#here endeth the tale

[rjalker]

Thus endeth this tale of syr Gareth of Orkeney that wedded dame Lyones of the castel peryllous. And also syr Gaheris wedded her syster dame Lynet, that was called the damoysel saueage. And syr Agrauayne wedded dame Laurel a fayr lady, and grete and myghty landes with grete rychesse gafe with them kyng Arthur, that ryally they myght lyue tyl their lyues ende. Here foloweth the viii.

but you didn't even explain the whole magical decapitation thing yet

[elmendea]

going to reply to every. single. jackass. on the birdhellsite who thinks that injecting themselves into conversations where I’m just happily fanbeing with other fans regarding TROP to go “hur hur the writing sucks” or one of the other TEN MILLION just brilliant, scintillating, horrifically interesting points they’ve learned to parrot from their alt-right neckbeard of choice is the height of wit with this.

Because I am getting incredibly fucking bored with it. 

Númenorse has had quite enough of all this tomfoolery (which is, for the record, at an all-time high).

[apparitionism]

Streets 5

Again, mostly talking. Only a little bit of driving around. Maybe a spoonful of philosophy, thought out not at all well. But it’s a story, anyway. One that concludes here, after having variously raced and meandered through part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4 on its way.

Streets 5

Helena remains disoriented, but she admonishes herself to ignore that sensation, to set herself to gathering data. Passersby will know the where and the when of the situation, so she steadies herself and turns to the person nearest her.

But in doing so, she encounters something she did not expect: a familiar face. Ramon is now standing in precisely the spot she had a moment ago occupied. “Where are we?” he asks, looking around just as Helena had. “I got lost. I think—I mean it musta been a—” and then he says a word that Helena does not know: teak-BALL-ang, he seems to have said, but for all her overeducation she cannot connect that to anything she knows.

“What must it have been?” she asks. She is relieved to be able to focus her attention on him.

“Tikbalang. Big guy with horse feet, horse head. Had to be one, had to. Thought it was just stories, like my mom told, how they like to mess with you, at night in the forest, get you lost. But he did it, he got me lost... is the rest of it true too?”

Focus. Continue to focus. “What is the rest of it?” she manages to ask him.

“Sometimes, when the moon’s bright... then, if you can ride them, they can take you between worlds.”

Nothing of what Ramon is saying resembles her own experience in any way, but she, too, can feel her mind straining to make sense of what has just occurred.... seeking an explanation. What it had to have been. Of course the human brain does want to understand what befalls the body, and of course that brain is perfectly happy to make up a story to account for any anomalous event. Helena tries to hold to the side that compulsion to rationalize—and she is having to concentrate mightily in order to do so—as she considers whether she might be able to reverse this, whatever this is... she shakes her head, hard, and that is enough to make her once again conscious of what she had done just as this happened: she had looked up, directly into the streetlight.

“When the moon is bright, you say... Ramon, will you trust me?”

“To what?” His look suggests that he is indeed quite lost, that he might wander away, telling himself over and over what this must have been. What had to have caused this anomalous state of affairs.

She says, “I want to repeat an experiment.” She takes hold of his hand. “Look up. Up into that bright, bright light.”

Once again a dazzle of disorientation, a paradoxic nothingness of strange, fast movement, no control, surrendering control, and she realizes—it all at once makes sense—this is the direct opposite of the Bronze, with its unrelenting dark and enforced lack of movement... if the Bronze was the unnatural preservation of life, then is this its natural end? Yes, that must be it: she has reached the end. It is over. Her acceptance of that as dispositive fact affords her an uncanny, yet not unwelcome, peace.

And then she is standing on another street corner—yet another street corner?—and she is alive. Alive, after having been dead. Again, dispositive fact. And yet...

From behind her, she hears Myka’s voice: “Helena!”

Pete’s: “See, she’s okay. She’s here and she’s okay.”

And Claudia’s: “Ohmygod H.G.! Ohmygod Ramon! Were you actually abducted by aliens?”

“Actually, no,” Helena says.

Ramon agrees, “Not unless they’re from Mindanao. But that was awesome!” Helena pulls him away from the streetlight to keep him from trying it again, regardless of awesomeness. Though he does seem perfectly happy, now, to marvel at what he believes he has experienced.

Claudia says, “So wait, does that mean there’s something else? Some totally different artifact?”

“I’ve no idea,” Helena says. “But I believe we may safely say there is more than one.”

“More than one,” Pete says. He is leaning is head a bit to the side, rubbing a thumb against his jaw: thinking.

“Working together,” Helena tells him.

“What,” Myka says, and she has got her voice under very tight control, “Happened. To. You.”

Claudia murmurs, “Hey, H.G., look at her eyes.”

Helena does so, and Myka blinks at her, then squints. “Indeed,” Helena says, “‘googly’ is not the word. But I suspect she is not playing it up.”

“Playing what up?” Myka demands. “You disappeared. Are you surprised that I found that a little worrying?”

“And annoying?” Helena asks. At this, Myka inhales in a way that conveys “not out of the question.”

“Like I said,” Claudia notes.

“I did not do it intentionally,” Helena tells Myka.

Myka says, “That doesn’t help. Because what did I tell you? What did I explicitly tell you, using words?”

“Don’t get whammied.”

“And what did you do?”

“The obverse of that. However, I did keep my hands on my Tesla.”

“That doesn’t help either. Honestly, Helena, what happened?”

“I have two answers to that question.”

These words garner another communicative inhale from Myka; this one, Helena translates as “If you do not start providing said answers with a quickness, your ability to do so in any foreseeable future will be severely curtailed.”

With that quickness, Helena says, “One, I was transported to a street corner that was not this one, and then, attempting to replicate the effect, I was in similar fashion returned to this one.”

“And two?” Pete asks. He’s looking at her with appraisal. More so than usual.

She says, “I believe that I died and was then brought back to life.”

“What,” Myka says. Flat.

“I’m sorry. I hold it as a strangely fervent belief. I know it is untrue—that it must surely be untrue—and yet. But you should ask Ramon what happened to him.”

“Tell the tale, Ramon!” Claudia commands.

Ramon, for his part, is more than enthusiastic about complying: “It was incredible. I never thought my mom was talking about real stuff, you know? It was all just scary stories, keep the kids close to home, right? But it’s so for real! The first time, he just confused me, like they do, but the second time!”

“He who? The second time what?” Claudia asks.

“Riding a tikbalang! You don’t know, but—”

Claudia interrupts, “C’mon, I know what a tikbalang is. I watched Lost Girl.”

“Aw, you should check out the comics too, man. Some from when I was a kid, but there’s even more now. Like, now that I know, it’s amazing how right they get it!” Then he pauses, as if realizing how odd it is to be speaking about comics, and their rightness, under the circumstances. “But I guess I gotta ask, why’d a tikbalang confuse us over to 20th and then let us ride him back here?”

Pete says, “Hold it.” He asks Helena, “That’s where you blinked out of here to, during your little near-death experience?”

“Not near death. Death.”

“I don’t care.”

Claudia says, “That’s a little insensitive, big guy.”

“The street sign did say 20th,” Helena affirms.

“And here we are on Taylor,” Pete says. “Put those things together, and you know what you get?”

Helena sighs. “Something Roentgen Files­–related, no doubt.”

“You just get weirder. No: Bullitt.”

“Toldya,” Claudia says, with a little poke at Helena’s upper arm.

Pete goes on, “I bet they’re just moving you around. To where it happens.”

“To where what happens?” Claudia asks.

“The chase. All the streets, the pings. I shoulda put it together. One of those other streets, that’s where this one took you. And then another one brought you back. That’s what they did, right?”

Helena nods.

Claudia does not. “They? They who? The aliens? She said she wasn’t abducted!”

Pete shakes his head. “I pay a lot more attention to what she does than what she says. Makes her easier to understand. And I was watching her, right before she blinked out. Gimme that fantastico goo gun of yours.” Claudia excavates the implement from the depths of her satchel and hands it over; he points it up, and he shoots the streetlight. A spark or two ensues—but that of course might be the result only of mixing electricity and a conducting liquid. He says to Helena, “Okay, guinea pig. Try it again.”

After a moment of hesitation—one for which she berates herself as a coward—she does as he says. Nothing happens. She smiles at him. “Pete, you do surprise me.”

He says, “I get that a lot. Particularly from you.” But he smiles back.

Claudia is looking from Pete to Helena and back again. “Wait, are we done? What is happening?”

“I bet we gotta drive around some more,” Pete says. “Goo a buncha lights.”

Ramon says, “I’m with Claudia: what is happening? You guys, am I in some weird government experiment? Does the government have like a herd of tikbalang?”

“Does that make sense to you?” Claudia asks him. “As an explanation? Or have you ever done anything like, say, mushrooms?”

“I used to run around some.”

“We all did,” Pete assures him.

From Myka, there is an ill-tempered “I didn’t.” Her tone says that she is still not at all thrilled with Helena, or indeed with anything about the situation.

Helena ignores this for the moment and says, “Of course we did. I, for example, did indulge in opium.” She gives Claudia a pointed look.

“I knew it!” Claudia says.

Yet another, even more ill-tempered “I didn’t” from Myka.

“Didn’t what?” Claudia asks. “Indulge in opium, or know that H.G. did?”

“Both.” And as Myka says this word, Helena receives a familiar “why can’t you tell me these things” glance. The eyes delivering that glance continue to be not at all googly.

Claudia says, “You know, Ramon, I think maybe what we’ll go with is, having done whatever running around you did? That might make you susceptible when some tikbalang guy comes a-calling.” Ramon looks as if he does want to believe her, and she takes that as encouragement. “I mean, who’d put it past the government to have herds of unicorns and whatever else, right? But they probably wouldn’t’ve been able to guess that today their employees would catch a ride with a guy who’d know a Filipino beastie if he saw it. And they couldn’t’ve reached into your head and figured out that’s the herd they’d need to rustle up this afternoon.”

“But can we get back to the comics at some point?” Pete asks. “Because pretty cool that whoever wrote those got it right. I’d love it if I found out that the Sandman was really exactly like what Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean and everybody came up with.”

“Sandman isn’t real,” Claudia scoffs.

“Ramon thought this tikbalang guy wasn’t real.”

“I was so wrong,” Ramon rhapsodizes.

But this exchange has Myka’s attention. “Wait,” she says, and her ill temper is gone; this is her agent-voice. “The government wouldn’t be able to reach into anyone’s head and find anything. But something did, and it found something different for Helena than it found for Ramon. Why did it? If this is only about movement from place to place, I mean. And for that matter, why is that movement happening via streetlight?”

Claudia says, “Trust you to come up with the work-related questions. Let’s see if Artie and Steve have anything to contribute.” She Farnsworths and inquires about San Francisco’s streetlights: if there is anything strange, anything new about them. Steve eventually comes up with... a nonanswer. “They’re replacing their old lights with LEDs. But the project’s been going on for a while now, so I don’t see—”

In the background, Artie exclaims, “Oh! LEDs.”

“Oh LEDs what?” Steve asks him.

“I had a feeling this might start happening at some point.”

Myka leans over to the Farnsworth. “You had a feeling what might start happening?”

Artie’s face appears. He looks displeased... but of course he usually looks displeased. “They’re—how to put this?—absorbent. Energy-wise. Fortunately it takes them a while to... take it all in.”

Claudia says, “LED lights are cheap paper towels?”

Pete muses, “So if those cheap paper towels were shining on a bunch of streets, and something major had happened on those streets...”

“But what do lights shining on streets have to do with aliens?” Artie asks.

“Yeah, that part I still don’t get,” Claudia says. “Also why Ramon went into a comic book, and H.G. thought she left her wallet in the afterlife.”

Helena says, “The mind is happy to make up a story...” Myka looks a question at her, and she shrugs. “I remember thinking that, as it was happening.”

“But why do you believe the story?” Myka pushes.

Pete’s eyebrows rise. Then he grins a very wide grin. “You know what?” he says. “I think I got this one! With the assist from H.G.! It’s continuity. Because there’s really none of it in that chase in the movie. You cut from street to street—well, technically Frank Keller cuts from street to street, and you gotta give it to the guy, because he had to work with the shots they gave him—but anyway it doesn’t make any geographic sense. Like none at all. You go around a corner, and it’s totally a different street. Different part of the city. In the movie, all you need to know about what’s happening is that it’s a totally awesome car chase, so who cares? But if it happens to you, here in the world, you gotta make sense of it somehow. Give it some continuity!”

Myka says, with a distinct lack of belief, “And to do that, most people went with alien abduction?”

“But not Miss ‘I Never Heard of the Roentgen Files’ over here!” Claudia crows.

“My aliens did not waste time on abduction,” Helena points out. “Perhaps only the people who did find explanatory solace in alien abduction felt compelled to tell their stories to others? Or at the very least, to tell those stories in a way that would, when coupled with curiosities, come to the Warehouse’s attention. And alien abduction might be quite a convincing explanation, to those whose minds turn to it. I, on the other hand, understand perfectly well that I did not in fact die and come back to life. And yet.”

“And yet what?” Pete asks.

“And yet I did in fact die and come back to life.” How ludicrous she must sound.

Claudia, for one, does not seem to care. “Whatever you say, resident-alien Jesus. So Pete, I guess we gotta go goo whichever streetlights, then try to talk the hippies out of energy efficiency? Even if we do, though, I really don’t see how we’re gonna keep this from happening over and over.”

Helena suggests, “We can look into their manufacture, these LEDs. Surely we can intervene in some relevant way.”

“Sabotage!” Claudia enthuses.

Ramon says, “Oh my god, it’s a mirage.”

“Is it?” Helena asks. She notes that Ramon has put on sunglasses, and—

Pete exclaims, or rather sing-songs, “I’m tellin’ y’all, it’s sabotage!” Then he says, “Good one, Ramon. You are a man with excellent taste. Seriously, we gotta talk comics.”

So there is most likely no actual mirage... Helena envies Ramon the shaded view, however. “It is quite bright,” she says aloud.

“Aw, but poor H.G., you don’t have any sunglasses,” Claudia says, and Helena hears nothing even vaguely resembling sympathy in her voice, “because you’d have to carry them.”

“You would have anticipated my need for them, were you a decent butler. But alas.”

“Did you just call me an indecent butler?”

“If the sunglasses fit, darling...”

“You won’t sound so smug about it when my ‘Never Had an Indecent Butler Like Me’ number brings down the house, Pops.”

Myka tells them both, “I really do not understand your relationship.”

Artie squawks from the Farnsworth, to which everyone has stopped paying attention, “I do not understand a single thing you lunatics say and I am hanging up on all of you people!”

“Hanging up on people,” Ramon says. “That reminds me, I gotta call my mom, let her in on what happened. Blow her mind.”

“Hanging up on people reminds you to call your mom?” Claudia queries.

“Reminds me of my mom. Cell phone drives her crazy; she says it hangs up by itself. Pretty sure she really does it with her face.”

He moves near his car and makes his call... Helena eavesdrops, just a bit. She presumes he is speaking Tagalog, in that his syllables, rhythms, and stresses are melodious yet on the whole meaningless to her. A word or two of Spanish, perhaps, as he had suggested, and also the occasional English: she hears “awesome” said with particular intensity. Then he winces. She suspects his mother might be inquiring as to whether he has taken up again the habits that occupied him when he “ran around some.”

Myka draws Helena’s attention away when she says, “I honestly can’t believe you got yourself not just whammied, but double-whammied. You know, I expect this kind of thing from Pete.”

“Reasonable,” Helena says. She is continuing to find it a bit difficult to focus; a part of her wants to concentrate all her resources on the truth of her death and resurrection. To embrace it fully, not merely philosophically...

“Hey!” Pete objects, and the familiarity of his protest is a comfort.

“Shut up,” Myka tells him. “This whole thing is actually your fault.”

Helena says, “Technically I believe it is Claudia’s fault—”

“Now it’s my turn: hey! Whose team are you on?” Claudia says.

“Yours. But you did not allow me to finish: your fault, but also Myka’s, because she is softhearted and believes in backup.”

“It isn’t softhearted to believe in backup,” Myka says.

“I did not say I attribute softheartedness to you because you believe in backup. I said you are softhearted and you believe in backup.”

“I’m not softhearted,” is Myka’s response.

Claudia snorts. “I wish Steve could’ve heard you say that. He’d be making his weird little ‘does she know she’s lying, and if she doesn’t know, how do I tell her’ face.”

Pete says, as if it is a revelation, “He does make a weird little face like that. He makes it around Myka a lot.”

“So,” Helena says, “comprehensively, she is softhearted, believes in backup, and may make a habit of lying to herself with regard to herself.”

“Is there some reason you’re all picking on me?” Myka asks, resignation edged with resentment.

“Fills the emptiness in our souls,” Claudia says cheerily.

Pete says, “I was gonna go with ‘makes you make a weird little face of your own, Mykes,’ but the empty souls thing works too.”

“And what about you,” Myka says to Helena.

“Perhaps I’m hoping you’ll exact revenge. Later. For my having raised the specter of your softheartedness and prompted such agreement on the point.”

“Perhaps that revenge won’t take the fun form you’re imagining.”

“Perhaps you don’t fully grasp my definition of fun.”

It’s a bit perfunctory, this back-and-forth, but it prompts Claudia to say to Pete, “I really do not understand their relationship.”

“I really do not want to understand their relationship,” he tells her.

Helena tells Myka, “Speaking of fun, or the lack thereof: you won. Your team neutralized the artifact. One of the artifacts, at any rate.” She kisses Myka—this time on the mouth, not the cheek—to indicate that her earlier words had indeed been token, that they had no real purpose. That certainly she intended no real annoyance. That she needs comfort from this, too.

Myka’s eyes do soften as she says, “You think I find that rewarding, do you?” And those words are no challenge. Instead, they are, Helena feels, the soft beginning of their move back to the hotel room.

So for Myka’s ears only, Helena says, “I certainly hope so. If not, there has been a significant dropoff in your appreciation for my performance, this morning to now.”

“Hey, as the team member who actually did the gooing, I won too,” Pete says. “Maybe even more.”

Myka moves only slightly away from Helena as she says, “If she kisses you, I will kill you.”

“Might be worth it,” Pete says. He is jaunty now, Helena thinks, just as he was after the “chase”: happy to have won in whatever way he feels he has.

“How true,” she agrees.

Myka says to Helena, “If you kiss him—in fact if you kiss either of them—I will kill you.”

To Pete, Helena says, “I’ve kissed you before. Not worth it.” He pouts a bit, but Helena turns and assesses Claudia. “You, I don’t know.” But she shoots a sidelong glance at Myka, and she gets the desired response: Myka says, with a bit more fervor than is called for, “Don’t find out.”

“Don’t,” Claudia seconds. “I like my life. So what if I’m a loser at transportation roulette?”

Pete shrugs. “Nah, I give. You can totally have a car chase in your little not-quite-taxis. If Ramon’s driving, anyway, ’cause he’s a boss.”

“I’m switching to Lyft anyway. Better corporate culture. I wonder if Ramon would too.”

Pete, moping, says, “Won’t matter eventually. All the cars’ll be driving themselves.”

“All that means,” Myka tells him, “is you can spend your time watching Bullitt on your phone or whatever entertainment system a self-driving car would have.”

“I guess you’ll just do paperwork,” Pete sighs.

“Not if she’s in a self-driving car with me,” Helena tells him.

“Keep your self-driving sex-taxi fantasies to yourself,” he says.

Helena raises an eyebrow. “I might have been about to say that we would engage in Platonic dialogues.”

“Wouldn’t be much platonic about any dialogues you two engaged in,” Claudia says.

Myka sighs. “Some days I miss being single.”

“I bet you do,” Pete says. “So sad that you’ll never reach that dream of sitting in the back seat of a self-driving car all by yourself, doing paperwork.”

“I might read,” Myka says.

Helena offers, “You might in fact read a Platonic dialogue. The Apology, perhaps.”

“That seems more up your alley,” Myka says, with a smile, “given that it’s the one where Socrates defends himself for corrupting the young.”

“I have corrupted no one!”

“To hear Pete tell it, you’re taking me for rides in self-driving sex taxis. I was a fine, upstanding Secret Service agent before I met you. A pillar of law enforcement.”

Claudia says, “I’m ruling from the bench: you’re guilty, H.G. She really was a pillar before you showed up. Her posture was amazing.”

“There is nothing wrong with my posture now!” Myka objects.

Pete says, “It’s really too easy. Too easy and too dirty... just like Myka, these days.”

“Please go away,” Myka says. “Forever.” She might mean all of them, Helena included.

“You’re not really mad, are you? We’re still partners, right?” Pete asks, in that cajoling way he does.

“Of course we’re still partners, in the sense that we are. But if you steal any more time from my vacation with my different-sense partner, I will be rethinking.” And Myka says this in the way that she does, when responding to Pete’s wheedling; it is a long-suffering, yet oddly tender tone, and she reserves it solely for him. Helena consistently must work not to envy it. Sometimes she succeeds.

“Fair,” Pete says.

“Be happy,” Myka tells him. “You got your car chase.”

Cajoling again, Pete says, “You have to admit, it was amazingly cool.”

“I don’t have to admit any such thing.” Long-suffering. Tender. Then she smiles at Helena and says, in a loud whisper, “Don’t tell him, but I had my eyes closed the whole time.”

Pete sighs. “Where’s your sense of adventure? H.G., I wouldn’t bother taking her for a ride in a sex taxi, if I were you.”

“Oh, Pete,” Helena says. “How you underestimate me. Not to mention, the extent to which Myka is... adventurous.”

Pete blinks at Helena. He looks at Myka, and he blinks again.

Myka thumps her fist against his upper arm, and he winces. Helena would be more inclined to let him imagine what he likes—he certainly could never even approximate the reality—but Myka tells him, “Wash your brain out with soap. And since nobody’s going away like I asked, in spite of the fact that I did it really politely and said please, I will go away. Helena, you can come with me, but only if you promise you will never utter the word ‘adventurous’ again.”

“In public, correct?” Helena asks. “Versus private.”

Myka makes a sound very like a growl. “Since you don’t know the difference, it’s a blanket ban.” Pete opens his mouth to speak, and Myka says, “I swear to god, Lattimer, if you tell me it’s a bad idea to ban blankets, that’s it.”

Pete closes his mouth.

****

Ramon drives Helena and Myka back to their hotel. Helena herself feels, and she believes Myka and Ramon also feel, it as a welcome exhale.

Ramon says, “This kind of wins the crazy-trip prize. Like, trip like trip, and like trip. Don’t give me less stars, but—”

“No need to apologize,” Helena tells him. “We frequently win prizes for which the primary judging criterion is ‘crazy.’”

“Speak for yourself,” Myka says, but without much force.

“My dear,” Helena responds, equally mildly.

Myka closes her eyes. “Fine.”

Ramon says, “Wins the awesome-trip prize too. But that’s really more like trip.”

“Understood,” Helena assures him.

Ramon consults his telephone as he pulls to the curb in front of the hotel. “Huh,” he says. “Here’s a funny. About the trip, and it’s kind of more like trip too. You know how you’re supposed to pay for your Uber through the app?”

“No,” Helena says.

“Okay. Anyway, that’s what you do. What Claudia was supposed to do.”

“All right. I’m failing to appreciate the comedy thus far.”

“So here’s the thing: she set it up so the payment’s cash.”

Myka, who is almost, awkwardly, out of the car—she really did not fit into it properly to begin with—pauses and says, “You can’t pay for an Uber with cash.”

“Right. Not here in old USA. But you know where you can?”

“You are about to say ‘the Philippines,’” Helena guesses.

“Other places too, but yeah. This trip? Got sent through the Filipino app, then back to me. Claudia a genius or something?”

“Yes, a genius,” Helena says.

“But also something,” Myka adds.

“Anyway she stiffed you,” Ramon concludes.

As Helena exits the vehicle, she says to Myka, “I hope you are, as I am, appreciating the irony of this entire situation being the result of your having maintained that ‘stiffing’ Pete and Claudia on the relatively minor bill for our lunches would have been inappropriate.”

Ramon is out of the car as well, and he is saying, with apology, “It’s not cheap. We drove a lot.”

“This is in some way related to limbo, or possibly the limbo. Would you like to estimate the cost of your shock absorbers as well and allow me to reimburse you now?”

“You sure? I can try to bill Claudia or her boss or whoever once I get a estimate.”

“I would not put you through that. Sometimes it is the better part of valor to surrender.”

“The money?” he asks.

“The money, the point, the flag, the fort, the entire cause. I am learning that pragmatism can be the wiser approach.” Myka snorts out half a chortle. “Striving to learn it,” Helena amends.

“My mom, she’d like you. Because you know what she’d say about you? She’d say you’d make a good Catholic.”

“That is...” Helena pauses. “It is an unexpectedly lovely compliment. Thank you. And please give your mother my regards—insofar as I am any judge of such things, she raised a fine son.”

He hugs her. It is strange but also quite sweet.

“This has been a most bizarre afternoon and evening,” she says as they let go of each other, at the same time, in the awkward-yet-appropriate way that embraces can end. “But you’ve dealt admirably with every bit. Thank you.”

Myka smiles at them both. “And thanks from me, Ramon. Mostly for complimenting this one. She deserves it.”

“You’re all right too, lady in question,” he says.

Once they have settled up—Helena hands over every bit of cash she possesses, plus some of Myka’s, and Myka expresses reluctance on the point of this latter participation until Helena reminds her that she could in fact have kept Pete from leading them in his “chase” if she had really tried, thus obviating the need for repairs—Ramon inserts himself into the small maroon car and drives away. Helena is made nostalgic by the furious horn-blares that attend his nonchalant movement into the stream of traffic.

****

“Alone at last,” Helena says, once they are, in fact, alone, at long last, in their room.

“Feels a little weird. Any aftereffects for you? From the whammy? Whammies.”

“I’ll echo you: feels a little weird. Or perhaps I mean, on my part, a little sad.” She does not want to make more of this than it is, but it is. “I find myself unaccountably despondent at the mismatch between my fervent belief in having been resurrected after perishing and the apparently contradictory reality.”

“You want to believe?” Myka asks.

Helena grimaces. “I suppose that, like everyone else, you are intimately familiar with the Roentgen Files television program. And film. And imaginary musical.”

“I thought I got that joke, before, but maybe I didn’t get it in its fullness.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have. ‘I Want to Believe’ would be, according to Claudia, the closing number of the first act of the Broadway-musical version, which does not exist but which Claudia would pay Hamilton money to see. I gather that is a large sum. She would also pay similar monies to see a Warehouse musical, in which you and I would sing a love duet entitled ‘The Price Is Too High.’”

“If it’s Hamilton money, then yeah, the price probably is too high. Anyway, you can’t sing. I can’t either.”

“Our parts would be played by professionals.”

“That’s good. I’m sure the audience would appreciate it. Although weirdly now the idea that I’ll never sing a love duet on Broadway with you makes me a little sad.”

“Take comfort in my embrace,” Helena suggests, and Myka moves to do exactly that as Helena goes on, “in which you may stand while I refrain from serenading you.”

“Now it feels like I really did win something.” She leans down to kiss Helena, but then her telephone makes its noise that signifies a call from Pete. Myka says, “Don’t worry; I’m not answering. He’s just being a pain.”

That is true: if it mattered, Pete would use the Farnsworth. But this does put Helena in mind of another point, one that she most likely should have considered before now: “Perhaps he is calling to inform you that Claudia still has my Farnsworth and my telephone.” Myka exhales meaningfully, but Helena reminds her, “I did, as instructed, keep my hands on my Tesla.”

“Still a little less than impressive, given the whammying, but at least you’re armed. Can you live without a phone for four days?”

“I lived without one for well over a hundred years.”

“That in no way answers my question.”

Helena says, “I can certainly try. Perhaps it will mean fewer interruptions at the very least.”

“Even fewer if I turn mine off.” A musing tone. A tease, too.

“Would you?” Because if Pete is in a mood to torment them...

Myka says nothing. But she does move away from Helena, and she does take up her telephone. Seconds later, Helena hears a brief, tell-tale buzz. Then Myka says, “Now. I think we have more than twenty minutes.”

But when Myka puts her hands on Helena, she moves as if they have far less time than that. In the past, of course, such desperation could not help but characterize their intimacy; back in the beginning, nothing could be fast enough, intense enough, due to desire’s bright necessity of course, but also to the demands of secrecy, the pressures of stolen time...

This extremity has a different quality, however; Myka’s hands are working fast, yet not with abandon, so that she seems hurried, but to some purpose other than physical satisfaction, the particular haste of which Helena knows quite well. This seems more like... making a point? Solving a problem?

Whatever it is, it is uncharacteristic. “Your pace seems a bit... breakneck,” Helena says, as her shirt is, with alacrity, being unbuttoned, pushed from her shoulders, and let fall to the floor.

Myka pauses, then laughs a little. “Just call me Steve McQueen.”

“If that is yet another unpalatable cocktail that might be but is not, I will... well, do nothing, probably, other than sigh.”

“No. Not a cocktail.”

“A movie? And a guy in the movie?”

“Your speech patterns always get weird when you spend time with Claudia. It’s not a movie, anyway, but it is a guy in a movie. I mean, an actor in a movie.”

“Which, I now deduce, must be Bullitt. Due to my superior deductive powers.” It’s a halfhearted vaunt; she is trying to overcome whatever is keeping her from responding as she should, as she wants to, as she under any other circumstances would if Myka were so bodily insistent.

“Superior,” Myka echoes. “Pete would be making you watch it right now if he were here. Fortunately he’s not,” and she returns to her tasks: lips on neck, hands hard at work, hips pushing Helena backwards to the bed.

Helena is trying to participate fully—trying to ignore whatever is wrong, wrong with both of them—when an abrupt sense of something being no longer the matter overtakes her. She stops moving entirely, the relief is so strong. “I did not die,” she says.

“I know that,” Myka says, but her voice is restless. “I know it, but I can’t help—”

“No, I mean I no longer hold my death and resurrection as a conviction. I suspect Ramon no longer feels so certain that he traveled in his mythologically inspired way.”

“They got the other streetlight,” Myka says, and Helena nods, for that is what must have occurred. And that that is now what must have happened, not her own death, seems a liberation of the most palpable sort. Myka goes on, “How do you feel? Still... despondent?”

“Not nearly so. Although I do I feel a bit sorry for Ramon.” She feels a bit sorry, in fact, for all the previous believers. How are they responding to having their fully embraced beliefs in their abductions, or whatever they chose to give continuity to their experiences, taken away? “Not that I cannot feel despondent on my own recognizance, but I do feel much more myself.”

Myka says, “You’ve been trying really hard, since it happened, to be yourself. Say what you’d say. Banter.” Helena acknowledges this insight with a nod, and Myka goes on, “Ramon gave himself over to it—and I bet he wasn’t despondent at all. But yours was really a balancing act. A kind of ‘I know very well, but nevertheless.’”

“I did want to give myself over to it., but perhaps I’m genuinely incapable of belief. Perhaps that’s the real reason for the despondency. I would make a terrible Catholic after all.” It is brooding and self-pitying, but also most likely true.

“Or maybe it’s just that some cheap-paper-towel artifacts didn’t have nearly enough mojo to convince you. To make you let go of what you know very well.”

“You are playing to my vanity,” Helena accuses. Myka just smiles a little, then kisses her without urgency. Helena further accuses, “You think I am an egotist.”

“No, I know you’re an egotist.” And Helena can’t muster a true smile or laugh, because Myka is of course right. She is stuck between being pleased with and resentful of Myka’s acceptance of this fact for what it is.

“Your face just now,” Myka says, with a shake of her head. “Am I ever going to love anything in my life as much as I love you?”

"As an egotist, I’ll say ‘Of course not.’ As a pragmatist, I’ll say ‘I don’t know.’”

“I like how, just like that, you’ve maneuvered me into rooting for egotist-you over pragmatist-you.”

“As an egotist, I’m quite practiced at such maneuvering. As a pragmatist, less so. However, both the egotist and the pragmatist are ready to declare that they are unlikely to love anything in their respective lives as much as they love you.”

“I bet that’s not really true about the egotist.”

“I think it’s to the egotist’s credit.”

“Oh I see. She can preen about it.”

“She is an egotist.”

“She’s pretty good at making me feel pretty good. Maybe it’s warranted.”

“She is transported to learn that both of those things are the case.”

“Just so you aren’t transported out of this room, that’s fine. Just so you stay here with me.”

“I certainly intend to,” Helena says, striving for lightness, because while she can feel Myka trying for the same thing, there is a shadow in Myka’s voice that should not be there, a shadow in her voice as there had been in her hurried hands. It should not be there; why is it there?

And then she has her answer. “Don’t die,” Myka says. Her voice now is low and her brow is knit: she is serious.

So. Of course Myka knows very well that Helena did not die, just as Helena knows it. Yet while Helena’s now-nullified “but nevertheless” had been “I believe that I did die,” Myka’s was—is—“I am reminded that Helena someday will die.” And that cannot be so conveniently neutralized away.

Helena is inclined to offer, in response, something that would itself fall under some heading of “I know very well these words are preposterously untrue, but nevertheless I will say them in order to offer false comfort”—something such as “I won’t.” Or “I’ll try not to.” Even “Not for a while yet, I hope.”

But Myka deserves better than that. So instead Helena offers a counterproposal: “Deathlets?”

At that, Myka shakes her head, her forehead still unsmooth. But her mouth begins to turn, slowly, and at last the smile breaks over her beautiful face. Finally, now, she laughs, and the shadow is gone.

Tomorrow morning, the first kiss will taste of toothpaste and coffee.

END

[brannonlasgalen]

Chapter: 19/19 Warnings: Fantasy violence, minor character death, super scary moments Word Count: 50,042 Pairings: Thranduil/Original Female Half-Elf; Legolas x Gimli; Gay Elves, Straight Elves, Elves for everybody! Timeline: Post-Battle of the Five Armies (T.A. 2941) through the War of the Ring (T.A. 3018-3019), from the perspective of Thranduil and the Mirkwood elves, the Men of Dale, and the Dwarves of Eerebor.

SUMMARY: We're finally here, my loves: the last chapter! Here endeth the tale of Thranduil and Illyrea Estariel (or Estarían lol.) As it's an epilogue, it's almost entirely fluff and romance, babies and storytelling and Thranduil being The Best Husband™; basically what happens during the Happily Ever After.  It's written in the style of Tolkien's Appendices, partially as a nod to The Professor and partially because soooooo many years pass in the telling. 

On a personal note: This story has been a labor of love over the last year of my life. Weeks of research, hundreds of images and gifs sourced or created, an untold number of hours spent agonizing, and in the end? Three novels’ worth of words, according to my Scrivener compiler:

But none of it, none of it, would be possible without my awesome readers. Your encouragement kept my passion for the project alive. When in my darkest hours I seriously considered abandoning it, (NINE HUNDRED PAGES Y’ALL!) you prodded me to keep going, made me feel as if it was all worth it. 

I just...I appreciate it more than I can say. I love you guys. 

Thanks for everything. 💚

[broomballkraken]

Title: The Scholar and The Huntress, Chapter 10: Respite

Fandom: Octopath Traveler

Pairing: Cyrus/H’aanit

Word count: 6092

Warnings: None

Summary:  H'aanit finally reunites with her master, and can finally enjoy some respite from her journey. Of course, with her group of companions, this involves a lot of alcohol, and results in Cyrus revealing a whole new side of himself that she had not seen before.

"Maken haste, Cyrus. We'ren almost there."

"H'aanit, please...I'm...so tired..."

H'aanit stopped running and turned to stare at her lover, who was doubled over and trying to catch his breath. They had only been running for about a mile, and that wasn't far at all. She really needed to help Cyrus get into better physical shape.

"Ah...hah...my dear, you don't have to rush. I'm sure your master will be waiting in Stoneguard for you to arrive." Cyrus said, smiling as he took H'aanit's hand. "And I believe we've lost the others-Oh, Linde caught up with us." H'aanit chuckled as her partner came trotting up behind them. She meowed and rubbed up against Cyrus' legs, causing him to smile brightly as he ran his hand through her fur.

"I guesseth thee ist right. I can see the stairs leading to town from here. We shoulde be there soon." H'aanit said.

Suddenly, screams pierced the air and both H'aanit and Cyrus jerked their heads in the direction of the sound, which seemed to be coming from a bit up the road. They glanced at each other before breaking into a run, with Linde close behind. They quickly came upon two people being set upon by a huge tiger. Cursing, H'aanit pulled out her bow and nocked an arrow, while Cyrus whipped out a spellbook.

However, before either of them could act, the tiger was struck from behind with a precisely shot arrow, and it immediately collapsed, dead. H'aanit and Cyrus blinked at each other, confused, until Hagen suddenly appeared and ran up to them, barking excitedly.

"Hagen! If thou art here, then..." H'aanit said as she pet his head, and she smiled as she was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"What ho, H'aanit!"

Relief welled up inside of H'aanit as she watched Z'aanta stride up to her, grinning from ear to ear. It really did work, defeating Redeye. Her master was back to normal, thank the gods. Z'aanit stopped in front of her and gave her a once-over, before barking out a hearty laugh.

"Don't tellen me thou'st grown again!" he said, continuing to laugh as H'aanit rolled her eyes.

"Not in height, but if thou speakest in experience, then yes."

Cyrus watched silently as H'aanit and her master bantered back and forth, and he couldn't help but smile fondly at his lover. She was giving the older man a good lecturing for worrying her, but the smile on her face betrayed her true feelings. Cyrus knew that she was happy that Z'aanta was back to normal, and he was happy that she was happy.

"H'aanit, thanke thee. Thou'st done me proud."

H'aanit let out a yelp in protest as Z'aanta hoisted her into his arms, and Cyrus couldn't help but laugh as she struggled to free herself, her face flushing with embarrassment. Z'aanta's laughter joined his, and after he made sure the couple that had been attacked was alright, he finally turned his gaze upon Cyrus.

"Werein art thine manners, girl? Aren you going to introduceth me to thine friend?" Z'aanta said, glancing at H'aanit with an eyebrow raised. H'aanit blinked; she had almost forgotten that Cyrus was here too. Her face flushed a deeper shade of red, and she cleared her throat as she walked over so that she was standing at Cyrus' side.

"Er, master, this ist Cyrus Albright. He ist a scholar and a professor at the Royal Academy in Atlasdam." H'aanit said, "Cyrus, this ist my master, Z'aanta."

"A pleasure to finally meet you, sir." Cyrus said, smiling as he held out his hand, "H'aanit has told me so much about you! I can most definitely see where she learned her mastery of the bow." Z'aanta gave Cyrus a once-over and then barked out a laugh as he took his hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Goodeth to meeten thee too, Cyrus. And no needeth to callen me sir. It makeths me feelen old."

"I will keep that in mind, sir-Ahem, Z'aanta."

"So how didst you endeth up traveling together-"

"Hey guys! We finally caught up to you!"

Z'aanta was interrupted when Tressa came running up to H'aanit and Cyrus, with the rest of the group not far behind. Z'aanta turned to H'aanit, who just shrugged.

"I foundeth many new companions on my journey. 'Tis a long tale, mayhaps we should head to the tavern and I shall tell you all about it." she said, and her eyes narrowed when Z'aanta's eyes lit up at the word 'tavern.'

"That soundeth like a great idea, my dear prentice. Letten us go!" he said, and after a brief introduction to the rest of the group, they all headed into Stoneguard and made a beeline for the tavern. H'aanit hoped that she wouldn't regret suggesting the tavern as a meeting place.

*

"Oh wow! You killed a dragon with your bare hands?!??!"

"He ist lying, Tressa."

"My prentice, you woundeth me." Z'aanta said, pouting as H'aanit rolled her eyes and the rest of the table laughed. The tavern was loud and lively this night, mostly due to their full table listening to Z'aanta's very exaggerated hunting stories. H'aanit felt more relaxed than she had in a very long time. Now that her master was back to normal, it was like a giant weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

"Cyrus, doest thou needeth a refill?" H'aanit asked when Z'aanta's had finished telling his latest story and the table split off into mini conversations.

"Ah, yes, I'd like another. Thank you." Cyrus said, proceeding to down the last mouthful of ale. H'aanit nodded and took the empty mug, her hand brushing his on the way, and a smile of adoration crossed his face.

"Aye, I shall be back shortly." she said, and she headed up to speak to the barkeep. Cyrus watched her go for a moment, and when he turned back to the table, he found that Z'aanta was staring at him over the rim of his mug as he took a drink. Cyrus tilted his head at him, confused, and watched as Z'aanta set his mug down and crossed his arms over his chest.

"So," he began, a sly smile crossing his face as he leaned back in his chair, "How longeth hath thee and my prentice been in love with each other?"

Cyrus stared at Z'aanta for a moment, before his face flushed a bright red and he cleared his throat to try and remove the lump that had formed there. Gods, how was he able to correctly come up with that conclusion without being told directly?

"W-Well, I cannot speak for H'aanit, but, ah, I've loved her for a good while now, even before I knew what exactly it was I was feeling for her." Cyrus said, rubbing his neck as he averted his gaze. Z'aanta laughed and slapped a friendly hand on Cyrus' arm.

"Really now? Whatten ist it that you seeth in her?" he asked, raising a curious eyebrow as he took a swig of his drink. Cyrus took note that Primrose and Ophilia were not-so-subtly listening in on the conversation, and he tried to ignore them as he looked Z'aanta in the eye.

"Well, where do I even start?" Cyrus began, earning a chuckle from Z'aanta. "H'aanit is an incredible woman. She is strong in many ways, be it physically or in character. She is loyal, honest, caring, selfless. She can be stubborn at times, but for all the right reasons, so I cannot honestly call that a fault. And she is the most beautiful woman that I've ever seen-"

"I thinke I getten the picture." Z'aanit interrupted, and Cyrus laughed sheepishly as he fiddled with his sleeves.

"Ah, sorry, I got a little carried away."

"Here, Cyrus." he looked up to see that H'aanit had returned, and she set a full mug of ale in front of him, and another in front of Z'aanta. "I am going to maketh sure that Linde and Hagen haveth enough water. I willst be back." The two men offered their thanks as H'aanit left again, and they both took long swigs before Z'aanta spoke again.

"'Tis funny," he started, earning a quizzical look from Cyrus. "You'ren not the kind of person that I woulde hath guessed that my prentice woulde bringeth home to me."

"Oh?" Cyrus asked, "Why is that?"

"She hath always heldeth physical strength in high regard. I predicted that she'd endeth up with someone a bit more muscular than thee."

"Well, she must see something good in me." Cyrus said as he shrugged, "I was actually afraid that she would never feel the same way about me as I did her. It was quite surprising."

"My prentice ist no fool, Cyrus." Z'aanta said, his tone turning oddly serious. "H'aanit hast never been interested in finding a partner before you. So thee needeth not worry about being goode enough, for she woulde only chooseth the best person for her."

"O-Oh," Cyrus stammered, embarrassed, "Well, I...thank you." He had been a bit nervous to finally meet H'aanit's father figure, but Z'aanta had turned out to be surprisingly accepting of the fact that he was dating his adoptive daughter.

Z'aanta chuckled as he tugged at his beard. "Thou doest not needeth to thanke me. H'aanit ist a smart woman, and can taken care of herself. If thou steppeth out of line, she wilst be sure to deal swift justice. And if she doth not, I wilst." Cyrus gulped as Z'aanta's voice took on a slightly threatening tone. Ah, this was more of what he expected from him. But, he also noticed the humor in the older man's eyes, and Cyrus just smiled and nodded.

"I am well aware, my good man. I have no intention of ever hurting her in any way. I care far too much for her." Cyrus said, and Z'aanta laughed.

"Good, good. 'Tis all I can asketh of thee." Z'aanta clinked his mug against Cyrus'. "Letten us getteth another rounde, eh?"

"Indeed." Cyrus said, noting that his mug was empty. He then jumped a bit in surprise when a full mug was slammed down in front of him.

"Y'all in for a drinking contest?" Alfyn said a bit louder than necessary as he grinned, looking back and forth between Z'aanta and Cyrus.

"Aye, sounds like a grande time!" Z'aanta said, and Cyrus nodded in agreement as they both stood and followed Alfyn to a seperate table with the other men. This was turning out to be a rather interesting night.

*

"Ugh, I'm done."

"Shucks, Therion, you're always the first out!"

H'aanit chuckled as Therion pouted at Alfyn, his flushed face and half-lidded eyes betraying his drunken status. He shrugged and moved to sit in between Tressa and Primrose at their table.

"Alfyn better not pass out this time. I'm not carrying him back to the inn again." Therion grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest as Ophilia giggled.

"I'd be more worried about Cyrus tonight." Primrose said, earning a confused look from H'aanit. "It seems that your master has quite the influence on him."

H'aanit turned her attention to the contest table, her eyes narrowed as she watched Z'aanta sling his arm over Cyrus' shoulders as he laughed. She had never seen Cyrus truly drunk before, as he was very good at pacing himself. But, her master could be a notoriously bad influence sometimes, especially in a tavern setting like this one.

"Cyrus, thou muste keepeth up! Downeth this mug and start on another!" Z'aanta said, nudging Cyrus' mug with his own.

"Ah, I don't usually drink this quickly..." Cyrus said, a dusting of pink present on his cheeks, "Perhaps I should slow down."

"Nay! Thou cannot win a contest of drinking without, well, drinking! Keepeth up with me, at least." Z'aanta said, glancing over at Olberic and Alfyn, who were downing their drinks at a concerning rate. "Those two are liketh bottomless pits. Wheren doest it all goeth?"

"I've asked myself that many times before." Cyrus said, laughing as he finished off his mug. "It is settled then, I will do my best to keep up with you."

"Aye! That's a good lad!" Z'aanta said, pushing a full mug at Cyrus.

"Ah, yes! Well, 'bottoms up', as they say!"

H'aanit watched as the two men clinked their mugs together and drained the contents quickly. She wondered if she should step in and stop them. This...could end in disaster.

"Oh, don't worry about them, H'aanit." Primrose said, waving her hand nonchalantly. "They will be fine. If they truly start to get out of hand, we can intervene." H'aanit nodded slowly and let herself relax.

"Z'aanta is really cool, H'aanit!" Tressa said, "I bet it's been a blast being his apprentice!"

"Aye, he ist a great teacher, if a bit irresponsable at times."

"I'm surprised at how well he and Cyrus are getting along." Primrose chimed in. "Fathers usually tend to be a bit more wary about the men that their daughters bring home."

"I fear that they getteth along too well. My master tends to be a bad influence when alcohol ist involved, and Cyrus can be a bit clueless at times." H'aanit said, glancing over at the contest table, where the occupants all burst out laughing, with Olberic and Z'aanta's voices being the loudest.

"That's an understatement. Cyrus is laughably clueless. But you're not much better, H'aanit." Primrose said, laughing as she took a drink, "Watching you both try and court each other was rather painful at times." The rest of the women giggled as H'aanit pursed her lips, and even Therion let out a chuckle.

“Thou doest not needeth reminden me everyday…” H’aanit grumbled. Her attention was suddenly pulled to the contest table, when Cyrus shot up out of his chair, the movement almost knocking it to the ground.

“My focus is unparalleled!” he exclaimed, and he proceeded to lift a full mug of ale to his lips and down the contents with a few deep swigs. The rest of the men at the table cheered and followed suit, wasting no time in grabbing full mugs and repeating the process.

“Oh dear, they are getting quite rowdy, aren’t they?” Ophilia said, trying to hide her amused smile behind her mug. H’aanit’s eyes widened as she watched Cyrus’ antics. Well, this was certainly a new side of him that she had not seen before.

“Good luck dealing with that later.” Therion said, winking at H’aanit. She narrowed her eyes at him, and Primrose chuckled with amusement.

“Oh, he’ll probably be fine...Maybe.” she said, ignoring the heated look that H’aanit shot her. “Therion, do be a dear and get us another round, will you?” Therion nodded in response and cleared the empty mugs from the table, before heading up to the bar. H’aanit watched him go, until her attention was pulled away when Cyrus’ voice hit her ears.

“Oh my! My face is so warm! How fascinating!” H’aanit turned to see Cyrus holding his cheeks with both hands, his lips turned up in a goofy smile as he pushed on his face. The expressions he was making caused H’aanit to laugh until she snorted, and the other women at her table laughed as well.

“Ha! It seemeth that thee ist amusing to our table of ladies.” Z’aanta said, not seeming to notice the glare that H’aanit was shooting him.

“Who?” Cyrus asked, blinking in confusion as he tilted his head.

“Shucks, Cyrus, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten half of our friends?” Alfyn asked, taking a drink of ale as he leaned back in his chair, splashing some of the liquid on his shirt.

“I thought I was just here with you-Oh!” Cyrus started, as he turned to look at the table where H’aanit and the others sat. When his eyes locked with hers, the rest of what he was going to say was swallowed up in a gasp. He stared at her with wide eyes for a moment, before he leaned over and whispered something to Z’aanta. H’aanit watched as a sly grin crossed her master’s face, and he whispered something back.

“Ah, yes!” Cyrus said as he pulled back, and he quickly jumped to his feet. H’aanit watched as he moved in her direction, seemingly unable to walk in a straight line as he stumbled awkwardly in his attempt to get to her.

“My dear,” he said, pausing to let out a giggle and steady himself, “I could not help but notice how absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful you are.” H’aanit blinked at him, confused, and she felt her cheeks heat up as he took her hand in his. “I must ask, are you perchance, romantically available?”

H’aanit just stared at him, not knowing how to respond to this. He must have drank way beyond his limit of alcohol tolerance in order to forget that they were together. H’aanit was going to have some stern words with Z’aanta about getting her lover so gods damn drunk. She opened her mouth to finally respond, but Primrose beat her to it.

“Ah, I am sorry, but she is, in fact, spoken for.” the dancer said. Cyrus gasped and recoiled backwards dramatically, an absolutely devastated look crossing his face.

“O-Oh, I see…” he stammered out, stumbling off to the side. Unfortunately, Therion had picked that moment to return with more drinks, carrying four mugs, two in each hand. Cyrus crashed right into the theif, whose quick reflexes saved him from spilling the drinks as he lifted up his arms. Cyrus wrapped his own around Therion as he buried his face into his shoulder.

“Cyrus, what the hell?” Therion asked, an annoyed look crossing his face. Primrose and Tressa moved quickly to take the mugs from him before they could spill, but left him to try and pry Cyrus off of him on his own.

“Oh, Therion! My life is ruined!” Cyrus exclaimed, his voice muffled a bit against Therion’s shoulder. H’aanit just stared at him in disbelief.

“What are you talking about? Get off me!” Therion growled as he tried to shove Cyrus away. He only succeeded in causing Cyrus to tighten his grip.

“It is truly the worst thing that could ever happen to me!” Cyrus continued, sniffing as he rubbed his face on the thief’s shoulder. H’aanit raised an eyebrow. Was he...crying? “The most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen is taken! How will I go on?” He gestured at H’aanit with one arm, and Therion stared at Cyrus as if he was the dumbest person in Orsterra. The rest of the men at the table burst out laughing, with Z’aanta laughing the loudest. Primrose and Tressa also dissolved into a fit of giggles, and Ophilia only barely managed to hold back her own amusement.

“Oh my gods…” Therion mumbled, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, she’s taken...by you, you idiot.” He finally succeeded in prying Cyrus’ hands from his arms and pushed him back towards H’aanit, who stood up in time to catch her drunk-ass lover before he could fall over and hurt himself.

“R-Really?” Cyrus said, looking up at H’aanit with a look of absolute joy on his flushed face, and that was enough to make her blush with embarrassment.

“Yes, dear. We hath been together foren awhile now.” H’aanit said, and Cyrus laughed as he pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Oh how the gods have blessed me so!” Cyrus exclaimed, gazing lovingly into H’aanit’s eyes as his tears of sorrow turned into tears of joy. “Never in my 30 years of life have I seen a more beautiful woman! One of unparalleled strength and courage and-Whoops!” Cyrus’ gushing was interrupted when his grip on H’aanit loosened and he fell to the floor on his back.

“Cyrus! Ist thou alright?” H’aanit asked, frowning with worry as she quickly knelt down next to him.

“Hmm...Is the ceiling supposed to be spinning like that? What an interesting phenomenon!” Cyrus said, laughing as he raised an arm above him and waved it about, as if he was tracing invisible lines above him. H’aanit sighed and shook her head.

“Gods help me…” H’aanit mumbled, staring down at her lover, unamused. She glanced over at the contest table to see how the other men were fairing. She saw that Alfyn’s head was resting on the table; he was passed out cold, and Therion was arguing with Tressa about who was going to carry him to the inn this time. Olberic and Z’aanta had their arms around each other’s shoulders, and they were both laughing hysterically. H’aanit then looked up at the bar, where the barkeep was watching them with an annoyed look on his face. It was probably time to call it a night.

“Take care of Cyrus, H’aanit.” Primrose said, “We will handle the rest of these drunkards.” H’aanit watched as Ophilia went to speak with Olberic and Z’aanta, while Tressa and Therion teamed up to deal with the incapacitated Alfyn.

“Aye. Good luck.” H’aanit said, smiling when Primrose laughed and went to help Ophilia. H’aanit then looked back to the floor, where Cyrus was gazing up at her with half-lidded eyes.

“Come now, letten us go back to the inn.” she said, as she bent down and lifted Cyrus into her arms. He laughed and flailed a bit, causing H’aanit to stumble forward and drop him back on the ground.

“Cyrus!” H’aanit said, her face scrunching up with annoyance.

“Ah, oops, sorry, my dear. I’m just having so much fun!” Cyrus protested, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly. H’aanit glared at him and tried three more times to pick him up, only to repeat the same result.

“This ist ridiculous.” H’aanit growled, and Cyrus dissolved into giggles again. She suddenly grabbed him by the waist, hoisted him over her shoulder, and held his legs under his knees in a vice grip. He yelped in surprise when she stood up, and he wrapped his arms around her torso from behind.

“Mmmmm, my dear, you’re so strong...I do love it so.” Cyrus mumbled, and H’aanit felt him rub his face against her back. She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile that crossed her face. H’aanit bid farewell to the others and headed outside.

“Thou ist an incredibly disastrous drunk, Cyrus.” H’aanit said, pausing to wake up Linde, who had fallen asleep against the outside wall of the tavern. She meowed and tilted her head at Cyrus, who laughed and reached out to try and pet her, but he kept missing.

“Oh, I do think you’re overreacting, darling.” Cyrus mused. He started lazily tracing his fingers over H’aanit’s abs over her shirt, and she shivered slightly as her face flushed.

“Thou forgotten that we were together.” H’aanit said, and Cyrus just laughed, and H’aanit felt him shake his head against her back.

“Well, it is not surprising to me in the least. I am still flabbergasted that the most beautiful person in Orsterra chose me of all people as a partner! I am so, so lucky.”

“I could sayeth the same about thee.”

“Oh, H’aanit...H’aanit,” Cyrus mumbled, tightening his grip on her. “Please, ask me why I love you so much!”

“Why doest thou loven me so much?”

“I am so glad you asked!” Cyrus said excitedly, and H’aanit couldn’t hold back her laughter, “Because if I had to write it down, I fear that there isn’t enough stationary in the world to hold everything! Although, verbalizing it may take weeks, even months to truly-”

“Well then, thou best starteth now, foren I’m putting thee to bed as soon as we getten to the inn.” H’aanit heard Cyrus gasp and he mumbled incoherently to himself.

“Oh dear...well, I better start with the best things then…”

H’aanit just shook her head as she listened to Cyrus ramble on while she walked. He started by gushing about how amazing she smelled all the time, ‘like a forest of pine trees just after a spot of rain.’ He was definitely exaggerating, for she felt that most of the time she smelled like sweat, due to the large amount of physical activity she did during the day.

Next he proceeded to tell her that the exact moment that he realized that he was in love with her was when she delivered the killing blow to the dragon that had been guarding the herb-of-grace in Stillsnow. H’aanit couldn’t help but wonder if Cyrus was actually just gods damn crazy, or was dropped on his head too many times as a child.

Cyrus then went off on a tangent about how adorable Linde was. He began throwing out random facts about snow leopards, like how some snow leopards have home ranges of up to 1,000 square kilometers, and that they have light green or gray eyes, which is unusual for big cats.

After what seemed like an eternity, H’aanit finally reached the inn, and she quickly made her way up the stairs, ignoring the stares from the innkeeper on the way.

“...And did you know that snow leopards have large paws that help them walk on top of the snow. What amazing creatures they are!” Cyrus was saying as H’aanit entered the room that the men were sharing. She just chuckled as she approached one of the beds.

“I agree, dear. Now, ‘tis time for bed.” H’aanit said, and she went to pull Cyrus from her shoulder, but he wrapped his arms tightly around her torso, stopping her.

“Cyrus-”

“But H’aanit, I’m not ready to leave your side. My nights are incredibly lonely without you!” he whined, his face rubbing against her back. H’aanit rolled her eyes and tugged harder on his legs.

“Thou ist being stubborn. We wilst seeth each other in the morn.” H’aanit said, but her words did not seem to sway Cyrus. She struggled a bit longer, trying to loosen his hold on her, when he finally let go. Unfortunately, she had been pulling hard at that exact moment, so she ended up flinging him roughly onto the bed, and she stumbled onto it after him.

“Hehe, got you!” Cyrus said, as he quickly wrapped his arms around H’aanit and pulled her close, so that he could nuzzle his face against her neck. H’aanit’s face flushed as she tried wiggling free of his grasp.

“Cyrus, letten me go-” she protested, but was silenced when Cyrus’ lips covered hers in a sloppy, drunken kiss. Her eyes went wide for a moment, but they slowly slipped shut as she chuckled and returned the kiss. Well, she had certainly fallen in love with a most interesting man, but she would not have it any other way. When they finally pulled away, Cyrus was gazing at H’aanit with a look of complete adoration, and it took her breath away.

“You are so...intoxicating, H’aanit.” Cyrus whispered, lethargically brushing a few strands of hair out of her face.

“That mayhaps be the ale talking.”

“Oh no. If I am drunk on anything, my darling, it is your love.” H’aanit flushed a bright red as his fingers gently caressed her cheeks. “I fear that it takes all of the willpower that I have not to spend all of my time and energy kissing those sweet lips of yours, and telling you how much you really mean to me.”

“Cyrus…” H’aanit breathed, her eyes widening as she reached up to cup his face. She kissed him again, soft and tender, and she smiled against his lips when he sighed contently.

“I love you, H’aanit. So, so much more than words can say...” Cyrus said when they parted, his eyes gazing lovingly into her own. Slowly, his eyelids finally slipped shut, and soon he was snoring softly as he drifted off to sleep.

“I loveth you too, Cyrus.” H’aanit said, watching as a bright smile crossed his sleeping face. She chuckled and shook her head, and was finally able to slip out of his grasp. She removed Cyrus’ coat and boots, and tucked him into bed. She placed a last kiss on his forehead, when the door to the room was flown open.

“Gods, finally.” Therion was saying as he and Tressa dragged Alfyn into the room. They tossed the inebriated apothecary onto a bed, and Therion threw himself onto another.

“Hey, H’aanit!” Tressa said, “I’m glad you two made it here without any issues.”

“Aye, none that were not caused by Cyrus, anyway.” H’aanit said as she brushed Cyrus’ hair from his face. Tressa laughed, and Ophilia and Primrose entered the room, struggling to support Olberic.

“Curse these gods damn legs of mine. Why won’t they cooperate?” Olberic was muttering to himself, and Primrose rolled her eyes as she and Ophilia deposited him on the last bed.

“It’s the alcohol, dear Olberic. Get some sleep.” Primrose said, and after a bit of incoherent mumbling, he did just that.

“Gods, it’s like babysitting a bunch of man children.” Primrose said, sighing deeply. Ophilia giggled, and then turned to H’aanit.

“H’aanit, your master went to stay with Natalia. Hagen was with him, so he probably made it there safely.” she said, “He said he would stop by here in the morning.”

“Aye, thanke thee.”

“Well, goodnight Therion. Do make sure the rest of these idiots don’t die in their sleep, would you?” Primrose said as she made for the door.

“Yeah, no promises there,” Therion said, waving his hand as he rolled over, “Goodnight.”

With that, the women returned to their own room, and they all fell asleep rather quickly, exhausted by the night’s activities.

*

As usual, H’aanit was the first to wake in the morning, and she decided to take a stroll about town with Linde before breakfast. When she returned to the inn, the aftermath of the night before was beginning to surface.

“Ugh...my head…” H’aanit chuckled when she saw Alfyn sitting at a table, his head resting on Primrose’s shoulder, while she rubbed his back gently. Olberic sat opposite of them, his head resting in his hands as he massaged his temples. Ophilia sat next to him, her eyes looking droopy and her face scrunched up. She looked uncomfortable.

“Good morning, H’aanit.” Primrose said when the huntress sat down.

“‘Morning. Ophilia, ist thou alright?” H’aanit asked as she grabbed a piece of bread from the basket on the table.

“Our resident cleric is actually hungover.” Primrose said with a grin, and Ophilia pouted at her. H’aanit blinked in surprise. Ophilia was normally pretty good at watching her alcohol intake. Gods, her master really did have a bad influence on everyone.

“Ah, good morning you two.” H’aanit turned around as Primrose spoke to find Tressa and Therion descending the stairs.

“Morning!” Tressa said happily, a contrast to the slight miserable atmosphere in the room. Therion rolled his eyes and looked at H’aanit.

“You might want to go check up on Cyrus. I don’t think he’s doing too well.” he said, and H’aanit nodded as she stood up.

“Good luck.” she heard Primrose call after her as she ascended the stairs. H’aanit hoped that Cyrus wasn’t in too bad of shape; they were supposed to start heading towards Grandport today, as they didn’t want Tressa to be late for the Merchants’ Fair.

H’aanit slowly entered the room and quietly closed the door behind her. It was dark, so she opened the curtains, letting in the bright sunlight. As soon as she did, a loud groan was heard coming from Cyrus’ bed, and H’aanit turned to see Cyrus roll over and pull the blankets over his head.

“‘Morning, love.” H’aanit said, moving to sit down on the edge of the bed. Cyrus groaned again as he slowly rolled over onto his back, his eyes squinted, as if the light was painful.

“Oh gods,” Cyrus said, reaching up to cover his face with his hands. “W-What in Aelfric’s name happened last night? I feel like I took a few dosen blunt force blows to the head.”

“Thou doest not remember?” H’aanit asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

“Well…” Cyrus said, groaning as he pushed himself into a sitting position, “The last thing I remember is...agreeing to keep up with Z’aanta in our drinking contest...Everything after that is just a blur.” H’aanit just chuckled and Cyrus looked at her, confused.

“This ist what happened afterward…” H’aanit said, and she retold the events of the night. When she was done, Cyrus’ face had turned pink and he looked mortified.

“I...I am never drinking again.” he said, getting out of bed with H’aanit’s help. “How incredibly embarrassing.”

“To be fair, the other men didst not faireth any better.” H’aanit said as they headed downstairs.

“I guess that makes me feel a bit better. Ah, I’m sorry you had to deal with me in so sorry of a condition, my dear.” Cyrus said, and H’aanit just laughed.

“‘Tis alright. Thou was rather cute, actually.” she said, and Cyrus blushed.

“Oh dear, you are far too forgiving of me.”

“T’was a bit annoying to deal with thee at the time, but now I can looketh back on it and laugh.” H’aanit took Cyrus’ hand and gave it a squeeze. “Do tryest to be more careful in the future, though.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I will.” Cyrus said, stealing a quick kiss from her lips as they joined the others. After treating the hungover with plenty of food and water, the group gathered their belongings and were ready to move on by midday.

“Ah, H’aanit! Here you are!”

“‘Tis about time you madeth it here, master.” H’aanit said, looking up from loading her quiver as Z’aanta entered the inn.

“Aye! I couldst not misseth seeing my prentice off!”

“What aren your plans?”

“Well,” Z’aanta pulled at his beard, “I thinke I wilst stayeth with Natalia foren a few more days, and then head back to S’warkii with Hagen. I assumeth that thee still hast things to taken care of?”

“Yes.” H’aanit said with a nod. “Some of my companions still have business to taken care of, and I wilst be by theren sides until they are done. Cyrus actually has business in Duskbarrow.”

“Does he now? That ist not too far from S’warkii. Be sureth to stoppen in and seeth your old master when thou ist done with your quest.”

“I will.”

“Good day, Z’aanta!” Cyrus said as he approached, smiling brightly. H’aanit was relieved to see that he looked to be in much better shape than he had been in when he awoke in the morning.

“Ho, Cyrus. I heardeth that thee hast buisness in Duskbarrow. Thou musteth stoppen by S’warkii whilst in the Woodlands. I would liken to getten to know thee better.”

“Oh, of course!” Cyrus said excitedly, “I will be sure to do just that!”

When everyone was gathered at the inn and ready to depart, H’aanit bid farewell to Z’aanta and they parted ways once more. As she left Stoneguard for the third time, the second with Cyrus’ hand clasped in hers, she felt refreshed and ready to take on whatever life was going to throw at her next.

“And we’re off again.” Cyrus said, smiling at H’aanit. “I do believe I will miss adventuring with everyone once this is all over. Won’t you, H’aanit?”

“Aye. I hath madeth many good friends on this journey.” she said, nodding, “It hast been fun, between the peril and misfortune.”

“Indeed. I do hope finding ‘From The Far Reaches Of Hell’ proves to be relatively painless.”

“T’will probably be fine. I willst be by thine side to protect thee, after all.” H’aanit said, and Cyrus laughed and squeezed her hand.

“Of course! You’ve pulled me out of some pretty perilous situations already, what’s one more?”

H’aanit rolled her eyes as they continued to banter back and forth, heading off to their next adventure. She knew that, no matter what was waiting for them, she would always be right by Cyrus’ side, and he by hers.

[96thdayofrage]

Anthrax Attacks Directed Against Public Officials Following 9/11 Had All the Markings of a False Flag Operation

Aim Was to Sow Fear in the Public and Condition it to Support Wars of Aggression in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Recent reporting shows both FBI and CIA suppressed evidence and blamed “foreign Muslim extremists” and then “a lone nut”—even though they knew the anthrax came from our own CIA-contracted military labs?

Will justice (too long delayed) soon expose and punish the real criminals whose deceit helped launch 20 years of criminal wars in the Middle East that murdered millions in order to funnel trillions into our rogue military-industrial-intelligence complex?

Would you believe this ABC News Story?

A man walks into an office of the U.S. Department of Agriculture in Florida.[1] It is spring in the year 2000. Speaking to a loan officer, Johnelle Bryant, the man explains that he has come from Egypt via Afghanistan. He wants to fulfill his dream of becoming a pilot.

More specifically, he wants to acquire a crop-duster with which he can dust American crops. His name—he is careful to spell it for her—is Atta. He wants a loan of $650,000 with which to buy a two-engine, six-passenger aircraft. He wants to take this substantial plane and modify it so that it can be used as a crop-duster.

Unlike traditional crop-dusters, which are small and agile, Atta’s creation would, he explains, be able to hold a very large chemical tank. He is an engineer, he says, and will find it easy to modify the plane as required. With its extra-capacity tank, he would be able to do all the spraying required in one flight, not needing to land to refill his tank as he would with an ordinary crop-duster.

Bryant is confused by this requirement. Why does he need to do all his spraying in one flight?

Bryant continues to question Atta. Pouring cold water on his evident hope of quick and easy money, she explains that there are procedures for handing out funds. Even in the best of circumstances he would not be able to walk out of her office with $650,000. He would need to make an application.

Atta is not pleased. He points out that he could go around Bryant’s desk, cut her throat, and take the money from her safe. Untroubled by this suggestion, Bryant assures Atta that there is not much money in the safe and, in any case, she knows karate.

Bryant continues to pour cold water on her visitor, explaining that he is ineligible for a loan because he is not a U.S. citizen.

This does not bring an end to the conversation. In fact, when Atta sees an aerial photograph of Washington, D.C., on Bryant’s wall he is delighted and begins throwing down cash in an offer to buy it. The representation of important monuments, including the view of the Pentagon from the air, inspires his admiration. He inquires of Bryant what the security is like at these monuments. He wants to visit these monuments and hopes he will be given access.

Atta next tells Bryant of his desire to visit the World Trade Center in New York City. What is the security like at the Trade Center? he asks.

Not quite finished, Atta tells Bryant of an organization, al-Qaeda, with which, he implies, he is associated. He adds that there is a wonderful man named Osama bin Laden, who “would someday be known as the world’s greatest leader.”

Bryant parts on good terms with the man from Egypt, referring him to a bank where he might get his loan.

Here endeth the tale.

The gentleman seeking the loan was, according to these sources, none other than the famous Mohamed Atta, the alleged ringleader of the 9/11 attacks who, we are told, piloted American Airlines Flight 11 into the North Tower. And the ABC News journalists who recounted this story were apparently serious and wanted us to believe their story.

I suggest that “Atta Seeks a Loan” is most definitely not a believable account of the actions of a leader entrusted with a top-secret, world-changing mission. It is either a yarn ungrounded in events or the recounting of a rehearsed drama in which the chief actor was an operative tasked with leaving a trail of monstrous breadcrumbs.

Atta’s exploits, as described by the mass media, include many similar incidents, of which the following are but samples:[2]

Atta Annoys Airport Employees

Atta Leaves Incriminating Evidence in his Luggage

Atta Is Bitten by a Dog

Atta Visits a Drugstore and Frightens an Employee

Atta Gets Pulled over for Driving without a License (and has a warrant for his arrest issued after he fails to show up for his court hearing)

Atta Abandons a Stalled Plane on the Runway

Atta Gets Drunk and Swears at a Restaurant Employee

A strange list of exploits for this secret operative. But let us return to the Atta who went to get a federal loan in Florida. In this tale Atta had a quite specific aim. He wanted to spray large amounts of a mystery substance on U.S. soil. He was apparently as intent on this as he was on his coming suicide mission at the Trade Center.

If we are to believe the mystery substance was anthrax—and, as I shall argue, this fits the story—the famous 9/11 “hijackers” (meaning, in this article, the alleged hijackers) would appear to be implicated not only in the 9/11 attacks but in the anthrax attacks that immediately followed the 9/11 attacks.

But before we get into these issues, a quick reminder of the main elements of the attacks may be helpful.

The Anthrax Attacks: A Refresher

Many people have only vague memories of the 2001 anthrax attacks. I do not think this is entirely due to the frailties of memory. These attacks have, due to the disastrous failure of the operation’s narrative, been ushered down the memory hole by the FBI.

Here are the key facts:

The first anthrax letters were mailed about a week after the 9/11 attacks. When the anthrax letters made their way to news agencies in those early days after 9/11, several people developed cutaneous anthrax, but it was not initially recognized as such.

The first anthrax diagnosis was made on October 3, 2001, when Robert Stevens, who worked for American Media Inc., the publisher of The National Enquirer tabloid in Boca Raton, Florida, was discovered to have pulmonary anthrax. He died two days after the diagnosis. The last victim died on November 21. At least 22 people were infected with either cutaneous or pulmonary anthrax and five died.

The first wave of attacks, where letters were sent to media outlets, were followed in early October by a second wave of attacks. These second wave anthrax spores were more sophisticated and deadly in their preparation. This time two elected representatives were the targets: Democratic Senators Tom Daschle and Patrick Leahy.

The view that these were terrorist attacks by foreign enemies—the second blow, after 9/11, in a one-two punch against the United States—quickly became widespread. First, al-Qaeda was the chief suspect. Then Iraq was added to the suspect list. The Double Perpetrator hypothesis—Iraq supplied the anthrax to al-Qaeda foot soldiers—then began to make its way into a wide variety of news media.[3]

By the end of 2001, however, all stories of foreign terrorists had collapsed.[4] The nature of the spore preparations revealed the operation as an inside job—the spores came from one of three possible labs, all inside the U.S. and serving the military and the CIA.

The events were also a false-flag attack, since great care had been taken to deceptively pin the attacks on foreign Muslims. The FBI and the Office of Homeland Security, as it was then called, avoided both the expressions “inside job” and “false-flag attack,” but they could not avoid the realities to which these expressions refer.

Once the foreign Muslim story collapsed, the FBI got busy looking for a lone wolf perpetrator on whom to put the blame. The Bureau eventually settled on Dr. Bruce Ivins, an anthrax researcher at the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID) at Fort Detrick, Maryland. Ivins died, allegedly by suicide, shortly before he was to be indicted.

The Failure of the FBI’s Hypothesis

In my 2014 book, The 2001 Anthrax Deception: The Case for a Domestic Conspiracy, I outlined the reasons the Ivins’ hypothesis was already widely held in contempt.[5]

I argued, with other researchers, that labs at Dugway Proving Ground and Battelle Memorial Institute were much better suspects than those at USAMRIID, and that Bruce Ivins lacked the resources, skill, time and motives that would have made him a serious suspect.

There have been several developments since my book was written, two of which are especially important.

The first concerns Richard Lambert, who was for some years the Inspector in Charge of the FBI’s anthrax investigation. In 2015, after he had left the Bureau, Lambert brought a lawsuit against the FBI, claiming that the Bureau was retaliating against him—ruining his chances of employment—because of his criticism of the FBI and of its conduct of the anthrax case.[6]

Lambert said he had made repeated complaints that the Washington field office of the FBI was mismanaging the case. He said, moreover, that the case against Ivins was clearly weak. The circumstantial case against Ivins would not have resulted in a conviction had it gone to court.

He said that, “while Bruce Ivins may have been the anthrax mailer, there is a wealth of exculpatory evidence to the contrary which the FBI continues [2015] to conceal from Congress and the American people.”[7]

Strangely, these bombshell pronouncements did not rouse the mass media from their slumber.

The second development occurred in 2020, when the Lawyers’ Committee for 9/11 Inquiry sent a petition to the U.S. Congress.[8]

(Disclosure: I was at that time a member of the Anthrax Attacks Investigation Committee established by the Lawyers’ Committee to prepare the petition.)

The petition requests that:

“Congress should initiate its own focused inquiries into the post-9/11 anthrax attacks, and should establish as well a properly staffed and funded independent commission to conduct a comprehensive inquiry into these attacks which used biowarfare agents against Congress and the free press and involved the attempted assassination of two United States Senators.”

The Lawyers’ Committee argues, in 76 pages and with 69 exhibits, that the FBI’s case against Bruce Ivins entirely lacks merit and that the FBI is guilty not merely of incompetence but of obstruction, cover-up and deliberate deception of both Congress and American civil society.

The petition concentrates on the physical evidence relating to the anthrax spores; and the labs of Dugway and Battelle, associated with the U.S. military and the CIA, emerge from this research as chief suspects for the source of the anthrax attack.

The exhibits attached to the Petition include affidavits from several of Ivins’ colleagues. These go beyond character references. Several include specific reasons why these colleagues have never believed Ivins was the culprit.

In my view, the work of the Lawyers’ Committee lays the FBI’s case against Ivins in its grave.

And what are we to think of the FBI’s treatment of Bruce Ivins? The Bureau, aware of credible suspects, directed attention away from these suspects and onto an innocent man.

Aware of Ivins’ emotional vulnerability, the Bureau put extreme pressure on him, which resulted in his death. Then, after he died it publicly pronounced him the anthrax killer; said he had killed himself out of guilt; and closed the case. Ivins’ family was left in grief and shame to pick up the pieces of their lives.’

The Lawyers’ Committee notes that the domestic parties responsible for the anthrax attacks are guilty of treason. The Committee holds out the possibility that certain FBI officials may also be guilty of treason.

The Lone Nut

As Lisa Pease points out in her volume on the RFK assassination, when intelligence agencies plan complex operations they plan both for the success of these operations and for their possible flaws and failures.[9]’

There were plenty of failures in the 9/11 operation (such as the ill-timed destruction of Building 7), and there is evidence of rapid moves to conceal these failures. Although the anthrax operation failed in an even more thorough way than the 9/11 operation, those in control moved quickly and smoothly to repair the damage.

One of their first moves was to shift from a hypothesis of multiple attackers (multiple attackers were widely assumed prior to the collapse of the narrative) to a hypothesis of a single attacker.[10] The single attacker, or “lone wolf” hypothesis, is a common fallback position when an intelligence operation falters. Being alone, this wolf implicates others only weakly. He or she is ultimately uninteresting and raises few questions.

There is a subcategory of the lone wolf hypothesis that, for better or worse, is often called the “lone nut.” This narrative is extremely valuable for intelligence planners. A “lone nut”—a mentally unbalanced perpetrator—is even less interesting, in terms of connections and motives, than other types of lone wolves.

We may say that the lone nut’s story is “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” (Macbeth). Since the tale signifies nothing, there is no need to look for rational motives, patterns, or links to groups and institutions.

The anthrax attacks had, during their early days, been blamed on insane (fanatical, suicidal, erratic) foreign Muslims. The shift was made, after the failure of this narrative, to an insane domestic individual. It was Ivins’ misfortune to have had mental health problems and to have been chosen for the role of perpetrator.

I have argued at length in my book that the anthrax operation was not carried out by a lone nut but by a rational group, and, without repeating that argument here, let me suggest we experimentally put the lone nut in storage and look for both connections and motive.

Restoring the Missing Connections

I will be content here to make one simple point: There was overlap in personnel in the 9/11 and anthrax operations. Because of this overlap it is clear that the two operations were planned by a single group.

Here are two sets of evidence of overlapping personnel:

(1) Locations[11]

There was a 71-mile strip along the coast of Florida where 15 of the 19 9/11 hijackers were active. Robert Stevens, the first anthrax victim, died in the middle of this strip.

If this fact were insignificant we would expect this to become clear as we examined the situation closely. We find the reverse. Connections come to light that cannot be accidental.

Anthrax victim Stevens was employed by a tabloid in Boca Raton called the Sun. The editor-in-chief of this tabloid, Mike Irish, had a wife, Gloria Irish, who was a real estate agent. In her professional capacity she had, in the summer of 2001, found apartments for two of the 9/11 hijackers, Marwan al-Shehhi and Hamza al-Ghamdi.

Al-Shehhi is the man who supposedly piloted United Airlines 175 into the South Tower. He is said to have been a close friend of Mohamed Atta, his fellow martyr.

Gloria Irish had driven al-Shehhi and al-Ghamdi around town numerous times, and she remembered them well. Interviewed by the press, she said: “I mean, Marwan called me all the time.” She said they had a joking and friendly relationship.

But Gloria Irish had known anthrax victim Robert Stevens for 25 years and had helped him purchase a house. She was, therefore, the real estate agent of the first anthrax victim and of men alleged to have carried out the 9/11 attacks.

Indeed, the hijacker-real estate connection went beyond al-Shehhi and al-Ghamdi. The apartment Irish found for them became home to four of the hijackers.

The links between Gloria Irish, the hijackers, and the anthrax attacks were reported in the media in October 2001.

In Florida, The St. Petersburg Times noted, when speaking of the apartment Gloria Irish had found for the hijackers:

“The Delray apartment is central to a massive federal investigation into the terrorist attacks. Investigators trying to piece the puzzle together created a diagram that includes photos of the 19 hijackers who seized control of four airplanes on Sept. 11.”

The journalist continued: “It is clear that the apartment was a meeting ground for terrorists, authorities say. Now they must determine whether unit 1504 was also a hatching ground for the anthrax attacks.”

Reporting all of this openly was not only permitted at the time but, I believe, encouraged.

This is because the insiders responsible for the anthrax attacks were then assuming the attacks would successfully be pinned on al-Qaeda and Iraq. Revealing the anthrax attacks to have been perpetrated by the parties responsible for 9/11 was part of the plan.

We were all to have followed the trail of gigantic breadcrumbs and concluded that the connected sets of 2001 attacks were the result of a collaboration between al-Qaeda and its sponsor, Iraq.

Though few remember the Florida connections today, they have not gone away. And if we choose to ignore them we are extremely poor sleuths.

(2) Crop-dusters[12]

On September 23-24, 2001, all crop-duster planes in the U.S. were grounded.

Attorney General John Ashcroft explained to Congress that crop dusters could be used to “distribute chemical or biological weapons of mass destruction.” He added that the ubiquitous Mohamed Atta “had been compiling information about crop-dusting before the Sept. 11 attacks.”

But there was more. Groups of “Middle Eastern men” had apparently visited an airport in Belle Glade, Florida—“about an hour’s drive from Delray Beach, the coastal community where some of the alleged hijackers are believed to have lived”—to inspect and inquire about crop dusters.

Willie Lee, “general manager of South Florida Crop Care,” said the men described themselves as flight students. The apparent leader of the group was especially visible and aggressive. Employee James Lester identified this man as Mohamed Atta.

“I recognized him because he stayed on my feet all the time. I just about had to push him away from me,” Lester said.

Restoring the Missing Motives

The lone nut may have no rational motive, but the group of insiders who planned the two-part psychological operation of the fall of 2001 were definitely rational, and many of their motives are easily discerned.

As just indicated, they wished to lay the foundation for the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq. More broadly, however, they wished to supersede (not entirely replace, but temporarily supersede) the Cold War with the Global War on Terror.

Remember that each of these global conflict formations, the Cold War and the Global War on Terror, was designed to force nations, and even individuals, to make a choice between two antithetical positions.

Each global conflict formation supported numerous specific hot wars, high military spending, a drastic diminution in the sophistication of human thinking, and the overall health of the war system with its primitive and outgrown moral foundations.

The chief method of recruiting people to the Global War on Terror was fear. The anthrax attacks contributed mightily, being used to evoke anxiety and panic.[17]

“Anthrax Anxiety at Home,” “Widespread Anxiety in New York,” “Anxiety Grows in South Florida,” “Anxiety over Bioterrorism Grows” are a few of the headlines of the time. Immediately after the death of Robert Stevens, The Washington Post reported that “jittery” citizens were “on their knees begging for drugs.”

By October 15 we were told that the “anthrax scare” was spreading around the world. By October 18 we were informed that “the fear of anthrax has become inescapable,” and shortly before the congressional votes on the USA PATRIOT Act, Americans were said to be suffering “primordial terror” in “a national anxiety attack.”

The 9/11 attacks were more dramatic but the anthrax attacks were more intimate. Anyone, anywhere in the country, could innocently pick up their daily mail and get pulmonary anthrax.

We should not assume, of course, that Americans, or people of the world in general, were really experiencing the level of fear reported by the media. Who knows? What is obvious is that such fear as existed was to a great extent the result of inflammatory media coverage.

This fear was the soil in which Islamophobia was cultivated. If the false narratives of the fall of 2001, as well as the spread of fear by the mass media, are left unmentioned, the term “Islamophobia” is no more than a distraction.

Although the Global War on Terror was sketched broadly enough to include non-Muslim individuals and nations when necessary (North Korea was the main case), it was aimed chiefly at Muslims.

The fear evoked in the fall of 2001 was a fear of Islam and the “craziness” or “nuttiness” that supposedly led Muslims to unleash violence on the United States.

This was a deliberate propaganda campaign fueled by a two-part psychological operation that initiated what may be called the Crazy Muslim franchise, a narrative series that will continue as long as there is an interested audience and profits to be made.

Former Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak explained it all on BBC television about 11:28 AM on 9/11, shortly after the attacks in new York and Washington:[18]

“The world will not be the same from today on. It’s an attack against our whole civilization … I believe that this is the time to deploy a globally concerted effort led by the United States, the UK, Europe and Russia against all sources of terror.”

Notwithstanding the complete absence of evidence, Barak, repeatedly given air time by the BBC during the day, did not hesitate to name specific nations (Iran, Iraq, and so on) as targets of the new “globally concerted effort.”

The use of fear in such psychological operations is typically meant to support a powerful clenching of the in-group, where the group that feels attacked draws together in tight formation to defend itself against the dangerous Other.

And this clenching results not merely in striking out against the alleged foe but squeezing out domestic civil rights. Freedom to think for oneself, to debate, to dissent is in these cases increasingly regarded with suspicion, and legislation is passed by intimidated legislatures that cast dissenters into the outer darkness.

These processes, starkly visible in the medical martial law forced on the world as I write these lines, were prefigured in the 2001 two-part operation.

The attack on Congress in the anthrax attacks, an obvious part of the plan to discipline U.S. civil society and its representatives, is well known, but I can add some flesh to the bones that are our usual fare.[19]

By the time anthrax fears began spreading in the U.S., Congress was already reeling from the 9/11 attacks. Concrete barriers blocked road access to Congress, while senators and representatives were discouraged from wearing congressional pins or displaying distinctive license plates lest their identities be known and they become targets.

But the possibility remained that members of Congress would recover their senses and begin to resist the legislation that had been placed before them—the Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act, or USA PATRIOT Act. Only if Congress remained frightened and intimidated would it remain obedient to those in the Executive branch fighting for rapid passage of the Act.

During the intense days of September 2001, Attorney General Ashcroft repeatedly harangued the Democrats in the Senate to pass the USA PATRIOT Act quickly.

As Daschle later put it, Ashcroft “attacked Democrats for delaying passage of this bill. In this climate of anxiety the attorney general was implicitly suggesting that further attacks might not be prevented if Democrats didn’t stop delaying.”

The Republicans had a generous majority in the House that would do the Executive’s bidding and pass the bill but, in the Senate the Democrats had a majority of one. A slim majority, but potentially enough to block the new bill.

Patrick Leahy, a Democratic senator, was Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, a key body in the process of considering and approving the USA PATRIOT Act. While Leahy was generally supportive of the bill, he drew the line on October 2: He insisted he would not support the bill without changes.

Daschle was Senate Majority Leader and was the most powerful Democrat in the Senate. His support of the bill was essential to its passage. Although he had signaled in various ways his indignation at the 9/11 attacks and had offered the President his support, he was not ready to give Bush carte blanche either to attack any nation he wished or to bully the USA PATRIOT Act through Congress.

While he had been willing to introduce the resolution on the use of force that gave the President legal cover for war (September 14, 2001), Daschle did so only after toning down the astonishingly imperial version of the resolution written by the White House.

On October 2 he supported Leahy in resisting immediate passage of the new USA PATRIOT bill.

But Vice President Cheney had chosen October 5 as the date by which he wanted the bill passed. Due to the stubbornness of these two Democratic senators, Cheney’s schedule was now unachievable.

Some time between October 6 and 8, two anthrax letters were put in the mail. They were addressed to Tom Daschle and Patrick Leahy.

The event was embellished with a spectacular case of mass media precognition. On October 15, Roll Call, a Washington newspaper that reported Capitol Hill news, headlined its issue with:

“HILL BRACES FOR ANTHRAX THREAT.”

Right on schedule, later that day Grant Leslie, an intern of Senator Tom Daschle, opened a letter to find a hand-printed threat accompanied by shockingly aerosolized anthrax spores. The spores floated out of the envelope, contaminating not just Leslie but the entire Hart Senate Office Building, which had to be closed and sanitized.

Here is the text of the letter:[20]

I hold that this text, considered with the text sent to Tom Brokaw, is one of the most important documents of the 21th century. (My assertion is based on an interpretation of the text that takes into account the spores that accompanied the text as well as the 9/11 attacks to which the text of the letter makes a clear reference.)

The Daschle and Brokaw letters indicate that their implied authors:

(1) are identical with, or related to, the crew responsible for the 9/11 attacks (“09-11-01” at the top of the letter)

(2) are bent on homicide (“you die now”)

(3) are, because of their 9/11 connection, also prepared to commit suicide

(4) are crude (the printing) and stupid (in the Brokaw letter “penicillin” is spelled wrong, indicating the authors are not bright enough to use a dictionary or spell-check.)

(5) are Muslim (“Allah is Great”)

(6) regard the United States and Israel as of comparable importance and as forming a unified target (“Death to America. Death to Israel.”)

(7) are determined to achieve their goals through fear (“Are you afraid?”)

(8) are taunting the U.S. Congress as powerless (“You can not stop us”)

(9) are prepared to use a weapon of mass destruction on the U.S. Congress (the spores are weaponized and the letters are addressed to Senators Daschle and Leahy).

(10) are in a position to access some of the most sophisticated weaponized anthrax ever seen, presumably from their state sponsor (this we conclude from an analysis of the spores).

This is a message that loses none of its importance when we realize that its real authors, who are entirely different from its implied authors, are domestic groups within the U.S. Military-Industrial-Intelligence-Complex, possibly assisted by counterparts in one or more allied countries.

When we are awake to the deception practiced here, we can read these letters as a charter of the Global War on Terror spelled out in childish block printing.

The attacks on Congress were, of course, successful. Congress was disciplined and meekly passed the Act.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 8652

Rose a nurse in time through  an unusual  forms  of everything game 

way in which there sang who  soft and lend a  dreadful outer brink Some archd  temples you have nothing 

such suspicious were green. of  obviously a  forlorn. Her smiles away  fast, our hours 

as the fair  form create to  be shaped with the  arrange anothers 

blood you draw from, fight, yea,  let her stand at her  by the deep river  lie long fields and now ’“

tis buried deep through the  celebrated  fireworks with  morning clown and spread 

out the Russians, which  like flower, nor felt the  worlds false to me.  The stern impulse 

of Fate resists, ‘ you  loved me, too until they hit off  at once, and Im afraid 

I pout’ when Im  indoors and chilly  oer her articles  of female art; 

as though I have you ended  for our  approbation, implored  that they say the 

chain, and ladies are  bored with  due consideration, showd  themselves as 

ghosts of greeting me,  if once that is  not for a dragon  in a lonely 

ground, we stumbl ing in the way  one burns in flaming through  the printless verdurous 

glooms and you, I fear  Juanna; were a”  dry wi drinkin ot; the  harvest wheat. 

Looke here, if this verse— I  wish theyd try it: ive  seen it all, but it suffices— little by little 

heavy night, goes by to  towerd Camelot.  for them when  to hold his 

tale. S eyes to smile,  so you love. Leads to  those whom Nature gay, A  lady on a 

sudden blossom, ah, my child? Beholding  or unpleasing,  still enjoy. Of  tears, the fancy 

does the clear windows  benighted mirror  clear, trimmd; and full of flowers,  newly reapd late on 

through verdurous glooms and  wine: or for  my own, in me not my  fond endeth. Making a 

womans eyes should under your  inmost circle and  was blue veins to  swell and drank—“

Young man, now sleep of words she  spake enticd him by,  where but must have done with  him and 

bolts, and free as in  this is not” murder  sleeping, or at hand  to thy will, 

or at the young are  truly boring at  this is the cops.  But should little, meant so 

much out as gave up her  honey locust and  doth lose his edge. Head lolled  back, its limbs the 

pearls beneath the horse  and clown: perhaps as  outline is this turf,  and thinke I shoulders 

bare. Hey ho! The birds do  sing, hey ding a ding,  ding; sweet lovers love together  my desire; the 

solitary now. Paltry  things with love,  and emerald, shone  and thirsts appease? for 

no one, save in  very eyes and you  ask such a clamouring etiquette  to death: 

[spaciousreasoning]

Third Sunday in Lent

A portion of today’s lectionary was the story from John’s Gospel about Jesus throwing the money changers out of the temple. Special significance was provided in the address/homily/sermon for the Washington National Cathedral by Dr. Amy-Jill Levine, a professor of Jewish and New Testament Studies at Vanderbilt University, in Nashville, Tennessee.

One of the primary points of her presentation was the need for careful reading of lectionary choices — and the need for some changes — thanks to the traditional anti-Semitic reading of certain passages. The tale of Jesus taking a whip to people and turning over tables makes for great drama, but it often gets paired with tired old tropes about avaricious Jews.

A Jew herself, Dr. Levine also pointed out the silly dichotomy between the wrathful Old Testament God and the loving God of the New Testament that has become thoughtlessly traditional. She quoted the 23rd Psalm’s God who “restoreth my soul” and the God described in Romans whose “wrath ... is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who suppress the truth in unrighteousness.”

This passage also brings to mind the old joke: “When someone asks you what would Jesus do, remind them that turning over tables and chasing people with a whip is within the realm of possibilities.”

Things are not always what they seem. Especially when we’re dealing with writings which are thousands of years old and which have been argued over and interpreted for much of that time. Generally among people who are tempted to see things merely through their own eyes.

Here endeth the lesson.

[obscureoldscotspoems]

Epistle tae Davie

Dear Davie Lad                    It gies me pleesure Noo in this evenin' oor o' leesure, Tae write tae ye this Lallans jingle, As I sit bi a cheery ingle. Nae doot ye'll think this puny verse, That winna roose the universe, Nor gar great pundits an' their minions, Tae overhaul erstwhile opinions. O' wha in Lallans poetry, 'S maist fit wi' Burns tae bear the gree, Let's leave it 'til "Sir John de Graeme", Tae win me literary fame. As poetry its somewhit better, Than the lame verse intil this letter, But let that pass, it winna maitter.

I see that Scotia's heath ye've quitted, An' tae the Soothlan' ye hae flitted, Some gate aboot the Howe o' Lincoln, - Faur cry frae Glesca' Toon, I'm thinkin'. Ma rhymes may better serve nor prose, Tae mind ye on "The Land o' Brose", O' whilk a wheen droll tales are tauld, Whaurin Truth's aft gey sairly mauled. Haud on, Dave, till I limn a scene, Will aiblins shaw ye whit I mean, Come, jine me on a Caledonian tour, I hope your pleesure in it turns na sour.

O Scotia, land o lochs an' bens, Crags, peat hags an' stags in glens, An' Heilan' stots at the lochan's edges, Slorpin' the mists amang the sedges, O Scotia, land o' the bonnie glens, Whaur shilpit loons frae "single ends", Thrang in droves wi' their keelie molls, Tae seek refreshment for their sauls. Bravin' the vagaries o' the weather, Traikin' your hills o' purple heather. See them "foot it out together Be it fair or stormy weather." - O leeze me on yon hiker billies, Wi' their tartan socks an' ukeleles, On whilk they twang hill-billy tunes, O leeze me on yon hiker loons! -

O Scotia, hame o' Burns an' Barrie, "Bonny Mary" an' "Annie Laurie", "Scots wha hae" an' Scots wha hinnae, Donald Dhu an' Donald Dinnie; The hame o' aa' that's great an' true, As ony Scotsman will alloo. O Scotia, land o' sma' kailyairds, Prood clan chiefs an' bunnet lairds, Land o' the pipes, an' hame o' the tartan, An' weather keen's the claw o' partan, Tae freeze the knees o' sturdiest Spartan. No that the weather irks true Scots, Wha eidently sup their parritch oats.

O Scotia, caa the clansmen frae their hames, The tourists maun hae Hielan' Games, Caa frae the clachans, crofts an' castles, The chiefs, their senechies an' dunniewassals The pipers, drummers, bards an' ghillies Yon's the braw sichts for tourist billies - The kilted hurdies an' kirtled shuthers The bunnets bristlin' wi' blackcocks' feathers - It's no the tourist ilka day Can boast they've seen sic fine array Sae let them hae their Hielan' Games For they hae traipsied frae their hames In carefu' search o' local colour; Then dinna vex. They've rowth o' siller Their gowd'll steek the dollar gap Oor games pit us upon the cultural map Bayreuth an' Stratford could scarce be on a par Wi' the annual glories o' Royal Braemar.

(There's a "Road to the Isles" an' "A Window in Thrums" But we'll ne'er let a wheest o' the acres o' slums For there are some things are better unsaid Since we maunna imperil the great tourist trade).

Tourists hae come faur frae their hames Sae let them see the Hielan' Games.

Let lassies jinglin' wi' medallions Dance an' prance wi' rare agility While stalwart men as strang as stallions         Perform according tae abeelity Let athletes wechts an' hammers hurl Let kiltie dancers boo an' birl Let pipers gie the bags a dirl O let the martial music skirl

(Oh, the brave music of a distant drum An' distant pipes soun' sweeter still, think some).

Let pipers gie the bags a dirl An' let the brave, braw music skirl                For guidness kens Tourists will threep wi' satisfaction They've seen an' heard the clans in action                Amang their native glens.

Here endeth noo this Caledonian pageant, A droller clanjamphrie was ne'er imajin't Tho' I've set oot ma views in pure pastiche T'was gude tae let ma feelin's aff the leash.

Ma letter stertit wi' an even chimean O ane line wi' the neist ane rhyman But noo, ye'll see, in the hindmaist stanza Ma rhyme scheme coorts extravaganza As on the Sabbath ilk kirk bell            Rings its ain chime An' wi' its neebour disna mell            Sae wi' ma rhyme The gate ma Muse gangs, maun dae me Albeit it leads ma prosody ajee But no for peevish murnins did I invoke the Muse Sae Davie lad, pu' in your chair an' hear ma views

The doors are snecked, the windaes steekit The fire alowe, the hoose weel beekit An there, his languid length oot-streekit                    Upon the mat Wi' een whiles shut, an whiles hauf-keekit                    Behold oor cat! Blinkin' an' govean at the gleeds Wi' een as green as emerald beads The name is Angus, masculine gender His favourite neuk beside the fender Ilk nicht he diligently hugs He purrs whane'er ye scart his lugs Mair nor the cat within the hoose This nicht is feelin' unco croose.

Aa day I've tholed the elemental fury Sae noo it's gran' fornent the fire tae coorie The lang darg on the hill's complete An' I hae ate my evenin' meat - Nae Benmore cheat-the-belly stuff But halesome food an aye enough Weel-cuiked an' served in a mair gracious way Nor macaroni in a creeshy tray E'en Daisy Watson wad alloo It maun be "chacun à son goût" Sae I hae tauld ma guidwife Joanie That "mon goût n'est pas macaroni" An noo I dine as weel's I may Wha toil tae win a pund a day.

Davie ye'll see frae oor address We bidena faur frae Inverness - I'll tell ye o' that toun again Quhilk to considder is ane pane -

Kiltarlity's oor pairish Foxhole's the nearest schule Battan's the place we live at Heich upon a hill.

The locals arena boorish Tho' some in mainner cool As if no to be a Lovat Was tae mark ye for a fool

In Beaufort Castle's pomp The Lovat Frasers bide Their lives a shinean lamp Tae aa the kintrae-side.

(Davie, ye'll think me sair At the Hielanders' expense But why the unco steer Their inordinate reverence

For whit's gane by lang syne? Why their deid forbears mimic? Here's Caledonia's sin - The cult of the patronymic!).

An' here for ye's anither fact Ma Muse owre easily's side-tracked I promised ye I'd gie ye news, Instead ye've heard me gab ma views On the Hielan scene as I construe it Tho' maybe no as the tourists view it This point I've dinged as wi' a hammer - There's mair tae Scotland nor glib glamour Sae noo "retrones à nos moutons" An tak' up the burden o' my story I was aboot tae introduce Ye tae the environs o' ma hoose Sax hunnert feet abune sea level An' bluffert lik' the verra devil In winter bi the angry gale That brings in turn, snaw, rain an hail The Battan wudes hae aa been felled Leavan the hillsides cauld an' beld O timmer bare but wi' stumps a-bristle Thro' whilk the wind wi' eerie whistle Comes pouncean, bouncean frae the wast Tae skelp an skite us wi' his blast Till simmer comes we hae nae help But thole snell Boreas's skelp Bidean in hope o' better times An' dreamin' oor dreams o' warmer climes

A curse upon the bard did sing A garden is a lovesome thing Him wad I shaw ma so-caad garden An' speir gin he'd no beg ma pardon Oor forrit prospect, I'll confess Is nocht but sterile wilderness A "waste land", "a blasted heath" O' ling abune an' rock beneath An' yet anither weed's nae lackan - It's Scotia's curse, the creepin' bracken This birn o' stanes an' scanty soil Hauds oot the promise o' sair toil I've no as yet e'er had the hert Tae tak' a spade an' mak a stert "A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot" When I see mine a lump comes in ma throat And a tear I canna hide What guid's a gairden in this bleak kintrae-side?

Did I say bleak? That's hardly true; Ae thing we hae's a glorious view I wad neglect the poet's duty Gin I peyed nae tribute tae its beauty Northward an' faur intil the wast Great rugged hills lie ranged an' massed Raw on raw o' serried peaks That hae been wreathed in snaw for weeks While tae the east, closer at hand There lies a strath o gude fairm-land Noo Dave, afore I end ma sang A word o' the chiels we bide amang They till the yird, an' tint their flocks The same as ither kintrae folks - We're aa the self-same britherhood Aa bairnies o' Jock Tamson's brood Whither we hail frae oot the Lallands Or claim oorsels as Hielan' callants Tho' here there are, as aawhere else The few wha preen an' pride themsels An ettle tae heeze up a steer Because they've hained a puckle gear - There's mair wi' siller can be coft Than graith tae plenish fairm or croft - Their parks are snodly ploo'd an' harrow'd But the lanskip o' their minds is arid Belyve I hae come tae expect Nae kindred speerit o' intellect Whan we hae said "It's cold to-day" There's little else for us tae say Whan we've agreed 'tis stormy weather We'se be tongue-tacket baith thegither Whan we've remarked his neeps are frostit Oor common store o' talk's exhausted I kenna the respective merits O' takin' game wi' snares or ferrits Nor wha's held in the maist esteem Intil the local shinty team - As yet I've had nae time tae gove at Newtonmore, Strathglass or Lovat -

I see that, Davie, at your place Ye're in a similar sad case Talk o' cabbages an' trees Hae no the interest aye tae please; Wi kail an' conifers replete The mind sune greins for ither meat Sae Dave, ma fier, I hope that this'll Draw frae ye a lang epistle In while ye'll treat me tae your views news Forbye your much-respectit views I wad gie much tae hae ye back That we micht hae an auld-time crack

At New Year, Joan an' I gaed doon Tae veesit Perth an' Fankertoun Renew the ties o' flesh an' bane An' see the weel-kent spots again T'wad fill a page or twaa wi' rhyme Tae tell ye hoo we spent the time Suffice it then for me tae say On Hogmanay we were right gay I maun allow I felt gey cheerie Tho' dinna think I was camsteerie Juist ae nicht i' the lee-lang year I frae the straucht an' nerra veer An' wi' ma freens I mak' carousal An' tae a dram gie nae refusal Baith Rabbie Burns an' auld Khayyam Advise us tae tak aff oor dram An autram dram is nae abhorrent That has sic worthy poets' warrant Sae ilk New Year I rise up on ma hams An' gie ma freens a stave o' "Nicky Tams" An auld sang yon, but fresh as salad Ye canna beat a gude-gaun bothy ballad Wi' the tang o' the yird in't an' a braw tune forbye I like tae sing it when I'm feelin' spry

The evenin's still are lang an' mirk An whan I staucher hame frae wark An' whan I've had ma evenin' meal There's naethin' that I loe sae weel As tae draw intil the ingle-neuk Tae pree the pleasure o' some beuk Whiles it be prose, but maistly verse Yeats or Burns or auld Dunbars Tho' Burns is richtly weel-respeckit The auld grey horse is sair neglickit "Gret reuth it wer that so suld be" Whan he in technique bears the gree Owre Burns an' Henryson an' the lave At turnin' oot a polished stave Burns may command the human heart Dunbar commands the greater art.

Ma ain idea o' Paradise Rigged oot anew in earthly guise Is tae lie back in an easy chair Whan "Poetry Scotland" taks the air Let ne'er a soun' i' the hoose be heard That I micht savour ilka word That smools sae sauve frae the siller tongue O yon beardid bardie, Douglas Joung (sic) In readin' verse there's ane wey o' it An yon lad kens it. He's a poet O I abhor lik' vilest pooshion Practitioners o' elocution They set me rantin' in a rage They mind me o' some village stage Whaur maids an' matrons simper thru' Their pairty piece, syne tak a boo This is caad, "Giving recitations" Sic antics pit me oot o' patience Tae talk gin their mous were stapped wi' bools An' think they're speakin' verse, the fools "But they're only doing their best, poor dears" Then lat them dae it for ithers ears!

Dootless ma freen, ye're boond tae think The maist o' this mere crambo clink An gin ye dae ye're no tae blame For I wad be the last tae claim That this, ma poem, had muckle worth Yet we'll no froon upon its birth For I maun threep juist aince again T'was written you tae entertain I its makar downa be blate Tae thank the lass wha helped me oot The lass I'm meanin, ye'll jalouse Tae be ma puir, lang-sufferin' Muse She stertit oot fu' braw an' jimp But noo puir lass, she's got a limp We'll mak' an end ere it gets worse An' is refleckit in oor verse Sae frae the Muse, ma wife an' me Tae Margaret, wee Jane an' ye We send ye greetin's an' gude weel An' hope that ye're aye bidean weel That Fortune ne'er does ye a shavie S' ma wish for ye, ma gude freen Davie.

                          Robert Thomson,                                     Kiltarlity,                                         Beauly,                                             Inverness-shire.

Written in the early 1950s. Bob Thomson was my grandfather, and I knew him as Papa Bob. He served in the Royal Navy during World War II, and after the war he joined the Forestry Commission, and had a long career living in various places in the Highlands. He had a keen interest in poetry and prose, and in photography. He died in 1991.

[delphinidin4]

(Click to enlarge)

Translation:

Once there was a little child. An evil necromancer killed His parents in his home. Harry Potter was his name The boy was a worthy lad And magic power he had, And so to Hogwarts did he go To learn from wise men and ladies. And Gryffindor he was, and bold. They clothed him in red and gold. His friends, Hermione and Ron Were good, to be trusted. The seven books, which I read, Tell stories of their many deeds. The Tale of Rowling I will tell. Listen all, and listen well. 

In Book the First there was a man Who on his head had a hat, His teaching didn’t have a good reputation. A dead unicorn was found in the woods. Voldemort, the dread evil Lived in the man’s head! Potter slew the man But Voldemort got away. 

In Book the Second, I here tell Of Weasleys living in a dell And carts flying in the sky. Harry speaketh Snake, we know not why. Voldemort was found in a book. There was a snake, who with a look Could make men as still as stone. Ginny the maiden bright was gone. Harry found her and well near died, Except for the help of Fawkes the phoenix, who cried. 

In Book the Third there was a dog And Harry found his godfather. Hermione did things with clocks; A hippogriff was saved from (prison?) 

In Book Four there was a tournament With games and much merriment. But then a Hufflepuff did die (And most say, it made me cry). Voldemort took Potter’s blood And would have slain him where he stood But for wands. Potter’s parents dear Defended Harry in his fear. 

In Book the Fifth there was in the school An evil witch with every rule. Dolores Umbridge was her name. Harry Potter, in great shame Pursued a prophecy [dream-vision] to the Ministry And so endeth Sirius, the Worthy. 

Book Six causes me much distress: Dumbledore died, we all mourn him. I say no more, it all is woe, And so to the seventh book I go. 

In this book Harry, Hermione and Ron For love of each other hang on Into the wood looking for things: They hath a book and a ring But most of the Horcruxes they destroy For dark magic did Voldemort employ. Harry was dead, then he was not (There was more, but I forgot). They were all glad ,For thus endeth Voldemort’s song. Whatever is next, the books do not tell But this we know: All is well.

[elgarthecat]

descendingintoconfusion:

So I haven’t read these books in a long time, but I used to read the Artemis Fowl series. There was random symbols at the bottom of the first book. Yesterday I found papers where I had legit decoded everything it said, I was such a nerd. I think I even had started to remember exactly what each symbol meant. Basically the message was: 

Carry me always, carry me well. I am the teacher of herb and spell.

The prophecies of ohmphleg pot cleaner to fen frund elfen king.

I am ohm phlegmpot cleaner to the king.

But I am much more than that for I see the future written in the phlegm. For centuries we pixies have read the phlegm but I am the best there has ever been. My visions are generally if little importance. I foretell outbreaks of troll pox or gas spasms among elderly dwarfs but sometimes even a poor pot cleaner can see wondrous things.

A vision came to me two moons ago when I was gazing deep into his majesty’s own phlegm pot. I was heating the pot over a flame when the sign appeared. This vision was more vivid and detailed than any I had previously seen. 

Because of its importance I decided to write it down for posterity.

and so I say, I told you so. 

I saw an age when the people have been driven under ground by the mude pen. 

This is what the phlegm told me. In this time one shall come among us Fowl by name and foul by nature. A mud man unlike any other. He shall learn our secrets and use them against us. I seem him now as plan as day. His is pale. He has dark eyes and raven hair. Yet, It must be a mistake for he seems a mere youth. Surely no mud boy could outwit the people. But now I see that the boy is not alone. 

He is aided by a formidable warrior scarred from a thousand battles. This Fowl shall hold the people to random for their most precious possession.

Gold.

And in spite of all our magic there is a chance that he will prevail. For he has discovered how to escape the time field. Unfortunately how the story end I can  not say. But there was more to see.

There is another story to come. Someone will bring the people and mud men together. The worst of both races. This fairy’s goal is to grind all the creatures of the earth beneath his boot. and who is this traitor? It is not clear.

But he shall start a war unline anything the people have ever seen.

Those who were enemies shall be united against him. For the first time there will be mud men below ground. I have one clue to his identity, a riddle.

” Goblins shall rise and haven shall fall, a villainous elf id behind it all. To find the one who so dissapoints, look yet where the finger points.  

Instead of one face this elf has two. Both speak false and none speak true.

While publicly he lends a helping hand, his true aim is to seize command.”

I know. 

Its not very plain is it? I don’t understand either. But perhaps in the future it will become clear. Look for a power hungry elf who has a finger pointed at him during our tale. And so this is Ohms legacy. 

A warning that may save the world from total destruction. There’s not much to work with, I know. 

The details are a bit sketchy. My advice to you is to consult the phlegm. It may be that you are sensitive. I have buried this prophecy within my phlegm pot. If you are not fortunate enough to work at a pot cleaner then there is usually a supple of phlegm every time you have a cold.

Here endeth first prophecies of Ohm. But because of the importance of my visions I shall repeat the prophecies once more. If you have just begun to understand the text then read on.If you have worked out the entire message then congratulations. 

Now go and save the world.  

[perkingthepansies]

When in Greece go to Albania

It’s only three miles from Corfu at its closest point so it would be rude not to. We sailed the hydrofoil from Corfu Town and here we are sipping a cappuccino at a smart restaurant in Sarandë, a port and resort on the Albanian Riviera – yes, they’ve got a riviera. We’re on a coach trip with a herd of Saga louts – Brits and Germans mainly. We had neither the wit nor the inclination to organise the tour independently. Albanian’s call their country Republika e Shqipërisë. No, I can’t pronounce it either so let’s just stick with Albania.

The Trojan Connection

Our first excursion is to the ancient city of Butrint – Roman Buthrotum back in the day and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. After years in Turkey, I tend to be a bit blasé about old cities – Turkey’s got ‘em by the quarry-load. But I have to admit the site is pretty impressive with its Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Venetian and Ottoman remains. And the setting on the edge of a lagoon is magical. According to Greek mythology, the city was founded by exiles from Troy. A fanciful tale? Maybe not.

We’ve meandered through a mozzie-infested thicket and over long-buried streets to various ruins in various stages of ruination, including a Byzantine basilica – reputedly the largest in the world after Hagia Sophia in old Constantinople. While imposing, I didn’t think it was that big but what do I know?

As we rambled, I Googled ‘Butrint’ and happened across the UK Butrint Foundation. Guess where it’s based? Yep, Norwich. Small world.

Pushy Fraulein

We’re back in Sarandë for lunch. Many of our fellow passengers would push their firstborn under a bus to get to the buffet first. It’s like feeding time at the zoo. I had to neck an Albanian beer to get over the shock of an ancient Teuton with fat ankles, bum bag and curly perm elbowing me out of the way to get her grubby hands on the köfte.

Eye Spy

Our afternoon excursion sped us through the Butrint National Park to the Blue Eye, a spring that bubbles forth from a deep pool. I don’t think I’ve ever seen waters so clear or iridescent. The images here are for real – no filters required.

Ooh, Aah, Kosovar

We have an hour or so to kill before our hydrofoil back to Corfu Town. Liam’s sniffed out a swish harbourside bar, with prices to match. I’m sipping Kosovar wine. I didn’t know they made wine in Kosovo. Sarandë is a handsome town – more modern than I was expecting but then I don’t really know what I was expecting. Actually, I’ve never visited an ex-‘Communist’ state before. I’ve been to yer actual Commie country – when I took the train 1,500 or so miles from London to Moscow during Brezhnev’s reign. And then there was Romania when Ceaușescu was on the throne. Both experiences were broadening but those eras are long gone. Albania is beautiful but it’s developing fast. There are mouths to feed and aspirations to fulfil. I just hope they don’t lose too much in the mad rush to be just like everyone else.

Here Endeth the Lesson

I’m guessing not many people know much about Albania. I certainly didn’t. But I know a little more now, courtesy of our guide, a splendid young man who speaks great English, and great German too by the sound of it. Throughout the day, he’s been giving us a potted history in bite-size episodes. He even mentioned the German occupation during the Second World War, something  I thought he might have skipped to avoid offence. It was done in such a matter-of-fact way, I’m sure no one was offended. Our young guide is looking to the future, not dwelling on the past. I’m rather taken with him (not in that way – get your minds out of the gutter). He ended the lesson by saying simply,

Don’t judge Albania by what you’ve heard. Judge Albania by what you see – good and bad.

He got a round of applause – and a tip.

Coming soon – Postcards from Corfu Town.

  Postcards from Albania When in Greece go to Albania It’s only three miles from Corfu at its closest point so it would be rude not to.

[queenklu]

no more wheat thins

how did this happen