NaNoWriMo 09

Day Nine: word count = 1,763 words. MTD: 18,537 words.

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08.

I awoke with a start. My body felt like it didn’t sleep. It was if I blinked and then I had heard the distinct crowing of Blueridge from one of the entrances. The bloody cock had decided that it was time for the village to wake. Immediately thoughts of chicken soup came to mind as I disengaged myself from the blanket that had wrapped me up like some sort of ancient mummy.

My eyes ached around the edges. I felt as if I didn’t get any sleep at all. Looking up at the darkness of my quarters, I frowned. Today was going to be another object lesson in maintaining focus. No one had roused me to capture the words of the decision from the Elder’s. I could only assume that they were still deliberating, or they had taken a break for some sleep only to resume again. Either way, I didn’t want to get out of bed.

It was an easy thought to just roll over and just let the day pass. No one really needed me to work. My skills at scribing were pretty much in the exclusive use of the Elders, but something inside of me was restless and cranky.

I stared at the ceiling furiously, daring it to do something. The anger I had was more than just the Elder’s keeping information from me. As I look back on the time, it was because there was still nothing I could do to rush the situation. I had to wait.

Eventually I gave into the fact that I was awake and I needed to do something. I disengaged myself from the blanket that was trying to strangle me and swung my bare legs off the edge of the bed. The coolness in the air struck my skin and I immediately regretted deciding to whittle myself out of the cottony cocoon that was my bed.

Shambling over to my basin, I dunked my head into the huge earthenware bowl and let the cold water soak into my face and hair. The chill sent shivers through my body as I let the coolness of the water try to take the heat of my temper. I kept my face under the water letting the stillness that I had interrupted seep into me.

I focused my anger into the bowl and could feel the water heat up as I drew in the cool energy of the water. At least, that’s how I imagined it. I jerked my head up and took a breath as the chill water slid down my neck and down my back. I stood there with my eyes closed for a bit as I felt the fingers of chill run down further down my body while I breathed in and out in a ragged pattern blowing drops of water against the wall of the cave.

Blueridge was performing his duty again. This time I could clearly hear the cock crowing throughout the village as the sound bounced from one of the entrances. He was a proud bird and Name9 was proud of him. It was all too apparent that the two of them fed upon each other’s egos. The two were well matched. The both of them often walked around with their chests puffed out in pride. Name9 had his strut because of the handsomeness of his flock, and Blueridge because he was the handsomest, and only, rooster within the village.

After a moment, I could feel the wall staring back at me as I let the water dry off of my body naturally in the chill of my dormitory room and office. I picked up the bowl and emptied the contents into the huge metal funnel that would feed gravity feed the water into the garden far below my quarters.

The water recycling was one of Elder Boudan’s ideas. Before the piping system was put into place, the villagers would have to lug the water up and down throughout the interlocking tunnels to throw out their dirty water. Much of the system was built from fired pottery that was interlinked and deposited into a tank used for the various gardens in the lower regions of the village dug into the side of the cliff.

There wasn’t a way to push the water up without a pump and electricity. The use of electricity was something that the Elder’s were adamantly against. One mistake with a generator or the leaving of something running could not only put the village in danger, but could also alert the Aultnux to the very existence of the village. I could only imagine how things might be different with the wondrous electricity coursing throughout the village.

Running water was definitely at the top of my fantasy list if we had electricity, running water and electric lamps. No more would I be hunting for a matchstick while I stubbed my toe on a chair or table leg. I’d be able to lean back on my bed or in the chair to read instead of being hunched over a long and drawn out piece of wick that would sputter at the first hint of a breeze.

I knew that it would be a long time coming for electricity for the village. It would have to be a decision to be made by the future Elders of the village. It would have to be when the Elders felt safe enough to bring that power to the village. Then would be the time where the village would prosper. The thought vanished as the water circled around the funnel and drained to the bottom of the system far below.

Watching the water drain made me frown. I walked away from the drain and grabbed my sword cleaning kit from underneath my bed along with the sword I kept hidden away from the Elders. I didn’t see the need to hide it anymore since they already knew, as Jet Lem and Sheila Post did. More of the village probably knew that I practiced with the sword. I supposed my dirty little secret was out.

Swan had broken me out of the misconception that all swords had to be sheathed in order to be protected. The fact of the matter is that a sword should not be stored in its sheath. It tends to rust if left there. The sheath tends to trap ambient moisture and breaks down the oil. It’s like with anything else. A stagnant soul will break down and so will a stagnant sword. It’s the same thing really. Any swordsman will tell you the same thing.

The sword itself was sheathed in the wooden scabbard to prevent the covering from warping with the humidity. The lacquered wood was stained white with small swans etched in red. The scabbard was a devotion that Swan had worked on for months as I was learning to transcribe the volumes that he had put in front of me.

Night after night, he would work on the scabbard, slowly carving the diminutive birds along the length of the body. The floor would be full of tiny wood shavings giving the quarters a fresh pine smell that seemed to make the work easier for both of us.

The hilt was also stained as white as the scabbard and etched with a larger and more intricate red swan. When sheathed it the ensemble looked more like an intricate walking stick rather than the deadly weapon that it was. It was exactly how Swan wanted it to look. He would often preach to me about how not to judge a book or scroll by its cover and also the fact that a sheathed sword is still just as sharp as a naked blade. As I looked at the shape of the sword in the dim grayness of my quarters, I couldn’t agree more.

Carefully, I laid the sword down on my bed, shifting the blanket over to make room for both the blade and the pine box that held my cleaning supplies. Turning from the bed, I moved to quickly and felt the pain lance up my shin. I yelled at the stool that seemed to have moved in the few seconds that it took from my short walk from the drain to my bed.

I moved the stool out of my way and made my way to my desk that was still covered with a stack of paperwork that I had not yet completed. The transcriptions from my hasty notes would have to wait. There were more important things to do right now. I was upset and I needed to calm my soul. There was nothing like working on the sword that Swan had gifted to me to do that.

My hands quickly found the small round cup of matches that were embedded near the nook full of scrolls and books and the striker. With a quick motion, I flicked the match as it flared to light up the room with its quick light. Grey walls lit briefly and then were subdued as the sulfur quickly burned itself out. Slowly, I brought the small flickering flame to the candle on my desk bringing the room to the familiar glow that I lived in.

Moving the stack of notes and papers to a clear spot near the nook of their brethren, I cleared off the surface of my desk in preparation for the cleansing of both my spiritual soul as well as the soul encased within the pine scabbard laying on my bed. Grabbing a spare shirt, I dusted off the top of the desk making sure any debris I missed was now on the floor.

The pine box containing my supplies matched the sword and scabbard. I brought them to the desk and grabbed my malevolent stool to begin the process. I laid the sword down near the top of the desk and opened up the hinged lid of the stark white box engraved with red swans. Inside were the implements that I would need for the task.

A small glass vial of clove oil was the first thing I brought out. The fragrance seemed to permeate through the stopper. I immediately felt the stress beginning to leave my body. Next I drew out the two cotton cloths that I would need to remove the oil and to polish the blade. The large cotton ball full of polishing powder was next. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The smells that were released from both the pine and the clove drew me into their embrace.

NaNoWriMo 09

Day Eight: word count = 2,073 words. MTD: 16,774 words.

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07.

Sleep came fitfully in the darkness of my dormitory room carved out from the rock. I remember sitting nestled into my blanket on top of the down mattress in the dark. I listened for the ambient noise that was often echoing throughout the halls and it was sorely missed. Everyone was on the same wavelength. We were all waiting for the Elders to make their decision.

I could only imagine how the conversation was going behind the closed quarters with the Elders. The debate would be heaviest between Elder Morris and Elder Tefnek. They were the captains of opposing camps. Elder Tefnek was the strategist, the tactician. Elder Morris on the other hand was the pragmatist. Elder Rena would be the one to break the tie. This was not going to be a quick decision. Too many lives were at stake.

Each of the five of them had much to consider. They each had families and wives and in the case of Elder Rena, two ex-husbands. They had children and grandchildren to consider when coming to the decision that would affect the entire village. This was going to be no tea service or plan for a holiday celebration. Destiny was being decided in that room.

It wasn’t just the destiny of the warriors who would track and hunt he shifter. It wasn’t just the ones who would be toe to tooth with it. It was the entire village whose destiny was being decided.

The younglings who were learning their trades in gunsmithing, metalsmithing, woodworking, animal husbandry, and botany would have to stop their apprenticeships and begin to pack up and move. They may even have to be drafted too early into a life of living in the hostile world outside of the village.

The Aultnux didn’t leave us that many luxuries, the teaching of trades to children was one of them. Seeing the light in their eyes glow as they were learning was one of the sheer joys that I remember seeing with them. When they were presented a problem that was difficult, the children had a knack to apply a natural skill that they didn’t know they had to resolve it. Children were natural problem solvers. They didn’t have to work at lateral thinking. It came naturally to them. They were a commodity worth putting my life on the line for.

I was sure that the parents of all the children were thinking the same thing. Name1, I’m sure was thinking about her blonde haired little girl with the crystalline blue eyes who had recently been taken under the wing of Name2 in the caverns that made up the root cellar. Name3 had an affinity for farming and took to it naturally. All I could see when I thought of her was streaks of blood marring her perfect head of hair and the sadness of her mother.

Name3’s father was one of the men under Jet Lem. He was sure to be picked for the hunt. Name4 was adept at his work. He often took the shifts near the upper entrance to the village at night. The man had a friendly smile that was as inviting as a campfire on a cold night. He was a jovial man that liked to tell bad jokes to try to get others to smile. His heart was always in the right place. He wasn’t a coward or a shirker of his duties. I had seen him in action during training. Name4 was quick and lithe despite his girth and he often dominated his opponents during training sessions. It was no wonder that Jet Lem made him second in command.

The Master Carpenter, Name5 had a little boy who was following in his father’s trade. Name5 beamed with pride whenever Name6’s name came up. The younger Name5surname was only 15 but was put in charge of reinforcing the tunnel walls that led to the wellspring that provided the village with fresh water. He was already shaping up to be just as good, if not better, than his father.

Name 7 was a wonder at many skills. Not only was she the Mistress of Candlemaking, but also a gifted seamstress and tailor, a more than talented baker and respectful of her elders – not just the Elders on the council, but all of her elders. She would make a wonderful mother if she weren’t killed. If she were lost, the next generation of children wouldn’t know what a treasure they had missed. She touched so many of us. I would miss her, and the hazelnut cake that she made at harvest time.

Elder Rena’s children, Name8 and Name9 collectively took care of the goats and chickens that helped to feed the village. I don’t know what a morning would be if Name9’s cock Blueridge didn’t announce itself to the village every day or if it didn’t start with a cold glass of milk from Name8’s flock. The entire village would be less like home without them.

My own comrades that I’ve grown up with would be a dour lot without the children to distract their focus from the Aultnux and what they’ve done to the human race. The bitterness would take them into a new realm of ennui that would lead to a darkened place that never sees the light.

Name10, the village’s favorite tunnel rat, would have no one to listen to his outlandish tales of spelunking. They would never know the wonderful adventures he spun. I doubt he would find the desire to tell them without them. We would never know about ‘The Terrible Ghost Rat’ or ‘The Fantastic Cave Faeries’ if he didn’t have their giggles and wide eyes to spur him on.

Jet Lem was only a few years older than myself and already held the mantle of responsibility for the village’s defenses. Despite his seriousness and gruff attitude, when it came to the children, he would bend over backwards, literally in some cases. For the last few years, he was the one who was dangling from block, tackle and pulley system mounted in the ceiling of the main cavern to deliver the presents at Christmas time. He would be sore for days, and would complain about it endlessly, but he couldn’t hide the smile that was plastered on his face. He did it all for the children.

Without them, I doubt he would be as focused on the preservation of life rather than the destruction of the Aultnux. His passion for weaponry and fighting could not be matched. The balance that kept him in check was the cherubic faces of the younglings laughing and pointing at him at Christmas time. He was a different kind of hero to them. They didn’t know about the blood he had spilled for their safety. The children didn’t need to know about it. Not yet.

Name11 who was apprenticing with Mama Post would have never followed down the path of medicine if he never saw his son being born. He was a bit awkward and his hands were always cold, but he was shaping up to be a fine doctor under the close eye of Mama Post. His kind eyes would be worn thin with the pain he had to suffer through without his son or the other children.

Individually we were all skilled and intelligent. Without the village we would not have become the people we were or have the chance to see what we would have the potential to become. Hidden away in the side of a cliff, we have survived the would that the Aultnux have left us. We have prospered a little, but our way of life is threatened by a malevolent creation that the aliens have created.

I remember balling my hands in fists and thumping them down on my bed. Individually the people in the village may see themselves as small and unimportant. The fact of the matter is that within the community that Elders have received from their own elders is what makes us powerful. They had to see it. They just had to.

If I hadn’t made my decision when I say Sheila lying there in bed, my thoughts that night in my quarters would have led me down that path. It only firmed up my decision to tell the Elders that their chronicler would be hunting the Shifter with Jet Lem and the others. They could do nothing to stop me but give me a stream of dirty looks and collectively attempt to appeal to my sense of duty to them.

It was that night that I decided that my duty was to the entire village, not just the Elders. I had to do my part with my other skills. I was a damned good chronicler. Swan had taught me well with the lessons. Spelling, vocabulary, calligraphy, addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division were all necessary for my life in service to the Elders and the village. Swan had taught me so much more when he found the talent I had for the blade.

Weeks were taken for Swan’s approval in drawing my sword out of the scabbard before he moved onto the next stage. I was so angry with him during that time. I relaxed a little when I thought of Swan. He was so patient with me but didn’t let me get out of hand.

“We begin at the beginning,” he would always say to me. “It is the same with the alphabet. You cannot rush the beginning.”

“This is so boring!” I complained to him once. I was so tired of pulling the sword out and putting back. It felt pointless.

“Can you know a story if you jump into the middle of it?” Swan asked me and then cocked his head in the way he did when he thought I should know the answer. This time I did.

“No.” I gave in, depressed because I knew he was right.

“That’s right. So,” he chuckled at me, “we begin at the beginning. Again!” That particular day seemed to last forever. Drawing the sword, sheathing the sword, drawing the sword, sheathing the sword – it was an exercise in monotony and patience. It taught me to endure the long hours with my pen and ink transcribing scrolls from my patchwork of notes.

I kept trying to think of what Swan would do in my position. He had a knack for always coming up with the right thing to say when I was in a mood like this. He would just seem to look at me and ask me a question that I should know the answer to and cock his head letting me know that I wasn’t thinking hard enough.

Jet was right about some people in the village panicking if they knew about the possibility of more than one Shifter involved. The Elders were right in keeping the discussion private and discreet. Their decision wasn’t an easy one, but I couldn’t help but think that they were just looking at the forest instead of the individual trees that comprised it.

It was the grandness of the situation that seemed to take precedence in their decision. The huge decision, it seemed to me at the time, was either to send scouts out to reestablish the village elsewhere, send their people into what they say as certain death, wait out the life of the Shifter until it died, or kill the Shifter and send the message to the Aultnux that there was a renegade band of humans on the loose.

To me it was so much more than that. It was about how Name7 seemed to never complain about how she had to sew my shirt and pants back together after practicing with Swan and hearing the latest exploits of ‘The Ghost Rat’ from Name10. It was about seeing the brightness and sheer joy of the children and how it was infectious to the entire village.

For me it was about the Law of Contagion and how it affected each and every aspect of our life. It was about the small things that made up the big things. It was about how the flowers pushed up into the sky individually and collectively covered an entire mountainside to make it alive with color and sway in the wind.

Quite simply, it was about everybody doing everything that they could for everyone else in the village. It was about family.

NaNoWriMo 09

Day Six: word count = 2,378 words. MTD: 14,701 words.

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06.

I knew I had to plan for the inevitable. The Elders were concerned with the safety of all of us in the village. With the new information that Jet had given me, inadvertently or deliberate, I could see the time where I would have to make a stand against the Elders if they decided to keep me here in the caves with them.

My quarters were as dark as I left them, but my mood had lightened in a sense and grew heavier with the newfound responsibility that I had discovered within myself. I groped for my desk and where I kept my candle and matches. With a quick flick of the matchstick against the striker at the side of my desk, the room flared to life. I lit my candle and perused the library.

Most of the scrolls and ledgers were historical in nature. Weather patterns, some maps and listings of the local flora and fauna were among the most used and recognizable in the grouping. I wasn’t looking for those though. I was looking for something different. I had come across the document some time ago and thought very little of it at the time.

The scroll had been transcribed from a book that was published before the Aultnux took over. It was initially put out for the populace as a novelty item. It was meant as entertainment really, and of no real use to anyone at that time. The transcript detailed reactions and psychology of interrogation from something called a ‘movie’.

The word itself didn’t mean anything to me and I looked it up in one of the dictionaries that had been transcribed by Swan and myself. It defined ‘movie’ as a “sequence of photographs projected onto a screen with sufficient rapidity as to create the illusion of motion and continuity” and a “connected cinematic narrative represented in this form.”

When I looked up the word, it confused me. In the village we used the word, but it usually meant that there was going to be a shadow puppet show or a story in one of the main rooms where many of the adults were going to put on costumes and act out a play. After a bit of searching through the stacks and piles within the organized chaos that was the village’s library, I had found the scroll.

It, along with the rest that I hadn’t redone, was weatherworn and had the faint smell of dust and mold. The case was made from stained pine and still had the aroma of the forest. I smiled at the memory it brought back to me of Swan and I making the case. The measurements had to be exact for Swan. I had to plane more than a few planks to make the case even. The exercise on that day was of patience and planning. Much like the research I was doing in order for me to help Jet and get the excursion going.

I screwed off the top of the case and tipped the case allowing the edge of the scroll to escape its pine cylinder. A nutty aroma escaped from the wooden tube as I withdrew the scroll. The paper was still holding up, I wouldn’t need to transcribe it for another few years. Whorls and swoops grabbed me as I unrolled the parchment on my desk. My calligraphy was still nowhere near Swan’s expertise, but it was close.

“Lie versus Lie: Subtle Interrogation Techniques from the Movies.” Swan’s grand script was at the top of the page enticing me. Even from beyond, he was still teaching me. Such was the power of my position, and his.

“In the movies, subjects are the attractive ones. They are often the ones that are introduced in the first scenes as to throw the viewer off. This is known as a Red Herring in both literary and cinematic terms. Which has it’s origin in fox hunting where dog trainers would cross the trail of a fox with a pungent fishy smell of a brined herring to teach their hounds to follow the original trail.

“It is said that the Red Herring is the oldest trick in the book. I’m not sure about that, however it is rather cliché and overused in many materials related to solving a mystery. As a result of this overuse within the genre, the field of mysteries has evolved into a series of over-the-top twists in storytelling.

“Anyone who seems a overly suspicious or overtly guilty is almost always the victim of such a plot twist. Red Herrings can also be a piece of evidence in an investigation. Among the most overused in the genre have evolved into a prophetic birthmark, a smudged or missing pages out of a diary or other work of text, a broken clock or wristwatch or even ashes or footprints where there should be none.

“These, among other rather obvious misaligned things should be the first clues that you are on the wrong trail. Quite often it is best to back up, think of the evidence gained and start anew.

“When questioning a subject (whether criminal or not), start off with reading the subject’s personality. Do they need a friendly, motherly approach or more of a camaraderie that is built? Or do they need the firm approach where sparing the rod is going to ruin the line of questioning? Next, listen carefully to what your subject is saying (or not saying). Was a remark thrown out in their nervousness or egotism that you may have missed? Watch their behavior. There are signs in body language.

“Aggressive body language can include threatening facial signals such as frowns, pursed lips, and sneers. They eyes may squint or stare in a confrontational nature. Watch the hands, are they clenching into fists? Be sure, it can be a sign of an impending attack on your person. This, coupled with redness in the face can be a clear sign of agitation.

“Gesticulation may also be present in an adversary. Watch for single or double fingers pointed upwards, chin tilting, etc. Other gestures may suggest sexual insults. Be careful of this trap and do not fall into the role of victim while gathering information.

“Other threatening movements may include mock attacks to intimidate such as the pounding of surfaces (tables and walls), the kicking of chairs or even the subject striking themselves in a display of power (such as their fists into their own palm or the thumping of their chest as an ape would do). Psychologically it is important to understand the nature of this, it is a threat. The subject is attempting to throw you off of a trail by saying ‘here is what I will do to you.’ Again, keep your perspective in these situations.

“The rapidity and size of the gesture could also be an indication of aggression in the subject. Sudden gestures could cause an investigator to flinch, giving the subject a slight win in the tug-of-war for information. Grandiose gestures such as sweeping arms or an exaggerated fist shaking are also often used to indicate the level of aggression in the subject.

“Deceptive body language may include anxiety. Those who are hiding something are usually concerned about the secret being let loose. Abnormal sweating, unless fighting off an infection of some nature may be a sign of anxiety. The twitching of muscles around the mouth and eyes can also be a signal of deception. Listen for variations in tone and speed of the subject’s voice.

“The subject wants to control the flow of information and may be signs of this in overly friendly body language as a forced smile or a constant changing from open to closed body language. They may even try to remain perfectly still and not allow the normal movements of their body. This is overcompensation by the subject to maintain control of the flow of information.

“The subject who is trying to deceive you often needs to think and concentrate on what they are doing instead of allowing the information to flow naturally. This can result in a distraction of the subject. They may drift off or pause during an interrogation. This is a clear indication that they are trying to think of what to say rather than telling the entire truth of the matter.

“Timing may go awry for the subject in their attempt to control the situation. They may attempt to compensate by either overreacting or underreacting to any given situation. They may fidget or maintain focus in an obscure place with their eyes.

“Watching the entire body is important. Tell-tale signs can also come from defensive body language. Even if a physical attack is not eminent, psychologically the subject’s body language can speak to the fear of an impending attack.

“These signs can include the unconscious covering of vital parts of the body. The subject’s chin may be lowered to cover the neck. Their knees may be clamped together tightly in order to cover the groin. Arms may be folded across the subject’s chest or their hands may come together to cover the face with fingers interlocked, giving the impression of listening. The subject’s arms may be just slightly curved in front of them while lying on a table to fend off incoming attacks.

“Barriers are also a sign of a defensive pose. If the subject keeps an object in front of them during the interrogation (literally or figuratively), it is a sign that they are defensive. It gives the subject a feeling of power. ‘This is my shield, this is my barrier and I have the power over it, you do not.’ It is a most important signal to any investigator. The barrier could be a small as a pencil or as large as an elongated table. Another important signal is if the subject straddles a chair in reverse, allowing the back of the chair to cover their chest. It gives the illusion of a relaxed subject while giving the comfort of the defensive barrier.

“The subject may try to become physically smaller than they actually are. Unconsciously it is a way of defending by reducing the size of the target. This is an inherent instinctual response. They may try to hunch over into a smaller position or in more drastic cases revert into a fetal position.

“Rigidity is also a good signal that the subject may be defensive. It is a primal response to tense up and make the body harder in order to withstand an attack. It is another way for the subject to try to control the situation and avoid the unconscious use of body language to reveal more information than they want to.

“If the subject cannot keep their eyes still, they may be looking for an escape route. If pressed, the subject could turn violent. This is an important signal for any investigator as it could lead to the exacerbation of aggressive behavior and body language if the subject feels too threatened. The fight-or-flight mechanism is very real and should be considered when thinking about investigation room topology.

“With body language in mind, the investigator is now ready to begin the questioning. But there are a few things that the investigator may need to consider while the questioning is going on. For instance, was all available information gathered and analyzed? Were the credible eye-witness accounts corroborated, or is there still doubt? Has a goal been set for the conclusion of the interrogation, in other words, what information does the investigator need? If the investigator is ready, then the stage is set.

“Start off by having the subject tell their story in their own words. It is important to not interrupt the subject even if there are discrepancies or glaring holes within the initial telling of their story. It is important for the investigator to take note of these inconsistencies for later use, but do not interrupt the subject at this time.

“Watch the subject’s body language (as described earlier) there may be clues to their verisimilitude, or lack thereof. Listen for interruptions in normal speech patterns. Watch their eyes. Often, if the subject is looking to the left while telling a tale, it is an indication of false information.

“Review the subject’s story again and again. This will introduce stress into the interrogation and the subject may end up making a mistake. Go over the details out of order. If it is a memorized story or a lie, the subject will have trouble keeping up with the events as they have to remember the story instead of the actual events.

“At this point, the interviewer needs to ask themselves some questions in regards to the answers that they have been given. Did the story make sense? Do all the facts (or omission of certain facts) make sense? Does the story align itself with eye-witness events or does it seem to have ‘that wrong feeling?’ Has there been a change in behavior? Is the subject displaying any different body language or speech habits when you have begun to question and tear apart the story? If so, there may be a shred of truth somewhere, but the truth may be that the subject is lying.

“If, at the end of the process, the interviewer cannot extract the information, and does not have the legal means to detain the subject, the interviewer has no other choice but to let the subject go. By all means the interviewer should let the subject know that they’ll be keeping in touch ‘just in case.’

The scroll went on with other subjects such as ‘Determining Death or How to Tell if the Corpse is Truly a Corpse,’ and ‘Avoiding the Splat and Save Your Fellow from Falling Off of the Cliff.’ Swan had a sense of humor in things and I had faith that those other topics were equally as detailed, but I couldn’t hold my eyes open any longer.

I rolled the scroll up and gently placed it back into the pine case. The smell eased my mind but did nothing for my eyes or my aching back. I blew out the candle and shambled to my own down-filled bed. The Elders were likely to call on me all too soon.

NaNoWriMo 09

Day Five: word count = 4,140 words. MTD: 12,323 words.

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05.

Sheila lay there not knowing that even in her sickly state she had given me the strength to do what was right. Her raven colored hair was clumped in places where it gathered along the natural curves of her neck and head. I pulled her hair away from her and laid it out on the pillow above her head and dabbed her hot skin with the cloth.

Her eyes rarely stopped fidgeting. Whatever she was fighting was holding on close. I could only imagine that she was reliving the battle and her eventual escape back to the village. When Jet had found her, she was a mess.

The bloodstained clothing had been burned. It was ripped and shredded as we had found the others, but Sheila held on to make it back to us. She was out of pistol ammunition and her cutlass had been broken at the tip. In her state she didn’t have time to collect the brass casings for the gunsmith. The brass was going to be hard to replace. Without the casings the village may have to go back to flintlock rifles for some of the men and women. They weren’t as efficient, but they were still as deadly.

According to Jet and the rest of his team, she was passed out near the river that ran near the cliff. Sheila had made it across the river through sheer willpower. Her body should have given out long before she had gotten that far. She had come to long enough to recognize the Master at Arms and whisper one word.

“Family.”

Sheila was murmuring more words under her breath as she shook her head against the pillow and destroyed the work I had put in trying to get her hair to stop strangling her. I lifted her head again to gather her hair looking desperately for something to tie it back when I felt the presence behind me.

I turned quickly, feeling my heart begin to pound. The muscled figure of Jet Lem was leaning in the doorway, just as I had done when I walked in on Mama Post. Jet unfolded his arms and unwrapped a piece of cloth from around his wrist as he entered the infirmary.

“Here,” he said, “this will help.” I took the cloth and tied back Sheila’s hair and began again with my ministrations to her forehead with the damp cloth. Jet circled around the bed and took up a seat opposite me.

“Where’s Mama?” he asked, “I didn’t expect you here.”

“I took over for a little while.” I answered him and moved my head to where Mama Post was deeply sleeping. “She needed a break.”

“That’s too true.” Jet shifted his gaze to where she was resting. “We all need a break every now and a gain. That one especially.” Jet’s concern was honest and poignant, but a little blunt. He was still angry with me for not volunteering while we were with the Elders. It came out in his voice. The unasked question hung there for a bit before he actually voiced it.

“She’s seen you practice, you know?” Jet pointed to Sheila. The question took me by surprise. I had thought that I had been far enough away from the village to keep practicing my fencing so that no one would know.

“No, I didn’t know that.” It wasn’t a surprise to me that it would be Sheila who would find me out. She was one of the best trackers in the village. Her skills were in constant need for new food sources and to track wolves and other denizens of the forest down in order to keep us safe. She had been the one to find the Shifter’s lair, I’m sure.

“She says you’re more than pretty good.” Jet pushed the subject again. I hadn’t known then that my skills with the sword were more than pretty good. I was, I had thought, a novice at best, but full of my own ego. It was youthful exuberance, which was all I thought it was. Fencing gave me another way to practice my skills at calligraphy and to work out my frustrations that I couldn’t express to the Elders or to anyone else.

“I didn’t know that either.” I kept my voice calm and focused on Sheila. She was moaning again. “So, family?” I put my own question out there to change the subject. “What do you think she meant?” Thankfully the Master at Arms took the hint and didn’t press the subject of my skills at swordplay.

“I’m not sure.” Jet leaned over and placed his elbows on the overstuffed bed as he interlocked his fingers and brought them up to his face. “It could mean that she was talking about us. That she had finally made it back to the village.”

I glanced at Jet as I was wringing out the cloth again. His eyes were hard and fixed into a space that seemed to be outside of the infirmary. The glow from the candles lit up his dark skin and gave it the same glow and shine as coffee except for the shine on his bald head. I had a sense that he desperately wanted to believe the answer.

“But,” I urged him as I was patting down Sheila’s cheeks. She licked her lips. The fever had made her thirsty. “Fresh water?”

“Huh?” I had interrupted Jet from whatever place he had gone to.

“A cup of fresh water, I think she’s thirsty.” Jet nodded to me and got up silently as to not disturb either of the sleeping women in the infirmary. From another basin of water, Jet gave me the dipper and I handed him the cloth.

I carefully brought the dipper to Sheila’s dry lips. They were cracked and sore. As I brought the water to her she seemed to sense it and raised her head instinctively to reach the cool liquid.

“Slowly,” I whispered to her as I held her head down on the pillow. I brought the metal dipper to her mouth and let a few dribbles of water in. She coughed initially, her body reacting to the water. Jet wiped her mouth with the cloth when I took the dipper back. As carefully as any concerned parent or lover, he dabbed her skin trying to take the fever away.

“I get the feeling that you have another theory about the word.” I let him continue to wipe Sheila’s face with the cloth. It seemed to soothe him. It gave him something else to do besides wait. I knew the feeling.

Jet continued his task for a moment before handing me the cloth. I doused it again, wrung it out and handed it back. Jet licked his own thick lips in sympathy of Sheila. Her fever was still not broken. I grabbed her hand and began to hum again. To my surprise Jet joined in. His bass added into the harmony.

We sat for a time humming and passing the cloth back and forth. Sheila didn’t seem worse, but her fever wasn’t getting any better. Occasionally, I refreshed the basin with fresh water and went back to holding Sheila’s hand.

“Yes, I have another idea of what it may have meant.” Jet said with a calm voice as he passed me the washcloth again. I locked eyes with him and waited. “I have a feeling,” he started again nodding towards the basin for me to dunk and wring again. I followed his instructions, “that she wasn’t speaking about the family we have here.” He went back to dabbing at Sheila’s skin.

“Oh.” I looked at Sheila again and the mass of wounds she collected. “I wasn’t told about that. It’s not in the records.” Jet looked at me with that hard glance that he had mastered. The age showed on his face for just a moment before his mask slid on again as the Master at Arms.

“I know.” I could see the anger behind his eyes that he was containing. “The Elders thought it best to leave that out of the official records. They also know of your trips out to the forest.” I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. This was against what Chronicler Swan had taught me. I was suddenly aware that my mouth was open.

“If the Elders are keeping this from us,” I started.

“I know.” Jet said again stuffing his rage back down again. “I’m bound to them just as you are. They are where they are for a reason. The concern is for the village and with that kind of danger lurking, cooler heads must prevail.” It sounded as if Jet were convincing himself rather than me.

“But,” I started again, still not believing how the Elders would keep me and the records in the dark regarding the possibility of a family of Shifters out somewhere beyond the high plains.

“But what?” Jet stared at me again, “There is no need to cause a panic. The village is small and could be taken out like that,” he snapped his fingers, “by the Aultnux if they had found us. We need to be careful.”

“We need to know the whole truth!” Sheila moaned again and Mama Post snorted from her far away corner. I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I was instantly embarrassed that I had let my voice rise to that level. Jet stared at me and the mask soften from his face.

“The truth is that Sheila is the only one who knows what she meant. The others are dead and the Elders will not send even a small band out across the plains without truly knowing what ‘family’ means.” Jet looked back to where Mama Post was sleeping and frowned. “For the good of the village, the Elders have to find the best options.”

“If there are more than one Shifter out there,” I leaned across and grabbed the cloth from Jet, “there are limited options.” I dunked the cloth again and wrung it out for the countless time during the night. “We either move away or move to destroy them.”

“I know.” Jet answered me. His far away stare had been replaced with a different look. A slight smile was fixed on his face. “That’s the crux of the problem.”

“So, the she knew, about the swordplay?” I asked.

“Yes.” Jet took the cloth from me.

“And she told you.” I looked into Jet Lem’s face. I felt sheepish and embarrassed. “More than pretty good?” The Master at Arms turned to face me.

“Yes, more than pretty good.” He waited patiently for me to follow the line I was drawing. I felt as if I would wriggle out of my skin before the words would come to me. Confidence comes from doing.

“I know we don’t have enough able bodied men and women. I’ve looked at the numbers.” I was hesitant. The words came out, but I couldn’t look him in the eyes.

“I know,” he said tolerantly much like Chronicler Swan did when he was alive. “This is what I was trying to convey. We need to draw from other resources.”

When I finally did get the courage to look at Jet Lem and his dark face, I found his head cocked in a certain way that struck me as all too familiar. The look struck me with a sadness and pride mixed with the reality of my responsibility to the village not only as the Chronicler but also as a defender.

“I’ll go with you.” I found I could look Jet in the eyes. I wasn’t afraid or embarrassed. Holding Sheila’s hand and feeling the words coming out of my mouth gave me the courage to continue. “Whether or not the Elders grant you the permission to follow through with your plans, I’ll go with you.”

“I know.” A broad smile crossed Jet Lem’s face. “I knew that there was much more in you than you gave yourself credit for. Swan was right to choose you.” I felt immediate relief in hearing the words come out of Jet’s mouth. I could breathe again. We sat in silence as the candles burned down taking turns with the cloth and fighting Sheila’s fever.

“Go,” Jet said after a while, “get some rest. You’re going to need it very soon. I’ll watch over the both of them for now.” I nodded to him and headed back down the same corridors that led me to the infirmary but I didn’t seem to find the melancholy that was there before. It was the Law of Contagion in effect again.

NaNoWriMo 09

Day Five: word count = 2,028 words. MTD: 10,211 words.

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04.

It was only minutes before Mama Post was softly snoring in her corner of the infirmary. I focused on Sheila. I held her hand in mine and hummed the soft tune that I had learned so long ago from her mother. The fever had drained her. Sheila’s face was flushed and her eyes were moving in rapid succession from left to right and all around. Whatever she was dreaming about was causing her stress.

I held onto her hand with both of mine. Occasionally she would let out a soft moan or an unintelligible word from under her breath. I just focused on her, watching her relive whatever terrible nightmare she had experienced with the Shifter.

Mama Post had already bandaged her wounds in clean cloth with poultices underneath. There were deep wounds on her arms. Angry red welts from the barbed tentacles of the Shifter crossed the length of her right arm and extended into the areas covered by the bandages. Even in my limited knowledge of medicine, I knew infection when I saw it. Whatever alien thing that had been recombined with the huge predatory cat had an invasive effect when the victim lived.

I supposed that it was something like what some of the Elders called Cat Scratch Fever, but this was something more severe. Normally the scratch of any cat can cause an initial reaction from the scratch or bite, raised flesh an initial redness, perhaps some mild discomfort. But Sheila’s symptoms were on a far greater scale.

Sheila’s breathing was shallow and rapid. More rapid movements came from her eyes. I hummed louder and held her hand tighter. Wherever she was, she needed to know that I was her for her. Her hand squeezed mine tightly as she began to move about in the bed. She was pushing the comforters off with her legs. Welts lined her calves and thighs as well. It was a miracle that she had made it back to the village at all.

Her movements were becoming more erratic as her dream progressed. Sheila’s hand was gripping mine in what seemed to be a death grip. Her knuckles were turning white with the strain. All I could think of at the moment was to hold on just as tightly, letting her dream self know that I was there for her. Sheila’s soft moans were increasing.

A washcloth and basin were sitting next to the bed. With my spare hand, I grabbed the brown cloth and dunked it into the cool water and wrung it out as best I could. Standing up from the stool, I placed the cloth on her forehead and began to wipe away the sweat that was forming there.

Sheila’s moans faded for a bit. I could see that her ribs were wrapped. The Shifter may have broken a couple of them during the skirmish. Bruises were beginning to fully form in the soft flesh of her belly. The fight with the Shifter was more brutal than anyone had let on. Mama Post knew the damage to her daughter though. She knew the severity of each and every wound.
Looking down at her, I remembered thinking about the old legends, the ones about before the time of the Aultnux and even before they even thought about condemning our planet. They were ones about the immortals and how they watched over the Earth and all of their domains. How they sat on high and watched the world turn beneath them. They peered every now and again down to the crust of mountains poking into their heavenly demesnes and wondered about the cretins that proliferated on what passed beneath them. When it took their whim, they would probe beneath their cloudy cover and meddle with the lives of men for sheer pleasure.

The legends were prophetic. Gods died when faith faltered. Their power waned as a new group of powers took their place. Society worshipped so many things. Money, power, sex, all of the new Gods of what was called the ‘New Millennium’ petered and faltered as the Aultnux came. The new Gods were from an alternate space staring across from us through a void of stars and stellar gasses.

The Ancient Gods and Goddesses faded throughout the histories as the rise of monotheism took hold. The power of prophets and saints also slid away as the Aultnux took their reign of control and threw it around the Earth. People prayed to the false Gods of their past and to the Saints of Hope and Salvation, but there was no answer. If there was an all-encompassing God, it had lost interest in the plaything that it had created.

It had either lost interest or like a boy who had just discovered that there were multiple species of ants nearby, pitched the red against the black in a great struggle all while watching them from on high as the two similar species tore each other apart. And when the insects in the terrarium had had enough of their miniscule war the Godchild put in a new variable into that equation. Something new was introduced to us, a contemporary thing full of terrible grace and voracious appetite. It was as if a wolf spider were introduced to the ants who were warring with themselves.

They brought their devices and masks of hope and charity into a society that was in terrible, terrible need of a new path. Economic and social slumps permeated the hearts and minds of those men before the arrival of the Aultnux, so the histories say. When they arrived it was in mankind’s darkest hour. Conspiracies were abundant throughout the world and everyone saw enemies lurking behind borders and within shadows.

Collectively, they didn’t turn their doubts towards the sky.

Promises were made and the desperation of the world was too great then. Mankind had painted themselves into a corner and they didn’t know another way out other than to accept the Aultnux for their face value. They used to say that hope springs eternal, but these days hope is hard to come by. Once more we are a jaded group of animals blinded by the hope in our hearts and not thinking with our entire being.

These Contemporary Gods came down from on high and found us as easy prey. Humanity was weak for its entire technological prowess which in the last few decades has fallen into decay due to the lack of knowledge it took to keep the technology working. The Aultnux like to keep us ignorant of how their technology works. Any who had access to the tools and means to fight against it were either put to death or put to labor within the camps in the new cities that were laid upon the foundations of the old.

Our schematics were the foundations of their plans and tactics. Back then we were on a road paved into oblivion. It was only one option, but it was the easy one. The old Gods were gone and the only thing that mattered was the power to erase each other from existence.

Angels did not visit anymore even though the monotheistic had prayed for their return. The hidden fears were realized more and more often as the Aultnux walked the Earth and took hold of its people and decided who was going to live and who was going to die. We were nothing short of cattle. Wide eyed cattle that stood grazing in the field as our new keepers set it to burn.

For those who decided to chronicle the events from that time, it was nothing short of alien mysticism. It was a fresh and new slice of human existence that had mankind questioning its very existence. In the end, the newcomers, mankind’s new and alien hope turned out to be just as cruel, just as hateful, and just as destructive as mankind was to itself.

The blank slate had been wiped clean by the Aultnux, but underneath the chalk dust were the remnants of what had gone on before. It was a foundation built on tyranny both economic and technological means. The surprise for humanity is that the Angels that they had prayed for had come. They were messengers as they were throughout all of human history. Mankind did not seem to understand that these angels were from the Contemporary Gods that did not care about the pink fleshy animals that had run rampant in the fields and tainted their sandbox.

Mankind had reaped what was sown for so long. It was now the time for us to adapt to the new rule under the Aultnux. We were no longer the masters of our own domain. All the magic had left the world. It was now about survival, not wonder. It was about truly banding together instead of finding the differences between us and capitalizing on them. It was a time of human tolerance and hatred of all things that were not human.

Sorcery was replaced with science. Man was replaced by Aultnux. The blood in Sheila Post’s veins was being replaced by an unknown poison. The promise of utopia had been replaced by a very real dystopia.

I had a feeling then that the fight was still going on in places. It had to be. It was my hope, just as the fight was going on in Sheila’s body. Soon the pressure eased from my hand allowing the blood to flow back into it. Initially it hurt and I moved her hand to her stomach. Sheila’s thrashing had stopped for a moment. I still kept humming to her. She knew she wasn’t alone.

Collectively we were stronger than our individual parts. Jet Lem knew that and so did the Elders who were deciding the fate of our cliff borne village. Just as Sheila was, we had to fight the invasion in our own way. We had to stand together or not at all. The Aultnux were the parasites to our world and I hated them for it.

As a chronicler, it was my duty to remain unbiased. It was my job to record the events as they took place without a slanted viewpoint. I found it easier then to distance myself from the petty squabbles that I had to endure at the right hand of the Elders. Now, they seem almost meaningless when viewed over time. It was the survival of our microcosm that seemed to permeate throughout the hearts and minds of those in the village. They didn’t know the power of one single light in the darkness.

The Law of Contagion is a powerful thing. In one respect it allows the similarities of charity to become manifold. Harvests grow bountiful; cheer is spread through goodwill and kind thoughts. It can also have detrimental effects. Dark thoughts leading to darker deeds can also be found in the Law of Contagion. Gossip founded by jealousy has sent more than one man before the Elders to plead his case.

What the Aultnux, and Humanity at large, did not realize is that the Law of Contagion that brought the aliens to our planet was the very same law that would lead a revolution like no other back to their city-states. The want of freedom is a commanding desire that can bring leaders toppling down into their own dark abyss.

Lying in the bed, sheets wet with sweat from the fever, Sheila had taught me an important lesson about freedom. Even though she was nearly powerless to take care of herself, her community and connections fought along with her. It was the Law of Contagion manifesting itself again. She wanted to be free of the sickness and live to fight another day. She brought all of us along with her into her war.

It was unexpected of me, but I had made a decision on that day to succumb to the Law of Contagion that was flooding throughout the village. I was hopeful that the Elders would come to a decision that would bring the entire village together, but if they did not, I would join Jet Lem and his party to destroy the Shifter.

NaNoWriMo 09

Day Four: word count = 2,115 words. MTD: 8,183 words.

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03.

Jet left the meeting hall without another word to me. He had presented and laid out his plans for the demise of the Shifter to the best of his ability. It was up to the Council of Elders now and out of his hands. All he could do was trust in the ability of the Elders to see the gravity of the situation. That’s all any of us could do at that point.

Soon after the Master at Arms was dismissed, I was as well. The Council of Elders wanted their privacy and a certain amount of discretion in place as they discussed the growing problem. In truth, I wanted to stay. The problem of the Shifter was a persistent one since before I was born and it demanded attention as well as a solution. If the Council didn’t see their way towards a compromise, the situation had all of the earmarks of another revolt and possibly the death of the village as a whole.

The birth rate of the village did not yet outnumber the death rate. Our village was shrinking year after year and without any way to ensure our survival, my own estimates put the village on the brink of disappearing in about 60 years. I am not a statistician, however and could only come within a glimpse of an actual answer. The simple fact was that the village could not sustain an increase in the Shifter’s feeding habits and if Jet’s plan was snuffed by the Elders, more drastic measures were soon to come.

I gathered up the trappings of my trade and headed out of the meeting hall. A chill draft crept through the corridors making my feet cold. As I passed others in the network of caves and tunnels, they all seemed to have that far away look that one gets when something terrible and frightening has attached itself to one’s soul.

It was a common melancholy and apprehension that seemed to grow at every turn. The entire village was holding its breath waiting for the Elders to come to a decision in regards to the beast that was hunting us down and eviscerating the village in two’s and three’s.

I made my way to my dormitory and office. The heavy feeling of nervousness and trepidation regarding the Elder’s vote was still on my mind. It was on everyone’s mind. The elderly were concerned for the youth. The middle-aged were concerned about the elderly. The youths didn’t know what to think. All that anyone knew was that life had temporarily stopped. There was nothing we could do to urge the Elders to finish their task any faster.

The waiting for anything is one of the worst feelings that I’ve ever come to combat. I hate waiting. I grow bored easily which leads to an annoyance deep within me. My own ego recognizes this and tends to push down the hatred of waiting towards a more manageable level, but on that night I couldn’t just sit and wait for the decision in my sparse quarters.

I looked at my table and makeshift shelves that held the entire history of the village and what little we had managed to save from the time before and during the occupation of the Aultnux and immediately grew angry. This was my destiny laid out in paper bound with leather, cloth and in some cases wood. Scrolls of varying sizes were stacked in their proper places, but looked as if they were placed in a hurried chaos. Wood-bound books nudged up against the leather-bound in nooks that could barely hold them. The room felt tight against me.

I blew out the tallow candle and left my room. I left it as dark as I was feeling. I wanted the past to sink into the darkness that was consuming both me and the village and choke in its oppressiveness. The past was holding me back from a future that I could almost see on the horizon.

My fingers were stained and the calluses on my fingers looked like huge brownish warts from the journaling and the absorption of the ink. I knew better than to try to leave the village. The night time was dangerous. The Shifter was not the only beast that hunted around our village.

I made my way throughout the entirety of caves and tunnels that made up our village only to end up in the sick ward that served as our clinic and hospital. Here, in a somber and overstuffed bed was the form of Sheila Post. Her hair was wet with sweat and sticking to her skin. The raven colored strands inched across her face and neck like a tattoo scribed by an insane artist. I looked down to my own ink stained fingers in response.

Sitting next to her at the bedside was our chief medical expert. She was doctor, shaman, nursemaid, witch, healer, advisor and mother at times to nearly everyone in the village. It was by odd coincidence that the older matron sitting next to the feverish warrior in the bed was the mother of Sheila Post. The two were alike in so many ways. Both were headstrong and independent and not afraid to voice their own concerns. They were also both respected in the village for their chosen professions. Mama Post, as she demanded to be called, held her daughter’s hand and was humming a low soft wordless song.

The tune struck me. Mama Post had, along with her other skills as a healer, one of the most beautiful voices that I carry with me in memory. The melody was both haunting and uplifting as it resonated from her. Few could do justice to the wordless melody. It came from deep within Mama Post. It was part of her core. It was part of her soul.

Mama Post believed, like many others, that there was a certain amount of spiritual healing to just being with someone who was sick. The sound of a comforting voice soothed the sickness within a patient and allowed the body to heal. Holding someone’s hand and just letting them borrow your energy for a little bit allowed them to know that they were not alone. Human contact was powerful medicine. Even in the days before the Aultnux, there was documentation on how in that time medical science could not explain the sheer power of this kind of medicine.

As I watched the two of them, it drew me back to when Swan was dying. It was him in the overstuffed bed with Mama Post singing to him. His own grey hair stuck to his forehead as the fever took him into the dark and seamless places that I could not follow. I remember being with him whenever I could. My duties had more than tripled when the infection took him to Mama Post.

I would sit on the other side of the bed from Mama Post and listen to her honeyed voice humming that wordless tune. My eyes were often achy and my mind was full of the words that I had captured from the Elders, or the logistic reports needed from the various harvesters, growers and hunters. The meetings were often boring and full of the droning of those who wanted to feel more important than they actually were. My body ached as well as my eyes due to the long hours of being hunched over my scrolls with my pen and ink capturing the datum that was being presented to the Elders.

Mama Post’s soft voice would often lull me to sleep there at what would become Swan’s deathbed. I would wake at odd hours of the night or day and find that Mama Post had covered me with a blanket or laid out a meal of fruit and a once hot cup of tea. I would often find her just watching the two of us with a smile on her face, more for my benefit rather than any random happy thought, because even then I could see that beneath the loving and sweet look was the sadness held within her eyes.

When Swan finally did take his last breath my world collapsed. Mama Post was there to help rebuild it, or rather help me rebuild what I was to become without Swan. She helped me find the path. There were long nights when I cried into her bosom as she rocked back and forth humming that same song. She was the backbone of the village. The true soul that made it live and thrive. For all that the Elders did in their role as leaders, it was Mama Post that touched everyone in the village.

The melody of her voice stopped for a moment and brought me back to the mother and child in the infirmary from my memory. I stood there in the circular entrance and allowed Mama Post her time of weakness. She had the duty to be so strong for everyone else, but there was only a scant few there for her. Her daughter had been one of them and now Sheila was not able to comfort her mother.

As silently and respectfully as I could, I approached Mama Post and laid a hand on her shoulder. I could feel the warmth radiating through her smock. Her bones felt fragile underneath my palm. Her head turned to look up at me and I smiled at her trying to remember the look she had given me so long ago. I rubbed her shoulder for a moment and nodded to her letting her know that I understood. I grabbed the blanket at the foot of the overstuffed bed and wrapped Mama Post in the folds of the cloth.

“Go on. You need your rest too.” I put my hands on her shoulders and helped her to get up. “You’re not doing any good by letting yourself go. There are going to be others who are going to need you soon. Get some rest. I’ll watch her.”

A look crossed Mama Post’s face that I didn’t recognize then. It was a mixture of sadness and pride. It was also a cross between relief and guilt. She didn’t want to go, but she knew that inside she needed to get away from the situation she was confronted with. Sickness and death were not strangers to Mama Post, but parents shouldn’t have to bury their children. They shouldn’t even have to entertain the thought.

“Please, Mama Post,” I urged her, “Take a break. I can do this for you.” I grinned at her and drew her close. I held her as she shook and sobbed into my chest. It was reciprocity for so many years ago and so many times that few were there for her.

“I don’t want her to die.” The words came through muffled sobs. “She’s usually so strong and now, now she’s,” her words were halted by another series of sobs wracking their way through her body.

“I know, Mama,” I held her tightly slightly stroking her hair. “I know.” We stood there beside Sheila for some time before Mama Post calmed down. She looked up at me and wiped the tears away as she snuffled back a cough.

“All right. I know that you’ll watch over her.” Mama Post wiped her eyes with her shirtsleeve. “This old girl needs some rest.”

“Yes you do,” I smiled at her as best I could. I knew what she was going through; I had lived through it with Chronicler Swan and she was the one who was there for me. At that point in time, the Elder’s decision was too far away from where I needed to be. Right then and there I needed to be with Mama Post. I needed to lend her my strength so that she could stand again.

“Bless you, child.” She smiled through new tears and reached up to kiss me on the cheek.

“Go on, Mama.” I managed though I could feel my cheeks flush in embarrassment. “I’ll stay here with Sheila. Go and rest.”

Mama Post patted me on the cheek and turned out from my embrace. I watched her walk towards the far side of the infirmary where she usually slept and lay down. I grabbed the chair next to Sheila’s bed and took her hand. It was clammy and warm. The fever had a grip on her that she was fighting as hard as she did with any beast outside of the village.

Slowly I hummed the song from memory. It came out slowly and a little awkwardly at first, but it grew stronger as I focused on Sheila.

NaNoWriMo 09

Day Three: word count = 2,017 words. MTD: 6,068 words.

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02.

“Do we even have thirty to spare” Elder Morris challenged Jet. His old and wizened eyes narrowed as the question hung in the air.

“There are resources that we can draw from.” I could feel Jet’s stare as I transcribed the conversation. I looked up to see him move his eyes to look up to the Elders from the table. “Many of the younglings can take up the perimeter far from the actual action. They would serve as a backup option.”

“You would take the younglings?” Elder Rena asked, “Into the hunt with you?” A look of concern slid upon her face temporarily disjointing the mask she often wore in these kinds of meetings. “You truly think this wise with hunting a Shifter?”

“They are strong and full of potential. It wouldn’t take long for their training and most of them already know how to use a rifle and handgun.” Jet declared proudly. He was right. Many of the people of my age in the village helped to hunt for food or even guard the cave entrances at night. Granted, they were always under the supervision of one of Jet’s people.

I could even shoot. The Elders did not want me to learn, but it had to be done. There were no hunts for me, but I did learn. I’m not what you would call a marksman, but I can decently hit a target from about 15 yards. My skills at fencing, that’s another thing. My predecessor, Chronicler Swan, trained me in that art. Even now I remember when my training truly started with Chronicler Swan.

“A strong foundation in life is what is needed, youngling.” He would say as we walked out to the forest for our lessons. “It’s not all about the writing and reading that I have taught to you. It’s more than that.”

“Like what?” I asked. I didn’t think it was foolish then. It was more of an innocence that I had then..

“Well,” he would continue as he scratched at the stubble on his face that always seemed to be at a two-day growth, “When you’re walking, what do you think about?”

“I don’t think about anything, I’m just walking.”

“Truly?” his head cocked at an odd angle whenever he asked me a question that he thought was in my grasp but didn’t give the expected answer. “You don’t think about anything? Nothing comes to mind?”

“Not really. It’s just one foot in front of the other.” I shrugged my shoulders and looked up to him, waiting for the answer. My hands were full with the scrolls and sheaves of paper that he usually had me carry.

“And what about this?” Swan grabbed hold of my wrist and knocked the entire pile of papers down onto the forest floor. “Was there any thought to that or did it just happen because I pushed your arm down?”

I remember looking up at him and feeling hurt because he had tricked me and made me look like a fool. Swan just smiled at me and helped me collect the papers and scrolls that he made me drop.

“You see youngling you must meditate upon what you want to happen. Not just with your mind, but your entire being. I made you drop the papers because I thought about moving my arm, willing it to knock your precious cargo down. You let them fall because you were not thinking about holding them tightly enough.”

“So, by thinking about it, I could have stopped you?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Swan handed me the scrolls he had picked up as we stood up. “Let’s try again,” he smiled down at me. His smile was one of the fondest memories that I have ever had. It conveyed the warmth in his spirit and the kindness in his soul.

“You’re ready this time?” Swan bowed down and locked eyes with me, placing both of his hands on my shoulders and shaking me a bit to make sure I was steady. “You let me know when, all right?” I nodded to him.

“I’m ready.” I said, thinking that I was.

“All right then,” Swan said with a chuckle. The next thing I knew was that I was on my backside and the papers were again all over the ground. I remember Swan laughing. A full belly roll of laughter seemed to echo in the morning light. Again, my ego was bruised. I didn’t understand then what he was trying to teach me.

“Come youngling.” Swan said still laughing. “Were you thinking about holding onto the paper?”

“Yes!” I barked at him as I dusted myself off. “But they still ended up everywhere.”

“That they did!” Swan exclaimed in the newness of the morning. “Come on, let’s get them before they’re ruined.”

“Chronicler Swan?” I began, as we gathered up the precious commodity of our trade. “If I was thinking about holding onto the papers, why did I drop them again?”

“There was a problem with your vision.” Swan leaned up against one of the huge pine trees. “You were thinking too much of the papers and not enough on your legs.” I was confused.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t. Let me think of a way to explain it.” Swan patted the tree bark and turned to me. “This tree is strong, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Was it strong overnight?”

“No,” I said, not knowing where Swan was leading the conversation. “It has been here since before I was born.”

“Exactly.” Swan cocked his head at me again. I knew I had missed something. “It had to grow. Initially, it shot its roots down into the earth below. That’s where it started. I’m sure that there were times when it was not safe, it did not know how to be a tree.”

“It didn’t know how to be a tree?”

“Yes!” The look on Swan’s face was of excitement. His eyes went wide and his body was aglow with energy. The shine he carried was immense.

“I don’t follow.” Swan sagged back onto the tree trunk.

“The seedling,” Swan pointed at me, “didn’t know how to be a tree.” Swan jerked his thumb back towards himself. “The tree had to shunt its roots into the earth as a foundation. Then, with care and a little luck, it struck out its leaves towards the sunshine. The rain fed it the earth nurtured it and it grew into the tree.”

“Youngling, right now you do not know how or what to be. It has been shunted on you like so many other things right now. You do what I say because you know no differently. Ours is not a lofty profession but it is a calling. Few can do what I am teaching you to do. The brush and pen and ink and paper are our trade, but not the only things in our lives. When we lose sight of the other things, we have lost our way.”

“But, Chronicler Swan,” I was so confused then, “the tree is a tree. It will always be a tree.”

“No, it won’t. And that’s why you dropped the papers.”

“Huh?”

“The tree is not simply the tree, youngling. It is a source of food. It is a source of building materials. Boats, tables, chairs, wheels. It brings us warmth when burned. The soot can be used to make inks, the charcoal can be used for writing as well. And don’t forget, when harvested, it can be used for, what?”

“Paper.” I said glumly.

“As a chronicler, you are much more than an historian. You hold the life’s blood of so many things within your ability, and you must see them all to be a chronicler. You must paint the skies and backgrounds of those around you. You must capture the essence of a poet and the ravings of madmen. You need the words to see the heroes shine and the villains lurk. But most of all, youngling, you must live.”

“But I do live.” Swan shook his head.

“Tomorrow I shall teach you of pens and swords.” I didn’t understand what he had meant by that, but it was soon too apparent that the artistry and knowledge that I was learning with Swan could be applied to so many other things.

It was Swan, against the wishes of the Elders that taught me not only to wield my pen with a grace and fluidity that few could compete with, but also how to use the subtle practiced movements of my calligraphy into the art of swordplay.

Days turned into weeks turning into the last few years that I would spend with Chronicler Swan. I remember the bruises on my hands and ribs aching when I had to haul around the scrolls and boxes of ink. My legs and calves screamed when we would walk in the forest for training. My calligraphy grew weaker for a few days, but ended up stronger in the long run.

Practiced movements in the forest with the wooden swords found a new home as my writing duties increased. The arches and swoops from my pen found their way into the hilt of my own wooden sword during our practices.

The foundation was there. It always was. All I had to do was meditate on what I wanted to happen and my muscles and will found a way to make it so. The roots of the sapling struck deep within my practices, both with the pen and the sword. The mastery of which still keeps me alive to this day.

I knew I could help Jet and the others, but the Elders wanted me safe. They wanted to keep themselves safe. Like too many others, they wanted to keep their heads hidden from the outside world and live under the illusionary blanket of a hidden existence.

“Jet,” Elder Teflek stepped out of his stone chair and approached the table. “Your plans are good, but you know we do not have the capable men and women you need.”

“You asked for an accurate number without overcompensation or undercompensation. I believe that thirty is the number.” Jet scanned the maps laid out on the table. “I know I could do it with less.” I caught his glance towards me. He was waiting for me to stand up and say something. I could feel myself scream the words at the top of my lungs, but I kept them in check. The decision would have to come from someone else. I had not yet been granted an apprentice.

“Master at Arms,” Elder Boudan spoke with an official tone that caught me and nearly everyone else in the room off guard. “You say you need thirty bodies. We simply cannot give you thirty bodies. You say that you can do the task with less. I have the utmost confidence in you and your skills and appraisals. They have served us well for the past few years. The Shifter has plagued us for too long, I agree and don’t give me that look Elder Morris, you know this as fact.” Elder Boudan pointed a long finger at his peer. “As I was saying, I believe we have heard the facts from you, Jet Lem. We must deliberate this.”

“I will await your judgment.” Jet bowed to the council. “I shall leave these here for you to consider.”

“Most kind of you, Master at Arms,” Elder Rena said with her soft but commanding voice. “We may have questions of you later, but for now, Elder Boudan is right. We need to come to a decision.”

Jet Lem bowed again to them and passed close to me. His eyes were burning through me as he approached where I was sitting. His face did not show the disappointment in my silence. His gate did not show his anger. It was all wrapped up in the heat of his brown eyes.

“Do you want to be a hero, or just write about them?” he whispered to me as he left. I didn’t know the answer then.