“It looks like aliens have landed,” was all my best friend’s father would say. My friend Mike and I stood there with amused, smug smiles on our faces as Mike’s dad stared at the freshly cut lawn with a strange glint in his eye. “It could become a new fashion,” offered Mike, trying to justify the strange pattern we had left on his neighbor’s lawn. Most of the lawn seemed normal, but in one large, square section, my friend had started at the center and spiraled out, creating a large hypnotic circle.
My friend and I often experiment with different designs as we mow people’s lawns. Depending on our mood or requests from the customer, we might mow a lawn diagonally or vertically. Sometimes when we’re feeling tired and lazy, we’ll just go around the border until it is finished. On an odd day, we might do ‘S’ curves throughout the lawn. Lawn mowing can be as interesting and artistic as a sculpture or painting. People tend to think of their yards as works of art. Why else would they often pay large sums of money for me to mow their lawn on a weekly basis? If they just wanted the grass cut, they could hire just any little kid for a fraction of the price.
Many people think, by some stroke of genius, that lawn mowing is hard work. It is. The average lawn requires mowing every week for nearly six months. Here in the desert, the sun beats down mercilessly with temperatures in the eighties and nineties. Each workday reveals the intimate aromas that mingle with the sweat of the lawn mower. Dust, grass clippings, body odor and gasoline are the perfume of choice by all experienced lawn mowers. Cracked, dry lips screaming for water become second nature; chapstick is the lawn mower’s best friend. Heatstroke and dehydration are merely the byproducts of focused, efficient work.
Of all the trials found in mowing lawns, walking in a straight line is by far the most difficult to accomplish. Tiny lumps in the lawn constantly leap out and grab the machine, throwing it careening off course. Drips of sweat, blurring the eyes, distract the mower from his line of sight. As he frantically wipes his eyes and swats at mosquitoes, he follows a zigzag course. Mysterious objects hiding in long tufts of grass must be moved aside, or mowed around.
Emptying the bag can be one of the most annoying and distracting routines of mowing a lawn. Every so often, the mower must stop and empty the bag before it overflows, leaving tiny clumps of grass clippings that cry volumes against the purity and perfection of the green sea. This break causes a complete loss of focus and concentration to the mower. The next few strips of grass mowed often reflect the mower’s frustration at having been interrupted from his reverie.
By far, the worst aspect of mowing lawns is cleaning up. After a hard days work, no one wants to deal with ten huge, black bags full of grass. Perhaps a week later, the offending pile of bags will be noticed by its distinct odor. The mower’s mother most likely displays her liking for more fashionable fragrances around the yard and orders the pile removed. Nothing can compare to the sensation and stench of green ooze running from bag, to arm, to clothes (which retain the smell for some weeks afterward) as they are taken to the nearest disposal area.
Efficient and artistic lawn mowers are hard to come by. Few people have the patience to experience the relaxing joy of lawn mowing found by raking smooth strokes across an endless sea of green carpet. My friend Mike and I, and some few select others, stand alone in a world where people want instant food, constant convenience, and have little appreciation for hard work and creativity. We alone appreciate the joys found in mowing lawns.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
An Essay I wrote on Abortion
Abortion
Women have abortions for many different reasons. A woman might feel that she is too young to be a mother. She may be scared of childbirth, motherhood, or of others finding out about her actions. She may feel she is an unfit mother, or maybe she knows the father doesn’t want a child. A mother might not want her child if she finds out he or she may be born deformed or handicapped. A model or actor may not want to ruin her figure. Or sadly, the pregnancy might be the result of rape. Finally, the mother’s life might be at risk and an abortion is necessary to saver her life. But I feel that abortion is wrong, with the exception of the last reason, and that women should give their child up for adoption instead because life is precious, abortions kill babies, and having children is an important role of women.
First of all, life is precious. Every living being on this earth deserves the right to live. Our laws, government, and human nature all focus on saving and preserving life. How many people have risked and lost their lives attempting to save others even when all seems hopeless. And yet women, both young and old, carelessly and irresponsibly use the powers of procreation and then try to evade the consequences of their actions for selfish and cowardly reasons. No matter when life is considered to begin in the growth and development of a baby, future or potential life—once the process has begun—is the same as if the baby was already born. It is considered among the most despicable crimes to murder babies, and yet mothers who are usually the most tender and caring toward children, the most capable of self sacrifice for their children, go against nature and take their own child’s life before it is fully given.
Secondly, Abortions kill babies. It is undeniable premeditated murder. Everyone knows that murder is wrong. It denies a person of freedom, of life, and is impossible to undo. My wife has a friend who had an abortion. She felt she was too young and wanted a career. She thought that her studies and work were more important than a child. Afterward, she was always sad. She realized that there really was a baby and that she denied it of life—that she killed it. She has been very unhappy and depressed about her mistake ever since. Finally, because I am religious, I believe that it is a sin and not just wrong. I believe that murder is against God’s will and frustrates his plans regarding his children who should have the chance to come to earth to learn and grow.
Third, having children is an important part of a woman’s life. I believe that the role of motherhood is among the greatest occupations anyone could have. I think that especially those women who willfully use the powers of procreation, should grow up, expect, prepare for and accept the responsibilities of motherhood. I have seen the change motherhood has on my wife and friends and family who have become mothers. They become more responsible, more loving and happy. Being a mother is hard and very stressful, childbirth is painful, but the reward of seeing the smile of one’s own child must surely be worth all the sacrifice. No career, no riches, nothing could compare to the value of a child and the joys of motherhood. To trade the life of a child and deny one’s role of a mother for convenience, fear, or worldly pursuits cannot be right.
Granted, mothers may have reasons, maybe really good ones, for not wanting or not being ready to have a child. But I feel that life is incredibly important; not only to humanity, but to each individual and to the parents who created it. I know that murder is wrong and a sin and abortion is murder. I believe that motherhood is important and that children bring joy to mothers. Rather than kill the child to solve one’s problems, women should deal with the responsibility of their actions and give the child life, and then if they can’t keep it or don’t want it, they can give it up for adoption to mothers who so desperately want children but can’t. In conclusion, even though a woman might have many reasons to have an abortion, with the exception of the risk of death to the mother, abortions are wrong and nothing can excuse a disregard for life, murder, or a lack of respect for motherhood. Adoption is a much better alternative.
Note on “Pro Choice”: Some say that women should have the right to choose whether to have a baby or not and what to do with their body.
This is correct—women have a choice: whether to have sexual intercourse or not. Once they’ve made the decision to do so—they have another choice: commit murder or become a mother…
Some exceptions—results of rape, or health problems where the mother’s life is in danger—in which case the mother and doctors are faced with choosing the life of the mother or the life of the child or losing both…
Women have abortions for many different reasons. A woman might feel that she is too young to be a mother. She may be scared of childbirth, motherhood, or of others finding out about her actions. She may feel she is an unfit mother, or maybe she knows the father doesn’t want a child. A mother might not want her child if she finds out he or she may be born deformed or handicapped. A model or actor may not want to ruin her figure. Or sadly, the pregnancy might be the result of rape. Finally, the mother’s life might be at risk and an abortion is necessary to saver her life. But I feel that abortion is wrong, with the exception of the last reason, and that women should give their child up for adoption instead because life is precious, abortions kill babies, and having children is an important role of women.
First of all, life is precious. Every living being on this earth deserves the right to live. Our laws, government, and human nature all focus on saving and preserving life. How many people have risked and lost their lives attempting to save others even when all seems hopeless. And yet women, both young and old, carelessly and irresponsibly use the powers of procreation and then try to evade the consequences of their actions for selfish and cowardly reasons. No matter when life is considered to begin in the growth and development of a baby, future or potential life—once the process has begun—is the same as if the baby was already born. It is considered among the most despicable crimes to murder babies, and yet mothers who are usually the most tender and caring toward children, the most capable of self sacrifice for their children, go against nature and take their own child’s life before it is fully given.
Secondly, Abortions kill babies. It is undeniable premeditated murder. Everyone knows that murder is wrong. It denies a person of freedom, of life, and is impossible to undo. My wife has a friend who had an abortion. She felt she was too young and wanted a career. She thought that her studies and work were more important than a child. Afterward, she was always sad. She realized that there really was a baby and that she denied it of life—that she killed it. She has been very unhappy and depressed about her mistake ever since. Finally, because I am religious, I believe that it is a sin and not just wrong. I believe that murder is against God’s will and frustrates his plans regarding his children who should have the chance to come to earth to learn and grow.
Third, having children is an important part of a woman’s life. I believe that the role of motherhood is among the greatest occupations anyone could have. I think that especially those women who willfully use the powers of procreation, should grow up, expect, prepare for and accept the responsibilities of motherhood. I have seen the change motherhood has on my wife and friends and family who have become mothers. They become more responsible, more loving and happy. Being a mother is hard and very stressful, childbirth is painful, but the reward of seeing the smile of one’s own child must surely be worth all the sacrifice. No career, no riches, nothing could compare to the value of a child and the joys of motherhood. To trade the life of a child and deny one’s role of a mother for convenience, fear, or worldly pursuits cannot be right.
Granted, mothers may have reasons, maybe really good ones, for not wanting or not being ready to have a child. But I feel that life is incredibly important; not only to humanity, but to each individual and to the parents who created it. I know that murder is wrong and a sin and abortion is murder. I believe that motherhood is important and that children bring joy to mothers. Rather than kill the child to solve one’s problems, women should deal with the responsibility of their actions and give the child life, and then if they can’t keep it or don’t want it, they can give it up for adoption to mothers who so desperately want children but can’t. In conclusion, even though a woman might have many reasons to have an abortion, with the exception of the risk of death to the mother, abortions are wrong and nothing can excuse a disregard for life, murder, or a lack of respect for motherhood. Adoption is a much better alternative.
Note on “Pro Choice”: Some say that women should have the right to choose whether to have a baby or not and what to do with their body.
This is correct—women have a choice: whether to have sexual intercourse or not. Once they’ve made the decision to do so—they have another choice: commit murder or become a mother…
Some exceptions—results of rape, or health problems where the mother’s life is in danger—in which case the mother and doctors are faced with choosing the life of the mother or the life of the child or losing both…
The beginning to a novel by Robert Michael Wahlquist
Title
Introduction
The smoke from the blazing fire in the center of the inn’s main room clouded everyone’s vision and added to the sleepy mood everybody was already in. The remains of a marvelous feast sat on the table and the innkeeper’s wife was bustling around the sleepy guests, clearing food and plates. The innkeeper’s small daughter had just turned eight that day, and was sleepily humming from the soft armchair that almost completely enveloped her.
“Tell me a story, Daddy.” She requested in the peculiar accent of the land, sitting up from the chair so she could be heard.
Smiling tiredly back at her, ‘Daddy’ replied, “Darling, you’re a big girl now, you don’t need a story do you?”
She was just getting up her puppy dog face and fake tears when a stern voice with a strange accent jokingly intervened. “Ay, ‘tis ‘er birthday ta-day and we’re all ‘ere ta feast ta ‘er. So oi says we gives the gel a story.” It was the Captain. He lived at the inn, and when he spoke, which he rarely did, people obeyed. He had that commanding air about him that made the people label him ‘Captain‘. He was apparently in a good mood tonight, calling for a story. The group began to liven up.
“Oh, thank you, Captain, and would you tell it for me?” The girl said, a glowing smile coming to her face. “Tell one about the good times, long ago, with heroes and such, with people living happily ever after.” She continued, her words increasing speed as she spoke.
“Now dear, don’t be rude! Come, it’s time for your bed.” The innkeeper said, taking a step towards her.
“Stop!” The Captain said firmly, banging his cane on the ground. “Oi’ll tell ‘er a story, though it moightn’t end happily ever after. You will all gather ‘round ‘n listen,” he finished in a commanding tone, and then continued to give directions of where to sit. He himself pulled up a rocking chair next to the fire, where the dim light danced across his sharp features. Indeed, in his youth he must have been quite hansom. His dark hair was streaked now with silvery-gray, his piercing blue-green eyes seemed to penetrate the souls of those who spoke with him, and yet, in contrast, his warm, charming smile and dramatic facial expressions kept everyone spellbound.
All the guests were wide-awake now. The group settled down into the comfortable chairs and the Count asked for yet another piece of the Mrs.‘s delicious cherry pie.
The Captain cleared his throat and began. “This is a story ne’er told before, yet as true as yew or oi ‘tis ‘ere. There ain't many peoples left ta tell it, so oi best get it out ‘afore oi croaks.” He glanced thoughtfully out the frosted window. “But if’n yew want da story . . . Oi'll ‘ave to foind somewheres ta start . . .”
“My daddy usually starts at the beginning, sir.” The birthday girl commented helpfully. “You might try that.”
“Yes, very wise of yew gel, da beginning is a most excellent place ta start. So be it, da beginning then.” The Captain raised his voice and began. “Oi am one who yew moit recognize from long ago. Oi was on the High Council, a loyal servant and close friend to Her Majesty Queen Mary Anne da Third.” Gasps arose from the group and he continued, “So da names are familiar? Oi guess we did some things that were publicized a bit. Dat is what moi story is about.”
“Long ago, and far away, on the isle of Markscrewn . . .”
Chapter I
In the moonlit night, waves crested and fell, pounding ceaselessly against the dark cliffs and rocky shores on the isle of Markscrewn. Hungry seabirds dived and soared around the cliffs, parents gathering their young in the rocky yet warm nests high above. In the forest atop the cliffs catlike predators took protection from the cold in their deep dens, taking time to play and wrestle with their young.
But these creatures were not the only ones gathering together on the cold, fog-covered island. Nosing out here and there from the cliff side, projecting like thorns, were the muzzles of dozens of heavy artillery cannons. Clustered around a large canyon pass in the cliffs, they swung to face an oncoming steamship.
Proper clearance signals were flashed, and the large luxury yacht continued carefully up the canyon, around turns and bends, always under the watchful eye of more invisible guardians of the pass.
At one particular U-shaped bend, a fort projected out, triangular in shape and bristling with guns. A gigantic gate stretched from this fort across the water to the other side of the sheer canyon walls, where a tower was carved out of the rock. This fortress, the Jut, had never been defeated and was the site of many a Silldastrilltania victory. The gates swung silently open as the ship approached then closed slowly behind it. The space between wall and ship was narrow, and someone at the fort could have reached out and touched the cold steel of the boat. They might have run their hand over the gilt lettering proclaiming the ship's name: the H.M.S. Royal Flower; as fine a ship as ever sailed. The smoke from her twin funnels blended unnoticeably with the fog, which oppressively hung over everything and seemed to prelude what was to come.
Finally the canyon broadened out, and the river became a small lake, completely surrounded by large palaces. The lake was beautiful and calm. The mist that still shrouded sight cleared momentarily, granting a marvelous glimpse: domes, spires, fountains, and statues filled the view. Two large statues of Cherubim, with flaming spears and the emblems of Silldastrilltania on their shields, stood facing out at the mouth of the canyon. To the south, the impressive towers of a fort could be seen; yet, even more impressively, to the west, were the towers, spires, and walls of the Fortress of Markscrewn. Despite this grandeur, however, a cloud of gloom seemed to hang in the air, as the fog closed again and seeing was impaired.
The Royal Flower slipped next to a dock, slowly coming to a halt. Quietly and hurriedly dockworkers brought up a loading ramp, and matched it with a gap in the ship's railing. A small group of dark figures gathered on deck, and a single hooded figure broke away and swiftly glided down the ramp.
“This way, Your Excellency.” A man on the dock said, as he put his arm around the figure and fell into step.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Thank you, Chancellor,” a sad, yet beautiful feminine voice replied. “You - you must tell me - how is my father?” The two reached the end of the dock, where a silver motor car was waiting with its engines running.
The Chancellor opened the back door and they both got in. The car started moving. “You arrived here swiftly; did you have any trouble?” Said the Chancellor once they were on the road.
“My ship is said to be the fastest in the world; and yes, we had trouble - the Watichi are pirating the straits again - but you’re changing the subject! Tell me! How is my father?”
“I’m afraid - “ he started. “Oh, I’ll tell you straight. He doesn’t have very long left MaryAnne. When we heard your ship was approaching, your father was very disappointed that it wasn’t Edward . . . He really wanted to talk to the heir to the throne”
“Always Edward . . .” the Princess mused sadly. “Poor Edward . . .”
“What?” The Chancellor asked at her mutterings.
“Nothing.” She said, and the car fell into silence. This was a something she could not even tell her friend the Chancellor - yet.
Atop a small, gently slopping hill, Markscrewn loomed closer and closer. The gleaming car purred up the road, which followed alongside an old aqueduct. As the gates of the fortress came into view, the heavens chose that moment to open up and cry for the dying ruler of Silldastrilltania in a down-poor of rain. The Royal youth were being gathered back to their dying parent. The gates too were guarded by stone Cherubim facing out with flaming spears and emblazoned shields. Legend had it that the stone figures awakened to defend the fortress in times of need. For this reason the gate, if it could be called that, had but a set of large wooden doors, which opened as the car, passed through. There was no moat, portcullis, or any others of the defenses and accessories of gates. It was simply left to legend to defend the gate. The car passed through the gate and between the statues, which seemed to be weeping with great drops of rainwater running down their faces. MaryAnne looked out the window, seeing a blurred view of the same thing she had seen dozens of times before - the luxuriant gardens, the statues, the fountains, and in the center of it all, behind the inner walls and in front of the government complexes, was the palace itself and the adjacent fortress Antonia. All that could be seen of it was a dark, giant shape rising up from the ground.
The car pulled up to the steps of the palace and the Chancellor opened the door once again for Her Excellency. They ascended the steps quickly, and the doors opened before them as they approached. The grandeur of the entrance hall usually took MaryAnne’s breath away, but the soberness of the situation prevented this. Several uniformed men approached the arrivals, their eyes downcast. This was the High Council - the true rulers of Silldastrilltania. Subdued greeting were exchanged, a servant took their cloaks, and the men tried to usher the Princess off to her room. As they argued in low tones, the Chancellor, the youngest of the High Council, (for he too was a member) watched the Princess, now with her cloak off, seeing her strawberry-blond hair and overall attractiveness, and for the first time realizing how young and mature she really was - seventeen, next month was it . . .
“Take me to my father.” The girl said softly yet commandingly, the sound of her voice interrupting the Chancellor’s reveille.
“Now, now . . .” General Zarkoff, an old, bearded veteran said softly.
“Take me to my father!” She repeated rather loudly.
“Yes, all right.” The General said, as if against his better judgment. He turned and led them up the main staircase. They went through doors, down halls, up stairs, past exquisite tapestries, across tiled floors, and even once through a secret passageway. Lightning flashed through the windows, and thunder put in its contribution by pounding dully on the walls. MaryAnne was just thinking she’d never find her way out alone when they halted before a large, iron spiked door. She glided past the others and softly knocked.
“Come in.” A doctor's voice said. MaryAnne pushed the door open and walked into the dimly lit room.
“Go.” She told the attending doctor who had let them in. High up in one of the towers, the room was very spacious. MaryAnne had never been here before - the off-limits room of her father. Scattered haphazardly around the room were various naval objects, most notably the excellently crafted models of several ships: from an old schooner, the Sea Elf, to the latest battleship, King Richard II. MaryAnne thought they must be the boats her father had captained. He had personally commanded every lead ship of a class from the revolution to last year, when he had fallen sick. All those years of her father away, empire building: he had made Silldastrilltania the greatest country in the world, at least pertaining to land area and military power. Politically, it was a different story. The country’s affairs had been mostly managed by the High Council, her father’s most trusted aids, while he was away, which was most of the time.
MaryAnne thought if she were Queen, the country could use some enlightenment. Half a century of wars was enough for a long time, plus she suspected corruption in the present council . . . She glanced at the Chancellor, who had shooed out the others and gone across the room to a staircase. “You read my mind,” She said. “I was just going to have them leave myself.”
He smiled. A great man, she thought as they exited this gallery room by climbing the stairs, going higher and higher in the tower. He had to be good - to be only what? - Twenty-five? --and on the High Council. The rest of the members of the Council were battle hardened veterans and ancient priests of the Sanhedrin. She remembered how the Chancellor’s aspiring political ambitions had caught her father’s eye two years ago, when the old Chancellor Valtereth had died. Her father had looked high and low for a replacement, finally coming across the man who was now walking beside her - the man most likely to win the election for head of the Imperial Senate - the man who is the second most powerful person in all of Silldastrilltania and therefore in the world. How quickly he was rising in life! She’d been a friend with him from the first time they met, at one of her father’s dinner parties . . .
“MaryAnne!” A voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Father?" She said, running to the large, four-poster bed in the center of the room they’d just entered, where a frail looking man was half-sitting. She hugged him.
“Old war wounds acting up again.” The king of Silldastrilltania said, smiling and suddenly going into a fit of coughing. He seemed resigned to death, with hollow eyes and a pale face. Indeed, the doctors knew he didn’t have very long left to live.
“Oh Father, you never change, do you - always stubborn” she said teasingly.
“Yes, umm . . . Have you seen Edward?” He said, growing sad again and coughing.
“He was leading the fleet out of Scapa Bay to crush the Watichi pirates, last I saw. That was half a week ago.”
“That’s my boy.” The dying king said fondly. “Tell Edward to continue in exactly this same manner when he is king . . .”
MaryAnne thought that she should change a lot if she were queen, for one the rights of women - she’d show Edward! But no, she realized sadly. The fleet had been ambushed by the pirates - a complete defeat, so the rumors said. Only a small squadron survived. Cowards . . . MaryAnne thought. Heroes would have fought to the death. She wanted Father to die happy, and knowing his only son had been captured and possibly killed by the pirates would not allow that.
“Father -” MaryAnne said. “Will you - will you for once talk to me? You always talk to Edward, or about Edward. You and I have never talked about - well, you and I. You - you never even told me about my mother. I was too young to really remember her! What happened to her?” This statement had been inside MaryAnne a long time - it relieved her immensely to have it out. She waited for its effect.
The impassive face of the king showed nothing to hint he had even heard her. He too had things he wanted to say inside him - things he needed to tell Edward, as Edward was to be the next ruler of Silldastrilltania. But he decided to humor his oldest daughter, as this might be his last chance to do so. Perhaps it would take a burden off of him . . . “Your mother . . .” he sighed. Your mother was - different - a woman of mythical beauty. I’m sorry, if I’ve neglected you. You -” he said, choking up. “You look just like your mother. I could never really bear to have you around after she left.”
“She left? The queen left?” MaryAnne interjected, sounding incredulous.
“Well, I was afraid I’d have to tell you. She was from Antrill. You know what that means - she was an Elf. One of those extraordinary creatures. I met her on my campaigns, and she was one of the rare Elves to leave Antrill. You see, they have this uncanny fell for the placed - the final home or some such nonsense (What?). They always have to go back. After she had Elizabeth, she would spend long hours staring out to sea, endless days where she seemed more and more forlorn and less and less there, almost like she was becoming a - a ghost.
{[One day a white sailing ship appeared on the horizon and she turned to me and said ‘I must go,’ kissed me and walked out into the sea. I tried to call her back, but she turned only to call back ‘Goodbye Richard!’ then boarded the white ship, which was suddenly covered by a cloud, and then she was gone. It nearly broke my heart. As soon as you were old enough I sent you away to school. I couldn't bear to see her in you. It’s just that - I didn’t want you to take her place in my heart. I didn't want to love you. I want you to know now that I love you with all my heart. Please forgive me.”]}
MaryAnne had listened spellbound to this narrative, while the Chancellor waited just outside the door. Tears welled up in MaryAnne’s eyes. “Father, Father.” She sobbed and they embraced. As they parted, he began coughing again. He was fading fast.
“Chancellor - come in here, please.” The king said, recovering. “Boy, I admire you.” He said, addressing the Chancellor. “I want you to watch over Edward and make sure he does things right. You remind me of myself at your age. Full of life, of passion and an excellent head on your shoulders besides. Also, take care of my daughters - make sure they each find – a good man.” As he said this last part he winked at the Chancellor.
The king began coughing again, violently and with no sign of stopping, and he fell back onto the bed. “Go, call the doctor -”
MaryAnne sobbed - there were so many questions she needed to ask, so many things left unexplained and unsaid. The Chancellor ran out of the room.
“I love you, MaryAnne.” The king said calmly and faintly. “And I want you to know, you . . .” He erupted in a fit of coughing. Lightening lit up the chamber followed instantly by a thunderous bang that shook the walls. The king never finished - he closed his eyes in final rest.
So died Richard II, last King of Silldastrilltania.
Introduction
The smoke from the blazing fire in the center of the inn’s main room clouded everyone’s vision and added to the sleepy mood everybody was already in. The remains of a marvelous feast sat on the table and the innkeeper’s wife was bustling around the sleepy guests, clearing food and plates. The innkeeper’s small daughter had just turned eight that day, and was sleepily humming from the soft armchair that almost completely enveloped her.
“Tell me a story, Daddy.” She requested in the peculiar accent of the land, sitting up from the chair so she could be heard.
Smiling tiredly back at her, ‘Daddy’ replied, “Darling, you’re a big girl now, you don’t need a story do you?”
She was just getting up her puppy dog face and fake tears when a stern voice with a strange accent jokingly intervened. “Ay, ‘tis ‘er birthday ta-day and we’re all ‘ere ta feast ta ‘er. So oi says we gives the gel a story.” It was the Captain. He lived at the inn, and when he spoke, which he rarely did, people obeyed. He had that commanding air about him that made the people label him ‘Captain‘. He was apparently in a good mood tonight, calling for a story. The group began to liven up.
“Oh, thank you, Captain, and would you tell it for me?” The girl said, a glowing smile coming to her face. “Tell one about the good times, long ago, with heroes and such, with people living happily ever after.” She continued, her words increasing speed as she spoke.
“Now dear, don’t be rude! Come, it’s time for your bed.” The innkeeper said, taking a step towards her.
“Stop!” The Captain said firmly, banging his cane on the ground. “Oi’ll tell ‘er a story, though it moightn’t end happily ever after. You will all gather ‘round ‘n listen,” he finished in a commanding tone, and then continued to give directions of where to sit. He himself pulled up a rocking chair next to the fire, where the dim light danced across his sharp features. Indeed, in his youth he must have been quite hansom. His dark hair was streaked now with silvery-gray, his piercing blue-green eyes seemed to penetrate the souls of those who spoke with him, and yet, in contrast, his warm, charming smile and dramatic facial expressions kept everyone spellbound.
All the guests were wide-awake now. The group settled down into the comfortable chairs and the Count asked for yet another piece of the Mrs.‘s delicious cherry pie.
The Captain cleared his throat and began. “This is a story ne’er told before, yet as true as yew or oi ‘tis ‘ere. There ain't many peoples left ta tell it, so oi best get it out ‘afore oi croaks.” He glanced thoughtfully out the frosted window. “But if’n yew want da story . . . Oi'll ‘ave to foind somewheres ta start . . .”
“My daddy usually starts at the beginning, sir.” The birthday girl commented helpfully. “You might try that.”
“Yes, very wise of yew gel, da beginning is a most excellent place ta start. So be it, da beginning then.” The Captain raised his voice and began. “Oi am one who yew moit recognize from long ago. Oi was on the High Council, a loyal servant and close friend to Her Majesty Queen Mary Anne da Third.” Gasps arose from the group and he continued, “So da names are familiar? Oi guess we did some things that were publicized a bit. Dat is what moi story is about.”
“Long ago, and far away, on the isle of Markscrewn . . .”
Chapter I
In the moonlit night, waves crested and fell, pounding ceaselessly against the dark cliffs and rocky shores on the isle of Markscrewn. Hungry seabirds dived and soared around the cliffs, parents gathering their young in the rocky yet warm nests high above. In the forest atop the cliffs catlike predators took protection from the cold in their deep dens, taking time to play and wrestle with their young.
But these creatures were not the only ones gathering together on the cold, fog-covered island. Nosing out here and there from the cliff side, projecting like thorns, were the muzzles of dozens of heavy artillery cannons. Clustered around a large canyon pass in the cliffs, they swung to face an oncoming steamship.
Proper clearance signals were flashed, and the large luxury yacht continued carefully up the canyon, around turns and bends, always under the watchful eye of more invisible guardians of the pass.
At one particular U-shaped bend, a fort projected out, triangular in shape and bristling with guns. A gigantic gate stretched from this fort across the water to the other side of the sheer canyon walls, where a tower was carved out of the rock. This fortress, the Jut, had never been defeated and was the site of many a Silldastrilltania victory. The gates swung silently open as the ship approached then closed slowly behind it. The space between wall and ship was narrow, and someone at the fort could have reached out and touched the cold steel of the boat. They might have run their hand over the gilt lettering proclaiming the ship's name: the H.M.S. Royal Flower; as fine a ship as ever sailed. The smoke from her twin funnels blended unnoticeably with the fog, which oppressively hung over everything and seemed to prelude what was to come.
Finally the canyon broadened out, and the river became a small lake, completely surrounded by large palaces. The lake was beautiful and calm. The mist that still shrouded sight cleared momentarily, granting a marvelous glimpse: domes, spires, fountains, and statues filled the view. Two large statues of Cherubim, with flaming spears and the emblems of Silldastrilltania on their shields, stood facing out at the mouth of the canyon. To the south, the impressive towers of a fort could be seen; yet, even more impressively, to the west, were the towers, spires, and walls of the Fortress of Markscrewn. Despite this grandeur, however, a cloud of gloom seemed to hang in the air, as the fog closed again and seeing was impaired.
The Royal Flower slipped next to a dock, slowly coming to a halt. Quietly and hurriedly dockworkers brought up a loading ramp, and matched it with a gap in the ship's railing. A small group of dark figures gathered on deck, and a single hooded figure broke away and swiftly glided down the ramp.
“This way, Your Excellency.” A man on the dock said, as he put his arm around the figure and fell into step.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Thank you, Chancellor,” a sad, yet beautiful feminine voice replied. “You - you must tell me - how is my father?” The two reached the end of the dock, where a silver motor car was waiting with its engines running.
The Chancellor opened the back door and they both got in. The car started moving. “You arrived here swiftly; did you have any trouble?” Said the Chancellor once they were on the road.
“My ship is said to be the fastest in the world; and yes, we had trouble - the Watichi are pirating the straits again - but you’re changing the subject! Tell me! How is my father?”
“I’m afraid - “ he started. “Oh, I’ll tell you straight. He doesn’t have very long left MaryAnne. When we heard your ship was approaching, your father was very disappointed that it wasn’t Edward . . . He really wanted to talk to the heir to the throne”
“Always Edward . . .” the Princess mused sadly. “Poor Edward . . .”
“What?” The Chancellor asked at her mutterings.
“Nothing.” She said, and the car fell into silence. This was a something she could not even tell her friend the Chancellor - yet.
Atop a small, gently slopping hill, Markscrewn loomed closer and closer. The gleaming car purred up the road, which followed alongside an old aqueduct. As the gates of the fortress came into view, the heavens chose that moment to open up and cry for the dying ruler of Silldastrilltania in a down-poor of rain. The Royal youth were being gathered back to their dying parent. The gates too were guarded by stone Cherubim facing out with flaming spears and emblazoned shields. Legend had it that the stone figures awakened to defend the fortress in times of need. For this reason the gate, if it could be called that, had but a set of large wooden doors, which opened as the car, passed through. There was no moat, portcullis, or any others of the defenses and accessories of gates. It was simply left to legend to defend the gate. The car passed through the gate and between the statues, which seemed to be weeping with great drops of rainwater running down their faces. MaryAnne looked out the window, seeing a blurred view of the same thing she had seen dozens of times before - the luxuriant gardens, the statues, the fountains, and in the center of it all, behind the inner walls and in front of the government complexes, was the palace itself and the adjacent fortress Antonia. All that could be seen of it was a dark, giant shape rising up from the ground.
The car pulled up to the steps of the palace and the Chancellor opened the door once again for Her Excellency. They ascended the steps quickly, and the doors opened before them as they approached. The grandeur of the entrance hall usually took MaryAnne’s breath away, but the soberness of the situation prevented this. Several uniformed men approached the arrivals, their eyes downcast. This was the High Council - the true rulers of Silldastrilltania. Subdued greeting were exchanged, a servant took their cloaks, and the men tried to usher the Princess off to her room. As they argued in low tones, the Chancellor, the youngest of the High Council, (for he too was a member) watched the Princess, now with her cloak off, seeing her strawberry-blond hair and overall attractiveness, and for the first time realizing how young and mature she really was - seventeen, next month was it . . .
“Take me to my father.” The girl said softly yet commandingly, the sound of her voice interrupting the Chancellor’s reveille.
“Now, now . . .” General Zarkoff, an old, bearded veteran said softly.
“Take me to my father!” She repeated rather loudly.
“Yes, all right.” The General said, as if against his better judgment. He turned and led them up the main staircase. They went through doors, down halls, up stairs, past exquisite tapestries, across tiled floors, and even once through a secret passageway. Lightning flashed through the windows, and thunder put in its contribution by pounding dully on the walls. MaryAnne was just thinking she’d never find her way out alone when they halted before a large, iron spiked door. She glided past the others and softly knocked.
“Come in.” A doctor's voice said. MaryAnne pushed the door open and walked into the dimly lit room.
“Go.” She told the attending doctor who had let them in. High up in one of the towers, the room was very spacious. MaryAnne had never been here before - the off-limits room of her father. Scattered haphazardly around the room were various naval objects, most notably the excellently crafted models of several ships: from an old schooner, the Sea Elf, to the latest battleship, King Richard II. MaryAnne thought they must be the boats her father had captained. He had personally commanded every lead ship of a class from the revolution to last year, when he had fallen sick. All those years of her father away, empire building: he had made Silldastrilltania the greatest country in the world, at least pertaining to land area and military power. Politically, it was a different story. The country’s affairs had been mostly managed by the High Council, her father’s most trusted aids, while he was away, which was most of the time.
MaryAnne thought if she were Queen, the country could use some enlightenment. Half a century of wars was enough for a long time, plus she suspected corruption in the present council . . . She glanced at the Chancellor, who had shooed out the others and gone across the room to a staircase. “You read my mind,” She said. “I was just going to have them leave myself.”
He smiled. A great man, she thought as they exited this gallery room by climbing the stairs, going higher and higher in the tower. He had to be good - to be only what? - Twenty-five? --and on the High Council. The rest of the members of the Council were battle hardened veterans and ancient priests of the Sanhedrin. She remembered how the Chancellor’s aspiring political ambitions had caught her father’s eye two years ago, when the old Chancellor Valtereth had died. Her father had looked high and low for a replacement, finally coming across the man who was now walking beside her - the man most likely to win the election for head of the Imperial Senate - the man who is the second most powerful person in all of Silldastrilltania and therefore in the world. How quickly he was rising in life! She’d been a friend with him from the first time they met, at one of her father’s dinner parties . . .
“MaryAnne!” A voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Father?" She said, running to the large, four-poster bed in the center of the room they’d just entered, where a frail looking man was half-sitting. She hugged him.
“Old war wounds acting up again.” The king of Silldastrilltania said, smiling and suddenly going into a fit of coughing. He seemed resigned to death, with hollow eyes and a pale face. Indeed, the doctors knew he didn’t have very long left to live.
“Oh Father, you never change, do you - always stubborn” she said teasingly.
“Yes, umm . . . Have you seen Edward?” He said, growing sad again and coughing.
“He was leading the fleet out of Scapa Bay to crush the Watichi pirates, last I saw. That was half a week ago.”
“That’s my boy.” The dying king said fondly. “Tell Edward to continue in exactly this same manner when he is king . . .”
MaryAnne thought that she should change a lot if she were queen, for one the rights of women - she’d show Edward! But no, she realized sadly. The fleet had been ambushed by the pirates - a complete defeat, so the rumors said. Only a small squadron survived. Cowards . . . MaryAnne thought. Heroes would have fought to the death. She wanted Father to die happy, and knowing his only son had been captured and possibly killed by the pirates would not allow that.
“Father -” MaryAnne said. “Will you - will you for once talk to me? You always talk to Edward, or about Edward. You and I have never talked about - well, you and I. You - you never even told me about my mother. I was too young to really remember her! What happened to her?” This statement had been inside MaryAnne a long time - it relieved her immensely to have it out. She waited for its effect.
The impassive face of the king showed nothing to hint he had even heard her. He too had things he wanted to say inside him - things he needed to tell Edward, as Edward was to be the next ruler of Silldastrilltania. But he decided to humor his oldest daughter, as this might be his last chance to do so. Perhaps it would take a burden off of him . . . “Your mother . . .” he sighed. Your mother was - different - a woman of mythical beauty. I’m sorry, if I’ve neglected you. You -” he said, choking up. “You look just like your mother. I could never really bear to have you around after she left.”
“She left? The queen left?” MaryAnne interjected, sounding incredulous.
“Well, I was afraid I’d have to tell you. She was from Antrill. You know what that means - she was an Elf. One of those extraordinary creatures. I met her on my campaigns, and she was one of the rare Elves to leave Antrill. You see, they have this uncanny fell for the placed - the final home or some such nonsense (What?). They always have to go back. After she had Elizabeth, she would spend long hours staring out to sea, endless days where she seemed more and more forlorn and less and less there, almost like she was becoming a - a ghost.
{[One day a white sailing ship appeared on the horizon and she turned to me and said ‘I must go,’ kissed me and walked out into the sea. I tried to call her back, but she turned only to call back ‘Goodbye Richard!’ then boarded the white ship, which was suddenly covered by a cloud, and then she was gone. It nearly broke my heart. As soon as you were old enough I sent you away to school. I couldn't bear to see her in you. It’s just that - I didn’t want you to take her place in my heart. I didn't want to love you. I want you to know now that I love you with all my heart. Please forgive me.”]}
MaryAnne had listened spellbound to this narrative, while the Chancellor waited just outside the door. Tears welled up in MaryAnne’s eyes. “Father, Father.” She sobbed and they embraced. As they parted, he began coughing again. He was fading fast.
“Chancellor - come in here, please.” The king said, recovering. “Boy, I admire you.” He said, addressing the Chancellor. “I want you to watch over Edward and make sure he does things right. You remind me of myself at your age. Full of life, of passion and an excellent head on your shoulders besides. Also, take care of my daughters - make sure they each find – a good man.” As he said this last part he winked at the Chancellor.
The king began coughing again, violently and with no sign of stopping, and he fell back onto the bed. “Go, call the doctor -”
MaryAnne sobbed - there were so many questions she needed to ask, so many things left unexplained and unsaid. The Chancellor ran out of the room.
“I love you, MaryAnne.” The king said calmly and faintly. “And I want you to know, you . . .” He erupted in a fit of coughing. Lightening lit up the chamber followed instantly by a thunderous bang that shook the walls. The king never finished - he closed his eyes in final rest.
So died Richard II, last King of Silldastrilltania.
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