Death on Demand [Seven Stories of Suspense]

Death on Demand
Seven Stories of Suspense by, D.L. Siluk



By
Dennis L. Siluk






Ж

Special thanks to Yang Yang, the artist who did a painting for the front covers of the First Edition; book [Art work is a painting of the author, for hire, 2001].





This Book is for my
Little, and Lovely, Peruvian-wife Rosa


Just a Whisper
[The Beauty of Peru]

I am the sacred valley
The beauty of Peru
Where the Andes lay, and the
Inca died
Beneath my sky of Blue!

If you come to visit me
Then touch my ground----breath in
Walk among my Ruins—
There are no words for my beauty
So whisper, to be fair----

God has not made my equal----
In all the world to see
If you think I lie—my friend, ----
Ask him. Go in peace.

Dlsiluk [1/22/2000]







Copyright DOD: Death on Demand
©Dennis L. Siluk, 2003
All Rights Reserved




Other Books by the Author


Books Out of Print
The Other Door
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale
The Safe Child/The Unsafe Child


Books in Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon
Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

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

Chasing the Sun [Travels by D.L. Siluk]
Everyday’s An Adventure [Short Stories by D. L. Siluk]
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib
The Rape of Angelina

A Path to Sobriety,
The Inside Passage

A Romance in Augsburg

Death on Demand
[Stories of Suspense]


Books Forth Coming

A Path to Relapse Prevention
[Volume II]

The Mumbler—and
The Second Self
[Murders of a Madman]

Romancing San Francisco
And
Men of Opinion
[Short stories]

٭
The Little Woman From Peru
By Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Note: to be out in the summer of 2003








Index:

1) The Rape of Angelina
2) The Seventh Born Son
3) The Dead Vault
4) The Senator from Lima
5) The Old Man and the Tides of Winter
6) The Old Man of Chickamauga
7) The Camel Market







We all make mistakes, we’re not perfect, are we; and so this the devil knows quite well, --and we should know. You play with the devil don’t expect a handshake to mean much; --the nature of man, Christ knew quite well also, that is why he said: ‘Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar,”’ for it also belongs to the devil also, our best bet is to simply move on, duck, get out of the way, and pray; for the devil is a hungry lion, pacing, waiting to devour, and he uses human-nature, and death.

Dlsiluk





“If you knew the moment and manner of your death in advance,
would you order your life differently? …when would you do it?”

“…no one knows the day or the hour of his death…,
in the words of the scout motto, to ‘be prepared.”’

Billy Graham [Facing Death]








Death on Demand














The Rape of Angelina
Of Glastonbury, 1199 AD, 2nd Edition/Revised


[The Green Knight]




In 1278 AD, a poem was written about a maiden and a knight that appeared in Glastonbury, England, around the year 1202 AD, he was called the Green Knight; he was there visiting the gravesite of King Arthur, in the small village of Glastonbury, along with King Richard I [the Lion Heart], with an escort of some 200 soldiers on horseback. The Green Knight rode along side of the King as they entered the village road that led to the Abbey site where Arthur was buried; the site was somewhat destroyed some years earlier by fire, yet many of the foundations were still standing. During this visit, the Green Knight noticed a young girl called Angelina, and the rest is history. The poem was found written on the barn door at the Abbey where King Arthur is buried nearby. The visitor who found it was a soldier who showed it to King Edward I, who paid little attention to it.
The anonymous writer left no name only the poem and the soldier wrote it down and kept it in his house for posterity. And the remains of the poem were kept on microfiche in the vaults of one of the Universities of England for safekeeping. It was not until recently that it was found by someone doing research on Mother Shipton [a prophetess] that the poem showed up. This person then went to Glastonbury to investigate, and the story you are about to read is the story that came out of the research, to include the poem.

The poem has been modified for the sake of the reader from Old English, to a clearer reading and understanding by the author, and there are no other copies of this poem in existence other than the microfiche copy the author has, and the University has. Nor can the writer [author] disclose what University the poem was taken from and given to him, after its discovery, on behalf of the request of the institution.



١٣٩٩
The Lioness of Glastonbury
[Angelina and the Green Knight]

The lion roars
I know it true
In a tale told long ago
In a little village of old
Glastonbury
In this land where legends
Bare their souls

The Abbey and the Crusades
Two legends and two Kings
One buried, one rode through
This little village
Both heroes of Merry England
†
In a day,--a day
A lioness was born
As she glanced from eye to eye
Her kind heart was stole then torn

Truly,--truly, they raped her clean
But a lioness then was born

∑

In the barn, towers high and steep
—so bold they made
This maiden--weep
She lay there strong with grace
They gave no dignity

On soil and soul
Each man laid their bodies bare
As if the tower-beams
Didn’t care

And they raped at will
With laughter, smiles and seed
As blood came from her youthful soul
And upon her knees

۳
Then two Knights left
As one Knight fell to sleep
To rest, his evil deeds

‡

Now
I tell you no more of these
Great warriors of Crusades
But warn you, if you please

Yet I dare say:

All Knights beware
Who enter this village steep
Ride down the hill unto the Abbey
See King Arthur if you will
For he is in his grave

But do not bring disgrace
Dear guest
For the lioness bears her teeth

All three Knights
Found their fate
And also found their sleep

They say that no man knew
Nor found the praetor
Of Little Glastonbury

Gk

But yet the tale is told
A whisper, a glance
Came from a Soul

A Great Knight, as he was known
Came
Dashing, flashing with his mane
No armor plate, no silver sword
Just upon his handsome horse
He remained

By the side of King Richard
He rode into Glastonbury

An Alive branch
Within his grip
And eyes for the merry maiden
Who stood alone

He looked upon her fair skin -- beauty
And within her soul

Then gripped his horse
With one hand, -- dismounted
With ease
Kneeling upon one knee

For all he was renowned
Well known and fearsome
Throughout the lands
Of Frank’s and Muslim’s

And there he knelt
From head to toe
All Dressed in Casmir Green

He whispered to this lovely maiden
With golden hair, and eyes of blue
“Will you marry me fair lady,
For my heart belongs to you”

And so the story’s told

For there is where he lived
– in Glastonbury
Until his death in 1222 [AD]

AG



Chapter One

London to Glastonbury


It was April 2002; I was in London waiting for my train to Glastonbury. I had used the Internet to find a way to get to Glastonbury; my travel Agent I had used for setting me up tours for some 15-year couldn’t come up with a good way for me to visit it while in London, other than having a taxi pick me up some 40-miles away from there, and taking me there and visiting the place for a few hours; that just was not good enough. Being a seasoned traveler I thought it would be easy but it really wasn’t. That is, unless you wanted to take an escorted tour of the whole of England and Scotland, but then you would only get a half-day in Glastonbury anyway. I had been to the countryside of England before, to a number of locations, but never to Glastonbury.
In any case, I did not give up, I contacted by Internet a sole proprietor tour company in Glastonbury; the owner’s name was Jason, he owned a bookstore in town. He made life easy compared to the escorted tour thing, and the taxi idea; he even met me at the train station when I first arrived. But let me back up here a little bit.
I had to go to some little town I never heard of, Castle Cary, and that really would have confused my travel agent, I couldn’t even find it on the map until I got one of those maps at the train station that show you every house on every block, and every stop sign almost. ‘Yup,’ I said, ‘there it is.’
When I got there I was wondering if I was at the right place, I thought I was in some western town like Tombstone, in Arizona. He did show up, and drove me into Avalon, or as some would have me say, Glastonbury. But I think Avalon is part of Glastonbury. Or put another way, maybe it is the other way around, that being, Glastonbury is part of Avalon [which ever one was first].
As we traveled the countryside to the town, it was quite beautiful, seemingly more breathtaking than I had thought it would be, as was the countryside coming in by train, rather than by bus.

As Jason drove, I was quiet impressed by the small train station yet. It was like it come right out of a western movies but it was real. I mentioned it to Jason, and he chuckled.
As I reflected as we drove through the countryside to the town of Glastonbury, I thought about how I leaped off the train onto the cement and brick station. The little house station was made mostly out of wood. How charming! (I was thinking: Jessie James style, unique.)
And then Jason standing there saying, “You must be Lee,” as I was looking around for him, he was right in back of me.
I looked; he was pleasant looking, in his mid late forties; long hair, blue jeans, a brown vest, and piece of paper in his hand. I had my hat on as always, one made of wool [felt], which I picked up about five years ago in the Black Hills of South Dakota. I had also my blue jean vest on, and jean pants, with a light sweater, and a cashmere scarf I picked up in London, for there was a chill in the air.
We stood for a moment just kind of staring at one another, as I got acclimated to my surroundings, and he to me, then he invited me to his van, for a ride in to Glastonbury.

And here we are sitting in the car on our way to the land of myths and legends, to Avalon, and the Tor. Avalon for the most part is an area that has a number of hills; some say it was at one time an island. Today it is more like a grazing field of sorts. And the Tor seems to be a manmade hill in the middle of the island. But everything is connected today. Meaning, it is not separated with water, that is, the island of Avalon and Glastonbury seem to blend into one another.
When we got to the town of Glastonbury, Jason drove me directly to the B&B he had arranged for me to stay at for three days during my visit; it was on the tip of the Tor, things couldn’t get much better.
He said we would be going on our tour in about 40 minutes, he was waiting for a newspaper woman, who was going to meet us on our journey today, and do an article on Avalon; my kind of guy, down to business. Evidently, she had lived in the town of Glastonbury for several years; I thought she should know all there is to know but maybe not. Anyway, I told myself, it will be a good experience to have some company. And she was very good company.
As Jason showed us around the countryside, and the town of Glastonbury, the ancient sanctuary or Abbey should I say, where King Arthur was buried, I got goose-bumps, thinking this whole area was a sacred center overflowing with legends. This is where the Holy Grail, the chalice of the Last Supper was, King Arthur, the Round Table and the Glastonbury Zodiac, along with the Isle of Avalon, where the sacred egg-stone was. And of course there was that Abbey where King Arthur was buried, which burned in the late 12th Century, and the Tower Abbey on top of the Tor.
I had visited Stonehenge a few years back but you can’t do anything but look from behind a fence; what a waste of time and money. I guess it is nice to say you saw it but that is all you can say you really can’t absorb it. And the tour I was with, only allowed you to stay for 45 minutes what a shame, what a loss. They wanted to get you to Bath for some odd reason, look at the Roman baths, as if it could hold a candle to Stonehenge. So, this was better, Avalon in the bare; there were no fences as I noticed when we arrived at the tip of the Tor, where the B&B was. The Tour was quite informative, although I had done my research prior to this, and knew almost where everything would be located.
I asked questions, and gave some of my ideas about the terraces, feeling there were entrances into the Tor terraces where one could get on his knees possible and move around the terraces. Jason didn’t disagree he simply smiled. Many legends, I guess who can say for sure anything. If there were caves like tunnels, as legend would have it, maybe this was a way to the underworld, as proclaimed. Also Chalice Well nearby is said to have such an entrance also. After the tour I went back to the Tor. I would find myself going back five times in the three days I was there.




Chapter Two

Glastonbury-Avalon


Glastonbury to me is an outshoot of Avalon or at least that is the way I have seen it. It really couldn’t be to the contrary after being there; Avalon was old with many wounds long before Glastonbury was born. But nonetheless, Glastonbury claims it as the Tor of Glastonbury, rather than the Tor of Avalon, not sure why. But they are proud in all respects.
This area dates back to a very old period. It is located in the Somerset area of England. An area dating back to 4,000 BC; and still if you were to look for artifacts like flints and so forth, the period would pre-date 20,000 BC, and possible 75,000 BC.

It was April of 2002, when the wind pushed me about a little bit: --, as I stood on the Tor [hill-of Avalon], -- but I found it to be most interesting standing there, that is, the power of the wind, the mystic waves in the air, the myths that were seeping into my veins, making the place come alive.
The woman who owned the Bed & Breakfast on the edge of the Tor, the proprietor that is, was also enchanted with the place; --amazingly, still after so many years. She painted the Tor on every conceivable item, for example: Glasses, cups, curtains, paintings, postcards, bookmarkers; you name it; she drew it, in many different dimensions and colors. She also had it on the wall-rugs.
I suppose it was hard for her not to be co-dependent on such a magnetic force as the Tor being on your door steps in which the B&B was planted right on its body.
I enjoyed visiting the Glastonbury village when I wasn’t on the tour or the Tor. Matter of fact, I found an Inn I had a good huge steak in. And found myself walking by the Abbey, which was for the most part destroyed, but that is what created its enchanting value, I think. You knew it tasted the hard gothic part of humanity especially as one stood standing by the Tower on the Tor, and glanced to the Abbey area of Glastonbury, you can see the sun as it rises to the summit and over the Tor. It was the first week of April, and I am not sure if that extends beyond that time, but it was but a glimpse into the pulse of the myths.
This area at one time could have been called the wetlands; it was full of hills and sites. There was almost a magic to the area; Chalice Well being the entrance to the Underworld, was close by the Bed & Breakfast I was staying at, just a hop-skip-and-jump to its back yard gardens; and the water was as pure as any on earth; and the huge trees called Gog and Magog, after two giants of old; and relating to Biblical events. And then they have the Glastonbury Zodiac. It surely is a world of its own, the Tor being an artificial feature originating in Neolithic times, if not older.
I chose this story to add into this book because of its nature, when one reads the stories of Avalon and its surrounding area one finds out many things, such as you can notice the outline of a huge lion delineated by the river Cary and an ancient road.

King Richard the Lion Hearted of England, a warrior like King Arthur whom is buried at the Glastonbury Abbey, shares a little part of the lore of Avalon… but I do want to get into this area quite yet, the story part that is, for folklore will come alive at is own subtle pace. As I lay upon the windy thick grass of the Tor one day, an old man came by and sat by me. He said he was drawn to the Tor, like any of his comrades in the village.
He explained, “No one really knows why they come here, that is the residents of Glastonbury, which was down the hill a-ways as you leave the Tor.”
But he added, “We seem to find ourselves here, and when we wake up to that fact, we are standing here, we look around. And here I see you.”
I then introduced myself.
He asked if I wanted to know about Angelina. I asked, “Who is she?”
“She is my great, great, great…” then he hesitated, and finished, “She goes back a long ways to about 1199 AD, at the end of the Crusades. She was a great grandmother of sorts. I am related to her.”
I asked, “Why would I want to know about her?” which I kind of did now want to know.
“Because it is April, and that is the month she was born in. And the month she was raped. And the month she died.”
I hesitated, he smiled, and I wasn’t sure what kind of face to put on.
Then he said, “At Chalice Well, you will see a Lion’s Head. Angelina was a lioness. Although people thought she was timid, and coy, she was far from it. When she died, in 1221 AD, she left her diary, and the story of the three soldiers who wanted to rape her; one did the other two… Well, that’s part of the story; no one ever found out what happened to them or for that matter, how they died. But I know I got the diary. I found it in 1984, hidden in the old Abbey Barn, that place has a magnificent roof, doesn’t it?”
I told him I had seen it and it was a piece of art and an engendering feat.
“Where is the diary now?” I asked.
“I read it, and I hid it.”
And that was all he was going to tell me about that. But I asked him to tell me about his Great…grandmother. Evidently she died about at the age of 35.
“Incidentally, my name is Arthur, you know, after the king,” he smiled and started to tell me the story, word-by-word out of the diary, evidently he had memorized it.



Chapter Three

Angelina
The Diary



AD 1199


It was a sunny morning, a Friday in my little village of Glastonbury. A few dogs were barking as they ran down the Tor of Avalon, as they always do, but a distance from the town I live in or I guess you could say by. Some people call the Tor, the Tor of Glastonbury, while others call it the Tor of Avalon. Anyway, the roosters were singing, trying to wake up the live souls of the countryside, as well as the town, and the dead ones under the Tor. There are legends you know of the priests and others who found tunnels leading around the Tor in a maze like form. Some got stuck in there never to return. I think portions of the Tor collapse on them. While others, a few that is, made it out, but went crazy. Matter of fact, my grandpa says, wasn’t all that long ago when three priests came out of the tunnel in a half looking daze. They were never the same again.
Angelina is my name, I am 13 years old, but will be 14 by the time this diary is finished, I hope. Anyway, I walked by the big Yew trees not far from the Tor, as I do most everyday, thinking about its legend of the giants that were called by the names, Gog and Magog, the Bible proclaimed these names to mean other things I guess; my grandmother told me so. I mentioned them because I love climbing them, and it will become a part of an ugly situation I must explain in this diary. I love climbing those trees. They are like grandfathers to me, big, and a little clumsy, but always calm, and comforting. My real grandpa that is, you know, how they smile and everything seems to turn all right.
I was always safe within their branches of the big yews. I could see all around the area from high up in their ancient old branches. I sure miss them even as I write this down this very minute. You know, I could see Chalice Hill, the Tor, some farmland to the East, and Wearyall Hill to the Northwest. Sometimes if I climbed high enough I could see the River Brue.
As I was saying, this morning I was walking down the hill to the village where on one side the Tor is, and the other the yews. The two most soul gripping landmarks around in our area, except for my lovely city of Glastonbury, where none other than the great King Arthur is resting in peace at the Abbey, I would soon walk by there, and onward to visit my grandfather, who lived alone by the Abbey. It was to be my 14th birthday tomorrow. I would not be a kid after that, yaw, and no more a kid. It’s funny, one day you are, and the next you’re not. But mama says we all grow up so fast, us kids that is; but I was looking forward to be a growing woman, or so I felt. And somehow by the time I’m done with this diary, I will again. Something in my body tells me this. I can’t put a finger on it, but you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Sure you do.
Oh, a good thing went through my mind, -- as I walked down the second hill leading into Glastonbury, it went through my mind the news that everyone was talking about, which was that the Crusades were ending, if not over. It takes a while for the word to get back sometimes to our village. The word was, King Richard the Lion Hearted was coming home. He never did stay much in England though, always off to war it seemed, but none-the-less, he is a brave king, much like King Arthur, a king to be loved and feared, and most of all, admired. I love them both so very much. There are not other such kings I’ve ever heard about, from France or Germany that were so great. And someday, I would find my king, my prince to marry. Whoever he is, when I marry him, he will be like one of them two. They are my heroes. I know I’m a dreamer, mother says so, but dad says dreams come true, and then he whispers in my ear, “Just look, I married your mother,” and we laugh, but mom, she doesn’t know our secret. Oh dad’s so much fun.
But I know I’m still young, although I’m developing well for a young woman. My breasts are starting to show through my dresses now; they hurt sometimes, and are hard, but my girlfriends all tell me it’s the way things are, you know, part of becoming a woman. They also tell me to cross my legs so the boys don’t look up my dress. I can’t believe boys do that. Mom never told me that, nor dad, or for that matter grandpa.
As I was saying, I am developing, and I do notice a few boys looking at me, so I must be a little pretty. I have a slim waist, whom I know is eye catching for the boys, they tell me so, and they like to put their hands on it as if to measure it, but I slap their hands right off. I’m not as dumb as they think I am. I pretend not to know many things. I think they think that’s attractive, for some odd reason; --I think they feel more complete then.
And I really do not want to compete, nor do I care for any boy around here. My married partner will be a knight, a prince, a king maybe. He will take me by the hand and I will know instantly he is my mate to be. It will be love at first sight. Oh, yes. Grandpa says it’s possible. And some of my girlfriends think I’m foolish to follow such a fairy tale dream. But look at King Arthur he married Guenevere. She was beautiful, and I will be also. That is why I am taking care of myself now.
My hair is growing long like hers. I know she was a princess before she married King Arthur, but…but, you know, it’s possible. Grandpa says it is. I know she was a betrayal to Arthur, but I will not be to my husband. Oh no, not me. I will be passionate, wise and he will be courageous. I still like Guenevere, she is not a true heroine though, but grandpa says we do things out of nature, I guess that means evil enchants us some how. And it strikes deadly blows that are what happened to King Arthur and Guenevere I think.


Tomorrow


My eyes and hair were like the sun shinning over the Tor, so very soft looking, when I looked at them in my mirror. I was a beauty, and would be fourteen years old in one day tomorrow is my birthday. Some of my friends got married at 13, but I was going to wait until 15, my grandfather told me it was wise that I become more learned before I take such a step. And I wanted to be wise like Guenevere; and so I would wait.
One of the things I loved the most, especially when I walked to my grandfather’s house was walking by, and sometimes playing in the Abbey on top of the Tor [400-feet up]; it could be a long walk up the hill, but when everyone was gone, I’d climb up, and pretend I was a ball, rolling down the slopes or as someone was chasing me; I’d roll over the terraces of the Tor, by the cows, and sometimes end up on my knees. They’d be green like the grass, but it was fun. It is just a manmade hill, some people say, but I know it is much more; and so do the cows that graze there, and chase me.
When I wanted to stop rolling down its slopes I’d grab the long grass; it was so strong, I think its roots went right to the top of the Tor, or all the way to the Yew trees.
Sometimes I felt I never wanted to grow up and have to deal with men, and chores. Just roll down the hill of the Tor, and visit the Abbey in the village where the great king was buried. Then my body seemed to think different at times when I got thinking about heroes, and cute looking boys.
My stomach would ache recently thinking about my hero, who he would be. I’d even dream about him. But who could match my King or knight, my choice, which could be nothing less. But God would not give me somebody I didn’t want, --I knew that. And so if I have to wait until I’m 16 or even 17, I will.
I started skipping down the rest of the hill, by the Town Abbey, which was to my left, and so I turned to the left to walk along its side as I always do, that way I could see King Arthur’s gravesite through the stonewalls. The walls were in sections, and parts were somewhat destroyed by a fire, and this one section was lowered because of wars long ago; portions of the Abbey were lying about, like great stone monuments. Grandpa remembers the Abbey when it was all together. He said it was grand as grand can be. Like that Cathedral I hear they are building in Paris-France, Notre Dame, and Westminster Abbey in London Town.

Soldiers


Then all of a sudden three soldiers rode up by me; they seem to come from out of nowhere. I was a little startled, my eyebrows went up, and I caught my breath for a moment, I stretch my neck to look up at the three men on horseback; they seem to be like towers to my small frame, for I was only 5’ feet tall. They looked massive as the sun reflected off their faces, and shields tied to their horses, and long, very long swords attached to their sides. It was like they were shinning all over the place.
The horses had armament all over them, and the soldiers had huge looking faces, beards, and big belts that looked like they could put around a tree. Their skins were golden bronze, like leather, and two had red hair; one, the younger one, had black hair.
As I continued looking up at them, I was dumfounded, speechless, my throat went dry, not sure why, but it did. I just didn’t expect three huge knights to stop. They were from the Crusades I told myself, heroes of war I told myself. The horse’s nostrils were steaming, trying to grasp some more air. It evidently was a long ride. Sweat was pouring off their mane, and bellies. You could see their stomachs going in and out trying to get more air.

“Good day sirs, my name is Angelina. Can I help you with direction?” I said with a sigh of relief once I got my shock feeling in place.
Some jewelry was dangling from all of the wrists of the knights. I remember walking by the Inn down in the village and the knights that stopped by for ale used to say it was warned by the Arabs to keep demons at a distance, to distract. So they must be from the Holy Land, although I heard the war was over about five years ago, when I was but a youngster. I think this 3rd Crusade lasted about five years, or so I was told. I can’t believe they are still returning home, but maybe.
They were strangers. I smiled, and the more innocent I looked with my smile and confused, the more these three looked at one another. Then all three started staring at me as if they were lost for words; again, for the second time they looked at one another: --nodding as if it was a signal, and then they started to dismount.
I smiled again, and pointed to the grave of my hero King Arthur, thinking that is what they wanted to see, for many, even past kings, had come to his gravesite to pay their respects.
As all the three were dismounted, I looked around kind of nervous because no one really said anything, some grunts and staring but not really any words. I noticed there was really no one about. But why I was looking about anyway, I asked myself.
Now I caught the eyes of the huge one, the one that seemed to be the leader. He had bushy red hair, as he took the inside of his helmet off his head, which looked like a cashmere [goat] scarf, keeping his hair in place, it evidently was used for his helmet, which he tucked into the metal helmet as he tied his horse to the nearby tree.
I looked up at him, he was the tower of Babel, I had read about in the Bible, and Mom read the story to me. There were not many bibles around, and most women could not read, but mama could, and the bible was given to her by the Abbey priest years ago before the Abbey burnt down. She would clean out the stables and the Abbey free for him, for years, and in return he taught her to read.
He was twice my size in height it seemed, and three-times, if not more times my weight, I think. I know I was less than 100-lbs dad kids me about that. But he says I will grow and develop soon.
He then took off his sword from his belt, and tied it someway to the horse, I looked at the other two, and noticed I was the main focus of them also, so I discovered as my heart started to beat twice as fast, almost jumping out of my chest; it was not the grave site they were interest in, I know that now, it was... is “Me…
Meeeeeeeeee! Oh no, really meeeeeee they wanted. “But why, I am just a kid? Answer me.” They pretend not to hear me.

He started smiling now, not sure why, the huge one, the “big…fat pig, heeeeeeeeeiiissssssssss looking at meeeeeee
eeeeee again.”

I turned my face, I don’t want to look at him anymore, he’s going to do something, and I don’t want to see it. Oh, he is … pissing by the tree, and it is hanging out, his, you know…snake… I don’t want to see.”
I am looking at the red headed soldier now, he is tall and thin, but older than the other two; he has some wrinkles around his eyes, forehead, and sunspots on his hands. But he looks rugged, tough.
And the Black Hair Boy, he is in his early 20’s I think, he is younger, and kinder looking than the other two, not sure if he is English or one of those Islamic-Arabs. He does not have a white completion, he has a straight nose and square jaw, piercing blue eyes though, long black hair; where did he get those blue eyes, and they do not go with the rest of him for some odd reason; his skin is more bronze, a natural color, not all from the sun. On his saddle he has an Arabic number “۳ ” not sure what it means, I think it is a symbol though. I have just noticed on the tall thin men arm a tattoo; it is a cross of sorts, †. I don’t want to turn around and see that huge man he scares me.
The huge one grabbed me by the waist and lifted me up like a toy, like a small watermelon I suppose you could say, jumped over the stonewall and is carrying me over to the Abbey Barn. The other two we see right behind me. I feel like a cow, a bundle of hay being carried, my head is bobbing up and down. The two are starting to smile I’m kind of upside down. He’s walking faster my side is hurting me. He is caring me with one arm around my waist and I think I just kicked him in the face.
“Ouch,” he just hit my butt, -- slapped it. The other two are starting to laugh. I thought the young one was kinder, but he is like the tall thin one.

“Ouch, ouch…”He is pinching my legs, “STOP…PP…please ssss
ssss
١ sssSS.”

He is bringing me into the barn. I don’t believe this. He just threw me on my back onto the ground; I can see the towering beams staring at me from above, I feel like passing out; I think I hurt my spine.
He’s tearing off my garments, and the other two are just staring at me.
Why do they not do something?

“Please stop him…” I cried.
All they do is stare at me as he is doing this my pretty dress.

I just kicked dirt in his face from the barn floor.
“Ouch…” he just slapped my face, if he does it again, I will pass out. He is very strong.

I am looking at the sides of the barn I never really noticed before, and I’ve been in here a hundred times, it is made of brick, that is why it is so cool in here, and now, now my body is naked, and they are all staring at me. Oh God, now what?
The windows are in the form of crosses, circles, and light coming through them. The two men are still standing by me, watching the huge one. The young one just staring, I can see his eyes, but he is looking at my legs, and the huge one spread them apart.
And the tall thin one has a smirk on his face.
The huge one just threw my torn dress to my side; I lay there bare before these beasts. They are not heroes. I want to close my eyes, sleep I do not want to know what they are going to do next. I know.
I am naked, naked…”Stoppppppppp…” the more I cry the more the big man pushes my legs apart.
The young one and the thin one are grabbing my wrists now.

He is putting his body weight on me now, and that snake is hard as a rock, I can’t breath. I think I’m going to die.
He is inside of me, inside my skin, I feel like I’m coming apart, he is ripping me, like I’m being cut open.

It seemed to me the roof was caving in on me. My head was hitting the ground as he pushed in and out; I thought I was going to pass out. I didn’t scream anymore, I wanted to be a soldier, I was a lion inside now, what more could he do. I hated this man I told myself, and his two followers. King Arthur would not allow this, nor would King Richard to know this was to take place he would kill the soldiers. He would have had them killed, slaughtered.
And now the thin and big ۲ man was taking off his cloths, getting ready.
I lay there as if I was frozen. I will not give them pleasure other than what they can imagine while they do what they please. I am a lion, and my silence means I will hunt them down like King Arthur did with the unmoral subjects of his kingdom.

Am I dreaming? Open your eyes! Oh no, here he comes, the thin man. I forgot for a moment, I am only 13-year old, a kid. I feel like a warrior being punished for being an enemy. They are the enemy I am a soldier from King Arthur’s roundtable. And they were the forces of evil.
Like King Richard the Lion Heart, if I was born a man, I would have struck them dead right this minute, this very minute. But I am a lioness, and a lioness thinks first, and reacts later; we have to be more cleaver than the beast, wait, and be shrewd.
The war starts now. And now he entered me this thin beast. He is looking right into my eyes; his mouth is foaming with saliva, dripping on my belly. I will smile at him, and not cry, as he pulls me to him, like a slab of beef on a butcher’s table. I will show him the lioness will not surrender.
He just knocked the wind out of me, I can’t breathe again, and I am gasping for air; damn! He was quicker than the huge beast. Thank God, but is that all there is to it, to his kind of sex, why does he go through all this trouble for a few minutes, about nine minutes. I was counting to keep my mind going; --I counted up to five hundred.


Now the two men are standing talking over me, as if I was a ham, I want to swear at them, call them all kind of nasty names, but I will not lower my dignity to that. I am dizzy; I need to focus my eyes. They are telling the young one to take me, and afterwards to meet them at the Inn, which is down the road.
Even the Arab warrior Saladin would not do this. I have heard about that warrior, and King Richard was going to marry his nephew’s sister. And so he must have been a little honorable. But this young knight, I think is an Arab will turn into a beast soon.
They have now left, and the young man is undressing. I thought so he wants me also. And he will kill me, I know, he will have to.
I will have to suffer one more time, I can’t avoid this, and I can’t think of what to do. But I will pretend I like it, get him to get off guard. That is how soldiers fight. They look for a weak point in the castle, and that is where they attack. My grandfather was a soldier, and he told me that. He said his comrades would find a vulnerable spot in the fortress, and put most of their efforts into seizing that area. And so I shall, there is no other way.
He is raping me like a prostitute at the Inn, I heard they sell themselves to the men and make lots of money, why don’t they just go there, in Town, the Inn is only a short distance away, and now I had to pretend I liked it. He would most likely have to kill me so I couldn’t tell the town’s folk. But maybe they were not afraid of that. There would be no justice for these soldiers should I die, they are heroes to all. They will say the war made them do it. And all will feel sorry for them and they will go free. I must hold my tears: --there would be time later for that I have a plan.


◊
Angelina’s Thoughts


Doubts could only weaken me, I would look back at them; I can’t allow that; fate would deny me my prize if I did, my prince, my knight, my life. I am not like the others who marry whoever, whenever, somewhere, anywhere along the hills and valleys of this land. Life will stop for me, like them.
This was like blood seeping from me; --I have to stop it, clear the way for the return of my life. I need to be a master strategist, exercising control over my terrifying ordeal. I need to set ambushes cleverly, for I am out numbered, use darkness for advantages --also surprise. I know I can win a great war with a little hope; it is all I have now.
Grandpa once said it is no secret if you just tell one soul, I will tell no one, not even my soul my mind, no one. Grandpa was in a war, he knows how to battle. He told me many times, I remember him saying you have to look for the one with the most courage and kill him first, for he was the most dangerous. But I will do that second. They want to take everything away from meee all that belongs to my futurerrrrr and I have to accept their fate for me. NoooooooOOO!! I have the answer, a deadly one. This will be their last conquest. What comes from your heart mom says, comes out of your mouth. And so it was war that came from their heart, and it is war that will bind them. Dad used to say if you live by the sword you will die by the sword that is why he buried his, long before he married mom. I will not marry a man who will die by the sword, just like mom.



Chapter Four

The Sword


Now the young soldier is naked, he’s ٣ spreading my legs just like the others did, as if I was a piece of butter; his thumbs in my thighs, it hurts, but nothing like the weight from the huge one, but it still hurts. I wish he were kinder. He is doing as he pleases I am a mere nothing.
But he doesn’t see the lioness in me, King Arthur could or King Richard. But I’m not going to resist, or show him the line yet.
He likes my smile, for the first time he looked at me with tenderness, I think that is because he wants I want him. You know, say how much I enjoy him.
“Ouchhhhhhhh…” my cheeks are numb, I’m trying to look at how he is doing it. I don’t even know where he is, but on top of me; my face is under his chest, and he stinks of old sweat, like a fish; he’s going to break my bones if he squeezes me any harder.

I see his sword it is on the left side of him. He is jumping like a rabbit. What kind of thing is this gee! I hope it is more than this when I get… I can’t say it, “Ouchhhhhhhcc…
Occcccc
۳ Chh, damn, damnnnn…it hurts.”

Don’t these soldiers ever talk, or is it some kind of ritual, when you rape you say nothing. There is blood coming out of me, on my legs, I hope he didn’t cut me with his knife; I didn’t see him do it. Why the blood? He sees my tears. He is wiping them, some kind of compassion. There he goes; he did it, that crazy sound and jump, as if his insides exploded. I know he’s going to stop soon the other two did when this happened.

I saw a smile on his face, from the corner of my eye, again. What kind of a smile is that when you hurt me, and smile? Steal my life from me. He smiled again, the third. I gave him what he wanted, no resistance, what is this stupid smile of his for. As if I liked it. I was saving myself for my hero, not for this piece of dirt. I wanted a hero, not a dirty soldier like this in a barn. How dare he smile so many times!
Now he entered me again. Damn, I am really sore; I can’t stop the tears anymore. I’m trying to smile.
“Push” he said.
These were the first words I heard from his mouth, and so I pushed, but thought, -- ‘what for?’ he’s pushing. Matter of fact he is pushing me so hard it seems I will break my back bone soon; damn, I can’t push, he’s too heavy for me to even move.
He was not gentle at…at all not, not gentle, but not so mean looking as he was before. Now he looks a little safer. Now is my opening, the vulnerable spot grandpa told me about concerning the castles. The other two stopped, but this monster keeps going on and on.
He is robbing me of everything. Stealing my life I had saved for a later date; he doesn’t know maybe I am not fifteen years old yet, but he didn’t ask.
Not now it is too late to ask. He is inside of me again, but his snake is not as hard or long as before. There he goes again, with that explosion, and those faces, as if someone is strangling him. My grandpa said there is a price for everything, and I am a lioness, like King Richard.
He stopped, thank God; is he going to do it again, oooooooo
Oohhhh…
I hope not. He is pulling himself to his knees, trying to catch his breath. I have to think fast, I do not want him to go, not yet, not quite yet. I would never see him again; or I would be dead. And I feel now like lion. I have gone through the war, and he is the weak part of the castle, this moment, before he gets his strength back. I know this to be so, my whole being is telling me, now, nowwwww…ww…www …!!!! Orrr…never…!

“I enjoyed it very much sir, but only from you. Could you do it again, please, oh please? I think I love you. But if you have to rest I will wait for you. Oh yes, you are tired I see. PLEASE don’t tell me to go!” I pleaded to the young soldier.
He looked strange at me, as if I was crazy. He looked dumbfounded, as I had looked a while ago.
“Sure,” he said with his eyebrows up, a glittering smile, as if he was the king of the Tor.
Then as he lay down by my side I put my hands through his hair, I’ve seen my mother does that to dad, and he always falls to sleep.
There he goes, just like dad. He is sleeping, as if he did a day’s work.

The Lion


I got up walked about the huge barn, picked up my torn dress, and put it backs on. I looked dirty, like a beggar with this dress, and filth all over me. The light was now shinning heat into the barn. It was closer to lunchtime I knew. He would be hungry in a short while; dad and grandpa always get hungry about this time. The heat would wake him, his body was hot, and it would cool, and the warmth of the sun would wake him. I grabbed his sword, it is very heavy, and I had to grip it with two hands. I finally got it in the air after turning my body in a circle a few times with the sword swinging out. I had to keep a good grip on it so it would not fly out of my hands, it would wake him, and he’d kill me for certain.
Around and around I went, like I was jump-roping [Angelina’s Thoughts: --Now is the time to be strong Angelina, kill the first and then the one with courage and you shall have your future. --Who is that talking to me? --I am the secret.] I am swinging it in a circle, I am a little clumsy; but I have it still in the air. As I look at him sleeping, he does not look so much like a giant, as he did before, he rather looks helpless, like I did. I have it over my head now. I’m getting a little dizzy.
His…his nostrils are bre…bre…breathing in air, and when it comes out///…out///… half is out of his nose and the other half out of his mouth. I have never noticed that with dad or grandpa before, I’ll have to check that out sometime.
The sword is getting heavy, “Let it go, let it go, go, goooooo, ggggoooo…Noww
W
W
W
W
Wwwww…”

I let the sword fall I am guiding it to his neck, “yes, yes,” down, doo
oowwnnn
Nnn!!
Now, now it’s dropping.
“SLASH….ssssssssssssssssssss,” right through his neck.

His eyes opened ٣ opened٣
His…his arms moved his body quiv…!!! Quivered like a chicken dying, a sna…k…e q with no head, jumping, only the tail moving and the sword lay between his lower dorsal and his upper part of the body; his neck is like a bare ham.
I think he is looking at me, but his head is off, how can that …that is? He looks like he is in disbelief, he is looking now at his legs, and his eyes are crossing over to the sword.

₪


“Sir, I have just cut your head off, you should not have raped me. I am truthfully sorry for this, as I’m sure you maybe are now for having done what you felt you had to do to me, and so I forgive you. You are surely one of the noblest knights in the entire world, and I shall not forget that. If I did not know you I would have guessed you to be Sir Galahad, for he was the servant of the Lord. And I think you could have been him. But…”

He is closing his eyes, and yet his head remains off. But I know he heard me, for I’ve seen a tear appear. “I think you were hoping Merlin was here. He would wave his hand over you and you would be smiling again. But King Arthur would still not allow what you did; indeed, I have saved you from a shameful knife in your heart, and from the shame you would have brought the Roundtable, for that is what may have happened had you done that with his knowledge.”
I looked at him for a minute, after thinking all these things, and said to myself, out loud, for no one was around anyway but him and me:

“Now see, you steal from me, and I steal from you. I cannot give you back life, nor can you give me back my virginity an eye for an eye. But I will pray for your soul, if you pray for my return of my virginity. Maybe it is possible. Many things are possible, people think are not. For I have never thought I could have killed you, and see, here I did. It was really simply once you put your mind to it.”
Having said that, I took his sword and dug a hole in the dirt right where he lay, about three feet deep, and I rolled him into it just like mom puts in the ham during winter, that is, she puts it under the ground to preserve it. I shall do the same.
Then I buried his head separately. He had several pieces of silver, and so I took them for my torn dress, and I took his horse which was by the stonewall tied to a tree. I took off the saddle, and just kept the horse; he was big, and I liked him. Then I went and bought a new dress.
Then spent the evening at my grandfather’s house giving him the horse as a gift; --I told him it was from the young soldier from war, who asked me to keep it as a gift, for the war was over and it just brought back old memories. Grandpa liked the horse so very much he named him Big Angelina; for it was a huge horse, and he was so very friendly.
As we sat around that evening, I asked grandpa about the war in the Holy Lands. He knows everything about every thing; I asked how women were treated in such places as the Holy Land.
He explained that there was some holy man named Muhammad, who married an older woman when he was young. I guess this was hundreds of years ago. And he formed a religion called Islam. Well, this woman was a fine lady, and had a business, shipping camels to different cities. And that she and Mohammed believed in the right to marry whomever you wanted. And her husband respected that she. They were married for about 25-year. But after his death, the Muslim world did not follow his life style and married many wives, for Mohammed during his marriage with her, he never married anyone else; after she died of course, it is a different story.
And then after his death, women became more of an item than a sidekick or partner to the Muslims even though he did not advocate that kind of behavior for his followers.
I liked the story when Mohammed was married to this first woman, called Khadija, but not after her, I think he changed. She was noble as he was as I would be. But it helped me understand a few things a little, I think. Anyway, the men took only what they wanted, and threw the rest away, how convenient. Just like this young man and his two friends did when they could have went to the Inn and got with silver all they wanted to.




Chapter Five

Gog and Magog


The next day, as my grandfather and I sat at the breakfast table, I thought of what King Arthur would do if his subjects betrayed him. He was a fair king, and my grandfather’s table looked liked the famous Round Table, he and his knights would sit at, and figure things out. And today I was 14-year old. And although the table was not as big as King Arthur’s, it would do. I was born the year the disastrous fire of 1184 destroyed the Abbey buildings in the center of Town, where King Arthur was buried. At which time there were treasures being stored at the Abbey such as gold and silver vessels, and manuscripts were among the losses the priests wept about; everybody stealing from everyone else back then I guess.

But I had my own disaster to contend with; the people of Glastonbury would not believe me. If I told my grandpa it would kill him. But I had silver in my pocket, nine pieces of silver, and I had a plan. King Richard would be proud of me.
“Are you going to eat your bread,” asked my grandfather, smiling at me.
“Oh grandpa-pa, sure, I’m dreaming of my hero who will come some day and take me by the hand and… I mean find me and take me to…” I hesitated, “I don’t wish to ever leave Avalon, or Glastonbury. I guess they are both the same. I loved the Abbey, for it was built about 500 years before I was born, but I didn’t care for the Abbey Barn anymore. I liked King Arthur’s gravesite.
“I must go grandpa-pa, but I want to stay another night here if I can. If mom comes down please tell her I want to stay. I will go home tomorrow.”


Henry

I then left the little house and ventured down to see Henry, a hunter and seller of furs. When I got to the end of the village, he was skinning a fox.
“Henry,” I called.
“Yes, little Angelina. What can I do for you?” he said, putting down his carving tools.
“I want to buy a furious Wolf.”
“What?” he said in surprise.
“A wolf, I have nine pieces of silver.”
He looked at me strange, and then caught sight of my silver.
“I want to buy the wolf, and free him at the same time, but first I want a cage for him, so I can teach him to be gentle.”
Henry looked at me with strange eyes, “Five will do,” he said, trying not to cheat me. I quickly ran home, took my grandpa’s horse and ran back with the horse to Henry’s house and got my wolf, which was all of four feet tall from the ground to his shoulders; and his shoulders were two feet wide; he looked like a mean little horse, no, no, he looked worse, --as mean looking as the devil himself, -- just what I wanted.
“Now feed him as soon as you get him home, Angelina.” Henry said with a serious voice; adding, “I put a rope around his mouth so he can not harm you, but wolfs are very dangerous.”
I assured him I would be careful. And he put the wolf on the back of my horse and cart; tying one front leg up with a piece of rope so he could not jump on me or run away.



Chapter Six

The Inn

That afternoon I went down to the Inn where the huge one was resting in his room and the tall thin one was downstairs drinking. When I walked through the Inn doors, the soldiers looked at me strangely. It was early morning and the Inn, I think, had not been opened more than an hour or two, for there were only about seven guests; I think they were thinking I was going to say something, but I simply smiled.
They were boasting about their exploits of the war; how the Islamic-mercenaries, called the assassins, some kind of Islamic sect, murdered their victims, while high on opium. I had heard about them from other people. They followed some leader called “The Old Man of the Mountain” [Sinan]. I guess they would do anything, kill themselves [suicide] so they could kill their enemies to please this person. They would fling themselves into their targets, that being other soldiers, the enemy. They were boasting how they killed several of them. They called them terrorists; that they came from Persia, Iraq, Egypt.
I noticed the tall thin knight that raped me standing by the wine barrow talking to some ugly woman, I noticed from the corner of his eye, he was watching me; maybe even a little embarrassed to be with such a hog. I think he was wondering what I was about to say.
He was thinking how to shame me if I say something about what he did to me, that was running wild in my mind, but I was not here for him, not yet. His time would come. But let him think what he will, I am telling myself, all the better, but he must think good things at the end of his thinking. So I must plant seeds, and harvest them later; yes, I will see him later.

“Where is your huge friend,” I inquired, still smiling and trying to be as cheerful as one could be. It almost felt good to pretend, knowing in my mind this was not the end, only the beginning. It’s a funny thing to know what you are going to do, and the other person does not. How he is going to die, is what I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t, “All in good time,” my mother always says to me, and she is a very wise woman, and so I shall follow that wisdom.

“He’s in his room,” replied the thin man.
“I have a message for him from your young friend.”
“Just go upstairs and knock on the third door, he’ll let you in, and who knows what else.” He started laughing as he did in the barn. I simply put my eyes down as if to let him know I was his servant if need be.
The Innkeeper looked at the tall knight strangely and myself. He couldn’t put two-and-two together, but he knew something was up, as they say, fishy. I tried to look pleasant. I think the bar keep was worried for me for his eyes followed me as I went up the wooden stairs; I could hear each step I took, the wood makes noise you know, I have never quite noticed that before; but when you have a plan, everything around you, you notice. I was now holding on to the railing to guide me the rest of the way.
When I reached the top, about 20 stairs high, I quickly went to his room not looking down at the Inn keeper or the customers anymore, I didn’t want them to tell me to come back down, I wanted to see this huge one first, face him, and let him know, what I wanted, but not my secret.
I knocked on the door, then like out of the fog a voice told me to come in: --a rough-harsh voice, one that was quieter than the one I heard in the barn. As I entered he was lying in bed, it was his voice though, and grandpa never sounds the same when he is lying down, as he does when he is standing. The huge one’s voice came out again, more pronounced, now as he looked at me his voice turned into the one that almost broke my spine; the one that stole my life first, then gave me to the other two as if I was but a bag of sugar, a gift of his to give as he will to whom he will. I wanted to cry run out of that room, but I told my brain, “Stay, stay, staaa…,” and so I did. And put on that smile again.

“Oh, it is you little girlie, WHAT DO YOU WANT!! Didn’t you get enough yesterday?”
He did not need to say that I thought it was not called for. I am a little girl yet, why does he toy with me like that, and want to use me as a woman. Why did he not say, ‘what do you want little woman,” for is not that what he expected of me. Oh well, you got to talk to him now.
“Sir, your young friend has been making love to me all night, and has since met another girl and will be back in a few days. He told me to tell you.”
The huge soldier was examining my body again, as if he would like to jump from that bed and grab me, and do those things again, --rape me all over again. No, not me, I will not give him the second chance; he would try I’m sure if I got too close to him.

“Ok, so you told me little girlie, now what?”
“I like you better than the other two, can we meet at the big yew tree by the Tor tonight. I will bring some wine, and you can make love to me again, but only you; I want to learn how to do it better so when I grow up I will please my husband. I will be old enough to marry in a year or so.”
“Marry, marry who, not me you little…” He stopped I think he was thinking he would not get what he wanted that way.
“I guess that is a good reason, you like it and want to learn more. Wine you say?”
“Yesterday was very hard on me. But if it is just you, I can endure it. I really liked it from you.”
He smiled, as if he was a king, a big fat head with whiskers, and sunken eyes like a voucher. He was in his glory, rolling off his bed like a fat pig, and then he asked, “What time?”
He was now staring at me, as if he was already making love to me; how I dare say love, I mean sticking that snake into me. I think he wants me now, but I think he is too vulnerable, and the door is slightly open, too many people will know, so if he tries to grab me now the bar keep will hear. Just what I want, by the time he gets to me this evening; he will be running wild, and blind with “want”, that is to want to rape me again. Then I will do my plan, and as my grandfather told me –as all good soldiers would do, --that is, charge the castle wall right where it is most vulnerable, so shall I—in my own way of course.
I was happy I had left the door open for a quick escape, thinking he will not dare try and rape me here. He is not brave enough, he is a coward, and cowards hide and do these things such as raping and abusing people that are weaker than them, and they do not do those things unless they have the advantage, and do not like exposing their morbid behavior while others are watching. They want others to think they are big and brave. Maybe he ran from the enemy.
King Richard would not do such a thing, nor would his knights. He should be punished. If only King Richard was here he would listen to me, but he is not. And I have proven to myself I have his heart, the lion heart. That is why they call him that I think. He loves to fight, but only to save people and free them.

“When the moon first comes out, which would make it about 7:00 PM; I will be waiting by the big trees for you.”
“Sure, that sounds just right, make sure you bring the wine my little winch.”
He started mumbling something, I didn’t want to listen and so I left with the promise he would be there, that was good enough.
I quickly ran down the stairs and back into the center of the Inn, asked the bar keep selling me a bottle of wine for my grandpa. He looked a little surprised, for grandpa usually got his own wine, but I had gotten it for him before, I think twice, and so it wasn’t completely out of place for me to ask.
“How’s doing your grandpa little Angelina?” Said the barkeeper.
I didn’t answer him right away; --I was looking at the tall thin man, who asked me:
“You find what you were looking for little whatever?” He said.
“Yes sir, I did. I gave him a message from your young friend.”
For a moment he was looking strange at me, but that seemed to calm him down. And his friend would tell him he was going to meet me, and the news about his young friend.
The Innkeeper hesitated, but pulled a bottle of flowery-lightly sweetened white wine from under his table; it was a big bottle, and I had to carry it with both hands.
“This is the kind your grandpa likes; tell him I said hi, he hasn’t been around for a long time.”
I nodded my head I really did not want to get into a conversation with him, not now.
It cost one piece of silver, and then I ran to the horse and cart, and put the wine in the back of the cart wrapping it with some cloth I had, so it wouldn’t break. Now I needed to see the herb maker.

The Herb Maker


The herb maker was not far from the Inn, and was a jolly old soul, he was short, and as round as he was tall, with a long beard and mustache, he liked to tell stories of King Arthur, and about the old priests who would journey through the tunnels of the Tor, and came out crazy. He said he was standing by one of the old entrances of the tunnels in the Tor over 50 years ago and waited for one of the priests to come out, but he never did. I don’t know how old he was but he was older than grandpa, and I think that is old. When he wasn’t making or selling herbs, he was telling stories. Grandpa liked him a lot, and so did I.
As I got to his house, at the other end of town, I went to the back and looked in his basement window, for that was his work place, everyone did that. If he weren’t there, then I’d knock on his door, for he was usually sleeping. Or a maid was cleaning his house. He never married, but I think he liked his maids.
He was in his seller and waved me to come on. I pick up the wooden door to the seller, which was outside the house, and walked down the steps into his basement. He had an entrance in the house also, but this was the one everyone used when doing business with him.
I told him I needed strong sleeping medicine that my grandpa was not sleeping well lately and it would help him. I wanted a lot of it I told him. I gave him one silver coin, and boy did he give me a bundle. I really didn’t know how much money was worth. I have never bought anything before, or handled money. I only picked up things before for mom and dad or grandpa they would pay the merchants later. That maybe why the tall thin man, and the bar keep looked at me a little strange, I had silver. I never thought of it. Often times mom and dad would barter with the neighbor, and trade a hog for two weeks labor, something like that; they have never really had much silver, and I doubt ever seen any gold coins. And here I got silver unbelievable. I had two pieces of silver left now.
I bid my farewell, and left in a hurry. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions. He was looking at me also, a little strange when I pulled out my silver.

I then went back to my grandpa’s house for early dinner, after I had arranged everything at the Magog tree, that is. I loved that tree, it was full of spirits; the kind that either love you or hate you. And these spirits knew me well, and loved me. I talked to the tree spirits and told them my plans that I needed to use their ground for my crusade, like King Richard I, I needed to plan my war, my three battles, of which the first was already completed, and to be quite honest, there was not a whole lot of planning in that one; but none-the-less, it was quick planning.
And like always they were more than obliging. They told me I had a lion’s heart, like King Richard, I was very proud to hear that. They also told me someday I would meet King Richard, and that King Arthur’s Guenevere was like me, beautiful, with golden hair, and stunning eyes, and although I was not a princess like her, I would someday in the summer country find my knight, so not to worry. My Camelot was here; I need not search any farther.
These spirits know many things. Sometimes I feel sorry for them; I think they are left behind for some reason trying to find their path, their soul. I pray Jesus will guide them. Mom says spirits are different than ghosts, but I really do not know the difference, I just know some are evil and others are good ones. And these spirits have shown me goodwill.

That evening grandpa and I sat by the fireplace as always, and I filled up his cup with the wine I bought. I told him it was for dad. I know I lied, because dad hardly drinks at all, and he doesn’t like grandpa drinking, so I knew he wouldn’t say a word.
“Tell me grandpa about the war, you know the Crusades?” I asked.
I guess I was feeling I should know more about this, for these men used it to hurt me, and then justify their ways, or so I believed.
“Well, it is as all wars, much killing. This was a war of the world you know. France, the Franks [Germany], England, and many countries from such areas of the world like Anatolia, the Balkans, Macedonia, Baghdad, Syria, Sicily; oh, grand-daughter there was so much fighting, and blood shed. The whole world went crazy. And the Holy Sea, the Pope he ordained it God’s Will. But you know, I don’t think God said a word to the Pope on this issue.”
“Oh, grandpa, you must not say that outside of your home, for if anyone heard you say that, you would be killed, or tortured.”
“I know, but it is true. But I will go on with the Great War, and let us pray we do not have a 4th Crusade. The Germans lost their leader, and for the most part, their spirit to fight, and so it was up to the English and French. This was, back around 1188 AD, you were about three years old. Incidentally, Angelina, I have a birthday present for you.”
“Later grandpa, later, I want to hear the story of the war.”
“All right, well, as I was saying, King Richard had his coronation I think in 1188, I think I was saying that, at Westminster, and he wanted to get to the Holy Land and get on with the war. He liked war I think. He always did. Well, Saladin, the other leader, whom was against King Richard and France, wanted to keep Jerusalem for himself. You know the war was over this holy city called Jerusalem, which is called “The City of God,” and everyone is fighting over it. What a shame! But to make a long story short, everyone was having problems, Cyprus, the Turks, the Normans the Germans waiting for the English. But the end result was, as you know peace. And surely it is not the peace everyone wanted, but safe passage to the holy sites was given any man or woman who wishes to make a pilgrimage to them by Saladin; but then, what is safe passage when the Arab’s do not want you visit; do you say, “Saladin the Arab King says it is ok,” but still Saladin is not there at that moment, so what do you do, die? You know what I mean. It really doesn’t matter, dead is dead.
During this time anyway though, there was a knight who tried to make peace with Saladin; called the Green Knight. Some get him mixed up with King Arthur’s knights of the famous roundtable, for there are many tales of him in that time period, but this one was different. He came out of Spain. Saladin admired him, but peace did not materialize, because of their talks. And that is all I know my little nosey granddaughter.”
“Oh, thank you so much grandpa-pa…”
“You should be going to bed, get some sleep.”
“I want my gift, please?”
“Here you are.”
“Oh, grandpa, I love it, it’s a diary.”
“Now please take it, and go to sleep.”
“I love you grandpa.”



Chapter Seven

The Wolf


As the moon came up I was at the huge Magog tree. I had arranged everything. I even put a blanket down for my guest, or should I say prey. And this would be my second conquest. Just like the crusades one, two, three. This was number two, the beast who robbed me. But he hurt me the worse of all three [Angelina’s Thoughts: --You are almost there, he will be easy for he is clumsy, and not too smart. His heart is in his penis, and his eyes want you. Stay calm, and then it is time to kill him. --Who are you? Do I know you? --I am the secret]. He didn’t have to hurt me. What was the sense in that? If you rape a person why hurt them, for what? He was 350 lbs, as tall as two of me. He did not have to drop me, or push all his hairy and sweaty weight on me. He could have just raped me and left it at that. But he had to watch my head bob up and down like a ball. My head was not made of pillow feathers. It still hurts [a tear], there was no light in my eyes, and my nose felt like blood; I should stop thinking about this. I want to sing:


ANGELINA

♫“London rain, ♪ coming down…nnn
It’s ♫♪ ..... All around ddd
But I don’t… really care er er
Let the rain ♪…
Rain every where♪

We talked……. ♫ we walked
Old London streets

♫♪♫
Narrow and ♪ crowed ♪ off
The beat

In my heart ♪ he’ll remain
Memories ♫ of Golden Rain

A smile, ♪ a glimpse a
Wink or two
A Kiss so o ♫♪ knew wwwwwww

But it still rains all around
Every time … I think
Of Old London town

Let the rain…
Rain everywhere♫
Rain everywhere
Rain everywhere….. ♪ where♫♪♫☺

I feel much better now oh, so much better. I like to sing and hum when I am not feeling well.

But I was already hurt. Here he comes. He’s tying his horse to the wooden fence, I see him. These two trees, Gog and Magog are fenced in. But I like Magog more it is bigger, wider. Just like them, big and wide. He should like this spirit tree. He is now climbing the fence, he jumped to the ground, he landed like a horse when he stomps and I could feel his weight shake my space. It was like he was crushing my bones again.
“Ok, girlie, we will do it again,” he sees my shadow.
“Here you are girlie I knew it was you, so skinny but you’ll do.”
“Here is some wine sir; I bought it just for you. Please drink it, I have had some already because I know you are so big, and I will need it to withstand you strength.”
He grinned from ear to ear when he heard that, and drank the wine as if it was water. The bottle was big, and I only put a little of the sleeping potion in it. I did not want him to use it all up; I need some for number three.
After drinking ¼ of the bottle he started to take off his cloths.
“How about you, girlie,” he said, meaning he wanted me to take off my dress so he could watch me I think.
“Yaw, the damn dress takes it OFFFFFFF!”
“Yes, yes, I am, please be patient.”
I had on the dress he ripped yesterday. I put the other one on the other side of the fence in my cart, where I tied the horse up. I didn’t want that one to get ripped. I took off my dress slowly, for I knew his weakness now; I let it slide over my shoulders lightly, he was watching every move of mine.

“Hurry up will you, you… damsel,” he said with impatience.
“Sir, I am here because I want to be, please forgive me but I have to go to the bathroom, now.” I noticed his sword was not on him, he left it tied to his horse.
“Damn! Ok, ok, go and do your thing, but hurry back, I do not like to be kept waiting, I don’t have…had all night.”

I went to where I tied my horse up, and I jumped over the fence. I put on my other dress, my pretty new dress I bought with the young knight’s money, his silver that shined when I rubbed it against my dress, --there was a pretty glow to it. I now walked over to the fence to see how he was doing. He was waiting there naked as a bird.
I had put the cage of the wolf next to the fence, and when I opened it, the wolf had to go underneath the fence of where I had dug a hole for him to enter, thus allowing him to be in the fenced area. When I let him out of the cage, at the same time I pulled the rope around his mouth off, and took the cage and put it back on the car, and quickly filled in the hole with more dirt so he couldn’t come back out, although I’m sure he could either jump the fence or dig his way under it; but he was terribly hungry, and his dinner was waiting. And he now was madder than a hornet, and happy for being freed by me.
I had not fed him since I bought him. I just jumped on the cart, holding the reins tight so the horse would not get spooked. And I could see by the light of the moon the wolf smelling the wine and the flesh and sweat of the huge one. He was creeping up to him like a spider.

“Hay girlie where are you; is that you.” Was the voice of the huge one?
The wolf must have heard that, and the spirits of the trees much have triggered his temper even more, for the wolf jumped in the air [I can see him flying] I could see him by way of the moon-light, it lit his body as he jumped and as he landed, he was on top of huge one cornering him, and pinning him against the tree.
I thought of the shivering stare he must have made at the huge one when he jumped on him, looking him straight in the eyes, for he mesmerized me with fear a few times when I looked back at him on the cart. And this knight was totally unprepared for the spectacle before him.
The sight, making me feels how the victim must feel; transfixed my eyes isolated from his friends, the village. He remained virtually, unprotected. For the beast this was a prime hunting edge, large, as the beast was himself.
Apart from my personal satisfaction, for the moment, my fear of these knights faded somewhat; the threat was going. With this in mind, I knew I could go forward in my plan. These were men but not of honor. If so, they would not be in this situation.
I was using their kind of tact on them; surprise, isolation, a quick plan, checking to see if I had the edge, finding a vulnerable spot, and attacking. Is that not warfare. You do not attack an army that is twice your size unless you have no choice. And these three men thought they could attack without consequence, and attacking someone who was helpless, but they forgot one thing, my grandpa told me about war, he said, “You do not leave anyone behind you after the battle; you kill the enemy, the soldiers, so they can not come back and kill you.” And I have not forgotten that. They did. They did not see me as an opposing threat, enemy, only an enjoyment a quick conquest. But they are not thinking like that now.
The young man with his head cut off did not think of the battles he would go fight tomorrow; or the women he would rape. He was thinking he was dying, it was the end of it all for him, everything.
Oh, I forget for a moment, the huge one I hear him….
He is screaming and screaming. Crying, running to get his sword I think, but he couldn’t make it over the fence fast enough. The fence was about forty-feet from the tree about 5 ½ feet high. Now all I hear whimpers and his exhaustion. Now I hear no more. He must be dead, I hear the wolf chewing, the cracking of a bone. I knew the wolf had some powerful jaws, but his teeth, bet he broke a tooth.

I rode my horse and cart around to the other side where his horse was; the wolf was eating him up like a dog chewing on a rabbit. He was lying by the fence, hissing, eyes seemed to be looking at me, a tear was coming from him.
“Sir, I am sorry, but I can not wipe your tear [he blinked his eyes], for you see the wolf would eat me, like he is you [his mouth opened as if to say something, as if he was begging me to stop him from eating him alive].”

He couldn’t talk or make any more sounds the wolf had chewed his nose and throat off, and open. I thought people died easy, but it’s not true. Sometimes they die slow. The wolf looked at me then went and started eating again, paying me little attention; I think he was making sure his meal was secure. I tied his horse to my cart quickly, without getting of the cart, and found seven-pieces of silver tied to the saddle of the horse, as if he wanted to make sure no one could see it, yet it was close enough for him to grab. I now had 9 pieces of silver again. I went down to my grandpa’s house, and told him I was given another horse by a huge soldier, like the young man gave me, and that it was his friend; for the same reason. I told grandpa, there were three soldiers from war visiting, or riding through, and they were staying at the Inn down the street. And I had met all three. They were very kind. Grandpa tucked me in bed, gave me a kiss, and told me happy birthday.


Chapter Eight

Chalice Well

I knew the third man, the tall one, would be looking for his friends pretty soon, although it seemed to me he really liked his ale more than his friends; for as I walked by the Inn, he was always sitting there or standing drinking like a fish. I have never quite understood this all drinking people do, it seems quite a waste of resources, and energy. For the men never get up to feed the animals, or plant, or for that matter, do much of anything. Grandpa said he used to drink a glass of wine just before bed, and it helped him sleep, but his brother was a drunk, and that scared him because he was always in poverty.
I stayed at grandpa’s house again, and decided to remain there for the week. Grandpa got two horses now, and mom was ok with it. There were chores around the house but I had three brothers and two sisters who could help. And grandpa was alone a lot, so mom felt grandpa could use the company, and he and I were very close; closer than mom was to her dad I think. His father had fallen off a roof a number of years ago, died from a broken spine, not sure why I’m putting this in my diary, but I don’t quite miss him, because I’ve only seen him I guess when I was a baby, but I didn’t want grandpa to fall off a roof, and neither did mom, so she let me stay with grandpa almost as much as I wanted, you know kind of watch him. I got to go now.

AG

It’s the next day, I got to find and set it up for the thin guy. I got nine-pieces of silver; I will buy some more wine, and use the sleeping potion, the whole thing on him I think. I got a plan. But first I want to go to the market and buy some... of that expensive drug for grandpa called coffee. It comes from a country called Ethiopia. They’ve been using it for 200 years I guess. It helps him stay awake at night. Grandpa told me that the Angel Gabriel revealed the secrets of roasting and brewing this compound. I’ve tasted it. It isn’t half bad. But grandpa can’t afford it, so I will buy some with my silver.

Later in the Day


And so I did get some coffee and gave it to grandpa, and I stopped by the Inn where the tall man was. He was too drunk to even think anything was going on. He is going to meet me tonight at Chalice Well. He saw me buy a bottle of wine, like I did for his friend, and no one has heard of what happened to the huge one yet. That is, what is left of him for he had no cloths on, and all that must be left is bone? I took his cloths with his horse and buried the cloths this morning. I do not think anyone will discover him missing for a few days, so there is nothing suspicious as of yet. I told the tall guy his friend gave me silver to buy wine and to lay with him in bed. And I added, I was going back to meet him in an hour. But he was going to meet me by the well at sunset. The well is said to be the entrance to the underworld; he may find out. I don’t know if there is any truth to it, but I know that it connects to the underground water system of the Tor, and a few other springs nearby.

Evening at Chalice Well


I had got to Chalice Well, before the tall soldier arrived, and set everything in place. I loved this location, as I did the Abbey in the village, and Magog, and the Tor. This was the ideal place. It is nestled in a valley between Chalice Hill and the Tor, and there are gardens all about. I put a blanket on the soft grass, and the bottle of wine by the side of the well. The top of the well was made out of wood and steel, and the top of it shut, and could be locked when not in use, so no kids would fall into it. The well is on top of the garden. I liked this spot, I could see all about. Sometimes the village folk put on plays here, and had festivals here. The source of the water is unknown, but grandpa always said it came from the Mendip Hills some miles to the north of our Glastonbury. Before my time, the Celts and Druids were in this area. The spirits of the trees whisper to me that they settled in that area, perhaps because they are Druid spirits, or Celtic spirits themselves.
I loved drinking the pure water from Chalice Well, it was always cool, and it has never failed to be so, not in all my fourteen years in this area; yes, I am fourteen years old now. Not a kid anymore.
I hear a horse [Angelina’s Thoughts: --He is a drunk, he loves his booze, and he will come for that first. You have done well Angelina, you are now using the dark, surprise and ambush to your advantage, and tomorrow you will be free. --I don’t know really who you are, but I think you scare me more than the knights. Will you be gone tomorrow also? –Yes], it is the tall man. He can see me from the lower part of the garden. I am waving at him now. Here he comes.
“Hello you…little… you little slut,” he grabbed me by the hair, the wine is right next to me, and he threw me to the ground, not even on my pretty blanket.
“Ok, you want it, you’re going to get it,” he’s been drinking all day I think.
“Please sir, I bought this wine just for you.”
He grabbed the wine, and started drinking it with one hand as he ripped his cloths off with the other. He had a huge erection.
“Take it off, now winch, or I’ll put the sword to you.”
I quickly took my dress off, I was just hoping, and hoping, he would drink more of the wine. But he put it down. He only had three drinks. He’s on top of me again I hate this. My head is hitting the ground like a horse’s head stomping. He will not stop. I can’t breath.
“I need a drink sir. Let me play with you…”
He stopped, and took another drink.
“Ok, play with it…”
I had to touch it, but the more I played with it, the more he drank. He started to get soft, his head started to sway. I did put four times as much sleeping potion in it than I did for the huge guy. He fell to his side, the bottle still tight in his hand. Gee! I thought, of all things, he hangs on to the bottle, and not in his pants.
I tried to catch my breath, I was gasping for air.
“Wake up, wake up sir. Drink more wine,” I said, --then I started to slap his face lightly to see if he would wake up, but he was fast asleep.

I got up on my feet, wiped myself dry from his sweat, and other liquids that came from his body, mouth and nose --and that item between his legs. I never thought such things could go so deep inside a woman. But then I am only fourteen, I was not suppose to find this out until I got married, which he robbed me of, or tried to---.
I got my small portion of the rope I bought, and cut, and tied his hands over his head; then tied his two legs together. He was naked, and what I wanted to do was cut that item off, but I couldn’t. I opened up the iron and wood cover to the well, and centered him. Then I went to the other side of the well where his feet were -- my longer piece of rope extended across the well at this point, inasmuch as, I now would be able to pull him to the well and he’d fall down head first, --but first things first.
I walked around to the other side again, picked up his sword, and I knew now I had to do this fast, for once the sword hit, he would wake up, and I had to run around to the other side of the circular cover of the well and pull the rope. I hoped I had strength enough. Now I got the sword over my head. I am looking at his hands tied. I am focused, I can’t miss, oh please, I just can’t miss. The sword is coming down just like when I had it in the air with the young man, and it went right through his wrists his hands fell off, his eyes opened up, as did his mouth, I jumped over to the rope, falling on my knees, and started pulling. He is looking at me pulling him. His head is two feet from the well, his shoulders are touching the open space of the well, and I do not think he knows exactly what is going on, except his life is in danger.
“What you doing, What, WWWWWhat
YYYYYYou
Dodododo oooo ing…!! He is crying.

I jerk the rope with all my strength, he is starting to kick, but his butt is in the open space of the well; now he knows I think, --that is, what is happening to him. I jerk the rope again; his head is pulled over to the edge of the well. One more inch, just one more, he is trying to push himself backwards to safety; he knows he is going to sink and if so down into the well. His arms are free of the ropes now, but they can’t hold on to the sides of the well he is discovering he has no hands. His head just dropped into the open space of the well, now his back is sliding down in the open black space of the well, he is falling, his whole body, and the rope is burning my hands, I must let go…I do.

Silence……………………………………...……… Splashhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

As I look down the well, the rope followed him like a snake. He has no hands to untie his feet, and he cannot climb the 30-feet to the top. And I know the well is pretty deep. I cannot see him, only hear his cries.
Now I put the top of the well cover back on; I will lock it now, so the children will not fall into it. I can still hear his screams, barely, but I do hear them, he is begging me to open the well door, and at the same time cursing me. He is not sorry for what he did to me, only sorry I could get revenge on him; now his body will sink soon, and he will sober up, or wake up drunk in hell.
I hear water splashing; he is lucky he is thin, not like the huge one, for he would sink if he were that big. He will get exhausted soon. I must bury the rest of his things.
“See Mr. Knight, you are paying for your sins. But I will tell the world you were a great knight, for that is what knights are created for; they are special. Thus, I will save you from disgrace. What would you do if you lived, just get drunk and rape more girls like me. Now, that is not what a good knight should have to look forward to. GOOD NIGHT!!” I think he heard me, I tried to say it loud enough through the locked well cover. Matter of fact he did hear me, he is saying “Come back…come backkkkkk, ppppleaseeeeezzzzzzz.”

As I walked out of the garden, I found his horse, I took it and gave it to grandpa, and he also had silver in a pouch, five pieces. I now had 12-pieces of silver. I will give them to my mother, and let her know that these men gave them to me. For that is what a hero of a war does they help people, they like to be heroes.



End of the Diary



Chapter Nine

On Top of the Tor

As I looked at the old man again, the breeze blowing my hat off somewhat, I caught it with my left hand though; I said in a confusing manner, “Is that the end?”
“Funny you say that,” he commented.
“I guess I expected her to be caught, or tried by the village, you know, kind of a coming to justice thing. Even though the rape was wrong, wasn’t, or didn’t she go to extremes?”
“Well,” said the old man looking at me, “I guess I could add an ending to it, but I think you were better off leaving it alone, because I think you will get more frustrated with the real ending than the simply one you just got.”

“Go for it sir,” I said with curiosity.

“I guess for Angelina it was a nightmare to end all nightmares. Or so I figured it out after all these years. The three soldiers took her life from her. She had to put it back together. Now just how do you do something like that? She of course wrote it out in her diary, somewhat, if you read between the lines that is. But she hid it. When the town’s folks questioned her, she really could not remember anything. She looked high and low for her diary. She wanted to show everyone she had nothing to do with it, or for that matter, to see what she might have wrote. But she hid the diary, as her subconscious wanted, so she could not find it; and for someone like me, 900 year later to find it. She wanted her life back. Call it deep posttraumatic stress with no recoil, or what you want, she never did remember it. They questioned her several times, until her grandpa put a stop to it, saying the girl was too frail to have done any kind of murders.
You see, when she walked back to her grandfather’s house she simply went to sleep like always; or simply like little soft angel she was. Throughout the years that followed people expected she had something to do with the disappearance of all three of the soldiers, just like they did from the beginning, but no one ever put two and two together.
About six months after that event—more or less—more evidence came up on what happened to the soldiers, they found the young man buried in the barn, I think the horses kicked up so much dirt his body started to show, and along with scavengers and so on, --you got other animals you know, like squirrels, dogs, cats and so on, but the monks found him anyway.
Let me add, one day the barn keeper seen his head sticking out, and that was cause for alarm also, so when you find something like that you look around a little more careful. But no, it wasn’t here or there; everyone loved little Angelina, and left it alone. Even if she was guilty, the town’s people didn’t really want to know. It would force them to do something they really did not want to do.
And the tall man with his hands cut off was found sometime after that first discovery, down in some swamp area nearby. The many wells we have around here go into many areas, and there are connecting springs to them also. Plus it goes under the Tor I think and God knows where else, but he was found anyway a few miles from the Tor, and I do not want to describe him.
As for the huge soldier, the wolf did leave the bones to be found, and again the scavengers did their best to pick his bones clean.
That was what made Angelina a suspect at first. But no one really thought she could have devised such a plan, it was too ruthless; plus, no one could put it quite together, not like it was in the diary. Maybe if they had the diary at the time, it would have made more sense. But trying to put the pieces together was just too perplexed for everyone. She wasn’t even 100-lbs of weight, and this man was 350 or more. It was hard to even question her I heard, but they had to; you know to make the records official. But even if they had given her a lie-detector test—and of course back then they didn’t have such things—she would have passed it anyway, for she truly believed she was innocent.
Plus she proclaimed they gave her gifts, she was astonished of what had happened to them. That too was a little fishy thought the officials at first. But again, she could not remember anything past the hero complex she had. It was written in stone in her mind. They were heroes [or supposed to have been heroes] to her from the Crusades, and stopped by to pay respects to King Arthur, her most renowned hero. They found her, gave her silver every time she showed up, and wanted to retire in Glastonbury, and so they gave her the horses, saying they were reminders of the war. You know kind of giving away the post-traumatic stress everyone talks about after a war, nowadays. I hear about that medical term all the time know, in the old days it was simply bad memory.
No one could prove her otherwise. Plus she couldn’t remember even if you would have tortured her to death, and I guess one day the priest kept her in the Abbey barn so she might remember, and she simply sat there and prayed that their souls would go to heaven. She was a Christian you know, and the priest said she prayed for hours on end for their souls. And she added prayers for the victories of King Richard, and for giving England King Arthur, her biggest hero.
Matter of fact, it was written down in some of the priest’s logs, that she spoke very highly of the priests for trying to find the culprits who victimized the poor heroes of the crusades; for she was very thankful for the gifts they had given to her and her grandpa, especially the horses, and of course the silver was included.”

“You’re right sir, it is a little unnerving, I guess, -- I was thinking more on the lines she was burned to the stake.”

“No stake my friend, just love came out of her mouth; matter of fact, she did get married. It was when she turned 15-year old that King Richard I came through the village to pay respects to King Arthur and one of his knights, he was known as the Green Knight, who was quite renowned for his gallantry and communication skills, was quite taken with Angelina.
The story goes he fell madly in love with her. He was a lot older than her by far, but none-the-less, a good-looking knight I hear. Quite dashing they say. Matter of fact, King Richard blessed the marriage before he left for another conquest, leaving the knight to settle with his bride in Glastonbury. They say he was dressed in all green, as well as his horse being of that color also. He held no sword, nor carried one with him while being in Glastonbury, yet was quite feared by his comrades. They say he knew not only King Richard quite well, but also Saladin the Arab leader quite well also.
He was tall and thin and from his neck to his loins he was square set, and quite muscular, long limbed, quite strong. His horse was crisped and gemmed with many knots. His eyes were like flashing lights and, --let me add again, he had no sword, shield or helmet.
But he did have an olive branch in his hands when he got off his horse and proposed to Angelina on the spot just as she had prayed for, and was expecting. Unbelievable, as it may sound, it is the gospel truth. He dismounted with one hand, while the other held on to the olive branch, and said to Angelina, ‘I give you this branch from the Holy Land, of where I got it and it is my token of love to you. If you would be kind enough to take it, I would be honored to have you as my wife.’
He told a number of people while campaigning with battles in the Holy Land he had a vision that he would find his bride to be in Glastonbury waiting for him after the war, should he bring a olive branch with him, and no armor or sword; for he must be a brave and yet peaceful knight for his bride; and so he was. I think all of the followers of King Richard were dumbfounded when they saw this, a little doubtful but none the less, when it happened, it was believable.
Well, although everyone around her was somewhat surprised, not because Angelina said ‘Yes’ to his offer, but that it actually happened that way. Matter of fact, she said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
Well, life is funny isn’t it you start to think such happenings never occur, and there right in front of you it does. They say she never acted surprised or even doubted this would not happen. As she told others, she simply did not know the date, and whom it was going to be. I suppose in a like manner, the knight could say the same thing. But she knew the place, and that it would be of that nature.
And yes, here is where they lived, right in the heart of Glastonbury, opened up a shop and worked in the construction trade of building such things as Churches and Inns, as well as bridges and so on.
Being quite tall with his strong and good looks, one might say, he could have had his pick of the women of Glastonbury, but he was faithful to Angelina.
I never thought about it until this very minute, but here is where they would come on the weekends, and at times during the week and just lay in the grass with one another. They were more than friends, lovers and spouses; they were sidekicks one could say. They would find themselves sitting like you and I on this grass looking over the valley, and the hills around here. All of Avalon would fill their eyes like it does for us this very moment; I suppose like it did for King Arthur. And one could say they lived quite happy.”

“How did she die, -- I mean, was it from natural causes?

“You’re fishing my friend I think you want to find something bad about the ending. She didn’t die quite that way, the way you expected her to die that is, but it was from bad natural causes one could say. She was giving birth to her 8th child, it was a boy, they had to cut her open to save the child, she was 35-year old; they could have let the child die and saved her they say, but she said no, she wanted to save the child, and demanded they call him Arthur, and so they did. Her husband never remarried, said he could never find a more sweet and loving wife than her. They lived in their grandfather’s house, as I do today. It is where the diary was found, under the old boards of the basement, tightly put into a metal chest. It simply read, ‘To whom it may concern.’”


Chapter Ten

The Analysis


“And what do you make of this entire story my young friend?”
“I say it is quite mysterious, but the mind is a funny thing, like a black hole in the universe.”
“A black hole, the mind, are you one of those psychologists, or do you know astronomy or something?”
“A counselor of sorts will do; Client Centered Therapist is what they call me, and so I do like to look at how the mind works I suppose. And I do like astronomy.”
“No kidding, I often wondered what made her tick.”
“It makes me think.”
“Any ideas you want to share?”
“Maybe.”
“Come on with it --say what’s on your mind, the girl?”
“All right, --but you’ve got to realize---”
“I realize,” the old man said. “Can’t we stop talking, and you give me the mind thing?”

We sat back down on the grass, it was thick and bright green, the old man glanced toward the tower, and across the valley towards Chalice Hill.

“You got to realize sir,” I said, “…my theory is just a guess, no one can prove anything in the mind, or for that matter the universe. They are both endless mysteries.”
“Doesn’t it mean anything to you to let another person know what you are thinking? We can get along even if we do not agree, and who knows, maybe I will.”
“Of course we can. I don’t want you to think such things. I …”
“It’s all right what you say, but do me a favor and stop beating around the bush… bush, bush bush.

“If something goes into the mind it fills up. But it must come out, and it usually does in moods, or put another way, behavior. Sometimes we can talk it out, if we direct it towards the person we are mad at. In this way the mind is re-nourished. And so the behavior came out for Angelina, possible as one might say, in displacing it for revenge. But in her case it goes deeper, and sideways. Let me explain, if I can.
And so we see her behavior coming out in killing the three soldiers; this way it was setting up a plan, the mind that is, the subconscious, and the protector of the human being. It knew after the killings, it would have to deal with a new mass of information coming into the black hole, and it would collapse.
And so the rape was put into the corner of her mind, a mountain full of anger and resentment, her desires, wishes, dreams were falling all apart. In general, her life was ending, and so she cramped it into a nutshell after the rape. The only place in her mind left to put this crushed world of hers, and energy was to re-create herself and that involved the three murders, get rid of the future, or alter it. It was the only practical proposition her mind would accept.
She could not harness her instincts of murder, for the life they took away from her; all generated by the rape. We do not know the megawatts in a person’s brain, but the explosions within her mind happened so quickly that there was no light left for reality. In a nutshell, it was the process of forgetting, so she could have the old future back. Does that make sense?”
The old man looked at me, “That black hole you’re talking about, the mind, how does it get out of it, that information has to stay there until it deals with it someday, doesn’t it?”
“Good question. I thought I answered it, but let me try again. If you put something into your mind, it fills up. If you take something out, it of course is less filled. And I think in this case, the rape went into her mind, the black hole as you said. And somehow it came out by a process of osmosis, or in the case of Black Holes, through its sides like emitting radiation. When came out, at the same time the mind convinced her she had to kill the three people to restart her future again, but it was a little altered now, and so after the killing the mind would not take in the new information, or black hole would not take in new objects. And so in the case of a Black Hole, it will collapse, I think, not exist anymore.
In her mind it closed up before that information was taken in, and so all she remembered was the good part of the heroes coming back from war, and the new creation what her mind created for her. Now she can go on with her lost future, with only a few good alterations, which she needed anyway to fill in the gaps of lost time. She remembered meeting the soldiers, the money she took as a kindness of theirs, which fit into her plan of how she wanted her future to look, and the horses she gave to her grandpa were old war wounds of the soldiers, as she had thought it should have been. And matter of fact, told it to her grandpa anyway, and that is what she remembered of course, a gift from heroic soldiers; she even implied to the soldiers she was going to do this; and so the mind was working overtime. Often times we end up doing what the mind is thinking while we sleep; that is, we end up doing that the next day. And at the end of it all she married the man she wanted.”

The old man looked at me. He did not say anything, but looked at the countryside as he shifted his head around to meet the Tower on the Tor in front of us.
“What time is your train coming in tomorrow?”
“I think 10:30 AM,” I commented.
“I’d better take a walk to the Tower, over to the other side of it; she used to like that side.”

Chapter Eleven

Last Words


I told the old man thanks for his story, as he walked away, it was haunting my mind, and I got thinking sitting there, I had walked by his house a few times the day before, by a gas station where I bought some chips and coke and brought it back to the B&B so I could watched TV at night. Maybe I’ll check it out later.
I sat up, took my head out from under my palm, from which my elbow was supporting. I really didn’t want to leave the Tor, it was becoming like a sanctuary for me a place to rest, and ponder on, people watching. Not many came though, not sure why, this was the best hidden secret in England, and when they did, they left soon after; the tour busses left the people off for a few hours, that is why I had to come to Glastonbury by myself. I noticed as night came, a few young adults stayed there. But the wind was getting cold, and I was not as young as I used to be to sit around like them. Up on top here you get every wind in the whole area, you had to hide by the side of the Tower. As I walked down the mound of terraces of grass, the cows were leaving to go to Chalice Hill I think, for I noticed a few over on that hill. I think they took there time. Somehow I think time stopped here; or so it seemed. And so I said good night to the equinox that was taking place, and tried not to look back at the Tor, you know, kind of like a knight thing, like Angelina would have likely done, or her knight. But I couldn’t, I had to look back, that was just I.

As I got to the bottom terrace of the Tor, Angelina’s diary came to my mind again. This was the 21st Century not the 12th. How could I define it in my terms, 900 years later? And why did the old man spend so much time with me telling me of the story. Then I got thinking I needed to write the story down, along with some other findings. But my mind needed to rest, and so it had to have an ending, conclusion, and it was deep as that black hole I talked about with the old man, but I was happy I had an ending, I could sleep better with it.


Chapter Twelve

The Next Day


In the morning Jason came to pick me up, it was my third day in Glastonbury. I walked around to the back of the Bed & Breakfast foundation, where a fence was, which seemed to lead into a meadow, yet it was the beginning of the Tor, and I looked up to the Tor at the Abbey Tower on top of it for the last time. It was silent, like Angelina, as if it forgot all its sins, and I’m sure it had its share, for history records much blood shed in this part of the country, and I forgot all my sins as well, as if the Tor was saying, bury the past. I suppose one gets like that in old age. And I guess we all have them. It was not judgmental to me, nor I to it, how could I be, as I said, I think it had its own sinful history, like Angelina, and buried them long ago deep within its underground vaults, if not in the underworld itself; it was the only way to survive, as it is written, “Let the dead bury the dead”, OT. And that was the last time I saw the Tor. I never looked back, or heard from the old man again, although I tried to find his house. I’m sure I’ve seen it, I think I’ve seen it, but couldn’t find it; and Jason on our way to the train station said he never heard the story, or for that matter, the old man. But added, he thought King Richard did come through Glastonbury around that time to pay respects to King Arthur, as did King Edward I in 1278 AD with his Queen. Jason looked out the window, and said, “That’s interesting,” never looking at me, something like the old man did when he left me and walked to the Tor.
You know, someone who is very interested in you for a moment, and you think you are getting along, and he bears his soul, or so you think, and all of a sudden are drifting away as if you do not exist, as if he does not want to be questioned anymore, or for that matter, simply has no more to say. Both Jason and the old man seem to be one of a kind.
At the station we shook hands, and he left, never looking back, and the train pulled up, and I got on. And Glastonbury was like an end to a concert no more. I was alone again.


The End of the Story of Angelina

Ψ











The Seventh Born Son
[Transylvania]



Instead of an introduction, which this story really does not need, let me just update the reader to the far past of this tragedy, which leads up to the present [2002], that is my present, when I went to Wales and met this man prior to his death. Yes, I do say, his death. Before he died though I got to explained to him his twisted past, and he got to explain to me his twisted present.

As I explained, I told him he was the residue of a demonic genetic pools, that took place around 11,500 BC when the Watchers, the Angelic Renegades God sent to watch over the earth, but whom took it upon themselves to commit the unpardonable sin, in angelic form, by cohabitating with human females; thus, producing a gene pool we have not been able to rid ourselves of to this very writing, a pool that produced several different species of living creatures, mostly called demons, hybrids. This gene pool as I explained to Vlad infected him, being the 7th son of a family in Romania. In that area of the world, it has infected many in the past in a like manner. But this is the story of just one it infected, my friend Vlad. Again, the story of Vlad Bran, otherwise know as Vlad Hoof starts back in 1969.


He had a small tail at the end of his spine, and a hoof for a foot, when he was born. He was to be what no one wanted to be--‘draco’, meaning dragon. But to his family he would be nothing less than a freak of nature, a vampire by folklore.
His family names him Vlad Hoof, although their name was Bran. He was born in the region called Transylvania, in Romania, in a city called Bransav.
At an early age Vlad read and heard Bran Stoker’s Vampire stories, although to be quite honest, the book was never seen or translated to Vlad’s home country language until 1990. That is when he became even angrier with his ugly looking body. Yet he covered his tail with pants, and no one was the wiser, for he neither dated female nor male. And his hoof foot, he put on an oversize shoe, and walked with a cane to maintain balance.
He was 21-year old when he first read the book Dracula, and its myth. He seemed to fit the nature of this creature, that is, everything but the blood craving, which the creature liked of his victims. He laughed at it. But he understood everyone’s fears. Was he the vampire Mr. Stoker’s book said he should be, proclaimed him to be? No, he wasn’t though a little odd maybe, but not the vampire. To Vlad Bran this was very unfair. Matter-of-fact, if he was alive, he’d have liked to kill him, slowly, very slowly for defaming his life. For making the world think he was a freak. Kill went through his mind like water down a dam.
Vlad was a silent kind of lad, that is, he kept to himself. Like to drink when he could. Some say a good Welsh trait or Celtic at best. But silence is not what was going on inside of him. He wanted to break out, not hide. He had something to say, to scream. As I suppose, like anyone with a long line of ongoing pain, he wanted the pain to stop, or at least, revenge for this misfortune. “Why me,” he said standing in the middle of the street by his house. But he didn’t ever get an answer, and today would be no different. But today would be different, in a new kind of way. He had in his hand a small suite case, and $2,000 in his pocket. His father had given it to him when he was 15-year old. Told him to take it when he decided to leave home, and never come back. And today was the day. And he knew where he was going. To the train station to get a train at dock #4, 13:50 PM for Cardiff, Wales, where he would become a manager of a hotel restaurant. He was already given the job. How long they’d let him work there was another question after they met him. But it was a beginning. And so at 13:10 PM, Vlad sat at the station waiting for the train.

Cardiff, Wales


Upon his arrival in Cardiff, he established himself at an apartment overlooking the new Millennium Stratum along the city river [Taff], and not too far from the Cardiff brewery. And within the following first few days, he secured his job down at one of the local well known hotels by Cardiff Castle.
After working there a few days he discovered to his amazement, the employees and employer did not make fun of him publicly because of his leg, but rather gave him sympathy. And in addition, he soon found out he was well liked by his peers as well as his subordinates. But none-the-less, it didn’t heal the long scars he had within his belly, and throughout his blood running veins.
As several months passed, he established himself as a serious manager in the food department, the headwaiter, with several under him. And would attend weekly meetings concerning improvements, in which he gave good advice; never showing his discontent for the world outside his mind, his damaged soul. It was justice he yearned for. When he walked by city hall, he spit at it. When he walked by the National Museum he stopped and would always wondered if there were any misunderstood freaks of nature like him in there. He liked walking the riverfront and watching the alcoholics get drunk sitting by the benches, overlooking the Millennium Stadium. He felt if anyone knew what he was thinking—which was killing--, and if they were half sober, they would realize he could and would carry it out. And just what he was thinking was revenge. Yes, revenge on the world. Anyone would do. But he was not a vampire like people thought him as. He was just misunderstood. He didn’t need blood to cure him, only blood to wipe the dirt they threw on him away. And so, as spring came, he drew up his plan.

The Secret Plan


From this day one, he made a pledge to himself; he would carry out his revenge plan. He called it his “Blood Plan.” Saying to the passers by who could not see nor hear him as he was looking out of his apartment window, “Who will it be –you? Oooor you, orrr maybe you,” points his finger at them.
His first victim was selected while visiting a local café and coffeehouse. One he had never visited before. He had found the staff to be very friendly, and so he sat towards the back unnoticed, smiled lightly when looked at, and drank his coffee, and ate his doughnut.
He overheard two women talking, both around 30-year old, it was 7:26 PM. They talked about cheating on their husbands who were kind of computer troubleshooters on the road, and presently on a train going to London to fix some problems for their company. One of the women was tall, about six-feet, the other about five-foot, four inches. Vlad, figured he could handle either one, but the five-footer would be easier, plus she was the one bragging about how her ass could attract any man’s eyes, once she caught them, that is. And then, it was simply a matter of when and where. The taller one blushed and told her how about them two getting it on. The smaller one didn’t go for that, she preferred men to women; nor was she bisexual.
It was about 8:17 PM when the taller one got up and left, Vlad just glanced from the side of his eye; -- another ten minutes went by, the small one now got up catching Vlad’s eyes. And yes, showed that ass. He smiled, and so did she, teasing him; she picked up her purse and went out to her car.
Vlad followed behind. She didn’t turn around, and therefore she didn’t see Vlad’s leg being pulled along like a dead log on the river, his eyes getting bigger and bigger as he pulled his leg, his mouth slurping with spit, and his upper lip wanting to swear at the bitch before him. Wanting to tell her how cruel she was, unfair to her husband. But he would show her. It was only fair. And he had the guts: --the number one asset in this situation.
He walked behind her as she went for her keys, turning around, hearing that dragging noise of his leg, and as she made a 45-degree turn of her neck, Vlad pulled out his 16-inch knife strapped to his leg, and with one sweep in the cool-wind, decapitated her, --her body still standing, her head now under the car, and her blood spurting all about. Then like a tower crashing, her body fell onto the asphalt street. Vlad jumped back, wiped his knife off as if it was just paid for, and attached it back to his leg, and started to walk home.
As he walked along the riverfront, there was that drunk again, the blond, and mumbling to himself.
He stopped by him, looked, then the drunk said, “What the fuck you want mister?” Vlad started back walking, said nothing out loud, and then when he was a distance he shouted, “Number one, number one, I like the blood. I got number one.”

Number Two


Two weeks had passed by since the murder, and Vlad simply would pick up the paper after work, read it while walking down Castle Street, and marvel at how easy it was to murder, once you had a halfway decent plan. It didn’t take a lot of money, just guts. And he felt better. He felt relief; justice had taken its course. It was his justice, but who cares, it was fair. That is, fair to him. She had everything he had nothing. No one ever laughed at her, he told himself. He even looked at the possibility of what the papers said that she did the murderer no harm. But so what he thought. It wasn’t done because she was innocent anyway. It was done because he was harmed. That was his justification. Not innocence. If that was the case no one was truly innocent. He just happened to find a person who could trigger his plan.
‘I want a clergy for number two,’ he told himself as he stood silently at work, staring out the big window onto the street, then having thought that after work he walked home slowly, but a different course. It was 6:30 PM. He thought as he walked home how he liked this city, and its architecture, culture, history. But all the facts and figures in the world he told himself would not stop this second killing. He couldn’t get even with God, but he could with one of his believers. And it was God’s fault he was like this, he thought. He could have made him different at birth he told himself. Maybe make him the 6th son, not the 7th. Why him? Why not one of the families downs the street? Why couldn’t one of them be born with a tail at least? God was nothing but an unfair big shot he told himself: --one that nobody could hurt, but if hurting was possible, it must be through his clergy, he told himself.
He mumbled to himself:
“I hate those Jews, God’s chosen. No I hate them Christians, they think they are the only ones that will go to heaven. No I hate them Muslims, those terrorist freaks.”
As he continued to walk he was trying to program himself to murder whatever clergy he found first, for he hated them all equally.
And there he stood, Cardiff Central Station. There he approached a preacher, saying, “Sir I have a serious problem, it has to do with knowing who the slayer is of that woman who was in the paper a few weeks back. I need your advice.”
The preacher looked into his eyes, then at his ticket, and then around. “How about a police officer, son.” He told Vlad. “Possibly, but I still need your advice,” replied Vlad. Then Vlad asked if they could talk somewhere quite, so no one would hear, possible over by the loading area not far from them. And they proceeded to walk. The public could see them both but there also was a shadow blocking half their view, but the preacher felt safe. He could see the police officer over by platform #4, and this man who walked with a bad leg was surely not harmful, at least not in the open. Vlad asked if they could pray together. And the preacher said ‘sure,’ with hopeful eyes.
As the preacher shut his eyes lowering his head downward, he started to pray; then Vlad pulled out of his pocket a wooden spike, and carefully aimed it, and forcefully drove it through the preacher’s backbone like lightening hitting a tree, the preacher fell to his knees. As he was about to scream with pain, Vlad shoved his glove in his mouth. The policeman now was looking at them both, but did nothing, as Vlad got on his knees as to pretend he was going to pray. Then with a push, the preacher fell over, falling to the dark unused tracks where the cargo sat. Vlad knew he had missed all the preacher’s vital nerves, for it was planned that way, he wanted the preacher to suffer for forth-eight hours. As the preacher tried to get up from his position, Vlad tied his hands behind his back, and his legs together. Then jumping back up onto the platform, into the light, the police officer was gone. No one really noticed, he assured himself; then one last glance at the preacher, and Vlad was off to his apartment, mumbling out loud, “Number three, now I got to get number three.”

Number Three


When Vlad got home that evening he told himself the third victim would be a tourist. They got lots of money to throw away. Plus they used to come to Transylvania looking for Dracula, when it was simply a myth. They wanted blood. Dracula was nothing but a Romanian ruler of the 15th Century who ruled by force. Matter-of-fact, he was well liked by many. And this Stoker’s guy comes along and distorts everything, and gives him a bad name. And the tourists come looking for Stoker’s vampire, not the true Dracula; how misled can people be he told himself. But he would iron this myth out, once and for all he told himself. If they wanted to see a real Vampire in action, he was the action man.
Vlad waited for another month to pass before he implemented his new plan, then after work on the 32nd day after the previous murder, after work 6:35 PM, he went up to the hotel room #304. He knew the lady had been there only two days and that she knew no one in particular. She was just vacationing from America, and came to Cardiff from London, bored with the city she had been to several times before. She was in her early 40’s, a divorced woman.
As he knocked at her door, she asked, “…Who is there!”
“The Captain of the waiters,” Vlad replied, adding, “You left your scarf in the dinning room.”
Vlad had stolen it while she was in the bathroom for this very occasion. As she opened up the door, she took the scarf from Vlad, putting a smile on her face with a big “thank you.” Then like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he hit her in the left side of her jaw, knocking her out. Finding she was dressed, he took out a small bottle of whisky, poured it down her throat, as she spit some up and out, and swallowed the rest of the pint. By the time she was fully awake, she was fully drunk, commenting, “You can rape me, get it over with.”
“My dear, let’s go to the river walk, and there I want to rape you, and there get it over with, and I shall set you free.” She nodded her head, not wanting to cause any problems, knowing she was a small woman of about five-feet, and if this was all he wanted her for, life was more important.
And so he took her down the back steps, and out the back door. Walking, and threatening he could kill her with the knife he had in his pocket, which he did have, if she tried to scream or run at any moment. And so they walked several blocks until they came to a fence. He told her to be quiet, insofar as, not to wake up anyone and so they snuck in, behind a building. He told her a second time not to make a sound. Her life depended on it –as to not wake up the owner. And there on the ground, he pulled his pants down, and her dress up, and jumped between her legs. That is what she expected, and it would be his first time having sex. As she felt him entering her, she put her hand behind him, feeling his tail accidentally, and started to pull on it. He stopped quickly. “And so you have discovered my tail, bitch.” She looked shocked, and then out of nowhere started screaming. Vlad jumped up ran out to the gate climbing over it then stood quietly looking through the fence as her shadow stood up. And behind her three dogs were walking slowly. She turned hearing the dog’s nostrils breathing in oxygen, and the sound of the dogs’ growl coming out of their mouths, --the next scene was the dogs were on top of her like vampires, chewing her flesh.
The papers read the next day, “Woman mulled by dogs, while being raped.”

Number Four


It was not over yet. Vlad wanted 7-dead, for his seven deadly sins, and for his curse of being the seventh son. And his next victim was an old man, in his 70’s. He lived in his apartment building. He bragged, and was envious of everyone. Made lies up about everyone, told them about their sins, but never about his. He would be the one to sacrifice him for mankind, the pure one; the one who did it all. What more did he need to live for? Just taking up air and space, and life was no more to him than a drop of water in an almost full pale of water.
And so it was two weeks after the last murder, when Vlad went to the old man’s room, knocked on the door, with a pizza in his hand offering it to him, saying “Sir, I know you have a hard time getting out, and so I thought I’d offer you a pizza out of friendship.”
Smiling, the old man took it. Looked Vlad in the eyes, and shut the door. Vlad went then to his apartment waited two hours and went back to the old man’s apartment. Knocked on the door, and he didn’t answer, as Vlad expected for he put sleeping chemicals all over the pizza. Vlad quickly took out a master key of sorts, he had made out of a nail by carving the end of it to a funny looking ‘t’-shape of sorts, and open the door; put the old man’s arm around his shoulder and walked him slowly but caring him mostly down to the Cardiff Castle [the Keep]: several blocks away. There he opened the gate again with that key he had made months ago, and snuck through its grounds to the Keep the castle part on top of a small hill. He had to walk up about 30-steps, and then to the left of him was an old well, with water still in it. He took the iron platform off it, and threw the old man in it. As he hit the bottom, he awoke screaming, but no one could hear.
It was two weeks later before anyone had discovered him dead.

Number Five


And now he thought, was to be his mercy killing. One he would do for mankind even though they would not thank him. He would kill the young drunk blond; that one that told him “Fuck off,” and the one that looked at him angry every time he walked the riverbank. His days were numbered. But it was for mankind really.
And so that Sunday, Vlad took his usually walk down by the river but this time when he walked by the drunk, he pulled out a big bottle of Scotch Whisky, feeling he should have a good drunk if he is going to wake up in hell. It was 6:15 PM. There they both sat, talking like they were friends for twenty years, drinking, laughing, joking as passers by came and left. Most keeping their distance, a few coming close to them, but no one making any direct eye contact. They both matter-of-fact waived at a police car driving by, Vlad saying to the blond drunk not to make any loud noises or scenes that would cause the police or anyone to make a complaint of them, thus, stopping them from being friends.
For a few hours they sat on the bench along side the river, then for an hour or two they leaned over the railing looking into the river. Then back to the bench. It was 3:00 AM. The blond was passed out; Vlad then got up, took a shovel he had folded up in a paper bag that looked like another bottle of whisky, and started digging behind the bench. He dug about 3 1/2 feet down, it was going on 4:15 AM when he got done with the digging, then picking up the drunk, he tied his legs to his arms binding him like a cow to be branded, then put duck-tape over his mouth, placing him in the dug out grave, and buried him alive. He thought this was no different than his ancestors of 500-year ago; it is only the modern world that will think this a barbaric thing.
And like nothing happened he walked home chanting, “Six and Seven next…” This is where I come into the story.

The Visitor


I had met Vlad at the hotel, where my wife and I were having spaghetti, and he introduced himself. I had told him I was a writer of sort stories and novels, and a poet of sorts, and he seemed quiet interested. I also told him we were up from London for two days, and this was our first trip to the city.
Having said that, he told me he had a very interesting story to tell me, but I would have to see him at his apartment. It told him this was not possible, it would have to be in my room, my wife would most likely be present. Having no chose in the matter he said ok. That very evening he came to my room, and explained to me this story you have just read. Then he said, tomorrow we were invited over to his house for dinner to get the rest of he story. In my mind I said to myself, you mean he is going to kill two more people, and I know about it. No way. I told him I’d have to go to the police. He smiled at me simply saying, “Do what you think is best.” Adding, “I’ll see you at 7:00 PM.”
Well, Vlad left the apartment, and my wife and I just kind of sat thinking about what to do. I really didn’t want the story. And I wasn’t sure if I believed him or not. But my vacation was lost to his will.
The next day was Thursday, and at 5:00 PM, I notified the police of what Vlad had said, after checking with his employer why he was not at work. He said he had called in sick at 6:46 PM.
My wife, two police officers and I arrived at his apartment. The police knocked at the door, and no one answered. But the door was not locked, and so the police proceeded to enter, as I followed them in. The apartment was small, and so we did not have to go far to be in the living room, and there on the floor laid Vlad. He had shot himself in the head with a gun, killing himself once, and then as we had opened the door, we heard a “thump” sound, it was a wooden spike with a 10-lbs weight behind it that fell from the chandelier, ceiling going through his heart; thus, killing his spirit. And so he got revenge once more, he also found his way of the jungle, the one he was alone in.





Buried Alive in the Ohio Mounds

The Dead Vault



Prologue:


The dynasty XVIII 1570-1293 BC—from the diary of a mound maker, Hesmaglig, from Egypt, Memphis; written in hydrographs, and kept hidden in a vault within a mound in North America, in a land called Ohio, discovered in the year AD 2002. The scribing was found on the pyre within the vault on sandstone and the paper-reed [papyrus].


II

The History


I left Egypt for a few different reasons, Akhenaten was Pharaoh, and he looked more like a hawk than a king among kings. He was on his second wife, and I know he still loved his first though, no matter what anyone says. I never liked him; he was changing everything, our beliefs, or souls. He neglected our rituals, sanctuaries; in his desert home he lived alone among the scorpions like himself, I also lived there with his entourage for many years. I am only lucky to be able to write this, for surely the royal pharaohs assassins will seek me out until they know I am dead. But I will fool them for the third time. They will not have their way of sweet revenge. Akhenaten’s son Tutankhamen is now enshrined in the pharaoh’s shadow because of me and my wife and my two friends and a few other people. And so the seer has told me many things for the future.
Things that will never be told to mankind should I not write these down with the little air I have left in the tomb, deep within this mound, I must use sparingly.
I have chosen this way to die for not many people are allowed such a luxury, my mound contains a vault like appearance of timber, 12 feet by 13 feet with in the center of the mound. The mound if you are looking upon it from a distance will stand 20-feet high. Not like the pyramids of Egypt, but it will do. I have some limestone figurines we took with us from Egypt, I am writing my last minutes on them, along with the papyrus. For the air hole that leads down to my vault has been plugged up now, and so it is just a matter of time. The future must know the truth what happened on that day…that day my wife and I, along with our two friends were hired to kill, bash in the head of the pharaoh’s son, who was really the pharaoh.
His father changed everything. New gods or should I say, a new God, new everything; but those who hired us, betrayed us, used us as an escape-goat, they are the ones who have sent the bone collectors to find us, and bring our bones back to them. For they will know me by my bones, for I am 7’3” tall. Yes, big boned, as is my wife. I do not regret what I did, for it was for the god’s and the goddesses, and the land of Egypt, but to be betrayed by the very one’s that hired you.


III

The Kill


It was late in the evening when I guarded the door, my wife was keeping the two guards busy, she had to surrender her body to them, let them have what they pleased to keep them occupied, but I told her it was for the better, it was for Egypt, and so they fondled her every part, and used her like a sex-rag-doll while I guarded the door that led into the young pharaoh’s sleeping chamber. He was fully asleep, and my two friends one on each side of the bed, stood silently, and the one on the left side of the bed, it was easy for him, who I will not name, to give the young pharaoh a blow on the back of his head, IT DID DAMAGE TO THE SKULL. And then they both panicked and I ran with my other companions.
I stopped behind one of the great pillars of the palace, and my wife was pinned against it as the guards, six of them now were taking their turns on my wife, I stabbed all six in a rage, stabbed them in their hearts, then grabbed my naked wife, putting a cotton robe around her, I had carried for this very occasion, and made our escape.


IV

The Priesthood


The Amun priesthood had the young pharaoh saying what they wanted for a while when he was eleven years of age. But when he defied them, they took a disliking to him. They wanted their temples to be restored and the gods reinstated. They wanted undone, what his father had done. I think Akhenaten became ill with this one God concept, maybe he got it from the Hebrews, no one really knows. Everything came from the office of Memphis, the dispatch to kill the pharaoh, and the money to be paid us in gold, as well.
It was a hot year back then which was over 12-year ago; I remember when the army of scribes had to go to many places throughout Egypt to record how much grain was collected from the farmers. The Nile was high those years, for I recall a few floods causing quite a lot of damage along the coastal areas and even some reaching the Great Sphinx.


V

The Crossing


My wife is lying down now next to me, she is dying, her lungs are not as good as mine, and I am breathing very slowly. It took us two years to build this mound, in the far off land, west of Egypt. It took us three months on the mighty ocean to cross, until we found land that was several years ago. And then we went farther west, and then north, where I found one of my far off relatives, who were related to the great “Queen of the Serpent Watcher.” I heard of the legend, and knew I had a heritage that went back to beings that were half-human and half-spirit. It was said that an angelic-serpent being cohabitated with my great, great, great grandmother, and became “The Serpent Queen,” when she died, the angelic-being that looked like a serpent, built a mound not all that far from my mound, in the shape of a Serpent, about seventy-five feet long.
My mound is not special in those respects, but it is classical, in that it has this chamber we are in. On top are pebbles, and then three feet of earth, and then sand, and then earth, and then more sand and way down is an altar, I had put in place for the god’s. Yes I buried myself alive…I am the mound maker, this is my diary, and my roots are the Serpent Queen I die with dignity how will you die my friend? So think of me as not bad for doing this: --like all things, it is a choice, one of a few options. I will join the dead shortly, as will my wife. She was a good wife, and more than willing to die with me, she did have a choice you know, life as a toy and slave to the seekers, or to remain my wife and join me in the hereafter.
It seems like my wife has stopped breathing, she was a good wife, and I know I said that, but I must repeat it, maybe if she hears she will fight for one more, just one more breath. She obeyed me to the last moment: --no, I see her chest, it still moves; oh God of God’s, thank you’re for that one more breath, there is not much air left though. My lungs feel heavy as if to say they are filled up with water, no room to hold air. It is a good time to die, for outside is very cold, and the white snows from the heavens have covered the land. I have never seen this kind of cold in Egypt; I do hope the assassins the betrayers sent to kill me freeze to death. Poetic justice is always sweet revenge. I just kissed my wife, on the forehead, she knows that I am all there is in her earthy life.


VII

Ancestry & Genealogy


This mound is my pyramid, and this land is my Egypt, for Egypt is simply the residue of the great Atlantis, where my Serpent Queen Grandmother of long ago once came from. I was told this, and I have no reason to doubt it. But Egypt is puffed up, and will not listen to reason; they think they are the only empire worthy of the god’s. But Atlantis sank, as will Egypt. Where do they think they came from, they don’t even know who built the Sphinx’s. I do, it was those who were with my ancient grandmother I just spoke of.

I have told you I did this for my motherland, Egypt, I hope you believe this; a dying man has no reason to lie. Let me explain, Egypt was dying, and with Tutankhamen on the throne, the young pharaoh, it was a new beginning, and we all felt that Egypt would gain its revitalization back through him and back through the temple priests who where telling the young Pharaoh what to say, do, and act, but the Nubia kept cutting off necessary goods to us, irreplaceable recourses we needed. And so our economy depended on the fact we control Asia and Nubia, if it meant war so be it. But the new King of Kings was looking a little hesitant, looking at this strange one God his father proclaimed to have discovered, the one and only God. He could not be a martyr for the people, oh no that would not do: -- death by accident was better for the young pharaoh. And everyone wanted to go back to the old ways, to include myself. Yet I wonder now, why we did not have a choice.
As you can see, I am giving my life for my beliefs, my wife gave her body, and we all gave something. Before, that is when Akhenaten was alive; the army was simply his bodyguard, no more, no less. Almost useless, but they kept him alive. Egypt will not find a more faithful man than I. Yet she wants to kill me. I violated my values for Egypt, for I liked Tutankhamen, and his half-sisters; and I liked Smenkare, the half brother to Tutankhamen.
I was Tutankhamen’ teacher for a year; I helped him learn the hieroglyphs [inscription], the phonetic. I had taught him the first twenty-five, the others were given to him by other teachers, and he learned many on his own, through self study; he was very quick to learn. And so you see, I had access to the palace.
As I lay here almost dead now, still a few more things to write, I remember the hours, so many hours I worked devoted to his writing correctly with a reed bush made soft. I had him practice on pottery first, then on papyrus.
I did not teach him how to swim, but I watched him many times on the banks of the Nile with his sisters, and the royal guards watching for crocodiles. At nine years old, he was already driving a chariot, I’m not sure who taught him that, but one day I saw him from my palace window.


VII

The Ways of Akhenaten


My wife just grabbed my hand, she is dead I think. Yes, she is dead, my only sole mate who dreamed the same dreams I did, who cried when I did, who died for me, at my call, may the gods be with her, and if they are not, maybe the dreamer’s god will be with her, that is to say, Akhenaten’ God. I do not have the full understanding of the new religion that came about, for only Akhenaten really knew I think, but I do understand one thing, He was a sole God, who Akhenaten felt made the earth alone, no one to help Him; without the help of other gods that is.
Akhenaten was a poet of sorts, and I remember the “Hymn to Aten” which explains that there is only one God—the Aten, and he created everything, earth, people, everything. This is what brought him hate. It was no more Egypt, but more about a poets love for a new god. Thus, came the new policies, which were too divergent from the traditional ones.
“Goodbye my love, my life…my wife…my sidekick,” she is dead now. I will be dead in a little bit too. But Nefertiti was her name, the Pharaoh’s wife, that is; it stands for beautiful, and that she was. Oh yes, sweet love. Many stelas were erected with her name on them in Egypt. But beauty does not mean faithfulness. You could not buy a wife like mine. Her life was my life.
Akhenaten preached love and peace, and caused the land to become darken with the call of war for no country wants to bow their knees to Egypt anymore. To be strong, and keep peace you must be able to fight, conquer. And someone in the world had to be the world leader. No, Akhenaten was not a good ruler, the army was lost and ignored, as was the revenue to collect tax and pay for services. But the Poet Pharaoh carved on tomb walls Nefertiti scenes. Yes the princess stood tall. She had whatever she wanted. For the price of peace he gave gold to the people. And just where did he get his gold, it was from the contributions expected to be brought to Egypt from other kingdoms, and now they were saying, they did not have it. And the Pharaoh turned his back, and in time all such shipments stopped. Right or wrong, there are no laws with out firm rulers, and Egypt gave the earth peace; oh yes, it took, but it gave. And it is better to rule, and then be ruled.




VIII

Death in a Vault


By the time you read these stones I write on, and lay upon this pyre [death altar], it will be but ancient memories; they will not stir you as they do my psyche. Images I write, landscape I talk about. But do not let your first impressions take hold of you, look at the architecture, the earthwork, it is done by me, this is my temple. Many tones of stones ravel on top my head now. Rooted in the earth, this is the greatest temple of all. My great…grandmother the Serpent Queen, her shrine which is the Serpent mound, has an egg in it, but it is not an egg, it is the earth she swallows, for this sphere we are on is not round, I have been told that by my seer. That information my Queen knew, it is oval. And the great flood that was not long ago, about 2500-year ago, in a previous age, the mother goddess my Queen through the seer transmitted this knowledge to me. My seer was called the Python. I have but a few seconds before my light goes out, and I will then be dead, but let me tell you this, for the future: there are multiple layers of secrets within theses mounds, especially Serpent Mound, may the discoverers of the future earth’s inhabitants, the explorers if you will, use their imagination to uncover wisely, what we have left behind for them, for they will fight with disbelief more than with possibilities… light…out…out… out…out…. death….




The Senator from Lima



1

The Torrents of Lima



On the night of my birthday, October 7, the plane descended over Lima. The spread of the lights below me went for miles; it was like looking at a twenty-mile power plant all lit up like a Christmas tree.
As we descended the lights came narrower—making them condensed against the dark black ground of the sky.
Chick Evans closed his window slightly, leaving enough open to see some of the lights, then put his shoes back on, battened his belt around his waist, then opening up the shutter slightly, to the window again, he seen the lit cross on the cliff out by Mira Flores, it was just visible as the moonlight help him pin-point it.
Mr. Evans was in the fall of his life, a little tired from all the traveling he had done, and seemingly wanted to get to his home in San Juan Mira Flores, a section of Lima where he owned a home, to simply rest. Take the burden of life off his shoulders for a spill. He was a freelance writer, who had several novels to his credit some, which had done well, and others not so well. He was also noted for being a writer one might call, from a category called: “The Road Less Traveled,” as the papers called him. He had met the old president of Lima some years back while in the Amazon area, and was friends with the Mayor of Mira Flores, along with a Senator, from Lima. Matter of fact, he was to have lunch with the Senator if time permitted. And although Mr. Evans was to take time and rest in Lima, he would make time for the Senator, because business with the Senator, allowed him to write it off on his taxes. The Senator, had called him, asking him to stop by his office upon arrival into the city, and possible consider a story assignment around the corner. In addition to the politicians Mr. Evans knew, he also was a friend with a few popular T.V. celebrities, one being of a spiritual nature. Although his name was not a household word, it was recognized in the larger cities of Peru; and two of his seven books were translated into Spanish.

For the most part, Mr. Evans was a vicarious and happy man, self-confident most of the time, and good direction, and could at times be opinionated. He was an American War veteran, from the Vietnam era; he had spent time in Germany, San Francisco and Vietnam in his 20’s. In San Francisco, he had gotten his first degree from Berkley and his Masters from the University of Minnesota in Psychology, with a minor in Literature. He had also attended the Heidelberg University for a while being stationed in Germany.
Mr. Evans always felt life was fair, inasmuch as if you ask for it, and got it, do not complain. And he got what he asked for most of the time, to include no wife, children, dogs or cats. He had the biggest house on the block in St. Paul, Minnesota, and on his block in Lima. He had saved $82,000, since he had no real retirement, being a freelance writer, and independent contractor, and as a novelist, he waited for his checks to hit his checking account, and took side jobs to account for his ongoing needs, and some took him to odd places.

“Thank you misses,” he said as he disembarked the plane to the grown level of the airport in Lima, Peru. The stewardesses were pretty, young and too wild looking for him. But he none the less, liked the Peruvian beauty look of their bronze Spanish and inch skin; --having thought that, he told himself he needed to simply get home and rest from his previous job, and jet-leg, that is, his job he just finished in Argentina where he was covering a boxing match in Buenos Aires, a championship fight between Marcelo Dominguez vs. Fabio Moli; Dominguez being the Champion of South America, and Moli being the Champion of Argentina. Moli seems to have been close to seven feet tall, thought Evans when he sat in the second line of chairs by the boxing ring. And both being heavy weights, it was bound to be a good fight. Dominguez played a little of the Ali-shuffle, and played the ropes a lot, trying to get the big Moli tired, and so the skillful Dominguez did: --Moli’s huge arms missing Dominguez’s head by inches. It reminded him when Muhammad Ali fought Foreman in Africa. Foreman being the giant and youth of the fight and Ali [previous known as Cassius Clay] was the older and more skillful one of the fight. And history had already recorded the fight. Now Evans was in the process of recording the one he had previously witnessed
After the fight, Evans approached the ring where Dominguez was, and rightfully getting his congratulations, outpouring respect, and victorious applause all around him. Evans caught his eye, and shook his fist in a victory cry about five feet away from him, as Dominguez gave Evans a cheerful smile, thus, greeting him back in a like manner. One of the onlookers knew the Novelist, Mr. Evans, and quickly took a picture of them both expressing that moment. Dominguez then went about greeting others and the press.

He told himself he needed to rush home and get ready for a dinner with a friend of his at the “Rosa Nautica.” He enjoyed the food there, especially the fish and duck. It was situated on wooden platform that went out into the ocean. The waves would hit the restaurant as you ate. The sound of the waves was always tranquilizing for Evans. And it was if not the best place to eat in all of Lima, second best; but he never found a better one.
As he caught a cab to his home he thought about his other selective café, he enjoyed eating at when he was in town, it was the ‘El Parquetito’ there he was a regular customer, and Maribel would normally be his waitress, knowing exactly how he liked his food, and if she wasn’t around Hernan would take her place. Maribel had twin’s boys, and she’d bring them up to his attention off and on when he asked, and then get his special dishes of ‘Lomo Saltado,’ or ‘Tallarin Saltado,’ or if he was not too hungry, and wanted a delicious soup, he’d order ‘Sopa criolla,’ with a diet coke, and strong cup of coffee. There he would sit under the umbrella, and watch the movements of the people across from the restaurant, in the park.
But it was not always so tranquil there, especially in the late 80’s and early 90’s when the “Sendero Luminoso,” and “MRTA” terrorized Lima, and the surrounding area with car bombs, destroying hotels, the economy for the most part. Windows would be blown out of the phone company; the whole city’s electrical power was knocked many times. And these were the nice guys saying they wanted to help the citizens of Peru. They were butchers, and carried only to create a blood bath for the people of Peru. Yes, Evans remembered those days, and when Fujimori took office as President, and played a game of chess with the terrorist, and won. Put the bully Guzman behind bars like an animal, and let the press take pictures of him so the world could see the monster they caught.

The city had an assortment of fast food restaurant’s now, kind of a sign that all was right. And tourism had benefited quite a lot. Machu Picchu was becoming more famous as a world site to see by the year. Wherever he’d go people ask him how Peru was and he’d always answers, ‘the people love Americans down there; the food is cheep and good, and the women are lovely. What more can a man ask for.’
There were more Pizza Hut’s, McDonald’s, and KFC’s in Lima than in St. Paul, Minnesota. But that was good Evans thought for the people had suffered poverty long enough.


2

At the House


The new president had been in office for a while now, had visited the United States and president Bush. Matter of fact, he was welcomed with open arms instead of kept waiting like the previous presidents did to the South American dignitary; a repulsive and disrespectful act Evans thought of his great countrymen. President Toledo at times had a lot of controversy about him, and some of the people were having second thoughts about his capabilities, that is, him having more Inca blood than Spanish, helped him get elected; Evans thought that was a good asset, his girlfriend being half Inca; otherwise known as a Mestizo [Inca with Spanish]. Evans wasn’t sure how to measure his success, but knew he was well received at the White House, and held an international conference with South American leaders. That was saying a lot.
When Mr. Evans got to his house, Papa Augusto was in his room, an old timer who watched the house, with his dog Tomasa. He insured the six bedroom house was clean by having a maid, Nancy, who came over once a week and stayed over night to insure all was well; --she also watched the neighbors as they were building the house next to them, to insure all the legality of skilled labors were being performed properly. The old timer had a daughter named Dalila whom was some 20-year younger than he, and he dated her when he was in town. Papa Augusto had family in Huancayo, and would go there to see them occasionally, and would spend time in the jungle, during this time Nancy would stay over in his house and insure all was well. And Dalila would also stop by and the two would have coffee. And so on one hand the house was an open house on the other it was much unused.
As Evans got dropped off at his house, he went to his room overlooking the park across the street and the newly built church. He had seen it progressively grow from a dirt platform to a circular beautiful church, one story, with four doors.
The trip was to be a little business and a little pleasure, meaning rest. He was to meet the Senator from Lima. And so he could use that as a tax writes off possibly, which was another aspect of helping financing his vacation.

Abimael Guzman’s group known as “Sendero Luminoso,” were still in the mountain area of Ayacucho, while he himself was behind bars; notwithstanding, Lopez, had taken over as the leader, and was trying to get recruits, and restructure the army they once had. Lopez was one of Guzman’s lieutenants.


3

The Contract


The phone rang at Evans house, he picked up the phone, and the Senator was on the other line. He told Evans to sit down in a chair; he had something to tell him.
“What’s up Senator?” Evans asked him.
“I’m not sure”, he hesitated, then went on, “I can’t meet you for dinner.”
“Do you need to let me know something Senator,” Evans said.
“What the hell,” he said with a cracked voice, “I might just as well tell you. A while back I made a deal with the ‘MRTA’ group, the main man, and I don’t want to tell you his name, because I don’t want you involved. But anyway, he helped me secure my post as Senator, and I promised him something in return. Well, things have change since Fujimori was President, and I did not fulfill my promise. Actually the group sold my promise to the “Sendero Luminoso” group, to one of Guzman’s lieutenants named Lopez. I could buy my way out of the promise for five million, but who has that kind of money. And after the tragedy of 9/11 in the United States, I cannot get the passports and the positions they wanted in our government. They want to make a show of me. You know, show the others what they do to people that do not keep their word. I am not leaving this house Evans. I’m just tired and want to lay down here in this hotel, and die.”
“What hotel you at,” asked Evans. He looked at the clock; it said 7:15 PM.
“There are two cars out by my hotel; I see them from the 9th floor. They are waiting for me to come out, but I’m not going out, they will have to come up and get me,” said the Senator, checking the two men in suites with his binoculars standing by their Cadillac’s.
“Hell with dinner, what hotel is you at?” asked Evans again.
“Who gives a shit, the Americana; that’s just the way it works Evans, nothing you can do.”
“I’ll take a chance, I’m coming down to see you, and they don’t know me and have no reason to hurt me, see you in a few minutes.”
“Got anything to drink over there?” asked the Senator.
“I’ll bring down some Scotch,’ said Evans.
“You’re a good man Evans, thanks.”


4

The Hotel


“Mr. Evans”, said a voice as he started to walk up the steps to the hotel and visit the Senator with the bottle of Scotch in his right hand. He turned about to look.
“Yes you, Mr. bright-eyed gringo, come over here--” said one of the two Peruvian men standing by the car; --the other one looking up to the 9th floor watching the dark configuration of the Senator pacing the apartment.
“The cities full of do-gooders like you, if you’re smart you’ll have the Senator come down and join us for a ride. Matter of fact if he doesn’t we just may go visit his family.”
“What are you looking at gringo,” said the other man who was looking up at the apartment.
“Nothing,” said Evans.
“Oh fuck you, nothing, you don’t need to lie to me, I’ll cut your balls off for mere pleasure.” The other short fat assassin said in his rustic voice.
“Got to forgive my partner,” said the taller lanky man, “He gets tired waiting for the Senator.”
“What you talking to the gringo for, it’s none of his damn business what we are doing here...” said the fat man.
“He already knows, we bugged his apartment, and Lopez said let him go up, maybe he can persuade him to come down.” The thin man looked at Evans, adding, “…maybe, right?”
“Tell Lopez from me, I hear he’s a betting man, and what would he bet on for the Senator’s life.” The fat man started laughing.
“The gringo speaks like he’s in charge…this is Peru, not the States Mister. Go back home before I cut you liver out. Tell him to go, Dave.”
“What did you call me, fat man”, said Dave with his eyebrows high in the air.”
“Oh nothing, see, see, he’s confusing us. He’s the one interfering.”
“Ok Mr. Evans, I’ll call Lopez, but now you’re in the middle of this; it might be wiser if you just move on while you can.”
“No, please call if you’re willing, --I’ll not give away your name or business. Remember what you said.” He looked at Evans like a shark looking at a small fish ready to be eaten. Evans moved over to the side of the building as David pulled his cell phone out and made a call, all the time checking and rechecking Evans’.

The fat man was standing by the back of the car, David in front, and now Evans in front of David.
“Hay, you got a deal,” said David. But Evans didn’t make a move, knowing the deal would not be as easy as it sounded.
“What do you say, or think?” Asked David.
“Thanks, but I’m sure there is more to it.” David laughed, and the fat man was impatiently pacing in circles.

“Here is how it will go. You’re a betting man I bet,” said the fat man, “He is, go on tell us the rest.”
“As I was saying, we have a bet going on, do you want to take it or not? What do you got to say?”
Said Evans,
“Tell me the bet, --I’ll do it if I can.”
“I would say you’d have to do it once I tell you, if not the Senator and maybe you are dead meat.”
Said the fat man, “See bright-gringo, you’re not so smart; I may get to cut them off yet.”
“Yes.” Said Evans, implying he agreed.
David went on to say, “You and I, and Miss Rodrigo’s in the car, my girlfriend, and the fat man, will go with you to a restaurant in old Lima; there will be cock fights tonight; --a total of six.”
“I’ve been there before,” replied Evans.
“Good, you know what I’m talking about then. Anyway, you got to win three out of six to save the Senators life. But if you loose, the Senator has to commit suicide. That is, when we come back, if he doesn’t you is a dead man, and so is he, and his family. Now if he does not want to go along with it, the Senator, we will be up there in a few hours when it is quiet, and one way or another he is going to meet his maker.”


5

The Senator


Evans knocked on room 912, the Senator’s room.
“Yes,” a voice from behind the door said.
“Senator, it’s me, Evans.”
“You alone?”
“Yes.”
“Ok, wait.” Several latches behind the door were being undone.
“Come in, I’ve been watching you from up here with my binoculars, what you been doing down there?” The Senator asked with a hopeful tone in his voice.
“Well, I’m not sure, but I tried to cut a deal with … the main man, not sure for where who was on the other side of the phone. Incidentally, your room is bugged.”
“I guessed as much,” said the Senator, going on to say, “I am a dead man I know, but …”
“Shut up Senator,” said Evans, “I made a deal it’s the only one you’re going to get, and I’m not sure even if I want to go though with it.”
“What kind of deal, any kind is better than none,” replied the Senator.
“And they are only going to make this deal, no other deal,” said Evans.
“Well, get it out, tell me,” said the Senator.
“I suppose you were some how possessed with having power so it got you into this situation, but now my life is at stake,” said Evans.
“You talk to damn much,” said the Senator, “…get on with it, what’s the damn deal.”
“Well, they want me to go to the cock-fights tonight, --actually, in a few minutes. I got to bet on six of he fights, and if I win three, you’re a free man, and if I do not, you got to commit suicide. I guess its better they feel if you kill yourself than they do it. Plus, they told me they had to make an example out of you. And this was the only way the boss, I think it’s that Lopez guy can come out ahead.”
“I’ll do it,” said the Senator.
“Listen, if you agree, and you don’t do it, I’m a dead man, and so is your family, and so are you, anyway.”
“At 57-year old, I’ve lived a good and a long life, I’d like to live longer, but I don’t want to run or worry anymore. I’m tired; --success has its judgments along the road.” The Senator went back to his bed to lie down, looking out the window, dimming the lights, as he did.
“Go now, they are waiting for you.”


6

The Cock Fight



“Bright Gringo,” said the fat man at the restaurant, as they were sitting down waiting for the cockfight to start. “There is the man with the money in his hand if you want to make a side bet,” and he started laughing.
“Why the hell don’t you get a beer for yourself, you make me nervous,” said David to the fat man.
“Don’t want one; just want to get this on with.” The lights dimmed, and two men each coming in from a different side of the large center arena, that held a chick-coop, but as large and round as a one hundred square feet, made out of steel bars. The men walked inside, holding the cocks tight against their chests and combing their necks with their hands.
The men were now in the coop, walking around, allowing the cocks to get the cent of the enemy. Then they put knifes on their feet that would allow them to cut up each other as they fought for the win.
“You want to bet,” said the Peruvian banker [who took the bets], holding a handful of money. The fat man said, “Yes…”
“How much,” said the banker, adding, “A straight bet, and double your money.”
“Fifty soles, “said he fat man, about $15.00. And handed him a 50 soles bill.
“Can’t bet before you kill someone DDDDDavid, haw?” Said the fat man sarcastically, the other man saying, “…you talk too much fat man.” Then the cockfight started.

The one cock was taller than the other, stronger looking, more filled. But Evans picked out the smaller one. David was unsure why, but said nothing. Evans felt the smaller one was leaner and told both David and the Fat man, it was his choice for sure; --he felt he could out maneuver the heavier one. Plus, the big one would slow down quicker, and had to reach more to get to an offensive. The lean one just kept walking in circles. Neither making any big moves, then the big one jumped on the other picking at its eyes and head, while cutting at the legs and wings of the lean one. Somehow the lean one rolled itself around the big one, under the big one’s feathers and got back up on its feet and shoved its weight on the big one’s neck. The big one trying to get away to get a rest couldn’t move, as the lean one on top was already resting.
Then out of the blue, --blood started coming from the constant picking at the big one’s neck by the lean one; --then came the eyes again. And then the big one laid dead, a few impulsive movements, but he couldn’t move.
“So you got one out of six, you still got two more to go, you bright ass gringo,” said the fat man. Evans didn’t say anything, he knew no matter what, success or just getting ahead in life there is always one jerk wanting to put you down out of jealousy; plus he knew the fat man was a mean spirited person, and it would just provoke more trouble; --and waited for the next fight.

The fat man lost his bet with the banker, and put up another 50 soles, and the second of six fights started. Again it seemed the cocks were mismatched, one being taller and heavier than the other, and again Evans beat the odds, and won the bet, and the fat man lost, ever so angry. And the third fight started. David watched the third fight with glued eyes, it was fierce, and both were lean and fast. And at times all they did was circle one another, and one of the men had to go in and push the cocks to fight. The crowd was getting angry, and the birds were looking everywhere as if they were lost. This fight took so long many got up and got a beer, but at the end, Evans’ cock lost; and so did the fat man’s bet.
The fifth fight started, but this time the tall cock was lean, and the smaller one was lean.
“Which one do you want?” asked David.
“The tall one,” commented Evans, and the fight started. And the smaller one jumped on top of the big one like a shark.
“No, no I changed my mind, the small one,” said Evans. David looked at the fat man he shook his head ok.
“Ok Evans, but no more changing your mind, you got the small one.” And with in the next two minutes the fight changed, and the tall one overpowered the small one. Evans lost, and the fat man won for the first time 50 soles.
“This is the last one Evans, you got to win or it curtains for the Senator, and possible you.”
The fight started, and the cocks were pretty well matched, both husky looking, not fast, rather slow. But when they started fighting they’d fight for a quick moment, and both get tired it seemed, and walk in circles again. And again a man had to go inside the cage and provoke the cocks to continue to fight. It was as though they did not want to entertain the guests. And then as the man walked out side the cage, they started back up. Evans’ cock lost. All three looked at one another. David a little surprised, mouth open. The fat man clearing his windpipe, for once he had nothing to say. And Evans just blew air out of his mouth as if to say, ‘here we go.’



7

The End of the Road


There was nothing simple about this Evans thought, how he could tell the Senator to please kill himself for the sake of him: --maybe his family, but him. As they drove back to the hotel, everyone was quiet.
“The truth is Mr. Evans,” commented the fat man, “…you ought to play the fights more often.” He was becoming amused at the situation now. David said nothing, he knew there was a process now, and it had to be played out. He also got to liking Evans a little, and it would be hard to kill him now, but he was a professional, and if worse came to worse, he would, and the Senator knew this, if Evans didn’t.


The three pulled up to the hotel, the Senator was watching out of his window with his binoculars. He didn’t see the men get back into the car.
“Can I go up and talk to the Senator first,” said Evans.
“No, that’s not part of the deal, we’ll go up.” Having said that, and the Senator watching, and the two men walking towards the door, Evans leaned against the car, looked up at the figure in the window, feeling he should run for his life, but where, so he stood still. As the fat man opened he door, a shot was heard, and the Senator fell head first out of the window. Evans wiped his eyes.
“Want a ride home Mr. Evans,” said David. He wanted to shout at the two men, but it wouldn’t do any good.
“No thanks, I need to walk, just walk, thanks for the offer.”
“Oh what the hell, we all got to die,” said the fat man.
“No, you just got to be amused,” said Evans, then turned around and walked away.






The Old Man,
And the Tides of winter,



1

The Old Man


It was after midnight, although not much more. It was wintertime, outside was snow, wind, and cold, one of the strongest elements on earth, the old man told himself. All the windows and doors were closed tight, he made sure of that. He had but to lift his eyes to see the elements at work outside, -- he could even smell the cold, taste it, even create an emotion for it, if he wanted to, he need not even be out there, to experience it, do nothing but sit and look out the window. But most often it was just another Minnesota winter looking at him, peering back at him through his own window; --as he sat in a sofa chair two sweaters on, a blanket over him. He told himself he still was not used to the cold, not even after 83-year; --yet you’d think one would be used to it, -- he pondered on this dilemma, a moment, and went back staring out the window.
He had seen many winters come and go. And many people had asked him, what where the ‘Great Tides of Winter’? Something the old man coined in a book he wrote some thirty years prior. The old man called them the winds, the snows, the blizzards of which were the makings of the Tides of Winter, yes, these were the same elements he confessed --he compared them to the tides of the ocean, saying, ‘…the white snows are the tides in the day time which, --they can blind a man; --and the stillness of the endless night, that darkens and covers the white snows, --again, blinding man, --these are the ‘Tides of Winter’, he explained to the curious.
He was a thick man, who could tolerate the cold at one time, and now, thin with age, and will; he sat staring at the darkness outside his window. He knew the great tides were at work outside, he could hear the wind whistling around the garage, the trees that stood by the garage along side of the house. The windowsills allowed the wind to seep through, as if it had broken its will also.
A spacious room he was in, but with no furniture, he had sold it all, he had only a sofa-chair he sat in, and a sofa to sleep on, no more, no less. But it was how he wanted it. He had asked himself at one time if he should leave his wealth to the good people he met in life, no, they would only sell it and probably get drunk; plus, what made them comfortable he never had enough of anyway. Or so he convinced himself. No need to cultivate rich soil, he told himself.
He was a gentle old man, with a gentle slope to his right side of his face, where two strokes did not harm him, but the third one did. As a youth he was wild, as an old man he was tamed.
“It is God’s way of bringing us back to reality,” he told people: --a kind of phenomenon, that brought all things back to its senses, he felt.
It was four days since his son had come to visit him. He would most likely come tomorrow, it was Friday, and he stopped by to check on him after work each and every Friday, he had no reason to think he would change his pattern, knowing quite well, people are often chained to habits like white on rice. He had told his son he need not bother with checking on him, but he insisted, so he left well enough alone, and seeing him could be meaningful. He knew the old man’s will to live was gone, and so it worried him more. Yet the old man tried to explain his view to his son, saying:
‘When the desire of life hides too deep to be found in your vaults of the mind, then it is time to move on.’
His son was fearful he might commit suicide with such thoughts, but that was far from the old man’s way of thinking. The son even told him it was a cardinal sin to do such a thing, but the old man countered it by saying:
‘It is not the unpardonable sin, but yes, a sin.’
He had told his son many of times, that desire was only for those who had not lived; that if you had, you would understand the time given you is really long enough. But his son was much too young to take it to heart, and so he came each Friday and sometimes called to see how he was, and the old man said nothing to stop him. He was a good son, as far as sons go. His wife had died on him long ago. So long he couldn’t remember the date anymore. But that was good enough for him. It was the way he liked things, simple but proper. And there was no need to remarry he told his son, when asked, saying, “Does God need another son, no—likewise, I don’t need another wife, she’s waiting for me now.” What could the son say; --time could not heal something that was not broken between the two. And again, he left this along.


2

The Great Tides


He was once a lean young man of the world a traveler, a writer and poet, a soldier of war, an unpopular war to say the least. He had worked his way through college. Was a fighter of the ring, ---he told himself as he sat there staring out the window listening to the giant infusing winds and snows hit his windows, roof and siding of the house, as if it wanted to slap his face, --he told himself, he was at one time a man of many things; but what he like the most was being a ticket-taker at a movie theater, of which was his first desire as a young man of fourteen years old. He had worked the job for a summer that was all, but he like it the most.
And now he told himself he was a man who had lost his will to live—like a dog run over by a car, hoping for it to return and do the job right. Nothing, but nothing amazed him anymore. All his desires had been filled now, either God was kind or cruel; --or possible, it was his way of saying it was time to come home. In either case, he had fought the good fight within the ring of life, and God had given him more than an extra mile, he was ready; he was not complaining. He did not put a claim on another day.
At one time the old man was very rich, but had spent the money traveling around the world; and many investors wished he would return to the financial world. But it held little interest for him. Money was a means, not life itself. It was a desire, if you never had it, but he had it. He mumbled to himself, ‘This winter is a very, very cold one…’ clapping his hands to keep warm, for he would not turn the heat up, inside his big house which he never live in. That is to say, he only lived in the dinning room, kitchen and bathroom. The second floor was vacant, as was the living room and basement.
By and large, the old man could tell how cold it was outside just by looking, call it intuition, instinct, whatever, but he could. And as it got colder, he never turned his heat up he left it at 64, no more, no less. A creature of habit his son told him he was. But he wanted to feel the cold, just a little, for it was winter, and in winter, he told his son, it is suppose to be cold. There is a message from the great tides that circle the house. And his son would ask, “What is the question?” And he said, “It is the answer you should be seeking.” As if nothing was said the son said nothing, it was as it was.

The old man knowing how cold it was outside, turned the lights off, as he often did when the moon was out; --it was a natural light he told himself, good enough for me. And there he sat, staring into the wilds of the cold.
When his son had stopped by some four days prior, he noticed his father was getting a little quivering in his hands, with pale –yellow eyes and teeth; tighter and thinner skin on his cheekbones, which were starting to be sucked into his face. He wanted him to see a doctor, but the old man refused. He would just continue looking out the window if he insisted, and become catatonic until his son gave in, and when he changed the subject, they’d sit and talk for a moment, laugh, smile, and then the son would leave as bewildered as he was just before he arrived.


3

The Window


Unwilling to move his face, the old man just stared out the window. It was going on 2:00 AM. He buttoned up his second sweater he had on, and put the blanked around his legs, over his cotton brown pants. He did not have shoes on, rather two pair of thick-green wool socks. Then went back to staring, and thought how peculiar he must look to his son because he wants to stare and be alone, for the old man was not lonely, but knew his son was, that is why he was sad for him.
His eyes were looking out the window, but not unseeing; he recognized everything within his mind; he knew where every branch was that had fallen off the tree from the earlier part of the day. He was his own distraction if anything. His sofa chair was two-feet away from the windows. As he leaned back into the depths of the chair, he remained gazing as he moved to get situated, talking to himself a bit, looking into the darkness of the window; at all the events outside. He told himself, it was a good day to die and disappear from the face of the earth a very good day. It was not new, the idea of death, going to meet other dead people who had long gone. War had shown him the colors of death, and they do have colors he had told his son. Red for blood, gray and pink and darker colors for rotting white carouses. Much like animals he’d explain.
No, death—was not new to him, insofar as he had known friends who had died in the cold of Minnesota winters, frozen to death by sitting and resting too long; going through cracked ice on lakes while walking, ice fishing. Caught in a storm in a car and being alone too long, thus, out of boredom they go leave the car only to challenge death and the frozen North while the winds ripping at their skin, telling them in everyway to turn around and go back, they—none the less-- go forward instead, defying their better judgment, --and the wind with no mercy, or care thereafter, rips and frizzes their skin, to a raw like red meat texture; killing them.
In Egypt he’d seen dying camels along side the roads, they had also lost their will to live, like him. He had seen women and children curled up on bridges with cardboard for a cover, who had ardent desires to live, not sure what for the old man told himself, they were all but dead. A paradox he claimed, part of the nature of things.
His son had told him he had become a great man in the eyes of many that he should want to live. The old man recounted that day, and remembered he had only a few words to say on that, ‘In heaven and on earth are we not judged separately, and therefore we must all die separately?’ And then he told his son that one of the secrets in life is ‘balance’, once lost, sometimes it can never be found again. And what he did not tell him was that he knew he was no longer usable or available for life to enchant him with its antagonistic desires. That should he be tempted, it would have to be something better than what he had, and that was only in heaven; --even the tides of the winter winds knew that.

And so the old man, remained in his chair, unmovable, with frozen eyes. He had never forgot what his grandpa had told him so many years ago; he was just twenty-seven then, --when his grandfather was leaning against the old stove, green and white, cigar in one hand, eighty-three years old. He was telling him a story of the little men who were coming to get him. Digging a tunnel from downs the block to his basement, --they were coming, he was assured of that. He had told his grandpa, it was foolish to think such things, and his grandfather simply looked at him and said:
“Come into my world, and then you’ll see.”
And so now he was the old man, and now they found something they had in common, the right tones to the reality of death. He whispered to himself, ‘I see it speaks to everyone a little differently, it let’s you know immortality is not an option --that the veil of life can be taken up at a moments notice. It is what the cold and its tides have been trying to tell me for a long time.’
It was rumored that the old man had said in one of the books he wrote, that is rumored by the media, to the public that the old man said,
“There was no secret in life.”
But the old man knew it was a misquote, what he really said was, what they didn’t want to write, that being-: “Man seeks the nature of man, when there is no real secret to his nature, just look; the secret is in God’s nature, where we do not want to look.” But he had been misquoted many of times; it was old news, water over the dam.


4

Desire


“What more do they want from me,” said the old man still staring out the window, “…perhaps my blood.” He looked up into the sky, at the cold stars, it looked as if they knew his name, his time, even though they were both silent in the dark cold. He in his house, and they in the upper part of the heavens: --they had a desire to remain lit; he wanted his candle of life put out. The stars seemed as if they were laughing at him, and he told them to “Stop!” Adding, “I don’t want my lost desire back, I want your desire?” But it never gave him an answer it wouldn’t, for they didn’t want to share, so the old man convinced himself of. But he knew it was the one thing that was better than what he left behind, called ‘desire’ but not practical.

As he stared almost into a trance through the window, he liked looking at the naked trees by the garage, the blizzard winds were picking up now, he could hear them whistling, and the white snow glittering as it passed his eyes, and the light of the moon. Then all of a sudden he saw a little lost puppy walking against the wind and side of the garage, being tossed about like a robber ball.
‘You can’t find shelter’; he told himself.
The shifting snow was blinding him. The old man look about, realizing the pup was separated from its mother, and now lost. But he couldn’t spot the mother either, so he turned on the outside garage light, and his side lamplight. The little dog now was looking up at the bay window that was lit. The old man leaning into the window, his nose smashed against it, --quickly he got up, and stumbling to the door, opening it without shoes on or jacket he ventured outside, down the fourteen steps to the garage, ----the pup was shivering, almost froze, he didn’t move. His eyes looked like they were white snow on black tar.
“In due time Lord, in due time,” the old man said, as if he was asking for a few more minutes of life. Next the old man scooping the pup into his hands and hugging him under his sweater, protecting him from the oncoming winds that could take your breath away. He knew the dog did not know this, and so he guarded his face with his hand, allowing only a little air to seep through to his nostrils, moreover, allowing only the needed amount of oxygen in, and started back up the steps: --but some how it was easier going down than going up. He turned around so the wind would hit his back, and he could breath, the pup was half frozen. The old man's feet were starting to get frost bitten, his face turning raw; his eyes were crystallizing into a film of ice capsules. Finally he made it to the door, and got into the house. Standing still for a second to get his breathe, and balance he wobbled over to the chair, and fell into it butt and back first.
“We made it!” he told the puppy.
It had seemed the pup had died when the old man sat back into his chair picking up his blanket from the floor, and putting it around his mid section to keep the doggie warm. “Desire” he said, “That is your name.” The old man leaned back in the chair, turned the outside light off, but leaving his, on, incase the pup got scared. Then he felt the poppy’s leg move against his stomach, and then it started to wiggle more, trying to get closer to his skin. The old man unbutton his shirt, for the pup was already in-between his two sweaters, but now he was rolled up under his chest, and on his belly somewhat. And then knowing the puppy went to sleep,
He said:
“Good night,” quietly, not to wake him.


٭

In the morning the old man's son stopped by to see his father, and found him dead in his chair with the little pup jumping
up from hearing his voice,
“Father, father…” and then a strong cry came from his mouth…

The son looked at the pup, wiping his eyes, taking him from his fathers lap, gently, ----the dog being a little resistant, he hesitated to pull the dog so he stood there a moment, then as the dog looked up at him, again he brought him to his level, the pup just didn’t want to leave the old man. The son bewildered, trying to figure out where the dog came from, and absorb his dad’s death. It was sweat and sour, but for some reason, it was easier for the son to take than what he had thought it would be; --he knew this day was coming.



5


And so it happened that the son took the pup and raised him. The years went on, and the son watched the dog grow old, twelve years had passed. And then on the thirteenth, the dog was loosing sight, had a hard time walking up and downs the stairs. Had a hard time chewing for he lost most of his teeth. And one morning when he woke up to feed the dog he laid still, not a move from his body, he was dead, --he died by the mantle where the old man’s picture sat for all those years.
The son looked staring at his dog, which was really an extension of his father, for the most part, and then it dawned on him, he was old, very old for a dog, and cried. The dog had died like his father, distinguished, old and wrinkled. He then took a picture out of his photo album, and inserted it into the frame he had with a picture of him and his wife in it taking it out and putting that into the album. Then he went and told his son,
Saying:
“…In time, and it will come, please put my picture in-between theirs.”








The Old Man of Chickamauga
[Virginia-l861]





“The bastards are going to come into my house; they are going to burn it. Burn my house…no-no-no-n...No, what can I do [?].” Tears appeared in within his eyes, he started to wipe them clean.
“Get out he says; --but get out and go where?”—The old man kept walking in circles... mumbling “Jefferson Davis…Lincoln…Montgomery…l861…” he stops, looks out the window, there are troops out their waiting with torches… ”Why my house—ME! I’m an old man; I never did them any harm; all I got is this, my farmhouse, my shed, outhouse, no more.”
The old man looks to his far left corner of the window, his outhouse is nothing but wreckage now, the two soldiers tore it down by pulling it with ropes, their gathering up the wood,
“Fuckers…firewood, that’s want they want, easy burning fire wood…so they can keep warm tonight, WWWWWWWWWhat about meeeee….” He hollers out his glassed-in-window.
“Where’s my…my…my son-in-law,” the old man is now trying to get a glimpse behind the wreckage of wood, he spots him, his son-in-law, he is lying dead with a broken neck, he looks like a chicken with his limp neck the old man thinks.
“For what…why…for wood…no…it can’t be,” he cries. “I’ve … if I were-a-young man I’d a-picked out a spot and lay in low ----then, I’d kill yaw all you mother-f-ckn’s—all yaw….”
The Union soldiers standing outside his house then threw the torches on his roof, as it lit the center by the chimney, the roof started to burn outwards.

As the old man walked out of his house the troops stood at ease in a column, rifle barrels slanting toward the ground, a few torches in their hands left. Dust on their tunics; their armpits were black spots of sweat from hours of marching, their faces looked like leather, young faces most of them. A soldier stepped forward he was an officer.
“Sir,” he said to the old man,” You got to clear out…now!”
The old man could see his boots; they were new, buffed just before he stepped forward with his pants legs and cuffs tailored.
“Baptism in f-fire is that what you you are do ddoooo ing…” stuttered the old man, coughing with a shaking mouth.
Behind the front line of Union Soldiers the Colonel called to the young officer:
“Tell him he has five minutes no more to be out of that house!” adding… with a gesture from his hands telling the troops to move out, “No more, just five minutes.”
The young officer was left with the old man to deal with, and eight Union soldiers to insure the house was completely burnt, and that the old man wouldn’t put it out. That was the mission for the moment.
“We can run in quickly Sir and get something out if you wish…?” said the young officer, to the old man.
The old man just looked, staring, turned around and walked back into the house as the nine Union soldiers to include the young officer, stood watching the roof spread its fiery flames. One soldier kept watch of the rifles, another the horses, while seven men of the squad stood staring at the progression of the flames.
“Yes Sergeant,” said the young officer as the Sergeant approached him to say something,
“Breakfast, the Colonel and the Company are going to have Breakfast…Sir.”
“Yes Sergeant, I imagine so, right down the road is the Battalion, and we will be there in 15-minutes, as soon as the old man comes out with his crap…understood Sergeant!”
“Yes sir…” the sergeant stepped back with the other five soldiers and continued to watch.
“What time is it sarg…” asked one of the four privates waiting with the Sergeant.
“Never you mind private,” said the sergeant.
The shadow of the old man was in the entrance door, as he looked about trying to figure what to take.
“I’m hungry sarg,” said Isaac, one of the four privates standing and watching, said.
“We are all hungry,” said the young officer, overhearing Isaac.

The young officer, Lieutenant Foremost, turn around looked at the men guarding the horses and rifles, he noticed they were becoming unsettled, as were the soldiers right in back of him. The Lieutenant never wanted to be in the war, he had other plans, modest as they may seem to someone else, he was going to be a dentist, --plus, he had plans to marry, Anna, his girlfriend who lived in the Midwest, he had met her while she and her father were visiting in New York City, he himself was a New Yorker.
He had thought the Negro-slavery issue was not his issue, and this solitary, called Unionism --wasn’t sure how all that came into the picture. He had even thought of hiding until the war was over, Mexico looked good, and even Peru was in the picture. He was no rebel though, and so he read in the paper where to meet for joining --willingly-- before he was taken by force. He was a Second Lieutenant automatically something of a birthright, or so it seemed, because of his education and father’s military background; whom was also an officer in the Army. Now he was a First Lieutenant, the war would soon make him Captain, the Colonel assured him of that. He wondered often times how his several friends who joined with him were. He hadn’t written any letters to them, nor received any from them.

The farm-house sides were now starting to pick up the flames that originally were on the roof, --the fire was spreading and engulfing the whole structure of the house; all four sides were aflame as if the gates of hell were opened, and the fury of hell was coming out… the old man now could be seen caring some pots, plates, shaving things, pants, he put on a hat, he was picking up some more items off a shelf.
“Sergeant…I mean, Ringo, keep a watch on the men,” the lieutenant started walking closer to the door, the house was now throwing flames out the windows, and along the side of the door—‘…starting to burn out of control, wild,’ he said in his thoughts first, then out loud
He yelled,
“…Old man, what yu-doing…? …get out…hurry!” The Lieutenant was now filling the smoke himself, starting to cover his mouth with his right hand—then stepped back three feet from the stairs that led up and into the house.

◊


As the lieutenant looked over again at the Sergeant, he noticed he was looking over at Private Lucius holding onto the horse’s reigns, it seemed as though he had let go of them…they were daggling, while he patted the horse’s neck. Private Snubs took hold of them all of a sudden. The Lieutenant turned to see where the old man was. The house was becoming a lit lantern; the chimney was looking like it was not attached onto the house anymore.
Said Lucius,
“I’m getting mighty fucken hungry…!”
“Hush,” said his partner, “…just do it if you’re going to, I’ll back you up, and we can be done with it…”
“Lieutenant, it’s been ten minutes, we’ve got to go,” yelled the Sergeant.
The sergeant shook his head, said in a low voice almost a whisper, “We strip the dead of their ammunition to fight these assholes, how many of us Yankees have they killed at Chickamauga, it was a bloody fight, a nightmare, I was standing by my friend Tom, he was reading a letter, and the…I mean he ended up dead at Chickamauga Creek, and we just sit here looking at this dumb old man, what a fucken war.”
The tempo of the men in uniform got higher, they all started chatting among one another, the Lieutenant was almost afraid to turn around as he was hearing some of the talk --it was being carried by the wind to his ears, as the perimeter got hotter—, then--about to do an about-face, for the fire was getting hotter, and so was he…as he did start to turn…Lucius had a rifle in his hands, the lieutenant was now frozen like ice, he closed his eyes, the sound of the bullet left Lucius’ mussel, it whistled by his head just grazing his hair. A sigh from his lungs was released he was alive.
When he opened his eyes, he heard a thump, it was the old man behind him in the door way, he turned his head only, leaving his body facing his soldiers, he swallowed, --pushing air down into his stomach, the old man had fallen dead, his hands full of everything, as well as a rifle held tight against his armpit and leg.
As the lieutenant, shifted his head back into place, he walked to the Sergeant, as Private Lucius came running up, “Sir…he was about to shoot you, I swear,” all the soldiers around him gave gestures of agreement. The lieutenant looked at the farmhouse, it was now completely engulfed with fire and was falling apart at its seams, and the old man was burnt like a roasted pig.
“Let’s eat breakfast men,” said the Lieutenant, “…and then we got to go build a bridge at Owl Creek.”

◊

The lieutenant thought about the old man as he rode off with his men, he never did see his features very well—possible a crocked nose, not sure he told himself, but it wasn’t straight either he added to his ill-faded conversation, mumbling like an unbalanced person. He added to his thoughts: he also had a saggy mouth, not like his own, which was a firm mouth. His forehead was not broad like the Sergeants. He had some dark hair, no, it was white he couldn’t make up his mind… and shifted to simply saying out loud, “I can’t remember.”
“Remember what?” asked the Sergeant.
“Oh nothing Sarg…” he said, and though about the old man’s expressions, saying to himself, they were not kindly, no sir not hardly at all, but expected a heap of consideration from us all, ‘I’m a gentleman’ he whispered to himself [the other soldiers looking at the lieutenant oddly]. They continued to ride down the road, the men watched him to try and figure out what was going on.
Then it seemed like he woke up, looked among his men, seeing they needed confirmation he was all right, and they were not going to be hanged for this misdeed, he said:
“Ignore it all Sergeant, he was trying to kill me like Luc…ius says; maybe even hammer me with that butt of the riffle, he was pretty angry wasn’t he… ill make sure it’s in the report properly”
“Yes sir, he was,” responded the Sergeant.

It was a cool morning, everyone was a little sluggish, you could almost see your breath, and you could from the horse’s nostrils.
“There’s the camp boys,” said the Lieutenant, “I’m a –fix in to get fed sir, talk to yaw later,” having said that, the Sergeant and the rest of his squad rode ahead to get breakfast.






The Camel Market




The year is 2900 BC; the place is Asia Minor the city-state is Troy

In the state of Dreaming



Outside of the ancient city of Heliopolis, otherwise known as “City of the Sun,” in Egypt, down the road twelve-miles or so, is a Camel Market, I was there when I was eight years old, but I remember it well. You treasure such moments in life, when the mighty God of Heaven takes your father away, to the land of the dead. A mighty demon killed him, --her name is the Tiamat. As I was saying, or is it thinking, I don’t know. I was there, nineteen years ago. I thought at the time, the camel keepers were cruel for tying their camels one leg up, so when they walked they couldn’t escape by running out of the market place, or for that matter I suppose, running its owner to his death.

I am twenty-seven years old now looking back at the camels at the market place again. I remember on the way to the market there were many of them along side the dirt road, that is, camels, some half dead, some dead, carcass turning different dead colors, smelling; thin as a hawks-legs, and others in small groups being brought to the market place were barely making it, their belly sucked in, and their humps distorted. So thin, so very thin they were you could see their ribs sticking out. I kept thinking at the time, a boy of nine, drink some of that water from your humps: --but again, the humps looked shriveled.
When we got to the huge white gates of the market, we went through the towering archway, leading into the center of the market. I knew very little about Egypt back then, coming from Asia Minor that is, one of such a young age is more enchanted with the trip not much else; --, only that to the Egyptians, the Circle of Life as they called it, was governed by a deity called Ma’at, [goddess], by the way of Ra [primal sun-god], through their king whom was the embodiment of god, as they knew him to be. That is why the symbol of the Falcon was all about Egypt I think, you couldn’t miss it as you visited the busy Heliopolis streets and shops, The Great City of the Sun, as they called it.
My father told me not to talk about our spiritual beliefs with anyone; it was to be strictly a military mission, to buy one hundred-camels, for a military campaign that was going to take place, along with gathering information for our elders at Troy, about their city, market, strength and so forth.
The sun seemed to be on top of me this early afternoon, as if it was dancing on top of my head, even though I had a covering over it. And here I stood in the middle of this huge market place, people all about, some feeding their camels, others feeding their own faces; some was tying the camel’s legs, others buying and selling them. And there, right over there is that little camel. He will come to me in a minute; yes, he always does in my dreams, as he did then, -- here he comes, right to me. I pat him on his neck; then comes that young boy who was riding back and forth on that huge camel, he’s looking at the twenty-soldiers and me with my father. He is but only a few years older than me.
The boy rode up to the little camel looked at me, and rode away. Inasmuch as I envied the boy for having his own camel, what a show off he is… Maybe it is his job though. I don’t know.

As I watched my father walking to and fro, looking at camels, I sized up this huge market place. It was bigger than Troy’s market by far. It was all of six acres. A seven-foot brick wall surrounded the market place. And as I stood somewhat in the middle of this somewhat open fortress of sorts, this market place, I looked straight ahead; it seemed to go straight forever. I had little eyes back than, I’m sure the market, would I see it today, would seem smaller. Along the sides of the market to my left were areas for the camels and the owners to rest and feed their camels, and attend to any ill-fated needs that may arise. To my right was where they were tying the left legs of the camels up, and some right legs; feeding them lightly, and doing most of the selling. It is where the shade was, where the business huts were. The side my father was most interested in.
By and large, as my father bought the first few, I thought them to be quite expensive, but they were actually, to my understanding now, a very good deal, two months wages for one camel, and my father being a high ranking officer in the military, that was expensive, but then, he was paying with tax money from Troy, and again, in most families, when buying a camel, it was a major feat. Not something you do at random.
As the day passed on --a cool breeze set in, --although this was good in itself, shifting the heat, that is, yet still the winds filled my lungs, nostrils, mouth and unseen areas with smells, dust and more dust, to a point of being nauseated. Furthermore, I seemed to be drying up like a prune. But I loved this journey with my father none-the-less. It was my first and last journey I would have with my father. And that is why I can’t seem to let this dream go, for although it is a dream, it is real, or was real at one time. I know I am simply reliving an old memory. But my father always said, “If you’re sad, it is because you lost something good. If you’re mad, it is because you didn’t get to do or say what you should have. And if you are dreaming, you are either trying to deal with fear, desire or happiness’.” It’s funny how you remember such things.
My father had purchased all the camels now that he could find useful for the military, and that he felt could make the long trip back. He did need to stop on the way back at a military camp, I can’t remember the name, and we had to drop off half of the camels there, for their campaign, wherever that was going to be.
In any case, as he paid in gold bulk for the camels at the market, we headed toward the gates we had come into through. The small camel ran back up to me, the very one I witnessed before. I wanted to take him with me, I remember thinking, but I just stared into his big eyes. Plus, it surely was not possible, and so I didn’t know what to tell the camel at the time, it was like I wanted to say something, but couldn’t. He made some sounds, and didn’t want to leave, or was it, he wanted me to take him. Matter of fact, maybe it was a girl camel, I really don’t know. Notwithstanding, that was not part of the program, and I tried to shoo-away him. Then behind the small camel appeared that boy who I had seen before riding back and forth on that big camel; --that is, earlier when we first arrived. As we went through the gates the boy quickly took a stick and guided the small camel back to its owner as I noticed turning about on my own camel, to get a last glance of the little fellow.

As I started to toss and turn in my bed, I knew I was only half asleep, but I was fortunate to be able to finish the dream I thought, for I knew once I fell to sleep completely that is, I would not have been able to finish the dream, I’d be dead until I awoke in the morning. Now I knew when I woke up, I would be feeling grateful for my father’s memories; I guess it is that sad thing he talked about taking place, you know, those good memories that for some odd reason bring tears to your eyes.



End of the Book



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