota, USA 2/ 2005

Of Olden Times
(Advance to the story)

It was before the first noble monarch ruled Bosnia (and Herzegovina), Ban Kulin (1180 AD)—during what was known as Medieval Bosnia (958-1463) this story takes place; a time when cold snowy winters plagued this mountainous land with bluish-purple, violent crosswinds coming from the Adriatic by way of the Mediterranean Sea, when the lands had hellish terrain for its people to crossover, such as the Dinaric Alps, and the beautiful Drina River, which flows endlessly through villages and towns, in Eastern Bosnia, surrounded by hills and mountains, and the Neretva River, which flows in the south into the Adriatic: here the Dinarides provide shelter to the old ruins of fortresses that dot this mountainous landscape, at this point is where our story begins, and ends.
Some folks have said, the old Man, Mr. Goose, came down from Mount Zlatibor, after visiting a village area known as Sirogojno, perhaps he was doing business in that area before he came to King Mon’s Kingdom, no one knows for sure, but here he was a stranger surrounded by the Dinaric Alps, and the Adriatic sea to the south, and the woodlands in Eastern Bosnia, which was heavily forested along the river Drina, in-between all this was a kingdom ruling by the old Feudalism system; we know he passed through Gorazed, the folks of that village saw him, said he seemed shackled on some idea, paid them little attention, “Keep away from us,” the country folks yelped outside of the town, others asked, “What you aiming to do around here?” it was as if this old ugly man knew something they didn’t know. They say, blackbirds followed him, stretched out their wings, and swung, stooped and shuttered as he walked by, swaggering in the Bosnian sun…

Intro
Along the coast of the Adriatic Sea lives what now is called the “poskok,’ better known as the ‘Jumping Serpent’. These creatures are some five-feet long and to my understanding can jump some three feet in the air and leap some five-feet in any direction they wish, simply by aiming at whatever, wherever. But this didn’t happen by chance, this really and truly happened by necessity. And this is the tale you are about to hear, the ‘why,’ of it, how it came about. And to be quite honest, you will be the first to hear of it. It entails also Mr. Goose whom you have already been introduced to, slightly introduced to I should say.
The poskok has a macabre-hissing tone to its dynamic language, a hissing that bellows out fear, and out of fear and inborn aggressiveness, its impulses create a neurological reaction that makes it leap and jump. Again, the why of this will come out in the tale. But it is always prudent to know the background of things, and so I am equipped to share it with you. In addition to its poisonous bite, it has quite the temper, and at times it can look no different than a log or branch sitting by a tree, or alongside a lane or road, or within a dense forest laying next to rocks and decaying wood. And let us add to its natural abode in this narrative background: it prefers—if given a choice, the natural background of trunks of trees—to live amongst.

And now come and join me for my tale of tales, and think naught that there isn’t a feather of truth in this tale, for it would be ill-advised to think otherwise…:

The Poskok:

Once upon a time, several hundred years ago, or thereabouts, there were a multitude of snakes along the coast of the Adriatic Sea, and within the mountainous area thereof, in a land now called Bosnia. They grew the length of the men of those far-off days, in that far-off land. These snakes ((Poskok) (Vipera ammodytes)) were a reddish-brown in color and for the most part, quite clever; that is to say, a brainy kind of breed of a snake, with sharp fangs, which were quite poisonous; these snakes also being rather aggressive for the most part.
Along with living in the trunks of trees, in lack of a better home, and accommodations, and liking the sun, these snakes slept on the side of the roads to a high extent, where often times they chummed with one another—(figuratively speaking that is); looking like dried up old branches, logs and so forth— especially in the fall season (autumn)—laying over one another like little lions. But as winter came around, back into the trunks and holes of trees they’d find themselves. And when they’d see a passerby, especially during the long hot summers, they’d play possum [dead], and when a female—in particular, would be carrying water to the nearby village or to her country residence, and if they’d walk by them, they’d twist their bodies slowly and positioning themselves just right—after that, quicker than you could say ‘help’ they’d have their fangs, in one’s leg. And the water being fresh would feed, and quench, their thirst. It should be noted, because of their aggressive temperament, even on the best of days—the best of their days, it would be hard for them not to do their dirty deeds; they seemed to be simply born with an aggressive nature (character and personality).

—Well, this went on for quite a spell, yes, for the longest time, and one day, one sunlight hour, after hearing—year after year of hearing—people’s complaints (and I can add: criticisms, protests, moans and grumbles), the King of the area announced that whoever could rid the region of these nasty and evil serpents, he’d reward them by allowing them to marry his beautiful and youthful daughter. Ah yes, it was indeed a luring reward, and all within the kingdom’s province, wished they had such courage, if not skill, or perhaps even a spell to subdue these creatures with—to do this task, to receive this reward. But none came forward.

Fine, all is fare in love and war, so they say, thus, Mr. Goose, an old man from Croatia, whom I’ve introduced you to a while ago [eighty-two years old at the time], went to the little mountainous kingdom and spoke with King Mon about his reward to be, should he clear the land of these creepy-crawling type creatures that infested every nook, tree and, oh well, let’s just say, the whole landscape, would he be allowed to take—without question, his daughter, the princess.
Said the King, with a skeptical eye,
“It would take an army I fear to wipe these hills and mountains and the coastline of these aggressive, antagonistic evil doers that have taken, killed, eaten, over a thousand-lives, a thousand lives I say, from my kingdom, my kingdom’s past of which it has been some forty-years, to now; yes, yes without a doubt, how can one man expect to do this, it is beyond me? (plus the old king didn’t like his integrity questions, which the old man implied might be less than what he proclaimed.”
In a way, it would seem the king was giving up, had a loss of hope, despair, but he nonetheless, kept the reward posted throughout his kingdom, and assured his word was as good as gold, he was a king, but also a man of honor, what he said he meant, did, without question; he had integrity, and he implied he should not be questioned on this matter to Mr. Goose.

The Snake Killer of Bosnia

Mr. Goose, the Snake Eater

Said the old man (to the king), an old man who had an odd looking hunchback and legs that looked more animalistic than human with mammalian hairs sticking out all over the place, meaning, in all the openings of his pants, where threads were loose and dangling, likewise his shirt, which had holes in it, and on his face and arms; also inside his ears looked like a bird’s nest with all its hair, and his nose had hair sticking out of it, like thin short spaghetti; in addition, he had a wide mouth, that went almost from one ear to the other; a long pointed skull (tapering towards the back), and that is to say, a very long slant it had to it, with a brow that receded back to his prickly looking hair; and quite thin it was also, and a smirk on his face, that showed he had secrets, secrets beyond our imagination perhaps, and a thin, slim, small mustache, which blended into the rest of his hairy face, and a thin bone structure, big eyes and feet, everything patchy and hairy; his fingers and toes, they were as if claws from a hawk. He also had small ears and short legs for his torso, which was longer; in a way, everything above his shoulders looked similar to a goat almost, in human form. Plus his skin was thick like rawhide.
His receptors protected him from the toxic venoms of the snakes, embodied into his nervous system. Also, it should be added here, his agility and cunning, allowed him to capture snakes with little effort, and he was in his own way, witty and intelligent.
But here, here he stood, the old carnivorous gentleman, smiling with a long pause, and then simply said
(Ah! but said it keenly and sharply to the King :)
“I will take your daughter for my reward, as you promised afterward, should I accomplish the mission of course, but if you want to know how I shall do this feat, it will cost you your kingdom.”

The King

[How insolent thought the king] With a stiff upper lip, and eyebrow reaching into the air, the short and old stubby king, with his curly locks of golden hair dangling over his ears, and long golden beard, stood up in front of the beggar type looking man, who had a deep-set of eyes, big, yes big and confident eyes, that had a small and thin bridge separating them from what was called his nose but looked more like a reptilian type snout with simply two air holes—poked into his upper face, with only a small arch and slits to inhale though.
Said he, the King, said he with scorn on his cheekbones, stiff bones, perturbing bones—even through his fat:
“So be it, you will have my daughter, not my kingdom, should you achieve this task, this mission, and should you not, I advise you, you old coot, to be gone from these hills—far gone, for I will surely have you stripped and beaten to your last gulp of air, should you not accomplish this, simply for your absurd audacity to think so highly of yourself in front of me, and question my intention if not integrity.”
Ah yes, the king was feeling his oats indeed, sharp was his words, and weighty was his heart.

Inside the Castle Grounds

—There was no more to be said, the old man now had turned around and with his shifty looking dark eyes, ebony-eyes that resembled a rat’s intensity, he walked out and through the door, as strangely as he had walked in, almost silently, not looking any which way but straight.
Upon the door opening up, and the king still sitting at his grand throne, two soldiers came in with a huge eight-foot (poskok) snake to show the king their good deed, their catch of the day. They had its mouth tied shut with a rope, and carried it on a long heavy rounded polo. It must have weighed two-hundred pounds or more. As the two soldiers walked past the old man, the king started to stand up to get a good look at the snake, a closer look, a more deliberate kind of look—in the process, the serpent got a look at the old man’s eyes—it was the hiss from the mouth (the old man’s mouth), yes the mouth most certainly, like thunder erupting it was, or possibly like the sound from a volcano, the snake started hissing back, and struggling wildly, its back, head, mouth and through the whole length of the snake, all stiffened—a firm kind of restlessness engulfed the serpent; the closer the old man got to the snake, the more it hissed, stiffened and jumped as if out of some kind of uncontrollable neurological reaction—involuntary reaction.
As the old man now walked next to the snake, almost eye to eye, and shoulder to shoulder, although the snake did not have shoulders, but it did have sides, it, the poskok, was about to fly off that pole out of pure fright, right out of the two soldier’s mitts, trying to get free, trying to escape the old man’s presence. Matter of fact, the viper was so frantic, frenzied, hysterical the snake even started to eat the rope it was bound and tied securely with.

When the soldiers witnessed this, they dropped the pole, along with the bound snake onto the marble floor within the King’s throne room, as the King looked on, on towards the snake and the old man with one glance, a glance he had given the snake, and just one little glance towards the old man, he, the King noticed the fleeting look from the old man had frightened the snake, it was him indeed, thought the king, hence, he knew this man was extraordinary, and although he wanted to, he hesitated in mind and soul to stop this potential marriage right now and then, for he had no other recourses left, the old man was it—who else was there, should he not make the deal, in consequence, there’d be no kingdom to rule in time. And the princess need only wait, time would do the old man in, and she’d be free to remarry again.
As soon as the old man was out of the throne room, out beyond its door: out of sight, the snake regained its weakened composure back to its former self-controlled, pose—it had prior to seeing this old and deformed gentleman of sorts; tranquility, or call it peace, whatever, calm was restored.

For that reason, and beyond, that is, for five-years to follow, the deal was sealed; and now the old man would walk slowly up and down the paths, lanes, roads of the valley and mountains kingdom—to and fro daily; looking in every tree trunk and nook, walking the coast of the Adriatic, and combing miles and miles of forest land, areas within the vicinity of the King’s domain, wiping out all the snakes that he could find: he ate them, like an animal eating flesh, ripped them apart like a rat to a hen. It had come to a point, as it was said, that the area had over 10,000 snakes at one time, it had come to the point, at this juncture, that, that number was being dwindled down quickly.

Secretive Sounds
(The First Summer)

When he, the snake eater appeared in the land, especially within the vicinity of the kingdom, he brought with him his own secret affairs, as this one, which he was pursuing as quiet and secretive as the devil himself might do, and with devious hidden turns, and he made no concessions.
Mr. Goose, the snake eater, was quite the odd looking character also: un-winking, slightly bowlegged, eyes green as the forest in full bloom but stagnate as still water, his quest with vitality and vigor the first full summer.

The vipers, snakes, the poskok of Bosnia, were quiet now beneath the summer’s stars (the first summer for Mr. Goose, the snake eater, he had joyfully and with haste scrambled up the snakes of the land with his presence forcing them to hide or face termination, by way of a choppy death, and now they, the snakes, talked secretive, with minimal sounds, so as not to be detected by him), and beneath the summer’s moon, they gashed vaguely across the dark land of Bosnia, in fear of the old snake killer when night came, when they did not reach their nooks and logs they lived in, they found themselves slumbering beside the roadsides, and dark wood patches of the landscape, hoping not to be seen or heard by this snake eater, for even at night he crept through the denser growth of the forests, lowered his head, snorted into and murmured into the heavily oxidized air, as if into some invisible water, trying to get a sniff of the snakes. Had he heard even a whimper, with hope, this snarling impossible to hear beast of a man, if indeed he was a man, blundered out of his dark foliage like a wild beast to capture just one more viper, thus, disturbing the exquisite sad days they already lived in, to bring about extinction of their kind. In one summer alone, the first summer, the vipers went from ten-thousand to eight-thousand in number.

Seven Poskoks and the Old Man

(Year Two)

Mr. Goose, was an undomesticated kind of, someone, quick as a rabbit, and deadlier than a rattlesnake, and quiet as a dove; and I know you folks reading this, are somewhat aware of this, but I felt it needed repeating for this sketch where the old man, sees his seven prey, for as swift and keen as he be, he was no magical worker, he had to work hard at what he did, and what you are reading is what he did, and therefore we must give him some credit, if not recognition for his efforts, I mean, he is, or was not the most likable someone, anyone had ever met.
“Hmph,” he grunted looking at seven snakes, poskoks, -- in the thick of the woods, “I’ll eat you all, eat you like an axe grinder, like a feed chopper, if I can get to you”! He murmured.
For he was witnessing at this moment, several snakes rolling about on their bellies in the grass and leaves further up, in the woods, mischievously, playing with one another. His head, jerked into position, to size the situation up, his head shaped like a cast-iron, iron, teeth in a flashing arc ready to sweep and chop the snakes, but for the moment he needed to put them into a helpless position, to entangle their inevitable death, he knew they were not as quick and cunning as he, and being young, even more so.
He quietly snuck closer to his prey, his quarry to be, like a hammer his jaws tightened up, half turned, he grabbed one snake before any of them knew what happened, and looked for the next, while grinding away on the first one he just grabbed, his nostrils trembling for more of the tasty poskok meet; uneven, his eating emitted a digging sound.
He stomped his hoof like feet, stomped them like a bull into the soil, his neck thrust outward as to make room to swallow the meat, under his sunburned skin.
Then with a yelp, he said, “Let’s get going!” to the other six snakes, trying to move closer to grab another, but they started to roll over one another to get away, to get to the rear of the others, so they would not be selected, becoming the next victim.
He grabbed one more poskok, as the others, five others fled into the deeper part of the cool dark forest, for a refuge.

The Old man, cursed them from afar, stood on his hoof-like feet, like a cow’s, which separated into three flat like toes, square almost, and he transferred onto another path for a fair assumption and deliberation of the situation; thereafter, he plunged madly into his dugout, he was living in, sank back against the dirt wall, he looked into a mirror at his teeth, they were like wire cutters, yellowish wire cutters, his eyes rolling with anger, for allowing the other five to get away; but youthful snakes were of a more tender texture in eating, a more delightful dinner than a tough old snake, and so he simply justified the kill, marked it off as: what do you expect when eating a rich steak compared to dog meat, you lose interest in other things around you, perhaps like he did: because in his younger days, he could have grabbed all seven of them within a matter of a minute.
(Yes, he was disappointed in himself, although he prided himself that at his age, he shot like an arrow at those youthful snakes, and got two out of seven, which he had eaten them in a wild-eyed frenzy, then had allowed them to scramble their way to live another day, and perhaps only one more day.)

Night in the Dugout

That night, beneath a gibbous moon, the old man was now huddled in his dugout, in a corner of his one room, shadows, with phantom shapes rushed by the moon, he saw them from the corner of his hollow, lingering they were, until morning, thus, but one overlooking his dugout remained…and soon, in the morning Mr. Goose would rise to find the last of the haunting shadows had betaken its ghostly shape away into the mist of the dense woods, and here was no sound in the woods, save an acorn dropping off a tree, or an abrupt thudding he could hear by way of a down wind. The old man yawned like a huge wild cat, dreamy like, in anticipation for a new feast.

Infamous Hero

“Who are you looking for Mister?” Someone asked, and another said, “That’s the old snake eater!”
“Is he really?” said the first voice, “He sure is,” repeated the other.

Continuously the old man moved forward away from the country folks and their farms, and fields, back onto the dirt roads looking for the snakes, and occasionally back into the woods.

Princess in the Window

Meanwhile, during this second year of the Snake Eater’s task, the princess, unaltered by her potential marriage to the old man, nevertheless, as the days got closer towards the end of the second year, she did think about her losing her freedom after hearing about the good job Mr. Goose was doing; and the more she heard this good news, the more and longer she sat placidly on the sill in her bedroom window, looking down the lane he’d have to come up someday to get his reward, her hand in marriage, whereupon, he’d have to crossover the rampart, and into the courtyard. Then after a short while she’d again forget her fate and obligation that would follow—should he accomplish his mission, and pass her days doing what princesses normally do.

Came fall (or autumn)

In the fall, each fall of the following years, the old man worked even harder on looking for these troublesome snakes. The leaves, the abundance of leaves on the uncountable number of trees within this kingdom habitat, in the forest that grew along side the roads, that ran though the upper and bottom lands of the region (and near the castle-kingdom), these leaves, millions of leaves when they turned yellow, orange and red, fell from the trees, then they dried, and crackled and snapped under the heavy bellies of the snakes as they moved and the old man heard them, listened for them attentively. This really was his harvest time he learned; the fall season was his most prosperous time of the year. Along with listening, he checked under the logs themselves, the snakes almost blending into those logs and branches, blending into the landscape in general; for the common eye, not telling the difference between log, and snake at a quick glance, so he took his time in his search, shrewd he was, and he knew he needed to be, and he’d even tell the snakes, which irritated them,
“You can come with me now willingly, or by force later (laughing with his diabolic hiss).”
When the old man caught a snake, he was like a machine cutting firewood, an ax in automatic motion, chopping it apart, and gobbling it up, with his razor sharp teeth, as one would a good steak.

Yes, oh yes, indeed, there were only ten snakes left, almost genocide had taken place in this little kingdom, and these ten got together, and by way of necessity, inevitable you might say, started learning how to jump, and leap. They’d gathered by the waters, the lakes, the rivers, wherever they could and watched the frogs as they moved about, leaped, hurled, dive, then even watched the toads jump, lunge, and drop, all and any creature that skipped, hoped or jumped, they examined, watched closely, then by instinct, and need for continued existence, within a years time had learned how to leap some three feet in the air, and some five to seven feet in any direction—straight forward that is. As a result it was their way of escape from this flesh-eating human animal of sorts: the old man.

Along with this new acquired skill, and with the new younger generation being born, the elders tried to explain to them the value of learning, the jumps, and leaps, and the sounds they make in the fall leaves, and when spring came they got excited to play, but they learned as long as the old man was alive, it was not safe. And even in the winter they needed to be shrewd and conscientious where they went, they’d leave a trail in the snow, they were told, and this was not wise, the old man would follow it. In essence, they needed to be shrewder than the old man, if they wanted to survive, stay alive.
The elder snakes even reinforced the fact the new younger snakes needed to be wicked to the point not to let neither their minds or bodies decay in the winter, so they were swift in spring and summer, and light on their bellies; by and by, they absorbed all such learning.

—Four years had now gone by, and the old man was now eighty-six years old. His heart was tired, failing, and he wanted more than anything to leave a legacy behind—his legacy that is, but had one more year to keep the land free of these evil serpents, should he fail, he’d lose the beautiful bright-eyed young princess: and in his mind, this could not be tolerated, as the old expression goes, he’d lose ‘the goat and the rope,’ so careful he needed to be, astute, perceptive he needed to be, but this time with the king more so than the snakes.

As time passed, the old man found these ten snakes, all in different locations (not knowing of course they had offspring hidden away): some in trees, others alongside of the road playing dead, and others by the great waters of the sea, he’d go to grab them, and before he could touch them, they’d jump, leap right through his hands, right out of his fingers. The old man, you could see on his face a flavor of worried triumph.
Several leaps and the serpents were gone, out of sight. Well, this bothered the old man to extremes, but he knew if he kept the snakes hidden, and busy, he’d still get his reward, or could if he was deceptive enough, a little bit perhaps misleading. And play, consequently, as if nothing had happened—he’d continue to take part in this game, and the king would be no wiser; the end result, the old man kept walking the mountain paths—as all the villagers knew, as all the villagers saw him do, day after day after day—and word got back to the king all the roads were clean and clear of the snakes.
Yet, in checking out the trees, and road sides, he occasionally found a snake or two, but it again would leap out of his presence to safety (and again I say, no one had seen snakes for a long time now, no one that is but the old man, so the king was any the wiser to his charade). And slowly but surely the old man saw the number of snakes started to increase, but they were simply baby snakes, and the mothers kept them hidden from him for the most part, and he wanted to keep it that way, until after he received his reward that is; for he knew himself, his reflexes were not as they were a few years ago, and each year lacking more and more in the impulse reaction area; anyhow, slow they were, and with the leaping, it was impossible to catch them now; yet again, I must stress, in fear they’d become extinct all over again, they hid when they could, and jumped when they had to, or leaped to safety or some hidden area, should they become aware the old man was around.
And so again, I repeat, no one had seen them, and the snakes knew the old man was aging, and would not live forever, in consequence, if only they could out last him, out wait him—in many cases this is the only way to deal with such a menace as the old man, so the snakes concluded, and so they would out wait him. And in between now and his death, they hissed with laughter on finding a way to out smart the Old man. But as the old saying goes and the snakes did not know this saying, ‘He who laughs last, laughs longest.’

And now, the fifth-year had come and passed, the old man, had completed his task, his mission—and so, the old man went to the king to claim his reward. There in the throne room, he, Mr. Goose, stood in front of the king, telling him of his endeavors.
For the first time the princess burned with curiosity, eager to hear what the old man had to say. She leaned forward so she could see through a crack in the curtains in the throne room. At first her thoughts were thin at best, then thinking he could have accomplished the mission, she listened even closer, more attentive, her eyes closed upon hearing he did, and as the old man stared at the moving curtains, he mumbled:
“And for the love making, let’s hurry on with the wedding.”
He, Mr. Goose, was by no means, couth about the matter, rather quite blunt.

The King looking quite dreadful at his parting of his daughter gave her to the old man nonetheless— called over from behind the curtains, with not much to say, and brought forth a great celebration. The lovely twenty-year old princess was adorned with all kinds of flowers, and jewels and riches beyond imagination. And the party went on and on all night.

Surprisingly, during this time the king noticed that he, the old man had only eyes for the princess, his daughter, not the riches she possessed. Somehow that seemed to dignify the whole matter much more, in an ugly kind of way, that is. As the bride danced with the groom, all the young bucks looked on with disgust and envy, perhaps a little more envy than disgust. The princess although in dismay, said nothing, not a word to disgrace her father’s will, like a good daughter, she kissed her husband and bid good evening to the guests, as they went into their room to consummate the marriage.

The Princess

It was early evening and the moon that had been hidden behind clouds, emerged with a warm wind blowing through the castle bedroom window, and the old man now was about to seek his pleasures. There was the sound of music in the bedroom, blown under the bedroom doorway; it gently branched out, throughout the room—black shadows, raced to and fro, from corner to corner in the bedroom.
Heretofore, the love-making had tired the old man to where he was dosing off and on, starting to even snore, his arms underneath the back of his head, lying on his back, eyes closed, save, a little look at his new youthful, and beautiful bride, and wife, off and on, and more off than on as the night went on.

As the extraordinary evening went forward, the old man fell to sleep, and in the morn, the princess tried to wake her new husband up for breakfast, only to find him, lifeless, dead, deceased, departed. She was mortified, and yet relieved, she called quickly to her father, and he called for doctor and the guards. Word had gotten out quickly that the princess’ husband had heart-failure, and she would be in mourning. But the serpents in the area were refreshed by the news, and came out bravely, back onto the pathways, and around the trees and coastal areas with their young ones, almost as if to have a fiesta.

The king now seeing this new resurrection of the snakes didn’t know what to do, but it was not half as bad as it was five-years past, and figured he’d look for another man of same qualities, and tried to find the Goose family to no avail. Then, finding out his daughter was pregnant, he got thinking, possibly, just probably, whatever the qualities the old man had inside his genes, they might be in his blood line, thus, in his grandson to be [hoping it would be a boy].
“Awe,” he said with glowing and ghastly eyes, “sure,” he said to his daughter, “should she give birth to a son, he will be the tempest for the snakes.” (The king thinking, ‘All is fair in love and war.’)

The King’s Castle

And so the king and his kingdom all waited for the birth of the child.
—And then it happened, the ninth-month, third day, in the early morn, the sun had just risen: all waited outside the doorway to hear the baby’s cry, but there was no cry, yet a baby was born (with a loud hiss!). As the doctor looked at the child, he was flabbergasted; the child was horrifying to look at; hence, in all regards, in all the days of the doctor’s life, in every corner of his world, he had never seen such an hideous looking child; deformed, long thin hanging nose, bug-eyed creature; he was simply stunned, astonished, amazed, at its appearance he just shook his head, nodded his head back and forth as if to grab onto some sanity: it looked like a ferret, yet it had human form to it. It seemed the lobes to his brain extended outward, that is to say, pushed the skull like rubber to form an impression on his head, which had no hair. His eyes took up, one third of his face.
Thereof, the doctor remembered what the old man had looked like: comparing child to father—or perhaps using some imagination, comparing child to when the father was a child or might have been a child, or perhaps what he didn’t see of the father he imagined, and as a result, made his own comparisons; and now thinking of the king, he pondered on what to do, for the king and the kingdom.
He didn’t show the child to anyone, not a soul (although he told the king), and ordered all to stay away, that it had the plague; and needed to get the child out of the castle before an epidemic occurred; the king concurring, like-minded with everything he said. And during the late night took the child out of the kingdom, telling all concerned, the child could be contagious (which it did not have of course any such disease), should it touch anyone, it would only kill them only to look at it—figuratively speaking again. But who could understand such ugliness, and perhaps the princess would wanted to keep it. And so the doctor left the castle.
Soft were the dark shadows as he walked down the lane, into the forest, into the tall grass, stealthily past barns and houses and farms, and roads.
He, the doctor who cared now for the child, called the child ‘Mon-goose’, taking the king’s name and the father’s. And left it in the woods—neither one, never to returning to the castle; hence, the Mongoose was named and born.

In time the old snakes had died out, all but one, and the young snakes had now forgotten those trying years with the snake eater, the grim sights of him searching and stacking their parents. All this had been forgotten, until one day, one of the snakes, that elder snake, I just mentioned, perhaps the only one left of the bygone generation that lived through those trying days of Mr. Goose, saw a man, he looked like the old man Mr. Goose, resembled him, but more youthful, and the old snake said out loud (and other snakes nearby heard him, stiffened their bodies in horror),
“The snake eater is back!” or so he said, and all the other snakes wondered, questioned him, if he really saw what he thought he saw, and the old snake just prayed it was an illusion. And said not a word, if anything, he was hoping it was an automatic reaction, perhaps to post traumatic stress.

The Child Born

End of the Tale

Note by the author: a mongoose is a flesh eating animal, looking much like a ferret. It eats snakes, and snakes know when one is present by instinct.

Note: written 12/18/02 © by Dennis L. Siluk [at Barnes and Noble, Roseville, Minnesota, in the deli]; around, 8/2003 this story was picked up and used by the Croatian Education System in Europe. Now revised for descriptiveness, and reedited 1/2006 (put on a number of sites on the internet throughout the years (between 2004 & 2008; in July, 2008, it was reedited and rewritten from 2750 words to 4350); first time in book form. A Great Story for kids and on many their internet programs.

Apolinario Fermin Mayta, Poet, and Journalist;
With Mayor of Huancayo, and Poet Laureate,
Dr. Dennis L. Siluk (11/ 2007), receiving
Award for his Cultural Poetic Writings.

Back of Book

Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on:
www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.eldritchdark.com; www.swft/writings.html; www.abe.com; www.alibris.com; www.freearticles.com

Books by the Author

Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [1981]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1982]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Raphaim Giants

Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]
And other selected books

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib

The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery

Autobiographical

A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV

Romance:

Perhaps it’s Love
(Minnesota to Seattle)

Cold Kindness
(Dieburg, Germany)

The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:

Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]

Dracula’s Ghost
[And other peculiar stories]

The Mumbler [psychological]
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]

The Poetry of D.L. Siluk:

The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]

Last Autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]

Spell of the Andes [2005]
Peruvian Poems [2005]
Poetic Images Out of Peru [And other poems, 2006]
The Magic of the Avelinos
(Poems on the Mantaro Valley, book One; 2006)
The Road to Unishcoto
(Poems on the Mantaro Valley, Book Two, 2007)
The Poetry of Stone Forest (Cerro de Pasco, 2007)

Cradled with the Devil (and Josh, in: Poor Black)
The Tale of the Jumping Serpents of Bosnia (Poetic Prose)

€

“Along the coast of the Adriatic Sea lives what now is called the “poskok,’ better known as the ‘Jumping Serpent’. These creatures are some five-feet long and to my understanding can jump some three feet in the air and leap some five-feet in any direction they wish, simply by aiming at whatever, wherever. But this didn’t happen by chance, this really and truly happened by necessity. And this is the tale you are about to hear, the ‘why,’ of it, how it came about. And to be quite honest, you will be the first to hear of it.” (Page one: Intro)

“The Tale of the Jumping Serpents of Bosnia,” was written in 12/18/02 © by Dennis L. Siluk [at Barnes and Noble, Roseville, Minnesota, in the deli]; around, 8/2003 this story was picked up and used by the Croatian Education System in Europe. Next, it was picked up by several internet sites between 2004 and 2006. This is the first time in print, and with its extended content, the longer version, which in 2006, the author reedited, and in July of 2008, rewrote parts of it, extended in description, details, and for explanatory reasons, making it a better read.

Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D., is the author of 37-books, several in English and Spanish, eleven in Poetry. This is his seventh book on myths, tales, and the supernatural. He lives with his wife Rosa, in Minnesota and Peru; he presently is working on, “Old Josh…” and “Cradled by the Devil.”

"Black Bubble" And the Athenian Cleric ((Revised/Reedited 3/2008)(Arctic Adventure))

2008-03-10T22:12:00.000-07:00

Black Bubble

Black Bubble
[And the Athenian Cleric]

Introductory Chapter (with the complete three Parts)

(1897 to 1911— Pseudo -archaeology)

Part One

The Restless

A monotonous restlessness, likened to hunger of a great bear coming out of two year hyphenation came over Professor Robert Spellvice. He was famished for adventure; and his objective was a hidden archeological site in the upper Yukon region. He could not harden himself to call Lowell, his good friend from a few previous trips, to join him, rather he quickly ran over to his house and presented him with the offer face to face—ecstatically (as always), with all expenses paid, and bonus’, should he keep him company in the Yukon, and beyond—into—the Arctic. And as usual, Lowell McWilliams agreed, some hastily. Thus, they spent long hours in preparation for the trip: checking maps and getting all the information they could on the region, and the “Lost Mound City,” they had heard about, and tried to find twice before on preceding trips; but this time he seemed to have a clearer vision of where it might be—that is, Professor Spellvice, had this mental picture.

It was the summer of 1897, I watched my wife’s passive face as I prepared with the Professor to go on our journey. She said, putting her hand upon my shoulder as I crossed the room, “It would be nice, very nice if you asked Robert for a bonus ahead of time so I have some extra money while you are gone?“
I said with a trying voice, “Shauna (post given name: Arachne, in ancient days), naturally,” adding, “I’ll ask tomorrow. He’ll be more open to it then.”
It all involved discussing things the Professor didn’t care to at such a late date—prior to any trip that is, but he knew my wife quite well, very well, and knew she’d stop me from going should he not give in to her whims for an advance of the money.
She added, “Let him know there is always the secure job at the University…!”
I answered, “And all the books of reference I would have to go through, this is a good leave of absence for me.”
Our eyes met, as I stammered in my attempts to avoid her, she had hypnotic eyes; our marriage had belonged to the foolish whims of the city’s societies; which I deplored, detested. But like always she got her way. Her influence over me was steeped so high I felt captured inside her somber doctrine, crushed inside a book. It was a blessing to get away for four or five months, or possibly longer. Our eyes now made pretence, stupidly pretences, she was unexpressed. Then out of some kind of nervousness I laughed, turning my face, I thought, what a beautify but mysterious woman she was.

Returning from the Site

[The site] Upon their return that summer, both Lowell and Professor Spellvice had a most interesting story to tell the media, but it wasn’t taken seriously. Let me explain. They said: they had discovered in the thick of a wooded area in the upper region of the Yukon this mound city, and sketched outlines of a modest, but multiple and permanent structure, one Lowell had drawn. It was much more than a temple site, the Professor proclaimed, and one mound alone was over forty-feet high, with a flat top. Another one was not so high but consumed twice its square footage. And there were several other smaller mounds, with roads that led in-between them. Their maps had been destroyed for the most part, during the trip, their boat overturned, going down river on their way back to the lower states; thus making their story a bit ambiguous at best.
He [He being: Professor Spellvice] told the archeological society, that in the City of the Bones (in which he referred to his discovery, at this juncture) he had found bones from: passenger pigeons, humans, animals; and in the pits, of which he felt were used for storing food— he found grains and so forth; hence, it showed ‘a domestic routine,’ for the most part; as a result, he told the onlookers in the theatre.
He also explained he had found cooking utensils and seeds; sandstone saws, and bone needles, all lost of course during the submerging of the boat in the river.
They had excavated the site for a month, and then had to head on back before the winter freeze came down from the arctic…as a result, locking them in. He proclaimed the sites middle age was perhaps AD 300. And wherein he did find a few rare dishes in the shapes of sharks and bison, feeling this village had some contact in trade with the lower southern states, like Florida. No one gave him a once of credence of course, thereafter, He told Lowell, year after year, “I had my day in the sun I suppose that will have to do, even if they do not believe me, it is a fact and someone in future time will have to uncover it—again; when people are more open minded.”

1

The Decision
And the Journey

The Witch Speaketh

Once witches danced
To plenilunal magic
With weak souls to molest—;
Ah! Yes—way back when?
When—witches robbed men
Of virtue and piousness…

[July, AD 1909] I’m over fifty, and Shauna, over forty, she’s more on the order of being, so-so in her ways than I, so-so meaning, you never know, and can be very stern if not given her way. My illness is of a peculiar order—I’ve thought possibly she gave it to me—my wife, if in deed, one can give illnesses to another, I’d not put it past her; and the question is: could I go there without becoming fragmented and hurting someone in a panic state as I now often get because of the darn illness? This illness no one has a name for but is of some neurological makings, with side effects that disturb the emotional makeup of a person; she thought I’d be fine; should I become panic stricken; that I’d not hurt myself intentionally. I even mentioned—fruitlessly mentioned—even death by a hundred different ways could occur. Again I repeat myself: she was indifferent to these worries of mine. My work used to be rather trying, as I spent much time in the Yukon years ago, now a professor at the University, with cross-cultural clients from every walk of life. I teach psychology.
“Robert doesn’t mention anyone but you, Lowell,” was Shauna’s rejoinder.
“I gather he’s lonely for travel, or so I expect?” said I in return.
Incidentally, she looked at me as if I was out of my mind, turning toward the window; it was obvious she was dumbfounded in my lack of interest in joining him again on a surprise journey to the Yukon—it was fifteen-years since we had last been there. She didn’t push the menu, I might add, but she wanted me to take the invitation, she was acting timid, and that is not her statuette. Robert has what I would call—a not worth mentioning, personality. But he has money, influence, and it pays the bills; or used to. He also has blood-shot eyes most of the time, likes to drink you know, like a fish out of water; his expression is dull, dim and flat, and he’s sixty-one years on earth, too old for such nonsense.
I think of the barren and spacious Yukon, it’s a cold roomy country, one of the ten wings of the devil. It’s a land where you can’t find much to eat, hard to sleep, and it does not have hot baths. I’ve been in the Yukon, as well as the far Arctic, it is no dream trip at our ages, or so I feel.
Wealth flashed across my wife’s face, and to enticed her, the unscrupulous professor made it worth her time to intimidate me: the fine things of life it would buy is what he shoved in front of her enigmatic, paranormal face; after the expedition she’d be the queen of the city, sort of speaking; and the truth of the matter is, I could rest for a year or two, in a quiet work-room and just write poetry, with a perfect cup of coffee, or tea each day, instead of that same old, same old crap. Sure, there is a good point about this, I admit, and not many people would be demanding my every minute once I got back, and it would only be a four month endeavor, but again I say, it is too demanding; and so the Professor asked me to go along with him, Professor Robert Spellvice; ‘why?’ to look for old bones, old mammal bones, in the Yukon, and perhaps that old archeological site: “The Lost Mound City”; this is not my cup of tea at fifty-seven years old; not anymore anyhow. But if I stay around here, it will be a long winter with my wife, and I can tell you, short in days can be long in months with her, if she doesn’t make me into a toad in the mean time. Like I said, there are points to this, I admit.

“I spoke with him yesterday, and he really wants you to go Lowell, he said: he wanted your answer today, and not a ‘no,’ informing me he’d give you three times your wages you now get at the university, along with a big bonus once completed; and he can acquire a leave of absence for you without any issues raised…?”
I found myself gazing in the dullness of my library: eyes in a pause, looking at my wife, but not saying a word. I hesitated a moment, then spoke at length with her about how long we’d be gone—feeling it was too long of a time, and no matter how much was he offering, was not worth it, and the books that would be written thereafter, and the royalties, would creative a massive pile of more work to be done—implying: it was not as simply as she was making it out to be, and I wanted to retire for the most part, I had written twenty-nine books (for god sake how many more must a man write to prove his worth?).
On the other hand, sometimes too many hands spoil the pudding, and Shauna did not budge from her insistence in that I should go, nor move from the archway of our library, as I expected she wouldn’t. She kept her dark green eyes on me, a mist formed around her, like a black bubble, it often did when she was thinking hard, thinking and not wanting anyone un-expectantly into her safety zone, for some reason, as if I could, or someone might be able to, read her thoughts; it was her compilation of hidden knowledge in witchcraft (I assumed) I was witnessing, and skeptical about (she often seemed to be portraying some Athenian Goddess): should I not agree to do it, I might end up doing it anyhow as it may appear to me—with her art of magic—she might make it look like I wanted to in the first place, and by the time the spell would fade, I’d be in the Yukon nevertheless; you can’t fight them odds.
I didn’t know she was a witch when I married her, if indeed that is what they call such women, I did hear once of a sect called the Athenian Cleric, she had mentioned it in passing with a girlfriend; it also came out when she healed me with some herb from a stupid shrub from scurvy, or whatever I had back then, back in l886, if I recall right; it was some kind of divine magic, with a healing spell. In any case, I fought it, but it didn’t’ do much good until I returned and she hurled on me her unexplained, delightful enchantment, along with that herb from the shrub. Oh, that isn’t all, in the Yukon, there are deep dizzy mountains, deathlike, and graves here and there of those before you that tired to find their fortune in it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave them days. It is the cruelest land that I know. Yes, there is beauty also, the big husky sun, the stars tumble about at night; the caribou run in the wild, it is fresh, silent, a magical kind of stillness to it also, and a good portion of it is un-peopled; but there are hardships that nobody reckons; keep it, I will take a hot bath and think about those who wish to go back to that world, should I have such a pleasure in making the decision not to, but I fear not
instead of me inviting it hopefully, as an alternative, I told her I’d try to look forward to it, but I only did so in the mist of despair, a kind of creeping one at that. Here I was to enter a world of fog and slush, gloom and cold; these melancholy thoughts I must put aside. Now she went into her room, with that impassive face, an evil woman, she can be—

[Interlude I] Lowell’s mind was now free for the moment, having Shauna’s spell and demand packed away, thus he lost the fearfulness that was lingering within his stomach, his intestines, his head and spine—the uneasiness she could provoke upon and within his system, make it endure should he defy her. Now he committed himself to the irretrievable blunder to be, which lay ahead of him: or so he felt it would turn out to be; he devoted long hours to getting in shape the following two months, for the September trip. He lost over ten pounds, put on some muscle in its place. Found new maps of the Yukon, and Arctic regions, for they’d be in both areas before their trip was over, he expected; he was never losing hope that the Professor would cancel the trip suddenly, and perhaps go in the summer months, but he didn’t. He packed away for the trip a few books, one by Gertrude Stein, Ambrose Bierce (concerning the civil war) and another by Henry W. Longfellow, and George Sterling, both on poetry.
It seemed to him, Professor Spellvice had not done any extraordinary preparation for the long enduring trip that lay ahead of them, which required specialization for the most part, hence, Lowell was baffled. His head was whirling with conflict and contradiction of this idleness. Did he think the Yukon, or the Arctic was summer year round? I mean, he wasn’t the man he was fifteen-years ago, or twenty-five years ago when they had made their first of several trips to the enduring North. Perhaps the Professor had bones and artifacts in general on his mind so much he forgot that it gets sixty to eighty below zero up there, should they not make it back before winter; and he was playing a most dangerous game trying to beat the cold and freezing up of the lakes and rivers by going in late September. So these were Lowell’s thoughts. In addition, He felt the Professor could lose twenty-pounds, minimum, which would do him well; scrap off that pot belly of his; he was only five foot six inches tall, and his belly lapped over his belt like rolls on a pigs back, he must had been 190-pounds. He also had a black beard and his back, arms, and legs all were hairy like an ape.

By and large, Lowell McWilliams was in a state of exasperation when he met the day when he and the professor were to take the train from Minnesota to the Canadian boarder; and then onto the Yukon, to Dawson to get supplies, and all the way to the Arctic, and perhaps even to Mackenzie Bay [which was not on the agenda, but in the back of the professor’s mind which would add another four or five months to the trip back and forth, but should he had told Lowell, it would have only made matters worse. Both Lowell and Professor Spellvice were aware Peary had made it to the North Pole [April 6, 1909] by sledge, and it may have had inspired Spellvice to make the trip before winter, and not the summer of the following year, or at least that is what came to mind for Lowell. But Lowell was more interested in the possibility of the fight that was to take place with Jack Johnson, come the summer of next year [1910], on July 4th, thus leaving in August of 1910, would had been excellent for him.

2

The Yukon,
Arctic: Lake and Glacier

The Raw Arctic

I have seen its vastness—
A lonely land to know
Deep within its silent splendor
Lays its beauty, and its soul!...

For the first several weeks nobody spoke unless there was an absolute need to, and Lowell chopped ice as they shifted through the waters, his ores heavy with ice, cliffs all about him. Lowell wanted to turn about a hundred times, but his will refused his mind and his body’s better judgment.
As for Professor Spellvice, he never swore, nor learned how to for some reason, but during this trip, as the river became more dangerous, he became more exhausted and he learned quickly.

Lowell got thinking about this time, while on the trip: ‘…for some odd reason, it would seem each man wants to prove something in his life before he dies, and thus, puts life and limb in harms way if need be, heart and soul into it also, at the pain of putting others in harms way, and this was one of those times for the professor.’
It seemed that, each man had reached his breaking-point during this journey, but jerked back from pulling their revolvers out and shooting the other.
During the evenings in camp, each would take their turns with some kind of hesitated and short hysterical laugh, and a few hours later they’d both be fast asleep; a way of releasing the pressure of the long hatchet struggle in the Yukon. One blamed the other for whatever anguish had rested on their soul, that day, but by nightfall it usually was forgotten, and by morning after a cup of coffee, it was time to loosen-up the stiffen muscles and the ache of moving from the sleep of fatigue of the night before.

[The Glacier]

As we trudged on through and over the frozen ocean below us, with islands all around us, the Arctic gulls overhead, the ravens and White-Tailed Eagles, from European stock, perched on rocks unreachable, we were spellbound with the marvelous sightings that were taking place. During our first stages of the trip we were typically searching for anything and everything that caught our eyes, we found the beaver hard at work; we spotted many lemmings, and other small mammals. As we got deeper into our trip, wondering over ice, and ice covered by snow we spotted the magnificent polar bears; a few raised their heads to sniff the air for danger, we were their prey on a few occasions, and set our adrenalin in high mode, but a few shots in the air with our guns, scared them off, and allowed my shivering spine to settle…

—[Lowell was now lost in a day-dreaming mode]… it was some years ago, I and the professor had taken a trip up to the Chuck chi sea, by Barrow, Alaska, the unique and massive walrus’ were plentiful in that area. They walk on their front flippers, like seals. They prefer shallow water and we were up there in June, when everything is opened up for about six weeks, before the ice starts setting in again. In any case, they lounge on the land or ice in the Arctic all twenty-feet of them, and 1500 pounds. I know they like clams, I saw them trying to suck them dry. And by Point Lay, where we stopped for a few days—a mail stop; I had purchased an old whale bone cut into the shape of a walrus. But there, nearby, was also a gravesite I’ll never forget; it was full of dead walruses. Their tusks still protruding from their heads; ah, yes, both male and females have tusks…

[‘…wake up…!’ someone said…’] and then it came upon me, a glacier, we’re on a damn glacier…needed to cross this glacier: four hundred feet of thick ice here: a frozen river you might say. I heard a whisper behind me, a strained voice, and tense: like it was gasping for air, it must have been Robert who woke me up. The sun was out this day, and it touched the chilled stiff snow around us: it was welcomed; it warmed my clogged, thick flowing blood. As I looked in the back of me, I could see Robert tugging along, the sleigh tracks, dog tracks, and foot steps in the snow. They all looked lonely being left behind as we went forward.
My glance was almost over when I saw Robert’s face, it was twisted somewhat, as if he had a stroke, or it was frozen in place. His nausea on his countenance told me he was sick, not well at all, and getting sicker. He was not geared for this trip; it was all too much for him. But what can you say when you’re in the middle of a hurricane, it is too late, you got to do the best you can.
Now being on the glacier, I heard a crackling sound. All around us were deep crevices, fissures that went a hundred-feet deep, if not farther. Everything on this glacier seemed to have an endless bulk to it; a ruptured face.
“Are you ok professor?” I asked. I calculated in the back of my mind, he’d not last this trip, if at all another month, or even a week; it was too much, too trying for him. The sweat from his brow, he wiped off with his bandana tied around his neck. We were now at a standstill.
“I’m good for a few more miles, let’s get off this glacier and camp…!” he puffed out with all the reserved energy and wind he had left in his stomach.
“Get moving…” I screamed at the dogs, as we both pushed the sleigh to help them; I pulled in the slack I had allowed when we had stopped.
As we neared the edge of the glacier, it got jerky under our feet, and then some of its edge crumbled into the water below us—that is, some three hundred yards now in front of us. I held my fingers tight on the leather reins and steered the sleigh to the shore line some one hundred yards to the side of us.
“I didn’t think I’d make it…” said the professor. It was difficult work, these several minutes it took to shift the sleigh around, and run with the dogs and the sleigh over the rough terrain of this glacier while the thunder of its edges breaking off and falling some two hundred feet below us: shook our spines to a heighten state. But now we were on shore, and this looked like a good place to make camp, and we did.

[The Lake]

It was on the fiftieth-day, they had woke up, finished with the coffee, it was a gray, almost ink dark mist of a morning, yet, Lowell rolled up the sagging tent, said to Robert, “Come on, we got to get across the lake before it freezes up; it was thirty-below, and as they started to cross the lake the wind started to freeze up Robert’s cheeks and nose, when he touched them, they were froze hard like an ice-cube. He stopped rowing, left the ore by itself as he pulled his gloves off to warm his face with his own fleshly hands, with warm circulating blood. Thus, as they floated down the swift river, shore-ice extended out into the lake and it was hitting the boat as it broke from its main sheet. Lowell didn’t see Robert, he was starting a fire in the little iron stove they had in the boat, for it was to be a six hour trip across the lake, and into the river; which would bring them to a landing point, just before the water falls; consequently, his back was turned to him. Professor Spellvice, was beyond fatigue, and was now rubbing his face, it was dead tissue he was rubbing, tissue that was frost bitten: turning white; his ore had slipped gently into the lake, there was one left, it remained connected to the boat on the other side, then all movement ceased—they hit a big rock in the middle of the lake, the professor fell forward onto Lowell’s back, he was in extreme anxiety: “I’ll sure go back now,” his eyes bulging out of their sockets: then apologized to Lowell for taking him into this ‘forsaken land,’ hunting for old bones and artifacts, and suchlike; then like a sack of potatoes, he fell limp: dead to the world. What had come over him, Lowell didn’t know there were no real signs that had forecasted such a quick expiration.
Lowell had food, some gold-dust they had traded for dollars in Dawson, just incase they needed to buy some camp items along the way, should they find someone willing to sell them, along with meat or other needed items, hence, dollars would not hold the value as gold would. He knew he had flour, some beef-jerky, a few tin goods; as he looked about the boat; then he noticed he had one ore. The shore was about a mile away; he’d turn the boat that way, but didn’t have to, it seemed somehow to turn by itself in that direction compelled to go that way he told himself, as if there was a current—“Why?” He then pulled out a bottle of whiskey, took a few drinks, after thawing out his mustache a bit, to get the bottle, under and up onto his lips, and in his mouth, finely pushing the remaining ice out of the way, to get on his way. He looked at old Professor Spellvice, “So-long, old chap!” he said with a regretful look, while his red-hot stove gave him new vitality.
It was getting colder, for he spit in the air and it froze before it hit the ice in the lake.
“It’s getting colder all the time…” he told the stove, as if it had a mind of its own, rubbing his bare hands to the warmth of its flames, turning now and then to the back of the boat looking at the Spellvice humped over like a lump of lard, chin on his chest.
“Ssh!” he said aloud. He heard a woman’s voice from the shore; he could see the shore now. “Huh!” said he, in a whisper to himself. For some reason, Shauna did not occur to him that the voice coming from the shore was hers, or could be; it was some other woman’s. As his boat oddly enough was being pulled to shore by some hidden force (which he mistook as a current), the snow in this areas was feet thick, deep snow he noticed. ‘Nobody could live up here,’ he told himself, the stove now dim, almost spark-less, ‘…only the devil,’ he added to his monologue. He felt his legs and knees, he knew his muscles were still strong with warm circulating blood, but a tinge numb; hence, he could trudge along the snow for a few days once ashore and thawed out, but he needed to find a log cabin—sooner or later—and wait out the winter (he had heard there were a few up in this area, in particular for moose hunters). There was no way of going back. He’d bury the old professor in spring, when he’d make his way back across the lake; it would freeze over soon—the lake that is, if not this evening, surely tomorrow or the following day.

[Interlude II] Lowell loved natural beauty, be it in nature as it was in the North Country here, or in women, for his wife was most beautiful, or in poetry; and now, once more the great north had provided this beauty for him. He and the professor, if they had enjoyed anything together on this trip, it was in the gazing into the magic of its bountiful landscape, it silent nights, its overpowering vastness; it stirred within him, profoundly, within both of them. It seemed to fill the blank pages of Lowell’s mind, those that had been gathering for so many years. These past several weeks he had sung to himself aloud, something he had not done for a very long time. The landscape illuminated both the professor and him, although the professor seemed to have experienced his share of darkness on this trip, and now death, because of his avidly un-preparedness for the trip, he did find time to absorb its wondrous beauty up to this point. But now he was gone—forever, a sad case at best, thought Lowell. And what Lowell didn’t know was that: under all those cloths the professor’s had on, he was sweating out the stress and strain he had carried a thousand miles while on this trip; his shirt clung to his shoulders from the sweat.

3

Reaching Land

Fate beckoned Lowell McWilliams, one might say, for on the cold desert like sheet of ice came echoes sliding to his ears, echoes from a Polar Eskimo (Inuit), in this geographical isolated land. Oaassaaluk, a seer of sort whose husband was an Eskimo like her, and hunter and the master seer, was now alone with her children by her side, all waiting along the coast with their traditional sledge of: whalebone joined together with sealskin, no rivets or nails. They had journeyed a long way. She was now moving briskly with her dogs along side her—dogs which were restlessly guarding her, as well as useful for the sleigh. Now the shore passed quickly before Lowell’s eyes, catching the glimpse of the female Inuit. She had two young children by her side, along with the four dogs, he noticed; she was small framed, yet pretty—an eye catcher he told himself. Build strong with a round face, almost harmless looking, but for some odd reason, he knew she wasn’t; I mean, how could she be harmless and with two children in the frozen North like this, waiting by a shore of ice in ten below zero weather.
She had willed the boat over. He could now see the roof of her tent, plus she had been cooking something. The atmosphere looked good, he was hungry, more than hungry, he was next to starving, and he had a dead body to look after, which was becoming disheartening by the minute. Behind the tent was a fairly good size igloo, standing at the lips of a cliff, somewhat lost in the vastness of the almost all white, snowy landscape near the lake. He had never used his ore once, it was all by some hidden force that the boat found its way to the shoreline; some hidden force I say again, perhaps of this Eskimo woman, he guessed, whose name he’d fine out was Oaassaaluk: yes, the boat was brought to shore by her will—he confirmed.

—Lowell had learned as he met young Oaassaaluk, and her two children, that she was from an Inuit tribe from Greenland, a Thule tribe. When she scented the dead man in the boat, she was a bit fearful, hoping he was not ill-treated during his life, lest he come back to haunt them. She spoke the language of the Inuit’s from Greenland, and thus, performed a ritual that evening for the dead man. She circled him like a wolf, wondering if he was going to come back and haunt them, then like thunder in the middle of the night, as the fire was going down, somewhat flickering out, she ran outside of the tent with a sharp tooth for a knife in hand, a tooth from a huge bear, and stabbed him again and again through the heart, to insure he was dead, and would not come back and haunt her children and her children’s children; Lowell saw it all, as he had stayed by the fire, and the children in the igloo saw nothing. He was a bit paralyzed with shock over it all, but said nothing (he would learn later the reasoning).
She was well understood by/or to Lowell, he didn’t’ know why or how, but it seemed she had some supernatural power to make it so—accordingly they communicated without any difficulties. As he looked at his friends body, she had scalped him, turned his eyes, mouth, ears and genitals inside out, saying, “…it is better my new friend, to kill him once and for all, than to have him follow us at night.”
Lowell said not a word. He had thought his wife was dangerous, but Oaassaaluk was far more vicious should she want to be, more than Shauna had ever thought of being.

As the days and weeks passed, they both found themselves sleeping together in the tent as one—as one would feel to a wife or husband, and he learned many things of her, and she of him. They even taught each other their personal songs; as they would also sing them at night with her children around a bonfire.
She explained, Perlussuaq was their evil spirit, who could wish living creatures ill, and she believed his friend had met the evil spirit, and thus, he was doomed. Had Lowell continued down the river, his fate would had been the same she explained, but the evil spirit was lazy, and did not think she was close by and therefore felt it had time to squander, for the spirit was looking for her but her magic created kind of black bubble around her so he could not smell, or see her: detect her in anyway. But once she had used her powers, hence, she had opened herself up, coming out of her safety zone; in essence, she was open to his wickedness, it was why she had to insure the man was dead.
She had taught Lowell by this time, spoken charms, and to chant them softly. And about the taboos of food, and eating of meat: basically, the age mattered as did the kind of animal, and sex. Should he eat the heart, his vitality would diminish. He’d explain to her of his wife whom would use her skills in magic to insure he’d do as she wanted. But Oaassaaluk never said a word bad about his wife; she turned out to be a good listener. And as the days and months passed they become not only lovers, but soul mates. In the mornings she’d cook eggs, and have meat, coffee made, where she got those items, he never knew nor asked, but his supplies were almost depleted, and so he was thankful she had a resource, whatever it was. During these times, He would care for the children while she was gone and dogs as need be ((temporarily forgetting about his mission)(he had buried Robert, what was left of him)).
In her beliefs, she knew she had a soul [her breath], she told Lowell; matter of fact, she had three ‘breaths,’ if not more, so she indicated, and life was everlasting and She wore amulets, the skin of the upper jaw of a bear her recent husband was killed by, of which, she endowed with pride and courage. And she had in her tent, and in the igloo, skulls of foxes.

[Interlude III] Lowell, as time went by, found his new mate to be most desirable, and seemingly had all but forgotten Shauna, his wife. He now preferred the warmth of his new mate, of which she was more than willing to provide for him. She, Oaassaaluk had produced in him a swimming sensation of bliss he had never felt before; one that accepted death, before idealism. His face flushed when they met often; at the same time his hair became stimulated to its roots. Her gracious spirit drove him insanely excited.

Part Two

Evil Spirits

The Demon’s Ark

Born from the horns
Of a wingless archangel
With the pulse of
Perpetual night—
Lo, the demonic horizon:
Mortals jagged plight.

It was in January, of the year 1910, Lowell had been missing for months without any word to civilization, that he was alive or dead. And suddenly when Oaassaaluk had returned one morning back to the camp, she was ill, very ill. Oaassaaluk’s husband had been an ‘angakkoq,’ shaman, or priest, and she had learned much from him. He was the interpreter of the signs, and he was her precedence, and the evil spirit was mad at Oaassaaluk for saving the white man, taking Lowell away from him; whom would have been his next victim. As he was angry at Oaassaaluk’s husband previously; for they had been escaping, running away from it—the evil spirit, as to not have to give it respect, it wanted, respect in the form of worship, which it pleaded for, and swore it would get revenge should they not give it. In consequence, in fear and faith they had run a thousand miles, and then of course the evil spirit sent the bear to kill the husband, and she had been lonely and would not sleep with the evil spirit and hid from it; out of loneliness, isolation, and knowing the evil spirit was on a rampage, she helped Lowell escape its deadly intent, his unknowing it; hence, he evaded his fate of death; now she had taken him as her mate. She sang ‘ajajas,’ calling on the good spirits to help her. Her illness was unceasing though; she became mute and extremely violent at times, then temperate as a lamb, yet she held onto Lowell as if he was her mouthful of air, her breath, or part of it. As she lay dying day after day, Lowell had found himself much in love with her; he loved her dearly, so much so, he stayed with her night and day without eating, only preparing food for the children. He had also found out he did not want to return to his home in the lower states to face his bewitched wife whom kept him as a slave; life was less valuable than he had thought, if it was to be without his Oaassaaluk.

It was a deadly night when he sat in the igloo by her side as she was dying, when all of a sudden out of nowhere, people he had never met seemed to come in and out of the igloo, he knew they were ghosts or spirits of some sort, but he said nothing. They were having a feast of some kind, laughter, drums sounded, in the space of a few days; it looked like a village outside the igloo. It had become over populated, fifty people maybe. Despite the influx, the snow did not stop them or the cold, or the size of the igloo, the guests were puckered eyed, and talked in her concise language.

In the summer of 1911, the bodies of Oaassaaluk and Lowell were found, side by side, ugly in the sun, skin rotting as if they were a black puddle of flesh, harnessed to one another like a team of dogs. He had tied himself to her, and ordered the ghosts to tie him tighter, so tight, he’d not be able to get out; for it was said no one could have done it alone. And so as he had wished, they died together, arms and body entangled around one anther. From the edge of the cliff, where the igloo was, the two children were gone.

Nightmare

He lives within the deep
Where others never sleep—
Monstrous fathoms below,
Where Lava Rivers flow,
And crowding waters rush.

He is the nightmare demon
With a flat, untraversable form—
Lying in a bottomless tomb,
Haply awakened from doom
Thirsting diabolical ruin!...

Addendum to the Story

The Athenian Cleric
(And the Golden Bridle)

Part Three

The Hidden life of Professor Lowell McWilliams’ Wife
End Part to the story “Black Bubble” (Part Three)

Professor Lowell McWilliams’ wife Shauna was a strange bird, and Lowell knew it but as his personality would have it, he paid little attention to it until of course his trip into the Yukon, and back. But before all this the question comes up, where did she get her magic, and what kind was it, and where did she come from. So many mysteries in the life of Lowell’s wife, he never paid much attention to it as I have already mentioned, but I will now share this with you, thus, if you care to reread the story, “The Black Bubble,” written in 2005, you may have a better handle on things.
It wall started out with her life long ago, with Athena, the Greek Goddess. Shauna’s real name was Shamhat, when in a small village in the high ground near Thessaloniki, she learned the art of magic, Athenian Magic, and she changed her name, once she became a cleric of the order, to Arachne. She became a worshiper of Athena, and became a cleric of the LG, the highest form, and valued her wit and wisdom, her shrewdness over brawns. She was a shinning example to all who belonged to her sect, and learned Divine Magic (she became SPEAR to the 7th Level; she could cast a spear a thousand miles, so the villagers had said, and had proficiency in other weapons). In all major spheres she was excellent: to include: animal, astral, charm, combat, creation, divination, divination, guardian, healing, necromantic, protection, summoning, sun and weather; and, elemental and planets.
Furthermore, she knew the entire book of spells by heart: Anti Fear, Spiritual Hammer, prayer, and detection of lies, question and answering choice, heal spells, Succor (bringing one to safety).
She was of such a high quality, Athena herself appeared, and said she’d grant her any wish she desired.
She asked, knowing she was one of the few and gifted Athenian Clerics, to ride Poseidon’s horse, and with his golden bridle. Athena asked Poseidon for permission and because he wanted to keep his name in the minds of the dwellers of the land, as to not just the sea faring people, he agreed, plus it was a special favor for Athena, and the wish was granted.
Well, this young and beautiful Cleric took it upon herself to steal the golden bridle, and for some odd reason, no magic from Athena or Poseidon could uncover it. Athena liked her worshiper, but she would not return it the item she took, thus she stripped her of her honors, and humiliated her to the village people, and cast her off in despair to the world outside of Greece, never to return, that she could although pick another time in history she would like, and thus, she chose the 19th century.

And so good readers, this was the background of Arachne (or as we know her as: Shauna) McWilliams, whom now is the wife of Professor Lowell McWilliams, whom took that great adventure into the Yukon not so long ago, in 1897.

Note [making of the story]: originally the idea came from a dream; I called “The Prize,” 3/24/05, which was in a few fragments when I wrote it down. I had written about 50-words down to the dream. Then I wrote out the first part of the four part story on 3/28/05, it was only about a witch, whom was a wife to an unlucky party—a spouse. I had no ending, and I normally do not like starting with an ending. On the 29th I had another idea in the middle of the night for the ending, so I wrote down five ideas on a napkin half rolled out on my bed—turning on the light in the middle of the night, than falling back to sleep [I always keep a pen and pad of paper by my bedside]. Then I wrote parts two and three out. On 3/30/05, as I was going into the forth part, it came to me the ending—completely; 4/2/05. [#624]. Reedited 3/2008. The Author has spent time in the Arctic, Barrow, Alaska 1996, and up and around Juneau, Alaska, and on the Mendenhal Glacier. “The Athenian Cleric,” Written in the morning, 3-9-2008 at my home in Lima, Peru.

The Athenian Cleric (and the Golden Bridle)

2008-03-09T17:28:00.000-07:00

The Athenian Cleric
(And the Golden Bridle)

The Hidden life of Professor Lowell McWilliams’ Wife
End Part to the story “Black Bubble” (Part Three)

Professor Lowell McWilliams’ wife Shauna was a strange bird, and Lowell knew it but as his personality would have it, he paid little attention to it until of course his trip into the Yukon, and back. But before all this the question comes up, where did she get her magic, and what kind was it, and where did she come from. So many mysteries in the life of Lowell’s wife, he never paid much attention to it as I have already mentioned, but I will now share this with you, thus, if you care to reread the story, “The Black Bubble,” written in 2005, you may have a better handle on things.
It wall started out with her life long ago, with Athena, the Greek Goddess. Shauna’s real name was Shamhat, when in a small village in the high ground near Thessaloniki, she learned the art of magic, Athenian Magic, and she changed her name, once she became a cleric of the order, to Arachne. She became a worshiper of Athena, and became a cleric of the LG, the highest form, and valued her wit and wisdom, her shrewdness over brawns. She was a shinning example to all who belonged to her sect, and learned Divine Magic (she became SPEAR to the 7th Level; she could cast a spear a thousand miles, so the villagers had said, and had proficiency in other weapons). In all major spheres she was excellent: to include: animal, astral, charm, combat, creation, divination, divination, guardian, healing, necromantic, protection, summoning, sun and weather; and, elemental and planets.
Furthermore, she knew the entire book of spells by heart: Anti Fear, Spiritual Hammer, prayer, and detection of lies, question and answering choice, heal spells, Succor (bringing one to safety).
She was of such a high quality, Athena herself appeared, and said she’d grant her any wish she desired.
She asked, knowing she was one of the few and gifted Athenian Clerics, to ride Poseidon’s horse, and with his golden bridle. Athena asked Poseidon for permission and because he wanted to keep his name in the minds of the dwellers of the land, as to not just the sea faring people, he agreed, plus it was a special favor for Athena, and the wish was granted.
Well, this young and beautiful Cleric took it upon herself to steal the golden bridle, and for some odd reason, no magic from Athena or Poseidon could uncover it. Athena liked her worshiper, but she would not return it the item she took, thus she stripped her of her honors, and humiliated her to the village people, and cast her off in despair to the world outside of Greece, never to return, that she could although pick another time in history she would like, and thus, she chose the 19th century.

And so good readers, this was the background of Arachne (or as we know her as: Shauna) McWilliams, whom now is the wife of Professor Lowell McWilliams, whom took that great adventure into the Yukon not so long ago, in 1897.

Written in the morning, 3-9-2008 at my home in Lima, Peru.

In the Nick of Time (An incident in Lima, Peru)

2008-03-08T14:45:00.000-08:00

In the Nick of Time (An Incident in Lima, Peru)

We got into the taxi as usual; we were on our way to ‘Wong’s store’ in the district, called, Circle, Lima, Peru. There was no need to speak; my wife told the driver where to go. In the taxi, Delilah heard a shot, I looked out the back window, and someone was trailing us, flowing us closely, too close for comfort, and the men in the vehicle would not give much space between them and us, and this quickly alerted me to danger, real danger.
In Lima, there are many robbers, and they can be at times daring, if not foolish, yet they didn’t know I carried a gun, for most folks in Peru do not, even though it is legal with a permit, it almost seems the robber is expected to rob without any inconvenience.
I suppose they thought (the folks in the car behind us), they’d scare the cab driver into stopping, and then dominate us, take our possessions, they like robbing foreigners, children, women, or older folks, you know, the helpless ones; if not on the highways, buses, or in the cafés, right on the streets occasionally.
The taxi driver did as they expected, he stopped his automobile, and ran like a chicken leaving us, my wife and I alone in the back seat. We were only a half block from Wong’s, and the car behind us, three men jumped out, I pulled out my gun, shot through the window at them, they were awed by the sight of my gun, and grew quick to make cover, and did not stay close together as they at first had been.
I could smell the residue from my gun; feel the heat it made out of its barrow, a four inch barrow, and a 38-Special revolver, I had tucked against my left side for a quick draw with my right hand, need it come to that.
“You are dead mister,” said one of the three men, as they maneuvered around their car and one on the other side of the taxi my wife and I were in. I had my wife lay flat on the floor, a few bullets whizzed through the car windows. I knew my wife was hoping they’d leave quick, but I knew they wouldn’t, not yet (and I was hoping she’d lay still so I could concentrate on the situation at hand).
As for the police, it takes a while for the police to get activated in Peru (even if they are standing in front of you and an incident happens), if they don’t just simply run and hide and wait for it to be over with; that is why I always carry a gun, if one depends on them, you’d never be safe (or the robber would be long gone by the time they saw fit to get involved, sorry to say, but the truth is the truth, more so in Huancayo, Peru than Lima, but Lima is not far off from such lacks of courage).
After that last shot through the window, the truth of the matter came to light, we were going to be shot up in the car (the police I had seen on so many occasions along this walkway, were gone), so I opened the door, jumped out, entirely out, hoping my wife would remain safe where she was at. I felt the velocity of a bullet go by my feet, the assailant had shot a bullet under the car at my legs, and then I quickly hid them behind the wheel.
I gave up reasoning about everyone’s view point on gun control long ago, in the United States and Peru, I had to worry about me, and my wife, those good folks in gun control, don’t worry, they got bodyguards, or think the robber will over look death. I had decided long ago, I’d rather die fighting, and then hoping they’d not shoot me, at least I’d be a man about it. Thus, I knelt down, looked under the car, and to my surprise, my body started a light quivering dance, against the sight of a silver plated pistol being aimed at me, at once my body gave a flash of a warning, signal, and I moved but an inch, and a bullet, hot and speedy, ripped open my skin on my forehead (which remains a scar to this day).
I had pulled back; I suppose my impulses were similar to the robbers, I even had a tinge of artificial humor run across my spine. I was sure they would not be satisfied until they got something out of this deal, if they could squeeze me like a lemon into their cup of tea, but I learned in Vietnam, sometimes it is better to stand up and shoot one bullet after the other, in hopes the other will remain hiding, and thus, one bullet will at least kill the enemy, or snipe, if not have them run off like a dog chasing a rabbit. And that is what I did. I stood up, and started shooting, and all three ran. My gun was empty in a matter of a minute, but I always keep two bullets in my jacket pocket, or suite pocket, and thus, I pulled both bullets out, and reloaded, but I need not have, for they were gone.
“Darling,” I said to my wife, “you can come out now,” I reopened the taxi door, I had said that through the car window. She responded as she got up, and out onto the street, “How do I look?”
“Fine I said.”
Now the police came out from behind the bank, and other stores to attempt to figure out what just took place.

Note: “In the Nick of Time,” a daydream, while being driven home in a taxi, from 'Wong's' grocery store, in Circle, Lima Peru, written down by the author at 4:15 PM), 3-8-2008, upon his arrival home.

The Cephalopoda: Queen of the Arctic (reedited: 3/2008)

2008-03-07T22:47:00.000-08:00

The Cephalopoda: Queen of the Arctic

Advance: before we get into this short story, it might be of interest to the reader, I know it was for me, that the Polar Ice Cap, at the North Pole has not been explored for the most part, due to the Cold War, which of course ended more than a decade ago, nonetheless, it remains, by and large, uncultivated. Now having said that let me say: biodiversity of species were always known to decline in numbers when going into colder areas, which to the scientist seemed reasonable. But again, I need to say, humanoids have not researched this area a great deal, in fear of conflict with other nations, thus comes into view this story.
I was in the Arctic in 1996, Barrow, Alaska when the hotel, front desk clerk, told me fragments of a story - her husband would tell me the rest. Her husband was a pilot for an oil company up there, and they actually brought me back some sea shells one afternoon, having told Jackie the night before: I wondered how they'd look, meaning, were they the same in the Arctic as in the lower parts of the world, or the lower forty-eight, as they say up in Alaska. It was amazing to see the diversity of these shells. But let me not stray off the premise too much of this short and peculiar story - yet diversity is a key word.

The Story

As I was about to say, I was introduced to a creature beyond my imagination, I call it [for lack of a better name other than squid or octopus], "The Arctic Cephalopoda Queen."
Jackie, being a Oceanographer - when not a clerk at the hotel, and her husband being a Zoologist [Henry] - in his spare time, also a pilot, and myself being a Licensed Counselor, writer, poet and part time Tourist Archeologist, I became quite interested in what they had to say and show. But before I go too far, let me add: they had been working at and on an archeological site, some three-hundred miles from Barrow, finding skulls, and bones of the tribal people of that area for sometime. I got to look at the pictures of some of these artifacts by one of the diggers, but they would not let me go to the site in fear I might open it up to other tourists, nor tell me the exact location. That was a while ago: and the newspapers confirmed they did find a site, and so this story they told me, gave mine more credence, which I’m going to tell you now.
As far fetched as this may sound, I will try with heart and soul to tell it as it came to me: one night while sitting in the downstairs lobby at the Top of the World Hotel.
Incidentally, the North Slope paper, published one of my articles, of which the find of the skull and bones were in, they did put them all back as they had found them, buried them as they had been found I should say, as they may lay now for another thousand years.
So here is how they explained the happening, or origin of the creature to me, and its description. Now I do not know that much about astrology, or the planet system, I only know what I’ve saw through my telescopes and read in my books, and yes, I’ve done a little research, but not much: said Henry to me, with a cautious voice, as if he should or shouldn't show me the picture, and then tell me the story, yet he did pull out the picture, and started with the story (putting the picture back in his pocket, for same keeping) said:
"It came from Saturn's outermost moon, that being Phoebe, when it collided, prior to its being captured by Saturn's pull - eons ago. In the process, before Phoebe entered Saturn's orbit, fragments with no gravity, broke off within the solar system, Phoebe being at the far end of the system, some of these fragments landed on earth. Henceforward, particles of this matter ended up in the frozen waters of the Arctic, the Ice Cap. During this catastrophe, it has been said [so he explains to me], still other parts that originally landed on the largest moon of Saturn [Titan, which harbors an atmosphere], first gave life to these organisms that were cast off the racing meteorite that formed out of Phoebe.”
Again, I want to repeat myself [he said: he being Henry talking to me]: something on Titan triggered something in these organisms to give it real active life; and when these elements were cast off of Titan, they ended up on Earth, allowing the new formed creatures to grow in this arctic isolated habitat, that has just been discovered recently (perhaps there was an avalanche that sparked all this I thought, throwing it into the winds of Titan, and out into the atmosphere, and onward…): after millions of years. It kind of sounded like, “The Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
Now this all made quite an interesting story to me, but I thought it simply easier to say, "Maybe you discovered a new species that has always been here on earth, in the deep waters of the Arctic, why not, it makes life easier (at least for me).”
But he insisted it happened in some mysterious way as I have just told you - take or give a few misunderstandings I’m sure: nonetheless, it all came about in a similar manner. Now let me describe it to you as I saw the picture.

Description:

it seemed to have a height of about two feet, tentacles (making it between seven to ten inches taller); I call it, its hair, in lack of a better portrayal. Anyhow, its hair like tentacles was attached to the top of its head, you couldn’t see it clearly, but if you looked closer to the picture they had fallen backwards to rest on the creatures back, and thus, you could see them slightly in the dark shadows by its skinny neck.
It had two huge dark irises,—the eyes filled up thirty-five percent of its frontal-face, of which it had a very small mouth (or perchance, none at all, for what I thought was a mouth could very well have been a wrinkle in its skin); it also had a small forehead that leaped kind of into a sloping back: baldness all the way; but it had a long string like nose, with a tip to it. The torso was like a fat, half hot-dog, inside this hot-dog like shell were wobbly cell like membranes, large cells for the most part, they looked as if they had drifted into one another; as its bottom section shaped into a cone type feature; between these two sections, was a tunic like apron - possible better put, like a see-through blouse, or jellyfish, it was equal to a short dress.
The Zoologist said they lived in the deepest and coldest waters of the Arctic, under the Ice Cap. They were armless, and looked harmless.

Reproduction:

but let me go on: I was told they did not have to have a male to reproduce, that they gave birth the female species reproduce on their own, until it reached the age of twenty or more years. And so at this juncture, I asked the question, just (like a man would I suppose):
"What good was the man for this species (if any)," thinking everyone has to have a function. He said the male creature did have a function, not for reproduction, although before the female had children, the male did do some kind of ritual, I call it dancing from side to side (as he tried to explain, perhaps to calm the reproduction process down in the female, or for some emotional comfort); and then he added: they normally would stare in each other's faces, not even touching; thus, stimulating, but not to the point of the male having an erection or ejaculating, or even if he did, it was not used for reproduction; what a squander I thought.
And so at this point, I was really curious on knowing more about this creature, and asked to go on his next venture: he had said he would take me, but it would cost, just to tag along, and no pictures, for he wanted to keep the only ones, perhaps sell them to National Geographic some day, or so this was my best guest. .

Again he said,

"I got sick one day, very sick - you see Dennis [he says to me], the male is sharply lowered (in evolution I expect he meant) to protect the female, and its potential predators: for the female has no way of combating an enemy (this was a joke to me, I mean, if she could only have sex, she’d not need any combat bodyguard to protect her, how silly I thought: but I didn’t’ say that, lest he shove me in a hole in the ice when I wasn’t looking).
“So what happens?” “when an adversary approaches, and the male notices him getting within an uncomfortable zone for him and his mate?”
“It releases a toxic chemical (which only the male can discharge): it is in such cases a powerful form of hemlock you might say, a strong poison, one so strong I was sick for a week, I evidently went beyond their comfort zone, but the ugly looking predator died within minutes, its body no longer could withstand the environment; thus, the secret is in finding the female alone."
Incidentally, he said the water around that area, where the two creatures lived, was, and should we go there, and this happen again, it would be polluted for several hours. Nothing, not a thing could go in that area without suffering biological or genetic damage. My guess was these were undisturbed waters for eons, and therefore, the chemicals and its residue, just resided in and around that domain.
And so this was his story, I cannot prove it, nor shall I try, but as people go searching within these waters they will find I do believe such new species that disturb our imagination, and are attractively real, for the most part.

The Arctic Cephalopoda Queen
[Part Two]

The Sitting

I wasn't really going to tell this part of the story, its been a long time since it took place, and I told my friends it would remain closed, but sense they have open up that area for exploration recently, they will discover the Cephalopoda Queen sooner or later, so you might just as well hear it from me. In my last part, of the story, about the Arctic Cephalopoda Queen, I didn't explain everything as I should have: yes, I know, I kind of mislead you, the reader, so you couldn't put the whole story together. Not an outright lie, but just what I'd call a distortion: no, not a distortion, a deletion, that sounds better.
Having said that, I will try to put together a little more of this (that is, fill in that hole, put back that deletion I took out, if I can) - not sure what to call it, finding, a discovery: actually they may have found what I'm talking about anyway and named it something else, and I think I got something new, when in essence, it is just old news.
Let me try to explain: on the surface of the ice in the Arctic, you have pools of water, or kind of shallow ponds: water on ice. If you go out in certain areas, you will have openings, and whales will be sailing around like little boats, and the Inuit's, will use their small boats, and long spears, usually three in a boat, and go whale hunting this way.
Thus, they are allowed a certain amount of whales they can kill: allowed I say, by the United States Government, annually. When I was up there, the Captain [of whom I called prior to my arrival] said he'd take me out on a whale hunt, but I couldn't kill a whale, only watch. Jackie's boyfriend, he was not really her husband, that is where some of the distortion comes in, although he was on hand also during this time, flew out on the ice, and so I got there before the group of hunters, and was quite excited. He had showed me the picture the night before, the picture of the Cephalopoda Queen. I really did want to go hunting with the Inuit's, this is very true, and they were carting their boats out onto the ice and out to the holes within the ice by way of—believe this or not—snowmobiles, and when they stopped running, they leave them on the ice to sink in mid-June.
Well, we got to the opening, and it was what I'd consider quite big, three whales were in this area, possibly as big as a small lake, I'd say, one mile or so I circumference. Henry was going to see if he could spot one of these creatures and he told me about, and the Captain had originally had told him about this, during a drunken spell. Let me clarify this, somewhat: in 1996, this area of Alaska was dry, no alcohol was allowed, and actually they wanted me to work there some several months later, and had called me to do so - the reason being, I wanted to remain there after I saw what I saw, and put in an application to work as a General Manager for their outpatient and inpatient Chemically Dependent clinic. I never did because I went to work for Hawthorn Institute, as General Manager. But the job was offered to me, to my recollection.
But let’s get back to the other issue, Henry. Now he had been out to the pole several times he had said, but for only short periods of time. And that the picture he had was from that area, but he had seen - not captured, but seen the queen at times out in this area where we were, the reason being, the waters were disturbed not only by the whales, but would soon be by the hunters, and he said, if we could get there before the hunters, our likelihood of seeing one, increased; so I took my binoculars just in case.
Now I had not drawn the picture of the creature yet, I had an idea of it from the camera shot he had shown me, but it wasn't clear and I had to do some guessing on how its bottom section looked.
So when we landed we left the plane running, allowing the humming of the motor to continue to run, so it would not alarm the creature or the whales, the humming seemed to drawn out our voices, which was good. We were about a hundred miles west of Barrow on the ice now, we spotted some polar bears, but I had seen them before, when they get running they run like gofers, faster than a cockroach, I doubt any man could out run them.
Usually they blend in so well with the snow, but I was looking for the creature, and spotted one, I think he got the scent of something, and so I followed his maneuvering. And yup, he was running to the opening in the ice, I thought possibly it was a seal or something of that nature at first, surely not a whale.
The bear got nearer the edge of the ice, fearful it would break off he laid down - and covered himself up a bit with snow, there frozen waves of ice all about, and he broke some of them off to hide his smell, I think that is what he was doing; we walked around to his side a little more, but we didn't want to disturb the moment, we wanted to see what he discovered. And sure enough, something poked its head out of the water. I was frantic, and wanted to run to see, but Henry calmed me down, grabbed my forearm. He was also carrying a rifle just in case of an emergency. The bear stayed hidden, then like a hawk grabbing a rodent in the desert, the bear snatched the creature by putting its hand in the ice and pulling the creature towards him, that is when I started to run towards the creature, and that is when Henry shot in the air, and everything went from quiet to chaos.
The bear dropped the creature, the whales dived deep into the water, the bear ran, and there I was standing by the Cephalopoda Queen. I didn't touch her, just stood over her, and she was as if dead, but wasn't dead. That is when I got the full view of the creature; more than a glimpse, a close up observation.
What do you do in a situation like that I told myself, it was harmless, and looked so innocent, and I had in my mist something unbelievable. It was about four feet from the edge of the water. I’m not sure if I seen a smile on it or not, as I said before, I drew the picture as I seen it (this was the time I’d refer to later as the great moment, when I told everyone I saw the creature but that was to be sometime in the future yet, now I just had the creature in my eye sight, stone-still, during the following seconds my heart beat like crazy.

I had for years, lost it, the picture I drew, and drew another one from memory. In any case, I picked it up (thank god it was a female, not the males according to Henry, it could emit that toxic chemical and had killed me right on the spot, but I couldn't tell one from the other anyhow, and I placed it in the water. It fell over to its side; I think it was in a daze. It laid dormant for a few minutes, I was about to pull it back out of the water, thinking it was dead, and what the heck, I now could morally take it: but it woke up, kind of moved about getting its balance back, and I saw its tentacles moving and its apron type fins and it leaned forward, and sank into the cold waters.

The Arctic Cephalopoda Queen
[Part Three]

The Kraken-Bishop Fish

It has been said everything on land has its ocean [sea] counter part i.e., star-fish, and sun-fish; also cat-fish, and dog-fish; how about sea lions, and sea elephants, and sea horses, and sea cows, etcetera. I think I have made my point, although you do not know my point yet. We have mermaids and mermen, or hippocampi, and we have "Bishops;" now we’re getting closer to my point.
This sea creature, the Bishops, have been known to wear a miter on its head, and vestments on its shoulders, body covered with scales. I seen a drawing of one, it looked similar to the creature I had seen the one I called the Arctic Cephalopoda Queen, except for a few missing details. But let me go on with this, a little deeper: one of these creatures was caught in the 16th century, and given to the King of Poland as a gift, but in some gesture way, it pleaded to the clergy, and he allowed it to be freed back into he sea, a mammal I presume. On the other hand I have read that this sea creature that has been mistaken for a walrus. My point being, I will stick with the first description, it fits my agenda.
The Bishop fish is a descendant of the mermen of ancient Mesopotamia; and point of fact, is, all these myths we called myths are finding its way to the surface, out around the world, and its surface is a bone of contention, dealing with reality, the issue of myth vs. reality; and there is more to it than myth. If I'd add on to this Bishop fish a few things, one being the Kraken tentacles on its head, not all that long though, it very well could resemble the creature I saw.

((Written in St. Paul, Minnesota, June 29, 2004) (The author has spent time in the Arctic, and in Barrow, Alaska, 1996, and 2000, up and around Juneau, Alaska, and on the glaciers))

Lullaby of the Cockroach

2008-03-05T20:16:00.000-08:00

"Lullaby of the Cockroach" (a weird but intriguing Story of Love)

I have to tell you the saddest of all stories, a Sheppard and a Shepherdess, in the year 12,500 BC, by the names of Siuqllial, and Aavilx, lived in the arch kingdom called, Sitnalta (in its valley region, where they were born), and king Noa, wanted to marry the Shepherdess, Siuqllial, sister to Aavilx, and did marry her. But Axvilx and Siuqllial were of best friends, from birth onward, they climbed the mountains which dominated the valley kingdom together, they even, according to marriage custom, promised oneself to the other. But of course the king, as I have already mentioned, did not know of this, and married her, took her by force out of the valley at the age of eighteen years old. Both the brother and sister, had dark red hair, deep blue eyes, and wore practical garments, for the most part, and she was a stunning beauty, and he was likened to the Greek gods of earth.
When he, the Sheppard boy had learned his sister was taken to the arch kingdom, he gave up his trade as a shepherd, leaving all behind, in the Great Vale of Moiromma, the planet next to Earth’s solar system; gazing at the sky as he ventured through the villages to the wealthiest kingdom on the planet.
Upon his arriving to the fortified kingdom, he would each night take off his sandals, and creep along the stone walls of the kingdom, hoping to see his sister, and lover, a love so deep that each and every minute of the day, was painful minute for him to be separated from her.
But the poet, of the lands of Moiromma, told the Sheppard boy, it was fate, that took his sister way, and he should leave well enough alone, and should he not, a foul necromancy would befall him, and death would be part of the penalty. The other part he would not know until he nurtured his passion more, and took his sister as his wife.
Bitter appeal was all these tidings, and he paid little head to them. And one day, just like that, he marched into the kingdom, like a autumnal sunset, glowing through a window, it was like he was invisible, the seer had said no one would get into his way, for the gods of Moiromma were on his side, but he, the seer was not, he was enmeshed to the king; the whole acropolis where the king and now the Shepherdess Queen, lived, were quiet and still this evening as the young lad found his way through the corridors.

At this point, a sacred mark, and most profound event took place, the great rivers of the valley, the whole of the kingdom stood in a frozen state, now facing his sister, his heard pounded considerable, and tears fell down his cheeks like tunnels full of subterranean water. They were like two major branches of a tree, they folded their arms, entwisted them about one another, the king, like a vulture, slept a hard sleep in the room next to his wife’s.
A supreme joy and delight had fell upon her heart seeing her brother; and for him, it was a labor of love that brought him to her; exaltation of the senses took place. And he grabbed her arm, and they both ran through the kingdom’s corridors to freedom.
The following day they got married, and a dark-gray pearl like atmosphere fell over them, stained you might say, yet they had an inexorable affection for one another—still.

And now great is the pity I must tell you, alas, he died, choked on an animal bone. And she was alone, overall, sad but not alone for long, for the king found her, and she played dumb, and said her brother had come to rescue her, thinking you, had forced me to marry you. The king asked in so many words (whom was most strangely in love with her), ‘Have I been a monster to you, will you not come back to my kingdom willingly?” And she did.
The following day, she heard a voice on the floor, a squeaky voice, it was her brother, he had been resurrected as a cockroach, of all things (I can’t bear to tell you the end of this story, but I shall). The king came in, saw his queen looking amazed at the floor, and he saw that there was a cockroach on it, arising to the occasion, he quickly got over to her side stomped on the cockroach, and she fainted falling backwards on her bed, and thus, came the Lullaby of the Cockroach, by the wandering ministers of Moiromma.

“Lullaby of he Cockroach,” Written (10:53 PM) 2-5-2008, at home in Lima, Peru

Elephant Killer (Fever of Revenge in Chad))A short Story))

2007-03-15T10:36:00.000-07:00

Elephant Killer
(Fever of Revenge in Chad)

By Dennis L. Siluk

Advance (Cairo to Chad): “It’s all about tusks,” he said to me, but what it was really about was risk taking, for a high, money, or dollars, and he was good at it, and he was not quite forty yet, in good health; myself, more like fifty-two, I was not young at all, of course, about to be married (again), and just got back from Java, and was sitting in a bar in Cairo, and he was sitting by me, and he smiled, and I smiled, and you know how that goes: where you from, where you going, stuff like that, and he pulls out a card, it reads “Gun for Hire,” I almost laughed, thinking it was a joke, you know like back when I was young and I watched TV show “Have Gun Will Travel.” (A show about a hired gun.) Well, just about when I was going to say: is this a joke, he said, “No joke, but I’m costly.” Well that is how it all began, AD 2000, in Cairo, Egypt, I’m Lee, and I suppose I can leave it at that, and I like traveling, kind of a Tourist Archeologist part time, and at times I suppose, I like adventurism to a small degree. I had just visited the pyramids, was about to go back home to St. Paul, Minnesota, in the good ole USA.
What I would find out is this (and then I shall get into the last days of my adventure, for there is where the premise of this story lays).
“Come with me,” he said, “to Chad (Central Africa)” towards the end of the night in the hotel, after meeting the Mayor of Cairo, and a lot of talk about Chad of course proceeded this invitation, he was headed to a campsite outside a national park that resides within its boundaries. He had shown me pictures of what he does, awful, horrifying pictures of cutout faces of elephants, he killed them he said, next, he cut them off their faces, before the rangers would appear (how ugly I thought, but then I had heard and seen a lot of ugliness in this world). “Usually…” he said, “some strays came out of the refuge, and when they didn’t,…” he’d go in after them; if indeed the rangers were not following the herd, which often times had certain routes, and he knew them all of course—by heart.
I am not sure why I would want to go and see this, I told myself at the time, until he said: “I’ll pay for the whole trip, you write down what you see, everything,” and I did, but I never published it until now, I suppose the reason being, it was too horrifying to me to publish. He simply wanted a witness, and he was willing to pay for it. A dangerous trip of course, but I had been in Vietnam, and Cambodia during the early ‘70s, and war and such things were not new to me, just dangerous, and as I was about to say, a wife to be, waiting in South America, to meet me in a few months in Guatemala. Nonetheless, I agreed, and although I leave out names and direct places, it is for the better I think. Now I shall explain in a more direct narration.

The Story
(Flesh Death)

[In Chad, outside base Camp. vicinity, by Sahara area:] I knew this area where I was, or so it seemed, elephants would be dangerously vulnerable for attack, I saw a few days ago a few Armed guards in the far distance, with Ralph’s binoculars, I asked Ralf Zimmerman, “The Matriarch…” [He referred to these elephants as the woman leaders, if not grandmothers’, whom the families, portions of the herd, or larger herds can turn to for leadership, a position of dominance in the herd, if not head of the family] I asked him, “The Matriarch searches for food, the wise elephants, or older females, whom are usually the leaders, do they have certain routes they know by heart?” (Thinking was the elephant really that smart.)

(This was the mongo rain season, a light shower here and there, especially night, but not the rainy season as it comes in June, I noticed scattered here and there on our journey dead elephants, some eaten by lions, Ralph told me, and Baboons perched in trees over our campsite at night, and giraffes in the distance, it was, if anything, a spectacular, adventure, except for the death, the flesh death, I came to calling it. I said nothing to him of my disgust, being a retired psychologist, I understood one thing, the only reason I was on this trip with him was because he trusted in me not to portraying him as evil (my past integrity would overcome this ugly sight of an existence) that is, the evil man incarnate, and he already knew he was. He wanted me to do what I was doing, witnessing, almost like a death wish, and without a bias. Perhaps he had a premonition, I didn’t know. But like in my practice, people tell you many things you want to scream at them for, but you can’t, you got to keep a flat face, no smile, empathy they call it: and hope you can bring them back to a whole person.
Base camp was several miles from the boarder of the refuge. This was my sixth day here, and basically the terrain I came over with the jeep, was riverbeds dotted with occasional pools, heat was all around us, and terminalia trees about. The closer we got to the boarder, the more trees I witnessed, and elephants were crowed under the shade by them. If they didn’t get the shade from the trees, they got wind from flipping their ears about (sometimes turning over), cooling their bodies. I came to love these animals, and here I was witnessing Flesh Death! I cried the sixth night, I couldn’t hold it back anymore, what was next, I asked myself, and it would be a surprise.
Ralph said on the seventh day, following a herd, turning towards me in his jeep, ‘…beyond the boundary line,’ as he called it, “…they will avoid trouble spots Lee, trails you could say, wise old females they are …they know where the danger lies and they know me, and they know were the food is and where it will be next month, and in-between seasons, and they know I know all this.”
“But if they are wise, how come they are not wise to you, I mean, how come they can’t out hide you, or kill you.” After he answered it, I thought, why did I asked such a dumb question, but my subconscious knew why.
“It’s a rhetorical question,” he said, “not really worthy of you Lee, but what you really wanted to ask, is how come I can out maneuver them, when you already know, because I already told you, but I will add this, they are running for their lives when they see me, I am running for my dinner when I see them, and a few other things. I can think straight, and have had lots of time to think about what I want to do; they are only protected by an imaginary fence, called a refuge, and are limited in reason. Does that answer your question?” (I thought then, but didn’t say: pride comes before destruction) then I nodded my head yes, because he gave me more information than I needed, but sometimes you got to play dumb to get the innermost secrets in the man’s soul, the core of his soul. I think he wanted, was waiting for the elephants to out smart him. It all turned into a game for him it seemed.

Fever of Revenge

(We were now outside of the Southern boarder of the National Park, it was the month of May, we had waited there all day for the herd to come, and it did, just like Ralph predicted it would, the head elephant a giant bull was spotted, with 3500-elephants behind him, I wanted to skedaddle, get out of there, I told myself, I was standing with him, he had a rifle in hand, and two guns in his belt, a knife around his ankle. “Now what?” I said, in an almost panic voice. “This may be the day,” he said to me, I didn’t know then what he meant, but of course I do now.
He shot the leading elephant, the huge one, dead, and it dropped and shook the ground around us (I think the elephant wanted to give the herd time to move away from his guns, thus, giving up his life), “Quick, get under the jeep,” he commanded with an almost evil eye, but now that I think back, it was more out of desperation for me, so I wouldn’t freeze (which I never do), but not knowing what to do, I might have jumped behind him, expecting the elephants coming to drop like fly’s or detour into another direction, but they simply slowed down to a walking pace, yet I did as he said.
He was now looking over him, the bull, and the large herd had stopped, completely stopped, while some of the females approached, looking, as the carcass of the bull lay by Ralph’s feet (I think Ralph was surprised the elephants did not turn, but almost surrounded him), I could smell the death of the beast, urine of the beast, he was now cutting out the tusks, cutting the face off the elephant. Several large elephants stepped ahead of the large herd, almost creeping, as Ralph was cutting fast, and faster, and the Elephants were approaching closer, slowly, but closer, with ever cut of the knife.
Everything now happened very quickly, the leading elephants bolted towards him, and the 3500-followed behind, dust filled the air, faster and faster they ran, little ones behind their parents’ tails, flapping in their faces, hitting their trunks, it was a stampede. Ralph stood firm behind the bull and started shooting pummeled the bodies of the nearing female elephants, bullets sinking into thick skin. Lodged into their muscles, bones and they fell; he looked at me, smiled, and then 14000-elephant feet stomped all over him, as he was wedged in (and now crushed between the hung elephant—smashed like mashed potatoes) in a favor of revenge.

3-14-2006

Project: Space Tomb (a four part story)) Reedited 3/2007)

2007-03-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

Project: Space Tomb
[A four part story]

Project: Space Tomb I
[Launch pad: Cibara-#17]

The Milky Way Galaxy

[2125 AD] It looked like a traveling prison, a space tomb to the observers; a heavy bulky projectile for the most part, as if it was shot out of a cannon, a hundred-thousand years ago; rustic and ancient with a technology unknown to scientists on earth. It was in the shape of a pellet, or bullet, a projectile, charcoal black, with a porthole on each side of it to look out. It was under observation for one-hundred years. The first year there were lights on, inside it, so the documents read on earth’s daily log. In the projectile were two bodies. Evidently, they had died in there and that was that; and thus, earth left it flow within its nestled orbit around earth’s moon, as it had fallen into it, one-hundred years until this time; this was kind of a gift to the ancient astronauts within the tomb one might say. As I mentioned before, it had been orbiting for one hundred-years, and the telescope that was tracking it was on top of a mountain in Peru, some 20,700 feet high. And after such a time, interest, of over a billion earthlings had considered this bullet shaped tomb, like their stray cat, now found and being taken care of.
This projectile was being watched from earth by a gigantic telescope; the project was called, “Project Space Tomb.” And there were three scientist involved. One from America, Tom Macare, one from Peru, Toño Guedes (head of the Observatory, although Tom, whom got the financing from American businessmen, thought he was the boss most of the time, and hence, fought with the Peruvian), and Milam Thomas, from England, whom was partly Welsh, so he claimed, was the person who seemed to be putting out the spats between the three, especially Tom and Toño. It was an ongoing research project, data collecting of its motions and chemical makeup, as well as metal contents. One of the goals was to try and figure out where it came from without disturbing the sanctity of the tomb itself—lest you get a uproar from interest groups on earth. Every group on earth, tried to claim the Tomb as belonging to their ancestors: from the Maya of Mexico and Central America, to the pre-Inca cultures of Peru, and all the way to the North American Indians; and from across the Atlantic Ocean all the way to Egypt, the Egyptians claimed it; and even the Jews claiming it might be part of the Lost Tribes of Israel—to mention a few.
The best scenario they could come up with was that the projectile ship was from, perchance, Mars; but then it would be older than dust. A hundred years now seemed little to no time at all; even 100,000-years did not seem long in such a development. It didn’t seem to fancy them to look beyond their solar system for some odd reason, perhaps they could have pinpointed it, for there was some markings on it that read, Launch Pad: Cibara #17; although it was only lightly visible through the rusty debris attached to the Tomb, and in some other kind of language other than English or even Spanish. A form of hieroglyphics [symbols of an unknown origin]. That is why the Maya archeologists and anthropologists of Egypt figured it could be of their ancestry. Yet, only half of it was visible, and it was more of a hoax, than reality for the people of earth.
In any case, it did fall perfectly into the Moon’s orbit, like a navigated asteroid, making its home for a hundred years thereof. It was now the year, 2125 AD, the Tomb as the scientist referred to it, was having its birthday today, July 1; it was now one-hundred years old according to earth’s paperwork. The American scientist, Tom, along with the Englishman, Milan, and Toño, the Peruvian, were spellbound to see the Tomb resurrect itself.
The Tomb’s windows in the projectile were no longer frozen, heat had returned to the projectile. It was 99-years since man had seen light within The Tomb. How could this be, Tom deliberated, looking heavily into the face of the telescope; perhaps an alien ship, or NASA had decided to invade it without notifying them—were his first thoughts.
For the most part, He was obsessed with the event taking place, and his mind shifted from one thought to the next like a child with a new toy. The next thing that took place was the bottom of the projectile had opened up. This was even more amazing for they saw no other space crafts about, so, what took place in the tomb? Or better yet, what was taking place. Evidently the beings within the container were obviously in some kind of hibernation state. But how did the two beings survive a hundred years or longer, was the next question that was going on in all three minds of the scientists; if indeed they did survive, and what they were seeing was not a group-illusion. For after years of looking at the Tomb, they all feared they could end up having some form of mass illusions.

—The first year of the 100-year span of them monitoring the Tomb, light was in the Tomb, and each of the two bodies inside the tomb were accounted for; each of the two bodies lay comfortable in two beds within the circumference of the projectile. For 99-years, it was dark inside the tomb, deadly dark, so the whole earth thought.
All said, the American scientist Tom Macare, of the observatory, seen that there now had returned light to the tomb:
“It has light,” he said in a calm and leveled voice—escalating, saying it several times, as the other two scientists looked strangely at him. Now each of the scientists took their turns watching the events unfold. Many thoughts filled their minds; all guesses of course, but that is when the imagination runs wild, when we don’t know, and no one tells us; as a result, they all stood thoughtless for a long while just staring into the telescope watching the turn of events, saying nothing to one another, as they took their five minute intervals.

Humanly speaking, the scientists were tongue-tied, watching these two begins coming out of the butt-end of the projectile. —There were many questions the three scientists had, plus, some kind of investigation surely had to be started, if not by NASA, by the world’s intelligence groups, perhaps the Pentagon, for surely they were awoken to the lights. There was a chance they did not see the two beings moving out of its escape hole underneath the projectile, with their low-grade telescope on earth, for the Observatory’s could amplify the item 60,000-times, and was the only one with that strength in use at the moment in the United States (yet Tom and Toño could not forget the Hubble Space Telescope III, was in place a distance away from the Moon, and it could take wonderful pictures, its intensity was extraordinary, and of course was much closer to the area than the 243,000-miles, as was earth’s telescope at the Observatory. Toño had known it was turned in the opposite direction last time he looked, which was yesterday, yet, no one check it in the past twenty-four hours. The second thought was, that they were the only ones on earth with direct responsibility of monitoring the Tomb so closely; in consequence, if the Military was, they were only in a smaller capacity; and whatever was on their minds, they were not telling anyone, especially the secret site of the Observatory, although everyone knew there was one someplace in the Andes. Again they were saying nothing publicly, perhaps because they felt, the world would wake up and panic if they disclosed the lights being on in the Tomb; if indeed they were aware of the two astronauts coming out of the projectile, would be another matter. It was without question, they saw the lights though, and were perplexed at best.

[Fifteen minutes later] In the mean time, earth scientists at NASA sent out a military space-probe (craft)for investigating the situation, which was normal, thought Tom, but why one with nuclear warheads on it? It was a Comet-probe; called that because of its speed. Approximately 900-miles per minute, thus it would reach its target in about 4.5 hours (or 270-minutes), the Moon and the Tomb; the speed of light being 186,300-miles a second; as one would measure distance in space. Earth’s Space Program at NASA had mastered the ‘State of Repose,’ meaning, to have the body rest during the duration of a voyage disregarding the harsh elements of its environment on the body; Tom had figured out the Tomb most likely had conquered the speed of light—in travel, while putting the beings in a state of hypertension ((or state of repose)), during its trillion-mile voyage was smart.
As I was about to say, broadly speaking, sending out the military-probe seemed somewhat ordinary to Tom, not being of military insight, he left the thought linger under defensive security risks. What was really on the three scientist minds, was: what was next with the two beings of the Tomb; and they put all other issues in the back of their minds; that being, notifying anyone, and only with quick jerks, shifted to monitor the probe as she burst through the stratosphere, into interstellar space.

Earth and Moon

During this time, the two beings from the Tomb incased now into ball like metal coffins, landed on the surface of the moon. The ball like cylinders opened up like a broken egg, yet they were not broken, rather almost like a fetus with a protective thin metal form around them—thus, they left them as one might leave his underwater gear on a beach to return to in a few hours. Then they walked throughout the airless planet as if it was an archeological site; mystified. They had landed on the North West side of the Moon, in an area between Mare Imbrium and Sirus Aestuum; the area to the east was where Apollo 15 had landed years ago, now in the history books. Nearby was the huge crater Copernicus, and Ghost Crater, Stadius. Beyond this was the huge Crater Plolemaeus. The two beings were astounded to see Stadius was completely over run by lava, and within its lower structure were huge crevices like tunnels or caves. They could see the orb of the earth from where they stood, it was a treasure to the two beings to see such color on a planet: a gift, or plus, one might say, especially in the gigantic galaxy called the Milky Way, with its horde of planets and stars, Earth being one of a kind, with its one and only sun, and huge moon to protect it. For they had seen many things, to include the center of the Milky Way, where there was a Black Hole; yet Earth was more a treasured sight to them.
—Tom noticed a strange happenings, both the individuals were picking up small rocks, holding them tight for a moment (as if squeezing them), then putting them back down on the surface, and repeating this experience over and over, about once every two or three minutes. As if they were sucking out some kind of life, or energy form from them; for their existence I would think. Puzzled as he was, he discounted the probe, for the moment, and watched the operation, still glancing back at the shells the two beings left on the moon, trying to put the puzzle together, or was it simple a riddle, not to be unwound?
After a while, this gave Doctor Tom Macare, an idea, and he mentioned it to his fellow scientists.
In the mean time, the probe was nearing its next phase within its flight, as it headed right for the Space Tomb.
—The two beings, now walked among the moons dust, by and by, they found rocks, sucking out life’s existence from them. Broadly speaking, like a bee sucking out the sweetness from a flower. The scientist never faltering in amazement, as they watched the two beings like adolescents watching girls at a dance.
Toño started to take some calculations, then shifted quickly to adjust them, and compared them with those for the past 100-years. Said he to the other two:
“Look here, the weight of the Tomb was at one time: 18,000-pounds; diameter 110-inches, and wall thickness, some 18-inches, the height about twelve feet. Now comparing that data with the first data we took in the year 2025, there is a big noticeable difference. The Tomb now weights 14,882-pounds, diameter 88-inches, and wall thickness, 15-inches; the height seems to have departed with three feet of its length, to nine feet now.”
The other two scientists twitched here and there, said the Englishman, “How can this be?”
All three looking at one another, “Ah, yes, yes, it must be,” said the Englishman, as the other two nodded their heads in agreement.
Now the three scientists saw the military-probe in a direct line going towards the Tomb, with almost frightful faces.
“Should we call NASA, or Military Intelligence, or perhaps, the White House, the FBI, or CIA, anyone?” asked Toño.
Said Tom, looking back into the telescope—with Milan next to him trying to get a glance, “Do whatever you must, we’ll keep you updated.”
But Toño could not bear to leave these comrades with all the new information being extracted minute by minute, and for them to get the glory of the new discovery when the science magazines come out was too much to bear, and to be quite frank, was out of the question. Therefore, he remained with the other two trying to get his 1/3 of the telescope’s time, watching the events unfold, moment by moment. Tom glanced at Toño, realizing he was not going to be the one losing the moment of excitement, and hence, handed the telescope over to him for his five-minute interval, at which time the military-probe had reached its destination.
The lights of the Tomb went off again, as the bodies of the beings were on the moon, they had unplugged their bodies with a connecting devise—before they had left, which went into the main body structure of the Tomb; as if it was an incubator. The probe circled the Tomb several times, but the scientist, Toño had given the telescope back to Tom (saying nothing about its maneuvers), who gave it to Milan, who shifted immediately to the Moons surface and the two beings, Toño not saying anything about the probe, not thinking about it for the most part, for he had only seen it circle once, and that was only halfway around the Tomb, and times slips by quickly by when such things take place.
The military man in the probe now could be seen (by you and me, if this was a movie) talking on a handset-devise, for still the scientist was busy with the beings on the Moon.
“Hom…!” said Toño, “the two shells surely are life supporting items, like turtle shells you might say, how interesting; they must have to plug themselves into them as they do inside the Tomb.”
Tom now could see the life supporting energy the two beings were receiving from the items: rocks in particular, along with some strata formed substances, they were also picking up, “…hom…unbelievable,” was all he could say for the moment; then added: “…these beings could be eons old, whom is to say [?]” and he said no more.
“Calm everybody,” said the Englishman, trying to restore some equilibrium, as they now switched back to the Tomb, watching the military-probe, like a snake circle the obstacle for the eighth time.
“I think…” was all Milan, could say, when all of a sudden the probe disappeared, and a small nuclear blast followed thereafter; Milan’s mouth gaped, he then looked at Tom, as Tom looked at Toño, all stone-still, and silent.
Toño now took command of the telescope, the two small beings, one a little taller than the other, about four feet tall, held the hand of the other, as they walked into the darkness of the moon, seemingly, an endless shadow. Toño knew the smaller one of the two was hurt, hemorrhaging from the fall she took from the blast, she had hit her head on a surface rock. They could have gone to their shells, thought Toño, but they simply looked up and saw their home was gone—blasted into molecular space-dust. As Toño later would demise: ‘…what for [?], why would they even consider going to their shells…for what purpose?” The Moon was cold looking, dark and exhausted. The three scientists could no longer look into the telescope.

[Conclusion: Part One] When one action is put into place, it often times produces ripples; I am referring to the word given on earth to destroy the module, or Space Tomb, that was orbiting the Moon; thus, all forms of ripples, or even waves are ordained thereafter; yes, the Ministers of Doom are released and it is a free-for-all, one might say, and these currents could be many and various—for we deal perhaps with the ages, and beings from the furthermost ends of a galaxy—and know not their capabilities.

Los Andes Space Observatory
[Part II/Project: Space Tomb]

Los Andes Space Observatory

[July 16, 2126 AD] The engineering of the Space Tomb was simple, it was like a comet, it drew its energy from the sun, and the Tomb gave energy to its occupants. It had a cooling system, and when farthest away from a star or sun it—when it got coldest—as space can be 250 Fahrenheit, below zero—(and so their Thermometer read), there was always enough energy locked into its system to carry on until it needed to gather up more of a supply at its next destination; and hibernation for the crew members was always a way of conserving energy, thus the two astronauts would go into such a state. And unless disturbed by some kind of turbulence, the inertia, or state of the capsule, and the condition of the astronauts inside it, remained in a reposed arrangement, until woken up at its next destination; woken up only if disturbed because of a disturbance. But most often they never knew they where traveling in space, for there was no obstacles blocking their vessel’s path, it was just a dark, cold endless, tireless, ongoing ocean of nothingness (space), until they looked out a window and saw they were getting closer to something, an object, a planet, light, a passing comet, or asteroid field.
The scientists from earth had deciphered the lettering on the spacecraft, they once called the Space Tomb, before they destroyed it; it was called Cibara—#7, they were not sure what that was, but their best guess was their right guess, it was another planet, in another solar system; or at least Tom Macare, came to that conclusion, and his boss Toño, who worked at the Los Andes Space Observatory [Peruvian]. A few months after the United States Military Comet-Probe destroyed the Space Tomb with a small nuclear blast, this discovery was brought out in the scientific journals by Tom and Toño (their assistant, Milan Thomas ((English)) had quite because of the destructive way the military had acted with the Space Tomb).

Northwest Side of the Moon

International-NASA (now owned by the United Nations), had allowed another space exhibition, journey that is, from the University of Minnesota, for the purpose of younger students to study the physical structure [geological studies] of the moon; wherein, they would provide all information to them upon their return, before releasing it to the University for others to study. It would be a four hour flight to the moon, and the astronauts would have to be put into a state of relaxation, called the ‘repose state’ where the body functions normally, according to the body needs and not according to the elements of the environment.
At present, the International Space Station was but 100,000-miles from the earth with scientists from Russia, England and France along with Americans; and the Hobble Space Telescope III, was 43,000-miles from that. The moon, being about 110,000-miles from the Telescope; all was in place when their space craft left the Florida coast, and the space telescope from the Los Andes Observatory along with the Hobble III, followed their movements. It was routine for the most part; yet no expeditions were allowed for a year because of the nuclear blast being so close to the moon, they wanted to test the molecular debris around the Moon, and within a 2000-mile radius from the moon to space. Thus, the clear sign was given.
—At this time, Tom Macare and Toño positioned their telescope back onto the moon, knowing where they were going to land they scanned the area. They did not know the two surviving Cibaralites were alive and well on the opposite side of the moon, the northwest side. They had survived the blast, and the ongoing elements of the moon, with its freezing temperatures and so forth. They had journeyed to what was known as Mare Imbrium (a Mare being like a dried up sea for the most part), not far from them was where Apollo 15 had landed years prior to this, now ancient history of course. Consequently, they crossed over to Stadius, otherwise known as the Ghost Crater. Here, they found, in-between fissures towards the bottom of the crater, a home like cave, wherein they made their home for a year. They had plugged their bodies into their shell like apparatuses that they used to descend to the moon from their spacecraft; this cave allowed them to have these devises grounded into the walls of the crater, where the machine could extract the vital oils and resources their bodies needed to survive, and transform them into matter their body could use for nourishment. To the southwest of them was Mare Humorum, and to the north, Copernicus.
By some kind of second insight, they knew the spacecraft from Earth, to the moon had taken off with Doctor Peter Leaky, and his two students, Hans Bosbash, from Frankfurt, Germany, and Luiz Colitt, from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The doctor, fifty-seven years old, was married, with no children, and the two students, both 26-years old, were not married. By the time the expedition had landed with their space unit, and spacesuits on the moon, on the eastside of the moon, nearby where Apollo 11, now a historical landing site, the two stranded astronauts from the Space Tomb, were watching the three earthlings gathering rocks and testing them, some three hundred-yards from their craft.
As the two closed in on the space unit, they were not noticed at all, therefore, they crept into the unit unseen. The two worked as a team, the female seemingly quicker with figuring out how the mechanics of the space unit worked, and how to operate it manually. The husband, or male astronaut, looked about, and then caught the eyes of Hans. Hans wiped his eyes quickly, to see if what he was seeing was really what he was seeing; and the two ducked down, but again, it seemed the two Cibaralites did not panic, as if they knew by instinct the three was not coming. Matter-of-fact, Hans mentioned it to the Doctor, in a passing sort of way, and all three looked at the unit gracefully, but came to the no conclusion, and accepted it as a mirage; for they all went back to working; which they would regret in a moments time, for no longer had they turned their heads back to the scientific investigations they were doing, when the space unit started ascending.

(Let me leap back to the Ghost Crater a moment, before all this took place.)—During this time period, Tom had seen the Cibaralites crossing over like deer, leaping from one spot to the next, in, or on should I say, the northwestern part of the Moon, by Stadius, to the eastern part, but he said nothing, not a word, nothing at all, not even to Toño who was sleeping. He had made a mistake a year ago, and he was not going to make another. It was—he felt—the fate of the earthlings, or astronauts, as it was the fate of the Cibaralites a year ago. Thus, where does one step into preserving the other? But the second thought on his mind was, ‘…where was their next destination?’ As the two leaped from spot to spot, they both carried their shell like devises with them, the ones that kept them alive for over a year on the Moon, and the ones that they had descended to the Moon in, from their spacecraft, so dubbed the Tomb by Earth’s scientists.

It is a sad tale, but I must finish it. Once they reached the International Space Vessel, again it was not long for the female to figure out the operational expertise of the spacecraft, and relay it to her mate. And within minutes they were space bound. And the three astronauts were left on the moon with an hour’s air; and the two inside the space vessel, turned off all communications with Florida and Huston—(whom had blueprinted this expedition); and this also automatically turned off all communications with the stranded astronauts.
Sedna/by Pluto and Beyond
Destination Sedna

Doctor Macare looked at his monitoring screen pertaining to the international vessel, and across its computer read: “Sedna, Sedna, Sedna…and then, Cibara, Cibara…” as if the Cibaralites new what he wanted to know, which was his pay for silence I suppose. Then the screen went blank. Tom and Toño, already knew where Sedna was, it ranged between 450 to 1000-million miles from earth during its orbit; it was a brown asteroid looking orb, two thirds the size of Planet Pluto, which was in the direction they were headed. He was then wondering: perhaps Pluto, Sedna and Cibara were all by one another, and Sedna crossed over into another solar system, where Cibara was. Anything was possible at this point. Then as the computer had went black, at that moment Toño woke up looked towards Tom and the blank computer, asked, “Amigo, what has happened?”

Sedna to Cibara
[Part III to Project Space Tomb]

Sedna/by Pluto and Beyond

Sedna’s composition is ice and soil, mixed for the most part with (H20) water; (CH4) methane and frozen CO2 (carbon dioxide). The soil is carbon rich—brown from the components. Temperatures on Sedan get 300-below zero (at 450-plus, all heat is of course nonexistent, it seldom gets to that point though). It is two thirds the size of the Planet Pluto, and travels a 1000-million mile orbit in one direction, and is ten times the distance from Earth’s sun, to Earth’s stable 93,000-million mile distance.
This is what the Cibaralites astronauts were chasing as it was bound to cross over into Cibara’s orbit, in the outer limits of Earth’s solar system, it would go past Pluto and beyond, and they could hitch a ride. This large mass of frozen rock would remain in Cibara’s orbit but a few days, only to have a window of opportunity, a few hours in length, hence, this being their chance to break loose with its gravitational orbit, to descend to the planet Cibara, their home; as a result, this would have to take place, or else be pulled along with Sedan’s magnetic hold, equal to that of the Earth’s vs. Earth’s Moon’s.

International Space Probe [Explorer]

The travelers, their body makeup was capable of withstanding extreme limits of cold, thus, the space-probe [explorer], was now chasing Sedna like a bee, and even if the heading system did not work well, just the motion of the probe at such a high velocity would keep the outer part of the craft hot, thus, they’d not freeze to death.

—At the Space Observatory, Los Andes, Space Center, Tom had explained all to Toño who was now monitoring the space vessel, chasing Sedna into an unfamiliar orbit, and beyond the Oort Cloud (or Kuiper Belt), where a trillion comets dwelled (balls of frozen gas, dust, and water). Here they whoosh, flew by like a bullet freely, and the two Cibaralites knew it was dangerous, and difficult to transcend, but if they could get into the gravity of Sedna, they’d be pulled along and perhaps protected: if not bombarded by an oncoming comet; and accordingly being pulled themselves out of the gravity belt, in time to catch Cibara’s. For, inasmuch as they could tell, the space craft could pull its self out of the no atmosphere asteroid, and into that of Cibara’s with ease, for it had done so with Earth’s a dozen times over; the craft was not like they were a hundred years ago, which was quite primitive, but strong enough now to withstand what was needed for advance space travel.
The two scientists knew Sedna would enter into the dusty and complicated comet scattered belt ahead—and soon, and into the outer realm of the solar system, but they could follow with the help of Hobble IV, a space telescope some thirty million miles past the moon, monitoring dead space, and galaxies for the International Community, and Military Scientists; yet at the moment, it was freed for their use, at Toño’s request, as he had said he needed to get some data on the comets in the Oort Cloud, knowing, had he said more on the two astronauts, they’d be hunted down by several military Comet-Space Probes, which acted like assassins.

Interlude

[Narrator] This is a good place to take a rest from the story and explain the following. Toño followed the explorer probe carefully with the two telescopes working together, to send back the reflections of the giant asteroid, called Sedna, and its warm spacecraft, which showed its heat level as all things in motion have, onto their sensory screen, thus catching a dotted glimpse of their whereabouts as they followed the asteroid, into the density of the Oort Cloud. Again both so self consumed with the moments happenings, they did not look at priorities, if they had them, or even consequences; thus not reporting nothing to the authorities. In the past 100-years or so, they had chartered over 10,000-new planets in other galaxies, but not Cibara, or Moiromma, beyond the Oort Cloud, in another solar system—; you might add, the reason being, planets unlike stars do not generate their own light, but reflect the planets star’s light. And Cibara and Moiromma, where too far between earths’s sun; and their own sun, which was 200-million miles beyond them, going in the opposite direction of Earth. Both Cibara and Moiromma had moons, thus, a protection at times from the elements coming in from space, likened to Earth’s Moon. But at best, only a small wobble in Cibara could be detected with a dim shadowy orb along with it, and that was very faint to the searchers, which Tom noticed searching beyond Sedna; but no sooner had Toño taken the telescope— he followed Sedna again—noticing beyond Sedna, there was something else, “But why would the two Cibaralites pinpoint their planet to us…?” Toño mumbled out loud? ‘…and only to us…?’

[Sedna] The travelers had caught Sedna’s orbit just before they passed Pluto—now looking back at Neptune behind them, the space travelers smiled at one another, as did Toño to Tom, as they kept watch on the progress as they neared and entered the Kuiper Belt, bodies of comets and asteroids all about, here and there, objects everywhere. (Sedna having a 1000-plus mile diameter, the travelers hoped it would be a good shield for them until they reached their home planet; inasmuch as, Sedna looped around Cibara in its long and enduring orbit. They were like hitchhikers.)

—Toño looked about through the telescope, he could see a 900-mile diameter asteroid, called 2004-DW, kind of a giant object for the Kuiper Belt one might say, reddish-brown, orbiting close to Pluto, and nearing Sedna, as it had passed, so close, the probe was almost sucked into its thrust; somehow, both huge bodies neutralizing one another, as the spacecraft wobbled about between them two great bodies for a short moment; thereafter, settling closer to Sedna.
The female Cibaralite looked at the chronometer, it was 4:00 PM, earth time, terrestrial time, who knows, it was morning on Sedna, for the reflection of the sun could be seen on its convexity (outer curve, which reflected the mountains, and a few craters, shadows mixed with light; an orange kind of light.) They could see the Northern hemisphere; it looked like the probe was capable of pulling away from Sedna’s gravity.
As the travelers neared Cibara they shifted into Cibara’s orbit quickly and whirled about, they fell fast and deep into its atmosphere, red hot speeding through it, burning up as if the brakes of a train were being pushed on too quickly, way too quickly. They needed to slow down, and should they crash, they’d be nothing but vapor. But they were on the Northern Hemisphere, and as the cold of the winter hit the body of the probe, it cooled, and the travelers went into a frozen crater lake, this also, sizzled the outer frame of the spacecraft, allowing it to cool instantly, and as it sank, warmed the waters and unthawed the frozen ice, some 18-inches thick; but safe they were.

They would remain on Cibara for a short while; but they had a job to do back on the Moon, which would affect the Earth, and both travelers, gave an oath, to do it or die trying. The Cibaralites were a revengeful type of people you might say.

[Part four, on a napkin yet.]

Ministers of Doom
[Part IV to “Project: Space Tomb]

The Planet Cibara, looking up at Moiromma

[2127 AD—Spring] Have you ever put your brakes on? Or if you’ve been on a train, have you ever noticed what happens to the steel wheels of a train when the brakes are put on? I have, as a boy watched this experiment many times. It is motion turned into heat, atoms busting wild into the environment. The earth rotates around the sun faster than we can count, the trip takes 356-days, the moon’s attraction to the earth saves us from being burnt up as does the atmosphere; should we lose that, we’d lose our oceans into space. The earth, if it suddenly stopped what would happen? Woops…! Red lights would go on long before that, I hope. But Doctor Milam Skares, and his wife Mrs. Anita Skares, were about to do just that. They created a devise that could stop the earth like a train, just for a moment in time. It is possible, so they told their Court of Request a group of several elites on Cibara; yes, they wanted revenge from the earthlings for stranding them on the moon. They had claimed they created a devise that could stop the earth; faint smiles came on the several faces at the Court of Requests. Diabolical faces to say the least.
“This is how it would work,” said the two scientists. It had been a year since they had arrived back home from their voyage to Earth’s moon, and still quiet hot festering some sort of revenge, revenge due earth, and its inhabitants, it was festering in their veins; likened to the ‘Merchant of Venice’; but they wanted more than a pound of flesh, they wanted all of Earth’s flesh, roasted into vapor.

Written in July, 2005/ parts 2 thru 4, reedited 3-2007

"Elephants in the Sky" (A Terrifying Story based on actual events ((Timbuktu)) Reedited 3/2007

2007-03-12T18:14:00.000-07:00

Addendum (to: “Elephants in the Sky):

Dear Dennis (Siluk),

I "went" on your website and read a part of the article "Elephants in the Sky (a story about Timbuktu…." The article [story] is very interesting and I am very impressed by your bibliography and by the way you narrated this locust drama. Unfortunately it is not fiction but reality and I thank you to have reminded [us]… human beings.
I hope you will not be unlucky like your hero Lee, the former G.I., who in spite of his experience could not resist… these "small insects" or "big elephants" in Timbuktu.

Thank you,
Your friend Deo Kpadenou
Bamako, MALI

(Letter, dated: 3-12-2007)

Note: The Story “Elephants in the Sky,” was written: © 3/26/2005 Dennis L. Siluk (Revised, reedited, 3/2007)

(Story written after the plague that took place in West Africa)

A brief Summery of (Timbuktu): Timbuktu, also spelled TOMBOUCTOU, is a city in the West African nation of Mali. It is historically important as a post on the trans-Saharan caravan route. It is located on the southern edge of the Sahara, north of the Niger River, a centre for the expansion of Islam, an intellectual and spiritual capital at the end of the Mandingo Askia dynasty (1493-1591) and home to a esteemed Koranic university. Three great mosques built at that time, using traditional techniques, still remain.
Timbuktu was founded about AD 1100 as a seasonal camp by Tuareg nomads. After it was incorporated within the Mali Empire, around the late 13th century, the Mali sultan, Mansa Musam, built a tower for the Great Mosque (Djingereyber) and a royal residence, the Madugu.
In the 14th century Timbuktu became important because of its gold-salt trade; with this came the arrival of the North African merchants, and their settlements with Muslim scholars.
The city's scholars attracted many students from far and near, perhaps one reason being, many scholars had studied in Mecca or Egypt.
Small salt caravans from Taoudenni still arrive in Timbuktu in winter, but there is no gold of course to offer in exchange. The city can be reached by air, camel or boat usually from Bamako, the Capitol city of Mali.

—The Story

“Elephants in the Sky”

[1980s, Lee Evens in Mali, Timbuktu/West Africa]

Advance: Lee was discharged from the Army in 1980, whereupon, he traveled the world, one of those locations happened to be in Mali, by the legendary city of Timbuktu; whereupon he found himself in the middle of a plague, a plague of locust.

[Diary-review]

There were swarms of locust over the top of my car, in front of me, in front of the car—swarms I say, swarms: a dark shadow covering the sky, descending, downward descending onto the road—in front of me, behind me, it was locusts, locusts, locusts—locusts everywhere, everyplace: so thick, deep with layers that it made my car skid—slipping and sliding as if on ice. They seemed like they walked, creakingly walked, walked among the sky, and cluttered so close together they looked like big oaks; akin to a druid dark sky, coeval with the leering depressed cerulean atmosphere. They looked like pools of ghouls embracing, taking up the hooded faded sky that looked like early evening, but wasn’t. ‘Good God, good God, good God,’ I cried!
My radiator was being blocked, plugged by these finger-sized carcasses. I had to pull over to the side of the road. It was but a moment thereafter when I saw some adolescents down the road a bit, not too far, just a little ways, three of them trying to beat them off, beat the locusts with their belts, pants belts. Then one resorted to a stick, a stick I say, not thick not thin, just an ordinary stick: would you use a stick? To be honest, I’d run I think, run like hell, yes oh yes, like hell, as if demons were after me, that is what I’d do; anyhow, one took this ordinary stick to beating them off, while the others used their hats, hands, ordinary things; they were dropping down like hail onto them from all sides; ragged looking shadows of them, full-fledged shadows, throbbing against their bodies, yes they were throbbing against their bodies, these locusts: down and sideways: bombarding them like creatures from outer space: like in the bible, where it mentions such things happening back in those far off days, the days of Moses: the plagues God bequeath upon the pharaoh.
I think these kids would have loved to have found a window anyplace to climb through, and nail it shut about now; I kept looking out of my car window, and these creatures, these biological insects from some heated abyss, chasm, or deep hole, stained my windows grimly, with their restless, dentate pointed mania heads and scribbled bodies.
This was bad, very bad; the large insects were in their hair, noses, ears, climbing up their pants legs, flying straight for their mouths. They tried to spit them out—cough them up, but more would just jump from ear to nose to mouth: endlessly.
The whole area was becoming infested with them [them: being, those locust critters; huge grasshoppers]. They were becoming as thick, wide as the walls of Troy—twenty feet deep. I turned the engine of my rented car off; it spit and sputtered a bit, then it came to a dead stop, a burping stop. I could not see the boys anymore, only a cocoon of these creatures several inches thick around them—like mummies; they now rolled about on the ground like dying lions, screaming: it simply shivered me; it was as if hate and love coiled within my stomach.
For a hundred miles around I had heard they were eating up the crops before anyone had time to harvest them; catastrophic damage to all the crops, as the new generation of larvae appeared—thus, widening the dimensions of the one-hundred mile radius to possibly two-hundred miles (sooner than later). But now they were on top of my car: yes, yes, yes, on top of my car; under it, all over it, and in the fields beside me, on the road. I was but twenty-five miles outside of Timbuktu. Ah! What would you do?
As far as I knew, there was no means of spraying available to kill these creepy-crawlers, nor any other treatment, why that occurred to me, is beyond me, I mean who gives a shit, I’m in the middle of it; yes, yes, no equipment as supplies were of a minimum and vehicles were scarce—I was lucky, I mean really lucky to have secured a deal getting my hands on this jeep.
I was now witnessing farmers beating the locust into trenches (these: Acididae, a family of devouring insects, as I had learned to call them in my biology class, back so far in my college days, I forgot exactly when); what more could they do? I mean besides what they did I suppose, swatting them, whacking them, from all sides, and running: I mean running, terrifyingly running! Like the boys could have done, didn’t do, but should have thought of doing, but who has a clear mind in such a petrifying moment, event, they simply could not do anymore than what they did I expect, otherwise they would have. Alas!

(This was the moment I’d put forward to later, when telling others they looked like elephants in the sky. But that was to be a little bit in the future yet; now they just kept coming and coming and coming, these locust-insects.)

Now I’m breathing in the hot air in the jeep, it seems to me I’m recycling my own air. In the five-mile area they covered most everything; there were at least, must have been at least, couldn’t be less than 250-million locust I figured (insects); hoppers, yellow winged hoppers—crazy and manic hoppers, as if they were on a sugar high. That would be a weight volume of 5000-elephants dropping from the sky. I had a lot of time to figure that out, for the most part, let’s say hours watching these hoppers fly and jump, and descend, trying to eat my tires—trying to get into the jeep and eat me.
‘Try, try, try,’ I said, ‘…fuck you all,’ I said.

[Entry] “I was in Timbuktu a few days ago, and I’m on my way back to Timbuktu now, I had been in the countryside—where theses devouring insets (hoppers) were breeding, I am not sure where it was in particular, but it was in Mali where they had breed I do believe—first, someplace in Mali. I was doing what I love to do, checking out some old writings that were found in one of the old mud houses in Timbuktu; realizing at one time Timbuktu was a Mecca for learning for the Muslims, or better put, Islamic cultured; on the old Silk Road you could say. I was eager, the phenomenon would move east, away from me, to Sudan or Chad, or all the way to Egypt; move away to anyplace, but out of Mali and for sure, away from Timbuktu in particular. I was surprised there was not a humanitarian crisis alert, or if there was it didn’t look like it from where I was; I mean, where were the United Nations vehicles? A good question I figured, and never to be answered.
The trick is to kill them before new generations developed, consequently, stopping them in their tracks from breaking into other places—countries, and a new cycle starting. The crops I knew would be gone soon in the south and now in this area as well, if they were not yet, and should they go east—well, let them worry about that.”

They leaped like little elephants on the hood now, hood of, of my car; they looked, looked into my windows, deep into my windows, nose against the glass (smutches all over the glass like a disease; voracious little dispositions all over their faces, like fairies stuck together) as if I was eatable, somehow I got the sense (they had the scent, my scent I expect) they knew I was trapped in the car, and I was for sure. But I remembered what Solomon told me in Egypt, Cairo a few months back: should something like this occur—so it was somewhat forecasted almost—and it was now developing: anyhow he said,
“(‘…should this occur…’) Try to make it till morning, when everything cools down.”

I figured the wingless ‘hoppers’ the new breed, were developing now in the fields around me as the adult yellow ones could be seen flying about eating, and killed by whomever (the farmers and gosh, that was about it for now).

[The Big Hopper: diary entry]

One big hopper gazed through my window, must be the size of a sparrow—(I’m writing this down as he’s looking at me). At its sight I saw its milky eyes, they followed me eerily followed me, then I realized it was somewhat blind, I mean, its eyes gave out a yellowness to it—somewhat piercingly, as if it had cataracts—perhaps trying to see clearer, its lips trembled from old age—feverishly so, it mumbled something, as if talking to itself, then it stood aside to let the younger ones peer in on me. Was I their trapped animal, in their zoo?
“Come…súh!” (Note: the author translates for the bug) the big one said (smiling an amiable grin).
Thus, with apprehensiveness my eyebrows were quivering with my nervous system, which was wacky. Panting like a dog I was, and so bewildered…! I ended up looking out the window for the longest time…or so it seemed, blankly looking, as if in a trance; then turning my head demurely to see if any of those hoppers where in back of me—sneaking up on me; or getting inside the jeep. My eyes could not relax from this insidious invading force, if anything was quite disarming…this was, but then what would you expect, harmony in the middle of an earthquake? What would you expect? I found myself drifting at times, but I knew I couldn’t go to sleep. I mean who could?
There I sat behind the wheel, crouched forward to peer through the blinding storm of locust; these hoppers were like rain sheets hitting the windshield, hitting quicker than the wipers could fan it clean. My palm and forehead had a glossy mist to it—sweat and pain, and unknown chemicals coming out of my pours.

—It was now mid-afternoon, and they were hot, it was hot, I was hot, everything, even the car was hot, and hence, morning would be my best time to make my move, when they’d be cooled down, down in the crops around me—quiet. Therefore, I had turned my car off, completely off, and I’d leave my car off until morning, the suspense would come at daybreak when I’d have to turn it back on, start it up again.

—[2:00 AM] I must had fallen to sleep, and an automatic clock in my head woke me up, it was inky dark out there, outside my windows, and so, I started my car up, it choked a bit, but it started, and I noticed my water gage going up, as if a water hose was plugged or ripped. I turned the car off. I didn’t want to make too much noise, just get out of here and get back to Timbuktu: I figured they’d follow the crops, and bypass the city; oh possibly a few million might divert themselves to the city, but that is not bad; I mean, what is a million when you got 249-million more. I knew they were all on the cool ground and in a few hours they’d be in the air again—over me again; and should they decide to stick around I’d die of a heat stroke I figured, sooner than later that is, sooner than they’d get a chance to eat me anyhow.
I opened my car door slowly, pacifying the moment; shinned a flashlight on the road beside me, there were many about—sleeping, quiet, almost stone-still—could I have hummed them to oblivion, I would have; but I could walk around them for the most part I figured, and I did, did just that, then I opened the hood of the jeep, slowly, quietly, with more gentleness then I ever knew I had, as if it was a woman, looked at the hose, and several hoppers flew in my face, I had glasses on, they poked at my eyes nonetheless, I said nothing, nothing at all, just swatted them away with the rag I had in my hand—and I didn’t use much force in doing that either. One hose had a small crack in it. I knew I’d lose water, all the water I had in the car in about five miles should I not fix it, or repair it that is, with twenty miles left to go beyond that five miles, should I not fix it—I’d be worse off than now, I’d be stranded right in their pathway—God forbid!
The engine was covered with the winged hoppers, I wanted to say to these hoppers a few gruesome swear words (actually curse them to hell), but I can’t, I told myself, I’d wake the others up for sure; I had waked them up—a few of them up already, and they started to fly out and about clearing a passage to my hose for me, I didn’t want to wake anymore than necessary.
They were not massively jumping on me yet, just a few, trying to crawl up my pants legs—tickling me here and there: slightly attacking my glasses; I think they like glass—but just a few attacked me, as if half in a fog, out of some kind of instinct, or automatic reflex I would guess (almost like sleepwalking): nothing to get alarmed about I told myself. I tried not to open my mouth, a few seemed to spot it when I took in a deep breathe of air—as if they had radar, consequently, they zoomed right at it, I had to spit them out as when they hit my face their legs seemed to have found their way into the crevice of my mouth—sticky psychotic insects. Then I got an idea, I opened the trunk of the jeep up, took out a five gallon can of gasoline, in this country you always carry extra gas, water and food, always—lest you find yourself in some deserted location, as I have at this very moment (with no resources); I poured it on the side of the road, up about two-hundred-feet leading into the fields, then on my way back I took my First Aid kit, put the white tape—normally used for bandaging wounds—put it around the hole in the hose (not making a deliberate sound, but not soundless), and started my car up, at the same time I lit the gasoline by throwing a match out of the window onto the road, and I hit the accelerator to fifty-miles an hour (it’s as fast as my jeep would go ((it was an old US Army jeep they must had purchased it from some Army surplus garage)) and I watched the road and fields explode with lightening-like fire behind me.
Yes, yes, yes, behind me was a windless fire breeding into the fields, eating hoppers while sleeping, roasted grasshoppers, like hotdogs (it was indeed a magical moment): yes, yes, yes they woke up, this horde of hoppers woke up in a French-fired position I’m sure; to them I expect it was their ‘Pompeii,’ and shall talk about it for a thousand years to come in this region of the world; to me it was salvation; oh yes, yes, yes, it is what legends are made out of in the hopper-world, I’m sure—; I got a mouth full of toxic fumes which was the only curse of the predicament for me, and a bonfire galore as I raced onto Timbuktu.

—When I got to the city, it was locked up tight, everyone afraid to come out of their mud huts, and beautiful mosques. I knew I couldn’t tell them I had lit the fire—for my sake; they’d make me pay for the corps I suppose (after the crisis was over I’m sure; for humanity has a short memory when it comes to thank-you’s and money). But I think they were happy to see it was all over, and a few heard my jeep motor, for slowly one by one they appeared, a few came out of their shops until the whole main street was out looking about with their doors open, ready to run back in a moments notice. I had expected them to invade the city somewhat—somewhat expected this to happen, as did the residents, but none did; and they did go east. That's why, had I told them about me lighting the fire, they’d have roasted me in it, so my silence, or intuition was right on.

Written 3/26/2005© by Dennis L. Siluk, while at the BN, Café in Roseville,
Minnesota 55113, USA (Revised: 276-words added, and reedited, 2007)

Transformation (An odd story of a spacecraft)

2007-02-20T16:23:00.000-08:00

Transformation

Mick and Me

It was back in 1963, or ’64, when my brother and I were up by Rice School had left his presence for a spell, and went over by the small grocery store, when I returned, my brother was staring, looking up into the sky. He’s about six foot one, I’m about five foot eight inches tall. I was at that time slim and muscular, my brother, somewhat, pleasingly plump. He said, “You know what I saw Lee?” And I said of course, “No, what?”
“You won’t believe me,” Mick commented.
“Try me, “I responded. And here is what he said: “I just saw a round space craft, it was held still in the atmosphere (he is at this time sixteen years old, I am fourteen),” then he sucked in his breath as if to let it all out at once and said, “It lit up, like the moon, light all around it,” and he looked about to see if he could find the craft or perhaps its silhouette, “It was descending, closer me, and then you showed up.”

Back in the ‘60s we young folk were doing many things, but our neighborhood was not into all those drugs, if I recall right, although who knows, but somehow I do feel his story was creditable. Now for another story which somehow I feel links into this one.

Transformation

Sid and Me

I knew the fellow, we went to school together, but he never wanted to go, he just would come and pick me up at the edge of the street that led into the school, and he’d take me off and we’d get drunk, and pick up girls. I was seventeen at the time, and he was nineteen. He always seemed older to me, I mean, as if he had the wisdom or insight, or foresight, whatever you are suppose to have in your later years (perhaps fifties), he had at nineteen years old, no questions asked, he did, simple as that. His first name was Sid, I will not tell you his last name, because he has passed on, some years ago, many years ago, to be truthful.
Here is the story he told me:

“I was walking, just walking, that’s all, and believe it or not, a spacecraft was following me. Yes, I said a spacecraft. Perhaps other folks saw it, or thought they saw it, because it was there, and gone as fast as a clap of an eye. But I saw it. I was…( he hesitates) you won’t believe this, but its true, I was 59-years old at the time this took place, I looked back then, as if I was sixteen or seventeen, yes, I proclaim to be nineteen now, but I’m really much older, if I told you, it would be hard to absorb. Anyhow, I was walking, and I saw this young boy, he was handsome, very good looking, built like you, several years ago, and it stayed in my head, and as the ship followed me, for the few minutes, it seemed to be extracting information from and of my thinking, thinking I say, of and at the moment. Even though I was spellbound of this spacecraft, I was thinking nonetheless, it was perhaps a delusion, illusion, something of that matter. And the boy came back into my mind.
“Well, as I turned the corner to walk a little further, I saw three lovely, shapely girls, in bikinis, lovely as three smooth looking sunflowers, and it was of course summer, and Elvis was of course popular and they were playing one of his records, in the backyard by their pool, resting on towels (this was of course in Minnesota). One of the girls, a blond, with shapely legs, and just the right curves, like a hard pear, she looked at me looking, and smiled, and went back to her friends. A black girl was there, and she turned around, she looked more Spanish Black, than black-black, and she also had a great pear shape as she twisted around to see what the blond was looking at, and there was a third girl, who paid no attention to me at all.
I turned around and walked away, I am old man, or at least getting old you know (so I told myself at that time), I was at that time, and I’m several years older now of course. But what took place in the following hour or so was amazing. I walked over to Como Park, it was but a few blocks away, there the lake was, and so I simply leaned against a tree, again I saw the disc, the sphere, spacecraft, it read my thinking process again. And this time there was some wishful thinking going on in my head. Here is what took place:
‘[the Voice said:] undress, standstill, and we will remold you, it is called a transformation, and you will look similar to that young boy….’ And I did what the voice said, and my body got red hot, something from the ship was hitting me. I couldn’t´ move if I wanted to. Then my skin bubbled, and I heard the voice again say “
‘Close your eyes’ and I did. And my skin got numb, and hot, and needle like pricks went through the skin, and a crust, like a casing came over me, except the inner eye sockets. And then I heard the voice again, “Jump into the water and wash yourself, we shall monitor you, see how you are doing with your new transformation.” The voice was more an echo through a machine it sounded like.
“I did wash myself, and when I came out from the lake, a few folks got mule-eyed at me, and turned their heads. But I put my cloths on quickly, went to the bathroom at the pavilion, by the lake, and to my amazement, I was that boy I saw, almost perfect, so my reflection showed in the mirrors of the bathroom. Then I heard the voice again say, “You will be old inside, but new on the outside.” And as I looked at myself in the mirror a second time, I couldn’t believe my eyes yet. I was that boy.
“I went back to that place where those girls were, and the one blond fancied me, and that was the beginning of different life for me. She was of course, forth some years younger than I, and my voice was deeper than a young chap, but it was never too deep even when I was young.”

This was of course many years ago, perhaps (I was 17 years old in 1964, he was perhaps 65, if indeed he was 59, when he says he met the girls, he died I think in 1976, he would have been somewhere around 76 years old, and his wife, 27 or so, she never knew); he has long since been dead as I’ve mentioned. Folks couldn’t figure it out, especially his wife, whom was 40-years younger than he, and she thinking he was but three or four years her senior. And perhaps this was my first experience with what I call my adventures into the Cadaverous Planets series. Whatever, he enjoyed his marriage, if I recall, and his wife, whom was in the process of divorcing him anyhow, got $5000-dollars from his insurance. So you can’t beat that. True or not true, I will never know for certain, but I kind of miss his ramping about.
Written: 2-19-2007

The Fable of: Big Chest (A continuing saga of 'After Eve') Chapters 1 thru 9 of 12

2007-01-31T17:31:00.000-08:00

[The Continuing Saga of: ‘After Eve,’ Part Two]

The fable of:
Big Chest

By Dennis L. Siluk

Copyright© Dennis L. Siluk, 2004
[Reedited 2007 for publication]

Art work done by the Author

The Fable of: Big Chest
[After Eve II]

For Rosa [my wife]

Books by D.L. Siluk; check at your local books stores, and at: www.amazon.com and www.bn.com http://dennissiluk.triopd.com

Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [l980]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [l984]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [l981]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [l985]

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants

Tales of the Tiamat

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib

A Path to Sobriety [Vol I]
A Path to Relapse Prevention [Vol II]
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery [Vol III]

A Romance in Augsburg [Vol I] 2001
Romancing San Francisco [Vol II] 2002
Where the Birds Don’t Sing [Vol III] 2003
Stay Down, Old Abram [Vol IV] 2004

Death on Demand [Vol I] 2002
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]

Dracula’s Ghost [Vol I] 2003
[And other Peculiar stories]

The Mumbler

Sirens
[Poems-Volume II, 2003]

After Eve [2004]

Note: Some books are not shown

[An Epoch poem]

Chapters:

The Assemblage
[Part II: to After Eve]

Advance
Prelude to the Past

Profile of the past
[And Big-chest]

1—The Decision
2—The Ice Sheet & Cave
3—Interlude
[Phenomena of the Ice Age]
4—Into the Arctic Winds
5—Quest for the West
6—The Ice Sheet
[Sub-chapter: Pekingg-girl Daydreaming]
7—Tattoo-woman Spots Land
8—Babies
(Sub-chapter to 8 & 9 Browbeating)
9—The Shaman
10—The Sleigh
(Sub-chapter in the middle of chapter 10;
Forty-four Months of Isolation ((behavior))
11—Hudson Bay and the Fire
12—Wall of Ice
13—Mystery Hill
Epitaph
[And Benediction]

Illustrations:
Not in any order

1) Pekingg-girl
2) Broody-bird
3) Jaguar-eye
4) The Cave
5) Single-tooth
6) Big-chest
7) Stern-toes
8) Walrus Grave
9) Map of the Pole
10) Circulation Map
11) Tundra, the Ice Hunter
12) Tattoo-woman [Tundra’s wife]
13) The Old Man of Mystery Hill
14) Graph of Language
15) Toma and the Turtle
16) Little Bird-turtle [the wise one]
17) The Dugout
18) The Two Headed Snake
19) Diagram of the Dugout
20) Language II
21) The Stone Bull
22) The Sleigh
23) Big-chest [Hudson Bay area]
24) Tundra, walrus hunting
25) Big Igloo
26) Mystery Hill
27) Wolf-dogs

Other Poems:

1—Man’s World
2—The Assemblage
3—The Last Member
4—Before Eve

Characters in the Story:

1—Big-chest
2—Stern-toes
[And reflections of Big-chest]
3—Jaguar-eyes [Begetter’s son]
4—Single-tooth [Pet]
5—End of winter [Big-chest’s daughter]
6—Toma [Arctic hunter]
7—Tundra [Older brother to Toma]
8—Pekingg-girl [wife to Big-chest]
9—Little Bird-turtle [the wise one/Arctic woman; no mate]
10—Half-turtle [sister to Little Bird-turtle]
11—Old White Man [?] of Mystery Hill [Qallunaag]
12—Tattoo-woman [wife to Tundra]
13—Ariel [wife to Stern-toes]
14—Fish-girl [wife to Jaguar-eyes]
15—End of winter [Daughter to Big-chest]
16—Six babies born, one dies
17—Poor al-ram

Groups of People:

1) The Assemblage
2) The Arctic-People
3) People of Mystery Hill

See book one, “After Eve,” [for better understanding of
These groups]:

4) The Horde [from the old world home; Stern-toes people]]
5] The Stone-People [from the old world home]
6] The Branch-People [from the old world home; Big-chest’s people]
7] People of the Fire [Jaguar-eyes’ people]

Notes on the making of the Story, and other books by the writer

Briefs on the Authors other books

A note about this story and book: This book has two parts or sections to it: the first being: ‘Before Eve,’ which is in essence, a poetic epoch, of how things were before the advent of the Garden of Eve, which was part of the first book: “After Eve,” and the second part to this book, is that of the ongoing saga of “After Eve,” called: ‘The Assemblage.’

Advance

Before Eve,
[The Rebellion]

Before, and then ‘After Eve’

In a time past before the Garden of Eve, there was another period— an epoch. Thus, that is where we are headed, looking for the eternal breathe of man—the one that was not started in the Garden, rather, outside of the garden. Two worlds, metaphorical worlds, some may say, the residue of the phenomenon of the past world right before, and then After Eve—some would call it the advancement of man. But as we look into this phenomenon, one must venture a bit before the story takes hold, and that is what we are going to do right now

Before the Garden of Eve, all the rules of nature were, as we know them to be, that being, suspended somewhat, displaced—dragged about like old leaves to be burnt, dragged away. Like the polar region—the North Pole, that once was, but is no more, under the Greenland Sea, used to (and in this story it still does) in the Hudson Bay. And so there was a race, defaced, unsanctified: that lived and died, some buried alive, some now demonic in disguise, in the invisible world that roamed the world throughout.

In this time, the time before: the time we do not know of, but the time before there was the human race as we know it to be, there was an epoch that brought God disgrace. What world, what damned world was it: the one that is coming back, the one I’m bringing back to life—that is, oh forgive me if you can, but I must, must present this hideous infectious stupid, and over confident world. Cursed world that scorned the word of God, to play in their selfish delights, let me explain:

Before Eve, Adam who was, what I’d call the original, the real thing, the first prototype of man, mans cultivated creation of a man, or if you will, or prefer: God’s human-man, not like me—a born resident to the world that was already cultivated. I am restored, restored from what was, could be—what didn’t become: what sin had done, before the dawn, the dawn of civilization. But this is of course time past, time broken as inside a glass, and we want to look inside at the broken glass do we not (?) so we can see how it all came about.

The Emissary

Therefore, once upon a time, once upon a time long, long ago, domination of the earth was given to a personage called the Emissary: earth was his hamlet—save for the fact, God could over rule him, nonetheless, it was his throne, his city of cities to rule as he wished.

With four million angelic beings and ten million citizens, he ruled civilization on earth. In secret—he built, yes, O yes; he built an invasion for heaven. Whereupon, all nations with angelic forces on earth, plus the citizens of all earth on earth, to include all the warlords, fought and fought and were trudged into submission: into oblivion, some into an abyss, others under soil and dirt, rocks and stones—the feet of the defeaters were meshed in blood—blackblood, and the Army that awaited them and lost the battle were cursed forever.

These citizens, men of men: an intelligent force and breed, saved for the fact they were cursed, and played with wisdom—wisdom they thought could not be lost, yet by blindness of impiety and the obtuseness of sin, it was; it surely was, and it was the first earthly civilization to be cursed. In consequence, men now turned into demons, demonic beings, and demigods—the de-vil’s men: that is, men after the Emissary’s heart; yes, yes, they had his name imprinted within their veins, now a birthright to all who was born to them, with cursed blood.

With their invisible bones mature, demonic-bones that were blacken to the core with horror and blackblood: dead in the heat, no red blood in the veins—the spirit spawned like the insides of a dead fish—satanic-roots that would curse men and God: now forsaken; now slapped into the darkness, the shadows of the rigid, gruesome nest of the lowest of the low—inhabitants: the nebulosity of a God’s given race, now in the inky-dark world of shame. This was their new abode this was their home.

Trophy

‘The Emissary, the Emissary, where art though?’ they cried: the citizens of earth, the holy ones (oh yes he was, he was holy at one time—past tense) the most stunning, I’ve heard said—who tired to be the Most High: ‘where art thou,’ they cried: the strong and gallant god-like feathered beings, now were nothing more than a trophy on a dead horse that tried to out run his masters track. And so it was, this old breed was to be the scorn of the future. And so it is and came about.

Rock-builders
[Demonic Shadows]

Destruction follows pride they say—and for the Emissary—and his demonic followers: the Rock-builders who built temples, and kingdoms and all such things—and his angelic force—a mighty force that once was, but was never more to be: it did just that, and if knowledge is not replaced by foolishness one may survive it, but if it isn’t, and it wasn’t, then one must fall—and fall they did, fall as far as low can be. This Emissary of the world’s first civilization—and its civilization, the rock-builders now, of the first society, before the Garden of Eve—yes, yes—fell I say: this Emissary, was thrown out of heaven, past the nebula, and the planets, and back to earth’s surface, in his now, new invisible shadow, and the shadows of the rock-builders (his demonic force: his Army of shadows) were present on earth, what was left of them anyways.

God

The rebellion—the secret rebellion: before the Armies tried to invade Heaven: when Heaven was at peace, at peace with earth; and the solar system was not yet disrupted: distorted or damaged by the massive force’s to be, not yet cursed; kingdoms, and animals and all such things on earth, were soon to move its curst, thus displacing everything, turning the world—one might say—upside down—and then it did happen, the rebellion took place, to bring down God.

The Residue

And the echoes and the moans: the cries and the bellowing: the garnishing of teeth, were seen and heard throughout the universe. Left behind was the residue, the burnt deposits of the inhabitants of earth, that once ruled with its angelic force; and so the ruler of kings, was taken off his throne to become nothing, nothing at all—yet, he remained a little above the shadows of the demon—you might say, in an invisible world to be, the Pre-Eve dawn.

(Future Time) These are the demonic spirits that now roam the abodes of mankind; that open and shut windows to and within the physical world: they where now alone, God was not within their bones; hell was all that lied between them—mostly to be a nuisance to man: yes, hell awaited their homecoming, and that would come soon—and this is how it was.

The King

The king of the earth, before Eve, before Adam, the third creation you might say, was the Emissary, the king—and he, and he still rules the residue—rules them to this very day, the demonic force that lives in man’s era: the demonic force God brought to their knees, to their destruction, to be in the haunting dark shadowy world: peeking world, a Para physical domain; a place that allows you to live in the past, the future, but seldom in the present, where God is, and grants eternity.

Darkness

These spirits or demonic-men lived on and on and on in an invisible residue form; the only thing left that God created for them under the leadership of the Emissary was a destiny that was bleak, henceforward they went out, out into the world, doing the Emissary’s bidding.

By and by this all led up to the beginning, my beginning: when the Garden was born, adjacent, parallel to their world, yet both not in the physical: yet one was: that was the one, where all would have to go. Adjacent to the world of the demonic force, was the Emissary, once dotted with destruction, and now was restored. And still he was allowed (the Emissary was allowed) into Heaven’s door, and into the peek holes within the garden, which he crept like a fish—a reptile without legs, and begged to be heard. And again darkness befell the inhabitants (Adam being the King: now was no more, oh his thorn, it was given to the Emissary), yet the rebellion remained in the dark shadows of the physical world, not for the family of Eve to enter.

Mixing

A mixing of demonic creatures: animals, sprits unknown to me, were all part of the advent of man to be. Once Eve and her husband left the Garden that is, a shallow, unholy day at best that was, again the earth was given back to the invisible Emissary, to boast his best: as now interbreeding took place, through angelic forces, demonic beings and animals—and human offspring created from Adam’s creation—all the makings for a bleak morning. And that is how it was: once upon a time: long, lone ago.

ΒĆ

The Assemblage

Prelude to the past: there was a polar shift taking place in the Hudson Bay area, whereas, this area was not seeing any night at all and on the other side of the world it was not seeing any day: although there was what one might call a shift into a gray period, one for night, the other for day. Big-chest didn’t, or couldn’t reason what force could do such a shifting of the world’s axis had this even occurred to him, and it really didn’t, I am just kind of informing you the world he was living in, or the times: and possibly even the scientists of today might have had a hard time with this theory, but it took place nonetheless, or I should say, it was in the makings. You could prove this, or Big-chest could, had he looked at the stars—for their placement, but then to him the stars were merely light for his conquests within the dusty, and dangerous world he lived.
On a similar note: the earth being more of an egg shape, and is balanced more by the bulge at the equator, as most scientists would agree, and would also concur that the earth wobbles, and is not steady; thus, we have the makings for the perfect world for Big-chest, a world he will find absolutely, and unconceivable un-stabilizing as he ventures out and into a long journey, although he finds a mission in the process. It came, or a number of chapters came, I should say, in two dreams I had recently. So if dreams are true, it must be so—and if not, well, and then let it rest in the fictional world. As we get more into the story, I will try to update you on the earth’s movement [s]; it will help you adjust to the geology, psychology, and anthropology of the epoch.

Table of Groups/at the end of the Book

The Assemblage

“God made man in his image;
But in whose image did God
Make the people of: After Eve?

[The people of the Assemblage?]”

Profile of the Past
[And Big-chest]

Big-chest: before the Stone-People arrived, which was right after the couple of the Garden left the Garden, was part of the first story of After Eve: Big-chest, like his people [the Branch-People], and the people of the Horde, and the whole world for the most part [in degrees and levels], were spread throughout the European, Mesopotamia, and Asia Minor world: that is, [according to contemporary standards]—the unspeakable stupid world that existed outside the world of the Garden that is. With the world we are stepping into now, it is a world of less language and more brute force, of more hisses and gestures, eye contact, body language you might say, but there were more city-states that had a better grip on the language barricade, it was as if there were a lapping over of time—if not period, from one species to the other during this epoch; some of these inhabitants had eyes like rocks that would stare at you, before they’d eat you alive. It possibly was a time when gene pools intermixed, and what one might want to call ‘Little Eve,’ born long before the other Eve, the one with Adam, transferred from among her group the mutation to create an advance life; yet even so, the mutation came from—or so it was said—from a male species, when a rib was extracted from him, and placed with a transferring mutation genetic code of mDNA; it was but a 2% advancement from the apes it was said, but it made the biggest of difference.

Big-chest was the worse of the lot. He’d even talk to the trees: nakedly talk to the sky and water: mindlessly think of nothing. He roamed the world unaware of reason, not senses: his sagacity was good, but reason beyond wits is what I mean, reason that said: is there a God; or: is there more to this than I thought. He had dignity though, dignity without shame, in his old world; in the new one there was no dignity, not until he left it—and that is what this story is about: new beginnings [but not without hardship, for life is made up of that very rudimentary ingredient, is it not—adversity?].
Before the Stone-Builders: the renegades that left the Eve-People that is, Big-chest was similar to a sole warlord: an assassin if you will, who dwelled in the forest, on the cliffs, until the bow and arrow was invented, and the spear was brought into his land, instruments of war he knew nothing about.
His childhood was not good to him either; as well you may know, or have figured out, nether was his adulthood for that matter: something like the contemporary world bellows out, out when they want to escape the punishing arms of society. In Big-chest’s world, society as he knew it, or I should say, as I am bringing it to you, was in its crib, and Big-chest was the last of the missing-links—if there is such a thing; and if there isn’t then we’d simply place him back in the hands of man.
Impressive to look at—he was with his long arms, thick and muscular frame, beady-stone eyes; frightening to look at—at best. He was hated by the world around him, and likewise hated the world he saw. But with his bare hands he challenged it, that is, the civilization of its day: its: settlements, hamlets, tribes, campsites, whatever existed, he took to heart and hands, gripping it with his deadly force.

Chapter One

The Decision

To the north was where the ice sheets resided. Everyone knew it, that is, everyone that was left on earth knew where the ice sheets were—the cold land as they called it, and where the Arctic winds swept over and cooled the Valley of the Caves. It was said it was the frozen and desolate land no one could survive in; after all no one had, I should say a few may have, very few that is. That said, after the Stone-builders had destroyed the Horde, and for the most part, taken over the governing of the known world: to include, having destroyed the Branch-Peoples hebetate—so they didn’t have to govern them, and infiltrated the hamlet of the People of the Fire, there was not much left for the taking, that is to say, no surrounding area within a thousand miles was safe to live in, lest you be subject to the Stone-People, if they did not kill you first. As I was saying, everyone knew about the cold and freezing death trap of the north, but no one really wanted to go live there, not until now, not until this very oncoming winter; no one but Big-chest.
Even farther north was the Pole, the North Pole, and to the west low sea level. When alive, very few of the Hordes people every went their, a man named Moss at one time had, and he made history within the Horde for doing so; yes, he even made it back alive, but he was a seasoned traveler you could say; but how he survived no one knows, Moss was a bragger, and would make stories out that were—for the most part—half fiction, but all pretended to believe him: yet, it was too fantastic to be completely true—or taken as truth, the final word: up till now a lot of it was taken for trouble-free tales: but he knew things only a person from the North could have known; now the question of survival had risen, and the question was: could Big-chest survive in or by his birth place, which was the Valley of the Caves [?] a rhetorical question at best, for he knew he couldn’t with the Stone-Builders all seeking his head; the other question: could he survive in the north country, also known as the land with the ice-sheets? He knew much of what Moss had said, and if he could, why couldn’t he, a rhetorical question he pondered on.
After the Stone-Builders having integrated, The People of the Fire, through: marriage, forced labor, and so forth: into their habituate, and killing all those who would not, all those they found that is, for a few got away, at hand: was not much life left in the area as far as groups of people went—and not much hope for survival alone in this haunting, and hunting land of the Stone-Builders.
Stern-toes of the Horde, was the last of his sect; and to be honest, there were only a few of the Branch-People left—yes, almost all the Branch-People, were killed off, used for target practice by the Stone-Builders, decedents of the Eve-People, who came out of the Garden of Eve, but decided to go their own way, thus, called renegades for the most part.
The next quest for the Stone-Builders—having conquered all that was conquerable in the known world—was to find and kill the one main enemy they had: Big-chest. Five decades had come and gone since the Stone-People had arrived out of the Garden of Eve, whom were in the beginning, really the People of Eve, thus, the ones who left that group, were turncoats one might say, so called by The Stone-Builder’s in actuality, they had build towers and fortresses and outposts all over the known world; all would agree, agreed, this was the world that was hunting for one person: one person alone, that being: Big-chest, number one enemy to the new world order, the known: civilization.
Big-chest’s friend, I say friend in a salty way, whom was known in the Horde as Short-legs, was now dead, and had been for a little more than a decade, but his brother, whom now lived on the cliff above the caves, in fear of the Stone-Builders also, in fear they would come and kill him one night in the caves remained on the top of the cliffs: knowing they would not dare climb the cliffs at night, should they, they’d die from stepping in the wrong place perhaps, and they cherished life too much to be so foolish: hence, Stern-toes made his home nearby, right on top of the cliffs—out of rocks, boulders, whatever he could find, putting those all together like a cave might be, actually making a stone house of sorts. He was now sixty-five years old. No one in the history of the Horde ever lived to such an age; the normal life span, life expediency, was between thirty-five and fifty years. Well, a few of the Horde lived beyond this, even his brother, but very few and I suppose Moss was a bit older than normal too, but he lived a stress free life for the most part. Big-chest on the other hand, was beyond his life expectancy at age of seventy. But again—and one must know, these are all exceptions I am bringing forth—Big-chest, was different. He was a mountain of muscle, had a narrow mind, and was evil incarnate, at least in his younger days, and was as cleaver as a fox: no, he was not your ordinary Branch-person, or Horde member, or for that matter, he was not your ordinary warrior, like the Stone-People. He was, or could be crueler than they, that are why he out lived them. And he was stronger in cleverness also, this is why he out lived the Horde, and he was a little smarter than the Branch-People, that is why he was not dead laying over some branch in some old tree.

Pekingg-girl

It was the beginning of fall, for the leaves were turning colors, and the cool air from the north was seeping down—and Big-chest felt: should he wait tell spring, when the growth of the land would flourish again, he’d be dead, he’d never make it that long, till spring that is: it was what the Stone-Builders were counting on, surely counting on, hoping for. Hunting him down in the snow—so they could see his path, spot his tracks: and when there was no food, he’d have to try and pilfer from the fortress—again, another chance to capture the number one enemy of the world. So there was no winning in this game, that is, staying in this land, it was all a loss, a wobbly deal no matter how one looked at it; and it would be capture all the way by staying put, staying in this area of the Valley of the Caves; as a result, he made up his mind to leave, “why not? oh yes” he convinced himself; what did he have to lose. When put in the corner you either come out fighting, or die, and the only way to fight a thousand against one was to run, go to the North Ice Sheets, unwillingly, but most defiantly he would, he would have to. But first things first he told himself: he went to find, and did find, Pekingg-girl, she was the younger sister of Javaa-girl; the one who got killed many years ago by a hunter, and he killed her assailant. He also mated for a while with her mother, so he was no stranger to the family.
Pekingg-girl was sweet, and was twenty-year old, middle aged for their sect. In the old days, when he was more vibrant, he’d simply grab whomever he wanted, female species that is: or any gender for that matter, no one could stop him, yes, by just grabbing the girls he wanted, they’d come: but his age was catching up with him, and he did not have the energy to force himself upon her, to drag her all the way to the northern ice sheets, having to watch her every move, wondering when and where she’d escape, or stab him with a big tooth or something similar—so he asked her in a kindly fashion, if she wanted to stick around and be slaughtered by the enemy, or protected by him; --not much finesse in his mannerisms, or approach, and to the point, but there wasn’t any need for such nonsense.
Although he was of an old age, he was still powerful—and could be a good protector if he was willing: for his back, shoulders and upper arms were still brawny and muscular; his legs, a strong point, seemed to be as willing as his heart—physically powerful. And so she said willingly, in her mannerisms, for speech among the Branch-People was still limited to grunts and gestures for the most part, said: “Yes,” and followed him out of the Valley of Caves.
As they walked on out of the Valley, Stern-toes was looking down on them from the cliff above: Big-chest waved, it was the first time in Stern-toes’ life he had ever seen Big-chest wave—even with a smile, actually Stern-toes had to take a double take on that—and waved back, and again, Big-chest waved. ‘My gosh,’ Stern-toes whispered to himself, ‘is that really Big-chest?’ Yes, he was questioning his sanity, his observations, and his eyes. As unbelievable as it was, it was so. It was Big-chest in the flesh, waving at Stern-toes. Oh, he had showed his kindness in ways before, but he was a brute, and showed his dominance in many other ways at the same time when he was supposedly trying to be kind; and so it was only wise to think the worse of the seemingly, unbelievable event. Nonetheless, Stern-toes copied him, waved back a third time, but Big-chest was no longer looking up, he was on his way out of the Valley, past the Branch-Peoples habitat and heading north-bound.
Thought Stern-toes—as he watched Big-chest and Pekingg-girl walking steadily to the north: it was a gesture picked up from the Stone-Builders [the waving of hands that is], when they left one another. Yes, the Stone-Builders on one hand, was a murderous bunch of hominoids, on the other, they offered a new kind of existence, one that had more reasoning to it than theirs, but with such reasoning came reckoning, if not for them, for everyone else—and for better or worse, everyone picked up some of their good and bad traits: qualities if you can say that.

—Big-chest wasn’t sure how this all was going to turn out, he didn’t even know north from south to be honest, but he did know when the Arctic air shifted akin to a whirlpool, and started seeping down upon his shoulders, his hairy and broad shoulders, some eight feet above his feet, and it was doing it right now, right this very minute: the beginning of fall had arrived; it not only cooler it was seemingly more colorful, that being, the leaves on the trees were turning colors, the foliage was drying up, and some trees were sucking up all the water from the ground to store it for winter—that Big-chest knew about, yes, O yes, Mother Nature was his sidekick if anyone was. His best bet, he figured was to go as far north as he could, as far north as to not make it not worth the while for the Stone-Builders to follow him, and thus, try and find a way to either live in that climate, or keep going north and possibly either fall off the earth, fall into a hole that would take him to the middle of the earth, or walk around it until he couldn’t walk anymore—and end up at the back door of one of their stone castles. He didn’t know which options were available so he took them all and just kept walking north. For some reason beyond his knowledge he currently acquired, or had captured the capacity of life to want to go on living; before this, it was not really thought of, it was more on the line of you lived you died, and never thought why, there was not ‘why’s’ available for his kind, or at least, that is how it was in the past. At one time this would not have been fixed in his mind either, that being, to escape to the north, no, not at all, but that was a time before the Stone-Builders, before Eve walked out of that so called Garden, where Short-legs and his friend Little-eyes talked about all the time. He never saw the couple called Eve and her husband Adam, not eye to eye: like Short-legs and Little-eyes proclaimed they had—but every one talked about them all the same.

The Follower

As they walked several days north, they noticed a shadow following them, and as Big-chest hid behind some rocks with Pekingg-girl, he jumped out of the bushes to attack the stranger, only to find it was Stern-toes. Thus, standing there for moment, they both stared at one another; like Big-chest Stern-toes knew there was nothing left for him either, that if he had stayed, he’d also meet his fate, which was death. Again, they both stared at each other—a moment longer, to study one another, like two bears: for Stern-toes wasn’t sure if he could trust Big-chest, he did a lot of malice throughout the years to the Horde, such as, stealing their wives and so forth and so on, but on the other hand, he was trusting in him at this moment, which meant, he’d have to sleep at night, and he could kill him just as well as anyone could kill the other. Matter of fact, Big-chest could kill him right this minute if he wished to, although Stern-toes was built solid, and for his kind was strong, he was not the equal to Big-chest, not over eight feet tall, nor 400-pounds, not a monster as often he was called: hands as big as his head, his neck as thick as his thigh. At one time, Big-chest would have killed anyone who dared to follow him—not even think twice about it, but life changed, he had few friends, and the few he had he was not about to walk away from, again most were already dead. And what he really needed as he stood there looking, thinking, deliberating, was just that, a good friend, a comrade, another person who could share this endless journey with.
Big-chest nodded his head, up and down, up and down, indicating it was all right (with a little perky smile to boot), then beat his chest several times to show he was the boss, and Stern-toes said in his limited language: “yes, si, yes, si…” and got the message across that he was, or could be the leader for the time being. Had Stern-toes stayed back in the Valley on the Cliff, at his age, or possibly at any age, for he was the last of his kind—and surely the Stone-builders would have sought him out eventually—it would have been his last fall and winter and he knew it. Climbing up and down those cliffs to get fish and water every other day was too much. And somewhere along the line he’d end up being someone’s meal (probably the dogs or the pigs or the Manticores).

Jaguar-Eyes

They now walked past the old campsite where the People of the Fire used to live, and were heading on up towards the ice-sheets [the beginning of the glaciers]. Stern-toes was much wiser than Big-chest, being a level higher in the evolutionary line than the Branch-People, whom were the descendents of Big-chest, actually; to set the recorded straight, it was rumored Big-chest had a father from the Horde, and a mother from the Branch-people, and so it is feasible he was a mixture of both divisions of evolution. And Stern-toes, was one hundred percent from the Horde faction.
As they settled in, within the beginnings of a forest not far from where the People of the Fire once lived, covering themselves with leaves, eating some acorns, Stern-toes notice a fire going, burning, it was deeper within the forest. He could smell the burnt logs: hear the crackling of the fire, see the smoke seeping down and around the trees and branches, almost feel its warmth. He made a sound to Big-chest, and pointed, Big-chest jumped up as if to run in that direction and attack, but Stern-toes signaled him to stand-down—and they both started to creep within the thick of the forest, while Pekingg-girl remained hidden under the leaves where they had started to nest for the evening. When they got close to the fire, no one was there; then all of a sudden, Big-chest seen a movement by some trees and started to walk toward that direction, he was at times over confident in his ability, yet no one had ever seen him get beat in a fight. He spotted the figure of a man, he had seen this person before, it was Jaguar-eyes, the younger son of the chief of the People of the Fire, known as The Begetter, and he was now dead, killed by the Stone-Builders, a decade earlier. As Big-chest got closer to the person, Jaguar-eyes did not run, he was tired of running, and where would he run to, in the direction of what (?) He had heard of Big-chest, the whole known world had heard of him; but he took his chances after seeing Stern-toes befriended by this monster like figure approaching him. When Big-chest—and now Stern-toes, had somewhat cornered him, it was obvious, he was feelings like them, that being: left out in the cold: no place to go, no family, no anything; plus, Big-chest knew he was not afraid to die, he could read a man if anything, and Big-chest did not have the will to kill, like he used to, nor did he find pleasure in it for his insecure ego any longer, for unneeded profit.

Single-tooth

Jaguar-eyes moved a little closer to the fire—he was some twenty yards from it, now he was twenty feet from it: as did the other two, just looking at everyone, each other; everyone trying to get acquainted, and familiar, and comfortable—if possible, not moving about too quickly, lest someone take it for a threat and a war start between them, and now Pekingg-girl joined them. Jaguar-eyes, was now holding his pet, a small Single-tooth Presiadapis.
Over the fire was a huge body of meat, a huge body known as the Brooding-bird, with several eggs by the fire [Carnivorous in nature]. Said Jaguar-eyes with his own language of sounds and grunts, and a few words, actually he had more words than the other two for his group was even one level higher than Stern-toes in development, yet one level lower than the Stone-people: which Stern-toes understood slightly,
“et, et dith mee,” he said, and he and Stern-toes both looked at Big-chest, all knowing one another somewhat from the past: all smiled, and Big-chest for the second time in Stern-toes’ life, Big-chest didn’t kill anyone out of enmity. He actually smiled—thought Stern-toes—and was so hungry, and getting weak, he grabbed the leg of the monster-bird, and devoured it in a few minutes while the others ate vigorously, but at a slightly slower pace.
Even though Big-chest seemed to be a new person inside to everyone, and his ferociousness was tamed compared to how it used to be, he demanded his female mate be by him, he was not willing to share her: but then he normally didn’t, I mean, he just never did, or never would, he had a double standard, and didn’t think anything of it, as if it was supposed to be that way. But this was not of any consequence to the other two males; they always knew Big-chest had a passion, if not a lustful desire for all the sex he could get, even in his aging it never seemed to cut back.

Broody-bird

As the night lingered on, both Jaguar-eyes and Stern-toes drew pictures in the sand, and tried to communicated with one another, as well as with Big-chest, all trying desperately not to offend anyone, especially Big-chest, lest they die before they even touch the ice of the north; so they seemed to connect and all fell to sleep, happily for once in their lives; and to be blunt and for the first time in Big-chest’s life, he shut both eyes and fell into a deadly sleep. He had never done this before, he had never dared to; he slept with one eye open always, and that was not an uncommon practice for any species of his environment. Sleep meant death in the past.
—In the morning, when all awake, Big-chest again—somehow understanding, and hit his chest several times at Jaguar-eyes, and Jaguar-eyes knew his reputation, and nodded his head, almost bowing it, but short of that, in essence, saying he was the leader, or that he did not protest to his being the leader. Then Big-chest smiled, and started to eat another portion of the big-bird. It was the second time now that either Big-chest or Stern-toes had eaten meat cooked, and the faces they were making showed it. Even Pekingg-girl, whom was swallowing the meat down whole, was surprised at its flavor. Stern-toes started to vomit it up at first, and then slowly he started chewing it with more vitality, like he did last night, thus, finding out, it digested well that way.

The Fable of Big Chest

Chapter Two

Notes: Ice Ages are often triggered by warmer climates by the poles (known as: polar warming)—: this snow from the ice cap falls to lower latitudes; in essence, this is what was happening during Big-chest’s lifetime.

The Ice Sheet and the Cave

The Cave
And so it was, or seemed: a new group was born, or was being created, a good sample of everyone who existed in the old world environment seemed to be stepping into Big-chest’s path (except for the Stone-builders), a little bit of this and that, that is to say. At hand, were three groups now, the Branch-People, the last survivor of the Horde, and a royalty of the Fire-People? ‘Had fate brought them to gather’ thought Pekingg-girl, as she looked at each and everyone within the group, as they all sat around the fire—watching it flicker about, warming up; that in itself was a new experience for all but Jaguar-eyes: who still eating the big bird three days later, as they all sat around enjoying the evening; possibly it was fate yes, why not, mixed with necessity of course.
Stern-toes had weapons of stone, and Jaguar-eyes had spears, and Big-chest, muscles to spare, and they had a pet that seemed to be able to sense any danger, incoming predators that is, long—long before they could be seen: even when birds flew over head, or were about to, Single-tooth would squeal with a high pitch: “eek…eek…eek,” and all eyes would look where Single-tooth was looking—and sure enough, the birds would appear a minute or so flying over head

[Manifestations]

as they all sat by the fire, Big-chest seemed to fall into a staring means, a reflection mode, one that carried him off to a vision world: it was dim, faded as always, but it lasted longer this time, that is, his reflections. He’d get those off and on, but they’d fad reminiscent of a dream, not being able to put the pieces together, but he sometimes could—like this very moment—remembering someone who seemed to represent his father, a caretaker of sorts, a big blob of muscle and anger, a breathing thing, with not much laughter, and this personage would come back to the huge tree they lived in and eat everything in sight: bananas, and other fruits, and kill animals and rip them apart, sometime sharing, most of the time not. He’d then grab his ear and push him out of the branches, instructing him to go hunt, and bring back prey, food, and they’d eat it. He was a harsh father, yet he knew it was a harsh world
at times, he’d sneak down to the Horde and visit an old woman, he never knew who she was, but she was always kind to him, possibly his mother, if not, he had wished it were. She’d sit in the back of a cave all alone just rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth with her body, her back arched, and her head almost touching her feet, hour after hour: then he’d show up, and she’d get an erect back, and a slight smile. Oh he remembered that smile, and he’d often leave a piece of meat for her, and she’d be thankful. And when he left she’d rock back into her rhythm again, the smile gone
she always seemed to have a little water for him, a piece of old banana waiting or him, old but he’d eat it, not sure why he ate it, to please her of course, but why, the real way, why would he not just through it at her (like he did to everyone else), but he couldn’t, he ate it, and smiled when he did—a premonition filled his black blood, during these excursions.
Outside of the cave he didn’t smile though, it was as his father said it was a tough world
his father knew he went to the old woman’s cave, and he never stopped him, but never talked about her either, or visited her, never acknowledge her, only him did he recognize, and barley that.

As the fire continued to burn and flicker, the warmth of the fire brought to Big-chest, other reflections. He could feel her body heat when he visited her, yes when he visited her, O yes, she had body heat, but what he felt was warm inside, not knowing why. He almost showed tears in his eyes as he reflected. It was one of the few, if any, few good memories he had. Oh he had a few with Short-legs, and his sidekick Little-eyes, but it was out of his fierceness that their friendship developed, if you could even call it that. This old woman was never afraid of him. And she died, yes died. Then, after her death, he never went back into that cave, never again, not even once. As the story goes: a lion crept into it one night and killed her, ate her up: yes, took away his only fond memory. The only name he ever knew her as, was Poor al-ram.
Big-chest was rather young back then it was good to reflect, thought Big-chest, sad or not, it felt good, and terrible; good because he discovered he had some good moments in his life; bad because they were painful ones for some reason, but whatever it was, that old woman, and that bulk of an old man carved into him survival, and a touch of ‘caring for…’ not knowing what else to call it; as he looked about the fire in the circle, a circle of friends now, he was acquiring that ‘caring for…’ sprit, I suppose, slowly, slowly…

Big-chest

It was the forth morning at the campfire, and Big-chest who was a survivor made a decision to leave, and he beat his chest for all to follow, and accordingly they did. Jaguar-eyes put out the fire, as Stern-toes gathered water putting it in a skin container now, something he had picked up a few years back by watching the Stone-Builders; and Pekingg-girl, smoothed out the leaves around the camp, and did what little cleaning that was necessary and joined Big-chest as they all rallied together, and headed on through the thick wooded area northbound.

—As the winds started to pickup, on their third day of marching after leaving the campsite, the cold was getting to Stern-toes, so with the carcass of the Broody-bird they had eaten, he saved its hide; he made coverings for the shoulders and chest of all the members of the Assemblage. Big-chest didn’t need his—or so he said, and possibly it was true with all the hair he had covering his body—and gave his to Pekingg-girl; accordingly, she had two now and as Jaguar-eyes did a double take on Big-chest after doing this, he simply raised his eyebrows, --smiled feeling there was no reason in disturbing the peace: saying with in his heart’s eye, ‘if he wanted to give it away, it was his business.’ And on their way they all went, the happy-four.

Stern-toes and the Water

It proved to be—after two more weeks of walking north—it proved to be quite a rough journey, through its, rocky and roughed terrain. Jaguar-eyes was the best hunter of the cluster, as was Big-chest the mightiest and bravest, and Stern-toes the smartest, and Pekingg-girl, the cleanest, and the one who did most of the cleaning up for everyone. Single-tooth followed Jaguar-eyes all around, but also seemed to take a liking to Big-chest, as he’d sit by his side, thus, if Jaguar-eyes fell to sleep at night or day or anytime he was liken to a bodyguard; for Big-chest always slept with an eye open, for the most part, but was experimenting with closing them.
All in all this group was walking into what was left of an Ice Age, an Ice Age, not sure which one, or what stage it was in, but it was getting colder as they stepped forward and drifted further north. The closer they got to the ice-sheets they could almost smell them, smell the ice, feel it in their veins, and taste it in their lungs—the closer they got, temperatures raised for a while then within this hemisphere they starting to lose energy quicker more drastically; at which time, Big-chest now requested his covering for his back and shoulders: requested them back from Pekingg-girl, a little embarrassed to ask, somewhat discomfited, but it was now a matter of survival, and he had learned to suck in his pride when such things stood in his way: face to face with him; pride was not a thing to be destroyed by, for it could do just that, pride was a thing to honor.
In addition to other duties Pekingg-girl acquired, she was given the job of carrying branches on her back tied and wrapped in skins. It was accepted as a gallant trust, and she most willingly did it. So often she’d feel useless, and now to be needed was to be honored, a great feeling for her.
Although each and everyone of the group often times looked in back of them, not missing anyone in particular from their old home or environment per se: just trying to remember what was back there—which was really nothing, and that was always to be their final conclusion, there was really no retreat, nothing worthwhile to go back to; hence, the closer they got to the Greenland Sea the better.

—As their journey lengthened a bit, they noticed a few animal remains about, frozen, bones lying in bog piles and old rock beds, they found themselves picking meat off the dead frozen animals when none could be found; meat that they warmed up of course, for now it was the main event of the evening, that is, to sit by the fire with a piece of meat, and talk about the day, enjoy the meat (yet at times frozen meat would do also)—it would seem they had options now, and ate whatever was available.
Beyond one certain area they found somewhat of a graveyard for dead Arctic Walrus’; nearby they also found an empty cave, it was, or looked approximating to be a burial cave of sorts, for there were—way in the back—stacked up, and stack under some rocks, human bones. From the assemblage of species that were spread throughout the cave, the bones were of all sizes and dimensions: it seemed other animals had come into this cave and either died of old age: was eaten by a praetor, and of course died a paralyzing death, or snow bound and was overwhelmed, and again died a frozen death. All in all, death reeked throughout the cavern.

Quickly, Jaguar-eyes started a fire and Pekingg-girl went looking for more wood; as the evening seeped into the environment, all got close together in a circle as to radiate more body heat for one another.

Arctic Walrus’s Remains

Chapter Three

Map of the Pole in Hudson Bay
[The pole was not always in the same location]

Interlude
[Phenomenon of the Ice Age]

Man’s World

“The World has its phenomenon’s, and they all come to life in man’s: dreams and visions, and if he lives long enough—his realities. ‘After Eve,’ is one such phenomenon.”

I must say at this intersection of my story, and I must give part of it away by telling you this, for I feel compelled to: as this group headed northbound, they were also stepping into what one might call a observable fact, like the Garden of Eve, in the first book I wrote, pertaining to this very story, of which was of course, the stepping stone to this story—and this being an extension of the previous one; this one consisting of two-dreams within a few days, the other one being one long, very long dream-vision. Now when I say observable fact, I mean something unusual, yet a phenomenon in its own right.
So saying, it is believed, and can be proven: but I am not here to prove anything, but in this story, it should not be taken that the North Pole of today is where it was when Big-chest was alive; oh no, that would be hideous, and not even workable for him—or this story, or practical, nor would it satisfy Mother Nature; in all printability, the group headed north, and north would soon turn into West, and it was, the North Pole at one time existing in the Yukon District, and then again it was in the Greenland Sea area and at another time in the far past, it was in the Hudson Bay area [amongst other places]. And then today we have it where it is, in its geographical location—for now anyhow, or one can also point to its magnetic positions, both being quite a distance apart. But what is actually happening now to Big-chest is that they are, in point of fact—walking into the Arctic region, and will find the Arctic waters are not as wintry as expected, rather a sharp warmer climate, as will be the climatic changes taking place when they, if they—shift west.
Likewise, as they venture into the unknown of the day, they will see the sites of the mountains, when they are really piles of volcanic matter? We are talking about the European side of the world still; all in all, the transition of the North Pole is in transition at this very moment in this story, and in the last 120,000-years it should be noted, it has changed a number of times as I previous said (if we were to go back further in this story, it would have changed positions potentially some 200-times), some believe by the movement of the crust of the earth; producing at times land bridges for migration purposes, and still others believe the crossing of the continents was completed by sunken continents, and yet another theory is crossing by ice, such as ice-bergs or one-hundred mile ice sheets floating from one continent to the other. This is really not my concern, that is, how it happened in the past, that being, farther back than Big-chest, it just did happen, and in this case we got to get Big-chest moving on to where fate calls him. I just hope they will leave their cave and go on further to discover this phenomena and then they will believe, if not you, and so my dream has pointed out. Should they not, they will be left resembling the bones of the walruses. And so we have an Ice Age in the changing mode, dead walruses, and a group of people that seem to be getting along, quite a different scenario than the last hypothesis in: ‘Before Eve’.

The Last Member

[It hit each and every member privately.]

There was one more member
That should have been counted—
But no one knew who it was:
On their long journey into the Arctic

He was even counted by his friends,
—Somehow, someway; but once

[Part one of the poem: part two will be in the end chapter]

Chapter Four

Into the Arctic Winds

Big-chest and his group, now on their third month together, still living in the cave, that is, the cave nearby where the walrus grave remains, a reminder that winter can be a fatal dilemma; a dilemma in the sense that on one hand it might be wise to secure a dwelling before full winter arrives, depending on if: he or she knows how long the winter is going to be; last, but then, grandfather-winter might not leave as expected; thus, what was going on in their minds was: trying to out wait the winter, when they had no idea they were entering what was considered the shifting of the poles. And the coldest area was right where they were; which was also the least changeable area.

—One morning, Single-tooth ventured out into the snow and dug a hole in it; it snowed heavily the night before, and a lot of moister was in the air which was in the snow that had fallen, as a result, the heavy snow with all its condensation of water made for a nice dugout shelter for the animal: as Jaguar-eyes looked at him doing this, digging in the snow making a kind of cave type home: he noticed he had dug what was to be the fist ‘igloo.’
“Look, look?” he said to the group, and they all stared with excitement, it was simple, but amazing. Thought Stern-toes, as he stared and gazed at this marvel, this home, made out of the very element they were trying to avoid—snow and ice, frozen water. Hence, they could leave this cave move on north and build a bigger igloo out of snow for shelters as needed—that is, while in search for a permanent home; as a result, he invented images of this in his mind: what a great idea he thought: build a shelter right out of the elements that freezes one to death (poetic-justice for Mother Nature). If the animal could create one so could they, and live in it:
‘Yes, Yes,’ he said, jumping up and down while the others looked at him strangely. He explained this to the group, as they were all watching now, especially Jaguar-eyes
next, Jaguar-eyes experimented, and left Single-tooth out in the bitter-cold that evening: in his make-shift igloo—to see how his body would endure within the sanctuary, and the next morning to everyone’s surprise, he [he being: Single-tooth] came out alive, walked out a bit cold, stiff, but alive, and with warm blood circulating throughout his body—this was marvelous, if not down right the best invention of the century, and feasibly the first experiment every made in dealing with climate. Then the animal ran into the warm surroundings of the cave, laid flat on his stomach as to absorb the heat, and so he knew the difference, and appreciated it: such simple things thought Stern-toes. All were filled with astonishment.
“Should we all go farther north?” asked Jaguar-eyes looking at Stern-toes, Big-chest, and the others.
Big-chest feeling a bit squeamish—at the fact that, if he was to say no in front of everyone—at that moment he’d feel foolish (and he didn’t know how to, except shake his head no); but it was a good idea he mulled over in the back of his mind, he just didn’t speak first: but something did come out of his mouth, that being, his very first, real word that all the group understood, “yay!” meaning yes; for all practical purposes it was just fine for everybody. And everyone jumped up and down with joy in every movement, with every limb swaying in the air—which was on one hand a desire for all, on the other, a petrified step for all—but for Big-chest speaking a real word—and it was ‘yes’ was a step forward for the group in understanding his commands. Furthermore, this was a prideful moment in the life of Big-chest, if not his biggest one to date. To be frank, the word ‘no,’ for Big-chest, really didn’t need a sound; everyone knew when he meant no. He now convinced himself he was, as he always tried to be, or as he tired to ‘show and tell,’ of a higher order, like that old woman that resided in the cave when he was a young lad, and she refused to live in the trees.

As the next few days passed, and everyone was getting ready to move on, Big-chest was over extending the word to “yaaaaay,” but even so, all understood him. The next word then came up, which was to be a universal word for them, that being the word for food: “neqe” and again all understood it.
And so here was Big-chest telling everyone, “neqe, neqe!” when he added two together, it was understood, he wanted more food, simple as it maybe, it also took a bit of doings to negotiate this dual word to meaning, that being, he had to hit his chest a few times and get their attention, but soon after, they (the group) got the full understanding; and when it was brought back [the food], he’d say “yay,” or yes, but in a pleasant manner of course, which was in essence, a ‘thank you;’ but yet, in a more resilient way than he had spoken before: almost as if he was testing his own skills out, and owning the two new words, and proud to own them: he was becoming an accomplished orator in his own right, well, almost speaking; his new communicational skills were a highlight of the moment; liken to a child who just discovered a new game; as if he was the discoverer of the new game; everyone thought it was quite desirable to watch his appreciation of the new skill, as it was even for them a foot forward in the groups language barricade: or better put, as it diminished some of that obstruction. The way it was in the days in the Valley of the Caves was to the extreme for him to connect or communicate with another species other than frighten them away from him, or scare them to submission. They all needed one another and they all knew it now: even Big-chest could not afford to kill at will anymore, nor was it his desire, yet it was still, somewhat still I should say, imprinted in him.
This time they were prepared as they left the cave to go on forward with their journey north. They used snow for their drinking water—carried wood for fire, as they would melt some snow during the night, while putting some snow on the rocks as it would melt into a container under the rocks, that is, melting onto and over the rock and into the container below—Jaguar-eyes came up with that idea. Save for they were learning as they journeyed into and onto the glaciers ahead of them, life was becoming a lesser hardship, then previously in their old surroundings, as they journeyed together—less fearful, if not feeling more secure in the fact they could fight the elements of nature as long as they realized they did not have control over it, and worked together.
When, they were hungry and no food was around, they found grass they’d eat. Yes, one could survive on grass they learned, as they did, yet when they ate it, they’d get sick and puke it up, or shit it out, and sometimes when they ate raw meat from the foul: wild turkeys in particular, they would find a huge worm creeping out their anis, and have to pull the lengthy, several foot worm out by hand. They learned quickly to cook bird-meat or suffer the consequences. They were finding not all the land was snowbound, the farther they went north and northwest.
They killed a few walrus’ but it was a bit clumsy doing so, in particular for Jaguar-eyes to do so that is, for he had not killed such creatures before, and to run after them the way he did, when found—was quite the chore; plus, often times they’d get away, and once they found their way back to the sea, they’d jump into their refuge-hole, dive deep to escape, this was what Jaguar-eyes was discovering—a lot of drudgery for nothing at times. But he did one day kill a huge one, so massive, so monstrous when they cooked him they found that his body, his hide was big enough to dress him up, akin to a reindeer, covering him from head to toe with skins. He used the tusks for weapons. And his bones were used for beams in the igloos they made to support at times the roof, as they learned how to cut the ice and snow into blocks, and curve the blocks, so when they placed them in position on top of the igloo they’d not fall on their heads. It was an ugly, and time-consuming task, this trial and error learning, but it was a laugh now and then—and that in it was good medicine for the group indeed.
Big-chest used to get mad at Short-legs and Little-eyes decades back, for laughing all the time, matter-of-fact, they laughed even when he was killing some of the Stone-People once, and he never new quite why, now he was starting to laugh, it felt good: so he had learned now, to laugh is to feel good. So many things to learn, at such an old age he pondered: was it really possible to keep learning: yes he convinced himself; it was possible, if one was willing.
They had killed [they being: the group members] a reindeer some time back and used his hair for strings, making rope out of it all, then tying this and that together, as they pulled their supplies tightly into bag type forms, wrapped in skin and thrown over their backs. Pekingg-girl was carrying about seventy pounds of fire wood, and Big-chest about two hundred-pounds of meat, and Stern-toes was carrying several skins, as Jaguar-eyes and his pet followed the stars northwest.
As they got farther onward, they noticed the closer they got to the pole region or what they thought was the center of the northland, the warmer the winds were coming across the ocean. It was still cold, but not as arctic kind coldness, as it was in the cave. They build igloos out of the snow still, and found by cutting a piece of ice out of a nearby pond or lake, they could put it in for a window. Sometimes they even cut it right out of the ice they were on, when they were on it for long periods of time, for at times the mountains came right up and out and above the glaciers and they tracked them for awhile to get off the ice; and still yet, while on the ice they found small lakes formed (water holes, ponds or pools) right on the ice, only a few feet deep.

Sitting one night in an igloo they had built, Big-chest made a suggestion, with his hands and his two new words, yes, and food, then pointed west, where the warm winds were coming from—not northwest anymore, but more west, west: not knowing an ocean was in-between, but nonetheless, he pointed. And the following morning that is where the Assemblage headed. Pekingg-girl was now with child, but she continued to do as she always did, her clean up jobs, bar Big-chest lightened the load of wood on her back to about half its size. He remembered back while living in the trees how life was, how many of the females lost their children by over working, and feared if she lost this one, they would not be able to carry on a group—plus he for once, wanted to leave something behind of him; oh he had had many children before, but he was feeling different now, this new feeling was different: one might say, Godly different. And all needed one another, more than ever, and especially her, being the only female.
On the tenth day of the tenth month of their departure from the Valley of the Caves, Pekingg-girl had a baby while in one of the igloos they constructed, she called it—: ‘End of winter,’ I think she was unconsciously praying it would end. She was a lovely little child, a female, with big eyes, and little ears, and a mouth that seemed to want to suck and eat all at once. Again, Big-chest seemed to be proud.

Chapter Five

Quest for the West

Circulation Map
[Areas darkened in did not exist during Big-chest’s lifetime]

(The warm air circulating was the result of, or because of, the circulation between the two oceans not cut off by land masses during Big-chest’s day: of the North Atlantic; that would consist of, as we know it today to be: Greenland, Iceland, and Scandinavia. Thus again, allowing the warm air to circulate and lower the temperatures of the northern world. In times before, the sea bottom had risen ((Hypothesis)); in consequence, there were no dividers to block the warm air currents.)

As the group started their long voyage toward the west, still finding themselves on a long bed of ice as they woke up one morning, having been together now some eighteen-months: not knowing if they were on a gigantic ice-berg or not; a floating glacier if you will, or whatever one wanted to call a two-hundred and fifty feet thick piece of ice leading out into the Atlantic, -- as they looked about they discovered they had broken off from the main land, that they were on a large portion of the ice-sheet broke off—one square mile to be exact, and as a result they were drifting slowly akin to a boat out into the Atlantic. Yet not knowing under them some three-hundred feet underneath them was the land masses called: Greenland and Iceland. Yet it did not hinder their drifting for the moment.

—While on the drifting ice-sheet, there was another group of pilgrims: several women and two men. When they noticed a fire going they joined Big-chest’s group—apprehensive at first but not willing to change their minds in joining them by the fire: now, with their willingness to participate within the group, and to be as one might call, members, the Assemblage was formed [the alliance, if you will], in place of the Horde and all the other groups they had left behind—the Assemblage was to be the new inhabitants of a changing world. And this is where the group become a new people, small as it was, it was theirs: or at least the starting of a populace, a people to be, once they found their environment to inhabit that is, their promised land: and so they proudly now envisioned themselves to be more than what they were before—and for some odd reason, the notion of ‘belonging to,’ was captured, more in the spirit, than in the everyday routine: that is to say, before this time, they were born into a group, and thus it was theirs by inheritance—if not forced fed into it; now it was theirs by selection, and of course, the need in one another to help each other to survive, and for all the good reasons that might develop.
In all, they now had nine new guests, the original four, and the new child, making it fourteen all together; the Arctic people were a shorter breed of people thought Big-chest, but they seemed to know a lot about the frosty climate, much more than He or they, and hopefully, they could help in the walrus hunting, and the igloo building. And although it was not as chilly as expected, it was, all the same, freezing.

Again, Big-chest hit his chest several times, that was for the very reason he had did it umpteen times before: to insure the new group knew what he meant: and what he meant was he was not to be denied his birthright, and I guess in all languages, this beating of the chest was recognized as a fearful sight, a sign that if you wished, you could challenge and be an opponent to try and take over the leadership, but it seemed they were satisfied, especially after seeing everyone else was at ease with Big-chest being the leader: why shouldn’t they; accordingly, they all joined together with the others harmoniously.
The leader of the Arctic group was originally, Tundra and his brother Toma; the women were between 4’ 5”, and 5’ 2” inches tall, and both men were no taller than 5’6”. Tundra, insisted the men of the group take them wives from his group, and if they wanted to change off, so his Arctic group would not die out, it would be honorable to do so. He implied it was their custom to share their women, and no one was ever angry at another for the sex they had with another’s wife, or the children they’d produce; matter of fact, the woman’s child was always cared for by all group members, the mother, and if there were two or three men she may have slept with, not knowing who the real father was, all two or three accepted fatherhood of the child, as they were accepted when they were children—it was a way of survival, or extinction. And all had seen extinction at first hand now, especially with the Stone-Builders.
And so Stern-toes took Ariel for his wife, and Jaguar-eyes took Fish-girl, because she liked so very much to fish, and he liked to hunt, having something in common for the most part; and the rest of the women, of which were five, one of them belonged to Tundra; Tattoo-woman belonged to no one, but cared for Toma, and Half-turtle belonged to no one, whom was Little Bird-turtle’s sister; Half-turtle, kind of dated or hung around Toma also, although she liked verity in her men. But all the woman except Big-chest’s woman, Pekingg-girl circulated the camp to whomever wanted them—to include Big-chest; nevertheless, Big-chest was not willing to share his woman, and it seemed all for the better, at least for the mean time: yes O yes, they all seemed happy on their big piece of ice sailing across the Atlantic once they got everything sorted out, rules, and leadership and everyone willing to help—.

Little Bird-turtle
[The wise one]
During this long voyage, Little Bird-turtle started to figure out a language, along with the few words they learned from Stern-toes and Jaguar-eyes, such as “Food,” and “Yes,” she wrote down a graph, for posterity, and taught the group them:

New Language/Writings

Her first teachings to the group was based on knowing the leadership structure, whom now was Big-chest of course, calling him: the king, one may say, and the teacher, which was of course her—and so she explained and wrote this out on rocks: “The year of the king, and the wise one, and the great water.” Explaining this was the great body of water she had heard tales about. Therefore, with a few written words, a few spoken words, along with gestures, the group seemed to get along much better as the days passed one might even say, it became cozy, in lack of better phrase.

Chapter Six

The Ice Sheet

Moreover, everyone seemed to have their place: some were designated as hunters, others as fisher-people, and still others, such as the women would clean up the campsites, caves they’d live in and so forth and so on; and there was those who carried wood and looked for wood; and still others who made the fire and of course the protector, Big-chest—who along with being the leader and giving orders did an assortment of things, in reality, a little bit of everything. They even had some sacred signs, a starting of a language and spoken words that they all understood; all signs of a civilization in the makings, a culture if you will in the process: a background for a new nation one might add

—in addition, Big-chest often went against the current of the group, but on the other hand, won their respect. In essence what Big-chest was doing, was new to him—that being, dealing with emotions, and thinking along with being a responsible leader, and not knowing the difference before—in any of these categories, and having just learned it recently: the difference between thinking and feeling, or thinking vs. emotions, he now was squeezing refractory-emotions into what one might call—longer and slightly wider, channels: so you see, he was now feeling them, and slightly reacting to them. And so during his leadership—should we say—the learning process, he was equated to being, or having a double-edge to his personality (which in itself was healthier than being only one edged, and having it be all of terror): but what I was about to say is: being double-edged made him a strict leader, as he was a disciplined survivor and hunter of men, by nature: thus, it served the purpose of the group at this vital time. Had he been the way he was in the Valley of the Caves, no one would have survived; in a like manner, had he turned out to be, too soft for this journey, no one would have survived either. And so it was, in all respects, and I repeat myself: his temperament was rooted in the right soil at the right time, for the right people, on such a long, very long journey.

[Eskimos] Little Bird-turtle was 4’11,” with dark black hair and dark brown eye, similar to her sister, who was also a bit taller and prettier; and the men were of a short size also, as I previously mentioned; all officially part of the Eskimo group. It also should be noted: it was not uncommon to have most of the tribe’s children being: half-brothers and half-sisters—and if a women chose not to be bear children, she was either cursed, or begged to bear them, or considered as Little-bird was: of a sacred mission.

As they drifted slowly across the Atlantic, every so often one could hear the tail, the underwater tail of the ice-sheet rubbing against other objects; the ice-sheet was hitting land—scratching and scraping it sounded like: horrible, frightening, akin to twisting the ice-sheet about at times; where it was thicker it made more noise as if pieces of the extending ice under the water was being broken off—and the ice-sheet was getting thinner. (It would seem the closer they got to the west, to the pole in the Hudson Bay, the warmer it got.) Soon the square mile of the ice-sheet, was half its size, and the seals and walrus’s that migrated onto the ice-sheet as it drifted, had now gone, for they could be seen with the blink of an eye—and evidently that was too hazardous for them, especially with Toma and Tundra around with their harpoon like spears. And if they did come upon the ice [the walrus’ that is] it was for only a moment and then dived back into the cool waters—escaping the deadly arms of the Eskimos. And so during this time, hunting for food got slim at best.

One of the things during this time was Toma’s wildness in the catching of turtles; he must have captured a dozen in a week, and brought them to the three igloos and shared them with all on the floating ice-sheet. This substituted for some of the loss of protean and nourishment they were receiving from previous hunting activities.

Toma cutting up a Turtle

Big-chest and the White Polar Bear

It was going on their 24th month since they left the Valley of the Caves, and now Big-chest’s little girl was running around [End of winter], and one could see land way off in the distance; possibly this was the land that kept hitting the ice sheet (a gradation to its surface), so thought many in the Assemblage [now the group being called the Assemblage, a name of their own, one all could pronounce], but whatever it was: for the most part, it seemed to be somewhat of a land bridge to the north of this huge iceberg they were on, and a great white bear found himself on it also. As Single-tooth squeaked his danger sounds, all were alerted, especially, Big-chest.
The group stood by the igloos, the king, King Big-chest stood in front of them, and the bear crawled closer and closer to the igloos.
Said, Tundra:
“No, you can’t fight him; I will kill him with my spear…” But Big-chest couldn’t, or didn’t want to understand the full of it, and even though he looked at Tundra’s long and piercing spear, he shook his head, not believing it would do the trick. The bear was too big for him, Tundra thought. When the bear got within a few feet of Big-chest, he stood up, and he must had been all of thirteen-feet high, Bigger than Big-chest, whom was over eight feet, possibly eight and a half, but far from thirteen-feet: and in his old age, he had lost at least a foot off his back arch.
Big-chest started beating his chest, and the bear started growling, both now walking in a circle, as Tundra and Jaguar-eyes both got their weapons ready; Jaguar-eyes had a flanked-stone long knife, Toma a bow and arrow, Tundra a spear, long with a Clovis fluted point; Stern-toes a club, and the women had long tusks from the walrus. Then Tundra told the group to circle the bear, as no one could tell Big-chest what to do, he figured it better he take command on the perimeter, while Big-chest does what he wants to do in the inner circle. Next the bear took a sweep with his hand, his giant paw: at Big-chest—and Big-chest stopped it. All were surprised, even the bear, as the bear stopped a moment to refigure out his plan; thus, he tired it again, but Big-chest again stopped his paw from slapping him yet he got scratched from his long claws: which were in, in itself painful. The bear threw out his paw again, and with Big-chest’s large mouth, he bit the bear’s paw, it was similar to a knife cutting through ice, you could hear the bones crack—Big-chest’s jaws were akin to a bulldogs. After that, the bear became frustrated, stood up to show his height, and fell right on top of Big-chest, but as he was falling Big-chest grabbed him by the sides of his belly, holding him up and off a tinge, and threw him to the side, but the bear was too powerful, he just got back up—a little shaken, but not hurt, and Big-chest was getting tired, he was not the unbeatable young buck he was decades earlier (as he may have thought he was).
Toma shot two arrows into the bear, but it didn’t stop him, and Tundra took the spear and shoved it into his spine, and Stern-toes clubbed him over the head several times, then Big-chest beat his chest for everyone to stop, and he jumped on the bear beating him and beating him with his powerful hands: all could hear the ribs of the bear crack, his spine now was disengaged, and his neck broken. Aw yes, likened to a bull, the bear was weakened, and Big-chest did the rest, but it was Big-chest nonetheless who legend would record, stood up single-handedly against the bear.

Tundra the Hunter of the Arctic

As Big-chest got up, he found he had a hard time balancing his body—in addition, he lost all logic of direction for a moment, and even his thoughts were stagnate. He had never been tired like this before and was a bit dizzy, along with being a tinge embarrassed because he needed help. But all in the group jumped up and down with joy, calling him: “Big-chest, the king, and the mighty one,” he of course enjoyed the celebration and adulation, but he knew after this day, he knew he was not as mightily as the skilled hunter, and he needed them, as he hoped they remain needing him.

The Dance

That evening the whole group got together and held hands dancing around one of the igloos. It wasn’t resembling the dance the People of the Fire used to dance, thought Jaguar-eyes, where his father would try to excite everyone in the tribe, get their blood hot, and then kill a few boys or women for a sacrifice, eat them, and then dance all night until they got exhausted, as they chewed on local-weed which grew nearby.
This was started by Little Bird-turtle, along with some humming which was added to the dance, and holding of hands, which seemed to calm all down, even old Big-chest; for still he was trembling inside, yes again he knew these were signs of old age, that the new people around him, the young ones, it was their time, and he was on his way out. His eyes slightly down a bit, kind of ashamed he needed help, but it was something he’d now have to get adjusted too, to get used too: it was reality. He was in a different world now, and a new time period for the world at large, an epoch had started, and he was part of making this new and different world-epoch, this era what it would be 10,000-years beyond his life time, and he knew: that is, kind of knew, how his leadership was, it would have to be a sample of how it would be for all after he was gone, and he did for some reason want to leave a legacy, or at best, a new group of people with hope for their future, something taken away from him by the Stone-Builders: for spite if anything, the Stone-People for killing off the whole world that did not see eye-to-eye with them—this new mixed group would be a new breed that someday would have to confront possibly, them again. And he was not king for nothing, he told himself, he was king because it was fate, it was meant to be, and he was the best one for it (he did have a rich ego you know).
Along with watching the stars in the sky, and the beautiful colors of the Northern Lights, they, this group learned now how to hum and dance, and laugh, it was breathtaking when one added this to the beautiful night, as if a ray came right out of heaven with its rainbow of mystic colors to sweep over this one and only drifting ice sheet in the Atlantic—this night was a night to remember, a night of celebration. Pekingg-girl stood silently looking at Big-chest daydreaming as the twilight darkened:

Pekingg-girl Daydreaming

Pekingg-girl in her own way loved Big-chest, for deep in her loin’s stirred desire—her breath stopped the first time they had made love: she felt sensations in her stomach as well, when he touched her. She lay naked—with her youthful wishes; Big-chest saw this and sniffed the air often, gazing at her, drawing close to her, she’d touch his thigh, not knowing how at first, but somehow learning quickly: instinctive if you will. With her touch and kisses were important, she held him captive and he held nothing back.

Now she turned her mind to the present, his body got exhausted quickly, his life force was spent for the most part, his knees trembled at times, and his arms limp, yes old age was his disarmament—and quickly did it come, she thought. And in the process of all, he was becoming fully human it seemed.

As brave as he was, Big-chest was, he told Pekingg-girl in confidence, “Why should we fear, we are mortal now, like the Stone-People by the Valley of the Caves; and our time is like a flicker of light in the bonfire, then we are gone, dead.” Big-chest had now seen a few life times compared to his race—his breed, and many a creature and man died, it was part of the cycle, nothing to fear, only face and go through, and now what he was saying or thinking, was go through and out of perhaps; this never bothered him before, but now it was a reality, not an issue, but a known-observable and thinkable fact (if not most of life being of foolishness and vanity).

Chapter Seven

Tattoo-woman Spots Land

Tattoo-woman

It was a cool morning and the twenty-eighth month since Big-chest and Stern-toes left the valley area, and the ice-sheet was no bigger than one eighth its previous sizes: if it was to get much smaller, one would have to swim to land thought Stern-toes. Moreover, if you had clear water around this iceberg, you could see its tail. But it was this morning when Tattoo-woman spotted land and came running around the three igloos reminiscent of a crazy women screaming so: although she was, or seemingly was to most of the group anyways a bit touched in the head. (At night she’d sleep with her so-called, unofficial, husband, and then sneak into the beds of other men, and just smile at the man’s woman whom was sleeping there with (by) and made love to him.) Toma liked her, but would not acknowledge her to be his and his only woman; yet, she claimed otherwise; sometimes she turned the man over when the woman was sleeping, and the wives would never know Tattoo-woman was even there: she was like Big-chest used to be, in his younger day. Big-chest didn’t’ need any advances, if he was needy, he’d go look her up and when he found her, he also found a room in another igloo and did his think, and would return back to his wife when all was done.
To carry on, as I was about to say: now land was spotted, and the whole group ran out to see, and it could be seen with the naked eye [Labrador].

—Thought Stern-toes (breathing in the fresh cool air of the Atlantic):
‘It is a good time to be alive,’ and here he had once thought, after his mother and brother had died, thought and knew, the Stone-Builders were taking over the land, and thus, there was nothing to live for anymore, or reason left to live—other than, just sitting on the cliff and passing time away, waiting to die. But he took a risk and followed Big-chest, made a move, a decision, and that made all the difference, and he was now glad he took that chance, and went with his instincts, it made all the dissimilarity in his life worthwhile. It was funny he thought: funny how one moves, one simply moves, and actions happen, yes, indeed, one thing move or decision can lead into so many different experiences down the road of life, a few opportunities—a few opportunities you can’t see just waiting down the road, if indeed you take that road, make that decision, and he did of course, and meeting so many different people, customs, it was all strange for him, so very strange and interesting.
His wife was now due to have another child, for he had lost his children years back. All the women were with child in the group and due any day now.

—The Arctic Ocean and the Atlantic seemed to have a rhythmic way of its own, a circulation current that balanced the world. And now here was this new land, a land so far away from the Valley of the Caves what could they expect: but they knew that the Stone-Builders, they’d never find them—and that was comfort in itself; that is, the Stone-Builders that killed, brought genocide to two groups of people in his land; and surely they figured, had they a desire to go back, they’d never find their way back anyhow. But at this moment, possibly, just maybe, this new and fresh world had a few surprises on its way for them, good ones, thought Stern-toes, as he looked at all the bodies standing on the edge of the ice-sheet, as if to wave to someone over on the other side (the land side), and all that you could see was bits and pieces of land on the other side. Most of the snow was gone, yet beyond you could see some glaciers. That would be where they would be headed most likely, he thought, hoping they’d first have a long and hardy rest.

Chapter Eight

Babies and Babies

As they all disembarked for this new world of sorts, this land of lands, they could see a wooded area, an embankment, and way beyond there were glaciers and mountains. It looked to Big-chest, as if this could be home for a while, but his face showed it was not the permanent home he was looking for, as if he had a vision; or one of those premonitions; that is to say, when it appeared, the perhaps Promised Land, in his mind, he’d know. What Big-chest didn’t know though was that the glaciers led into the Hudson Bay, the North Pole area

(Notes on the Geology of the times): the group had noticed ((once they had entered the Arctic area that is)), noticed as they went onward to the Atlantic, and even across the Atlantic, as did the Eskimos notice, and as time would prove to be even more so in the near future, noticed what was very noticeable, that the earth was changing. A displacement was taking place. Not all at once, for nothing normally happens that way, but it was or had been taking place for over 5,000-years up to this point, and it was possibly on its last decade before it would completely (beyond doubt) involve its simultaneous effects of the displacement. That is, the system of fractures was taking place within the earth. The general process was at its end, let us say, the dragging apart of the lithosphere, thus causing sporadically earthquakes, fracturing with volcanic effects, but there were also interruptions of periods of quite. What was actually taking place, and Big-chest didn’t know, other than things were changing in the world (in essence, the earth was changing and the weather), was that across the equator, the surface was moving towards the pole, compression being the results, --consequently bringing on a displacement, pushing the pole backwards.)

Within a matter of days, the Eskimos [Inuit’s] had their babies as did the Europeans, for the most part, they were no longer of any race, or creed, but rather, the Assemblage, and the mixed blood would create a new-fangled race. Almost immediately, the men started picking up on huge bones, whale bones, as Big-chest found huge monolithic stones, and the women started digging into a few embankments, creating mound like dugouts, and into the center of the four dugouts, they used the huge whale bones for the foundations support—likened to beams, and small bones of animals for the floor. The entrances were that of the gigantic stones, and were cut slim so only the bodies of the fourteen-residents, plus the babies could fit through them, no big beast were allowed, even Big-chest had a hard time entering a few of the new dugout abodes. Hence, within a thirty-day period, there were six-new babies, now totaling twenty-inhabitants, to include Single-tooth.

Dugout in a Mound-type Embankment
[With Whale Bone supports, as beams]

As the shelters were now built, they decided, the group that is, to remain in this campsite [settlement if you will] until the children could walk, all of them that is, in consequence making their stay eighteen-months (which was to be forty-four months away from the old site, meaning, the Valley of the Caves.)
Stern-toes had his memories, and so did Big-chest, but they did not bring them to surface, just at times they seemed to be off in no-where’s land, and therefore, disassociating with all humankind for a few memories of their homeland.
This land was not all that bad thought the Eskimos, as they tried to display to their friends, newly found companions, now lovers and parents: it was much warmer than where they had come from. They also tried to explain that at one time it was much colder here, in their great, great [about twenty-five greats] grandfathers’ day, whereas the lands at that time were considered unlivable, for its cold spells; and of course many died due to this, they implied. In addition, the said: that year after year, it got warmer, and they could tell by reviewing the old trees that had fallen just about when it took place, the icy-freezing-cold spells could be counted within the rings of the trees. So it would seem they were content for the most part.

Birdseye View of the interior of the Dugout
[And a giant whale bone]

Within this thirty-day period the Hamlet, [or kind of settlement they created], was now operating in full motion. Big-chest was the king of the environment, or Hamlet, and watched over his daughter now, whom was running about, similar to a hawk. Life to him, back with the Branch-People was simple: sex, food and a place to sleep. Now it seemed to dawn on him, there was more to it, more to life: family, friends and spirituality crept in.
For the four-dugouts in the settlement he did most of the lifting of the huge stones putting those in place, as the women dug out the interiors of the caves to be, while Toma and Tundra along with Jaguar-eyes did the hunting; and Fish-girl went fishing, bringing back an enormous load of fish eachday. It was a hardy time for the Assemblage; and all were getting their strength back from the hardships they left behind.

Wolf dogs of the North

The Three-headed Wolf dogs

No one seen any wolf-dogs about, but Tundra seemed to be quite worried about them, however, after evening dinner by the great fire one evening—a fire Jaguar-eyes made—the women, as usual, cleaned the area, and collected branches for the continuation of the fire, for the morning fire also: at this time, all tired, they—each and every one—went into their hollow-abodes, leaving no one to guard the premises: as did the men, women and children alike, all doing the same thing, all feeling for some odd reason, safety was not an issue It was the third month into their stay at this location, and in the still of the night when as all were asleep: a terror took place.

—In the sleepiest hour of the evening came the wolf-dogs, a three-headed beast, out of his lair and into the campsite: the little hamlet of the Assemblage. Through the mist of the cold frosted air that seemed to travel with the beast, under his under belly, over his grayish eyes, above his dark-pitted gray eye-lids, where the grayish light moon over head resided, he prowled the site. He carried a death-shadow with him. He came to the forefront: the dried out area by the fire: snuffed about, smelled one of the women, then a child’s smell, found an opening in one of the shelters—as everything was unguarded—thus, snarling in hunger and rage and calm, he sat his paw against a stone that lay to the side of the entrance of the shelter: dark was his eyes, and monstrous was his shadow—blackblood filled his muscles, cramped with hunger and daring. His hot breath was seeping over the entrance stones, it seemed for a moment, just a split second, his shadow stood still in the evenings frozen stillness, looking with his deep rooted eyes at the shapes that laid in front of him, two shapes, a mother and her child. His hungry eyes were filled with the hot blood inside of these two beings he was watching. His eyes, eyes read, inflamed with the craving of flesh and blood, read: fill my belly, and the bellies of my family.
Who was the victim to be, there was not time to cry, to alarm the settlement: the three headed wolf-dog looked in all directions, in the cove, back by the fire, at the huger shelter where Big-chest lived, for even the beast didn’t want to alert him. The child laid nearest to the beast’s breath, and now paw: obsessed with the kill, the meat, the warm blood, the beast tore a limb off the child, dragging the child out of the entrance with a jerk, as the child hung from the teeth of one for the three heads of the beast, while the other digested the limb it tore off the child, then the beast ran out of the campsite—quicker than a flicker from the fire.
Big-chest leaped from his resting place in full force, but by the time he stood over Half-bird, the mother, the beast had fled: completely gone, un- seeable in the misty chill of the night.

The Wolfs Cove

The Arctic winds from the Hudson Bay area, the North Pole area that is, continued seeping down into the laps of the hamlet, and into the cave of the wolf-family, whom had four babies—and now nourishment.
The large three-headed male wolf, crept down by its children, still walking about, to see if all was safe, if indeed he (or they) had been tracked back to its shelter; thus, he continued walking about, sniffing, and blowing out of its nostrils, its icy and hungry insides, and subsequently he laid on his belly, low, very low looking sniffing, more: the child was dead, its blood still warm—by the reflection of the moon’s light, a balled head was visible: the child’s head, that is what could be seen, Half-birds child, it was a female the wolves all crept on their stomachs to get a better look at their dinner, they reached their heads over a bit, rolled the child over onto its face, the mother moving her children closer: pushing them closer to the animal protein: after that, quicker than an eye blink, the wolves all grabbed the child—after smelling it—and had their feast.

Half-bird Remembers

(Half-bird standing by the fire in shock ((going over her mind what just happened, what just took place): she recalled: feeling someone, or something jerking, and/or pulling her arm—after a slight hesitation, not at first smelling the scent of the animal, after a moment Half-bird woke up, looked for her child, startled: she started bellowing, then racing outside, found the tracks of the wolf and just went hysterical, she now looked at Big-chest who was but a few feet away.

Tundra and Big-chest came running; Big-chest had fought wolves before, he knew what they wanted, and why: yet it was to his belief, part of the cycle of life. They had to eat, just like him: which was his practical, if not logical way of thinking. And he knew he could go hunt them down, even kill them, but he ordered the mother and Tundra to return to their shelters, to grieve if she needed to, and to leave the animals, the wolves alone: ‘let them do what is natural,’ he mumbled, and he sat all night guarding the hamlet

in the morning the Assemblage had a gathering, and decided to have one person each night feed the fire, and stay up with a long spear in hand, and should an enemy, or any sort of danger come near, then he or she was to wake the whole group up, and to come armed to kill the invading forces. Half-bird was miserable of course, as expected, but nothing could be done about it, death was a natural course, expected, even predicted at times, there was no use in getting revenge: even the wolfs knew their stay on earth was but a moment in the calendar of time. And hunger is hunger, no matter what source of life you are.

[Sub-chapter to eight and nine]

Big-chest

◊
Browbeating

Most of the females, not all, like Little Bird-turtle, had physical masculinity features—in that they seemed straight, firm and confident for the most part; some with narrow hips even, some with straight shoulders; a similarity to mannishness one might conclude—; yet they were not what one might call upside-down humans, where they felt ‘congenial sexual inversion,’ crept into their lives, wanting same-sex partners, to the contrary, it didn’t even occur to them, it was basically the load of life that demanded their bodies to be the way they were.
On another issue, Big-chest loved making love—the high of sex, that is, he had a great sexual need, desire, and lust: he would intentionally force himself, his big body on his lovers, even his wife, pinning them to the ground. There was no sex war between, or within the group, or couples; for the most part, their relationships were fine. Yet as a couple (Big-chest and his wife), it could be sour with his wife’s moods at times, she was unsatisfied with his sexual hunting at night for an empty bed. And possibly—even thought she didn’t come out and murmur it—thought I say thought, or I think she was resentful of his domineering, inconsiderate, selfish and seemingly insensitivity, his behavior, in short towards her: she didn’t like being tucked away into an igloo, or hut, or any kind of abode as he fulfilled other sexual needs. This was getting to her.

Aging &
Sexuality

Nothing came out straightforward within the group or the Assemblage if you will. It was the age of communication, the beginning of it, not the end, it had actually just arrived for Big-chest, and was not all that new for the others—other than the Stone-builders. I suppose you could say, many things were misunderstood, especially between the youthful wife of Big-chest, and himself for often he’d simply end up scratching his head trying to figure out where she was with this and that. I think everyone picked up on that head-scratching body language. But he lived by one philosophy now, promising, it was new for him: to create as good life, as good as possible for one and all in his group. I suppose you could say, he was learning how to accept responsibility with leadership.
Big-chest had been, and still was, as incapable of harnessing his sexual appetite mentally as if he was back in his youthful days; save for the fact, his body did not always soar through the air like his mind wanted it to. He was now [on occasions] finding his body being left behind. This bothered him, yet his youthful wife understood it, and did not make him think he was unsuitable.

To Big-chest his youthful wife was very soft and smooth, and he’d often try not to break her sleep, some kind gesture he picked up somewhere, perhaps the woman in the cave whom he’d visit (off and on), and if she was asleep, he’d just sit and wait until she opened her eyes, and try not to scare her (folks remembered she was the only one he was really kind to); he even put a smile on his face for her. She was always so happy to see him, as his wife was.
Pekingg-girl had long girlish legs he thought, thick calves, and paleness lately in her face; an unobtrusive girl she was. Yet she had what he considered good protective coloring to her person, she might be invisible at times he thought, in the thick of the woods.

[Stern-toes contemplate]:

Possibly Big-chest accumulated guilt from all the harm he did way back when, thus, a reserve inside of him has, changed him, yes, he contemplated, Big-chest had changed; [Stern-toes] he tried to hypnotize himself as he pictured Big-chest in the ‘Valley of the Caves,’ in his younger days, as dusk befell the valley abodes, he’d take at will—wife’s, daughters, whomever he wised, and now he was kind to one and all. What a remarkable change, could it last was his pondering thoughts?

[Pekingg-girl]:

Pekingg-girl at times felt a tinge inferior and inadequate around the group, if not Big-chest. Reflecting on this, and her husband she remembered him also as being heartless in his younger days, even though he got revenge for her mother’s death by the People of the Fire, for shooting an arrow through her heart. But it really was her own fixation, as she’d conclude at the end of the day, for Big-chest in his old age was different.
As she stepped outside the abode watching Big-chest make his rounds to check on his people, as he’d refer to them, she was proud yet, a bit fearful of him yet. The sky was faded, the sea winds felt a little warm, the sun gone, dampness was filling the air, and a sluggish blowing in from the sea said it might be a windy night.

The King’s Dilemma [Night, the Manticore, Mt. Hades—in Hell]

2006-11-08T15:02:00.000-08:00

The King’s Dilemma
[Night, the Manticore, Mt. Hades—in Hell]

The king of Atlantis, Phrygian could meet death at its own terms, bravely enough, but when it came in the form of everlasting bestial hell, demonic figures so familiar, on a daily—if not hourly—scheduling watching your every move it became uncanny and hideous. It was the face of death facing you every minute, the mind never resting. There was no way in which he could direct his course in life, or if he did, he could not hold it but a millisecond, being always observed, and an object of scorn.
As it was, he found no pleasure in existence anymore, if only he could have stumbled on a way to extinguish himself once and for all, he would have tried. Furthermore, there was no way to make a break for freedom, and there was nobody to rescue him—; God was not present or if He was, He was sleeping. This primordial world in which he found himself, plus seclusion, with in the hills, mountains and caves of Mount Hades, the interior of Hell, was the most crude of all places in existence. It was a brutal looking with a harshly treaded civilization, it was called Hell, and it was named properly he thought: no noble, chivalrous or lovable creatures in it at all.
He said to himself aloud (sitting on a rock, chin in hand, overlooking the mountain, to its valleys below, outside his cave): “I simply made the same mistakes most of us do—people do in selecting the road we wish to follow along in life, a course, perhaps given to us at birth, or thereafter, and often the least resistant; thus, I was no different than the majority.” (But of course he was different, he was the king, ruler of most of the known world, he could and did make a difference, more so than most people).
He was mostly correct in his thinking that he had taken the wrong trail in life, and now he was retracing it, step by step, day after day. His problem perhaps was he had no divide in life, and total rulership of the world was his only solution on earth. When he was first made king, the lure of discovering that he had it all in his hands was too much, in consequence, he decided to proceed, take the short distance, not turn back that was his signature for Hell: he wanted it all.

[Hell’s Surroundings] There were no clumps of trees where he was, there on Mount Hades—like what surrounded Atlantis; the landscape here was decayed growth—between him and the dock, much of the land was swampy, muck, but right in front of him it was dry up to the tip of the mountain. On a clear day one could see the restless waters of the gulf advance and retreat.
Curiosity pushed him to take walks down the mountain for a different scene, but not too far down, for there were sentries posted here and there, watching, waiting to torture him, should he leave his prescribed area. The guards eyes seemed to be able to penetrate the dark, the mist, everything.

[Night on Mt. Hades] Hell, whose forbidding walls did not allow any human beings, not cast into hell, to enter, was a strange world for the king to discover—a mysterious land indeed, and he was on its bosom—sort of speaking, at night it was even sores, the land was thence invisible to most inhabitants, accept for the formidable beasts, the demonic beast watching and waiting for savage delights.
At night he often thought about the land, almost with a fascination, if not speculation, it fell upon him as other mysteries of life did, as when he was human, and admired the dark poetry and power of the night.
The whole land of Hell was as if it was brought back to the birth of time, and stamped: ‘So it shall remain,’ (the outer world may advance, and grow but not here, it must remain untouched by God, after He evidently created it; perhaps the first day of creation. (Yes, the king dwelled upon these thoughts and dreams.)

[Fossilized] It was odd, very odd thought the king, pacing his cave one day, thus, he discovered the fossilized remains of something that seemed to have been human, at first he took only a single glance at it, and then it moved, and he examined it closer, it looked to be long-extinct (perhaps as far back as the Triassic Formation). And it moved, and there he was straining to look at these compressed, bones, bones of some demonic-half human, half lion creature, its head like a human, and its lower parts like a lion, it was an ancient Manticore—so he estimated. And it moved again, a third time. To his understanding he must had been cast naked into this stratum of rock mysteriously sometime in prehistory; unquestionably, he could not escape, or he would have; and perhaps to his advantage, and for the better.

The Grand Tower of Atlantis: In the Port City of Poseidonia

2006-11-08T14:04:00.000-08:00

The Grand Tower of Atlantis: In the Port City of Poseidonia

The Grand Tower of Atlantis: In the Port City of Poseidonia: there were many secrets in Atlantis in those day, in another tower room, behind the one the High Priest was slain in, the one he did not see, only the King—for the most part, knew about, a few demonic beings, and scribes, there were documents, ancient scrolls, maintained by his youthful scribes, and duplicated when need be, a library of sorts on the human race; one such document indicating: Atlantis has outposts of communication throughout the world, it has been here over 3000-years, thus far. And through time, another alien race by some kind of agreement has kept data on this world of ours—with the help of Atlantis, through the pyramids on Earth in Egypt (to include the great stones and circle known as Stonehenge, in England, the platform and Gate of the Sun, in Bolivia, and Lebanon, along with Machu Picchu in Peru; to mention a few sites; of course we must remember, the names were different back when this story takes place) and the sending back of signals, to the king, king Poseidon (the King’s ancestor). They used obelisks that were planted in Egypt for transmitting globally through the Great Atlantis Tower, here at the Port of Poseidon, as well as the inner core of the pyramid, which holds an energy source in the Great Pyramid of Egypt.
“The race called, ‘The Old Ones,’ were in charge of transmitting this information after a while, evidently they were more suitable for the task, able to lock onto circular energy (which only a nomadic tribe knew about at the time, then the Old Ones brought forth its secrets), what would regenerate itself as in a letter eight, whereas the human needed to be fed constantly and died out because the loss of energy, and the cascading of his chromosomes—this energy was perpetual.” (There were tools in that room, what looked like a control room, and maps that showed messages that had come back and forth throughout the galaxy.) 11/8/2006