An easy, easy day

Today, if it goes as planned, is going to be an easy day. I am at a hotel in downtown Chicago attending a little dog-and-pony show that is going to last all day. I have my cell phone in my pocket and my laptop with the air card is ready to go, if necessary.

Let us hope it will not be necessary.

The bad part of it, of course, is that I will be away from computers all day long - and therefore, away from the Internet and blogs. And emails. And comments. On the other hand, I seem to have driven half of my commenters away in the last few days anyway. May as well go for broke.


One Knight's Story - Part 8


"How many do you think, Squire?"

"Not sure, M'Lord", Squire answered, breathlessly. He looked back over his shoulder. "There be not many, though. Their dust is too small. Four, maybe six at the most."

They were riding hard and fast as they could - but that wouldn't be fast enough, what with the warhorse and the pack animals. Warhorses were big, strong animals, but they were slow at the run and the pack horses, though smaller, lighter and faster, were weighed down with the gear they would need to keep themselves alive on the journey home. At some point; when they found a place that would give them advantage, they were going to have to stop and fight it out. Their pursuers were riding the desert horses the warriors of the castle rode, and they would catch them up before long.

Earlier that morning, Gwalchmei and Squire had quietly packed themselves up and slipped out of the castle past the sleeping guard at the gate. Sleeping, as much of the castle was sleeping, the deep sleep of those who had been drugged. For they had been, after all. A week earlier Sir Gwalchmei had announced that things were going so well, the men were responding so very well to their training, that the last night of their training would be a celebration of their performance and there would be singing and dancing and wine to honor their work. They had no idea that their wine was laced with a sleeping potion prepared by Gwalchmei and supplied to him by Habeeb.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Sire", Habeeb had asked. "If they catch you, they will kill you."

Habeeb had come to meet him in a small village just outside the castle to deliver the last of the kashakish powder.

"It's a chance I must take, Habeeb. I am certain the King means to have harm done to me and Squire. I am sure he means not to pay me the rest of the gold he has promised, and I do not like the way the Captain of the Guard looks at me of late."

"But this is such a risk, Sire. And to steal the gold from the purser. King Guy will not tolerate that very well, I think."

"Oh, I am certain he will not, Habeeb. But we are not going to steal anything - we are just going to collect what is ours a few hours early. After all, we have a long way to go and an early start is certainly in order."

"Ha, ha ha. I like the way you think, man of the West. I wish you luck. May Allah speed you safely on your way. And may King Guy find all of his concubines infested with sand fleas."

He studied the way ahead to find a spot where they could stand and fight, but all there were was low and rolling hills - nothing to shelter any flank, no place to take a stand.

"I can see them now, M'Lord. They're riding fast. There be six of them and they are but lightly armed."

"I think that may make little difference, Squire. Look ahead. Up the side of yon hill off to the right."

There, near the top of the hill, were a dozen horsemen. Arabs.

"Aye, M'Lord. I see them. And I see half again as many up that hill off on the left. I think we are for it now, M'Lord."

"Over there, Squire!! That small stand of trees. Some protection, at least."

As they headed for the trees, the horsemen started down the hillsides at a gallop. It was soon clear that the Arabs intended to cut them off from those pursuing them - there would be no help from their pusuers against their common enemy.

They galloped up to the trees and pulled up their horses, tied them off and drew weapons in preparation for the fight which was sure to come, just as the two groups of Arab riders met, between them and their pursuers, in the shallow valley at the base of the hills. Their leader, a large man in a fiery red headdress, raised his scimitar in the air and signaled his riders to charge at the knights riding toward them.

Their leader sat his horse and watched as his men attacked the pursuers.

"Look, M'Lord! They're attacking King Guy's men. And who ever their leader is, he's coming this way."

Indeed, the leader had turned his horse toward them and began to trot in their direction.

As he got closer, he reined in his horse and jumped down like a man half his size. He bowed deeply, removed his headgear which had obscured his face, and stood erect with a huge grin on his face. It was Habeeb.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, man of the West! A beautiful morning for a ride, is it not?"

"Yes, Habeeb, it is."

"Don't look so shocked, Sire. You think me a simple innkeeper, and that is how I would have it. But, there is so much more under these loose and flowing robes, my friend. I am a Captain of Saladin and a gatherer of information and in my inn, information flows as freely as the wine."

"But ..."

"Oh, them? They are but a few of my friends, out with me for a little ride on the morning - and, perhaps, a little fun. Don't worry, my friend, they are just going to spank them a little and send them home. No one is going to die, today."

"Thank you, Habeeb. It is good that no one die on my account."

"You are a good man, Sire. But I would ask a favor of you."

"Ask, Habeeb. If it is in my power, it is yours."

"It is a simple thing. I would know your name."

The Knight held out his right hand which Habeeb took. Gwalchmei reached out with his left hand and grabbed Habeeb by the back of the neck and kissed him on each cheek. He looked Habeeb dead in the eye. "My name is Gwalchmei, Habeeb, and I am a man of Wales. Wherever I am, wherever is my home, there is also a place for you, my good friend."

Sir Gwalchmei and Squire mounted their horse and prepared to continue on their way.

"In shallah we will meet in heaven, Gwalchmei. In shallah."

"Aye, my friend, In shallah."

And Sir Gwalchmei and Squire turned their horses and rode away.

"Do you think we'd actually meet Habeeb in heaven, M'Lord?"

"I think maybe so, Squire. I think all good men go to heaven, no matter what their faith. And he is a good man."

"Well, I hope we meet him M,Lord. I do."

"Really, Squire? And why is that?"

"Perhaps, M'Lord, he might be willing to share his virgins."

Ndinombethe.

Wordless Wednesday (almost)

WW does not mean a picture, in this case. It means I need to take a day off - from blogging. It means, also, that the conditions which have kept me away from most of the blogs I read, persist. At least for a few more days.

Thursday will be Part 8 of 'One Knight's Story'.

Monday will be the Chapter 1 version.

As always - Ndinombethe.

Picking them off, one at a time

I am busy preparing the next part of One Knight's Story. And once that's published, I'm going to re-write the story and tie it more tightly together and it will become Chapter One. The questions is this - do I leave the original 8 Parts out there as links in the sidebar, and publish the Chapter version separately? Or do I take down the links and just put up Chapter One?

I have picked off one major gremlin at work - and in doing so, I think I may have given myself a path to picking off another, much more durable gremlin that has been hanging around ever since we had the server die because of the power failure after which the server was rebuilt by the vendor. (Whew. Run on sentence, or what?) I would really, really like to pick off this one. I'd get my Sunday afternoons back.

Oh. And one more thing. As many of you know, I no longer accept awards because of the 'Sophie's Choice' thing with re-distributing the award to others. That said, I now have to consider what I'm to do with awards that do NOT require passing it along to other people. Awards and honors. And I have been honored by two separate people in the last few days and I feel like I would like to let you know about these 'honors'. One today. One tomorrow. 'K?

As for today's - MommyTime from Mommy's Martini has named me "Commenter of the Week". She named me thus "for also loving Dickens despite the author's Victorian schmuckitude. And for, generally, always having something nice to say. Always."

I give good comment.

And she is lovely.

Ndinombethe.

edited and revised

Update: This was originally posted without title - another mistake I won't make again.

For those of you who didn't make it by here yesterday, I published Part 7 of 'One Knight's Story'. The story - in fact, the whole post, is here. I won't do that on a weekend again.

I am preparing an edited and revised edition of 'One Knight's Story' as a single chapter of a greater whole. There needs to be one more 'Part' published before I will be ready to re-publish the story, so far, as that first chapter. It wasn't something I started out to do - on the other hand, I didn't start out to write as much as I have - but I now realize that if I'm ever going to be a better writer, I'm going to have to learn to re-write, and re-write and re-write. Til I get it right.

I spent the afternoon at the office yesterday. There is a particularly peculiar gremlin I'm working against that is making me crazy. Again. Meh.

Today is the first day of the two day Carnival in Trinidad and Tobago. Two days of non-stop party!! Oh, how I wish I could be there. Next year ... next year.

Ndinombethe.

Wordless Wednesday - well, almost

UPDATE: For those of you who missed her, Velvetverbosity is back online - and I'm willing to bet that the 100 Word Challenge will be renewed real soon now.


Plein Air Painting in Trinidad

I have some work to do to string "One Knight's Story" together a bit better - I have to go back and flesh it out just a little bit so there is a clearer understanding of where he is and why he's there. That said, in Part 5 he makes a decision about his life and decides in favor of 'Home and Family'. However, this is where his story really begins - for now he must find a way to get home to England, alive. I don't know where this story is going to take him - but in the past he fought in support of the whim of the Pope, and now he will be fighting for his dream - a wife and child; a home. And he WILL fight his way home.

Ndinombethe. - "As I go, I am wearing you."

The Son has his own

Before we get to the story, I thought I would pass along that #1 Son has started his own blog here on Blogger. He doesn't have his profile done and it all looks rather plain, but he has one post up and I don't want to be the first commenter. So stop by and check it out, 'K? Alter Your Perspective is his place. Thanks.


One Knight's Story - Part 5

It was a dream he had had many times before. He was home, with a woman, his wife, and a child, his also. The child lay in her cradle, asleep with the rocking motion imparted by his wife's foot, as she sits on a low stool outside the door of the hovel in which they live, knitting. He walks toward them and reaches a hand down toward the baby, but the hand is suddenly a fist covered in mail, an armoured gauntlet, and as he reaches down, the cradle and child retreat from his grasp further and further and the light grows around him and everything fades away until there is nothing but the light and the heat and the sand and the growing sound of battle and he looks up to see a sword descending upon him and he wakes with a start.

He lay upon the pallet, in his tent, and knew the meaning of the dream. A warning. This life, this path, would see him dead. Give up the armor or give up any chance at home and family. A plain message and simple. He laid awake until the morning came.

He stepped out of the felt tent into the cool of the early morning. The squire had a simple breakfast of local fruits and some sliced lamb ready for him to eat.

"Where is the kahve, Squire?"

"It will be ready in a moment, M'Lord, but one has to wonder what you see in that stuff. It is black and bitter and hot enough, when you drink it, M'Lord, to boil one's tongue."

"It is the nectar of the Gods, Squire. The Arabs have been drinking that stuff for at least two hundred years and in that time, the technique of preparation has been highly refined - the beans, roasted, the water, heated and passed through the ground up beans, filtered by the finest cotton gauze. I have been drinking kahve since living in my father's house; the beans came to us from the men of Mecca and the techniques of preparation were taught to me by the Turks."

"Well, it is not to my liking, M'Lord."

"No, Good Squire, I imagine it is not. It has been my experience that kahve is an acquired taste. But it is more than the taste, Squire, that draws one in. Kahve fires the mind and stimulates the body. The mind becomes clear, the pulse races and the body feels stronger and faster than ever before. It is but a temporary experience, but while one experiences it, it is amazing."

Squire approached with the curious double pot that his master, the Knight, had taught him how to use.

"Here is your kahve, M'Lord. Excuse me, please, M'Lord, while I prepare your arms for the morning exercises."

"No, Squire, I think not today shall I exercise. Perhaps not any day, again."

"What say you, M'Lord? No exercises? What are you playing at?"

"There is no play in what has been spoken here, Squire. Methinks, perhaps, it is time that I put away the sword, and take up the plow; give up the armor and adopt the mantle of husband and father."

The squire could only sputter at what he'd just heard.

"Squire! For the first time ever I do believe you to be speechless. Hah!" He paused. "What is it, Squire? Come. Spit it out!"

"Why, M'Lord? Why give up the armor and sword? This is all we've ever done! What will we do? Where will we go?"

"Those are all good questions, Squire. And each shall be answered in the fullness of time. Suffice it to say, for now, that I have lain awake most all the night, pondering a dream which came to me, and not for the first time have I dreamed that dream. It was a dream in which I had a wife and a child one moment, and found myself facing my death the next. It is time to stop, Squire. I can no longer ignore my doom."

"But what will happen to me, M'Lord? I have come to an age where I can no longer find a young Knight whom I can serve. I have served you well, I think, and together we have gone to many places and seen many things. I am loathe to give that up, and yet, I would not see you harmed. I am confused, M'Lord. I know not my true mind."

"My Good Squire. My one and true friend. Don't worry. The purse is full enough that we both shall live well to the end of our days. I have bought land in the Midlands and we shall retire there to live the life of gentlemen farmers, for there is freehold there for you, Squire, that you may live as well as I."

"You are most generous, M'Lord."

"No, I am not. It is YOU who are generous, Squire; you who has served, and dedicated your life to my service. We will go home, Squire. We will leave this awful place and head home to England. Pray you, then, we get there alive."

"Pray? Pray? Perhaps, M'Lord, you should do those exercises, after all."

"Perhaps, Good Squire, you are right."

Ndinombethe.

Friday Haiku - Any At All

The Haiku Mistress,
Is driving and on the way
To an interview.

A meeting with her,
looked for, anticipated,
will be realized.

And tomorrow, Cat,
We'll meet at a restaurant,
A party of three.

How lucky I am,
to be able to meet up,
with any at all.

One Knight's Story - Part 4

Sweat glistened on his body as he danced his well rehearsed routine with the Falcata, jabbing and slicing, parry and thrust, whirling about, taking on imaginary enemies in a never ending, never slowing ballet of deadly maneuvers. He wore woolen trouser legs belted over a loincloth and nothing else - no shirt and nothing clad his feet.

Squire knew this routine by heart. Every day that they weren't on the move, the morning hours would be spent in this practice - indoors when it was practical, but these days, in this strange and foreign place, outdoors, in the sun and the heat and the dust.

"Need you water, M'Lord?"

"Yes, Squire, but when I stop, please? Wait until I stop."

"Aye, M'Lord, but perhaps you should pause in your labors? I grow concerned for your well being."

"My well being is what motivates me, Squire. Do you see the scars on my body? Do you see their number?"

"Yes, M'Lord."

"Each of them is a reminder, Good Squire, of a time when I was too slow, or too weak, or unable to anticipate and someone was able to get close. Too close. The greater the strength of this arm, the greater the endurance in these legs, the more I can exercise and keep my wind, the fewer of my enemies that will get close enough to cut me, the less the chance my enemy will out think me."

"But the Sun, M'Lord, grows hot, and higher in the sky. The cool of the morning is past and the heat will make you faint."

"Fine. I will pause, but only long enough to take water. Besides, it's time, I think, to exercise the other arm. Fetch me my long sword, Squire, the while I slake my thirst."

The Knight handed his Falcata to the squire and accepted the jug of water proffered. The squire walked over to the pile of gear under the tree where he had been sitting and placed the Falcata in its sheath, and pulled the long sword from the belt which held it. Not for the first time, he wondered at the marvelous balance of the sword.

"How is it, M'Lord, that the much shorter Roman sword is the same weight as this, a much longer sword?"

"The Falcata, Squire, is made of bronze, which is mainly copper and tin. But copper is a very heavy metal, and, in bronze, is not lightened much by the presence of tin. It is made thick in its parts because it is not strong enough to make as thin as the long sword. Now, the long sword you hold in your hand is made of steel, and not just any steel, Squire, but Damascus steel, the lightest and strongest steel sword in the world. It is the best, Squire, and I will have no less than that. My life, after all, depends on it."

And Squire thought to himself, "As does mine, M'Lord. As does mine."

Ndinombethe.

Travel Lessons and Part 3

First of all, I made mention that I had learned a few things during our trip to Trinidad. And that I wasn't quite sure what those things were, but that they would come to me. Well, some of them have done just that - come to me.

Try to travel to places where you know someone - or, at least, where you have SOME kind of connection to someone who lives there. Hopefully, that person will help you participate in the local culture, as opposed to just being a 'tourist', and skimming the surface. It is much more rewarding to be places where you can be WITH people, as opposed to OBSERVING people from a distance.

Don't travel on Friday, Saturday or Sunday. That's when everyone else travels. Travel on Thursday. Flights are less crowded. It's easier to get through Customs. And it leads to the next lesson -

Be there on the weekend. Don't GET there on the weekend. If you're there for the start of the weekend, it will allow your host/guide/friend the most time to show you their 'place' - where they live - and what's great about it.

One Knight's Story - Continues

In the year 1190, it was dangerous for a lone Knight to travel the roads of the Middle East. Even though the Christian forces had returned in large numbers to face Saladin, to wrest Jerusalem from his grasp, and even though Acre had fallen and was once again under their control, there were still incursions into Christian Territory by small bands of Moslems who would attack lone travelers and kill them, or extort money. In that day and time, kidnapping and extortion were popular means of funding one's lifestyle, and was practiced by almost all men of station, both East AND West.

"Habeeb!! More wine." The Knight and his squire sat at the long, rough table which occupied one half of the room. Habeeb sat on a low stool, next to the hearth in one corner of the room, stirring the stew which simmered in the great pot which hung over the fire.

He rose and filled a serving pot from the large goatskin which hung in a rickety wooden frame, under a round wooden cover, standing next to him. He splashed a little water over the outside of the goatskin.

As he poured wine into the tankards the two men were drinking from, he spoke. "You speak Arabic, Sire. Rare for a man of the West."

"As a young man I lived in Constantinople. My father was a trader in spices and we did much business with the men of Mecca. My father spoke the language of the Mongol and the Turk, I spoke the languages of the Middle East. This knowledge has served me well."

He reached into the small purse at his belt and pulled out a gold coin.

"No, no, Sire. No payment required."

"Thank you, Habeeb. You are most kind and generous. But why?"

"The woman, Sire, she tells me she saw you bury those men who attacked you on the road. The woman says you buried them facing Mecca. It is rare to find such respect for an enemy in a man of the West."

The Knight looked long into the eyes of Habeeb, and Habeeb could see, in those clear blue eyes, that the memory of the day's business was painful.

"In shallah, this fighting will come to an end and we can live in peace. In shallah."

"As you say, Sire. In shallah. God willing."

Habeeb returned the serving pot to the high shelf over the goatskin, and again, splashed a little water over the outside of the skin. He returned to his station, next to the pot simmering over the low fire.

"M'Lord, the only thing I have understood in all that you have said to each other is the last two words that heathen spoke - 'God Willing'. Do you suppose you might limit yourself to the King's English?"

"Good Squire, I would not bandy the word 'heathen' about too freely. Habeeb is as conversant in the King's English, as you call it, as he is in Arabic. He might choose to run you through."

"With what, M'Lord? A wooden serving spoon?"

"There is a scimitar leaning against the wall behind the wineskin. Did you not see it? No, you did not. I can see it in your face. How, in the name of the King, have you managed to live this long?"

The squire ignored the insult.

"M'Lord, why does he splash water on that skin?"

"Taste your wine, Squire and tell me; is it not cool on the tongue?"

The squire raised his tankard and drank nearly half.

"Aye, M'Lord, now that you make mention of it, it IS cool!! But how?"

"I know not the science of it, Squire, but the Arabs have always known that as water dries on the outside of a skin it will cool what is inside. These 'heathens', as you call them, have sciences and arts of which we have no knowledge."

"As may be, M'Lord, but it is a good thing, I think, that they fight no better than they do."

"Oh, they fight well enough, Squire. It's the tactics they used today that defeated them, not their fighting ability. They came at me singly, or in pairs, and they weren't prepared for my second sword, my Falcata. The Roman short sword is excellent for close in work, especially when the enemy works in under my long sword. Two swords are better than one, Squire, and forget you not that admonition. In spite of all of that, good Squire, if they had tried to kill me, really tried, they would have done. But their attack was uncoordinated and they intended a kidnap for ransom, not a murder, and that was their undoing. You, they would have killed, I think, but me, they would have taken for ransom."

"Oh, well then, it's as I said, M'Lord. It's a good thing they fought no better than they did.

For me, anyway."

Ndinombethe.

They can get their own

On Friday evening, I had this image pop into my mind and I wrote a story that just seemed to fall onto the keyboard. And after a week of photo essays, I thought, "Cool. A story." And Saturday's post was text, and no pictures. But then, Saturday evening, he came roaring back into my mind, again, and I wrote a second story about the Knight and his Squire. And that was Sunday's post. If you like, you can read them, here and here. Now, I'm an easy going kind of guy, most of the time. I go along with most stuff - try not to rock the boat, etc. But .. right now, the Knight and the Squire are sitting in a small tavern on the road to Jerusalem and they're getting drunk and having a grand old time and they want ME to write about it. And I ain't gonna do it. This is MY blog. If they want to tell their story - they can get their own.

Ndinombethe.

Becomes Sunday's Short

I really hesitated before publishing this. It's an outgrowth of the brief story from yesterday. It's been one of those things that just wanted to write itself - the Knight and the Squire both said things I had not planned and did things I did not expect. I actually had to shorten this post because the two of them decided to carry on this long conversation that threatened not to end and I finally went back a ways and took control. And cut it off. Who knew Knights would be so chatty?

One Knight's Story - Continues
He knelt on one knee among the bodies of the men he had slain, his hand on the hilt of his sword, which was stuck down into the ground. His head was bowed, his eyes were closed, his lips moved in silent prayer.

"What prayer is it, M'Lord, that I may join you in it?"

The knight paused and look up at his squire. "I pray the Third Takbir of the Islamic prayers for the dead. It asks forgiveness."

"Forgiveness, M'Lord? What have you done that needs forgiveness? You have done nothing but fight well and bravely, M'Lord. What forgiveness is it you seek?"

"The prayer is not for myself, Squire. The prayer asks forgiveness for the dead."

"You're praying for THEM, M'Lord?"

"Yes, Squire, I pray for them, for there is no other to do so, and their religion requires that the prayers be said."

"THEIR religion? These heathens? You pray to THEIR God?"

"Their God is the same God you pray to each night, Squire, as you go to your bed. The same God you worship each morning at Mass. The same God. The God we, as Christians, inherited from the Jews. Jehovah, Yahweh, Allah, God the Father - they are all one and the same."

"But you pray their prayers, My Lord. Is that not a sacrilege?"

"If it is a sacrilege to show respect for your enemy, to KNOW your enemy, then yes, I have committed a sacrilege. Look about you, Squire. Tell me what you see."

"I see a dozen of the enemy, M'Lord, all dead by your sword."

"Look closer, Squire. Look into the faces of the dead and tell me, again, what you see."

The squire moved about, bending over, looking into the face of each of the dead Islamic warriors. He sat, then, and looked up at the knight, tears streaming down his face. "They have no beards, M'Lord. They are but children."

"Children with swords in their hands, Squire, and the strength of arm to use them, and well."

"But why, M'Lord? Why children?"

"To them, good Squire, WE are the heathens. They call us 'Infidels'. It means 'one without faith'. And they are taught from the cradle that those without faith shall not be suffered to live. "Death to the Infidel" they are taught from their mother's breast. They join in their "Holy War" as soon as they are able, knowing that should they die in battle they will go to heaven and upon their arrival there, they will be served by 27 virgins."

"Most of these be virgins, I think. They'll not be any thing else, if that's what they were."

"True, Squire. Just the point I would make, were I trying to make a point. You see about you the whole and terrible truth of war - there is no honor here, no glory here, just the bodies of dead young men who died before they should, for a cause they don't understand and killed by a man who has no clearer understanding of the reason why it all took place. So yes, I pray their prayers, I complete their ceremony to the extent I can, in hopes I can speed them on their way to heaven and their eternity with 27 virgins."

"So what do we do now, M'Lord?"

"Now, Squire? Now we bury them. And when we finish our labors, we shall refresh ourselves in that village yonder, for serving God is thirsty work, if you survive it."

"Well, that seems not fair to me, M'Lord."

"What is not fair?"

"They get virgins, M'Lord and all WE get is work."

"Would you rather trade places with them, Squire?"

"I know not, M'Lord. Do we get virgins?"