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These are collected by Barnabas Piper. I have loved the Narnia series since I first read them, and that was as a young adult. C. S. Lewis has some really cogent thoughts. I especially like the point that one of the childish things one leaves off as one becomes a man is “a fear of childishness”!
“We’re not going to bother with any of that marching crap,” said Jeffords to his troops. They were his because he was the only one in town with experience in combat, little as that was.
The villagers were lined up, sort of, in front of him. The idea was that he would prepare them to fight in the great war should their baron call for them. He had hated all the details of military life, the drill, the order, uniforms, and theory. What was important was for people to learn to fight.
This is a work of fiction. All persons, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination.
Copyright © 2012
Henry E. Neufeld
His troops had spears and crossbows. The crossbows weren’t very good, but they were the preferred hunting weapons in the area. Jeffords suspected any real hunters had hidden those crossbows they actually used to hunt, and these were the remnants.
So Jeffords set about teaching the villagers to use those crossbows. Marksmanship was the order of the day, with a little bit of work with the spears (just in case the enemy got that close) on the side.
Then word came that enemy troops were approaching their own town. The baron had called for them. It was time to go to war.
“There’s no point trying to learn to use crossbows effectively,” said Karl. Karl, much like Jeffords, was the only person with military experience in his town. He was convinced that the peasants could not learn to fight properly, and the only possible way they could be used in battle was if you made them into a coherent unit.
“What we need to learn to do,” he told them, “is to learn to point those spears forward together, hold our shields locked together, and march forward together until those spears are sticking inside our enemies.” He did his best imitation of his drill instructor’s voice.
So Karl’s troops drilled constantly until they could make a solid wall of their shields and a nice hedge of their spears.
Then the word came that they must go to war for their baron.
It so happened that Jeffords’ groops and Karl’s troops faced one another when the day of battle came. Karl couldn’t quite suppress his worry as he saw all those troops carrying crossbows. If they were accurate enough for long enough, things could be very tough for his people.
Across the field, Jeffords had his own worries. If those troops across the field could hold that nice wall of shields and move forward with all those spears pointed straight forward, things could get pretty tough for his men. He was remembering how rarely his folks hit their targets, and it looked like this might start at longer range than they’d trained for.
Then the orderly line of troops started to march forward with their shields in a wall. On the other side crossbows began to fire. It was ragged—they’d never really learned to fire in a volley. Most of the bolts ended up in that wall of shields, though an occasional yell indicated a hit.
Jeffords realized the only possibility was for his troops to get behind. He began to yell the order. Unfortunately, nobody had practiced this particular maneuver. In fact, they had barely practiced any maneuvers.
So some chose to run around the right flank, others tried for the left flank, some thought it must be a retreat and started to run away, and there were a few who seemed to thing they should run forward with their spears.
Unfortunately (this time for the other side), some of Jeffords’ troops did make it around and it turned out that they did know a bit more about fighting than Karl’s troops did.
When the battle came to a close, or more accurately wound down due to the dwindling number of participants, there were quite a large number of bodies on the ground. Some of them were pretending, but who could tell?
Jeffords pulled himself up off the ground. His leg was cut wide open and he knew he wasn’t going to be walking soon. He looked at the mess.
“Maybe we should have learned how to march,” he muttered.
Across the field Karl looked around. He was in better shape than Jeffords, but he didn’t have much fight left in him.
“Maybe we should have learned how to fight,” he said.
(This story was written for and submitted to the one word at a time blog carnival: Marching.)
The old man sat in his simple room looking at the bag of gold. “Use it however you want,” the rich young fellow had said. “I feel I need to give it to someone, and I have no idea who. I think you may know.”
The old man was renowned for his wisdom and his kindness. He had never sought attention or fame. He lived simply. He gave away whatever he didn’t need, and he needed very little.
This is a work of fiction. All persons, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination.
Copyright © 2012
Henry E. Neufeld
And here was a bag of gold, enough to buy the entire town. At least.
He thought of a plan. He divided up the money, and then he set out to find three young men.
“I believe you’re about to go and seek your fortune,” said the wise, old man to the first young man. “I want to make you an offer.”
“What? Make it snappy!” said the young man.
“I have here a bag of gold. It’s quite a considerable amount of money. I will give you a choice. Either I’ll give you this bag of gold, or I will give you a wise saying that will help you as you seek your fortune.”
“Give me the gold, if you have any,” said the first young man.
So the wise, old man handed the young man a small bag of gold. The young man was delighted with his good fortune. He went on his way, richer than he had ever imagined he would be.
“I will offer you a choice,” said the wise man to the second young man. “A wise saying to help you live a full life, or this bag of gold.”
“How much gold is there?” asked the second young man. “Can I get a sample of your wise advice?”
“This bag is filled with gold coins,” said the wise, old man. “And no, you must choose between the gold and the saying. I didn’t say it would be advice.”
The second young man was a thoughtful sort, and he had heard of the famous wise man. “I can always earn money,” he said, “I’ll take the wise saying.”
“You have within you a gift that can connect you with the universe,” said the wise, old man.
“Is that all?” asked the young man. “I should have taken the gold. It wasn’t a fair test.”
“What has fairness to do with it?” asked the wise, old man. “It’s my gold. I can give it or not as I choose. Here! I’ll give you the gold as well.”
The young man went on his way, still fuming. He had the saying and he had the gold, but somehow he felt cheated.
“I will give you a choice,” said the wise, old man to the third young man. “You may either have this bag of gold, or you may have a wise saying that will help you live a full life.”
“I’ll take the wise saying,” said the third young man.
“You don’t care how much gold I’m offering you?” asked the wise, old man.
“Not really,” said the third young man. “I’m not asking for it.”
“Very well, then. Here is the saying: ‘You have within you a gift that can connect you with the universe.’”
The third young man looked thoughtful. “Thank you,” he said. Then he started on his way.
“Here,” said the wise, old man. “I have no use for this. Take the gold as well.”
Some years passed, and the wise, old man heard news of the young men he had encountered.
The first young man went to the nearest city. He lived well on the gold. In fact, he could have lived for many years. But within the first year he invested the gold in a trading caravan that promised enormous profit.
The caravan was lost and never heard from again. The young man ended up penniless and eventually took his own life.
The second young man was very much disturbed by the saying given him by the wise, old man. He thought and thought about it, but he couldn’t see any value in it. Wise sayings should be easy to understand and put into practice! He thought the test had been unfair, and even though he was rich beyond his wildest dreams, he was angry, resentful, and very difficult to get along with.
His belief that the world was essentially unfair, setting traps for unsuspecting young men and treating them unjustly led him into conflict with others. He eventually killed someone in a drunken rage, a person who had treated him unfairly, and he ended up in the king’s dungeon.
The third young man was delighted that he had a gift within him. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant to connect with the universe, but he set out to discover what that gift might be. Each time he discovered something that appeared to be a gift he set to work on it to see whether it would help him connect with the universe. He wanted to discover what that would be like.
Over the years he found that he had many gifts, and as he put his best effort into developing every gift he discovered, he found he could do many things. He spent the gold very carefully, living on what he earned, and using it mostly to help him in his quest as well as to help others.
He became quite popular and well liked. He didn’t try to be popular, but there were so many people he had helped or taught, or even just served well when he worked.
Many years later he was sitting in a bar listening to the talk of the men and women from the caravan route. They told the story of a wise man who had a talent for helping people with his knowledge and his money. He recognized the story. It was his. But the speaker attributed it to someone in a town he had never heard of in a country he couldn’t have placed on a map.
“… connect you with the universe.” He suddenly realized just how connected he had become.
He chose to bring his story to the wise, old man himself.
“What do you think of the results of your experiment?” he asked.
Now you, reader, what do you think?
The LORD’s judgments are true.
All of these are righteous!
10 They are more desirable than gold—
than tons of pure gold!— (Psalm 19:9b-10a, CEB)
He couldn’t be more than four or five years old, thought the headman. He really should know, as this was the son of the resident priest at the little shrine on the north edge of town. But he really couldn’t remember.
This is a work of fiction. All person’s, places, and events are products of the authors imagination.
Copyright © 2012
Henry E. Neufeld
He’d wandered into the headman’s office and said he had a message from the gods. It was impossible to believe that the boy could think of the words he used. He’d condemned the headman for having one of the villagers executed on false evidence, and for stealing the property of others. The child had called the man, the elder, a liar, a thief, and a murderer. He said the gods were going to punish him.
It was intolerable. The child had said the message was from the gods, but he knew it had to be from the child’s father. How the father had known the headman’s secrets, the headman had no idea. But there was only one answer. The priest had to go. And the child would have to go as well.
“You lie,” said the headman. “Your father put you up to that message.”
“No, it is from the gods,” said the body.
“Liar,” shouted the headman. But the boy didn’t show the expected fear.
“The true word is withdrawn,” he said. “The gods will no longer speak.”
The headman laughed. “The gods will no longer speak,” he muttered. As if their speaking ever did any good. The priest brought regular messages, but they were either just general congratulations or they were so muddled nobody could figure out what they meant in any case. Who cared if the gods didn’t speak any more?
A few days later the priest and his wife were arrested. Everyone suspected the charge of theft of public money was trumped up, but they weren’t sure, and besides, nobody went against the headman. As was the tradition, the boy was given his father’s place. Of course, he had to be cared for by someone, and the headman generously offered to give him a home until he was old enough to go live alone in the shrine.
The years passed. As expected, the little boy grew up and became the priest of the shrine. And as was expected of him, he began to produce oracles from the gods. They were suitably difficult to interpret. Nobody could tell whether they were true or not, because nobody could be sure what they meant.
Yet the headman’s luck seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. From time to time as he was lying in bed unable to sleep he’d start to believe it had started on the day that the little boy had told him the gods were going to punish him. Then he’d push it from his mind. It really had just been a trick pulled by the boy’s father. Good thing he hadn’t fallen for it.
The boy, so far as the headman knew, didn’t even remember the incident. After all, the child had been very young.
Then came the day when the baron called for the headman to bring troops. There was to be a great battle. The headman didn’t want to go. What he needed was an excuse to stay away and send someone else. In fact, he wanted to keep all of his cronies and supporters from having to go to war and send some of the others.
The best way to do this was to have an oracle that told him (or could be construed to tell him) what he wanted to hear. That would justify him before the villagers, and reported (with suitable adjustments) in a letter to the baron, it would justify his sending someone else in response to the request—really an order—for support.
He didn’t bother to say anything to the priest, who would doubtless produce something suitably incomprehensible which could be interpreted however he needed it to be.
All the warriors gathered in the town square to hear the oracle before the chose those who would go to fight for the baron and those who would stay and defend the village.
“Those who go will face great trials, but will return crowned with glory and honor. Those who stay will be surprised and will suffer dishonor.”
It was suitably obscure, but how could he interpret it as direction from the gods that he should stay at home? He should have coached the priest as to what to say. Clearly the young man hadn’t realized his sponsor wanted to stay and had made the oracle too precise.
So the headman led the small group of warriors off to support the baron. As would be expected, those who were his closest supporters chose to go with him. Who could resist returning crowned with glory and honor? Who could explain such a decision?
It was unfortunate that the town elder left in charge was not a close associate of the headman. After all, the closest associates had headed off to war. He suspected the headman was stealing from the town. He suspected he had had innocent people imprisoned and killed. But he didn’t care.
The elder began to talk to others in the town, and they decided they really didn’t need the headman. They decided they would kill the headman and any warriors who chose to support him when they returned. They thought the number of returning warriors would be diminished, and they would be surprised.
It was an unsavory business. The rumors in the town were intense. Some said the interim headman was in bed with the real headman’s wife. Some said that it was the headman’s younger daughter. Everyone was talking about how the supposed caretaker was taking things for himself.
Then one day the watchman shouted out the word. The warriors were returning.
The men gathered near the gate, planning still to arrest the headman. What else could they do? Despite the chaos, there was no way they would survive if they let the headman take back power.
But it was a sad procession that entered the town. The headman was lying on a wagon. His weapons around him. He had been presented with a wreath as a crown by the baron for his valor in battle. Though the wreath has withered, he was, indeed crowned with honor. He was also quite dead. And embalmed. It really was quite a surprise.
But before everyone realized this a battle broke out between the warriors who had been left behind and the small number who had returned. Despite their small numbers, the returning soldiers did well, and killed most of their attackers. There was only one of the warriors who had stayed in the village left alive and unmaimed when the battle was over.
He went to the temple and asked the priest how everything could go so wrong for everyone.
“The true word was withdrawn,” said the priest who had been the boy. “What did you expect?”
(See also A Fresh Perspective I)
The church council didn’t know what to do. Well, that isn’t precisely true. Individually they did know what to do, but they didn’t all know the same thing, and no one plan of action was acceptable to all the members.
This is a work of fiction. All persons, places, and things are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance of anything or anyone in the story to anything or anyone in the real world is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012,
Henry E. Neufeld.
Here was their problem. They had dozens of young people coming to events at the church. They played basketball in the gym. They played softball on the softball fields. Many of them even went to Sunday School.
The power bill on the gym was going up, and there was no money to pay it. The softball fields needed more and more maintenance, and there was no money to pay that either. The Sunday School classes needed more materials, but there was no money for that. They needed more teachers, but there were not enough volunteers.
Some thought the problem was that the church didn’t trust in God enough. They proposed a month of fasting and prayer that God would provide the money.
Others thought that the problem was that these were children whose parents didn’t go to the church. They wondered why they had to spend money on children whose parents weren’t interested enough to support the church with their time and money. They suggested the children should go to church wherever their parents did. They just looked blank when someone mentioned that very few, maybe none, of those parents went to church.
Some thought they should try to get a grant somewhere, they weren’t sure where.
Then one retired lady who had spent her entire life working with the children started asking questions.
“Isn’t there something in the church budget we could give up?” she asked. “Perhaps we don’t need new hymnals this year.” Everyone was so stunned at this suggestion that silence fell, and she was able to continue. “Surely the children are more important than the appearance of our hymnals!” she continued.
“And to all you praying folk. Are you going to show up to help? Will the money you save by not buying food while you fast help the budgetary problems?”
“I know my granddaughter loves to work with children, but nobody has asked for her help. I’m told she’s too young, but is she really?” Again there was silence.
“And has anyone considered contacting these parents? You seemed surprised at the suggestion they might not attend church. Most people in our community don’t—attend church, that is.”
After a short pause she finished. “The only new thing I think we need here is a fresh perspective!”
(This story is an alternative to the one I wrote for the One Word at a Time blog carnival on the word “Fresh.”)
(See also A Fresh Perspective – II.)
For years merchant trains had passed through the town by the falls on their way to the great north-south trade route to the west. The terrain was terrible, but alternate routes were even worse. One could go two or three days journey southward, past the end of the gorge below the falls, then cross the river, and head up on the southern side, but that took even more time and the road above the falls wasn’t any better on that side than on this one.
This is a work of fiction. All persons, places, and things are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance of anything or anyone in the story to anything or anyone in the real world is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012,
Henry E. Neufeld.
Then had come the bad news. Several towns to the east had gotten together and were clearing and improving the road that bypassed the end of the gorge. They were blasting passages through the rocky hills. They were building a bridge across the river past the end of the gorge. They were building a road that avoided the river entirely. Put simply, they were making it possible for wagon trains to cut several days off their passage and avoid the long treck up the mountain to the town by the falls. The distance was greater, but the time was substantially less!
The elders of the town by the falls were downcast. Almost all of the income for people in the town, and for miles around, came from the trade traffic. There were porters to make the climb up the mountain, caravan guards, blacksmiths, and all the workers required to clothe and feed them. So they hired an engineer to estimate the cost of blasting a road up the mountain and then improving the road by the river. If they could do this, the route through the town was much shorter, and they could bring the caravan traffic back.
But the engineer told them that the cost would be much too great. Not even if everyone in the town donated their labor could the cost be brought down to something the town could afford. The resulting road would be hard to navigate, with nothing but tight switchback turns. It would even be dangerous.
The elders argued for hours. They discussed where they could get loans. They wondered if there was a way to bring goods up to the town that would cost less than building a road. Some people thought one could contrive a way to bring wagons up to the town with a contraption of pulleys and ropes, but the elders dismissed that immediately. Who would ever think of doing such a thing?
Then one man, bearded and dressed in animal skins, tried to get their attention. He first tried clearing his throat, but nobody listened. Then he waved his arms, but nobody noticed. Then he said “excuse me” while he waved his arms. People nearby said, “Shhh!” but nobody paid any further attention to him. Finally he jumped up, waved his arms, and yelled, “Hey! Excuse me!”
Then one of the elders said impatiently, “Yes? What do you want?”
“I have an idea,” said the wild looking man.
“Who are you?” asked the senior elder.
“I’m Embo, a hunter and hunting guide,” said the wild man.
“And what qualifies you to have an idea about our road? We have consulted all the best experts.”
“I grew up in these woods,” said Embo. I have guided hundreds of hunting parties upstream and downstream, and far afield in the mountains to the north. I know these mountains.”
“Knowing these mountains doesn’t qualify you to build roads,” said the engineer.
“I’ve never heard of you,” said one of the elders.
“He doesn’t look respectable,” said another elder to the person beside him, in a voice he thought was quiet.
“I know these mountains,” said Embo again.
There was murmuring amongst the elders and the audience, but the head elder waved his arm and silenced them. “We have been arguing for hours and we have not found any solution. It won’t hurt us to hear this … um … man’s idea.”
“To the north perhaps a day’s journey, there is a gap in the cliffs. It leads up onto the plateau a few miles west of the village. One could build a road through it, and it would join the river road.”
“That is why hunting guides shouldn’t pretend to be engineers,” said the engineer. “The passage up to the town is only the minor part of the problem. Building an adequate road along the river presents a much greater problem.”
“Yes,” said the senior elder. “What do you say to that?” But he asked his question in a tone that expected an answer. You see, none of the elders knew about the gap in the cliffs. They were only interested in what was in the town and in the caravan traffic. Why bother with gaps in cliffs?
“Well,” said Embo, “I was coming to that. Everybody knows [they didn't, but why bring that up?] that another day or so westward along the river the current slows enough as it crosses the plateau so that one can navigate it with boats or small barges. . . .”
“There’s another reason that hunting guides should not pretend to be engineers. How are these boats to get far enough above the falls so that they can be used safely?” The engineer crossed his arms over his chest and gave Embo a challenging look.
“I was getting to that,” said Embo. “I have frequently moved hunting parties up the river by simply having horses pull the boat along by walking on the current road. While the road is rough on wagon wheels, the horses can handle it quite well.”
The engineer opened his mouth to speak, but Embo held up his hand. “Before you tell me this is another reason why a hunting guide should not presume to be an engineer, let me tell you that I have seen this sort of thing elsewhere, and that it would probably be best to have the boats hauled by oxen. The path will have to be improved, but not nearly as much as you are proposing. The resulting travel time will be days shorter than it is on the new road, and the wear and tear on the carts will be much lower.”
The engineer opened his mouth and shut it several times. He wanted to object, but he had already thought of some improvements that might be made to the plan, and there was a commission at stake.
“I see you are just now beginning to get the idea,” said Embo. “Perhaps that is why engineers should not presume to be hunting guides!”
(This story was written for, and has been submitted to the One Word at a Time blog carnival on the word “Fresh.”)
“We want you to recover the staff,” said the mayor.
“Why? Why not just make another one?” asked Jed. He was young and liked to do important things. Recovering a stick didn’t sound important.
“Make another staff?” asked the mayor incredulously.
This is a work of fiction. All persons places and events are products of my imagination. Copyright © 2011, Henry E. Neufeld
“It’s just a stick,” said Jed.
The mayor looked at Jed for a moment. How could he explain? Perhaps he shouldn’t try.
“You know the market stall, the one just in front of the entrance?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Jed cautiously, but he couldn’t keep the acquisitive gleam out of his eyes. Every craftsman in the village wanted that space.
“I happen to know it will be vacant in a few weeks. If you recover the staff for the village, I will see that you get the spot.”
“I understand that old Edward the clothier who has it now paid well over a year’s wages for it.” Jed said this in the tone of a casual observation.
“Yes, but it could be yours if you just recover that staff for the village.”
“Very well,” said Jed. “I will try to find the thing and bring it back.”
It took Jed some time to find the staff. The problem was that while it was distinctively carved and quite old there was nothing else to commend it. He couldn’t think of any reason that anyone would actually remember it. And he was right. They didn’t.
After several weeks he was about to give up when he ran across a stall in a small town market that could best be described by the word “miscellaneous.” There were several staffs there, generally for walking, and amongst them he saw one that was too short to use as a walking stick, unless for a child or a dwarf, and too thick to be comfortable for them.
It was the village staff. It took all of Jed’s self-control to keep that acquisitive gleam out of his eye. It was his downfall in negotiations. But he managed.
As he passed over the three copper coins to pay for it, the stall keeper said, “I hate to question a sale, but I’m wondering what possible use you have for this. I haven’t been able to figure it out.”
Jed considered telling the man the truth, but he was afraid the price would change. He just said, “I have a project and this wood will be just right for it.” The stall keeper just shrugged, took his coppers, and said good bye and good luck.
Back in the village Jed took the staff to the mayor. “Here’s your stick, Mr. Mayor,” he said in a careful mix of formality and sarcasm.
“Thank you,” said the mayor, “but I think I will need you to present this formally to the city council.”
“Why?”
“It’s important, Jed. You don’t understand, but the council will, and the village will.”
So Jed took a deep red cloth that the mayor provided, worth much more than the staff, and wrapped the staff in the cloth. At the council meeting he carried it formally into the council chamber and presented the staff to the mayor. Then he was waved over to what was clearly the seat of honor.
Jed had never been to a council meeting. He had never cared about the politics of the village at all. He was a craftsman, a woodworker, and a good one. But he spent all his time on practical things.
The village bard got up and began to sing the song of Jed, who had recovered the village’s staff. It described the way in which authority had failed when the staff was missing (though Jed had never noticed), then the many terrors Jed had endured to recover the staff (none of which had actually happened). Then it told the story of his triumphant return to the village.
In the weeks that followed Jed tried very hard to tell his story. Some of the young, practical folks listened to him, but it didn’t matter to them much in any case. The older villagers and the children preferred the story the bard told. Because he wanted to correct the story, he listened to some of the other stories, such as how the first mayor of the village had received the staff directly from the king.
Jed got his place in the market, right in front of the entrance. But soon he realized that it didn’t make any difference at all. Everyone wanted to get their furniture from the living legend who had recovered the staff. At first it bothered him, since the story wasn’t true. But as the copper, then the silver, and finally the gold rolled in, he almost forgot about the real story.
Many a visitor would come into the marketplace looking for someone to make a piece of furniture or do some repairs. “You’ll want to go to Jed in the first stall,” the villagers would say. “He’s already a legend, even though he’s rather young. You’ll want your work done by the man who recovered the staff.”
The villagers were happy. Jed almost forgot. But every so often it would bother him when someone bought something for well above the market price just because they were buying it from a living legend. It made him try very hard to produce the best product he possibly could so that people would get their money’s worth.
It bothered him, but with the money in his hand it didn’t bother him very much.
Then one day a rich man from a city far away stopped in the village. “Are you Jed?” he asked.
“I am.”
“I have a friend who has a chair made by you, and I have never seen such workmanship. I want you to make a table and a set of chairs for my dining room.”
“You’re not here because of the staff?” asked Jed.
“What staff?” asked the rich man.
“Never mind,” said Jed.
And he went happily to work.
(I wrote this story for the Recover Blog Carnival.)
He stood looking at the hole in the ground. He could feel his hand trembling. He knew he was terrified and was embarrassed, even though there was nobody there to see.
A stairway going down.
That phrase was loaded with all the psychological freight of his own claustrophobia, heightened by his choice in literature, which tended to feature terrifying places, and by hundreds of dungeon adventures from fantasy role playing. The adventure party would be practically out of supplies and wounded to the point of death. Then the gamemaster would intone: “You see a stairway going down.”
They’d pretend to lack imagination and tease one another about using the last of their power to climb down the stairway into the darkness.
Dim. Dark. Dank. Damp. Dirty.
This is a work of fiction. All persons and places are products of my imagination. Copyright © 2011, Henry E. Neufeld.
All connected to “down” and all seemed to apply to the stairway in front of him. But this wasn’t a game. This wasn’t fantasy. He was actually standing in front of a stairway. It went down. It was dim. No, that wasn’t adequate. It was dark, it was damp, it was dirty.
I could just go back to the car and call the police, he thought. I could get help. But the image was still in his mind. The light flashing to the sky as though someone had fallen holding a flashlight, or perhaps dropped one. He’d actually stopped to go and investigate. Then he was sure he heard crying, or perhaps moaning.
The wisest course of action, he knew, was to get help. Why did he think it was urgent? What good would it do to get injured. Then he could easily end up way down some hole and nobody would know he was there.
On the other hand he heard the words of his parents, his brothers and sisters, and associates. “A hero in his own mind.” “He can handle the fantasy world; the real world is beyond him.” “The more heroic the character, the more cowardly the player.”
He had to go down that stairway.
The first step was the hardest. No, that wasn’t right. It was the second. Or perhaps the third. Actually, it was always the next step. He hated the word “down” more with every step. He had even forgotten why he was trying to go down this stairway. He just focused on the next step.
Suddenly he slipped. He threw up his arms, and hit something, then he was sliding, and he could hear rocks, or perhaps bricks falling around him. Then he landed hard. He was in complete darkness. It was bricks, not rocks. He could feel them all around him.
It was his worst nightmare. Underground, in a cramped area, and finally buried alive. And here he was, living it.
There was a moment when he thought he couldn’t think. He thought his mind and body were both frozen. Then he realized he was thinking about not thinking. Then he realized he was thinking more clearly than he had ever thought before.
While he could feel bricks around him, he was still breathing easily. He felt that he was bumped and bruised, but he didn’t feel like he was bleeding. He didn’t feel any dampness. If he was really buried under a pile of bricks he wouldn’t be in as good shape as he was.
He tried to move, and found he could. There were quite a few bricks around him, but only a few on top. It was painful to move, but not so painful that he couldn’t do it. He suspected nothing was broken, or it would hurt more.
My mind has been making all this worse than it really is, he thought.
A few moments of movement and tossing bricks, or rather mostly pieces of brick to the side, and he was able to stand again.
Now where was he? He looked back, and he could see that there was still a small hole, but it offered plenty of room to crawl through. He should have a flashlight with him, but he didn’t. He did have a lighter. Why he carried a lighter, he could never explain. It was one of the things he kept in his pockets, most of which were not very useful. He wondered if he’d done it because he was so afraid of being buried underground.
He lit the lighter, and saw that he was very near the body. Hardly had he thought “the body” than he realized that this was even more of his own nightmare scenario. It occurred to him to wonder if he was dreaming.
Then he saw the flashlight several feet further on. He walked over and picked it up, flashing the lighter a couple of times to light the way. It was a waste of time. The flashlight was history.
Then he went over to the body. He felt around the man’s neck (at least he thought it was a man), and thought he felt a pulse. Then he realized he really knew of nothing to do, and couldn’t really be sure he’d know the difference. He’d just heard you should be able to feel a pulse at the neck.
Now was the time to do what he should have done in the first place, and call emergency services. “What goes down must go up,” he said, laughing as he mangled the common saying. Then he crawled up through the narrow hole and onto the stairs above.
He was standing at the top of the stairway going down before he realized that he was no longer trembling. I could go right back down there, he thought. But he knew he needed to make that phone call. Where was his cell phone? Oh. Right there in his pocket, next to the lighter, complete with an app that would turn on the little LED light.
I won’t mention that part to anyone, he thought, as he dialed 911. It wouldn’t do to have them realize he could have called the police at any time.
The police wondered why he had gone down the stairs at all. “How was I supposed to know whether there really was anyone down there? I hadn’t really seen anything,” he explained.
They explained to him that the “body” was a local gentleman who had gone for an evening walk and gotten lost. There used to be a few houses here with basements, and this was one of them. It’s a good thing for him you saw him drop that flashlight.”
“Yeah, it is,” he said. But he didn’t mean for the guy who had fallen.
He felt like a new man. He could handle reality, even in down in dim, dark, damp, dank spaces.
Maybe next time he’d even remember he had a cell phone!
(This story has been submitted to the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival – Down)
Yes, my company has a Christmas package named for me, and it includes both of the books that are related to this blog, Tales from Jevlir: Oddballs and Stories of the Way, along with my non-fiction book Not Ashamed of the Gospel: Confessions of a Liberal Charismatic.
The From Publisher Henry Neufeld package is available for just $21.99 through January 3, but you’d need to order it by the end of the week to get it by Christmas.
Having just announced the release of my new book, Stories of the Way, I was interested to find a story about jury nullification, or more precisely advocacy of jury nullification today (HT: The Agitator).
One of the two new stories I wrote for this book (an additional 23 stories are from this blog), is The Juror’s Oath, and is intended to stimulate thinking on two topics: 1) When, if ever, is it OK to violate an oath, and 2) How can you be sure of what you think you know? (Coincidentally, I published an essay by Edward W. H. Vick about certainty over at Energion.net a few days ago.) The story does not involve jury nullification, but does involve violation of jury instructions.
I would note regarding the news story that I would be strongly opposed to any judgment that suggested that Mr. Heicklen could not advocate his activity. Furthermore, I would suggest that any time a law forces you to behave immorally, it is a law that should be ignored. I don’t, however, think that one should ignore a law for convenience, because one doesn’t like it, or even because one is vehemently opposed to it. I would advocate violating the law only when its direction would force one to act immorally. And yes, I do think the law can and does cause that to happen from time to time.
Now back to the fun and fiction and away from the more serious commentary.
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Miniposts Christian Carnival (January 25, 2012) Posted
(2012/1/27)
… at Inspiks. Thanks for a good job from a minuteman volunteer! ()
Christian Carnival CDXIII Posted
(2012/1/12)
… at Ichthus77. Enjoy! ()
Christian Carnival CDXII Posted
(2012/1/7)
… at Revenge of Mr Dumpling. ()
December 14, 2011 Blog Carnival Posted
(2011/12/15)
… at Beyond Belief. Enjoy! ()
Christian Carnival CD Posted
(2011/8/5)
… at Parableman. I’m a little late linking to it, but better late than never. ()
Christian Carnival Here Tomorrow
(2011/7/26)
The Christian Carnival is coming to Jevlir, so get your best post of the week submitted so I can include it. You can submit posts via BlogCarnival.com, and you can get more information on the carnival on its Facebook page.
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