Fantasy can be thought of as an expression of humanity’s yearning for something greater—whether it’s finding the hero within us, or a power beyond ourselves. Part of that yearning is the desire to look back to a golden age—or all too often, to create one where one never existed (like so many in America try to do with the 1950s). The ancient Greeks codified it in their own lore, naming the Ages of Man: Golden Age, Silver Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age.
Fantasy, especially epic fantasy, represents this desire by depicting a true Golden Age (or at least one thought to be true). In Termag’s case, the Golden Age is known as “the time of Camac That Was.” Little is truly known about this time, that ended fifteen hundred years before the end of the Age of Heroes, but the hints that survived are tantalizing. The empire depended on magic more than technology, but basic medical techniques (including hygiene and germ theory) were known and survived the passing of the age. Camac may also have solved many social problems that we continue to struggle with on Earth. Camac That Was, and much of Termag’s population, perished in a cataclysmic pandemic known as The Madness.
The Silver Age, the Age of Heroes, is roughly two millennia of attempting to rebuild. Those efforts were hampered by both infighting and other round of Goblin Wars, and ultimately the dreams of Camac Reborn were abandoned.
In the Bronze Age, or “modern times” as the folk call it, people have not reached the peak of ancient Camac… or perhaps they have, but don’t realize it. (As far as the Iron Age goes, Termag may never get there. Iron is rare and precious.)
Next: I is for: Isenbund
Wednesday, April 09, 2014 5 comments
Tuesday, April 08, 2014 8 comments
G is for: Gods (#AtoZchallenge)
Termag has a number of religions, but I’ve delved deepest into the Western tradition. An abbreviated version of the creation myth may be the best way to describe it:
Among folk, it is customary to make a warding gesture (palms together, then spread apart) when mentioning a lesser god—especially the Trickster, who is thought to inspire pranks without shielding the pranksters from the consequences. Some traditions venerate ancestors as well.
An older religion holds that Termag is a living being, perhaps an avatar of the Creator. The Dawn Greeters, who live on a peninsula at the easternmost reach of the continent, worship the sun as a manifestation of the Creator, who continues to bring life to the world.
Next: H is for: History
Before there was a before, the Creator spoke into being the River of Time, that flows to the Sea of Eternity. Then the Creator made Termag and the other worlds, and placed them in a barge. He made the Tiller to steer the barge, and he may be seen in the night sky. … Then the Creator gave life to the worlds, and the people came forth. They ate of the good things that grew in the world, and were happy.It is also said that the Trickster, who taught jokes and pranks, may have joined with the Evil One, but never admitted it.
As the people grew in numbers, they could no longer feed everyone by roaming over the land. And so there were quarrels, and fights. The Creator was troubled by what they did, and sent the lesser gods (in some traditions, the Teachers, or Great Powers) to teach the people how to be civilized. The Creator charged the people to listen to the lesser gods, to respect their words, but not to worship them. …
But the Evil One, he who taught pride, said in his heart: “We are far above the people. Why should they not worship us?” And he tried to stir the other Teachers against the Creator. … But only the Teacher of Tools joined the Evil One, and only for a time, and soon repented. (Thus it is that all tools may be used for both good or evil.)
Among folk, it is customary to make a warding gesture (palms together, then spread apart) when mentioning a lesser god—especially the Trickster, who is thought to inspire pranks without shielding the pranksters from the consequences. Some traditions venerate ancestors as well.
An older religion holds that Termag is a living being, perhaps an avatar of the Creator. The Dawn Greeters, who live on a peninsula at the easternmost reach of the continent, worship the sun as a manifestation of the Creator, who continues to bring life to the world.
Next: H is for: History
Monday, April 07, 2014 6 comments
F is for: Fables (#AtoZchallenge)
Or fairy tales, or whatever you’d like to call them (since fables use animals). Parents tell their children bedtime stories—whether to settle them in for the night, to illustrate virtues or truths, or simply to help explain the world they live in. It’s no different on Termag.
“Once, in the time of Camac That Was,” is the traditional way to begin a children’s story. But how about a couple of examples? Links take you elsewhere on this blog.
The Three Builders
The Traveler
Next: G is for: Gods
“Once, in the time of Camac That Was,” is the traditional way to begin a children’s story. But how about a couple of examples? Links take you elsewhere on this blog.
The Three Builders
The Traveler
Next: G is for: Gods
Sunday, April 06, 2014 4 comments
E is for: Elements (#AtoZchallenge)
The classical elements—Earth, Air, Fire, and Water—are the basis of sorcery. Sorcerers perform magic by manipulating (or rather, harnessing) the chosen element or elements. Intermediate (usually third-year or later) apprentices and full sorcerers can combine two (or more) elements for more powerful effects:
The illustration depicts important truths about sorcery:
Next: F is for: Fables
The illustration depicts important truths about sorcery:
- Fire and Water don’t mix, at least by themselves. As described in my flash story Apotheosis, though, Earth and Air can act as moderating influences for the most complex spells.
- Chaos magic is outside the realm of sorcery altogether. As is its legendary opposite, Making.
Next: F is for: Fables
Saturday, April 05, 2014 9 comments
D is for: Dragonlore (#AtoZchallenge)
On Termag, dragons fall into three broad categories.
Elemental Dragons
The rarest and most powerful of all dragons—perhaps of all living creatures. At one time, Elemental Dragons may have roamed wild; but historically, they can only be awakened by magic. As the name implies, Elemental Dragons are associated with one of the four sorcerous elements:
Greater Dragons
Greater Dragons are extinct on Termag. While they could not breathe fire, they were highly intelligent and could speak human languages (if they cared to). However, they would not willingly work together or tolerate each other outside of mating season. Humans may not have set out to exterminate Greater Dragons; but hunting them (and their eggs) disrupted their ability to breed, and they died out.
Lesser Dragons
There are several species of Lesser Dragons still living on Termag. Like their larger cousins, they are intelligent, but do not speak human languages (although some believe they have an innate understanding of all speech). A superstition among many rural folk is that they house the souls of humans who died before their time.
And now, you know at least as much about dragons as most folk.
Next: E is for: Elements
Elemental Dragons
The rarest and most powerful of all dragons—perhaps of all living creatures. At one time, Elemental Dragons may have roamed wild; but historically, they can only be awakened by magic. As the name implies, Elemental Dragons are associated with one of the four sorcerous elements:
- Earth: Cave Wyrm
- Air: Cloud Dragon
- Fire: Firedrake
- Water: Ice Dragon
Greater Dragons
Greater Dragons are extinct on Termag. While they could not breathe fire, they were highly intelligent and could speak human languages (if they cared to). However, they would not willingly work together or tolerate each other outside of mating season. Humans may not have set out to exterminate Greater Dragons; but hunting them (and their eggs) disrupted their ability to breed, and they died out.
Lesser Dragons
There are several species of Lesser Dragons still living on Termag. Like their larger cousins, they are intelligent, but do not speak human languages (although some believe they have an innate understanding of all speech). A superstition among many rural folk is that they house the souls of humans who died before their time.
And now, you know at least as much about dragons as most folk.
Next: E is for: Elements
Friday, April 04, 2014 9 comments
Sleeping Butay (2 of 2) (#FridayFlash)
Check out Part 1 here, then read on…
With Butay safely out of the way, Hatchet gathered her entourage and returned to the Dominion. Word preceded her, and Prince Chowming packed a bag. “I am on a tour of the Dominion’s golf courses,” he told his advisors, “and then I may journey to Aht-Lann-Tah to see how their courses compare. But I have no fixed itinerary, nor a set time to return.” With that, he bolted from the castle with his closest friend and caddy, Lord Horn.
Once safely away, Chowming and Horn changed into the clothes of common travelers, and set out for the coast. There was only one minor incident along the way, and the Prince has asked me to keep it quiet out of respect for Lord Horn’s dignity.
“Tell me again your intent?” Horn asked, as they neared the town.
“I will find someone to marry on my own,” said Prince Chowming, “and then perhaps that horrid Princess Hatchet will trouble me no more.”
Horn was doubtful, both of the plan and of Hatchet, but said nothing. As princes went, Chowming was easy-going—but there were limits, and the aforementioned minor incident had mostly depleted that deep reservoir of goodwill. So they reached the seaside town, and Chowming revealed himself to the mayor.
“Majesty,” said the mayor, bowing enough to strain his back, “how may we serve you as you grace our presence?”
“I am looking for a wife,” said Chowming. “Tell me, who is the most beautiful maiden in your lovely town?”
“That would be Butay, daughter of Lee and Ki the boatbuilders. But—”
“Is she betrothed?”
“No longer, majesty. But—”
“Then direct me to her home, mayor. I thank you for your help.” Chowming waved away all further objections, and the mayor gave directions.
Lee and Ki were surprised to see the Prince at their door, but were shocked and dismayed when he told them, “I wish to see your daughter, Butay, to ask her hand in marriage.”
“But, majesty,” said Lee. “She is asleep.”
“Then I shall wait for her to awaken.”
Ki wept. “Our daughter has been asleep for a week,” she said. “None have been able to waken her.”
I wonder if Hatchet got to her first, he thought. Aloud he said, “May I see her?”
Denying the Prince anything was unlawful, but he was so polite and well-spoken that the boatbuilders would not have objected had they dared. And so, they led him to her room and left him there to ponder the sleeping Butay.
“She is indeed beautiful,” the Prince whispered. “I only wish I knew what to do.”
“Take her, then marry her,” Lord Horn suggested. “She is in no position to object.”
“What?”
“Certainly, my prince. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. A wife who does not naysay, nor nag, nor—”
“That seems hardly sporting,” said Chowming. “She cannot object, but neither can she consent.”
“You’re the prince! Look. I’ll go take her parents to dinner or something. You just do what comes natural, then we’ll carry her home. If you insist, we’ll have the local priest bless the union or whatever.”
Chowming stood alone, looking at Butay. “This is so wrong,” he muttered. He slid the bench from her vanity across to her bed, then sat on it and took her hand. “If I have to marry at all,” he told her softly, “I would just as soon it were someone like you. I don’t know you, but your parents seem like honest folk. If you’re anything like them…” He took a deep breath. “Butay, daughter of Lee and Ki, will you marry me? If you do not object, I will take that as a ‘yes.’ And I swear, I will—”
“What did you say?” Butay’s eyes fluttered open, for asking for her hand in marriage was how Hatchet’s spell was broken.
“I said, will you marry me?” Chowming gasped. “Butay! You’re—you’re—”
“Um… who are you, and why would I want to marry you?”
“I’m Prince Chowming.”
“Ohh. You must be loaded. Sure, I’ll marry you.”
“Oh, happy day!” Chowming bolted from the room and out the door, calling for Lord Horn and Butay’s parents.
“So I would like to marry your daughter,” Prince Chowming told Lee and Ki. “I know she’s not a princess, but I can fix that with a royal decree—”
“But she is a princess,” Ki said quietly. “The night before our wedding, King Grabaz came to me and demanded his privilege.” She turned to her husband. “I’m so sorry, Lee. I was embarrassed, and I hoped that… well, now I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Well, this is awkward,” said Chowming. “That means you’re my sister. Dad was such an asshole.”
“Figures,” Butay grumbled. “Can’t seem to get a break. Or a wedding.”
“But you could still come back to the castle,” Chowming insisted. “Since you’re my sister, you have access to the royal credit card. I was only looking for a wife to help stimulate the economy. Do you like to shop? Bring your parents, too. We’ll give them a nice retirement, wing in the castle, servants, the works.”
“Er, sire,” Lord Horn mumbled. “There’s the matter of Princess Hatchet.”
“Oh, dear, that’s right,” said Chowming. “I can’t go home until she does.”
“Princess Hatchet’s at the castle?” Butay scowled. “That was her who gave me that drugged wine, like as not.” She rolled up her sleeve and clenched a fist, hard and knobby from a lifetime of building boats. “I’ll see to her.”
And so, they returned to the castle. After a most entertaining smackdown, a battered and bruised Hatchet fled home with the tattered remnants of her entourage. Princess Butay and her mother stimulated the economy quite well with their shopping, and the people of the Dominion once again prospered. As for Chowming, he decided to take that golfing tour after all. All was well in the Dominion, and they all lived happily… for a while, at least. Until the next thing happened.
After all, this is the Strange Lands.
Once safely away, Chowming and Horn changed into the clothes of common travelers, and set out for the coast. There was only one minor incident along the way, and the Prince has asked me to keep it quiet out of respect for Lord Horn’s dignity.
“Tell me again your intent?” Horn asked, as they neared the town.
“I will find someone to marry on my own,” said Prince Chowming, “and then perhaps that horrid Princess Hatchet will trouble me no more.”
Horn was doubtful, both of the plan and of Hatchet, but said nothing. As princes went, Chowming was easy-going—but there were limits, and the aforementioned minor incident had mostly depleted that deep reservoir of goodwill. So they reached the seaside town, and Chowming revealed himself to the mayor.
“Majesty,” said the mayor, bowing enough to strain his back, “how may we serve you as you grace our presence?”
“I am looking for a wife,” said Chowming. “Tell me, who is the most beautiful maiden in your lovely town?”
“That would be Butay, daughter of Lee and Ki the boatbuilders. But—”
“Is she betrothed?”
“No longer, majesty. But—”
“Then direct me to her home, mayor. I thank you for your help.” Chowming waved away all further objections, and the mayor gave directions.
Lee and Ki were surprised to see the Prince at their door, but were shocked and dismayed when he told them, “I wish to see your daughter, Butay, to ask her hand in marriage.”
“But, majesty,” said Lee. “She is asleep.”
“Then I shall wait for her to awaken.”
Ki wept. “Our daughter has been asleep for a week,” she said. “None have been able to waken her.”
I wonder if Hatchet got to her first, he thought. Aloud he said, “May I see her?”
Denying the Prince anything was unlawful, but he was so polite and well-spoken that the boatbuilders would not have objected had they dared. And so, they led him to her room and left him there to ponder the sleeping Butay.
“She is indeed beautiful,” the Prince whispered. “I only wish I knew what to do.”
“Take her, then marry her,” Lord Horn suggested. “She is in no position to object.”
“What?”
“Certainly, my prince. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. A wife who does not naysay, nor nag, nor—”
“That seems hardly sporting,” said Chowming. “She cannot object, but neither can she consent.”
“You’re the prince! Look. I’ll go take her parents to dinner or something. You just do what comes natural, then we’ll carry her home. If you insist, we’ll have the local priest bless the union or whatever.”
Chowming stood alone, looking at Butay. “This is so wrong,” he muttered. He slid the bench from her vanity across to her bed, then sat on it and took her hand. “If I have to marry at all,” he told her softly, “I would just as soon it were someone like you. I don’t know you, but your parents seem like honest folk. If you’re anything like them…” He took a deep breath. “Butay, daughter of Lee and Ki, will you marry me? If you do not object, I will take that as a ‘yes.’ And I swear, I will—”
“What did you say?” Butay’s eyes fluttered open, for asking for her hand in marriage was how Hatchet’s spell was broken.
“I said, will you marry me?” Chowming gasped. “Butay! You’re—you’re—”
“Um… who are you, and why would I want to marry you?”
“I’m Prince Chowming.”
“Ohh. You must be loaded. Sure, I’ll marry you.”
“Oh, happy day!” Chowming bolted from the room and out the door, calling for Lord Horn and Butay’s parents.
“So I would like to marry your daughter,” Prince Chowming told Lee and Ki. “I know she’s not a princess, but I can fix that with a royal decree—”
“But she is a princess,” Ki said quietly. “The night before our wedding, King Grabaz came to me and demanded his privilege.” She turned to her husband. “I’m so sorry, Lee. I was embarrassed, and I hoped that… well, now I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Well, this is awkward,” said Chowming. “That means you’re my sister. Dad was such an asshole.”
“Figures,” Butay grumbled. “Can’t seem to get a break. Or a wedding.”
“But you could still come back to the castle,” Chowming insisted. “Since you’re my sister, you have access to the royal credit card. I was only looking for a wife to help stimulate the economy. Do you like to shop? Bring your parents, too. We’ll give them a nice retirement, wing in the castle, servants, the works.”
“Er, sire,” Lord Horn mumbled. “There’s the matter of Princess Hatchet.”
“Oh, dear, that’s right,” said Chowming. “I can’t go home until she does.”
“Princess Hatchet’s at the castle?” Butay scowled. “That was her who gave me that drugged wine, like as not.” She rolled up her sleeve and clenched a fist, hard and knobby from a lifetime of building boats. “I’ll see to her.”
And so, they returned to the castle. After a most entertaining smackdown, a battered and bruised Hatchet fled home with the tattered remnants of her entourage. Princess Butay and her mother stimulated the economy quite well with their shopping, and the people of the Dominion once again prospered. As for Chowming, he decided to take that golfing tour after all. All was well in the Dominion, and they all lived happily… for a while, at least. Until the next thing happened.
After all, this is the Strange Lands.
Thursday, April 03, 2014 5 comments
C is for: Camac That Was (#AtoZchallenge)
Unlike most of Termag’s historic great cities, Camac was not founded at the mouth of a river. It may have began as a fishing village, as are many small towns along the shores of the Gulf of Camac. It is situated on a natural harbor, though. What fragments of history survive from Camac That Was do not include its early years, nor what made it the nucleus of a vast empire.
What is known is that the empire advanced more socially than technologically. For example, gender roles were a foreign concept—at least in the West. The restive Eastern provinces were granted much in the way of self-rule, but their patriarchal customs were suppressed until The Madness destroyed the empire. Another example was the “none shall starve” laws. The Pearl Throne owned the land surrounding Camac proper; these lands were kept clear of trees or buildings to deny shelter to invaders, but plots were granted to the poor of Camac for gardening.
Without instant communication, governing a far-flung empire could be a problem—especially in a crisis. Thus, they created the offices of the Protectors, nine sorcerers who had the authority to act in the name of the Pearl Throne where necessary. The Eyes of Byula, a collection of scrying-stones, allowed Protectors to communicate with Camac when needed. Under each Protector were five or six Captains, military officers who had distinguished themselves as tacticians or strategists; Captains had the authority to raise an army when needed to defend their designated territories from external or internal threats.
The Madness destroyed Camac itself, and most of the empire. Today, Camac is home primarily to a handful of scholars, and several cooperatives that dig up stonework for use in other parts of the world.
Next: D is for: Dragonlore
What is known is that the empire advanced more socially than technologically. For example, gender roles were a foreign concept—at least in the West. The restive Eastern provinces were granted much in the way of self-rule, but their patriarchal customs were suppressed until The Madness destroyed the empire. Another example was the “none shall starve” laws. The Pearl Throne owned the land surrounding Camac proper; these lands were kept clear of trees or buildings to deny shelter to invaders, but plots were granted to the poor of Camac for gardening.
Without instant communication, governing a far-flung empire could be a problem—especially in a crisis. Thus, they created the offices of the Protectors, nine sorcerers who had the authority to act in the name of the Pearl Throne where necessary. The Eyes of Byula, a collection of scrying-stones, allowed Protectors to communicate with Camac when needed. Under each Protector were five or six Captains, military officers who had distinguished themselves as tacticians or strategists; Captains had the authority to raise an army when needed to defend their designated territories from external or internal threats.
The Madness destroyed Camac itself, and most of the empire. Today, Camac is home primarily to a handful of scholars, and several cooperatives that dig up stonework for use in other parts of the world.
Next: D is for: Dragonlore
Wednesday, April 02, 2014 8 comments
B is for: Bailar the Blue (#AtoZchallenge)
Bailar the Blue is one of the central figures in the Accidental Sorcerers series. As the sorcerer training both his daughter Sura and her boyfriend Mik Dragonrider, he has his hands full keeping them focused. :-)
Early years
It is said that many sorcerers are the sons and daughters of farmers, and that was true in Bailar’s case. Born to wheat and rye farmers in the upper reaches of the Stolevan Matriarchy, along the edge of the Deep Forest, his early years were no different than most other children.
When he was five, a sickness ran through his small community. His mother delivered a stillborn daughter, whom they named Sura (for the summer sun). Bailar himself was stricken by a severe ear infection, that left him temporarily deaf. A Healer was able to restore his hearing, but his balance was permanently impaired. He learned how to cope, and attended school like any other child (education to age 13 is compulsory in the Stolevan Matriarchy). One game that local boys played was to dare their peers to walk into the Deep Forest. The Forest never held any terror for Bailar; he felt secure and balanced there, and would venture far deeper than any of the older boys.
Apprenticeship
On one of his walks in the Forest, Bailar fell. His hand clasped a fallen stick, and the trees told him to take it up as a staff. A truism among the older folk was that only a mage could hear the voices of the trees. With two older sisters, Bailar was unlikely to have much inheritance, and his balance would not allow him to be a good roustabout (farm hand for hire). He seized an opportunity for a better life: he boarded the next barge going downriver, debarked at Exidy, and went to the home of Gilsen the White. Gilsen agreed to take him as an apprentice.
It was that first summer that Bailar ran into trouble. Gilsen took him to the Gathering of the Conclave in Queensport; it was there that Bailar discovered Captain Chelinn’s An Account of Other Worlds. Carried away by stories of great deeds and battles (combat magic had been put aside four hundred years ago), Bailar often neglected his studies in favor of teaching himself spells with little or no application in modern days. The result was that he barely passed the tests given to all apprentices after six years, earning the blue sash of Water magic when he demonstrated his ability to call the water by using a combat spell that launched huge gouts of water high into the air.
Days later, before the Gathering was over, Gilsen died in his sleep. Perhaps sensing that he was about to begin the longest journey, the one from which there is no return, he wrote two letters. In the first, addressed to the Conclave, he invoked his privilege to choose his successor as Sorcerer of Exidy, and he named Bailar. The second was to Bailar himself, in which Gilsen left Bailar all of his worldly goods (including his house) and a great deal of practical advice. As Gilsen had no daughters, Matriarchy law allowed him to inherit the entire property. While the Protectors were reluctant to let a new sorcerer take the post, especially one who had showed little interest in practical magic, the Conclave’s traditions demanded they respect the dying wishes of one of their own.
Early Adult Life
Bailar settled into his role as Sorcerer of Exidy. As his house was across the Wide River from Exidy proper, his quiet life allowed him to catch up on studies that he had neglected.
One summer morning, he found an infant girl on his doorstep, whom he named for his stillborn sister. His life began to change—and changed even more some twelve years later, when a boy rode an ice dragon to his door…
Next: C is for: Camac That Was
Early years
It is said that many sorcerers are the sons and daughters of farmers, and that was true in Bailar’s case. Born to wheat and rye farmers in the upper reaches of the Stolevan Matriarchy, along the edge of the Deep Forest, his early years were no different than most other children.
When he was five, a sickness ran through his small community. His mother delivered a stillborn daughter, whom they named Sura (for the summer sun). Bailar himself was stricken by a severe ear infection, that left him temporarily deaf. A Healer was able to restore his hearing, but his balance was permanently impaired. He learned how to cope, and attended school like any other child (education to age 13 is compulsory in the Stolevan Matriarchy). One game that local boys played was to dare their peers to walk into the Deep Forest. The Forest never held any terror for Bailar; he felt secure and balanced there, and would venture far deeper than any of the older boys.
Apprenticeship
On one of his walks in the Forest, Bailar fell. His hand clasped a fallen stick, and the trees told him to take it up as a staff. A truism among the older folk was that only a mage could hear the voices of the trees. With two older sisters, Bailar was unlikely to have much inheritance, and his balance would not allow him to be a good roustabout (farm hand for hire). He seized an opportunity for a better life: he boarded the next barge going downriver, debarked at Exidy, and went to the home of Gilsen the White. Gilsen agreed to take him as an apprentice.
It was that first summer that Bailar ran into trouble. Gilsen took him to the Gathering of the Conclave in Queensport; it was there that Bailar discovered Captain Chelinn’s An Account of Other Worlds. Carried away by stories of great deeds and battles (combat magic had been put aside four hundred years ago), Bailar often neglected his studies in favor of teaching himself spells with little or no application in modern days. The result was that he barely passed the tests given to all apprentices after six years, earning the blue sash of Water magic when he demonstrated his ability to call the water by using a combat spell that launched huge gouts of water high into the air.
Days later, before the Gathering was over, Gilsen died in his sleep. Perhaps sensing that he was about to begin the longest journey, the one from which there is no return, he wrote two letters. In the first, addressed to the Conclave, he invoked his privilege to choose his successor as Sorcerer of Exidy, and he named Bailar. The second was to Bailar himself, in which Gilsen left Bailar all of his worldly goods (including his house) and a great deal of practical advice. As Gilsen had no daughters, Matriarchy law allowed him to inherit the entire property. While the Protectors were reluctant to let a new sorcerer take the post, especially one who had showed little interest in practical magic, the Conclave’s traditions demanded they respect the dying wishes of one of their own.
Early Adult Life
Bailar settled into his role as Sorcerer of Exidy. As his house was across the Wide River from Exidy proper, his quiet life allowed him to catch up on studies that he had neglected.
One summer morning, he found an infant girl on his doorstep, whom he named for his stillborn sister. His life began to change—and changed even more some twelve years later, when a boy rode an ice dragon to his door…
Next: C is for: Camac That Was
Tuesday, April 01, 2014 10 comments
A is for: Age of Heroes (#AtoZchallenge)
Let’s just dive right into Termag: A to Z.
Like our own ages, the Age of Heroes is a convenient tag that historians give to a distinct period. In Termag’s case, it covers roughly fifteen hundred years after the destruction of Camac That Was. The first several centuries are often called “The Lost Years,” although that era is historically a part of the Age of Heroes. The beginning of the age was a dire time, as Jira the White, Protector of the North, wrote at the time:
At first, the remnant hoped to re-establish Camac’s government and reach, to protect the remaining populace and maintain what infrastructure and knowledge had survived. But as the East declared independence, and Isenbund and the Faraway North succumbed to climate change, the focus began to narrow.
Goblins, driven into hiding after the First Goblin Wars, emerged anew and threatened to destroy what little was left of humanity as well. The Second Goblin Wars spanned centuries, and ended with the final defeat and extermination of the Goblins in their fastnesses near Isenbund and what is now Roth's Keep.
End of an Age
With the Goblins wiped out, there were several attempts to reunite the old empire (largely by Ak’Koyr, which saw itself as Camac Reborn). But by this time, none of the population centers, old or new, were willing to give up sovreignty. Ak’koyr itself never managed to extend its rule beyond the western Gulf of Camac, the Northern Reach, and a few nearby Eastern provinces. The role of Protectors devolved into little more than the leadership of the Conclave of Sorcerers, and Captains as ambassadors at large or privileged adventurers (Captain Chelinn being a conspicuous example of the latter).
Sorcerers mark the passing of the Age of Heroes at the winding the Seventh Trumpet outside North Keep (on the shores of the Northern Reach), but historians mark it with the dissolution of the Council of Captains some fifty years later. With various nations going their own ways, and many territories yet wild, many Captains saw their office as a relic of an era that was gone forever. The Council voted to dissolve itself, and folk marked it as the passing of an age.
Next: B is for: Bailar the Blue
A is for: Age of Heroes
Like our own ages, the Age of Heroes is a convenient tag that historians give to a distinct period. In Termag’s case, it covers roughly fifteen hundred years after the destruction of Camac That Was. The first several centuries are often called “The Lost Years,” although that era is historically a part of the Age of Heroes. The beginning of the age was a dire time, as Jira the White, Protector of the North, wrote at the time:
Take twenty of the folk. Twelve of them fall to The Madness. Seven more perish, by the hands of the mad, starvation or accident, or their own hands. One is left to carry on, the horrors of the last few months forever etched on her mind. Can this tiny remnant re-establish order? Is it even worth trying?Three Protectors (of nine) and ten Captains (of fifty) survived as well. In normal times, Protectors and Captains were how a far-flung empire maintained order; they stood outside the normal system of governance, but were charged to take command during any crisis. Thus, in the greatest crisis in history, all looked to them for advice and aid.
At first, the remnant hoped to re-establish Camac’s government and reach, to protect the remaining populace and maintain what infrastructure and knowledge had survived. But as the East declared independence, and Isenbund and the Faraway North succumbed to climate change, the focus began to narrow.
Goblins, driven into hiding after the First Goblin Wars, emerged anew and threatened to destroy what little was left of humanity as well. The Second Goblin Wars spanned centuries, and ended with the final defeat and extermination of the Goblins in their fastnesses near Isenbund and what is now Roth's Keep.
End of an Age
With the Goblins wiped out, there were several attempts to reunite the old empire (largely by Ak’Koyr, which saw itself as Camac Reborn). But by this time, none of the population centers, old or new, were willing to give up sovreignty. Ak’koyr itself never managed to extend its rule beyond the western Gulf of Camac, the Northern Reach, and a few nearby Eastern provinces. The role of Protectors devolved into little more than the leadership of the Conclave of Sorcerers, and Captains as ambassadors at large or privileged adventurers (Captain Chelinn being a conspicuous example of the latter).
Sorcerers mark the passing of the Age of Heroes at the winding the Seventh Trumpet outside North Keep (on the shores of the Northern Reach), but historians mark it with the dissolution of the Council of Captains some fifty years later. With various nations going their own ways, and many territories yet wild, many Captains saw their office as a relic of an era that was gone forever. The Council voted to dissolve itself, and folk marked it as the passing of an age.
Next: B is for: Bailar the Blue
Monday, March 31, 2014 2 comments
The Termag #AtoZchallenge Index Page
When John Wiswell did this with his own world last year, I realized I actually had a theme that could generate 26 posts! This is going to be the most post-populated month in the long history of TFM, since December 2005 (I was doing multiple posts per day way back when, back before Twitter).
If you’ve wanted more on Termag’s backstory, you’re going to get it. A guilt-free infodump!
You can read the entries linearly, i.e. one after the other, by clicking the “Next:” link at the end of each post. Or, you can follow cross-links inside the posts. Cross-links open a new window or tab; “Next” links use the existing one. A few of the posts link to other stories on this blog, but none of them link to the books (there are links in the sidebar for that). The index below opens a new window/tab.
A is for: Age of Heroes
B is for: Bailar the Blue
C is for: Camac That Was
D is for: Dragonlore
E is for: Elements
F is for: Fables
G is for: Gods
H is for: History
I is for: Isenbund
J is for: Jira the White
K is for: Koyr (and Ak’koyr)
L is for: Lesser Moon (and Greater Moon)
M is for: (The) Madness
N is for: (The) Northern Reach
O is for: Oakendrake
P is for: Protectors (and Captains)
Q is for: Queensport
R is for: (Captain) Rietha
S is for: Sorcery
T is for: (The) Treaty
U is for: (The) Unfallen
V is for: Vlis
W is for: Woldland
X is for: Xorsecc
Y is for: Yes (ways to say it)
Z is for: Zharcon the White
Begin: A is for: Age of Heroes
If you’ve wanted more on Termag’s backstory, you’re going to get it. A guilt-free infodump!
You can read the entries linearly, i.e. one after the other, by clicking the “Next:” link at the end of each post. Or, you can follow cross-links inside the posts. Cross-links open a new window or tab; “Next” links use the existing one. A few of the posts link to other stories on this blog, but none of them link to the books (there are links in the sidebar for that). The index below opens a new window/tab.
A is for: Age of Heroes
B is for: Bailar the Blue
C is for: Camac That Was
D is for: Dragonlore
E is for: Elements
F is for: Fables
G is for: Gods
H is for: History
I is for: Isenbund
J is for: Jira the White
K is for: Koyr (and Ak’koyr)
L is for: Lesser Moon (and Greater Moon)
M is for: (The) Madness
N is for: (The) Northern Reach
O is for: Oakendrake
P is for: Protectors (and Captains)
Q is for: Queensport
R is for: (Captain) Rietha
S is for: Sorcery
T is for: (The) Treaty
U is for: (The) Unfallen
V is for: Vlis
W is for: Woldland
X is for: Xorsecc
Y is for: Yes (ways to say it)
Z is for: Zharcon the White
Begin: A is for: Age of Heroes
Friday, March 28, 2014 12 comments
Sleeping Butay (1 of 2) (#FridayFlash)
After reading some interesting posts about, shall we say, certain events that took place in original fairy tales, I had to write this one. Two of the characters (and I do mean characters) appeared in a previous tale, Stonebelly the Dragon.
Once upon a time, in the Strange Lands north of Aht-Lann-Tah, lived Lee the boatbuilder. His wife Ki gave birth to a daughter, whom they named Butay. She grew into a beautiful young girl, and Lee often boasted that she had the finest stern in the Dominion.
In Butay’s twentieth year, a shadow fell across the Dominion, and Prince Chowming called his advisers together. “There is a shadow across the Dominion,” he said, repeating the narration. “What can we do about it?”
“It is merely a recession,” said Lord Miserly. “It affects only the peasants. Things will improve if left to themselves.”
“Or,” suggested Lord Fairplay, “we could stimulate the economy. It is long past time for you to find a wife, and a royal wedding would solve both problems.”
Prince Chowming’s resigned sigh was drowned out by the shouts of “Hear, hear!” from the other advisors, and the word was spread.
In the Rival Kingdom, word reached the ears of Princess Hatchet. She had once kidnapped Prince Chowming to marry him by force, until that dragon intervened, and saw a second chance to get him in her clutches—I mean, unite the two kingdoms. She summoned her royal consort, Hapless the (former) merchant. “I know you need to settle some accounts with your associates in Aht-Lann-Tah,” she told him. “Go ahead and take care of business. I’ll see you in a month or so, yes?”
Hapless was suspicious, as Hatchet had not let him out of the castle since the wedding, but he did indeed wish to settle his accounts. And if Hatchet thought he’d return without being dragged back by force, so much the better. He wasted little time in departing.
As soon as he was out of sight, Hatchet hurried to her cellar and uncovered her magic mirror. “Mirror, mirror,” she said, “Have I a rival to the hand of Prince Chowming?”
“But one,” the mirror replied. “Among the boatbuilders dwells the maiden Butay. Only she stands in your way.”
“Your rhyming lacks meter,” said Hatchet, “but no matter. By the power of Google, I command thee: find me a spell that will put an end to my rival!”
“Killing an innocent is bad juju,” the mirror warned. “But I have found you a spell that will be just as effective for what you need.”
“Can it be broken?”
“All spells of course can break, but how much effort does it take?” The mirror told her how. “And it wears off after a month.”
“No problem. She can sleep for a month. By then, I’ll have Prince Chowming.”
Butay was storming her way home, and everyone gave her wide hips a wider berth. She had caught her fiancé giving the butcher’s daughter his own salami, and she made sure that the end of their engagement was loud and public. In her rage, she nearly ran down an old woman in her path.
“Greetings, young lady,” said the woman. “Would you like to try my wines? I have only the finest.”
A bit of an ugg, Butay thought, but… “You know, I could use a good drink right now.”
“Then by all means, try some.” The old woman gave her a bottle. “My gift. If you enjoy it, seek me out. I will be glad to sell you some more.”
Butay wondered what the catch was, but didn’t care all that much. She uncorked the bottle and took a deep swig. “Good stuff,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
“Enjoy!” The old woman, who was actually Hatchet in disguise, waved and walked away. Butay took another long drink, then yawned. “Wow,” she said. “I need a nap.” She went home and laid down.
And there she stayed.
continued…
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| Image source: openclipart.org |
In Butay’s twentieth year, a shadow fell across the Dominion, and Prince Chowming called his advisers together. “There is a shadow across the Dominion,” he said, repeating the narration. “What can we do about it?”
“It is merely a recession,” said Lord Miserly. “It affects only the peasants. Things will improve if left to themselves.”
“Or,” suggested Lord Fairplay, “we could stimulate the economy. It is long past time for you to find a wife, and a royal wedding would solve both problems.”
Prince Chowming’s resigned sigh was drowned out by the shouts of “Hear, hear!” from the other advisors, and the word was spread.
In the Rival Kingdom, word reached the ears of Princess Hatchet. She had once kidnapped Prince Chowming to marry him by force, until that dragon intervened, and saw a second chance to get him in her clutches—I mean, unite the two kingdoms. She summoned her royal consort, Hapless the (former) merchant. “I know you need to settle some accounts with your associates in Aht-Lann-Tah,” she told him. “Go ahead and take care of business. I’ll see you in a month or so, yes?”
Hapless was suspicious, as Hatchet had not let him out of the castle since the wedding, but he did indeed wish to settle his accounts. And if Hatchet thought he’d return without being dragged back by force, so much the better. He wasted little time in departing.
As soon as he was out of sight, Hatchet hurried to her cellar and uncovered her magic mirror. “Mirror, mirror,” she said, “Have I a rival to the hand of Prince Chowming?”
“But one,” the mirror replied. “Among the boatbuilders dwells the maiden Butay. Only she stands in your way.”
“Your rhyming lacks meter,” said Hatchet, “but no matter. By the power of Google, I command thee: find me a spell that will put an end to my rival!”
“Killing an innocent is bad juju,” the mirror warned. “But I have found you a spell that will be just as effective for what you need.”
“Can it be broken?”
“All spells of course can break, but how much effort does it take?” The mirror told her how. “And it wears off after a month.”
“No problem. She can sleep for a month. By then, I’ll have Prince Chowming.”
Butay was storming her way home, and everyone gave her wide hips a wider berth. She had caught her fiancé giving the butcher’s daughter his own salami, and she made sure that the end of their engagement was loud and public. In her rage, she nearly ran down an old woman in her path.
“Greetings, young lady,” said the woman. “Would you like to try my wines? I have only the finest.”
A bit of an ugg, Butay thought, but… “You know, I could use a good drink right now.”
“Then by all means, try some.” The old woman gave her a bottle. “My gift. If you enjoy it, seek me out. I will be glad to sell you some more.”
Butay wondered what the catch was, but didn’t care all that much. She uncorked the bottle and took a deep swig. “Good stuff,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
“Enjoy!” The old woman, who was actually Hatchet in disguise, waved and walked away. Butay took another long drink, then yawned. “Wow,” she said. “I need a nap.” She went home and laid down.
And there she stayed.
continued…
Sunday, March 23, 2014 7 comments
Resurrection #2
The Boy finally got his car working. It wasn’t long before he “found” a job and a place to live near his girlfriend’s place in Newnan. But the fun part was all the stuff that happened along the way.
I believe I mentioned, shortly after he left Wisconsin and was re-admitted to the free-range insane asylum, that his car croaked. Compression was gone, and he immediately decided he needed a new engine. I suggested he do a compression test, because he might only need a top-end rebuild (and like his in-laws, he ignores any data that doesn’t support his snap decision.) Then he decided he wanted a JDM (Japanese Domestic Market) engine, because they supposedly make more horsepower than the US version.
I was skeptical, and so was his friend (the one who bought our green Civic and got it going). But, as I said above, facts don't stand a chance against the snap decision. They hauled the Acura into the #4 chicken house, and The Boy got a Haynes manual—which was horrible for this situation; the manual kept jumping around and skipping steps. But eventually, they got to where they were able to get the tractor bucket chained to the motor and pulled it out.
So, the new one came in. The usual hilarity ensued with getting everything to line up, moving this and that around, and hooking all the wires back up. So he had me down there one chilly Saturday morning. “How do you check the spark?”
I was rather shocked, that someone who thought he could replace an entire engine wouldn’t know how to hold a spark plug against the engine block, but I explained it. He had me crank the engine while he held the plug. No spark. “OK,” I said, “check your distributor, plug wires, and ignition coil.” I checked the fuse block. Easy stuff first, that’s the first rule of troubleshooting and a rule that doesn’t seem to stick with a certain person who prides herself on common sense… but I digress. Anyway, The Boy did some Googling and found that a JDM engine requires a matching ECU (the domestic one doesn’t work for whatever reason). So off to eBay once again, ECU arrives, he installs it, still no spark.
So the friend finally gets back over there, and he begins the methodical kind of approach I can relate to. He swapped in the ignition coil from his Civic, and hey presto, spark! Yes, I razzed The Boy about that on several occasions. Spark, but no vroom. There should have been an earth-shattering vroom. I thought the engine was making that whine that suggests it jumped time, and he decided (as I’d advised him far earlier) to check the timing belt. Turned out it had more teeth missing than a hockey player. With a new timing belt, it finally ran! So they got the car put back together and The Boy got it insured and plated.
Then the fun began. Why he didn’t think about doing this stuff while the new engine was sitting outside the car, I’ll never know. But he figured the first thing to do was change the oil. That’s when he found that a sumo wrestler must have put that oil filter on. It took several days of various things to finally get that sucker loose—he rammed a screwdriver through the filter to get leverage, the old-skool way of removing an oil filter, to no avail. He finally smooshed the end down enough to get a pair of big channel-lock pliers on it, and that did the trick.
Then as he put the oil in, he found that there was a hole in the oil pan. That was a fairly easy fix, as he had the oil pan from his old engine handy. But it was still pretty hilarious, even if by this time he’d taken my garage space and had my Miata out in the rain. I suspect that his shiny new motor was pulled from a wreck. Fun times.
Finally, he found that he’d bodged an axle seal, so his manual transmission fluid was leaking. But that was also a relatively easy fix. Once he was able to get the car back up on jackstands.
Onward and upward… until the next thing happens. I think The Boy’s friend is going to locate us a replacement engine for my old Civic. That should be less of a hassle than the Acura, since we’re not doing the JDM thing. But the Miata has working air conditioning, so I'd probably just sell the Civic once we got it running again.
I believe I mentioned, shortly after he left Wisconsin and was re-admitted to the free-range insane asylum, that his car croaked. Compression was gone, and he immediately decided he needed a new engine. I suggested he do a compression test, because he might only need a top-end rebuild (and like his in-laws, he ignores any data that doesn’t support his snap decision.) Then he decided he wanted a JDM (Japanese Domestic Market) engine, because they supposedly make more horsepower than the US version.
 |
| The Boy didn't see this. ;-) |
So, the new one came in. The usual hilarity ensued with getting everything to line up, moving this and that around, and hooking all the wires back up. So he had me down there one chilly Saturday morning. “How do you check the spark?”
I was rather shocked, that someone who thought he could replace an entire engine wouldn’t know how to hold a spark plug against the engine block, but I explained it. He had me crank the engine while he held the plug. No spark. “OK,” I said, “check your distributor, plug wires, and ignition coil.” I checked the fuse block. Easy stuff first, that’s the first rule of troubleshooting and a rule that doesn’t seem to stick with a certain person who prides herself on common sense… but I digress. Anyway, The Boy did some Googling and found that a JDM engine requires a matching ECU (the domestic one doesn’t work for whatever reason). So off to eBay once again, ECU arrives, he installs it, still no spark.
So the friend finally gets back over there, and he begins the methodical kind of approach I can relate to. He swapped in the ignition coil from his Civic, and hey presto, spark! Yes, I razzed The Boy about that on several occasions. Spark, but no vroom. There should have been an earth-shattering vroom. I thought the engine was making that whine that suggests it jumped time, and he decided (as I’d advised him far earlier) to check the timing belt. Turned out it had more teeth missing than a hockey player. With a new timing belt, it finally ran! So they got the car put back together and The Boy got it insured and plated.
Then as he put the oil in, he found that there was a hole in the oil pan. That was a fairly easy fix, as he had the oil pan from his old engine handy. But it was still pretty hilarious, even if by this time he’d taken my garage space and had my Miata out in the rain. I suspect that his shiny new motor was pulled from a wreck. Fun times.
Finally, he found that he’d bodged an axle seal, so his manual transmission fluid was leaking. But that was also a relatively easy fix. Once he was able to get the car back up on jackstands.
Onward and upward… until the next thing happens. I think The Boy’s friend is going to locate us a replacement engine for my old Civic. That should be less of a hassle than the Acura, since we’re not doing the JDM thing. But the Miata has working air conditioning, so I'd probably just sell the Civic once we got it running again.
Friday, March 21, 2014 10 comments
A to Z challenge: Theme Reveal
Welcome to my world. If it feels lived in, comfortable, it may be because I’ve developed it on and off since 1980 or so.
This is Termag. A world of magic, of world-spanning empires, of a pandemic that destroyed nearly everything. A world of different cultures, matriarchies, rebellions, and wars. And above all, a world full of stories. And my theme for the A to Z Challenge.
For the month of April, I hope you’ll continue to stop by and see what Termag is all about. You’ll get a lot of backstory about this world that hasn’t appeared in the Accidental Sorcerers series, or any other book I’ve written to date. But I won’t be promoting my books (all that’s in the sidebar anyway).
I’ll try to keep them reasonably short. That’s not easy for me.
Now it’s your turn Sign in and find some other themes to check out…
This is Termag. A world of magic, of world-spanning empires, of a pandemic that destroyed nearly everything. A world of different cultures, matriarchies, rebellions, and wars. And above all, a world full of stories. And my theme for the A to Z Challenge.
For the month of April, I hope you’ll continue to stop by and see what Termag is all about. You’ll get a lot of backstory about this world that hasn’t appeared in the Accidental Sorcerers series, or any other book I’ve written to date. But I won’t be promoting my books (all that’s in the sidebar anyway).
I’ll try to keep them reasonably short. That’s not easy for me.
Now it’s your turn Sign in and find some other themes to check out…
Sunday, March 16, 2014 2 comments
Skylar Takes a Powder
Thursday morning dawned bright and interesting. The Boy took Mason down to Newnan, for an overnight with his fiancé's family. She (haven’t come up with a suitable blog-name for her yet) is a decent sort, and Mason adores her.
About twenty minutes after they left, I was checking a few things online, and saw a cop car drive by my window… which meant he was in the driveway. I was afraid that The Boy might have gotten up to something, although I had no idea what, and I didn’t have any better theories.
With the coffee still working on kicking in, I gave the cop one of my more intelligent greetings: “What’s going on?”
“Uh, do you have a little boy that lives here?”
“Yeah.” Now I wondered who had called DFACS on us. M.A.E’s mom used to make a habit of doing that, using them as a harassment tool, until they put her on a “permanent ignore” list.
“Did he miss the bus this morning?”
“He doesn’t ride a bus,” I said, more confused than usual for a morning (which takes some doing). “He’s four, goes to pre-K, but Monday through Wednesday.”
“Is he here?”
“He just left with his dad.”
“So he’s your…” By this time, the cop had a smartphone in hand and was poking at it.
“Grandson.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mason.”
“Is this him?” He held up the phone, with a picture of Skylar.
I managed to suppress the urge to say “You have wrong house,” in my worst Russian accent. Having the wife come up behind me may have helped with that. Instead, I said, “That’s Skylar. Mason’s second cousin.”
“Ah. He missed the bus this morning, and just started wandering around. One of the neighbors found him and called us.”
Wife gave him directions to Big V’s place, and he went on his merry way.
Now Skylar has been living with Big V for a while. She’s half blind, has one leg… and so, she often doesn’t see him doing things he shouldn’t and can’t catch him when she does see him. I’m guessing she zorched out and he took advantage of the situation to play outside. Wife opined that Skylar would shortly end up in a foster home… while I took a hike up a busy highway as a toddler around 1961, authorities don’t have much of a sense of humor about such things today. In the end, Skylar’s parents, Cousin Splat and Badger Boobs (long story), got him. I hope they can keep it all together, for his sake.
If not… I rather expect he’ll end up as a long-term inmate at FAR Manor.
About twenty minutes after they left, I was checking a few things online, and saw a cop car drive by my window… which meant he was in the driveway. I was afraid that The Boy might have gotten up to something, although I had no idea what, and I didn’t have any better theories.
With the coffee still working on kicking in, I gave the cop one of my more intelligent greetings: “What’s going on?”
“Uh, do you have a little boy that lives here?”
“Yeah.” Now I wondered who had called DFACS on us. M.A.E’s mom used to make a habit of doing that, using them as a harassment tool, until they put her on a “permanent ignore” list.
“Did he miss the bus this morning?”
“He doesn’t ride a bus,” I said, more confused than usual for a morning (which takes some doing). “He’s four, goes to pre-K, but Monday through Wednesday.”
“Is he here?”
“He just left with his dad.”
“So he’s your…” By this time, the cop had a smartphone in hand and was poking at it.
“Grandson.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mason.”
“Is this him?” He held up the phone, with a picture of Skylar.
I managed to suppress the urge to say “You have wrong house,” in my worst Russian accent. Having the wife come up behind me may have helped with that. Instead, I said, “That’s Skylar. Mason’s second cousin.”
“Ah. He missed the bus this morning, and just started wandering around. One of the neighbors found him and called us.”
Wife gave him directions to Big V’s place, and he went on his merry way.
Now Skylar has been living with Big V for a while. She’s half blind, has one leg… and so, she often doesn’t see him doing things he shouldn’t and can’t catch him when she does see him. I’m guessing she zorched out and he took advantage of the situation to play outside. Wife opined that Skylar would shortly end up in a foster home… while I took a hike up a busy highway as a toddler around 1961, authorities don’t have much of a sense of humor about such things today. In the end, Skylar’s parents, Cousin Splat and Badger Boobs (long story), got him. I hope they can keep it all together, for his sake.
If not… I rather expect he’ll end up as a long-term inmate at FAR Manor.
Friday, March 14, 2014 16 comments
Oh Rats! (#FridayFlash)
This wasn’t one of Mason’s ideas, but it does continue the adventures of the exterminator and his enthusiastic sidekick. For more of these two, see Chomp! and Sssssslither!
“Lee’s Exterminators.” Lee listened, as Kate said “mm-hmm” several times and scratched at a notepad. “Uh, sure. We can set out bait blocks. Oh. Well, I’ll check with the boss. Can you hold for a moment?”
“What’s going on?” Lee asked, sticking his head out of the office.
Kate had that grin. “They’ve got a detached garage, infested with rats.”
“Don’t tell me it’s—”
“I think it might be an anomaly, yeah. Do we have time to go check it out?”
Lee sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. No scheduled jobs this afternoon.”
“Great! I’ll get the info, call the profs, and we can get going.” Kate was a biology major at the university, and worked for Lee part-time. When a job turned out to be an anomaly, and he’d seen too many of those lately, Kate’s professors paid well for videotape and live specimens. But no amount of money was worth the nightmares.
“They’re… aggressive,” the customer told Lee, rubbing his left arm. “I ain’t seen nothin’ like it. If I didn’t have stuff in there I want to get out, I’d just have the fire department come out and burn it down.”
“Okay,” said Lee. He noted that tone, the one that said you’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you what’s really going on. “Kate, let’s suit up. Sir, if you’d rather go inside while we work, that might be safest.”
“Are you gonna fumigate the garage, then? That’s what I’d do.”
“We’ll see what we’re up against, first. Then we’ll decide what to do.”
“Okay.” The customer sounded doubtful, but fished in his pockets. “Here’s the keys.”
“Video on,” said Kate.
“Keep your shield on the ground,” Lee warned. “Last thing you want is for ‘em to get to your ankles.”
“Roger that.” She stepped forward.
“Kate, it’s my job to go in first.”
“Nope! My turn. I’ll be careful. My insurance is up to date, anyway.” Kate opened the unlocked door before Lee could protest further. “Lights on,” she said. “What the…”
Through the audio pickup, Lee heard a sound like spats of rain. “What’s going on?”
“It’s rat poop,” said Kate. “They’re pushing it off the plywood in the rafters. Like it’s a warning. Interesting.” She drew that last word out, relishing it. “There’s a few of them,” she continued. “Normal size. Brown and white. Weird, they’re not running—shit!”
“Kate!” Lee dashed forward, but Kate was already backing out of the garage.
She turned and gave Lee a wild-eyed look. “If I didn’t know better, I would have thought they—”
Lee looked at Kate’s shield. “Where did that nail come from?”
“Nail?” Kate turned her shield around. “Holy… Lee. We need to check the video. Now.”
“Son of a…” Lee trailed off, as Kate stepped through the video frame by frame. Even with the motion blur, it was obvious.
“They built tools!” Kate exulted. “Weapons! A fracking crossbow! Do you know what that means?”
“It means we’ll have to fumigate the garage after all.”
“Are you crazy? This is an intelligent species! Maybe the only examples! We can’t just exterminate them because—”
“Uh, Kate? We’re exterminators. It’s our job to get rid of animals that invade people’s dwellings. They’re encroaching on human territory. If they were people, they’d be squatting. Trespassing. The police would remove them, using force if necessary.”
“Deadly force?”
“Probably not,” Lee admitted. “But tasers would be a possibility.”
“Taser.” Kate snapped her fingers, rapidly. “Do you have anything like that? Something that would just… knock ‘em out? Sleepy gas?”
“Not with us. Call your profs. Maybe they can suggest something. Then we can let the customer know what’s happening.”
“Ready? Go!” Lee and Kate led the charge, followed by four more biology students. All wore masks and air tanks, and carried cages and grabbers. Kicking the door shut behind them, they waded through the fog of ether and used the grabbers to toss unconscious rats into cages.
“Three nests of babies up here,” said one of the students, standing on a ladder. “And some adults. Looks organized. Almost looks like a daycare.”
“Sweep ‘em into the cage, nests and all,” said Kate. “Try not to mess up the nests. I hope they don’t OD.”
“How many do you think we’ll miss?” Lee asked.
“There’s probably a few up in the insulation,” another student suggested. “Whoa. That looks like a crossbow.”
“It is,” said Kate. They shot nails with it.”
“Day-yam. No wonder you called us in.”
“Got a whole pack of ‘em here,” said Lee. “Let’s get ‘em picked up. What are you guys gonna do with them?”
“The profs have already got some students renovating one of the basement rooms,” said Kate. “Full habitat, observation areas, the works. If we can learn to communicate with them…” she trailed off.
“I still think we should exterminate ‘em,” said Lee. “We’ve got enough politicians around here already.”
 |
| Image source: openclipart.org |
“What’s going on?” Lee asked, sticking his head out of the office.
Kate had that grin. “They’ve got a detached garage, infested with rats.”
“Don’t tell me it’s—”
“I think it might be an anomaly, yeah. Do we have time to go check it out?”
Lee sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. No scheduled jobs this afternoon.”
“Great! I’ll get the info, call the profs, and we can get going.” Kate was a biology major at the university, and worked for Lee part-time. When a job turned out to be an anomaly, and he’d seen too many of those lately, Kate’s professors paid well for videotape and live specimens. But no amount of money was worth the nightmares.
“They’re… aggressive,” the customer told Lee, rubbing his left arm. “I ain’t seen nothin’ like it. If I didn’t have stuff in there I want to get out, I’d just have the fire department come out and burn it down.”
“Okay,” said Lee. He noted that tone, the one that said you’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you what’s really going on. “Kate, let’s suit up. Sir, if you’d rather go inside while we work, that might be safest.”
“Are you gonna fumigate the garage, then? That’s what I’d do.”
“We’ll see what we’re up against, first. Then we’ll decide what to do.”
“Okay.” The customer sounded doubtful, but fished in his pockets. “Here’s the keys.”
“Video on,” said Kate.
“Keep your shield on the ground,” Lee warned. “Last thing you want is for ‘em to get to your ankles.”
“Roger that.” She stepped forward.
“Kate, it’s my job to go in first.”
“Nope! My turn. I’ll be careful. My insurance is up to date, anyway.” Kate opened the unlocked door before Lee could protest further. “Lights on,” she said. “What the…”
Through the audio pickup, Lee heard a sound like spats of rain. “What’s going on?”
“It’s rat poop,” said Kate. “They’re pushing it off the plywood in the rafters. Like it’s a warning. Interesting.” She drew that last word out, relishing it. “There’s a few of them,” she continued. “Normal size. Brown and white. Weird, they’re not running—shit!”
“Kate!” Lee dashed forward, but Kate was already backing out of the garage.
She turned and gave Lee a wild-eyed look. “If I didn’t know better, I would have thought they—”
Lee looked at Kate’s shield. “Where did that nail come from?”
“Nail?” Kate turned her shield around. “Holy… Lee. We need to check the video. Now.”
“Son of a…” Lee trailed off, as Kate stepped through the video frame by frame. Even with the motion blur, it was obvious.
“They built tools!” Kate exulted. “Weapons! A fracking crossbow! Do you know what that means?”
“It means we’ll have to fumigate the garage after all.”
“Are you crazy? This is an intelligent species! Maybe the only examples! We can’t just exterminate them because—”
“Uh, Kate? We’re exterminators. It’s our job to get rid of animals that invade people’s dwellings. They’re encroaching on human territory. If they were people, they’d be squatting. Trespassing. The police would remove them, using force if necessary.”
“Deadly force?”
“Probably not,” Lee admitted. “But tasers would be a possibility.”
“Taser.” Kate snapped her fingers, rapidly. “Do you have anything like that? Something that would just… knock ‘em out? Sleepy gas?”
“Not with us. Call your profs. Maybe they can suggest something. Then we can let the customer know what’s happening.”
“Ready? Go!” Lee and Kate led the charge, followed by four more biology students. All wore masks and air tanks, and carried cages and grabbers. Kicking the door shut behind them, they waded through the fog of ether and used the grabbers to toss unconscious rats into cages.
“Three nests of babies up here,” said one of the students, standing on a ladder. “And some adults. Looks organized. Almost looks like a daycare.”
“Sweep ‘em into the cage, nests and all,” said Kate. “Try not to mess up the nests. I hope they don’t OD.”
“How many do you think we’ll miss?” Lee asked.
“There’s probably a few up in the insulation,” another student suggested. “Whoa. That looks like a crossbow.”
“It is,” said Kate. They shot nails with it.”
“Day-yam. No wonder you called us in.”
“Got a whole pack of ‘em here,” said Lee. “Let’s get ‘em picked up. What are you guys gonna do with them?”
“The profs have already got some students renovating one of the basement rooms,” said Kate. “Full habitat, observation areas, the works. If we can learn to communicate with them…” she trailed off.
“I still think we should exterminate ‘em,” said Lee. “We’ve got enough politicians around here already.”
Friday, March 07, 2014 13 comments
Spammer, in Hell
I’ve wanted to write this for a long time…
Melvin Basgump opened his eyes to find himself staring at an impossibly high ceiling. While he was trying to decide whether it was some kind of optical illusion, a face loomed over him. It was a big face, a stout face, much of it taken up by a bulbous nose; a fringe of hair ran around the top of his head. Like a monk, or something.
“Bienvenidos, Señor Basgump,” the man said. “I am Tomas—”
“What’s with the Mexican crap?” Basgump sneered. “Speak American.”
The man looming over him looked unruffled. “Ah, but we are not in America.” His accent wasn’t Mexican, more like that guy who played Khan in that Star Trek movie. “Nevertheless, Melvin Basgump. Welcome to Hell.”
“Hell?”
“SÃ. Your diet consisted of large quantities of what you moderns call ‘junk food,’ high in salt and fat, but low in nutrition. Combined with your propensity to avoid any form of physical activity, an early death was inevitable.”
“Wait, wait,” Basgump stammered. “There has to be some mistake. I don’t belong here. I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“Ah, are you not aware that gluttony and sloth are both mortal sins? And yet, those in themselves were not sufficient to bring you here, to the place set aside for me. No, you were a career criminal. A spammer, as they say.”
“That’s not illegal!” Basgump protested. “I was running a legitimate marketing enterprise—” a scream of pain cut off his tirade. “My finger! What happened?” He began to sob in pain.
Tomas stepped aside. “Meet my assistant, Miguel.” Miguel was dressed like Tomas, in a simple grey frock, and shared his ugly hairstyle. But Miguel carried a large wooden mallet. “In life, I had many machines to do my work. And now, I have built a new one. When Miguel strikes one of these pegs, it transmits the force of the blow to a single finger. Very precise, no? Fear not, Señor Basgump, each finger will heal instantly, but not soon enough to prevent the deserved pain. Miguel?”
Again, Basgump screamed, as Miguel crushed each finger in turn.
“Now, Señor Basgump, would you like to opt-out your fingers from further mallets?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Very well. Sign here.” Tomas looked at the page. “Miguel! I have a list of ten fresh, verified fingers! One gold real!”
“No!” Basgump screamed, but to no avail. And yet, he continued to scream as the mallet, through the machine, crushed each of his fingers once again.
“Señor Basgump.” Miguel spoke for the first time. “I have constructed an opt-out database, if you would like to join. Yes? Very well, sign here.” Miguel laid the sheet on an adjacent table; the paper caught fire and burned away. “Oh, dear. It seems that my database has been deleted.”
“Nothing for it, Miguel,” said Tomas. “Do transmit another blast of important information.”
“Who are you people?” Basgump panted afterward, his voice already hoarse from screaming.
“As I said, I am Tomas. Tomas de Torquemada. In life, my very name struck terror into men’s hearts, even the innocent. I was zealous for the Law of God, but failed in the weightier matters, such as mercy. Thus was I sent here, to continue the work I did in life—but with more deserving subjects. So let us continue, Señor Basgump. We have all eternity.”
 |
| Image source: Wikimedia Commons |
“Bienvenidos, Señor Basgump,” the man said. “I am Tomas—”
“What’s with the Mexican crap?” Basgump sneered. “Speak American.”
The man looming over him looked unruffled. “Ah, but we are not in America.” His accent wasn’t Mexican, more like that guy who played Khan in that Star Trek movie. “Nevertheless, Melvin Basgump. Welcome to Hell.”
“Hell?”
“SÃ. Your diet consisted of large quantities of what you moderns call ‘junk food,’ high in salt and fat, but low in nutrition. Combined with your propensity to avoid any form of physical activity, an early death was inevitable.”
“Wait, wait,” Basgump stammered. “There has to be some mistake. I don’t belong here. I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“Ah, are you not aware that gluttony and sloth are both mortal sins? And yet, those in themselves were not sufficient to bring you here, to the place set aside for me. No, you were a career criminal. A spammer, as they say.”
“That’s not illegal!” Basgump protested. “I was running a legitimate marketing enterprise—” a scream of pain cut off his tirade. “My finger! What happened?” He began to sob in pain.
Tomas stepped aside. “Meet my assistant, Miguel.” Miguel was dressed like Tomas, in a simple grey frock, and shared his ugly hairstyle. But Miguel carried a large wooden mallet. “In life, I had many machines to do my work. And now, I have built a new one. When Miguel strikes one of these pegs, it transmits the force of the blow to a single finger. Very precise, no? Fear not, Señor Basgump, each finger will heal instantly, but not soon enough to prevent the deserved pain. Miguel?”
Again, Basgump screamed, as Miguel crushed each finger in turn.
“Now, Señor Basgump, would you like to opt-out your fingers from further mallets?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Very well. Sign here.” Tomas looked at the page. “Miguel! I have a list of ten fresh, verified fingers! One gold real!”
“No!” Basgump screamed, but to no avail. And yet, he continued to scream as the mallet, through the machine, crushed each of his fingers once again.
“Señor Basgump.” Miguel spoke for the first time. “I have constructed an opt-out database, if you would like to join. Yes? Very well, sign here.” Miguel laid the sheet on an adjacent table; the paper caught fire and burned away. “Oh, dear. It seems that my database has been deleted.”
“Nothing for it, Miguel,” said Tomas. “Do transmit another blast of important information.”
“Who are you people?” Basgump panted afterward, his voice already hoarse from screaming.
“As I said, I am Tomas. Tomas de Torquemada. In life, my very name struck terror into men’s hearts, even the innocent. I was zealous for the Law of God, but failed in the weightier matters, such as mercy. Thus was I sent here, to continue the work I did in life—but with more deserving subjects. So let us continue, Señor Basgump. We have all eternity.”
Wednesday, March 05, 2014 2 comments
The Writing Process Blog Hop
Instead of writing wibbles today, I joined a blog hop! +Patricia Lynne invited me, and I’ll talk a little about her (or repeat what she wanted me to say) first:
Patricia Lynne is a Young Adult writer who never thought writing would become so integral to her life. What started out as a fun way to kill time has turned into an obsession with story ideas crowding her brain at inconvenient times. When she's not writing, she's knitting (you don't have to be a granny to knit!) or making jewelry. More morbid obsessions include reading serial killer profilers. Currently, she lives with her hubby in Upper Michigan, loves to dye her hair the colors of the rainbow, and hopes to have what resembles a petting zoo one day.
Process? Me? Well, I actually have a pretty strict process, but it begins after the first draft. Still, let’s see what I can come up with. There are four questions to answer, which helps.
1) What are you working on?
I usually have three or four projects going at once, in different stages of completion. The fourth Accidental Sorcerers story, Into the Icebound, went to beta readers over the weekend. The next one, tentatively called The Halls of Nightwalk, is an incomplete draft.
Then there’s a zombie novella, and a collaboration with +Angela Kulig that we’ll probably get started on next month, and a dozen or so other things I’d like to get started this year. Dayjobs can be so pesky.
2) How does your work differ from others in its genre?
I’m writing Accidental Sorcerers as a series of novellas, 30K to 40K words each. Most fantasy tends to runs 2–3 times that long. But in the end, there will be about eight stories, so the overall word count should be fairly similar to an epic trilogy.
The other distinction is that the dominant race on Termag (their world) is red rather than white, and the main characters are citizens of a matriarchy.
3) Why do you write what you do?
I tend to write whichever story is most insistent to get out. I’ve had characters bouncing around the inside of my head, driving me to distraction until I finally give up and get their stories written.
4) How does your writing process work?
I’m mostly a pantser, but I've lately begun to at least set up a skeleton if not a formal outline before I start writing. But I’m definitely not a linear writer. If I want to motivate myself to get started with a story, I’ll start with a pivotal scene and work my way out from there. I did that quite a bit with White Pickups; I wrote pieces of the story here and there and worried about how to connect them later. It all worked out pretty well.
After I have the first draft done, I pretty much live in a checklist until I fire the Launch Cannon. There’s a lot going on, with lots of different people I have to wrangle, and it’s easy to forget any part of it. Writing, not so much—I keep filling in holes until I have a complete story.
So that’s it in a nutshell. Let me know if you want to participate next week, and I’ll shoot you a pic and bio.
Process? Me? Well, I actually have a pretty strict process, but it begins after the first draft. Still, let’s see what I can come up with. There are four questions to answer, which helps.
1) What are you working on?
I usually have three or four projects going at once, in different stages of completion. The fourth Accidental Sorcerers story, Into the Icebound, went to beta readers over the weekend. The next one, tentatively called The Halls of Nightwalk, is an incomplete draft.
Then there’s a zombie novella, and a collaboration with +Angela Kulig that we’ll probably get started on next month, and a dozen or so other things I’d like to get started this year. Dayjobs can be so pesky.
2) How does your work differ from others in its genre?
I’m writing Accidental Sorcerers as a series of novellas, 30K to 40K words each. Most fantasy tends to runs 2–3 times that long. But in the end, there will be about eight stories, so the overall word count should be fairly similar to an epic trilogy.
The other distinction is that the dominant race on Termag (their world) is red rather than white, and the main characters are citizens of a matriarchy.
3) Why do you write what you do?
I tend to write whichever story is most insistent to get out. I’ve had characters bouncing around the inside of my head, driving me to distraction until I finally give up and get their stories written.
4) How does your writing process work?
I’m mostly a pantser, but I've lately begun to at least set up a skeleton if not a formal outline before I start writing. But I’m definitely not a linear writer. If I want to motivate myself to get started with a story, I’ll start with a pivotal scene and work my way out from there. I did that quite a bit with White Pickups; I wrote pieces of the story here and there and worried about how to connect them later. It all worked out pretty well.
After I have the first draft done, I pretty much live in a checklist until I fire the Launch Cannon. There’s a lot going on, with lots of different people I have to wrangle, and it’s easy to forget any part of it. Writing, not so much—I keep filling in holes until I have a complete story.
So that’s it in a nutshell. Let me know if you want to participate next week, and I’ll shoot you a pic and bio.
Tuesday, March 04, 2014 2 comments
Spring #3 comes in like a… kneecap
Winter #3 brought snow and a little ice to FAR Manor, and a recurrence of the winter congestion that lingers for weeks. About the time the snow started melting in earnest, I was finally able to get outside and let Mason play around in what was left. He had a good time all in all, and had a howling fit about having to come inside to get warm and dry.
Then Spring #3 really got itself going, right at the end of February, and it promised a real spring to come (not soon enough). I even drove home with the top down on my Miata one sunny evening, at least until I got about 10 miles from home. There hasn’t been a Winter #4 yet, but it had better hurry up if it’s going to get here. The best part is that weekends have often been warm and sunny, while the crappy weather comes in through the week when I have to be in the office anyway.
So… the last weekend in February. Absolutely gorgeous. I spent a few hours cutting firewood for the not-so-warm nights, then washed my car. Somewhere in there, I banged my knee—the one that isn’t all that good to begin with, of course. I can’t remember how I did it, but thought at the time, “I hope I didn’t knock another bone chip off it.” But it stopped hurting after a couple minutes, so I completely forgot about it and went about my business.
Until evening, when it started hurting. And continued to hurt. By Monday, I was wondering where Reality the crutch had gone (it’s not in the closet where it belongs). To make matters even more fun, that stomach virus going around caught up with me Tuesday, because I couldn’t outrun it. I learned how to limp very quickly to the bathroom.
At work, there’s a first-aid kit with various useful things. There’s a dispenser of stuff called Pain-Aid, which is half aspirin and half ibuprofen. This combination seemed to improve things immensely. By Saturday, it was feeling fairly good… and then the wife had a bunch of errands that needed to be run and no time to run them. Off I went, limping around this store and that, and you can guess the result: by that night it was screaming again.
Rest and ibuprofen (and the ice cuff) have helped; today, it has been mostly usable. Still, it’s off to the doc tomorrow morning to check it out. Once it’s working right, maybe I can enjoy Spring #4.
Then Spring #3 really got itself going, right at the end of February, and it promised a real spring to come (not soon enough). I even drove home with the top down on my Miata one sunny evening, at least until I got about 10 miles from home. There hasn’t been a Winter #4 yet, but it had better hurry up if it’s going to get here. The best part is that weekends have often been warm and sunny, while the crappy weather comes in through the week when I have to be in the office anyway.
 |
| Tanya, Queen of Kneecaps |
Until evening, when it started hurting. And continued to hurt. By Monday, I was wondering where Reality the crutch had gone (it’s not in the closet where it belongs). To make matters even more fun, that stomach virus going around caught up with me Tuesday, because I couldn’t outrun it. I learned how to limp very quickly to the bathroom.
At work, there’s a first-aid kit with various useful things. There’s a dispenser of stuff called Pain-Aid, which is half aspirin and half ibuprofen. This combination seemed to improve things immensely. By Saturday, it was feeling fairly good… and then the wife had a bunch of errands that needed to be run and no time to run them. Off I went, limping around this store and that, and you can guess the result: by that night it was screaming again.
Rest and ibuprofen (and the ice cuff) have helped; today, it has been mostly usable. Still, it’s off to the doc tomorrow morning to check it out. Once it’s working right, maybe I can enjoy Spring #4.
Monday, March 03, 2014 No comments
Read an eBook Week!
Smashwords has declared it to be Read an eBook Week, and two of my books are in the promo:
Xenocide — FREE with coupon code RW100
The Crossover — FREE all the time! (well, at least through the end of the month)
And while you're at it, why not check out freebies from Tony Noland?
Friday, February 28, 2014 12 comments
One Sunday Morning (#FridayFlash)
It was an offhand comment from Maria Lima that drove me to write this…
Pastor Zachariah Jones finished his morning prayers and arose, knees popping. He stretched, raising his hands to Heaven in praise, then ambled out back.
“Thank you, Lord, for seeing me to another Sunday morning,” he said, as he lifted the roof of the small chicken coop. The hens had given him two eggs this morning; he cooked them out back over an open fire with a can of Spam, then took it inside to eat.
The cuckoo clock announced eight o’clock. He shuddered, then chided himself. “Your great-grandfather stood unafraid, preaching the Word to the brothers in Alabama,” he reminded himself. “Your flock needs the Lord, more than anyone. The Joneses have never turned away from the Lord’s call, no matter how difficult, and neither will you.”
The climb to the bell tower was tiring, and Zachariah could smell his own sweat in the still, cool air of the stairwell. But this was the call to worship; his flock would heed the call and come. He stuffed cotton in his ears before pulling the rope.
Across the weed-infested fields, across the blighted cityscape, the pure tones of the church bell summoned the flock to worship. Zachariah could see them, shuffling along the dirty sidewalks, faithful to the call. His heart went out to them; this was not the mission he would have chosen, but he himself would be faithful to God’s call.
As usual, the church was packed, and Zachariah was thankful for the broken windows that let in fresh air. “Good morning, brethren,” he called from the pulpit. “Let us begin our time of worship by lifting our voices to the Lord. Hymn number 553.”
The voices were as mushy as always, but they gave it their all. This was, after all, their favorite hymn:
They seated themselves, some with more ease than others, and Zachariah began his sermon.
As usual, he preached about overcoming temptation, endurance under persecution, and facing their tormenters with grace and humility. These lessons needed to be reinforced every week, especially in the face of threats and worse. Zachariah’s own great-grandfather had faced the same in his day; the white folks burned down one of his churches and tried to burn another, and even shot him once. These days, it was a Sunday morning bombing that Zachariah feared the most. “If only those who would persecute you,” he said, “would join us here, and see the work that we do, perhaps then they would turn away from their sin and unite with the Lord in love.” The flock nodded; many grunted agreement. Zachariah preached on. He never had to worry about losing their attention.
But at last, came time for the altar call. “The Lord gave all men and women free will,” he reminded them, “and He allows us the consequences of our choices. But His word says, ‘he who would keep his life shall lose it, and he who lays down his life for My sake shall keep it.’ And so, the altar is always open, and all God’s creatures may seek salvation.”
A long pause, then one of the zombies stood and shuffled up the aisle. As with the living, others would follow when another led, and a dozen more joined him there. One by one, they moaned their final confessions to the Lord, and passed away peacefully there at the altar.
“Go in peace, and in the love of the Lord,” Zachariah told the remaining zombies. “And you need not wait for Sunday to come to His altar. Resist the temptations of the flesh, and you will be given a crown above.”
“Amen,” several responded, then they carried away those who had gone to the altar.
Zachariah watched the solemn recession. It was important work he did here, and he wished the other living souls understood that. Zombie attacks were down, and their numbers were dwindling without the need for shotguns or firebombs. Nobody wanted to be a zombie, even the zombies themselves, and there was still a spark of free will in those decaying, hungering bodies. Surely the Lord would bring home those souls who were, after all, only victims of circumstance.
Surely.
Lyrics: “And Are We Yet Alive” by Charles Wesley, 1749.
“Thank you, Lord, for seeing me to another Sunday morning,” he said, as he lifted the roof of the small chicken coop. The hens had given him two eggs this morning; he cooked them out back over an open fire with a can of Spam, then took it inside to eat.
The cuckoo clock announced eight o’clock. He shuddered, then chided himself. “Your great-grandfather stood unafraid, preaching the Word to the brothers in Alabama,” he reminded himself. “Your flock needs the Lord, more than anyone. The Joneses have never turned away from the Lord’s call, no matter how difficult, and neither will you.”
The climb to the bell tower was tiring, and Zachariah could smell his own sweat in the still, cool air of the stairwell. But this was the call to worship; his flock would heed the call and come. He stuffed cotton in his ears before pulling the rope.
Across the weed-infested fields, across the blighted cityscape, the pure tones of the church bell summoned the flock to worship. Zachariah could see them, shuffling along the dirty sidewalks, faithful to the call. His heart went out to them; this was not the mission he would have chosen, but he himself would be faithful to God’s call.
As usual, the church was packed, and Zachariah was thankful for the broken windows that let in fresh air. “Good morning, brethren,” he called from the pulpit. “Let us begin our time of worship by lifting our voices to the Lord. Hymn number 553.”
The voices were as mushy as always, but they gave it their all. This was, after all, their favorite hymn:
And are we yet alive, and see each other’s face?
Glory and thanks to Jesus give for His almighty grace!
What troubles have we seen, what mighty conflicts past,
Fightings without, and fears within, since we assembled last!
Yet out of all, the Lord hath brought us by his love;
And still He doth His help afford, and hides our life above.
They seated themselves, some with more ease than others, and Zachariah began his sermon.
As usual, he preached about overcoming temptation, endurance under persecution, and facing their tormenters with grace and humility. These lessons needed to be reinforced every week, especially in the face of threats and worse. Zachariah’s own great-grandfather had faced the same in his day; the white folks burned down one of his churches and tried to burn another, and even shot him once. These days, it was a Sunday morning bombing that Zachariah feared the most. “If only those who would persecute you,” he said, “would join us here, and see the work that we do, perhaps then they would turn away from their sin and unite with the Lord in love.” The flock nodded; many grunted agreement. Zachariah preached on. He never had to worry about losing their attention.
But at last, came time for the altar call. “The Lord gave all men and women free will,” he reminded them, “and He allows us the consequences of our choices. But His word says, ‘he who would keep his life shall lose it, and he who lays down his life for My sake shall keep it.’ And so, the altar is always open, and all God’s creatures may seek salvation.”
A long pause, then one of the zombies stood and shuffled up the aisle. As with the living, others would follow when another led, and a dozen more joined him there. One by one, they moaned their final confessions to the Lord, and passed away peacefully there at the altar.
“Go in peace, and in the love of the Lord,” Zachariah told the remaining zombies. “And you need not wait for Sunday to come to His altar. Resist the temptations of the flesh, and you will be given a crown above.”
“Amen,” several responded, then they carried away those who had gone to the altar.
Zachariah watched the solemn recession. It was important work he did here, and he wished the other living souls understood that. Zombie attacks were down, and their numbers were dwindling without the need for shotguns or firebombs. Nobody wanted to be a zombie, even the zombies themselves, and there was still a spark of free will in those decaying, hungering bodies. Surely the Lord would bring home those souls who were, after all, only victims of circumstance.
Surely.
Lyrics: “And Are We Yet Alive” by Charles Wesley, 1749.
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