Pages

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.


AMAZON 


But if you haven't started the series yet, this is a perfect time to plunge in!  


Book I, The Order of the Four Sons, on AMAZON

Book I, The Order of the Four Sons, on SMASHWORDS (Still free!)


And if you've downloaded your copy of Book I, you can still get your copy of Book II...


Book II, Carcosa, on AMAZON

Book II, Carcosa, on SMASHWORDS


Whether you're a loyal fan and you've been waiting to see what happens after Carcosa, or you're just starting to find out what all the hubbub is about, we're also always glad to hear from you.  So please, rate our titles at both sites if you can, and leave a review with your comments.  Let us know what worked for you and what didn't.  If we offend, tell us, so that we may offend again.  

In addition, you can leave comments here if you wish, or on our Facebook pages, listed below.  Love us or hate us, we want to hear from you.

My Facebook

Lauren's Facebook


Sometime Again,
--Coyote.


(Fanfare pic courtesy of www.stannieuwenhuis.be; all rights reserved.)

Monday, July 22, 2013

In Fond Memory



And now, for no particular reason, I'd like to honor my grandmother, Trudy Limric.

Her body actually died some time ago, but she seems to be doing fine.  Could be anywhere, really.  She was a fine old woman.  Since I wasn't raised by her, I can say that cheerfully.  We never had to breathe each other's air for longer than was healthy, we just hung out every few years or so, and it worked out well for us both.

She was a partner to a small antique china shop in San Juan Bautista, CA... right on the San Andreas fault line.  She seemed to have entered life content with a simple goal: keeping from being bored.  And in this she succeeded beautifully.

She also told magnificent stories, many of which I have passed on to her great-grandchildren. Ultimately, she was one of Bradbury's kind of people: earthbound, yet ready to fly.

As my gift to you all, I will share with you today one of the few pieces of her writings to survive.


REFLECTION

He leaned against the neighbor's fence
Beneath the only tree in the back yard
And thought about the twelve trees
That lined the lane on the farm
Six black walnut trees on each side.

His grandfather planted them and
Named them after the Apostles.
How he laughed when Dad came
In one morning and said
"Peter lost a limb last night."

He always thought he would be the one
To buy back the farm.

The house on the hill
The bunkhouse with the ice house below
It was lined with cedar pilings
There was a carved tunnel at the back.
Do the present owners know it's there?
They said it was part of the under ground railroad.

Have they remodeled the kitchen?
Did they wonder about the piece of marble
Set in the counter to roll pastry on?
It is really a tombstone
That came down the river one spring.
How scary as a child to take out the pots and pans
Crawl in the space and feel the upside letters and wonder
"Where did you come from?"

Do fireflies still dance in the orchard?
Does the scent of locust trees hang heavy in the air,
While cicadas fill the dusk with song?
Does the river still flood the south forty every seven years?
Do the deer still drift through the cornfields in the snow?

Has anyone found the floorboard in the upstairs bedroom?
His father had hinged it to open. 
It held his treasures.
He could put his finger in the small knothole and open it.
It held his arrowheads, his first poetry,
And three hand moulded bullets he found by the river.
Was it still there after fifty years?

He looked at his small back yard.
The neat flower beds, the bird bath
The honeysuckle on the trellis
And the iron bench beneath the one tree
I didn't intend to get so old
He rubbed his arthritic knee
"I really intended to buy back the farm."

--Trudy Limric



Sometime Again,

--Coyote.


(Tree picture courtesy of scenicreflections.com, all rights reserved.)

Monday, July 15, 2013

The Two-Minute Hate of Victim and Beast

By now, everyone has heard about the verdict of the George Zimmerman trial, how he was found Not Guilty of the second-degree murder of Trayvon Martin.  This post is the only thing I have to say about the trial and its subjects, and I will likely never speak of it again.

Much has already been said about both men, through pictures and words.  Martin's most famous photo shows him as a smiling fifteen-year-old (the date the picture was taken, like so much else in this case, is disputed).  Zimmerman's shows bloody injuries to the back of his head.  Jonathen Capehart of the Washington Post wrote some famous and influential opinion pieces that added to the racism fury, and many others have cited different reasons that the entire case is rife with racism-- against Martin, against Zimmerman, maybe against them both.

The people of the United States don't need a Big Brother to manufacture their Two-Minute Hate.  They are perfectly capable of creating their own.

There are people who make their living distorting facts and fancies into useful illusions, and like the mercenaries of old they may sell their services to whomever can afford them.  Such persons, in and out of lawyers' offices, have thrown more mud into an already hazy divining pool.  Martin's school record was brought into light, including a suspension for having an empty baggie with traces of cannabis in it.  Also shown was that Zimmerman was on prescription meds.  Martin might have gotten into fights at school.  Maybe Zimmerman hated African-Americans.  The prosecution says he did.  The FBI says he didn't.  Footage from the 7-11 was compared to Martin's famed "red T-shirt" photo  in an attempt to shake off the "innocent child" image the first photo conjured.  Forensic evidence showed that Zimmerman was in a fight (they call it "defending himself").  A witness says she saw Martin on top of Zimmerman, hitting him repeatedly.  There has been disagreement as to who, exactly, was recorded screaming for help.

None of this shows the one important element in the whole puzzle.  That being: who started the fight.

None?

None.

This isn't a relatively clear-cut case of a SWAT team in full gear breaking into an apartment and gunning down an old man armed with a steak knife, or of a sniper shooting a woman holding her child as she's trying to surrender.  This is two young men (one seventeen, one twenty-eight) getting into a nighttime brawl, one of them killing the other.

If someone were to attack me, they shouldn't be surprised to find themselves on the ground being battered senseless.  Likewise, if I have a weapon and I am satisfied that its use is the only way to survive when they attack me, rest assured I will use it.  Neither circumstance makes me the instigator.  Thus, neither of these men can be safely assumed to be the culprit.

Further, pot use doesn't make someone a thug, being on meds doesn't mean a person is unstable, and chasing after an alleged criminal, regardless of how ill-advised the act may be, doesn't make someone an assailant.  Likewise, screaming for help doesn't mean you're innocent; it just means you're getting beaten.  Or, it might mean you know you're being recorded, and you think you're being clever.  It really doesn't matter who screamed.

We live in a time and place where the Victim is most often seen as the hero of the story, and placed on a pedestal for their pains.  It's a sad state of affairs, but there it is.  The person who kills in self-defence, with few exceptions, is only a hero if they were terrified beyond all reason, preferably broken by what they were "forced to do", and hopefully threatened with rape.  Otherwise - even if restraint genuinely would have meant death - society oft condemns those who destroy their attackers as frightening, hateful, uncontrolled Beasts.

On February 26, 2012, Zimmerman and Martin got into a fight.  Zimmerman killed Martin.

The petitions followed.  Then the media and the lawyers descended, each side building pedestals to prove that their boy was the Victim, and pasting horror-masks on the other fellow to show he was the Beast.  It would be a lovely world if law offices and information-smiths existed only to inform, and to see that the truth was revealed to the world.  But in actuality, lawyers make their living by doing what they can to control and sometimes suppress information before court even convenes.  These people, and those who work with them, must trust in the adversarial system to use them like cogs in a greater machine to find and reveal the truth.

But any system is as corrupt as the worst people can make it, and as the majority of people will allow.

Thus, various agencies have surrounded the case with so much illusion, hearsay, innuendo, and half-truths that we will likely never know who started that tragic fight.  And after all is said and sifted, that's what it was.  In and of itself, it was a fight.

There is a saying among martial artists: "When two tigers fight, one may die... but both will be hurt."  People do die in fights.  It's a sad truth, but there it is.  People die in fights.   Starting a fight doesn't make you racist, or a thug, or any number of things these men have been called (although it does make you stupid).

Some people chose to associate a conviction of Zimmerman as a victory for civil rights.  They believe that the killing must have been racially motivated, and that any acquittal could only be caused by further racism.  Others have maintained that it was plainly self-defence, and therefore acquittal was the only justice possible.  There is enough fear just in the trial alone to keep the flames burning over Trayvon Martin's grave for years to come, on both sides.  The trial may be over, but the war has only begun.

If Martin started it, then he got what he paid for.

If Zimmerman started it, then it's a damn shame Martin didn't get the gun away from him.

But after all is said and sifted, all we know - all we can know - is that two men got into a fight and one of them died.  And that in the aftermath, two families have had holes punched in their lives that will never be mended.

So, if you truly feel the need to get involved with a case so shrouded with smoke and mirrors, set aside your Two-Minute Hate.  Because no matter how compelling one theory or another might be, you don't know who the Bad Guy is.  None of us do.  Therefore, if you must do something, do something constructive.  Send the survivors your support, and if you're into prayer, pray for them.  And work towards a society where the question of racism becomes one of absurdity.

Sometime Again,
--Coyote.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Lotus, Tree, and Little Dragon

(This is a post I initially put up last year while I was taking Karate classes at Wossamotta U.  While I don't usually repeat myself in this fashion, this is something I feel very strongly about and it has come up recently in several conversations.  Though my major is no longer in Physical Therapy, training damage is still a serious and widespread problem.  I hope one day to be in a position to address it.)




There are advantages and disadvantages to having Karate class right after dance.  The advantage, of course, is that I don't have to go anywhere right after dancing.  Class actually comes to me.  The disadvantage is that I just finished a dance class and now Sensei wants to make sure everyone works out.

Lauren told me once how she was in a Writing class, and the people there were talking about how great it was to be back in a classroom setting, so they could get writing done again.  “It always seems to make it easier, don’t you think?”  I imagine Lauren doing her best to not look at them all as if they had just grown extra heads.  If you love to write, you’ll write.  Classwork gets in the way – rather than writing your own ideas, you’re working on someone else’s.

Which is how I feel about the first part of almost any Karate class I’ve ever taken.

Please don’t misunderstand me.  I love the martial arts.  It’s part of my life.  I’ve been passionate about it since . . .


Okay, let’s just say a long time.

But it seems that just about every martial arts instructor in the US is absolutely convinced that the only time his or her students exercise is in class, and so Sensei needs to make you sweat blood in the dojo.  Which would be bad enough (and for some students, at least, this may be true), but the philosophy of the workouts seems to revolve around the whole “no pain no gain” mentality.  And the idea that you have to be built like a weightlifter and do a hundred pushups every day in order to be a good martial artist is complete bullrush.

I’ll say that again.

The very idea that you can measure a martial artist’s prowess by his or her washboard abs and the number of crunches they can do is a tragic fallacy.  Moreover, it is a fallacy that results in time being lost that could be spent training in class.  Learning new moves and footwork, fine-tuning old ones, endlessly working on the synthesis between body and mind in motion.

In one of his books I read (I think it was Basic Training, but don’t quote me), Bruce Lee mourned that most of the martial artists focused too much on technique, and not enough on physical conditioning.  He set about to correct this imbalance.  And that is admirable.  He not only brought the Eastern martial arts to the west in a very accessible way, but he contributed the philosophy of Jeet Kune Do, a new dedication to physical health in the martial way, and through his experimentation established a connection between fitness and diet that was years ahead of anyone else.

demotivational poster IMMORTALITY

I maintain that Bruce Lee should be considered a polymath.  Lee was a linguist, an historian, an actor, a writer (text and screen), a martial artist, and a teacher (plenty of martial artists cannot teach).  He had a piercing wit and a highly analytical mind.  So don’t think that I do not have a high opinion of the man.  I respect him a very great deal.

But just as Einstein denounced an entire field of theoretical physics, saying it was impossible because “God does not play with dice,” so too has Mr. Lee held back some ideas, and done damage in the process.


Bruce had me up to three miles a day, really at a good pace. We’d run the three miles in twenty-one or twenty-tow minutes. Just under eight minutes a mile [Note: when running on his own in 1968, Lee would get his time down to six-and-a-half minutes per mile].
So this morning he said to me “We’re going to go five.”
I said, “Bruce, I can’t go five. I’m a helluva lot older than you are, and I can’t do five.”
He said, “When we get to three, we’ll shift gears and it’s only two more and you’ll do it.”
I said “Okay, hell, I’ll go for it.”
So we get to three, we go into the fourth mile and I’m okay for three or four minutes, and then I really begin to give out.
I’m tired, my heart’s pounding, I can’t go any more and so I say to him, “Bruce if I run any more,” — and we’re still running — “if I run any more I’m liable to have a heart attack and die.” He said, “Then die.” It made me so mad that I went the full five miles.
Afterward I went to the shower and then I wanted to talk to him about it. I said, you know, “Why did you say that?” He said, “Because you might as well be dead. Seriously, if you always put limits on what you can do, physical or anything else, it’ll spread over into the rest of your life. It’ll spread into your work, into your morality, into your entire being. There are no limits. There are plateaus, but you must not stay there, you must go beyond them. If it kills you, it kills you. A man must constantly exceed his level.
          from Bruce Lee: The Art of Expressing the Human Body by John Little (1998)


Bruce Lee believed in forcing the body to exceed all limitations, in hammering at the limitations of life until something broke.  And in many ways, that's exactly what he did.  And he hammered at his body, making it stronger, faster, and more painful . . . until it broke.

Many people forget that Mr. Lee really started writing while he was flat on his back after training improperly.  He was an innovator, and not all his ideas worked.

"Tut, tut, tut," the doctors said.  "Your back is torn completely.  You may walk again if you're careful, but you will never be active again, and the martial arts will be closed to you forever."

"Watch me," Bruce may have said, and proceeded to force himself out from his bedridden state and back into circuit training and the Art in a matter of months.

Of course, he had chronic back pain and headaches that would kill a wooly mammoth at a hundred yards, but who cares - he'd bulldozed through the injury.  He spent the rest of his life on a variety of painkillers, some for background pain, and the others for the breakthrough pain, and kept on going.
Bruce Lee died at the age of 32 from an accident with painkillers.

When you use your will like a hammer, your body becomes a nail.

Nails are disposable construction devices.  Your body is not.

Or, to put it another way . . .

I started practicing yoga, as I have stated before, at around the age of eight.  I am not in danger of becoming a master yogi – that’s not my goal.  But I couldn’t afford martial arts classes as a child, and yoga was a tool for self-mastery I could learn out of books.

Some time ago, I started finally taking lessons in karate.

Aftersome time in training (who keeps track?), I was sparring with the lead student.  By which I mean I was learning a lot and getting intimate with the mats on a regular basis.  I got a few good licks in, and I like to think that it was at least as much from my being a good student as his being a good teacher.


Now, my Sempai was a huge man, and built like a tank.  He worked out on the weights, and he hit them hard.  And then he'd come straight from working out to the dojo.  And he'd take all comers.  He held fast to the opinion that yoga weakened the body, and that meditation was falling asleep while sitting on your ass.  Work hard, play hard, resting is for pussies and force is the way to the martial arts.  So we both held back enough to avoid serious injury, but we both enjoyed being able to open up on one another at least a little.  And we disagreed on almost everything else.  Good, fine times.

After a while, I bowed out.  I was tired, and by neddy-jingo I knew my body well enough to know when to take a break.  And after a bit of good-natured teasing, he let me go.  I grabbed some water and wandered over to the bench, and started to sit when he shouted, "Coyote!  Don't sit down!"

I froze.  What the hell? I thought, is the paint wet?

"Don't sit down," he continued.  "You'll freeze up."

I blinked.  "I beg your pardon?"

"No, trust me.  You've been moving around a lot, and if you stop now you'll freeze up, you'll lock up.  Hell, I have to warm up and stretch in the mornings just to get moving, and again when I get off my bike.  Trust me.  When you get to be my age, you'll know what I'm talking about."

He did have a higher rank than I.  His belt was brown, mine at the time was blue.  So you may think he knew far better than I.

He was also, at the time, about twenty-seven years old.

I was thirty-nine.

I am now forty-two.  I have continued my studies of the martial art.  And I have yet to experience what he was describing.

If Bruce Lee had lived into his eighties, the US might have a more well-rounded approach to physical training in the martial arts of today.  I cannot speak for the rest of the world, but around here, just about every martial artist I've met is an exercise fanatic.  They run, do reps, do weights, and force their bodies to do more and more of the most creative techniques to strain the human form imaginable.  And it's amazing how many of them habitually take pain medication before they are thirty.


"No pain, no gain."

The world is full of competitive martial artists and athletes who must retire in their thirties, who must leave what they love behind before they even reach old age, just because of the damage done by their training.  Coaches and teachers who want the "win," students who think it's the only way to succeed.  And it's not.  In the short run you may do some impressive things.  But there are women who, as softball pitchers, blew out their arms because their coaches did not have them rest.  There are men who have to be careful of their legs or their shoulders from highschool football training.  There are retired pro baseball pitchers and football stars who cannot throw a ball to their kids or grandkids without pain. 

So, when I take karate classes, yes, I do the workouts.  And, like Lauren, I find it does interfere with my own regimen.  Tired after class, it's harder to focus on my asana, and I can feel my agility and balance suffer despite my best efforts.  But I do my four hundred various crunches, my two hundred squats, my hundred leg lifts, and my significantly less than one hundred push-ups.  I do the drills.  Not my dojo, not my rules.  But my body is my own.  I and I alone decide when I will cry, "hold, enough."  And I wait for the lessons in techniques that come after. 


Because the pendulum has swung the other way now.  The dojos of America, at least, are obsessed with their forceful approach to physical fitness training, and value it over the techniques of the Art.  And I will need credentials and greater knowledge than I have now, in physical health and martial arts both, before I can push that tired old counterweight the other way.


Non serviam,

--Coyote


 

(Ranma Saotome and Genma Saotome are (c) Rumiko Takahashi; the movie Quest for Fire was written by Gerard Brach, based on the book by J.H. Rosney; Bruce Lee poster from motifake.com; "no pain no gain" image from mumstheboss.co.uk; yoga pose courtesy ofmindovermatternyc.com)