Bleakbourne On Heath ch. 23: Putting it into Perspective

Leryn knocked on Merlin’s bedroom door.

“Come in. Don’t just stand there, you fool!”

Leryn entered, and sat at the table beneath the high window. Spreading his notes and uncorking his ink jar, the bard glared at his mentor. “You’re looking exceptionally grumpy today, even for you.”

“I’m going mad here. I’m bored, and that isn’t helping me get any better.” Merlin broke off, succumbing to a coughing fit.  Once he had gotten his breath back, he cursed violently, ending with, “I have no stamina. How are we going to face Mordred, if just walking to the privy lays me out? I can’t imbue the orb with magic, not the way I am now.”

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll have to, but you can’t control your gift well enough to do it on your own. I’m languishing here at Polcock’s mercy when I should be in my own home. I absolutely have to be there to make sure you don’t blow up my tower.”

“I’m not that dismal at magic anymore, and besides, Bramblestein and Janet feel you’re safer here.” Leryn shrugged. “At the tower, you’re in danger of killing yourself with all those stairs.”

“They should be in Londown, keeping an eye out for trouble, not babysitting me. You have much to learn, and we need to create that orb. Without it, we won’t have a triumvirate, and won’t be able to defeat Mordred. He will have two powerful dark mages with him—Jason Tenneriff and Geoffrey Devere. While they lived, they were both minor magicians, but they were banished to Hell, as was Mordred, who understands the Rule of Three as well as we do.”

“I know about that rule, remember? You’ve beaten it into my skull. But, if they’re dead and their souls are in Hell, what is the problem?”

“Where do you think Mordred has been for the last 400 years? He’s had ample opportunity to train the souls of his two henchmen. Tenneriff is no longer human, and Devere was a vampire when he was sealed away.” Merlin’s gaze turned inward. “Mordred chose these two for a particular reason—they both hate me. When the Demon Knight came to Bleakbourne two winters ago, what did he do?”

Leryn thought back. “He tricked me into entering Tenneriff’s keep, and then forced me to tell him what the runes binding Lord Tenneriff were.”

Merlin nodded. “And then what happened?”

“He stole the Devere Talisman and forced William Smith to bind it into his sword.”

“Exactly. So now, Mordred knows precisely where the physical bodies of Jason Tenneriff and Geoffrey Devere are.” Fretful, Merlin plucked at his coverlet. “While we’ve been occupied, scrambling to get the needed items to create an orb for Bramblestein to focus his magic with, you can bet that Mordred has been just as busy.”

Leryn didn’t know what to say to ease his mentor. “Look, I know you’re feeling pressured, but Bramblestein swears there is still time.”

“Is there? The dwarf has only minor magic, which is why he must have that orb. His alchemy is great, but alone he is no match for the Demon. That much I can guarantee.”

“You promised you would tell me what the root of this is. I’m not stupid, so I know some of it, but I’m curious as to how the Demon Knight is related to the Pendragon.” Leryn lifted his pen and began taking notes. “Tell me about Mordred. Galahad claim’s he is the Pendragon’s Heir, but I don’t really know how that is possible.” He saw unwillingness in Merlin’s drawn features. “All I know about Arth Ur Pendragon is that he conquered the six lands, and his rule is remembered as the Black Years.”

“Who is to say what is possible, and what isn’t?” Merlin seemed troubled by the memory. “I was too young and full of myself. I didn’t realize I was creating a monster until it was too late, and then we were all caught up in it, and I couldn’t stop him.”

“How did it begin?”

“The Romani intended to add Albyonne to their empire. I was court wizard to Uthyr Pendragon, my first job as a wizard. He was intent on uniting all the warring kingdoms of the Albyonne Isles, believing the Romani could never conquer a united Albyonne. But he was mortally wounded, and on his deathbed, he named me as his infant son’s guardian. Igerna had died giving the boy life. He begged me to see that Gurthyr unified Albyonne and fended off the Romani.

“I educated the boy as befitted a prince. Gurthyr was a brave warrior, and so fierce in battle he was given the name Arth Ur, which meant Bear King. This is the name by which he is remembered. But, when he heard about the blade, Caliburn, and the prophecy that the man who could wield it would become the High King of all Albyonne, he was determined to have it. He didn’t understand that ‘cursed’ meant ‘dangerous to own.’ It was a blade that destroyed men’s souls.” The gravity in Merlin’s voice was unfeigned, and convinced Leryn the wizard spoke the truth. “It was after he had drawn the cursed sword from the stone, that he began to change.

Leryn said, “It’s rumored that Arth Ur murdered his wife, Gwenevere to marry the Elven Queen, Morgaine.”

“Gwen did die suddenly and conveniently. I was away when it happened, and only know what Arth Ur deemed I should hear.” Sadness nearly overwhelmed Merlin, as sharp as if it had just happened. “Morgaine was his captive, and he desired her. To bargain a better fate for her people, she agreed to become his mistress. When she became pregnant, Arth Ur had Gwenevere murdered. Morgaine gave birth to his only child, a boy they named Mordred, who was acknowledged as the Heir of Pendragon.”

Leryn’s quill made scratching sounds as he wrote. “And that explains both Mordred’s magic and his longevity. He’s half-elven, like you and Rosie.”

“Exactly.” Merlin coughed again, but quickly recovered.

“But you managed to overthrow the Pendragon. You and Cerdic the Lionhearted.”

The wizard nodded. “Power was Arth Ur’s true mistress. He was a brutal warlord, uniting all of Angland, but not as his father had envisioned. Through hostages and subjugation, at the height of his power, the Pendragon held all the lands which now make up the Six Kingdoms, under an iron fist.  With the Isles of Albyonne under his rule, Arth Ur turned his sights across the channel, toward the Norman Lands.

“I strongly counseled him against overstretching his resources. Tired of my constant disagreement with his decisions, he turned on me, as I knew he eventually would. But I escaped his dungeon, with the aid of a Saxon prince who was a hostage, Cerdic of Wessex. We were able to convince the cowed lords of the three peoples, elves, dwarves, and humans that if we stood together against the Pendragon, we could defeat him.

“And we had a confederate in Arth Ur’s household. Desperate to liberate her kingdom from Arth Ur’s despotic rule, Morgaine secretly aided us. With her help, we were able to defeat him. Cerdic struck the killing blow, ending the Pendragon’s reign of terror. Morgaine returned to her people with her son, who was very like her in appearance. An Elven childhood is long, so many years passed, and the rest of the world forgot about the boy who was once known as Pendragon’s Heir.” Merlin looked away. “That was a mistake.”

Leryn said, “I remember reading about the Demon Siege of Londown. The histories all say they were nearly victorious. People claimed it was led by the Heir of Pendragon. How did such a thing come to pass?”

Merlin didn’t want to discuss it but felt compelled to finish what he’d begun. “With the overthrow of the Pendragon, Cerdic of Wessex became king of a united Angland, cultivating the goodwill of his neighbors. Three generations passed, during which time I was guesting with Morgaine in her homeland. We were determined to raise Mordred to be a compassionate heir to his mother’s Elven throne. I became his tutor in all his studies but we had to hide his gifts of magic from the Elves, or they would have murdered him. So, in a way, we taught him to be deceitful, and shouldn’t have been surprised when his true character was exposed.

“In those days, we didn’t know the boy Mordred had a plan of his own, which he had nurtured in secret from the day his mother spirited him out of Londown. Too late, we learned of the delight he took in secret cruelties he perpetrated on his servants, and anyone he had power over. He was able to conceal his true nature from us because his major talent is that of charm. A master at dissembling, Mordred was able to hide his intrigues until he had the knowledge he believed he needed. One day he vanished, which I knew boded ill, but didn’t know what.

“Twenty years passed. The next I heard of him, he had turned to dark magic and was marching on Londown. He made it clear he intended to reclaim his stolen birthright. With some shock, we learned Mordred was not merely demon-possessed. He had traded his soul for power. He was a demon, and a high ranking one at that.”

“How did you deal with it?”

Merlin was interrupted by another coughing spell. Leryn went to the kitchen for the soothing tea that Janet had prescribed. Returning, he held it to the wizard’s lips, waiting until the fit had passed.

At last Merlin was able to speak again. “When I heard what was happening, I came to the aid of King Caelin. We’d been told the bulk of Mordred’s army was made up of slaves under the lash of soulless undead. Demon-possessed generals forced the enslaved humans in his armies to fight against their own kind.”

Shuddering as he wrote, Leryn asked, “What was that like? I can’t imagine.”

“Better you shouldn’t imagine it,” replied Merlin, sharply. “The carnage was beyond belief. Each night, once darkness fell, Mordred turned his undead warriors loose to wreak havoc among the poorest sections of Londown, those who must live outside the walls. It was a feast for the undead. There was no escape for those unfortunates. People were afraid to leave their hovels, and terrified to remain.”

“But you and King Caelin prevailed.”

Merlin nodded. “We did, but only because Caelin was able to rally the people of Londown. I convinced Caelin to strike in the morning when Mordred’s forces were at their weakest. We killed his demon-possessed generals. Once the generals were dead, his enslaved soldiers turned against the lesser undead in his army, destroying and burning the corpses of their former slave-masters and scattering the ashes in the River Heath, to ensure they couldn’t rise again. Even so, the Demon himself escaped.”

“Which brings us to the point. What happened next?”

“Caelin and I tracked him to an obscure fishing village near the mouth of the River Heath. You know it today as Bleakbourne.” Merlin coughed, but resumed speaking. “We battled in the way that only wizards can, and I eventually succeeded in banishing Mordred to Hell.

“But, in the process, a hole between the worlds was created. I just barely managed to seal it up, with Mordred on the other side, a struggle I had hoped to never have to repeat.”

Leryn looked over his notes.  “I don’t understand why the Demon chose this place. He must have known the veil between the worlds is thinnest here, and you would have more power in this place. Surely he had a reason.”

“He did. Because he was the Pendragon’s Heir, Mordred had many loyal followers who longed for the power their families had lost when the Pendragon was defeated, one of whom was a local lord, Wilem, Lord Tenneriff.” Merlin grinned, a grim, satisfied grimace. “I managed to get to Mordred before he could get to Tenneriff.”

Leryn considered the situation. “So, the problem, as I see it, is the Demon was consigned to Hell, where he has been languishing for how many years? Four hundred?” At Merlin’s nod, he asked, “But shouldn’t that have made him less powerful?”

Merlin snorted. “Use your head, bard. Yes, his punishment has weakened him physically, but he is a Prince of Hell. He’s gained much dark knowledge during his sojourn there. He believes he will soon have what he needs to defeat me, and if that happens, he will reclaim his birthright.”

Leryn said, “But that won’t happen. Good always prevails, and we’re fighting on the side of good.”

“Don’t be so naïve, boy. Evil wins just as often as good does, and believe me, we will definitely fail, if I can’t get out of this bed and do my part in creating that orb.” The wizard held his ribs as he suffered another coughing fit. When it had passed, he lay back against his pillows, unable to rest. “If we fail, the world will see the return of the Pendragon, but on a scale even Arth Ur could only have dreamed of.”

---

“Bleakbourne on Heath” © 2016 – 2017 Connie J. Jasperson, All Rights Reserved

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Bleakbourne on Heath Series

Connie J. Jasperson is an author and blogger, and a regular contributing member of the Edgewise Words Inn staff.

The Peanut Encounter #amwriting

A peanut shaped planetoid came into focus on Sci-Tech Mason’s optic viewer. She compared the sensor information to her data cache and mentally engaged a comm-link, “LT, we’re there.”

“Thank you, Connie. I’ll join you soon.”

Lieutenant Jasper Gregson sat at a foldout desk in his quarter’s editing a message to his wife. He sat back and read it one more time.

It’s been six months since I took command of PC-109. I have to admit I was nervous as hell to have a command on my own, even a lowly Patrol Craft, but I’ve loved it. My crew’s great. We’ve arrested three smugglers and destroyed a pirate base without killing a soul.  I’m proud of them.

The crew is cross-trained, of course. Our long distance missions require it, but some perform better than others in their secondary roles. Ensign Connie Mason, my exec, could handle the boat by herself if she had to, but she couldn’t hit Phobos with an asteroid from a hundred yards. Don’t tell her I said it, though. Pilot-Navigator Trout is green, but he shows promise.

Gunnery Sergeant Emily Rutherford, could hit a watermelon at a hundred miles and make an AU drive purr with her smile, but she couldn’t pilot the boat through a hole the size of Sol.

Medic and comm-tech, Dave Klunker, is quite a character and good for morale. He’s a trusted medic and knows the comms, but he shines as a volunteer cook and makes a mean rodent chili. In a world of Nutripaks, he’s a godsend; however, don’t let him near the engines.

Chief Machinist Mate, Stephen Duggan, has been a great resource to me. I respect his experience and counsel. He can do it all to hear him talk, and he probably could if he didn’t scare the crew with his manner. Everything he says sounds like a snarl, but he’s a puppy in wolf’s clothing. And, get this he’s a confirmed vegan—no rodent chili for him. Oh, and he’s amazing with a rail cannons. All in all, I’ve got a tight-knit crew, ready to do their jobs.

I can’t say much about our mission because Mars Confederation is paranoid about security these days. I don’t expect it to be very exciting, though.  Hug the girls for me. I’ll see you soon.

Love, J.

Jasper sent the message and hoped it would clear MC security.

***

Jasper walked through the bulkhead door and said, “At ease.”

“Why do you always say at-ease when you enter the bridge LT?” Trout asked.

“Connie, is our PN as naive as his question?”

“I’m afraid so LT.” PN Rob Trout had been onboard only a month. He stared at Connie trying to figure out how he’d screwed up this time. “Trout, let me explain. If the LT joins us and doesn’t say at-ease, one of us better say captain on the bridge and come to attention.”

“But LT, you’re not a steel-neck,” Trout said.

“Your next CO might be, and it would reflect poorly on me if you’re a screw-up. What’s our status, Connie?”

“Active scans limited to five hundred miles, as ordered. The planetoid meets all expected criteria for 5152. No scan or communication signals have been detected. We’re a hundred miles away and snuggling an M-type asteroid ten times our mass.”

“Thank you, Connie. Turn off active scans but maintain passives.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jasper opened the boat-wide comm-link. “Klunker, Rutherford, and Chief Duggan link up and listen in.” Their acknowledgments flashed on his optic-viewer. “Mars Confederation believes that Earth Federation plans to establish a forward observation post in the Belt on planetoid 5152,  a.k.a. Peanut. If they do, it will breach the Luna Treaty. It’s our mission to observe and report to Ceres by point-to-point hyper-pulse if we encounter the EF.”

“LT, we’ve only got a hand-full of kinetic torpedoes and the quad-rail cannon. What do we do if EF shows up in force?” Trout asked.

Connie spoke first, “Change your underwear.”

***

Connie activated the general alarm and comm-linked Jasper.  “LT, it’s my best guess that a large ship is four to five hundred miles out, standby for gravimetric and optic analysis.”

Jasper had taken his command chair before Connie stopped talking. “Klunker standby for Connie’s data feed and triple check your target intersect. You may not have time to adjust the Ceres coordinates if things go sideways. And, include a no-reply-command. I don’t want EF to know we’re here.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

 

The gravimetric analysis proved Connie’s educated guess to be wrong.  A fleet of ships was a thousand miles out and closing fast. “Connie, can you identify the individual ships?”

“Not yet, LT. They’re moving too fast for my analyzer. Give me thirty minutes. They should slow enough by then, provided Peanut is their destination.”

“This isn’t a simple observation post,” Jasper said.

“The EF has never liked Mars and the Belt being independent,” Connie responded.

“True, but Earth’s bureaucrats had accepted it because it was cheaper than war. Something has changed,” Jasper said.

 

Connie fought to keep her voice professional. “LT, we’re facing a reinforced Fighter-Bomber Carrier group. Eight ships in all, the carrier, plus a light cruiser, four destroyers, and two supply ships.

“Emily, how many ships can you disable?”

“I’ve got six remote torpedoes. If I have time to position the torps accurately, I should be able to take out six,” Emily said.

“That’s too risky. Reserve one of them. Target the carrier with three, and create as much confusion as you can with the other two.”

Emily smiled and answered, “Give me some time to study the threat board and I’ll soon have them turning in circles looking for their butts.”

“Chief, how close to our asteroid can we be when we engage the AU drive?”

“By the book, LT?” Chief Duggan asked.

“Hell no, Chief! MC sent us on a suicide mission, but we aren’t going to die if I can help it.”

“Give me three miles and you can engage the AU, but we might miss Ceres.”

“We’ll worry about that later. Klunker, add the following to the hyper-pulse message: ‘Sit-Rep: Lt. Gregson: EF deployment is an attempt to blockade Ceres, Vesta, and Ganymede from reinforcing Mars. Mars is the primary target.’”

“Aye, LT. Will they believe you?”

“I hope so because Mars is about to be thumped hard.”

“The point-to-point is ready LT,” Klunker reported.

“Send it.” Jasper noticed Connie’s comm-link blinking again. “Go Connie.”

“LT, there’s a second fleet appearing on the scans.”

“Connie! That’s not funny.”

Connie laughed. It relaxed her and everyone else.

Jasper opened the boat comm-link. “Alright everybody, the ballet begins. Stay calm and follow the plan until it turns to crap, then do what you all do best, improvise.  Standby for H-hour minus 75, and on my mark engage the diversionary measures.” Jasper said.

“Aye, sir. H-hour, minus 75, acknowledged,” Emily said.

On his mark, two torpedoes, under nav-thrust control only, floated away from the boat at modest velocity. They were unlikely to be noticed by the EF. At least, that was the plan. Little by little, the torps would flank the left and right sides of the EF forces and reduce the range to their targets in the process.

Time crawled for the Jasper.

“Connie, update the EF position,” Jasper said twenty minutes later. He could look at his optic viewer but wanted to hear the information.

“Wait one…they’re 283.5 miles from our position. The flotilla is slowing more than expected, and the carrier should arrive at Peanut at H-hour plus 10. The lead destroyers are ahead by 15 minutes.”

“Emily, I need a new fire-solution.”

“Aye, LT…”

“Emily?”

“Sorry LT. I have a new solution. I need to release the carrier torps 15 minutes early, and to increase the nav-thrust acceleration by 5%.”

“Won’t that put Peanut in the way?”

“Not if I switch to a conical launch pattern. Peanut will provide cover for a time and the torp attack angles will be difficult for their defenses.”

“Make it happen.”

“Aye, sir.” Emily released the attack torpedoes ten minutes later. They formed a cone as they neared their prey.

***

H-hour minus one minute, Connie called out. Trout stood by to engage his docking thrusters so that PC 109 could float away from its more massive neighbor. And Duggan took his battle station at the quad-cannon.

“On my mark,” Jasper said.

Emily exploded the left-flank torpedo with a shaped beam that sent a wall of debris from an iron rich asteroid toward a supply ship. As she hoped, it didn’t take defensive maneuvers. However it, and its sister ships slowed down. Her second shaped beam sent a small mountain toward the Cruiser on the right flank, again no defensive reaction because the explosion had been blocked from their sensors. So far so good, Jasper thought as he watched his monitor.

But it didn’t last. Twenty miles from Mr. Peanut, six EF MB-51 fighters launched and passed the planetoid at high speed, apparently on a recon mission. PC-109 was doomed if the MBs spotted them. “Emily, we’ve got bees looking for our pollen, can you initiate your attack on the carrier?”

“Not yet, LT. I need five minutes or their point defenses will block my attack.”

“Can you divert an attack torpedo to take out the bees?”

Emily studied the threat board. “No sir, but I could use our reserve torp.”

“Not yet,” Jasper said. He’d feared she’d say that. He meant the final torpedo to create a diversion so they could engage the AU drives before the carrier took them out. Timing would be tighter than a new cadet’s sphincter because the AU needed three minutes to power up.

“Emily, get ready to…wait-one. Go, Connie.”

“Four of the fighters have peeled off. It looks like they’re going to investigate Emily’s distractions. The remaining two are slowing and fanning out. They’re actively pinging and brighter than sparklers at a Mars Day party on our sensors. ”

“Do you see them Chief?”

“Aye, LT. They stand out like my wife’s nipples in a cold shower.”

“Focus Chief. Your job is to deflate those nipples before they can attack.”

Emily’s cone torpedoes were floating toward their launch points. Once ignited it would be a competition between her timing and the EF crew’s training. PC-109 cleared the three-mile point, and Jasper initiated the AU warmup.

“Trout, launch a camera drone programmed to observe Peanut for an hour and then return to Ceres.”

“Aye, sir. Drone is away.”

The ship shook as Duggan engaged an EF fighter. The attack run began when the AU started to warm up. Emily saw it and launched her final torpedo, but not at the fighters.

“Trout, get us out of here,” Jasper ordered.

“I’m not in position for Ceres.”

“I don’t care. Engage the AU as soon as possible.”

The final torpedo exploded. A brilliant sphere of red, green and violet formed as thousands of armor-piercing chunks flew from the torpedo and vaporized an ice asteroid that blinded the carrier’s sensors and took out one MB at the same time.

Chief Duggan watched the second fighter’s approach, anticipated where it would be, and fired a barrage of iridium alloy slugs. The fighter launched a missile an instant before it turned into a yellow ball of plasma. “Incoming,” he yelled. The AU engaged as he caught his breath only to lose it again under the AU’s acceleration.

***

“Where are we, Rob?” Jasper asked.

“Captain, you didn’t call me Trout.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re Rob on this boat from now on. You did well.”

“Thank you, sir. We’re equidistant between Mars and Ceres. What are your orders?”

“As much as I’d like to go home, Mars needs our help. Set a course for Port Phobos.”

---

(c) 2016 David P. Cantrell contributor and staff member of EWI

Bleakbourne on Heath: The Forest Tavern

Camping alongside the road the first night after leaving Emydin’s Cave, Leryn lay wide awake, listening to the snores of his companions.  He had no idea how he was going to face Rosie. He didn’t know how he could go on pretending to be fine when nothing was ever going to fine again. He’d been unfaithful, and yes, it was for reasons so complicated he could never explain them, but still—he’d done it.

No words could explain what had passed between him and Arianrhod…the music…everywhere in her realm was music such as he’d never heard. It had resonated in his soul, and he couldn’t have turned away from it if he’d wanted to. She sang and his voice had joined hers…she drew him to her bed and…had he fallen in love with the music or her? It was fading in his mind, but he remembered enough to know he would never feel that way again.

During the hours he spent in her bower, he was changed on a fundamental level. Music had always been his greatest joy, but now it had become more than just his special ability and his livelihood, more than just something he loved and did well. He felt each note as if it were his blood and breath. Now, music was life in the most literal sense of the word.

Arianrhod had said it would be his connection to her and to the baby he’d fathered with her that day. It made sense that she knew she had conceived. Of course, she knew. She was a goddess. But it hurt, like no pain he’d ever imagined. It was the loss of something he hadn’t known he had.

Tears formed, and his stomach clenched. How could he have agreed to walk away from his unborn child? Yet, Arianrhod had explained that evil had entered the world. Because of that, having tasted his blood during the first part of the offering, the woodland hungered for his essence and in its ignorance would devour him if he remained. Recalling old Scutter’s tale of the Killing Wood, Leryn believed her.

She promised the child would be born of the wood, and the natural cycle would be complete as it was always meant to be.

The goddess had chosen him. Then she’d taken a piece of his heart, along with a piece of his future. Afterward, he had dressed, preparing to depart, feeling awkward and strangely bereft. But, as he prepared to walk back to the cave, she had stood before him, and laid her hands either side of his face. “I’ve taken much from you, and you feel the loss keenly. Music lives within your soul, and you are able to hear the song of the forest. So few men can hear the voices of the Ancient Grove. This is why I chose you. In return for your kindness and your faith, I offer you this reward.”

Kissing him, she had blessed him as only a goddess could do. “May your music always be a solace, whenever all seems lost. Wherever you go, your gift will be the light in the darkness for all who hear you.” The unseen choir had sung an anthem, a hallelujah, a holy prayer of transcendence. Joy flooded his being, and light, and ecstasy…the divine grace of her blessing bringing him to his knees.

His eyes stung, and he was overwhelmed by the power of the memory. He would never be the same.

The memory of it stood between him and the memory of Rosie—a thing he could never share with her.

But it all came back around to the Demon Knight, and the one chance of saving Bleakbourne, and Rosie, and Arianrhod, and all that was good in the world. He reminded himself that he’d been ready to offer up his life if that was what it took, and he should be grateful it hadn’t been required.

Tears again…how could he have known it would be his child’s life that would fulfill the bargain?

>>><<<

When the storm hit, they were still deep in the towering forests of Wēalas and took shelter in a rural tavern. It was less of a traditional public house and more of an old-fashioned farmhouse and obviously received little custom. “My goodness—we have guests!” The landlord’s gaze fell on the dwarf. “Are you Bramblestein? The famous dwarf magician from Londown?”

Bramblestein nodded, thinking quickly. Merlin’s presence couldn’t be mentioned, nor could Leryn’s gifts become known. However, Bramblestein was well known, and couldn’t hide who he was. An unspoken agreement passed between him and Merlin, and doffing his yellow hat, he bowed. “I am indeed Bramblestein, at your service. My companions are Noman and Leryn.”

Built in the style of a longhouse, one end was actually the stable and was connected through a door. The horses and pack ponies were lodged with goats and chickens. But for all the nameless tavern was small and not a haven for the wealthy, the food was decent, the cider was good, and the landlord welcomed them as friends, finding pallets and insisting they sleep on the floor before the hearth.

The roaring of the winds and the thundering sounds of trees breaking and crashing to the earth kept everyone awake. The three travelers huddled before the hearth along with the landlord and his wife, wrapped in their cloaks and clutching mugs of mulled cider.

At the landlord’s request, Leryn played his pipes to divert the rest of the group. Consumed by a burning wish for a shield to protect them from the storm raging all around the tiny shelter, he did his bardic duty. Playing softly, all the lullabies he’d ever heard seemed to come into his mind, the familiar melodies soothing his near panic.

At some point, the small tavern grew warmer as if the wailing wind had sought shelter elsewhere, and the terrible noise of the storm became muted, distant. As the sounds died away and the thudding of trees falling stopped, everyone relaxed somewhat.

Dawn approached, and the light filtering through the cracks in the shutters had a peculiarly yellowish cast, although the raging storm had finally passed them by. The amount of light seeping in suggested many trees had fallen.

During the tempest, Merlin had been distant, his mind consumed with worry for Lancelyn and Galahad. But with its passing and the wizard stirred, holding his mug out for Bramblestein to refill. “That was no natural storm.” His voice didn’t carry to the landlord or his wife, who now prepared breakfast in the tiny back room. “It’s far too quiet out there now. I don’t even hear the birds, and there should at least be some snowbirds about.”

“Agreed. And the light entering around the shutters seems strange. Perhaps your former apprentice knows we’re up to something.” Bramblestein nodded, then stood. “I suppose we’d best see what the damage is out there.” Opening the door, he stepped onto the covered porch.

A wall of white completely blocked his view. “Huh,” he said. “Did you cast a spell of shielding?”

“No. I didn’t want to risk it.” Merlyn stood and stepped out onto the porch, examining the wall. Both men turned to look at Leryn, who was lost in his thoughts as he had been since leaving Emydin’s Cave. Their eyes met, and they turned back to the wall.

Bramblestein laid his hands on it, feeling the smoothness. “It’s solid.” He craned his neck, leaning out and looking up past the porch roof. “It seems to be a dome of some sort, not made of snow or ice. It’s like parchment…light comes through, so it must be thin.” Bramblestein reared his fist back and punched the wall. A hole appeared.

Merlin did the same. “Perfect. It’s like an egg—hard to break into but easy to get out of.”

The holes offered enough of a view for them to see that the house was surrounded by countless gigantic, fallen trees, several of which appeared to have fallen against the shield and were then redirected, sliding down to lay at the foot of the shell. It was clear that the barrier had stopped them from crushing the tavern.

Again the two sorcerers turned to look through the open doorway at the bard who was unaware of their scrutiny. Merlin stepped back inside. “Just out of curiosity—what were you thinking about when you were playing your pipes last evening?”

Leryn tried to remember but failed. “I don’t really recall. All the noise, the snapping of the trees…the way the ground shook when they fell…I was terrified, and I’m not ashamed to say so.”

Merlin’s eyes met Bramblestein’s. Returning to the porch, the two wizards used brute force to open a way out, climbing over the trunk of a large, leafless elm that blocked the steps. Once outside, they saw that the tall chimney was all that could be seen, sticking out of the top of the egg-like dome.

Merlin said, “From here, it appears as if much of the forest was blown down.” He climbed back to the porch and knocked out a few more pieces. “We can come and go, but we should take this down before we leave.” While they were outside, Merlin used his magic to cut through the fallen trunks as neatly as any woodsman could have done, unblocking the path to the woodland tavern. He stacked the cut wood in the woodshed.

Once he’d finished clearing up as well as he could, the two sorcerers stood on the porch. “We’ll have to rein him in. But I don’t know how.” Bramblestein kept his voice low.

“I know. It’s like his gift has broken wide open, or something. He has no control over it now.”

“What are you talking about?” Leryn stood in the doorway. “That’s amazing. How did you do it?” Both sorcerers glared at him. Confused, he asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The landlord came out, bowing low before Bramblestein. “Thank you, a thousand times for protecting our home, good sir! We’d have been killed in our bed!” He turned and called to his wife. “Martha my dear! You’ll never believe it—Bramblestein the Sorcerer saved our home with his magic shield!”

Martha was amazed and couldn’t thank him enough. She and her husband refused to accept any coins from them. “All the wood you just cut, clearing the path and saving our lives is payment enough, good sir—more than enough.”

Fortunately, once enough large chunks had been knocked out of the base, the rest of the shell crumbled and fell harmlessly to the ground. As soon as Leryn had finished stacking the large sheets of eggshell behind the landlord’s wood-rack, the three made their goodbyes and were on the road again, leading their pack-ponies, all of them still heavily laden with the precious wood from the ancient forest.

---

“Bleakbourne on Heath” © 2016 – 2017 Connie J. Jasperson, All Rights Reserved

To Read Previous Episodes of “Bleakbourne on Heath” click here:

Bleakbourne on Heath Series

#flashfic: Bleakbourne on Heath: An Tuscar

Morgause remembered a time when she had not been a cat. Sometimes that thought made her sad if a cat could be said to feel regret. She knew she was not like other cats, but liked who she was and where she lived.

She padded through the halls, checking in every corner. A fierce storm was rolling in, one that would likely cause a significant amount of damage in town, but she could do nothing about it.

Having made her nightly rounds and finding the inn at peace, Morgause padded into Rosie’s room and jumped up on the bed. Still sleeping, Rosie moved over, making room and the cat snuggled down enjoying the warmth.

Although the cat seemed to be snoozing, she was not. Morgause sent out her awareness, hoping to find Lancelyn and Galahad, and when she did…her men were in trouble. She knew it was bad, but…what could she do?

Cats were inherently creatures of magic. Their magic was different, a matter of the spirit, as she had discovered when trying to help Merlin heal Rosie. But it was a surprisingly powerful magic, and now she knew why cats made such excellent familiars. She knew she would figure some way to help them.

 >>><<<

Tristan Reynfrey was quite elderly and no longer went to sea. For this trading run, he had sent his eldest son, Geraint, with three ships, all of them carrying wine from the Northman lands of Bryttonia, along with fine Wēalish pottery. The Northman wine had come from across the Anglish Channel and was a precious cargo that would earn him a great deal of gold.

Geraint Reynfrey had been sailing his noble father’s vessels across the Eyrish Sea all his life. When his younger brother, Lancelyn, had approached him requiring transport to Wixfyorde, he had agreed to take him, as he was making a trading voyage there anyway.

He was fifteen years older than Lance, and hadn’t been as involved in his upbringing as he should have been—he’d had his own family to care for when he wasn’t away at sea. But despite being the spoiled son of their father’s old age, the lad seemed to have pulled himself together.

Unfortunately, Geraint’s fleet was caught in the grip of a hurricane the likes of which he’d never dealt with before. He could see nothing, barely able to make out the Dragon that graced Morag’s prow. In the dark and the chaos of the storm, he had lost sight of the ships he traveled with, and fear for his son, Branor, and his nephew, Gawain, who captained the two other vessels, had begun to dominate his thoughts.

Generally, Morag rode easily on the sea no matter what the weather, but now she was at the mercy of the treacherous waves. She was a cargo-carrying longship of the type known as a knarr and was the pride of his father’s fleet. Tristan Reynfrey’s ships regularly voyaged across the Eyrish Sea between Tyrwyddn and Wixfyorde in the Eyrish country of Cúige Laighean, and Geraint had many tales regarding the notoriously awful weather.

Galahad had wedged himself between the cargo hold and the rail, passing bucket after bucket of the seawater that slowly filled the hold, handing them to the men who doggedly tossed the water overboard, only to have it thrown back in greater proportions. Then he passed the empty buckets back down the hole, and the cycle began again. The crew’s world had narrowed to bailing water out with no respite or rest, trying to stay ahead of the task.

That simple job was becoming impossible, as the water came in faster than they could cope with it.

To Galahad’s horror, an immense wave slammed over the ship, and the two men beside him at the rail were suddenly gone, along with one of their precious buckets. He could hear Geraint calling orders above the roar of the waves, but his words were lost in the wailing of the wind. “What? Say it again!”

Geraint shouted, “I said get Nolan and Davies out of the hold and up to the rail! Tell them to lash themselves down! Then come back here and help with this.”

Galahad passed the captain’s orders on to the crew, then worked his way aft to Geraint. It took all his effort to navigate the rolling, pitching deck as he struggled to get back to the steering board.

The small ship crested the top of a giant wave and raced down the other side. Galahad braced himself for the wall of water that was sure to follow.

Though the Morag did her best work when running before an angry wind, this was no ordinary storm, and the sail had been reefed. When it first caught them, it had seemed no different than any winter tempest, but soon it had grown out of all proportion into something incomprehensible; a living, breathing beast bent on devouring them.

Lancelyn knelt beside Geraint, bracing him. The two struggled against the high seas to keep control of the steering board.

Geraint felt the loss of his two crewmen keenly. It was a terrible blow and one that would devastate the village of Tyrwyddn. “How am I going to tell their families? Are you sure your wife isn’t behind this?” The scowl Geraint directed at Lance turned to an expression of shock as the board was wrenched from their grasp. The two managed to wrestle it back before it was torn off the ship. “This smacks of sorcery, and that’s her sort thing if I recall.”

Lance hadn’t told his brother of his wife’s currently feline condition and had no intention of doing so. Still, the mention of Morgause cut through the fear, filling him with longing for Bleakbourne, for her soothing presence. “Curses are far more her style–she doesn’t meddle with the weather. This is too big, even for Morgause. Besides, since we moved to Bleakbourne she and I are living well together.”

The ship shuddered under the onslaught of another wave, sliding down the trough nearly sideways.  For a terrifying moment they thought they were going to capsize, but somehow Geraint got her straightened a bit.

Lancelyn slipped and then braced himself better. “I don’t know how long we can hang on. Why don’t you lash me to this…Gah! I need to get wedged better…you’ll be able to steer.”

His brother shouted for a rope, then said. “I fear we’re approaching the coast of Eyrland.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it? We’ll be safe once we get there.”

“Not necessarily.” Geraint’s features showed his apprehension as much as his words. “I have no idea how far off course we’ve been blown, but we’ve no way of changing course and no way of stopping until we can use the sweeps again.”

“No way of stopping?” The cliffs and rocky shores of Eyrland were well-known as the graveyard of many ships. “What are we going to do?”

“As soon as I can get my bearings, I’ll steer us along the coast, but it’s dangerous waters we’re approaching, and we’re being pushed along at too fast a speed. I fear we’ve been blown too far south of the harbor at Wixfjorde, but there will be a bay somewhere if we don’t get sideways and keel over first, or don’t run aground.”

Galahad had returned to Lance and Geraint, throwing his weight in behind them, and with his assistance, Geraint regained control, nosing the Morag into the waves head-on again.

The wild winds drove the sea, and even without her sail, the Morag flew, racing up the long, mountainous shoulders of one wave, higher than any hill, and cresting the top. Then she plummeted down into the trough again, before being carried up the back of the next wave. The rain stung their faces, so much so they couldn’t see, striking with the force of a hail of pebbles.

A sudden lessening of the wind brought a brief letup from the driving rain, blessed, despite the brevity. Unfortunately, the lull also allowed Geraint to see the black prominence that loomed directly ahead. “An Tuscar! The gods are against us! Brace yourselves!”

With a horrible grind noise, the Morag shuddered to a halt, shattering against the leading edge of the rock island known as An Tuscar, throwing men and cargo into the stormy sea. Still clutching the steering board, the shock of the chill water took Lancelyn’s breath away. He fought to breathe, gasping and choking as his head emerged into air nearly as full of water as the sea itself.

Clinging to debris, Geraint’s shouts carried on the wind. “Save yourselves! Get to the rock! We’ll worry about getting off it later!”

Numb hands clutched planks, struggling to hang on as men and wreckage alike were dashed against the tiny island. Riding the crest of a wave, Lancelyn watched with horror as Geraint was struck in the head by a large timber. The last he saw of his brother was his bloody face, sinking below the waves, and not resurfacing.

He tried to concentrate on what had to be done. Men were dying, and he had to save them. Tears burned his eyes as each attempt to reach the men who struggled in the churning sea failed. Drowning men slipped beneath the waves, his desperate fingers catching only water as they were snatched from his grasp.

Lance scanned the debris for Galahad, not seeing him, feeling overcome by disbelief. Panic such as he’d never felt took him, and he searched the waters for the man who was the love of his life. Laid over that terror was the loss of the brother he’d loved and admired but had never told so.

At last, alone, and fully comprehending what real despair was, Lancelyn climbed from the sea, the sharp stones tearing his hands. He lay on his stomach, puking up seawater, and sobbing. His tears flew away on the wind, mingled with the salt of the sea and the wind-driven rain.

Darkness overtook him, and he welcomed it; yearning for death.

>><<< 

Lancelyn stirred. The sensation of having been licked by a cat woke him, and for a brief, deliriously happy moment the cat’s presence was so strong he thought he was in his bed in Bleakbourne with Morgause and Galahad. But the chill in his limbs and burning sting of his many scratches and abrasions told him he was alive, and stranded on a small rock in the middle of the Eyrish Sea.

It took all his effort, but he managed to crawl further up the rock, although why he was bothering, he didn’t know. Once again he gave into despair, wondering why he had been saved.

The storm had begun to abate, but the effort to climb out of the reach of the waves had taken all his energy and darkness reclaimed him.

>>><<<

A massive wave had tossed Galahad onto the rocky shore, knocking the wind out of him. He lay there a long while, battered and senseless. Gradually he woke to the sensation of a cat licking his face. At last, he stirred, slowly dragging himself further up the rock. Unable to stand, he crawled until he was out of all but the heaviest waves’ spray. He climbed on all fours until he had a view of the whole, tiny island. Corpses and wreckage floated on the waves. He saw a body lying face down just out of reach of the waves, and his heart stopped as he realized it was Lance.

“Oh, no…Please, dear God…no….” Grief gave him strength and he managed to make his way to him. Fear and dread for what he would find nearly stayed his hand, but, kneeling beside him, he turned Lancelyn over.

Relief made him weak and giddy when he saw Lance still breathed. Raising him up, he crushed him to his breast, thanking God with all his heart. Lancelyn’s salt-crusted eyes opened, for a moment unseeing, but it was enough and Galahad wept with joy.

When Lance realized it truly was Galahad’s battered face that he beheld and that he had survived the calamity, he burst into tears, clutching him and sobbing.

No embrace had ever been so sweet.

>>><<<

Morgause couldn’t hear their words, but her two men were huddled together, exhausted, and wounded from where the rocks had bruised their bodies and cut their hands and faces.

She cast her senses out again, seeing several crates, which she guided onto the shore. Floating just offshore was the striped sail, still attached to the yardarm. Concentrating, she maneuvered it so a wave could toss it onshore, near where her men crouched.

Straining with all her might, she nudged Lance until he looked up and saw the sail snagged on the rocks at the edge of the waves. With that last effort, she had to rest.

When she woke up next, Morgause cast her awareness out again, seeing that Lance and Galahad had made a shelter using the sail to wrap themselves in for warmth and the crates to block the wind, along with other debris that had washed up.

She cast out further until she found a ship, one that had set sail with them from Tyrwyddn. With the last of her strength, she located the captain, Lancelyn’s sister Leothe’s son, Gawain, who desperately searched the horizon, looking for any sign of the other ships.

She nudged him until, at the edge of his vision, he spied the red and white of the sail against the black rock, where no colors should be.

Gawain shouted orders, and his crew began rowing toward An Tuscar, hoping for the best.

---

 

“Bleakbourne on Heath” © 2016 – 2017 Connie J. Jasperson, All Rights Reserved

To Read Previous Episodes of “Bleakbourne on Heath” click here:

Bleakbourne on Heath Series

Basic’s Lessons of Life – Number 5

Claude’s Tool & Die was a busy shop and Paul Brown, the owner, kept a close eye on the workflow. He had just finished the crew’s daily work-in-progress and backlog update when Mary ran in from the office and handed him an envelope trimmed in red and blue dashes and labeled “Airmail.”

“It’s from Joe,” she said, giggling.

“Hurry, Boss. What does he say?” Big John bellowed.

Paul Brown stopped what he was doing and stared at John.

“Sorry, Boss.”

Paul struggled to keep a straight face. He wanted to know what Joe had to say too. He continued to open the fragile paper and then unfolded several pages, cleared his throat and began to read the letter.

“ ‘Dear Paul, I’m sorry I’ve been slow to write. Today is the first chance I’ve had to write a letter in the two weeks I’ve been in this hell-hole. It’s Sunday, and they let us have the afternoon for personal time. What a joke. I just spent two “personal” hours rubbing lacquerer off of brass buckles and putting a spit polish on my combat boots. Then I went to the mess hall.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I like eating, but chow was fried chicken—again. We’ve had fried chicken ten times; I counted. The cook does it well, but I’m getting tired of it.

‘Sgt. Tonga is my DI, and he said that each recruit would serve KP two or three times during basic. I’ve been on KP twice. Senior Drill Sergeant Cocker makes up the weekly duty roster and assigns people alphabetically. I guess he doesn’t know the alphabet very well. I’m not surprised. He’s a first class jerk.

‘I feel sorry for the cooks. There are only two of them, and they feed about 180 men three times a day. The cooks (and KPs) start their day at 4:30 am and quit at 10:00 pm. The rumor mill says additional cooks are coming. I don’t put much trust in the rumor mill; it also says that Jane Fonda will be on base for the 4th of July. After her Hanoi-Jane escapade, that seems unlikely.

‘Sgt. Tonga is a crazy Polynesian from Guam. Did you know Guam is a territory of the US? I didn’t. Anyway, he’s never satisfied and calls us all kinds of names. Dog-turd and rat-breath are two of his favorites, and the only ones I can share because Mary will see this letter. (Hi Mary) He’s sadistic and likes us to suffer. The only time I know what he’s thinking is when he smiles, which means something bad is about to happen to one of us or all of us—you never know which.

‘Last Thursday, Tonga blew up when a guy turned the wrong direction during drill. He stopped the platoon and called the guy to the front and made him do twenty pushups. Then he smiled and made the poor guy duck-walk behind the platoon the two blocks back to the barracks. The next day the poor soul could barely walk.—’ ”

“What’s duck-walking?” Mary asked.

Big John answered. “It’s walking while in a crouch. Your butt is as close to the ground as possible, and you have to waddle like a duck to take a step. It’s tough on your lower body. I can’t image doing two blocks.”

“Thanks, John,” Paul said, “But, I’m almost done with the letter. Please, everyone, don’t interrupt.

‘—As bad as Tonga is, Sgt. Hanner is worse. Saturday, he had the 3rd platoon duck-walking around their barracks over and over again. I felt real bad for those guys, but to be honest, I’m glad Hanner’s not my DI. Maybe Tonga’s not so bad after all.

‘God, I miss California. It’s always hot and humid here. I never know if I should dry-off before or after a shower. There isn’t any difference that I can see. I made a friend, JL, from Long Beach. He’s my age and he’s a good guy, but he’s not family. I’m so lonely. I miss you guys most of all. Say hi to everybody for me. Love Joe. P.S. I got a letter from Julie. She dumped me.’ “

Mary started crying at “God I miss California” and reached a full sob by the time “She dumped me” was read. Big John handed her the cleanest shop rag he could find, and she gladly used it to clear her sinuses and calm herself.

“Poor kid,” Mary said. “Julie must be a real cunt to dump him like that.”

The men were taken aback by Julie’s language, but they had to agree with her.

“He’s not the first man dumped after being drafted,” Paul said. “In World War II it was so common that the letters had a unique name. They were called “Dear John” letters.”

“Thank the Lord I never got one,” Big John said. “Then again I didn’t have a girlfriend to dump me when I got drafted in ’59. But, I’ve got a gal now, and I’m not gonna give her a chance to write me no Dear John letter, ’cause I ain’t never leaving her long enough for her to find another John.”

Everyone smiled at John’s declaration. It broke the tension and the crew instinctively knew it was time to put Joe out of mind and return to their lives. Even Mary regained her perkiness and resumed her duties.

Paul Brown carefully folded the letter and carried back to his desk where he reverently put it an employee file labeled Joe K Appleton and thought about when he’d learned the meaning of homesickness in 1943, just as Joe was learning it now. Paul looked at a painting of Diamond Head that hung across from his desk. It was his personal memorial to the friends he’d lost in the war and prayed that Joe wouldn’t join their number.

To be continued…

---

(c) 2016 David P. Cantrell a contributor and staff member of Edgewise Words Inn

Want more? You’ll find links to previous episodes at the following site, Basic’s Lessons of Life Series

Basic’s Lessons of Life – Number Four

Sweat seeped from every pore of Joe’s body. The sun hadn’t reached its zenith, yet the temperature was nearly ninety degrees. And, he had two more commodes to police.

It had taken two hours to please Tonga with their beds and footlockers. Tonga had picked random footlockers to inspect. Samsonite’s must have been perfect because Tonga appointed him platoon leader after looking at it and told him to move his gear to a two man billet across from his room.

Robert (Bubba) Roberson, from Alabama, stood proudly next to his footlocker. Tonga glanced under the lid and then picked up the locker and slammed it down so hard a hinge pin flew across the barracks and hit Samsonite’s pinky finger as he reached for his duffle bag. Samsonite emitted a Guinea pig squeal. The crime: socks should be folded, not rolled.

Policing the barracks came next. Policing meant something different in North Carolina than in California, or maybe it was the army, Joe wasn’t sure. But in his new world, police meant to clean or keep clean. Joe became the toilet policeman for the day.

Forty-odd men had paid homage to the six porcelain thrones since reveille some with less reverence than others. Joe scrubbed with a rust-stained bowl brush, a cellulose sponge, and copious amounts of cleanser. He finished the last commode, wiped his hands and stood to admire his work.

Tonga walked into the latrine, and Joe froze. The DI lifted each toilet seat, wiped its top and bottom with tissue and peered at the results. He wiped the underside of each porcelain rim and studied the tissue. Finally, he wiped the caulking around the base of each toilet. Joe stood by at attention waiting for the inevitable berating.

Tonga turned and looked at the name patch above Joe’s right pocket.

“Appleton!” he barked.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

“Fine job, recruit.” Tonga left. Joe beamed. The last time he’d felt so pleased with himself was when his hand had laid on Julies’ thigh for the first time.

***

Over the course of the morning, Tonga explained that the platoon consisted of four squads and that the bunk assignment determined which squad they were in. He also selected a recruit from each squad to be its leader. Joe was in the first squad, and JL was the squad leader. Joe didn’t know it at the time, but his squad would become more important to him than Julie and his uncle, or even Paul Brown.

Lunch was fried chicken, mashed potatoes with white gravy and succotash. Joe didn’t much care for the lima beans in the succotash, but he loved the chicken. Served two thighs and two legs, he’d have asked for seconds if allowed. After lunch, Tonga instructed the newly appointed squad leaders to take their men to the assembly area next to the barracks and wait for him.

Tonga arrived a few minutes later and ordered the four squad leaders to form a line in front of him. He told JL, as the first squad leader, to extend his left arm to his side and hold it parallel to the ground. The second squad leader aligned his right shoulder to JL’s extended fingertips and raised his left arm. The third and fourth squad leaders followed suit. The remaining recruits lined up behind their squad leaders, each of them one arm length behind the one in front of them and one arm length to the left of the man on their right except for the first squad.

“Platoon. Attention. You’re now in formation. Remember how to do it. When I order Fall In or Form Up this is what I expect.” Tonga said. He surveyed the group carefully. “You, the third man in the third squad. What’s your name?”

“Dalton McMasters, Drill Sergeant,” he said in an Alabama drawl.

“You’re not my friend, maggot. I don’t care what your first name is. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

“McMasters, don’t lock your knees. Stand straight, but keep your knees slightly loose.”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

Tonga waited a moment before continuing. “Recruits have very small brains. If you lock your knees, the blood in your pea-brains becomes trapped in your ankles. Do you know what happens then?”

“No, Drill Sergeant,” chorused the platoon.

“You’ll faint faster than Fay Wray meeting King Kong for the first time.”

Several recruits laughed, including Joe. The laughter died quickly, but the damage was done, and everyone knew it. An evil smile formed on Tonga’s face.

“Some of you laughed at me, but not all of you. Therefore, I’ll be kind. Squad Leaders stay at attention. Everybody else, take two steps backward, drop and give me twenty pushups. Do it now!”

The men complied, but more than one mumbled, “Keep your mouth shut,” to someone that had laughed.

Tonga reassembled platoon and said, “This afternoon you’ll learn how little you know about marching called drill in the Army. Over the next several weeks you’ll learn to move as one, turn as one and halt as one.”

Tonga started with Mark Time, marching in place to Joe. He explained that every drill command contained two elements, the preparatory order, and an execution order. The preparatory order warned the recruits to listen up while the execution order told them what to do. The preparatory order took many forms the simplest ones merely identified the target for the execution order such as platoon or squad. Joe suspected Tonga was hard of hearing because he shouted every order.

“Platoon. Mark Time,” Tonga yelled. It took ten minutes to get everyone in step then he ordered, “Platoon. Halt.” And they did. Tonga looked pleased, but not for long. He never looked pleased for long.

Over the course of the afternoon, the platoon worked in squads and took turns learning various commands. A mistake by an individual resulted in a series of pushups performed by the entire squad. Usually, ten pushups satisfied Tonga’s sadistic needs, but now and then he demanded twenty.

The sun was well past noon, and the temperature had dropped to the mid-eighties.  The squads were practicing in-line marching, halting and executing an about-face when a thundershower blew through. Tonga must have expected it because he stood under the eaves of the barracks as the rain soaked the platoon. The shower ended minutes later, and the temperature quickly climbed back into the nineties. The drilling never stopped.

At 16:50 Tonga marched the platoon to the mess hall. He told them to hang-out in the assembly area after their dinner and that he’d join them there.

***

The guys milled around after their dinner of ham, mashed potatoes, and green beans, several men lit up cigarettes.

David Johnston and John Davidson from the third squad were called the New York brothers because of their accents and propensity to stick together, rubbed their cigarette butts into the ground. Bubba Roberson saw them.

“Y’all better pick them butts up, or Sarge’s gonna shit a brick. My Pa showed me how to field strip ‘em by pushing the cherry and the tobacco outta the paper and keeping the paper and filter in my pocket till I could throw ‘em away.” Roberson said in an Alabama drawl.

Johnston at 5’10” was nearly as tall as Roberson but outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. He got nose to nose with Roberson and said, “I couldn’t care less what your Pa showed you, hayseed. Stay out of my business.”

Roberson wasn’t intimidated by Johnston and clenched his fists in preparation for his next move. But his friend, McMasters, pulled him back from the brink when he said to the gathered crowd, “Some dogs gotta get castrated before they can learn a thing.”

Roberson stepped back and turned to his friend. “You’re right Donnie. Let’s see how this hunt ends.”

The deescalation disappointed a few observers, but not many, and soon everybody drifted back to their individual groups. The New York brothers received a wide berth.

Senior Drill Sergeant Cocker seemed to be in a hurry given his pace as he walked through the second platoon’s assembly area. He had almost cleared the area when he spun around like a fish caught on a hook. Cocker yelled, “Who left cigarette butts on my earth?”

Johnston and Davidson were the closest to the butts, but they didn’t speak up.  Joe looked at Samsonite, their supposed platoon leader. He was studying his boots. Joe realized things were going to get out of hand and said, “I did, Senior Drill Sergeant.”

“There are two butts here.”

“Yes, Senior Drill Sergeant.”

“Pick them up.”

“Yes, Senior Drill Sergeant.”

“Eat them. Then give me fifty.”

Joe gaped at the sergeant and considered refusing but thought better of it. “Yes, Senior Drill Sergeant.”

Joe made a big deal of chewing the butts but actually pushed the filters between his gums and cheeks. He dropped down and counted off each pushup.

Cocker watched Joe but kept glancing at his watch. When Joe grunted thirty-five, Cocker stopped him and said, “Get up maggot, you owe me fifteen more, but I can’t wait. You field-strip those butts next time. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Senior Drill Sergeant.”

Cocker hurried away. When he was out of sight, Joe spit the filters into his hand. A crowd formed around him but stayed quiet. Finally, JL asked, “Why’d you do that? They weren’t your butts.”

“Because Cocker would have gone ballistic if nobody spoke up,” Joe said.

JL shook his head and started to say something but stopped. He smiled and said, “You’re one crazy white boy.”

***

Joe lay in bed after lights-out at 21:00 and thought of home. Home, where Julie’s selfless love glowed in his mind and Big John’s support and Paul Brown’s wise counsel gave him strength. He clung to those thoughts, but tears welled in his eyes. The world he’d known was gone, replaced by a crazy one filled with evil people. He’d learned the meaning of homesick.

To Be Continued…

---

(c) 2016 David P. Cantrell is a contributor and staff member of EWI.

Want more? You’ll find links to previous episodes at the following site, Basic’s Lessons of Life Series

 

Magic, Mystery and Mirth, by Lindsay Schopfer

One of my favorite short story collections is currently on sale for .99 cents for the Kindle download, for three more days. Magic Mystery, and Mirth by Lindsay Schopfer is a fun read–but first, THE BLURB:

Join fantasy author Lindsay Schopfer as he shares eight short tales of adventure and imagination, including…

 

A genie taken to court for giving bad wishes

A Strange Tales-inspired look at technology in modern society

A reimagining of the banshee myth

A steampunk tale of dirigibles and magic

A sword and sorcery spoof staring a burly wizard, a tall skinny dwarf, a toy dragon breeder, and a tailor

… and more.

Also included is a special sneak peak of Into the North, the upcoming sequel to the steampunk adventure novel The Beast Hunter.

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Let’s face it–I love short story collections. Some of the best, most enduring works of fiction arrive in the form of the short story, and there are a couple of real jewels in this book.

The book opens with “Sharp Sword Dull Sword.” This particular tale was inspired by being told a contest he was thinking about entering did NOT want any tales involving talking swords. What emerged from his rebellion is a witty little send-up of every D&D game ever played. If you are looking for snark, this tale is just what you ordered!

My personal favorite in this volume is “Disconnected.” In this tale, Schopfer voyages into literary, cerebral science fiction, and does it well. This is a thinking person’s tale and was rightfully selected as a finalist in PNWA’s annual literary contest. In this tale, he explores the place where modern technology and modern society merge.

As a bonus, he gives us a preview of “Into the North,” the sequel to “The Beast Hunter.” All the common sense and cold perseverance that Kelton Moore displayed in The Beast Hunter is back in full force in this snippet.

I highly recommend this to everyone who enjoys good speculative fiction.

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Lindsay Schopfer is the author of the fantasy adventure Lost Under Two Moons (2012), the steampunk adventure The Beast Hunter (2014) and The Keltin Moore Online Serial. His short fiction has also appeared in The Daily Times, an international newspaper based in Pakistan.

When he isn’t writing, Lindsay is a writing coach and instructor for Adventures In Writing, where he helps writers learn about and improve their craft.  He has taught workshops for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association and  the Romance Writers of America, and is a member of the Northwest Independent Editors Guild.

Lindsay has served as the Sci-Fi/Fantasy Category Chairman for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association’s annual literary contest since 2011. He is also a mentor for Educurious, a Gates Foundation-funded program designed to connect high school students with professional writers. He received his Bachelor of Arts Degree in Creative Writing from the Evergreen State College and was given a One-Year Certificate of Completion from the Capilano College Motion Picture Production Program in Vancouver, Canada.

LINDSAY SCHOPFER’S AUTHOR PAGE at  amazon.com

Little Pink Ridinghood

Mal, the malamute dog, didn’t like the looks of the dirty old man. The ratty clothes and oily hair didn’t bother him much—many poor folks lived in the Ferny Forrest. The piercing yellow eyes were a different matter, they deserved his attention.

“Stop looking at that old man. He’s creepy and I don’t like him,” Mal said.

“You’re such a scaredy-cat Mal,” Amaranth giggled. “I have my protective amulet in my basket, so you’re not in danger.”

“I am not afraid of cats. I just respect their privacy.”

“And, their claws,” Amaranth said.

Mal chortled as only his kind can. “You know how your grandmother frets if you’re late. Let’s get going.”

They walked the road, more of a path actually. It meandered eastward through the forest. The trees became taller and the canopy thicker until they entered a shadowy world more akin to twilight than the late morning. They knew the road well, but still watched their step for the debris that rained from above. Not more than fifty feet from the fork that led to grandmother they came upon a fallen tree.

The trunk was, at least, five feet in diameter. No wagon would use the road until a team of foresters cleared it. Grandmother would be glad to hear of it because her forestry business depended on fallen trees. Sane people didn’t cut down trees in the Ferny Forest.

Mal reached the top of the trunk easily, but Amaranth had to climb using crinkles in the bark as finger and toe holds. She stood on the crest and felt like a giant looking down on a puny world. Mal stared at the darkness and growled.

A man’s silhouette stood before them, only his eyes clearly visible.

“My. What big yellow eyes you have.” Amaranth said.

“All the better to see you with, my sweet child,” said the stranger as he moved nearer. “I am Lou Pine a vagabond exploring our marvelous world. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

His gallant bow impressed her, but not Mal. He growled again and jumped onto the path. Amaranth quickly joined him.

“I too, am pleased sir. This is my good, but suspicious, friend Mal. I am Amaranth Pink. Tell me sir, from where do you hail?”

“Oh, from far and wide. I’m always looking for new and delicious experiences. Where are you two off to?”

“My grandmother’s house, it is but a short distance down the left fork in the road not far behind you. I’m sorry, but we must hurry along. I carry things of importance to her.”

With that said they parted. Not more than fifteen minutes later she arrived at grandmother’s house. Mal felt it safe to excuse himself and headed into the woods. Amaranth entered the house and found the strange man from the trail in the parlor.

“Sir, you surprise me. Why are you here and where is my grandmother?”

“Your grandmother offered refreshments and will return momentarily.”

Grandmother entered the room pushing a serving cart topped with a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of apple cider. Seeing her granddaughter she stopped.

“I’m glad you’re here dear. This young man showed up unannounced and wouldn’t be put off. I felt I had to admit him. Did you bring my supplies?”

“I did grandmother, but please don’t run low of them again. It worries me.”

“I know dear and I’m sorry. It snuck up on me. All of a sudden I—”

“Silence! You blabbering fools,” bellowed Lou Pine.

Startled the females turned towards him. Through some strange metamorphosis, his shape changed from a handsome young man into a dirty old man and finally into a fearsome werewolf with long fangs and horrific claw-like fingers.

The rapidity of it all caught Amaranth off guard and she almost dropped her basket. She recovered quickly though and withdrew a large caliber amulet from it. The silver bullet entered three millimeters above but centered between Lou Pine’s bushy eyebrows. He instantly became a plasma that evaporated in an instant.

Amaranth put her large caliber amulet away and withdrew two boxes of Lone Ranger 45’s from her basket which she offered to her grandmother.

“Thank you, dear. Any news from the village?”

“Nothing much. Mal and I found a large downed tree, though. I bet your crew could get ten thousand board feet out of it, maybe more. I couldn’t see its length.”

“Wonderful. Where is it?”

“What’s my finder’s fee?” Amaranth asked.

Her grandmother smiled at her redheaded progeny dressed in a pretty pink cape. “Ten percent of net, twelve percent if the tree produces more than fifteen thousand board feet.”

“Deal.”

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By David P. Cantrell. This is a revision of a story posted on EWI in March 2015.

 

The Hideout

The Hideout by David P. Cantrell

A friend challenged me to write a short story (under 950 words) using one word from each column from this graphic. I chose hideous, princess and sword. My story follows.

I love my hideout. I can spy on the kitchen and Gigi when she’s in her bedroom and my mom and dad’s bedroom too. But, I don’t spy on mom and dad’s bedroom anymore because it makes me feel bad, like when I threw a rock at a bird and hurt it.

Gigi’s different. She’s dad’s little princess and gets away with all kinds of stuff. I hate her—she’s hideous. I feel good when I spy on her.

I didn’t like our new house at first. It was old and creepy and none of my friends lived on the street. But, it’s not so bad now. I like Tommy and he’s just two doors down the block. I’m going to show him my hideout today after school and Little League practice.

 

“Bobby, get the door,” Gigi yelled.

“You get it. I’m upstairs,” I yelled back.

“My hair’s wet. Please get the door.”

I ran downstairs.

“You’re always wet. Wet hair, wet nails, I bet you’ve got wet pants too,” I said.

It was Tommy at the door. We ran to my upstairs room. I braced the door with my sword.

“What’s the stick for?” Tommy said.

“It’s my sword, Thunder Bolt. I’m using it to keep people out of my room by blocking the door. I learned how to do it watching TV.”

“Oh.” Tommy sat on my bed.

“I have a hideout that nobody in the whole world knows about. Do you promise not to tell if I show it to you?”

“I promise. Where is it?” Tommy said.

“In my closet.”

Tommy laughed and said, “Everybody hides in their closet. That’s silly.”

“Oh yeah. Just wait and see.”

I got my flashlight and took him to my closet. It was deeper than the one in my old house and had a regular door, not a sliding one. My good clothes hung from hangers on one side and my regular clothes were in a dresser on the other side. In the back were boxes with my little-kid toys inside. I moved the stuffed animal box and shined the light on the floor.

“See,” I said.

“I don’t see anything Bobby. You’re weird.”

“I am not. Look carefully.”

Tommy studied the floor in the corner and rubbed his hand on the floorboards.

“Why is there a cut across the boards?”

“Because there’s a secret door in the floor,” I said proudly.

“That’s so cool. Where does it go?”

“I’ll show you.”

I spit on the suction cup of my crossbow dart and pressed it to the floorboard and pulled enough to get my fingers under the edge. The hatch came out easily. The hole was big enough for an adult and easily accommodated Tommy and me. A big piece of plywood was nailed to first-floor ceiling joists just below the opening. We knelt on all fours then I shined the light around.

“Bobby you’ve got the best hideout ever.”

“Thanks, Tommy. It is real cool. Look, there are trails that go to different parts of the house.”

* * *

 Plywood paths followed electrical and plumbing conduits around the crawlspace that had been built during the addition of the second-floor decades earlier. None of that mattered to Tommy and Bobby—they were in heaven. They spent many afternoons hiding from pirates and evil witches in the hideout. Sometimes they spied on Gigi through a tiny hole and listened to her talk to her friends on Skype. They pretended they were FBI agents gathering evidence against terrorists. Once they giggled when they saw her kiss Jordon Bronson. She looked at the ceiling and scared them away.

The boys had great fun until the exterminator came. It was the last day of summer vacation. Bobby’s dad took a day off to deal with the problem that had bothered his wife and daughter for months—a critter in the attic was the presumption. Bobby and Tommy lay on their plywood perch over the kitchen and listened.

“My wife and daughter have heard creaking sounds and chirps in the ceiling. I heard it once and it didn’t sound like the settling noises that come with an old home. I want you to kill whatever is up there.”

“Sir, we are a humane service and do our best to relocate the offending creatures. But, if necessary, we’ll use lethal force,” the exterminator said.

Bobby and Tommy freaked. They scurried back to the hatch, but Tommy’s pant leg got caught on a nail head.

“Help me, Bobby. I don’t want to be relocated.”

Tommy wanted to help him get loose but couldn’t reach the snag. He had to make a decision: save Tommy or confess his spying. He decided to save his friend. He scrambled out of the hatch and ran downstairs to the kitchen.

He stopped at the doorway. His mom and dad were sitting with Gigi and Jordon at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

“Where’s the exterminator?” Bobby asked.

“Right here,” Jordon said and raised his hand.

Bobby gaped at the scene for a moment before he understood what had happened.

His dad said, “Son, it’s not nice to spy on people, particularly your family.”

“I’m sorry dad. I won’t do it again.”

Everyone laughed when they heard Tommy’s muffled promise: “Me too.”

Basic Lessons of Life – Number Three

The trashcan cymbals had rung at 5:00 am. All Joe could think about was Big John’s warning to stay off the DI’s radar. He was sure Tonga was going to ruin his life after the alarm clock fiasco.

Sgt. Tonga, fully dressed in a starched uniform, stood by the latrine door and yelled, “Drain your lizards, shave your chins and get your asses dressed! Stow your gear in you duffels.” Then he climbed the stairs to share his greeting with the second floor, clanging his cymbals all the way to the refrain, “Get up. Get up.”

Joe wasn’t going to be the last guy dressed. He grabbed his shaving kit and ran to the latrine at the rear of the building.

The latrine’s overall dimensions were about fifteen feet deep by thirty feet wide. However, the second story stairwell and a mechanical room took up large chunks of the floor space. Access was through a three foot doorway that abutted the right-hand exterior wall. A large window divided the rear wall. Six antique sinks below six mottled mirrors plus a utility sink covered the right half of the real wall. A narrow room formed by the encroachment of the mechanical room on the left side of the building served as a communal shower with six showerheads for forty men.

Joe wanted to get his shave done, but his bladder vetoed the idea. To his left and opposite the sinks was a trough style urinal that could accommodate five men. Beyond the urinal were five stall-less commodes. Joe smiled at them and thought, private is a rank, not a right, in the Army.

Joe kept his eyes to himself but couldn’t help noticing that everyone’s urine was the color of over-ripe oranges and smelled worse. He promised himself to drink more fluids.

The latrine filled with guys as the upstairs recruits reacted to Sgt. Tonga’s drum beat. Lines formed behind the sinks while teeth were bushed and chins denuded. Joe had to wait for Samsonite at the sink, the guy took forever. He brushed every tooth like it was fine silver after which he shaved as if he was going to kiss the Queen of England’s butt. He lathered on shaving foam, made a stroke with his expensive Gillette Techmatic razor and then thoroughly rinsed the blade before the next stroke. Joe would have cut the little guy’s throat with the razor, but he feared making another blip on Tonga’s radar.

JL had landed upstairs when the sergeants divvied everybody up the night before. He saw Joe sitting on his duffle bag and did the same next to him.

“Hi Joe. How you doing?”

“I’m not sure. Tonga jumped down my throat. I’m worried he’s going to make my life miserable.”

“Better you than me, white boy.” JL slapped Joe on the back. “Besides, he might not be your permanent DI. They’re supposed to assign our platoons today.”

“From your mouth, to God’s ear. Tonga’s a madman.” Joe said.

Five minutes later, Tonga ordered everyone to exit the building through the two rear doors on the right side of the barracks. They lined up in four rows of ten on the dirt yard between their building and the next barracks.

Every barracks looked the same. They’d been built as temporary structures during World War II, however three decades later they were still in use. The old oil heaters had been replaced with natural gas but everything else had remained original. The wooden buildings had been designed for function and quick construction, not for beauty or safety. Lapped board siding formed an exterior over tarpapered plywood nailed to exposed two by four studs. Green asphalt tiles topped the shallow-sloped roofs. They were fire traps.

Tonga did his best to keep his forty men together as they trudged to the parade ground in front of their barracks. Three other buildings emptied at the same time and lined up near Joe’s group. One hundred and sixty men formed a rectangle that was sixteen wide by ten deep that stood quietly behind four rigid DIs.

Between the parade ground and the two buildings that made up the company headquarters a flagpole stood, surrounded by a circle of white stones. Four men exited the largest headquarters building and walked toward the flagpole. Joe recognized Senior Drill Sergeant Cocker and thought one of the men was an officer. The other two were enlisted men, one of which, a corporal, carried a bundle. Joe realized the bundle was an American flag when the corporal and the private with him unfolded it and hooked it to a halyard. The corporal manned the halyard but didn’t raise the flag.

At exactly 6:00 am a bugle played reveille over loudspeakers that could be heard all over Fort Bragg. The officer yelled, “Present arms.” And, immediately he saluted as did the DIs. The corporal slowly raised the flag and when his end wouldn’t touch the ground the private let go and saluted too.

One hundred and sixty scared young men raised their right hands and saluted their flag. A chilled ran down Joe’s spine. The energetic reveille tune continued for twenty seconds and ended just as the flag reached the pole’s brass finial. The officer yelled, “Order arms.”

All hands dropped to their sides in unison like a flock of birds changing direction and yet no one had explained the order. Joe didn’t consider himself spiritual, but he felt something happen that didn’t conform to his sense of logic.

Captain Halbeck introduced himself and welcomed the recruits to Company B, 8^th Battalion of the 2^nd Brigade. He said, “I leave you in the capable hands of Senior Drill Sergeant Cocker,” and then walked back to his office followed by the flag attendants. Joe saw him twice after that.

Cocker surveyed the crowd until the captain was out of earshot. “Today you’re maggots not worth the time it would take me to step on you and end your miserable lives. But, as much as I’d like to grind your fat-filled bodies into sausage, I can’t, ‘cause the Army needs your bodies to fertilize the rice paddies of Viet Nam. So, it’s my job to make you soldiers.”

The DIs moved out of view as Cocker droned on a bit longer before taking rollcall. If someone didn’t respond to their name quickly Cocker would scream and badger them. He reminded Joe of his uncle, a bully with a big ego. Finally he ordered, “Attention,” followed by, “About face.”

Most of the recruits turned around, but a few didn’t, which gave Cocker his chance. Joe had turned and couldn’t see what was happening, but he could hear it.

“Give me fifty,” Cocker bellowed.

“Yes Senior Drill Sergeant…ah…fifty what?” the kid said. His voice cracked at what.

“Pushups, you piece of dog turd.”

“Yes Senior Drill Sergeant.”

“Are you counting dog breath? I can’t hear you,” Cocker yelled.

Joe pictured his uncle’s gloating face as he listened. He had seen the four DIs move to the front of their respective barracks while Cocker’s drama played out and thought the platoon assignments must be next.

“Nineteen, twenty….twenty-one…uh twenty-two,” the kid said. His struggle was obvious as the time between numbers grew longer. Then he collapsed with “oomph.”

Joe noticed Bliss and Tonga glance at each other. Bliss shrugged. Tonga shook his head and spit as if to rid his mouth of a bad taste. At least, that’s what Joe thought.

“You’re weaker than my little sister and she’s disabled. Get in formation, dog crap. Sergeant Bliss, take over,” Cocker said.

Sergeant Bliss explained that each DI would take turns calling out names. The recruits were supposed to line up in the assembly area to the right of the barracks until the platoon assignments were done.

One after another, last names were called with no discernable logic. Joe heard Tonga call Washington and heard JL answer. Poor guy, Joe thought and trusted his three to one odds would hold up because there were about twenty guys left. Two rounds later, Tonga called Samson and beyond belief, Samsonite answered. Joe damn near choked holding back a laugh at the odd turn of events until Tonga called his name.

Joe joined the 2^nd platoon’s assembly area with an incredible sense of disappointment. Once again, his desires had been ignored by the fates, or God, or whatever.

The recruits had learned enough to get into a rough four by ten formation. Most of them were sitting on their duffel bags looking away from the parade ground, but not JL, he was watching and waiting. When he saw Joe approach, he stood and gave him a smile that beamed from his dark skinned face and a thumbs-up gesture to reinforce his point—he was glad Joe was with him.

Joe’s eyes met JL’s and knew he hadn’t been let down after all. If he was going to face the unknown, he’d rather do it with JL and besides the California guys had to stick together.

Once the assignments were done, they were told to leave their duffels in the assembly area and were walked to breakfast. The mess hall was a single story building built in the forties like everything else. It could accommodate a hundred and seventy, but rarely had to.

A long line formed at the entrance. Men entered, took a divided tray, grabbed flatware and moved on. The tray was filled with scrambled eggs, fried potatoes and greasy bacon. At the end of the food line the men turned and could serve themselves coffee or a large glass of milk: white or chocolate. The coffee urn was gigantic in Joe’s mind, but the milk dispensers were more impressive. Joe took coffee and realized he hadn’t drunk milk of any kind since his parents had died—it was kid food.

He made his way to a seat and dug in, but he was nowhere near done when he was forced to give up his spot for another recruit. As they exited the mess hall, the flag-raising corporal told them to sit on their duffel bags by the barracks until their sergeants told them what to do.

***

After breakfast, Tonga assigned each man to a bunk and showed the group how to make a bed and organize their gear. He gave them a half hour to get ready for their first inspection.

Tonga had a private room at the front of the building. He stepped out of his quarters and into the aisle that divided the barracks in half. He stood perfectly straight with his hands behind his back. At five foot six he wasn’t tall, but his width and Polynesian build made him intimidating. The room quieted quickly.

Sgt. Tonga shouted, “Attention!”

The recruits had seen enough John Wayne movies to know that attention meant to standup straight and salute, so they did.

“Don’t you candy-assed excuses for soldiers dare salute me. I’m a non-commissioned officer. I don’t need your floppy hand gestures to make me important—I own your asses.” Tonga pointed to a group by the stairs. “Get your lazy butts upstairs and stand at attention at your foot lockers. That goes for this floor too, move!”

Joe scrambled to find his place at the foot of his bunk, as did everyone.

Tonga gave them their first standing order: keep you area squared away. He didn’t vocalize the order as much as demonstrate it. He overturned every bed on the floor except one. When he came to Samsonite’s bed he pulled a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air. It bounced off of the taut green blanket and landed heads up. He nodded to Samsonite.

“That’s how you make a bed. The rest of you better have yours looking like it when I get back.”

Samsonite’s chest puffed like a crowing rooster. Tonga moved on to terrorize the second floor and left nineteen sets of eyes focused on the little guy with criminal intent. As much as Joe had wanted to do him in at the sink not long before, he felt sorry for Samsonite now. The guy didn’t have a clue how damned he was.

Joe had learned another lesson. It was better to face the devil with a friend than by yourself.

To be continued…

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© 2015 David P. Cantrell He is a contributing member of the EWI staff.

Links to prior episodes:

Basic Lessons of Life – Number One

Basic Lessons of Life – Number Two