Old Man Carver Opens A Can Of Whoop Ass

This story was entered in Michael J. Solender's micro-flash 101 word contest "Dog Days of Summer" in which the words "summer" and "heat" had to appear in the story. Michael has published an e-Chapbook over at his website: "NOT from here, are you?" I am thrilled that my story made the cut, and appears in Michael's book. Many of the #fridayflash community participated in this fun contest, including the winner: Sam Adamson. Go give them all a read. It's only 101 words. You can read them by clicking on the links above.

The TV was loud. A Miami Heat game. Old Man Carver, asleep in his recliner, sparse grey hair flying in the summer breeze through the open window, didn’t hear the intruder enter the decrepit farmhouse. 

Boots (the cat) heard and saw; hissing from atop the parlor table, fur rising. 

“Who that?” Carver shook himself awake, then looking up, saw who. 

“The hell with you! I 'aint goin’!” 

The intruder said nothing. 

Carver stood, brandishing fists. “Try me, you bastard!” 

Minutes later, the black-hooded figure limped up the lane, fiddling with a PDA. 

“I was so sure it was today,” Death whimpered. 

The Way Home

Michelle sat under the crumbling gray eaves of the old house and waited. 

She supposed she was waiting for the woman to come back. But the woman, her 'mother,' had been gone a long, long while now. The house had been white when the woman last left it, and there had been doors which opened, and stairs and floors. Now, if there were doors at all, the hinges were rusted shut and they were impossible to open. The stairs had long since rotted away and the second story had collapsed and was now just piles of decayed rubble in the rooms of the first floor. None of this troubled Michelle.

The house was an empty shell without a middle. Michelle thought this was just fine, because she was an empty middle without a shell. In this way, she and the house complimented each other. She had no great love for the house, however.

She came to the house in the morning, and returned to her place down by the creek at dusk. She spent all of her moments from dawn to dusk at the old house, waiting.

She was also searching.

She sat on the sagging porch, or went inside the house and drifted like a pale shadow from room-to-room and dug a deep well in what passed for her memory, each day trying to dig a little deeper. 

Sometimes she found objects in the house that triggered memories. Like the poker by the fireplace, for instance. And the old blood stain on the kitchen floor. 

But the precise memory she was looking for had no attachment to the house, or her time spent here. She was trying to go back to the time before. Before coming to the house. Before the outbursts of an ill-tempered woman. Before the violence of fists and pokers. 

She was digging deep in the well today, tracing time backwards (there was only backwards-time now, no more going forward for her). She was in a car. Crying. Playing with a dirt-smudged dolly. It was raining. The woman was shouting at her. "SHUT UP" screamed in time with the thudding windshield wipers. A stinging slap. The first of countless other blows. 

Before that...dimly...another woman, and a man. She tried to dig deep enough to see their faces. It was all silver mists and shadows. She tried to see in her mind's eye the house...the other one...the one she'd been in before the woman had picked her up at school. 

"I'm your Aunt Sally. No, you've never met me before now. I just got into town. C'mon, I'm here to take you home," she'd said. 

Of course, they hadn't gone home. They'd come here. 

#

Michelle was sixteen years old when it happened. 

By that time a part of her had come to believe the woman really was her mother. But another part of her rebelled at the idea...a vision of a red-brick townhouse swirling in the mists of memory, something of pink hydrangea and a foggy image of a blond-haired man and woman. Hair as blond as hers. 

When the argument escalated (Michelle had wanted to go on her first date with Bobby Allen, but her 'mother', always overly protective, said 'no.') the mists cleared for a moment and she'd voiced her suspicion.

"You can't tell me what to do! You're not my real mother! You're not even my Aunt Sally!" She'd stomped angrily off to her room. She'd crossed the line, she knew it, and she waited fearfully for the woman's footfalls on the stairs. The reprisal. It didn't come that night. 

In the morning, she went downstairs to a quiet house and entered the kitchen in search of breakfast. 

She caught a split-second glimpse of the swinging poker in the corner of her eye, a dull CRACK! and she saw no more. 

#

She woke up on the creek bank. She could hear the woman somewhere nearby.  

Michelle stood up and when she turned around, saw herself lying on the ground. 

"I'm dead," was all she could think. 

The woman was digging her grave. 

She did not stay to watch her burial. Instead, she strolled along the creek bank, watched autumn leaves floating in the current and marveled at the way the sunlight made everything it touched look like liquid amber, and wondered why she never noticed these things when she'd been living. 

#

She returned to the house the next morning, consumed with rage. She devoted all her ghostly energy into tormenting the woman. Her favorite was walking through her, causing her sudden chills. She rapped on doors and windows and made loud noises at night, keeping the woman awake and terrified. This made Michelle very happy, to see her former tormenter propped up in bed, lights on, teeth chattering with fear, with the pouchy gray bags of sleeplessness under her eyes. Finally, the woman moved out, leaving Michelle alone. Other people lived in the house over the years, but they never stayed long. It was devoid of living dwellers for over fifty years now, left to fall into its current state of disrepair.

#

It's the memory of that car trip she most longs to recover from her deep well. But she'd spent most of it crying. She has snippets, though...hydrangea bushes...a turnpike...a long bridge over a wide river...but then the vision grows hazy and the mist closes in. She keeps trying, though. Every day she glides through peeling walls and digs desperately for each new vision along the road...and when she finally has it...the mists will part and there she will see it...

Like a signpost...pointing the way home. 

Six Minutes

UPDATE: I have entered this story in a Birthday-themed writing contest at Deanna Schrayer's website. Here is the link: The Other Side of Deanna. I'd also like to thank my aunt, Leona Adkins, for providing me with the pictures for this post. 

I started to write this piece for #fridayflash for Mother's Day, but I was overcome with emotion in the middle of writing it and couldn't finish. I decided to start writing a new version to post for my birthday. 

There are sacred traditions that exist between mothers and daughters. Traditions which bind them together like thread on a loom.

I am my mother's first born, the first daughter of her womb, and we had such traditions. 

One of our rituals, repeated every year on July 3rd (by telephone, when we were living long distances from one another) was in the form of staged conversations that occurred during the years following my move to Florida. My mother left her home in Ohio when I was in my teens, escaping a marriage marred by perpetual violence. I left the Buckeye State and flew south to live with her when I was twenty. These dialogues began shortly after we were reunited. 

#

Mom said, "Do you know what I was doing on this night in 1965?"

Me, straight-faced: "I don't remember, actually." 

"Smart ass," she said. "I was trying to push a baby out of my belly. It hurt like hell!" She laughed then, a dry-sounding laugh that bordered on coughing. She was always very sickly. Doctors tested every year for TB. Her father died from the rare kind that attacks the bone, before she was old enough to say her first word. 

"I'm sorry," I said. 

"I'm not," she replied. On the occasions when we were together, this would prompt a warm hug. 

So that the situation would not turn too mushy, I broke away with a light jest. "11:54 p.m. Why couldn't you wait six more minutes so that I would've been a firecracker baby?" 

My mother exploded in a burst of mock anger. "ME! It was YOU that couldn't wait."

"That's right. I wanted to get out and start partying!"

This was our cue to collapse into laughter. 

"You're still a firecracker," my mother said. 

We would then proceed to get uproariously drunk and argue about whichever Stephen King book we happened to be reading at the moment. These arguments would follow with my mother admonishing me for not writing stories like I used to when I was younger. 

"I'll pick it up again, someday," I promised.

"You better or I'll kick your ass."

Every year, no matter where each of us happened to be, my mother would either visit me or call for my 'birthday' ritual, although the words would vary somewhat from year-to-year. This tradition carried on through a relocation to Texas (hers), a wedding (mine), a battle with kidney disease (hers), and the illness of a spouse (mine). 

Until 1999, when the ritual came to an end. Her veins shut down and she could no longer receive the dialysis treatments. The howling misery of it all was that I could not be with her as she departed from this life. She was in Texas; I was in Florida. My husband had just come home from his second hospital stay, and we were broke. 

I can't begin to describe the pain that exists in not being able to say a final goodbye to someone you love. Especially to your mother. There are no words that cut deep or raw enough for that kind of pain. That kind of void.

My mom was my best friend, confidante, drinking buddy, and number one resource for most of the dirty jokes of my adulthood. Plus, she was my mother. There is no way to fill such a void. Ever. 

I continue the ritual alone now.

On July 3rd, at 11:54 p.m., I lift my face to the heavens and say, "Why couldn't you wait six minutes?" 

#

This story is for my mother, Georgia (Georgie) Juanita Adkins. I love you and I miss you, mom. 

P.S. I'm writing again.

The Archangel of Downward Spiral

This is the story I wrote that won the first "Pic 1 K" contest at "Soft Whispers" Magazine. The idea was to write a story based on the picture (above).

Clenching the bed sheets in his fists, and releasing a moan from his lips that only he (and one other) could hear, Jack Ridley pushed the thorny brambles and branches out of his way, twisting a serpentine path through the cumbersome forest.

Eventually, the trees thinned and he emerged from the thicket into a clearing.

The grass was brown here, the blades brittle and curling.

The sky was granite gray and, although the prospect of rain looked promising, not a drop seemed forthcoming.

The heat was oppressive. Ridley's clothes clung to his sweaty body. He pushed a wet strand of gray hair out of his eyes.

Ridley sighed and thought:  I'm tired. Just as he perceived his weariness, he spied in the distance a convenient and comfortable-looking bench. He wobbled over and plopped down on it. He leaned back, lifted his head and gazed into the unimpressive sky.

A rustling sound startled him, and jerking his head toward the forest, he saw her.

The child glided onto the lawn. Her hair was deepest copper. She had an upturned nose and the tips of her ears were pointed, almost pixieish. She wore a crisp, white cotton dress; no wrinkles or stains marred its perfection.

Wings sprouted from her back. The wings themselves were marred. They were dingy and torn in places. They appeared to be made of some sort of fabric. Ridley thought of children playing angels in Christmas pageants, but as he stared at the things, he thought he saw them move.

"You're Jonathan Ridley," she said, glancing at him from a short distance.

"Everyone calls me..."

"Jack," she said. "I know." She ambled over and sat next to him, taking his hand. She looked at him with chestnut eyes. "My name's really Zipporah, but everyone calls me Mehitabel."

Jack groaned, rubbing a sudden tender spot on his inner arm.  "They're giving you another shot," said Mehitabel.

Jack stopped massaging his arm and looked around. "Where am I?"

"One of the In-Between Places." Mehitabel's gaze drifted across the lawn. “You've been wandering the In-Between Places for days."

Ridley stirred restlessly and stared at Mehitabel, feeling agitated. "What am I doin' here?" He might've asked this question a hundred times before, but he couldn't remember.

"Waiting," she replied. "Deciding." She saw his face become angry. Large, wet tears began dropping from her eyes as distant thunder sounded beyond the trees.

He softened and squeezed her hand lightly. "Don't cry, Mehitabel. I'm just bone-tired. Those woods were hard to get through."

"They always are," Mehitabel said mysteriously.

"What did I do to deserve this?" he asked. As soon as the question left his lips, there came to him a recollection so terrible that he pulled away. He slid off the bench and onto the lawn, sobbing. "Oh, God!"

"You killed some people," said Mehitabel. And the way she spoke them, the words were like freshly honed knives, sharp and eviscerating. "A man you worked for paid you to kill." Tears continued to drip from her dark amber eyes, and where they fell, the grass became a vibrant green and tiny violets bloomed.

Jack stood. He looked at Mehitabel, and she ceased crying.

"You want to know the choice?" she asked.

A feeling of déjà vu crept over him and he looked around anxiously.

"Please don't run away again."

"I've been running away?"

Mehitabel nodded. "Through the In-Between Places. There's not many left. As we go down, we get closer."

"Down?" Jack glanced back at the forest behind them, then toward the path ahead. He didn't discern any slant to the landscape.

"We're traveling Downward."

Again, Jack felt a stomach-lurching rush of familiarity. "You've told me this before."

"Several times," Mehitabel said. "Each time you get afraid or angry and run away. Into another In-Between Place."

A breeze began blowing. It carried on its breath a whisper of screams. Mehitabel turned suddenly in its direction and trembled.

"What's that?" Jack asked. He shrank from the sound and stumbled forward, flopping onto the bench. He buried his face in his hands.

"Where you're going," she said.

Jack looked up. She was crying again. A shuffling sounded in the bushes. Mehitabel sprang up and raced toward the spot; then stopped, her face alarmed.

"He's not yours yet!" She began chewing her fingernails, nervously. Although she seemed frightened, Jack sensed she was also quite angry.

"What's the choice?" Jack asked.

"You won't run?"

"I hope not," Jack said, shivering in the shrieking wind.

"You must accept punishment, some of which has already been paid. Then you move Upward."

"Heaven?"

"No. First, you go to the waiting place. There you begin making atonement."

"Purgatory," whispered Jack. "What's it like?"

  "I'm not allowed to tell. Repentance must be based on trust."

"Would you follow me on ahead?"

Mehitabel twisted her hands. "I can't go much further. My power wanes the closer we get."

"You're an angel." When Mehitabel didn't answer, Jack continued. "Can you return with me?"

"Until we reach the place you call Purgatory. There I leave you."

"Why?"

"I guard the Downward Way. Seek the wanderers and make the offer on behalf of the One Who Waits."

"You live  here?"

"Always." Her huge brown eyes were sad.

Jack frowned. "I know what's gonna happen. I'm gonna be tormented by those people I killed."

Mehitabel pointed in the direction the wind emanated from, the terrible cries echoing still. "You'll choose that?" Jack suddenly doubled over, heaving with the effort to breathe.

"Your agony!" Mehitabel gasped, eyes wide. "Choose! Quickly!"

Jack hung his head, squeezed his eyes tightly shut and cried out: "I'm sorry! I accept whatever is due."

In a dark hospital room, a monitor wailed as it flat-lined. A man named Jack Ridley breathed his last.

His eyes opened on a sunny glade carpeted with violets and he smiled. He heard a rustling of wings and, looking up, saw the flitting shape of a sparrow on the wing. 

The Curse of the Little Green Hybrid

This story was published in 'Soft Whispers' anthology titled "Un-luck of the Irish" on March 17, 2010

My family lived on the hill behind the O'Riley farm (if you can call it that--a few acres of inferior soil that was barely fit to grow potatoes in).  We sort of looked out for their clan and my Da helped them when he could. 

He also helped himself to the attentions of Margaret O'Riley, the youngest girl. Their tryst caused quite a stir, for it wasn't often that our two races pitched woo. 

And so...I entered the scene. 

My name is Larry. I’m a leprechaun. 

Well, half-leprechaun, really. My uncle Morvay called me the "little green hybrid."

There's a legend, nasty as badly-brewed poteen that a witch put a hex on the O'Riley family. An upstart of a young woman tried to curse the witch. So, the witch cursed her. 

She wrote it in goat's blood, on the side of the girl's hovel, and the words have never worn away.

"The blood remains upon this wall

That ye might be a curse to all

Since you cursed me, with thy foul tongue

Let then on all thine flesh be hung

The power of death in all thine speech

Wheresoever ye tongues may reach."

The O'Riley's tried many times to remove it, even with fire, but to no avail.

So the wall was avoided. When additions to the house were made, they were constructed around the wall. 

 

It was said that the old witch refuses to die, but remains ever close, watching her curse in action. 

I first saw evidence of the curse when I was a wee lad. Uncle Pat, came to our house drunk after a night of carousing, and became angry when Da refused to let him in. 

"May the devil take ye, elfin bugger!" He pounded on the door. "And may ye shrivel up and die!"

"Yer witch-curse won't do for me!" Da yelled. "It's a man's curse and on'y on a man will it do!"

Da was right. 

Pat's curse rebounded. The next day, they found him in a ditch less than a mile from his house. It was difficult identifying him, though, desiccated as he was.

Afterwards, I began to wonder. Would the curse manifest itself in me since I was only half O'Riley? Would my leprechaun blood protect me and keep me from making terrible oaths? Was being a "little green hybrid" a good thing? 

I wanted to know. 

About that time my Aunt Esmerelda moved in with us. God, she was old. Positively prehistoric! 

She crept up on me behind the house while I was trying to hex a snail. 

"Do ye love the curse so much that ye seek to destroy innocent creatures with it?" she snapped. I spun around, shocked by her sudden appearance. 

"No...Aunty, I..." 

"What, then?" Her dark, brooding eyes flared. 

"I wanted to see if the curse skipped me, because I'm half..."

"Leprechaun?" she asked. I nodded. "Would ye be happy if it did?" 

I nodded again, "And relieved."

She smiled; a hideous, toothless grin that split her face like an old scar. "If ye don't want the curse, mind yer tongue. Don't say words in anger. Or even in jest."

"Have you ever been affected by the curse, Aunty?"

"Only once," she said. 

I decided to try an innocent curse on a person. Not entirely innocent, because a curse by its very nature is bad. 

For the target, I picked my mum. I watched her by the cook fire and thought: "Itch." Then: "Scratch," "Feel an itch," "May your skin prickle with the sudden urge to scratch yourself and then subside," and all other variations of "itch" and "scratch" that I could think of. Nothing happened. I felt relieved. When I turned around I saw Aunt Esmerelda in the corner, watching me. My face flushed hot and I fled the room, wondering if she knew what I'd been trying to do. But she couldn't read my mind. Could she?

Some years later, Da passed and Mum was forced to turn the tenant farm over to her brother, Peter. She decided to immigrate to America, and I was going with her. So was Aunt Esmerelda.

The voyage was dull, cramped, and cold. The Atlantic winds howled, but the ship rolled smoothly along the waves. There were other leprechauns on the vessel, though none of the non-Irish humans could see them because leprechauns have the gift of invisibility-at-will.

I took up with an Irish lad named Devon and together we sneaked onto the first-class decks and peered out at the waves. 

"We're gonna make good time in this tailwind," Devon said. 

"Aye. If we don't get hammered by the sea and go down to the deeps."  

Devon shook his head. "Nah. T'is the best ship ever built, don't ye know?"

"Bollocks! If she's a ship, she can go down and she probably will," I laughed. 

A sudden strong headwind whipped around as the breeze changed directions and a chill prickled the back of my neck. We turned to head back below to lower class and I saw her. 

Aunt Esmerelda, reclining in a lounge chair, was watching me scornfully with her hard, black eyes.

By now you may have guessed. Our voyage abruptly ended in the wee hours of the morn, amid screaming and ice-cold, watery death. But I don't look that old, you say? Trust me, I am. The blasted leprechaun blood in my veins has kept me youthful beyond endurance. Or maybe it is that final curse. I’ll get to that later.

Mum died that night. And Devon. And countless, innocent others. 

Esmerelda and I escaped on a lifeboat with as many of the Irish, human and leprechaun, that we could find. Some survivors would later complain that they saw boats adrift with few people in them. They probably couldn't see the leprechauns. 

I sat shivering in the boat with my head bowed. Sometimes, I would look at Esmerelda. She bored holes into me with her black, knowing eyes and grinned in that awful way.

Once we were aboard the Carpathia and counted among the living, I found the wireless op and sent a message to Peter, breaking the news about Mum and asking questions that I hoped wouldn't make him think I'd gone mad. 

We were living in a New York tenement when his return message reached me weeks later. He wrote of his sorrow at mum's death and confirmed my fears. I wasn't the first to suspect what I then knew to be true.

Now that I've told this much, do you believe it? You haven't even heard the worst. 

I burned the wire from Uncle Peter and tried to wipe all references from my mind so she wouldn't discover my treachery. 

After thinking long and hard, I discovered how to end the curse. It was a way as horrible as the curse itself, but it was the only way the carnage could finally be brought to an end. So, I lit a candle one day after Esmerelda had gone shopping, and made the first of many horrible utterances. 

A few weeks later, word reached us that Uncle Peter and his wife had died of consumption and that many others in the O'Riley family were also stricken and were not long for the world. Esmerelda frowned when I read these letters to her, but said nothing.

As for myself, I volunteered to help in the hospitals, caring for those suffering from tuberculosis and other dread diseases, like dysentery and influenza. 

Eventually, I received news that the last of my O'Riley kin had died in Ireland. The home was to be razed to plant corn. 

"Good luck," I said, putting down the letter. I meant it both about the razing and the corn. I hoped that both would be possible soon. 

"What are ye on about?" Esmerelda muttered. We were sitting at the kitchen table.

"Nothing," I said. I coughed and put my hand to my mouth. A drop of blood appeared on my palm. I gazed at it and smiled. 

"I'm the last," I said. Esmerelda didn't say anything."What happens to you when I die?" I asked her. 

"I'll die too," she replied. "At last." She smiled her toothless, evil grin. 

"Why the devil are you smiling then, witch?!"

"Because I'm cursed, too. Cursed to watch my own evil." She laid her hand on my arm.

"Of them all, you're the only one had the guts to end it."

I flinched, twisted out of her grasp. "I had to curse my own family to do it!"

"Yes. And I'm sorry for it."

I looked up at her in surprise. "You're sorry?"

"When the obituaries started coming, I knew what you were doing. I could've saved you the trouble, but I didn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I removed the curse after the shipwreck. Those miserable souls; dying, screaming. It haunted me. I long for death now, and I'll die soon. But you don't have to." As she said this, she placed her bony hands over my chest, murmuring words in the old tongue. I felt the pain in my lungs disappear. My head began to spin and everything went black. 

When I came to, she was gone.

"You expect me to believe that crap?" the youth said. He ran his greedy hands along my 32 inch HDTV. 

"You said you'd buy it for two, if I told you my story."

"It's B.S.! You 'aint no half-breed leprechaun and you didn't sink the freaking Titanic. I'll give ya fifty bucks." 

I was down on my luck and soon to be evicted from my apartment if I didn't come up with some rent, which was why I was having the yard sale in the first place.

I reluctantly accepted the fifty and helped the punk load the TV into the backseat of his convertible. 

"Nice car," I said, making small talk. "Is it new?"

"Yeah..." He got into the drivers' seat. "It's a little green hybrid, just like you." He roared with laughter and slammed the door. "See ya around, Larry Leprechaun!"

He drove away. 

I watched the car speed down the street. "And may the road rise up to meet your greedy head."

I started to turn away, then grimaced as I heard the distant clamor of screeching tires,  shattering glass and fiberglass. 

The dawning horror overtook me that the curse, and its progenitor, still live.  Remembering her final curse, I grew cold with terror.

Somewhere she is watching...grinning. Forever, unless...

I hurried to my apartment and took my sharpest knife with a trembling hand. 

I grasped my tongue between my fingers...

Slim Pickings

We met at the local Dive and Dine, one of my favorite restaurant chains in the city. I'm sure it had a name, but my brain is a sieve when it comes to things like that. Names are overrated, anyway. Like the name of my date. I can't even remember that. She was drop-dead gorgeous, though. I remember that quite clearly. She was sleek and brown and fast. But God, aren't they all?

It was a blind date. Sammy from Home Tree set me up with her. I owe Sammy big time for all the blind dates he's arranged for me. Maybe one of them will go beyond the "Wham, Bam! Thank ya, ma'am" stage, but I doubt it. I just never seem to meet the right one. Or maybe I'm the one not right for them. Whatever. It all amounts to the same thing. We're just not made to be monogamous. God help me, I've tried.

The Dive and Dine is one big smörgåsbord with people crammed all around the buffet. I found my date near the top, which is not one of the better places for sampling the choicest dishes.

"Up here, love?" I asked as I took the empty space beside her that she'd been saving for me.

She sighed. "Yeah, I know. It's pretty slim pickings. But all the good spots were full up when I arrived."

I flashed her my best "I-Don't-Care-As-Long-As-You're-Dessert" smile and dug in to the feast before me. I ripped off a thin strip of a shoulder steak between my teeth and began chewing. I jerked my head toward the head of the buffet. "Care for one of the appetizers, bird? I see no one's got to those rare bits yet."

"No, thank you. You can have them." She said, pausing to return my "come-hither" look with one of her own. Oh, yeah, I thought to myself, there will be some good loving tonight.

I strolled up to the top and plucked them out, one by one, and journeyed back to my lady love's side.

"Sure you don't want one of these little treats? Blue ones are the tastiest, in my opinion. At least regarding humans."

"No, really. I don't care much for eyeballs," she said.

That's where I left her: sex, or no sex.

No self-respecting vulture ever says that they don't like eyeballs.

The Reluctant Prince, Chapter 4: Grondo and the Red Shaman

Chapter 4: Grondo and the Red Shaman 

The day after King Grondo of the Kindred took the lovely Lady Darla as his queen, he had to journey away from the kingdom. He was called to a High Meet with the Red Shaman, who had sent messengers to tell him that he had a prophesy to reveal concerning Grondo himself.

Not everyone in the valley of the Kindred would attend the High Meet. Some had to stay behind to carry on the running of the kingdom's affairs. The new Queen stayed behind as well. If something funny was afoot, and the Red's had some evil planned, then the kindred at least would not have to suffer the loss of both of their lieges. Queen Darla would have absolute rule until her husband returned, and there were none in the kingdom who doubted her reserve or her heart to rule them justly, but compassionately.

In the late afternoon (known to all the tribes as Long-Shadow Time) of the designated Meet, the party of travelers set off, hopping at a leisurely pace. They reached the borders of the red-skin's lands in very little time and found a welcoming party of Red border patrol waiting to accompany them to the place where the High Meet would be held. They led the way, followed by Grondo's guard, which surrounded the king on all sides (his two personal bodyguards directly in front) to protect him in case there was an attack by the Reds.

Eventually, they came to a clearing where many Red's were gathered. At the far edge of the clearing stood the leader of the Reds. The Reds did not have a king or queen to rule them. They had the shaman. And he ruled them with the fear of prophesy.

He was a terrifying looking creature, but he was ancient; the spots on his back were faded with age. A disciple had taken the juice of a yellow flower and painted golden stripes on the old Red's face. He did not look at King Grondo when the Kindred entered the clearing, but remained sitting on the ground and staring up into the clouds, as if communing with the Sky Itself.

The Red guards halted just paces from the old shaman. Their leader knelt in front of the aged amphibian, who finally rose to acknowledge their arrival.

"Oh, mighty one," the guard intoned. "We bring you the King of the Greens. With many of their tribe to High Meet with us." Grondo noticed that the border patrol guard announcing him seemed to be the same Red that had come to him in his chambers just the day before to issue the invitation to the Meet.

The shaman lowered his gaze and his eyes met Grondo's. Grondo, to his credit, did not blink or look away. He had had High Meets with the Red Shaman before.

The shaman bowed low and the king returned the customary greeting. The leader of the guards stood and led his subordinates away a short distance behind their shaman, where they took up ceremonial postures, hands near their belts where they carried mouth-guns that fired deadly, poison-tipped darts.

Grondo's own personal guard of two (one of which was his personal attendant, a good soldier of the Kindred named Merby) never ventured from their king's side. They were also poised with hands near their belts, where slim lark-feather arrows waited only to be fitted into the sleek bows upon their backs.

They had practiced years to be the quickest archers in the kingdom and earn their positions as Grondo's right and left hand armsmen. One sudden, false move on behalf of the Red guard and the guilty impatient one would not even have time to blink an inner eyelid before he fell skewered to the ground. If pressed for information, all of the remaining folk gathered there (Kindred and Red alike) would not be able to say with any degree of certainty which of the king's men had unleashed the lethal shot. The Red Shaman knew this, but lucky for his guard, they did not.

The Red Shaman came closer to Grondo, keeping his hands in front of him in a manner that was meant to communicate trust. Merby and his counterpart (a fierce and worthy Kindred named Basil) did not relax their stance one bit. When he neared within fifteen paces of the king, he did something very unexpected.

Dropping to his knees, the Red Shaman looked up at Grondo with an expression of anguish, deep pain. He placed his hands on his breast and began swaying back and forth, looking up at the full eye of God, rising, a huge and silvery orb over their heads.

"O, King Grondo, High King of the Green Kindred. Your fate is marked in the stars. I have read it there and it is not good. Evil tidings, these are, and it burns my soul to speak of them. This evil brings me much grief because it means great suffering for both of our tribes...and..."

"Oh, for crying on the lily-pad! Stuff the dramatics and say what's what!" This came from Basil, who was in his heart of hearts a practical frog and could not abide hysterics. This made him a terrible guest at the theaters, but it was his nature and he could no more help it than he could avoid a biter's sting.

Murmurs of assent rose up on the side of the glen where the Kindred were gathered, but angry grunts could be heard on the Red side of the Meet.

The Red Shaman looked deflated. "Dear King Grondo, I must be allowed to prophesy without interruption. It is for your own benefit and for the good of us all!"

`With the wave of his hand, Grondo silenced his people. "Stifle your irritations, Bas. At least until we hear him out." Basil shifted uneasily on his feet, in an embarrassed sort of way, but said nothing further.

In much the same vein as before, the old seer continued: "O King. Your soul hangs verily by a string. The next full shining of God's eye may be the last you know as King of the Kindred!"

A gasp went up all around the Meet, from both Kindred and Reds. Grondo stepped back and stumbled slightly. Merby reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, to steady his king. Then he gave the Red Shaman the Evil-Eye. It sounded like the old stump-licker was predicting the King's death!

All the Kindred stood trembling as the shaman prophesied on:

"And under the full risen light of the Eye, you will lose your soul at the hands of an evil sorceress. But you may still find it again, though in an unexpected place," said the Shaman and, his narrative apparently finished, he rose and stood silently before the King.

 After the Meet, King Grondo met privately with the shaman. He strove hard to remember everything the old prophet said in their face-to-face encounter, but he could not. His mind was, quite naturally, filled with the unpleasant prospect of losing his soul. Merby was present, however, as was Basil, and they paid careful attention to everything the shaman told them and they took the most prodigious notes. When they were alone, they made a solemn vow never to let the King out of their sight and to be especially wary of strange females who could possibly cause their king to become ensorcelled.

The Kindred spent the remainder of the night encamped in the Meeting glade in a stuffy yew, then began the slow, sorrowful march back to their own lands at sunrise.

 Grondo walked with his head down and was very quiet all through the journey home, but occasionally he could be heard muttering to himself, repeating one phrase over and over:

"But I don't know any sorceresses!"
  

End of Chapter Four
Go to Chapter Three
Go to Chapter Five

 

The Reluctant Prince, Chapter 3: Grondo and the Lady Darla

 Chapter 3: Grondo and the Lady Darla 

One fine and happy evening, the king of the Kindred called at the residence of Bolim Dram, the father of Darla Dram. When the Kindred began badgering him to marry, King Grondo had only one lady in mind. The Lady Darla. She was the only female of the Kindred whom he wanted to share his life with.

She was beautiful, but most importantly she was kind. She had the sort of loving sweetness that the Kindred wanted in their queens, and he knew she would be a perfect match for him. Moreover, she would be a good Queen in his absence, as he was soon to be called away from the kingdom to attend a High Meet with the Shaman of the Redskins.

But he did not know if she loved him as he loved her.

That would not matter, though. As king, all he had to do was convince her father. If her father said 'yes', then that was that. Darla would marry him. And she would, someday he hoped, grow to love him. He hoped that would not take too long. He prayed most earnestly that she already loved him. The anxiety of these thoughts weighed heavily on the king and caused great knots to form in his stomach. He was sick at heart with worry as he waited in Bolim's den, Darla's mother having gone to go fetch her husband.

The door opened and Bolim Dram entered.

"Ahhhhh....Your Kingship," Bolim began, genuflecting before Grondo. "What a pleasant surprise and the highest honor you pay me." He rose and gestured for Grondo to take a seat near the fireplace. Bolim seated himself opposite and reached for the poker, prodding the coals in the fireplace about. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

Grondo steeled himself and waited until Bolim was finished stirring the fire. When the elder sat back in the chair and regarded him, Grondo began to speak.

"I...umm...I...want to...umm...ask you..."

"Oh, come, come...Your Highness, you can be frank with me. Is this concerning my daughter?" Bolim Dram was no fool. He had seen the king pausing in his daily walks to chat with Darla. He had noticed with a father's attentive eye how the king admired his daughter.

Grondo fidgeted in the chair and began twisting his fingers, then realized that this might not be a very kingly thing to do, and so he stopped.

"Umm....yes, sir. I wondered if she had any offers? Of marriage, I mean?"

"Of course that's what you mean. What other kinds of offers are there? She doesn't." The Dram leaned back, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Have any offers, that is."

The king leaned forward and closed his eyes, concentrating on each word and hoping against hope. "Ummm...I'd... like to ask you... for her hand, then."

There, He'd said it. And he discovered that once he'd said it, it wasn't so very frightening after all.

"Sire," Bolim said, reaching out and clasping Grondo's shoulder. "Who am I to refuse my king or my daughter what makes them both happy?"

"Me, certainly," Grondo said, relaxing. "I'm not so sure about her."

Bolim grinned. "Are you not?" Grondo shook his head. "Why, then, don't you ask her? She is in the garden."

So it was that Grondo found himself strolling the Dram gardens and finding the Lady Darla sitting on a rock. When he got down on one knee, the lady began to weep as she whispered "Oh, yes, my king. I will be your wife."

She then swatted him on the top of the head in mock anger and jibed: "It took you long enough, fool!" They laughed, embracing each other and shared a brief but loving kiss before returning to her father, who performed the marriage ceremony right then and there, as is the custom of the Kindred.

Grondo and the queen Darla went to their castle that evening and celebrated their nuptials with the whole household and the stewards with a grand feast of purple dragon and biters for dessert.

But in the back of Grondo's mind, the meeting with the Red Shaman overshadowed even this happy event.

End of Chapter Three

Go to Chapter Two

Go to Chapter Four

The Reluctant Prince, Chapter 2: Grondo and the Trespassers

Chapter 2: Grondo and the Trespassers 

When Grondo was King of the Kindred, there was peace between us and the red-skins. There hasn't always been peace between our two, very different tribes. But when Grondo was king, he made the peace between us and he kept the peace for a very long time.

There was a moment, though, when Grondo first came to his throne, when it looked as if there were going to be hostilities between us and the red-skins. Foraging parties on both sides raided and plundered resources in each others territories. It was a very serious matter. By doing so, they broke the treaty that was made after the Battle of the Long Leaf. In that treaty, both tribes promised they would only hunt and forage in the others domain if permission was asked and granted at the High Meet, when both tribes came together to communicate and work out any grievances we might have. And, oh, boy did we have them!

The incident happened one day in late Bright Shining Time.

Some red-skins were caught wandering in our territory by some of our border patrollers. They were brought before King Grondo's throne at the Royal Castle, whose Outer Gates were situated in a knothole high on the crown of a particularly fine oak tree.

King Grondo was having a rough day.

For you see, the tribe had been pestering him ever since his coronation about getting himself a Queen. He was the only King since time out of mind to ascend to the throne without already having a wife and the Kindred could not remember a time when they did not have both a King and a Queen ruling over them.

Sure, a King was good enough for economic, justice, political and military matters. But when you needed mercy and compassion to balance out the affairs of state, nothing was better than the tender heart of a Queen for that. Plus, they were just as capable in the political arena as a King. So, quite understandably, the King's mind was preoccupied with thoughts of possible mates, when the soldiers entered the throne room with the red-skinned interlopers.

"Your Highness, Grondo the Great." said Merby, chief of the border patrol. "We've caught these reds inside our boundaries."

King Grondo remained seated in his throne and did not even look at his visitors. He sat with his head in his hands and mumbled to himself. "No...no one but her. It can't be anyone but her...I won't...But I can't ask her...she won't agree..."

"Your HIGHNESS!" Merby interrupted, a little more loudly.

The king jerked his head up suddenly, as if surprised to find that he was no longer alone. "Yes?" he asked wearily.

"These red-skins were caught encroaching on our lands," continued Merby. "What would you like done with them?"

The king's eyes moved from Merby to the reds in question. There were two of them. "Not much of a hunting party," the king replied.

"Nevertheless, my liege" said Merby. "They refused to tell the patrol what they were doing in our territory and said they were told to speak only to you."

King Grondo perked up at that, leaning back in his throne to display what he hoped was an air of confidence toward the two alien tribesmen. "Is that so? Messengers, then?"

The larger of the reds stepped forward and bowed on one knee before the throne. "Yes, Your Majesty. I am Lorwag, the kin-brother of Lumac. He seeks a High Meet with you and your tribe. On the next long-shadow time." Lorwag rose to his feet and stepped back after delivering the message.

"Lumac..."said the king thoughtfully.

So, the Red Shaman calls a High Meet with us. Outside of the schedule, the king reflected. "What does he seek to discourse with me about at this Meet?" the king asked.

Lorwag stepped forward again. "I only know it pertains to a prophesy he intends to give concerning Your Kingship."

King Grondo nearly fell out of his throne. "He means to prophesy? About me?" He asked.

"Yes," replied Lorwag. "He has had a vision concerning you and it concerns all of us, as well. Both tribes of the Kindred."

Grondo blinked. Whatever prophesy the Red Shaman could possibly have concerning him, it was sure to be bad. Still... Grondo straightened high in his throne again in an effort to appear unaffected by this news. He cast an unblinking stare down at the messenger, who had not yet moved back into formation with the other red-skin under guard, as if he had something more to say to the king. "Is that all?" Grondo asked, although he knew it wasn't.

"No, Your Majesty. Lumac also seeks a personal counsel with you after the Meet is concluded." Lorwag finished, then stepped back alongside his silent red counterpart.

What could the old red devil want to see me privately about? the king wondered, his mind deeply disturbed by this news.

"Very well. We will come together on the next long shadow." the king said, then turning to the patrol captain. "Merby, see that these messengers return to their own territory safely, and that they do not linger near the border."

"Yes, Your Highness," Merby said. The patrol then marched the two messengers out of the throne room.

When the door was closed, Grondo sank back into his chair and frowned. "What does the old trickser want with me?" he asked himself.

Well, whatever the prophesy and whatever the outcome of the meet, it would not do for the kindred to be left without a ruler, in any case.

He knew then what he had to do.

End of Chapter Two. 

Go to Chapter Three. 
Go to Chapter One. 

(a link for Chapter Three will be provided once it has been posted)