Posts Tagged With: argument

Log #67: Entanglements

Log

September 26

 

And so my first attempt at unknotting this tangle has gone less well than one would have hoped. In truth, I appear to have tried cutting the Gordian knot with my dull and clumsy tongue, instead of a blade as Alexander used. And in the attempt, it seems, I have made the knot worse. Aye, I have indeed entangled my tongue into that knot.

After we chased the rogue Calhoun away and doctored the hurts he dealt me, I did little over the course of the evening, even as my men and the Grables kept Dame Margaret company, but sit on the porch and stare at the ring I had taken from that split-tongued scupperlout. I stared at the ring, and pictured the similar circlet of silver on Meredith’s finger, and I waited, impatient for her return.

She came at last near six bells of the first watch, a mere hour before midnight. I had placed myself in the shadows, lest she use another entry to the house and avoid me thus, as she had done when last I saw her. The subtlety was successful: she came to the porch from her beast-wagon, her gaze on the van, watching carefully for me, and I let her mount the steps before I sprang my ambuscade. She moved slowly, seeming exhausted, worn thin.

Perfect, thought I. Easy prey.

I stood and strode into the light, giving her a start – perhaps more than a start, as she voiced a cry nigh unto a scream, and fell back against the railing, the presence of which was her sole savior from a tumble off the porch. She saw it was I and closed her eyes, breathing deep, hand on her chest, presumably to slow her racing heart. If she hath a beating heart at all, that is.

“I met a man today,” I told her, without preamble. I held out my hand with the ring, still blood-marked, on my open palm. “He wore this.”

She frowned at it, looking to her own ring, set on the middle finger of her left hand. “It looks like mine.”

The flood of ire that had been held back heretofore by my will broke the dam, then, and I closed my hand and then flung the ring against the side of the house, where it struck with a crack like a whip. “Aye!” I shouted at her. “It looks like yours because ‘tis the mate of yours! Because you, like that ring, have a mate!”

She pulled her head back, frowning at me, her face as pale as milk. “What are you talking about?”

I slapped the pillar beside me so I would not strike her – because in truth I wished to strike her, aye. “Ye know right well! You – are – betrothed!”

Her eyes went wide as saucers. “I’m – what?”

I did shake my fists at her then, though I did not threaten her. “Betrothed, damn ye! That ring shows that ye be claimed as another man’s property! And yet ye cozened with me while ye wore it!”

Meredith’s fists went to her hips and now she thrust her face forward, her teeth bared as though she would snap at me, her pale cheeks now flushing bright red. “Excuse me? I am no one’s goddamn property! And what did you say – cozened with you? How dare you?”

I stepped forward to meet her, the two of us eye to eye, near nose to nose as we shouted and cursed one another. “Aye, cozened me, like a strumpet! Trying to turn your betrothed into a cuckold, and have me put the horns on him!” I had to turn away then, for I will never strike a woman. No matter how I am provoked.

“You son of a bitch –” she spat out at me, but I o’ershouted her. “Why? Tell me why ye did it, why ye did not tell me ye were promised and bound to another!”

She stamped her foot. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but I’m not fucking bound to anyone, I have never seen that ring, and who the fuck are you to attack me like this?”

I had to laugh at that, a bitter chuckle without a scrap of mirth: I felt as though I might never feel mirth again in this life. “Ah, lass, when ye play with a man, lie to a man, betray a man, ye give him some right to demand satisfaction of ye, as the injured party.”

She had naught to say to that, her mouth flapping like a hooked fish’s.

I knew I had her, then, caught in her own web of deceit. I held up a hand. “Nay, ye need not speak; I know just what ye’d say. Your man was away, perhaps ye had doubts that ye could keep him to home, and so ye played your feminine wiles, played the harlot, to test your power over men. Over me. Ye meant no harm by it, it perhaps went further than ye intended it to go, and then ye could not bring yourself to speak of it, did not want to admit ye’d betrayed your lord and master.”

I had meant to go on, to say that I understood and I forgave her her flirting, which I know is simply part of a woman’s nature. But that was when she hit me.

Hit me right in the jaw, she did – precisely where her brute of a lover had struck me earlier, and, it seemed to me, she hit me harder. Sure and it hurt more. And then she kicked me! Truly those two are a match for each other, aye. I’m well out of it.

I am.

As I reeled, catching myself on the porch railing, Meredith grabbed my shirt in a grip far stronger than I’d have expected from a lass. She pressed her face close to mine, and all I could see was her wide green eyes, and the fires that roared behind them.

“Now you shut the fuck up, and you listen to me, you piece of shit. I have no master. Nobody fucking owns me. Nobody. You do not have the right to question me, or to judge me, no matter what I choose to do: because I choose. Not you.” She swallowed – she had sprayed me with spittle in her fury – and then drew back. “And I choose to remove you from my life. I choose to never fucking see you again.”

Then she slapped me. In the same eye that the rogue had cut earlier. Again, I reeled under the pain, as Meredith let go of her hold on my shirt, walked back down the steps, and drove off in her beast-wagon. I watched her go with blood running into my eye, the cut opened anew by her ring.

I am suddenly very tired.

Perhaps I do not understand this. There is so much else that is strange, here; perhaps I am wrong in this instance as I have been before, as when I marooned Morty the shopkeep; what I had hoped would keep him from causing trouble for us ere we departed led to greater trouble than I would have found had I been seeking it. Too, my involvement with the Latin Lions led to suffering for the Family Lopez, as well as for myself and my crew; and though they did not weigh heavily on my conscience, being the pack of scalawags they had been, still there had been much blood spilled, almost entirely by myself and my men. Too much blood. I have thought, since then, that less mayhem could have ensued had I acted elsewise than I did.

Perhaps I misunderstand the meaning of two rings of one pattern, worn on the hands of a man and a woman. Perhaps the trouble was the term “betrothed;” in truth I am often incapable of making myself understood to these people of this world. Perhaps that was the trouble.

Perhaps the trouble is merely that I tried to talk about honor to a woman. My mother understands honor; I have known a few other women who do, as well. None since we came to this time. Well – Dame Margaret does, it seems. But surely not her granddaughter.

I have recorded all of this in detail so that I may think it over again, and see if I have gone wrong, and if so, where.

Bah. Women.

 

Log

27th of September in the year 2011

Well, and if I had thought that all I would have to bear was the pain suffered from Meredith’s betrayal and from the twin thrashings she and her man inflicted – sure and this would be a fine honeymoon, would it not? “Come beat the heartsick Irishman, man and wife together for a single price!” – I would have been wrong. There was far more suffering to come.

And – perhaps – a remedy to all ills.

It began this morn with Lynch. I have not been easy with him since he insulted me at the inn, when I would not interfere in the kerfuffle between the man and his woman in the adjacent room and he implied that I am no good man. Though I did argue with him when he first applied that description to me, nonetheless it did sting when he seemed to withdraw it. I have felt his continued disapprobation directed towards my deeds and decisions here in Charleston, though he has not seen fit to voice an objection.

Until this morn.

As we broke our fast, I grumbling as I chewed of the pain in my twice-struck jaw, Lynch dropped his spoon in his bowl with a clatter (Though I and the other men prefer the local porridge, called by Dame Margaret “grits,” and the Grables are fond of eggs atop toasted bread, Lynch opts for a strange form of clotted cream called yogurt, with fruit mixed in. Seems a cold, clammy sort of meal.) after I had made some remark or other about seeking out Meredith and giving her and her shrewishness a thorough tongue-lashing. He looked at me with fiery eyes and asked, “What are you doing?”

I noticed, but did not comment on, how he left off the Captain he usually entitles me. I met his glare, somewhat belligerent from the ache in my jaw and brow, and asked, “What do ye mean, boy?”

He stood from his chair. “What are you doing here, Captain?” Since I said “boy” instead of “lad,” my title received a thick tarring of sarcasm. He went on. “Why are ye acting like some dandified noble grousing on insults to his honor? Or to a lady’s honor?”

I tried to interject, but now the boy had the bit between his teeth, and he ran on. “Are ye our captain, our pirate captain, or are ye some cock-o-the-walk popinjay who will challenge any man to a duel who looks at him cross-wise?”

I slapped the table. “Ye heard what that pig said to me! What would you have me do? Should I not defend my lady’s honor when her good name must bear such dire insult?”

He threw his hands in the air. “She’s not your lady, Captain! That’s what that rogue said to ye, and I heard it well!” He leaned on his fists on the table. “I heard what ye said to the lady Meredith last night, as well, and ye did not seem so very concerned with sparing her insult.”

I came out of my chair, turning my back on him. “Bah – what do you know of matters between men and women, ye wee stripling!” But even while I said this, I did not – I could not – defend what I had spake to Meredith Vance. Recalling it, and thinking of that ballyhoo being overheard by other ears, I felt shame.

I was soon to feel more.

But I went on. “I recall ye saying to me, not two days gone, that a good man should do more. So ye’d have me defend a woman I know not, but ignore when a lout ill-uses our hostess here? Have ye no honor yourself, boy?”

Lynch recoiled as though I had struck him. Then he nodded. “So. Ye’d have me – us – think ye were defending Meredith Vance’s honor. And not fighting like a jealous stallion over another who threatened to take your mare.”

I scoffed and said, “Aye! ‘Tis true. I’d defend any lady’s honor in similar distress.”

His eyes narrowed. “Would you defend my honor, then?” I blinked at this, and he turned red in the face. Then he flipped his hand to dismiss the slip and said, “Would ye defend the honor of your crew, of your shipmates?”

‘Twas a deep blow, and I drew up proudly and said, “Aye! I would!”

His eyes glittered like a viper’s as he struck. “Then why haven’t you? Our crew – your men – are held captive! Along with your ship! We have not one bit of knowledge of how they fare, nor if they even live! And here you sit, carping over your – your jealous spat?”

I admit I spluttered at this, but I rallied quickly. “Nay! Nay, I seek only – Meredith is a pilot! She can fly us to the Grace and the men!” I looked to the others for support of this, our plan all along, the goal I had been working towards.

Hadn’t I?

They would not meet my gaze.

Lynch would. “Perhaps ye have not noticed, Captain;” now I wished he would stop calling me that, so contemptuous did he sound; “perhaps your gaze has been elsewhere, but I have seen those same flying ships overhead every day! There be hundreds of them, not just one, not just Lady Meredith’s! While we sit here in this house and you get in lover’s brawls, we could be finding another pilot, another flying ship! We could be booking passage on one, as she suggested we do to go north!”

I was in full retreat now. “We – we have not the funds.”

He slapped the table. I jumped. “Damn it, man, are ye not a pirate? If we have not wealth, we take it! If we cannot do that, we could bargain, trade our service for passage! If ye would only pull your head out of your arse!”

He stormed from the room.

Kelly and Shane and the Grables followed in silence. None had a word to say to me, kind or otherwise.

I fell back into my chair and stared at – nothing. At my own folly, writ large now that Lynch had torn the scales from my eyes and showed it to me. Showed me myself.

I think now that the trouble we have faced did not spring from a woman. I think it sprang from me.

Categories: Book II, Captain's Log | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Log #55: Free Men

Log

9 September 2011

In Ireland, there was a man, who spent aye his time in the public houses slurping from the bottom of a tankard, named Seamus O’Monaghan. And though Auld Seamus, as he was known (or Old Shame-Us, as some wags referred to him, with a gimlet eye and a curse for his old bones) ne’er stirred himself to set his idle hands to any honest work, still his cup ne’er went dry for long. Auld Seamus, you see, was the finest talker in a country famed for drunkards and poets. Famed to us, at the least: I know not how Ireland has fared over the years. I will ask Brother Bob on the morrow.

Aye, Auld Seamus, he could talk. He would spin a tale that would have left Shakespeare gaping in wonder, or Amergin mac Eccit himself a-dandling on his harp strings, empty of poetry. Auld Seamus could paint a scene with words that would have you not only seeing every leaf and every blade of grass, but smelling it, too. He could make his voice as high as a maiden’s or as gruff as the Devil himself, and his face and his hands would follow the same road, his eyelids fluttering and lips pursing delicately as his maiden hands sought demurely to hide his face – despite the snowy stubble across that chin, mind – or his brow lowering, his wide mouth curled into a sneer and a leer, both at once, his every feature turned infernal. Auld Seamus knew every tale, from books or from villages across the land, and he’d tell any that was asked for, so long as it was asked for with a full mug of ale. And Auld Seamus never went thirsty.

In between tales, while other men would argue over the weather or women or warfare, Auld Seamus would weigh in with his views, of the which he ever had a plenitude, suited for any topic and any occasion; and though his words in conversation never earned him any ale (for every man has an opinion, and no one’s are of value close to my own, in my eyes), those opinions would oft bring the conversation to a close – thus drawing the house down into a lull, which would never last more than a few heartbeats before someone would call out “Give us a tale, then, Seamus!” And he would place his hands on either side of his empty tankard and wait. Aye, there was no dust on Auld Seamus, for all his white hair.

And how would Auld Seamus scuttle a topic? Why, by proffering opinions so absurd, so fantastical – and yet so seemingly logical – that no man could possibly refute them. For the wise would know the argument to be too mad to merit rebuttal, and the fools (of which there are always a majority) would either believe Auld Seamus’s words as he spake them, or be so enchanted by them that they would profess belief merely to amuse themselves in repeating and chuckling over what Auld Seamus had said. Such as the one about rain being the soul’s tears, that was a favored speech, I recall. Some men were arguing over the rain, which was surprisingly sparse that year, and whether or not it would return to its usual pattern in time to increase the crops, or if they would stay dry and thin. Auld Seamus, he broke in with this: “O’ course there has been na’ rain: the English hath gone home, have they na’?” Well, naturally the crowd needed to hear how these two statements related, one to the other, so Auld Seamus explained: it was misery that made rain fall. The more people there were suffering, the more tears, not true? Of course all agreed, in terms of sheer volume of salt water. Ah! And where the men have hearts of lions, and the women, as well, and they turn hard as stones and shed not the tears brought by their suffering, where then, Auld Seamus asked, do those unshed tears go? Why, they travel up into the sky, like mist rising in the morning, and when enough such tears gather in the clouds, they fall as rain. That is why fair Ireland, ever beset by foes and ravaged by feud and turmoil – and where, Auld Seamus said, the people are wise enough to know their misery, and hath long memories for past sufferings, too – Ireland is nigh flooded with precipitation, and Scotland, the same; England, of course, suffers less, and France less still; the Holy Land, where our Lord and Savior walked, will ever be a place of joyful hearts, made so by the memory of the Christ, regardless of what strife may tear at the land; thus it will remain a desert of smiling faces. And, he finished, since the English are now leaving Ireland (’twas when Charles II returned to his throne, after the happy death of Devil Cromwell), the Irish are not suffering sufficiently to bring the rain to our crops.

Aye – it works, does it not? Wherever the people are in the main more blissful and content, the skies are, in the main, more clear. Rain is soul’s tears. Auld Seamus said so.

Here is another of Auld Seamus’s finest oratorical meanderings: Ireland, though plagued by marauders and savage Englishmen, was nevertheless – free. Or at least more free than the homeland of those same Englishmen. “For Ireland hath na’ king, is’t not so?”

“Aye,” the befuddled listeners would answer. “For we are conquered by the damned English, who rule us.”

“Aye, and precisely where my aim lieth, lads!” crowed Auld Seamus. “For a king – a good king, a wise king, just and manly – maketh men loyal. Loyal men follow the laws set down, like stones in a wall, by that just, wise king. That’s what taketh off a man’s freedom: his own choice to loyally follow the laws of his righteous lord.

“But when ’tis a foreign conqueror behind the laws, or an evil king – a man like Devil Cromwell, aye, struth – then no one feeleth the sting o’ conscience when the law be broken nor bent. Then the only matter is, can ye avoid bein’ caught? And any Irishman wi’ a brain in his head and two eyes to see, and two feet to run, will ne’er be caught by those English clods. That’s why we are free!”

And then the men pause, and ponder; then shrug and say, “That’s Auld Seamus!” Then all share a laugh and a round of full mugs. But not a one argues against Auld Seamus’s words. How can you?

Damn me but I miss the old gaffer. Him and all the rest.

It seems to me that if Auld Seamus could have set sail from Ireland (on a ship filled with casks of ale, of course) and settled his own land, where the only history is what Auld Seamus tells them, and the only philosophy what he offers them over a full mug, that land would be America. For surely, this place is madder than any land that has ever reverberated to the tread of man. This day, what I have seen, and what I have heard said, with all sincerity, by Brother Bob, has shown this to be true, and put me in mind of Auld Seamus that was. So now, like then, I will shrug my shoulders and say, “That’s America.” Then call for an ale. There is nothing else that I can do in the face of such lunacy as that of these free men.

We rose early and walked on, after an easy meal of bread and crisp bacon. The woods did not last more than half a mile – surely why Lynch had no luck in hunting – and then opened up to a view of wonder, and horror, both. We looked down from that hill and saw – city. Nothing else but city, from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could leap: buildings and streets and beast-wagons, followed by more buildings and more streets and more wagons. And then still more.

Brother Bob stood with a smile on his face (As, it seems, he does at most every moment, regardless of circumstance – a fine jolly man, he is.) and said, “Isn’t that amazing? That right there, gentlemen, is Washington, D.C. The capitol city of this magnificent country.” (Brother Bob cleared up my confusion regarding the name, which I had believed to be partly French: the city is called the District of Columbia, and given the initials to differentiate it from another place named Washington. I asked him from whence this term originated, but he knew not.)

We made appropriate noises of awe and amaze, and then began the trek down into that labyrinth of humanity and all their works. And who did we find, once we plunged past the outskirts, behind the veil of buildings? Any man who has been to Dublin, or London, Paris, Lisbon, or Rome, anyone who has walked from without to within one of the world’s great cities knows the answer: we found poverty, misery, corruption, degradation, and suffering. We found humanity, in all the tattered glory that is a city of men.

It was perhaps less apparent to our eyes, I and my two fellow ancients, than it would have been to a native of this land; we did not recognize houses and edifices that are shoddy, shabby, small and lowly – to us they are all incredible giants, filled with sparkling glass and the eldritch light made in glass balls they call electricity. But we knew beggars when we saw them, and good folk wasted by poverty and hunger, and young men turned to surly, hard-hearted toughs – turned by anger that has no target, no release, and no respite. Aye, we knew these people well: they are our people. They are we.

Brother Bob did not show poorly, as we made our way down streets filled with the idle, the inebriated, the insane, and the indigent; I have seen many an American turn away and ignore his fellow – a habit I saw as well in the English these people so resemble. But Brother Bob behaved more like an Irishman among his brothers: he met their gaze, whether the eyes behind were mad or sad or forlorn, and nodded and smiled and murmured greetings and well wishes, raising his hand to the men and giving a slight bow of respect to the ladies he passed: whether granny or child or painted harlot, he spurned none. My shipmates and I exchanged a glance and a smile; we might be in the wrong place (For ye must pity the poor and destitute, but among ’em, remember to watch thy purse) and the wrong time, but we were with the right man.

After a time – a longish time, and a good distance: four or five miles, methinks, though these buildings so close and so looming-tall do make it hard to judge distance over land – we passed out of the outer city and into the inner city, the home of the prosperous and the noble. A spring came into Brother Bob’s step again, and he began to point out sights for our amazement and edification. He asked if we had ever seen the White House, and when we confirmed our innocence of such, he clapped his hands with glee and turned us down a street crying, “This way!” and setting off with vigor.

Indeed, we were amazed again. This White House was a palace beyond any we had ever seen – perhaps rivaling St. Peter’s in Rome, or that place Louis of France was rumored to be building, in Versailles, if I remember aright, though I have never seen either, to compare. ‘Tis a mighty colonnaded manor, as white as new-fallen snow, seen at a fair distance across perfectly kept grounds behind a tall black iron fence with guards posted at the entry gate, kept busy by swarms of courtiers and audience-seekers, as any palace must be.

I inquired of Brother Bob the name of the sovereign who ruled there – curious I was, whether these once-English colonies were now under a Tudor, or a Stuart, or perhaps a Bourbon. But he scoffed at this. “We don’t have kings here! This is a free country!”

I set my gaze on that White House, this lavish prodigy built for one man’s vanity and comfort, and I scoffed in return. “I have seen palaces ere this, my brother – and that is a palace. With palaces come kings.” He shook his head, saying I did not understand, and I let it pass.

He led us to more magnificence then – more great buildings, all of them pure white and colonnaded (clearly meant to flatter the king by imitating the style of his palace), which he called the Capitol, and the Supreme Court, and other such; this Capitol, quoth Bob, housed what he called the Senate – as in Rome of old – and a House that he compared to Parliament, a term that we three ancient Irishmen, who had lived through the rule of Devil Cromwell and his Parliamentarians, started at and exchanged glances over. Perhaps it is true that they have no kings here, I thought and whispered to my compatriots: if their Parliament has beheaded them as Cromwell did to Charles of England. Then Brother Bob showed us the monuments – built in one of the loveliest places I have seen, in this land or any other, in a park with a pool of water that reflected the clear blue sky above, and pavilions, graceful and clean, all about.

There were monuments to the glorious dead, fallen in battle – one, Bob said, for an unknown soldier, which befuddled me: why would you cast shame on the dead, being forgotten, or on yourselves for forgetting him? Another, where Brother Bob took some time to visit and say prayers, was a vast wall of black stone, with thousands of names carved into it – the names of all the men torn from this world by fire and by sword in that war. I must say, ’twas a magnificent tribute, a fine way to honor lost heroes. ‘Twas most affecting to us all. Especially when we realized the sheer extent of it, and the number of the fallen – a terrible weight of names, in truth, and of lives lost.

Then Brother Bob showed us the memorials for past kings. And these showed once more that my surmise regarding the White House was correct – a point I made to Brother Bob. This Lincoln, this Jefferson, and most particularly this Washington for whom the city is named – who raised himself a pagan obelisk taller than any spire I have ever seen, taller by far than the great cathedrals of Europe, as if this man would set his glory above that of God himself – clearly, these men, though they wore no crowns, were kings of old.

“You don’t understand,” said Brother Bob. “This is a free country. It’s a democracy. We choose our leaders.”

“Aye, so did the Romans,” I rejoined. “‘The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.’ Is that it? You have chosen to set these men so far above you that they ‘bestride the narrow world like a Colossus, and we petty men walk under his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonourable graves.’ Aye? ‘I know he would not be a wolf but that he sees the Romans are but sheep.’ Be that your meaning?”

He shook his head. “No! We cast votes, and select our leaders of our own free will. They only rule by the consent of the governed, by the will of the people, and according to the laws of the country.”

I frowned at him. “So then the people – those people, living in squalor and deprivation out there, miles of misery surrounding this opulence, this splendid vainglory – they choose this? They cast a vote for men who live thus, and who allow them to continue to live like that – and each within a stone’s throw of the other?” I laughed. “No, my friend, it is but a child’s story, meant to placate.” (It was here, indeed, that I thought of Auld Seamus.) “There is no freedom here. This is despotism, whatever they may tell you to the contrary.”

We stood beneath the prodigious Washington Monument, and Brother Bob – somewhat exercised now, and spluttering – pointed up at it and said, “No. They wanted to make him a king, wanted him to lead for the rest of his life. He refused. He gave up his power after only eight years. And every president” (This is the term they apply to themselves, these American kings, and most clever are they to refer to their rule as “presiding,” rather than ruling. Somewhat like Julius Caesar choosing the title of dictator – speaker, commander – rather than Imperator or Rex. And just as truthful as Caesar, methinks.) “– every president since then – well, almost every one – has stuck to that. Now it’s in the laws: no one can be in charge for more than eight years, and that’s only if they win two national elections.”

“Eight years?” quoth I. “Caesar himself ruled for less. As did Caligula. And Bloody Mary. Devil Cromwell himself held sway for not more than twice that span. Surely a tyrant may cause untold harm in eight years. I fail to see how that makes you free.”

“Because the President doesn’t have absolute power!”

“This President of yours: does he demand show of obeisance? Does he walk into a room with a fanfare, and must others stand, or bow?”

“Well, yes, but –”

“Does he have a personal guard, loyal to the death, who will kill any who threaten him?”

“The Secret Service, yes, but –”

“Does he take all of the laurels for good fortune unto himself, and push all blame onto his subordinates and rivals?”

“Okay, yes, but still –”

“Then he’s a king.”

“But we elect them,” Brother Bob said. “We have free choice!”

“Can ye choose to elect none of them, to rule yourselves?” He shook his head. “Well then,” I went on, “can any man become king? Any man may choose any name to cast a vote for?”

“Well, no,” he said, hedging and retreating, as he must. “There are two major parties, and we pick from those.”

I had to laugh. “Aye – like the War of the Roses, is’t not? This House or that House, White or Red, and not a hair’s difference between the two. All of them leave your people in poverty. All of them put good men in gaol. All of them send young men to die in wars, fought for the ruler’s glory and at his command.

“No, my friend. Take it from me: I know what it is to be ruled by a tyrant who uses noble and lofty speech to describe the ravaging of a land and her people. This is a kingdom, under the feet of despots, whether they be one single man or one of a faction. You are not free.”

Brother Bob had naught to say. So, pitying him – for it is most painful when the scales fall from one’s eyes (if indeed they did fall – Auld Seamus never surrendered his opinions, even if someone did argue, as happened once or twice) – we set out on our northward journey once more, and left politics behind. Within a mile, Brother Bob had cast off his melancholy and was back to his cheerful self. He took us then to a house of comfort, where the poor were given food and shelter; he spoke with the proprietor, a kind soul by the name of Beatrice Everstone, and then proposed to we three that we should spend the remainder of that day there, offering what assistance we could in exchange for a meal and a bed for the night.

Such generous terms were well to our liking, and we swiftly agreed. We were able to offer ourselves as carpenters, making various repairs, as well as maidservants and serving wenches, cleaning the sprawling hall and doling out victuals to the paupers. MacManus and I even kept the peace, stepping into an argument that was fast turning to fisticuffs, but for our timely intervention and stern correction.

The labor made the simple fare delicious, and the beds into sumptuous bowers. I put a hand on Brother Bob’s shoulder as we readied ourselves for sleep, smiled and said, “Here is where men are free. Tyrants hold no sway in generous hearts.” He smiled and nodded in return.

And so, after keeping this log, to bed.

Categories: Book II, Captain's Log | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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A book blog by three best friends.

Pompous Porcupines

Predictably Pretentious yet Irresistibly Excellent