My grand children came over and we made breakfast and did some cleaning; and the cage too.
[NOT VIEWING on iPad 2]
grrrrrrrr!!!
Thank you for taking the time to visit; enjoy the posts...
MUTTON by Jason Prather
MUTTON
A Short Story By
Jason Prather
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The boy was at the creek again near the edge of the village on the day of the terrible crime thinking about long-ago and the woman he knew who had once made him chicken. Thoughts of the woman made him sad, and he poked at a spot on the ground with a stick as he crouched while his stomach growled. He was hungry and the memory of the woman made him want chicken; so he thought long and hard about chickens and where he might find one. Most chickens, he knew, lived on farms, and there was one farm that he knew of in particular; so the boy stood and tossed the stick into the creek and paused to watch the water carry it away, then he turned to leave.
He walked for a long time trying to remember the way to the farm. The sun had begun to set, and the boy began to worry. He did not want to lose his way back to the creek, because he liked the creek and he liked the tree he had found there. The tree was a safe place where he could get away, because most people felt uncomfortable when the boy was around and sometimes they were mean to him; so the boy kept walking and searching and as the light in the sky began to fade, he found the farm.
The farm was small and set back from the main wagon road, so the boy had to travel across a derelict cornfield, past a rusted plow, and over a sagging wooden fence to reach it. The main house, an aging split-log cabin, sat adjacent a long, squat barn. The evening was cool and the boy could smell burning firewood. The scent reminded him of something, something from when he was younger. He lingered and tried to let the memory take shape, but his stomach groaned and his thoughts soon returned to the hunt.
The boy turned away from the cabin and began to search for chickens. He had no understanding of his trespassing. In his mind, he was simply looking for food on a farm; so he moved about, not in stealth, but conspicuously and with little regard for what the farmer might hear or see. He crossed the yard to search the barn, but he found no chickens. He returned to the cabin and walked all around it stopping twice to peer through the windows, but he saw no chickens. Perplexed, the boy stopped and stood and thought long and hard about where chickens would be on a farm. As he was thinking, he remembered seeing a chicken coop when he was younger and realized that farm chickens must have their own houses; so he returned to the yard and surveyed the farm from his spot and there at the far end of the barn he spied an oblong wooden shelter with a gabled roof.
The boy squealed with excitement as he rushed to the structure. The ridge of the shelter's roof was about chest-high and the length of the coop was roughly double the length of the boy's height. The backward-facing slope of the roof was divided into two halves, each bearing a latch and hinges, so that either one might be raised for access to the nests inside. The boy did not immediately recognize this convenience and spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out how to open the coop; but he eventually found one of the latches and thought to raise it and then he raised the section of roof and pushed it back on its hinges and let it fall to the opposite side with a bang. The chickens were startled by the noise and began to squawk and some fluttered their wings, but the boy was pleased with his discovery and took no notice of their complaints and he squealed again with excitement and clapped his hands.
The boy reached into the coop and grabbed a chicken, but it pecked and scratched him in its fear and the boy cried out and dropped it to the ground. Angered, the boy rushed to recover his meal, but the chicken was too quick for him and darted away squawking as it went. The boy moaned in frustration and returned to the coop to grab another chicken; but it, too, beat its wings in fear and it pecked and clawed at the boy and he lost his grip and the chicken fluttered away.
The boy wailed in outrage and he beat himself about the head with his fists. Blood began to form in the scratches on his wrists and the sight of his blood terrified him and he flew at the coop and grabbed another chicken and practically tore it apart. He sat heavily on the ground with the bird in his grip and the chicken beat its wings and squawked and scratched and pecked. The boy cried out and beat the chicken with his fist and grabbed at the chicken and twisted it and he broke the bird's neck and he broke its wings and ripped handfuls of feathers from its sides. And he squeezed the chicken hard and he shook it and he slammed it to the ground between his legs and still the chicken fought; so the boy beat the chicken in his lap to make it stop moving and he beat it and beat it and eventually it did stop.
The boy squeezed his fists tightly and grit his teeth and groaned in rage as he took to beating himself in the head again with his bloody fists. When he was done, he sat for a short while breathing heavily from his mouth as tears spilled from his eyes and mucus ran from his nose.
When he began to calm, the boy looked down at the bloody mess in his lap and he was sad. He did not mean to hurt the chicken, certainly not as badly as he did, and he felt sorry for what he had done; but he was still hungry and after several minutes of sitting and rocking and allowing himself to calm, he thought to eat the chicken. He raised the chicken to his mouth, but the carcass was floppy and hard for the boy to manipulate it to the right spot. Nevertheless with effort, he managed to position the chicken at the right angle and when he did so, he bit deeply into a bloody area that had been divest of its feathers.
The skin of the chicken was tough and the boy had to gnaw at it and work his teeth and pull on it to tear away the chunk of flesh. He chewed it, but discovered the taste and consistency of the skin and meat was not at all like the meat of the chicken the woman had made him, so he spit it out and tried again. He fared no better the second time and this upset him greatly, because he was hungry and he did not know why this chicken tasted so differently or what the woman had done to make her chicken taste so good. The boy barked in anger at the chicken and he shook the bloody corpse and then threw it against the wall of the coop and then he stood up and left the farm.
Night and darkness were upon the boy when he eventually made it back to the creek. The blood of the chicken was on his face and hands and on his shirt and shorts and he felt sticky and wanted to wash in the creek, but he did not because the water would make him feel cold. He moved around to the far side of the tree and found the den he had made in the earth between two great roots that issued from the tree's base. Stuffed into an earthen nook near the vertex of the roots was a burlap sack that had been split along either side. The boy crawled into the den and curled up tightly and pulled the sack over him to use as a blanket. His stomach felt sick and his head hurt and at that moment he missed the woman terribly. The boy moaned and began to rock from side-to-side and after a long time he fell asleep.
The farmer grumbled in his sleep and furrowed his brow and frowned deeply as his hand twitched and then something in his dream startled him and he jerked his head and woke up. He did not know what time it was, but given the darkness and quietness he knew night had not yet progressed to morning. His head hurt and his neck was stiff and he grunted as he swung his legs over the side of the couch. As he righted himself, he coughed and his coughing turned into a fit and he leaned forward and coughed and coughed until he loosed a gumball-sized wad of mucus from his throat and then he spit it on the floor. He cursed and wiped his whiskered mouth with his hand and collapsed back against the couch and closed his eyes as his head pounded more fiercely. He felt sure he would not be able to fall back asleep, certainly not with his head pounding like it was, and he had much to do today to make up for yesterday, so he simply rested against the cushions and let his pounding headache slowly return to a steady throb.
Yesterday had been particularly bad. Memories of his dead wife and son pervaded his thoughts for no discernible reason and he took to drinking heavily about midday and passed out shortly before sunset. Now it was not quite morning and yesterday he had lost a half-day's work due to his grief and his drinking, so he stood up and walked to the kitchen and found a bottle of liquor and drank from it to remedy his headache. He decided to start his work early and make as much of the day as he could in case he might be moved to drink again in the evening. He set the liquor aside, fixed a meager breakfast, forced himself to eat, then smoked a cigarette afterwards, and went about the farm tending to his duties. It was during this time that he found the chicken.
At first, the farmer thought the chicken had been attacked by an animal, but he saw the coop had been opened and there were human footprints all around and he realized a trespasser had come in the night. The farmer felt fear and anger well up inside him and he took the chicken's carcass and put it far away from the coop. He then got his shotgun from the house and went about the farm looking for the malefactor and to see what other damage the intruder might have caused, but he found nothing. Morning was approaching, so the farmer finished as much of his work as his troubled mind would allow, then he smoked another cigarette and drank some more liquor and took his shotgun and tried to follow the intruder's trail for as long as he could. Eventually, though, he lost the tracks, so he returned home.
Crime in the village was a rarity, so the farmer was not entirely sure how to proceed. About midmorning he rode into the village and went to the tavern where he was known and had a drink. He spoke to the bartender and some other men about what had happened and someone suggested a search party be formed lest the scoundrel invade someone else's farm and kill someone else's chickens; so a plan was devised and a search party was assembled and by early afternoon a group of about fifteen men moved across the village looking for the chicken killer.
The men carried an assortment of weapons - knives, sickles, shotguns - but there was no clear plan as to what to do with the killer once he was found. Some in the group felt immediate justice was in order, while others believed the intruder's fate should be left solely to the farmer, and still others were of the opinion the community as a whole should have the final say. Despite this lack of agreement, the one thing each and every man did agree on was that the killer should be caught and caught soon. Farms, houses, and the bordering forests were searched, but to no avail. People were questioned and many told strange stories about the disappearances of their this-and-thats, or their gardens being raided, or odd disturbances among their livestock; but no one had actually seen anything or could give a description of who or what may have caused all the trouble. By evening, the search had proved fruitless and many of the men had turned back to go home.
Two men in particular hiked alongside one another and they chatted as they went following a creek they knew would lead them back to the village. As they rounded a bend, one of the men spied a figure sitting on the banks of the creek several hundred yards away. He nudged his companion and pointed the boy out and they crept closer keeping their presence a secret. When they were within a certain distance, they crouched behind some brush and simply beheld the boy, marveling at how very peculiar he looked.
The boy's head seemed unusually large and was covered by matted dull brown hair, except for a wide swath of baldness that travelled up the back of his head to taper off near the crown. He had a grossly protruding brow and close set eyes and a stout neck and broad shoulders. His back was slightly humped and his biceps were thick and muscular and he had large hands and feet and stubby hairless legs. The boy wore no shoes and he sat with his right hand pronated while he picked from it crickets and berries that he stuffed into his oversized mouth.
The boy was no boy the men had ever seen before and they indicted him on-the-spot. This was the chicken killer, the faceless invader of farms and gardens, there was no doubt. After a brief moment to work out their ambush, the men readied themselves, then dashed around the bushes and charged at the boy.
The boy, having a keen sense of hearing, was alerted to the presence of the men at the moment they made their attack and he squealed almost reflexively as he leapt to his feet and ran. He did not know why he was being chased, but the men bore mean faces and he was afraid. He was quick, despite having no shoes, and when he reached the tree, he dashed around it, leapt into his den, curled into a ball, and quickly pulled the burlap sack over him; but the men were not fooled. They rounded the tree to find the boy had vanished. A quick survey of the immediate area, however, revealed the den - an obvious hiding place - so they checked there first and found the boy beneath the sack.
The men reached into the den to pull the boy out. He kicked and fought and he was strong for a boy, so the men beat him and the boy cried out. The sounds the boy made were like an animal's and the men were repulsed by them, so they beat him more. They dragged him from his hiding place and as they did the boy grabbed a bunch of exposed roots and held tightly. One man stomped hard on his hands and stomped again and again until the boy let go. The men kicked and stomped the boy once they had him free of the den and the boy squealed and wailed and covered his head and brought his knees to his chest. The men saw the blood on the boy's clothes, which only solidified in their minds that he was the killer, so they beat him more.
Eventually the boy stopped making noises, so the men stopped their beating and one man left the other with the boy and fetched a cart and they loaded the boy onto it and drove him to the village square.
Word of the capture spread quickly and a throng of people soon formed around the cart eager to see the hideous chicken killer. The remaining members of the search party were rounded up, including the farmer, and when all were assembled, the farmer gazed upon the boy and he was sickened by his appearance and he spit on him.
Talk of what to do with the boy soon followed. He is a killer, some cried, and should be beaten and horse-dragged! He is a monster, others shouted, and should be tied up and locked away! Many in the group looked to the farmer for the answer, not because he was a great voice in the village, but for the simple fact that it was his chicken the boy had killed; so the farmer thought about it and thought some more and then he recalled an old custom. We'll pigshut him! he declared, and there followed shouts of approval and shouts of protest, while others only stood in ignorance; but it was generally accepted that the farmer should have the ultimate say, so the boy was tied up and left at the square in the cart with one man to stand watch overnight.
The next day, a variety of goods were gathered from all who were willing to contribute for use in trade for a pig from a pig farmer in a neighboring village. An enormous hog was purchased and killed and its entrails and organs removed and the corpse was prepared and brought to the village square. A gallows was erected and afterwards the boy was brought to the pig. When they tried to put him in, the boy fought, but he was weak and stiff from his beating from the day before and he was easily subdued.
The pig had been split down the middle and lain on its side. Two men held the pig open while two others stuffed the boy in. One man used his boot to pack him in tightly and afterwards the pig was sown up. A harness of rope was fashioned and the entire assembly, pig and boy, were hoisted up by the gallows and left to hang for all to see.
The boy did not understand why the people had beaten him and put him in the pig. He often did not know why people were mean to him. In fact, the woman was the only one who had ever treated him with any sort of memorable kindness; but he did not want to think about the woman now. He hurt too much and the pig was slimy and stank and at some point while he was being beaten he must have thrown up, because he could smell vomitus on his clothes. No, the memories of the woman only made him hurt worse, so he shut her out of his thoughts and closed his eyes and tried his best to fall asleep.
But sleep would not come and the boy moaned and cried out of frustration. His arms were flexed and crowded against his body and when he tried to straighten them he could only get them as far as his forehead. His legs were bent and his feet were pushed up and he could feel the pig's ribcage against his shoulders. His limbs and body ached and he was terribly thirsty. He tried to rock his body in the manner that soothed him when he was afraid, but his angle and the confines of the pig would not allow it. He whimpered as he began to pat and rub his cheek. At one point, he had to urinate, so he did and felt the warm piss wet his crotch and run down his thigh and at first it felt good, but after a moment the wetness turned cold, which made him cry more.
The boy was not a hateful person. He liked people and longed for a companion and he would have given anything to be back with the woman. Oh, how she had loved him! This time, despite the pain and the longing, he let his mind receive her. He remembered being held by her once. Something bad had happened; a dog had attacked him after he tried to pet it. He remembered the dog, how it had turned on him and the terror he felt as it growled and barked and snapped its jaws. He had screamed and tried to get away, but the dog was relentless. He remembered the hair and the teeth and the saliva, but he could not remember how he had gotten away, only that he had gotten away and had somehow ended up in the woman's arms. She allowed him to curl up in her lap while she wrapped her arms around him and she rocked him silently, for the woman never spoke, and occasionally stroked his hair. Her embrace comforted him through his pain and he felt protected and loved and the woman was all he had ever wanted at that moment and in the moment of her memory she was all he ever wanted again.
As he thought about the woman and her embrace, he tried to imagine that the pig was her and its carcass was her soothing arms surrounding him and keeping him safe from the dogs who had attacked him. His anxiety released its hold just a bit and he thought about her hair and how soft it was and her smile and her gentleness and he soon lost track of the little sense of time he had and fell asleep.
The villagers kept the boy in the pig for three days. On the third day the farmer and some men came to free him. Many of the villagers gathered to watch and they wore scarves or bandanas over their mouths and noses, because the stench from the pig was considerable. The men lowered the hog to the ground and removed the harness and clipped the sutures that bound the pig's belly. When they opened it, the malodor - a noxious mix of decaying pig, ammonia, sweat, and feces - practically overwhelmed the men and they turned away quickly to catch their breaths. The farmer, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, kicked the pig and ordered the boy to come out, but the boy would not come out and no one was willing to reach in to recover him. Sticks were used and rakes and brooms to jab and poke the boy, but he merely squealed and rolled over and turned his back to the crowd.
The farmer and the others stood in amazement. A boy who would live in a pig is a boy who cannot be reformed, said the farmer; and so they left the boy inside and sutured the pig back up and bound it with rope. The pig was then hoisted onto a cart and afterwards the farmer and a man of his choosing drove the boy in the pig to the far side of the bordering forest and dumped them in a clearing near a running brook.
The villagers never saw the boy again, which is how they preferred it. As far as they knew, the pig and the boy had been claimed by the buzzards and weasels; but the boy, at the same time, never left the village. He became a story told over and over again in homes and in the fields and in the tavern. His legend grew and as the years went by, he became a permanent fixture of their culture. A council that had formed to govern the village declared a particular day in spring to be Pigshut's Day in which children would dress as pigs or hideous boys and go about from cottage to cottage begging for food. Unruly children would often hear their mothers warn that if they did not behave, the boy in the pig would creep in during the night and steal them away.
One such child, who had been especially naughty and had received the story and had been amazed by it, asked her mother for the name of the boy. The mother thought for a moment and realized she had never known the boy's name and so she told her daughter he did not have one. The girl refused to accept such a preposterous notion. Every boy has a name and she demanded to know his. The mother, who by this point was thoroughly exhausted at having to deal with the importunate child, gave the boy a name. "Mutton," she said in an exasperated tone. "His name was Mutton."
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THE END
BLOG
I want to re-envision this picture in Photoshop.
(I have used the idea in my story already).
THE WATCHER'S SCROLL
{ The Original Version }
“Beneath that evening star dome, lead
Lord Elrond with his people shed
the woes of a war torn land
healed by a fulfilled king’s hand.
5 Aboard their swan-carved ships
with praises high on ruby lips;
one - with Halflings dressed in vests
rewarded for a legendary quest.
Yet some later said by folly of pride
10 those brothers fought and lied
their bonds they broke and took
all loyalties of oaths forsook.
Shelda`Mar pleaded for we few to come
aboard Valithnor’s ship, Cirdan’s drum;
15 unto those undying lands of hope and grace,
yet outraged, Vendu`Mar abandon his place.
On faded docks did Vendu`Mar argue
against his brother’s command he drew
harsh words like a bitter sword that bites,
20 though Shelda`Mar in sorrow took flight
The wizard Gan`Mereith admonished us
to be wary against our growing lust;
Sal`Gilvan and Veth`Dema barked back
with their own words of black.
25 We stayed like an anointed remnant,
who saw it our goal to rule as imminent,
teaching a new lore to lesser men
with a diverse tongue, Sinenya I penned.
[click to enlarge original Elven Script]
Like unto Sindar was Sinenya made
30 with new characters and words I laid;
letters designed for new purposes crafted
for initiated secretes were they drafted.
For the greed of some soon railed apparent
as our original cravings became too variant;
35 instead of being counselors to students in need
many wayward misguidings did breed.
Celegreth of the elven Crystal Caves,
and Kwandol the dwarven mason, made;
a Great Hall like greeting hands
40 domed six hundred years, still stands.
Close to the bay a watchtower stood
with a bell’s tolling alarm it would;
chime forth the hours of the Great Hall
for secret Brothers to heed its call.
45 In that kingdom’s darkened hall we met
among fireside rituals fussed and fret;
knowing inwardly we hoped against hope,
preaching failed expectations, we groped.
High in that Watchtower’s nest
50 its bell replaced we thought best;
with a pyre set eternally aflame,
for others to return without shame.
On the day the oil-soaked wood was lit,
by Fay`Symodare’s death all were hit;
55 the shadow that fulfilled Mereith’s woe,
the bane of mortal man became our snow.
From his ashes we gathered a portion
entombed in an urn with grave distinction;
the rest we scattered upon the sea
60 and swore our own would mix free.
Crafting an Original.
I'm still writing on my novel, pecking away. I am also working on a craft item: A Scroll Box; right now just the box for the scroll. Thinking that if I can manifest this literary concept as a three dimensional object maybe I should be able to better understand my novel's character who created the Original one.
THE SWAN
FROM ASHES (By Mike Cope, and others...)
___________As it originally appeared_________________
He picked me to go next. I'll start us off and you are all invited to contribute. So here goes...
The landing craft bucked and pitched as it sped toward its destiny on Omaha beach. Nearby shell bursts sent sprays of water, drenching the occupants within.
Dr. Solomon crouched as near to the bucking floor as he could and flinched at every explosion and ricochet. He looked at the soldiers in front of him and felt sick knowing how many of them would not survive the day. The craft made a final jarring lurch and the big ramp went down, men charging forward into the bloody waves of Normandy.
Bullets pinged off the enormous steel crate beside which the diminutive Dr. Solomon sought cover.
"You're up doctor!" shouted the lieutenant.
"I should have just settled down and opened an ice-cream shop," he thought to himself. He was only supposed to observe these people. His Prime Directive was not to get involved in any way. But since the explosion and fire that had destroyed his laboratory and left him marooned among these people he had come to know and like them, even love them. Day after day he watched his friends and neighbors go off to war, never to return. His heart sank with every radio report. Against his better judgment he looked up his friends in the history database. He knew exactly where, when and how each of them would die. That was when he decided to violate his mandate, an act punishable by death if he should ever be found.
With trembling hands he threw back the bolt on the giant crate and swung open the door. His invention might save some lives. It would most likely change the course of the war. It would very probably change the course of history-- and that was unforgivable.
The crate shuddered as his invention came to life. It seemed the vibration would tear the landing craft apart if the Nazi artillery shells didn't do the job first.
High above the beachhead from the relative safety of a German pillbox an SS observer peered through binoculars with interest at the little landing craft and its occupants. He saw the door of the unusual box swing open. Something stirred within it.
"Mein Gott!" he gasped...
All guns turned. The redirection of bullets fired upon the craft as the newly deployed forces strived to engage the enemy. Though many were instantly mowed down before they could wade their third step out into the waters. The incoming rounds did not let up. The Lieutenant's horrified expression was not so much the direct result of witnessing the sudden loss of his men's lives, but because of the doctor's invention. With every ping of incoming rounds a pool of blue light ate up the bullet while it was still in mid-flight; about the stranger and his cargo. Like some kind of "force field". The doctor turned to the young Lt. and said, "--
"Get to a field radio as fast as you can, and tell your men to cease fire.Everybody on the beach must get down." [The] Lieutenant was looking at the crate in a trance. What the hell is that Doc? Lieutenant did you read me all your men must lay down there arms. I turn this thing on. I dont know how to turn it off. or if it knows the difference between us and the Germans.
?"Stand aside lieutenant, we've got work to do."
The machine lumbered forth, crab-like, incoming fire absorbed completely by its force-field. The more bullets it absorbed the larger and brighter the protective dome of energy grew. Soon it had expanded to enclose the landing craft and its surviving contingent of soldiers. It scuttled down the ramp, into the water and up onto the beach providing an oasis of safety for the ever growing number of soldiers who clustered around it.
Though the rippling screen of energy devoured the shells of every weapon directed against it, outgoing fire was not affected. The advancing American forces no longer in danger took their time and placed every shot with deadly accuracy.
Perhaps this is enough, thought Dr. Solomon as he and Lt. Hanley watched from the landing craft. If I only shield our boys, if I use only passive interference, it won't be so bad for me if the Council finds me, he told himself.
Just then a mortar shell exploded among a group of soldiers just beyond the protective dome. Bodies and parts of bodies were thrown high into the air. Solomon cringed.
"Watch this," he said, thumbing a toggle switch on the black control box he held in his hands. The machine reared up on its steel legs, doors within its chest swinging open, the barrels of some strange, unknown weapon emerging, pulsating with energy.
Dr. Solomon pressed a red button and a beam of blinding green light shot from the strange machine ambling up the beach toward the German defenses.
Lt. Hanley stared in disbelief. "Sweet merciful Heaven, the damned thing works," he said to nobody in particular. "I gotta hand it to you doctor, that's really something," he said, turning to face his companion. But Dr. Solomon did not hear him. His attention was fixed on a small indicator screen on his control box. He looked worried.
The mechanical beast swung its weapon wildly, as if it were confused. "Didn't you hear what I said?" Dr. Solomon implored. "The men must cease firing!"
The lieutenant keyed the mic of the field radio and screamed, "Cease fire! Cease fire! Pass the word. All units stand down!"
The orders were screamed through bullhorns, barely audible over the sounds of battle. Slowly firing from the American forces subsided and the infernal machine swung it's gaze back to the German lines.
But suddenly a shell from a naval vessel from somewhere in the English channel split the air overhead. Dr. Solomon's machine reared up again and swung to face the direction of the ship.
Feeling like the weight of the world up on his shoulders. Like a man who started something that he could not stop. Reaching in his pocket. The doctor pulled out what looked like a egyptian medallion. Doctor looking over it. thinking, I wonder if Moses new what the hell he had. 5 thousand years ago.
As the mechanical Turned and began firing towards the naval vessel, the Doctor studied the glowing image in his hands. "Do I let it change history, will this add to my mistakes, or do I stop it all now? How do I decide?" He looked desperately around him, as the Nazis again fell before his invention. He needed a sign, something to tell him what to do....
He felt a sharp sting as if a bee stung his neck and swatted his hand to his throat. He nearly dropped the precious control box and barely managed to grab it with both hands before it smashed to the deck. His eyes widened as he looked down at his blood covered hands and realized the strange bubbling noise was coming from him. He sank to his knees and pitched forward onto the hard steel plating. With his waning strength he tugged at Lt. Hanley's leg.
"Holy crap, Doc!" Hanley yelped, turning his attention from the amazing machine to where Solomon lay crumpled on the dirty deck in a rapidly growing pool of red. The lieutenant dropped to his knees and pressed his palm to the hole in the other man's throat. Solomon shoved the control box at him.
"I don't know how to drive that thing!" screamed Hanley, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. With his final reserve of strength Dr. Solomon sputtered, "History is... in... Your hands. You must contact... The Council... The Council..." His voice trailed off. A gold medallion with the image of a scarab minted on it rolled from his twitching fingers and clattered loudly on the deck. The mysterious Dr. Solomon was no more.
"jimminey Christmas, son-of-a..." Hanley growled through gritted teeth, not completing his thought. He grabbed up the control box and stood, completely dumfounded by the array of knobs, dials and switches. He swung back towards the battle, his panic academic as the mechanical beast was no longer on the beach. From atop the cliffs of Normandy great green flashes could be seen and with each flash more Nazi guns fell silent. The monster was headed inland, toward the villages of France, an uncontrolled and unstoppable juggernaut.
Hanley bent down a scooped up the medallion. He turned it over in his fingers, examining it. "Solomon said to contact the council," he thought. "Council of what?"
In the fading afternoon light of Omaha Beach, Lt. Jordan Hanley was a man in over his head.
A radio static squawked nearby. Without the immediate cover of the mechanical beast and the nearby German forces seemingly defeated; the Americans that were alive along the Beach of Normandy gathered their wits, and aided the wounded. Sporadic, makeshift camps began to emerged within minuets of the silence. The young blonde hair farm boy from Indian, Jordan James Hanley had done more growing in the last hour than he ever experience his entire life. He began yelling orders for his remaining men to advance forward in an effort to locate the dead doctor's invention. He knew his mission, he was uncertain of the Beast's course.
Looking at the blood smeared control box and its array of switches took a gamble and depressed a small red button on the side. Scanning the horizon before him no longer saw the green flashes of light illuminate the darkening skies overhead. A small ping began to sound as a yellow indicator blinked with three second intervals. "Darn thing's got a homing devise on it." The Lt. said aloud. Next to him a Sargent came up, stopping his own near salute looked around, "Sir, Sargent Bakerson reporting - what the hell was that thing?" Trying to come up with a credible response, the Lt. said,"-
?"Our best hope of winning this thing, Sargent - a new weapon. Gather your men, we're fixing to move out in a few." "Aye, Sir." After returning his salute, Bakerson began directing sixteen men. As they gathered themselves and gear into a formation, the Sargent took point. Hanley stood post, "At ease. Men - follow me." Causually he passed them, heading up the steap embakment in search of the mechanical device, he now refered to as "The Beast".
?"Mike Six Four Charlie. You copy? Over." Belched another squawk of static from a radio. The reluctant private who had assumed the mantel of Radio Telephone Operator noded to the Sargent at his left shoulder. Bakerson called up ahead to the Lt., "Sir, call coming in." Again it squawked out, "Mike Six Four Charlie, Do you copy? over. This is Delta Six Tree Sierra. Copy? over."
Taking the handset, the Lieutenant answered back, "Delta Six Tree Siearra, this is Mike Six Four Charlie, reading you loud and clear, over."
?"Mike Six Four what is your location? Over." "Delta Six Tree, I am one click above entry point Alpha heading northeast." "Belay that Mix Six Four you are to link up with Echo Company's Charlie at point Brovo Two. Do you copy that? Over." Looking a little pissed, the Lt. replied, "Rodger that Delta Six Tree, we are to link up with Echo at Bravo Two. Over and Out!" Shoving the phone reciever back at the Sgt. Hanley barked, "Change of plans men." Then pointing down the cliff line they started heading dew south.
An hour later they came upon a crater. The area way a mess of gear and body parts, men were slaughtered everywhere. Picking through what could be salvaged and arranging what bodies they could for burial, the Lt. made preparations for camp as the day edged toward nightfall. Getting the mike from the RTO, Hanley called out, "Delta Six Tree Siearra, this is Mike Six Four Charlie, you read? Over."
A moment later he was answered, then replied into the handset, "Rodger. Look Delta Six Tree, Echo is a zero here. You copy? Over."
A long stretch of silence. Then a moment or two later, "Mike Six Four you are to link up with Lima at rally point Foxtrot Two. Do you copy? Over." "Delta Six Tree - Copy that: Foxtrot Two; link up with Lima Company's Charlie. Over and Out." Looking at his men desiring so much to rest, could only nod at his Sgt. who pointed at the sky and made a circling motion then pointed out. With slumped packs, re-geared up and moved out following the Lieutenant. Changing course once again they headed northeast.
After about forty-five minuets later they again came up on yet another slaughtered group of American soldiers. A young man was placing a makeshift cross of sticks on a grave as the new platoon arrived behind him from the south. Ignoring them he continued patting the cross headpiece into place. The Lt. approached him asking, "What happened here, Private?" "Do know, Sir." After dropping his salute, added, "This spidery looking tank sprayed everyone with a green light and most of them just exploded or lost limps. Sorry, Sir I hid scrambling for my radio and things. My Lt. is dead, Sir - they're - they're all dead - Sir." The young man before Hanley was beginning to take on a distnt stare.
"You did good, Private; nothing else you could have done, son." Then, "What's your name?" Without missing a beat, he came to attention replying, "Private First Class Patrick O`Reilly, Sir - RTO!"
?"You playen me, PFC?" The Lt. looked at the young colored soldier's blood and dirt smeared face with a wary smirk. "No fool'en, Sir. Named after my grandfather, Boston born and bred, Sir." And then a bold, proud grin came over the Private's face as he added, "I take after my mama's Georgian roots, Sir." Shaking his head, the Lt. exhaled, "Too long a tale, Private. Go hook up with Sgt. Tracy for some rations, look like you could use some." Naturally relaxing to At Ease, Patrick began to walk away, then a step of two returned to the Lt. with, "Thank you, Sir."
?"-omon - ooou." Break of static, "no means -" Whistle and squelch, "ever" static noise, "age" then the radio called out again in a distant voice, "jet! Do you understand me!" Patrick was standing over his radio trying to angle the antenna just right as both Sargent Bakerson and the Lt. came up. Hanley strained a bewildering look at the speaker trying to descern the speaker's voice that suddenly repeated itself clearly.
"Do you hear me? Solomon, you are by no means whatsoever to engage the Phoenix Project! Do you understand me!"
By then the Lt. was trying to contact the voice, "Who is this? What is your call sign, over?" But only silence answered in return, not even static - the radio just went dead. Feeling a chill run through him as he listened Patrick's words all he could do was stare, "Sorry, Sir - Nothing." Then facing the Lt. the Private continued; standing up, "Sir, yesterday at 2300 hours, my Lieutenant, Marlowe received a call from that same voice, Sir. An hour later a messenger approached him with a package, and I overheard him tell the Lt to link up with your unit and give it to a Doctor Solomon who was attached to Mike Company." Unwrapping the brown paper package, Jordan marveled at what he now held. A flat silver ring about five inches in diameter inscribed with photographic symbols topped and bottomed with letter esk characters. The ring itself could move within another ring clamped with four squares: north, south, east and west. The North clamp was large with a "window" where a letter/symbol appeared perfectly matched up. Northeast, northwest, south west, and south east were talon like nails that reached toward the middle without touching, almost forming a "window" at their tips.
As if hoping the private had more information about the mysterious medallion shaped ring, the Lt. looked up. Patrick hadn't a clue. Dismissed, he returned to his coffee as the men had began to bed down for the night. A fire watch sentry stood guard over them all pacing back and forth with weapon at the ready.
From his place in the tree, the young boy looked over Jordan's shoulder at the amazing disk. It was pretty, and kind of scary - but it had to be imoprtant. Why else would so many men die? He decided to move higher into the tree to keep a watch on Jordan and then men, so he could take that shiny, bewildering disk. It just might feed his family for a while, if he could find the right buyer. Silently, he inched into a more comfortable position, and waited.
?"THAT's IT, Stop there!" The Sentry yelled out while aiming his rifle at the young boy up the tree. He began kicking at the feet within the sleeping bags, "On your feet, intruder alert!"
?"Sarg over here!" Arriving Sargent Bakerson, said,"----------
?"Kid, just who the hell do you think you are? Dumbass, creeping up on soldiers!" The child looked at him, totally unfazed, as the Sgt began to express his displeasure in the most creative stringing of curses the soldiers had ever heard. When he stopped to take a breath, the boy said -----
?"Please sirs, I meant no harm. My family is hungry. The Bosch occupy my farm. They took my brother away. I have not eaten in two days."
The sentry hauled the thin, dirty boy to the tent where Lt. Hanley had set up his command post.
"Kid says he ain't eat in two days," Said the gruff-voiced sergeant.
Lt. Hanley looked at the sad faced boy practically dangling by the ragged collar caught in the grip of Sgt. Bakerson's huge, hard fist.
He scowled and said impatiently, "I don't have time for this. Bakerson, get the kid some chow and send him on his way."
He turned his attention back to the unusual package that had been delivered by Private O'Reilly. He was at a loss as to what it was or what it did or how it related to his runaway robot. He examined it closely in the lantern light. His thoughts were broken by his radio operator who suddenly appeared by his side.
"Sir, patrols report no contact with the machine and the fly-boys say the same thing. It's like the damn thing just disappeared. Too dark now to spot it from the air, they say they'll resume the search at first light."
Lt. Hanley squinted at his RTO. "You have any idea how far that thing might travel overnight Corporal?"
"No sir."
"Yeah, well neither do I, but from the way it got off the beach Hell bent for leather, it could be anywhere."
The French boy upon overhearing this twisted free from Bakerson's grasp and ran to Lt. Hanley.
"Sir! Sir! I have seen your machine not half an hour ago. At first there was only a horrible thrashing sound in the hedgerow. It split apart, but there was nothing there. Then some of the Bosch raised an alarm and ran to see what was happening. Suddenly the machine appeared, like a great silver dragon spitting green flames. It killed the Germans and then disappeared."
"What do you mean disappeared?" Asked Hanley.
"It is to say that one moment you could see it and the next you could not."
"You mean that thing can go invisible?" Marveled the radio operator.
"Yes! Invisible! That is the word." The boy seemed pleased at his mastery of English.
Lt. Hanely's frustration was growing.
"Well, swell," he muttered. "How are we going to track it now?"
"Pardon me sir," Said the boy, "The machine is-- what is the word? Invisible... but its tracks are not. It was headed straight for the village of Saint-Lô. I can show you!"
Hanley leaped to his feet and began barking orders.
"Bakerson, round up a jeep! Corporal, grab your gear and send for Private O'Reilly! Get back here on the double! We roll out in three minutes!" He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Kid you really earned your chow tonight-- and there's plenty more where that came from!"
There was a voice in the darkness.
"Col. Schroeder?"
The flight from Peenemünde to Berlin had been bumpy and unpleasant. Verner Schroeder was not a comfortable flyer and this was his first chance for sleep since he was called from his work to meet with the Fuhrer.
His work, like Dr. Solomon's, was top secret, of a military nature, and quite likely to change the course of history. These were not the only things the two men had in common. Like Dr. Solomon he was supposed to observe this particularly tumultuous period of human history, and like Dr. Solomon he was trapped in this time-period when the explosion that destroyed Dr. Solomon's laboratory rippled through the entire network of portals and laboratories of the Council of Historical Reconnaissance, trapping any agents in the field wherever and whenever they might be. But unlike Dr. Solomon, the former Professor-- now Colonel-- Verner Schroeder's violation of his Prime Directive had not been of his own free will.
Schroeder was considered an oddity among the researchers of The Council. Strictly an academic, he hated field work, preferring to study history from the safety and comfort of his library, far from the bad food, poor sanitation, primitive technology and frightening medical practices of times long past.
The accident had changed all that and Schroeder, trapped in Germany, had been compelled to turn his considerable scientific abilities to the advancement of the Nazi agenda, a distasteful situation at which he continually balked. Unlike Von Braun, his colleague at Peenemünde, He could not in good conscience turn a blind eye to the party's outrages as long funds flowed for research.
As an SS colonel, Schroeder had influence and authority, but his Gestapo "liaison" was always close at hand and his contact with the world outside Germany was limited. He had tried to track Dr. Solomon, to keep him in check, but with the outbreak of war in Europe in September of 1939, that had become almost impossible. In the early Spring of 1942 Schroeder had gotten word from another field agent that Dr. Solomon had met with Vannevar Bush, of the Office of Scientific Research and Development. But from that last scrap of information Dr. Solomon and his whereabouts had disappeared into the fog of top secret black projects.
"Herr Colonel, I hate to disturb you," Said the timid voice again.
"What is it?" snapped Colonel Schroeder. "Any news from the French Coast?"
"No Herr Colonel. There has been no word at all, from any units on the Atlantic Wall. The radios have all been strangely silent since just after the first reports of the allied landings at Normandy."
"So much for the Fuhrer's impenetrable Fortress Europe, eh Hans?" Sneered the colonel, rubbing his aching temples.
"It is something else, Herr Colonel... A message."
"Well? What is it?" Snapped Schroeder.
"The Phoenix has risen."
Schroeder bolted upright in his bed.
"Mein Gott! What has Solomon done? He has no idea of the nature of the forces he has unleashed. Quickly, Hans! My boots! We must leave at once. Perhaps even now it is too late."
"Colonel Schroeder, what does this mean? What are we going to do?" Asked a startled Hans.
"We can perhaps save the world instead of trying to destroy it, but we have no time to lose-- machen sie schnell!"
Out there, in the darkness that covered the beaches and fields of France, under piles of rubble and in hastily dug graves, something unnatural was beginning to stir. The phoenix had indeed risen.
The full jeep was bouncing down the rubble scattered roads in the predawn hours with its headlights off - blackout. Silence was the mood as Lt. Hanley sat there thinking of the events of the day and how all the twist and turns lead him to his current actions. Taking the Ringed Compus out of his shirt pocket he again investigated the pronged points, and the movable outer ring as it slid soundlessly through the top "window". The strange markings fascinated the man. What could they mean? After a spray of creek water washed the jeep, another thought jumped through the Lieutenant's mind. Remembering the golden Egyptian medallion and its image of the beetle - scarab minted on one side and an Eye on the other; Jordan removed it from his other pocket. Strange. There was one symbol in the middle of the Eye, and the same three symbols on the Compus' East, South, and West locked blocks that held the movable ring in place. Puzzeling it all out in his mind, the Lt. grinned - looking at the driver, "Eyes on the road Sargent."
Hanley held the ring up in front of him with his left hand and in his right he held up the medallion. As the jeep raced over a branch in the road they all jumped in their seats. With that, the Lt. merged hands; sliding the medallion "behind" the ring with the compus "on top of" it seemed to make scene to him - somehow. There was a click. Like a magnetic feel to it. "Strange!" Came his audible whisper.
"Dam right it's strange." Bakerson blurted out, " Ain't nothing right about this whole mission - Sir." The Lt. smiled back and said, "------
THE STORY CONTINUES...
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