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NEW LIBRARY MATERIAL September 2020 - February 2021

Bibliography

Sorted by Call Number / Author.

011.7 F

Fadiman, Clifton, 1904-1999. The new lifetime reading plan / : the classical guide to world literature, Revised and expanded. 4th ed. New York : HarperCollins Publishers, 1999, c1997.

155.2 G

Gladwell, Malcolm, 1963-. David and Goliath : underdogs, misfits, and the art of battling giants. First edition. Goliath : "Am I a dog that you should come to me with sticks?" -- The Advantages of Disadvantages (and the Disadvantages of Advantages). Vivek Ranadiv©♭: "It was really random. I mean, my father had never played basketball before." ; Teresa DeBrito: "My largest class was twenty-nine kids. Oh, it was fun." ; Caroline Sacks: "If I'd gone to the University of Maryland, I'd still be in science. -- The Theory of Desirable Difficulty. David Boies: You wouldn't wish dyslexia on your child. Or would you? ; Emil "Jay" Freireich: "How Jay did it, I don't know." ; Wyatt Walker: "De rabbit is de slickest o' all de animals de Lawd ever made." -- The Limits of Power. Rosemary Lawlor: "I wasn't born that way. This was forced upon me." ; Wilma Derksen: "We have all done something dreadful in our lives, or have felt the urge to." ; Andr©♭ Trocm©♭: "We feel obliged to tell you that there are among us a certain number of Jews.". This book uncovers the hidden rules that shape the balance between the weak and the mighty and the powerful and the dispossessed. In it the author challenges how we think about obstacles and disadvantages, offering a new interpretation of what it means to be discriminated against, or cope with a disability, or lose a parent, or attend a mediocre school, or suffer from any number of other apparent setbacks. He begins with the real story of what happened between the giant and the shepherd boy (David and Goliath) those many years ago. From there, the book examines Northern Ireland's Troubles, the minds of cancer researchers and civil rights leaders, murder and the high costs of revenge, and the dynamics of successful and unsuccessful classrooms, all to demonstrate how much of what is beautiful and important in the world arises from what looks like suffering and adversity. -- From book jacket.

170 H

Haidt, Jonathan, author. The happiness hypothesis : finding modern truth in ancient wisdom. Paperback edition. "The Happiness Hypothesis is a book about ten Great Ideas. Each chapter is an attempt to savor one idea that has been discovered by several of the world's civilizations--to question it in light of what we now know from scientific research, and to extract from it the lessons that still apply to our modern lives and illuminate the causes of human flourishing. Award-winning psychologist Jonathan Haidt shows how a deeper understanding of the world's philosophical wisdom and its enduring maxims--like "do unto others as you would have others do unto you," or "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"--can enrich and even transform our lives."--Back cover.

171 K

Kohn, Alfie. The brighter side of human nature : altruism and empathy in everyday life. New York : Basic Books, c1990.

305.5 W

Wilkerson, Isabel, author. Caste : the origins of our discontents. First edition. The man in the crowd -- Toxins in the permafrost and heat rising all around -- The arbitrary construction of human divisions -- The eight pillars of caste -- The tentacles of caste -- The consequences of caste -- Backlash -- Awakening -- Epilogue: A world without caste. "In this brilliant book, Isabel Wilkerson gives us a masterful portrait of an unseen phenomenon in America as she explores, through an immersive, deeply researched narrative and stories about real people, how America today and throughout its history has been shaped by a hidden caste system, a rigid hierarchy of human rankings. Beyond race, class, or other factors, there is a powerful caste system that influences people's lives and behavior and the nation's fate. Linking the caste systems of America, India, and Nazi Germany, Wilkerson explores eight pillars that underlie caste systems across civilizations, including divine will, bloodlines, stigma, and more. Using riveting stories about people--including Martin Luther King, Jr., baseball's Satchel Paige, a single father and his toddler son, Wilkerson herself, and many others--she shows the ways that the insidious undertow of caste is experienced every day. She documents how the Nazis studied the racial systems in America to plan their out-cast of the Jews; she discusses why the cruel logic of caste requires that there be a bottom rung for those in the middle to measure themselves against; she writes about the surprising health costs of caste, in depression and life expectancy, and the effects of this hierarchy on our culture and politics. Finally, she points forward to ways America can move beyond the artificial and destructive separations of human divisions, toward hope in our common humanity. Beautifully written, original, and revealing, Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents is an eye-opening story of people and history, and a reexamination of what lies under the surface of ordinary lives and of America life today."--.

305.8 W

Williamson, Joel. A rage for order : Black/White relations in the American South since emancipation. New York, NY : Oxford University Press, 1968. Full ed.: published as The crucible of race. 1984. Traces the history of race relations, examines changing public attitudes, and tells the stories of those involved in Civil Rights movement.

305.9 P

Pipher, Mary Bray. The middle of everywhere : the world's refugees come to our town. First edition. Cultural collisions on the Great Plains -- The beautiful laughing sisters-an arrival story -- Into the heart of the heartland -- All that glitters ... -- Children of hope, children of tears -- Teenagers--Mohammed meets Madonna -- Young adults--"Is there a marriage broker in Lincoln?"-- Family--"A bundle of sticks cannot be broken" -- African stories -- Healing in all times and places -- Home-a global positioning system for identity -- Building a village of kindness. Offers the tales of refugees who have escaped countries riddled by conflict and ripped apart by war to realize their dream of starting a new life in America, detailing their triumph over adversity.

306.4 P

Pollan, Michael. The botany of desire : a plant's-eye view of the world. Random House trade pbk. ed. New York : Random House, 2002. Desire : sweetness, plant : the apple (Malus domestica) -- Desire : beauty, plant : the tulip (Tulipa) -- Desire : intoxication, plant : marijuana (Cannabis sativa x indica) -- Desire : control, plant : the potato (Solanum tuberosum). Focusing on the human relationship with plants, the author of Second nature uses botany to explore four basic human desires, sweetness, beauty, intoxication, and control, through portraits of four plants that embody them, the apple, tulip, marijuana, and potato. Every school child learns about the mutually beneficial dance of honeybees and flowers; the bee collects nectar and pollen to make honey and, in the process, spreads the flowers' genes far and wide. In The botany of desire, Michael Pollan ingeniously demonstrates how people and domesticated plants have formed a similarly reciprocal relationship. In telling the stories of four familiar species that are deeply woven into the fabric of our lives, Pollan illustrates how the plants have evolved to satisfy humankind's most basic yearnings. And just as we've benefited from these plants, the plants have done well by us. So who is really domesticating whom?.

307.1 I

Immerwahr, Daniel, 1980-. Thinking small : the United States and the lure of community development. First Harvard University Press paperback edition 2018. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 2015. Preface: Modernization, development, and community -- Introduction: Actually existing localism -- When small was big -- Development without modernization -- Peasantville -- Grassroots empire -- Urban villages -- Epilogue: What is dead and what is undead in community development?.

323.60973 I

In the hands of the people : Thomas Jefferson on equality, faith, freedom, compromise, and the art of citizenship. First edition. New York, NY : Random House, 2020. "Thomas Jefferson believed in the covenant between a government and its citizens, in both the government's responsibilities to its people and also the people's responsibility to the republic. In this illuminating collection, a project of the Thomas Jefferson Foundation, #1 New York Times bestselling author Jon Meacham has gathered Jefferson's most powerful and provocative reflections on the subject, drawn from public speeches and documents as well as his private correspondence. Still relevant centuries later, Jefferson's words provide a manual for U.S. citizenship in the twenty-first century. His thoughts will re-shape and revitalize the way readers relate to concepts including Freedom: "Divided we stand, united we fall." The importance of a free press:"Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter." Public education: "Enlighten the public generally, and tyranny and oppressions of body & mind will vanish like evil spirits at the dawn of day." Participation in government: A citizen should be "a participator in the government of affairs not merely at an election, one day in the year, but every day.""-- Provided by publisher.

324.6 P

Terborg-Penn, Rosalyn. African American women in the struggle for the vote, 1850-1920. Bloomington : Indiana University Press, c1998. Revisiting the question of race in the woman suffrage movement -- African American women in the first generation of woman suffragists : 1850-1869 -- African American woman suffragists finding their own voices : 1870s and 1880s -- Suffrage strategies and ideas : African American women leaders respond during "the nadir" -- Mobilizing to win the vote : African American women's organizations -- Anti-black woman suffrage tactics and African American women's responses -- African American women as voters and candidates -- The nineteenth amendment and its meaning for African American women. This study of African American women's roles in the suffrage movement breaks new ground. Rosalyn Terborg-Penn draws from many original documents to take a comprehensive look at the African American women who sought the right to vote. She discovers numerous Black suffragists previously unknown. Analyzing the women's own stories, she examines why they joined the woman suffrage movement in the United States and how they participated in it - with white women, Black men, as members of African American women's organizations, or simultaneously in all three. Terborg-Penn further discusses their various levels of interaction and types of feminist philosophy. Noting that not all African American woman suffragists were from elite circles, Terborg-Penn finds representation from working-class and professional women as well.They came from all parts of the nation. Some employed radical, others conservative means to gain the right to vote. Black women, however, were unified in working to use the ballot to improve not only their own status, but the lives of Black people in their communities. Drawing from innumerable sources, Terborg-Penn argues that sexism and racism prevented African American women from voting and from full participation in the national suffrage movement. Following the ratification of the Nineteenth Amendment, state governments in the South, enacted policies which disfranchised African American women, with many white suffragists closing their eyes to the discriminatory acts. Despite efforts to keep Black women politically powerless, Terborg-Penn contends that the Black suffrage was a source of empowerment. Every political and racial effort to keep African American women disfranchised met with their active resistance until Black women achieved full citizenship.

326.80922 B

Brands, H. W., author. The zealot and the emancipator : John Brown, Abraham Lincoln and the struggle for American freedom. First Edition. Pottawatomie -- Springfield -- Harpers Ferry -- The telegraph office. "What do moral people do when democracy countenances evil? The question, implicit in the idea that people can govern themselves, came to a head in America at the middle of the nineteenth century, in the struggle over slavery. John Brown's answer was violence--violence of a sort some in later generations would call terrorism. Brown was a deeply religious man who heard the God of the Old Testament speaking to him, telling him to do whatever was necessary to destroy slavery. When Congress opened Kansas territory to slavery, the eerily charismatic Brown raised a band of followers to wage war against the evil institution. One dark night his men tore several proslavery settlers from their homes and hacked them to death with broadswords, as a bloody warning to others. Three years later Brown and his men assaulted the federal arsenal at Harpers Ferry, Virginia, with the goal of furnishing slaves with weapons to murder their masters in a race war that would cleanse the nation of slavery once and for all. Abraham Lincoln's answer was politics. Lincoln was an ambitious lawyer and former office-holder who read the Bible not for moral guidance but as a writer's primer. He disliked slavery yet didn't consider it worth shedding blood over. He distanced himself from John Brown and joined the moderate wing of the new, antislavery Republican party. He spoke cautiously and dreamed big, plotting his path to Washington and perhaps the White House. Yet Lincoln's caution couldn't preserve him from the vortex of violence Brown set in motion. Arrested and sentenced to death, Brown comported himself with such conviction and dignity on the way to the gallows that he was canonized in the North as a martyr to liberty. Southerners responded in anger and horror that a terrorist was made into a saint. Lincoln shrewdly threaded the needle of the fracturing country and won election as president, still preaching moderation. But the time for moderation had passed. Slaveholders lumped Lincoln with Brown as an enemy of the Southern way of life; seven Southern states left the Union. Lincoln resisted secession, and the Civil War followed. At first a war for the Union, it became the war against slavery Brown had attempted to start. Before it was over, slavery had been destroyed, but so had Lincoln's faith that democracy can resolve its moral crises peacefully"--.

328.73 M

Meacham, Jon, author. His truth is marching on : John Lewis and the power of hope. First edition. Overture: the last march -- A hard life, a serious life -- The spirit of history -- Soul force -- In the image of God and democracy -- We are going to make you wish you was dead -- I'm going to die here -- This country don't run on love -- Epilogue: against the rulers of the darkness. "John Lewis, who at age twenty-five marched in Selma and was beaten on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, is a visionary and a man of faith. Using intimate interviews with Lewis and his family and deep research into the history of the civil rights movement, Meacham writes of how the activist and leader was inspired by the Bible, his mother's unbreakable spirit, his sharecropper father's tireless ambition, and his teachers in nonviolence, Reverend James Lawson and Martin Luther King, Jr. A believer in hope above all else, Lewis learned from a young age that nonviolence was not only a tactic but a philosophy, a biblical imperative, and a transforming reality. At the age of four, Lewis, ambitious to become a preacher, practiced by preaching to the chickens he took care of. When his mother cooked one of the chickens, the boy refused to eat it--his first act of non-violent protest. Integral to Lewis's commitment to bettering the nation was his faith in humanity and in God, and an unshakable belief in the power of hope. Meacham calls Lewis "as important to the founding of a modern and multiethnic twentieth- and twenty-first century America as Thomas Jefferson and James Madison and Samuel Adams were to the initial creation of the nation-state in the eighteenth century. He did what he did--risking limb and life to bear witness for the powerless in the face of the powerful--not in spite of America, but because of America, and not in spite of religion, but because of religion"--.

333.95 W

Wilson, Edward O. A window on eternity : a biologist's walk through Gorongosa National Park. First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition. Prologue: The Search for Eternity -- The Sacred Mountain of Mozambique -- Once There Were Giants -- War and Redemption -- Dung and Blood -- The Twenty-Foot Crocodile -- The Elephant Whisperer -- The House of Spiders -- The Clash of Insect Civilizations -- The Log of an Entomological Expedition -- The Struggle for Existence -- The Conservation of Eternity. "E.O. Wilson, one of the most celebrated scientists in the United States, shows why biodiversity is vital to the future of Earth and to our own species through the story of an African national park that may be the most diverse place on earth, in a gorgeously illustrated book"--. "The remarkable story of how one of the most biologically diverse habitats in the world was destroyed, restored, and continues to evolve--with stunning, full-color photographs by two of the world's best wildlife photographers. In 1976, Gorongosa National Park was the premier park in Mozambique, boasting one of the densest wildlife populations in all of Africa. Across 1,500 square miles of lush green floodplains, thick palm forests, swampy lakes, and vast plains roamed creatures great and small, from herds of wildebeest and elephant to countless bird species and insects yet to be classified. Then came the civil war of 1978-1992, when much of the ecosystem was destroyed, reducing some large animal populations by 90 percent or more. Due to a remarkable conservation effort sponsored by an American entrepreneur, the park was restored in the 1990s and is now evolving back to its former state. This is the story of that incredible transformation and why such biological diversity is so important. In A Window on Eternity, world-renowned biologist and two-time Pulitzer Prize-winner Edward O. Wilson shows why biodiversity is vital to the future of the Earth, including our human population. It is in places like Gorongosa in Africa, explains Wilson, that our own species evolved. Wilson takes readers to the forested groves of the park's watershed on sacred Mount Gorongosa, then far away to deep gorges along the edge of the Rift Valley, places previously unexplored by biologists, with the aim of discovering new species and assessing their ancient origins. He treats readers to a war between termites and raider ants, describes 'conversations' with elephant herds, and explains the importance of a one-day 'bioblitz.' Praised as 'one of the finest scientists writing today' (Los Angeles Times), Wilson uses the story of Gorongosa to show the significance of biodiversity to humankind"--.

340.092 S

Sligh, Clarissa T., artist. Transforming hate : an artist's book. First edition. "This book evolved from a project for which I folded origami cranes from pages of white supremacist books for the exhibition, Speaking Volumes: Transforming Hate ... I was trying to look at what it was like for me to turn hateful words into a beautiful art object. What actually evolved from that exploration helped me understand more fully the many levels of oppression and violence at the intersections of race, gender, class and sexual orientation." --inside front cover.

343.730 I

Internet law. Amenia, New York : Grey House Publishing, 2020.

345.73 C

Carter, Dan T. Scottsboro : a tragedy of the American South. Rev. ed. Fourth printing. Baton Rouge : Louisiana State University Press, 2007.

349.41 H

Honor©♭, Tony, 1921-2019. About law : an introduction. Reprint: 2013. Law -- History -- Government -- Property -- Contracts and treaties -- Crimes -- Torts -- Forms and procedures -- Interpretation -- Justice -- Does law matter? -- Glossary.

363.73 P

Pollution. New York, NY : Grey House Publishing, 2020.

371.102 A

Agarwal, Pooja K., author. Powerful teaching : unleash the science of learning. First edition. Introduction -- Discover the power behind power tools -- Build a foundation with retrieval practice -- Empower teaching with retrieval practice strategies -- Energize learning with spacing and interleaving -- Engage students with feedback-driven metacognition -- Combine power tools and harness your toolbox -- Keeping it real: use power tools to tackle challenges, not add to them -- Foster a supportive environment: use power tools to reduce anxiety and strengthen community -- Spark conversations with students about the science of learning -- Spark conversations with parents about the science of learning -- Powerful professional development for teachers and leaders -- Do-it-yourself retrieval guide -- Conclusion: unleash the science of learning.

512 G

Algebra. 2004. New York : Springer Science+Business Media, 2004.

575.1 A

Arney, Kat, author. How to code a human. Meet your genome -- Our genetic journey -- How do genes work? -- Under attack! -- Who do you think your are? -- People are not peas -- Genetic superheroes -- Turn me on -- Sticky notes -- The RNA world -- Building a baby -- Wiring the brain -- Compatibility genes -- X and Y -- The viruses that made us human -- When things go wrong -- Human 2.0. "How to Code a Human takes you on a mind-bending journey through the world of the double helix, revealing how our DNA encodes our genes and makes us unique. Covering all aspects of modern genetics from the evolution of our species to inherited diseases, "junk" DNA, genetic engineering and the intricacies of the molecular processes inside our cells, this is an astonishing and insightful guide to the code of life"--Back cover.

598 S

Sibley, David, 1961- author, illustrator. What it's like to be a bird : from flying to nesting, eating to singing -- what birds are doing, and why. How to use this book -- Introduction -- Portfolio of birds -- Birds in this book -- What to do if... -- Becoming a birder. Explore more than two hundred species, and more than 330 new illustrations by the author, in this special, large-format volume, where many of the primary illustrations are reproduced life-sized. While its focus is on familiar backyard birds -- blue jays, nuthatches, chickadees -- What It's Like to Be a Bird also examines certain species that can be fairly easily observed, such as the seashore-dwelling Atlantic Puffin. David Sibley's exacting artwork and wide-ranging expertise bring observed behaviors vividly to life. And while the text is aimed at adults -- including fascinating new scientific research on the myriad ways birds have adapted to environmental changes -- it is nontechnical, making it the perfect occasion for parents and grandparents to share their love of birds with young children, who will delight in the big, full-color illustrations of birds in action. -- back cover.

613.6 C

Bushcraft Illustrated: a visual guide. New York, NY : Simon & Schuster, Inc. (Adams Media: imprint of Simon & Schuster), 2019.

638.1 B

Michael Bush. The Practical beekeeper. Nehawka, Nebraska : X-Star Publishing Company, 2004-2011. V. 1 - The Practical Beekeeing Naturally; V.2 - Intermediate Beekeeping Naturally.

660.6 D

Druker, Steven M., author. Altered genes, twisted truth : how the venture to genetically engineer our food has subverted science, corrupted government, and systematically deceived the public.

709.2 A

Atalay, B©ơlent. Math and the Mona Lisa: : the art and science of Leonardo da Vinci. New York, NY : Smithsonian Books in association with HarperCollins Publishers, 2006. Leonardo was one of history's true geniuses, equally brilliant as an artist, scientist, and mathematician. Following Leonardo's own model, Atalay searches for the internal dynamics of art and science. He provides an overview of the development of science from the dawn of civilization to today's quantum mechanics. From this base, Atalay offers a view into Leonardo's restless intellect and modus operandi, allowing us to see the source of his ideas and to appreciate his art from a new perspective.

741.5 G

Greenberg, Isabel. The encyclopedia of early earth : a graphic novel. First American edition. Love in a very cold climate -- Part 1. The land of Nord. The three sisters of Summer Island ; Beyond the frozen sea ; The gods ; The odyssey begins -- Part 2. Britanitarka. Summer and winter ; Creation ; Medicine man ; The storytellers ; Creation ; Dag and Hal ; The old lady and the giant ; The time of the giants ; The children of the mountain ; The long night ; Dead towns & ghost men -- Part. 3. Migdal Bavel. Migdal Bavel ; The mapmaker of Migdal Bavel ; The bible of Birdman: Genesis ; Bible of Birdman, book of Kiddo: The great flood ; The tower of Migdal Bavel ; The palace of whispers ; The gods #2 -- Part 4. The South Pole. The gods #3 -- Appendices. A brief history of time ; The Nords ; Hunting and fishing ; The 1001 varieties of snow ; The invisible hunter ; Britanitarka ; Birds & beast from early Earth ; The moonstone ; The plucked firebird of Hoo. "Chronicles the explorations of a young man as he paddles from his home in the North Pole to the South Pole. There, he meets his true love, but their romance is ill-fated. Early Earth's unusual and finicky polarity means the lovers can never touch"--Publisher's website.

808.1 G

How poetry can change your heart. San Francisco, CA : Chronicle Books, 2019.

808.5 E

Franklin, Sharon. Essentials of speech communication. Evanston, Ill. : McDougal Littell, 2001.

808.53 H

Hanson, Jim. NTC's dictionary of debate. Lincolnwood, Ill., USA : National Textbook Co., c1990.

808.53 W

Strategic debate. Textbook. Columbus, OH : Glencoe/McGraw-Hill, 2006.

810.8 B

Lepucki, Edan, author. The best American nonrequired reading 2019. This anthology presents a selection of short works from mainstream and alternative American periodicals published in 2019, including nonfiction, screenplays, television writing, fiction, and alternative comics.

815 R

Representative American speeches, 2019-2020. Amenia, New York : Grey House, Publishing, 2020. "Selected from a diverse field of speakers and venues, this volume offers some of the most engaging American speeches of the year. Distinguished by its diversity, covering areas in politics, education, popular culture, as well as trending topics in the news, these speeches provide an interesting format to explore some of the year's most important stories."-Publisher.

909.09 D

Davis, Jack E., 1956- author. The Gulf : the making of an American sea. First edition. Prologue : history, nature, and a forgotten sea -- Introduction : birth -- Part one. Estuaries, and the lie of the land and sea : aborigines and colonizing Europeans. Mounds -- El golfo de M©♭xico -- Unnecessary death -- A most important river, and a "magnificent" bay -- Part two. Sea and sky : American debuts in the nineteenth century. Manifest destiny -- A fishy sea -- The wild fish that tamed the coast -- Birds of a feather, shot together -- Part three. Preludes to the future. From bayside to beachside -- Oil and the Texas toe dip -- Oil and the Louisiana plunge -- Islands, shifting sands of time -- Wind and water -- Part four. Saturation and loss : post-1945. The growth coast -- Florida worry, Texas slurry -- Rivers of stuff -- Runoff, and runaway -- Sand in the hourglass -- Losing the edge -- Epilogue : a success story amid so much else. Significant beyond tragic oil spills and hurricanes, the Gulf has historically been one of the world's most bounteous marine environments, supporting human life for millennia. Based on the premise that nature lies at the center of human existence, Davis takes readers on a compelling and, at times, wrenching journey from the Florida Keys to the Texas Rio Grande, along marshy shorelines and majestic estuarine bays, both beautiful and life-giving, though fated to exploitation by esurient oil men and real-estate developers. Davis shares previously untold stories, parading a vast array of historical characters past our view: sports-fishermen, presidents, Hollywood executives, New England fishers, the Tabasco king, a Texas shrimper, and a New York architect who caught the "big one". Sensitive to the imminent effects of climate change, and to the difficult task of rectifying the assaults of recent centuries, this book suggests how a penetrating examination of a single region's history can inform the country's path ahead. --.

910.92 I

Inskeep, Steve, author. Imperfect union : how Jessie and John Fr©♭mont mapped the West, invented celebrity, and helped cause the Civil War. Aid me with your influence -- The equal merits of differing peoples -- The current of important events -- Miseries that attend a separation -- I determined to make there a home -- The manifest purpose of providence -- A taste for danger and bold daring adventure -- The Spaniards were somewhat rude and inhospitable -- I am not going to let you write anything but your name -- Do not suppose I lightly interfere in a matter belonging to men -- We pressed onward with fatal resolution -- Jessie Benton Fr©♭mont was the better man of the two -- We thought money might come in handy -- All the stupid laurels that ever grew -- Decidedly, this ought to be struck out -- He throws away his heart. "Steve Inskeep tells the riveting story of John and Jessie Fr©♭mont, the husband and wife team who in the 1800s were instrumental in the westward expansion of the United States, and thus became America's first great political couple John Fr©♭mont grew up amid family tragedy and shame. Born out of wedlock in 1813, he went to work at age thirteen to help support his family in Charleston, South Carolina. He was a nobody. Yet, by the 1840s, he rose to become one of the most acclaimed people of the age -- known as a wilderness explorer, bestselling writer, gallant army officer, and latter-day conquistador, who in 1846 began the United States' takeover of California from Mexico. He was a celebrity who personified the country's westward expansion. Mountains, towns, ships, and streets were named after him. How did he climb so far? A vital factor was his wife, Jessie Benton Fr©♭mont, the daughter of a powerful United States senator. Jessie wanted to play roles in politics and exploration, which were then reserved for men. Frustrated, she threw her skill and passion into promoting her husband. Ordered by the US Army to map the Oregon Trail, John traveled thousands of miles on horseback, indifferent to his safety and that of the other members of his expeditions. When he returned home, Jessie helped him to shape dramatic reports of his adventures, which were reprinted in newspapers and bound as popular books. Jessie became his political adviser, and a power player in her own right. In 1856, the famous couple strategized as John became the first-ever presidential nominee of the newly established Republican Party. The party had been founded in opposition to slavery, and though both Fr©♭monts were Southerners they became symbols of the cause. With rare detail and in consummate style, Steve Inskeep tells the story of a couple whose joint ambitions and talents intertwined with those of the nascent United States itself. Americans linked the Fr©♭monts with not one but three great social movements of the time -- westward settlement, women's rights, and opposition to slavery. Theirs is a surprisingly modern story of ambition and fame; they lived in a time of globalization, technological disruption, and divisive politics that foreshadowed our own. The Fr©♭monts' adventures amount to nothing less than a tour of the early American soul"--.

940.54 S

Sledge, E. B. (Eugene Bondurant), 1923-. China marine. Oxford University Paperback, 2003. Tuscaloosa : University of Alabama Press, c2002. China Marine 1 -- Epilogue: I Am Not the Man I Would Have Been 149.

940.54 T

Terkel, Studs, 1912-2008. "The good war" : an oral history of World War Two. New York : New Press, [1997.

943.36 H

Hunt, Irmgard A. (Irmgard Albine), 1934-. On Hitler's mountain : overcoming the legacy of a Nazi childhood. First Harper Perennial edition. 2006. On writing a childhood memoir -- pt. 1. 1906-1934 : the P©œhlmanns. Roots of discontent ; In search of a future -- pt. 2. 1934-1939 : Hitler's willing followers. The rituals of life ; "Heil Hitler" ; Ominous undercurrents ; Meeting Hitler ; Gathering clouds -- pt. 3. 1939-1945 : war and surrender. Early sacrifice ; Learning to hate school ; Lessons from a wartime friendship ; A weary interlude in Selb ; Hardship and disintegration ; War comes to Berchtesgaden ; The end at last -- pt. 4. 1945-1948 : Bitter justice, or, Will justice be done? Survival under the Star-spangled Banner ; The curse of the past ; Escape from darkness. The author provides an account of her life growing up in Berchtesgaden, a Bavarian village at the foot of Hitler's mountain retreat, discussing a childhood encounter with the Nazi leader, and shedding light on why ordinary Germans, including her parents, tolerated and even supported the Nazis.

951.04 M

Mitter, Rana, 1969- author. Forgotten ally : China's World War II, 1937-1945. First U.S. Edition. The path to war: As close as lips and teeth : China's fall, Japan's rise ; A new revolution ; The path to confrontation -- Disaster: Thirty-seven days in summer : the outbreak of war ; The battle for Shanghai ; Refugees and resistance ; Massacre at Nanjing ; The battle of Taierzhuang ; The deadly river -- Resisting alone: "A sort of wartime normal" ; Flight into the unknown ; The road to Pearl Harbor -- The poisoned alliance ; Destination Burma ; Hunger in Henan ; States of terror ; Conference at Cairo ; One war, two fronts ; Showdown with Stilwell ; Unexpected victory ; Epilogue: The enduring war. "For decades, a major piece of World War II history has gone virtually unwritten. China was the fourth great ally, partner to the United States, the Soviet Union, and Great Britain, yet its drama of invasion, resistance, slaughter, and political intrigue remains little known in the West. In this emotionally gripping book, made possible through access to newly unsealed Chinese archives, Rana Mitter unfurls the story of China's World War II as never before and rewrites the larger history of the war in the process. He focuses his narrative on three towering leaders -- Chiang Kai-shek, Mao Zedong, and the lesser-known collaborator Wang Jingwei -- and extends the timeline of the war back to 1937, when Japanese and Chinese troops began to clash, fully two years before Hitler invaded Poland. Unparalleled in its research and scope, Forgotten Ally is a sweeping, character-driven history that will be essential reading not only for anyone with an interest in World War II, but also for those seeking to understand today's China, where, as Mitter reveals, the echoes of the war still reverberate"--.

952 J

Takada, Noriko. The Japanese way : aspects of behavior, attitudes, and customs of the Japanese. 2nd ed. Chicago : McGraw-Hill, c2011 . Abbreviations and contractions -- Addresses and street names -- Arts and crafts -- Asking directions -- Bathing and bathhouses -- Body language and gestures -- Borrowed words and acronyms -- Bowing -- Brand names and brand-name goods (burando-hin) -- Business cards (meish) -- Calendar -- Cherry blossoms and flower viewing -- Compliments -- Conversation -- Crime and safety -- Dating and marriage -- Death, funerals, and mourning -- Dialects -- Dining out -- Dinner invitations -- Directness -- Discussion and consensus -- Dress -- Drinking -- Driving -- Earthquakes -- Education -- English-language study -- Family -- The Jag and the national anthem -- Flowers and plants -- Food and eating -- Footwear -- Foreigners -- Gender roles -- Geography -- Gifts -- Government -- Hellos and good-byes -- Holidays and festivals -- Honorific speech (keigo) -- Hotels and inns -- Housing and furnishings -- Humor -- The Imperial family -- Individuals and couples -- Introductions and networking -- Karaoke -- Leisure (rgli) -- Letters, greeting cards, and postal services -- Love and affection -- Lucky and unlucky numbers -- Male/female speech -- Money -- Mt. Fuji -- Music and dance -- Myths, legends, and folklore -- Names, titles, and forms of address -- Numbers and counting -- Oriental medicine -- Pinball (pachinko) -- Politeness and rudeness -- Population -- Privacy -- Reading material -- Religion -- The seasons -- Shopping -- Shrines and temples -- Signatures and seals -- Social structure -- Sports -- Table etiquette -- Telephones -- Television/radio/movies -- Thank-yous and regrets -- Theater -- Time and punctuality -- Tipping and service charges -- Toilets -- Travel within Japan -- Vending machines -- Visiting private homes -- Weights, measures, and sizes -- Working hours -- The written language -- "Yes" and "no" -- "You first" -- Zoological calendar.

972.81 P

Proskouriakoff, Tatiana, 1909-1985. Maya history. First edition. Foreword / Gordon R. Wills -- Tatiana Proskouriakoff, 1909-1985 / Ian Graham -- Introduction / Rosemary A. Joyce -- 1. The Earliest Records: (A.D. 288-337) -- 2. The Arrival of Strangers: (A.D. 337-386) -- 3. The Maya Regain Tikal: (A.D. 386-435) -- 4. Some Ragged Pages: (A.D. 435-485) -- 5. Expansion of the Maya Tradition: (A.D. 485-534) -- 6. A Time of Troubles: (A.D. 534-583) -- 7. Recovery on the Frontiers: (A.D. 583-633) -- 8. Growth and Expansion: (A.D. 633-682) -- 9. Toward a Peak of Prosperity: (A.D. 682-736) -- 10. On the Crest of the Wave: (A.D. 731-780) -- 11. Prelude to Disaster: (A.D. 780-830) -- 12. The Final Years: (A.D. 831-909) -- 13. The Last Survivals: (A.D. 909-938). The ruins of Maya city-states occur throughout the Yucatan peninsula, Guatemala, Belize, and in parts of Honduras and El Salvador. But the people who built these sites remain imperfectly known. Though they covered standing monuments (stelae) and public buildings with hieroglyphic records of their deeds, no Rosetta Stone has yet turned up in Central America to help experts determine the exact meaning of these glyphs. Tatiana Proskouriakoff, a preeminent student of the Maya, made many breakthroughs in deciphering Maya writing, particularly in demonstrating that the glyphs record the deeds of actual human beings. This discovery opened the way for a history of the Maya, a monumental task that Proskouriakoff was engaged in before her death in 1985. Her work, Maya History, has been made ready for press by the able editorship of Rosemary Joyce. Maya History reconstructs the Classic Maya period (roughly A.D. 250-900) from the glyphic record on stelae at numerous sites, including Altar de Sacrificios, Copan, Dos Pilas, Naranjo, Piedras Negras, Quirigua, Tikal, and Yaxchilan. Proskouriakoff traces the spread of governmental institutions from the central Peten, especially from Tikal, to other city-states by conquest and intermarriage. And she also shows how the gradual introduction of foreign elements into Maya art mirrors the entry of outsiders who helped provoke the eventual collapse of the Classic Maya. Fourteen line drawings of monuments and over three hundred original drawings of glyphs amplify the text. Maya History has been long awaited by scholars in the field. It is sure to provoke lively debate and greater understanding of this important area in Mesoamerican studies.

973.04 A

Asian Americans : the movement and the moment. A wide-ranging collection of essays and material which documents the rich, little-known history of Asian American social activism during the years 1965-2001. This book examines the period not only through personal accounts and historical analysis, but through the visual record--utilizing historical prictorial materials developed at UCLA's Asian American Studies Center on Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Filipino, and Vietnamese Americans. Included are many reproductions of photos of the period, movement comics, demonstration flyers, newsletters, posters and much more.

973.0496 D

W.E.B. DuBois. The Souls of Black Folk. BIGFONTBOOKS.COM.

973.7 B

Barney, William L. Battleground for the Union : the era of the Civil War and Reconstruction, 1848-1877. Englewood Cliffs, N.J. : Prentice Hall, c1990.

973.9 I

Imani, Blair, author. Making our way home : the Great Migration and the Black American dream. First edition. Separate but equal: Reconstruction-1919 -- Beautiful -- and ugly, too: 1920-1929 -- I, too, am America: 1930-1939 -- Liberty and justice for all: 1940-1949 -- Trouble ahead: 1950-1959 -- The time is in the street, you know: 1960-1969 -- All poer to all the people: 1970-1979. "A powerful illustrated history of the Great Migration and its sweeping impact on Black and American culture, from Reconstruction to the rise of hip hop. Over the course of six decades, an unprecedented wave of Black Americans left the South and spread across the nation in search of a better life--a migration that sparked stunning demographic and cultural changes in twentieth-century America. Through gripping and accessible historical narrative paired with illustrations, author and activist Blair Imani examines the largely overlooked impact of The Great Migration and how it affected--and continues to affect--Black identity and America as a whole. Making Our Way Home explores issues like voting rights, domestic terrorism, discrimination, and segregation alongside the flourishing of arts and culture, activism, and civil rights. Imani shows how these influences shaped America's workforce and wealth distribution by featuring the stories of notable people and events, relevant data, and family histories. The experiences of prominent figures such as James Baldwin, Fannie Lou Hamer, El Hajj Malik El Shabazz (Malcolm X), Ella Baker, and others are woven into the larger historical and cultural narratives of the Great Migration to create a truly singular record of this powerful journey"--.

973.9 L

Longley, Kyle, author. LBJ's 1968 : power, politics, and the presidency in America's year of upheaval. A nation on the brink: the State of the Union Address, January 1968 -- Those dirty bastards, are they trying to embarrass us? The Pueblo Incident, January-December 1968 -- Tet: a very near thing, January-March 1968 -- As a result, I will not seek re-election: the March 31, 1968 speech -- The days the earth stood still: the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., April 1968 -- He hated him, but loved him: the assassination of Robert Kennedy, June 1968 -- The big stumble: the Fortas Affair, June-October 1968 -- The tanks are rolling: Czechoslovakia crushed, August 1968 -- The perfect disaster: the Democratic National Convention, August 1968 -- Is this treason?: the October surprise that wasn't, October-December 1968 -- The last dance, January 1969 -- Conclusion.

974.7 F

Feldman, Deborah, 1986-. Unorthodox : the scandalous rejection of my Hasidic roots. 1st Simon & Schuster trade pbk. ed. 2020. New York : Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2012. Traces the author's upbringing in a Hasidic community in Brooklyn, describing the strict rules that governed her life, arranged marriage at the age of seventeen, and the birth of her son, which led to her plan to leave and forge her own path in life.

975.7 B

Ball, Edward, 1959-. Slaves in the family. Paperback edition. Journalist Ball confronts the legacy of his family's slave-owning past, uncovering the story of the people, both black and white, who lived and worked on the Balls' South Carolina plantations. It is an unprecedented family record that reveals how the painful legacy of slavery continues to endure in America's collective memory and experience. Ball, a descendant of one of the largest slave-owning families in the South, discovered that his ancestors owned 25 plantations, worked by nearly 4,000 slaves. Through meticulous research and by interviewing scattered relatives, Ball contacted some 100,000 African-Americans who are all descendants of Ball slaves. In intimate conversations with them, he garnered information, hard words, and devastating family stories of precisely what it means to be enslaved. He found that the family plantation owners were far from benevolent patriarchs; instead there is a dark history of exploitation, interbreeding, and extreme violence.--From publisher description.

975.7 B

Ball, Edward, 1959-. The sweet hell inside : a family history. First edition. Preface -- Part 1-The Master and His Orphans-Part 2-High Yellow-Porch 3 -Eyes Sadder Then the Grave-Part 4-Nigger Rich-Part 5-The Orphans Dancers-Part 6-A Trunk in the Grass-Notes-Permission and Photography Credits-Acknowledgments-Index. If. Recounts the lives of the Harleston family of South Carolina, the progeny of a Southern gentleman and his slave who cast off their blemished roots and achieved affluence in part through a surprisingly successful funeral parlor business. Their wealth afforded the Harlestons the comfort of chauffeurs, tailored clothes, and servants whose skin was darker than theirs. It also launched the family into a generation of glory as painters, performers, and photographers in the "high yellow" society of America's colored upper class. The Harlestons' remarkable 100-year journey spans the waning days of Reconstruction, the precious art world of the early 1900s, the back alleys of the Jazz Age, and the dawn of the civil rights movement.--From publisher description.

DVD Gre

The Great debaters. 2-disc collector's edition; Widescreen [ed.]. [New York] : Weinstein Company, c2008. Denzel Washington, Nate Parker, Jurnee Smollett, Denzel Whitaker, Jermaine Williams, Forest Whitaker, Gina Ravera, John Heard, Kimberly Elise, Devyn Tyler, Trenton McClain Boyd. Melvin B. Tolson is a professor at Wiley College in Texas. Wiley is a small African-American college. In 1935, Tolson inspired students to form the school's first debate team. Tolson turns a group of underdog students into a historically elite debate team which goes on to challenge Harvard in the national championship. Inspired by a true story.

F Alb

Albertalli, Becky, author. What if it's us. Told in two voices, when Arthur, a summer intern from Georgia, and Ben, a native New Yorker, meet it seems like fate, but after three attempts at dating fail they wonder if the universe is pushing them together or apart.

F Arc

Astral Traveler's Daughter. First Simon & Schuster Trade Paperback edition, April 2019. New York, NY : Simon & Schuster, Inc, 2019. "Last year, Teddy Cannon discovered she was psychic. This year, her skills will be put to the test as she investigates a secretive case that will take her far from home--and deep into the past in the thrilling follow-up to School for Psychics"-- Provided by publisher.

F Chi

Chiaverini, Jennifer, author. Enchantress of numbers : a novel of Ada Lovelace. "The only legitimate child of Lord Byron, the most brilliant, revered, and scandalous of the Romantic poets, Ada was destined for fame long before her birth. Estranged from Ada's father, who was infamously "mad, bad, and dangerous to know," Ada's mathematician mother is determined to save her only child from her perilous Byron heritage. Banishing fairy tales and make-believe from the nursery, Ada's mother provides her daughter with a rigorous education grounded in mathematics and science. Any troubling spark of imagination--or worse yet, passion or poetry--is promptly extinguished. Or so her mother believes. When Ada is introduced into London society as a highly eligible young heiress, she at last discovers the intellectual and social circles she has craved all her life. Little does she realize that her delightful new friendship with inventor Charles Babbage--brilliant, charming, and occasionally curmudgeonly--will shape her destiny ..."--Jacket.

F Chr

Christie, Michael, 1976- author. Greenwood : a novel. First U.S. edition. "It's 2038 and Jake Greenwood is a storyteller and a liar, an overqualified tour guide babysitting ultra-rich vacationers in one of the world's last remaining forests. It's 2008 and Liam Greenwood is a carpenter, fallen from a ladder and sprawled on his broken back, calling out from the concrete floor of an empty mansion. It's 1974 and Willow Greenwood is out of jail, free after being locked up for one of her endless series of environmental protests: attempts at atonement for the sins of her father's once vast and violent timber empire. It's 1934 and Everett Greenwood is alone, as usual, in his maple syrup camp squat when he hears the cries of an abandoned infant and gets tangled up in the web of a crime that will cling to his family for decades. And throughout, there are trees: thrumming a steady, silent pulse beneath Christie's effortless sentences and working as a guiding metaphor for withering, weathering, and survival. A shining, intricate clockwork of a novel, Greenwood is a rain-soaked and sun-dappled story of the bonds and breaking points of money and love, wood and blood--and the hopeful, impossible task of growing toward the light"--.

F Cle

Memoirs of Fanny Hill. Published by arrangement with Edito-Service S. A., Geneva, Switzerland. New York, NY : Peebles Press International Inc, 1973.

F Col

Andre's Reboot. Birmingham, AL : Stephen B. Coleman, Publisher, 2019.

F Def

Moll Flanders. Reprint. 2020. Columbia, SC, : August 12, 2020.

F Def

Defoe, Daniel, 1661?-1731. The fortunes and misfortunes of the famous Moll Flanders ... A new edition.

F Fit

Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott), 1896-1940, author. The great Gatsby. Foreword to the seventy-fifth anniversary edition: F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, and the House of Scribner ; Preface / by Matthew J. Bruccoli -- THE GREAT GATSBY -- The text of The Great Gatsby / by Matthew J. Bruccoli -- Publisher's afterword / Charles Scribner III -- FSF : life and career / James L.W. West III. Overview: The mysterious Jay Gatsby embodies the American notion that it is possible to redefine oneself and persuade the world to accept that definition. Gatsby's youthful neighbor, Nick Carraway, fascinated with the display of enormous wealth in which Gatsby revels, finds himself swept up in the lavish lifestyle of Long Island society during the Jazz Age. Considered Fitzgerald's best work, The Great Gatsby is a mystical, timeless story of integrity and cruelty, vision and despair. The timeless story of Jay Gatsby and his love for Daisy Buchanan is widely acknowledged to be the closest thing to the Great American Novel ever written.

F Jam

The Turn of the Screw, the Aspern Papers, and Two Stories. Barnes & Noble Classics, 2003; Intro. and notes by David L. Sweet. New York, NY : Barnes & Noble, 2003.

F Ora

Orange, Tommy, 1982- author. There there. First Vintage books edition. Here is a story of several people, each of whom has private reasons for travelling to the Big Oakland Powwow. Jacquie Red Feather is newly sober and trying to make it back to the family she left behind in shame. Dene Oxendene is pulling his life together after his uncle's death and has come to work at the powwow to honour his uncle's memory. Opal Viola Victoria Bear Shield has come to watch her nephew Orvil Red Feather, who has taught himself traditional Indian dance through YouTube videos and has come to the powwow to dance in public for the very first time. There will be glorious communion, and a spectacle of sacred tradition and pageantry. And there will be sacrifice, and heroism, and unspeakable loss.

F Pat

Patchett, Ann, author. The Dutch house : a novel. First edition. "Ann Patchett, the New York Times bestselling author of Commonwealth and State of Wonder, returns with her most powerful novel to date: a richly moving story that explores the indelible bond between two siblings, the house of their childhood, and a past that will not let them go"--.

F Rob

Roberts, Nora, author. The awakening. First edition. "#1 New York Times bestselling author of the epic Chronicles of The One trilogy returns with the first in a brand new series where parallel worlds clash over the struggle between good and evil"--.

F Row

Rowling, J. K. Harrius Potter et philosophi lapis. Cover illustration first pub. 2015. London : Bloomsbury, 2003, ℗♭1997. Latin translation, Peter Needham, 2003. Rescued from the outrageous neglect of his aunt and uncle, a young boy with a great destiny proves his worth while attending Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.

F Rus

Russell, Karen, 1981-. Swamplandia! 1st ed (Borzoi Book). New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2011. Twelve year old Ava must travel into the Underworld part of the swamp in order to save her family's dynasty of Bigtree alligator wresting. This novel takes us to the swamps of the Florida Everglades, and introduces us to Ava Bigtree, an unforgettable young heroine. The Bigtree alligator wrestling dynasty is in decline, and Swamplandia!, their island home and gator wrestling theme park, formerly no. 1 in the region, is swiftly being encroached upon by a fearsome and sophisticated competitor called the World of Darkness. Ava's mother, the park's indomitable headliner, has just died; her sister, Ossie, has fallen in love with a spooky character known as the Dredgeman, who may or may not be an actual ghost; and her brilliant big brother, Kiwi, who dreams of becoming a scholar, has just defected to the World of Darkness in a last ditch effort to keep their family business from going under. Ava's father, affectionately known as Chief Bigtree, is AWOL; and that leaves Ava, a resourceful but terrified thirteen, to manage ninety eight gators as well as her own grief. Against a backdrop of hauntingly fecund plant life animated by ancient lizards and lawless hungers, the author has written a novel about a family's struggle to stay afloat in a world that is inexorably sinking.

F Sha

Shaw, Irwin, 1913-1984. The young lions. Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 2000.

F Tol

The Hobbit. 75th Anniversary. The text of this edition is based on edition published by HarperCollins Publishers in 1995. Bilbo Baggins, a respectable, well-to-do hobbit, lives comfortably in his hobbit-hole until the day the wandering wizard Gandalf chooses him to take part in an adventure from which he may never return.

F Tow

Towles, Amor. Rules of civility. A chance encounter with a handsome banker in a jazz bar on New Year's Eve 1938 catapults Wall Street secretary Katey Kontent into the upper echelons of New York society, where she befriends a shy multi-millionaire, an Upper East Side ne'er-do-well, and a single-minded widow.

F Wat

Watson, Ren©♭e, author. Piecing me together. Tired of being singled out at her mostly-white private school as someone who needs support, high school junior Jade would rather participate in the school's amazing Study Abroad program than join Women to Women, a mentorship program for at-risk girls. "Acclaimed author Renee Watson offers a powerful story about a girl striving for success in a world that too often seems like it's trying to break her. Jade believes she must get out of her poor neighborhood if she's ever going to succeed. Her mother tells her to take advantage of every opportunity that comes her way. And Jade has: every day she rides the bus away from her friends and to the private school where she feels like an outsider, but where she has plenty of opportunities. But some opportunities she doesn't really welcome, like an invitation to join Women to Women, a mentorship program for "at-risk" girls. Just because her mentor is black and graduated from the same high school doesn't mean she understands where Jade is coming from. She's tired of being singled out as someone who needs help, someone people want to fix. Jade wants to speak, to create, to express her joys and sorrows, her pain and her hope. Maybe there are some things she could show other women about understanding the world and finding ways to be real, to make a difference.".

F Wil

Williams, Katie, 1978- author. Tell the machine goodnight. Pearl's job is to make people happy. Every day, she provides customers with personalized recommendations for greater contentment. She's good at her job, her office manager tells her, successful. But how does one measure an emotion? Meanwhile, there's Pearl's teenage son, Rhett. A sensitive kid who has forged an unconventional path through adolescence, Rhett seems to find greater satisfaction in being unhappy. The very rejection of joy is his own kind of "pursuit of happiness." As his mother, Pearl wants nothing more than to help Rhett--but is it for his sake or for hers? Certainly it would make Pearl happier. Regardless, her son is one person whose emotional life does not fall under the parameters of her job--not as happiness technician, and not as mother, either.-Amazon.

SC D

The Daniel Defoe Collection : The Life and strange surprising adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner; The farther adventures of Robinson Crusoe; A journal of the plague year; Moll Flanders. South Carolina, USA, : August 2020.

SC L

Link, Kelly, author. Get in trouble : stories. Random House trade paperback edition. The summer people -- I can see right through you -- Secret identity -- Valley of the girls -- Origin story -- The lesson -- The new boyfriend -- Two houses -- Light. A collection of short stories features tales of a young girl who plays caretaker to mysterious guests at the cottage behind her house and a former teen idol who becomes involved in a bizarre reality show.

SC P

Packer, ZZ. Drinking coffee elsewhere. 1st Riverhead trade pbk. ed. New York : Riverhead Books, 2004, ℗♭2003. Brownies -- Every tongue shall confess -- Our Lady of Peace -- The ant of the self -- Drinking coffee elsewhere -- Speaking in tongues -- Geese -- Doris is coming. Discovered by The New Yorker, Packer "forms a constellation of young black experience"* whether she's writing from the perspective of a church-going black woman who has a crisis in faith, a young college student at Yale, or a young black man unwillingly accompanying his father to the Million Man March. This universally appealing collection of short fiction has already established ZZ Packer as "a writer to watch.".

SC S

Sedaris, David, author. Calypso. First edition. When he buys a beach house on the Carolina coast, David Sedaris envisions long, relaxing vacations spent playing board games and lounging in the sun with those he loves most. And life at the Sea Section, as he names the vacation home, is exactly as idyllic as he imagined, except for one tiny, vexing realization: it's impossible to take a vacation from yourself. Sedaris sets his powers of observation toward middle age and mortality, that vertiginous moment when your own body betrays you and you realize that the story of your life is made up of more past than future.

SC S

Sedaris, David, author. Let's explore diabetes with owls. First Back Bay paperback edition, June 2014. From the perils of French dentistry to the eating habits of the Australian kookaburra, from the squat-style toilets of Beijing to the particular wilderness of a North Carolina Costco, we learn about the absurdity and delight of a curious traveler's experiences. Whether railing against the habits of litterers in the English countryside or marveling over a disembodied human arm in a taxidermist's shop, Sedaris takes us on side-splitting adventures that are not to be forgotten.

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scotiaeire · 4 years ago

Text

We were all heathens once...

An article on ritual sacrifice and eating of dogs got me thinking. I do that sometimes. Think. Doesn’t always work out well but, meh. Old age allows for some meandering and blethering.

Besides. It’s my blog. I can say what I like, so...

Y’know, christianity is an incredibly young belief system. And for Europeans, it doesn’t actually belong to us. Since I’m not wasting time on a potted history of a belief system I was never raised in nor am particularly interested in, just know that. It doesn’t belong to, stem from, or align with, Europe. Even though they did manage to force a square peg into a round hole...

There was a time the whole global population was pagan in one form or another and in the timespan of human history, that wasn’t so long ago, yet it *was* a very long time that we were just that..all pagans.

To identify myself if folks ask, I call myself “heathen”, a word that simply once meant “heath dweller”. Now it’s come to mean Scandinavian or Norse paganism. (unless you’re christian, in which case for you it means anyone not christian).

Other folks call themselves “pagan”. *shrug* Same diff. It means we’re attempting to live according to the belief systems of our ancestors, and having to (and in most cases struggling to) adapt their methods of ritual and lifestyle and mindsets for the world we live in today.

It shouldn’t be so hard tbh. Just “pretend” christianity never happened. Most of Europe would still be heathen. It would have evolved over time, with each passing generation and technological advancement, because of course nothing remains static, or it dies.

I’m not going to say I can tell you what the world would be like had the religions stemming from the Middle East not overrun the Western world. Sweden was the last European nation, if I remember rightly, to be forcibly converted to christianity, and still there are pockets of heathenism within the country that have never taken to the conquering faith.

In other nations, such as my own Scotland, a strange amalgamation of traditional Celtic paganism absorbed the church teachings and just got on with it. Thus, the goddess Bride became Saint Brigit, etc, and if you want a prime example of how all that works, take a read at the Carmina Gadelica and other literary collections of folklore up to and including the traditional songs of the Highlanders.

But I was never christian. I was born into a heathen family. It wasn’t a bed of roses. I had the bullying (which included a teacher spitting at me as she walked past) after my parents raged at the headmaster that in no manner was I to be included in morning prayer, lunch grace or assembly prayers.

At the time, it just embarrassed me and made of me an outcast. I hated it. As I grew and found my own heathen path, I was grateful. I see quite a few ex christians struggle with feelings of guilt for “leaving the faith behind” (hint: it was never *your* faith. It’s a foreign one, if you are European or Scots, English, Welsh or Irish) or who can’t quite shake the “sin” shit that was drummed into them.

I see others who, having no roots in heathenry or their native paganism, struggle to find out what they can learn from.

I’m not here to give advice but I’d advise going back to history books, removing the jaundiced eye of any christian authors from the facts if you can, and take it from there. Also, archaeology is your friend here. Folks and fairy tales. Sagas, Eddas, Old Irish Tales. Ancient songs that are traditional to your country. It’s a start. (So aye, I did give advice. Sorry. Ye can take it or leave it, no skin off my nose)

We can’t (sadly) live the lives of our ancestors because, frankly, the powers that be won’t let us. Whereas once, animals would be ritually sacrificed then feasted upon at certain times of year, now the animal cruelty folks’d be visiting your door and you’d be fined or arrested. (Another hint: you get round that by raising meat livestock. Vegetarian heathens, I have no advice for ye’s sorry. Heathenism is an animistic path that doesn’t preclude the consuming of sacred animals. And if you’re actively looking to your ancestors for inspiration, this *is* the type of thing they practiced)

We can’t go to war on our enemies, because governments got the Sole Right to do that, without us having an actual say in who our enemies really are.

Who, today, can *truly* erect a Nidthing Pole (curse pole) on the perimeter of your enemies property without being, again, arrested. Note also the interference of the State in just how pagan or heathen you can actually *be*....

So heathenry has to adapt and change to fit with how we are *allowed* to live these days. And therein lies the shame..the majority allow the minority to dictate how we can live, worship, and be spiritual.

So we do what we can. In quite a few countries, proclaiming yourself as heathen can be actually dangerous. So you keep on the down-low and keep your head down about it and practice quietly, or in secret.

Other places are more tolerant but I have noticed that even though they are “on the outside”, the reality is that if you are openly heathen you will often encounter a backlash from christians or other faiths not pagan on more than one occasion.

And you’ll undoubtedly be painted as some kind of demon/devil/evil person. And it takes some kind of courage to stand against that, to tell people without it disintegrating into a pub brawl, that you’ve the fucking *right* to be who you are when it comes to your faith, and if that means following the faith of your ancestors, nobody has the right to prevent it.

Just, y’know, when you are following the faith of your ancestors, do them justice, eh? Make them proud of you. Let them see that you’re not defaming their ways.

Despite how my posts might appear, I’m a “live and let live” woman. You leave me be, and I’ll do the same for you.

My own personal mindset is that I don’t “do” eclecticism, simply because I feel it’s a bit of an insult if I’d been, say, performing rites to Thor then throwing in a bit of Dianic witchery (Italian) or the like. “Hello Thor, Big Fella. Meet Diana”. Nah. Not gonna work out there...

I’m no purist either though. If christianity hadn’t been forced on some of our ancestors, heathenry would have adapted, evolved and changed over time. But the *roots* of it would have remained. The pantheons would have been unlikely to have meshed with other pantheons, as did the Celtic and Roman deities in some parts of the British Isles. Chiefly, England.

The practices though, would have changed and so we shouldn’t feel downhearted when the State states (sorry) ye can’t go out and blood eagle your worst enemy or shove that Nidthing Pole up in your annoying neighbour’s back garden. If it’s hexery you’re into there are much more subtle ways, if you’re a woman. If you’re a heathen man, you might want to employ a woman to do the job for ye. Ergi, and all that...

Because times have changed we can sometimes feel adrift, not knowing quite how to *be* heathen in a modern world that increasingly shrinks our freedoms to even live.

But there are ways. The article I shared previously to this post spoke of sacrifice. In pre christian, pre nanny State days, sacrifices were serious matters and serious events. They *meant* something of note.

I have to be honest here, “sacrificing” a bowl of fruit or a bunch of flowers isn’t quite the same. Ye can say what you think about that but it’s not.

Because if you need to sacrifice anything to get a god’s attention, if you’re desperate (been there, done that) then what you give *has* to have meaning, *has* to be hard to give, and *has* to be worthy of that god. Or it means nothing.

No, I’m not advocating animal or human sacrifice. But if the thing you give has little meaning to you (and don’t tell me a bowl of fruit or bunch of flowers means the world to you...) then why should a god listen to you?

Anyway...heathenry was more than the rituals of sacrifice, hexing your enemies and going to war. In domestic life little daily rituals kept the household running smoothly. When the partner of a woman left on a journey, for example, she’d sew charms into his clothing for protection and safe return. The hearth of a home..the firepit or fireplace..has a wealth of rituals surrounding it, probably the most prolific of the domestic magics, perhaps apart from spinning and weaving. Charms to keep your children safe, spells to help older folks thrive, all were taken care of in fine heathen fashion.

So if nothing else, that, at least, we can return to.

#Heathen #heathenry #heathenism #meandering thoughts on paganism #ancestors #European paganism #Norse heathenism

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rabbitcruiser · 2 years ago

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National Love Your Pet Day

Pets can offer unconditional love and help to make a home feel more welcoming and inviting. It’s only appropriate that owners take the time to show appreciation for them by celebrating on National Love Your Pet Day.

Pets can instantly put a smile on anyone’s face and bring joy to a household. Pet owners are busy people with jobs and families and may not always give a pet their full concentration. National Love Your Pet Day is a chance to give love and attention to any pet in the house, such as a dog, cat, and guinea pig. One trait that makes us all human is the ability and desire to love our pets, so it makes sense that we should all come together to celebrate their existence.

Learn about National Love Your Pet Day

It’s interesting to learn that most households in the United States have at least one pet present. It goes to show just how meaningful pets are to humans and that they share a unique and significant bond. Think along the lines of cats, dogs, birds, fish, and reptiles, for example. National Love Your Pet Day gives us all a reason to celebrate our pets and make them feel special.

Our furry and non-furry friends and pets have a very extraordinary place in all our hearts. Most would agree that it’s fun to celebrate this shared and matchless connection. Pet owners take pride in their pets and love to show them off and admire them. Humans and pets have meshed well together previously, and there’s no denying the fact that they continue to be a large part of your lives today.

The day is a time to embrace the idea that these pets are unique and special to us and have a place in our hearts. Love Your Pet day is a chance to show your pets extra love and your undivided attention. It’s about acknowledging the special relationship, and place pets hold in our lives and to pamper and admire them even more than we already do. It’s a chance to give back to pets everywhere since they’re known for helping to reduce stress and blood pressure in humans.

History of National Love Your Pet Day

Pets have been a part of human life for thousands of years, and it’s only becoming more popular and common to own one. Animals have been right by our side ever since the first moment of civilization. Consider the fact that wolves lived among humans for centuries, and there’s proof of humans and dogs and cats being together as long as 12,000 years ago.

In the 1600s, European royalty began keeping toy dog breeds. Pet birds were the pet of choice in Spain among all classes well into the 1960s. It may not be common knowledge regarding the person that started National Love Your Pet Day, but the masses began celebrating it and bringing it to light on a wide scale in the early 2000s.

National Love Your Pet Day Timeline

10,000 BC Wolves become domesticated

The first animal believed to transform from the wild state to the domesticated state is the wolf, the predecessor to the modern-day dog. It is believed that humans would find baby wolves and take them home to take care of them and train them.

7500 BC Cats may be domesticated

While it has been long believed that cats were domesticated in Ancient Egypt, recent information shows that it is much earlier and in the Near East.

3000 BC Parrots are domesticated

Colorful parrots are domesticated by Ancient Romans and also kept as pets in tropical places such as Brazil. They won’t be present in Europe until several hundred years later.

3100 BC Dogs are kept by people in Ancient Egypt

While their relationship is probably not as much like pets to humans but more like working dogs to owners, the Ancient Egyptians keep dogs nearby to help with tasks such as hunting and guarding. They may have even named them and put collars on them.

1850s Oldest-known photograph of a dog is taken

Ever since the invention of the camera, humans have enjoyed their pets by taking photos of them and with them. The first known photo of pet is titled Poodle with Bow, on Table and will later sell at a Sotheby’s auction for more than $8000 in 2009.

How to Celebrate National Love Your Pet Day

The best part about National Love Your Pet Day is that pet owners can pay extra attention to the animals they love so much. There are a variety of ways and options to choose from when it comes to celebrating National Love Your Pet Day. Pet owners should be encouraged to think outside the box and take actions that you know your pet will particularly adore.

A few ideas for what you can do include going for a walk or hike, playing with them and their toys, and snuggling and cuddling with them. As a dog owner, they may love going to the dog park, so be willing to take a trip there to have them play with the other dogs.

Many people find joy in taking pictures with their pets and sharing them on social media to let their networks know how much they love their furry friends. What’s most important and critical is that one purposely sets aside time to be with their pet on this special day. Pamper him or her with treats and show your pet that they mean the world to you.

Furthermore, take care of your pet’s health by making sure their vaccines are up to date and calling the vet to schedule their next appointment. Turn on the television and enjoy a feature film or video that includes a variety of pets to help cheer them up. Groom and pet your animal so that they look presentable and feel loved. Do them a favor by continuing to train them and practice commands with them on National Love Your Pet Day.

They’ll be better behaved, and it’ll keep them safe when you’re out and about walking them or in public. A pet owner might also want to celebrate by buying them a new toy that they know will excite them. Not only give it to them but then get on the floor and play with your pet. Also, wash their current bedding or give them a new bed that’s more comfortable for them.

Any non-pet owners don’t have to feel left out because there are plenty of options for this group to participate as well. For example, someone may want to donate money to a local shelter or adopt a pet themselves. One can also pitch in and help by offering to watch a friend or family member’s pet during the day while they are at work or need to travel.

Pet owners can rejoice knowing there’s a day designated for them and their pet of choice. Have fun celebrating and showing the household pet how much you adore them. One might even want to consider adding to the family on National Love Your Pet Day and getting another pet to enjoy.

Anyone participating in the day should take the time to admire how amazing their pet is and notice how happy he or she is that they’re receiving extra and special attention from their owner. There is a large community of pet owners out there so connect and share pictures with these individuals and ideas for how one can celebrate National Love Your Pet Day.

National Love Your Pet Day FAQs

How do you show love for your pets?

Everyone wants their pets to know they are loved! How to show this depends on the breed and kind of pet. Dogs like to be scratched behind the ears or on the belly. Cats enjoy hearing their voices mimicked. And rabbits like to spend quality time with their humans.

How are pets beneficial to humans?

National Love Your Pet Day is a perfect time to be reminded of the symbiotic relationship between pets and owners. All pets, but particularly cats and dogs, can lower blood pressure, reduce anxiety and depression, provide companionship and teach children responsibility.

How to celebrate National Love Your Pet Day?

This is a great day to simply show pets they are loved by buying them treats, giving them an extra hug or scratch behind the ears, or just giving them extra attention.

When is National Love Your Pet Day?

Always occurring in late winter, National Love Your Pet Day falls on February 20 of each year.

Which pets live the longest?

Those who are looking to develop a relationship with a pet might wonder how long they can expect them to live. Pet tortoises are, by far, the longest living pet and can often outlive their owners as they can live approximately 50-100 years.

Source

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jewish-privilege · 6 years ago

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In October 2015, I found myself in a frightening situation: My name and face on a Neo-Nazi website identifying me as a Jew along with several hundred other Jews in politics, civics, and philanthropy. The website, which I will not name, warned its readers that Jews were too influential in American life; that we were a corruptive influence on America. While it didn’t advocate actually killing me, I was marked as a person to be silenced.

“How likely are these people to actually kill me?” I asked the expert at the Southern Poverty Law Center, an anti-hate group that researches white supremacist groups. I had called them seeking answers. My husband was sitting beside me, his face full of fear. I felt a tiny kick, a flutter inside me, my hands dropping to my belly. “I should probably mention that I am 8 months pregnant.”

There was a pause at the end of the line. “It’s very rare for these threats to escalate offline,” the nice man began. “They want to scare you. They want to scare you so much you decide that you never want to write again. That’s their goal. What you decide to do next is a personal decision.”

You can see that I decided to keep writing. But thinking back on the advice he gave me, it almost seems quaint: In the four years since those threats, especially since the 2016 election, white supremacists spewing anti-Semitic hatred have marched in Charlottesville chanting “Jews will not replace us,” shot up synagogues in Pittsburgh and California, and murdered gay Jewish student Blaze Bernstein. Anti-Semitic assaults are up 105% since 2017, according to the Anti-Defamation League’s annual audit on American anti-Semitism. More Jews have been killed in anti-Semitic violence around the world in 2018 than in the last several decades, according to the Kantor Center, based out of Tel Aviv University, which researches and analyzes global anti-Semitism. In New York City, a major center of Jewish culture and life, the NYPD has reported an 82% spike in anti-Semitic hate crimes in 2019. In fact, Jews are reporting the highest number of religion-based hate crimes — this is particularly troubling given that Jews are only approximately 2.2% of the U.S. adult population.

And while the majority of incidents and assaults are committed by white supremacists on the right, there has been a concerning spike in incidents and rhetoric from the left wing, too...

As a child growing up in Boston, I knew anti-Semitism existed. I even experienced it from time to time — including when my childhood synagogue was defaced with a swastika. But overall I felt safe in America... I was grateful for a country that had provided Jews with peace and prosperity. America was a rare safe place for us.

Today, that’s different. The baby I was pregnant with is now a thriving, rambunctious toddler. But when we tour Jewish preschools, my first question isn’t about education philosophy, recess or student teacher ratios — it’s always about security. In just a few short years we’ve gone from history to fear.

To understand what can be done, first we need to understand what it is: Anti-Semitism is the hatred of Jews as a distinct people, as opposed to anti-Judaism that targets our religious beliefs and practices. Anti-semitism is a conspiracy theory. It depicts Jews as a cabal secretly controlling the world for evil ends, hurting innocent people to further greedy, cruel agendas. How those agendas manifest changes based on your worldview. If you are far left, it may be that Jews are imperialists who start wars to enrich themselves. If you’re a white nationalist, it’s that Jews are the ringleaders of the White Genocide. If you’re Minister Louis Farrakhan, it’s that Jews were the secret orchestrators of the trans-Atlantic slave trade.

Anti-Semitism is an ancient, chameleonic monster. It adapts to circumstances and seemingly new excuses for age-old prejudices to take hold. This is especially true in periods of political and economic insecurity.

...It doesn't help that we are also living in an era when conspiracy theories can so easily spread (from anti-Obama birtherism to Pizzagate to QAnon). President Trump and his cohorts on the far right capitalize and promote them, fomenting hatred and division through fake news and an assault on the truth. They accuse prominent Jews like George Soros of treacherous crimes, while consorting with and justifying white supremacists and their actions (“very fine people” Trump called them.). They act shocked and appalled when fear mongering, the mainstream legitimization of white nationalists, and dangerously lax gun control leave them with blood on their hands (as it did at Pittsburgh's Tree of Life synagogue).

And yet while I fear anti-Semitism on the right will lead to more violence, I fear anti-Semitism on the left will cause that violence and hate to go unchallenged. As American Jews face rising hate crimes and domestic terrorism, progressives have grappled with a string of unsettling scandals. At first, it was the way left wing groups downplayed anti-Semitism. In the wake of the 2016 election, for example, the Women’s March conspicuously left anti-Semitism off its unity principles, while left wing groups erased it as a core issue in Charlottesville, and were silent during hundreds of JCC bomb threats. Then it got worse. The anti-Semitism scandal surrounding Women’s March leadership unfolded over several tense months, during which they publicly associated with anti-Semitic Farrakhan and engaged in anti-Semitic dog whistling and bullying.

This controversy was followed by statements by freshman Representative Ilhan Omar, in which she fell into anti-Semitic tropes referencing dual loyalty, foreign allegiance, and Jewish money in her criticisms of Israel. Omar had many defenders who dismissed the charges because Omar herself faces Islamophobia and racism. But such tropes do feed the beast. As Ilhan Omar struggled to contain criticism and put forth multiple apologies for her comments, David Duke, the Grand Wizard of the KKK, came to her defense dubbing her the “Most Important Member of Congress.” It’s not to say that Omar should be held accountable for the words of David Duke. But it does indicate the way anti-Semitism — be it from the left or the right — can connect to amplify the threat.

While the Women’s March has taken positive steps to mend fences, like expanding Jewish leadership in the organization and including Jewish women in their Unity Principles, and Omar and the New York Times have apologized, the situations have led to increased division as anti-Semitism continues to spread, and becomes a political wedge issue, all of which creates increased danger for the Jewish community. In a time of increased concern about Jewish security, these scandals have had a devastating emotional impact on the Jewish community. We were taught by our grandmothers to watch for signs of danger — hateful words from across the political spectrum is one of them.

Over the past three years, I have seen anti-Semitism break and undermine strong community relationships and budding movements for justice. This what anti-Semitism does: It attacks democracy and transparency, giving authoritarian actors scapegoats for national problems. It endangers women, people of color, and immigrants as it strengthens and animates white nationalism, xenophobia, and extremist movements.

American Jews know this intrinsically and are frightened. The jump from hate speech to exterminatory violence has been a short one in the history of global Jewry. Many of us were taught about the dangers of anti-Semitism and how quickly it could rise against us from very young ages, especially for those of us who had family who were Holocaust survivors or who endured violence against Jews in the Middle East or Soviet Union. We need Americans to listen to our fear and take a stand.

The first step is to call it out when we see it in our houses of worship, living rooms, libraries, college campuses and kindergartens. This doesn’t mean we dismiss or “cancel” our friends, families, colleagues, and community leaders who engage in anti-Semitism. It means we tell them they are wrong. We educate. Jewish history is over 5,000 years old, and learning what narratives have been used to oppress Jews can be lifesaving. And then, let’s build relationships between communities that are under attack and frightened.

...This is what we need to do for each other: Come together to fight not just anti-Semitism but racism, misogyny, transphobia, homophobia, ableism, Islamophobia, and xenophobia. If we learn each other’s histories, warning signs and dangers and fight for each other, we can make the monsters afraid of us.

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pondernce · 6 years ago

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Behind Closed Doors

Hi!

So this is the first thing I’ve written in almost 5 years, and the first for Outlander. (be kind to me). I hope you like it, and much love to @julesbeauchamp for her support <3

Jamie and Claire meet again in less than ideal circumstances...

Chapter 1

He could feel her hands on him, soft, delicate fingers tracing the planes of his back. They danced over scar tissue--the groves hewn into his skin by force--healing the wounds for him. Her mouth dipped to caress his jaw, the feathery brush of lips chased by soft, humid breath. A kiss on his neck. His Adam’s Apple. The juncture where sternocleidomastoid met trapezius. For a moment he let his eyes close, lost in the sensation. She found his mouth then, her legs winding over his hips and guiding him, urging him on.

Immersed in her, the gentle sound of the crashing waves was lost to him. He pressed up onto his hands, wrenching his mouth away because he needed to see her, needed to find those eyes…

Jamie woke up.

His heart raced, his skin was damp with sweat and he was uncomfortable stiff in his pants. As he was every time he remembered. And he always woke before he could see her face again. Aye, he could call her to his mind’s eye and he’d drawn her a dozen dozen times, but nothing so vivid as those dreams. The sketches were never quite right, and he knew that if he could only see her face in those dreams, he’d be able to capture her likeness completely.

With a sigh bordering on a groan, Jamie sat up and glanced at his phone. Five in the morning wasn’t too early, he supposed. At least it gave him time for a workout before he headed to university. A chance to get the nerves out. For some, perhaps, university was an unnerving step into adulthood. Leaving home, moving into a new place, the excitement of newfound independence. But Jamie had already made his move. From Highland Scotland to the Middle East, with the RAF. He couldn’t look forward to seeing what lads and lasses barely out of their A-levels would make of “adulthood” when they had no real responsibilities yet. And what would they make of him?

The streets of London were hardly quiet at this hour, but they were remarkably empty, and that’s what Jamie needed. A place to clear his head- to get her out of his head- before hustling through the crowded halls of King’s College, London. He jogged through the streets of Southwark, dodging the odd dog walker or early commuter. His route to King’s wouldn’t be long, thankfully. His military salary afforded him a nice enough flat close to the school, just across the river. He shared it with another Scot, Rupert, whom he’d served with in Afghanistan. It was a small mercy that Rupert spent almost all his time at his lass’ flat. The bloke was cheerful, but a bit too much sometimes.

Rounding the corner, Jamie checked the time on his FitBit and pushed his pace up, aiming to finish out five kilometers before he made it home. It wouldn’t due to be late for his first course though, even if his schedule for the day of Legal Philosophy and Medical Ethics hardly seemed interesting.

---

Legal philosophy could have been interesting, if the professor hadn’t put half the class to sleep. Jamie wasn’t surprised though, given that the majority couldn’t have been more than 18. High off being in Uni and hardly interested in what the ancient man before them had to say about the foundations of Legalism. The two girls next to him hardly paid attention, too busy giggling. He recognized the blonde from orientation, and she clearly recognized him.

Throughout the lecture he took diligent notes, only to avoid the girl’s eyes. The former soldier nearly bolted when the course ended.

He had nearly two hours before his next course, and plans to meet that bloke from the Rugby team. He’d gone out before orientation, trying to find some way to get involved. Many veterans struggled in university to find community, and he hoped he wouldn’t be another statistic.

“Fraser!”

He turned, smiling over a few startled students to see John Grey speed walking towards him. He was young, but Jamie found he didn’t mind that energy, John seemed a good person.

Smiling, he bumped the shorter man gently on the shoulder. “Good to see ye, I hope yer class wasn’t as boring…”

“Haven’t had class yet, just came early to grab lunch with you. We have practice this afternoon, you know? You’re welcome to come.”

Jamie glanced at his phone and shook his head. “Medical Ethics,” he sighed, “can ye tell I’m keen?” he laughed and shook his head. He wanted to get a background in law before he tried to leap into counter terrorism, and how did medicine relate to that?

“Pity. I hope it’s interesting.”

“I doubt it.”

Jamie didn’t mean to be cynical about university. It was supposed to be an opportunity to make something of himself after his medical discharge. Only, he found it overwhelmingly uncomfortable. And pointless. When he’d been in the war, reviewing briefings and in charge of his men, everything had been urgent. Learning on the fly, under pressure, where attention meant life or death. Here, he had the feeling he’d never need to attend to do well. It was disheartening.

His mind drifted as they ate. His fingers itched for his sketchbook, idle in his book bag. Jamie has taken up the hobby in the barracks, well before he met his muse. But the last two Moleskins had been interspersed with pages devoted to her. It had been a year, he knew he needed to let go. But he couldn’t yet.

“Jamie,” John’s voice cut into his thoughts, jarring the plans for how he’d shade the moonlight dappled on her skin from his thoughts.

“Och, Sorry. What was it ye we’re saying?”

John pursed his lips with that good natured shake of the head Jamie had already come to realize was a habit. “We should get going to class, where’s your head, man?”

The scot blushed, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck with a laugh. “Nothing, sorry. I didn’t sleep well, ye ken?” It wasn’t quite a lie, given he almost never slept well, or the medically recommended amount. With a small nod he grabbed their rubbish, scolding himself internally on the short walk to the bin.

Jamie knew better. He wanted to make something of himself that wasn’t available in the military, and that’s why he was here. He’d done the work, networked with other former soldiers already working for MI5 and in the government, learned what he needed to do if he wanted to work against domestic terrorism. But university should also be for himself, shouldn’t it? A change to live a bit of a normal life, to decompress after so much time at war. He knew he was lucky to even be back in the UK, let alone at a prestigious university. With a sigh and a quick shake of his head, he returned to John.

“I’ll be at practice after my class eh, make it up to you. Ye free for a pint after?” He grabbed his bag and fell into step alongside the shorter man, making a mental note of their plans as John went off about something on the news that morning. His brother was running for Parliament and the whole family had been in politics for centuries. Perhaps someday Jamie would be able to take advantage of such a connection, but presently he just needed the company.

They parted ways at one of the newer campus buildings, all shiny glass and stone. London was like that--an eclectic mix of modern and tradition that had Jamie missing Scotland more than foreign shores ever had. He’d not been home in years, and never truly wanted to go back. At least not yet.

“Excuse me,” he shoulder his way through a gaggle of students in the corridor, looking for the correct room. “104, 106… Christ.” 108 had to be the smallest room in the building, if not on the bloody campus. He’d failed to realize that the modern building connected to one of the oldest buildings, where the rooms became cramped cubicles of stone with sharply pointed windows, more reminiscent of a church than a university. The floor was old oak pitted and polished by centuries of steps, and Jamie could almost trace the path to one of the few available seats left. He was a large bloke--a fact which became abundantly clear as he settled behind the old fashioned desk. His knees knocked against the tabletop when he tried to sit up, forcing him to fold them awkwardly over the side. “Bit cramped, aye?” He joked quietly, meeting the eyes of a petite girl watching him. She flushed violently and nodded, stuttering over her reply.

“It-It’s a small course,” she shrugged finally, milky eyes darting back to her phone.

Jamie hummed, his own phone lost in the bottom of his bag after he got off the tube. After the military he apparently lacked the addiction to smartphones present in the rest of his generation. Or perhaps he was just old. Stretching his legs, he inadvertently cracked his back and sighed in relief, twisting to traction the other side just as another student walked in.

He froze, tracking her steps as she came into the small room. Slightly flustered, curls escaping her high bun and dragging over the material of her lightweight olive jumper, and her arms full of files and textbooks, she was unmistakably the same woman. His muse. Jamie traced every line of her, the smooth curves he knew with his hands and his pencil. He watched the long arc of her graceful neck, so pale and flawless against her dark hair. He couldn’t see her eyes, not yet, and the desire to almost had him squirming in his seat. So distracted was he that he failed to notice she hadn’t taken one of the available seats.

His muse had set down her books at the front of the room, shrugged off her camel overcoat and tossed it carelessly over the podium, carved her name into the ancient chalkboard in neat print, and now stood before them all, introducing the course.

His muse was a professor. His muse was his professor.

The name that had been absent from his syllabus and his memories stared mockingly back at him, stark white on deep green. Dr. Claire Beauchamp.

#my fic #behind closed doors #jamie & claire #prof/student au #if you catch a typo let me know!!#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fic

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herenortherenearnorfar · 6 years ago

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The Development of Farming in Middle-Earth

An agricultural revolution is driven by multiple factors. Time is one of them, as is location, as is necessity. Therefore I would argue that Valinor lacked a farming culture and that large swathes of farming technology were innovated later, in the First Age and beyond.

First let’s establish that the Calaquendi were not farmers. Tolkien’s own anti-tech sensibilities, the emphasis within the text on farming and forests, and the presence of powerful nature spirits who would make the need for fields and crops redundant all suggest a more garden/foraging based society. Since Yavanna, Ulmo, Oromë can create food (plants, animals) they could eliminate the pressures (overhunting, hunger) that led to the advent of grain agriculture in the real world. They would also have motive to stick with a more hunter-gather society, since mono-crop farming and animal rearing would contradict Yavanna’s pro-tree agenda and Oromë’s interest in preserving the wild. And although elves have a bread-culture this doesn’t necessarily mean that they cultivated wheat-- wild grains like millet and barley were used by hunter-gathers to create flatbreads. Lothlorien, which is mostly forested, and wild Doriath also created bread, meaning that the presence of bread isn’t a sure indicator of big farming.

This doesn’t mean Valinorean elves wouldn’t understand animal domestication and plant cultivation; just that they wouldn’t need to engage in these activities on a wide scale. We know from the text that elves keep dogs and horses, but we don’t get a lot of insight into their cattle raising, for example (there are extant elvish words for bull, but most other cow related words are from Gnomish or other early language iterations). The presence of weaving suggests that they may have bred woolly sheep (there is a Quenya word for sheep) but shepherding and sheep flocks aren’t mentioned until descriptions of the early Hadorians. For people with the ability to learn animal-speech keeping free range sheep would be much more feasible than for humans, allowing for a more flexible “hands off until shearing time” sheep relationship. Out of respect for Oromë, hunting seems to have taken over animal husbandry as a major source of protein.

(This also ties into a theory of mine that elves are largely lactose intolerant past childhood. Without herding it’s hard to develop those enzymes.)

The same is true of plants. Valinorean elves probably experimented with plant hybridization and modification, kept private gardens or orchards, and prided themselves on growing new varietals, but may not have kept large scale fields. What would be the need, when you can just throw some seed down on the grassland (at all times of the year no less- thanks lembas essay) and trust Yavanna to make it all work? When the woods are full of infinite food and you have the gods of sea creatures and land dwelling beasts on your side there isn’t the same food pressure that faced early humans in real life. Food is everywhere, all you need to do is nurture and collect it.

Of course not all elves were in Valinor. Middle-Earth elves would have developed certain technologies much faster than their more sheltered peers. At the same time, the Green-Elves of Ossiriand are noted to resent “hewers of trees and hunters of beasts” so they definitely weren’t clearing fields left and right. In fact, let’s split the Moriquendi up into groups based on location, to get a better sense of their respective farming styles.

In Doriath was Melian, who has the potential to fulfill a Yavanna-like role as a forest nurturer. Again, you have to put less effort in when there’s a goddess on your side. The elves of Doriath were noted woodmen and hunters, and their descendants in the Greenwood and Lothlorien seem to have favored similarly naturalist approaches. Forest gardening isn’t out of the question. However two facts stand out. One: Menegroth was underground. This means that they had the potential to develop fungiculture (possibly developed with the help of dwarves). Two: prior to Morgoth’s awakening the elves of Doriath were less isolationist and wandered far. This means that they may have done some light plant propagation, moving seeds around and planting trees in more advantageous places. Your basic early Neolithic revolution behavior.

In Ossiriand were the Nandor, who again, valued their trees a lot. This means that they’re going to be less willing to clear land or practice field farming. They may have still engaged in forest gardening, like the people of Doriath, encouraging food plants to grow and cultivating oak trees, fruit orchards, edible vines and shrubs, mushrooms, wild herbs, and other forest friendly food.

Near lake Mithrim were Sindar elves who first met the Noldor. These are the most likely candidates for early field farming tech, since they had both deforested flatland and access to water sources. They’re also the most likely to have begun growing wild grains like wheat, barley, and millet.

The Falathrim is where things get interesting. We know that they kept “pools” in addition to their beaches and that they were dear to Ossë, an ocean Maia. This suggest a seafood based diet and the potential for pesciculture. Ancient forms of fish farming often worked in tandem with the sea and spawning habits of fish. Trenches would would be dug meeting the ocean, roe would be captured, and juvenile fish raised in fresh water. The Falathrim may have kept artifical tidal pools as well as raised fry. They may have also engaged in seaweed farming. The same goes for the Teleri across the sea, though again living in Valinor means that there’s much less need to stress over food. On Tol Eressea, seaweed farming and sea fishing will have proliferated, giving way to city gardens as the island population grew.

The Avari are the most open for interpretation. We don’t know what these mystery suitors were doing on the other side of the continent. The Avari are said to have been more primitive than the Noldor but let’s look at the source here-- we can’t trust a Noldor account to be honest. Context clues can help us make guesses, however. For example, humans showed up in the middle of the First Age with domestic sheep, horses, donkeys, and goats (thanks random detail about the Hadorians from HoME). That isn’t something you figure out in a few hundred years. Given that we know early humans interacted with the Avari it’s entirely possible that they learned animal husbandry from them as well. So the Avari may have kept these animals! At the same time it’s mentioned that the Beorians “had no beasts of burden” so whatever animal technology later humans picked up from the Avari it took them a while to master it.

Other technologies the Avari may have possessed include fungiculture (for they were long without the sun and preferred dark places), forest farming, and maybe some floodplain farming since many stayed near the lake where they originated.

Now once the Noldor Exiles hit Beleriand they would have had to shift their food production methods drastically. No longer surrounded by greater and lesser spirits they faced much a much more serious potential for famine. Furthermore, encounters with the Mithrim and Falathrim, and later the elves of Doriath and Ossiriand, will have introduced new principles of agriculture. The combination of Noldor GMO technology (nurtured in an open sandbox of innovation) plus more necessity based Beleriand techniques, likely paved the way for a new flourishing of agriculture. The regions many of Fingolfin and Feanor’s kin moved into-- flat lands and mountainous regions with less forest to worry about-- will have also helped develop a more robust farming culture.

They’re still elves so they’re going to be more hesitant to mess with nature but with the rise of the Noldor we’re more likely to see irrigation, fertilizer, and professional farming. Wild grains will have slowly become more domesticated. It’s mentioned in HoME that corn (grains) originated in Aman, were brought to Middle-Earth, but didn’t do well and was mostly kept by adherents of Yavanna (including some in Doriath, who grew grains in limited amounts in sunlit glades). There’s a sense that the elves have a lot of plants but are still figuring out what to do with them. Things they can grow: wild grasses, grapes (they have wine!), sturdy fruits and veggies willing to resist Morgoth.

Dwarves are hard to judge because we don’t get a ton of insight into their material culture. Sure they love mountains but where does their food come from? They like it but how? Where? Nevertheless, we can attribute to dwarves mountain terraces, fungiculture, and indoor agriculture using reflected sunlight. In fact, dwarves might have invented greenhouses, which would give them a foot over their peers in early post-Sunrise Middle Earth. The petty-dwarves cultivated some sort of root-vegetable so other dwarves likely did as well. They also probably made big strides in pony-breeding, goat rearing, and some other types of animal husbandry.

Finally, the humans arrive. Now the agricultural innovations of non-Beleriand humans are really hard to judge. We know that they were big farmers within a few thousand years though, which again suggests some Avari help. In the east irrigation and complex water retention would have developed most quickly. They probably also further developed grain farming (important for a fast reproducing population) and your basic river valley techniques (flood control, fertilizer, plant breeding) within a fairly short time frame. Again, the Avar and non-Atani humans really don’t get the credit they deserve for speed running civilization without divine interference.

Onto the Beleriand humans who we do know about. The Haladin had independent homesteads by Haleth’s time, a practice that’s pretty hard to maintain (early agricultural was communal for a reason). The Hadorians had animal husbandry. The Beorians were quick to take to farming and willing to learn from elves. All of this suggests an adaptable, innovative farming culture which might be a little more garden focused than medieval Europe but was still plenty productive.

After the fall of Beleriand we meet even more humans. In Numenor sheep were kept, for example, in addition to various crops. Corn of Aman origin were favored and the Numenoreans spread these more developed grains across the world, leading to better farming for all men. Widespread field agriculture developed in Arnor and Gondor. Milk was drunk among herding cultures and farming cultures (both Rohan and Gondor were probably full of milk drinkers), making animal farming more profitable. Cows are widespread by the period of LoTR, as are chickens, goats, cheese, and plants like tomatoes and potatoes. Beekeeping is also present in the Shire, suggesting that beekeeping has developed over the past few millenia.

The Woses, a more woodland based group, favored forest farming and cave living. Other human groups followed their lead, remaining more forest based until Numenor came and ripped their forests up. Numenorean imperialism in general can be seen as a force for field based farming, destroying earlier forest models. And exception would be in the far East, where again, humans seem to have figured things out on their own.

Later elven groups include Silvan and Sindar communities (more likely to favour forest living) and Noldor communities (more likely to have cities, gardens, and some fields though not on a human scale.) Very late elf enclaves like Rivendell may have combined rooftop gardening with forest cultivation.

All this probably sounds like a load of nonsense so I’ve summed up the development of Middle Earth farming in a few easy notes.

Who Invented What?

Planting seeds and then harvesting them was recognized by all elf groups, roughly simultaneously

Gardens were invented by the Amanyar, Teleri (all groups), and Avari, later spread everywhere

Food forests were invented by the Nandor and Sindar, later practiced by the Woses and other human groups as well as Silvan/Sindar elves

Grain farming was invented by the Mithrim and Amanyar then later perfected by the Easterlings and Numenoreans

Organic Fertilizer was invented by the Nandor and later preferred in human settlements

Mass fertilization and nitrogen fertilizer was invented by the Noldor exiles and sometimes used in Numenor

Chemical fertilizers and pollution were invented by The Forces of Darkness

Greenhouses were invented by the dwarves and Exile Noldor, later used in parts of Arnor and Gondor

Irrigation was developed by the Mithrim then further developed by the Noldor and friends. It was also practiced by the Avari and Easterlings

Fungiculture was invented by the dwarves and Avari, then later shared with the Sindar

Pesciculture was invented by the Teleri (all groups)

Seaweed farming was invented by the Falathrim and elves of Tol Eressea

Terrace farming was invented by the dwarves and later practiced by elves and humans

Horse riding is just about universal

General animal husbandry was invented by the Amanyar and Avari, later embraced by all humans

Raising animals for meat was developed by the Avari and later passed on to humans

Raising animals for milk is entirely on humans

GMO plants were invented by the Amanyar, improved on by combined elves of Beleriand, and dabbled in by Numenoreans. Also the Avari and Easterlings probably had them to some extent but who knows because we don’t have enough info on them.

#long post #rambling #The Silmarillion #jrr tolkien #farming

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faveficarchive · 5 years ago

Text

Coup de Grace: Part 1

The Last of the International Dilettantes

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: From the Author:

The fabulously ill-tempered archaeologist Janice Covington and Southern-Belle-in-Exile Melinda Pappas gradually discover the real truth at the heart of the Xena Scrolls, in a story that darkly plays with time and memory, loss and desire, and the nature of what is real and what is not.

The stars all seem motionless, embedded in the eternal vault; yet they must all

be in constant motion, since they rise and traverse the heavens with their

luminous bodies till they return to the far-off scene of their setting.

—Lucretius

1. Still Life with Assistant Professor

Cambridge, 1948

At precisely 12:19 p.m. on Saturday, June 11, 1948, after sitting on the back porch and consuming two meatloaf sandwiches, drinking half a beer, pondering the uneven lawn begging to be mowed as well as the rutted wood rot in the roof beams of the porch, thinking that she didn't want to go to Venice to some damned boring conference anyway, then wondering why she didn't want to go anywhere and would rather stay and home and paint the kitchen ceiling and pull weeds out of the garden and just watch her lover fall asleep in the sun, after all this fermentation of thought aided by the American institutions of beef and beer, Dr. Janice Covington, the restless, relentless archaeologist and world explorer, fully realized that she had been domesticated.

She exhaled, as if some intangible pseudo-virility within her had been deflated.

Then she burped, and this small, crude action comforted her.

Janice laid back on the porch, head pillowed on a forearm, ignoring the empty, yawning lawn chair—she could not tolerate being civilized any further. Smoke from her cigarette drifted up into the rafters of the back porch. Out, damned rot! she thought, scowling at the poor old beams. She had warned Mel about this, when they bought the house—that it was less sturdy than it looked. But its shabby genteel, struggling-academics-meet-haunted-house ambiance possessed great appeal to the Southerner, who reveled in a very regional penchant for the Gothic. Not to mention that the house, drafty in the winter, also possessed incessantly creaking floorboards and a regularly flooding basement. Nonetheless, Janice reluctantly admitted to herself that she liked the house. Oh, hell, I love it. It's ours. She sat up abruptly, as if the happy thought would strip it all away. I've been waiting for two years for the other shoe to drop.

She continually expected to wake up some morning in a leaky tent somewhere in the middle of nowhere: alone, on a site...lucid and miserable and no longer part of this living dream. Or she would wake to find a "Dear Jane" kinda letter propped against the sugar bowl (no, Mel would take grandma's sugar bowl with her. Against the toaster, maybe?) on the kitchen table : Dear Janice, I cannot go on any longer loving someone as short as you. I'm going back home to my fiancé, who was 6'4" in his stocking feet. You can keep the car. Love, Mel. Never mind the fact that the fiancé was now, most definitely, a former fiancé and married to another woman, and who kept sending Mel annoying photos of his newborn son, who had a strangely large head, like a mutant turnip....now there's someone who desperately needed the Pappas gene pool. But so far, practically every day, she woke to the smell of coffee, to Mel in the kitchen, loose hair spilling over a bathrobe, frowning over the newspaper. This world, I swear, she would drawl.

This world. When Janice was younger she kept a journal, in which she wrote about the things she was learning from her father. When she was 19 she finished one particular notebook with a litany of names—all the places she'd seen thus far. Under the dark canopy of night and tent, everything seethed with possibility, and she would recite the list in her mind: Hierakonpolis. Athens. Syria. Alexandria.

The litany kept her company, and for a long time it felt like her only friend. Through the holes in the old tent she would see stars.

Cairo. Rome. Istanbul. Thessalonika.

It had not occurred to her then to wonder if she was happy. Because everything had seemed possible. She looked around the yard. And the amazing thing was, it still felt that way.

Add Cambridge to the list.

*****

"Ah, my little Mad Dog. My poor, little, housebroken Mad Dog."

Upon murmuring this benediction, Paul Rosenberg leaned back into the soft leather chair at the study's desk, and put his feet up on it, ignoring Covington's entreaties about doing so. Janice was always so nervous in the study—which she considered Mel's room—as if she were in the tomb of Tutankhamen himself and fearing some ancient Carolinian curse, should objects be tampered with. Carefully, he stretched his long legs over the desk, avoiding the thick, vellum-paged notebook, covered with lines of Greek, and an English which, to him, was as indecipherable as the ancient language, given the florid, tangled serifs of the bold hand. He knew instantly it wasn't Janice's handwriting, having encountered her painstakingly neat printing while they worked at Neuschwanstein. The chair carried a faint whiff of Mel's perfume. He smiled and closed his eyes for a minute.

His brief, fluttery daydream of a certain leggy, blue-eyed brunette was disrupted by the disgruntled tones of a certain small blonde: "Hey, asshole."

Janice had lured him from his penniless life in New York to an equally penniless one in Boston, with the promise of a teaching post for him at the college. When this drunken promise failed to materialize (I would've known she was drunk on the phone if I hadn't been drinking myself!), he found music gigs in town, tutored here and there, and acted as Janice's Boy Friday, a position that dictated nothing much more than picking up her dry cleaning (skirts being an unfortunate fact of life for a female professor, even one as lowly as she) and trying to discern the fate of the scroll she viewed at Neuschwanstein at the end of the war. You've still got the military contacts, buddy boy, she had said to him. Paul opened his eyes and smiled broadly at Janice, a toothy grin crowding his ten o'clock shadow, his open madras shirt flapping in the breeze from the window, revealing a slightly yellowing white v-neck undershirt. "Yes, my little Mad Dog?"

"Stop calling me that," she snapped. He had been relentless about the nickname, ever since hearing Mel employ it in an equally teasing fashion one day, as she shipped Janice off to work: Mad Dog honey, y'all sure are pretty in that dress! Now she stood before him, scowling, hands settled along her hips, in blue jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He suddenly wondered if she had seen A Streetcar Named Desire recently, or if Marlon Brando had taken butch lessons from her. "Whaddya got for me? You call that number down in Washington?"

"Ah. Well, I got stonewalled. That's what I got." He sighed, and toyed with a fountain pen from the desk. "I can't get the file. Sorry."

"You're kidding me. They won't even let you see a file?"

He shook his head. "I tell ya, I really ran up my phone bill trying to track it down. All I found out was that the scroll had been returned to the family of the owner before the war. Presumably the family that the lovely Fraulein Stoller bought it from. They live in Venice."

"Venice," Janice repeated dully.

"That mean something to you?"

"There's an international archaeology conference there next month." Then, to herself: "Damnit, I need a name, at least." He murmured, "That's a coincidence."

"I hate coincidences, Paul." She paced in front of him. "Who's the bigwig in charge of all this?" She felt a familiar burn in her gut: the excitement of the chase. Is it happening again? I've still got it, then?

"Some general named Fenton, in Washington. I spoke to a flunky in his office. We got to bullshitting about the war, and he was the one who told me the scroll is in Venice. But that's all he would tell me."

Janice stopped pacing. She stared at him. Another coincidence. "The general is Jeremiah Winston Fenton?" "None other." Paul glanced at her uneasily. "Why?" "I'll be damned. Mel knows him. He was an old friend of her father's."

"Old Dr. Pappas knew everyone, it seems."

"Comes in handy."

"I see. So...you think Melinda could sweet-talk him? Is that your plan?"

"No." Janice sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "She hates him. Said he's a creepy old bastard."

"Somehow I can't hear her saying that," Paul noted wryly.

"Her exact words were, 'He's quite a terrible old man.' " She mimicked Mel's accent to perfection.

"That's pretty good, sweetheart. You sound just like her," he said admiringly.

"I get a lot of practice. But let me translate it into our lingo: He's a bastard. He put the moves on her, not long after her father died."

Paul shrugged. "Surely she's used to beating them off with a stick," he said, with forced carefulness. You don't want to be on that list of terrible men, do you, buddy? He was content just to be in Mel's orbit. Or so he believed. Given the strength of the relationship he witnessed between the two women, he knew he had very little choice in the matter.

"We're talking hours after Dr. Pappas's funeral," she snorted.

"Oh." He winced. "Lovely."

"Yeah. I don't want to put her through talkin' to that asshole again." Additionally, she was wary of using Mel's charms in this way, given the near disastrous results with Catherine Stoller. Near disaster? Okay, definite disaster. She was quiet for moment, but Paul didn't like the strange glint in her eye.

"Get the phone, will ya?"

*****

Paul's hand grew sweaty as he gripped the phone, and the business-like woman answered. "Melinda Pappas calling for General Fenton!" he barked into the receiver. Janice gave him a thumb's-up sign. He nodded, then handed her the phone. She made a great show of wiping her hand after touching the slimy receiver, but no sooner than she did, Paul could hear, from his close proximity, a deep male voice on the line.

"Why, General Fenton, is that you?" she began. Eerily, her voice had taken on the accent and cadences of her lover's. "Yes, it's me, Melinda. I know, it has been simply too long. Yes, yes, that is too true! So! How was your war?"

Paul rolled his eyes.

"Oh yes, I was abroad for a while, in England. I did so want to help the cause, and I was kept out of the WACs 'cause of my terrible nearsightedness." Janice giggled like a demented schoolgirl. "General, stop! Y'all are too much! My eyes do not look like sapphires! Well, maybe just a teeny bit, I suppose. You're so sweet. A summer sky? No, no one's ever told me that before! Well, now, I did have a purpose in callin' you…I've been so desperate for help. Yes, I am positively desperate!" Janice sat up straight, breathless as a Gene Tierney heroine. "You see, I have been continuin' the work of my Daddy—God rest his soul—and durin' the war I was fortunate enough to view a certain scroll at this lovely little castle in Germany—Neuschwanstein, yes. Now I'm sure you know, given how eee-fficient the military is, that it has been returned to its original owner, but I would so love to have a look at it again, so I need to contact the individual who is in possession of it. I had one of my manservants call your office earlier, to see if they would provide any information of their own free will—but I'll be darned if your Yankee bureaucracy didn't have me hog-tied! Yes sir, I bet you could just picture that: me, all tied up! What a sight! I was madder than a hornet's nest." A pause. More male rumbling. "Oh my, yes, you better believe it, sir! I do have a terrible temper. Why, just the other day I found one of the servants spit-polishing my silver! Usin' his disgusting saliva on the tea service that my great-grandaddy fought and died for, defendin' it from Sherman's fiends! I was so furious I could've cut off his balls and fed them to the hounds…" Janice's voice dropped menacingly. "They do so love the smell of blood, it arouses them for the hunt."

Paul conveyed a frantic plea to stay in character via a well-placed kick to the shin.

Janice grimaced, then cleared her throat. "Er, as I was saying, I would so love it if perhaps you could intervene…" Another pause. A bright smile lit up the archaeologist's face. "Oh General," she cooed seductively, "you are wonderful. I am entirely indebted to you. Uh-huh..." Janice picked up a fountain pen and scribbled down some information in the notebook in front of her. "Yes indeedy, I will call that lieutenant...and I certainly hope you read him the riot act!" Another pause. "No, I'm not living in South Carolina, or even in North Carolina anymore..." An unfortunate inspiration occurred. "Why, I'm livin' in New Orleans now! You sound as excited as I did when I moved here! Ah got together with a bunch of my old sorority sisters from Vanderbilt, and we all chipped in and bought a lovely old house down in the French Quarter. We call it the Rising Sun."

He buried his head in his hands.

"If you're ever down that way, well, you just try lookin' me up." Another peal of feminine tittering. "Oh, you're just awful! Uh-huh. Really? Well, red is my favorite color, you know…mmm-hmmmm. I would love to talk longer, General, but my manservant just brought in my mint julep and reminded me about gin rummy with the girls this afternoon. Why, yes…" she grinned at Paul. "He is a big strapping man, how did you know?"

Paul heard a loud click at the other end of the line. Janice looked at the phone in surprise. "Got him all worked up," she muttered.

He shook his head in pure disbelief. "You are out of your damn mind, Janice."

"That ain't no way to talk to a lady, mister."

"You're no lady, even when you're pretending to be one. And I tell you, if she ever finds out—"

Janice jammed a finger in his face. "She's not gonna find out unless you tell her, and if you do, I'll feed your balls to the hounds—"

"I'd like to see you try, butchling, 'cause we might as well face facts here—"

She grabbed his shirt, yanking him up out of the chair, knocking over the notebook.

"—you're pussywhipped!" he shouted gleefully.

Both parties felt a breeze from the study door, now opened by the woman who, indeed, without a single doubt, had them both pussywhipped. Mel stood in the doorway, her face slightly flushed from her brisk walk from the campus in the midday sun, carrying the leather satchel that once belonged to her father on her shoulder, and with a needless cardigan sweater draped over one forearm, poised like a waiter with a towel. Her pale, well-formed arms were bare in the summer dress she wore. Judging from the slightly dazed expression on her face, she either heard Paul's exclamation or was suffering a mild form of heat stroke.

"Hi," Mel greeted timidly, feeling as if she had interrupted some intimate scenario in a house that was not her own.

Both Paul and Janice mumbled hellos.

"Um..." Mel began, as she deposited both satchel and sweater on the study's couch.

Paul straightened his abused shirt. "Hey, didn't you tell me you guys got meatloaf?" Before Mel could affirm, he darted past and down the hallway into the kitchen.

Janice remained sitting, now cross-legged, on the desk, prompting a scowl of disapproval from her companion. The archaeologist jumped off the desk immediately, sending loose papers scattering in her wake, and inadvertently wounding the fountain pen, which proceeded to bleed blue ink all over the desk's blotter.

Mel sighed deeply.

"Sorry."

"This word—" Mel tried again. A parade of nervous tics commenced. First she nudged her glasses with a knuckle. Beneath the becoming blush, Janice could see the little linguistic wheels spinning in her lover's mind: Pussywhipped. Transitive verb. Pussy. Slang, obscene.... Then she scratched her cheek and tugged nervously on her ear.

The bullshit generator kicked in. "It's all part of the Mad Dog legend, baby. You know lots of things are said about me, and ah, this is one of those rumors...that, ah, I liked to abuse cats."

"I see," Mel responded, drawing an imaginary line in the carpet with the tip of her shoe, perhaps indicating a rapidly lowering threshold of nonsense. She took a step toward Janice. Who retreated with a much larger step of her own. "You know...dogs don't...like...cats..."

"If that is the case, then, wouldn't it have made more sense for Paul to call you a pussywhipper?" Mel said the word cautiously, as if afraid of mispronouncing it.

Oh, to hear that word rolling off that tongue. Language covered in honey. "Now Mel," Janice muttered, taking another backstep and colliding with a chair, "you know the intricacies of American slang cannot be easily dissected and understood fully without further research. There is also an arbitrary element at work, which we must take into account—"

"Good Lord, you are becoming an academic."

Janice gaped at her, hurt. "That was low!"

"My apologies, Assistant Professor Covington." Mel grinned at her; then, gradually, both the smile and the warm blush faded. "Did you sleep at all this morning?"

"Huh?" The archaeologist feigned ignorance. "Sure, once you were gone. You take up a lot of space." As do the nightmares in my head. "And you snore like an old man," she added softly.

The smile returned to Mel's face. "No one says you have to sleep with me."

"Actually, it's in the 'Rules for Pussywhippers' handbook. I must suffer for love."

"Perhaps," Mel suggested, "I should just ask Paul about this word. Hmmm?" She turned on her heel for the door. The little blonde panicked; she knew Paul would crack as soon as Mel took the meatloaf away from him. With a running leap, Janice jumped her, piggybacking effortlessly onto Mel's back. The Southerner oofed in surprise, then giggled, but bore the weight effortlessly, instinctively grabbing the legs that locked around her waist, and opting not to think about the dirty heels digging into her clothes. "Is this pussywhipping?" she asked in mock innocence. "Or a prelude to, perhaps?"

Janice laughed. "Will you stop for a minute?" She tightened her arms slightly around Mel's neck and shoulders.

"I will find out what that word means," the translator proclaimed.

"Of that I have no doubt. You're the most stubborn woman I ever did meet."

"You bring it out in me," accused Mel.

No snappy retorts came to Janice's mind. She was too close to the nape of Mel's neck, and inhaled her scent with the ferocity of a junkie. The roller coaster rush through her blood left her dazed and senseless, and resistant to sequential thought. "How's your Italian?" she mumbled into Mel's ear.

"What? Oh, just fine. It's sittin' in the back of my brain, with my French and my Latin, playin' backgammon. Why?"

"That's a surreal answer."

"Such a non-sequitur deserves it."

Janice kissed her cheek. Several times.

"Hmm. That's a better non-sequitur."

"Baby," the archaeologist purred, "we're going to Venice."

Mel craned her neck to look at Janice in surprise. "You changed your mind?" In previous discussions concerning the conference, Mel had taken Janice's lack of interest as a sign they would not be going. She had been surprisingly disappointed, wondering, with some amusement, if she herself were the one growing restless.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Good question, wondered Janice. I just got caught up in the chase again. Figures as soon as I accept settling down, it starts up again. "Tell ya later," she replied as Paul stomped back into the room.

"Hey, you guys are out of—" he stopped, blinking in surprise at this playfulness. Simple horseplay, or Lesbian foreplay? I don't want to know, do I? Whatever it was, the obvious love made him feel about a dozen kinds of ambivalence.

But that happy look in Mel's eyes, and her big grin, seemed to override everything for him at that moment. "We're goin' to Venice," she blurted, like a kid, breathless, as she lugged Covington toward the door.

Paul managed a small, wry smile. "Send me a postcard," he said wistfully.

2. The Spell, Unbroken

Venice, 1948

For Jennifer Halliwell Davies, another trip to Venice was…another trip to Venice. The city was like a drowning woman, a dying dowager thrown on a reef: It was alive, though just barely, and as such did not interest her. She could not even remember how many times she had been in the city, let alone this particular palazzo, one of many built during the Renaissance by the powerful Cornaro family.

But there was one thing in Venice that interested her: a certain woman, who stood in the crowd milling in the courtyard below.

She'd had a premonition—well, not exactly that. She'd met a fellow in the hotel bar the night before, some poor anthropology professor from Harvard, who hit her up for as many vodkas as she was willing to buy. And when she discovered that the chap knew Janice Covington and had said that the esteemed archaeologist was attending the conference as well, Jenny would have stormed Moscow itself and raided Stalin's liquor cabinet just to keep him talking.

And there she was.

Jenny hid herself, allowing a large vase to provide her cover, as she stared at Janice through her fashionable turista binoculars.

Upon closer inspection through the looking glass, she noted that Janice wore a man's white oxford shirt, bright against her tanned arms, and it looked clean. Must've been laundry day yesterday. The pants were khaki, as they usually were, and the wild strawberry blonde tresses were twined carelessly into a messy braid. The only things missing were the leather jacket and the foul fedora, older than the Dead Sea Scrolls. Perhaps the abomination passing as a millinery item had finally faced its overdue demise. Nonetheless, the good doctor looked quite prepared to lead an impromptu expedition into the most appalling of canals.

Despite the never-changing attire, she thought Janice looked different somehow. The small article she encountered almost a year ago in Archaeology magazine, about the so-called Xena Scrolls and Dr. Covington's role in their recovery, mentioned that she had served in the war—was that why Janice looked more mature?

The archaeologist was nodding politely at the older woman who had engaged her in conversation—whom Jenny recognized as a White Russian expatriate, just another international dilettante like herself. Her brows knitted in curiosity as she realized what was different: There was no impatient, angry scowl on Janice's face.

Jenny felt Linus's presence before he said anything—or, more accurately, she felt his mustache tickle her ear. "You were right," he burred.

She frowned, then lowered the binoculars. "Not totally useless, you know."

Linus smiled. "Never said you were, darling." His arm drew around her waist in an affectionate squeeze. "Aren't you going to go say hello to her?"

"Should I?" She tapped the lens of the binoculars irritably, then pushed away a loose strand of her blonde hair. "I suppose it's tempting."

"I'll leave it to you." Linus touched the knot of his green silk tie for the umpteenth time. Then he slicked back his dark brown hair with the damp palm of his hand, twitched his mustache to make sure it was in place, and allowed his hand wander back to the tie.

"If you don't stop fussing with that, I'm going to hang you with it," his wife hissed. "You're worse than a woman."

He raised a thick eyebrow. "I always thought you liked that about me," he parried pleasantly.

She smiled at the familiar retort. After almost ten years of marriage, the minutiae of their lives—the jokes, the jaunts, and the lovers, shared and not shared—flimsy on their own accord and meaningless when dissected, held them together more than any illusion of love or fidelity.

"You haven't seen her in over five years," her husband reminded her. "The spell is broken, is it not?"

She said nothing.

"You know what she's like." Linus prodded with the delicacy of a ham-handed surgeon. "Girl in every port...."

...and I was just lucky Alexandria was a stop on her itinerary.

"I would be surprised if she's here alone. And," he added, ignoring her homicidal glare, "Covington is an awful lot of bother. She breathes trouble like air."

Jenny turned her gray eyes to her husband. "That was part of her appeal, you idiot," she growled.

Linus rolled his eyes, unable to comprehend this. "Oh, righto. Forgot that bit. As I said, I'll leave it all to you, dear. If I should run into her first, I'll just tell her you're at Baden Baden with the masseuse again and you can remain up here, hiding."

He succeeded in making her laugh. His lines around his eyes crinkled as he grinned, and then softened as he grew serious.

"What?" she prompted.

"Don't get hurt, hmm?" He kissed her cheek, trotted down the stone steps leading into the garden, and she turned her attention, once again, to the woman in her sights. "And Jenny?" he called, turning around suddenly to face her again.

"What?" she shouted irritably.

"Don't give her any money!"

Oh, you cheap bastard. "Fine!" she retorted, as he melded into the crowd. With another sigh she put the small binoculars back in her purse, snapping the bag shut. I think I need another drink first. She lost herself for a few minutes, staring into the crowd. Linus wants to see her again. Wants her to come to Alexandria. What about what I want?

Jenny had to admit that she didn't have a clue about that.

Italian purring emanated from just beyond the open doors of the palazzo. She knew, even with her back to them, that it was Vittorio Frascati, who owned the palazzo. She did not know him well—she vaguely recalled being introduced to him once before the war—but the old man, scion of a prominent Venetian family and descendent of a doge, was high profile among the wealthy international set. And now he was oozing his lecherous charm on some hapless female. "Is it not the finest Cornaro in Venice?" he was murmuring.

Jenny turned around, just for a peek. She expected to see some tittering blonde barely out of university, but this one made her raise an eyebrow appreciatively; Vittorio did have taste after all, she marveled. The small, dapper man had linked arms with a tall, bespectacled black-haired beauty, who smiled at him graciously. Jenny wondered if the woman was the wife or mistress of a famous man, or even, perhaps, famous herself. Her clothes were impeccable: a silk blouse of deep blue, a darker matching skirt, both items flattering and elegant.

The woman nodded at the old man. "Grazi, Vittorio," the woman replied, honoring him in his native language. "You have been very generous with your time. And very helpful."

"And you have been generous to humor a babbling old man, Melinda." He squeezed her arm affectionately, then disengaged from her. "I hope you find what you are looking for." He kissed her hand, smiled, and returned indoors to maintain his Gatsby-like aloofness from his own party.

Jenny found herself alone—and exchanging smiles—with the beautiful woman, who looked faintly embarrassed to have been fawning, however subtly, over a wealthy and powerful man.

"He's quite a charmer," Jenny said to the woman.

"That he is," the woman agreed. Her low, indolent drawl was from the American South. She came closer to Jenny, and that was when the Englishwoman noticed that the stranger was about half a foot taller than she, almost as tall as her husband. "If I wanted to marry for money, he'd be the one," the Southerner added.

Jenny tried to stifle a grin. "You seem the type who would marry for love instead."

The woman smiled mysteriously and said nothing, but absently touched a ring on the smallest finger of her left hand. It was a silver ring, a nice complement to the expensive watch (Cartier) and the pearl earrings (real).

"I'm Jennifer Davies," she said, offering a hand.

The tall woman enfolded it in one of her own. "Melinda Pappas."

"Let me guess..."

"Hmmm?" Mel mused, raising an eyebrow.

"You're from Virginia!"

It was the "Guess the Accent" game. Mel was well acquainted with it; it had made the first few months of living in New England sheer hell. "Er, no, I'm afraid not."

"Tennessee?"

"No."

"Kentucky?"

"No."

"Definitely not Texas."

"Certainly not," Mel affirmed, a touch haughty.

"I'm afraid I've run out of Southern states," Jenny said, almost apologetic.

"South Carolina," Mel provided, the syllables languishing in her speech like Janice Covington on the sofa after one bourbon too many.

"Good heavens." Jenny paused. "Does each compass point have a Carolina?"

Mel laughed. "No. Just North and South."

"And what brings you to this party, this conference?"

"I'm a translator," Mel supplied succinctly.

"How fascinating. I barely stumble through English, let alone any other language. What have you been working on?"

"Well, it's a bit of an ongoing project. I'm translating a series of ancient writings, known as the Xena Scrolls."

For once Jenny was glad she wasn't drinking, for if she were, she would have choked. Then providence, divine and sadistic, threw a sunbeam down to highlight the silver ring on Mel's finger. Oh bloody hell.

"So," Jenny enunciated carefully, "you must know Dr. Covington."

***** Janice frowned in the general direction of the palazzo's great doors, wondering where Mel was. She scowled into the dregs of her wineglass, then returned her gaze to the house. Venetian architecture failed to impress her, and she had opted not to go on the impromptu house tour that Count Frascati offered to them. But she knew Mel's motivations were more than a desire to see the palazzo; the Southerner had hoped that the Count would know something about the Falconettos, the elusive, aristocratic family that had owned at least one scroll authored by Gabrielle of Poteidaia. So far all they knew of the family was that the patriarch had died at the end of the war and his son, his heir, could not be found.

The old maze of the city, though, intimidated her, and she frequently found herself getting lost whenever she was alone, tooling around the city with the ridiculous—and essentially useless—hand-drawn map that Mel had given her. "Don't get lost," Mel always said to her. And the archaeologist always scoffed at this: Lost? She, who could navigate all five boroughs of New York (even Staten Island!) with ease, who knew Alexandria and Cairo like the back of her hand, who, as an ambulance driver during the war, had the smallest streets of London and Paris committed to memory?

"Venice is a tricky city," Mel had said. "It's a changeling." She had paused dramatically, and if you aren't any kind of goddamn warrior you sure did inherit a sense of drama from that damn woman, Janice had thought to herself. "Kind of like the South," Mel then added, both wistful and mysterious.

This was typical. Whenever Mel liked anything, it reminded her of the South.

This is what I get for taking her up North, thought Janice, with a trickle of guilt. Endless nostalgia and romanticism.

Janice deposited the empty glass on a tray that sailed by, piloted by an overworked waiter. No sooner was it out of her hand than a fresh drink was thrust into her hand. "Hey!" she exclaimed, half-turning to berate the waiter.

Who was already gone. Standing in his place was Jennifer Davies.

Oh shit. Janice's sudden desire for Mel to be there was not because she wanted her lover to witness what could be a potentially ugly encounter, but because she knew that the ever-responsible Mel would, if nothing else, ensure a safe return to the hotel after Jenny had beaten her to a pulpy state of unconsciousness.

"Janice," she purred.

"Jesus," blurted the archaeologist.

"Not quite, love." The Englishwoman sipped at a glass of pinot grigio. "Almost didn't recognize you without the hat. And the jacket. You seem almost naked."

Janice rolled her shoulders nervously, then squared them, both gestures dying for the roguish finishing touch of a leather jacket. She studied Jenny. The Englishwoman was still lovely, with her mess of dark golden curls now tamed into a respectable looking bun, her gray eyes, usually mischievous, still possessing a lively glint. But what that glint meant now, Janice was not sure. All she felt was gratitude that Jenny was not enamored of firearms. "Good to see ya," Janice mumbled. Goddamnit, Mel, where are you?

"It's surprising to see you." Jenny swallowed. "I thought, for a while, you might be dead."

Is her hand shaking? "What?"

"Not long after the war I ran into Andrew Curran. He said he saw you in London, in '44. And they were sending you to the continent, right into the heart of it."

Janice remembered that. She also remembered he borrowed ten quid and never paid her back. Andrew was a writer, an old friend and ex-lover of Jenny's, and a RAF pilot during the war. "I'm glad Andrew made it."

Jenny ignored this. "I've spent five years wondering what's become of you."

Shit oh shit. Somehow an I’m sorry seemed pointless in the face of this weighty fact. "Guess I shoulda sent word."

"Perhaps. But eventually I knew you were all right: Your scrolls are making you well known." Jenny sipped the wine. "You have them all now?"

A tiny frown, and the familiar furrowing of her brow. "Not all of them. There are more."

"Really, Janice? Your translator thinks you're wrong." Jenny smiled, relishing the stunned look on her former lover's face, and tilted her head. Janice followed the direction of the motion. They were not difficult to spot, because they were both two of the tallest people at the party: Linus and Mel, together, talking.

Shit oh shit oh shit. "You've met Mel." Janice was, initially, too surprised to ignore the implications of what Jenny claimed Mel had said about the Scrolls. "Quite by accident. We started talking, and found out we had a mutual acquaintance in you, my pet. Then I introduced her to my charming husband, and they've been blathering about Mayan architecture for the past twenty minutes. Terribly dull. Oh Janice, don't glare at me like that. I'm not saying your little concubine is a bore. Actually, she's not so little, is she?"

"No, she's not," snapped the archaeologist.

Rather defensive, thought Jenny. "Not that it's a bad thing," she amended.

"It's not. I never have to worry about changing light bulbs or gettin' things from the top shelf in the pantry."

Always ready with the wisecrack, Janice. That hasn't changed. "At any rate, she's lovely, and very smart. Don't worry. I said nothing to her of our—shared past, and I'm sure Linus won't either."

"I'm not worried about that."

But Jenny could tell from the nervous clenching of the archaeologist's jaw, that this wasn't quite the given that it was declared to be. "To be frank, dear, I didn't think she was your type."

"If that's your polite way of sayin' she's out of my league, I know that." Janice glared at her.

"She's out of everybody's league, darling." Jenny said it lightly, but felt it deeply, miserably, in her bones. She would have been prepared to compete with a woman—or even a man—for Janice's affections, but not an Amazonian demigoddess. "They look good together," Jenny observed, as they both watched Linus and Mel. "My husband and your lover. Both so tall. Like some Nazi-Nietzschean super breeding couple." As she'd hoped, Janice did chuckle at that. Nice to see I can still make you laugh, if nothing else.

"And I thought I was pissed off about being short."

"I'm pissed off about a lot of things, love."

"Even after five years, baby?" Janice raised an eyebrow.

Jenny resisted the diminutive and what it stood for: an obvious attempt at being charmed. Unfortunately, as she stared into the green eyes and ached to kiss the lips, she realized it was working. "She wears a ring."

"Yeah," Janice grunted. "Is that a crime or something?"

"No. But it's the ultimate symbol of marriage, of commitment. Isn't it?"

The infamous Covington sneer of defiance made an appearance. "So suddenly you're an expert, since you're married yourself? You might as well wipe your ass with that piece of paper."

Ah, Janice, I have missed you. I needed to feel something, and you're it. Who else would talk to me like this, who would let the truth fly like that? She wanted to take Janice in her arms, and forgive her, and make all the promises that she knew she couldn't keep. Our mutual marriages appear to be in the way of that. Mine has always been flexible. But yours? She watched Janice watch Mel. This was also something new, this naked look, a vulnerability slowly crossing Covington's face, like a blind man negotiating an intersection.

"Just admit it. You're in love with her. And it's something bigger than anything you ever felt for me."

Janice closed her eyes. "Jenny, don't do this. Don't start." A little too late for that, big mouth, she chastised herself.

"I'm not starting anything. I'm finishing it." Jenny glared into her wine, watching the surface of the liquid spin like a hula hoop. "You left it a bit sloppy, a bit unfinished in Alexandria. Didn't you?"

Alexandria. It was the last time they had been together. Janice remembered little of it: Hazy golden blurs of fucking, of drinking. Of the haunting urge that built in her head to see Mel again, until it became so strong and desperate that she sold her mother's wedding ring just to get enough money to buy a plane ticket home. She had left Jenny without saying goodbye. She remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, money in her hand, watching Jenny sleep. And then moving, as if in a dream, for the door. "I guess I did," Janice replied softly. "I regret that." The musing tone gave to the words all the weight and substance of a feather. But it felt, to Janice, as if she were now a different person, someone not capable of that behavior. For she could never see herself doing that to Mel, ever again. Especially since I gave you a ring and I said I didn't need a ceremony or a church or a God. I don't need anything except you.

Jenny, of course, knew none of this, and even if she did, would have remained as impassively impressed as she was now. "A hell of an apology."

Okay, I tried noble, now I'm back to the bitch. "Well, what the fuck do you want from me?" snapped Janice.

She wanted to slap Janice hard—very, very hard. But instead, she opted for the humiliation of throwing wine in her face. The sudden violence of the gesture possessed the emotional impact she wanted, as she watched the archaeologist flinch, if only ever so slightly.

"Try to explain that to your dashing Southern belle," she said quietly.

*****

Inevitably, at any type of social gathering, Mel eventually reverted to wallflower status; she felt most happy quietly observing other guests.

Especially Janice. At the moment, however, the archaeologist was not visible from where she sat, on a stone bench, at the periphery of the crowd. But then Janice was walking quickly toward her, whistling tunelessly and betraying her nervous restlessness by tapping a clenched fist against her thigh.

Mel straightened in distress when she noticed the dampness of Janice's cheeks. Crying? she wondered. But once the small blonde sat down next to her she realized it was not the tracks of tears, but a sheen of white wine. Luminous clear drops were falling happily, willingly, into her cleavage.

"Oh, dear. And we were proceeding so nicely, without incident." Mel murmured. She handed her companion a clean yet wrinkled napkin.

Janice blotted her face dry.

"Could have been worse, I suppose," she added, discreetly checking for bloodstains or bruises.

"I suppose," echoed Janice with a sigh. "But white wine does possess a certain sting."

"Would you care to tell me what happened between you and Mrs. Davies?"

"Mrs. Davies?"

"She was the last person I saw you talking with. Did she do this?" Mel gestured at her lover's face.

"Ah, dear Mrs. Davies."

"Yes. What of Mrs. Davies?"

"This conversation is beginning to remind me of that crazy book you were trying to make me read."

The "crazy book" was by Gertrude Stein. What Mel found to be a fascinating exercise in the modern use of language had sent Janice scurrying for the comfort of her old friends Raymond Chandler and Dash Hammett.

"Don't change the subject, darling. Especially when it's about a woman who still seems to be in love with you."

"So you figured that out, huh?"

"Yes. I'm pretty good at decoding the obvious. You should have seen me when the Hindenburg blew up."

Mel had hoped to bring a smile to the that lovely face, but instead Janice frowned, wrapping the napkin around her fist, the white contrasting with her tanned hand, like a bandage. Like the gauze and cloth slapped on her during the war, like the handkerchief Harry gave her when she scraped her knuckles on rocks during an excavation in Macedonia. Four days later he was dead and all she had was his handkerchief, covered with her own blood, and his dreams, and his debts.

"I didn't know she'd be here," Janice admitted quietly.

"Of course not. But when...when were you with her?"

Janice continued to stare at her hand, watching the white cotton flutter as she wiggled her fingers within it. "Last time I saw her was in '43. It was one of those on again, off again things. I met both of them…" she exhaled, scowled in thought. "….oh, I think it was 1940. Harry called their set 'the international dilettantes.' They threw parties, they traveled, they nosed around on digs, acting all curious and trying to buy anything that struck their fancy. No one took them seriously. They were kind of on the fringe of things. In a way, so was I, but no one could say that I didn't do my time in the field, and that I wasn't serious about what I was doin'." She shot Mel a wry look. "I thought you were one of them, one of those types, when I first met you."

Mel shrugged. "Well, I guess I am.”

"No," teased Janice, "you're a debutante, not a dilettante, honey."

"Gosh, I do get those words mixed up in my pretty little head!" Mel drawled.

Janice laughed. "There's a lot in that pretty little head, I know. In fact, I've always thought you should be the one teaching, not me. I'm just a digger at heart. Anyway," Janice continued with a sigh, "we kept running into Jenny and Linus—Athens, Cairo, Syria, you name it. They were always around. Eventually we all became friends...and, with Jenny, more than that."

"And Linus? Did he know? Does he know?"

Janice snorted derisively. "Oh yeah. He knew all right. In fact, he gave me money for a couple of my digs. 'Cause I was fucking his wife and keeping her happy."

"This made him happy?" Mel frowned, confused.

"Linus and Jenny have what you might call a marriage in name only. He's nouveau riche, Canadian. His family was looking to make themselves classy by marrying off their dissolute son to a woman with background. Jenny's got the lineage, her father is a squire or something stupid like that...they have this big country house...but no cash flow. It's a perfect set-up. They're fond of each other, and for all I know they may actually fornicate with each other every once in a while, but usually they go their separate ways when it comes to companionship of that kind."

"Oh." Mel blinked, pondered something meaningful to say. "At least she's not a Nazi."

Janice laughed in amazement. "No, she's not. She's worse." Morosely she stared at the ground, then scrutinized Mel. "You're taking this awfully well," she accused.

"I don't see the point of getting upset over something that's already happened." Mel chewed her lip. How to convey reassurance, with an innocuous touch, what inept words cannot…whoever thought that language would fail me, of all people? Even now there were moments when she could not trust her body, her movements, as if any casual sign of affection would tell the world what she was, and what she felt. Her fingers twitched, she steadied her hand, and plucked at the khaki pant leg, gently, teasingly.

Janice looked at her.

"I don't care about that."

"Jesus, I do not deserve you. Damn this stupid thing. Why did we come to this party anyway?"

"It was your idea," Mel reminded her.

Janice made a pretense at scanning the crowd. "I thought we should get out. Some people might think fucking in a hotel room for a whole day is unhealthy."

"I wouldn’t take you to be one of those types, Janice."

"And I never thought you'd turn out to be a sex fiend with unlimited energy." Janice reached out and took the wineglass from the large hand, permitting her fingers a brief electric entanglement with Mel's own. "But you are, aren't you?"

Mel thought, for a moment, that Venice had just sunk another inch.

The archaeologist drained the glass. She swallowed. Her lips glittered, wet.

"Do you want to go back to the room?" Janice asked. She pressed the empty glass into Mel's hand. Her palm brushed along the knuckles curled loosely around the expensive Venetian stemware.

She took the soft smash of Vittorio's fine wineglass as a yes.

*****

In the sanctuary of their rooms at the Hotel Danieli, Jenny lit up a cigar in honor of Covington. She puffed furiously. Like to see that Southern ninny try to smoke one of these. The spiteful thought came too soon, as the smoke strangled her and she proceeded to hack violently. It's like tasting death.

Linus emerged from the large bathroom while unknotting his tie to find his wife sprawled, unladylike, on the couch, her skirt hitched up to dangerous heights and a cigar in her mouth. "You know," he began, "Byron called Venice 'Sodom on the Sea.' " He sat down next to her, draping a large hand on her bare thigh, not in the least tempted by the smooth skin. "So one would think, whatever your misfortunes with the lovely doctor, you would find a bit of...entertainment elsewhere." He squeezed her leg with gentle affection. "The night is still young."

She unfurled smoke at him in lieu of a response.

He coughed loudly. "Darling, put that foul thing out before we all go up in flames."

She dropped it in the half-empty champagne glass. It fizzled, just like all those hopes I had of being back in your bed, Janice.

Linus took her hand. "Look, I know it bloody hurts, but she's happy. Can't you tell?"

"Yes." She flopped against him and pressed her face in the dark soft night of his black jacket. No crying. Not yet. Not now. She took a deep breath, its jagged rhythm suggesting the inhalation of broken glass. It fucking feels like that, anyway. "She'll be coming to Alexandria?" The tiny pleading voice was almost lost against the breadth of his jacket.

He shrugged. "The invitation was proffered to both of them. You can lead a horse to water…."

"…but she'll end up drinking bourbon anyway." Jenny sighed and sat up. She stared at the ceiling, then at her husband. Time to ask the tricky question. "Lye, this really has nothing to do with me, does it?"

His standard trick, in attempting to look innocent, was widening his dark eyes.

"Why do you want Janice in Alexandria?" she asked slowly, knowing she would get the answer he always gave, the answer that, in his so-called line of work, he couldn't help but give her.

He smiled. "You know what I'm going to say…"

"Say it anyway."

He rubbed his chin. "I need to keep an eye on her."

*****

Mel had decided that they should never leave the hotel room. Because she was both deliciously happy, yet deeply mortified. What kind of looks might they get when they dared to leave the sanctuary of the room again? If this were a room in the Bible Belt, we might get away with saying we were holding a small revivalist meeting or something. I could even throw in a hallelujah. For, if the proverbial fly on the wall were, say, a blind nun, this creature would have been most impressed by the Christian devotion of Dr. Covington, as she chanted "Jesus" over and over again, so lovingly, so frequently, so breathlessly. The repetition had indeed made Mel downright nervous, triggering dormant Methodist tendencies, and distracting from the extremely pleasant task of servicing the good doctor. Blasphemy upon blasphemy. I really am going to hell...if I still believe in that. Her quasi-theological ruminations derailed as Janice climaxed, blonde head slamming back into a soft, fat pillow, with one final cry for Christ. Her mouth glistened, as if she had swallowed stars, and her eyes were dazed, unfocused, and happy.

Mel decided that hell was worth this.

"Keeps getting better and better," mumbled Janice, before rolling on her stomach and falling into a light slumber. Mel indulged a bad habit and sprawled practically on top of her, cheek against shoulder blade, hips to butt. She was on the precipice of sleep herself when the soft growl of Janice's voice reverberated against her.

"I was a shit." The words were almost smothered by the pillow to which they were addressed.

Mel could not see her face. "What?"

"With Jenny. I was a shit."

Her hand swept down and felt the scars along Janice's thigh, then the resultant shudder that the touch brought, one of desire or remembrance, she did not know. She wondered if Janice herself knew. "I don't care." The words tumbled out of her mouth. It was true. It also appeared cruel somehow. She wondered, ever so briefly, why she didn't. Love, the great blind spot.

"You should."

"Why?"

"The last time I was with her…I could think of nothing but you." Janice whispered this, sighed, then stretched, the action rippling her body.

Mel rode the current of flesh. "Am I too heavy for you?"

"No. Don't move." And she added, almost shyly, "I like it."

Some emotion caught Mel by desperate surprise, a nameless, rootless anxiety, and she knew now Janice's own fear of having it all taken away, of the dream dissolved. She thought of the other woman who, in this city, at this moment, also loved Janice Covington. If fate were crueler, she wouldn't be here now. Usually, Mel possessed a powerful ability to find common ground with others; empathy had caught up with her at last.

"I love you anyway," she said.

3. Lucky

Cambridge, 1949

Dr. James Snyder sat at his desk, focusing a passionate amount of attention on his pen. He twirled it in his fingers, aligned it with the stack of papers in front of him, picked it up again. "You don't think she'll bring a gun, do you?" he muttered, half-joking.

The Dean, sitting on a worn leather couch near his desk, only smiled.

"Of course, you've heard the rumors…."

"Hmm," was the Dean’s noncommittal reply.

"…she killed an entire Nazi patrol single-handedly. Didn't she get some sort of commendation? And I have a colleague at the University of Texas who said that she pistol-whipped him."

The Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Oh, dear." This response did little to assuage Snyder. "I'm relatively certain that Dr. Covington is capable of behaving herself, Snyder. We've had no incidents in the two years she's been on staff." Just a rash of infatuated coeds, he thought.

Nonetheless, when the door opened and the small woman, wearing dark trousers and a rumpled khaki shirt, strode into his office without being formally invited, Snyder felt his palms go clammy and every muscle in his back knot itself. He was not comforted either by the tall woman who lingered shyly near the door. Great, she's brought a second. He only knew of Melinda Pappas via her rising professional reputation, but wrongly assumed that the translator was as ill-tempered as her companion.

"Hiya, Snyder," Janice said as she flopped in the chair facing his desk. She nodded at the Dean, who sat at her left. “Old man."

The Dean grinned, amused. "Hello, Janice."

The archaeologist craned her neck to gaze back at Mel. "Join the party, Stretch."

Mel rolled her eyes, and reluctantly approached. She was not faculty and enjoyed no special status, despite tutoring and being a regular denizen of the library, and thus felt uncomfortable at being privy to matters among the staff. Even if it they were about the Scrolls. But Janice had insisted that she attend the meeting. You're my partner, Janice had said. And, she thought as she took the seat next to Covington, I really like the sound of that.

"Hullo, Miss Pappas," Snyder said.

"Hello, Dr. Snyder. How are you?"

"Oh, just fine." He smiled at the polite, blue-eyed beauty. "Stretch, huh?"

"Mmm."

"Didn't know folks call you that."

"They don't," Mel replied firmly. She flicked a sidelong glare at Janice, who shrugged.

Snyder blinked. "Oh."

A stake was now driven through the heart of casual conversation.

Janice cleared her throat. "Why are we here, Snyder? I assume it has to do with the dating of the Scrolls."

"Correct, Dr. Covington. Er, the results of the carbon dating are in."

"And?" Janice prodded impatiently.

"Well, it is a little later than you initially thought."

The archaeologist shrugged. "They were damn difficult to date. That's why I was so broad on time period."

"I quite understand. In general, that's the safest, most practical route. But now with the advent of radiocarbon dating, we can be much more accurate. Statistical probability is the basis in calculating the half-life of C-14, but no one can really predict the rate of decay, and a standard deviation exists in every case, which is—"

"Snyder, I don't need a goddamn lecture on the process, okay? Just tell me what you found."

The befuddled and frightened academic mumbled something which sounded like "churlish beans in sentry." In fact, this was precisely what he said. For within the great roaming recesses of his mind he thought that perhaps Covington would be satisfied with this response, would smile, shake his hand, declare him a genius, perhaps even buy him a drink.

Instead, her gaze cut him like a diamond on glass. She straightened from her lounging, relaxed position. He saw her flex her hands and became utterly convinced that even her fingernails possessed muscles. "Come again?" she requested smoothly.

Snyder swallowed, thought a quick prayer and a farewell to his wife. "The early sixteenth century."

Another silence dropped, like a theater curtain after a botched performance.

Until it was broken by Janice. "Are you shitting me?"

"Calm down, Janice," the Dean urged.

The only thing that kept Janice from jumping up was the sudden warm hand that, mindless of their location and the parties present, gave her leg a comforting squeeze. She looked quickly at Mel, whose stunned expression nonetheless betrayed the assurance of the gesture. "There has got to be a mistake," Janice snapped. Mel nodded numbly. "This is still a very new procedure. Someone made a mistake."

It was now Snyder's turn to be riled. "No mistakes can be made in this process. I checked the results several times. I dated several pieces of parchment."

Janice stood up and began pacing. "But the typology of the instruments—the scroll casing, the stiles—it all fit in with the time period."

"The stratigraphy confirmed this?" asked the Dean.

"Yes! Do you know how far down I had to go? They were in a tomb, for Christ's sake!"

"Those artifacts—the scroll case and the writing tools—did date well within the time frame you assigned," Snyder agreed. "As did some of the pottery you brought from the same location. But it's the actual scrolls themselves that do not: the paper."

"So this was all a ruse. They're fakes." Helpless, inconsolable for the moment, Janice leaned against the windowsill. It was the only thing that kept her standing.

"Or very cunning duplicates of the originals," Mel added softly.

The Dean smiled. He didn't know Covington's partner well, but what he knew, he liked.

But before he could pursue this line of thought, Snyder threw in, "Oh, who cares how real they are!" The women and the Dean stared at him. "They're a fascinating discovery! Somebody was clever enough to write in ancient Greek, use the proper materials to make them look like ancient scrolls, found a case somewhere, then buried them for posterity, thinking they played a massive joke on the world. You know, like that MacPherson fellow, who invented Ossian."

"Or they are copies of the original scrolls, which are still missing, as Miss Pappas proposed," the Dean added. "What do you think, Dr. Covington?"

Janice's fury was spent for the time being, otherwise the hand pressed against the cool windowpane of Snyder's office would've been bloodied by shattered glass. "I don't know what to think," she whispered.

"I know what I think," the Dean retorted. "I think you're lucky."

Janice shot him a curious yet homicidal glance.

"Your father spent his entire professional life looking for those scrolls. Yet you, barely thirty, made this discovery, and in a war zone, no less. They may not be the real thing. But they're a damned sight closer—and more interesting—than anything Harry Covington found."

"Watch what you say about my father, old man," Janice grunted.

"Janice." Mel sounded the warning.

"My father laid the foundation for me to find what I did. He did thirty goddamn years of legwork chasing after these. If he hadn't died when he did, he would've found them." She drew a breath to refuel her fury. "If you want me off the faculty now, fine. I don't give a damn. I didn't have much of a reputation before I came here. It doesn't matter to me. So I'll resign."

Alarmed, Mel stood up. "No. Wait a minute—" She exchanged a look with her lover.

How much of the bravado was shock, and wounded pride? Janice's desire for legitimacy—for someone to take her work seriously—was very much a part of why she accepted the position at the university. It complemented her wish, however seemingly tenuous at times, for a stable life.

"That isn't what I want," the Dean replied quietly. "I want you to find the real scrolls."

"You believe they exist," Janice stated warily.

"I believe that if they do exist, you'll find them. And if this is, as Snyder suggests, some kind of fantastic fraud, you'll find that out as well."

"All for the greater glory of the old alma mater, eh?"

Once again, the Dean proffered his smug smile. "Anything you uncover would benefit the university, as long as you are under its auspices. And as far as I'm concerned, you are." The older man stood up. "Let's give you a year to come up with something. I know that doesn't seem like much time, but if, at the end of that year, you give me enough reason to continue the search, I'll extend the expedition. After you spend a semester in the classroom, of course."

The Dean extended his hand for Janice to shake. She stared at him suspiciously.

"Don't be a bad sport, Covington. I'm giving you an opportunity to do what you do best. And you're damned good at it, I know that. Have a proposal on my desk in six weeks."

Her hands remained idly on her hips.

He chuckled and withdrew his hand. "I look forward to seeing what you'll do." He winked and picked up his walking stick, and a hat. "I'll get my money's worth out of you, my girl." He nodded at Snyder and Mel. "Dr. Snyder, Miss Pappas, good day."

Janice was staring into space. "Money's worth?" she mumbled. Her gaze snapped to the doorway where the Dean had departed. She stomped over to the door, flung it open, and shouted down the hallway at his retreating form: "You already get your money's worth out of me, you old sonofabitch! Do you know how goddamn low my salary is? You're wringing me dry, you cheap bastard!" She drew in another breath with which to launch another tirade, relented, growled, and stormed down the hallway after slamming the door.

Mel yanked her glasses off her face with a groan and massaged her temples.

Snyder gave her a timid look. "She really doesn't want tenure, does she?"

*****

The odd, arrhythmic typing of Mildred, the department secretary, was punctuated by the strange thwaps emerging from one of the offices nearby. She paused in her task, wondering when the noise would cease, and if the perpetuator would notice that her typing had stopped, but the angry sounds continued. She sighed, and took a cigarette out of the pack she kept in her top desk drawer. She was halfway through the cigarette, and pecking halfheartedly at the letter in the typewriter, when Mel arrived.

The stout middle-aged woman exchanged a look with the Southerner. "You want the bourbon?" Mildred asked. She hadn't the chance to ask Janice if the professor wanted the emergency bottle of hooch—the little archaeologist had barreled past her with such speed and anger.

Mel shook her head. "I don't think letting her drink will help in this instance."

"Actually, I meant for you."

The translator laughed so faintly that it was barely an exhale of breath. "Ah, no, I don't think so." A finger stemmed the tide of her eyeglasses, sliding down her nose.

"If I hear screams I'll call the police," Mildred remarked as Mel entered the sanctum sanctorum.

The lack of time spent in the office was reflected in its bare décor; the assistant professor was rarely in it except to brood and meet the occasional student. Pieces of wood—representing two and a half years' worth of grading midterms, finals, papers, and resisting the advances of romantically deluded students—were scattered on the floor, along with the woman responsible for them and the large, cracked dent in the side of the desk. Janice smoked a cigarette and regarded the pile of tinder, as if a merry little act of arson would cap her day.

"Paul Bunyan," Mel said. She half-leaned, half-sat along the desk.

"Get me an ax, then, so I can destroy it properly." A baseball bat, which lay beside her, worked well when she grew tired of kicking the desk, but a sharp object would be ever so more pleasing.

"You're very lucky the dean likes you, honey."

"Lucky!" Janice exploded. "You're as bad as he is." She pushed at the woodpile with the toe of her boot. "I should have let Kleinman keep them," she said softly.

"No, you shouldn't have," Mel countered. "They may not be the Scrolls, but they are still Gabrielle's words. And as such they are sacred."

Janice ignored this. "Why does it seem impossible to get to point B from point A?" she mused. "I thought I was already there. Thought I had them." Thought I had it all. She looked at Mel, who had her arms crossed and was staring into space, thoughtfully. I am incomplete without you, but I'm incomplete without them as well.

"Zeno," Mel muttered absently.

"Huh?"

"One of his paradoxes—about how all motion is impossible. You recall—?"

"Oh. Yeah." Janice, in reality, had totally forgotten anything to do with Zeno, or much of anything she was forced to read as an undergraduate. "Is there really a Gabrielle or a Xena? Are we so sure that these just weren't stories our fathers created? They fed us these legends, these make-believe stories. We ate it all up. We were kids. And then it seeped into our subconscious, these myths. They're universal. A shared hallucination."

"I never suspected you were a Jungian, Janice."

"Are we descendants of heroes and bards, or forgers and pranksters?"

Mel's lips tightened, set in their familiar stubborn grimace. "You deny what you know to be true."

"Do I?"

"You have the dreams."

Janice said nothing. How long did you think she would say nothing, would wordlessly hold you after you wake up screaming? How long would she politely ask you how you've been sleeping, and settle for your half-hearted lies?

"Will you sit there and tell me that those nightmares you have…that they're just about the war? Can you tell me that?"

The dreams were about the war, at the very least. What her mind refused during the day, what it would not acknowledge, her body whispered in the ragged gossamer of scars: This happened to you. And then the brain would finally rebel, subconsciously.

More recently, they were tenacious—and they went further than ever, extending into a darker past: Lying in snow, stomach bathed in blood, daylight faltering around her, in the blue glow of a winter world devoid of sun. She looks at her hand, watches it fall...onto a plank of wood, where it is bound by a Roman soldier. And what was too horrible to contemplate, too awful to bear, was that she doesn’t die alone. There is a broken body next to hers.

Yet you managed to smile for me. I still remember the first time you smiled at me—really, truly smiled. It was hesitant, shy, belying the reputation of the warrior and the coldness of your eyes. This piece of you—so fallible, so human, you gave to me. The stupid, stubborn farm girl who followed you.

"Hey." It was Mel's soft drawl, snapping the spell. The chill she experienced every time after the dream was aroused once again, and the hairs on her arms stood, stiff in fright. Until Mel smoothed them, rubbing warmth with her palms.

Janice swallowed, stood up. She simmered, paced. Mel sighed inwardly, and waited for the inevitable.

"Goddammit!" she screamed, and kicked the desk once again. More chips of wood spiraled from the desk, like gymnasts executing backflips.

Mildred is calling the police.

A finger, not as callused as it was once when they first met, was thrust at the translator. "It may be all fine and well for you to hear fucking little voices inside your head, but not me, baby! Not me!"

Or maybe she is finishing off the last of that bourbon.

"I thought that I really accomplished something: I found the Xena Scrolls. They were real—or so I believed. And then, I thought, just maybe, I could have a simple life. Where I could just be myself. Not the descendent of some naïve brat who changed personal philosophies like underwear. Not the daughter of some obsessed grave-robbing bastard carrying on the crazy family legacy. I wanted it all normal." She regarded Mel thoughtfully. "You made me want that. Just a house. A steady job. And a girl who loves me."

“I know,” Mel said softly. “I’ve wanted the same thing.” She paused. “Come here.” Janice hesitated in the face of the gentle order, remembering the same words in different circumstances: The first time they made love, when she had stood, fixed in the doorway, neither resisting nor giving in, afraid to take the leap into the bedroom, until Mel, sitting on the bed, had uttered those two words. She had felt as if she were opening up Pandora's box, propelled by an unknown energy and motion, by fatal curiosity. And she felt that way again, now. Afraid of what you'll find.

She permitted herself to be held, to let Mel prop her chin upon her head. And afraid of what you’ll lose. She had lost Harry to this search—even before he died.

The blue of the dream was the abyss and the salvation at once, beribboned together.

Mel pulled back and looked at her. And the blue of these eyes? "Weeks ago you were excited at the prospect that there were still scrolls out there to be found."

"That was when I thought they were real."

"They are real."

Janice said nothing, frowned, let Mel's thumb press a temporary cleft in her chin.

"It'll be you and me, under the stars," she said.

As it has been always been.

"How bad can that be?"

Janice did not know. They hugged again, she placed her head against Mel's shoulder, and for the moment she could ignore the chill of the dream and could draw upon the strength of Mel's words. She loved the certain, the tangible, the sure thing. Now she gave herself over to words not written down, belief neither felt nor seen, and a love that, more often than not, she did not understand, nor felt she deserved.

#xena #xena warrior princess #mel/janice #mel/janice fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #fanfiction #femslash

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samhainrites-secretnights · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 1

warnings: the crime scene is described and well it includes a dead person (duh) and blood - will include a warning before it in the text so you can skip if needed! (also mentions of weed but no use)

word count: 10,5k

PROLOGUE

Something deep down had told her she’d get her way. She usually did.

It didn’t match her usual demeanor at all: a reserved, distant looking person, her shyness was often mistaken for cold disdain and gave her an air of superiority. She didn’t like that image but it seemed to stick: it had followed her all the way from her previous life to her reincarnation as a village librarian, keeping colleagues and curious children at bay, maintaining visitors at arms’ length in spite of her otherwise polite attitude. Oh well. She had a few friends who knew her past that first impression, and for the rest she could make do with fiction and correspondence, appearing to the rest of the world as a semi ethereal, semi sleepwalking presence. She presented well (enough) and gave no cause for complaints. She was, as most would put it, an eccentric; there was a time she’d have been suspected of witchcraft.

This amusing perspective was a big part of why she had moved to this little rural area of england, rather than staying in the suburban routine she had grown up and studied in. It started to occur to her that as a newly actualized adult, she was, in fact, in charge of such decisions: where to live, what to do, what to look like, and who to see, all those things that seemed to work themselves out in boring ways, and that she was now able to subvert and turn into something a little more interesting. What she didn’t expect was for wonder to become the norm, and normal to become extraordinary.

***

Charlie Nelson had, against all expectations (including his), gotten perfectly used to country living.

Upon his move two years prior, his friends and family had barely cared to hide their skepticism at the thought of this frankly a little uptight city mouse moving to an area of cottages and sheep, where the median age seemed to grow by a year with every passing day. Charlie was a Londoner by birth and had never expressed the slightest desire to change that: a young, health-conscious detective ready to dedicate his time to his work with little restriction, it seemed the lively character of the inner city fit him best. He had to admit he had been the first one surprised by his own enthusiasm as his superiors had offered him a position alongside a certain DCI Barnaby, whom he knew nothing about; it had felt as if the words came out of his mouth on their own, and as he first set foot in the town of Causton, Oxfordshire, he surely started to question his own judgement.

But that was two years ago. Two years of weathering his colleagues’ utter disbelief at some of his perfectly normal life choices, such as drinking green tea and going for early morning runs, of being resented for filling his predecessor’s shoes, although to be fair, that only lasted for a minute; two years of slowly becoming a part of the tight knit community he formed with the Barnabys as well as Dr Kate Wilding, forensic doctor and, to him, landlady. Two years of discovering things about himself he never had the chance to see before: his resourcefulness, his dedication to serving not only the greater good in childish spectacular fashion, but also the less than glamorous village folk that he had started to like in spite of a sting of bigotry that he did his best to ignore. His contentment with relative isolation, too. And something he didn’t care to admit just yet, though it did worry his adopted mentors slightly: a little void in the way he spoke of the future, a little longing at the thought of living with a colleague, like a college roommate at age 33, intangibly yearning for headquarters of his own.

To his relief, there was no time to think of this when the urgency of cases brought him into a state of constant brainstorming. Not that he used the distress of others to drown the noise of his own shortcomings: he was sincere in all that he did, save for perhaps how he felt about other people - he was, after all, an Englishman - and wouldn’t think of instrumentalizing his position for such mundane purposes. Would he go so far as to say it wasn’t a convenient corollary? Maybe not. However, and to his superior’s great relief, he was always professional when it came to separating his own inner turmoil (you could hardly call it that!) from the necessities of a high risk job; he was good at it, which meant he wasn’t allowing himself to be as clever as he could, leaving the credit to Barnaby and acting as his ever loyal right hand. He didn’t mind: he was watching and learning, remained an inestimable asset in terms of physicality (you wouldn’t see DCI Barnaby running like that, would you!), and formed a bond that grew grumpily somewhere between brotherhood and parenthood.

It usually went like this: on regular days, they’d do their paperwork and go home in the evening, Barnaby to his wife, Sarah, baby daughter Betty, and dog, Sykes; Charlie to Kate’s first floor and occasional company, sharing chinese takeout and films, wondering if perhaps this was becoming domestic, albeit as far from matrimony as you could get. On the weekends they’d visit the Barnabys for tea, and if the weather was good, they’d collectively pick on Charlie for opting for long runs or bike rides before joining them, welcomed by the grownups’ consistent teasing and Betty’s enchanted cooing. She loved her detective-turned-babysitter: as Kate mockingly put it, Charlie was nothing short of a domestic goddess, unburdened by the masculine cliché of messiness and neglect that his landlady was all too happy to take on.

Upon moving to Causton, Charlie discovered himself a bit too much of a homebody, took utter joy in cooking and cleaning, and found that his lack of interest for a company of his own age was often met with his mentor’s dismay. He had adapted swimmingly, but had gotten a little too comfortable and often relied on his cozy routine rather than to put himself “out there”, as they said, for such uncomfortable goals as meeting new friends or courting ladies. In the back of his mind, he knew the longing would become too strong to ignore: fortunately for him, it really hadn’t yet. He went on with his work, and time passed as calmly and erratically as it does when you live in the paradox of a picturesque village as an investigator of its worst possible crimes.

CHAPTER 1

To sit at work one morning, in the reassuring boredom of a rural police station, and to receive a phone call announcing someone’s violent murder was both absolutely baffling and mind-boggingly normal when your name was John Barnaby. On occasion, and if he was in the mood, he’d even roll his eyes (“that’s beetroot on your clothes, Mrs Oadby, not blood, for god’s sake”); but he was a professional and never failed to take a case seriously the second he detected anything fishy about it. And there wasn’t much to detect that morning, he thought: the sun was shining, he was in a rather good mood, the bakery had his favourite pastry in stock, and the only phone calls the station had answered concerned security matters for the upcoming kids’ halloween celebrations.

He considered bothering Nelson for a coffee, since his young partner seemed to oscillate between sighs of boredom and the recognizable look of someone who’s dipping their toe in an introspection most definitely too cold to bathe in at this time of the year. Just as he really started to pity his colleague who turned his undivided attention to a nearby rubiks cube, a uniformed officer came trotting in their office, her hand clutching a scribbled note, her cheeks flushed from the rush. She all but pounced on Barnaby, holding on to his desk to keep from falling over while he raised his eyebrows in an inquiring expression, letting her catch her breath.

“Well? What have you got for me, Patel?”

“Sir… We have… A body has just been found in the Fairfield-under-Wychwood cemetery”, she panted.

“I should hope so, it’s where we usually put those, isn’t it?” Barnaby’s sarcasm was met with officer Priya Patel’s most resigned eye roll. He continued: “Do tell me more. What exactly have we got?”

“With all due respect, Sir, if you’re done showcasing your dad jokes,” - Charlie chuckled in the background - “the local vicar called us, utterly panicked - said he’d been rushed to the cemetery after he heard someone screaming. A local woman apparently found the body as she was visiting a grave - she was too shocked to tell him more, and he said we’d better come see for ourselves.”

Barnaby sighed. Ah, civilians and their inability to control their emotions! Almost as bad as Nelson!

“Very well, thank you, Patel - think Nelson and I will head down then, who are we to question the word of God?”

They got up and grabbed their jackets, leaving officer Patel to her endeared consternation, and back to the task at hand. Seconds later, she could hear tires screeching from the station parking lot.

***

Fairfield-under-Wychwood was everything you’d expect from a minuscule nook in the heart of Oxfordshire’s lush greenery. Everything, and perhaps a little more.

You wouldn’t usually end up there unless you were specifically looking to, or had, by some sort of animist inspiration, summoned the right turns in a seemingly never ending network of eel-like forest roads. Snaking through the moss like a gondola under a canopy of spirits, you’d have to drive slow, or the lack of visibility would guarantee a frontal shock with any oncoming vehicle, animal, or apparently, frenzied murderer; moreover, you’d drive in silence. Not that it made any difference to your security as a motorist. You simply would, though, due to the reverence and hint of discomfort one usually feels when faced with the creeping of nature’s sinuous darkness, its ominous volutes of leaves and distant chirping, and the ancient moisture of its crumbling floors. If you slowed down, you’d remember your ancestors’ memories, and hear the roots hold your ankles in place.

When the roads would decide they’ve caused you enough torment, they’d spit you out and, if you were reactive enough, you’d cling by the tip of your fingers to the edge of an invisible cliff, on top of which you’d land and finally catch a glimpse of your destination. Your confused gaze would linger on the gentle curves of a meadow, gorged with sheep like a tree heavy with ripe fruit; behind it, greyish shapes would suggest a range of mellow stone cottages, adorned with brambles and smoking chimneys. But as soon as your eyes would get used to their surroundings, they’d turn to their most prominent feature: under the greying skies stood the church tower, like a tired lighthouse in the autumn fog.

So did Barnaby and Nelson discover their momentary workplace. The chief inspector’s demeanour remained as phlegmatic as his sergeant’s was becoming tense, Nelson’s big, delicate hands clutching the driving wheel as he slowed down to enter the village’s main street, that lead to the church in a barely perceptible slope. The car trembled over the wonky, somewhat charming cobblestones. As they progressed towards the heart of the village, nameless family cottages gave way to picturesque storefronts and hand painted signboards; vague faces appeared behind thick, steamy windows, slow like the morning errands of an aging community gathering for coffee and newspapers.

The air was crystal sharp and thick with a lingering fog. Rays of sunlight dissolved like dust in the crisp autumn morning, brightening the orange palette of the trees but failing to provide enough warmth for pedestrians to walk without instinctively clutching their coats around themselves; so did Barnaby, slightly irritated at Nelson’s infuriating, sensible planning as the younger man put on his scarf. They had parked by the church garden wall and made their way to the entrance on a mossy, winding path that took them through the small green and to a wooden door. As they approached, it opened and gave way to an elderly man in religious dress, tortoiseshell glasses so thick they made his eyes appear nearly amphibious. His expression was one of utter disbelief, and he walked as though he was floating in confusion.

Barnaby and Nelson routinely displayed their police badges as they introduced themselves to the man who, despite his apparent state of shock, had signaled the incident. He seemed to snap out of his trance as he shook their hands, seemingly hit by reality once more after having saturated.

“Father Gregory, Alvin Gregory - please, if you’d follow me… I was standing right over there by the passage to my study, that’s this room at the back - i was right there when i heard a scream, and it didn’t sound anything like joking around or trying to get someone’s attention, no, it was truly a scream of terror, like you rarely hear, so naturally i hurried there and caught poor Mrs Tomkin right as she was fainting. And that’s when i saw it and -”

He was interrupted by a tremor, halfway between retching and shivering, and had to steady himself by leaning against the nearby wall.

“-and there she was. Dear God, as if murdering her wasn’t enough - her very soul was humiliated, inspector, i can’t believe this is real.”

(WARNING - BLOOD / BODY HORROR, SKIP TO NEXT QUOTE)

Nelson barely had time to catch father Gregory and help him to a chair before the old man’s legs gave in. The two detectives excused themselves and proceeded to the cemetery, where Kate and her team were already set up, their seriousness clashing in a surreal way with the golden highlights of the site’s nature, like a kaleidoscope carried by the threatening presence of the woods and moors beyond the village limits. Across the safety line, their colleague’s blonde hair was tied in a bun above her usual blue protection blouse and gloves, and she was leaning over what looked more like an entire altar than a simple abandoned corpse. She was brought out of her focused examination by Charlie’s loud “HOLY F-” that he had the sensibility of interrupting before his own blasphemy added to the crime scene.

“Take your time, why don’t you!” she started towards them, peeling off her gloves, and went on: “Victim is a sixty-eight years old female, Margaret Hawthorne, known locally and professionally as Sister Peggy.”

“A nun?” Charlie asked, oblivious to the victim’s religious attire.

“No, Nelson, a plumber, in fact-” Barnaby caught a glimpse of Kate’s piercing look.

The doctor went on: “The cause of death would be… Well we’re kind of spoilt for choice actually. She received fatal cuts to the throat and wrists, all of which could have been lethal, and was left to bleed out for uh, obvious purposes, apparently. You’ll have to let me know whatever the hell this is.”

The two detectives stared at the scene in utter incredulity. Not only was Sister Peggy’s lifeless body carefully arranged, her stretched limbs were circled by sketches of browning blood, forming a sort of symbolic shrine around the nun’s corpse. Neither of them was all too familiar with the esoteric, so what they could gather from a first look was rather limited; however, Barnaby’s wife being a historian, the inspector had seen his share of dead languages and forgotten alphabets. From their unfamiliar, angular form, he could tell the drawings looked like norse runes: some of them combined, other simple, some repeated, none he recognized.

Plants and twigs had been disposed between the runic shapes, and in the middle of it all, the elderly woman’s face had been messily painted, her eyes still wide and terrified. The thick smell of blood started to get to the two men as their gaze studied the dark display, Charlie wincing, Barnaby too deep in thought to notice his own frowning. The older detective had had his share of eccentrics, new age lunatics and everything in between; he had surprised the elderly community of a quiet village in full pagan attire, had seen parents killing children and children killing parents. He knew there would be more to it, and, metaphorically rolling up his sleeves, he sighed.

Charlie, on the other hand, was a lot less experienced when it came to the peculiar rationality of isolated countryside murderers. Though he had seen his share of revolting crimes, there was a certain quality, a certain pragmatic originality of the country folk in the way they’d dispose of another person’s life - he had seen corpses washing off the Thames, but was a lot less used to seeing them emerging from manure stocks. A nun with her throat slit in the middle of some esoteric sigil, in a village that peaked at two or three hundred inhabitants on a good day, that was definitely a first.

Barnaby raised his eyes to face his tall sergeant, who was holding his scarf in front of his nose and mouth; he let out a superior huff.

“Thought you liked your black pudding, Nelson?”

Charlie’s face got several shades paler. Kate, in a rare moment of motherly protectiveness, thought the time had come to give them the details of what she’d be expecting from the autopsy, stating that the contents of the blood and stomach would be scanned, as well as any trace of the culprit’s DNA on the victim and surrounding objects. For the rest, she said, they would have to search the villagers’ minds, which seemed to her an even more disturbing task. She’d much rather be in the safety of her lab, where she was sure her company wouldn’t disturb her, on account of being, you know, dead - although with this one, she wouldn’t risk it, she said with a semi-convinced smile.

As the forensic team was proceeding with securing the body and site, pictures were taken from every angle, and the detectives knew they’d need to wait for any clues to be revealed from Sister Peggy’s wounds; focusing his attention away from the waves of nausea that kept hitting him with every reek of blood, Charlie copied the symbols in his notebook, determined to find out more. Barnaby, on the other hand, seemed to pay them little mind; instead, he turned away from the quarantine zone and scanned the area for any curious villagers. Behind them, unsteady and gripping the arm of a slightly younger nun, father Gregory had appeared outside the church door. Motioning for Nelson to follow him, Barnaby made his way back to the vicar, and spoke first.

(GORE BIT OVER)

“If you don’t mind me asking, Father - we’re going to need to know every relation mrs Hawhtorne, uh, Sister Peggy had in the area… Or anywhere frankly, but let’s start there. How well did you know her?”

“Personally, not very - although I have known her for a little while now, yes, she had been participating in the celebrations for several years… perhaps ten? Time passes strangely when you’re my age”, father Gregory answered, thinking out loud. “You see - starting today, the parish is holding the Allhallowtide celebration… As lots of churches do, but these days hold a special meaning to us here, since it’s also the time for us to celebrate our saint Nivel - and that’s been a source of concern recently, it might be our last year having her here”, the older man went on, his voice breaking.

He noticed Barnaby’s inquisitive look and explained: “Our parish takes great pride in being the resting place of such a meaningful figure - you see, saint Nivel was one of the first female abbesses, who happened to be buried right here in this parish! Ever since I started officiating here, we’ve centered our Allhallowtide festivities around her, and have referred to her remarkable intelligence and scholarship for guidance. So to think our little village would be robbed of such a central part of who we are as a community… You see, the Oxford parish has been claiming her for the past months, and that’s brought the occasional attention, both good and bad”, the vicar sighed. “Sister Peggy was part of a group of visitandines who come round every year as a pilgrimage, usually help out with the celebrations too. They’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been here since… Well, for over seventy years, you could say.” He chuckled. “I was born just across the street, in the house where my nephew now runs the inn.”

Nelson was frantically taking notes, his brow furrowed in concentration; next to him, Barnaby’s face betrayed his mental mapping of everything he knew up to this point, which really wasn’t much. He knew village folk to take lots of their daily circumstances for common knowledge, and knew he’d need to pry if he wanted a clearer view.

“Father, if I may - you did say your saint brought both good and bad attention, am I correct? I take it the visitandines sisters are the good part?”

The vicar sighed, his afflicted face looking down. “Oh they’re alright, they’re certainly a great help, that they are. The bad part is… Well, you younger folk may know about that, but lately there’s been a certain enthusiasm for so-called… Paganism”, he bemoaned, his fingers tracing quotation marks as he said the last word. “Some self-proclaimed guru seems to have declared our village as somehow relevant to whatever it is they think they’re doing. It’s the second time now that they’ve come to bother us during this time of year. Between this and our st Nivel being ogled like some cheap tourist attraction - it’s been a bit of a circus already. And now poor sister Peggy… Punished for devoting herself to our celebrations? Dear God, how could I make it up to you?”

As the realization seemed to sink in, father Gregory’s thick glasses went muddled with tears, and the two detectives were reminded of the presence of the nun that had stood by him earlier as she came rushing to take the old man’s arm and help him stand. Father Gregory excused himself, visibly weakened by the shock and exhaustion, and Charlie replaced the woman - who had been introduced as sister Meg - following her as she guided them back to the vicar’s house, where he’d get some rest and be questioned later on. Any information they’d need for immediate proceedings, they’d have to get elsewhere, and they opted to split up: Barnaby would accompany sister Meg and learn what he could from the three remaining nuns, while Nelson would go and find out what he could about, and from, the so-called pagans. He gulped upon receiving the order.

Charlie liked to think of himself as open-minded: after all, he had grown up in one of the most cosmopolitan, culturally rich havens of eccentricity the western world had to offer, though he had managed to get out somewhat unscathed. In fact, he was probably most original in how ordinarily he carried himself. Though he was surprisingly handsome, he had a tendency to dress too old for his age, and sound too young; he was a mixture of naive all-boys school and barbour-wearing accountant, which was endearing enough but didn’t exactly match what you’d expect of a millenial from London. He felt too tame for the city and too urban for the country, but the truth was, and he knew it, that he went through life following the gentle pointing of his own compass. What he didn’t know, on the other hand, was how much his mentor valued that in him - give John Barnaby one extra glass of wine and he’d reluctantly mumble something about training a future proper chief inspector. He’d never admit it to his face, though: nothing worse than a detective who relies too much on his own talent.

As sister Meg indicated him, the group he had written down as ‘pagans’ for lack of a better word had set their camp at the edge of the woods whose darkened weight bordered the moor-like cemetery. Behind the church lied a threatening, mossy murmur that appeared to warn humans not to try and expand too much: as the nun described it with hyperbolic intimidation, Nelson was struck by the way father Gregory did little to contradict her. Aside from the obvious restraint that one tends to exhibit when faced with a graphic assassination, it seemed to him they shared an unspoken agreement, giving nature the credit and authority it was due, taking the fear it instilled like a serious factor in the way they lead their lives: if Charlie had expected such things to take up more space as he dealt with the ingrained beliefs of remote villages, he now had to admit their reverence was contagious. As he made his way towards the outskirts of the cemetery, he felt like he was reaching the edge of the waking world.

If Charlie (the man) was rather skeptical about everything dark, threatening and frankly uncomfortable, DS Nelson (the detective) had a job to do, and was capable of plunging in bone-chilling, slimy bodies of water for the single purpose of unearthing a less than impressive clue if he felt it was the right course of action. He did wince as the soles of his nice leather shoes gave an unpleasant suction noise when lifted from the muddy path, but quickly focused on looking for the visitors’ camping grounds that sister Meg had indicated in a scoff. He didn’t know what exactly he was looking for, or who; images of “the wicker man” bounced in his head as he carefully trod on the damp forest soil, spied on by peeking mushrooms and croaking birds, abandoned by sunlight and his courage. He puffed out his chest, suddenly very aware of being unarmed, and followed one of the many intuitive paths the footsteps of previous wanderers had shaped.

After a while, he started to feel cold. The trees, the leaves, the ground, everything was damp and pervasive, his jacket clinging to his arms like a leech, his scarf only highlighting the gaps it couldn’t cover; the horror of the crime scene started to sink in, the old woman’s terrorized face and the lines painted on one of her cheeks, the time it must have taken to draw all those symbols, using someone’s blood while their life was coming to a pitiful end. Like a goldsmith crafting circumvoluted rings, Charlie compartmentalized each dimension of his work, packing death away in bundles of kraft paper to be shipped somewhere far away. Somewhere he’d visit one day, perhaps, but not now. Not while he was risking his own life all the time. He shivered and took a deep breath, scanning all his senses for any sign of the campers. Somewhat further away, carried by the wind, he heard voices.

The gentle droplets of wind chimes mixed with the smell of fire and burning herbs as he got closer to the camping grounds. It reminded Charlie of those shops a girl he dated in college would buy incense in, before filling her apartment with it - mixed with mold and weed, it clung to his hair and clothes like she did until he realized he wasn’t particularly happy. He wondered if maybe she’d be there, or if not her, another one of the same breed he found himself too old for even back in those days, when he wore a necklace of wooden pearls that she gave him and it smelled like patchouli and it didn’t feel like him at all. He wondered if anyone would ever give him something that did feel like him; then he heard someone playing one of these saucepan-looking instruments and had to keep his eyes from rolling. Way to be impartial, he thought, but then again, someone’s literally died, lay off the bloody tambourine, will you.

Rather than settling in a clearing, it seemed the campers had preferred limiting their own comfort by cramming their tarpaulin-covered dwellings between trees and stumps; they had somehow managed to dig a respectable fire pit, around which the tents were disposed in a circle. All in all, the site must have accommodated perhaps ten people; four of them were currently sitting in folding chairs, wrapped in shawls, pensive. The music stopped as the man holding the instrument noticed Charlie - soon the three others turned to him as well, unsure of whether or not they should start to their feet, nervously tightening their grips on their armrests. Although he hesitated and thought of joining them undercover, Charlie decided he might as well jump in - it’s not like he’d ever be credible anyway. He flashed his police ID and felt the tension in his interlocutors rise; it stung a little bit. They were about his age, but he had crossed the rubicon of cool long ago.

“DS Nelson, Causton CID - don’t even panic about that, mate, that’s not what I’m here for”, he sighed as one of the men tried to put out his joint on a nearby tree stump. “I’d just like to ask you a few routine questions about what happened last night - i suppose you heard?”

The group, two men and two women, exchanged concerned looks, seemingly unsure about who would talk and what they’d say. One of the women, her black hair braided in a complex network of tresses, cleared her throat.

“We heard. The rest of our group drove out this morning after they went into the village to get coffee - said they didn’t come here for this kind of negative energy”, she answered. “We weren’t sure we’d stay, either. But then we decided this was out of our control and we could do nothing but welcome it like we should any other overpowering circumstances. That’s kind of what we came here to celebrate, anyway.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow at that last comment. “Could you perhaps give me your names… And where you were last night up until about 8 this morning?” They shifted in their seats, ready to defend themselves. “Just standard procedure. As of now, we aren’t accusing anybody, simply gathering information, you understand-”

“Okay fine”, sighed the other woman, not bothering to hide her disdain. “But it’s funny how we’re always being targeted, just because we dare to live slightly differently… Doesn’t mean we’re criminals, unless exploring a peaceful alternative to modern society is a crime”, she paused, hoping to get the assent of her colleagues, who remained silent. Her ash blonde dreadlocks shook as she scanned them for any type of reaction, but they looked reserved, perhaps even a little embarrassed.

“My name is Rosemary Cook”, said the first woman, “this is Maureen Kemp, and Ray Khan, and Chris Hughes - I mean, Christopher”, she added, as Nelson wrote the names down in his notebook. “We’re all from London, as were the rest of our group. Ray here is a musician, Maureen teaches meditation, and Chris and I run a boutique - we focus on alternative therapies. As for where we were last night…” she paused. “I was here at the camp, the entire time.”

“Can anybody confirm that?” Nelson asked, repressing a sigh at the thought that they might all cover each other just in case. The musician, Ray, shifted uncomfortably. “He can”, said Rosemary, pointing at him. “He was with me.” Maureen scoffed in disbelief and let out a barely repressed “fuck OFF!”. Ray shook his head and added, “let’s discuss that later, right Maur?” to which she responded by mumbling something about how unbelievable it all was. Charlie raised his eyebrows, waiting for them to continue citing their alibis.

“I was at the pub with some of our mates that drove back to London”, Chris went on, “i’ll give you their numbers, they’ll confirm I was there. Think I even got the receipt.” He searched his jeans pockets and extracted a crumpled piece of paper. “Got back here at about two o’clock. Then the others drove off around eight, and I went back to sleep.”

“It’s true, I saw him when we got out to say bye”, said Rosemary. Charlie turned to Maureen, who was still visibly upset by her friends’ nightly activities. “Ms Kemp? What about you?” he tried, and she sighed deeply. “Mind if i tell you in private, Mr detective?” she answered in a mocking tone, while the others turned to her and started to get impatient; Rosemary and Ray spoke at the same time, something to the tune of what’s-so-secret-that-you-can’t-tell-us. “I don’t think having something to hide from your friends is a great look on someone present in a tiny community, the night of a murder”, Charlie said. “Just tell me where you were, and i’ll leave you to sort out whatever it is that’s going on with the four of you”.

“Right, and you’ll run my business when I lose my main customers, too?” Maureen snapped. “You pigs are all the same! It’s not my fault you can’t find a killer in a village that’s even smaller than your d-” “THAT’S ENOUGH, MAUR!” Rosemary had risen to her feet and seemed ready to smack the other woman, who suddenly seemed a lot less confident. “You’re gonna make us all look bad, you fucking idiot! Just tell him where you were and let’s be done with this or we’ll start to think we have reasons to suspect you too!”

“I take it you can’t vouch for her presence here at the camp, then?” Charlie tried.

“Was kinda, uh, occupied”, Rosemary mumbled - Charlie blushed and mentally thanked the forest for being dark enough to conceal it. Chris shook his head and muttered something about how he wouldn’t have seen anyone regardless of who was here: after a night at the pub, he went directly to his tent and blacked out. Cornered, Maureen knew she could either lie and be discredited, or give her actual, corroborated alibi, and look a fool - but a free one. She had a certain pride, sure, but wasn’t about to be jailed for a crime she didn’t commit.

“I was at the inn.”

The group looked at her in confusion. “Like, for tea? Do you know someone there?” Ray tried, about as surprised as she had been upon hearing who he was with.

“I was at the inn… In my room. I’ve been sleeping there and sneaking back in before you got up. Guys, i’m sorry, I couldn’t do this anymore.” She barely had the time to finish her sentence before starting to sob, in exceedingly theatrical fashion. “Happy now, detective? You’ll find me there, now that you’ve made me betray my cause”, she whined, got up, and trotted pathetically towards the village, leaving her three friends too confused to react - Charlie didn’t bother to run after her, all too certain he would indeed find her there.

Ray had lit up his joint again, forgetting the reason for the detective’s presence. “Well fuck me! She was the one who insisted we’d ‘reconnect with nature’” - he mimicked quotation marks- “and freeze our asses off while she was sleeping in a bed this whole time! Can you believe this!”

“Actually Ray, I can”, sighed Rosemary. “I mean look at us. Are we even making any sense at this point, like would you reckon we’re making a point at all or just catching fucking pneumonia?”

With the most defensive element gone, Charlie thought it was time to finally ask them what in the world they were actually doing - as much as it had seemed self evident to Sister Meg, who couldn’t look more irritated at what she called ‘blasphemy’, it truly wasn’t to him. In fact, he was getting more confused by the second. Those people always seemed to be defending something or other and he tended to lose interest as soon as the lack of scientific basis started to rear its ugly head. But now, seeing how he wasn’t exactly going anywhere with their discussion to this point, he might as well get to the bottom of it - after all, the entire dramatic setting of the crime scene was still painted in the back of his mind, and, as unlikely as it sounded at this point, he was going to have to associate it with someone.

“If i may, Mrs Cook…” “Miss.” “Miss Cook. Would you mind telling me a little about what it is that you’re doing out here? I haven’t exactly heard a… Constructive version of it from the clergy, you imagine”, Charlie tried, giving her a sympathetic look, and hoping his last comment would attract some sort of anti-religious complicity from his interlocutors. Indeed, the men exchanged a smirk - Rosemary, however, seemed less inclined to indulge in clan wars at such a time. Her face kept a serious expression.

“We’re united, or were united, around our practice of what we call paganism”, she said, her voice dull. “We believe in reclaiming the pagan ways our ancestors lived by, and that implies a change in our lifestyle - abandoning modern comfort for a return to our natural cycle, a union to the natural world. You see, not only do we reject the exploitation of our earth as a resource for us to waste, we also wish to return to a more organic spirituality, one that would celebrate our symbiosis with nature rather than obedience and greed…”

“-like the church of england would?” Charlie tried. Rosemary looked down. “Yeah. we did come here to make a statement about this village and their so-called saint Nivel, who’s actually more likely to have been one of ours, killed for her belief in our ways and not in theirs”, she sighed. “But that doesn’t mean we’d kill to get our point across. We strive for a union between mankind and the rest of the living world, not for mindless violence. We’re not them. They’re the ones that kill for their church, and are ready to appropriate a woman’s death for their own benefit, as if they weren’t rich enough,” she scoffed.

“We’ve been coming here to demand that Nivel’s history be read as it should, as it was meant to, we’re asking for justice so that her memory becomes that of an independent thinker, you could even say a feminist! She’d have been accused of witchcraft rather than catholicism”, Ray added. “The church simply doesn’t want to hear the research, they think that saying it’s always been like that is enough of an argument. But you go to the village library and see - we’ve required a special section on local history, it’s all in there.”

“Still doesn’t mean we’d kill for that,” Chris spat, visibly threatened by Charlie’s frantic note-taking.

“Still you’re the first people i meet who seem rather familiar with the use of runes?” Nelson’s comment was met with a deep, ostentatious sigh from Rosemary and glares of utter disdain from both men. Indeed, the camp was surrounded with the type of art you’d expect from a group of self-appointed animists - except the usual tibetan garlands were replaced by painting on the surrounding trees and what could be apprehended as land art, and it just happened to form the same shapes that enshrined the body of sister Peggy.

“Bet you use the alphabet too, does that mean you’re the fucking zodiac killer, sherlock?” Chris seemed to instantly regret his choice of words, as Charlie’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. “Sorry. Don’t mean to lose my temper, but - people here are constantly at our throats as if we were some sort of animal sacrificing satanists, it gets tiring. We’re non-violent. All we do is look for alternative ways of living, respect mother earth, hold our own rituals for each season…”

“...smoke weed in front of police officers…” Charlie snorted.

“Shit! When did i-” the rest of Chris’ composure had definitely faded. “Forget it, i’m just messing with you”, Charlie went on, “anyway, care to tell me what this is about?”

He pointed to an area behind the arranged tents: surrounded by more of what the campers described as protection runes, a rectangular shape had been dug out, at the bottom of which a plastic tarpaulin was collecting fallen leaves and rainwater. Knowing he’d hit a wall if he mentioned it right away, he’d diligently averted his gaze, afraid to look too accusatory to his already defiant interlocutors: it had to be said, however, that the zone did look like a grave, and that it was, as a matter of fact, surrounded by runes. The similarity was just too stupidly visible to be ignored any longer. In fact, charlie thought, as much as he was going for a subtle approach, it had started to make him look very stupid himself. Everyone present was aware of how absurdly incriminating it looked.

Rosemary started to lose her patience. “Look, detective - i’ll explain, but you have to promise you haven’t already decided we were guilty, cause we haven’t done it, okay? I know it looks shit, i’m not an idiot, but it’s as Chris said. Runes are used by lots of people… Too many, if you want my opinion. Got no idea what they imply. Those are meaningful symbols, detective, not to be thrown around as if they were… Emojis or something.” Rosemary’s look of disgust didn’t go unnoticed, and Charlie made sure to keep a mental note of how animated she got while defending her point. It did sound like she was referring to a particular demographic, one that he had yet to see in the village… But still. He had lots to discover, and lots of connections to make.

Rosemary walked towards the litigious site, motioning for Charlie to follow. “So you see, one of the things we believe is that our society is too wary of death, but sort of fetishize it at the same time, you know? What we’re trying to do is sort of an exercise in perspective, that’s… a way for you to reconnect with your surroundings and re-anchor yourself to the earth, while being aware of your mortality and escaping the hectic routine we’re so often trapped in. It’ll be more evident if you try it, really, but in general - it goes like so: if you have a problem that’s troubling you and you can’t seem to get past it, and you just feel like escaping the stress for a second, well, you lay in there, simple as that. Only rule is, you can’t stay less than an hour. You have to feel powerless in order to gain perspective and let go - don’t look at me like that! Honestly, don’t you think we get ridiculed enough, and here i am making an effort, it’s a risk for me to give you insight to our way of thinking, you realize that!”

She looked so sincerely hurt that Charlie apologized, in part because he felt a fool, but mostly because she was basically blackmailing him and he absolutely needed more justification to this charade that, as far as he knew, might just have gotten someone killed. Rosemary was winning this, both of them were bad enough actors to know, and he swore he saw her smirk before she proceeded to get him exactly where she wanted - six feet under, indeed. “I was serious, you know. It WOULD be clearer if you tried. Not sure i’ll take your impartiality so seriously if you continue to proper disrespect my beliefs, detective.” Or we could keep that staring contest going, Nelson thought, it’s just as mortifying.

“Alright”, he conceded, his irritation so clear he almost sounded like Barnaby - there went his last hope of fitting in with his age group. “I’ll do it. I admit i’ve let my prejudice obscure my judgement, but, miss Kemp, you’ll admit - the whole setup doesn’t exactly play in your favour, does it… Still it isn’t evidence. So, walk me through it, if you’d be so kind.” If she wasn’t turning her back to him, diligently trying to light up a bundle of dried sage, Charlie would have seen her victorious grin, but there was no need for that: he felt it perfectly. Good thing his ego was already reduced to the size of a frightened puppy, wary of his chief inspector’s snark. Joke’s on you, miss Kemp, anything an investigation requires, detective Nelson is willing to do, dignity be damned.

“Kneel.”

Now there ARE limits.

“Excuse me?” “Before you get in, there’s a purification ritual - the sage here provides clarity and wisdom, it has cleansing virtues and will help your mind get a fresh start, free of negative energies”, miss Kemp explained, walking around him waving the burning sage. “Now whether or not you’re open to this idea is up to you, but it does have antibacterial properties that you can hardly argue about, no matter how much of a skeptic.” Her round finished, she dug into her pocket and brandished what looked like a makeup crayon. “If you don’t mind - we usually draw a protection rune so that the person has a reminder they’re being watched over during the process,” she brushed charlie’s hair out of his forehead and applied the cold colour in a few strokes.

“There you go.” He couldn’t help using his phone as a mirror just to make sure the drawing was at least civil. Then, as she waved for him to get back up and follow her, he proceeded to climb down the wonky wooden stool she’d placed in the mockup grave; he winced as she took it back out once he had reached the bottom. “Lay down, detective, and please, give this a chance - you might be surprised. I’ll get you in exactly one hour.”

He was, indeed, surprised. He had expected them to wait at least a few minutes before running off.

***

Charlie was cursing both his lack of climbing skills and his phone’s questionable battery power by the time the light footsteps came within earshot. “Hello?” he went, although perfectly aware whoever was approaching had heard him struggle already - he didn’t want to take any chances. If the cold he was feeling was any indication, he must have spent the best part of the afternoon stuck in a trap of his own making. He was positively freezing, and the humidity had long sunk into his skin; it left him trembling, strands of brown hair stuck to the blurred drawing on his forehead, and the end of his long, thin nose like a pink button above his hazel scruff gave him a boyish air that didn’t exactly help his case. In fact, the newcomer thought he looked like a puppy who’d have played in the mud for too long and strayed away from its family, and it was disarmingly endearing.

She stood by the edge of the grave, taking in the sight with the face of someone who’s not trying hard enough not to laugh. In fact, she was positively chuckling, and Charlie would have been vexed if he wasn’t too busy deciphering what on earth he was feeling: there was definitely some fear in the mix. Upon arrival, he thought the village would be like their usual Oxfordshire unofficial retirement homes, parishes full of gossiping housewives and treacherous land-owners; but up to this point, all he had seen was a dead nun, a live one, a couple of disrespectful hippies, and what he was sure enough was a witch.

She stood, gently shifting her weight from one leg to the other, and from the way she looked down at him, it took him way too long to nice she must be very small. Her round little teeth clashed like a hail storm against the burgundy velvet of her mouth, her cheeks shimmering with the cold; you could only tell her eyes from the black ash that enshrined them by how they shone like a riverbed in the spring. And she laughed, her dark eyes crinkled and wet, pools so deep he flinched; and her jawline shot from her scarf like a dove, and her hair, like pompeii’s pyroclastic flow, turned him to stone. One moment a menhir and the next just a fox, her presence hovered and sank to him all at once, and suddenly, peering from under layers of skirts and capes, her hand reached for him.

He didn’t know what to make of it. It was delicate, the colour of a peach, engraved with scriptures older than the world that ran from under her sleeves and dripped to her fingertips. In a breath he yearned to map her entire skin and marvel at the sensual kaleidoscope; in the next, he remembered he was being offered help, and her laughter doubled, dribbling along with the flows of her brown mane. “Silly me - what use will i be once i’m down there as well, right! Just let me toss you one of their stupid camping chairs first, don’t worry, i’ll be out of sight, not out of mind!” she spoke to him as though she had known him for years, reassuring like a bowl of soup. It appeared to Charlie she was making her footsteps purposefully louder so that he’d know she was still there and he could have shed a tear. As she rummaged through the camp for the appropriate rescue equipment, her wooly alto mumbles made his stomach stir; his heart soared on her accent, lifted from forest moss to snowy passes, and it dived back to her like direct current bolts shot through his fingernails.

“Here,” she reappeared, and handed him a chair. “It still might not be enough… is it?” Charlie struggled, the slippery carpet of leaves and mud providing no solid grip from which he could pull himself up. “Okay wait” - she dug her leather boots into the ground until she was sure not to slip - “take my hands and try to walk up the wall. No really i think that’ll work, come on,” she leaned forward, and offered two tattooed palms for Charlie to grab. “Hold onto my wrists, feet against the wall, i’ll fall backwards and pull you up.” It sounded more like a pragmatic order than a suggestion, the way a tender yet resigned mother would address the child she’s getting out of trouble; though perhaps, as Charlie fell face first into the forest soil, he heard her deep voice fall into a laugh that somehow still sounded foreign. He pitifully failed at dusting himself off, stood and towered over her by at least one foot.

And yet, somehow, she was looking down on him.

And yet, somehow, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He finally could take in her full form - the pale, oval face clouded by delicate dark makeup, and long, long hair falling all around it like endless rains; the way it shone out of her cloak like a full moon, how her body was draped in elegant black clothes and mystery, and how the only things about her that seemed a little real were her muddy boots. Her engraved hands had sunk back into her sleeves before he had had time to study them more closely, and just then he realized he had been staring, stunned, intrigued, mouth slightly agape in utter naive fashion. Her eyes crinkled as she burst out laughing again: he kept making a fool of himself. He stood there covered in mud after she had to drag him out of a fake grave where he had ended up like the silly wolf trapped by the clever fox from childrens’ stories, and he couldn’t control the intensity of his blushing.

“They really did you dirty, eh?” she breathed between giggles. Then, like a manuscript summoned, her hand reappeared as she held it out for him to shake. “Luella Göldin. I live just over there,” she nodded towards the woods. He finally snapped out of it and, as he shook her hand, was caressed by a whiff of the most delicious perfume he’d ever smelled. “Charlie - DS Charlie Nelson, Causton CID”.

“I thought so! Met your boss earlier, came by my work looking for the nuns - bit grumpy, is he? I heard him mention his colleague had gone talking to the hippies… didn’t think i’d still run into you on my way back, it’s been hours”, she thought out loud. “Nice to meet you, DS Nelson.” “Charlie.” he corrected her with no second thought, especially none about whether or not this familiarity was appropriate. The fact that she could not be ruled out of the list of potential murderers did not even cross his mind. “Oh. Charlie, then.” Her thumb brushed ever so gently over the back of his hand as she dropped it, neither of them quite sure how intentionally. It felt like she had wrapped it in silk, and from that little touch Charlie’s armed tickled, pumped full of cotton balls; his head was spinning, trying to figure out the provenance of her accent (german? nordic?), to bottle up her perfume and save it for later, to memorize the familiar-yet-strange patterns on her skin that he’d only gotten glimpses of. Her earrings were shaped like rose branches and he wanted those thorns to scratch him so badly.

He felt like those skull-adorned moths had nestled in his throat and were giving him a surprising longing for irresponsibility. Is what what she’d taste like? Shouldn’t he be talking by now?

“Well, miss…” “Göldin.” “miss Goldeen.” she chuckled. “That’ll work.” “Thank you. For getting me out of here. Gosh, this is ridiculous, isn’t it -” “yeah, Charlie, it is.” Her piercing eyes were reducing him to a helpless, boyish embarrassment. She continued: “but you know what it also is? Not your fault. And i won’t tell anyone, don’t worry about that chief inspector.” Shit! Barnaby! He had got to get back - he’d been without a phone for the best part of the afternoon and it was getting dark already, his superior was bound to be concerned, and his concern would absolutely turn into annoyance as he returned unscathed. Charlie sighed.

“Bet he’ll find another reason to make fun of me, seems like it’s all the rage today…” Her mischievous smile showed a glint of compassion. “I’ll need to talk to you some more about today’s events, miss, if you don’t mind - that is, after I reported back about whatever idiocy i’m going to have to invent to justify being lost in the woods for half the day”, he added, rolling his eyes at his own misfortune. She nodded seriously: “you do know where I live, now - just follow the path you came from further into the woods, you’ll find the house, Mrs Brewster’s - that’s my lodger. She’ll likely be there as well, if you wanna question her too, which i suppose you do? Just come by tomorrow.” she paused.

Her eyes slowly, slowly went from the ground and up his legs, up his broad chest, caressing his shoulders, fluttering upon his lips and finally met his gaze - fearful or enthralled, she knew he didn’t know, and almost imperceptibly, her tongue darted out to the upper corner of her lips, disappearing as quickly as it had come. It looked as if she had been about to speak but had changed her mind and just breathed in softly. Charlie felt like she had just inhaled a little bit of his mind and he found himself willing to give her all the rest.

Their exchanged look only lasted an instant, but God, were Charlie’s blue eyes the direct window to his helpless gentle soul. She found him to be so stupidly endearing, his wit tripping over his dorky exterior, sincere as an open book, yet clearly keeping something to himself - after all, he was still a detective, and she was very aware of how little she’d trust herself if she were to meet herself for the first time. As she started to realize just how tall he was, she did all she could to conceal the growing shallowness of her breathing; as her eyes gently brushed his messy long-ish brown hair and his pink, freckled cheekbones, she felt her heart growing warm and her stomach tender. He looked ripe and edible as a sun drenched peach and her hands twitched as she struggled to keep them from cupping his face and running over his charming stubble.

He was the first to break the spell, because of course he was, lowering his eyes in embarrassment at just how choked up he was getting as he realized that the nauseating hot waves greedily licking at his feet were in fact the wildest, most primal desire he’d ever felt in his life. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what had triggered it or what precisely he felt so strongly about, but he certainly was quite ashamed of it and hoped she didn’t pay his awkwardness any mind.

Or perhaps, to his own astonishment, he did want her to notice. Quickly and furiously, he pushed aside the thought, excused himself, and all but ran off as he heard her chuckle at his clumsy haste; he’d question her later, in better dispositions, when he’d have collected his dignity and a presentable outfit. And perhaps some cologne. But that’d be excessive, she’d know, she’d make fun. Everyone would! But should he bring her something? God, he was spiraling, wasn’t he?

As a matter of fact, as he got to the police car he had escalated all the way to scheming how to get some black roses past Barnaby, like a teen plotting to sneak out on a school night. His emotions had long gone past being all over the place: they were now leading revolutions, building barricades and firing at each other in hormonal fanfare, and he wasn’t sure by what miracle he managed to explain his afternoon’s activities to his superior - or perhaps he simply told the truth, as would be most typical. Either way, the chief inspector shot him a patronizing look, and as he buckled his seatbelt and focused on the road back to the police station, the woods that looked so scary that morning suddenly were synonymous with the lair of a peculiar little witch, and scary had become a promise, and nothing made sense anymore.

The drive back was rather silent, once both detectives had given each other accounts of what they had found out from their respective interviews; Barnaby had managed to get some bigoted ramblings out of the shocked nuns, but he was hoping to talk to them some more now that they knew who he was, and he counted on the shock to wear off and leave them more pragmatic. Between them and the pagans, that they had taken to calling ‘the hippies’ since most people did, the questionings were bound to be of the frustrating variety, as they always were whenever beliefs and rivalries were involved. Superstition was exhausting to both officers, and as most of their cases had to do with rural people more preoccupied with each other’s business than with scientific developments, they were confronted to all sorts of modern crusades, although this was their first encounter with blood runes -

“-and witchcraft too! Did i mention the sisters are utterly convinced the librarian and her lodger are practicing black magic?” Barnaby’s expression was one of complete weariness. “I found them holding some sort of inquiry of their own in the public library earlier, doing their research on saint Nivel to try and prove the pagans wrong, while they’re doing just the same and the village’s book collection is taking a most specific turn… Seems to fit the curator just fine, though - black magic or not, she seems like quite the eccentric young woman, could see why the older crowd would think her a witch”, Barnaby added, seemingly doubting everything everyone had told him, as he tended to do.

“Miss Göldin? Is she the librarian?” Charlie asked, suddenly very much interested in the conversation. Barnaby turned slowly.

“Oh?”

“I ran into her on the way back to the car, says i should come talk to her tomorrow, as well as mrs Brewster, that’s her landlady”, Charlie specified, trying his hardest to sound casual and focused. But you couldn’t fool John Barnaby, especially when you were the worst liar in England: the chief inspector noticed his subordinate’s blushing, fidgeting with the driving wheel, the tensing of his thighs, the nervous lip-biting. He turned back to the window, punctuating a sigh with one of his signature grumpy airs, and mockingly concluded: “well, reckon you’ll do that first thing, then, Nelson?” The teasing was, as intended, utterly lost on the younger man, who nodded in all his faked seriousness.

As he got home after what seemed like a perfectly endless debrief at the station, Charlie found himself longing for the silence of his bedroom, for a chance to be alone with his looming thoughts and unruly feelings. He wasn’t one to succumb to someone’s charm at first glance - in fact, he wasn’t one to succumb to anything at all, and remained notoriously chaste and distant behind the apparent innocence. It was the classic tale of a sensitive heart that had been hurt before, and in his move to the country, he hadn’t been looking to reiterate the experience of attaching himself to someone that’d distract him from his work and take advantage of his good nature. He may not have had a plan, but he knew by all accounts that this, this wasn’t the plan at all.

The more he thought of it, the more he found himself in a daze, unable to make sense of his emotions at all. Purely as a reflex, he let his jacket fall down on the floor and toed off his shoes before letting himself fall on his bed, trying to keep the ceiling from spinning, and only getting back up to lock the door in case - he could not handle any more information for today, thanks very much. He pressed his eyes shut and exhaled, desperate for his breathing to settle, but every breath made his veins tingle with a million sparks and his heart pump some more magic into his chest.

The contrast of Luella’s deep voice and the light girlishness of her laugh were all he could think of - the mystery behind her accent and her cloak; he felt jealous of her tattoos because they got to run up her wrists and beneath her sleeves and god knew where else. Tomorrow she’d be there, and he’d need to stay strong; but tonight, and for many nights to come, he’d let himself yearn and dream, nestled in the palm of her bewitching patterned hand.

Patterns he’d caught a glimpse of, and knew they were definitely familiar but he’d been so enthralled that he didn’t think to connect them -or her- with anything else in the world.

And only then did it hit him: runes.

Jesus. Again?

#my writing midsomer murders samhainrites-secretnights

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fidelcastrato · 6 years ago

Text

Saturday Night Dead

A dull roar floods a small, derelict house and about a block of surrounding land all of a sudden, followed shortly by a piercing screech which acts as the conditioned stimulus to roughly 30-40 people between the ages of probably around 15 at the youngest, up to pushing-40, causing a mass salivation in response to the promise of real, proletariat, bullshit-free Punk Fucking Rawk™. Brando Murely himself sits on a cinder block outside the door, just enough out of the way of the crowd distractedly making its way inside, everyone in the middle of a conversation, turning around every few seconds to give their latest opinion on the eternal IHOP v. Waffle House crisis, shouting-match phone calls, drunken wobbling, stoned hobbling, and oh-that-sweet-cocaine's-a-calling. From Brando's arm dangles eazily-breezily a small bucket, perhaps formerly housing some domesticated plant, with the word "DONATIONS" written in sharpie on the side. He is only a few brainwaves away from REM sleep, that sultry temptress.

Avey and Fyo take their sweet time. The openers are about to play, now sound-checking, if you can really call it that (not to be rude, but the opening acts of these kinda shows were more often than not either local upstarts or local failures, and lacked some level of expertise in regards to acoustics, dynamics, levels and such), but they have both just lit a new cigarette. No worries, though; they've been around enough that they know the path straight to the front, if it should turn out that The Ushi Onis were worth front row listening.

Towards the back of the house stood in solidarity the introverts so in love with music, but so out of touch with people, the old farts who didn't really care anymore but still attended out of habit, the few (if extant) devout fans of another band on the line-up who just wanted to get it over with already, and the stray college kid; not any art or philosophy major, no, just some regular Joe (and hilariously enough, one independent study in "Crime and Punkishment", a locally famous zine, reported that 73.7% of these people were actually named Joe) who happened upon this utterly obscene proceeding via a stack of coincidence and misfortune--maybe they were there with some punk ladyfriend from class.

In the middle, by far the largest section, you could find pretty much anybody from anywhere. Regulars who still hear the heartbeat of the scene, newcomers enthusiastic but not enthusiastic enough to put themselves out for judgement if they happened to accidentally nod their heads a bit with the music (mortified.....), and that strange demographic that seemed to place itself starkly in the middle of all the aforementioned alignments; middle-of-the-roaders through and through, to the point where they have risen above the road, and the ideal of the road, and smugly glance at one another and then down to you as if to imply a transcendence which those of us who have ever experienced anything in extreme can never know of.

Front and center, ears blasted to bits and facial muscles entering anaerobic respiration due to excessive smiling, the All-Stars of the scene danced alongside strangers, either naïve or drunk. The frontmen of the most famous local bands, the influencers, both silent and megaphonic, the photographers, the beauties, the hype-builders, the next band, the people who arranged this show in the first place, all of them stood in almost equal amounts of admiration as the performing act themselves. The rich and famous of the DIY; the proletariat bourgeoisie; the broke stock brokers; the soothsayers and the fortune tellers; basically, the people you want to know.

"Hey, let's make a film tomorrow" says Fyo.

"About what?" from Avey.

"Who cares? Let's climb that billboard at the top of the hill. Let's hop on a train and record the city from like, some weird dutch angle, or something. Let's see how many cats can fit in one box."

"We could never find enough cats for that. All of our friends have like two cats at least, including me, and that still wouldn't be close to enough."

"Let's give the camera some 4-aco-dmt and see what happens."

"Easy on the Adderall, bub."

Fyo had a pretty publicly-known problem with stimulants, which he was recently combatting with a burgeoning benzodiazepine habit. Avey's personal dog hair was Kratom. Both of them partook in casual use of just about every recreational substance at this point, always especially eager to try something new. They still more or less had a handle on their sanity, but not without their eccentricities. Both had a deep love for consumption and creation of art, primarily music; between them they owned a veritable arsenal of digital and analog synthesizers, samplers, ancient MIDI keyboards, melodicas, and various novelty instruments collected over the years. Each had their own individual recording endeavors, as well as a joint operation making full use of their combined setup. They had played shows, Fyo more than Avey on account of having played in front of various kinds of audiences since the age of 15, from dull high school jazz band performances to the exact kind of venue they found themselves at tonight--in fact he'd played at this house several times already in the past year. “Holy House”, one of the few legit punk houses remaining in the city after a long string of misfortunes over the past two years lead to some places being shut down, others burning down, some simply forgotten about, living on only in the ink of flyers taped to the walls of just about every DIY art kid in the area--it was kind of like collecting baseball cards. Avey had played a couple of the more fleeting art spots once or twice, but was generally overcome with anxiety at the last minute.

Now three cigarettes in a row have been smoked, throughout yet more overly-anxious stim-fueled artistic brainstorming, both Avey and Fyo silently assuming that tomorrow would in reality consist of the same events as every other Saturday; recovering from the debauchery of the previous night, maybe with a half-hour or so of absent-minded musical improvisation.

The Ushi Onis had completed their set, and from what they heard from outside, it was agreed that their nonsense conversations were about on equal footing with the music, as far as time-wasting went. Not that they were bad, it's just.....it seemed as though they'd heard this same band hundreds of times, despite the fact this was their debut show. It seemed to Fyo, who had been in attendance for, shit, a decade now, that every show more-or-less went the same these days. You could even predict non-music related events. There was the guy who got way too drunk and was basically floating around the crowd, eyes only half-open, flailing around off-rhythm in a disconcertingly unhuman way during particularly intense performances--Fyo himself had been this guy on more occasions than he'd like to admit, as well as more occasions than he could literally remember. There was the creep getting kicked out for being creepy; that was a very strict rule for this scene, "NO CREEPS". You'd see it on basically any given flyer. House shows did tend to attract these creeps, what with the combination of pretty, young, and drug-addicted attributes of many of the female frequenters. Thankfully, Fyo had never been that guy. There was the kind of slapstick situation that occurred immediately after every band played, where the members of the other bands playing that night would come up and say "Hey, great set, what pedals do you use?" and then annoy the shit out of the poor guys just trying to fucking get their drums in the van, only for the same thing to happen to the original complimentary artists. Nobody ever learned their lesson. Nobody ever learned their lesson, forever and ever. This pretty much sums up the stagnation that Fyo has recently come to observe within the scene.

"Hey, I'm done here, if you are. Head back to my place?"

"Right you are."

The four-minute drive back to Fyo's apartment left just enough time to blair at obnoxious volume Avey's favorite song by The Mountain Goats (at least, his favorite song that day--the song changed frequently, but The Goats always remained Mountainous). On the way upstairs, Avey got a text from Tomie: "Beck pulled through. Pool party?"

So Avey said to Fyo; "Beck pulled through. Pool party?"

"Fuckin duh."

Tomie was a close friend as well as ex-girlfriend to both Avey and Fyo. Beck was their communal coke dealer. Fyo was the only person in The Crew whose apartment had a pool, and it was the deep depths of summer, so late night swimming was a common occurrence. Tonight, Tomie had brought Beck along (who surely had more coke, and anyone can see that hanging out with a coke dealer, who definitely had plenty of coke to spare, would certainly turn out to be a fun time--Fyo knew this from experience, as an old friend, Jericho, also happened to be a coke dealer before moving off to.....fuck-knows-where; Fyo wasn't sure WHY they hung out so much exactly, or why Jericho had given him so much free coke in those days; Jericho was gay, but Fyo didn't really feel like he could possibly be desirable enough to warrant such favor, especially with his [back then, at least] very socially awkward mannerisms, even after several lines of really honestly pretty great coke--although, Fyo [himself being hetero, this only now in the narrative needing to be made clear] usually thought the same thing about ladies he spent time with, and surprisingly often was proven wrong) as well as invited Fitch, who invited Les, who invited Beck, who invited Lil, who invited Vick, who invited.....

.....

Noujeff.

"Wait you say WHO the fuck is coming to my apartment???" Fyo demands answers.

"Shit, I'm sorry Fyo. I didn't know Vick was friends with him, don't know why he still is. We'll tell him to fuck off once he gets here, waste some gas at least. But hey.....The Crew here ain't gettin' any younger, so let's fuckin' get to it. Pick a record already."

The Crew was, in no particular order:

Avey, reserved but strong-willed and resilient, and disarmingly cunning; he once got Fyo, his on-and-off-again girlfriend Elise, and himself a free pass to this really exclusive music festival in what can only be described as an "experimental city"--FORM Arcosanti was the name of the festival (the town being just "Arcosanti"), located smack dab in the middle of the deserts of Arizona, where Fyo first glimpsed that now-out-of-reach image, occasionally dreamt or half-remembered, of a lone mountain, in the middle of one of the least forgiving deserts in an entire superpower-nation's worth of land, one of the hottest and driest places around, soaring so high into The Places We Cannot Reach, the great heights, the domain of myth and fiction more than anything, of a mountain seen from the road of a lonely desert which had a peak covered, even here in the frenzied peaks of July, the radioactive horror show burning of July, a peak covered in SNOW. Beautiful, nostalgic (and always nostalgic, for there was no "winter" in Arizona), almost, no yes certainly CLEANSING snow. The rest of the trip only got better. That is all we'll say of it, for now;

Fyo, the one whose thoughts we gain direct access to (to hell with a fourth wall; give me 50, 500, 5,000,000 more walls, and I will break them all), generally responsible, has a dependable job as a pharmacy technician, "almost" a real job, and two major flaws; here we move into

1.) Intense Manic Episodes On a Yearly, Predictable Basis

-----

Every year, in the period of time spanning between around March and June-Mid-July, Fyo would suffer an intense clinical episode of mania; he would become obsessive over ideas so obscure and opaque that he only sounded like a lunatic when describing them, and indulged in drug abuse as if suicidal, and more than once now had indeed proven to be so. Fyo would and did argue, however, that during these periods of admittedly (even by him) questionable ties to reality, his artistic output became noticeably higher in both quantity and quality than what was usually found in his "seasonal depression" (so-called) episodes during the months of October-February. No psychiatrist has yet explained this adequately.

2.) An Unhealthy Obsession With All Forms of Art, As Well As the Definition of Art Itself

-----

From a very young age, Fyo had shown great interest in art, and strangely enough but of course conspicuously naturally, surrealist art in particular. At 12, on a family vacation to Florida for the purposes of the (back then affordable even by the lower-middle-class family, with some planning) relaxation of the beach and the primal thrill of the Great Twin Amusement Parks, he devoted a day to visiting the Salvador Dali museum in St. Petersburg, Florida; a couple years later, the very first band he was in (at 15 years old) was named after Dali's "The Burning Giraffe". Then he gradually caught on to the growing web of obscurities, myths, exaggerations, half-truths, genuine enigmas, and philosophical contradictions that were accepted by some as truth, and saw the art embedded in life; and in the mirror, he saw the reflection of such, and in that he saw things that moved him in ways he was naïve to previously. That's how he got older. That's how he saw that the waking life was just as absurd as the dream. All that mattered was which space he occupied at a given time;

Tomie, as mentioned previously was both a close friend and ex-girlfriend to both Avey and Fyo. Each relationship was separated by such distance (spatially and temporally) that it really didn't matter, everyone had moved on cross-country and it was just nice to have people just fuckin' caring about each other, you know? Tomie was not afraid to bite into you in a very personal way, as long as she knew it would help you. She was a great ally to have in the world, if sometimes blunt; but this bluntness was out of a genuine kindness and invariably proved effective somehow. If you trusted anyone's advice, it was Tomie's;

Fitch, constantly in-and-out of jail for something or other, after so many years the circumstances blurred out a bit. Being eternally and self-admittedly impermanent, he always seemed almost as if acting in repentance to the best of his abilities; but around people like this, hope for repentance was laughable;

Lil, probably the most adult of the group, an ex-girlfriend of Fyo from back in the day, had worked her way to a very well-paying analytics gig. She still found herself hanging around with these wannabe artists and revolutionaries, for whatever reason; she was certainly always welcome, and that gave her a warm, content feeling.....

"Pick a goddamn record" says Lil.

Every time The Crew got together for some midnight coke-fueled swimming, someone got to ceremoniously choose a record from Fyo's collection, off of which the cover of the cocaine would be inhaled. It was Fyo's night. He was having trouble deciding. The record that was chosen would also be played on the record player while the lines were being drawn and erased; the lines themselves were on the sleeve, the small but not ignorable visual component of the LP. He looked through his stack; Joyce Manor (played a show with them before they became big--frontman was kind of an asshole. No.), The Antlers (far too sad for shamelessly inhaled thrills), Talking Heads (no, we'll just end up putting "Once In a Lifetime" on repeat), no, no, no, no.....LCD Soundsystem? Hm. Yeah, this one. Sound of Silver, talk to me.

"Fuckin' finally. Okay let's get this train wreck a-rollin'."

Greed filled the eyes of everyone in the room. Along with record-choosing duties came the first line of the night. Fyo lays down one FAT fucking line, finely crushed almost down to the individual molecule it seemed, grabs the closest straw, leans over and looks down at the snowy mountain range here in the middle of the silver desert, and unflatteringly snorts with all his might, and feels each crystal immediately begin its own personal attack on his neurotransmitters, leans back to make sure everything falls into the mucous membrane, nothing wasted, except for Fyo himself, and steps back to fall comically onto the couch, a smile of contentment and even relief overtaking his facial expression as Nancy Whang chants "You can normalize. Don't it make you feel alive?"

This. This is the life.

#fiction #short story #drugs #punk #punk rock #diy #metamodern #metaphysical #arkansas #little rock #lcd soundsystem #surrealism #salvador dali #addiction

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