Central Asia, 1280 A.D. ...
Samuel of Locksley awoke. His head throbbed, his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his vision was blurry. Yet he was able to discern, standing about forty paces away, a man dressed head to toe in metal armor.
Pushing himself up, Samuel gained a knee in the dry and dusty dirt. Eventually, though it pained him to the core, he stood.
“Are you a knight?” he called out to the man. “I am in distress and require aid!”
Samuel looked down at his bloody tunic. He felt the spot on his belly where the dried blood was thickest, and the pain nearly sent him back to the ground. Nevertheless, his feet held their place.
The metallic man made no reply.
“Did you hear me?” Samuel shouted. “I need your help!”
He staggered toward the motionless figure, but stopped as suddenly the question of the fate of his sister and friends came to mind. What had happened to Rhiana, Kristopher, and the Little brothers? Were they alive? Could they have survived the flashing swords and stinging arrows of the Turkish horde?
Samuel could not know. All he knew was that, with the exception of the armored man, he was alone in this vast wasteland. The ravages of disease, hunger and barbarian attack had destroyed the Papal delegation to Xanadu. The grand party of One Hundred Men of Learning and Letters, along with their squires and retainers, had been utterly destroyed.
Suddenly, the man of metal began to slowly turn around and walk away. A strange whistling sound seemed to match his movements.
“Wait!” Samuel cried. “Speak with me at least!” He struggled to move forward and pursue the mysterious stranger.
After a seemingly endless and painful march through the swirling dust and shadows of twilight, Samuel wiped the caked dirt from his eyes just in time to see an astonishing sight.
A doorway had opened in the middle of nowhere. The metal man shuffled through it, and then the doorway vanished. Samuel was truly alone.
He lurched ahead toward the spot where the stranger had disappeared, waving his arms as if to grab hold onto any remnant of hope. He had reached the pinnacle of despair, when his hand struck something hard.
He banged his fist against the invisible object, and it echoed as if hollow.
He banged again.
And a third time…
Then with a quiet creaking sound, the same miraculous doorway reappeared. Beyond the opening, Samuel could see a vast though dimly lit chamber. Though he had no reason to trust that the place beyond the door would be safe or welcoming, he knew that the desert behind him offered no comfort either. He stepped through the door.
Once inside, it slammed shut behind him.
He looked around, allowing his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim expanse. Eventually, he noticed the metallic stranger standing on the far side of the chamber.
“I am Samuel of Locksley,” he announced, his voice echoing wildly, “and I come in peace.”
Again, there was no answer.
Soon though, a figure dressed in white appeared on a balcony high above.
“Locksley, you say?” a rich and resonant voice floated down to Samuel’s ears.
“Yes, my lord,” Samuel bowed as far as he could. “I am far from home, and I fear not far from death’s door. I asked your knight for aid, but he has not heard me.”
“He is no knight,” the figure in white declared, “but rather an automaton of my own making. He cannot help you, other than in the way he already has, by leading you here.”
“If I may ask,” Samuel panted in his near total exhaustion, “what is this place, and who are you?”
The man in the white robe lifted up his arms and then proceeded to float down from the balcony, until landing on the ground several paces away from his guest.
“You see before you the great and powerful Wizard of Xamba!” the man in white proclaimed. “And you have arrived at my invisible tower, which no mortal has ever found and then departed to tell the tale.”
“I do not doubt that you are one of great power and might,” Samuel said humbly, “and so I plead for your mercy and kindness.”
“And so you shall receive both,” the Wizard replied in a suddenly softer tone.
The Wizard stepped forward into the flickering torchlight, and his face became illuminated. Behind the wrinkles and lines from many years of pain, sadness and regret, Samuel could see eyes and a face that looked strikingly familiar.
The two studied each other for several awkward moments.
Samuel was the first to speak again, and the words he uttered awoke something inside the Wizard that had been long dormant; words he had never expected to hear again.
“Uncle Edric, is that you?”
Song of Sherwood
New World Chronicles
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
John Lock and the Benevolent Bandits
Sherwood Nebula, 3009 Common Era…
Hundreds of attack cruisers from the La Gunga Galactic Syndicate swarmed amidst the pink and purple haze of the vast Sherwood Nebula. The brilliant white flashes of their phasers tore through the swirling space dust, as they bore down upon the three fleeing corvettes.
The Chief Enforcement Officer of La Gunga’s Sector 23 watched the chase onscreen from the safety and comfort of his capital ship, slowly orbiting a nearby red dwarf. He slammed his fist against the console as once again, the corvettes successfully dodged a hail of photon torpedoes.
“We will destroy this pathetic remnant,” the Chief roared at his terrified crew, “and that will finally be the end of the Benevolent Bandits!”
“You think so, eh Chief?” a voice called from the rear of the capital ship’s bridge.
The Chief spun around and hissed, “Damn it! Is that you, Lock? I thought I killed you on Icarus Prime!”
“That you did, Chief,” John Lock laughed from behind his face mask, “mostly, that is. Unfortunately for you, not all of the medibots on the seventh moon had been destroyed. They did quite a fine job reconstructing my body, wouldn’t you say?”
To demonstrate his new agility, Lock jumped up high with seemingly no effort, sailed through the air, and landed on the far side of the bridge.
“Impressive,” the Chief muttered.
“That’s not the half of it,” John Lock chuckled. “With the new generation hydrogen cell they installed in lieu of my heart, I should be able to continue harassing you for… well, for quite some time, as long as I can acquire a cup of clean water, say, every seventy years or so.”
“I wouldn’t plan on living that long, Lock!” the Chief fumed. “And your friends in their flimsy corvettes won’t last long out there either.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will manage,” Lock turned for a moment toward the display screen to watch the flashing lights emitting from the heart of Sherwood Nebula.
“Why are you here?” the Chief growled.
“Ah yes,” Lock turned back to face his nemesis, “I wanted to personally deliver the good news that my men, and women, have retrieved the Gaia Code from your, until recently, secure database. The DNA sequences are already en route to the Pelagian Cluster, where I’m certain the Pelagians will find them most helpful in rebuilding their ecosystems that you and the Syndicate so thoroughly ruined.”
“No matter!” the Chief scoffed, “We will just destroy them again!”
“You can try,” Lock shrugged, “but thanks to a few modifications I made to the Code, with a little cultivation, the Pelagians will be able to revive their forests even faster than La Gunga can burn them down.”
“I don’t know why you care so much about the foul Pelagians!” the Chief sneered.
“It’s not that,” Lock answered, “I just don’t like you.”
“Well,” the Chief grinned as he pulled out his side-arm blaster and aimed it squarely at John Lock’s helmet, “at least I have the consolation that you will not be around to enjoy your victory.”
The Chief fired the blaster, and the high energy beam passed directly through Lock’s head, striking the far wall where it left a black smoldering scar.
“What the…?” the Chief looked down at his ineffective weapon.
“Eh, wrong as usual, Chief!” Lock laughed again. His remote holographic avatar shimmered slightly as it auto-calibrated from the energy beam’s effect. “And good luck hunting the corvettes, since like me, they are just an illusion.”
The Chief cursed and stomped his feet as John Lock’s hologram began to disperse. His roaring laughter resounded throughout the bridge, even after the hero’s image had faded away.
Hundreds of attack cruisers from the La Gunga Galactic Syndicate swarmed amidst the pink and purple haze of the vast Sherwood Nebula. The brilliant white flashes of their phasers tore through the swirling space dust, as they bore down upon the three fleeing corvettes.
The Chief Enforcement Officer of La Gunga’s Sector 23 watched the chase onscreen from the safety and comfort of his capital ship, slowly orbiting a nearby red dwarf. He slammed his fist against the console as once again, the corvettes successfully dodged a hail of photon torpedoes.
“We will destroy this pathetic remnant,” the Chief roared at his terrified crew, “and that will finally be the end of the Benevolent Bandits!”
“You think so, eh Chief?” a voice called from the rear of the capital ship’s bridge.
The Chief spun around and hissed, “Damn it! Is that you, Lock? I thought I killed you on Icarus Prime!”
“That you did, Chief,” John Lock laughed from behind his face mask, “mostly, that is. Unfortunately for you, not all of the medibots on the seventh moon had been destroyed. They did quite a fine job reconstructing my body, wouldn’t you say?”
To demonstrate his new agility, Lock jumped up high with seemingly no effort, sailed through the air, and landed on the far side of the bridge.
“Impressive,” the Chief muttered.
“That’s not the half of it,” John Lock chuckled. “With the new generation hydrogen cell they installed in lieu of my heart, I should be able to continue harassing you for… well, for quite some time, as long as I can acquire a cup of clean water, say, every seventy years or so.”
“I wouldn’t plan on living that long, Lock!” the Chief fumed. “And your friends in their flimsy corvettes won’t last long out there either.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will manage,” Lock turned for a moment toward the display screen to watch the flashing lights emitting from the heart of Sherwood Nebula.
“Why are you here?” the Chief growled.
“Ah yes,” Lock turned back to face his nemesis, “I wanted to personally deliver the good news that my men, and women, have retrieved the Gaia Code from your, until recently, secure database. The DNA sequences are already en route to the Pelagian Cluster, where I’m certain the Pelagians will find them most helpful in rebuilding their ecosystems that you and the Syndicate so thoroughly ruined.”
“No matter!” the Chief scoffed, “We will just destroy them again!”
“You can try,” Lock shrugged, “but thanks to a few modifications I made to the Code, with a little cultivation, the Pelagians will be able to revive their forests even faster than La Gunga can burn them down.”
“I don’t know why you care so much about the foul Pelagians!” the Chief sneered.
“It’s not that,” Lock answered, “I just don’t like you.”
“Well,” the Chief grinned as he pulled out his side-arm blaster and aimed it squarely at John Lock’s helmet, “at least I have the consolation that you will not be around to enjoy your victory.”
The Chief fired the blaster, and the high energy beam passed directly through Lock’s head, striking the far wall where it left a black smoldering scar.
“What the…?” the Chief looked down at his ineffective weapon.
“Eh, wrong as usual, Chief!” Lock laughed again. His remote holographic avatar shimmered slightly as it auto-calibrated from the energy beam’s effect. “And good luck hunting the corvettes, since like me, they are just an illusion.”
The Chief cursed and stomped his feet as John Lock’s hologram began to disperse. His roaring laughter resounded throughout the bridge, even after the hero’s image had faded away.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Author Commentary
“The Seven C’s” or “Why I like Robin Hood”…
Some folks have asked me why I am so taken with the Robin Hood legend, so I am writing this non-fiction essay as an answer. As with Charlemagne and King Arthur, the legend of Robin Hood is woven into the fabric of Western Civilization, dwelling near the core of our cultural identity and the height of our aspirations. Following are seven specific aspects of the legend that I find particularly interesting and exciting.
1. Constraining Evil
In most versions, Robin Hood battles the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham and his sponsor, the usurper Prince John, who has seized the throne in the absence of his crusading brother, King Richard the Lionheart. In this sense, Robin is not an outlaw at all, but rather a loyalist to the legitimate king. Robin fights to uphold what is right and true, until the Lionheart returns and sets things back in proper order.
This, of course, is reminiscent of the biblical narrative. In the temporary physical absence of the legitimate King (Jesus Christ), a usurper (Satan) has seized control of the realm and is causing widespread distress. Robin Hood is therefore a role-model for all Christians. We must do our part to uphold truth, justice, goodness and right until the return of the King. The temporary physical absence of Jesus Christ is no excuse for anyone to deny or ignore His authority.
2. Caring for the Poor
One of the primary ways that Robin makes a difference in his community is by redistributing wealth from areas of overabundance to areas of dire need, that is, by robbing the rich and giving to the poor. Does this sound uncomfortably like socialism? Well, let’s think this through before we panic.
Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham (the government) were the ones hoarding wealth, along with other disloyal aristocrats that were collaborating with them against King Richard. By forcibly resisting such ultra-leftwing totalitarianism, and by rallying the common man to the banner of the king, Robin Hood was actually fiercely anti-socialist. Keep in mind that Robin was actually a noble.
Again, the legend provides a timeless example for us to follow. Of course, robbery is not acceptable behavior. Wealth can still be redistributed to those in need, however, by creative fundraising. After all, most wealthy people are good and generous folk. All you have to do is ask!
3. Courage in the Face of Danger
Robin Hood’s bravery is both notable and necessary. It is notable because of all the great deeds he was able to accomplish as a result. Standing up against oppressors; rescuing friends from the gallows; climbing castle walls; chasing away the local constabulary; going head-to-head with a much larger “Little” John – these are not tasks for one that is faint of heart.
His courage was necessary because these accomplishments and all the rest would not have come to pass if he had cowered behind a tree in Sherwood Forest, wringing his hands and waiting for King Richard to ride in and save him. The lesson for Christians is clear in this aspect as well. While we can look forward with assurance to Christ’s coming, and accept that only then will things be made truly right, we do have a responsibility in the here and now to act with courage.
If we do not, people around us will suffer unnecessarily, just as the people of Nottingham would have been found in a much worse state upon King Richard’s return if Robin had not kept up the fight as best he could.
4. Chivalry toward Women
I love women. Yes, my wife and daughters hold unique and special status in my heart, but all women and girls are, if you want my opinion, amazing parts of God’s creation that deserve a particular kind of respect. This includes honoring their contributions to society, protecting them from harm, and within reason, working diligently to make sure they are comfortable and happy.
Does this bother you? Do you think I am anti-feminist or behind the times? Well, I don’t care. If you are very upset, go write your own essay about it.
Yes, Robin paid special attention to Marian because of his romantic feelings for her, but he also stood up for the widows, the orphans, and any damsel in distress he may have encountered. It’s simply the right thing to do; always has been, always will be.
5. Cleverness against Adversity
This is one of the most exciting parts of the legend, because it separates Robin Hood from other heroes that succeed through strength alone. For certain he was strong, brave, fast, and skilled with both blade and bow, but he was also blessed with a quick and sharp mind. The best victories are those that require no bruising or bloodshed, and there is also something very pleasing about seeing the slow-witted bad guys fall to their own stupidity.
The Disney cartoon version, not surprisingly, gives some of the finest examples. Robin and the Merry Men’s use of disguises, subterfuge, careful planning, and taking full advantage of the enemy’s weaknesses are all commendable. After all, part of what makes the good guys good is that they do not actually desire to hurt anyone.
While violence can become necessary to protect the innocent, a real hero always tries to find another way. And the best heroes do.
6. Celebrating Life
Again, it’s worth taking a moment to recall the classic 1973 cartoon version. The music, dancing, feasting and celebrating that happens in Sherwood Forest is inspiring. This is what it’s all about!
If all that happened in the stories was fighting and battles and rescues and escapes, what would be the point? There has to be something worth fighting for. Robin and the other heroes show an important aspect of their characters when they kick off their boots, lay down their bows and arrows, and have a rip-roaring good time.
This is another thing that separated the good guys from the bad. Just say for a minute that Prince John and the Sheriff had won and succeeded in oppressing the people of Nottingham indefinitely. What good would it do them? Would they be happy sitting inside the castle, counting their pieces of silver and watching the misery outside their walls? Of course not! They were blinded by greed and power-lust all along!
Robin and friends knew what was truly important. That’s why they gave their money away. What did they need with a pile of gold? They already had the greatest wealth of all – good friends, a little music, a little ale, and love in their hearts for God, king and their fellow man.
7. Coming Home
Thank you and congratulations if you’ve swum this far in my river of words. I just want to mention one more aspect of the legend that I feel is important, and that is its distinctive British character.
Now, much has been made of the horrible things done by white Anglo-Saxon Protestant males during their brief so-called dominance of the world. I agree that poor choices were made and great harms were done, and on behalf of my forefathers, I humbly apologize. Nevertheless, we also did some good and perhaps we even still have something to offer the world.
My genetic heritage is largely British, and for this fact I will not apologize. But even beyond my sturdy and resilient genes, I feel connected to a wonderful heritage of ideas and institutions that we, those of us fortunate enough to be Americans at least, inherited from the old Brits.
Our beautiful language, our system of law and justice, countless stories and legends, the frying of potatoes, the Beatles, James Bond, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Love Actually; for all of these and so much more, we owe thanks to the mighty yet soft spoken people of that green and pleasant little group of islands just off the coast of Europe.
We, the United States and the United Kingdom, have stood together and prevailed against the greatest tyrants of the age. I hope that my Song of Sherwood stories might in some small way be an honor to these distant cousins back across the sea.
Some folks have asked me why I am so taken with the Robin Hood legend, so I am writing this non-fiction essay as an answer. As with Charlemagne and King Arthur, the legend of Robin Hood is woven into the fabric of Western Civilization, dwelling near the core of our cultural identity and the height of our aspirations. Following are seven specific aspects of the legend that I find particularly interesting and exciting.
1. Constraining Evil
In most versions, Robin Hood battles the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham and his sponsor, the usurper Prince John, who has seized the throne in the absence of his crusading brother, King Richard the Lionheart. In this sense, Robin is not an outlaw at all, but rather a loyalist to the legitimate king. Robin fights to uphold what is right and true, until the Lionheart returns and sets things back in proper order.
This, of course, is reminiscent of the biblical narrative. In the temporary physical absence of the legitimate King (Jesus Christ), a usurper (Satan) has seized control of the realm and is causing widespread distress. Robin Hood is therefore a role-model for all Christians. We must do our part to uphold truth, justice, goodness and right until the return of the King. The temporary physical absence of Jesus Christ is no excuse for anyone to deny or ignore His authority.
2. Caring for the Poor
One of the primary ways that Robin makes a difference in his community is by redistributing wealth from areas of overabundance to areas of dire need, that is, by robbing the rich and giving to the poor. Does this sound uncomfortably like socialism? Well, let’s think this through before we panic.
Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham (the government) were the ones hoarding wealth, along with other disloyal aristocrats that were collaborating with them against King Richard. By forcibly resisting such ultra-leftwing totalitarianism, and by rallying the common man to the banner of the king, Robin Hood was actually fiercely anti-socialist. Keep in mind that Robin was actually a noble.
Again, the legend provides a timeless example for us to follow. Of course, robbery is not acceptable behavior. Wealth can still be redistributed to those in need, however, by creative fundraising. After all, most wealthy people are good and generous folk. All you have to do is ask!
3. Courage in the Face of Danger
Robin Hood’s bravery is both notable and necessary. It is notable because of all the great deeds he was able to accomplish as a result. Standing up against oppressors; rescuing friends from the gallows; climbing castle walls; chasing away the local constabulary; going head-to-head with a much larger “Little” John – these are not tasks for one that is faint of heart.
His courage was necessary because these accomplishments and all the rest would not have come to pass if he had cowered behind a tree in Sherwood Forest, wringing his hands and waiting for King Richard to ride in and save him. The lesson for Christians is clear in this aspect as well. While we can look forward with assurance to Christ’s coming, and accept that only then will things be made truly right, we do have a responsibility in the here and now to act with courage.
If we do not, people around us will suffer unnecessarily, just as the people of Nottingham would have been found in a much worse state upon King Richard’s return if Robin had not kept up the fight as best he could.
4. Chivalry toward Women
I love women. Yes, my wife and daughters hold unique and special status in my heart, but all women and girls are, if you want my opinion, amazing parts of God’s creation that deserve a particular kind of respect. This includes honoring their contributions to society, protecting them from harm, and within reason, working diligently to make sure they are comfortable and happy.
Does this bother you? Do you think I am anti-feminist or behind the times? Well, I don’t care. If you are very upset, go write your own essay about it.
Yes, Robin paid special attention to Marian because of his romantic feelings for her, but he also stood up for the widows, the orphans, and any damsel in distress he may have encountered. It’s simply the right thing to do; always has been, always will be.
5. Cleverness against Adversity
This is one of the most exciting parts of the legend, because it separates Robin Hood from other heroes that succeed through strength alone. For certain he was strong, brave, fast, and skilled with both blade and bow, but he was also blessed with a quick and sharp mind. The best victories are those that require no bruising or bloodshed, and there is also something very pleasing about seeing the slow-witted bad guys fall to their own stupidity.
The Disney cartoon version, not surprisingly, gives some of the finest examples. Robin and the Merry Men’s use of disguises, subterfuge, careful planning, and taking full advantage of the enemy’s weaknesses are all commendable. After all, part of what makes the good guys good is that they do not actually desire to hurt anyone.
While violence can become necessary to protect the innocent, a real hero always tries to find another way. And the best heroes do.
6. Celebrating Life
Again, it’s worth taking a moment to recall the classic 1973 cartoon version. The music, dancing, feasting and celebrating that happens in Sherwood Forest is inspiring. This is what it’s all about!
If all that happened in the stories was fighting and battles and rescues and escapes, what would be the point? There has to be something worth fighting for. Robin and the other heroes show an important aspect of their characters when they kick off their boots, lay down their bows and arrows, and have a rip-roaring good time.
This is another thing that separated the good guys from the bad. Just say for a minute that Prince John and the Sheriff had won and succeeded in oppressing the people of Nottingham indefinitely. What good would it do them? Would they be happy sitting inside the castle, counting their pieces of silver and watching the misery outside their walls? Of course not! They were blinded by greed and power-lust all along!
Robin and friends knew what was truly important. That’s why they gave their money away. What did they need with a pile of gold? They already had the greatest wealth of all – good friends, a little music, a little ale, and love in their hearts for God, king and their fellow man.
7. Coming Home
Thank you and congratulations if you’ve swum this far in my river of words. I just want to mention one more aspect of the legend that I feel is important, and that is its distinctive British character.
Now, much has been made of the horrible things done by white Anglo-Saxon Protestant males during their brief so-called dominance of the world. I agree that poor choices were made and great harms were done, and on behalf of my forefathers, I humbly apologize. Nevertheless, we also did some good and perhaps we even still have something to offer the world.
My genetic heritage is largely British, and for this fact I will not apologize. But even beyond my sturdy and resilient genes, I feel connected to a wonderful heritage of ideas and institutions that we, those of us fortunate enough to be Americans at least, inherited from the old Brits.
Our beautiful language, our system of law and justice, countless stories and legends, the frying of potatoes, the Beatles, James Bond, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Love Actually; for all of these and so much more, we owe thanks to the mighty yet soft spoken people of that green and pleasant little group of islands just off the coast of Europe.
We, the United States and the United Kingdom, have stood together and prevailed against the greatest tyrants of the age. I hope that my Song of Sherwood stories might in some small way be an honor to these distant cousins back across the sea.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Billy Crimson
Any American City, Tomorrow…
Cassandra should never have gone out alone at night, not on the streets of the downtown district known to locals as the ‘Hood’. She was only 15, and there were always thugs and muggers prowling the streets after dark.
All she had in this world though was her grandmother, who desperately needed more pills for her heart condition.
After leaving the drug store, Cassandra felt like she was being watched. She heard footsteps from behind, but when she turned to look, there was no one. She only had a few blocks to go, so she started running.
Just before turning the corner onto her own street, two men jumped out from behind a dumpster and blocked her way. She glanced back and two more men seemed to have appeared from nowhere.
“Please, just take it,” she held out the five dollar bill that was her change from buying the medicine. “It’s all I have.”
The four men laughed as they closed in on her.
“Please,” she repeated, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Oh, we don’t want any trouble,” one of the men snickered.
“We don’t want your money either,” another said, and with that the four men rushed in and grabbed her. They picked up Cassandra, and carried her back the way she had come.
They hissed at her to stay quiet, but one of them had his hand firmly over her mouth anyway. Soon after turning down a dark alleyway, they entered an abandoned garage.
Tears were already streaking her face as they threw her down onto a large piece of cardboard on the cement floor.
“Please,” she whispered, “please, my grandma needs medicine. Please let me go.”
“Don’t worry, baby,” the apparent leader said as he stood over her. “We’ll go and take care of your grandma. But first, we’re just gonna have a little party.”
They all laughed again.
“A party?” a voice said from just outside the garage. “Now, why was I not invited?”
The four thugs and Cassandra all looked as a young man entered from the alley. He was oddly dressed in green denim jeans and a green long-sleeved shirt.
“Who the f*ck are you?” the leader barked.
“Billy Crimson’s the name,” he said.
“Well, get the f*ck outta here!” the leader said as he pulled a .38 special from the back of his pants. “This here’s our neighborhood!”
“I have discovered that neighbors are wherever you find them,” Billy replied.
Before any of the thugs could mentally process his statement, Billy burst forward, instantly closing his fingers around the barrel of the gun and redirecting it back toward the leader’s gut. The gun went off and the leader’s eyes went wide with surprise.
With very little effort, Billy pried the gun from the bleeding leader’s hand, dumped the remaining bullets out, and tossed the gun through a broken window pane and into a shrubbery. The leader collapsed onto the cement.
Meanwhile, two of the remaining thugs drew switchblades, while the third restrained Cassandra.
One of the knife attackers raised his blade over his head and swung it downward. Billy blocked the swing with his left arm and delivered a lightning fast strike of his palm against the attacker’s nose, completely crushing it. The attacker flew backward into a wall and then slumped to the floor.
The other knife-man was already charging toward Billy while making a straight thrust with his blade. Billy seized the man’s wrist and used his momentum to swing him forward, while twisting his arm so that his elbow became hyper-extended and locked. A swift chop against the man’s elbow broke it with a loud crunch, causing him to immediately fall to the floor where he vomited and blacked out from the pain.
The last thug had abandoned Cassandra and bolted for the door.
Billy stepped out into the alleyway and called after him, “What about the party?”
Billy then picked up a broken piece of brick and threw it after the fleeing brute. The brick hit him squarely in the back of the head, and the man fell face-first into the gravelly asphalt where he lay still.
Cassandra had already appeared in the doorway by the time Billy turned around.
“Why did you save me?” she asked.
“I hope someone would stand up for me if I was under attack,” he answered.
“Thank you,” she smiled.
“Will you let me walk you home?” Billy asked.
She nodded, and after checking that she still had her grandmother’s pills, followed Billy back onto the street.
They walked silently for awhile, but soon Cassandra could no longer contain her curiosity.
“I’m Cassandra,” she began, “Cassandra Jackson.”
He smiled.
“Are you from around here?” she asked.
“No.”
“What did you mean when you said neighbors are where you find them?” she asked.
“We are to love and protect anyone we find along our path,” he answered, “and so where we were born, or where we lay our heads to rest, matters not.”
She marveled at his words and wondered aloud, “Are you a Christian?”
After a moment he answered, “I am.”
‘Me too,” she said.
They reached her doorstep and she drew out a key from her pocket. They looked at each other in silence for a few moments more.
“Go to your grandmother,” he said as he took a step backward and motioned toward the door with his hand.
“Thank you again,” she said after a deep breath. “I wish there were more people like you in this world, Billy Crimson.”
“There are,” he answered, “yet most of them still slumber.”
Cassandra turned and looked in the direction of a rustling noise down the street. When she turned back toward Billy, he was gone.
Cassandra should never have gone out alone at night, not on the streets of the downtown district known to locals as the ‘Hood’. She was only 15, and there were always thugs and muggers prowling the streets after dark.
All she had in this world though was her grandmother, who desperately needed more pills for her heart condition.
After leaving the drug store, Cassandra felt like she was being watched. She heard footsteps from behind, but when she turned to look, there was no one. She only had a few blocks to go, so she started running.
Just before turning the corner onto her own street, two men jumped out from behind a dumpster and blocked her way. She glanced back and two more men seemed to have appeared from nowhere.
“Please, just take it,” she held out the five dollar bill that was her change from buying the medicine. “It’s all I have.”
The four men laughed as they closed in on her.
“Please,” she repeated, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Oh, we don’t want any trouble,” one of the men snickered.
“We don’t want your money either,” another said, and with that the four men rushed in and grabbed her. They picked up Cassandra, and carried her back the way she had come.
They hissed at her to stay quiet, but one of them had his hand firmly over her mouth anyway. Soon after turning down a dark alleyway, they entered an abandoned garage.
Tears were already streaking her face as they threw her down onto a large piece of cardboard on the cement floor.
“Please,” she whispered, “please, my grandma needs medicine. Please let me go.”
“Don’t worry, baby,” the apparent leader said as he stood over her. “We’ll go and take care of your grandma. But first, we’re just gonna have a little party.”
They all laughed again.
“A party?” a voice said from just outside the garage. “Now, why was I not invited?”
The four thugs and Cassandra all looked as a young man entered from the alley. He was oddly dressed in green denim jeans and a green long-sleeved shirt.
“Who the f*ck are you?” the leader barked.
“Billy Crimson’s the name,” he said.
“Well, get the f*ck outta here!” the leader said as he pulled a .38 special from the back of his pants. “This here’s our neighborhood!”
“I have discovered that neighbors are wherever you find them,” Billy replied.
Before any of the thugs could mentally process his statement, Billy burst forward, instantly closing his fingers around the barrel of the gun and redirecting it back toward the leader’s gut. The gun went off and the leader’s eyes went wide with surprise.
With very little effort, Billy pried the gun from the bleeding leader’s hand, dumped the remaining bullets out, and tossed the gun through a broken window pane and into a shrubbery. The leader collapsed onto the cement.
Meanwhile, two of the remaining thugs drew switchblades, while the third restrained Cassandra.
One of the knife attackers raised his blade over his head and swung it downward. Billy blocked the swing with his left arm and delivered a lightning fast strike of his palm against the attacker’s nose, completely crushing it. The attacker flew backward into a wall and then slumped to the floor.
The other knife-man was already charging toward Billy while making a straight thrust with his blade. Billy seized the man’s wrist and used his momentum to swing him forward, while twisting his arm so that his elbow became hyper-extended and locked. A swift chop against the man’s elbow broke it with a loud crunch, causing him to immediately fall to the floor where he vomited and blacked out from the pain.
The last thug had abandoned Cassandra and bolted for the door.
Billy stepped out into the alleyway and called after him, “What about the party?”
Billy then picked up a broken piece of brick and threw it after the fleeing brute. The brick hit him squarely in the back of the head, and the man fell face-first into the gravelly asphalt where he lay still.
Cassandra had already appeared in the doorway by the time Billy turned around.
“Why did you save me?” she asked.
“I hope someone would stand up for me if I was under attack,” he answered.
“Thank you,” she smiled.
“Will you let me walk you home?” Billy asked.
She nodded, and after checking that she still had her grandmother’s pills, followed Billy back onto the street.
They walked silently for awhile, but soon Cassandra could no longer contain her curiosity.
“I’m Cassandra,” she began, “Cassandra Jackson.”
He smiled.
“Are you from around here?” she asked.
“No.”
“What did you mean when you said neighbors are where you find them?” she asked.
“We are to love and protect anyone we find along our path,” he answered, “and so where we were born, or where we lay our heads to rest, matters not.”
She marveled at his words and wondered aloud, “Are you a Christian?”
After a moment he answered, “I am.”
‘Me too,” she said.
They reached her doorstep and she drew out a key from her pocket. They looked at each other in silence for a few moments more.
“Go to your grandmother,” he said as he took a step backward and motioned toward the door with his hand.
“Thank you again,” she said after a deep breath. “I wish there were more people like you in this world, Billy Crimson.”
“There are,” he answered, “yet most of them still slumber.”
Cassandra turned and looked in the direction of a rustling noise down the street. When she turned back toward Billy, he was gone.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Archery Contest
In Nottingham, where Kristopher was born, archery contests drew both champions and spectators from far and wide. Kristopher’s father, Simon Little, was the Sheriff of Nottingham, whose duties included calling the contestants to order and announcing the victors.
No one doubted that Samuel of Locksley would win the prize cup, as he had for several years. Nevertheless, a giddy air of anticipation swept over the fairgrounds. This was the first contest since Samuel’s father, Lord Randol, had died the year before. Samuel was now fully the Lord of Locksley, and his many admiring followers looked forward to his performance.
On that warm spring day, flowers had begun to bloom. Young ladies wore bright lilacs and dandelions in their hair as they ran about in small groups, hoping to draw the attention of the boys. Most of the boys though were far too engaged in fierce swordplay to notice, even if their swords were actually only freshly fallen branches gathered from the edge of Sherwood.
Suddenly the Sheriff blew his shofar horn, and the antics came to an abrupt halt. Two dozen archers joined Lord Samuel at the far end of the fairgrounds. Among them were the Sheriff’s three nephews, James, John and Jacob Little, the sons of Jared the Carpenter and his wife Molly.
Jared and Molly stood nearby with their four daughters, all of them cheering for the boys. Hooligans by nature and apprentice carpenters by trade, the Little boys knew they had greater chances of flying than of beating their friend Samuel in the contest. Still they participated for love of the sport.
The townsfolk in the crowd whispered, laughed and made one last rush to the vendors of biscuits and raisin-cakes, while the archers spared no drama in stretching, testing the wind and fiddling with their bows and arrow feathers. Lord Samuel alone stood calmly and confidently at the center of the line of archers, patiently waiting for the games to begin.
Well, not alone. One other archer, a tiny old man with a bushy white beard stood quite still at the very end of the line. The man wore an old wide-brimmed hat pulled tightly over his head, obscuring his face in shadow. His cloak also was tattered and a bit overlarge, completely covering him from his neck to his feet.
Each contestant was afforded a single warm-up arrow that would not count in their scoring. Still the crowd watched the practice round with keen interest, looking for clues as to who might give Lord Samuel a proper challenge this year.
James congratulated his younger brother John after both of their arrows found places about halfway between the center and the outer edge of the target. The two older brothers consoled young Jacob when he missed the target entirely, giving one of the raisin-cake vendors a good scare. They urged him to put the mishap from his mind and coached him on ways to improve his posture for the actual contest.
The crowd roared its delight soon after, when Samuel walked lazily up to the line and sent an arrow thudding into the center circle. The entire target teetered on its stand with the force of impact. The other contestants followed with their own practice shots, ranging in quality from mediocre to even more dangerous than young Jacob’s.
Kristopher watched it all with mild amusement. While he appreciated the value of a skilled archer, he favored the surety of a wooden staff for personal defense. Given a choice, he preferred avoiding violence altogether. From as far back as he could recall, Kristopher had planned to enter the priesthood and live a life of devotion to God and His Church, promoting peaceful resolutions between his fellow men.
His father, Simon the Sheriff, had quite effectively modeled the power of patience, listening and applying other Godly principles in his work. Kristopher hoped to carry these lessons to an even greater level, helping men to draw closer to God rather than simply to act within the bounds of the local law.
Kristopher watched curiously as the last contestant, the bearded old stranger, slowly drew back his bowstring. There was something oddly familiar about the old man. His arrow lobbed in a funny arc through the air and barely snagged itself on the outermost ring of the target.
The crowd applauded politely, impressed that such an elderly creature was participating in a young man’s game and equally pleased that his arrow had not endangered any of the spectators. As the old man made his way slowly back to the end of the line, the Sheriff gave a quick double blast of the shofar horn, and a pair of boys from Nottingham ran forward to set up a fresh target.
Soon the contest was underway in earnest. For the first round of eliminations, each archer made three shots and the two best were counted for scoring. Kristopher made the calculations on a wax tablet and relayed the results to his father who bellowed them to the waiting crowd.
Only half of the archers scored high enough to continue into the second round, during which the group was halved once again. By this time, the sun was blazing hot overhead. Archers and spectators alike retreated underneath canopies for a lengthy intermission featuring pulled pork, honey mead, and the first strawberries of the season, all sponsored by the Locksley estate.
By mid-afternoon the contest resumed, and another round in which the best three of five were counted brought the remaining line of competitors down to three. They were Lord Samuel, naturally, as well as a visiting squire from Derby, and to everyone’s astonishment, the tiny bearded old man. The latter had seemed to hang on in the contest merely through a series of well-timed lucky shots, barely squeaking past other archers in the point calculations.
As shadows from Sherwood began approaching the fairground in the late afternoon sunshine, the contest was essentially viewed as a showdown between young Lord Samuel and the middle-aged squire from Derby. The Sheriff chose not to see the widespread exchanging of wagers in the crowd favoring Samuel at odds of greater than twenty to one.
The best four arrows of seven determined the next elimination, which to the shock of the entire town fell upon the man from Derby. Wearing an amused grin, Lord Samuel bowed respectfully to his elderly competitor. The old man offered a stiff bow with a flourish of his hand in return.
Traditionally, the final showdown contained an element of speed in addition to accuracy. Two targets were set up, one for each of the remaining contestants. Five arrows were to be sent into each target. These would receive the normal point count based on placement, but an additional three points were awarded to the archer who was first to release all five of his arrows.
Lord Samuel made a concerted effort to waive the speed requirement for his opponent out of respect for his age. However, the old man shook his head and waved his hand in an obstinate wordless refusal for any special treatment. Seeing that his opponent simply would not budge, Samuel finally gave a shrug and agreed to finish the contest as equals.
A high-pitched single honk from the Sheriff’s horn marked the start of this final event. Lord Samuel’s arms and fingers flew in a blur of activity. The sound of the shofar seemed still to echo in the air, and all five of Lord Locksley’s arrows were sunk deep into the packed hay behind the painted cloth target. Four of his arrows shared the limited space inside the center circle, and the fifth protruded its feathery shaft just one ring out.
All of this had happened so quickly, that the spectators had little time to absorb and much less to comprehend how the old man that had moved so slowly and stiffly throughout the day had matched the timing of Samuel’s shots down to the exact moment. A seeming eternity of eerie silence consumed the fairgrounds before the Sheriff called out the surreal sounding words that no points were to be awarded for the speed bonus, for with regard to that component of the game a perfect tie had been reached.
The crowd continued to gape in silence. The majority of mouths were hanging open awkwardly. These included Kristopher and Lord Samuel’s, as all eyes were fixed upon the most unexpected of sights. From the center circle of the old stranger’s target protruded all five of his feathered arrows.
Eventually a trickle of applause began from somewhere near the back of the crowd. The entire assembly hesitantly joined in, though the accolades never seemed to reach full volume.
The old man shuffled slowly toward the Sheriff. He arrived within a few paces of Simon, whose face had grown no less baffled. The old man proceeded to bow to the Sheriff. This act caused Simon, as if possessed by the will of another, to hold out the small golden award cup engraved with the words ‘Nottingham Spring Archery Contest Champion in the Year of the Lord 1279.”
The old man seized the cup, bowed slowly again to the Sheriff, turned, and similarly saluted first Lord Samuel and then the crowd. Another smattering of applause followed, and the old man began making his way toward one of the canopies, presumably for a drink.
No one else moved.
Finally, Lord Samuel broke through the stunned immobility that had fallen over the fairgrounds by striding forward and reminding Simon that his duty as Sheriff included declaring the completion of the contest. Nervously, Simon raised the shofar horn to his lips one last time and weakly pushed air through it producing an off-pitch bleating sound that fizzled in the air.
He licked his dry lips and called out, “The springtime archery cup for the county of Nottinghamshire in this year of Our Lord 1279 goes to the esteemed gentleman from…”
Only then did the thought occur to Simon the Sheriff or to anyone else on the fairgrounds, that the origin and identity of the victor was a complete mystery. With the Sheriff’s unfinished sentence hovering like a cloud, all eyes turned toward the canopy where the old archer had retreated.
The space underneath the overhang was completely unoccupied. The old man had disappeared.
No one doubted that Samuel of Locksley would win the prize cup, as he had for several years. Nevertheless, a giddy air of anticipation swept over the fairgrounds. This was the first contest since Samuel’s father, Lord Randol, had died the year before. Samuel was now fully the Lord of Locksley, and his many admiring followers looked forward to his performance.
On that warm spring day, flowers had begun to bloom. Young ladies wore bright lilacs and dandelions in their hair as they ran about in small groups, hoping to draw the attention of the boys. Most of the boys though were far too engaged in fierce swordplay to notice, even if their swords were actually only freshly fallen branches gathered from the edge of Sherwood.
Suddenly the Sheriff blew his shofar horn, and the antics came to an abrupt halt. Two dozen archers joined Lord Samuel at the far end of the fairgrounds. Among them were the Sheriff’s three nephews, James, John and Jacob Little, the sons of Jared the Carpenter and his wife Molly.
Jared and Molly stood nearby with their four daughters, all of them cheering for the boys. Hooligans by nature and apprentice carpenters by trade, the Little boys knew they had greater chances of flying than of beating their friend Samuel in the contest. Still they participated for love of the sport.
The townsfolk in the crowd whispered, laughed and made one last rush to the vendors of biscuits and raisin-cakes, while the archers spared no drama in stretching, testing the wind and fiddling with their bows and arrow feathers. Lord Samuel alone stood calmly and confidently at the center of the line of archers, patiently waiting for the games to begin.
Well, not alone. One other archer, a tiny old man with a bushy white beard stood quite still at the very end of the line. The man wore an old wide-brimmed hat pulled tightly over his head, obscuring his face in shadow. His cloak also was tattered and a bit overlarge, completely covering him from his neck to his feet.
Each contestant was afforded a single warm-up arrow that would not count in their scoring. Still the crowd watched the practice round with keen interest, looking for clues as to who might give Lord Samuel a proper challenge this year.
James congratulated his younger brother John after both of their arrows found places about halfway between the center and the outer edge of the target. The two older brothers consoled young Jacob when he missed the target entirely, giving one of the raisin-cake vendors a good scare. They urged him to put the mishap from his mind and coached him on ways to improve his posture for the actual contest.
The crowd roared its delight soon after, when Samuel walked lazily up to the line and sent an arrow thudding into the center circle. The entire target teetered on its stand with the force of impact. The other contestants followed with their own practice shots, ranging in quality from mediocre to even more dangerous than young Jacob’s.
Kristopher watched it all with mild amusement. While he appreciated the value of a skilled archer, he favored the surety of a wooden staff for personal defense. Given a choice, he preferred avoiding violence altogether. From as far back as he could recall, Kristopher had planned to enter the priesthood and live a life of devotion to God and His Church, promoting peaceful resolutions between his fellow men.
His father, Simon the Sheriff, had quite effectively modeled the power of patience, listening and applying other Godly principles in his work. Kristopher hoped to carry these lessons to an even greater level, helping men to draw closer to God rather than simply to act within the bounds of the local law.
Kristopher watched curiously as the last contestant, the bearded old stranger, slowly drew back his bowstring. There was something oddly familiar about the old man. His arrow lobbed in a funny arc through the air and barely snagged itself on the outermost ring of the target.
The crowd applauded politely, impressed that such an elderly creature was participating in a young man’s game and equally pleased that his arrow had not endangered any of the spectators. As the old man made his way slowly back to the end of the line, the Sheriff gave a quick double blast of the shofar horn, and a pair of boys from Nottingham ran forward to set up a fresh target.
Soon the contest was underway in earnest. For the first round of eliminations, each archer made three shots and the two best were counted for scoring. Kristopher made the calculations on a wax tablet and relayed the results to his father who bellowed them to the waiting crowd.
Only half of the archers scored high enough to continue into the second round, during which the group was halved once again. By this time, the sun was blazing hot overhead. Archers and spectators alike retreated underneath canopies for a lengthy intermission featuring pulled pork, honey mead, and the first strawberries of the season, all sponsored by the Locksley estate.
By mid-afternoon the contest resumed, and another round in which the best three of five were counted brought the remaining line of competitors down to three. They were Lord Samuel, naturally, as well as a visiting squire from Derby, and to everyone’s astonishment, the tiny bearded old man. The latter had seemed to hang on in the contest merely through a series of well-timed lucky shots, barely squeaking past other archers in the point calculations.
As shadows from Sherwood began approaching the fairground in the late afternoon sunshine, the contest was essentially viewed as a showdown between young Lord Samuel and the middle-aged squire from Derby. The Sheriff chose not to see the widespread exchanging of wagers in the crowd favoring Samuel at odds of greater than twenty to one.
The best four arrows of seven determined the next elimination, which to the shock of the entire town fell upon the man from Derby. Wearing an amused grin, Lord Samuel bowed respectfully to his elderly competitor. The old man offered a stiff bow with a flourish of his hand in return.
Traditionally, the final showdown contained an element of speed in addition to accuracy. Two targets were set up, one for each of the remaining contestants. Five arrows were to be sent into each target. These would receive the normal point count based on placement, but an additional three points were awarded to the archer who was first to release all five of his arrows.
Lord Samuel made a concerted effort to waive the speed requirement for his opponent out of respect for his age. However, the old man shook his head and waved his hand in an obstinate wordless refusal for any special treatment. Seeing that his opponent simply would not budge, Samuel finally gave a shrug and agreed to finish the contest as equals.
A high-pitched single honk from the Sheriff’s horn marked the start of this final event. Lord Samuel’s arms and fingers flew in a blur of activity. The sound of the shofar seemed still to echo in the air, and all five of Lord Locksley’s arrows were sunk deep into the packed hay behind the painted cloth target. Four of his arrows shared the limited space inside the center circle, and the fifth protruded its feathery shaft just one ring out.
All of this had happened so quickly, that the spectators had little time to absorb and much less to comprehend how the old man that had moved so slowly and stiffly throughout the day had matched the timing of Samuel’s shots down to the exact moment. A seeming eternity of eerie silence consumed the fairgrounds before the Sheriff called out the surreal sounding words that no points were to be awarded for the speed bonus, for with regard to that component of the game a perfect tie had been reached.
The crowd continued to gape in silence. The majority of mouths were hanging open awkwardly. These included Kristopher and Lord Samuel’s, as all eyes were fixed upon the most unexpected of sights. From the center circle of the old stranger’s target protruded all five of his feathered arrows.
Eventually a trickle of applause began from somewhere near the back of the crowd. The entire assembly hesitantly joined in, though the accolades never seemed to reach full volume.
The old man shuffled slowly toward the Sheriff. He arrived within a few paces of Simon, whose face had grown no less baffled. The old man proceeded to bow to the Sheriff. This act caused Simon, as if possessed by the will of another, to hold out the small golden award cup engraved with the words ‘Nottingham Spring Archery Contest Champion in the Year of the Lord 1279.”
The old man seized the cup, bowed slowly again to the Sheriff, turned, and similarly saluted first Lord Samuel and then the crowd. Another smattering of applause followed, and the old man began making his way toward one of the canopies, presumably for a drink.
No one else moved.
Finally, Lord Samuel broke through the stunned immobility that had fallen over the fairgrounds by striding forward and reminding Simon that his duty as Sheriff included declaring the completion of the contest. Nervously, Simon raised the shofar horn to his lips one last time and weakly pushed air through it producing an off-pitch bleating sound that fizzled in the air.
He licked his dry lips and called out, “The springtime archery cup for the county of Nottinghamshire in this year of Our Lord 1279 goes to the esteemed gentleman from…”
Only then did the thought occur to Simon the Sheriff or to anyone else on the fairgrounds, that the origin and identity of the victor was a complete mystery. With the Sheriff’s unfinished sentence hovering like a cloud, all eyes turned toward the canopy where the old archer had retreated.
The space underneath the overhang was completely unoccupied. The old man had disappeared.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Jaguar's Heart
Hispaniola, 1573
Captain John Littleton and his swashbuckling crew were ready for action. Their sloop cruised through the inky black water as thick clouds hid them from the light of the moon and stars.
The Spanish in their mighty galleon, La Tortuga, were completely unaware of the pirates until Captain John yodeled forth his battle cry. By then, the entire galleon had been swarmed by silent men in black.
The swish of swinging swords, the ripping of flesh and the screams of the Spanish sailors rang out across the sea. Those to whom the dark pirates granted mercy were bound at the wrists and ankles, while the pirates searched the vessel for its treasure.
The usual doubloons, precious stones and pearls were divided evenly among the men, after of course, a portion had been set aside to aid the poor islanders oppressed by the Spanish colonials.
Captain John kept but one gem for himself. He stared into the gleaming facets of the giant red ruby, nearly the size of a man’s fist.
“Surely the legends of the Jaguar’s Heart are just foolishness,” he whispered at the gem. “Yes, I will sell this piece in London for a good price!”
Captain John never reached London. His ship was intercepted by a rival privateer who had just returned from bountiful raids in the Pacific and purchased the giant ruby for a hefty sum indeed.
Tragically, John Littleton was killed by vengeful Spanish musketeers just two weeks after this transaction. The Jaguar Heart’s purchaser, Francis Drake, went on to experience an entirely different destiny.
Captain John Littleton and his swashbuckling crew were ready for action. Their sloop cruised through the inky black water as thick clouds hid them from the light of the moon and stars.
The Spanish in their mighty galleon, La Tortuga, were completely unaware of the pirates until Captain John yodeled forth his battle cry. By then, the entire galleon had been swarmed by silent men in black.
The swish of swinging swords, the ripping of flesh and the screams of the Spanish sailors rang out across the sea. Those to whom the dark pirates granted mercy were bound at the wrists and ankles, while the pirates searched the vessel for its treasure.
The usual doubloons, precious stones and pearls were divided evenly among the men, after of course, a portion had been set aside to aid the poor islanders oppressed by the Spanish colonials.
Captain John kept but one gem for himself. He stared into the gleaming facets of the giant red ruby, nearly the size of a man’s fist.
“Surely the legends of the Jaguar’s Heart are just foolishness,” he whispered at the gem. “Yes, I will sell this piece in London for a good price!”
Captain John never reached London. His ship was intercepted by a rival privateer who had just returned from bountiful raids in the Pacific and purchased the giant ruby for a hefty sum indeed.
Tragically, John Littleton was killed by vengeful Spanish musketeers just two weeks after this transaction. The Jaguar Heart’s purchaser, Francis Drake, went on to experience an entirely different destiny.
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Little More...
Verse Four – Coming and Going
The sun was already setting by the time Robert Locke finally finished checking in his horse at the Royal Stables on the west side of Cordoba. He asked for and received directions to the Royal Palace from the stable-master.
“But you might wish to set up your tent somewhere nearby for the night and head for the Palace in the morning,” the stable-master suggested. “The directions I gave you will take you through a pretty rough neighborhood. It’s not the kind of place you want to be after dark.”
“I shall be all right,” Locke said with a wink, tapping his finger on the end of his musket. “Beside that, I would not want to keep the Queen waiting.”
“Suit your self,” the stable-master shook his head as he watched the Englishman walk away into the shadowy dusk.
*
Miguel waited for nightfall to make his escape from the Barrio. His afternoon prayer session, though agonizing at the time, afterward had left him with a deep feeling of peace.
He was optimistic about his prospects for the future, and planned at least to begin his journey by traveling in the dark and sleeping during the day to reduce his odds of encountering trouble.
After coming down to street level, he looked up and said a silent goodbye to his rooftop home.
He moved slowly and cautiously through the empty streets, his eyes and ears alert to every sound and movement. Even so, he was surprised by the four thugs that seemed to materialize out of thin air.
“Well look what we have here, boys!” the leader snarled. “What are you doing out here, you little Jew-rat?”
Miguel spun around to run, but two more gang members were suddenly standing there, blocking his escape. He ducked as they lunged for him and darted down a dark and unfamiliar alleyway.
The attackers followed at a leisurely pace, howling and laughing. Miguel realized why when the alley dead-ended.
“No escape this time rat-boy,” one of the others gloated.
“Now I asked you a question,” the leader said as he shoved Miguel hard against the wall, making him hit his head and see stars. “What are you doing out here?”
“Nothing,” Miguel groaned, still clutching his bedroll and food bundle tightly, “please let me go.”
“Nothing, you say?” the leader began punctuating his words with nasty punches to Miguel’s shoulder. “I bet you’re out here looking for things to steal. Isn’t that right you thieving Jew?”
Miguel’s legs gave out under the pressure of the repeated blows, and he slid down along the wall until he was sitting on the ground cowering in pain and fear.
The other thugs laughed and congratulated the leader on his accomplishment.
“What’s he holding there?” another of the bullies shouted.
“Yes, what do you have there?” the leader leaned in for a look.
“It’s just some food. Here, take it.” Miguel could barely lift his arms to hold out the bundle.
The leader grabbed it away and tossed it to one of his comrades. After unfolding the cloth, the thug commented, “This is the meal of a king!”
“So you have been stealing!” the leader shouted triumphantly. “How else would a rat like you get so much food? And now you’re caught, you rat!”
“No,” Miguel shook his head, “I did not steal. It was a gift.”
“A gift?” the leader snorted. “Who would give you anything? Now you’re a liar, too!” He kicked Miguel hard in the stomach with his boot.
Miguel crumbled from his sitting position and lay curled in a ball on the street. He gasped to regain his breath, while struggling not to vomit. He still clung to his bedroll as if it were his only connection to the world of the living.
The thugs chuckled and passed the bundle of food around to each other, while Miguel writhed on the filthy ground in total agony.
“Should we kill him?” one of the thugs wondered aloud through a mouthful of food.
The gang mumbled their vague enthusiasm for the plan.
“No, that’s too good for him,” the leader decided. “Let’s do what the Moors used to do with thieves. Let’s cut of his hand!”
The gang was much more excited by that idea.
The leader lifted the right leg of his trousers and pulled out a small knife. The blade was jagged and dull.
“Hold him!” the leader shouted, and the others gleefully gathered around.
Miguel struggled with all his might, but could not overcome their greater strength and numbers.
“Anything to say for yourself, before we get started, boy?” the leader’s eyes were glowing with insane rage.
“I say that six against one is not quite fair.”
The voice was not Miguel’s.
The thugs spun around to see a tall figure standing in the shadows at the entrance to the alley.
“Go away!” the leader barked. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Six cowardly men trying to torture a child; this concerns me very much,” the man replied as he took a few steps forward into the light.
The gang members stared at Robert Locke with hatred.
“You’re not even from around here!” one of the thugs protested.
“You’ll leave our neighborhood right now if you want to live!” the leader was shaking in his anger.
“I am not going anywhere.” Locke replied, as he drew his musket. “Now put down your knife and walk away from here.”
Instead the leader raised his blade up high and charged straight at Robert Locke.
The musket’s report was nearly deafening in the narrow alley, but still not loud enough to drown out the gang leader’s high-pitched shriek of terror and pain as the slug blew off the tip of his middle finger. The knife went spinning away and disappeared into a mud puddle.
The other thugs fell over one another racing to get past Locke and run off into the night. The leader staggered slowly after them, cradling his wounded hand against his chest and spitting all manner of curses and threats against the stranger who had ruined his fun.
Locke approached Miguel and knelt over him.
“Thank you,” Miguel whispered with the little breath he had regained. “Who are you?”
“Someone with little patience for injustice,” Locke eluded. “Can you stand and walk?”
“I think so,” Miguel nodded, and after finally gaining his feet with some assistance added, “We must leave here. They will likely return with greater numbers and weapons.”
“I am looking for the Royal Palace,” Locke explained, “but these dark and winding streets have confounded me. Can you tell me the way?”
“I can, and I will, but they will not open the gates to you at this late hour,” Miguel answered. “I do know a safe place where we can sleep. You saved my life, so at least let me offer you that, and I will show you the way to the Palace in the morning.”
Too tired from his long horse ride and other adventures to argue, Locke gathered his possessions from where he had dropped them in the shadows at the entrance to the alley and followed Miguel.
So soon after thinking he had left it for good, Miguel returned to his rooftop. For the very first time though, he did not arrive there alone.
*
Miguel laid out his bedroll in its usual place, and insisted that his rescuer sleep upon it. Again, too tired to argue, he thanked Miguel and stretched out with a long sigh.
“So, why were those men attacking you?” Locke asked as he shifted to get comfortable.
“How should I know?” Miguel sounded defensive. “They hate anyone that is…”
“That is what?” Locke turned and took his first good look at the boy by the star and moon light. He was struck by how young and thin the lad was, so thin that his clothes looked almost ridiculously baggy.
“Anyone that is different than they are,” Miguel answered angrily. He put his hand on his cap as if to take it off, but changed his mind and adjusted it more tightly into place.
Locke continued staring at the boy, while Miguel gave his own feet a thorough examination.
“Are you a Jew?” Locke guessed.
“Would you still have helped me if I was?” Miguel retorted, turning his face away.
“It would make no difference to me,” Locke answered. “Why should I care if you are?”
“Are you a Christian?” Miguel asked.
“Yes.”
“They say the Jews killed your Lord,” Miguel explained quietly. “They say we are still guilty for it, even though it happened a long time ago.”
“They say a lot of things,” Locke closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“So you really do not care if I am?” Miguel was still wary.
“No.”
“Where are you from?” Miguel wondered, increasingly fascinated by his rescuer.
“The island of the mighty,” Locke exhaled, sounding a bit sarcastic. “Some call it England.”
Miguel sat quietly for a moment, trying to remember what, if anything, he had heard about the distant island.
“England is to the north, right?” Miguel asked, but grew nervous when Locke did not reply. “I… I have heard that it is a beautiful island,” he rambled on, “but I have never met anyone from there before. Do you have any family there?”
Miguel nearly panicked when there was still no reply, afraid that he had probed too far with his questions or somehow offended the man. He felt a wave of relief when he heard light snoring coming from Locke’s direction.
After a time, Miguel realized that the night was growing cooler. He walked over and used his own cloak to cover the sleeping Englishman.
Returning to his spot beneath the overhang, Miguel shivered and watched Locke sleep for awhile.
“I still do not even know your name,” he whispered before finally falling asleep himself.
*
“Good morning,” Miguel said when he saw Locke finally open his eyes.
Locke just grunted in reply, squinting against the sun.
“I wish I had some food to share so we could break fast,” Miguel continued, “but my attackers ruined all I had. Anyway, thank you again for what you did for me last night. You saved my life.”
Locke nodded, stood and stretched.
“So, I suppose you want to reach the Palace. I will show you the way, just as I said I would,” Miguel came over and started packing up the bedroll.
“Why don’t you show me the way to a tavern first? I shall purchase some food for us both,” Locke checked his musket before holstering it.
“No, I am sorry,” Miguel looked up at him, “I cannot ask that of you. You have done too much for me already!”
“You did not ask,” Locke was already moving toward the staircase, “and anyway, you let me use your bed, so we are even.”
Rather than argue against a meal, Miguel raced to put on his cloak and gather up the bedroll. Once down on street-level, he pointed out a tavern several blocks away and then scrambled to keep up with the long strides of his benefactor.
“May I ask your name?” Miguel panted.
“Yes.”
“What is it?” Miguel played along, after no more was said for nearly a block.
“Locke…Robert Locke.”
“That is a good name,” Miguel instantly felt foolish, but did not know what else to say. “I…I am Miguel…just Miguel.”
They exchanged no more words until they were sitting next to each other at the tavern’s table board, where Locke ordered bread plates with fried eggs and cups of honey mead for them both.
The tavern master, along with the smattering of other customers, gave Locke cold and angry glares for bringing in an outcast like Miguel and treating him to such sumptuous fare. Locke ignored them, and the sight of his sword and musket prevented anyone from complaining too loudly.
“I have never been given a meal this big,” Miguel marveled at his companion’s largesse.
“I can tell,” Locke glanced at the thin lad before taking a long draught from his mead cup. “Tell me Miguel,” he continued after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “what were you doing out on the street so late, if you knew there were dangerous rogues in the neighborhood?”
Miguel took a sip from his own cup, and used the moment to weigh his response. He could not think of any reason to withhold his plans from Locke, so he resolved to tell him the truth.
“I was trying to leave Cordoba,” he explained quietly, after a bite of egg, “because people like me are no longer wanted here.”
“I see.”
“I am hoping to reach Africa soon,” Miguel continued, thrilled to have someone to speak with. “Have you ever been there?”
“I have,” Locke nodded, and after chewing and swallowing a chunk of bread added, “one time.”
“Do you know if any other people like me live there?” Miguel asked hopefully.
“You mean Jews?” Locke said a bit too loudly, causing a slight murmur in the room.
“Yes,” Miguel whispered, feeling choked by the hate around him no less than if the tavern was filled with thick smoke.
“That I do not know,” Locke shrugged.
They ate in silence for awhile, and most of the other customers had left by the time they finished.
“Can I ask you something else?” Miguel looked over at Locke.
“Yes.”
Miguel smiled, already getting used to Locke’s aloof demeanor.
“I was just thinking,” Miguel struggled to choose his words, “that you must be very important to be going to the Palace.”
“What was your question?” Locke tipped back his cup until it was empty.
“Well,” Miguel turned red, but still burned with curiosity, “since you are from England, I just wondered what brought you all the way to Cordoba.”
“We should get going,” Locke stood and tossed a pair of coins onto the board.
The tavern master swept up the coins, but said nothing to the pair as they exited.
“The Palace is that way,” Miguel motioned with his hand, and they began walking again, though a little more slowly than before breaking fast.
Locke remained silent for another two blocks.
“Say,” Miguel spoke up when he could stand it no longer, “I understand if you do not want to tell me much about yourself. Who am I anyway, other than some stranger that you have been kind enough to help, twice? Thank you for the meal, by the way. It was wonderful.”
“You are welcome,” Locke offered the closest look to a smile that Miguel had yet seen from him.
“You do not need to tell me,” Miguel switched his bedroll to the other arm. “I can see you are someone important, just by the way you walk and speak. Obviously you have been to a lot of places and you know different tongues. So you probably have big things to think about, important things. And I just wondered if you ever considered having a squire, you know, someone who could look after some of the little details for you, not because you need that, but it might just be nice for you. And you could surely find someone a lot better than me, but I would not need to eat like we did this morning all the time, not ever really. I probably will not need to eat again today as a matter of fact! So, would that be something that you think you might ever find useful, having a helper, maybe even just for a little while?”
“How many summers have you seen, Miguel?” Locke stopped suddenly and stared down at him. “All of twelve?”
“Thirteen,” he sounded taken aback.
“Look,” Locke sighed, “you seem like a decent lad, and I am not sorry to have lent you a hand, but I travel alone.”
“Sure, I understand,” Miguel nodded, “but maybe just while you are staying in Cordoba, since I know the way around…”
“Is that the Palace?” Locke pointed at an enormous building set up on a hill in the distance.
“Yes.”
“Then we are even again,” Locke said. “You take care of yourself, Miguel.” He began quickly walking away.
“Can I just come with you as far as…?” Miguel shouted and started to follow.
“Goodbye.” Locke’s tone was clear.
Miguel stood there in silence on the outskirts of the Barrio, alone again.
Verse Five – Sanctuary
Brother Diego looked around at his new post, the dilapidated chapel on the outskirts of the Barrio, and he began to laugh. What he saw was far from amusing, but he had no other response within him.
The tiny church had appeared decent enough from the outside, with its sturdy stone foundation, pale brown stucco façade and iron cross steeple.
On the inside, however, it looked as if a small war had been fought in the sanctuary. The few intact pews were out of alignment. The rest were either badly cracked or shattered completely.
The altar was blackened, apparently burned. Though from what source of fire, Diego could not tell since there were no candlesticks or lanterns visible anywhere in the church.
Some of the light inside the room came through slit windows that may have once contained glass, but were now open air. By far the biggest source of light however, was also the greatest source of distress for Brother Diego.
The ceiling near the back and on the left side of the altar had caved in, and the late afternoon sun blazed down through a gaping hole about the diameter of the height of a man. A pool of water from the recent rainstorm glistened in the sunlight.
Diego fell to his knees and prayed for strength. When he rose up after a lengthy conversation with God, he immediately went to work.
He spent the rest of that first day foraging through debris, stacking small and otherwise useless scraps of wood in a pile to serve as fuel, and separating out the largest pieces of pew that might prove helpful in repairing the roof. Those chunks and boards of in-between sizes, he sorted off to the side into a variety of categories so they would be easy to find when a use for them could be determined.
Exhausted, he retired that night on the hard wood floor behind the charred altar, creatively using his own robe as both a pillow and a blanket.
Not very long after sundown, he heard a loud popping noise and screams. Apart from that though, the night was peaceful and considering the circumstances, he slept quite well.
In the morning, he broke fast by nibbling at the rations he had been given when leaving the Palace. Then he went immediately back to work, trying to make his new domain look at least decent enough for others to come inside without fear.
He began by using an abandoned priest’s robe he found in the back room to mop up the rest of the standing water. He squeezed out the robe as best as he could in the street and hung it up to dry by threading it through one of the glassless slit windows.
Only then did he finally think to inspect the confessional booth near the back and to the right of the altar. The door to one side seemed stuck, so he tried the other one and it flew open. An enormous rat scurried toward him.
Diego stumbled back in surprise, landing on one of the good pews. He shouted from the pain of landing on his still damaged back. The rat panicked and fled into the street through the open front door.
He pulled the soggy priest’s robe down from the window slit and spent the rest of the morning using it to clean rat droppings and other debris out of the booth. Brother Diego continually reminded himself that his present situation, despite the squalor and filth, was still preferable to the lies and hatred he had faced in the Royal Palace.
*
After leaving behind the street boy, Robert Locke marched swiftly uphill in the general direction of the Palace. At one intersection, he turned and saw a chapel with a pale brown stucco façade and iron cross steeple.
He paused for just a moment, considering the idea of going there to make confession for his sins before completing his journey to see the Queen. Instead though, he decided that he had already met with too much delay and kept walking.
After a few more blocks, a brief reflection of light from the midday sunshine caught his attention and he looked in through a street level window to see a sight that froze him in place.
A small sculpture of Christ crucified was set on the opposite wall. Locke sighed, hesitated, looked up at the sky, then back through the window. He sighed once more, turned on his heel and began retracing his steps to the intersection where he had seen the chapel. He felt a little foolish, but had learned over the years that it was usually better not to ignore obvious signs.
The chapel came back into view, and Locke quickstepped toward it. He walked up the steps and through the chapel’s open door.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, looking around the interior of the gutted building.
“Truer words are rarely spoken,” Brother Diego had removed his outer cloak due to the heat of exertion and emerged from the confessional booth in only his inner tunic. He bore a pile of filth bound up in the priestly robe he had converted into a mop, but tossed the entire bundle behind the confessional before approaching Locke.
“What happened here?” Locke frowned.
“I am afraid,” Brother Diego began as he wiped his sweaty and grimy hands on the hips of his tunic, “that this particular house of the Lord’s widespread estate has fallen into dire need of repair and renewal.”
“I should say so,” Locke said warily, “but this is a chapel?”
“Indeed,” Brother Diego bowed slightly. “And despite outward appearances, we should trust that the Lord’s presence shall still be felt here, for after all, did He not tell us that wherever two or three of his followers are gathered together in His name, there shall He also be?”
“Yes,” Locke agreed, “I suppose so.”
“How then may I be of service to you?” Brother Diego asked.
“Well,” Locke hesitated, “will you take my confession and grant me forgiveness?”
“You may certainly confess your sins to the Lord here and even before me as well if you desire,” Brother Diego explained.
“Thank you, Father,” Locke nodded and started toward the confessional booth.
“Actually,” Brother Diego stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, “you might find the relatively fresh air here in the room preferable to the booth. And I must also in fairness tell you that I am not actually a priest, but rather a humble friar. As such, I can hear your confession, pray with you and intercede for you; but I cannot grant you full absolution.”
“Will I be forgiven then?” Locke asked.
“The forgiveness that matters most, which is from God, will most certainly be granted,” Brother Diego answered.
“What about the full absolution?” Locke pressed him.
“That is a matter between you and the church,” Diego replied.
“What is the difference?” Locke was becoming confused.
“Your relationship with the church is one between you and other men,” Diego explained, “while true forgiveness can only come from God.”
“And that I can receive here and now, with you?” Locke sought to clarify.
“You could receive it even without me,” Brother Diego smiled, “for the Lord promised not to turn away anyone who approaches him in a spirit of contrition and repentance. You need only confess your sins to Him and accept His gift of forgiveness and restoration with a grateful heart. Then the relationship between you and God will be made right, and He will ask only that you go forth and sin no more, though He knows our frailty and He will be there to restore us again and again as long as we need Him to, provided we continue to do our best to live rightly in His eyes.”
“I have never heard a priest speak like you,” Locke stared at the young man in wonder.
“Again,” Diego smiled once more, “I am not a priest, but rather only a…”
“A friar, right,” Locke smiled back. “Well, perhaps in the future I shall seek out friars instead of priests, for your words ring true to me.”
The sun was already setting by the time Robert Locke finally finished checking in his horse at the Royal Stables on the west side of Cordoba. He asked for and received directions to the Royal Palace from the stable-master.
“But you might wish to set up your tent somewhere nearby for the night and head for the Palace in the morning,” the stable-master suggested. “The directions I gave you will take you through a pretty rough neighborhood. It’s not the kind of place you want to be after dark.”
“I shall be all right,” Locke said with a wink, tapping his finger on the end of his musket. “Beside that, I would not want to keep the Queen waiting.”
“Suit your self,” the stable-master shook his head as he watched the Englishman walk away into the shadowy dusk.
*
Miguel waited for nightfall to make his escape from the Barrio. His afternoon prayer session, though agonizing at the time, afterward had left him with a deep feeling of peace.
He was optimistic about his prospects for the future, and planned at least to begin his journey by traveling in the dark and sleeping during the day to reduce his odds of encountering trouble.
After coming down to street level, he looked up and said a silent goodbye to his rooftop home.
He moved slowly and cautiously through the empty streets, his eyes and ears alert to every sound and movement. Even so, he was surprised by the four thugs that seemed to materialize out of thin air.
“Well look what we have here, boys!” the leader snarled. “What are you doing out here, you little Jew-rat?”
Miguel spun around to run, but two more gang members were suddenly standing there, blocking his escape. He ducked as they lunged for him and darted down a dark and unfamiliar alleyway.
The attackers followed at a leisurely pace, howling and laughing. Miguel realized why when the alley dead-ended.
“No escape this time rat-boy,” one of the others gloated.
“Now I asked you a question,” the leader said as he shoved Miguel hard against the wall, making him hit his head and see stars. “What are you doing out here?”
“Nothing,” Miguel groaned, still clutching his bedroll and food bundle tightly, “please let me go.”
“Nothing, you say?” the leader began punctuating his words with nasty punches to Miguel’s shoulder. “I bet you’re out here looking for things to steal. Isn’t that right you thieving Jew?”
Miguel’s legs gave out under the pressure of the repeated blows, and he slid down along the wall until he was sitting on the ground cowering in pain and fear.
The other thugs laughed and congratulated the leader on his accomplishment.
“What’s he holding there?” another of the bullies shouted.
“Yes, what do you have there?” the leader leaned in for a look.
“It’s just some food. Here, take it.” Miguel could barely lift his arms to hold out the bundle.
The leader grabbed it away and tossed it to one of his comrades. After unfolding the cloth, the thug commented, “This is the meal of a king!”
“So you have been stealing!” the leader shouted triumphantly. “How else would a rat like you get so much food? And now you’re caught, you rat!”
“No,” Miguel shook his head, “I did not steal. It was a gift.”
“A gift?” the leader snorted. “Who would give you anything? Now you’re a liar, too!” He kicked Miguel hard in the stomach with his boot.
Miguel crumbled from his sitting position and lay curled in a ball on the street. He gasped to regain his breath, while struggling not to vomit. He still clung to his bedroll as if it were his only connection to the world of the living.
The thugs chuckled and passed the bundle of food around to each other, while Miguel writhed on the filthy ground in total agony.
“Should we kill him?” one of the thugs wondered aloud through a mouthful of food.
The gang mumbled their vague enthusiasm for the plan.
“No, that’s too good for him,” the leader decided. “Let’s do what the Moors used to do with thieves. Let’s cut of his hand!”
The gang was much more excited by that idea.
The leader lifted the right leg of his trousers and pulled out a small knife. The blade was jagged and dull.
“Hold him!” the leader shouted, and the others gleefully gathered around.
Miguel struggled with all his might, but could not overcome their greater strength and numbers.
“Anything to say for yourself, before we get started, boy?” the leader’s eyes were glowing with insane rage.
“I say that six against one is not quite fair.”
The voice was not Miguel’s.
The thugs spun around to see a tall figure standing in the shadows at the entrance to the alley.
“Go away!” the leader barked. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Six cowardly men trying to torture a child; this concerns me very much,” the man replied as he took a few steps forward into the light.
The gang members stared at Robert Locke with hatred.
“You’re not even from around here!” one of the thugs protested.
“You’ll leave our neighborhood right now if you want to live!” the leader was shaking in his anger.
“I am not going anywhere.” Locke replied, as he drew his musket. “Now put down your knife and walk away from here.”
Instead the leader raised his blade up high and charged straight at Robert Locke.
The musket’s report was nearly deafening in the narrow alley, but still not loud enough to drown out the gang leader’s high-pitched shriek of terror and pain as the slug blew off the tip of his middle finger. The knife went spinning away and disappeared into a mud puddle.
The other thugs fell over one another racing to get past Locke and run off into the night. The leader staggered slowly after them, cradling his wounded hand against his chest and spitting all manner of curses and threats against the stranger who had ruined his fun.
Locke approached Miguel and knelt over him.
“Thank you,” Miguel whispered with the little breath he had regained. “Who are you?”
“Someone with little patience for injustice,” Locke eluded. “Can you stand and walk?”
“I think so,” Miguel nodded, and after finally gaining his feet with some assistance added, “We must leave here. They will likely return with greater numbers and weapons.”
“I am looking for the Royal Palace,” Locke explained, “but these dark and winding streets have confounded me. Can you tell me the way?”
“I can, and I will, but they will not open the gates to you at this late hour,” Miguel answered. “I do know a safe place where we can sleep. You saved my life, so at least let me offer you that, and I will show you the way to the Palace in the morning.”
Too tired from his long horse ride and other adventures to argue, Locke gathered his possessions from where he had dropped them in the shadows at the entrance to the alley and followed Miguel.
So soon after thinking he had left it for good, Miguel returned to his rooftop. For the very first time though, he did not arrive there alone.
*
Miguel laid out his bedroll in its usual place, and insisted that his rescuer sleep upon it. Again, too tired to argue, he thanked Miguel and stretched out with a long sigh.
“So, why were those men attacking you?” Locke asked as he shifted to get comfortable.
“How should I know?” Miguel sounded defensive. “They hate anyone that is…”
“That is what?” Locke turned and took his first good look at the boy by the star and moon light. He was struck by how young and thin the lad was, so thin that his clothes looked almost ridiculously baggy.
“Anyone that is different than they are,” Miguel answered angrily. He put his hand on his cap as if to take it off, but changed his mind and adjusted it more tightly into place.
Locke continued staring at the boy, while Miguel gave his own feet a thorough examination.
“Are you a Jew?” Locke guessed.
“Would you still have helped me if I was?” Miguel retorted, turning his face away.
“It would make no difference to me,” Locke answered. “Why should I care if you are?”
“Are you a Christian?” Miguel asked.
“Yes.”
“They say the Jews killed your Lord,” Miguel explained quietly. “They say we are still guilty for it, even though it happened a long time ago.”
“They say a lot of things,” Locke closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“So you really do not care if I am?” Miguel was still wary.
“No.”
“Where are you from?” Miguel wondered, increasingly fascinated by his rescuer.
“The island of the mighty,” Locke exhaled, sounding a bit sarcastic. “Some call it England.”
Miguel sat quietly for a moment, trying to remember what, if anything, he had heard about the distant island.
“England is to the north, right?” Miguel asked, but grew nervous when Locke did not reply. “I… I have heard that it is a beautiful island,” he rambled on, “but I have never met anyone from there before. Do you have any family there?”
Miguel nearly panicked when there was still no reply, afraid that he had probed too far with his questions or somehow offended the man. He felt a wave of relief when he heard light snoring coming from Locke’s direction.
After a time, Miguel realized that the night was growing cooler. He walked over and used his own cloak to cover the sleeping Englishman.
Returning to his spot beneath the overhang, Miguel shivered and watched Locke sleep for awhile.
“I still do not even know your name,” he whispered before finally falling asleep himself.
*
“Good morning,” Miguel said when he saw Locke finally open his eyes.
Locke just grunted in reply, squinting against the sun.
“I wish I had some food to share so we could break fast,” Miguel continued, “but my attackers ruined all I had. Anyway, thank you again for what you did for me last night. You saved my life.”
Locke nodded, stood and stretched.
“So, I suppose you want to reach the Palace. I will show you the way, just as I said I would,” Miguel came over and started packing up the bedroll.
“Why don’t you show me the way to a tavern first? I shall purchase some food for us both,” Locke checked his musket before holstering it.
“No, I am sorry,” Miguel looked up at him, “I cannot ask that of you. You have done too much for me already!”
“You did not ask,” Locke was already moving toward the staircase, “and anyway, you let me use your bed, so we are even.”
Rather than argue against a meal, Miguel raced to put on his cloak and gather up the bedroll. Once down on street-level, he pointed out a tavern several blocks away and then scrambled to keep up with the long strides of his benefactor.
“May I ask your name?” Miguel panted.
“Yes.”
“What is it?” Miguel played along, after no more was said for nearly a block.
“Locke…Robert Locke.”
“That is a good name,” Miguel instantly felt foolish, but did not know what else to say. “I…I am Miguel…just Miguel.”
They exchanged no more words until they were sitting next to each other at the tavern’s table board, where Locke ordered bread plates with fried eggs and cups of honey mead for them both.
The tavern master, along with the smattering of other customers, gave Locke cold and angry glares for bringing in an outcast like Miguel and treating him to such sumptuous fare. Locke ignored them, and the sight of his sword and musket prevented anyone from complaining too loudly.
“I have never been given a meal this big,” Miguel marveled at his companion’s largesse.
“I can tell,” Locke glanced at the thin lad before taking a long draught from his mead cup. “Tell me Miguel,” he continued after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “what were you doing out on the street so late, if you knew there were dangerous rogues in the neighborhood?”
Miguel took a sip from his own cup, and used the moment to weigh his response. He could not think of any reason to withhold his plans from Locke, so he resolved to tell him the truth.
“I was trying to leave Cordoba,” he explained quietly, after a bite of egg, “because people like me are no longer wanted here.”
“I see.”
“I am hoping to reach Africa soon,” Miguel continued, thrilled to have someone to speak with. “Have you ever been there?”
“I have,” Locke nodded, and after chewing and swallowing a chunk of bread added, “one time.”
“Do you know if any other people like me live there?” Miguel asked hopefully.
“You mean Jews?” Locke said a bit too loudly, causing a slight murmur in the room.
“Yes,” Miguel whispered, feeling choked by the hate around him no less than if the tavern was filled with thick smoke.
“That I do not know,” Locke shrugged.
They ate in silence for awhile, and most of the other customers had left by the time they finished.
“Can I ask you something else?” Miguel looked over at Locke.
“Yes.”
Miguel smiled, already getting used to Locke’s aloof demeanor.
“I was just thinking,” Miguel struggled to choose his words, “that you must be very important to be going to the Palace.”
“What was your question?” Locke tipped back his cup until it was empty.
“Well,” Miguel turned red, but still burned with curiosity, “since you are from England, I just wondered what brought you all the way to Cordoba.”
“We should get going,” Locke stood and tossed a pair of coins onto the board.
The tavern master swept up the coins, but said nothing to the pair as they exited.
“The Palace is that way,” Miguel motioned with his hand, and they began walking again, though a little more slowly than before breaking fast.
Locke remained silent for another two blocks.
“Say,” Miguel spoke up when he could stand it no longer, “I understand if you do not want to tell me much about yourself. Who am I anyway, other than some stranger that you have been kind enough to help, twice? Thank you for the meal, by the way. It was wonderful.”
“You are welcome,” Locke offered the closest look to a smile that Miguel had yet seen from him.
“You do not need to tell me,” Miguel switched his bedroll to the other arm. “I can see you are someone important, just by the way you walk and speak. Obviously you have been to a lot of places and you know different tongues. So you probably have big things to think about, important things. And I just wondered if you ever considered having a squire, you know, someone who could look after some of the little details for you, not because you need that, but it might just be nice for you. And you could surely find someone a lot better than me, but I would not need to eat like we did this morning all the time, not ever really. I probably will not need to eat again today as a matter of fact! So, would that be something that you think you might ever find useful, having a helper, maybe even just for a little while?”
“How many summers have you seen, Miguel?” Locke stopped suddenly and stared down at him. “All of twelve?”
“Thirteen,” he sounded taken aback.
“Look,” Locke sighed, “you seem like a decent lad, and I am not sorry to have lent you a hand, but I travel alone.”
“Sure, I understand,” Miguel nodded, “but maybe just while you are staying in Cordoba, since I know the way around…”
“Is that the Palace?” Locke pointed at an enormous building set up on a hill in the distance.
“Yes.”
“Then we are even again,” Locke said. “You take care of yourself, Miguel.” He began quickly walking away.
“Can I just come with you as far as…?” Miguel shouted and started to follow.
“Goodbye.” Locke’s tone was clear.
Miguel stood there in silence on the outskirts of the Barrio, alone again.
Verse Five – Sanctuary
Brother Diego looked around at his new post, the dilapidated chapel on the outskirts of the Barrio, and he began to laugh. What he saw was far from amusing, but he had no other response within him.
The tiny church had appeared decent enough from the outside, with its sturdy stone foundation, pale brown stucco façade and iron cross steeple.
On the inside, however, it looked as if a small war had been fought in the sanctuary. The few intact pews were out of alignment. The rest were either badly cracked or shattered completely.
The altar was blackened, apparently burned. Though from what source of fire, Diego could not tell since there were no candlesticks or lanterns visible anywhere in the church.
Some of the light inside the room came through slit windows that may have once contained glass, but were now open air. By far the biggest source of light however, was also the greatest source of distress for Brother Diego.
The ceiling near the back and on the left side of the altar had caved in, and the late afternoon sun blazed down through a gaping hole about the diameter of the height of a man. A pool of water from the recent rainstorm glistened in the sunlight.
Diego fell to his knees and prayed for strength. When he rose up after a lengthy conversation with God, he immediately went to work.
He spent the rest of that first day foraging through debris, stacking small and otherwise useless scraps of wood in a pile to serve as fuel, and separating out the largest pieces of pew that might prove helpful in repairing the roof. Those chunks and boards of in-between sizes, he sorted off to the side into a variety of categories so they would be easy to find when a use for them could be determined.
Exhausted, he retired that night on the hard wood floor behind the charred altar, creatively using his own robe as both a pillow and a blanket.
Not very long after sundown, he heard a loud popping noise and screams. Apart from that though, the night was peaceful and considering the circumstances, he slept quite well.
In the morning, he broke fast by nibbling at the rations he had been given when leaving the Palace. Then he went immediately back to work, trying to make his new domain look at least decent enough for others to come inside without fear.
He began by using an abandoned priest’s robe he found in the back room to mop up the rest of the standing water. He squeezed out the robe as best as he could in the street and hung it up to dry by threading it through one of the glassless slit windows.
Only then did he finally think to inspect the confessional booth near the back and to the right of the altar. The door to one side seemed stuck, so he tried the other one and it flew open. An enormous rat scurried toward him.
Diego stumbled back in surprise, landing on one of the good pews. He shouted from the pain of landing on his still damaged back. The rat panicked and fled into the street through the open front door.
He pulled the soggy priest’s robe down from the window slit and spent the rest of the morning using it to clean rat droppings and other debris out of the booth. Brother Diego continually reminded himself that his present situation, despite the squalor and filth, was still preferable to the lies and hatred he had faced in the Royal Palace.
*
After leaving behind the street boy, Robert Locke marched swiftly uphill in the general direction of the Palace. At one intersection, he turned and saw a chapel with a pale brown stucco façade and iron cross steeple.
He paused for just a moment, considering the idea of going there to make confession for his sins before completing his journey to see the Queen. Instead though, he decided that he had already met with too much delay and kept walking.
After a few more blocks, a brief reflection of light from the midday sunshine caught his attention and he looked in through a street level window to see a sight that froze him in place.
A small sculpture of Christ crucified was set on the opposite wall. Locke sighed, hesitated, looked up at the sky, then back through the window. He sighed once more, turned on his heel and began retracing his steps to the intersection where he had seen the chapel. He felt a little foolish, but had learned over the years that it was usually better not to ignore obvious signs.
The chapel came back into view, and Locke quickstepped toward it. He walked up the steps and through the chapel’s open door.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, looking around the interior of the gutted building.
“Truer words are rarely spoken,” Brother Diego had removed his outer cloak due to the heat of exertion and emerged from the confessional booth in only his inner tunic. He bore a pile of filth bound up in the priestly robe he had converted into a mop, but tossed the entire bundle behind the confessional before approaching Locke.
“What happened here?” Locke frowned.
“I am afraid,” Brother Diego began as he wiped his sweaty and grimy hands on the hips of his tunic, “that this particular house of the Lord’s widespread estate has fallen into dire need of repair and renewal.”
“I should say so,” Locke said warily, “but this is a chapel?”
“Indeed,” Brother Diego bowed slightly. “And despite outward appearances, we should trust that the Lord’s presence shall still be felt here, for after all, did He not tell us that wherever two or three of his followers are gathered together in His name, there shall He also be?”
“Yes,” Locke agreed, “I suppose so.”
“How then may I be of service to you?” Brother Diego asked.
“Well,” Locke hesitated, “will you take my confession and grant me forgiveness?”
“You may certainly confess your sins to the Lord here and even before me as well if you desire,” Brother Diego explained.
“Thank you, Father,” Locke nodded and started toward the confessional booth.
“Actually,” Brother Diego stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, “you might find the relatively fresh air here in the room preferable to the booth. And I must also in fairness tell you that I am not actually a priest, but rather a humble friar. As such, I can hear your confession, pray with you and intercede for you; but I cannot grant you full absolution.”
“Will I be forgiven then?” Locke asked.
“The forgiveness that matters most, which is from God, will most certainly be granted,” Brother Diego answered.
“What about the full absolution?” Locke pressed him.
“That is a matter between you and the church,” Diego replied.
“What is the difference?” Locke was becoming confused.
“Your relationship with the church is one between you and other men,” Diego explained, “while true forgiveness can only come from God.”
“And that I can receive here and now, with you?” Locke sought to clarify.
“You could receive it even without me,” Brother Diego smiled, “for the Lord promised not to turn away anyone who approaches him in a spirit of contrition and repentance. You need only confess your sins to Him and accept His gift of forgiveness and restoration with a grateful heart. Then the relationship between you and God will be made right, and He will ask only that you go forth and sin no more, though He knows our frailty and He will be there to restore us again and again as long as we need Him to, provided we continue to do our best to live rightly in His eyes.”
“I have never heard a priest speak like you,” Locke stared at the young man in wonder.
“Again,” Diego smiled once more, “I am not a priest, but rather only a…”
“A friar, right,” Locke smiled back. “Well, perhaps in the future I shall seek out friars instead of priests, for your words ring true to me.”
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