Late post

A lightning strike has taken out the cable here and I do not have internet. I will post today's entry tomorrow.

Fear and Utopia

I follow Bruce Schneier’s blog “Schneier on Security” pretty closely. He’s a big influence on the way that some people view security, both digital and physical. Also he had a thing for squid, but that’s for another time.

Today he posted a link to a blog post called “An Era in Ideas: Fear” from the Chronicle in higher education. The author draws some interesting contrasts between the events of Edward Bellamy’s 19th-century novel Looking Backward and the current world we inhabit now.

In Bellamy’s book a man wakes up in the year 2000 to find that most of the things that plagued his time are gone. 11 years beyond the scope of the book in the real world of course things aren’t quite so utopian. I won’t go into the differences between what happens in the book and what has happened in real life. You should read the article for that. It’s short and poignant, and a good read.

I haven’t read the book. I plan to now that it’s been pointed out to me, but the book isn’t really what I wanted to talk about. Instead I wanted to talk about how the article presents fear.

Fear, as presented by the article, is a force that keeps us from improving our lot because we are afraid of what might be. The article puts forth that it is this very fear that keeps our society from improving because we simply can’t imagine a perfect society.

I think that’s overly simplistic, but probably rooted at least partly in truth. I think it’s more likely that there is no true understanding of what the perfect society actually IS. There are so many diverging interests that simply settling on a one true plan is impossible.

There are those who want a socialist union, where are men are equal and where there is no need for want. There are those who want limitless personal freedom, where a man is allowed to make his own way as best he can without interference from others. There are those who likely feel that society should be measured not by its effect on a particular person, but on its advancement of humanity as a whole.

There are others of course. There are some who want an Islamic caliphate that dominates the world. Lest we forget, there are those who would also like the world dominated by Christendom. Lastly, there are those who want the world run entirely by what they see as logic and reason, and to have religion removed entirely.

So, here’s what I think: I think that fear might indeed prevent us from reaching a utopian society, but it isn’t the only reason I don’t think we’ll get there. Before we can even approach the idea of utopia we first need to agree on what utopia IS. What is heaven for one will be hell for others.

As for me? I don’t believe in Utopia. On the spectrum i tend to fall in among those who wish for personal freedom over security. That said, I do want for there to be portions of my government intended to keep me safe. I want it to keep me safe from enemy militaries. I want it to ensure that a product I purchase is what the packaging says it is. I want it to ensure that if I am injured, or my car is stolen, or my house is lit on fire I have someone there to help me recover.

Beyond that? In my life I have thought of several different societies that might be Utopia. As I age, my experiences shape me so that none of these societies continue to fit what I feel society should be. I have come to realize that Utopia is what it was originally named: “No place”. There is no perfect society. The more I think about it the more I realize that that is the way things should be.

Announcement: Going incognito

This is just a quick heads up. I know i haven't posted here in a few days, and it's because I am working on something that is not currently got public consumption. I expect it to be done no later than Thursday or so, at which time I'll be back posting here as normal.

Writing outside of your experience

Writing fiction is sometimes easy. When you write what you know (which is what most suggest that you do), you have the ability to understand what you are putting on the page so that it is believable. This is important, of course. The worst thing that you can do as an author is to break the reader’s suspension of disbelief. Doing so breaks the spell you have over their imagination and returns them to the world they want to escape from.

How then do you write something you don’t know? There are thousands of stories that have been written that take place in universes that don’t exist. Some of them cannot possibly exist with the rules that our universe is ruled by. Not all of those stories are bad. Many are good, and some are outright masterpieces.

There are a few options, of course. There is research. There is plagiarism, and there is imagination. Any of those three might work.

Plagiarism (or, if you prefer, homage) is the easiest of the three. Taking a story written by someone else and adapting it so that it is something else has been done for as long as there have been stories. There is, as they say, nothing new under the sun.

When done poorly it is theft, but when done well it is a good story. Taking the Odyssey and adapting it to the depression-era south, or adapting Macbeth to feudal Japan has left us with enjoyable stories. It can also lead to cliche and boring stories.

Research  is almost as easy, but far more time consuming. Burying your nose in reference books (or Wikipedia) is a good way to learn more about what you want to write about. Even a little bit of research can lend a story a kernel of truth that encourages your reader to invest themselves in the story you are telling.

Even more strenuous research can yield even better results. Doing primary research and becoming an expert on a topic makes your story even more convincing. The danger of course is that you mistake research for storytelling. There is a difference between a term paper and a story. Sometimes the line is rather fine between the two, but there is a difference.

The last is the most difficult. Imagination takes talent, and consideration. Putting yourself into an experience that you have never been in, and then writing a story the way you imagine it to be is the most basic and most difficult aspect to writing.

It’s all to easy to assume things would go the way you assume them to go. Arguably imagination alone cannot create a decent story. There must be research or experience to temper that imagination into a story believeable by others.

Still, I think some might have managed it. There are some stories that are beyond anyone’s experience. Those completely fantastic stories rely mostly on the imagination of the writer. There should be at least some research to provide details, since those details allow the reader a sort of mental foothold. Most of the real work however will land squarely on the ability of the writer to translate something unknowable into an experience for others.

I have been asked to write something I am not comfortable writing before. I have been tasked with stretching my imagination outside of my experience to create an interesting tale. I only hope that using these tools I have been up to the task.

On ego and professional evaluation

Apologies for the lateness of the post. I have just had a very long (near as makes no difference to 12 hours) shift. It was an eventful one as well, so I didn’t really get to write much.

I had a conversation with a friend last night about what it takes to put yourself out there. She’s a dancer, and has an audition coming up that could set her on the path to her dream career. Similarly, I have submitted a few short storied to publishers, which could be the stepping stone to being a professional writer.

The two situations are nothing like each other, of course, except for one thing: Both require submitting your talents to someone else for evaluation. This makes both terrifying.

I’ve never auditioned for a dancing position on a cruise line, of course. Given my friend’s reaction to hers however I have it on good authority that it has the same or greater effect on anxiety as submitting a short story for publication. In the interest of fairness I will point out that it is probably far worse because she can only go to one audition at a time, whereas I can submit multiple stories for publication at once.

It did lead me to wonder why professional scrutiny is so emotionally difficult. Unlike many (or even most) of the people I know, I have no problem speaking in public.I jumped in to doing a podcast with both feet, and without a second thought. I don’t really even have problems letting others read the things that I write, as evidenced by the fact they you are reading this now.

It’s something entirely different when you are exposing yourself to someone who is the gateway to you doing what you love for money. At least for me (and my friend) it is an entirely different experience. Suddenly I find myself second guessing every choice I’ve ever made. Even simple things like pacing and  word choice suddenly seem like mistakes.

There isn’t really a cure I know for this. Rather, there is one but it is something I need to develop rather than something I was born with. Professionals at writing, or dancing, or comedy, or very nearly anything else need to have a certain sense of ego.

When we speak about these sorts of things we call it “confidence”, but it really does have to come down to ego. I need to feel that I am, in fact, better at what I want to do than the people who are already doing it. I need to know in my heart that I am good enough that someone wants to enjoy something that I create.

It isn’t an easy transition. I find myself constantly checking the visitation statistics for this website. Sometimes I see the traffic numbers as a reflection of my worth as a writer. I should just ignore them entirely, or maybe use them as an incentive to promote myself more.

I’ve decided to adopt a new tactic. Every time I send in a story, and think of all the authors who’s work I dearly love, and think of how unworthy I am to follow in their shoes, I’m going to stop. Instead I’m going to think of every bad movie that I’ve seen. I’m going to think of every story I’ve ever read that didn’t live up to my expectations. I’m going to think of every author who’s work I found distasteful and remind myself that I can, in fact, do better than that. I’m going to remind myself that somewhere along the line someone gave them a shot too, and that if I think my stories are better than there’s I should expect to get at least as much of a chance as they had.

I don’t really know if that’s going to work. Time will tell of course, but I’m optimistic. I’m not really an easy critic to please when it comes to storytelling. Hopefully I’m a sterner crtitic than those people I want to get paid by.

Fiction: The Old Man of the Mountain, pt 5 (conclusion)

This is the final piece of “The Old Man of the Mountain”, at least for now. I like this story well enough I am considering expanding it to novel length. If you liked it, please let me know. If there was something you didn’t like about it, please let me know that too.

This ended up longer than I thought it would. I was aiming for around eight thousand words, and in the end the story ended up at nearly 10. I'm actually a little proud of that, but I think it will make the story difficult to tell should I decide to do so.

I"ll be coming back some time this week to re-post a proof-read and edited version of this work. For now it is still a raw draft.

The Old Man of the Mountain, pt 4

John’s eye widened and he took a few steps backwards, away from the looming figure of the Old Man. The Old Man’s features were as expressionless as they always were. Somehow the lack of emotional expression made him all that much more frightening.

The Old Man sighed. It was a strange whistling noise, like the sound of wind gusting around the corner of a house. He dropped into a sitting position, cross-legged against Tyler’s unconscious form.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt or your idiot friend here. If I wanted harm to come to either of you I’d have let him die.”

John warily took two more steps backwards. He was still frightened silly of the Old Man, but what he had said at least made sense. He nodded once, quickly, and then ran off down the slope of the mountain in search of the stick the Old Man had asked for.

It was surprisingly difficult to find. Even at the three line the available options were stunted and twisted. John was forced to go nearly a quarter of the way down the mountain before he found a tall, straight sapling he figured would do the job.

He tugged at the tree experimentally, trying to pull its relatively shallow roots free of the patch of soil it was rooted in. It clung tenaciously to the earth, and for a moment John wondered how he would get it free. Finally he recalled that he still had the Old Man’s knife.

The knife was single-edged, with a heavy blade, and so it made a decent tool for hacking away at the sapling’s trunk. The tree was a bit thicker than the Old Man had requested, at least three finger-widths wide, and so cutting it down was slow going. A few times during the process John wished he had thought to retrieve the hatchet from Tyler’s bag.

Finally John managed to hack away enough of the wood that the small tree came down. The remaining wood gave a soft crack as it fell. John used the knife to cut it away from the stump and dragged the fallen tree up the hill.

It was slow going carrying a tree longer than he was tall, and by the time he returned the Old Man was long longer sitting next to his friend. Tyler’s arm was bound to his side, with the handle of the hatched used as a brace to keep the bone straight. There was a pile of wet, bloody rags on the ground that the Old Man must have used to clean the blood from Tyler.

As he dragged the tree into the center of the camp the Old Man emerged from the log hut. He was bare-chested, and carrying his blanket and some rope in the crook of his arm.

“You and your friend owe me a shirt,” he said to John.

John dropped the end of the sapling next to Tyler. He was sweating from the exertion of getting up the slope. The Old Man gave him an appraising look and nodded.

“This will do,” he said. “Give me my knife.”

John returned the Old Man’s knife, careful to hand it over by the blade the way his father had taught him. A moment later he realized he needn’t have bothered with the care. No knife he knew of would mark the Old Man’s skin.

The Old Man went up and down the trunk of the sapling, stripping it of leaves, twigs, and branches. When that was done he hacked at the trunk to divide the remaining length of wood into halves. The two resulting poles he laid side-by-side, using the rope and blanket to form them into a litter. He turned again to Jobn.

“Your friend is no longer dying, but we need to get him home. I would just carry him, but his injuries could get much, much worse if I jostle him too hard. We are going to carry him down the mountain, slowly. I will take the end near his feet and you will take the end near his head. I’ll go first. Do you understand?”

John nodded.

“Good. Help me roll him on to the litter.”

Moving Tyler’s unconscious form proved to be fairly easy. John was worried that the motion would cause Tyler to scream out again in pain, but his slumber was so deep he offered neither help nor resistance. Once he was on the litter the Old Man took the time to get him properly positioned, and then John and the Old Man each took and end and raised him up off of the ground.

“I’ll go first,” said the Old Man. “Be careful, and take it slow. Put the ends of the litter on your shoulder, like this ,” he said,  demonstrating. John did as he was told, and the Old Man dropped his arms back to his sides, bringing the ends of the litter to a more level angle.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They walked for a while in silence. The Old Man was moving slowly and deliberately so as not to lose his balance. John did the same, but every once in a while the Old Man would more a little farther than John had room more and he would find himself jerked a few steps down the mountain. Each time he gripped the poles of the litter as though dropping it would mean his death. It might mean his friend’s.

Eventually the question came the John had dreaded.

“What were you doing in my camp?” the Old Man asked.

“It was Tyler’s idea,” he said. He flushed with embarrassment as he realized he had just assigned blame to his critically injured friend.

“That wasn’t what I asked,” said the Old Man. “Answer my question.”

John took a moment before answering.

“We wanted to know more about you,” he said. It was a small fib, but one that at least made him share the blame with his friend.

“We don’t know anything about you,” he continued.”Our parents are all afraid of you, and when we saw you yesterday we thought we could find out more about you if we found where you lived.”

“Stupid,” said the Old Man. John was inclined to agree.

“We knew you’d spot us if we followed you,” John continued, “so we looked for your camp instead. Tyler said he’d come on to your property before. Your land is next to where he lives.”

“I thought he looked familiar,” said the Old Man, “but then I thought it was just my memory playing tricks. What were you doing in the Orchard?”

John shrugged, forgetting for the moment that the Old Man couldn’t see him.

“Tyler saw one of the stone men from the camp,” he said. “We went to investigate. We saw those strange plants of yours, and figured that’s what had turned them to stone. Tyler got the sap on him and thought he was going to die. You know the rest.”

The Old Man gave a non-committal grunt, and they continued on in silence again. After a while, John got up the courage to ask the question he knew he needed to.

“Did you kill those men?” he asked.

The Old Man shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Those men killed themselves, by accident. Your friend was lucky. The Gorgon Tree’s thorns nearly always pierce the skin. Even a small amount of sap into a wound, and he would be dead by now.”

John shuddered. He knew that Tyler had been close to death not once, but repeatedly that day, but it was something else to be reminded of it.

“What kind of plant is the Gorgon Tree?” he asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The Old Man snorted. “I should hope not,” he said. “I’ve done my level best to find and remove or destroy every one in the forest that I can.”

“But, why?” John asked.

The Old Man didn’t reply immediately. When he finally spoke it wasn’t to answer, but to ask a question.

“How much do you know about me?” he asked.

“Almost nothing,” John admitted.

“Well, then I will tell you a tale,” said the Old Man. “No need to keep it a secret. There are enough tall tales about me I doubt half the people you meet will be believe it anyhow.”

John said nothing and waited for the story to begin.

“I have been here a long time,” he said. “I have been here since well before your grandparents’ grandparents were children. I am very, very old.

“I was not born in this land. I was born in a land across the Great Ocean in a land ruled by a king that has long since past into the histories. I suffered wanderlust as a young man, and enlisted on the ship of one of the great explorers of my time.

“You probably don’t know his name, but he is the reason your village even exists. Where others sought gold and spices in the lands to the south, this man instead sought fertile farm land and productive forests in the north.

“This land was not uninhabited when we arrived. There were tribes of natives back then. The were human, but did not appear as you or as I did then. They were dark and mysterious, and took pains to stay away from us whenever possible.

“I had quickly grown tired of life at sea. In those days there were great incentives for a man of such simply beginnings to gain fortune among the early colonies. The lands near the ocean were in great demand, and I could not afford a grant there. I had a cunning plan however that I thought would ensure I would be a rich man.

“I saw this mountain, far in the distance. This was a new world, and I thought that on it’s slopes I might find some mineral wealth. I thought that I might find some veins of gold or silver, or even iron or tin, that might make my fortune. I secured my claim and set out to stake it.

“When I arrived I found what you see now. There is no gold here. There is no iron. I dug for days on this mountainside, desperate to find even one small nugget or crystal I could sell.

“One night there was a storm. In a flash of lighting I saw someone at the peak dancing in the wind and the rain. The next day I searched and found her camp. I saw her stand of Gorgon trees, and investigated them, just as you did.

“I wasn’t so luck. Being slowly turned to stone by the venom of a Gorgon tree is an unimaginable pain. Before i was too far gone she found me. She used powerful magics to allow me to move. Her potion leaves me like this. I am still a man of stone, but I am also still alive.

“I never knew her name. I just called her the Mountain Crone. She was assigned by her people to collect the Gorgon Trees and other magic plants to keep them safe and others safe from them. She wasn’t a kind woman, and I was happy to be quite of her. That’s a story for another time though.”

The Old Man’s had came down on a fence post with a soft thump. John was startled at the sound, and he blinked his eyes and looked around him. Slowly he came to realize that over the course of the story he and the Old Man had made it all the way down the mountain.

A sense of relief flowed through him. He could still hear Tyler’s labored snoring coming from inside the sling of the litter. They had gotten him home, and though Tyler was still in some danger, John was happy that his friend would now be able to rest and recouperate.

It took a bit of finagling to get the litter over the fence, since John was so much shorter than the Old Man, but they managed it. As they trudge across Tyler’s family pasture John thought of another question.

“Where do the Gorgon trees and other plants come from?” he asked.

“This is a New World,” the Old Man replied, “and one still full of magics. There is magic in the Old World as well, but people tend not to notice it there as it has mostly been brought to heel by science and logic.

“Things are different here. The New World is still a wild place, and there are still unchained magics within it. The Natives knew how to stay out of their way, and sometimes to harvest them. We don’t work with the land, we make it work for us, and so we trample those magics where we can, and avoid them where we can’t.”

John stayed silent, considering what the Old Man had said. It bore some consideration. If there were other magics here, some might be as dangerous as the Gorgon tree. Despite himself he wondered if he could find some. Maybe he could get the Old man to tell him about them too.”

Assuming he parents ever let him leave the house again, of course.

Fiction: The Old Man of the Mountain, pt 4

Looks like this isn't quite the final piece of the story. I'll finish it tomorrow night.

The Old Man of the Mountain, pt. 4

Tyler’s scream was broken briefly by a hacking cough as the water John poured over his face went down his throat. After that though his world was nothing more than screaming and pain. John cast about looking for something, _anything_ that could help his friend, but nothing came immediately to mind.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He had done everything he could to keep his friend from being doomed. Now instead of being turned to stone as John had dreamed Tyler would instead be poisoned by whatever it was that he had just ingested.

There were a series of thudding noises behind him, followed by the crack of stone on stone. John turned to see the grey form of the Old Man descending from the summit of the mountain. The Old Man’s normally expressionless face bore a grimace that made John’s run blood cold.

His first impulse was to run. It didn’t matter what direction he went in, his body was screaming at him to simply get away. He was so frightened however that he was frozen in place for a moment, and in that space his mind clung at a desperate straw of hope for both him and his friend.

He ran towards the Old Man. “Please!” he begged, “You have to help me!”

The Old Man continued down the hill towards him at a breakneck pace. He said something, but John couldn’t quite make it out in the cacophony of Tyler’s screaming. The Old Man, realizing that John could not hear him slapped his palm down on a boulder in frustration as he passed. There was that loud crack of stone on stone again followed by thudding as he ran closer.

Finally the Old Man was close enough to make himself heard.

“What did he do?” he asked, pointing to Tyler.

His voice was low and raspy. It was also incredibly quiet. John wondered for a moment at the incongruity of the strongest man he knew having such a quiet voice that he could apparently not shout. A fresh round of screams from Tyler shook him out of it.

“He drank something,” John said, pointing to the put where Tyler had filled his bottle.

“What?” the Old Man asked, incredulous. “What on earth made him do that?”

“It was the bushes down the hill, said John.  “He got some of the sap on him. We saw the men who had been turned to stone, and he thought this was how you kept from freezing solid like they did.”

Halfway through John’s explanation the Old Man was already moving. He scooped up a half-burned log from the fire and pulverized the blackened end between his hands. John boggled for a moment at the casual show of strength. He boggled again when the Old Man held out the resulting black powder to him.

“Make him swallow it,” said the Old Man.

“What?” John asked.

“Do it!” the Old Man ordered, in a wheezing voice that was apparently the closest thing he could manage to a shout. Dutifully, John took the powder from the Old Man and knelt next to his friend, trying to coax him into eating it. It made no sense, but John was no longer in a state to argue.

“Eat this,” he ordered Tyler. Tyler opened his mouth, and drew in a deep breath to scream. Tyler punched him right in the middle of the chest and knocked the wind out of him.

“Come on!” he shouted. “Eat it. The Old Man says eat it and he’s trying to help us.”

The Old Man for his part had run off into the log hut. He emerged a moment later, carrying the iron-bound box. As John fed the powdered charcoal into Tyler’s mouth the Old Man fished into a pouch hung around his neck and came up with a small key.

Taking slow, deliberate movements that John would have found infuriating if he were any less panicked he inserted the key into the lock on the front of the box and turned it. Nothing happened.

The Old man turned the key back and forth, trying to get the box to open. The lock stuck fast. Finally the key snapped off in his hand. With a grunt of anger the Old Man simply brought his hand down on one of the wooden panels of the box, smashing a hole through it.

He looked up just as John finished shoveling the last of the charcoal into his friend’s mouth.

“Stick your finger down his throat,” the Old Man ordered.

John wondered for an instant if the Old Man were just toying with him.

“Do it!” the Old Man wheezed again. “Make him throw up.”

John did as he was told. He forced Tyler’s now clenching jaw open with his left hand, and stuffed the index finger of his right hand down his friend’s throat. Tyler’s whines an moans were interrupted as he started to retch. He bit down reflexively, and John yelped as Tyler’s teeth bit deep into his left hand. He didn’t let go.

He rolled Tyler to one side as he began to vomit. The resulting mess stank of turpentine, and was black with the charcoal that he had fed his friend. John began to gag at the smell.

The Old Man had now torn the iron-bound box completely asunder, and was sorting through a series of buckskin pouches while apparently reading something. Whatever that something was it was still in the box, and John couldn’t see it.

The Old Man removed herb after herb from various pouches. Some of them John recognized, while some of them had appearances so strange John wondered if they were herbs at all. One even appeared to be a leaf-shaped sheet of crystalline stone. The Old Man ground the herbs together, cupping one hand and using the fingers of the other as a pestle to grind them.

The Old man looked up at John.

“Water?” he asked.

John haded over the bottle he had tried to make Tyler drink from. The Old Man took an experimental sniff at it,  then dropped the ground concoction of herbs into the bottle, shaking the bottle to mix them.

“You’ve seen my bushes?” the Old Man asked.

John, to nervous to speak, simply nodded.

“I need one of the thorn clusters. You know what those look like?”

John nodded again, and the Old Man handed a knife that hung from his belt on a rawhide loop.

“Go!” he ordered. “Don’t let the thorns break skin, and make sure it’s got sap still in it.”

John sprinted down the hill, skidding to a stop just before the closest bush. He grabbed for the nearest thorn cluster but stopped. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he was forced to take a moment to try to steady them before continuing.

With delicate, exaggerated care he grasped one of the bush’s branches. Slowly he separated one of the thorn-ridden twigs from the rest of the plant, and cut at it with the knife. It pulled away from the rest of the planet almost instantly and dropped to the ground. John grabbed at it reflexively but stopped himself before grabbing on to the twig. His breath caught briefly in his throat as he realized he had nearly clasped his hands around the cluster of thorns and doomed himself out of reflex.

He carefully picked the twig up off the ground and examined it to make sure that all of its “berries” hadn’t deflated. There were two left intact on the cluster, and he started back up the mountain. It was much slower going, and he took measured, careful steps to avoid losing the twig.

“Hurry up!” called the Old Man.

John didn’t quicken his pace. He didn’t trust himself to go any faster without losing the twig, and therefor needing to start over again. Finally he found himself again next to the fire pit. He gingerly held out the twig for the Old man.

The Old Man deftly grasped the twig behind the cluster of thorns and held it up to the mouth of the bottle. He carefully bent the tip of one of the thorns over it, letting the drop of sap from the tip drop into the mixture within. He handed the bottle over the John.

“Shake it,” he ordered. “Don’t spill a drop.”

John did as he was told, clamping the palm of his hand over the mouth of the bottle to seal it tight. After a few vigorous shakes the Old Man held out his hand for it.

“That’s enough.” he said/

He knelt next to Tyler, who by this time had gone from screams and moans to quietly whimpering on the ground.

“Drink this.” the Old Man ordered.

Tyler didn’r respond, except to look up a at the Old Man, panic, and try to roll away.

“We don’t have time for this!” wheezed the Old Man. “Drink it!”

He grabbed at Tyler’s arm to roll him back over. There was a wet crunch, a Tyler howled in pain. The Old Man startled, and jumped back. He looked genuinely ashamed.

“Sorry,” he said, handing the bottle over to John. “Make him drink it.”

Tyler rolled on the ground, clutching at his arm. He alternated between crying out in pain and coughing, and by this time he was coughing up blood. John knelt next to him, throwing himself across his friend’s body to try to hold him still.

“Come on!” he said, “You need to drink it!”

Tyler continued to howl and thrash. In desperation John punched him again just below the clavicle, driving the wind from him lungs again. Tyler gaped like a fish, and John held the bottle to his lips.

“Drink it!’ John said, taking on the commanding tone the Old Man had used with him.

“It’ll make you feel better,” he promised. John wasn’t sure that was true, but if it made Tyler drink the concoction John would tell any lie.

Finally Tyler inhaled deeply, coughed out a wad of phlegm and blood, and grabbed the bottle, raising it to his own lips. He took a shallow sip, gagged again, and the drank deep from the bottle. After a few gulps he collapsed back to the earth, continuing to cough weakly.

“That will make him sleep,” said the Old Man. A few moments later Tyler had indeed been rendered unconscious. The Old Man stood, and lifted John to his feet with one hand. The Old Man was silhouetted against the afternoon sun, and his imposing form cast a shadow over John that made his blood run cold.

“Now,” said the Old Man, “we’ll treat the broken arm a gave your friend here. Go get me a long, straight branch at least as thick as two of your fingers. When you get back you can explain to me why you two want to die.”