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Sunday, October 20, 2013

An Old Play Story



One fine day about eight years ago, I started my oldest two children on algebra.  While they worked, I played toys with my youngest.  It was two different faces of school, in a way.

In the process of introducing them to the concepts of “order of operations” and “balance of equations” and the like, I swiftly determined that what we really need for this was a good easel-style dry-erase board.  We've been needing one for a while, always putting off the purchase for financial reasons, and, well . . . 
 Trying to explain algebra to two kids using a single text book as a visual aid leaves a great deal to be desired.  Still, they were getting it.

There are skills to thought, and to different types of thought. One step at a time, they were learning those skills. And yes, sometimes after class their heads would tend to hurt.  It's like building a muscle, kids.  What can you do.  They were starting to truly appreciate just how vital reading comprehension can be, since we were using reading skills to learn mathematics.  

I was then and I continue to be now of the opinion that if you can read, and understand what you read, you can learn anything that has been written.

But while the Lioness and Laughing Mouse were hard at work, I played with the Wolf Cub - who was quite a bit younger then than she is today.  Aside from being its own reward, this also gave me an idea of my children's anticipated behavior, “physics”, fantasies, hang-ups, and the like.  Not a perfect view, mind you, but a small-if-distorted-by-circumstances-of-play glimpse.  

So, the Wolf Cub and I played toys.  She led the plot, and I followed.

On this day, the game was about a herd of horses and their friend / protector, The Basilisk (we had the toy from the Harry Potter playset).  There were also various dinosaurs, “evil poachers” who kept trying to hunt the horses.  We spent a reasonable amount of time developing the different characters, and having a few comedic turns here and there while the foals made fools of the dinosaur-poachers in a Looney-Tunes kind of way. Notice that it was the foals, not the stallions and mares, who were the heroes of the piece.

Eventually, I asked that we wrap the game soon.  Much as I wanted to keep playing, I had other things I needed to do to that day.  

At that point, we reached the real conflict in the story.  The dinosaur-poachers killed the lead stallion, “took off his blood”, ate half the meat and sold the other half to an armored dinosaur and a black panther for a fortune in American Cherries (“Two hundred and forty one: that’s a fortune in cherries, Coyote”).

The game ultimately ended with the dinosaur-poachers being hunted down by the lead stallion’s children and slaughtered.  The ending scene was the entire herd, with the Basilisk, dancing in celebration upon a vast mound of burning skulls-- all that remained of their foes.
 
(At first, she decided that the lead stallion came back to life because it was Easter... but she changed her mind and said that that toy was now a different horse instead.)

And so, having killed all their enemies and secured their revenge, the horses lived happily ever after. 


The End.


It's easy sometimes to forget that children often feel just as fiercely protective of their parents as their folks do towards them.  And it was certainly good to see that she wasn't afraid of her own power.  But I recall wishing she would pay a little more attention in real life when we tried to caution her about things.  I never blamed her for wanting more power and freedom in her life.  She was five at the time and thus got to exercise precious little of either-- certainly far less than she can today.  However, unlike the foals in our game, she was not indestructible.  It is that illusion of indestructibility that forms the jagged line in the sand between childhood fantasy and adult freedom.  And when she was ready, they were for her and her alone to face.    

--Coyote







(Dinosaur pic courtesy of sodahead.com; celebrating horses courtesy of thewildhorsespirit.com.  All rights reserved by thse who rightfully reserve them.)

Monday, September 23, 2013

Violeta Went to Heaven

On Tuesday, September 7, 2013, at 11:00am, my esteemed co-author and I saw the Chilean film, Violeta se fue a los cielos.  It was without a doubt one of the most painfully beautiful movies I have seen in a long time.


            The movie begins with a close-up of an elderly human eye, sightless and unmoving.  The eye of a dead woman, this image comes up occasionally throughout the film, making it strikingly obvious that the movie will climax with a tragic death.  As Violeta travels with her son Angel, she pretends to be dead and it is clear that the old woman’s death will be hers.  She occasionally feigns death throughout the movie.  To her, this is a joke.  But it also brings home the point that death is often on her mind.

            In the beginning, we see Violeta as a small child, growing up with an alcoholic father who taught music at school and entertained drunks at the local tavern.  In an early scene, her father is humiliating himself for the laughs of the local drunks, pretending to be a monkey, a dog, and whatever else the saloon-goers call out.  Suddenly, she strikes his guitar against a nearby piano, stopping everything.  When he looks at her, she does not flinch from him.  Rather, she stares back at him, as though to say, Stop humiliating yourself!  Or, if you must, don’t make me watch and listen!  There is a fire in her heart, this much is clear. 

            After her father’s death, she and her own family become wandering performers.  At least, the rest of them do.  Musicians, jugglers, stage magicians, all.  But Violeta is becoming something more.

            In the United States, there was once a folk singer named Woody Guthrie.  There is a story told about how he and his friend Pete Seeger traveled south to where the coal miners were, struggling and at risk of being shot for striking.  They took one look at these two musicians, and told them to mind their own business.  “All right,” said Woody, “We will.  But I got something I think you might be interested in.”  And he gave the very first performance of the now-famous protest song and strikers’ anthem, Which Side Are You On.  There was a moment’s pause, and the place exploded in ovation.

After Violeta and her family put on their show for Chilean miners, she gives a stirring song of pain and woe, accompanied only by her own drum.  It is a simple song, torn from the hearts of a people torn down all their lives.  It is also a very bold act on her part, as such songs are at best frowned upon during the time.  There is a moment’s pause, as the audience stares at her, enrapt.  Then the tent explodes in ovation.


            There is a word for someone like Violeta, one which is rarely used today outside of fantasy.  That word is bard.  Violeta is an amazing person, who soon after traverses the country with her son and a tape recorder to save the songs of her people, and through them, her people’s pride and heritage.  The movie shows her collecting songs and stories, and mastering art forms to preserve the unwritten history of a nation under siege by its own ruling class.  And then she gambles and sometimes loses everything to share them with the world.

            Her son Angel understands.  At one point in their journey, they arrive at a village too late.  The old woman they sought had only just died; she was being put in her coffin even as they arrived.  As they stare at the empty room, occupied now only by the old woman’s guitar, Angel turns on the microphone and records the silence there.  My heart ached at this scene.  Humans age and die, but music and stories can live forever.  When an old folksinger dies alone and unheard, an eternity of song is struck silent.

            Violeta travels to Europe and shares her music there for two years, establishing credibility as an artist and composer.  Years later she returns to France, and creates hanging art that is accepted by the Louvre.  She marries, divorces, marries, divorces, travels, sings, rages and storms.  Finally, in her native Chile, she sets up a tent outside of town a place dedicated to the free exchange of music, art and culture.  Give what you can, take what you need.  Share what you know and help clean up when we’re done.  This is the tent of the Reina.  It is her great creation, a reflection of her genius, marred only by her own desperation.

            It is when her second ex-husband comes around with his musician friends that she shows her anxieties in earnest.  By this time, she is the old woman from the film’s beginning.  She begs him to remain, even says she will welcome whoever he was seeing then, if he will just stay with her.  They end up having sex in a supply shed, while his friends stand around and listen on.  Their daughter storms in – interrupting the two of them in the process – grabs a mattress, drags it outside and starts beating it with a stick just outside the tent. 

When Violeta looks at her though the shed’s slats, the girl’s glare is identical to Violeta’s own, years ago with her father’s guitar: Stop humiliating yourself!  Or if you must, don’t make me watch and listen!  The scene was striking, and showed well both the disintegration of Violeta’s emotional state and her own realization of how much like her father she could become.  It is soon after that her ex and his friends leave again, while they think Violeta is still asleep.

            It is a drain on one’s strength and stamina to be alone.  Though the old bard’s vision is powerful, few if any understand it.  Loneliness gnaws at her.  Even at the end, when the Mayor is trying to buy one of her paintings, her message is lost on the narrow minds around her.  She asks payment in poetry, or trade, or music.  He keeps offering her money and pity.  In the end, he shakes his head and leaves.  Violeta, alone in an empty commune, sees this as the final failure.  Because few if any people are showing up at the bardic circles, she knows the Mayor will tear down her tent and her efforts.  But even as he leaves, she shouts at him, defiant. 

Once he is gone, Violeta sends her daughter away to gather berries and cut eucalyptus leaves.  Once the child is gone, Violeta plays her final song, Sparrowhawk.


            Throughout the movie there are small snatches from a television interview, starring Violeta.  In this interview, the program’s host recognizes her as having changed and awakened Chile with her music even as he asks her irrelevant, sometimes almost insulting questions.  She handles them all with aplomb, always smiling, always having a graceful answer for every graceless thing he says. 

This interview never happened. 

It should have happened.  It is the moment she has worked for all her adult life.  But it has never came about, and it never will.  It is not recognition Violeta wants, she has no need for fame.  And, as a communist, she has no taste for money.  What she longs for, what she has given her life to, is a true understanding between her people and their traditional music and art.  What she wants is for her people not only to regain their past and their pride, but to themselves be heard through it.  For the oppressed in Chile to throw down their tyrants and live free again as they once had, wealthy beyond measure in the culture left to them by their ancestors.  In the interview, she makes it clear, again and again, all she does is for her people.  Without them, she is nothing.

But the interview is only in her mind, as she sits alone in the leaky tent of the Reina.  She plays her heart’s passion for an empty tent, dreaming of the audience that should have been in the studio as evidence of her quest’s victory.  She sees her family, her second ex-husband, old friends, everyone who has known her, gathered at last in understanding what she has been trying to accomplish, and taking their rightful parts in it.  She plays and sings with all her soul, and with her soul she fills the empty tent of Reina.

            And then she picks up her revolver, and shoots herself in the head. 

            Violeta del Carmen Parra Sandoval died by her own hand in February fifth, 1967.  In the film, she dies thinking she has failed, in much the same way that, because of the split betwixt India and Pakistan, Mohandas Gandhi thought he had failed.  Both people were visionaries, seeking to transform the world, and thus they dedicated themselves to being the change they sought.  But it is no failure to share a glorious dream that the world does not understand.  That is the failure, not of the dreamer, but of the world.

            The movie itself is magnificent, and a fit testimony to the life of a folk hero and national treasure.  Violeta is depicted as a living storm of song, fire and rage, and no doubt would have been almost impossible to live with.  Her eye haunts the movie, paralleled by a chicken’s eye in reference to the song Sparrowhawk, which uses a sparrowhawk killing a hen to symbolize the cruelty of the state against the worker . . . and, perhaps, of an ignorant world against her.


            As the lights came back up and the curtains closed, there had been one thing about the movie that had puzzled me.  Having it answered was the one and only good thing that came out of the Q&A session after the film. 

            As the Mistress of Ceremony walked around with her microphone inviting questions from the audience, the very first thing asked was, “Do you think there’s a political element in this movie?” 

I am not joking.

This was followed by such priceless gems as, “What was with the eye?  And the chicken?  I didn’t get that,” and “It wasn’t in order, and I had trouble following the non-chronological layout of the film.  What was all that?”  Last of all, some poor twit sitting towards the front piped up, “As an Anglo, I felt I didn’t have a good reference for this film.” 

Yes.  That’s right.  As an Anglo, he could not identify with anyone in a foreign film.  That’s what he said.  Verbatim.


Throughout the Q&A, the audience tried to wrap their heads around the idea of suicide.  The conversation went on about how, while it might have been just a moment of weakness, everyone knows that artistic people tend to be insane.  Van Gogh was mentioned as a typical example.  Artists, you know.  Barking mad, the lot of them.

            So, now I understood.  As I rose from my seat and grabbed my hat, I felt I truly realized why Violeta had killed herself.  It came to me in a flash, in a vision.  She died because these witless goombahs in the audience were the exact kind of dullards she was surrounded by all her life, passing judgment on her and her art even as she tried to help them see that there was more to life than what they had. 

Creative people are not crazed because they are creative.  Being creative myself, I find the implication irritating.  However, I can see a person going a little nuts from being surrounded by such unimaginative dolts all day.



            In conclusion, Violeta se fue los cielos is a wonderful film, one that I heartily recommend seeing with someone who will appreciate it.  The direction is without flaw, the acting is superb, the story is compelling, and the music soars with its talons poised at the human soul.  If you have already seen it, you know exactly what I mean.  If you have not, be aware that prose cannot transmit such an experience any more than a poet, no matter how gifted, can describe the colour of fire to someone born blind.

Sometime again,
--Coyote.


(Calvin and Hobbes created by Bill Watterson, say thank ye; Violeta Parra created herself, and owned herself until the very end, save for the life and soul that she dedicated to her Art and her people; Francisca Gavilán portrayed Violeta and it is her visage you see above; the movie was written by Eliseo Altunaga and based on the book written by Violeta's son, Angel; the sparrowhawk pic above is courtesy of cambridge-news.co.uk; all rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Scientific Progress Goes . . .

 

Once upon a time, Calvin and Hobbes were moonlighting with Susie Derkins, riding around in Calvin’s wagon...

(Scene: Calvin and Susie are riding in a wagon together, rattling at high speed through the untamed woods.  Calvin is trying to explain his and Hobbes’ games to Susie, without success.  Hobbes is tucked behind them.)

Calvin: . . . because scientific progress goes boink.

Susie:  It does not!

Calvin: It does so.  You just don’t understand ‘cuz you’re a girl.  So you hate science.

Susie: Right.  I’m sure I’m gonna discuss human progress with a person who refers to the act of scientific discovery as “boinking.”

Calvin: See, see what I mean? Right away, you get all stiff and tense.

Susie: No, no, no.  Not right away.  And not with everybody.  Just you.  You make me stiff and tense because you’re weird.

Calvin: I make you stiff and tense because I’m the only person you know who can invent things, and you’re jealous.

Susie: You are not.  And I am not!

Calvin: Name one.

Susie: Um . . . Mister Bun.

Calvin: That stupid rabbit’s not a scientist.  Name someone who really invents things.  Big things.  Important things.

Susie: I will not.

Calvin: Because you can’t.  Because there is no one.

Susie: I’m not listening to you.

Calvin: Because it makes you crazy that the whole scientific community is out there boinking, the whole world except you.

Susie: Not a single word.  Not a single word.

Calvin: Because scientific progress goes boink.

Susie: Shut up.

Calvin: (considers the moment carefully, then speaks) Boink. 

(Susie glares at him.)

Calvin: Boink. 

(Susie concentrates on steering the wagon down a steep hill, trying to ignore him.)

Calvin: Boink.  Boink.  Boink.  Boink, boink, boink, boink, boink, boink, boink . . .

Susie: Stop it, Calvin!

Calvin: Can’t you hear them out there?

Susie: I’ll tell your mom--

Calvin: Boink, boink, boink, boink . . .

Susie: You don’t knock it off, I’m throwing you out!

Calvin: Listen, I can hear ‘em!  Boink, boink, boink, boink, boink, boink, boinkity-boink, boink-boink-boink-boink-boink . . .

(Susie squeals the wagon to a halt at the base of the hill, and Calvin flies out onto the sidewalk head over teakettle)

Calvin: Whoa—ooof!!

(The wagon tears away)

Calvin: (stands up, dusts himself off)  Was it something I said?

Susie: (wagon is still speeding away)  Jerk.

Hobbes: (leans back, relaxed)  He’ll grow out of it.


Sometime again,
--Coyote.



(Calvin & Hobbes were created by Bill Watterson, and wherever he is in his well-deserved privacy, we do say thank you; Grown-up pic with Hobbes and transmogrifier is courtesy of offbeatbride.com, with special congratulations to the gentleman and lady shown here who were married in a Calvin & Hobbes themed wedding on July 6, 2012.  May the dreams you build together always be powerful and free.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

Monday, August 26, 2013

Nighttime Chastisements



Softly, children, what would Sluagh think?
Those silent shade-people of Slavic lands
Who moved with spider's mystery,
Stealing bad children from their beds?
The nighttime is a special time
Of secret things and special beginnings,
When the night enfolds you in her cloak
To find the dream paths seldom trod.

Oh, children, do not shake our house
Running like knights through castle halls;
Horses do not charge through kitchens
No matter who is king!
The nighttime is a special time
Of the sound between Nature's breaths,
Of the bonds 'twixt Earth and Underhill,
Of foot-drums, and of silver wine.

Ah my children, ah my children.
I know better than to command the wind.
You pretend you are being secret,
and I'll pretend you are being quiet.
For I know well that in your own time
You will find and keep your mysteries,
And those few you choose to share with me
Shall make me ache with wonder.


--Coyote.








(Dragon-and-faery pic by Randal Spangler, (c) him in all respects; Nevermore is courtesy of gotireland.com - I don't know who took or created that beautiful picture but they might.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Postless

Greetings, all.

It seems a flu has been making its way through my household.  While I am feeling much better, there is no post for this week.  I should have an update regarding my magnificent adventures sometime this coming Monday as usual.

As always, my thanks for your patience and support.

Coyote.

Monday, July 29, 2013

Where Flap the Tatters of the King



Announcing the third book in the Order of the Four Sons series, Where Flap the Tatters of the King, by Coyote Kishpaugh and Lauren Roberts.  This opus is without a doubt our finest work together, and we couldn't be more excited to present it to the world.

The Order of the Four Sons, Book III sees the surviving members of the Order – Kate, JD, Murphy, Bill, Clayton and Alyssa – reunited in a world known as Corbenic.  It’s definitely not a warm reunion.  With the Corbenese king held hostage by Starry Wisdom, the land has been plunged into endless winter, and certain members of the team are less than thrilled that they have been joined by former MJ-12 Agent Emily Hayes.

As the team sets out, they find themselves once again braving the elements, on their way to Corbenic's capital city, where they will be plunged into a world that has almost as many enemies within as without.  It is a dark and seductive world, a world of alchemists and geomancers, nobles and courtesans.  Unrest has spread throughout the empire, stirring talk of rebellion.  And beneath all the gilt and glamor, evil sleeps. 

It is here that the team begins to find answers about themselves and about Starry Wisdom’s secrets.  Both sides find themselves embroiled in a game of old alliances and older enemies.

At all costs, the Order of the Four Sons must liberate Corbenic and restore their king.

And the final war has yet to be fought . . .


Bill tried desperately not to turn the fishtail into a full spin as the van careened from bright sunlight and dust into winter twilight and snow.  No power steering, no power brakes, no power.  He was dimly aware that there was shouting and screaming in his ear, but he couldn’t focus on that at the moment.  He was focused on trying to find a way of stopping the van without wrecking it, without rolling it, without crashing into that figure who had just appeared out of nowhere, stepping right in front of—
Oh, shit!
Reflexively, he slammed both feet down on the brake and stood on it, and his voice was added to the others, shouting and screaming.
The snow piled in front of the bumper with a crumpling sound, helping to slow the van’s nightmarish slide until at last, it lurched to a halt.  The loss of momentum gently, almost sheepishly, threw everyone back into their seats, where they landed with a soft thump.
They all sat, slightly dazed for a moment, blinking.
The figure in front of them had not moved, though the telltale glow of a cigarette floated up to about face level and brightened, temporarily illuminating the Oracle’s mouth and nose as she took a drag.
“You’re late,” she said.
Bill flicked on the headlights.  She stood just in front of the heaped-up snow, looking down at a small gold pendant watch in her hand.
“Oh, like you knew it to the second!” Bill turned the door handle and gave the door a good shove, trying to clear some of the snow out of the way.
“I knew it to the inch,” she pointed to the front of the van.  Then her gaze fell on his companions.  “Why do you have MJ-12 with you?  Wait.”
JD already had both guns to the back of Emily’s head, hammers cocked.  At the Oracle’s word he’d frozen, triggers pulled partway back.
Kate had opened the passenger door and stood, half-in and half-out of the van, also frozen.  The Oracle came over and considered Emily for a moment through the passenger window, tilting her head first one way, then the other. 
“Don’t shoot,” she said.  “We need her.” 
“The fuck for?” JD growled.
The Oracle shrugged.  “Don’t know yet.  If nothing else, she’s cannon fodder, right?”
JD reluctantly lowered the guns from Emily’s head to her back.  “All right, sunshine,” he jabbed at her shoulder blades.  “Move.
Emily raised her hands and cooperated.  JD followed, his guns still out, then walked carefully around her. 
Kate moved aside to let them out, staring all the while at JD. 
The Oracle had backed away from the van and stood now with Clayton, who had stepped from the edge of the clearing.  JD went over and stood with them.
The three of them regarded Emily, Clayton glowering coldly, the Oracle appraisingly, and the Colonel—well, the Colonel looked simply insane.
Bill watched from the driver’s side, his eyes darting from JD to Emily and back again, his face frozen in terror and indecision.  If I don’t say anything, he may just decide to go ahead and plug her.   If I do say something . . . he may just decide to go ahead and plug her.  Oh God.
Murphy climbed down out of the rear of the van and picked carefully through the snow to stand next to Kate, astonished at the sudden and unexpected change in the Colonel’s demeanor.  But if Murphy was astonished, Kate was shocked.
There was a tense silence.
Emily looked at her three captors.  “Okay.  I can see where this is going.  Fine.”  She took off her gun belt and tossed it forward, onto the ground.  “Fuck you guys.  I surrender.”
The three of them continued to eye her.  In a voice Kate didn’t recognize, the Colonel spoke: “Lie down and put your hands behind your back.”
“No,” Bill suddenly interjected.  “Colonel—wait!”
No one responded.  Emily clasped her hands behind her back and lay facedown in a drift.  The Oracle stepped forward and cuffed her—not gently, her knee in Emily’s back.  Emily turned her head aside in order to breathe, her cheek pressed into the wet snow.  Meanwhile, the Colonel secured the gun belt, keeping his prisoner covered at all times.
“No!” Bill said again, more forcefully this time.
Yes, Bill,” the Colonel gritted.  “You shut the fuck up.  This little missy’s MJ-12 and the only reason I didn’t put two in the back of her goddamn head is because the Oracle said it was a bad idea.  You got a report to give?  Clayton’s right over there.  I got a prisoner to handle.”
Bill started making his way to Clayton.  “Clayton, it’s not like that!  She saved me!”
“Before or after she turned you in?” the Oracle inquired mildly.
“Well, I--” Bill stammered.  “After.  But you don’t understand.”
“What don’t we understand, Bill?” Clayton asked.
“She killed some of the MJ-12 people just to get me out of there!  She’s on our side!”
“Did she?” Clayton asked reasonably.  “Did you actually see the bodies?  Or did you just see people fall down?”
Bill shook his head.  “I know what I saw.”
Clayton took him in—his bruises, yellowed but still terrible, the way he limped through the snow.  “You’re not looking well, Bill,” he said, still in that calm, reasonable tone.  “In fact, you look like you’ve been worked over.”
“Well, I was-- they did-- but she didn’t,” Bill said quickly.
“Of course she didn’t.  She would have been held in reserve, someone to be sympathetic with you.” Clayton glanced down at Emily.  “She does seem awfully convincing.”
“Look, guys, I know what you’re thinking, okay?  I have training, I have experience-- I’ve been out in the field more than a day or two!  This isn’t some kind of Stockholm syndrome.  She had a change of heart.  She saved me-- she saved the team!” Bill insisted.
You saved the team,” Clayton corrected.  “Although she might have helped.”
“She did—help,” Kate piped up.  Murphy nodded in agreement.
“No doubt,” Clayton said kindly.  “But were any of you there when she allegedly helped Bill escape from her colleagues?”
“No,” Kate said.  Murphy shook his head.
Clayton nodded, then turned to Emily.  “What’s your name?”
“Emily Hayes,” Emily managed through chattering teeth.
“Something you should probably bear in mind, Agent Hayes.  We are in a place where the Order has allies, and no one here has ever heard of the United States government.  Don’t start getting any ideas about turning this situation around and calling in your superiors.  It’s simply not possible.”
Emily nodded.  “I understand.”
Clayton nodded, as well.  “Let her up.”
Alyssa yanked Emily to her feet.
Clayton turned to the others.  “Now.  We need to get the rest of you outfitted.  We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”
“Of course we do,” Murphy burst out, at last.  “Why wouldn’t we?  It’s fucking cold here.  We were just in a goddamn desert.  What is wrong with you people?”

* * * * *

Clayton and Alyssa led the team back to the villa, prisoner in tow.  The servants had anticipated being delighted to wait upon them . . . until they actually saw them.
As the foreigners filed into the front hallway, Idelle froze in horror, taking in the sight of Kate and Murphy, whose clothes were stiff with dried blood, Kate wearing only a man’s jacket over a pair of men’s trousers and boots. 
“Great gods!  Are you all right?  Are you injured?” Idelle asked.
Kate blinked.  “Not recently.”
“Forgive me, but my associates are in dire need of baths, changes of clothing, and a good meal,” Clayton said, bowing slightly.
There was an immediate change in the servant’s demeanor.  “Of course, monsieur,” she curtsied, then turned to address the others.  “Danielle, Ferrant.  Please take the guests up and see to their toilette.  Eric, I believe Master Christophe’s old restraining couch is still downstairs.  Please see that it is prepared for when the young lady is done with her bath.”  Idelle nodded to Emily.
“A what?” Bill demanded.  Emily looked desperately from Bill to the servant and back again. 
“It’s quite secure, monsieur,” Idelle said to Clayton.
Clayton, who clearly did not know what a restraining couch was either, replied simply, “Perhaps if we could see it for ourselves.”
Idelle inclined her head.  “Of course, my lord.  Master Christophe has never used it, but it should still be in excellent condition.”
Clayton followed the servant out of the room.  As soon as the door had shut, the others exchanged baffled looks, except the Colonel, who looked pleased at the prospect of whatever a restraining couch might turn out to be. 
A few minutes later, Clayton and the servant returned. 
“I think it’s acceptable,” Clayton said to JD.  “When she is done with her bath, will you see to Agent Hayes’ accommodations?”
The Colonel gave him a chilling grin.  “You bet.” 
“It’s all right,” Clayton assured the others.  “The restraining couch is a cot down in the cellar.  It will allow her some freedom of movement, but it will ensure she stays in bed all night, and the door locks from the outside only.”
“That’s ‘all right’?” Kate asked. 
“She is an enemy soldier,” Clayton said quietly.  “There are certain risks we can’t afford to take.  She’ll be safe, and so will we.”
“That’s not my only concern here,” Kate retorted.
“Please,” Clayton gestured to the stairs.  “Everyone go get cleaned up, have some dinner, and for God’s sake, get some rest.  We’ll brief in the morning.”
Kate, Murphy and, of course, Emily were all still dubious.  Idelle took Emily’s arm and led her away.  Looking back over her shoulder, Emily and Bill’s eyes met one last time before she turned the corner.
JD, on the other hand, was not dubious.  In fact, he seemed to feel that all was well in this particular world.  Nodding to the servant to lead the way, he sauntered up the stairs.
Kate and Murphy followed.  “JD!” Kate called.  “JD, wait!”
He didn’t stop.  He didn’t even slow down. 
Kate quickened her step with Murphy doing his best to keep up.  When they reached the second floor, JD was already halfway down the hall.  The servant opened a door for him and JD went inside.
JD,” Kate shouted furiously.      
The door slammed shut.
Kate and Murphy shared a hurt, stunned look.  For a moment, neither of them said anything. 
The servant came back down the hall and stood at a discreet distance.  After a time, Kate and Murphy both became aware that the young female servant had come up the steps behind them and was also waiting.
At last, Murphy cleared his throat.  “Well.  It has been a while since any of us has had any privacy.  I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to a bath and a bed and a door that shuts.  And best of all, I don’t have to listen to you and JD bicker about who gets to sleep on the floor.”
Kate managed a weak smile at that.  “Yeah.  Sure.  Good night.”
“Good night.” 

* * * * *

Downstairs, Bill turned on Clayton, seething.  “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes, Bill.  I’m afraid it is.”
“A cot in the cellar?
“Would you prefer to let Colonel Garnett handle the situation?”  At Bill’s look, Clayton assured him, “She’ll be fine.  She’s not exactly being treated like a prisoner of war.  She’ll get meals when we do and everything, she’ll just be sleeping under more secure circumstances.”
Bill turned on his heel and strode away.  Frowning, Clayton watched him go.
Then he turned to Alyssa.  “What do you think?”
“I think you know how I feel about MJ-12.”
“I meant about Bill.”
“Oh.  Well, something’s definitely off.”
“Should we be worried?”
Alyssa looked pointedly around.  “Look where we are.  Is there any reason not to be?”
“You know what I mean.  Do you think he’s been compromised?”
She looked up the stairs after Bill.  “Maybe.  But we need him.  And we need her, too.”
Clayton lowered his voice.  “What about the others?”
She shrugged.  “I’ll let them tell you.”  Brushing past him, she rapped on the banister at the bottom of the staircase.  “Get a load of Kate?”
“She’s carrying a wand now.”
“That, too.”
“What else?”
Casting him a meaningful look over her shoulder, she said again, “I’ll let them tell you.”
“Of course.  Why do I even ask?”
“Beats me.”
“You’re not going to bed?”
Shaking her head, she set off in the direction of the rooms beyond the front foyer.  “Not tired.”

* * * * *

Kate was waiting for Bill when he reached the top of the staircase.
Despite everything, she brightened as he approached.  “Hey.”
“Kate.”  As they embraced, he went dizzy with relief.  “Jesus, I was so scared.  I’m just so glad you’re all right—”
“I missed you so much!”  Kate squeezed him tightly.  
“There’s so much I want to talk to you about—”
“I know!  Me too.”
Bill took a step back.  “The thing is . . . Emily is locked up all by herself.”
She nodded.  “Go.”
Bill made his way down the hall to where one of the male servants was waiting.  Bowing, the servant opened the door for him. 
Okay, Bill thought.  A little discomfited here.  Then he saw the room.  It was large and beautiful.  Even more beautiful was the big, comfy-looking bed with lots of fat pillows.  He just wanted to sink down into it and go comatose. 
There was a tap on his shoulder.  Another servant had appeared, holding out an amulet.  Bill took it gingerly.  It was heavy, engraved silver.  On Earth, it would’ve cost a fortune.  The man gestured emphatically for Bill to put it on.  Reluctantly, Bill complied.  It didn’t match a thing in his closet.
“A translator amulet, monsieur,” the servant said.  “Now if you like, I will prepare your bath.”
“Oh,” Bill said and considered the amulet once more.  They were very different from the Order’s translator charms.  He realized the lady servant, Idelle, had been wearing one, which is why he’d been able to understand her.  Because whatever they were speaking here—it wasn’t English.  “Okay, thanks.”
He followed the young man through the door into a splendid lavatory with marble basins and gold faucets.  The bathtub itself was a large, curved, claw-footed affair that appeared to be made out of lapis lazuli.  As the servant turned on the taps, Bill started to get undressed, then hesitated.
“Please,” the servant said.  “Let me help you with your clothes.”
“Uh, thanks.  I’ve got it.”
“At least let me take them to be laundered,” the young man protested.
“Deal.”  Bill shucked off his well-lived in jeans and T-shirt, which threatened to march themselves down to the laundry and spare the servant the trouble.  Then he got in the tub.

* * * * *

Murphy wandered around a bit before his bath, checking out the new digs.  Ritzy place.  He picked up a little gold knickknack from a table, testing its weight, pinged the edge of it with his finger.  It rang true.  He whistled.  Everything around here was the real deal. 
Of course, reality had been redefined.  Several times. 
The servant watched warily from the doorway, hesitant to interrupt whatever it was his master’s guest was doing.
“Hey, bud.”  Murphy motioned the other man closer.  “C’mere.”
“Monsieur?”
“Name’s Murphy.  What’s yours?”
The servant bowed.  “Caerus, monsieur.”
Greek.  Interesting.  “Hey, you wearing one of these things?”  He held up his brand-spanking new translator amulet.
“No, monsieur.”
“Perfect.  Do me a favor, willya?”  Murphy raised his hands to the amulet’s chain.
Caerus looked at him, puzzled.  “Of course, monsieur.  If I can.”
“Great.  Say something.”  With that, Murphy whipped the amulet off over his head.
The servant asked him a question then, probably some version of ‘What do you want me to say?’  But it didn’t sound like French.  Or Greek.  Or any other language Murphy was familiar with, for that matter.  It was quite possibly the most beautiful language he’d ever heard, like the gold filigree on the walls—elegant and perfect and precise. 
Parlez-vous français?” Murphy asked, and received the exact blank look he was expecting.  Nodding, Murphy put the amulet back on.  “Thanks, Caerus.  You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”
Looking more confused than ever, the servant bowed.  “Thank you, monsieur.”

* * * * *

When each of them had finished with their baths, they found fresh night clothes and undergarments waiting for them, as well as tables set up with steaming bowls of chicken soup, bread, and goblets of wine.
Bill wolfed down his meal, then quickly gathered up all the blankets and pillows from his bed -- it all felt like pure down and the softest brushed cotton -- and trudged back downstairs. 
Suddenly, the Oracle appeared from out of the shadows.  She was not dressed for bed, but had apparently been waiting for him.  Leaning against a doorframe, cigarette in hand, she stared at him in that way of hers that made his blood freeze.  He stared back, his heart in his mouth.
“Hey, Bill,” she said.  “You all right?”
Something in him snapped.  “No.  I am not all right.  My best friend is dead.  Cecil-- you remember Cecil?  Or I don’t know.  Maybe you don’t.”  She flinched, and he went on, “I almost lost the team, I was in fucking Leavenworth where I was tortured, then camped out for a week in a place called the Devil’s fucking Highway.  Does any of that sound like a picnic to you?  Oh, and for a bonus: the girl that risked her life for me, threw away everything she had to get me out of there and keep me alive?  Is chained up downstairs in the cellar.  So forgive me for being a little upset.  Some of us mere humans actually have feelings.”
She blinked.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it like that.  I’m sorry . . . For everything.”  With that, she backed away and disappeared, as silent as ever.
For a moment, Bill slumped against the wall, his legs shaking.  She hadn’t Seen the Sign.  Further proof, if he needed it, that it had all been PTSD.  If she had, God knows what might have happened.  As it was, he was just crazy.  Big improvement.  Also, she had just spoken more than four words to him.  A minor miracle. 
But he’d had just about all the excitement he could take for one night. 

* * * * *

Kate lay in bed, staring up at the tufted canopy, her mind a-whirl with the implications of all that had happened that day.

* * * * *

Down the hall, JD was stretched out rigid, lying on top of the blankets.  So she’s in the cellar, so she’s restrained.  She’s a goddamn MJ-12 agent.  Ain’t a one of ‘em understand . . .

* * * * *

And in his own room, Murphy was asleep.  He was very tired.   

* * * * *

Bill found his way into the kitchen, which was empty and dark.  Creeping across the stone floor, he found a door at the back wall, secured with a bolt. 
There, down a set of wooden stairs, he found Emily, curled up on a metal cot in the middle of the room, her back to him.  As far as cots went, he had to admit, it was top-of-the-line.  It was enameled with pictures of birds all along the frame and posts.  Scattered among them, always prominently displayed, was the horn-shaped moon Bill had seen elsewhere in the house.  All worked in precious metals, silver over gold.  But the built-in chains and shackles sort of killed the overall appeal.
But even Emily had been allowed a bath.  Idelle had brought her a metal washtub filled with hot water, a towel, and a bar of milk-and-honey soap.  Emily had looked at the old woman in surprise.  “You serious?”
Idelle had set down the washtub next to the cot.  Straightening up, she’d patted Emily’s arm.  “Patience, cher.  Your lord seems like a kind man.  I’m sure you’ll be back in his good graces soon enough.”  With that, the old woman had gone back upstairs, leaving Emily speechless. 
Now, Bill observed that the cot had a couple of wool blankets, scratchy but warm-looking, and a lumpy pillow.  It was a little narrower than a twin bed, and it even had a mattress. 
The manacles were attached to the cot by adjustable chains that could be tightened or loosened, depending on how much freedom the prisoner was allowed.  At the moment, they were quite short.
“Hey,” he said softly, resting his hand lightly on her back.
She did not turn around.  “Go away.”
“I’m not leaving you down here by yourself.”
“It’s not your fault.  I deserve this.”
“No, you don’t.”  He knelt by the bed and loosened the chains.
She sat up, alarmed.  “What are you doing?”
“Trying to make you more comfortable.”  He spread the softer quilts over the cot, and sat down beside her to unlace his shoes. 
“That cowboy’s gonna kill you.  And me.  Or maybe he’ll kill me first and then you.  The point is, he’s gonna kill both of us when he finds you here, and sees that you loosened my chains--”
Bill made no reply.  He just gathered her into his arms and held her.  The two of them stretched out together, too tired to argue, and after a time, they fell asleep.


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