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Jared W. Holeman
Mr. Stambaugh
English IV: Early British Literature (C)
December 1st, 2016
Oppressed in Society, Imprisoned in Mind
Living as a second class citizen can destroy one’s psyche and crush one’s dreams to the point where only two options remain: resist, or die. In William Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, the two female characters, Ophelia and Queen Gertrude, live lives without much personal choice or freedom. The institutionalized misogyny of elizabethan
England, the time period in which play was written, rules every aspect of their lives and imprisons in them in their minds, despite the play being set in Denmark. They do not think their own thoughts nor live their own lives. At first glance they seem to be entirely resigned to their subservient position to the men of the play. Upon looking deeper, a few sarcastic remarks and insertions of opinion reveal an entirely secret part of their personalities, a hidden disobedient nature. These hidden personas can not remain tucked away for ever and eventually explode outward through violent and severe actions with grave consequences. With little social power and faced with constant attacks on their intellect and thoughts, Hamlet’s women use sarcastic remarks and internal resistance to provide themselves with some mental power over the men in their lives, until they take grave action to win themselves a more tangible freedom.
Early on in the play, Polonius disregards Ophelia's thoughts on whether Hamlet’s interest royal prince’s lustful desire or the amorous longings of a lovestruck gentlemen. He warns her that Hamlet’s “blazes/ [...] Giving more light than heat, / [...] [she] must not take for fire.” (2.3.
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126-129). He says that Hamlet’s advances have no weight behind them, and she has been misled by his dalliance and charm. This simple assertion of his beliefs falls well within what would be considered normal paternal advice, yet Polonius goes much further. He discredits her intellect and paints the narrative that she does not have the right nor brain power to interpret Hamlet’s intentions. He condescendingly offers to teach her and scolds her naivety for taking Hamlet at face value;
Marry, I will teach you. Think yourself a baby
That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay,
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly,
Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
[Running] it thus) you’ll tender me a fool. (2.3.114-118).
Advising a child may be normal parental action but discrediting a child’s right to interpret their own lives and suggesting that her actions may bring forth great shame goes much further. This passage speaks much to the world that Ophelia exists in. She, at least in her father’s eyes, has no right to opine on the events in her life. She must only do as instructed and try to minimize her thoughts, for any action upon them might work against her one true purpose in life, to further her father’s agendas and advance his station. The mere suggestion of acting in her own self interest goes beyond preposterous and does not even cross her mind for she knows what chaos that could stir.
Polonius, Ophelia’s father, rules over her with the near absolute control that would be expected in any paternal relationship of the era. When the subject of Ophelia’s relationship to
Hamlet comes up, Polonius sweeps away all her desire and demands Ophelia take great action
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against her own interests as if it were nothing. Ophelia holds her relationship with Hamlet’s quite dear to her heart. Polonius demands that she “Be something scanter of [her] maiden presence”
(1.3.130). This moment speaks to just how significant his hold on her is and how little they think of it. To forbid someone’s pursuit of love bears the same weight as forbidding someone’s pursuit of happiness. It can not be done without an extreme amount of power over someone and a near complete disregard of their mental well being. Ophelia has no objection, no clarifying question, nor any defense of her actions. She exists on a subordinate level to that of her father and knows this.
Despite all this power that her Father wields over her, Ophelia still wages an internal war of resistance that speaks to her true strength. In the wake of her father’s great speech dismissing her thoughts and desires, Ophelia has a simple and intelligent response. She replies “I shall obey, my lord” (1.3 l145.). Whilst this appears to Polonius as the submissive response of a daughter so under his control that she dare not question a command, in reality it is a sarcastic response that
Ophelia uses to take back some of her dignity. With these five, subversive words she takes back some of Polonius’s power over her. She conveys to herself that her own will exists unabridged without taking such grave action that she would be putting her own well being at risk. Without disobeying her father, she slips in several other snide comments that, to the self important
Polonius, seem to be nothing more than utter agreement. When asked if Hamlet is “Mad for [her] love?” she responds that she does “not know,/ but truly [does] fear it” (2.1.95-7). Ophelia has such affection for Hamlet that both her father and brother must bid her to steer clear of his advances. The prospect of Hamlet being mad for her love fills Ophelia with no fear, nor worry or
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doubt. Her remarks here are nothing more than another sarcastic remark hidden behind double
entendres and her father’s self importance.
Polonius’s power over Ophelia intrudes deep into her mind and no amount of
underhanded comments could counteract the mental effects of this. Polonius’s has such absolute
power over his daughter that he begins to destroy her Psyche. As Barbara Smith puts it in Neither Accident nor Intent: Contextualizing the Suicide of Ophelia, “under the pressure of irresponsible paternal demands [...] Ophelia’s faith in love and sincerity is crushed” (Smith 97). Polonius lays
immense pressure on his daughter and rules over her life despotically. In regards to Hamlet, he
“place[s] the burden of blame [...] on his daughter for her gullibility” (Smith 99). Polonius has
intentionally attacked his daughter’s mind with constant reprimands and, “carefully programmed
into her psyche [...] the fear of autonomy and sexuality so that Ophelia is unable to navigate her
own way” (Smith 97.) Despite all this evidence to the contrary, there may remain some notion of
Polonius acting in the interests of his daughter.
One can make the argument that Polonius acts in the interests of his daugher rather than
selfishness. Polonius knows that Hamlet most likely will not marry Ophelia because he is royalty
where Ophelia is simply a noblewomen. Perhaps Polonius crushes Ophelia’s hopes for this love
simply because he does not wish to see his daughter’s life adversely affected by her presumably
short lived love affair with Hamlet. However this seems unlikely as a father acting in the interest
of his daughter would not belittle her to the point that he discredits her cognitive ability. The
more likely motivation for Polonius’ actions is that he sees Ophelia as property, an investment
that he has paid into and must protect if he wishes to see a return. More evidence lies, as Scott
Huelin discusses in his Reading, Writing, and Memory in "Hamlet", in the ease that Polonius
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“use[s] his daughter as bait” for a man he believes riddled with “madness” (Huelin 32). Ophelia losing her virtue would see Ophelia lose her worth and, just as a small business owner would do anything to keep their shop from going under, Polonius will do whatever he must to prevent
Ophelia’s devaluation.
Ophelia has a close fraternal bond with her brother Laertes, yet their relationship still occurs within the bounds of the institutionalized misogyny of the period. Much like their father,
Laertes rejects Ophelia’s thoughts on Hamlet’s intentions and tells her to “Think it no more”
(1.3.13). While he may not see her as property in the same way that their father does, Laertes views her as a delicate and easily corruptible, young flower. He warns her that “The canker galls the infants of the spring” just as Hamlet will destroy her purity and leave her behind (1.343).
Laertes wants her that she must “Be wary [for] best safety lies in fear” and completely rejects any notion that she might be able to lead her life and make her own decisions without timidly backing down from uncertain situations (1.3.47). Laertes may have a better relationship with his sister than Polonius does, but the power difference between them remains great.
Ophelia’s relationship with her brother, like that with her father, contains subtle remarks but also contains more direct expression of her opinions. Ophelia and Laertes are close and as
Scott Huelin states he has a “familiarity with his sister’s soul” that brings them closer (Huelin
29). While being lectured on the merit of her decision making and her decisions she turns the conversation around on Laertes. She retorts his lecture with “my brother, Do not, [...] Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, [while you] the primrose path of dalliance tread”
(1.3.50-54). Here Ophelia expresses her true thoughts in a form that can be interpreted by others.
She goes so far as to call out her brother on his own actions and the biased world that gives him
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so much more leeway due to his sex. She points out that he views her actions through this frame of sexism just “as some ungracious pastors do” (1.3.51). Without this outburst it would seem that
Ophelia was a simple and obedient girl without opinions or desires. This passage provides a window into her thoughts that allows that redefines her overall character. With this in mind, her simple obedient remarks become subtle yet defiant outbursts. Ophelia’s outward expression of her thoughts and exposure of hypocrisy with Laertes do not represent the norm of Ophelia’s interactions with men in the play.
Hamlet looks down upon Ophelia as a women just as much as any other character, despite their romantic connection. Through Hamlet’s reaction to Ophelia’s death we learnt that he did actually have strong feelings for her. He exclaims that he “loved Ophelia. That forty thousand brothers/ could not with all their quantity of love/ make up [his] sum.” (5.1.285-287).
These feelings for Ophelia did not stop him from rejecting her and discrediting her thoughts on their previous interactions. Through Ophelia’s interactions with Hamlet we start to see the outside world finally getting to her. While Polonius and Claudius attempt to entrap Hamlet, we see Hamlet attack Ophelia’s virtue and assert “That if you be honest and fair,
Hamlet, yet he denies any feelings for her directly to her face in the interest of some great, circuitous scheme to avenge a dead man. Perhaps as a result of how Elizabethan society views values women, Hamlet places Ophelia’s feelings beneath the wishes of a ghost whose credibility he still doubts.
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There remains more to be seem from this interaction with Hamlet though. The most important part is how Ophelia responds to him. Instead of another one of Ophelia's pointed, sarcastic responses, we see her meekly give in to Hamlet’s verbal onslaught with “I was the more deceived” (3.1.130). Here we see ingrained misogyny and borderline verbal abuse she suffers from the men in her life start to get to her. She starts to doubt her own previous thoughts on
Hamlet and wonders if Polonius had been right the whole time. She calls herself “the most deject and wretched” lady and that she “sucked the honey of his musicked vows” (3.1.169-170).
Hamlet’s words have allowed doubt to enter Ophelia’s mind and here she starts her transformation from a strong yet submissive woman to a battered girl willing to take drastic steps to secure her own safety.
The next step on Ophelia’s gradual decline comes about when she begins to appear insane. We see that Ophelia has been reduced to a near mad state in which “her speech is nothing” and makes only “half sense” (4.5.9). She begins singing songs which bear many similarities to her own life. She sings about a virgin woman who visited a suitor and once “let in a maid, that out a maid/ never departed more”(4.5.59-60). This passage likely refers to her relationship with Hamlet and adds credence to the idea that Hamlet and Ophelia’s relationship took on a sexual nature. In this song, the man promises to marry the virgin yet reneges on the offer just as Hamlet promised a future for them but later rejected Ophelia. Whether or not
Ophelia has truly gone mad or if she only pretends to so that she can finally speak freely remains unclear. Regardless, these songs demonstrate just how much life has gotten to her.
Another significant step in Ophelia's path occurs when she ceases to speak freely to her brother. Instead of the candid speech between siblings seen earlier in the play, Ophelia
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communicates with Laertes through subtle flower symbolism. She has been reduced to speaking through this method by the great pressure of her life, including Hamlet’s foolish murder of her father. She gives Laertes a daisy, the symbol of concealing one’s emotions, to show that her true feelings are hidden behind the facade she showcases. She goes on to say “I would/ give you some violets, but they withered all when/ my father died” (4.5.207-209). The withering of
Ophelia’s violets, violets being the symbol for faithfulness, bears great significance as it represents her faith, in god or some other entity, has died. Even more important than her loss of faith is the fact that she no longer feels she can speak candidly to her brother, her one confidant.
After all this loss, Ophelia has finally grown ready to take extreme action. Knowing that she has no real control over her own life, she decides to exercise what little power she does have by committing suicide. She made “garlands [...] nettles, daisies, and long purples,” and calmly entered the water (4.7.192-193). Her gathering flowers before her death bears great significance as flowers had previously been one instrument she used to try and communicate with the outside world. Earlier on, Laertes had also compared to her flower, weak and fragile, and she later dies amidst them. As she sank “She chanted snatches of old lauds,/ as one incapable of her own distress” (4.7.202-203). It is peculiar that she sings hymns as she drowns as it appears she has already lost her faith. It makes more sense when remembering that she previously used songs to communicate, just as she did flowers. She leaves the world clutching those objects that she attempted to converse through in life.
Gertrude lives in the same world as Ophelia and, like her, struggles under the massive weight of the institutionalized and omnipresent misogyny of the time period. Her first husband,
King Hamlet, was a dignified leader with “Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself,/ an eye
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like Mars’ to threaten and command” (3.4.66-67). He was obviously quite the leader and left
little room for Gertrude to express herself in the shadow of his “form [upon which] every god did
seem to set his seal” (3.4.70-71). Ophelia’s father was just a noble man yet he managed to
discredit her own opinions so thoroughly that she was imprisoned in her own mind. King
Hamlet, with his endless divine qualities and great political power, was, no doubt, as effective as
Polonius in marginalizing Gertrude’s opinions and denying her importance. Regardless of
whether or not he tried to, sharing one’s life with someone who has such power and importance
while having almost none would definitely lead to a deep grained inferiority that would be
borderline tortuous.
Much like Ophelia sought comfort in an eternal, aquatic slumber, Gertrude’s mental pain
drives her to take dire action to secure her own freedom. While some, like Cherrell Guilfoyle in
Not Two: Denial and Duality in "Hamlet", argue that since after Hamlet let’s Gertrude know of her husbands, “her attitude does not change” she must have already known and at least have been
complicit in his murder (Guilfoyle 302). Yet, “most critics agree that Gertrude was not an
accessory to the murder of her husband” Guilfoyle 302). Whether or not Gertrude’s grave choice
was to, as Hamlet says, “kill a king and marry with his brother” or if she simply chose to
opportunistically marry Claudius, does not change the narrative (3.4.35) Either way, Gertrude
saw that with King Claudius she could have much greater breathing room and power than she
ever could with her former husband. Gertrude’ description of their “o’erhasty” marriage adds
weight to the idea that the marriage, and perhaps more, sprang forth solely from Gertrude’s mind
(2.2.60). Here Gertrude appears to be putting the blame on her own actions in the way mother’s
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commonly blame the misdeeds of their children on themselves. She knows the marriage was a selfish idea and blames it and thus herself for her child’s insanity.
More evidence that Gertrude master minded the marriage and perhaps the murder exists in her response to Hamlet’s rant about her guilt. After being accused of being a bad widow and the murder of her former husband, she Hamlet has “turn’st [her] eyes into [her] very soul” and sees “black and grainèd spots”(3.4.100-101). She knows what she has done and when
Hamlet confronts her she can not help but break down and see what actions she has taken. In the face of a stream of insults and criticisms from a man, Gertrude, as a woman in such a time period, has little power to defend herself or argue.
Gertrude marries Claudius because with him she knows that she will have more influence, power, and freedom than she could ever hope for under King Hamlet. When Claudius and Polonius try to figure out what brought Hamlet to his mad state, Claudius asks her “Do you think ’tis this?” (2.2.147). Here is the only example throughout the entire text of a man asking the opinion of a woman. This speaks a great deal to how Claudius and Gertrude interact and answers Hamlet’s question as to why Gertrude leaves a “fair mountain to feed” on a lowly
“moor” (3.4.77). She leaves the great mountain that is King Hamlet because she has influence on the moor. With Claudius she has a purpose beyond pleasing her husband. She has liberated herself from the bonds of system that shackles a woman to her husband in marriage instead of uniting her to a partner and equal.
Throughout the play, Gertrude and Ophelia have little interaction and we see almost no female solidarity. Perhaps the women of Hamlet must focus so much on emancipating their minds that they can not think of lifting up anyone else. We do have, however, one remark that
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allows one last look into Gertrude’s mind and, there we see quite a different situation. After
Ophelia’s suicide, Gertrude remarks “I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife”
(5.1.243). Ophelia had been berated and insulted for her love of Hamlet. Her own family tore her apart for believing in such a ridiculous idea. Yet here Gertrude gives weight to her argument that it was possible all along. Here Gertrude takes Ophelia’s side, all though perhaps too late to help her. Gertrude knows just how hard life as a woman in her time is and, despite the fact that
Hamlet would be significantly undersold in a marriage to Ophelia, Gertrude hoped for their union. She has little reason to want this match to take place beyond providing Ophelia with freedom and perhaps the closest thing to happiness someone could achieve in a world in which even one’s own family seeks to wage mental warfare upon you.
Life under occupation can crush one’s soul. When this occupation comes from all sides and even threatens to destroy one’s sanity, there are only a few options. In this play, the women live under the constant oppression of institutionalized, societal misogyny that they must face everyday. They must keep their true feelings hidden from all but their closest confidents.
Keeping their thoughts under wraps puts strain on their brains until they begin to communicate with subtle phrases and symbolic gestures that no one else can interpret. These signals serve no purpose other than as an outlet for the pent up emotions of their brain. Eventually not even these can help the women and they descend into madness. They become more and more desperate until they take grave action. Even today, society discriminates and degrades. Thankfully, the days of people being marginalized until they are destroyed are over, in the United States at least. We mustn’t forget, though, how powerful societal norms are. Today millions of men and women live in fear or in mental, or sometimes physical prisons, due to who they are.
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Works Cited:
Guilfoyle, Cherrell. “Not Two: Denial and Duality in ‘Hamlet.’” Comparative Drama, vol. 23, no. 4, 1989,
pp. 297–313. www.jstor.org/stable/41153424. Huelin, Scott. “Reading, Writing, and Memory in ‘Hamlet.’” Religion &Amp; Literature, vol. 37, no. 1, 2005,
pp. 25–44. www.jstor.org/stable/40059975.
Shakespeare, William, Barbara A. Mowat, and Paul Werstine. The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. New York: Washington Square Press, 2002. Print. Smith, Barbara. “Neither Accident nor Intent: Contextualizing the Suicide of Ophelia.” South Atlantic
Review, vol. 73, no. 2, 2008, pp. 96–112. www.jstor.org/stable/27784781.
Another Type of Peace
By: Toby Ma Chapter 1: Johnathan Erzei
As the line of airships fell from the sky, warming the night air with their strangely beautiful fire, I could not believe how that I was left out. Everybody teased me for being a pacifist, but I love that adrenaline rush, that excitement of the gore and carnage; it just felt… horrible to kill somebody in the chaos of war. I loved the excitement and the intensity of battle, but the dead corpses left behind are enough for me to have the tragedy of war to dawn upon me. If so, I thought to myself, I could retire become a cowboy in the Boundless Plains, herding and tackling Golden Aurochs that are shipped to the extensive slaughterhouses on the coast of the Inner Sea. At the time, the minimum age to he hired was the age of 18; I was almost 5 years past, but it was said that a day on those plains could drive even a member of the Imperial Guard insane. Well, at least I wasn’t one of them. As the wreckage of airships continued to sink onto the chaotic battlefield below, I shifted my body inside the narrow cave, currently occupied as a reconnaissance post. Observing on the battle was making my legs go to sleep. They were trained to run, jump, and kick, not to rest. I lifted a pair of binoculars to my eyes. There were flashes of color and sparks and an intense flurry of movement. Even though it was night, the flaming airships and the explosions on the ground lit up the battlefield in a flickering dawn light. Smoke obscured the scene I saw through my binoculars. I used my index finger to adjust the zoom. From a wider out view, the battle still looked mainly the same, except with more frenzy. Anguished shouts and the sounds of rapid machine guns and mortar traveled up the mountain and into my ear. It was these sounds, except louder and clearer, that would haunt me in my sleep. I imagined myself in the thick of the battle. Where would I be? Most likely following the generals and other high-ranking military officials. They were the ones that were the most crucial to protect. The others were only pawns, no; even pawns could become queens if they make it to the other side of the chessboard. The common infantry were the expendables. They were only a tally mark. If one of them died, it was another casualty in the more than 300-year-long War of the Second Alliance. I checked my watch. The enemy’s artillery would fire another round shortly. I turned on the radio beside me. The deafening sounds of battle crackled. To save my ears, I turned the volume down so that it was only a low growl. “Caveman to Swans,” I spoke aloud, letting the radio transmit my voice, “Caveman to Swans, artillery incoming.” “Swan 1 received,” sputtered the radio, “Taking cover.” “Swan 3 received,” sputtered the radio, “Retreating now.” “Swan 2 received,” sputtered the radio, “Retreating now.” I looked onto the battlefield at the friendly soldiers. Some were firing their weapons in point-blank range, while others fought their opponents bayonet to bayonet, or rarely fist to fist. The sudden shock of a thousand firing shells reverberated across the battlefield as the enemy launched their armament. The shells landed in the center of the battle, throwing up the earth in large clods, striking soldiers from both sides. As the smoke from the explosion ascended into the air, I could almost see the mangled corpses from my cave. Some of them may have even been one of my colleagues, who would have no funeral or proper burial like the others dying beside him. Another urge to be in the thick of battle welled up inside me, but I knew I couldn’t go down there and help my comrades. I had been slightly injured two days ago in a small skirmish against the enemy. It was only a shot to the foot, but Grand Master Zurkan ordered me not to participate in the battle. “It would hinder you,” he said, shaking his head, “And you would have much more than a bullet in your foot.” It’s sometimes annoying how correct he is. The airships were now only a few hundred meters above the ground. I turned on the radio again. “Caveman to Swans,” I cried out, “Airships coming down.” “Swan 3 to Grotto,” yelled the radio, “I appreciate your reminder. I can’t believe I completely missed that blazing ball of fire coming right down on me!” “Grand to Swan 3,” said the radio in a calm, cool voice, “No sarcasm or jokes are permitted to be transmitted on the radio during a combat situation.” “’3 to Grand,” chirped the radio again, “I apologize.” “Grand to Smilodon,” replied the radio to itself, “Announce the entire squad name when you are speaking. You are not sending a telegraph.” Of course, it was fine for the Grand Master to tell jokes. The Swan Squadrons and their officers along with them retreated, running from the descending ball of fire. Other soldiers who noticed the danger when they glanced upward ran as quickly as their legs could carry them. A few scattered shells were fine, but an entire airship landing on you was too much. Forces on both sides retreated as the airships crashed. First, the fire burned through the remaining cloth envelope clutching stubbornly to the scaffold of the airship. Then, the metal frame of the airship collapsed, in an expulsion of fire and ash. Then, as fire spread on the ground, the fighting continued like normal, except soldiers near the wreckage tried not to land into a blazing fireball or get pushed into one. The battle continued on for another few hours, neither side seemingly getting the advantage. I had given up on awaking my legs, so I was now stuck with two dead stumps. The commander in charge was most likely frustrated that the Flying Legion reinforcements had not come. The more time it took the Legions to arrive, the more time the army had to hold its position, and from my post, I could see it was getting weaker. The enemy began a slow advance of about a few feet per hour, which seemed unstoppable as they threw wave after wave of men against it. Suddenly, some troops on our side began yelling and whooping, even though bullets whizzed past their head and they were probably going to get killed from not paying attention to the chaos around them. I glanced over the horizon, but I saw nothing. That’s when the Flying Legions passed from right behind me. The dragons flew gracefully as they soared into view, their riders grim and unflinching, two gun turrets on both flanks of the great creatures. Some carried a bomb on the underside of their bellies, and even another gun turret with a man inside. I always wondered whether the person in the turret felt soaring over battlefields. It was definitely not a good job for an acrophobic. As the Legions soared over, I counted about fifty dragon bellies before I gave up before the sheer number of them. I had fought with Dragon Legions at my side, but I had never before seen that many of them. They swarmed the sky like locusts, while the enemy was like stalks of wheat. It was a terrifying sight for our opponents, and I remembered the strength and power I saw by looking in a dragon’s hollow eyes. I could never think of ever entrusting my life to such a wild animal. The Legions tore into the right flank of our enemy, breathing fire and shooting metal, tearing up the army faster than a paper shredder. Our army regained control of the battlefield, and within an hour, the enemy was scattered and retreating up the hills behind them; we prevailed, but some would never see another day As I waited for my airship transport, I surveyed the aftermath of the battle. Enemy soldiers were beaten and mangled hard, their bodies almost unrecognizable. The airship wreckage still smoldered, and some good-hearted soldiers tried to put out the fires before they spread over the spilled oil tanks and rotting flesh to the neighboring villages. Some townspeople were actually already on the site, helping the army carry away bodies of dead soldiers or hunting among the dead, looking for souvenirs to bring home. I once saw an auction for an Imperial helmet in one town go up as far as one thousand Silver Aurics. Who knew what a civilian would do with a helmet, anyway. In the army, one rarely brought something along “for memories” unless it could kill something or you could use it for eating. The army was quickly becoming too authoritative and unnecessarily harsh. That was why most deserters try to be recruited into a mercenary order. As a mercenary, they were able to accept or decline deployments if they wanted and commonly earned several thousand Gold Aurics in a year, even more if they were hired to serve in campaigns lasting several months. The mercenary group I was in, the Triple Swans, is the most wealthy and powerful mercenary order during the war. It was founded in 3633 A.V., predating the reign of the Third Emperor and even his mighty father, the Second Emperor, during the War of the Imperial Factions. The Triple Swans were originally a battalion of soldiers who deserted from the main army in the March Through the Mountains, and, in the dead of winter, found a mysterious hidden stone stronghold. There they found both food and shelter, and from there, they slowly grew until all of the Howling Mountains were under their influence. Their fierceness in battle was unmatched. It was said that one Triple Swans soldier would equal a thousand in the battlefield. They were the most illustrious, the most enigmatic, and the most powerful group of people ever assembled. And yet somehow, they got stuck with me, Johnathan, a pacifist. A rope slithered down from the gondola of the airship above me. As I attached the rope to my harness, I noticed that the symbol of the Triple Swans was painted onto the envelope of the ship, which meant that it was ours, and where the Grand Master viewed the battle. Because I was being picked up by my own ship, it could either mean: The Triple Swans were going back to our headquarters (not likely), I was supposed to stay on the ship for the rest of the campaign(possible), or Zurkan needed someone to vent his anger at, and who else but the injured pacifist would be the perfect victim of his rantings? I settled with the last possibility as the most likely. I was lifted through the bottom hatch of the gondola by two nervous mercenaries. Before I could ask them anything, one of them said: “The Grand Master wants to see you on the bridge, now.” The gondola was in a state of unease. Mercenaries were whispering among each other and shaking their heads. One of the first philosophies of fighting that the book Blades of the Triple Swans, written by the captain of the original battalion of soldiers in the Howling Mountains, discussed was “One must learn to calm their own body and mind before calming others on the battlefield.” If the captain was alive to see the nervousness on the Triple Swans now, he would have deserted again and found another mercenary group. I walked along the poorly lighted hallway to the front of the gondola. People who passed by jostled me in the narrow passage. I could hear people talking in low whispers and smelled faint wisps of cigar smoke. As we were right under a gasbag filled with hydrogen, smoking was strongly prohibited by the officers, and seeing that they neglected the rule today was unsettling.
Chapter 2: Grand Master Zurkan of the Triple Swans
There were two things in the world which I hated. They were death and politics, and especially when the latter causes the former. Now, readers might be shocked that a mercenary is afraid of dying; you might be thinking that I am a coward. I have one question for you, then: Who isn’t afraid of dying? Anybody who isn’t is either naive, suicidal, or intoxicated. The best warriors are the ones who want to live another day, not the ones who think retreat is never an option. If you want to die ‘honorably’, you certainly will not. Now, luckily, Triple Swan mercenaries are trained to be cool and quick-thinking in battle, so I don’t have to recruit an entire regiment every five weeks. The only problem, though, was that the mercenaries I end up with are complete idiots. Once you filter out the courageous, honorable people, you find yourself training immoral outlaws and deserters of the army. Any good-hearted people make up less than 1 percent of the Triple Swans. If it weren’t for those rational, intelligent mercenaries, I would have murdered the other 99 percent a long time ago. Being stuck on the Triple Swan Airship with only the idiots, my mind was threatening to go insane. It also doesn’t help that 20 or so whiny neophytes were also on the airship on a “field trip”. I would rather charge aimlessly at the enemy than cure another one of them of homesickness. It thus came as a mild relief that a disastrous event occurred, so I could be undisturbed on the pretense that something of great importance needed my attention. I received the raven just as the battle was winding down. The raven flapped around my office and pecked at my uniform before I silenced it with a paperweight. For those raven-lovers reading this, I only stunned it, and it was also especially annoying. Don’t blame me; blame ravens. It was a manila envelope closed with a golden seal of House Midan, from the palace office of the Third Emperor. I used a dagger to pop off the seal and took out the letter. I read, then reread the letter. I called my secretary. Bruce was a six-foot tall dark-skinned male from the Crystal Archipelago. He was the only Triple Swan who concentrated on building up muscle instead of skill. This was apparent by the fact that he was the only person who brought 100- pound dumbbells onto the airship. It went against the Triple Swan ideology of having incredibly intelligent, skillful soldiers, but you would choose Bruce over anyone else in the mercenary group to go into battle with. “Yes, sir?” “Tell every single Triple Swan on the ship and on the battlefield to report to the cockpit after the conclusion of this engagement.” “Yes, sir.” Bruce bowed and left the office. He was a good helper, and one of those “1 percent” of Triple Swans. I got up from my desk and walked out into the hallway. Bruce was already making his way to the ship PA system. I turned left and walked directly into the cockpit. The wraparound windows showed the battle raging hundreds of feet below the gondola. Bursts of light and explosions dotted the chaotic landscape. “Sir,” called out a person seated with a headphone pressed against his ear, “I have received word that the Flying Legions are arriving.” “What has that got to do with me?” I snapped back. “Uh…” “Don’t answer that. It is supposed to be rhetorical.” The man turned around and continued listening. As long as we got paid and nobody died, nothing else mattered, including whether our side won or lost. I sighed to myself and decided to study the map of the world as the Triple Swans filed in. It was sitting in the center of the room, with carved figurines placed on cities, fields, mountains, and oceans; like chess pieces. At first, the Anti-Imperial Alliance had an early upper hand, carving a warpath through the central Golden Empire, almost splitting it in two, but the Golden Empire was able to retaliate with better technology, powerful allies, and a nationalistic propaganda campaign. The Empire had several million recruits at its disposal in only a few weeks. They were able to counterattack with devastating efficiency, almost driving the Anti-Imperial forces back to the pre- war borders. Then the attack ground to a halt. For 257 years, the tide of battle has turned back and forth, with neither side gaining or losing ground. Great fortresses and fortifications were built along the front, spanning to both ends of the Zephrythalassa shores. War had begun in the colonies 175 years ago when Anti-Imperial forces mounted an attack on the Jeweled Isles in an attempt to draw Imperial troops away from the continental front. Currently, at last count, the Empire held 57 islands, while the Anti-Imperial Alliance holds 42. Millions of lives had been lost on both sides, though for every soldier killed, two more would take his place. Soldiers poured in from every corner of every nation to join the intense combat in the Continental Front or the Colonial Front. Air attacks and deadly scorched earth policies affected citizens and peasants from the bustling metropolises to the isolated rural villages. It was a stalemate of utter profundity. No side could destroy or starve out the other. 67 years ago, the Golden Empire approached the Triple Swans with an amount of money equal to several men’s fortunes. The Anti-Imperial Alliance had also tried to hire us, but I heard that their messenger became lost in the Howling Mountains surrounding our fortress, the Swan’s Nest. Great pun, right? 67 years since then, we’ve been fighting on the Imperial side. Some of our mercenaries come from the Anti-Imperial Alliance, but since they came to us in the first place, all of them have some kind of bad blood with their home countries. Our involvement hasn’t yet changed the tide of the war, since the Anti-Imperial Alliance also hired their own mercenaries, the Red Dragons, one of our “rivals” in the mercenary business. Really cliché name, though. Anyway, back from the exposition. Staring at a map for one minute did not help at all. At that time, though, the mercenaries filed in. They were big, small, fat, thin, handsome, unbelievably ugly, evil, and good. Suddenly, the room was filled with the deadliest men in the entire world, hailing from across the world from all levels of life. They carried weapons tired of killing and wore battered armor tired of being hit at. The faces and bodies of the men were covered in the blood and grime of the battle. I would hate to be the janitor. The sweat, though, was unbearable. Sadly, the airship couldn’t carry any water for baths, much to my despair. The ventilation on this gas bag is also terrible since it was meant for war, not pleasure cruises. Immediately after the first sweaty Triple Swan stepped into the cockpit, the noise level in the small, cramped space swelled to exponential amounts. Questions were shot at me like arrows, and the din of voices snowballed into an avalanche of sound. The room’s floor seemed to vibrate with each shout of delight or excitement, and the whole ship seemed to rock and turn from the pushing and shoving of the mercenary riot before me. A hand shot out of the throng and destroyed the careful positioning of the military pieces on the map. It quickly darted back into the mess of chattering men before I could test my knife-throwing skills. “I demand quiet!” I shouted. The noise swiftly jumped off a cliff, like a candle suddenly being extinguished. “An assassination attempt has been made on the Emperor!” I preferred to get to the point quickly rather than first elaborating. The rabble of people before me had shorter attention spans than newborns; they were trained for the excitement of war, not a college lecture. The mercenaries remained silent and unmoving. Though the main ideal of the Triple Swans is to renounce all previous affiliations with home countries, many still had deep in their hearts a devotion to emperor and country, or, if they came from the Anti-Imperial Alliance, a devotion to anti-imperialism and country. Luckily, the outbreak of the Anti-Imperial War was not able to divide our order. The results of a Triple Swan fighting a Triple Swan would be catastrophic. “The Emperor himself has ordered us to bring as many Triple Swans as possible to guard him.” A mercenary in the middle of the throng raised his hand. “What?” I asked, annoyed that I was interrupted. “We have been ordered to stay at the Tributary Valley for a few days in order to secure the area; how are we going to be sent to Auriza?” cried the mercenary. I recognized the hairy forearm and the nasal voice instantly. “Finkle, your comment is so elementary it’s taught to first-graders.” The whole room exploded into uncontrolled laughter. Warriors these days. “Did I tell any of you to laugh? This is a serious matter!” The laughter ended as quickly as it started, with a few scattered chuckles still resonating through the cockpit that was also rapidly hushed. “We’ll obviously send only one Triple Swan to reduce our military loss,” I continued, “The only question is…who?” The room exploded again with voices. The more cowardly mercenaries tried to jostle to the front of the crowd, bumping against the world map, causing more pieces to fall over and roll over continents and oceans. That was when the entrance to the cockpit swung slowly open. 50 or so eyes laid their sights on the new mercenary that entered the bridge. Johnathan Erzei; one of my favorites. He was, I suppose, the most ironic man I have ever met. For one, the man’s a pacifist! Yes, you heard me right, a pacifist! He kills and fights for a living, but he’s a pacifist! I have no clue to why he is one, but I can tell you that he is one through and through. Would never kill a single living being, unless under orders or for self-defense. If you think a pacifist should act what he or she believes, those types of “pure” pacifists won’t last a minute in a world during the Anti-Imperial War. Any type of person, from all the corners of the world, will have to kill somebody eventually as long as the Anti-Imperial War continues. War is inescapable and easy to start. Peace can be avoided and takes decades to cement. The thing with Johnathan is that no matter what anybody tells him to do, he will always do it perfectly, including going against his own ideals. Who knows what the man has going on in his head, but I’m certain it’s a constant battle of obedience to superiors and conscience. A strange guy. Since he started being openly pacifist, I thought that he wouldn’t last another fight. Now here we are, 30 years after we joined this conflict, and all the injuries he has is a bullet in his shoulder. I hate to say this, but even though I ridicule him constantly, he continues to amaze me.
Chapter 3: Johnathan Erzei
Grand Master Zurkan and some other high-class mercenaries all looked up from the map they were scrutinizing. It seemed like they were having a heated conversation, because one mercenary had grabbed another by their collar with one hand, and a dagger in the other. “Ahh,” purred Grand Master Zurkan, “Johnathan. A pleasure that you can join us here.” “What happened?” I asked. “Normally, I would admonish you for not greeting me back and exchanging pleasantries, but this is an emergency, so please, come over here.” The Zurkan didn’t want to correct my rudeness? This must be a catastrophe! I quickly pushed my way to the map. It was the map of the world, including the Islands of Estafar. The crescent-shaped Golden Empire and the nations in the Second Alliance, as well as their colonies, were scattered over with ivory and ebony military figurines, representing military units. A single blue jasper figurine carved in the likeness of a Triple Swan mercenary stood among a sea of black and white. A golden piece, representing the Third Emperor, stood in the capital of Auriza, ringed by white pieces. Many of the pieces were tipped over or standing in the middle of an ocean-even though they were cavalry. It contrasted greatly with the usual meticulousness of Grand Master Zurkan. “Now, as I was saying when Johnathan walked in,” resumed Grand Master Zurkan, “We currently cannot split our forces, and we will be forced by the Empire to hold our defensive position where we are now, the Tributary Valley; so, in order to obey both commands from the Golden Empire, we can send only one mercenary.” “Wait, wait, wait,” I interjected. Zurkan gave me a dirty look. “‘Send only one mercenary’? What happened?” “Didn’t one of the neophytes tell you?” asked Zurkan, exasperated. “No.” “I swear, one of these days…” The Grand Master performed an action with his hands that looked like the “proper” way to snap a person’s neck. He didn’t chide me for not waiting for my name to be called by him to begin speaking, nor did he try to correct my one-word sentence. Strange. “During the battle,” continued Zurkan after his neck-snapping demonstration, “I received a raven from the Royal Palace itself.” Mail from the Royal Palace was rare as surviving the Plague, and from the handwriting on the envelope, it was personally written by one of the Royal Staff, not a printed message sent to everybody. “What did it say?” “I am getting there,” snarled Zurkan, “The letters say that there was an assassination attempt on the emperor.” I drew in a quick breath, but since I was the only one who didn’t know about the attempt on the emperor’s life, the breath felt loud and obnoxious. “The Emperor requested we have as many Triple Swans as possible protect the emperor.” “What happened? How?” I was stunned. Second only to the Triple Swans and the Dragon Legions, the Royal Guard was considered to be the toughest, most well-equipped and trained military personnel in the entire world “Details are meager,” replied Zurkan, “It is unlikely the Palace will release the entire story to the public, in order to save face.” “How’s the Emperor?” “Fine, only a bit distraught. Whoever is going to get sent to Auriza needs to protect the weakened emperor, as well as assist the Royal Guard in investigating the assassination.” “What will the pay be?” asked one mercenary on the edge of the group crowded around the map. It was likely if a mercenary were to succeed in protecting the emperor, he would rise in reputation. If not, thank the man who invented down payment. “Down 50,000 Gold Aurics, if successful two million.” You could sense the sudden tension coming into the room. 50,000 Aurics was a lot of money, and two million would make you almost as rich as the spice traders in the southeast oceans. Then, the swelling tension broke the dam of the mouth, and everybody was talking at once. “I’ll take it!” “Please, Grand Master, I’ll give you half!” “I’ve got more money than that!” “Then why do you wear rags for clothes?” “Shut up, McDonald.” “Well, I think it should obviously be-” “I’ll take the job! I assure you, Grand Master, I won’t fail!” Grand Master Zurkan remained passive as the people around him screamed in turmoil. He didn’t try to stop it. This was the fastest way to eliminate all of the greedier mercenaries, anyway. “Alright, everybody who yelled for my attention, get out of this room!” yelled Grand Master Zurkan, right after the shouting died down into awkward silence, “Don’t try to deceive me, either! I know exactly which people were clamoring for my attention.” Almost all of the mercenaries grumbled and shuffled out of the cockpit. “Exit quietly!” said Grand Master Zurkan exasperatedly, “Some people are trying to pilot a hydrogen gasbag and have a serious meeting in this room!” “Now,” continued Grand Master Zurkan after all the mercenaries left, “We can resume our previous conversation. It is a bodyguard role: protect the emperor at all times, as well as in his bed- Johnson, if you stay in this room for another ten seconds, I will make sure that you will never yell at me to get an assignment ever again.” Johnson left the room quicker than a sword drawn out of its sheath. “The emperor will even have to be protected in his bedchamber. The man in the shiny high chair asked explicitly for that.” A burly man across from me raised his hand. “Doubleblade.” “Are there any other details the ‘bodyguard’ should know?” Charles Doubleblade was a light-skinned mercenary from Landskreia, a member of the illustrious House of Landskrei. His father was thirteenth in line to become the Duke of Landskreia, so he decided to join the military. When his son, Charles, was born, he sent the baby to the Swan’s Nest to be trained as a mercenary. “I was getting to that,” hissed Grand Master Zurkan. “Sorry, Grand Master.” “Just be quiet! The emperor has also requested that the bodyguard must look ‘stately’ and dignified. That means you’re out, Finkle.” Finkle dropped his head and sadly shuffled out of the cockpit. Now there were only five mercenaries left: me, Doubleblade, and other people I didn’t know. “He also doesn’t want any criminals watching over him while he sleeps,” continued Grand Master Zurkan, “You all know what to do.” The other three mercenaries I didn’t know also went out of the room. Grand Master Zurkan sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Why is it always you two that are remaining?” Charles and I were both silent. We guessed the question was rhetorical and decided not to try to answer. Grand Master Zurkan looked up at us. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question!” Whoops. “Alright, give me a good reason why I should hire one of you two for the job.” Charles went first. “Grand Master, you know that out of the two of us, I am the more skilled.” It took all of my strength to hide my smile. This guy must be joking. I can beat him at anything except for darts. Stupid darts. “Also, guarding the emperor would greatly increase my father’s favorability with him, and if I am successful, my father could even become the new Duke of Landskrei.” “You are trying to tug at my sentimental side,” answered Grand Master Zurkan, “But I removed mine many years ago. Also, as I recall, Erzei can beat you at anything except for darts, so unless the Emperor loves to frequent public bars, I’m afraid that skill is useless.” Thank you, Grand Master, I said to myself. “Now, Erzei,” said Grand Master Zurkan, “Amuse me with your argument.” I snapped to attention, but my mind couldn’t think of anything to say “Well, um…” “Don’t go ‘um’ in front of me. You are a gentleman.” “Well, I guess…” “Don’t say ‘I guess’ either. You must be sure.” “Well, I’ve never seen the capital before, Grand Master, and if I keep fighting this war, I might never in my life.” Grand Master Zurkan thought about it for a while. “Your argument seems valid. One does need to see that grand city at least once in their life.” “What?” said Doubleblade angrily, “You choose him because he wants to sightsee?” “To be honest, Doubleblade,” retorted Grand Master Zurkan calmly, “You have not yet given me a good reason to choose you.” “The guy’s a pacifist, and he’s injured!” “Yet his pacifism has not allowed him to get in the way of getting things done, no?” “Remember Blackrock Castle?” The temperature in the room seemed to go down by three degrees. I tightened my grip on my blade. “His only mistake was to spare the target,” argued Grand Master Zurkan, “but his life was in danger. He made the right decision! Besides, I took care of Johnathan himself after that incident. He will not do the same.” Compared to Blackrock Castle, Grand Master Zurkan’s wrath was like a relaxing massage. “That doesn’t matter!” shouted Doubleblade, “He didn’t get the job done!” “So you’re saying that our client should have given the reward money to the rats?” “No!” “You still have not given me a good reason, and I do not think the emperor will appreciate a yelling fool by his side at all times.” “Why do you always take his side?” Doubleblade shouted. He walked to the door went through, slamming it almost to break it off. “Such a brash fellow,” said Grand Master Zurkan nonchalantly, “Now, Erzei, I will brief you on the more detailed matters of your new job.”
Chapter 4: Francis of the Dragon Legions
I was cleaning up Lyzia, my fire wyvern, when a pair of men, deep in conversation, approached me. One was old and rather tall, with graying dark hair and a long, thin beard. He wore a blue two-piece suit with a shining pin attached to its left chest, over the heart. The other man was shorter and much younger. His hair was dark like a cold winter night, his face and skin even paler than mine. He stepped forward with a cautious but sure step, his right hand never leaving the sword strapped to his side. His face was composed as a rock, but his one eye glittered in the floating dust of the camp like a jewel engulfed in fire. His other eye was covered with a simple black eyepatch, and an ugly, purplish scar peeked out from under it like a demon trying to escape. He wore a battered blue battle dress with rough leather armor placed over. So, he’s one of the veteran soldier people, I guessed, maybe an officer. But why, then, would he be in this part of the camp? We were the foot soldiers; both of the men certainly outranked me a hundred times. Why the blue color? As I recall, all Imperial officers wore a dark orangish-yellow. Anti-Imperialist? How would they get in the Imperial camp? Besides, their color was a dark indigo. The two men walked up directly to me. I stood up and bowed, as a sign of respect. The old man nodded in acknowledgment and approval. “Greetings,” said the old man, businesslike, “You must be Francis, of the Dragon Legions.” “Indeed I am, sir,” I replied, not knowing the least bit about who was talking to me. “Well, Francis, I will introduce you to Johnathan Erzei, of the Order of the Triple Swans. Johnathan, Francis; Francis, Johnathan. You will be Johnathan’s transport to Auriza. I have already talked with your commander, Francis, and it is okay for you to leave.” “W-what?” Johnathan said. He looked also a bit shocked and looked at Lyzia with some apprehensiveness. This will be an interesting story. “Well, Erzei, do you have any other idea on how you are going to get to the Imperial capital? You cannot just sprout wings and fly!” “But, Grand Master,” said Johnathan, starting to glance nervously at Lyzia and sweat, “Surely there must be a hospital ship that will leave here for Auriza?” “I thought you were a germaphobe,” retorted Grand Master Zurkan, “And you want to share a ship full of wounded, infected people? Besides, an airship will be too slow; riding a dragon is a much quicker and more efficient way to get to the capital.” “But…a dragon? There’s no other way to get to Auriza?” Johnathan was starting to get nervous, and Lyzia could sense his uneasiness. I grabbed her reins to keep her from suddenly attacking my new passenger. Despite her tameness, her predatory instincts could take over at any provocation. “Absolutely none.” replied the old man. “Alright, then,” grumbled Johnathan. “Okay, well, then, Johnathan, good luck, and learn some respect for elders from this Francis fellow” The old man turned around and walked away, not turning back at all. Johnathan looked like he was about to argue more, but shook his head and mumbled to himself. “I heard that!” shouted the old man, without even breaking a step. “Who was the old man?” I asked. Johnathan looked up and stared at me. His eyes seemed to dart around and memorize every inch of my face, observing, calculating. He answered after a few seconds. “That is the Grand Master of the Triple Swans. Surely you’ve heard of us?” My mind was as blank as fresh snowfall. “No, but I come from the Northern Mountains, in the Polar Tribes. Very little information of the outside world gets to us from there. In fact, this is my first time this far south!” Johnathan nodded to himself and looked at Lyzia. “So, this is your dragon?” Lyzia’s neck stretched out and snapped at Johnathan, who jumped back and drew out his sword. It took all my strength to prevent her from ripping Johnathan to pieces. Finally, after I calmed her down, I answered Johnathan’s question. “No, she’s not a dragon, but a fire wyvern. Wyverns have two legs, and are less intelligent than their dragon cousins, though they can still understand our language. Also, wyverns are much smaller than full-size dragons and more abundant.” “Oh…I’m sorry, I had no idea,” replied Johnathan, scratching his head. Lyzia looked at him with malice. “Don’t worry, it’s a common misconception.” Johnathan looked at the sun, which had started to set. “Should we set off now?” asked Johnathan, a bit hesitant. “Well,” I replied, “Lyzia might not like you that much, but we’ll still be able to get pretty far today before something bad happens. “Like what?” “You don’t want to know.” After calming down Lyzia and a lot of maneuvering, Johnathan sat on the saddle without falling off. I helped him strap on his safety harness and wear his goggles properly (turns out there’s a lot of ways you can put one on wrongly), all the while keeping a mischievous drake from wandering away or attacking a rodent. I hopped on easily and strapped myself in, and gripped the reins firmly. “Ready?” I asked, slipping my goggles over my head. “I guess so,” replied Johnathan from behind me. “I was asking Lyzia.” “Oh.” “Are you ready, Lyzia?” Lyzia snorted in agreement. I pulled the reins back, she spread her wings, and we were flying.
Chapter 5: Johnathan Erzei
I hate dragons. I meant wyverns. Have you ever fallen off of a building? It’s like that, except you’re strapped to a reptile wrapped in scales, armor, and weapons, flying straight up into the air, the wind whistling past you. The cold, too. I grew up on top of a mountain, but unlike the chilling snowy air of the Howling Mountains, the frigid cold of the upper atmosphere was biting. It soaked through your clothes and went into your skin, where it made its home. Within minutes I felt that my legs were frozen, and after a half an hour I thought I could only move my fingers. By the time I reached Auriza, only the will of the Emperor would be able to unfreeze me. After I got over my entirely numb body, I started to enjoy the view around me. Despite the fact that we had only flown for less than a minute, we had already covered a few kilometers. The battlefield had disappeared behind some overcast clouds, and nothing around us obstructed our view. We were the highest objects in the sky, other than the sun itself, which shone its warmth- lacking rays on my icy clothes. Hills and valleys rose and fell below us, and sometimes we would pass through a stray cloud, spraying me and Francis in water. Great, now my clothes were going to freeze to my body. The wyvern flapped its mighty wings, sending shockwaves into my frozen bones. I could feel the muscles of the creature stretch and move under my saddle. I was once again shocked by the amount of power this beast possessed. Every rise and fall of its wings were perfectly even, and admittedly a bit mesmerizing. Francis, well…he was having a good time. He whooped and, much to my displeasure, released both of his hands from his saddle, raising them up in the air. He then returned his hands to their original position, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t want my obituary to say: Johnathan, 67, died after falling from five hundred meters off of a wyvern. The wyvern then did a barrel roll. Once, I had a short holiday in Genqu (well, I had already killed my intended victim, and I was waiting for my transportation to arrive), where the Empire hosted the Grand Exhibition. One of the unique exhibits showcased there was called a roller coaster. It was a lightweight train that carried people on winding wooden tracks at high speed. I decided to try it out, and when the cart turned completely upside down, I had to allow the contents of my stomach to leave rather forcefully through my mouth. Doing the same thing on a wyvern was similar, but only after you strapped a rocket engine to the back of the car and sent it flying through polar air. I hastily revised my obituary. Johnathan, 67, died from sheer terror from doing dangerous stunts at high speeds in cold air. Francis slowly righted the wyvern, and soon later my internal organs returned to their original positions. The wyvern roared into the thin air, shattering my icy eardrums. Memories started to float from the back of my brain, but I quickly suppressed them. Not now, I said to myself. One mental image was able to slip through, and I saw Blackrock Castle flash behind my eyelids. I heard in my memories a distant roar of a giant dragon, shaking the ground beneath my feet. My heart filled with doom. The roar sounded again, closer this time. An explosion blew me back into the present. The wyvern careened sharply to its left, once again jumbling my organs. Francis darted his head to the right. “We have dragon poachers on us,” his voice clearly rang in my ears. “Hold on.” Dragons were powerful beasts, and killing one was considered a superhuman task. The knights and kings of old would ride in full battle armor just to kill one that wandered out of its arctic home. Later, dragon hunters would capture dragons to be shipped around the Empire to be killed in a gladiatorial event or single-handedly by a man yearning to prove his strength. Now, though, people were lazier and bought trophies of dragons from poachers. Dragon skin was also a popular fabric to use in both furniture and clothing, and a dragon’s bone, meat, and organs were in large demand around the world. The mobilization of the Flying Legions allowed dragon poaching to become even easier, especially by poor peasants and woodsmen. More explosions rocked the sky left and right of me, getting closer and closer. “Where do the poachers get these weapons?” I screamed at the top of my lungs above the explosions and the wind whipping past me. “What?” screamed Francis, his voice still very clear to me. “How did the poachers get these weapons?” “Armies from both sides sometimes abandon their weapons and ammunition for even the smallest issues, like a little rust,” said Francis, guiding the wyvern through another barrage of fire, “The commoners salvage these weapons for their own uses.” A wall of explosions appeared right in front of us, blocking our path. Francis swerved back, only to hit another volley of detonations. Machine gun fire flew all around us. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the explosions stopped, and the guns went silent. I thought I could hear, just by straining my ears, that a low rumble of an engine was coming. “Do you hear that?” asked Francis, looking for the source of the sound. He seemed to lose some of his coolness from dodging the bullets streaking through the air. “It’s coming from over there!” I yelled, pointing to my left. It approached low over the horizon but grew bigger and louder. Its engine droned unceasingly. I felt a sense of déjà vu upon hearing the sound. As it got closer I saw it had two horizontal boards, one stacked upon the other. In the middle was a large propeller, spinning from the droning engine. Suddenly it banked to its right, giving me and Francis a good look at its underside. From behind its propeller, a long cylindrical object extended out, ending in the set of three fins. It banked to the left, and me, Francis, and I think the wyvern now, too, saw that the cylindrical shape was a small cockpit, where a pilot sat at some controls, goggles over his eyes. The machine banked again to face directly at us, and then it started firing. The bullets were fired from the left and right of the propeller. I immediately identified the gun as an MG-78, a lightweight automatic machine gun produced and used by the Empire. Francis brought the wyvern into a deep dive, causing all of the feeling in my hands to shrink away in terror. Francis brought the wyvern level and skimmed above the tops of the trees. I looked behind, and saw, to my dismay, that the machine had dropped perfectly in line behind us. Francis guided the wyvern right and left, trying to shake off the mysterious machine, but it was able to change direction almost as fast as we were. The wyvern, Lyzia, seemed to tire after a few minutes, and the machine slowly gained on us, firing both of its guns to try and hit us, never changing its speed. I realized that the engine on the flying machine was also used on the Triple Swan airship. The engine was both light and small, but powerful enough to move an entire airship, its crew, passengers, and cargo. An engine like that on such a small machine would explain its incredible speeds. The aircraft got closer and closer to us every second, bullets firing from it rapidly. Bullets struck the wyvern’s plated skin, bouncing off harmlessly, but they tore through the creature’s large wings. The wyvern roared in pain, and its flight became more turbulent. If the flying machine continued its assault on the wings, the wyvern would fall from the sky, killing me and Francis in the process. Francis suddenly tugged on the reins, causing Lyzia to go in a steep climb, and causing my stomach to contract again. We gained altitude with great speed, but the continued droning of an engine behind us told us that we had not shaken off our opponent. The air became colder and colder, and I saw from the corner of my eye that we had passed above the clouds. I felt water crystallizing on my face and my pulse starting to slow. Francis righted the wyvern, and he leaned over the creature’s flank to steal a glance at the aircraft. Its ascent had slowed from the rapid gain in altitude, and its guns were silent, probably too cold to fire. “Now, Lyzia!” shouted Francis, and Lyzia shot a scorching fireball from her mouth. All the ice that had formed on my face suddenly condensed into water and then evaporated into the air. The fireball seemed to grow in intensity and size even as it traveled away from us. It hit the machine head on, causing a large explosion from its engines. The burning wreckage of the aircraft descended into the dreary clouds below. A great silence prevailed over the sky, only interrupted by the steady flap of Lyzia’s wings.
* * *
The questions came after we landed. “What was that?” asked Francis, inspecting Lyzia’s wounds. The bullets had torn large holes in the wyvern’s wings. I was surprised that we had even survived the flight to our camp. “I have no idea.” I scanned the land surrounding the clearing we stood in. We were surrounded by a dense forest, filled with massive trees that reached far above into the sky where we just descended from. The forest floor was filled with mossy rocks and overgrown plants. The clearing was the only empty spot of land for kilometers, so we decided to sleep there for the night. Francis stopped for a second and looked at me incredulously. He then resumed repairing Lyzia’s wing. He asked his second question a second later. “Are you sure?” “How wouldn’t I be sure? I have no idea what that was.” “What are you doing in the capital?” “I can’t tell you.” “Why?” “Triple Swan business.” “What’s with the eyepatch?” I closed my eye as the searing pain I had once experienced threatened to come back. I remembered the dragon-tooth (or wyvern-tooth?) dagger glinting in the dark torture arena under Blackrock Castle. I swayed and struggled to stay upright. Francis realized he had asked a bad question and scurried away behind Lyzia to continue unpacking. When I opened my eyes, I saw that the sun had already dipped below the horizon, bathing the forest clearing in twilight. Francis returned from behind Lyzia’s body, carrying a small canvas bag and a small metal box. He gave me the metal box as he took more canvas and some folded metal rods out of the bag. In less than a minute he had assembled a tent. He went behind the wyvern again and returned with a sleeping bag. He offered it to me. “I have my own.” He laid the sleeping bag next to Lyzia and took the metal box from me. He opened the box and revealed some bowls and silverware. As I took my sleeping bag from my pack he laid out our supper on a flat rock. As we enjoyed our repast, the questions returned. “Where do you live?” asked Francis, as he dug into delicious beef jerky. “The Swan’s Nest, in the Howling Mountains. It’s the headquarters of the Triple Swans,” I replied, unsure of how to be more specific, “How about you?” “Is that where you lived all your life?” continued Francis, completely ignoring my question. “Yeah, pretty much,” I answered, “So where in the north do you live?” “Why did your parents give birth to you there?” Another bad question. From what Grand Master Zurkan told me, my father was a great mercenary. Later, he left the Triple Swans, and Grand Master Zurkan provided him with a new identity and a new home. Years later, a pregnant woman showed up at the doorstep of the Swan’s Nest, claiming to be the wife of my father. She gave birth to me hours later and died shortly after. Grand Master Zurkan admitted that he had tried to find out the fate of my father, as well as the identity of my mother, but to no avail. He theorized that my father was probably killed by an avenger angered by the death of one of my father’s victims. Visibly disappointed at my silence, Francis continued his interrogation. “What do you like to do for fun?” “Chess, fishing, reading,” I managed to croak out. “What do you like to read?” “The classics,” I replied quickly. “Some war books.” “What kinds of war books?” “Blades of the Triple Swans, Art of Stratagem, Commanding an Army, and Military Science and Technology.” “What kinds of classics?” At this point, I guessed that Francis was running out of questions, but I noticed how his eyes seemed to shine a bit brighter, and his position that showed he was interested. I had also been flying on a wyvern for several hours, so I could have been imagining it all. “Empire and Republic, The Four Knights, A Desert Journey, Frederick Zurgur, and,” I added, “The Pax Concord, my favorite.” “Do you…happen to have any of them with you?” Triple Swans were allowed one item to bring along with them on campaigns and on jobs. Other mercenaries chose a valuable family heirloom or legal deeds, but I chose to bring my original copy of The Pax Concord, partly because I treasured it, but also because I didn’t have anything of great monetary value. I went back to my pack and brought out a thick volume, dog-eared and greatly battered. I had read the book so many times that I could almost recite it. I went back to Francis and handed the book to him. He got up and walked over to his sleeping bag, where he sat down and opened the cover. Lyzia bent her neck and produced a small fireball in her mouth, providing a natural nightlight. “Do you want to sleep in the tent?” I asked, a bit scared of snapping Francis out of his reading. He waved his hand, and Lyzia lifted her wing over him, creating a makeshift shelter. I shrugged and crawled into the tent, and closing the flap. Francis continued to read the book, and as I got up in the morning, he was still there, reading.
* * *
The next few days of travel proceeded routinely. Wake up, have breakfast (beef jerky), ascend on Lyzia and continue traveling, land, thaw me, have lunch (beef jerky again), continue flying, land, thaw myself, have dinner (sigh…beef jerky), set up the tent, sleep, repeat. Francis read The Pax Concord every day, from evening to daylight. I don’t think I have ever seen him sleep, or any other man read as hungrily as he. Of course, when Francis wasn’t reading, eating, or flying was chiefly occupied by interviewing me for my autobiography. As the days passed the questions became less personal and more opinionated. I’m pretty sure he once asked me what my favorite color was over a plate of nourishing, delicious beef jerky. Where does he even get so much beef in the Polar Regions? Then there was the nippy weather in the upper atmosphere. I soon realized that my first day on a dragon would be my warmest ride. As we flew north, the sky became colder and colder, and my limbs became more and more immovable. I asked Francis about the temperature over some spicy beef jerky during a lull in his questioning. “Cold? What cold?” asked Francis, digging into his 100th piece of jerky since that morning. “You know,” I continued, feeling a bit awkward, “When we’re flying, the temperature drops significantly.” “That’s cold for you?” “Um…yeah.” “In the Polar Regions, those types of temperatures would be detected in an unreasonably warm summer.” That’s one less place I want to visit. We were flying over thick clouds, Francis having fun and doing loop-de-loops in the sky, me trying not to throw up my beef jerky lunch, and Lyzia just being there, when Francis brought Lyzia into a steep dive. We plunged into deep clouds, coating my clothing in frost. My stomach was about to regurgitate my beef jerky lunch. As we plunged out of the clouds, Francis righted Lyzia, gliding over a glittering metropolis. A floor of tile-roofed houses spread out below us in all directions, showing their modest splendor under the overcast sky. Factories churned smoke out of their chimneys into the air, contributing to the cloud cover. Elevated tracks ran across and around the buildings, with trains chugging along majestically. The harbor glittered in the faint light, where massive iron ships rested in the harbor. The airspace also became more clouded as airships moved around us and descended to dock on the city’s many landing areas. In the front of us, imposing 100-foot pearly-bright walls stood in our way, only broken by looming towers twice the height of the walls. They surrounded an even higher white limestone peak, topped by a humongous fortress with its own set of walls and protecting the Imperial palace. One lone tower rose above the palace below, disappearing into the clouds above. This was Auriza, the capital of the Golden Empire. Francis even stopped horsing around and just sat in front of me, speechless, as we both took in the magnificent sights. We flew towards the wall, which seemed to grow larger and taller as we got closer. Francis guided Lyzia upwards, in order to pass over the walls. As we barely passed over the ramparts, I estimated the battlements were higher than the height of a man, and the wall walk could allow ten men to march abreast. Some soldiers, carrying guns I had not yet seen on the battlefield, saw us and ran in terror towards the nearby tower. “Should we be worried?” asked Francis, guiding the wyvern higher and higher to the palace fortress. “The emperor knows we’re coming, so we should not come to harm. I’m his only hope, from his point of view.” Inside the walls and in the shadow of the mountain lay more tile-roofed houses, except instead of clustered, tiny buildings, these roofs covered sprawling mansions widely spaced apart, with gardens and lakes filling up the space between them. Fountains, a lakeside beach, and even waterfalls complemented the pleasant landscape. The palace still lay far above us. We climbed higher and higher, up to the point where I wondered how the Emperor managed to stay alive without freezing his royal bum off. The cold air again started freezing my body, making my clothes completely stiff. The steep limestone cliffs extended for hundreds of feet above us. Soon, though, we cleared the pinnacle. If the rest of the city interested you, the palace-fortress made you faint with amazement. The walls were much shorter than the main walls, but they were made of marble and still shone in the dullness of the day. There was too much to see, all at once. Steep-tiled roofs were decorated with life-size statues in their edges and topped with intricate ironwork. Its walls were bordered by elaborate designs and gilded with gold. The corners of buildings were flanked by massive columns, and colossal bronze statues stood next to and around the palace. Towers rose from the wings of the palace, all topped with the Golden Empire flag. The entire building glistened in the sky and like its position close to the heavens, it seemed untouched by the war raging on the Empire’s borders. It was extravagance in a time of poverty, a symbol of Imperial power as its power was being undermined by the greatest threat to its existence, the last vestige of the Late-Classical Era when the Golden Empire was the undisputed power on the continent. My reflection was ended by, no surprise, another one of Francis’s questions. “Where are we landing?” I recalled the message that Grand Master Zurkan had received and shown to me, detailing the aspects of the landing point. “Go to the Western Tower.” “Where’s that?” “…I guess it’s that large one over there,” I said, pointing to my left. Francis guided the wyvern to a smooth landing on top of the flat, unobstructed top floor of the tower. When we landed, soldiers streamed out of four trapdoors at the corners of the floor. At first, I guessed they were there to escort me to the Emperor, but then I saw that all of their shiny new weapons were leveled at me, so I corrected that hypothesis. The wyvern growled at the hostile soldiers, and Francis drew out a long blade that I confess I never noticed he had. As I hopped off the wyvern some soldiers pointed their guns at me. Was the emperor trying to test me with his own men? I hope not. I was cold, cramped, and fed way too much beef jerky; but I wasn’t scared. I could defeat any army of men, and with a wyvern and another soldier at our side, we were almost unstoppable. “Well, well, well,” sneered a confident voice, “What do we have here?” The man who spoke was tall. He loomed over the other soldiers by at least a head. Rippling muscles showed through his bright-yellow uniform and every step he took he seemed to shake the ground. Even from a distance, you could feel his presence. He was clean-shaven and had a short mustache, which looked less like a mustache and more like a tuft of his hair glued onto his face. His black hair was unkempt, a wild tangle of vines and weeds expertly placed on his head to maximize the repulsiveness. It was the only part of his body that was messy, so maybe he just forgot to comb his hair that day. Two dark, coal-black eyes stared shallowly into my soul without going too deep and betrayed a sense of power and confidence, which seemed to emanate from the man like heat from a fire. He looked scary, and nothing about him suggested otherwise. The man walked up until he was a foot from me, standing there, smiling all the while. “I suppose you can explain why you’re here?” said the man again, his eyes still locked on mine. “As a matter of fact, I can,” I replied, searching in my pack. When I procured the letter from the emperor and showed it to him, he snatched the epistle out of my hands and pretended to scrutinize it while he picked his teeth. Disgusting. “Forgery! Lies!” The man catapulted the letter to the ground, though in reality it slowly fluttered to the floor. “This isn’t in the emperor’s script! I will arrest you now for espionage!” “What?” I retorted, “You can’t arrest me for that! I haven’t done anything to show that I’m a spy!” “Says the man who just flew onto the castle on a dragon carrying deadly weapons!” “Wyvern,” interjected Francis. “What?” said the man, confused. “Lyzia is not a dragon, she’s a wyvern.” “Who’s Lyzia?” The wyvern growled menacingly. The soldiers around us shifted uncomfortably. “Lyzia is the wyvern,” said Francis, carefully enunciating every word, “Not a dragon.” “Never mind. You, your wyvern, and this man will be arrested immediately!” “I have the symbol of the Triple Swans,” I said, revealing my Triple Swan pin from under my coat. “Arresting me will not be so easy, and besides, I have business here with the Emperor.” The soldiers around me became uneasy, stepping back from me. A cold sweat formed on the man’s forehead. He opened his mouth, but no words shot out. “You could have stolen that,” he said finally, his words a mere croak. “How could I have stolen from a Triple Swan? They are unrivaled in skill and could easily dispose of a petty thief.” “What if you’re not a petty thief?” replied the man, gaining his confidence back with every word. “What if you’re a crime lord, trying to do shady businesses pretending to be a Triple Swan?” “That’s preposterous! Who would do such a thing, and why would I be flying to the Emperor’s palace in broad daylight on a wyvern to do some “shady” business?” “You’re trying to get captured, just to escape prison and do whatever you want to do!” cried the man, then leaning a bit back and nodding to himself, like that would be my true motive. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” I said. “I am a Triple Swan, and I am trying to see the Emperor!” “I’ve had enough of you! Guards, arrest him!” The soldiers advanced towards me, Francis, and the wyvern, though warily. Lyzia roared a deep, fear-inducing roar that even shook the tower. As I tried to prevent the rush of bad memories resurfacing, I saw the soldiers retreating quickly. Even the man stumbled back a few steps. The wyvern roared again and advanced a few steps forward. The soldiers all around us retreated even more. Lyzia stopped right in front of the man, snorting in his face. The man was trembling with terror. And in this dramatic scene, a messenger arrived. “The Emperor wishes to see the Triple Swan and the Captain of the Guard, Titus Ergall,” announced the messenger. “Which Triple Swan?” asked Titus as he pointed to me, “This person?” “I’m a messenger” replied the messenger, “Not a psychic.” “Well then, Triple Swan,” said Titus, “Let’s go see the Emperor, shall we?” I started to go down the tower, but then I was poked in the shoulder. I turned around and saw Francis there, holding the Pax Concord out to me. “I’d like to give this back to you,” he said, shoving it into my hands. “No, no, no,” I replied, “I’ve seen how you are so enthusiastic about reading it. You take it.” “Really?” “Yes, you need the book more than me.” I shoved the book back at him. He looked at me for a second, then accepted the book. “Well,” I continued, “I guess this is when we say goodbye.” “The Emperor doesn’t have much patience, you know!” Shouted Titus as he descended into the tower. “Yep,” said Francis simply. “Okay, so, goodbye.” “Alright.” “Where are you going?” “Probably back to the front.” “Good luck, I guess.” “Should we keep in touch?” “Postage is high this year, and besides you’re moving with the army. I wouldn’t count on it.” “Okay, goodbye.” Francis turned around and jumped onto Lyzia. Looking back at me one last time, he asked me another question. “How long are you going to be staying here, exactly?” He asked. “To be honest, I have no idea. It depends.” “On what?” “On the…health of a certain individual.” “You’re a doctor?” “I’ll tell you when we meet again.” Francis smiled and tugged on the reins. Lyzia lifted off easily and floated away from the palace in the cloudy sky. I was planning on enjoying the beautiful view this tower offered, but I was dragged away carefully by a soldier, ushering me towards the trapdoor. As I descended, I realized that for once, I was alone, without friends or allies, in a foreign land, protecting a man that I barely knew and had no connection to, watching out for a mysterious assassin that threatened the stability of the Golden Empire. Unlike the many columns supporting the walls of the palace-fortress, I was a single pillar, supporting the whole world.
Chapter 6: Minister Mullen Wolffe
The dim sunlight tried to get into my room when I woke up, but only succeeded in passing through a thin slit in the curtains. I hate when that happens. The slit of daylight shone directly into my eyes, making me temporarily blind just as I tried to blink out the drowsiness. Aren’t we all blind, stumbling our way around the world? I got out of my mahogany canopy bed, shuffling towards the bathroom. My servant Shirlee quickly slipped into the bathroom before me, turning on the hot water in the bath and placing my clothes on the counter. She laid a towel next to the bath, and hung up a towel fresh from the laundry. Poor Shirlee. I know she hates waking up at 5 in the morning. After I had bathed and dressed, I went to breakfast. I passed through the silent halls, adorned by paintings, statues, and hushed sentries on guard. My feet made barely a sound on the thick Verasian carpet. As I approached the main dining hall, though, a general ruckus pierced my ears, mostly caused by one man. I stepped over the threshold of the dining hall, mentally preparing myself for what scene awaited me. As always, I was never truly ready. An accordion player and a carillonist sat in one corner of the hall, playing lively music unsuited for the people dining at the table. Waiters entered and exited the room, bringing in new dishes and taking away used plates and silverware. Members of the Permanent Court and honored guests sat around the table, nervously eating, as one man made a complete fool of himself. He sat at the head of the table, but in reality, he deserved to be sitting in some peasant’s cottage. His face was carefree, with a large smile and shining white teeth. That was the best part about him. He wore a golden-colored bathrobe, with his bare chest poking through. One of his feet, in slippers, rested comfortably on the ornate chair at the end of the table. As he stuffed himself with scrambled eggs using his right hand, his left was raised, holding a champagne glass in the middle of a toast. It would be surprising if similar things hadn’t happened all other days I arrived at breakfast. Your Royal Highness; the great ruler of the twenty kingdoms; the master of the fifty colonies; leader of sixty million people; Commander-in Chief of the Golden Army, Golden Air Force, and Golden Navy; The Third Emperor Marcus Neubau Aurenzo. “And victory to all soldiers at the front!” Concluded Marcus as he doused the seats closest to him with champagne and bits of scrambled egg. The diners at the table clapped politely. “Ah, Mollensbro,” said Marcus, when he spied me, “How great is it to see you here today!” “Emperor,” I began, “It is an honor to be dining with you again to-” “Hey guys! This is my pal, Mollensbro, Minister of Peace! He has a very important job with a very stupid name!” He never lets anybody finish their sentences. He also doesn’t have a filter on his mouth. “C’mere, Mollensbro,” He continued without pause, guiding me to my seat next to him, “I just love the food today. The fish was wild caught from the Sturgeon Sea! And it wasn’t even a sturgeon! It was tilapia!” He stopped talking to laugh. This was no ordinary laugh. This was the laugh that causes psychopaths to turn pale, the laugh to make the oldest and wisest dragons shriek in terror. It filled up empty spaces like air in somebody’s lungs. It was a terrible laugh. After laughing for about twenty seconds, he shoved me into his chair and lounged over his own. He grabbed another fork of scrambled eggs and forced them into his mouth. “Mmmhm…I was thinking of playing some Leatherball after breakfast with our illustrious guests.” “Emperor,” I said, as I loaded two boiled eggs onto my plate. “We have much work to do today, and, as you know, we have our Morning Court every day after breakfast.” “Of course, of course,” said Marcus, “You’re such a great helper, Mollensbro. Without you, this country would fall into despair!” Without you, this country would be the same, I thought silently to myself. Marcus was the end result of many ancestors of great conquerors and rulers, but he inherited none of their qualities, only their flaws. As I finished my boiled eggs, I excused myself to leave. “Woah, whoa, whoa,” cried Marcus, “Where are you going?” “To prepare for Morning Court, sir,” I replied. “It’s still half an hour away!” “I want to be early.” “Early, shmearly! The courtiers and visitors can wait!” I sighed to myself and left the dining room, just as the accordion-carillon duet resumed their songs. I have never heard a more unpleasant musical pair in my life. Morning Court passed quickly, and lunch as well, as Marcus’s incredible punctuality was shown day after day in front of the Empire’s most intelligent minds. As Afternoon Court started, Marcus ran in full Imperial robes into the Court Hall just as the opening remarks were being made. He tripped over several courtiers, and struggled to orient himself on the Imperial Throne. His hands and face were muddy, as well as most of his robes. Thank goodness for dry cleaning. I stood by Marcus, answering issues brought up to him and expelling any who questioned his physical appearance. As the number of problems brought to the Court decreased, the entire court became restless, as it always did. It was two hours until dinner, and many courtiers chatted as they waited. Then, just as Marcus dozed off in his chair, the main doors slammed open, making him jump. The first to enter was Captain of the Guard Titus Ergall, a brute both in body and in mind. I could recognize his stature from anywhere. I did not recognize the man behind him. As they walked along the long carpet to the Emperor’s Throne, I continued to observe the man behind Titus. He was tall, slightly muscular, dark-haired. His one eye was covered by an eyepatch, and his other one stared straight ahead at Marcus. I nudged Marcus, and he slowly raised himself into a sitting position, groaning all the while. Titus arrived at the throne, and kneeled at the foot of Marcus. The man behind him copied his actions. “Rise,” said Marcus. Titus promptly rose. “Not you, Titus, the Triple Swan!” The Triple Swan? I had not recalled sending for a Triple Swan, especially at this time. Certainly, Marcus had decided to do something by himself for once. The Triple Swan may help him, but the assassin may still be able to kill the emperor. Time will tell whether or not the Triple Swan will help or hinder me.
Chapter 7: Johnathan Erzei
I didn’t know who I was repulsed by more, the Emperor or the person standing next to him. The Emperor, unlike his royal portrait, found everywhere from billboards to inside bathrooms, looked anything but regal. I was also amazed by how he was able to sit still while they painted his image. His Majesty seemed never to settle down completely, moving his body into new and interesting positions on the Imperial Throne every ten seconds as we talked. His hair was jet-black and unkempt, his Imperial robes wrinkled and stained with some unknown substance. The crown sat on his head crookedly and seemed to be in a perpetual state of slipping off of his head, which the Emperor constantly moved into a new place. Sometimes he took it off to throw it in the air. His smiled was glued to his face, never changing, never disappearing. Even when he talked, his smile stayed in place. It would make him look like a pleasant person, except his dental hygiene was horrible. Wealth and power obviously did not mean cleanliness. The man standing next to the Imperial Throne, though, was a different person altogether. The man seemed tall and thin, his hair and eyebrows too lazy to stay up. His hands, clasped in front of his body, were pale and bony, but they never seemed to move or shake. His whole body, it seemed, stood stock still. His eyes though, bored holes into my brain, looking deeply into my every action and word. He seemed cold and calculating, contrasting with the Emperor’s boyishness and gaiety. “So,” continued the Emperor, “How’s it going, bodyguard?” “Um…” I was caught off guard by the informality of the question, “…I feel well…how are you?” “I’m splendid, thank you. You also better be, because you’re going to be in charge of my life.” He threw back his head and howled with laughter. It pierced my ears and threatened to tear my eardrums apart. It sounded like either a thousand baboons shrieking, or the anguished wails of women in mourning. What he said wasn’t even that funny. “We’re going to get along just fine, Johnathan, I can tell,” said the Emperor after he stopped destroying my hearing. He threw his crown again, but didn’t catch it as it came down. The crown dropped from the throne and rolled away from the Emperor’s groping hand. The man beside the Emperor watched it with contempt and shook his head silently. It settled right next to a kneeling courtier, who immediately seized up in agitation when the crown touched his right leg. The conversation paused as a servant appeared from the left side of the hall and ran across to pick up the crown, but before he could reach it, the Emperor got up and sprinted over to the crown, picking it up, placing it haphazardly on his head, and running back to the Imperial Throne, just as the servant stopped right in front of the Emperor. “Ha,” chuckled the Emperor, “I’ve beat you again…what was your name?” “Thomas, Your Majesty,” answered the male servant, bowing his head. “Of course! Thomas! We’ll see if we get to race again soon!” The Emperor stopped to broadcast another of his ear-splitting laughs. After Thomas was dismissed, the Emperor resumed his conversation with me. “You, of course, know that you must guard me at all times, including when I sleep?” asked the Emperor. “Of course, Your Majesty,” I replied, “but, Emperor?” “Yes, my bodyguard?” “Will I have to sleep in your room, or will I have my own room at night?” “I’ve planned to have you sleep in an adjoining room. That way, you can get to me quickly if there is any trouble.” “You are knowledgeable as you are great, Your Majesty.” The man beside the Emperor smirked almost invisibly, then regained his rigid composure. I also didn’t truly believe a single word that I just said. “Thank you, bodyguard,” said the Emperor, his smile the same intensity. If he continued calling me bodyguard, I would kill him myself. “Your Majesty, I prefer the name Triple Swan,” I said to him politely. “Of course, Triple Swan.” I guess that was a slight improvement. “You know, I feel like taking a short walk with my new Triple Swan. Afternoon court is now adjourned!” continued the Emperor. Several courtiers looked up, surprised. The man beside the Emperor walked up to stand next to me to address the Emperor. “Your Majesty,” spitted the man in a slightly sarcastic voice, “You cannot just ‘adjourn’ afternoon court. We must hold court until the dinner hour.” “By the Emperor! I’ve forgotten to introduce Mollensbro to the Triple Swan!” cried the Emperor aloud. Stepping down from the throne, the Emperor took Mollensbro by his shoulder. Mollensbro seemed repulsed by being in such close contact with the Emperor. Even though I was still two feet away, a smell of something rotten emanated from the Emperor. “This is Mollensbro, Triple Swan. Triple Swan, Mollensbro, Mollensbro, Triple Swan.” The Emperor shoved our hands together and we shook somewhat awkwardly. Mollensbro’s hand was cold but dry, and held my fingers in a tight grip. “Mollensbro is my Minister of Peace, so you know that he has no experience in hiring Triple Swans!” “Nor do you, Emperor,” muttered Mollensbro. “Alright! Enough with the introductions! This court is adjourned, and our evening cabinet meeting is also cancelled!” shouted the Emperor. The Emperor turned his back on Mollensbro, who was shocked by the audacity of the Emperor. As he led me away into one of the many halls leading off the Court Hall, Titus, ignored since the start of the conversation, started to get up as the grumbling courtiers filed out of the massive room. He ran quickly to the side of the Emperor, but the Emperor waved him away. “No, Titus,” said the Emperor, “I know how much you like me, but I have a Triple Swan, and honestly, you were pretty incompetent during my assassination attempt.” “But you barely know this Triple Swan!” retorted Titus, “You don’t even know his name!” “I’m sure that doesn’t matter,” said the Emperor dismissively. “Now, please go do something else, for the Triple Swan and I have a garden to admire.” We left Titus in the hall, speechless, as we headed to, presumably, the gardens. “I can’t wait to show you the tulips!” said the Emperor, his eyes brightening as we left the Court Hall.
Chapter 8: Joanna Parkes
A dragon soared overhead in the streets of Auriza. As shopkeepers and shoppers pointed at the beast in amazement and tried to run after it, I sighed and walked into the damp, dark alley. I have seen enough dragons in my life to not be awestruck by its majesty. Why do people think that a giant flying lizard is majestic? If I saw a giant, fire-breathing beast with sharp teeth in front of me, I would be running the other way instead of running at it. Common sense. The alley was dark and damp, as I had said, and seemed to get darker and damper the deeper I went in. The walls of the buildings beside me were narrow and rose far above me, to almost four stories. Above me the overcast sky passed through the narrow opening between the walls. Raw sewage poured out of tiny metal pipes sticking out from the sides of the alley, spewing their waste onto the opposite wall. Some pipes were completely empty, but would suddenly gush out a thousand gallons of waste onto an unsuspecting passerby. Even when I wasn’t being followed, I had to avoid being surprised. The sewage ran down the walls and downhill on the cobbled street, which was the same direction I was going. Originally, Auriza had a superlative and organized plumbing and sewage system, but the city had grown since then. A maze of pipes ran across the city, cutting through houses and streets. The hundreds of years of carrying people’s waste amounted to frequent clogging and breakages of pipes. The struggling Sewage Management Department of Auriza were able to fix some plumbing failures in the Inner City, but in the slums, broken pipes were allowed to freely flow for months at a time. The waste eventually found its way into the harbor, or it pooled in abandoned buildings and low- lying plazas. These “artificial” lakes were very large and very deep, as well as smelling foul. Soon, a business emerged where one could pay a gondolier three bronze pieces to be ferried across the lake of stinking waste. Why anybody would want to instead of just walking around the body of dirty water is beyond my level of reasoning, but I suppose sometimes in life you want to be in an old, leaky boat guided by a homeless person across a lake filled with substances pigs wouldn’t even want to consume while thinking about how much of a failure you are. You might think I’m talking too much about a trivial matter such as city plumbing, but trust me, it comes into play in this story. The alley continued to slope downwards as I continued to walk downwards. Suddenly, the alley ended, and I emerged into a large plaza, sewage running past my black boots. Buildings that formed the borders of the plaza swept far right and far right, disappearing in the low smog that hung over the slums. Ahead of me my vision was just as clouded. I went around the stone plaza in a counterclockwise direction, staring straight ahead. When I finally reached the corner of the plaza, I turned to the left and continued my peregrination. As I walked about a quarter of the length of the sides of the plaza, I was able to see the festering fluid that was Open Bathroom Lake. Remember those lakes I was telling you about earlier? This was one of them, and one of the largest. It stretched far into the smog to the left of me. Why is it called Open Bathroom Lake? Terrible homeless people humor. Normally, under “distinguished” people of society, they would call it something like “East Plaza Lake” or something even more cliché. Homeless people make things interesting, I’ll give them that. As I continued to circumvent the lake, the stone under my feet became a rotting wooden boardwalk, and under the boardwalk was the festering fluid that was the lake. Homeless ferrymen stood in their boats or on the boardwalk. An endless pier extended out into the lake, flanked by boats with questionable buoyancy. Some homeless people carrying rotten oars passed as boatmen, offering other passerby to ferry the lake, others engaging in uproarious conversation. A sickening stench came from their bodies. The smell ran up my nose and filled my brain, preventing me from thinking straight. I almost tripped over the uneven boards, haphazardly nailed onto the boardwalk, from the unquenchable stench. The lake was stinky, too. When the ferrymen saw me, they stopped their conversation and crept away, some jumping into their boats and rowing away from the pier. The sudden silence on the boardwalk was interrupted by one of the homeless ferryman, running up to me with an offer. “I’ll ferry yer ‘cross the Open Bathroom, little lady, ‘fer only one bronze piece.” He whispered urgently into my face. It didn’t help that his breath smelled just like the lake. Poor man (literally). He was a newcomer in the “ferrying business”. I didn’t want to punish him for asking me to cross the lake, but I had a reputation to maintain. Sticking out my right leg in front of him, I tripped him over. As he fell, yelling, I caught him with both of my arms and launched him into the lake. He made quite a big splash. I tossed my blond hair behind me, and continued to walk across the boardwalk. Also, I’m a girl, did I forget to mention that to you? Finally, I reached the next corner of the plaza. I turned left again and proceeded to the sagging wooden building in front of me. The Dancing Woman was the premier bar and inn of the slums. The catch? The Open Bathroom Lake flooded the plaza a few years ago and destroyed much of the fine wine and beer in the cellar. The tavern was also now located next to a putrid lake of waste. Why would it still be so popular now, you may ask? It was the only place in the slums that had a radio. A radio gave the homeless and poor in the slums instant information over long distances, including news about the Anti-Imperial War; the location of the next soup kitchen or homeless shelter; or, more importantly, lottery numbers. The Dancing Woman was usually crowded with people all around the city slums gathering to listen to what the radio would spout next from its circular speaker. The radio was very important to the residents of the slums, but, the radio was also very important for me. I walked to The Dancing Woman and pushed open the doors. The air was filled with alcohol. Drunk and half-drunk men slouched on tables and chairs, some still holding undrained glasses of beer. Slow guitar music plucked in the background. A grizzly bartender slowly wiped down the counter with a questionable rag. The few sober men lounged on the counter or clustered themselves around the radio, which mumbled daily reports of the War through its sad, mellow speakers. The only thing missing from this dreary scene was dancing women. I would sooner witness the disbanding of the Triple Swans than see any woman dancing under this sagging wooden roof. After acknowledging the bartender with a curt nod, I headed towards the radio. I always hated this part. The last thing I needed today was to beat up some drunkards. I arrived at the radio and started to unplug it from its electrical port. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I’ll be needing this…” I had to interrupt my explanation for a quick kick to the man behind me, then pummeled another in the chest. Soon the entire bar was against me, but being intoxicated was not the best state of mind for my assailants, not that being sober would be any better against me. As I carried the radio on my shoulder, I disarmed the last man who tried to strike me with a wooden stool. Idiot. I threw two silver pieces towards the bartender, for the stool and to compensate for all of the groaning men that would demand a free drink after they regained their senses. “Twenty bruised men this time,” said the bartender, taking the silver pieces and putting them into his pocket, “I’ll give you five minutes with the radio.” I walked behind the back wall of the bar, which led to a tiny room with a table, a chair, and an electrical port. I plugged in the radio and set it on the table. A pair of headphones hung on the hook nailed on the cracked door. I took them and plugged them in. It took me seconds to tune to the correct frequency. The headphones crackled with static. Slowly, a message began to come through. I checked my watch. 7:00. Punctual, as always. “Goldman…” growled the radio, “to next appear in public in three months.” Good, I’ll have time to prepare. As I reached my hand to turn the radio off, however, the radio hissed again. “Triple Swan…protecting Goldman.” A Triple Swan? They were legendary, unrivaled in skill and intelligence. Killing one was almost impossible, hiding from them equally so. My job just got a whole lot harder.
Chapter 9: Johnathan Erzei
My job just got a whole lot harder. After guarding the Emperor for three months, I had gotten the hang of it. The trick was to never let the Emperor get out of your sight. It’s amazing how easily the Emperor can slip away without anybody noticing, especially when he’s wearing a completely gold leaf headdress and robes. In the past nine weeks, I’ve been all over the palace searching for the Emperor. I’ve gotten lost countless times, running through empty halls with cobwebbed tapestries and carpets sitting alone in the dark hallways. At least I got the hardest part done. In order to always know where I am, I surveyed the entire palace grounds, from the highest tower to the deepest dungeon, and all around the walls encircling the palace. It took me a month and a half, but I did it. Titus Ergall and his guards pointed at me and laughed, but I’d like to see who’s laughing when they need to get from the southeastern cellar to the West Tower in under a minute. Three months after I first found myself working for the Emperor, however, complications emerged. “I’m going to have a parade!” shouted the Emperor, running through the hallway at 5:00 in the morning in only his nightclothes. “It’s going to be grand, and splendid! I love parades!” At least I don’t have to wake him up today, I thought as I struggled out of the very comfortable bed. Waking the Emperor up is similar to trying to get a turtle to run. After bathing and dressing, I walked over to the entrance to my bedroom. I hesitated for a second after I opened the door. The first day I walked out of my bedroom, I was hit by a pillow coming from the Emperor’s pillow cannon. Despite the fact that the pillows in the palace are the softest I’ve ever slept on, it still hurt pretty bad. After ten seconds, the Emperor shouted “Fire!” and a pillow with a satin covering flew across the hallway in front of me. I walked out and headed towards the Dining Hall. The cannon took two minutes to reload, so I didn’t have to hurry. Breakfast in the Dining Hall allowed a short period of reprieve before the Emperor arrived. He came into the Hall, riding his spotless white stallion, his crown placed on the head of the animal. Mollensbro suggested that the Emperor sit down to eat, but he declined and ate an entire plate of scrambled eggs as sloppily as possible, parts of his meal dripping onto the silken hide of the horse. The rest of the morning was equally disturbing. As the fanfare of trumpets began to sound all over the city, servants in the castle scurried to the sides of the vast hallways as the Emperor galloped on the thick carpet riding on the egg-stained horse, screaming a deathly war whoop and producing another one of his horrific laughs. Sprinting behind, I barely kept pace with him. Following the wild yells, I was led by the Emperor to his royal wardrobe, which covered three entire floors of the Northwest Tower. Filled completely with gold-covered clothing and stacked all the way from the floors to the ceiling, the comparatively tiny closets were ripped open by the grubby hands of the Emperor. It took about half an hour to finally get him out of his mourning robes, his dinner robes, his afternoon tea robes, and his hunting robes (who wears robes for hunting?). After that, it took another hour to get the Emperor dressed in his parade robes and to find his crown, which was hanging on the tallest tree in the gardens. Finally, with Titus and the Royal Guard at the head of the group, the grand procession left the gates of the fortress on foot and the Emperor on horseback. I took my place beside the Emperor, who couldn’t stop messing around with his sceptre and orb. As the parade winded through the marble paths of the Inner City, nobles, retired generals, and rich merchants came out of their mansions to join the peregrination. A low rumble sounded from over the palace walls, and I turned my head to witness several airships, flying the Golden Empire standard, looming over the mighty fortress. Beside them, the Flying Legions soared through the sky, the forms of the dragons (wyverns) dark against the sky. The column of people eventually reached the South Gate of the Inner City, where horses, palanquins, and ornate carriages waited for their owners. The Emperor was the first to hop off his white stallion and to climb into the tallest, most ornate carriage with gold leaf used almost everywhere possible. After the patricians got on their transports, the guards slowly pushed open the heavy iron gate, the only thing in between the Emperor and the throng of people waiting outside. Scenes of festivity and celebration peeked through the doors, as the residents of the city anxiously anticipated their Emperor. Before gracing their presence, however, our procession waited first for the battalions of soldiers fresh from the military academy, untested in battle as the people who admired them. That was why their heads were held so high, their weapons and helmets polished until they shone like the Imperial Treasury, their movements perfectly synchronized. As they marched, they obnoxiously sang a war song that clearly was propaganda:
Over the golden plains and in the azure skies, Where the distant hawk decides to fly, Airship armadas and divisions of dragons gather To prevent our nefarious enemies from flying high. In a world clothed in eternal night, We will triumph with our beacon of light. Fighting our enemies in faraway lands obscure, The Golden Empire shall endure. Come and enlist! Join the fight To make our lands once again pure! Across the emerald shores and in the deep blue seas, Where waves billow and batter with no peace, Gleaming fleets of wood and iron sail the waters To send the Anti-Imperial villains to eternal sleep. In a world clothed in eternal night, We will triumph with our beacon of light. Fighting our enemies in faraway lands obscure, The Golden Empire shall endure. Come and enlist! Join the fight To make our lands once again pure! In the valleys and on the highest mountains, Where men have been born and grounded, Our intrepid infantry fights for our mighty nation, And our Emperor, whom no one has ever doubted! To join our fronts far away, Our military shall not lay Before the Anti-Imperial dogs: ALL RESISTANCE WILL GIVE WAY! Fighting our enemies in faraway lands obscure, The Golden Empire shall endure. Come and enlist! Join the fight TO MAKE OUR LANDS ONCE AGAIN PURE!
After this parade, they were probably sent to one of the many terrible endless battles of the war. Then came the royal guard. Normally, Titus Ergall would march beside the Emperor, who came after the guards, but because I had to accompany the Emperor “at all times”, I rode beside the Emperor as Titus, jogging on his brown charger, led his guards with a scowl imprinted onto his face. After the guards came the courtiers, military personnel, and rich people living inside the Inner City, accompanied by their own bodyguards. Hired people beside them handed out candy or even gold pieces to the crowd. There were some cheers for the occasional war hero or a noble who was able to ease rationing (and boos for the tax collectors), but it was easy to tell that the onlookers were saving up their strength to see their great ruler. After the seemingly endless line of aristocrats poured through the streets, trumpets being played on the walls of the Inner City sounded out in a festive fanfare. As if on cue, the people outside started clapping vigorously and yelling. The coachman on the Emperor’s carriage cracked his whip, and the horses started moving. I spurred my own steed, borrowed from the Imperial stables, a graceful, pitch-black animal. On the other side of the carriage, Mollensbro rode on his own white horse, a grim and serious smile glued onto his face. As we passed through the heavy gates, the sound of artillery rang through the sky. My eyes suddenly flashed with the horrific scenes of war, but I was relieved when all that came out of the long barrels were shiny flecks of confetti. As the colorful pieces descended from the sky, the crowds nearby seemed to gather closer around the Emperor’s carriage. Soon I felt the pressure of the crowd right next to me as the Royal Guards pressed their backs against my horse to resist the mob. The people-young and old, rich and poor-shouted, cried, and fell to their knees. Some held out their babies for a kiss from the Emperor, and some begged him to pardon their sins, their foreheads rising up and down in prayer. Others simply held out their hands for the Emperor to graze, and ran after the carriage as it passed them. All of their energy and attention went to their Emperor, almost ignoring the boundaries of sanity and completely disregarding the Triple Swan riding beside His Majesty. Triple Swans were known to be so solitary and mysterious that common people believed it was an omen to see one. Of course, it was a bigger and better omen to lay your eyes upon the great Emperor. The Emperor jumped up and down on his open carriage, yelling with frenzy and throwing out large pieces of chocolate candy for the devoted crowd. The Emperor’s childish antics would have been obvious to the masses, had they not also revered him so much. It felt a bit scary that a person so irresponsible like the Emperor would possess so much power and influence over his subjects, and wage a devastating war that seemed to tear the entire continent apart. I was so completely absorbed in these thoughts, that I almost missed it. As artillery continued to erupt with the shower of confetti, I heard a tiny crack and a flash of light coming from one of the buildings that lined the streets. A Farrick-99, a rifle prized for its enhanced range and precision, but sadly not its accuracy. The first shot shattered a small window pane on the carriage, a few feet away from the Emperor, but the din was so loud that nobody seemed to take notice except for me. I spurred my horse forward, until I caught up to the stressed coachman driving. “We need to get off of this street! Drive faster!” I yelled at him. “What?!” shouted back the exasperated coachman. “Drive FASTER!” “WHAT?!” By then, a second shot hit right above the coachman’s head, splintering the wood and gold leaf. He got the idea after that, and cracked his whip until the horses were barreling past the vast crowds of people gathered on the street. I saw another flash from the same building roof, and a third bullet lodged itself into the wooden railing that the Emperor was leaning on, oblivious to everything that was happening and still throwing the stupid chocolate candies. Jumping off of my horse, I held onto the wrought iron designs on the carriage. Climbing up the carriage as chocolate candy fell onto me, I lifted my head above the railing and shouted at the Third Emperor. “Emperor!” I hollered. He ignored me and continued to throw chocolate, and I was running out of time before the next shot rang out. “Emperor!” He continued to ignore me. I recalled that the reload time for a Farrick-99 was approximately thirty-two seconds. “Emperor Marcus! Emperor Marcus Neubau Aurenzo!” Finally, the bloke turned his head, and his face broke out into an even wider smile. “Triple Swan! How nice to see you!” cried the Emperor. His face then turned into one of confusion. “What are you doing here? You want a chocolate, don’t you? Don’t worry, I have lots of them!” A fourth flash appeared. Hoisting myself up, I jumped into the carriage, drew out my sword, and made a wide cut with it. I was jarred by the impact of the assassin’s bullet against the cool Trinitian steel less than a second later. The bullet bounced harmlessly to the floor of the carriage. The sword still ringing, I slipped it back into its sheath. “Here are your chocolates, Johnathan!” resumed the Emperor, shoving me a handful of chocolates.
Chapter 10: Joanna Parkes
It was a terrible gun to shoot someone with. I could easily imagine someone using this to shoot at a broadside of a barn, standing five feet away, and missing by half a mile. Even I could have found a better gun than this in the Open Bathroom Lake! And my client gave me five bullets! Five bullets! I’m trying to kill the most important person in the Empire, yet I only have a terrible gun and five bullets! Whoever wants the Emperor dead must surely be a novice in political assassination. I started to load my final bullet, hoping that it would finally hit its mark (I would have done better with a machine gun or a cannon, for goodness’ sake!). I was interrupted, however, by that Triple Swan far below me. He jumped off of the carriage and onto his black stallion. He galloped beside and over crowds of people in a mad rush, coming closer and closer to the building I was crouching on. Good luck with that, Swan, I thought to myself. I’ll see what he does first, then kill him. The Triple Swan ran his horse onto the sidewalk, scattering the people around him. He directed the animal next to the fire escape, jumped off, and started running up the flights of metal stairs. What an idiot. I continued reloading my terrible rifle, hoping that this bullet would strike down the Third Emperor. The Swan would still be climbing up the stairs, at his lethargic pace. Goodness, even an old man could have beaten him. I finished reloading and placed the rifle on top of the low wall of the building. It was an easy shot, as long as the rifle felt like being accurate for once. The carriage had rushed forward and tried to edge into a side road, but the sheer number of people and guards prevented it from moving. I focused my eye on the Third Emperor. My cheek rested against the gun. My hands suddenly groped for air, as I realized, with annoyance, that my gun had been grabbed out of my hand. Turning, I saw the Triple Swan above me as he brought down the butt of the rifle down over his head. I quickly rolled to the side as the rifle broke in two against the metal roof of the building. The Swan was fast for his age. He must have been only a young boy. I sprang up and ran across the roof of the building, gravel crunching under my feet. I looked back and saw the Swan following me a meter or two back. I reached the other side of the roof and jumped over the border wall. For a few seconds, I flew through the air, the dark alley passing below me before I landed on another building. I continued running across the roof of the second building, the Swan’s footfalls not far behind. I cleared another alley, landed on another building, and then ran to the trapdoor that was the only entrance into the floors below. It was unlocked, just as I had remembered when I had looked at it the day before. I descended the short flight of stairs and reached a landing. It was a shabby middle-class apartment, with poor sanitation and a radio from one of the rooms blaring Golden National Radio. “…THE EASTERN FRONT HAS PUSHED FORWARD FOLLOWING THE VICTORY AT TRIBUTARY VALLEY, AND THE NAVAL FRONT IS STILL HOLDING STRONG, AS ALWAYS, ALTHOUGH THE SOUTHERN BALYYRIAN AND COLONIAL FRONTS HAVE SLOWED DUE TO SUPPLY SHORTAGES. THE THIRD LEGION HAS EXPERIENCED MAJOR SETBACKS IN THEIR ADVANCE…” A fat man violently opened his door and stepped into the hallway, right in front of me. As he opened his mouth to yell at the person playing the radio, I quickly dove to the side and brushed passed him. I reached the end of the hallway and turned to my right, as I heard the Swan shove past the huge man with a grunt and a deep yell. Running along the hallway, I finally found the stairway, behind a door marked STAIRS. The horrid construction I found beyond that door was a shame to all stair-kind. The stairwell was old and rotten, like it was built out of wooden timbers reused from the haunted coffins of the Mummies of Regynt. The landing was littered with trash, animal bones, and who-knows-what. A stained light bulb hung dismally from the ceiling. It seemed that no one had walked up or down the stairs in a hundred years, although the residents of this building had to get down somehow. The place was as still as a tomb, and as musty as one. I heard the approaching footsteps of the Swan behind me, so I sucked in a breath of air before heading down the dusty passage. The steps creaked under my feet, and bent so much that you could make a ship’s hull from them, though that ship would drown before it even left dry dock. 30 floors later, I finally opened the door to the main lobby of the apartment, coughing and wheezing. I had no time to rest however, as the Swan rushed at me from my right. Did he take another stairwell? He didn’t look like he just walked through a sawmill, then jumped into some garlic powder. I took off running through the entrance, bumping against some people that were rushing inside. The streets were chaotic. People rushed freely across the road, blocking many richly decorated carriages. Take that, aristocrats. Imperial Guards were everywhere, trying to contain the mob of people, but failing miserably. They waved their swords and pulled out their pistols, but nothing could stop the determination of a crowd. I stepped into the stampede and pushed through the distraught crowd of people. I looked behind me. The Swan was struggling to follow, inciting anger from the people around him as he plowed through them. He looked very determined, however, and not the least bit tired. I made a winding path through the maze of people pushing around me as I headed toward the direction of the slums. Loudspeakers mounted on every street corner blasted a crackling voice that tried, in vain, to create order. “…IS ON HIGH ALERT. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSES. LEAVE THE STREETS IN AN ORDERLY FASHION. WE REPEAT, ANOTHER ASSASSINATION OF OUR DEAR EMPEROR HAS BEEN ATTEMPTED. THE EMPEROR IS NOT HURT, BUT SOME BYSTANDERS WERE RAN OVER BY THE IMPERIAL CARRIAGE. THE MILITARY AND POLICE HAVE STARTED TO PURSUE THE ASSASSIN, WHO HAS ONCE AGAIN STRUCK OUT OF THIN AIR AND DISAPPEARED. THE CITY IS ON HIGH ALERT. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSES. LEAVE THE STREETS IN…” The crowd thinned as I approached the slums, and I finally left the snobbish middle class behind. The slums were dirtier, the roads were cobbled and maintained horribly, but at least the streets were mostly clear of people. Only ruffians, pickpockets, and con men strode down the street during this hour, when the sun’s heat was unbearable and the smell from the sewers was greatest. The Swan was still keeping pace behind me, though slightly farther away. I turned into an alley to the left, skirted a street gang, and met with the welcoming, though disturbing, sight of the Open Sewer River, one of the slums’ illustrious waterways. Following the direction of the “river”, I would reach the Open Bathroom plaza, and there would be enough slummers to confront the Swan and allow me to escape. Slummers were extremely distrustful of the people that lived outside of the slums because the “city folk” were snobbish, but mostly because they had more money. I was beginning to tire out from my constant running. I could tell that the Swan was gaining on me. If I didn’t live in a landfill with untreated sewage running through it, I would have trained more. The toxic smell of the waste also started to fill my head through my nose. Great, I thought as I became lightheaded, what will I die from first, the Swan or the waste of millions of citizens? Either way, it would be gruesome, and I would not enjoy it at all. Following the winding path of the river through the narrow alleyways, hopping over overturned barrels spewing with trash, I saw the golden sunlight illuminating the dull stones of the plaza and reflecting off of the muddy lake. The Swan’s footsteps seemed closer and closer. I could even hear him panting for breath. Charging into the plaza, I took only a second to look at my surroundings. The square was spacious but empty. A few young ruffians were leaning against the shadowed wall to my right, smoking cigars and trying to look chic; some idiot was also sweeping the middle of the plaza with an old straw broom, sending up huge clouds of dust. To my left The Dancing Woman was open, and drawing lots of business, apparently. Someone could have heard the bar fight on the Moon. In front of me the Open Bathroom Lake stewed, as usual. Behind me was a very mad Swan. Now you might be suggesting that I jump into the lake and swim away. Because the Swan is also a snobbish wimp, he would not try to follow me. The idea is a good one, but I will tell you this: do NOT swim in the lake. You might think the Open Bathroom is just polluted, with only a little human waste and some stray pieces of trash. Oh, how wrong that assumption is. The Open Bathroom Lake is less of a lake and more like a dreadful mix of slime. The lake bed is an oily mud composed of human waste, shattered glass, last year’s mystery meat and vegetable stew, fish (nobody knows how they got there), and broken bar stools (bar fights occur in The Dancing Woman as often as the passing of the hour). The grimy water is 75% alcohol (nobody knows about its origins either), 10% other human waste, 9% other beverages, 5% cooking oil, and 1% actual water. I would rather let the Swan catch me than swim in that. I jumped onto the boardwalk circling the plaza and ran towards the direction of The Dancing Woman. Some filthy gondoliers stepped out of my way as I flew through, then crowded around the pursuing Swan. I heard some bodies fall into the water behind me. Good job, Swan, I thought as I nimbly navigated over the decaying boards. I finally reached the entrance of The Dancing Woman and pushed through the creaking oak doors. The bar fight was certainly reaching its climax, as I saw the bartender, with his rusty blunderbuss out, standing on the counter and aiming it at anybody who tried to sneak some more beer during the chaos. About half of the furniture in the room was broken, and the other half were being used as clubs, shields, and barricades. Some men had drawn their daggers out, and were engaging in an interesting form of fencing. Other people were at each other’s throats (literally) or punching their opponent over and over again. When I entered the room, however, the entire bar fell silent as a hundred or more eyes stared at me. The bartender, noticing my physical exertion, asked: “What’s the matter, girl?” “A man is chasing me; a city dweller.” I replied with a smile I only did in my head. At the mention of “city dweller”, whatever quarrel was between the slummers had vanished completely. I saw as they became an angry mob, their goal to “meet and greet” the city dweller that had the nerve to stride into the slums. With bloody cries and brandishing their shining daggers and broken stools, they charged past me out of The Dancing Woman. The bar became silent once the last of the drunken horde had left through the old oak door. The bartender, who had put down his blunderbuss and began to scrub the counter again, was the only other person in the room. “Can I use the back exit?” I asked the man. “Yes, you may use the back exit.” was the gruff reply. I went to a door to the right of the counter, which opened into a dark and empty hallway. As I stepped over the threshold, I heard drunken yells of “Throw ‘em in the Open Bathroom! Throw ‘em in!” I could not help but chuckle.
Chapter 11: Johnathan Erzei
Thank goodness the Imperial Palace had warm water, a functional Jacuzzi, and fully stocked soap cabinet, or else I think I would have carried the stink of the sewers for the rest of my life. After I had pulled myself out of that open cesspool and into the sweet light of day, the mob which attacked me went back into their bar, and the assassin was nowhere to be found. At this time, the waste still stuck to my clothes had dried in the hot noon sun and were impossible to sweep off. They also gave the most awful smell. I would rather smell like the fish market than…whatever I’m covered in. The Emperor was okay, although he was disappointed he could not hand out all of his chocolates. He was, as I found out from my conversation with him, completely unaware about the attempt upon his life, but he liked my swordplay and the chaotic ride through the streets. Having gained nothing from the Emperor (except for a tub of chocolates and a surprisingly soft pillow launched from the cannon), I went back into my room to think over the matter. The assassin, whoever he is, seemed to match the one from the earlier attempt on the Emperor’s life. The assassin wore dark clothes, and a cloth covered the bottom half of his face. I took out the weapon used in the assassination, the Farrick-99, out of a burlap bag. I had left the broken firearm on the roof of the building, and it was still there when I got back. The rifle broke into two along its wooden stock, which I had used to (almost) bash the assassin’s head in. During times of war, the government assumed control of all weapons manufacturing factories in the Empire, as a part of a deal with weapons production companies. A quick check of the broken stock showed that the Imperial Military Seal was finely imbedded into the wood, meaning that this rifle was meant for military instead of civilian use. Because the Farrick-99 is precise but not accurate, it would be supplied to troops in the lightly forested temperate zones of the world because sharpshooting would be difficult if the enemy can see you, but there would be enough open space and enough troops stationed in the area that medium-range shooting would be feasible. I checked the map of the current fronts of the war. The only place where the battle zone overlapped a lightly forested temperate zone was a small area about 3500 kilometers from Auriza and a small island on the other side of the world. I called the Weapons Supply Department, and they confirmed my inferences. They also told me that the nearest factory that produced the Farrick-99 was a few hundred miles away, and they had not reported any missing weapons in their latest shipment. After they hung up I was left with puzzling over how the assassin, a civilian (all soldiers in the military were loyal to the cause, and the few who deserted were deliberately let go, but were under surveillance), got hold of a military weapon. It’s possible that he stole it from the shipment when it arrived in Auriza for naval transport, but the only people who had access to the weapons would be the dock workers. The slums where I chased the assassin was far from the docks, and it’s likely that the man was well acquainted with the area and people because of the mob he raised in mere seconds. And it didn’t even explain the motives behind these assassinations. The Emperor was well loved by the people despite his insanity, and the court mostly ignored him as long as they got a steady paycheck. It was a very curious mystery, and I wasn’t sure whether or not I could solve it. A tapping on the window drew me out of my thoughts. I looked up from my desk through the beautiful gilded cast iron window, where the sun sank below the featureless waters of the sea, its dying rays following reluctantly behind. Darkness had already filled the sky, the stars beginning to illuminate the night. Storm clouds filled with the coming rain and thunder, illuminated by the colorful sunset, swept over the boundless ocean towards Auriza and where I sat, in the warm and safe walls of the fortress. If not for the war, the assassination attempt, and the bad taste left in my mouth from my dip in raw sewage, I might have relaxed a little upon seeing the idyllic view. The tapping on the window pane interrupted my reverie, again. On the left side of the window, a messenger hawk tapped its beak impatiently against a pane of glass. I quickly opened the window and let the bird in. A canister was strapped on with a harness to the back of the hawk. I took off the canister as the bird strutted haughtily around my room, searching for food or water. Inside the canister was a rolled-up piece of paper, sealed with the monogram of Grand Master Zurkan. I quickly opened up the letter. The writing was small and slanted, most likely written in haste.
Johnathan,
My sources indicate that the military will carry out a coup against the current government and the Emperor. The Imperial Guards are also in the scheme. Assume any soldier you see is a traitor. Take the Emperor and get to Brackwater, a town 12 miles from the Northwest Gate following the West Sea Road. There will be a ship waiting for you.
The Grand Master
Within seconds, I had my full combat armor on along with my sword, a dagger, two revolvers, and a rifle. I charged out of my door, the messenger hawk coming along squawking annoyingly. The Emperor’s suite was down a long hallway to the left of me. The double doors which led into the Emperor’s rooms were flanked by two sentries, part of the Imperial Guard. When I arrived in front of them, they crossed their mostly ornamental pikes across the doors, preventing me from entering. “Guards,” I asked politely, “I wish to see the Emperor.” One of the guards frowned and said, “The Emperor wishes not to be disturbed at this time. Please go back to your room, Mr. Triple Swan.” I knocked out that guard first. As the second one pulled out his pistol, I hit him over the head with the flat end of a pike. He tumbled down to rest beside his companion. I stepped over the bodies and quickly slipped into the door. I only opened the door again to drag in the two unconscious bodies and shoved them both into a tiny closet. I bolted and locked both of the doors and pushed two cabinets in front of them. Then, I quickly went to search for the Emperor. The house was a maze of rooms, showered in opulence. I found the Emperor’s bedroom quickly. My analysis of the palace blueprints had come into use. After opening the intricately carved door, I looked into the extravagantly empty bedroom and the equally lavish bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I did a quick search of the other rooms. Along with a bedroom and bathroom, the Emperor’s suite also included a sitting room, a drawing room, a smoking room, a salon, a small dining room, a well-stocked pantry, a library, a trophy room, a billiard room. All of them were empty. The Imperial Guards had already captured the Emperor. My guess is that he is currently residing in a cell in the dungeons underneath the fortress. Imperial Guards, most likely sent to dispatch of me, were now pounding on the entrance to the suite. I headed to the servant’s entrance, where a maid or waiter enter through a side door into the suite inconspicuously. As I placed my hand on the doorknob, however, I heard the faint clomping of soldier’s boots coming up the spiraling staircase on the other side. I hastily barricaded this door also, before falling back into a comfy armchair. As the Imperial Guards had covered my every means of escape, I could only stay and fight. I started drawing up a battle plan in my mind. The pillow cannon that the Emperor used only this morning could be filled with some silverware or other metallic objects to be used as an actual cannon. I would probably place it in front of the main door so that it could fire right when the soldiers burst in. After that, I could run off and easily hide inside the many rooms, picking off the confused guards one by one. I got up from the armchair and looked for the pillow cannon, which rested in the main hall right next to several packs of gunpowder. I wondered who in the entire Empire would entrust the Emperor with such dangerous material. I positioned the cannon in front of the main doors, loaded it with gunpowder, and crammed several spoons, forks, and butter knives inside the barrel. I reentered the kitchen to find some sharper knives. Firing my rifle or using my sword inside would be challenging to use and would betray all of my opponents to my position. Throwing knives would be a lot easier. As I was placing knives on every part of my body, I suddenly noticed that there was a dumbwaiter in the corner of the kitchen. A new idea formed in my mind. The opening could probably allow a person to crawl through. I went to the dumbwaiter and pressed the button to call it up. The Imperial Guards were getting closer to opening the door, either by repeatedly slamming themselves into the doors or using a battering ram. I could not tell. The dumbwaiter dinged, signifying its arrival. I slid open the metal door and climbed into the surprisingly spacious cab. I slid closed the door after I squeezed in, and the cab immediately started descending. It was pitch black. The cab smelled of cheese, for some reason. Finally, the dumbwaiter reached its destination. The door was opened by a portly chef who was, without a doubt, incredibly surprised, screaming loudly and falling into a faint. I was able to escape with little difficulty as the entire kitchen staff ran to attend to the poor man. The dumbwaiter ended at the main kitchen in the fortress. After exiting out of one of its doors, I ran to a door nearby and opened it. There was an old stone stairwell which led to the lower floors. I had to be careful, though. The fortress was crawling with Imperial Guards, and they were probably looking for me. I slunk quietly down the steep and narrow stairs, looking out for any footsteps above or below me. Even though torches lit the way down, it was hard to see where a step ended and the next one began. The hill which the palace fortress sat on, the Throne of Gods, was occupied by many different individual castles and forts going back generations, before the period of chaos and barbarism preceding the Golden Empire, before the time when the Golden Empire was still considered a small kingdom, before even the first ancestor of the First Emperor was born, before all of recorded history, in fact. Evidence of the Ancients, dating back hundreds of millions of years, has been found deep in the mountain. Kings for thousands of years decided to simply expand on the buildings left by their predecessors. Later, when the First Emperor made Auriza his capital, he built the fortress seen today on the foundations of thousands of years of fortifications. The staircase seemed dimmer and dimmer as I descended, until even the torches failed to shine through the darkness. I had found the staircase on one of my surveys of the building. It was rarely used by anybody, but it led directly to the level right above where the dungeons began. My steady footsteps suddenly stopped as I ran into a heavy oaken door. I stepped back and turned the doorknob. It opened with a loud creak that shattered my eardrums from the sudden sound. Luckily, there were no Imperial Guards when I stepped into the corridor. I quickly ran down the hallway, lifted a torch from the wall, slid into another door, and went down another short flight of stairs, the flame guttering. In front of me, two rows of heavy iron bars on either side of me fading into the dark hallway in front of me. The dungeons were no place for a man to live. I had heard of the stories about this wretched place; an afternoon locked up in one of these cells would drive even the sanest man mad. Now, however, only rats resided in the empty walls, and they scurried away as they saw the torchlight. After the War of Succession, the Second Emperor required a place to hold thousands of political enemies, rebel leaders, and renegade soldiers, so he ordered a massive expansion of the dungeons under the fortress. A life locked in these cells was worse than a death sentence; prisoners ate, drank, and slept in the dark, and very soon raved and writhed in the mouth with madness. A year later, the Second Emperor ordered the building of two additional levels to serve as a grave for thousands of prisoners who had already died. The dungeons were in use for more than four hundred years of the Second Emperor’s reign, where more than a hundred thousand enemies of the Empire were imprisoned and died, alone and far from the glare of the sun and the pale light of the soul. Nobody was able to escape the dungeons; you either went mad or slowly withered to dust. After the Second Emperor’s death, the purge ended and no new prisoners entered the dungeons. They fell into disuse after the last of the detainees died in agony and suffering. Nobody knows for sure how many levels the dungeons went down; estimates range from seventy to more than a hundred. A break in the walls of the catacombs during a flood of the River Vinray caused millions of liters of water to rush into the lower layers of the dungeons. An underground lake still exists below the 56th level, murky and smelling of death, leaving the question eternally unanswered. The guards most likely guarded the main entrance to the dungeons, dubbed Gate of the Betrayers, so I had decided to enter through a side entrance, then wind through the dungeons and find the gate. I set out into the empty corridor, my footsteps echoing too loudly on the stone floor. The darkness around me was like an insatiable leech. It sucked away at the flickering light of the torch, until I could barely see more than a foot in front of me. The musky air around me was oppressing, clogging every bit of my lungs with the stagnant dust. It reminded me of the dark dungeons of Blackrock Castle, but somehow even more dark and evil. I wound through the eerily empty passages, and even though I had reviewed the plan of the dungeons many times, I was sometimes lost or forced to backtrack as I ran into cave-ins or went down long uninterrupted corridors that suddenly ended with a wall of bedrock. The dungeons were designed to be impossible to escape, and not even the guards watching over the prisoners knew their entire way around. In my copy of the plan of the fortress, the entire plan for the dungeons was faked. It was easy to understand that many guards disappeared after going into the dungeons for a routine inspection, only to be found many years later in some dark corner, their bones still clutching a torch with no flame. Finally, I saw light around the corner in front of me. I set down my torch and crept slowly to the corner and looked around it. It was the Gate of the Betrayers, defined by its heavy iron portcullis and reinforced iron doors. A legion of guards milled about the gate, most likely waiting for me to appear. I could probably defeat them all, but I would have attracted too much attention and soon more guards would have arrived. “Psst! Hey!” I almost hit my head against the ceiling at the voice. The ghostly dungeon had made me jumpy. After almost dying of fright, I drew my sword and whipped around and placed it against the owner of the voice. I pushed the person against the bars of a cell and pressed the cool metal harder against his throat. The darkness obscured his appearance, but my hand felt the fabric of his clothing. It was cloth with gold woven in. Only two types of people wore gold cloth: the Emperor and the Imperial Guard, and I cannot allow myself to believe that the Emperor was able to sneak up on me. “Please…I’m here to help you,” croaked the man. “Why should I trust you?” I hissed. “Let go of me and I’ll tell you,” the man panted back. “I’m not letting go.” “Why not? You barely even know me.” “You’re an Imperial Guard. That’s all I need to know.” “Just because the Imperial Guards are in on the coup doesn’t mean that every single guard is a traitor. Just like how I hear that even though all the Triple Swans are mercenaries doesn’t mean they love war, Johnathan Erzei.” I was a bit taken aback, but I still tightened my grip on him. “You seem to know a lot about me.” “It’s my business to know about things I shouldn’t. For example, that was a very nice dip in the sewage, Mr. Erzei.” I slowly released my grip on him and stepped back. For a man who was presumably older than me—judging by his voice—he wasn’t very tall, only a few centimeters above me. He rubbed his throat protectively. “Why shouldn’t I think that this is a trap?” “If this was a trap, you would have already fallen into it.” “So you’re a spy.” “I suppose so,” said the mysterious guard. “Who are you?” I asked. “Just like you said, a spy,” said the man. “I’m here to help you save the Emperor, Mr. Erzei.” “Are you working for the Emperor? Minister Wolffe, perhaps?” The spy suddenly broke out in a silent laugh as he restrained his mouth from alerting our presence to the Imperial Guards. I peeked around the corner, just to make sure. Some of the guards were playing dice, and one had just opened a pack of cards. Such amateurs. “I work for somebody else, Mr. Erzei,” whispered the man as he regained his composure. “Who?” “That’s none of your business, but the man I work for is very interested in freeing the Emperor and keeping him alive, and you are too.” There was definitely something mysterious about this man, but I needed the help, and he seemed sincere, even if he was a devious character. “Okay, I suppose I have no choice but to believe you,” I said, “But if you try anything-” “Don’t worry, I want my head staying on the rest of my body.” “I don’t have to cut off your head, you know.” He hesitated for a second before replying: “Unfortunately, Mr. Erzei, I am also very particular about the rest of my body parts staying intact through this mission.” “Mission?” I inquired. “That is confidential, Mr. Erzei. For now, we should probably rescue the Emperor.” “Very well. What’s the plan?” “First, I have to cuff you.” “What? Are you tricking me?” “If this is a trick, Mr. Erzei, then I wouldn’t have to risk my life handcuffing you,” muttered the man, “And if you keep interrupting me like this,” he added impatiently, “We’ll be able to save the Emperor next week.” “Alright, handcuff me, then.” I held out my hands and the man slid handcuffs over my wrists. “The ratchet and pawl inside these handcuffs are specially designed to disengage when you try to pull them apart, but don’t try to until I say so.” “I know what I should do,” I said, exasperated. “I hope so. Then both of us won’t die. Now, I need to cuff your legs.” “What? Why?” “Do you want to be captured by actual Imperial Guards? The leg cuffs work the same way as the handcuffs.” The man said as he bent down to attach the leg cuffs. “Are we done here?” I asked impatiently. “Oh yes, I forgot; you also need to wear a muzzle.” “This is barbaric.” “This is basic restraining procedure for all prisoners of the Imperial Guard. People less skilled than yourself have appeared before the Emperor with their entire body restrained to a metal board and stored inside of a casket.” “Very well. I don’t suppose you have that casket lying around anywhere?” “I was thinking about it, but then I realized that it would make too much noise to restrain you, and it would also be much too heavy to carry with you inside. I’ll also need to take your visible weapons,” he added afterwards. I sighed (or tried to, since I had the muzzle on) and broke open the handcuffs to take off my sword, my rifle, and most of my throwing knives. The man attached the sword and the rifle to his back, and hid the knives inside his coat. “You certainly carry lots of weapons with you,” remarked the man as he reattached my handcuffs. I gave a muffled response through the muzzle. The man grabbed me roughly by the arm and led me around the corner. The sound of our boots immediately drew the eyes of every single guard standing watch. I looked over at the man, trying to catch a face, but it was covered with an Imperial Guard helmet. That was when I lost my footing and fell to the floor. Shouts of laughter erupted from the guards. As I tried to stand up with my handcuffed hands, the man kicked me in my stomach, and I collapsed to the floor again. “Get up, you lazy hog!” yelled the man, attracting even more hoots of laughter. He finally grabbed my arm and hauled me onto my feet. Pushing me forward with the tip of his pike, he made me stumble towards the legion of guards. By now all of the Imperial Guards were jeering and shouting jests at me. Someone even threw a pair of dice at my face. With my muzzle on, it was impossible to retort or retaliate. The wild antics of the guards suddenly stopped as their commanding officer walked over from his post next to the Gate of the Betrayers. “So,” questioned the officer, “This is the Triple Swan, I presume?” “Yes, sir,” replied the man, “My legion captured him shortly before, but then he tried to make a run for it. He ran into the dungeons, but I was able to catch him before he could escape.” “What is your name and who is your commanding officer?” asked the officer. “Daley Josephs is my name, sir, and my superior is Captain Drarmoor.” “A fine captain, Mr. Josephs. I will be sure to put a good word about you and your commanding officer to Commander Ergall. Lock this Swan in his birdcage. Go to your right and follow the gaslights.” “Daley Josephs” saluted and pulled me roughly down the hallway to my right, although this time the hallway was lined by gas lamps placed on the floor. Imperial Guards patrolled the hallways every few meters, and saluted whenever Josephs and I passed by. Josephs also had to stop to salute to the guards before continuing to prod me with his pike. Ahead, the row of lights turned to the passage to the right. Daley Josephs dragged me down the right passage, and led me down a flight of stairs. After reaching the lower level, Josephs led me through another maze of passageways and down another staircase, with more sentinels guarding the corridors. I was starting to wonder how we were ever going to escape with the Emperor. I was poked and prodded for another 54 levels. Josephs led me down the last flight of stairs and through another maze of passageways. We reached my holding cell, a damp, musty, solitary little room separated from other cells and surrounded by thick walls of bedrock. I remembered this cell when I did a survey of the castle a few months ago. It was supposedly a cell intended for a particularly powerful rebel lord whose name was wiped from history from the purges of the Second Emperor. Eight Imperial Guards flanked either side of the cell door, as still as statues. Josephs dragged me to the front of the door. A guard stepped forward and unlocked the cell with an old iron key. Josephs pulled open the door and roughly shoved me in. I coughed up the unsettled dust. Josephs followed me in and pulled me up. He shoved me into an iron casket, where he locked restraints onto my handcuffs and leg cuffs. I had some doubts, but it wouldn’t matter since I’ve already gone through with most of his plan. “These restraints will break easily with pressure. To your left is a lever that will cause the bottom of the casket to fall away. There is a tunnel from where you can escape, and another tunnel branching off of the main one, where you will find the holding cell of the Third Emperor. Good luck.” Josephs slipped me my sword and my rifle, and then closed the heavy iron door and I heard him close three locks. Then I heard his footsteps fade outside and the iron cell close with a slam. I quickly got to work breaking open my handcuffs and leg cuffs. They came off easily, and I breathed a sigh of relief through my muzzle. I ripped it off with my free hands and searched for the lever on my left. My fingers closed around it and pulled it without hesitation. My feet suddenly stood on empty air and I felt myself falling in the dark. My feet hit the ground a second later and my knees buckled in response. My sword and rifle hit the ground right beside me. I picked them up and strapped them to my body. The tunnel was dark and I couldn’t see a thing, so I waited for a few minutes until my eyes adjusted. There was a darkened lamp sitting on the ground next to where I was, so I picked it up and tried turning it on. Its faint light shone dimly on the rough stone walls of solid bedrock. The tunnel was narrow but could allow a normally-sized person to walk normally through. The passageway was probably created with pickaxes that slowly mined through the wall. Past the light of the gaslight the tunnel continued to stretch in the darkness. I started stepping forward, not knowing if I was walking out of danger or into an even bigger one. The tunnel gradually sloped downward. Water leaked through the walls, probably from the underground lake. The floor was smooth and slippery from the many streams and rivulets of water that flowed away from me. Judging from my direction, I guessed that I would come out of the mountain over the Liquid of Diamond River, a section of it which ran along the perimeter of the Inner City, serving as a wide and rushing moat for the city during a siege. A pair of floodgates north of the Inner City, built during the reign of the First Emperor, would also be opened to allow the river to branch into a canal that linked to the sea, turning the fortress into a manmade island. With the added protection of the imposing cliffs carved by centuries of the Liquid of Diamond’s flow, the Inner City has never been taken in siege after the founding of the Golden Empire, and in propaganda created by the Empire, they claimed it was impregnable. What they never suspected was that the Inner City would be captured from the inside. Lost in thought, I almost missed the other tunnel. It went straight to my right, presumably where the Emperor was. I went down that passage, not because I had any particular affection for the man (spend three months with him and you’ll agree), and not for the money for protecting him (it was a lot of money, but I lived in the middle of the mountains, and I could not retire until I was dead). I did it because I felt like I should do it. I guess my intuition said that the Empire it would be much worse off without the Third Emperor on the throne. Was it worth spending another few hours with the Emperor? I guess. I saw that there was a ladder going up at the end of the tunnel. I turned off the lamp, placed it at the bottom of the ladder, and started climbing up. The top of the ladder was blocked by a loose stone tile. I lifted the tile a bit and peeked through the small crack. The cell seemed to have the same dimensions as mine, but there seemed to be other objects in the room. I also appeared to hear the Emperor humming the tune of the propaganda song I heard in the parade earlier today. The door was made of solid steel, so none of the guards outside would be able to see me. I lifted the tile completely and crawled through the opening. “Why hello there, Mr. Triple Swan!” I turned around and saw the Emperor relaxing snugly in a bathtub. “Can you leave the room, please? I’m trying to take a bath.” “Emperor,” I whispered to him like how the wind whispers in a person’s ears, “Please come with me. The military is attempting a coup, and you are in danger.” “Danger?” questioned the Emperor, voice going off like a cannon, “What danger? Here I am, taking this bath in this amazing cave! Want to play a game of checkers?” “Emperor, you must be quiet. I am afraid that someone will know I’m here.” “Oh!” cried the Emperor, nodding his head knowingly, “You’re playing hide and seek. I see. I’ll be quiet.” “Thank you, Emperor, now you need to come with me, because—” “You’re playing hide and seek, Mr. Triple Swan! No talking for you either!” “Emperor…it’s okay, just listen to me for a few seconds—” “Why didn’t you ask me to play hide and seek? I love to play hide and seek!” “Emperor—” “I, as the Emperor, command you, Mr. Your First Name Triple Swan, to allow me to play hide and seek.” I was very taken aback, because it was the first time the Emperor had ever used an Imperial Command (albeit very improperly). I had to quickly get the Emperor out before an Imperial Guard decided to check in on him. It would be normal for a fool like the Emperor to talk to himself, but only to an extent. “As you wish, Emperor, you will play hide and seek with me, but remember to be silent; we don’t want anybody finding you.” “Oh joy!” rasped the Emperor, “Just wait until my bath is done.” “Actually, Emperor, the seekers are already looking for us now.” “Really? Who are they?” “Uhmm…the Imperial Guards, Your Majesty.” “A great challenge to avoid them. I will dress now, Mr. Triple Swan. Please stand behind that screen over there.” I walked over to the folding screen, which was a wooden relief with gold leaf laid above it, and took a chance to look around the room. It was a nicely furnished—although crowded—cell, with a large featherbed, wardrobe, sink, toilet, tub, desk, a large checkerboard table, and a dining table large enough to seat ten people. I was surprised that the Emperor was not at all distraught at the loss of his comparatively extravagant rooms in his suite, and thanked the gods that he had enough decency to dress in private. I walked behind the screen and sat down on a chair. The gold relief detailed scenes from the life of the First Emperor. The usual stuff, really. When he was born, comets fell through the sky and made the night as bright as day, and a large lode of gold was discovered just outside the city the day after his birth. Later he grew up and stood up for the righteous and strove to drive out the evil, defeated a few barbarians, freed the common people from their suffering, and so on and so forth. His rule was wise and such and such. On the day of his death (of old age), there was a solar eclipse. If the First Emperor was truly the greatest man alive, one would think that he would at least nominate a successor to his throne. No such luck for all those innocent citizens, who he tried “desperately” to help, when they were slaughtered in the War of Succession. After a few minutes, the Emperor yelled that he was ready. I stepped out from the folding screen. The Emperor put on a large, flowing Imperial robe that had gold woven in the yellow silk and a large, black cloak draped over his shoulders and back. They covered the Third Emperor’s hands and feet, making him look like a glamorous spectre. Intricate embroidery on the clothing detailed a massive hunting scene, probably dating from the reign of the First Emperor. On his head was the Imperial Crown, which still perched haphazardly on the unruly tufts of golden blond hair. “Be quick, Mr. Triple Swan!” said the Emperor with a big smile, “The guards may be upon us any second!” After finishing his sentence, the Emperor jumped down into the tunnel which I came from. I quickly followed him down, moving the floor tile back in place, afraid to lose him and prevent him from doing anything stupid. After getting to the bottom of the ladder, I picked up the lamp and turned it on. The Emperor was already gone. I ran down the passage, searching for him. I found him at the entrance to the main tunnel, collapsed in a muddy puddle. I nudged him with my boot and he quickly got up. “Wow, Triple Swan, I didn’t know you would find me that quickly! I had slipped in this puddle, and then I realized what a good hiding place it was. I can’t believe that you were able to find me!” I rolled my eyes in my mind. The Emperor seemed unharmed, and too far off the deep end to get any worse through a traumatic head injury. Mud covered half of his body, however, but he didn’t seem to care. The Emperor started wiping his grimy hands on his robes, further dirtying the fine handiwork. The master craftsmen who toiled hours to create this clothing were probably rolling several times in their graves. “I’m not here to look for you,” I tried to explain, “the Imperial Guards are, but I know a good place where we can hide from them.” “Really?” the Emperor said questioningly, “Thanks a lot, Mr. Triple Swan!” He stopped his wiping and wrapped his entire body around mine in a tight hug. Luckily, I knew from past experience that the mud would eventually wash out. After carefully extricating myself from the surprisingly strong grip of the Emperor, I led the way through the tunnel. The passage wound to the left and the right, dodging large pieces of the bedrock that were the roots of the mountain. We went deeper and deeper, the streams and rivulets converging and growing in size, until the entire floor of the tunnel was a slow-moving stream of shallow water. Massive puddles waited in the murky bottom of this “river” for the unsuspecting foot to step inside. I was almost soaked to my knees. The Emperor was joyous at the sight of this much water, jumping and splashing around behind me. Sometimes he would lose his footing and trip into me, sending the both of us to the ground. Every time, I thanked the gods that the lamp didn’t crack during the tumult, sending the tunnel into darkness. The water continued to pool until it was up to my knees. Then, the water level continued to grow until it surrounded my waist. I silently cursed Daley Josephs that he did not tell me about the horrendous plumbing in this tunnel. To my extreme relief, the floor of the tunnel stopped sloping and leveled out. The water level also stopped rising, so I took this as a good sign. The tunnel continued on for another hundred metres before the tunnel started sloping upward, and the water level started lowering. Soon the water level was at my knees, then at my ankles, and then it splashed at my feet. All of my clothing were dripping wet, and the floor was very slippery. The tunnel continued to slope upwards until I almost ran into a metal door, almost invisible with the years of dust and iron oxide. A single, rusting wheel was in the middle of the hatch. I put down the lantern and spun the wheel. It slowly ground its way around like a train on its last load of coal. The piercing sound echoed through the dark tunnel. I heard the Emperor slap his hands to his ear to block the sound. The wheel abruptly stopped in its path. I pulled on it and the door swung open with a loud creak, its hinges rusted beyond repair. Outside, a thunderstorm raged in the blackest night. Bolts of lightning lit up the stormy scene. Wind and rain rushed into the tunnel, almost making me fall over. I stepped out of the tunnel and motioned for the Emperor to follow me. When he refused to step outside, I grabbed his pale-white wrist and dragged him into the full force of the rain. Rain poured from the sky in drenching waves as if all the world’s oceans were drained onto Auriza. Drops of rain flew in spirals around me, pounding at my body like pebbles. Thunder and lightning were like one, battling in the raging heavens above. Holding the Emperor with an iron grasp, I slowly made my way down a rocky trail. The wind howled over the surface of the Throne of Gods and whipped every scraggly tree branch into my face as I passed by. I had no trouble walking over the uneven path, but the Emperor forced me to stop as I waited for him to get up after he tripped over a rock, a dead root, or himself (surprisingly, he has never been injured before in his life). I first let him fall for some revenge, but unfortunately I took pity on him and slung him on my shoulder. The Emperor was heavy in his soaking clothes, but at least offered some insulation against the unmerciful elements. I trudged on downhill, away from the mysterious tunnel and the fortress, where the enemies of the Emperor now resided. We reached the banks of the Liquid of Diamond, its noisy currents rushing past us in the cover of darkness. The ground became rocky and slippery; one false step would mean an unpleasant dip in the river. The dark thunder clouds obscured the moon and stars, so I navigated using my mind. After twisting and turning through the dungeons and crawling through a winding tunnel, we had exited on the southeastern face of the hill. The river was to my right, so I was heading north. There was a bridge on the east face of the hill, so I guessed that the Emperor and I would cross the river there. The bridge would lead to the Outer City, where the Emperor and I would be safer from guards. The lights on the bridge slowly flickered into view. There were four watchtowers guarding the bridge; two on each side. The two towers on the far side of the bank were obscured in the storm. As I got closer, I saw that the bridge was devoid of people. The gates were also wide open. Thanking the gods, I carried the Emperor up onto the bridge. The smooth stone under me became slippery as ice. I looked up, into the watchtowers. There was no shadow nor movement from a hidden sniper. Feeling uneasy, I sprinted across the bridge, “sprinting” meaning the fastest I could go carrying someone while trying not to slip and crack my head open. The rain slammed into my face, and the flashes of lightning briefly showed the way. After what seemed like an hour, I reached the other end of the bridge. The gates, thankfully, were open, and not a single guard in sight. I rushed into the equally empty streets, almost colliding with a lone horse-drawn carriage. The carriage careened around me, then did a full turn and cantered right up to me. The driver looked down on me from his high seat. “You the Triple Swan?” asked the man roughly. “Why do you want to know?” I answered. “Climb on, I’m not gonna turn ye in,” beckoned the man with a gloved hand. I stepped back. “Why should I trust you?” I asked, suspicious. “You trusted that Imperial Guard inside the palace, didn’t ya?” For the second time tonight, I decided to trust a stranger. The carriage flew down the cobbled streets, the horses wild as mustangs. Inside, the seats were cold and hard. The Emperor had begun to shiver. I spied a crumpled, ragged old cloak sitting in the corner; I picked it up and draped it over His Majesty. We reached the North Gate of the city. Several guards loitered around the heavy iron portcullis and solid oaken doors, preventing anybody from leaving the city. The carriage pulled up in front of the gate. An officer walked to greet the driver. “You know the rules, coachman,” yelled the guard above the constant pattering of rain, “No one leaves the city after dark. Besides, have you not heard? The Emperor has instituted a curfew on the entire city, starting at the 19th hour. I’ll send a guard to escort you and your passengers to your homes, but I will not hesitate to use force if we meet again under similar circumstances.” “My apologies, sir,” cried the coachman, “But I have orders from the higher ups to allow me to leave the city.” “Coachman, I have orders from the Emperor himself,” replied the officer, with annoyance in his voice as he stood in the pouring rain, “No one can defy the word and law of the Emperor.” There was a brief pause, where I guessed that the coachman gave the officer his papers. Who were these “higher ups” the coachman mentioned? Or was this a simple ruse to smuggle the me and the Emperor out of the city? “Y-you may leave the city, sir,” whimpered the officer, cowed, “Safe travels.” “Aye, but it’s the journey that’s the most interesting,” remarked the coachman. The officer turned around and shouted, “Raise the gate!” The iron portcullis was lifted from the ground, the groaning of gears and chains punctuating the continuous rainstorm. After it was lifted halfway, four guards pushed open the left door of the gate, the portcullis suspended menacingly in midair. After the gate was opened, the officer allowed the coachman to pass through. As the carriage passed by the officer, he glimpsed into the window, but only saw a man in a worn and dirty uniform and a shivering man wrapped in an old coat. The officer might have recognized my face from the parade, but he gave no indication of it as the carriage rolled out onto the West Sea Road. Finally, we were out of the city. The walls and buildings were replaced by fields, colorless in the rain, featureless except for the occasional granary or house that burst through the heavy layer of rain that obscured the view of the sea to the east, and the distant horizon to the west. The divine orchestra of thunder and lightning accompanied our flight to Brackwater as the rain continued to come down in droves.
Chapter 12: Francis of the Dragon Legions
The white hills below slowly gave way to the harsh flanks of mountaintops immersed in the clouds. Legends of the Polar Tribes say that the gods lived upon these concealed peaks, where they could watch the realms of men undisturbed. What would they be thinking now, watching this centuries-old war unfold at their doorstep? The lead wyvern dipped down into a dive, and I guided Lyzia to follow. Air whipped past us, with some flecks of snow piling up on my goggles. I quickly wiped them off with my leather gloves. Despite the layers of armor and insulation, I was freezing, but I have never felt more alive. We dove through a cloud and suddenly we were soaring across the battlefield. The smells and sounds of war filtered into my senses, although I had already grown rather accustomed to it. My legion flew to the enemy camp, situated on a gentler slope of a mountain creatively coined “Enemy Hill”. Artillery shells darted across the skies as we passed over them. A few wyverns were hit, spiraling to the ground in a clump of machine guns and leathery wings. Because of Lyzia’s smaller stature, we were not assigned with a machine gun crew, as they would probably weigh her down. In the beginning, wyverns were untouchable in the skies, as artillery corps were unaccustomed to aiming at targets flying at such a speed. Now, it was rare to have more than three- quarters of a legion to return after a raid. Lyzia and I passed the artillery line safely, and the enemy camp stretched out enticingly. On instinct, Lyzia opened her mouth and spewed out slim tongues of red dragon fire, bathing the air around me in warmth. The tops of tents caught fire and quickly spread across the camp. Soon, enemy soldiers darted out with flames swarming around them, trying in vain to extinguish the fire by rolling in the thin layers of snow covering the rocky ground. With some degree of pity, the machine gunners shot them as they appeared. A munitions storage exploded in the distance, filling the sky with falling pieces of wood and tarp. After a few minutes, the raid was over, and we returned the way we came, managing to destroy an artillery or two as we passed over them again. The enemy forces were already in a haphazard retreat, having learned of the destruction of their base. They were terrified by the sight of wyverns, scrambling to find something to hide themselves behind as we soared over them. The ones who were stuck in open fields accepted their fate as dragon fire engulfed them. Our soldiers cheered at the sight of us, waving their rifles in celebration. The battalion of wyverns landed in the courtyard of Blackstone Keep, churning up clouds of powdery-white snow. Removing my goggles and hopping off Lyzia, I took a moment to breathe in the biting mountain air and admired the tall spires that crowned the tops of stark black towers that pierced the sky from their roots deep in the mountain. Blackstone Keep was built by the Empire winters upon winters ago, following the annexation of the Northern Mountains. King Propiscus, 34th Lord of Auriza of House Aurenzo, who was supposedly the great-grandfather of the First Emperor, sent his trusted friend, Nicholas, to build the castle to protect the western end of the Snowy Pass. After Nicholas finished his job, King Propiscus rewarded his friend with a lordship of the Keep. Edwin II Blackstone, a great-grandnephew of Nicholas and the 4th Lord of Blackstone, strode out into the yard, a great black cloak draped across his armor and unruly black hair framing his young but grim face. He had taken a bullet to his leg a week before and it was obvious that he was still in pain, but he greeted the captain of the battalion himself. “Thank you for your help, captain,” spoke Lord Edwin, reserved, “Our enemies were numerous and my men but few.” “No need for thanks, my lord,” replied the captain, “We all have a duty to our homeland, and our country.” “Indeed,” was the all Lord Edwin said before turning to go to the East Gate to greet the returning soldiers with the same dourness. An aide of his rushed forward to speak with the captain. “I was instructed by Lord Edwin to tell you that your dragons should be kept in the pens in the Dragon Tower.” “Wyverns,” I muttered. “Of course,” said the captain, “We wouldn’t want them to cause any trouble with the infantry.” When the first regiments filed into the courtyard, our legion took off into the rapidly dimming sky. The “Dragons” Tower was a large, uninhabited roosting station for wyverns, situated farthest from the keep, high up on the slope of the mountain, where the giant walls of the keep converged. Piles of used hay were scattered across the floor and burnt-out torches were piled in one corner. It was freezing inside, the walls pitch black in the dusk, but because wyverns produced fire, they are impervious to extreme cold. However, I still felt bad for leaving Lyzia alone with so many other unfamiliar wyverns. After I had dropped off Johnathan, I headed north from Auriza to join up with the 8th Flying Legion, who were flying towards Blackstone Keep. The keep had been assailed by enemy forces from Blackrock Castle, on the eastern end of the Snowy Pass, intending to open up a new front in the north of the Golden Empire. Promising Lyzia a large hunk of yak meat for her troubles, I followed the other riders out of the tower and down dizzying flights of stairs. My steps were especially clumsy after riding Lyzia for an hour, and the thin sheet of ice that was almost invisible in the fading light did little to help my descent. How could anybody march hundreds or even thousands of miles like this, with the danger of falling down always hanging over them? Flying was much easier. The wyvern does most of the job, and it felt exhilarating. Why would people rather walk or take one of those bulky airships than ride a wyvern? People in the south were strange. Sentries guarded the path, holding torches close to siphon off the little warmth it gave, and yet still shivered at their posts. These men were clearly southerners, as despite the strong winds and droves of snow coming down, the air was cool and refreshing after the stresses of war. In the distance, small, flickering flames revealed the positions of watchtowers, and bright torchlights swept across the snowy fields around the keep. In a war like this, nobody was safe and both sides were prepared for surprise attacks. The battalion and I reached the bottom of the steps, where two guards stepped forward to meet us. They led us into the main castle to our left. Imposing, the building was like a mysterious shadow in the night. Inside, however, a fire burned gracefully many hearths, making the room muggy with melted ice and snow. Within seconds I had removed all of my layering, which was suddenly taken out of my hands by a servant. I silently wished that I would see them again. The war was draining the Empire’s resources, so everyone had to become a thief or a bandit to support themselves. We were led to the Great Hall, where Lord Edwin would host and extol us for our help in breaking the enemy attack a few hours earlier. The two guards pushed open the double doors, and saluted as we entered. The Great Hall was, well, great. Tall stone walls, built with the signature black rock which gave the keep its name, extended upwards for almost two hundred metres, culminating in a massive domed ceiling, the middle of which hung an intricate gold chandelier, supporting thousands of tiny candles, lit with dragon fire. Forty long tables arranged two-by-twenty were lined vertically to the left and right of us, a hearth placed in between each. The table where Lord Edwin sat was at the other end of the hall, about a hundred metres away. The Great Hall was already filled with many soldiers, easily seating one thousand. When they saw us every one of them stood up and saluted to us as we walked down the central aisle. We filed toward the front of the hall quietly. The captain of the battalion was instructed to sit at the seat of honor next to Lord Edwin, and the rest of us at the head of the two central tables. When we were all seated, Lord Edwin stood up and gave a toast to our heroism and bravery, and the first time I had heard him speak for more than two minutes. After finishing his speech, Lord Edwin raised his cup to the seated soldiers. We all raised our own cups and drank in unison. The feast started as the diners dug into the rich food. I dug into my piece of fowl with enthusiasm. The meat was tender, cooked for many hours in spices imported from the south. After weeks of military rations, it was the tastiest thing I had ever tasted. In a corner, musicians began playing a jolly tune on their strings. Some soldiers stood up on the tables to dance, and the hall filled with the sound of conversation and laughter. For once in many months, there was no fighting or death, but merriment. As the war raged on in almost every corner of the world, there was no fighting tonight, in this hall. At first, we fought for peace, but that was impossible. Then, we fought to protect our homes and our families, but we were sent hundreds or thousands of miles away, so that was also impossible. Now, we fought for ourselves. Tomorrow, the war would continue, but tonight, we enjoyed another type of peace. I allowed my eyes to drift towards the head table as I licked the delicious fat off my fingers. The officers were chatting amiably, but Lord Edwin remained as grim as ever. A servant burst into the hall from a small door on the side, breathing heavily and burdened with sweat. He rushed to Lord Edwin’s side, handed him a piece of paper, and collapsed. As a steward called two servants to move the limp body, Lord Edwin unfolded the paper. If it had been good news, I wouldn’t have been able to tell. The Lord of Blackstone stood up from his chair calmly. As if in anticipation, the laughter, talking, and music stopped. “Soldiers,” he dictated, “You all have shown courage in the battles we have fought against the Anti-Imperialists.” A shout rose from many eager mouths loosened with alcohol. Lord Edwin silenced them with a glare as piercing and cold as an icicle. “However,” he continued, “I beg upon you to save that courage, for the many fights in the future. Our Empire has a new enemy, from its heart. In this telegram, I have received from Auriza, I have learned that a coup has occurred, the Emperor deposed.” Lord Edwin paused to draw in his breath as we all held ours. “Three hundred years have passed since the so-called “Dawn of Dusk,” when the Anti- Imperial Alliance made the mistake of taking arms against the Empire. Much has occurred in these years. I have seen friends perish, families ripped apart, towns and cities flattened. My father never lived to see an end to the devastation. In winning this war, we have sacrificed everything. But, one thing we have not lost is our resolve. Despite our differences in race, class, and occupation, we all have gold flowing in our veins, filling us with strength, bravery, and intelligence. The war has been hard, but I believe that nothing can defeat us. If you wish to see your home, your wife, your children, follow me, and we will fight for all of them. For all people, for all families, for all wives and sweethearts, for all children, and for our Emperor!” Lord Edwin took the wine goblet in his hand, raised it to his lips, and downed all of it. He slammed it onto the table, sending it flying, after he finished. “We will leave tomorrow.” Robb Soslow
Mr. Kolade
English III
11 December 2016
The Trail
He picked up the pants and kept walking. A screen door slammed behind him and he flinched as a dog responded with a bark that echoed through the dusty town. He turned onto a wide dirt path that led out of the town and towards yellowed fields spattered with the cooking fires that hailed the sunset. Stepping into the stolen trousers, he checked the pockets and pulled a worn map out of the back pocket. Placing it back, he hitched up the trousers as they slipped off his thin hips.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him of how long it had been since he last ate. He stopped on the path and turned from side to side. He was surrounded by wagons and campfires, while the scent of hundreds cooking dinners wafted through the frigid air. He shivered and drew his coat, which hung low and loose, closer to his shoulders. He stepped off the path and under the shadow of a smaller wagon. Seeing the cookfire so close within the circle of wagons, he crept to it and grasped the ladle that hung next to the pot. His hands shook as he lifted it to his lips.
“I wouldn’t do that, you red-skinned bastard.”
And the world went dark.
He heard voices, gruff and low, nearby. He raised his head, but returned it to the coarse cloth as pain spiked through his skull. A nearly inaudible moan escaped his lips, and the back of the wagon broke open with sunlight. Hands reached for him and pulled him out. Some were soft, but most were the weathered, tough leather of men that had worked since they first came out of the womb. “Do you speak English?” a deep, strong voice asked him. He responded with a weak nod.
“What is your name?” the man growled, searching the coat with his large hands. “Woolrich?” the man questioned, pulling the tag out of the coat. Woolrich nodded, and the man placed something cool on his chest. Reaching up weakly with his hands, Woolrich felt a mug of water and managed to pour some in his mouth. Opening his eyes, Woolrich saw for the first time where he was.
Surrounded by men, women, and young children, Woolrich sighed and sat up wincing as the pain once again struck at his temples. The man closest to him reached out with his hand, and Woolrich accepted it, letting the man pull him upright. “The name’s Henry Cornwallis,” the man grumbled,
“can’t believe I let my chowderhead wife convince me, but you’re with us. It’s since you’re a young’n and all. Don’t let that fool you into thinking you’ll get away with nippin’ at my dinner though. God right I rapped you right on the head for that one.” Woolrich fell back down on the burlap and mumbled out something that could be passed as a “thank you”. The darkness reached out for him and the world fell gray once more.
Hazy, the nighttime bonfire pushed away the shadows. Woolrich could see his tribesmen around the bonfire, the ritual smoke from the pipes drifting lazily upward. The shaman hailed
Woolrich’s ancestors, pleading them to join the tribe as they celebrated Woolrich’s life. The shaman drew a circle around Woolrich’s body.
“Nature is a cycle, as is life and death. Bless this boy, and may the Nez Perce tribe live as long as he may live.”
Brightness and a sharp hunger snapped Woolrich out of his dream. He thought about the night his tribe left to fight for their lands. He remembered the screams and how he had escaped by playing dead even as his tribesmen were slaughtered around him. He could still remember his mother, eyes blank, next to him as he rose in the morning. Although the mud, mixed from blood and dirt, had long since been washed away, Woolrich could still feel it clinging to his skin. He rose, the pain in his skull merely a dizzying pinch, and followed his nose outside of the wagon. He could see Henry Cornwallis, a lady dressed in a wool blouse, and a young child around a familiar cookpot.
The group looked up as Woolrich stumbled out of the wagon and Henry patted next to himself, dust rising from the barren dirt.
“Come grab a bite to eat. You’ve got a long day ahead of you. This here’s the neighbor’s young’n,” Henry said, pointing to the boy, “and that there’s my wonderful lady, Rosemary
Cornwallis.”
“You’re the first savage I’ve met. Is it true that you people don’t wear clothes?” the boy said, looking up at Woolrich with inquisitive eyes.
A croak, raspy with disuse, answered the boy, “Only sometimes,” Woolrich smiled thinly. He shakily sat next to Henry, and picked up the placed bowl in front of him.
“I know it ain’t the finest fare, but you can bet that I can do miracles with any oat,”
Rosemary said. By the time she had finished her sentence, however, Woolrich had already begun scooping out the gruel with the back of his spoon. Henry, who saw this, wordlessly refilled
Woolrich’s bowl. Woolrich nodded at him appreciatively, and after finishing the second bowl the two stood up.
“You’ll be workin’ with me today. You’re too old to be workin’ with the kiddos, and I figure a savage like yourself should know how to hunt around these parts.” Henry said, walking away.
Woolrich followed. “Now I won’t arm ya, but I’ll teach the ropes of hunting on the go while the caravan is moving.”
“The caravan?”
Henry looked guilty. “The caravan, yep. We’re headed to Oregon. Nearly there too, only a month left.” Woolrich’s eyes widened at the word “Oregon” and he tripped and fell back. His legs were shaking as Henry pulled him back upward. “I don’t mean’ta enslave you or nothin’, but you was stealing from my cookpot that night.” an Irish brogue crept into Henry’s voice, “and I could see your ribs when you was asleep, I just figured you was one of them Indian refugees. Seems to me if I feed you and give you a bed, you pay with your trip in work and we’ll be happy.”
“I don’t want to go back there.”
“Back to Oregon? You sure you’ve got the right place?”
Woolrich looked at his hands and could imagine the mud from the night that was so many months ago. Henry had already turned around. Woolrich caught up with him as they entered the main wagon area. In the early morning he could see the men up, likely headed to jobs not so dissimilar to the one Henry and himself would be attending to today. The other men refused to look at Woolrich, keeping their eyes to the dirt or to each other as they walked in groups. The women and children and however, stared at him openly. The women shot Woolrich distrustful gazes while the children gave him the same curious look that the neighbor’s child had given him this morning.
Woolrich and Henry stepped away from the main complex, and Henry hailed the two men approaching them from the left.
“Morning Charles, morning Samuel. How goes it?”
“We’re off to collect fuel for tonight. We’ll spend as much as time as possible to escape those hair-splitting wives of ours,” said the man on the left. “The name’s Charles. Fancy meeting one of your kind this morning.” Charles stuck out his right hand, and Woolrich grasped it.
“Woolrich.”
“Like the coat brand? Damn, unlucky name.” Charles laughed, and the four men continued on their separate ways.
The sun was setting by the time Woolrich and Henry returned to the moving camp.
Woolrich carried a deer over his back, shifting it from side to side to keep the blood from falling on him. They had spotted the deer separate from the pack, and Henry had unslung his rifle and beamed it right between its the eyes. A few wives cheered as the two carried the carcass into camp and the children ran to the two men, asking about the hunt.
“It was all the savage. He knows these lands like no one else.” Henry said, smiling.
“It was Henry! He’s a deadeye with that rifle of his.” Woolrich responded with a light voice.
Rosemary and a few other wives took the carcass from Woolrich. Henry and Woolrich retired to the main campfire, both sighing as they finally got off their feet.
“Heckuva hunt, wasn’t it?” Henry said.
“Reminded me of home.”
Soon enough more men came home, some with food, some with wood, and some with nothing. They all gathered around the main fire as the women cooked, and soon the smell of a hundred cooked meals reached the noses of the men. Rosemary handed Woolrich a slab of venison, and Woolrich sat back and looked around. He was reminded of the communal dinners of the tribe.
He remembered when his elders sat around him, eating, laughing, and celebrating, much as the caravan was doing tonight.
It was dark when Woolrich returned to the Cornwallis’ wagon. Henry showed him his spot on the ground where he would sleep. Woolrich laid down on the ground and closed his eyes. Reality struck at him in the darkness of the night. Although he had been accepted into the caravan, he was the only one who was truly alone. He was the final vestige of his culture, his ancestry, and his people. The threat of this all disappearing ate at Woolrich. This loneliness struck deep at the heart of him, keeping him awake and unseeing for hours before sleep found him.
***
This pattern continued for weeks, and Woolrich could feel a sense of finality reaching him. It was the caravan’s inexorable march to Oregon, and Woolrich could not help but feel as if fate had tied him to that ground. Henry, Charles, and Samuel, whom Woolrich had grown close with over the last few weeks, did not understand Woolrich’s growing anxiety. The caravan neared Oregon, and
Woolrich quietly suggested an area in which the caravan could settle. Slowly, surely, the wagons reached familiar lands. Woolrich lead them to a wide, high plateau. The grass had regrown.
“It’s beautiful here.” Henry remarked, as the two of them stood side by side. The plateau overlooked a long forest and Woolrich could see the smoke and rough buildings of a nearby settlement. A deep satisfaction filled Woolrich. He had filled his land with people. Perhaps not the
Nez Perce, but they were Woolrich’s people, and that was enough. That night, after dinner,
Woolrich laid down. Sleep came easily.
I am a child among no children. I remember a game my mother would play with me when I was very young. When I was being a brat or just being annoying she’d say, “watch out now, you know my other son would never do that,” or “if you do that again I’ll give your toys to my other son.” She called him the “Invisible Boy,” and I sometimes looked for him around the house. I would use logos, and I would debate with her on the many reasons why this other child couldn’t possibly exist. I’ve always liked to debate. But just how persuasive could a toddler be on such a topic? So after these debates I often pondered, could it actually be so? If so, why would she hide him from me? Did she love him more? The game often left me feeling confused, and realizing that I secretly wanted another sibling. So when I looked for him around the house, I held an inkling of hope that I might one day find him. But the only boy there was me. I often asked my parents why I had no siblings. The simple answer was usually a cheerful, “because we have you.” But as time goes on, the real answers to our questions can never remain sugar-coated. They were young and unmarried and poor. Even having me was a struggle: they simply couldn’t afford it, especially not if they wanted to send me to a private school and afford me the best education possible. Thus, an only child I stayed. My parents come from large families. My father has four siblings, and my mother has six. My parents have ten siblings combined. They are the babies in their families. None of my aunts or uncles have kids. Without cousins or siblings, I am a child among no children. I was in middle school when I asked my grandmother about this very same phenomenon. I thought it was odd, and she must have as well. She told me that as she saw my father and his siblings grow up, it became a real possibility that she might not have grandchildren. She accepted that. But here I am, and here I remain, living, breathing, a constant reminder of narrowing odds that ended happily for her. She’s gotten to see me grow, mature, laugh, smile, and cry, and that’s all she really wants. I’ve always received a lot of attention from my family. My parents don’t have other children to expend their energy on, or to spread their love. My grandparents have no other grandchildren to impart the stories of their lives, or the sagacity they’ve acquired through having experienced my lifetime many times over. My aunts and uncles have no children of their own to worry about, to spend sleepless nights fearing for their futures in this world. I am that child, for all of them. My parents have crippling fears. They know things; and they’ve seen things that make them want to lock me away forever, just so they’ll never have to risk losing their child to the wilderness of life. This is a reality I face, for them and for myself. Ta-Nehisi Coates talks of the black body, and how ours have been perverted, abused, and corrupted. I leave my house every morning, aware of the fact that on any day, my body could be destroyed, reason or otherwise. I would never tell my parents or grandparents this, but it weighs down upon my shoulders too—it burns my throat, and it churns my stomach. I am responsible for securing my body, securing my history, and for securing a future. I am the end-all and be-all of my family’s lineages. The past narrows down to one singular point, which is me. I am the continuation of myself, and the continuation of my family. I am the end and the beginning to an entire history, which spans eons and eons into the environs of human recorded history. I am the keeper of years which are forgotten by the living, and yet, I am also the key which unlocks the door to a new age. What’s lonelier than that? A Lost Cause
He wanders around the desert, the army fatigues he wishes he had never donned coated with sweat. The wound on his shaved head still bleeds from the escape. He can feel the blood dripping down his neck, pooling in the collar of his olive green t-shirt. It only makes him hotter.
To most, he is a boy, no older than eighteen. Yet his eyes have seen things no one should ever see. It is this that makes him a man.
The man remembers as he walks through the heat. He can hear the voice of his drill sergeant yelling at him to move faster. He can feel the touch of metal on his finger as it tightens around the trigger, firing down range. Bull’s-eye after bull’s-eye after bull’s-eye. He remembers the pain from the surgery. The new government designed it to turn him from a soldier into the ultimate weapon. The knives that cut into his joints, the razor that opened his skull. Vibrating waves of pure agony echoed over his body, so he passed out, succumbing to the torture designed to improve him. Most of all, he remembers her. The nurse who helped him recover from the pain. Her glowing face and smile gave him the strength to keep going. He needs her now, and she is nowhere to be found.
The man closes his eyes, tears streaming down his face. He doesn’t want to remember, not anymore. He can’t take the pain. Yet the memories continue as if they had a mind of their own.
***
The boy was young when the current government took over. His parents explained to him that the President could only serve two terms for a maximum of eight years in office, but the current one had managed to stay in power for eight years after that. The boy didn’t know it at the time, but the President had bought or blackmailed or every single politician he needed to complete his takeover. He and his partners wanted power, and were willing to do anything to get it. They started recruiting for the army when the boy was in high school. There was a fitness test administered every year, and when he was a junior, he scored higher than anyone ever had.
Before he had even gotten home from school that day, the two men were already at his door.
They were taller than six feet and had shoulders nearly as wide as the door frame. Their faces were locked in the same emotionless expression and their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.
They explained to his parents that he had been selected for a program that would make him the
Protector of the Country. If he survived. The boy was shoved into the backseat of the car, the door locking behind him before he could recover. He turned around, peering through the tinted window, and got one final glimpse of his parents: his mother sobbing into his father’s shoulder.
***
The boy stared down range at the ripped up targets one thousand feet away. He took a long breath, and then squeezed the trigger. The noise was deafening; he had never gotten used to it. “Bull’s eye. That’s a fucking shot.” The boy glanced over at his sergeant, who was preoccupied with his binoculars, and sighed. He was one of the last two standing. The majority had died in hand-to-hand bouts. Fights were to the death and could last no longer than ten minutes. The people in charge weren’t looking for survivors; it didn’t matter how long a recruit lasted in the ring if he couldn’t finish the job, so they did it instead. The boy never had to worry about that. His fights never lasted longer than five. The last stage of training was long range shooting. His sergeant had called him over for an individual session. The sergeant said he wanted to “see what the boy was made of.” The boy had no choice but to comply. “Start moving across to the left. Hit every target you see along the way.” He tilted his rifle to the next red painted paper, took an exaggerated breath, and fired. “Again.” Another move, another shot, another bull’s eye. “Again.” The boy moved again to find his last competitor tied up to a post, his face painted red in the form of target markers. “This is your last test. It’s one thing to be able to hit a piece of paper. It’s entirely different to hit a human being. But if you can’t, you’re no help to your country.” The boy lined up a shot, but hesitated before the breath. Through the scope, he could see the sweat falling down the target’s face; his mouth tightened in an expression of worry so powerful that the boy could practically feel it from behind his blindfolded eyes. “Take him out!” He steadied himself, took one more breath, looked at that face one last time, and fired. The boy hit him right between the eyes and his head exploded in a shower of red. “Nice shot, Roman.
Nice shot.”
***
The government put the boy in a rehab center they made especially for him. He knew how important he was for them, but he was not ready. He held himself up by his arms, grabbing onto the two wooden bars that stretch out forever in front of him. He tried to take a step with the legs that no longer felt familiar. He fell and she rushed over to help. The empathy in her eyes as she stood with his arm wrapped around her shoulder was the thing he had grown to love the most. Everyone else knew what he was. She was the only one who understood who he was. “You still haven’t told me what your name is.” She laughed and said, “I’ll tell you when you make it to the other side.” The day started to go by, every minute punctuated by a loud crash, an annoyed grunt, and her picking him up off the ground. The boy gained strength with every step, yet he never reached the end of those two wooden beams. He wanted to quit, end the whole thing without taking another step, but she wouldn’t let him. She needed him to try one last time. He started forward again and tripped over his own feet, catching himself before he hit the ground.
The boy glanced over towards the nurse, a pathetic look in his eyes. Her smile was gone, replaced by a look of disappointment. He took a deep breath, and started again. His sweaty hands slid across the wooden beams, not slipping off. The feeling in his toes returned for the first time since the surgery, and the strength in the legs fully recovered. He reached the other side of the six foot walkway, his hands no longer grasping the railing like it was a crutch. He looked over at her one last time; her smile was wider than he had ever seen.
***
The man has been following the road for hours. Or what he loosely calls a road; it is only a pair of faded tire tracks etched in the sand. The sun is scorching his back, and the sweat that falls off of his skull runs into the cut on his head. While the pain would be unbearable for some, he is used to it by now. They engineered him that way. While he is not thirsty, the man knows he will need water soon. He puts a hand over his eyes and peers as far into the desert as he can. All he can see is the sand.
***
“You’ve got one minute.” The guards in front of his room had allowed the nurse to visit him before he was put on assignment. The boy could not describe her with any word other than radiant: a solitary light of beauty and positivity in an otherwise dark world. She sat on the bed next to him, and he locked his perpetually bruised hands with hers. “You’re going to be okay, you know? You’ve regained all your strength and more since we started. You’ll be fine.” That wasn’t the boy’s problem. He had started to feel more and more like a weapon; he didn’t like feeling like one. “Just promise me something. Don’t let this change you, Roman. Wherever you go, wherever they send you, stay who you are. Stay the sweet boy I know.” She leaned in. The boy was dragged away before their lips could touch.
***
The boy rose from the bush he was hiding behind. The dark clouds dumping rain in buckets covered the full moon. The power had already been shut off. Darkness surrounded the boy, but he could see anyway. He knew his orders and followed them exactly. The rain ran off his face as he moved from the bush. The guards were scrambling; the search had made them jumpy. They still couldn’t tell who turned off the power. He climbed through his target’s window, the guards too preoccupied to notice. The supposed terrorist remained asleep. The boy walked up to the target and pulled the trigger. He started back towards the window, as cold as the weapon he carried. The door to the bedroom opened, and a little girl entered with a toothy smile stretching across her face. It died when she saw the blood on the pillowcase. “Papa?” she called as she rushed over. The boy could see the tears build up until she exploded in a fit of sobs and shouts of “Papa.” The man left before he was discovered. It was not until he watched the news the following morning when he realized he was lied to. “Assassination of Newly Elected
President” flashed across the screen.
***
The military base was lit up, so it was impossible to sneak out. He just had to run and would worry about the rest later. He had barely made it five steps from the window before the other soldiers started firing. The general had tipped them off about their conversation and the man’s desire to leave, so the soldiers were ready. Bullets sprayed behind him and he took off, firing from his sidearm. Four. A soldier in the watchtower in front of him fell from the railing. Three. Another one trying to get on a motorcycle collapsed in a pool of blood. He sprinted over to the motorcycle. Two, One. Two more trying to close the front gate fall over. He started the bike and drove through the gate. A car with another soldier in the back chased after him. He
swerved around the road trying to avoid the shots that echoed around him. One grazed his head,
nearly knocking him off the bike. He turned around and fired. The bullet went through the
driver’s head. The car went shooting off the road and he could hear the sound of an explosion
from behind him. Zero. The man continued driving, the orange light from the car fire flickering behind him.
***
The man collapses in the rocky sand, crying. Everything begins to fly through his head.
The brainwashed soldiers he kills in the escape. His drive further and further into the desert,
making sure he would not be followed. Running out of gas, shortly followed by water.
The wind blows sand into his tear-filled eyes. The man takes his hands to his eyes, trying
to remove the pieces of rock that blind him. He stands as he rubs, and when he can see again, he
opens his eyes. A ranch house looms ahead, lights seeping from the windows indicating that life
remains inside. An old, horribly dusty pickup truck sits in the driveway; the bundles of hay
loaded in the back the only proof of its use. One final memory enters his brain: the smiling face
of his nurse. “I will come back for you,” he says aloud. “I haven’t given up yet.”
Punk Rock Bowling by Stephen Boerner ‘17
Driving through New Jersey is never interesting. I will forever remember that afternoon. We set up The consistency of the rolling, green landscape, lush camp in a corner maybe thirty yards from the stage, with midsummer foliage lulled me to sleep. Every once right on the edge of the pit. The lazy summer evening in a while I would stir from my stupor, stunned to find I flowed on as band after band took the stage and shook had drifted off again. the venue. The metaphorical call to worship, a single “Yo, you good?” The words floated from the guitar note, announced the arrival of a new band and driver’s seat and crashed into my barely conscious brain the masses would slowly move from the merch stands for the second time. back to the stage and the band would play. So the process repeated, each band topping the next, until the “Yeah, I’ll make it. Let’s find a Wawa or time came for CockSParrer. something though.” They took the stage, men just breaking 60, and the “I’ve got something better than coffee.” crowd erupted. Chris and I shoved our way to the direct “I wasn't really thinking coffee, maybe a 5-Hour- front middle of the pit and waited. A solid bass line Energy.” A harsh diminished chord shredded the end of erupted from the powerful subwoofers and I turned to my sentence as a heavy machine-gun drum beat rushed my brother. We bumped fists as the pit descended into from the speakers in the car. chaos. Elbows and shoulders and fists and knees, a “CockSParrer? Really? We’re gonna hear them live swirling vortex of fans releasing their emotions as one. in like eight hours, dude.” Once every thirty seconds or so I would come across “That's the point. Get hype!” my brother, and we’d lock eyes. I could see the concern in his, wanting to make sure I was safe. I flashed him a About halfway through his Strength Through Oi grin and shoved him back into the fray. playlist, Chris turned off the highway and into suburban New Jersey. We filled the ten minutes of New Jerseyan “‘Ere’s a song called ‘Workin’.” The cockney infrastructure with the obligatory roasting of the entire accent was the thickest I had ever heard. state, but then I rolled down my window. I quickly pushed my way over to Chris and he “Turn off the radio. Listen.” knew exactly what the plan was. We linked arms around each other’s shoulders as the guitar riff blared and then “Oh, shit, are we close?” promptly flung ourselves into the middle of the pit. “Sounds like, yeah.” Spinning around each other, a roiling mass of elbows Listening intently, we began to pick up the familiar and shoulders, we were flung around the circle that had sounds of a festival: yelling, cheering, and music. formed in the middle of the crowd. They passed us around and around and around, no one was able to stop We were outside the car, walking, walking, turn a us. There even came a point when I wasn’t sure I was street corner and there’s the venue. The sea breezes even in control of my own balance. Eventually we wafted over the dividers and created a pleasant toppled to the ground and were quickly helped up by temperature. My brother strode with purpose, I lagged the fans around us. CockSParrer finished their set and behind. From his freshly spiked mohawk to the steel said their goodbyes. toes in his boots, it was obvious to any outsider that he I fell asleep on the way home, feeling fully a part belonged there. of this brand new world. The security checkpoint spit us into the fray. I donned my freshly purchased “Here We Stand” album tee and instantly felt more involved. I was hype. I was ready.
Answering “Who’s There?”
Hamlet’s Identity Crisis
The Medical Dictionary states: “A person has an identity crisis when he or she is in a
psychosocial state of disorientation and role confusion because of conflicting internal and
external experiences, pressures, and expectations”(Medical Dictionary 3). According to
Raymond Martin’s article “Identity’s Crisis”,“identity is all but invariably correlated with other
characteristics of persons which are primarily what matters in survival” (Martin 295). In Hamlet, by William Shakespeare, a tragedy about the prince of Denmark, Hamlet’s identity crisis is due
to the death of his father and the unfamiliar pressures of his new life. Hamlet’s world turns
upside down when the ghost of his father, the former King of Denmark, demands that he avenge
his murder by killing his uncle, the new king. The conundrum that Hamlet faces, forces the
young prince out of his pedestaled comfort zone, causing him to act insane. Although Hamlet is
pretending to be a madman, there are moments in the play where the audience questions
Hamlet’s actual sanity because of his actions and thoughts in his soliloquies. As Raymond
Martin alludes to in his article, when a person is insane or in a “psychosocial state of
disorientation and role confusion”, he or she is experiencing an identity crisis (Medical
Dictionary 3). Hamlet’s identity crisis is caused by the result of the tragic events he faces and the
way he copes with his unfortunate circumstances. As shown by the opening line of the play,
“Who’s there?”, it is not surprising that the examination of identity will be a commonly
occurring motif in Hamlet (1.1.1). Hamlet is introduced to the audience as a mourning son during his first interaction with
his uncle, King Claudius. Yearning to leave the place where his father died, Hamlet asks
Claudius to continue studying at Wittenberg in Germany, but is forced to stay in Denmark.
Trapped by his watchful and leery uncle, Hamlet is forced to confront the inccesstious marriage
of his mother and uncle, and accept Claudius as the new King of Denmark, which he wished to
avoid by leaving Denmark. As any mourning individual, Hamlet is emotionally fragile, but
Claudius and Gertrude expect him to portray emotional toughness in spite of his father’s
questionable demise and act as if virtually nothing has changed. In reality, Hamlet is torn apart by the tragedies and conflicts he faces. Hamlet loses his sense of identity because of his father’s
death, mother’s incestous’ marriage, and the life he was once accustomed to, having been
irreversibly changed for the worse.
A death of a family member is a traumatizing event for any person. From the beginning
of the play, Hamlet is grieving the death of his father. With everything in the world seemingly against him, Hamlet loses all sense of happiness in his life and says, “How
and unprofitable/ Seem to me all the uses of this world!” (1.2.137-138). Unsympathetically, King
Claudius patronizes the emotionally damaged Hamlet for mourning the death of the former king
by saying “but to persevere/ in obstinate condolement is a course/ of impious stubbornness.’Tis
unmanly grief. It shows a will most incorrect to heaven” (1. 2.96-98). The conversation between
Hamlet and Claudius introduces the strife between the two characters that will dominate the play.
Hamlet juxtaposes his perfect father to inferior Claudius by looking at him as “a little more than
kin and less than kind” (1.2.67) and as “my father’s brother, but no more like my father/Than I to
Hercules.” (1.2.157-158). Even Gertrude tries to console Hamlet by saying:
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not forever with thy vailèd lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity. (1.2.70-75)
For Hamlet, Gertrude´s disloyalty angers him and causes him to distrust his mother. In the prince's eyes, the queen should be mourning with him, if not even more than him. Even worse,
Gertrude’s marriage to his uncle, the new king, is a betrayal on par with Judas and Jesus Christ.
Hamlet's rage at Claudius and Gertrude leads to him questioning whether life is worth living. In the article, “A National Target for Reducing Suicide: Important to Mental Health Strategy as
Well as for Suicide Prevention”, Keith Hawton states: “suicide is usually the tragic end point of various possible pathways, influenced by mental ill health and psychological, socioeconomic, familial, interpersonal, and genetic factors.” (Hawton 156). Hawton suggests that those with mental illnesses are more likely to commit suicide, therefore the insane Hamlet, considers suicide as a result of the familial and psychological factors that he tries to cope with. Whenever someone considers suicide, the person is suffering from a serious identity crisis. In Hamlet, Hamlet loses his identity because the world he once knew is no more, causing him to consider suicide.
Without a sense of self importance and a will to live, the identity-less Hamlet falls into a deep depression. Hamlet’s distress and grief is demonstrated by the way he interacts with the other characters in the play, and the way he displays himself to everyone. During Hamlet's first dialogue with King Claudius and Queen Gertrude, he says:
’Tis not alone my inky cloak,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can
Hamlet´s expression of sorrow demonstrates that he is emotionally unstable and that he is unpredictable. Hamlet loses his sense of purpose for life and the will to live. When someone loses the will to live, that person loses his sense of purpose to live therefore loses his or her identity.
All of Hamlet's emotions pour out in his first soliloquy where he bemoans his inability to carry out the act of committing suicide. Instead, Hamlet wishes that he simply cease to exist by saying “O, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt,/ Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,” (1.2.134-135). In addition to Hamlet’s feelings of abandonment, he views the marriage as incestous and disgusting. Hamlet’s first soliloquy reflects his deep affection for his beloved father by portraying the dead king as a loving husband and a respected father. Seeing how
Hamlet believes that there is only evil in the world, we can conclude that the loss of both of his parents has undone Hamlet to the point of insanity. Hamlet’s use of words gives insight into his character’s identity. Explaining to Gertrude, Hamlet says his gloomy temperament is not his true character, and that although he is genuinely sorrowful, there is more to his grievous and peculiar behaviour than meets the eye. When Hamlet says, “These indeed ‘seem’, / For they are actions that a man might play,” he asserts that he holds the ability to alternate between different
identities (1.2.86-87). Hamlet reveals that he is able to distinguish between the way he seems, acts, and the way he truly is. In this soliloquy, he acts as the lamenting son bewildered by his mother and uncle.
In Act 1 Scene 5, the ghost of Hamlet’s father orders Hamlet to avenge his death by killing Claudius, but instead, Hamlet indirectly thinks of a plan for revenge. Hamlet’s second soliloquy occurs right after the ghost disappears and tells Hamlet that the person responsible for his “foul and most unnatural murder” is the “the serpent that did sting thy father’s life/Now wears his crown”, his uncle and current king, Claudius (1.5.31,46-47). The second soliloquy is
Hamlet’s self reflection of rage and grief after hearing the ghost’s announcement. Hamlet is shell shocked by his father’s news:
Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember thee?
Yea, from the table of my memory
I’ll wipe away all trivial, fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there,
And thy commandment all alone shall live. (1.5.104-109)
Hamlet swears to obey the ghost by following his orders to the point where nothing else in the world will matter because he has devoted the rest of his life to killing Claudius, creating a new identity as the vengeful son. In order to avenge his father, Hamlet feigns insanity and focuses all his efforts on revenge by erasing all other thoughts from his mind. However, due to Hamlet’s
decision to act deranged, he actually loses his sense of identity because he is not able to separate deception from reality.
Hamlet’s identity as a coward is shown in the third soliloquy of Act 2 Scene 2. The soliloquy begins with his solitude, not only physically, but also emotional isolation because no one else knows his elaborate plot of feigning insanity. Claudius tells Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern to betray their friend, Hamlet, and keep a close eye on him because Claudius knows that Hamlet has somehow figured out that he killed his father. Hamlet compares himself to an actor who has just performed a monologue requiring fictitious emotional distress. Hamlet questions his own ability to be emotional because of his cowardice and lack of action towards his father’s revenge. Hamlet’s anxiety stems from his inability to avenge his father’s death, even though he is incredibly angry at Claudius. Realizing how mentally weak he is, Hamlet questions his sincerity and ability to actually murder Claudius because it is something out of his comfort zone since it is something he has never done before. Hamlet’s awareness of his cowardice and incompetence to be loyal to his father portrays his struggle with his identity of being a loyal son and brave man.
In Hamlet’s fourth soliloquy in Act 3, Scene 1, his struggle with his identity is at its maximum because he starts with the problem of, “To be or not to be/That is the question”
(3.1.64-65). In this soliloquy, Hamlet toys with the idea of suicide again. Hamlet’s dilemma comes in two options; whether to sit silently and let life and all its cruelties control him or to put up a fight against the adversities of life. The easy option that allows Hamlet to escape this predicament is suicide because once someone is dead all the troubles and problems of life no longer exist:
To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
Although suicide would rid Hamlet of all his problems, he ponders the consequences of taking his own life. Hamlet questions whether or not death is truly a way out or merely a continuous of suffering. The fourth soliloquy gives insight to Hamlet’s inner thoughts and his struggle with his identity as a person because his main hindrance from committing suicide are the unknown consequences. If Hamlet had completed his task of avenging his father, he would be content on knowing that he is not a coward like he thinks of himself in the third soliloquy. Hamlet is fearful that the afterlife may be more miserable than he is in his current life. As someone who lacks an identity, Hamlet’s desire to understand what comes after death is an example of him searching for a better life, a life where he knows his self worth.
In Act 3, Scene 2, Hamlet is called on by Gertrude, but before he goes to her chambers, he delivers his fifth soliloquy. Hamlet decided that he should “be cruel, not unnatural” (3.2.428) when talking to his mother. This short soliloquy focuses on the upcoming conversation between
Hamlet and his mother, Queen Gertrude, and the struggle of becoming the strong and defiant son he wishes to portray to Gertrude. Unlike Hamlet’s comfortable identity of being the invertebrate who cannot fulfill his dead father’s desire. He vows to treat her harshly as the disloyal traitor she
is to his father, but to refrain from harming her as his father asked him to do, saying, “I will speak daggers to her, but use none” (3.2.429)
In Act 3, Scene 3 Hamlet has an excellent opportunity to avenge his father and kill King
Claudius, but he restrains himself when he remembers that while Claudius is in the act of praying and seeking forgiveness for his sins, killing him will send him directly to Heaven. To Hamlet,
Hell is the only place deserving of Claudius, therefore he does not kill him. In “Is Heaven a
Possible World” written by Douglas Erlandson and Charles Sayward, they state: “evil does not exist in heaven, and heaven is better than the present world.” (Erlandson, Sayward 55). For
Hamlet, Claudius is evil and Heaven is not a place for someone like him. Hamlet’s sixth soliloquy epitomizes Hamlet’s thought process throughout the entire scene. He says that it will be unfair, if he himself sends the murderer of his father straight to heaven, since that will be no revenge at all. Hamlet thinks that King Claudius killed his father in a state, when there was no reason for God to wave King Hamlet’s sins and misdeeds, and Hamlet’s father must have paid the penalty of his crimes and sins. Now to kill Claudius in a position, where his sins will be ignored and he will be sent straight to heaven, a place where “neither suffer or commit evil” is no revenge at all and not somewhere Claudius should be able to go (Erlandson, Sayward 57) .
Hence, Hamlet decides not to fulfill his task this time. He tells himself to wait for an opportunity and kill the king when he is “drunk, asleep, or in his rage,/ or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed,/ at gaming, swearing or about some act/ that has no relish of salvation in it.” (3.3.94-97) In this way, when King Claudius will be killed, he will have to pay for his sins and misdeeds, and will be wholly accountable for his crimes, justifying the act of revenge and the promise Prince
Hamlet made to his beloved, dead father.
Throughout the entire play, Hamlet struggles with the motivation to carry out the killing of Claudius. In Act 4, Scene 4, Hamlet sees Fortinbras leading his army through Denmark to invade a section of Poland, a small area which “hath in it no profit, but the name.” (4.4.20) Once again, Hamlet wonders why someone else holds the ability to execute an order with so little motivation, but he himself has all the cause in the world to avenge his father, but he has still not done the task. Hamlet delivers his last soliloquy with great anger at himself because he has the
“cause, and will, and strength, and means/ To do ’t”, but his cowardice prevents him from acting
(4.4.48-49). Fortinbras, on the other hand, leads an “army of such mass and charge” that may cause “The imminent death of twenty thousand men” all for “evan for an eggshell” (4.4.50, 63,
56). Hamlet’s final soliloquy portrays his identity as someone who always thinks of an excuse and has the tendency to think instead of act, as also shown in previous soliloquies. Hamlet remembers his powerful motivation that tortures him everyday, which is “father killed, a mother stained” and decides to finally act upon his word (4.4.60). Act 4, Scene 4 is a turning point for
Hamlet’s identity where he stops making excuses and fantasizing about revenge and instead starts acting on it.
In Act 5, Hamlet is a changed man who begins to speak a greater sense of confidence in of his life. Hamlet responds to Laertes’ challenge with a confidence unknown to the audience because he allows fate decide the outcome, as he is content that he may possibly die in the duel by saying,“If it be
337), finally fulfilling his role as revenger.
When Hamlet delivers his soliloquies, his thoughts and emotions are all poured out for
the reader to analyze. The soliloquies are the only time when Hamlet’s acting and sincerity are
displayed to the audience, but not to the other characters of Hamlet. When the prince is in solitude, alone with his thoughts, Hamlet’s true identity is exposed. The best glimpse of
Hamlet’s character is given when he is speaking to himself, soliloquizing. The audience watches
as he unravels his sincere conscience and thoughts about how he should deal with his current
circumstances. Hamlet’s soliloquies expose Hamlet and his problems of identity. Hamlet’s
awareness of becoming multiple identities encourages him to become someone else for one
ultimate goal, avenge his father. Hamlet’s soliloquies reveal his progression towards his ultimate
identity as a brave son obeying his father’s wishes. During Hamlet’s soliloquies, the prince
struggles with his personal reflections on existence such as when he questions “to be or not to
be”, portraying his struggle for identity. In every soliloquy, more and more of the the prince’s
character is revealed, showing Hamlet’s identity crisis. Hamlet’s complexity does not give the
audience an answer to what is Hamlet’s true identity.
Works Cited:
Erlandson, Douglas and Sayward, Charles. “Is Heaven a Possible World?” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion Vol. 12, No. 1 (1981), pp. 55-58. Web…
Hawton, Keith. “A National Target for Reducing Suicide: Important for Mental Health Strategy
as Well as for Suicide Prevention”. BMJ: British Medical Journal Vol. 317, No. 7152
(Jul. 18, 1998), pp. 156-157. Web…
Martin, Raymond. “Identity Crisis”. Philosophical Studies: An International Journal for
Philosophy in the Analytic Tradition Vol. 53, No. 2 (Mar., 1988), pp. 295-30. Web…
“Identity crisis” Medical-Dictionary. TheFree Dictionary. com, The Free Dictionary, 2016.
Web...
Shakespeare, William, Barbara A. Mowat, Paul Werstine, and Folger Shakespeare Library. The
Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Simon & Schuster paperback ed. New York:
Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2012.
If It’s Backwards, It Must Be Right David McKay
Always tell the truth. Hold the door for others. Respect and obey those who are older than you and are in charge. Treat others the way you want to be treated. As children, our parents, teachers, and books taught and engrained these simple moral guidelines into our. They taught us the importance of respect, honesty, integrity, and the most important of all: always do what is right, even when no one is looking. These moral principles seemed to be lacking in the 2016 Presidential campaigns.
As I sat on the leather couch in the living room on a pleasant, yet ordinary
September night with my parents and my older sister, I could smell the apple spice candle burning in the kitchen, permeating throughout the house. My eyes gazed towards the television like a child who just walked into a candy shop. Tonight was a special night; I wore my glasses, a rare occurrence while in the comfort of my own home. The candle and glasses signaled signs of a cheerful and tranquil night.
While I had sat at school earlier in the day, I secretly tried to speed up time, only to realize I did not possess that rather complicated power [thank you Interstellar]. From the moment I woke up in the morning to birds chirping and a bright beam of light shining through the French doors of my bedroom, I immediately wanted to fast forward to nine
O’clock that night. I refreshed my computer constantly throughout the day to catch up on the latest reactions on the many news websites and online forums. Some may call me a political enthusiast. Some might call me insane. But ever since the reelection of President
Obama, I had become infatuated with politics and the way in which society functions under the enormous Washington cloud of wealth, power, and corruption. “Good evening from Hofstra University in Hempstead, New York. I'm Lester
Holt, anchor of ‘NBC Nightly News.’ I want to welcome you to the first presidential debate,” I could tell by the look on his face and the tone of his voice that Lester tried to exude his feigned confidence.
My legs shook erratically. Hillary Clinton was poised and unperturbed, exuding her highest levels of confidence. Even as an audience member sitting in the comfort of my home, I was intimidated. Opening her remarks, Hillary explained, “First, we have to build an economy that works for everyone, not just those at the top.” My dad, without even the slightest hesitation, snickered.
“Oh I’m sure Hillary,” my dad uttered in a dismissive manner. “You were dead broke in 2000 and now you are worth one hundred and fifty million dollars. How does that happen?” We had not even gotten through the first ten minutes of the debate and the veins on my father's forehead bulged out of his skull. His eyebrows pointed towards his nose, and his eyes were like demons staring into the night. But his question caused me to deeply reflect. How does one go from being dead broke to being worth millions of dollars?
The debate slowly rolled on, Donald and Hillary [do they honestly deserve last name recognition] continued to throw short jabs and one-liners at each other, hoping to provoke a laugh or gasp from the audience. I could feel myself slowly drowsing off, certainly since the first thirty minutes were focused on the monotonous issues regarding.
My eyes flickered, mustering what little strength I had to force them open. Similar to a mother lion protecting her cubs, the words Trump and Taxes in the same sentence jolted energy to my eyelids, which promptly fluttered open. Those two words were the gasoline that kept my eyes running. Quickly, I began refocusing my attention on to the TV screen.
Hillary, taking advantage of her prepared remarks, immediately jumped in saying,
“Third, we don't know all of his business dealings, but we have been told through investigative reporting that he owes about $650 million to Wall Street and foreign banks.
Or maybe he doesn't want the American people, all of you watching tonight, to know that he's paid nothing in federal taxes.”
“That makes me smart,” Donald interjected.
The room swirled in a dark, fuzzy blur as I comprehended those words. My head began to spin in disbelief and confusion. I could feel the slow build up of pain in my forehead. My jaw stretched towards the floor. Had he just admitted that he did not pay taxes? Did he just imply Americans as stupid? I felt my teeth bite together, my cheeks lifted towards my eyes, and my eyebrows dropped. I was angry. I felt insulted. It was like
Hillary calling millions of Americans deplorables. How is it OK for someone not to pay taxes? How is it ok that I - a sixteen year old, who has paid taxes for money made during a summer job - follow the rules?
Talks of taxes turned to talks of emails. “He [Donald] also -- he also raised the issue of your emails. Do you want to respond to that?” Lester asked Hillary.
Hillary responded quickly, as if she had been prepared for this question. She said,
“I do. You know, I made a mistake using a private e- mail. And if I had to do it over again, I would, obviously, do it differently. But I'm not going to make any excuses. It was a mistake, and I take responsibility for that.” I sat, angered. First, a continuous eye roll, followed by a loud sigh. I felt the inside of my chest begin to heat up. I could feel the words quickly rising from my stomach to my throat. I wanted to scream. I boisterously wanted to say, LIAR! But the words were never able to materialize. I had never been so angry in my entire life. On one hand, we had one candidate who had never paid taxes and essentially referred to the American people as stupid. On the other, we had a candidate who continued to lie to the American people about why she created a private server and why she deleted thirty three thousand emails. All I could do was slowly hang my head in shame, wondering how we allowed ourselves to being cornered into this position.
Itching to get a word in, Donald interrupted saying, “That was not a mistake. That was done purposely. When you have your staff taking the Fifth Amendment, taking the
Fifth so they're not prosecuted, when you have the man that set up the illegal server taking the Fifth, I think it's disgraceful. And believe me, this country thinks it's -- really thinks it's disgraceful, also.”
For the first time the entire debate, or rather his whole campaign, I had agreed with Donald. Some sign of hope had finally materialized. As I thought to myself, I realized that it is disgraceful that we, as the American people, have allowed for this to continue on for so long.
The corruption, the lies, the thirst for power was distracting us from the very principles this country was founded on.
And the night was sadly not over. Talks of substance on the issues affecting
Americans turned to talks of temperament and offensive comments about women. As both candidates frivolously grilled each other on temperament, Hillary said. “And one of the worst things he said was about a woman in a beauty contest. He loves beauty contests, supporting them and hanging around them. And he called this woman ‘Miss Piggy.’ Then he called her ‘Miss Housekeeping,’ because she was Latina. Donald, she has a name.” I felt as if this final remark had caused the blood in my body to reach its max boiling point.
Why is it ok for someone to not only criticize a woman for her looks but because of her race? What are we teaching the young men of today? That is it ok to treat women as sex objects - as lesser human beings? By the time the first hour had slowly passed, I willing changed the channel to something less angering. I forcefully swiped the remote from the table and furiously began punching in arbitrary number. It felt too hard to watch the morals of society slowly slip away and not be able to do anything but just watch.
As I reflect back on watching the most important political debate in modern
United States political history, all I can think about was shame. For the first time in my sixteen years as a human being on Earth and as an American citizen, I was ashamed. I was ashamed to be an American, something quite tactless of me to say. We praise those who do what is wrong. We follow and believe those who lie as if their life depended on it. We vote for and support those who take advantage of the system and the people of this country. I just wonder, what happened?
How did we as a country, who once prided ourselves as the moral standards for the world - the “city upon a hill” - somehow fall to the levels of the corrupt, greedy, and dishonest? Why do we look at these people as ones we aspire to be like? Why is it ok to teach young girls and young women that the only way a woman can succeed is to lie, cheat, and manipulate. Why is it ok to teach young boys and young men that it is ok to call women ugly and fats pigs?
I genuinely fear for this country. I fear that the morals it was built on will disappear into the abyss with no chance of ever returning. People frequently forget to realize that the President is the face of the nation. Yet, all we have to showcase is a demagogue and the Richard Nixon of the twenty first century. Things that in the past have been deemed wrong are somehow being deemed right. Is this truly the best we can offer? I know we are better than this. We deserve better than this.
While I personally can not vote, I have a voice. A voice that will willingly speak and support the truth. My eyes were truly opened to a problem in America: the quick moral decline of society. But I do have faith that we as a country - as a unified front without social divisions - can and will be able to get back on track. Because this is reversible. But it will take the right leadership and commitment to make it happen. And
2016 is not that year.
______
Fast forward to November Eight: a cold, rainy evening. Maybe this was a sign from above. I sat on the same, leather couch I sat on two months earlier. The only difference: what played on the TV. I was not watching two political figures fight to the death. I watched the results of the hardest fought campaign in history. My body felt as if I had drank half a bottle of Vodka and taken a whole bottle of Aspirin, helplessly trying to withstand an arduous night. Every state seemed too close to call: Florida, Ohio, North
Carolina, Pennsylvania, Michigan. You name it. I wondered to myself, how could it be this close? It came down to thousands of votes. New Hampshire, for example, resulted in a difference of three thousand votes. Three thousand.
I periodically checked Facebook throughout the night, trying to determine everyone's reactions to the live results. Some friends gloated and exuded their happiness; some expressed their downright anger. One friend - apart of the LGBTQ+ community and a student a NYU - posted, “If you voted for Trump, I want nothing to do with you. You either actively embody or passively support the worst kind of ideology that America has to offer and I cannot look past that … I’ll be better off without your active presence in my life.” I stared at my phone in total disbelief. I knew and could understand why people felt angry. But to see someone completely disassociate themselves with people who did not share their same views scared me - deeply. We do not need this division in our country, especially after this divisive election. We need to come together.
The night slowly pressed on. The ten on my phone gradually turned to eleven - then twelve - then one. States were still too early to call and I grew restless and impatient.
The rest on the night felt like a blur: a thick, impenetrable fog. Around two thirty in the morning, my mom said, “Honey, you need to go upstairs. You have school in the morning.” For the first time in a while, I did not care who won the presidency. I felt too exhausted to care. As I got up from the couch, I felt a rush of pain to my head. I had stood up for the first time since nine O’clock. I thought, maybe I truly do need a whole bottle of
Aspirin. I slowly dragged my feet towards the stairs: each step up harder than the last. In what seemed like an eternity, I finally arrived at my bed. I lifted both legs up onto the mattress and slid under the covers. For one last check of good measure, I reached down towards the ground and picked up my computer. I checked Yahoo! News, Fox News,
NBC: none had called any new states. With one last sign of desperation, I checked the
New York Times. My heart thrashed belligerently: my last hope of knowing the results before waking up in a mere five hours.
The screen exuded a bright white. Pennsylvania: Red. An Election Alert appeared on the top of my screen. Donald Trump won Pennsylvania. Just as my body and mind began to wind down, it felt as if the accelerator slammed. Without hesitation, I threw the covers off my legs and sprinted towards the door. I vigorously jolted the door open and scrambled to run downstairs the tell my parents the news. “Mom. Dad. The New York
Times says Donald Trump won Pennsylvania.” Within seconds, dramatic music played over the TV. “The Fox News decision desk has called Pennsylvania for Donald Trump.
This means Donald Trump with be the 45th president of the United States,” Bret Baier said. Split screens showed joyous reactions from Trump supporters and faces of disparity among Clinton supporters. I stood in disbelief. I was happy, yet sad, yet relieved. Was I happy with the result? As I reflect back, yes. The United States never had the intention of becoming an aristocracy: Families - like the Bushes and Clintons - should not be governing over this country. Electing Clinton would have been a slap in the face to the values this country was built on: That perspiration line matter more than blood line - or in
Hillary’s case - last names. Was I sad the election was over? Yes. Just like how some people's lives revolve around professional sports, mine began to revolve around the election. But was I relieved? Absolutely. I was relieved the division in the country could possibly ameliorate and the hatred could stop. The worst was over: at least I thought. The only way the United States will be truly “great” is if we stop stroking the lines of division and truly represent the most important word in our country’s name: United.
White Christmas by George Rubin ‘17
The fluorescent lights flicker artificial white dough and molding it around the cold potato between speckled drop-ceiling tiles. The walls mixture. We make them the same way we used are whitewashed, the floor tiles fabricated from to, but somehow they just don’t taste the same. grossly brown shades of linoleum. A sterile Biting a piece off my plastic fork, I realize that smell like a gauze bandage penetrates the walls there’s something missing, something special. I of the building and hits me right as I walk want them to taste like home the way they used through the automatic lobby doors. Old people to. Now they just taste like boiled dough and in wheelchairs float slowly through the halls like potato. ghosts. Members of the family sit around two I think to years back. The basement of my folding tables draped with a cheesy, red and great aunt’s house offers a warm retreat from green table cloth from Giant. The pierogis lay the bitter cold outside. The scent of fresh like corpses in shiny foil trays. This is Christmas. Christmas tree and borscht fills my nose with The carolers enter the lobby of the nursing warm memories. Joyous laughter permeates the home home, singing Christmas carols with air, coming from one side of the room where enough power to wake the dead. They sing with family members exchange gifts. Everyone has energetic faith, and with respect for a family their fill of pierogies and borscht — peasant tradition sadly long dead. I see one of the food, but it reminds the first generation carolers has his little girl with him. She sings in Americans of their childhoods. They enjoy flawless Ukrainian; I cannot understand a word. spending Christmas Eve the same way they did I imagine the carolers piling into my aunt's old in the homeland before the war. I see my house twenty years ago, my great uncle and grandfather’s face, smiling, totally at home. grandfather singing along in their deep, I see the corners of his mouth raised Ukrainian voices, warm voices that have slightly at this warm memory as he is lowered suffered but now celebrate happy times. They into the ground. My grandfather died before I sing loudly and deeply from stomachs warmed was born. My uncle died ten years ago. And this by good vodka and hot pierogies. tradition, this famed Christmas celebration, the As the carolers finish their final notes, most sacred family holiday, dies today. I hear the everyone moves back into the whitewashed cold wind whip against the window panes. room. Shallow conversations resume and I ask Inside the room, it is warm, heated to 72 degrees my aunt how my cousin, a heroin addict, is all seasons of the year. faring in rehab. She says he’s doing fine but that But I still feel cold inside. My heart feels it’s a shame he has to spend Christmas Eve cold. alone. I feel like I’m spending Christmas eve alone this year too, despite the family surrounding me. The dinner begins, and I fill my cheap paper plate with warm, homemade pierogis. I remember the previous morning, rolling out the William Russell Form IV English Mr. Keefe October 31st, 2016
March of the Penguins
The dog’s whines echo through the house. Her feet pitter-patter against the ground, scratch at my chair. Her pleading eyes scream ‘Walk me!’
Untangling my headphones and reaching for the MP3 player, I prepare for the walk. It’s a brisk fall day, so I throw on a light jacket over my tee shirt. As I leash my dog, I map out the route. My path usually takes me up around the church and through the local playground, enough time to get through half an hour of music.
The first song as I start up is usually a warm-up piece, something to get me mentally primed for the walk. This opening song is crucial: choose something too far off from what you’re going to listen to next and you end up scrambling for unknown songs, and if you listen to something that isn’t inspiring you don’t enjoy the journey.
I choose something heavy, with a backbeat; the singer’s lisp is an afterthought, his lyrics like a seagull’s cry at the beach: they don’t make noise until you listen for it. Here is the kind of pop-punk anthem - muted tones in a subway station1. The walk begins as a march, each step deliberately placed on the beat.
I exit the driveway and step onto the open road as the first song’s last lyrics slip from the earbuds. The next song’s melody and words haunt my ears through the headphones; a solitary loon calls over a clear lake. His words drip with loneliness, a stark contrast to the first song’s group vocals. Unlike the heavy backbeat, the acoustic guitar soothes the eardrums: the song
1 I used this in order to build up the idea of music to a heightened climax in a subway station, trying to relay the thought of the hustle and bustle of the trains into the music itself. swells and decreases, like waves washing near Maine lakes2. The music saturates the colors around you, and everything moves in slow motion. The song slows and dies, clearing my palate for the next selection.
The next song is a mystery, I don’t have an idea of what is next. So I get a surprise: A crooning voice trying its best to make a confession. The vocals aren’t the prettiest, but the emotion shines through, like a pigeon trying hard to stand out among his peers: it achieves nothing3. Steps become lurches as you come to the same realizations that the singer does.
My dog jerks on the leash - chasing a squirrel - yanking my earbuds from their homes4.
The world, for a moment, becomes dead silent. As I fumble to put them back in my ears, the last notes have transitioned to something more fast-paced - a live recording I ripped off of youtube.
The soaring lyrics contrast heavily with the previous singer’s, a hawk’s muffled cries as he soars above. I end up skipping to the next song halfway through.
But the song has whetted my appetite for something stronger, something thicker, something more raw. A tune that will satisfy my inner head-banger. I prep a double-whammy of someone who isn’t afraid to have some fun with his songs, flying over the vocals like he’s some sort of thrush on the verge of laughter. The slouching walk becomes a sarcastic semi-skip, my entire body trying to replicate a jaunty smile obviously playing across the singer’s face.
My dog decides to evacuate her bowels as the final notes play, giving me a couple seconds to get up a bag and clean up before making the next selection. The joking tones give me a yearning for some non-conventional vocals; I turn to something more foreign. The voice digs deep into my ear on the consonants, almost creating a secondary beat. The sound is
2 Colon to create interest in the song’s different tempos and volumes, and to contrast with the waves on a beach 3 Longer description followed by a colon and a shorter independent clause, in order to increase the finality of the statement. 4 I used this sentence pattern in order to convey a sense of change in direction, swerving the reader away from the musical forays and back to reality, much as the squirrel did.
something you might hear out of a peacock: strutting around it’s tiny patch of earth, bragging
that the dust under its feet is the best on earth. I make the U-turn in the park, heading back as
the lead singer shouts his last goodbyes and we turn slowly towards home.
On the way back, I scroll through until I hit a rarity in my music library. I don’t usually
listen to folk music, but their music’s evocative lyrics - written under the effects of illicit
substances - contrast with their sobering performances. This band’s music mystifies me; I am
simultaneously drawn towards and repulsed by it5. The voice voice cements its permanence
within your head, his songs the calm caw of a raven at midday. A mix of outright lunacy and
desperation turns my gait into an Alice in Wonderland glide. I turn into my driveway as the folk tune finishes. Not wanting to end my walk on a bad
note, I return to one final song to keep in my head until the next walk. The simple chord
progression and honesty in the song brings a calm feeling, like the quiet calls of a crow
mid-afternoon. The song centers me, bringing back to reality for just a minute as I readjust to
the world around me. My footsteps become more sure, steadier, grounding myself.
I shut down the player and yank out the buds as I walk inside, unsheath my dog from her
collar, and stretch a little. As I close the door behind me, I take a second to listen outside. I hear
the wind in the trees, the gong of windchimes in the window. There are no birds calling. They all
moved south for the winter.
5 I used two dashes in this sense in order to convey the information quickly. It does not overshadow their music but is an important piece of it.