The Troll Prince

The Troll Prince

Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Trolloria there stood a mighty castle made of smooth black stones. It rose from the top of the highest hill, looking down over the kingdom. Inside the impressive dark fortress, many a strong and terrible troll had sat upon the throne. Within its mighty walls, many a troll prince had been born and raised up to be king when his father’s rule reached one-hundred years.

This was the way it had always been. On one warm summer’s evening, such a prince was to be born. But the legacy of this particular Troll Prince would be the most unusual of all.

A castle servant named Scralp was dispatched by a nursemaid to fetch King Ungerous and inform him that the Queen had given birth. Scralp’s stumpy legs carried him as fast as they could through the cavernous halls of the royal palace. Menacing, monsterous portraits of past Kings stared down on him as he went. The King had been pacing the castle all morning gnawing on ox bones and nervously slurping down steamy buckets of tar pit tea with saw grass blades and ground thistles to calm his nerves.

Scralp finally found the King in his trophy room grinding the edge of his favorite battle axe for a third time that day. The hulking, mustard skinned King hunched over with his back toward the door, running an otter pelt rag across the broad curved blade. He peered with satisfaction down his squash-like nose at the blade. Squatty, green Scralp cowered in his presence. He knew this was the very axe that King Ungerous had used to slay the legendary fireworm that threatened Trolloria decades before. Scralp nervously cleared his throat. He smoothed his frizzy red mane and side-burns with a moss-colored hand and stuttered to get the first words out.

“Ah-ahem, you . . . your highness,” he said.

King Ungerous whirled his mountainous body around, his black and silver robe twirling around him, gripping the axe in his melon-sized hand. His large oval eyes squinted at the servant and he leaned down, glaring past his bulbous nose at the diminutive servant. His thick, purple beard with braided knots fell against his barrel chest. He gnashed his jagged teeth with irritation.

“What is it?” he demanded. The steel crown shifted on his furrowing brow. His bushy purple hair rose three pumpkins high off of his head and flowed back in a wave, resting on his pancake sized ears.

“It’s the-the-the Queen, your highness,” Scralp stammered. “She’s given birth.”

The King’s eyes widened like ostrich eggs.

“My child has arrived?” he said with excitement. “What is it? What did she have?”

Scralp shifted nervously.

“I believe I heard the nursemaid say it is a Prince,” he answered. “I mean, he is a Prince. The child, that is. You – you have a son, sire.”

King Ungerous raised his mighty axe into the air. Scralp’s knees buckled and he covered his head with his stubby arms. The King let loose a howl of joy and flung his beloved axe across the room, sticking the blade deep into the stone wall with a powerful thud.

“I have a Prince!” he bellowed. He lifted Scralp into the air and swung him around like a child’s stuffed werebear. They danced around the room as the King chanted a joyous tune. His trophy room shook with every foot fall. “I have a Prince! I have a Prince!”

Finally Ungerous dropped Scralp to the hard floor and bounded down the corridor toward the East Wing. Suits of heavy troll armor clattered and shook as his huge yellow feet pounded the stone. When he reached the thick oak door of the nursery, he didn’t even stop to turn the handle. His mighty spotted forearms rammed the door off its iron hinges as he burst through with an excited grin on his watermelon sized jaw.

“Where is he?” he bellowed. “Where’s my boy? Where is my Prince?”

Queen Grebleena had her head back against a pillow and a blue skinned maid dabbed at her forehead with cool cloth. Her orange hair was matted to her round ears and her pink skin glistened with sweat. She looked exhausted.

“Madam,” said the blue troll softly. “His Royal Highness has arrived. He’s asking to see the child.”

“Yes,” said Ungerous, going to his wife’s bedside and taking her clammy hand. “I have come, dear wife. Where is he? I wish to see our son.”

“Ungerous,” said Queen Grebleena, opening her gentle purple eyes. “I sent Rattina to clean the child and wrap him in warm blankets. She’ll bring him in momentarily.”

“Someone fetch her now,” Ungerous demanded. “I want to see the boy. We must give him a name; a proper name. I was thinking Grunlock, after Grunlock the Terrible. Grunlock was the greatest bridge troll in history. It’s a strong name. A name befitting the next King of Trolloria.”

“Husband, please,” said the Queen. “You must stop blathering. I need you to listen to me.”

The King could see she was looking at him gravely.

“What is it?” he asked. “What is wrong? Is the child not healthy?”

“Oh, he appears to be healthy,” she said. “And he bellows as loud as his father.”

The King swelled with pride.

“He’s a born King,” said Ungerous. “I knew he’d be a natural leader among trolls. Just like me! What is his color?”

“That’s just it,” said Queen Grebleena. “His color is, well, unusual.”

The King eyed her suspiciously.

“How do you mean, unusual? Is he some new shade of purple or green? There’s no shame in that. A leader should stand out. I’ve often wished my yellow hide and lavender spots were more unique.”

“Ungerous, listen to me. I suppose his skin is somewhat . . . pinkish.”

“Pink? Well, then he takes his color from you. Your skin is pink. There is no shame in that. Blagthorpe the Bloodthirsty was pink, and bald. No one mocked him, I assure you.”

“Not pink like me,” she said. “A strange, lighter shade of pink. Almost more like the peaches that grow in the fields along the southern border by the Mungo Bridge.”

“Hmm,” the King muttered, pondering this news. “I don’t find that so alarming. Unusual yes, but no need for panic. When his hair grows out and his nose sprouts, he’ll be a fine troll.”

“That’s the problem my husband,” said the Queen. “He has some hair already. It’s soft and thin and lays flat against his head. Strangest of all, it’s merely . . . brown.”

“Brown?” repeated the King.

“And his nose,” she went on. “Bare in mind husband, he is just born, but his nose is somewhat tiny. In fact, it’s barely a button on his peachy face.”

“Rattina!” King Ungerous growled. “Bring me my child, now!”

“Ungerous, please,” said the Queen, trying to calm him and patting his hand.

“I want to see this child for myself. I want to see this brown hair, and unformed nose, and strangely peach colored flesh. I want to see it with my own eyes, before I let this madness you speak affect my mind.”

The nervous maid did as she was commanded and carried in the newborn for the King to inspect.

Ungerous took his infant son and with one calloused yellow finger moved the blankets away. The child was sleeping. Indeed the flesh was soft and pinkish, and he had a tiny round head, like a melon. Its hair was thin and straight and brown. Ungerous poked gently at it. Finally, he pushed the child back at the nursemaid.

“Take it away,” he said softly. “There must be a mistake. That is no manner of troll I’ve ever seen.”

“Ungerous!” the Queen exclaimed. “That is our son! Your son. You can not cast him away simply because he is different!”

“How can that be our son?” he bellowed. “Our child is to be the next King of all Trolloria. He is to lead our people and strike fear into the hearts of our enemies! Do you think the ogres or goblins will remain in exile if they learn the next King of Trolloria looks like a . . .? “

“Like a what?” the Queen glared. “What were you about to say? And consider your words carefully before you answer, husband.”

“Well, I mean to say . . . that is,” The King stammered, seeing his wife’s displeasure. Perhaps, he thought, best to tread gently. “It’s just that, well, the child looks . . ., that is to say, he resembles a, well, a human.”

“Ungerous,” she said again, “the boy is your son, no matter what you think he resembles. You will not shun him. If you do, you will find yourself feeling quite shunned. At least around this castle! In fact I dare say you are beginning to resemble a creature other than a troll yourself. A jackass!”

The King sighed, looking again at the sleeping infant.

“But how can he grow to be King?” he asked.

“Give it time, husband,” said the Queen. “Perhaps he was just born a bit premature. Surely your mighty nose was not so protrusive the day you were born. And I recall your ears were quite small for your head well into your training years.”

If the Troll King weren’t yellow, he might have blushed bright scarlet at this memory.

“Very well,” he said. He took his Queen’s pudgy pink hand. “I will love this child as though he were born with green skin and hair of bright fuchsia.”

The King looked around the room at the servants and maids. They were all smiling now. It made him nervous. As King, Ungerous knew he had enemies all around. He could not afford to appear weak. Nor could he allow talk of weakness in his line.

“But I make a decree here and now, in front of all of you,” he boomed, looking sternly at every troll in the room. “News of his birth shall not leave this castle!”

He took Scralp by the throat and lifted him into the air for all to see.

“None of you is to say a word,” Ungerous continued. “The child is to remain safe within the castle for as long as I say, and not even a hint of his birth is to slip over these walls.”

“Ungerous,” Queen Grebleena protested.

“It is for his own good,” he interrupted. “We will raise him here and watch his growing until he blossoms into a full-fledged troll. When that happens, I will proclaim his birth from the top of this castle so that it will be heard on the furthest edges of Trolloria. But not before, is that clear?”

“Y-y-your majesty m-makes himself quite clear,” Scralp squeaked as the grip around his neck tightened. “Naaaa . . . not a word will be uttered of the Prince’s birth beyond these castle walls.”
The other servants nodded in agreement.

“Very well,” said the King releasing Scralp with a drop and thud. “Your confidence will be rewarded. Just as any loose talk or disloyalty will be met with a wrath unimagined.”

King Ungerous took the child again. He could cradle the babe in just his palm and forearm. Gently he patted its small head.

Queen Grebleena watched with a sigh. She was glad at least to see her husband accepting the child, if in his own way.

“What do you wish to name your heir?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Perhaps he should be called Mannen.”

The Queen knew this was a word for “human” in one of the outsiders’ tongues. She once again scowled at her husband.

“He will not be called Mannen,” Grebleena growled. “What do you say to calling him Kronen?”

“Kronen?” the King repeated. “After Kronen the Wise, who ended the Troll War and united bridge and cave trolls?”

“That’s correct. Prince Kronen. He will wear the crown of Trolloria after his father’s one-hundredth year, just as tradition demands. This child will impress you, I am sure of it.”

And so it was.

The birth of Prince Kronen, first son of King Ungerous and Queen Grebleena went wholly unheralded in the kingdom of Trolloria. The King ordered construction of a whole new wing for the boy, complete with a private garden courtyard not visible from outside. The child had his own little forest, complete with a bog and a waterfall. He had toy clubs and wooden troll soldiers. Pet swamp rats and spikeypines to hunt. Even a purple Iguanadog called Groot who followed him faithfully wherever he went. Prince Kronen knew no life outside of the castle, and little life outside of his southern wing. He also knew nothing of the difference between himself and his mother and father, or the servants who attended to him daily.

To Prince Kronen, he was just a young troll, and he was happy.

to be continued . . .

B. Scott 12/01/2009

We Had It All, Like Bogey and Bacall: An Ode to Christmas Past . . . and Bertucci's!

Well it's that time once again. Early November, and you know what that means. The Christmas music is already on a continuous loop in my office.
I'm not the Grinch here. I actually like hearing Christmas music. In fact, I dare say my heart has grown to enjoy the Christmas season in recent years. And that's saying something because I spent a great deal of my Twenties locked in "Bah Humbug" mode.

Maybe it's fatherhood that softened me to it. Admittedly I always feel inadequate that I can't really spend the kind of bucks I want to on my son. But let's be honest, he doesn't need a $300 powered Lightning McQueen that he can sit in and stear. Nor does he need enough Duplo blocks to build a castle he can actually stand up in. I just want him to have those things.

Still, that not withstanding, I am looking forward to the holidays. I've even made my peace with with the inevitable snowfall that's soon coming. I just don't feel we need to rush it. Thanksgiving is a wonderful holiday too. The smells, the sights, the tastes, . . . I suppose the fellowship. Well, I suppose we just have to accept that, especially in this tough economy when retailers are flailing about in the tide, they're going to keep inundating us with Christmas music earlier and earlier to get us all in that shopping mood.

Which is why I've stopped verbally complaining about the music and decorations materializing so early. It is pretty much a tradition in itself now, and we can all stop marvelling at it. We're really not that surprised any more, are we?

There is something to be said for Christmas in Novemeber. The radio station we've got on at work has pulled a couple obscure ones out of their bu . . . stockings. I'm pretty sure I just heard Anita Bryant singing "Sleigh Ride."

Nothing says Peace on Earth and Good Will Toward Men like the vocal stylings of Anita Bryant.

I'll pause for those of you under the age of 50 (and/or non-Pop Culture junkies like 34 year-old me) to Google "Anita Bryant." You'll get it.

A favorite Christmas classic of mine is Happy Holidays (It's the Holiday Season) by Mr. Branson, MO himself, Andy Williams. Now let me be quite candid. I hate this song. Musically, lyrically, it drives me up a tree. Andy Williams doesn't help with his cheesey, Catskills delivery. And yet, it's still a favorite of mine, because it somehow transports me back in time every time I hear it.

The song takes me back 14 years. I was 20 years old, waiting tables in a mid-scale Italian restaurant in the suburbs. It was the first place I remember hearing that song, and I must have heard it at least 3 times a shift. I have vivid memories of the quiet times before the rush would start when we'd be refilling romano shakers, wiping down table tops, and hearing Andy singing "So leave a peppermint stick, for old Saint Nick."

I can clearly remember rolling my eyes thinking what a stupid song.

Or as Andy says "whoop-dee-do."

But, those days were some of the happiest of my life. I was young, lost, with little responsibility (other than having to start paying back the student loans for the education I'd quit attempting halfway through), and doing a job that was easy and fun and put cash in pocket every day.

Ok, maybe I shouldn't say "easy", as I spent my fair share of evenings deeply lost in the "weeds." No, that's not a drug reference. Fellow food service veterens know that term all too well, as we've all been there. Still, I loved that job. And even on my worst nights, I was good at it. Damn good.

And I will tell you there was something special about that particular restaurant. Perhaps it was because most of us there, especially that first year, were hired before the restaurant even opened.

It was a Boston-based outfit new to the Chicago area. We went through training together, just like school. We discovered this new menu together. It helped us all grow together like a crew on a ship. I'm not the first to draw the analogy that restaurant people are the modern day pirates.

Without the automatic weapons of course.

The owner, because at that time there actually was one owner - Joey, believed strongly in the idea of family. The decor and motif was very warm inside, intended to be very "homey" and comfortable. It was said they even chose green table cloths as it was a soothing, calming color. The walls were lined with big jugs of wine. We wanted people to sit and relax. Take their time. Sip some vino. Mangia.

We had these fresh baked rolls that were just, you can't even describe. Tear open a hot one and stuff with caponata, or dip it in the sauce . . .! I'm not Italian, but let me just say "fuggedaboudit!"

We had a big beautiful wood-burning brick oven that just smelled . . . wonderful. It made coming in to work every morning better.

And it made the holidays feel even more like, well, just like they're supposed to. It was our own giant buring hearth.

It also helped that the entire staff was like a big family. Almost everyone got along, even with the many different personalities. Sure things got tense. But when the customers began to filter out, and the Mexican music began to play in the kitchen, everyone began to smile and joke and breathe again.

I loved working Christmas Eve there. We'd all be sneaking little "cordials" between the handful of tables that came in. There was a lot of love and well-wishing when we closed early that night.

To be honest, I didn't want to go home. I could have spent that Christmas Eve in the restaurant, white shirt and Looney Tunes tie and all.

This was my other home and those people were my extended family. In fact, that first Christmas, my family was out of town and I was returning to an empty house as I would be making the drive to Indiana on Christmas morning. At the last minute, a handful of my compadres asked if they could come by (my house had become something of the hangout for those of us not yet legal to hit the bars) and I said of course.

We spent our Christmas Eve playing monopoly, drinking fully-loaded Eggnog, and soaking in my parents' outdoor hot tub while snow fell all around. Not a bad way to wait for Saint Nick.

Now I find myself back in the present. Still in a white shirt, but the ties are a little more expensive (though sometimes still stained by tomato sauce.) My hair has some gray, and I'm rounder 'round the middle from sitting at a desk the last decade.

In those days I was on my feet all day, checking on tables, expediting food, washing dishes when necessary (something I actually LOVED to do, and strangely still do - you choose your brand of therapy; mine's cheaper) and just generally rocking and rolling. Making less than half of what I do now, but in some ways never happier.

I'm sure when I talk about those days, I sound like Edward G. Robinson in the movie Key Largo. It was classic Robinson as he played Johnny Rocco, a fugitive mob boss holed up with his gang in a small Key Largo waiting out a Hurricane. It's my favorite Bogart flick, after Casablanca. While Rocco is again type-cast as a gangster scumbag, he has this running heartache about the end of Prohibition.

He's constantly asking other gangsters in the flick, "Don't you think we'll get it (Prohibiton) back? You'll see, we'll get it back," he says. "Then we'll be back on top."

Even though he's a feared and respected gangster, he still yearns for the past. Times were simpler. You ran hooch, you made money, everybody got along. Then things changed. They got more complicated. Money was harder to come by and pressures were building.

I suppose it goes back to what I was saying about knowing you were really good at something once. It's tough when that thing doesn't exist any more. After the restaurant business, I found myself working in the sub-prime mortgage industry (talk about a Pirate analogy - but don't hang me, I was only a lowly crewman) and I think I was pretty damn good at that job too. Til the ship sank, and then of course the entire ocean dried up.
Point is, I understand Rocco's speech, and his feelings all too well.

Still, I wouldn't trade the blessings I've recieved since then to ever go back. But Christmas, and that song especially, will always take me back to those days.

Ok, so I took a funny turn there. If you want a Christmas themed Bogart film, rent We're No Angels. The original. Not that DeNiro/Sean Penn thing from the 80's.

Here's to the good old days of many a Christmas Past. Here's to the start of Christmas Present, early though it may be. And to the hope for many and even happier to come.

Oh yeah, . . . Happy Thanksgiving!

"He'll be comin' down the chimney, down!"

Rough character sketches

Max & the ghost of Hammerhead Jack

In the mood for a Pirate Tale . . . ?

The Legend of Hammerhead Jack

Port Ignatius, Virgin Islands – 1675 –
It was mid morning and the docks were full of merchant ships bringing livestock, textiles, and tea to the colony of Port Ignatius. In return they loaded crates of sugar, barrels of coffee, and cases of rum to sell back in England and Holland and Spain. Sailors and merchants bustled about the shops and businesses alongside the townsfolk.

A group of children gathered on the porch outside the Flying Fish Tavern. Inside, the owner Percy Johnston swept the dusty floorboards. It was still a few hours til opening time.
Out front two expectant “patrons” rested in the morning shade. One was a scruffy straw-colored dog that constantly wandered the port. The other, a stout old man who was a fixture at the tavern. He was the unofficial mascot and storyteller of the Flying Fish, known simply throughout the island as the Commodore.

The Commodore had a round, pink face with a twisted and knotted gray beard. He sat on a stool telling stories to whoever would listen. He had no home or job to speak of. His clothing was tattered and dirty, but his belly was round and full. A green parrot stood a constant watch on his left shoulder, picking tasty fleas from his stringy hair.
His chubby calloused fingers wrapped around the head of his walking stick, which was carved into the face of lion. Where his right leg should have been, instead there was a wooden peg screwed in at the knee.

Everyone knew when the Commodore was around by the clip-clopping sound he made along the floor. He rarely moved though, except to dab sweat from his brow in the tropical heat, or take a swig of grog from the tin cup on a crate beside him.
The Commodore told tales of adventures on the high seas, always he said, as a merchant sailor or privateer. Never did he once claim to participate in or endorse a life of piracy. Often the children who gathered every Saturday to hear him speak would ask to hear how he fought off a tiger shark with only a whale bone knife. It was the same shark, he said, that took his leg.
But on this particular morning, they all wanted to hear another familiar legend – the story of the legendary privateer, Hammerhead Jack.

“So,” began the Commodore with a sly grin, “ye wants to hear a tale of Captain Hammerhead Jack, do ye?” To which all the children would cheer.

“Very well, then. I’ll oblige, only because Hammerhead Jack was the finest man to ever sail the seven seas. The greatest pirate hunter this world has ever known.”

“Is it true he wore a mask?” a little boy asked.

“Aye,” said the Commodore. “A mask the color of turquoise that covered his head and eyes. Hammerhead Jack knew early on the Pirate Brethren would set a fine price on his head. He figured if they didn’t know what he looked like, they’d have a hard time finding him, even when he was sat among them in a tavern.”

“Did Hammerhead Jack ever come to Port Ignatius?” asked another child.

“Did he come here? Why, it were just off these shores he made his final stand,” the Commodore declared. “I was aboard ship with ol’ Hammerhead as he chased down the dastardly pirate Black Eyed Bill right here to Port Ignatius. Little did I know then it would be our last adventure, as it was to be Hammerhead’s final voyage.
Jack despised Black Eye above all other pirates. Legend has it he and Bill know’d each other as children all of yer age. Some even rumored they was brothers but some rift sent Bill astray.”

The Commodore took a slobbery swig from his cup. Foam ran down his beard, dripping onto his belly.

“Well after years of being thwarted at sea by Captain Hammerhead, ol’ Black Eye
set about burning down villages across the Caribbean, after robbing them of all their goods. His plan was to pin the blame on Jack, making it appear that Hammerhead was turncoat. Black Eye instructed his crew to spread rumors throughout the taverns and ports that someone had seen Jack’s ship always sailing off after each attack.

Then one night he and his crew came upon an East India merchant ship listing at port, and set fire to her deck. Before rowing away in the night, Bill took a blue glove, much like one of Jack’s, and tossed it onto the dock. What fool would believe ol’ Jack would drop his glove I don’t know, but it didn’t matter. In spite of all the good Hammerhead Jack had done capturing pirates all over the Caribbean, or his reputation as a gentleman, the King was furious.
The English Navy began chasing Hammerhead Jack all over the ocean, with a warrant for his arrest on the charge of piracy and treason against King and Country. The same King, it should be said who’d commissioned him to hunt pirates in the first place. It was well assumed that if the Navy overtook Jack’s ship, he’d be hung in the first port they found.”

The Commodore ran his meaty finger across his throat, making a grinding sound out of the side of his mouth. The children recoiled and gasped in horror.

“It was likely Jack would be spared the benefit of a fair trial in London,” the Commodore continued.

The yellow mutt at his feet lifted its head and whimpered. Even he’d heard this tale many times before

“Aye,” he continued. “Some say justice is a blind lady. I don’t know if she be blind, but she can sure be misguided. It’s no wonder ladies are considered bad luck aboard a ship. Fortunately, the Navy never caught up to the Mermaid Queen.”

The Commodore looked at a young girl in the front of the group. Her family was new to the Port Ignatius.

“That of course be the name of Hammerhead’s ship. Oh, the Mermaid Queen was a beauty of a Dutch Flute, with a high rear where you could see over the whole vessel. Many nights I stood watch on that quarter deck. Captain Hammerhead would come up and stand with me, often taking the wheel his self.

One day, nigh on twenty years ago Jack came across Black Eyed Bill only a mile out past our very docks. Bill was on his way to sack Port Ignatius, and maybe burn her to the ground as well. Captain Hammerhead gave the order to fire all guns across his flank. As Bill’s ship began to slip into the drink, his band of cut throats began to swing across to board the M.Q. and overtake the crew. Jack’s men had the higher position, but they were far outnumbered by the pirates.”

“You mean you were outnumbered?” said another child.

The Commodore chuckled. “That’s right,” he said. “We were outnumbered. There was little chance we could have kept the ship, or our throats, and ol’ Jack knew it. He climbed atop the quarter deck and called out to us with his sword held high. ‘Men,’ he called out, ‘I order you all to abandon ship!’

“Well at first we all refused. But Hammerhead Jack would not be defied, not even by his loyal crew. He would rather die than let dastardly Black Eyed Bill take his ship or bring harm to us. He drew the pistola from his belt and fired it at the deck by his feet. The men were confused at first. Then we watched as a ball of orange fire ignited on the deck and began to slither down the steps, across the ship. The dancing flame was quickly advancing along a black trail toward an overturned powder keg. Our beloved captain was going to scuttle the ship.

All the men scrambled toward the side of the ship, diving headfirst into the water. I remember bobbing along the surface when the first explosion lit up the night sky. And there still stood Hammerhead Jack aboard the ship, watching as the unlucky pirates were launched into the air. We all shouted for him to dive in after us. It were only moments ‘afore the flames would reach the other barrels below deck. There was enough powder on board to blast that ship to kingdom come!”

“Did he jump?” asked a child.

“Oh no,” said the Commodore, “not Hammerhead Jack. You see one last pirate still stood aboard the deck of the Mermaid Queen. It was Black Eyed Bill himself. The filthy dog lunged at Jack from behind. Oh, sorry there pup.” He reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. “No offense meant.”

“Where was I? Oh yes, Black Eye tried a sneak attack on Hammerhead. He drew a dagger and swiped it at Jack’s back. Hammerhead swung around and punched Black Eye right in face. I didn’t see it, but some closer to the ship say the black opal that Bill kept in his empty socket bounced across the deck. Bill drew his sword and the two arch rivals engaged in a duel to end all duels. They were both brilliant with a blade, and they danced across the deck trading blows as fire began to overtake the ship. Hammerhead looked brilliant against the orange flames in his blue and white, and Black-eye just a devil in his blood red coat and black wig.
Hammerhead looked out at us all treading water in the bay and gave us a grin. Then he swung ‘round and knocked the sword right out of Bill’s hand. He brought the butt of his sword down hard against Bill’s head. Ol’ Black Eye hit the deck like a sack of flour.

From the water, the whole crew let out a cheer. Ol’ Hammerhead turned to see us all floating below and he gave us a salute with a wide grin. Sadly, just as he turned to dive down to the water, the flames reached the powder kegs in the hold below.

The sight was like a volcano spewing up out of the sea. The burst was so bright we had to shield our eyes. Most of the men dove under the surface for safety. By time we came back up, the ship was but a memory. Planks of burning wood were spread out all across the blackened water. Our great captain, Hammerhead Jack, the man who’d spent his life chasing pirates and protecting the innocent was gone.

Mind you, I imagine that’s how he’d have wanted it, waging battle with a villain the likes o’ Black Eyed Bill.”

“Hammerhead died?” some of them asked.

“He never swum back up,” the Commodore answered. “We waited for what seemed an eternity afore swimming ashore. Even once we reached the shore, the whole lot of us sat up all night around a fire, hoping to see Hammerhead crawlin’ up from the surf.”

Percy Johnston came out of the tavern with a pitcher in his hand. He saw the wide-eyed children drinking in the old fool’s tale. He took the mug from the crate and filled it. It was a service he always extended the Commodore, even though he knew the old man had no coins to speak of. Percy would also slip a plate out the backdoor when his wife wasn’t watching. He didn’t believe a word the man said, but he appreciated a good story just the same. It was the most entertainment one could get on the island, and Percy was happy to pay for it in his own way.

“Oh Commodore,” he said, setting the mug down again. “There wasn’t any Hammerhead Jack. Don’t lead these children on that way. Hammerhead Jack is just a myth they used to tell us about when I was a boy myself.”
Percy shook his head and chuckled then walked back into the tavern.

“Don’t be paying attention to what that man said,” said the Commodore, taking a sip from the cup. White foam dripped from his moustache and he set it back down.
“Hammerhead Jack was no myth. He was a man, like you and me. And he was a hero. The bravest, most upright man I ever knew and not even I knew his real name or what he looked like behind that blue mask over his eyes.”

The Commodore took another drink and scanned the horizon. He squinted in the sunlight as a black smudge crept across the horizon. It was a ship. A dark ship from what he could see with no flag of any country flying above her sails.

“Aye children,” he said. “I’d give my other leg to have a man like Hammerhead Jack here in Port Ignatius again.”

To Be Continued . . .

B.Scott 11.10.09

Balaam: Introduction

Balaam

The market place was buzzing early that morning. Rugs were laid out along the street, covered with all manner of fruits, vegetables, figs, and nuts. Tables were piled high with fabrics. In small tents and stalls, craftsmen showcased ornate jewelry and stones, as well as fine dishes and goblets. Herders corralled livestock to be butchered or sheered. Merchants called out over one another, fighting for the shoppers’ attentions. Amid the bustle and the morning heat, a lean but strong traveler led his donkey through the crowded street.

His name was Aman. He tended to a small vineyard on the other side of the mountain and normally would have brought his wine here to sell. His skin was tanned from a life in the sun, and his hands cracked and cut from working the vines. His feet stained from years of stomping juice from the sweet grapes. His robes were tattered and worn, showing the signs of working the land for survival.

It pained Aman that on a day when the bazaar was overflowing with shoppers he was not there to conduct business. As it was, he barely earned enough money to provide the basic needs of his family and few animals they kept. He wiped his sweating brow on his sleeve and took a sparing sip of water from the skin slung over his shoulder.

Atop the shaggy brown donkey, a form wrapped in a blanket swayed with the trudging of the beast. It was a young girl, the winemaker’s daughter. Her name was Farideh. She was nine years old. Her black hair was pasted to her face with sweat. Her eyes were opaque and barely open. The girl was sick. Her father offered her the skin but she was too weak to lift her hands to take it. Aman stopped the donkey and held the skin to her lips and poured water into her mouth. Gently he tipped her head back to make her drink.

“My poor child,” he whispered, fighting tears. “My dear Fari.”

His child’s head slumped forward and drops of warm water ran down her cracked lips. She made no sound and showed little signs of consciousness. Weeks ago she’d complained of not feeling well. It progressed over days and weeks. All the locals said surely it was just some fever and would pass. Since then it had only gotten worse. His young girl, the jewel of his eye who used to twirl about the vineyard and sang songs to him as he worked was now but a breathing corpse.
No local doctors could offer any hope. Frustrated and desperate Aman decided to follow a rumor to a part of the market not often visited by respectable traders.

Aman wound his way through the streets until he found the rug he was looking for. A young, scarecrow of a man sat cross-legged behind the carpet. A strange array of dried plants and leaves bundled in small arrangements were set out before him. Aman had never heard his name first hand, but Bashu was what the other merchants called him. It was a Persian word for lizard. Aman saw it was an appropriate title.

Bashu looked up and saw the winemaker and his daughter. He grinned a wide crescent smile, revealing a number of black holes where teeth had rotted away. His pink tongue flicked in and out of the empty spaces. His skin was pocked and burnt by the sun. He raised a dirty hand to push the stringy black hair off his face.

“Ah, yes. Yesss,” Bashu hissed. “You came after all. Yes, yes. I knew you would.”

“You said you know of a doctor,” said Aman.

He did not even like speaking to such a man. There were many rumors about this merchant and the products he peddled. It was well reported that Bashu had damaged his mind partaking of his own wares. He was also said to be a thief and perhaps even a murderer. Aman wanted no part of him. Nor did he like bringing his beloved daughter any where near this man. However, to make her healthy again he was willing to do anything.

“Where is he?”

The merchant stood up slowly and wagged a finger at Aman. The tip of it was burned and calloused.

“Not so fast, my friend,” he grinned. “Nothing is free in the market, yes, yes? Not even directions.”

“My daughter is sick,” Aman snapped.

“Then I’d think you’d be willing to pay and pay quickly to someone who can help,” he answered.

Aman’s stern face fell soft. This scoundrel was correct. Reluctantly he reached inside his robe for the small purse tied to his sash. He fished out a gold coin he’d been saving.

“Very well,” he said, hesitating a moment before laying it in Bahsu’s outstretched palm. Seeing his money in such a filthy claw disgusted Aman. “Now tell me!”

“Alright then,” he said, holding the coin up in the sunlight before depositing it inside his robe. “You must go to the river.”

“The river?” Aman asked.

“Yes, another three hours travel,” he went on. “You will find a hut.”

“How will I know which one it is?”

“There is only one house there. You will know it when you see it. It is not fit for men to live in.”

Aman thought that was some statement from such a reptile as this.

“Yes, yes. The hut is on the muddiest bank of the river,” he continued. “It looks as though it was molded right up from the muck and slime.”

“And this is the home of a doctor?” Aman asked suspiciously.

“Oh yes, yes. An amazing doctor,” he said. “Perhaps, it is said, a sorcerer. He can cure any sickness. He knows medicines and spells. He will mix her a potion that will have her dancing again. That is of course, for a price. You do have more money with you, yes?”

“Of course I do,” said Aman. “You told me he requires gold, didn’t you? I am prepared to pay all I have to heal my child.”

The merchant smiled. “Good. Very good.”

His eyes wandered away from Aman and gazed at something across the street. He seemed to nod just slightly. Aman was certain he even heard Bashu whisper the word yes.

Aman whipped his head around to see what Bashu was looking at.
Three rough and tattered young men lounging between two tents quickly rose and began shuffling away down the street. Every few seconds one of them would look back toward Aman and then his eyes would dart away. Aman looked back to Bashu with a raised eyebrow.

“This information had better be good,” Aman growled.
He peeled back a section of his robe to reveal a curved dagger at his hip.

“As I said, I would pay any price to heal my child. And I would just as sure slit the throat of any street devil that would play games with her life. Do not question the limits of a desperate father. He has none.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, good sir,” Bashu cowered, his spacious grin fading. “But I would suggest you get going now. The sun is high and must be very hot on your poor daughter’s head. Go quickly. That way. Straight through town.”

He pointed off past the end of the market. The same way the three thugs had headed.

Aman tugged at the reigns around the donkey’s snout and begrudgingly it lifted its hooves.
They trudged forward through the crowd towards the end of the tent city. Aman kept a watchful eye on the three boys just a few yards ahead. There was treachery in the air.

He grit his teeth and clutched at the handle of his dagger. Were he alone, he might run them down and challenge them. But not with his precious child. He’d never dare place her in harm’s way. Within a few minutes he was nearing the end of the market. He realized he had lost sight of the three men. That made him nervous.

Soon Aman and his child were well beyond the marketplace and reached the end of town. There were only a few huts and stalls here that were deserted and crumbling around them selves. Tucked in among them was a dilapidated old stable which appeared long abandoned as well. This was the dark end of town.

No merchants came here any more. Only the poor and the sick. They sought refuge in these deserted structures. When the bazaar closed, the beggars and the pick-pockets would return, Aman thought. Best not to doddle. He wiped his forehead and gazed out ahead.

Rough desert terrain rolled out before them. Just beige sand for miles and miles. The heat vapors danced off the ground and gave the air a mischievous life. It would be a long hot walk to the river. This doctor had better be there, he thought. He gave the reigns a tug to signal his donkey to carry on.

The donkey jerked his head.

“Come along Hadi,” Aman ordered. “Let’s go.”

Again he gave the lead a firm tug. The animal dug his hooves into the ground. He did not wish to go on.

Aman ran his hand across the donkey’s tan snout and through his chocolate mane. Fari had named the animal Hadi when he was a foal. He was now nearly seven.

“Hadi,” he spoke into the animal’s long ear, “I am not in the mood. Get moving. You have always been a faithful creature. Would you now force me to find a reed and make you move?”

Hadi huffed and yanked his head away from his master’s hand. The donkey stomped his hoof. Aman became angry and cracked the rein against the animal’s snout.

“Stop this Hadi,” he said. “We must get moving!”

From the corner of his eye, Aman saw a flash of movement. He snapped his head around and saw the edge of a shadow disappear around a mud hut. Aman reached in to his robe and wrapped his fingers around his knife. They were not alone.
He suspected he knew what or who was hiding behind that little building. It was just the right size to hide three young men planning to attack a lone traveler and his sick child.

Aman quickly realized he’d been deceived. There was no doctor by the river at all. Bashu had led him far enough from the busy market that no one would see or hear what was to come next.
Slowly but deliberately, Aman drew his dagger from its sheath and held it out. The sun gleamed off the blade, a warning he hoped to any would-be robbers.

Aman felt a tug at his elbow. He looked back to see Hadi biting down on his sleeve and pulling at it.

“What are you doing crazy animal?” he growled.

Hadi pulled and began to back away, the garment still clenched in his teeth.

“Not now Hadi!”

The donkey let go. He turned away and began to trot away with his precious cargo atop his back. He moved with a speed and determination Aman had never seen in any donkey.

“Where are you going?” Aman called out.
He gave a nervous glance back to the hut only a few yards away. They were lying in wait. As soon as he passed, Aman knew they would spring out. There was no sense in taking another step forward. Aman was strong and sure of his blade, but not against these odds. Clearly there was no help for them across the desert. Now it was only his daughter’s immediate safety that mattered.

Hadi was trotting off towards the old stable across the road. His instinct must have told him it was a place to find shelter. Aman followed at a nervous pace, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.

When he reached the stable door, Hadi was waiting for him, pawing at the ground. Aman picked his daughter off Hadi’s back and ushered the animal inside. He held Fari tight to his chest and ducked in.

Aman immediately noticed a manger packed with hay which he laid her carefully across like a crude bed. He stroked his daughter’s brow, watching as Hadi disappeared into the darkness of the barn. Fari’s breathing was shallow and raspy. Aman’s heart broke with each pained exhale.

He went back to the doorway and pulled the heavy door closed, struggling to pull the rusted latch locking them inside. Between two rotting boards of the door was just enough space to peer through. Aman watched as the three men appeared from their hiding place. They were looking in every direction and scratching their heads with confusion. Aman even caught a glimpse of a blade being held low at the side of one thug.

“By God,” Aman growled, “I will find Bashu and I will have his head.”

“Not in this house,” came a firm female voice from the darkness of the barn.


(Bart Scott, 10/22/09)

Disconnect Yourself

So a week ago I came home from work and sat down at my desk to look at something, only to discover my home PC was completely frozen. Couldn't refresh. Couldn't reboot. Zilch. Had no choice but to pull the plug, literally.

I gave it a few seconds, ala Sam Jackson in the first Jurassic Park when he had to cut power to the whole park uttering those famous (nearly) last words "hold on to your butts" before throwing the master switch, hence turning off the fences, hence unleashing hell's fury in the form of angry, giant reptiles!

Sadly when I turned the power back on, the chaos I experienced was simply a computer that refused to reboot.
Don't know what happened, as I'm not a tech guy by any stretch. I get the DELL load screen, I get a progress bar, and then I get a black screen.
For a week I've been without the internet. I have limited access at work, but given that I'm at work I'm really supposed to limit how much I use it. Not too mention our firewall blocks out everything. Heck, they even block out a Disney site I like! I can only imagine there's a risque shot of Minnie in a bathing suit.

I confess my initial reaction was one of panic. I usually get a couple of spouse-free hours in the evening as my wife owns her own business and works later. I admittedly spend a fair amount of time online at home at night. It's how I relax. I don't think in this day and age that's too uncommon. There are a handful of entertainment news sites, blogs, and the dreaded Facebook, that I like to visit when I'm unwinding. Not too mention I'm always thinking of songs I want on my iPod.

I admit the first couple days of coming home to no internet connection, let alone Microsoft Word (which of course goes out the week I really feel inspired to write) were incredibly frustrating. But then there came a shift.

I suddenly found myself finding things to do. I got down on the floor and
played with my son. Not just found him something to pacify him while I stared at the monitor or even the television. We rearranged the entire track layout on his train table. We played for hours (though I'm never allowed to be Thomas. That's always his.) He and I wrestled on the floor. Played with cars. Went outside and he rode his tricycle. It was so strange and new to be a human being again. It was like the olden days. You know, before Al Gore invented the internet.

Being away from my computer has also been an amazing accelerator for my creative engine. I've been going over things I wrote (or rather started) a long time ago. Editing with a red pen. Finding hidden treasure I'd long ago forgot about, or simply cast off. And this weekend, while the boy napped and the wife worked, I sat down at the table with an old sketch pad and set of pencils I found in a box in the garage. I still doodle on my notepad margins at work all the time, but I haven't actually set out to "draw" in a long time. Between Saturday and Sunday (when on top of all else, the cable went out too) I just sketched and sketched, and colored, and created, and just had a great time, all by myself. Well, me and the characters that have been residing in my brain for a few years anyway.

Ideas have been flowing out of my head like crazy. I can't keep up. In fact the most frustrating thing is that I don't know what to do with all of them. What's the next step? Usually this is where I'd go hit the internet to find out. But you know, there was no internet (hell there were no computers) when my hero I wrote about prior to this got started.

I have to admit, it would be nice to go home and log on tonight. I want to update the iPod. Look at a couple things, etc. And I'm sure my Farmville on Facebook is in terrible shape right now.
I could probably have this problem remedied quite quickly with a simple phone call. There are a number of services that will come to you in funny cars to fix your computer now. Something is keeping me from dialing. Yes, the added expense could be the reason. But truth be told, it might actually be me.

I'll get to it, eventually. But there's been something pleasant about not having it. True, my current day job does not require an internet connection at home as many of my friends' careers do. I'm just enjoying playing with my kid, looking out the window, reading a book, drawing pictures, moving around the house. None of which, it turns out, require a high-speed connection.

Pull the plug sometime. You might like it.

Have We Gone Too Far to Wish Upon Stars?

As you might well imagine since I was recently in Walt Disney World, I've been thinking a great deal about the works of Walt Disney. I say "works" because he is not a man whose accomplishments were limited to one or two recognizable things or products or ideas. When you say to someone "Walt Disney" and ask what they immediately think of, you're likely to get at least a few different answers.

One says "amusement parks" or "vacation" or "resorts." One says "cartoons" or "animated films" or simply "Mickey Mouse." They're not wrong. But they're only scratching the surface.

The truly savvy might say "branding" or "customer service." Again 100% correct.

When you ask me what word comes to mind when I think of Walt Disney, I might simply says "pioneer." And in my mind, that encompasses all of the above.

Walt was a leader, an explorer, a businessman, a philosopher, a General (sometimes perhaps a Dictator), and a dreamer.

He coined the phrase, "if we can dream it . . . we can do it."

I'd like to say this is a mantra by which I live my own life. I'd like to, but I can not. I have many dreams. Some so far out in the clouds that it would take a fortune and an act of God to make them reality. Some are so simple and pure it would seem, at least to my mind, they shouldn't take but a simple step in the right direction, or perhaps just the hand of providence opening the right door at the right time to bring that dream from conception to birth.

Yet we live in a world where I'm afraid dreams no longer hold currency. Commerce has all but destroyed art.

I wonder if Walt Disney were a young man today, could he do it all again? Is it possible for a man with a dream, a fantastical dream, and determination to build an empire. 20 years from now, could a man stand in the midst of his entertainment kingdom and say it all started with a mouse?

Or would he have to say it all started with a hedge fund and a group of venture capitalists who hired an independant research group to determine the probability of Americans to watch an animated mouse and go to an amusement park . . .? Sadly, odds are he'd never even get to that point, as how would even get to those investors?

Someone asked me when we were at Disney World if I thought someone could "do this all again, now." I thought for a moment and said "no."

I just have a terribly cynical feeling that dreams are no longer enough. We live in a world of cold metal, concrete, circuitry, and theoretical currency. Or to simplify it, the old addage is true: you gotta have it to make it.

If you don't already have it, your dreams probably aren't going to be enough.

See, I think all this. I hear it my head, every time I sit down to the white page (screen) in the hopes of creation. There's a monkey perched squarely on my shoulders, slapping my skull like a bongo telling me all this. Until, finally, he stops for a moment . . . and I think about Walt.

If "Uncle Walt" knew I was thinking all this. If he believed I truly felt this way, he might slap me harder than that monkey. Because in times like ours, especially in times like we're in now, where those corporate raiders and investment bankers and short-sighted politicians on the take have sold the American Dream up the river. Maybe this is the time when our dreams mean more than ever before. Maybe the world needs a visionary who believes that something simple and pure and whimsical can be the cornerstone of a business that is not only profitable but also brings true joy to millions of lives.

Could Walt Disney do it all over again now? No, of course not. Everything's changed. The game has changed. The playing field is completely different. So the new Walt Disney would have to do it all differently. But he would still do it. He would more than likely relish the challenge. Even if he had to scrape for it inch-by-inch, rejection after rejection until he finally reached success.
He would not give up, as I've wanted to and have so many times. And when he finally looked out over all the success he'd made, he'd still think of ways to "plus it."
Above all, no matter how different the new Walt Disney's empire might be, it would more than likely all have still started with something the size of a mouse.