Godley House

This is the first chapter of a novel that I'm playing around with, using chatGPT to write.  Feel free to tell me if it feels like chatg has written it.  In fact, I'm doing nearly all the writing, but I'm using chatg to fill in the gaps, correct the period references and, occasionally, to propose dialogue.

Chapter 1

The iron gates of Godley House's courtyard stood open, as they always did. The baby blue 1954 Chevy Bel Air glided through them. Randall inched the car forward, careful not to disturb the mid-afternoon tranquility. Leaning forward, he peered through the windshield at the sprawling, three-story manse, his mind brimming with reverence. It had been a decade since he'd last laid eyes on the house, yet memories of it flooded back. He had only ever visited after nightfall; seeing it in the cold light of morning was new to him. But even so, the grandeur of the house remained undiminished in his eyes.

Randall guided the car in a wide arc across the gritty, hard-packed lawn, bringing it to a stop before the entranceway and its sweeping porch. The lawn, doubling as both driveway and parking lot, would typically be filled with dozens of cars by evening, but for now, there wasn't another vehicle in sight. The residents of Godley House rarely ventured into town or frolicked in the countryside. By day, they slumbered; by evening, they toiled.

Godley House held legendary status throughout West Tennessee. Reconstructed in 1866, following its devastation in the war, the mansion appeared timeless, untouched by the passage of years. At the snap of the owner's fingers, a legion of eager workmen would materialize, ready to repair or repaint any imperfections. Many of these laborers had experienced their first trysts within the house's upper rooms, likely before their sixteenth birthdays. Thousands more young men, scattered within a day's drive, likely drifted off to sleep beside their spouses, reminiscing about nights spent at Godley House, a distant memory but never forgotten.

The mansion, often illuminated like a beacon for miles around, had become an institution in Tennessee, commanding respect beyond reproach and operating beyond the reach of the law. Miriam Godley, known as Miss Miriam, ruled over the estate with unquestioned authority. From the lowliest ratcatcher to the highest elected official, all acknowledged her dominion over the house and its surroundings.

Randall glanced over his shoulder from the driver's seat, his gaze falling upon the young lady nestled in the back. Gwendolyn Charlotte, her delicate hands adorned with soft, pink gloves, clutched a small suitcase on her lap. A youthful blush graced her cheeks as she met Randall's eyes before shyly lowering her gaze. She was barely sixteen, the daughter of Randall's formidable employer, Renee Charlotte, a woman of considerable political sway, known to keep many men firmly under her control.

As the car idled before the imposing entrance of Godley House, Randall found himself swept into the currents of Ms. Charlotte's influence, tasked with delivering her daughter from St. Louis to Godley House. It was a journey into the unknown, one that left Randall with more questions than answers. But in matters such as these, he had learned long ago not to question orders. Instructed to retrieve Ms. Charlotte's daughter from her boarding school in Georgia and deliver her into the guardianship of this most notorious Madam, whose reign over Godley House cast a shadow over the entire country, Randall was left pondering the mysteries shrouding the estate's walls and the complexities of the lives it touched.

The mousey innocent had uttered only three words since their encounter, she'd come down the stairs of her dormitory and accepted the letter Randall had handed her. That letter, Randall presumed, held all the explanations. Gwendolyn had simply said, "One minute, please." With that, she retreated upstairs, retrieved the solitary case in her possession, and returned, granting Randall permission to open the car door.

That had been early that morning. Since then, they'd driven for hours, pausing only once for gas. Gwendolyn had silently slipped out of the car to use the restroom, taking the case with her. There was no urgency in her movements, prompting Randall to wonder if he might need to prompt her to hurry along. However, she emerged at a leisurely pace, cradling the case delicately in both hands, before gracefully returning to the back seat. Randall had inwardly shrugged before restarting the car. Following that, the girl hadn't caused a bit of trouble.

Now, she made no sign of acknowledging the enormous manse filling the car window. "We're here, Miss Gwendolyn," Randall informed her.

"Thank you," she replied, her voice akin to that of a bird. She did not glance up at him.

Randall cast another glance at the house, half-expecting someone to emerge and greet them. When no one appeared, he reached for the car door handle. The mechanical click reverberated through the quiet, punctuated only by the distant chirping of crickets. Stepping out, Randall closed the door with a gentle touch. The Bel Air was still fresh, having been collected from the Lakewood Assembly plant in Atlanta just four months prior for Ms. Charlotte. This marked Randall's third opportunity to take the wheel, and he relished the chance. His hand trailed along the smooth fender as he circled around the back of the car and made his way towards the porch.

Randall's last visit to Godley House had been in 1945, just a month before the altercation in Paducah that landed him a stretch in prison. He had struck a man in the back of the head with a pool cue during a brawl involving at least a dozen others. It remained unclear whether the man had perished from the blow or from being trampled upon while lying unnoticed on the ground. Randall had been sentenced to twelve years, but he served only seven before a pardon was granted, courtesy of Ms. Charlotte's intervention with Dawson Reeds, Kentucky's Governor at the time. Thus Randall found himself liberated from prison only to be bound in comfortable servitude to Ms. Charlotte for the remainder of his days. Randall mused that there were certainly worse fates.

Randall had spent countless hours lying in his cell, his gaze fixed upon the concrete ceiling mere inches above his face, consumed by thoughts of Jeannette. He'd loved her deeply and had frequented Godley House often to be with her. Although he couldn't expect that she'd still be there, he knew he'd inquire nonetheless. Miriam Godley, the Madam, held the answers to such inquiries. She knew everything. Randall wouldn't be surprised if he were recognized, no matter how many years had passed, and no doubt Miss Miriam would remember his association with Jeannette.

Miss Miriam herself was utterly unforgettable, like a force of nature. Possessing a captivating beauty, with her cherry blonde hair fashioned atop her head like a crown, Miss Miriam was keenly observant, missing nothing that transpired in her domain. Her eyes, which met everyone's gaze in the room, commanded the attention of all. She ruled over her girls with an unwavering authority.

These girls came in all varieties: some were fresh-faced, friendly and eager, while others were aloof, cultured and well-read. Some carried an air of danger or ferocity. Yet, they all submitted to Miss Miriam's watchful eye. Those who followed her orders and performed well would endure, while the weakest among them would be culled like livestock. Some fortunate ones, who earned Miss Miriam's favor, would be paired with chosen suitors, who could elevate them from working girls to wealthy women. However, those who fell out of favour would face exile. They would flee the state if they knew what was good for them; otherwise, if they dared to persist, they'd find themselves behind bars. No woman in Tennessee treated her subjects more ruthlessly. No woman in the state wielded as much power to do so.

This, Randall knew, was nothing compared to what Miss Miriam would do to a man who crossed her.

Randall climbed the three stairs to the porch, each creaking beneath his weight, the sound echoing in the stillness of the morning. He forced a smile onto his lips, aware that his presence would be unwelcome at this early hour. Then, as he approached, he noticed a subtle movement in the shadowy depths behind the screen door, too far back to be seen clearly. A shiver moved up his spine.

A breathtaking twenty-something woman approached the door, deliberately making herself visible. Her arresting appearance sent a wave of self-consciousness through Randall. She was draped in a satin dressing gown, casually open to her waist, revealing the inner cleavage of her breasts without a hint of shame. Her gaze met Randall's with indifference.

A warm, sultry voice resonated from within the manse. "Who is it, Eloise?" Unlike a northerner, the voice pronounced it 'ee-loys'.

"Just a man," replied Eloise derisively. Her eyes turned back to Randall, and he felt a stab in his heart at the dismissive tone. "We're closed, sugar," Eloise informed him coolly. "Come back when the sun goes down."

Randall removed his hat and cleared his throat, though he couldn't prevent a slight stutter from escaping his lips. "I've — I've brought Miss Gwendolyn Charlotte. I'm her driver. She's expected," he explained, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

"Is that so?" the woman answered. "Then you better stay right where you're at." Saying it, she turned away. Randall felt his foot begin to slide forward, as if compelled to follow her, but he quickly pulled it back.  A flush of warmth spread across his face as he realized his near misstep.

He heard voices. Then, the embodiment of Godley House, Miss Miriam herself, emerged, opening the screen door. Her shrewd, arresting gaze froze Randall where he stood, despite the oppressive heat of the Tennessee day. She studied him coolly, hands resting on her ample hips, the door held by Eloise. Randall couldn't help but feel ensnared by her allure — the commanding curves of her body, the majestic lift of her bosom and the calculating scrutiny of her eyes, tearing him apart effortlessly before reassembling him. A strange compulsion washed over Randall, urging him to drop to his knees. It was a sensation he'd felt before, stronger in his younger years at 19, yet even now, at 29, he still couldn't prevent himself from automatically lowering his gaze.

As Miss Miriam stepped forward, another girl emerged — a figure of allure and appetite, her eyes brimming with hunger. She was shapely and tempting, clad in a black, sheer dressing gown that tied at her throat, leaving nothing to the imagination. Both she and Eloise remained behind the door, like devoted handmaidens to their queen.

"Was the trip pleasant?" the Madam inquired.

Randall's hand clenched around his hat, pressing it against his chest. "Yes, Miss Miriam, Ma'am," he replied. "Miss Gwendolyn is in the car, as bright and sunny as you could wish for. Her mother sent me to bring her; we've been driving all day." Randall stepped back, gesturing toward the car with his hat as he descended one step off the porch.

"That's most kind of Renee," Miss Miriam said, gracefully passing Randall and stepping onto the yard. Her gaze fixed on the girl seated in the car. "You be sure to tell the girl's mother that I appreciate not having to wait. It's thoughtful when a woman of Renee Charlotte's stature shows consideration for a humble country woman like myself."

Randall quickly discerned his role and hastened to open the car door. "You can come out now, Miss Gwendolyn," he announced. "This is Miss Miriam Godley, and she's eager to meet you."

A frightened, wide-eyed Gwendolyn cautiously placed one foot on the ground. Miss Miriam moved closer to get a better look at the girl, extending her hand. "Come now, dearie. Let's have a look at you."

Gwendolyn remained rooted to the spot, clutching her case tightly. Her legs were covered in thick beige stockings, and her feet were adorned with square-strap shoes. A shiver ran through her.

"Aren't you just darling?" Miss Miriam exclaimed, her eyes softening as she looked at Gwendolyn. She then glanced at the case. "I believe you've brought that for me," she stated, reaching forward to take the case from the girl's grasp. Gwendolyn hesitated for only a moment before relinquishing her hold.

The Madam wasted no time in opening it, placing it on the trunk of the Bel Air. Randall was stunned to see that it was full of money.

"Isn't that sweet?" Miss Miriam remarked, closing the case. "I don't think we need to count it. Beatrix and Eloise, darlings, please take hold of, um, Dolly. Yes, I think Dolly is just the right name for her."

The two young women moved forward resolutely. Gwendolyn shrank back, her back pressing against the Bel Air as her face turned pale, while with unexpected aggression, they took hold of her, as if expecting the girl to take flight. "Take her inside to the room we've prepared," Miss Miriam said coldly. "Make her ready." Randall watched with a sense of unease as they pulled Gwendolyn away. He watched Beatrix open the screen door and Eloise pushed Gwendolyn through it roughly.

Miss Miriam maintained her regal composure, as though nothing unusual had happened. Randall's expression revealed that wasn't the case, but the Godley House madam said calmly, "What's your name, honey?"

Randall gave his name, hesitating to ask about the strange scene that had just occurred.

"And are you on your way home to Ms. Charlotte?" Miss Miriam asked, her tone smooth as satin. "You be sure to give her my warm regards."

He cleared his throat. "Ms. Charlotte said I should stay down here for a week or two. Just in case things don't work out."

"Isn't that thoughtful? And do you have a place to stay, Randall?"

"No. Not yet, Miss Miriam."

"Well then," she said kindly, "you just make your way right into Brownsville and ask some kind soul where to find Jefferson Avenue. Look for the Delta Dream Tourist Court; tell them that I sent you, and they'll fix you up proper."

Randall hesitated to ask, but began, "Is it ...?"

She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Yes, sugar, it's just right for you. Don't you worry."

"I don't remember the Delta Dream," he said. "But I know Brownsville from when I lived here ten years ago. I worked in the grain mill in town."

A look of recognition passed over Miss Miriam's face. "Why, don't you know, I thought you looked familiar. Your Mama lived down on Sugar Creek, didn't she?"

"Yes Ma'am," Randall answered with elation. "She surely did."

"Well, that solves it, honey. The Sugar Tea Lodge burned down 'bout seven years ago, before it was rebuilt. You must have known the Sugar Tea."

"Yes Miss Miriam, I did." Feeling gratified, he couldn't help but grin. "But—" he began, uncertainly. "But if it's not too much trouble, Ma'am, there's something I'd like to ask."

"You go right ahead."

"Well, you used to have a girl here. Nearly tall as me, dark curly hair, spoke in a throaty way ... her name was Jeannette."

Miss Miriam smiled. "And you'd like to know if she's still here."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Why no, darling. Jeannette is married to a hog-slaughterer in Cincinnati these days. She's very happy. But you come by tonight and when you do, ask for Miss Pauline. She'll be just your type."

His heart fell a little. "I'll remember Ma'am," he answered, backing away politely. Going around to the driver's side door, he added, "After dark."

"That's right honey," Miss Miriam said sweetly. "Now you pull out real quiet, you hear? Some of my girls are still sleeping."

Randall nodded. "Yes ma'am." Confused whether he should put his hat on and get in the car, or get in the car first, he solved it by throwing his hat on the seat and getting in afterwards. With a wave to Miss Miriam, he started the motor as quietly as possible and maneuvered the car out of the yard and onto the roads of Tennessee.

Dog Stories

Story time, as I'm deep into the creation of pages on dogs.

There's a story of a hound named Gelert, who belonged to Llewellen, son-in-law of King John ... yes, the one from Robin Hood.  The master going to hunt could not find his favourite greyhound, and was obliged to depart without him.

Returning from the chase, Llewellen found his dog in the front doorway, covered in blood.  Following the blood, Llewellen found it led to the chamber where his infant son lay in his cradle.  All about, the chamber showed signs of violence: the furniture turned over, scratches upon the crib, the clothes within were disturbed and bloody ... and when Llewellen called for his child, no response was heard in the house.  In a rage, Llewellen pulled his sword and plunged it into the hound ... which, as it lay dying, looked reproachfully into it's master's face.

A closer search found the infant sleeping quietly beneath the bloody clothing ... and a gaunt wolf laying dead nearby, showing that the faithful hound had remained a home to protect and save the life of the young heir of the Welsh principality.

Perhaps poetical, but yet believable enough to be true.

There were two magnificent dogs of fame, stag-hounds, that it's told Shakespeare wrote about in a Midsummer Night's Dream, act 4, scene 1:

    Theseus: My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

So flewed, so sanded, and their heads are hung 

With ears that sweep away the morning dew, 

Crook-kneed, and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls, 

Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,

Each under each. A cry more tunable 

Was never hollaed to, nor cheered with horn.

It's related that these dogs, in a hunt, chased a dear from Kingfield park in Northumberland to Annan in Scotland and back, a distance of more than a hundred miles.  In returning, the deer leaped the wall of the park from which he'd started and died.  One of the hounds pursued to the wall and expired there, unable to leap the barrier ... and the other hound was found dead from exhaustion a short distance to the rear.

Not a very happy story, but I've read one other like it: in 1482, a deer was pursued fifty miles across the country in four hours, by a pack of stag-hounds without a break.  The severity of the pursuit may be understood from the fact that nearly 20 horses died in the chase.  But I'm sure that's a tall tale.

I'll add a happier tale to wrap this up.  Edward Jesse tells a story in his 1843 book, Gleanings in Natural History.  An old friend of his had a very wise pointer, which was kept in a kennel with several other dogs.  His gamekeeper, having gone one day into the kennel, dropped his watch by some accident.  On leaving the place, he fastened the gate as usual, but had not gone far from it when he heard it rattling.  On looking around, he saw his favourite pointer standing with her forepaws on the gate and shaking it, evidently to attract his attention.  On going up to the dog, he found her with his watch in her mouth, which she restored to him with much seeming delight.

It's been very busy; I've had extra work that drove me through the weekend, and every spare hour I've had has gone to the book and nothing else, not even maps.  I should return to my usual schedule Wednesday, or perhaps as late as Thursday ... and in the meantime I can at least add stories to the wiki that won't be published in the Streetvendor's Guide.  Nearly every day I found odd stuff like this, as I'm researching 19th century books to get the descriptions and details I want, as modern materials are that much further removed from what the 13th to 17th centuries might have been.

P.S.

Gotta add one more:

A number of pointers and setters have refused to work longer, when loaned to a person who proved an indifferent marksman.  Looking back in astonishment at the bird marksmanship, after a few ineffectual attempts to bring down the bird, the dogs trotted back home and no coaxings, blandishments or commands could call them back.  A case is reported in which a pointer became so incensed at his master's bad shooting, as several times to have attacked him in a manner not to be mistaken.

A Life Like This

There once was a man who was unhappy.  When he was a boy, he was born in an unhappy house, with an unhappy family who were poor.  When the boy was twelve, his mother, who worked as a simple laborer, was struck down by a cancer and died.  The boy's father had a job that took him far away for days at a time, so that the boy spent the rest of his childhood in an empty house that had very little in it.

Yet the boy, as he became the man, decided he would not live all his life this way.  He worked very hard at labor jobs and he took many labor jobs, so that he was able to finish his schooling.  His schooling did not make him happy, however, so he chose not to go to university but rather to go on working.  He worked all the time and he was unhappy all the time.

He lived in an apartment whose landlord was never there and the man realized that he could sublet the apartment to someone else and earn $100 a month doing that.  So the man did it and searched for another apartment where the landlord was never there.  He found another one and then another one, and soon he was finding two or three a month, signing leases and then subletting these apartments to other people for a little bit of money more.  But though it made him money, it did not make him happy.

In a year he quit his labour jobs and all he did was find apartments to sublet.  Finally one day he had so many apartments that he was able to put a downpayment on a whole block of apartments, which made him even more money.  This was followed by a second block of apartments and a third, until he was making so much money that he was becoming very well known in the city where he lived.  But still, this did not make him happy.

Then he met a very beautiful woman who wanted to marry him.  He married her and although he was working all the time looking after his apartments and buying more apartments to rent, together with his wife he had two children, both boys.  But since he worked all the time, he hardly saw these boys before they became old enough to go to school.  His beautiful wife sent them off to a private boarding school so that he saw his boys only once in awhile.  He would often think of his boys and this would make him unhappy.

When enough years had passed for his boys to make up their minds about their father, the man realized that his sons did not like him very much.  He did not understand how they could form an opinion like this, since they had seen each other only on holidays and sometimes in the summer, it made him very unhappy to learn that his sons did not like him.  And as time went on, he began to realize that his wife did not much like him either, but that she stayed with him only for the money he earned.  This made him more unhappy.

He loved her, though he hardly ever saw her.  He loved his sons, though he hardly ever saw them.  He could not imagine divorcing his wife and yet he could not imagine giving her any more of the money that he had earned.  For years he went around and around in his unhappy thoughts, until he finally decided that he would give up everything and end his life.  He had never known a moment of real happiness and so he felt that suicide would be a blessing and not a loss.

He thought of how to do it and decided that he would do it with a gun.  He chose an evening and he sat in his study, with the gun sitting on his desk in front of him, waiting for him to use it.  "I will have a drink and then I will be able to do it," he thought.  So he poured himself a brandy and drank it down.  Then he poured himself another brandy.  After a third brandy, he felt a little sleepy.  He looked at the gun on the desk and rested his head on the back of the chair.  There he felt drowsy and fell into a deep sleep.

When he opened his eyes, the gun was still on the desk.  But in the dark recess of the room, he sensed that there was someone sitting on a chair there.  He peered into the dark and saw that there was a stranger there.  And the longer he peered, the less dark the room seemed to be . . . until he could see the stranger fairly well.  The stranger wore a dark suit and very pleasant shoes; he was just the sort of person that the man would have made a lot of money from renting a penthouse suite.  The stranger had a kind smile and seemed to know what the man had meant to do.  "I must be drunk," though the man to himself.

"Who are you?" asked the man.

"Someone who has come with an agenda," said the stranger.

"I'm not interested in any investments just now," said the man.  "I'm very busy."

"We are already invested," said the stranger.

"No, no," said the man.  "Listen, you have to leave."  The man reached for the gun, to put it in a drawer, but he found that his fingers passed through it.

"You're all done with that now," said the stranger.

"No, no, no, I never touched the gun," said the man.  "I was going to use it but I didn't."

"But you drank the brandy," said the stranger.

"The brandy?"

"Yes, your wife has poisoned you.  She has done it so that she can have your money and be with her lover."

The man felt pain when he heard these words - for, as soon as he heard them, he realized that it was true.  The stranger's words were impossible to deny.  "She's murdered me," said the man.

"Yes," said the stranger.

"But she'll be caught.  They'll find out that she's done it."

"They won't find out," said the stranger.  "She is using your money to protect herself, so that they will not investigate your death very closely.  The doctor, who is being paid very well, will come in and say that you died of natural causes.  Then she will be very happy."

This made the man terribly unhappy.  "She won't miss me?"

"No," said the stranger.

"But, but . . . my boys will miss me.  This will make them unhappy."

"No," said the stranger.  "Your sons will be very happy when they discover that they have the money you have left them in your will.  They will do all the things they always dreamed of doing, without any feelings for you at all."

The man felt immense unhappiness at this.  "But . . . the people who worked for me - they'll care about me."

"The new management will decide to sell your holdings," said the stranger.  "They will make a great deal of money and they will share this money with thousands of shareholders.  And all your tenants will have their buildings taken over by other people who will be willing to negotiate their rents and make them lower.  All those people will be much happier now that you are gone."

The man was truly unhappy now.  "Then it has all been for nothing."

"Not for nothing," said the stranger.  "You spent your whole life saving up your unhappiness.  You saved and saved, hoarding all the unhappiness you could lay your hands upon - and now you are taking all that unhappiness with you.  So you make the world a happier place by leaving it.  Now come along.  We have an unhappier place to go yet."

And so the man rose up and followed the stranger.  And the dark followed with them.

Training

It is useless to post fiction, but nevertheless, we write what occurs to our brains:

                She was excited as we set off in a light snow to find a suitable copse of saplings from which to make a staff.  As we went, I tried one last time to dissuade her from her mad intent to learn weapons, to tell her of how many times my father had bruised or even broken my body.  I told her of how the two fingers of my right hand had been broken and showed her, not for the first time, how twisted they were.  None of this had any effect on her enthusiasm.

                I measured her against a potential staff, having her hold her arm above her head to show her reach.  Then I made her cut the sapling herself, using my knife.  She made fair work of it, demonstrating it was not her first time with a blade.  Once the bough was free from the ground and she had whittled off its branches and finished both ends, we compared her fresh, unworked staff to my own.  I showed her the work she would still need to apply to the weapon before it was properly ready to be handled and she nodded, interested and eager.

                Then I held out my hand and told her to take it.  “Squeeze,” I said.

                She did, understanding it was a test.  Her hands were not small and weak; she had washed and scrubbed and worked with her hands most of her life and there was strength there.  However, when I began to close my own hand, it was not long before she cried out to make me stop.

                I remembered how my father had done this to me.

                “This is the grip you must have,” I said.  “Otherwise, an opponent will knock the weapon out of your hand and kill you.”  This was, essentially, how my father had made me fear.  “Until your grip is greatly improved, there is no point to our pretending to fight with one another – and no point in teaching you to swing at me.  You have no control, no skill; if you want to learn to fight with a weapon, you must first strengthen yourself.”

                Ruchel nodded.  “How do I do that?”

                “I will show you.  First, hold the weapon in your hands like this.”  I demonstrated.  “Try to copy me exactly.”  She did her bese but it was necessary to point out subtle differences.  “I hold my fingers just so for reasons you will see; the distance between my hands matches the width of my shoulders; your shoulders are narrower and so your grip must be narrower too – even though your staff is nearly as long as mine.  Do not worry.  As we move on, you’ll learn that the whole length of the staff is within your reach.  Now, watch me.”

                I turned my back on her.  “This is the first move,” I said, over my shoulder.  “It is the first of many, but you try to master each one – so we will learn them one at a time.  Then you will learn to make them in sequence.  This will be an exercise you do every day.”

                “I have never seen you do it,” she countered.

                I turned and scowled.  “I am trained.  And I am not planning to fight anyone.  If I were, I would begin practicing.  It would only take me a few days to restore my balance again.”

                “Let me see,” she begged.  “I would love to see you exercise.”

                I was very tempted; it would have been an opportunity to show off and I would have enjoyed impressing her.  But I remembered my father would not do the same for me when I had asked him as a boy.  I understood why.  “I do not want your mind filled with doubts or expectations – both of which you’ll have if you watch me move through the exercise.  You will either think it is easy when it is not or you’ll think it’s impossible – neither of which will help your training.  So let’s do the moves one at a time.”

                She sighed.  “All right.  If you say so.”

                “Then put your feet here and here.  Good.  Turn your right foot a little further away from your body.  That’s good.”  I turned away again, lifting my staff over my head and showing her where my hands were.  “Do you see?”

                “Yes.”

                “Good.  I want you to thrust the staff to the left, keeping the staff level and extending to the edge of your reach without losing your balance or lifting your feet.  Like this.”

                I made the thrust and then I looked at her.  “Now you.”

                She looked uncertain but tried.  The staff was heavy for her and naturally it lifted it off her right foot when she pulled the thrust to a stop.  “Do you see?” I asked.

                She returned to her stance and tried again, making the same mistake.

                “Once you begin to move the staff, it has momentum,” I told her.  “You must learn when to halt its momentum until the staff no longer pulls you off balance.  Again.”

                Ruchel tried again, more cautiously.  “That is not hard enough,” I said.

                “If I thrust harder then I’m pulled with it,” she argued.

                “That is true – but if you don’t thrust it hard, it will have little effect.  Now, again, as hard as you can – but before the staff reaches the end of its path, you must make it stop first.”

                “How?  I don’t even have time to think about it!”

                “You will not do it with thinking!  You must feel the staff in your hand, you must feel the moment to pull the staff’s movement and you must feel your own balance.”

                “But how?”

                “Quiet.  Do not speak.  Lift the staff and repeat the movement.”  I corrected her hands and her feet again.  “You will only learn how to do this by doing it many times.  Now . . . again.”

                She did it again and lifted her feet.

                Together we worked on this one move long enough for her to break into a sweat and grow breathless.  I told her to stop.  I could see she was discouraged.  “Grip my hand again.”

                With a breath, she did.  She could not meaningfully squeeze my hand at all.  “I can’t,” she said, despaired.

                “Have you quit?” I asked.

                Her eyes narrowed.  “No.”

                “Have you failed?”  Before she could answer, I interrupted.  “Can you see?  You do not have the muscles to even thrust the staff for a short time.  You should not expect yourself to perform the move properly without having first strengthened your body.  Let us go on to the next move.  Can you grip the staff?”

                She did it arrogantly to show me.  “There.  Now move the staff to the end of your thrust.  Let us begin there.”  She eased the staff into the thrusted position.  “Good,” I told her.  “Now I want you to lift your right foot and step into the thrust, keeping your staff level and bringing the right end around in a circle.  Watch me.”

                We kept at this until the newfallen snow was packed hard on the ground around us, until our feet were ice cold and until she had dropped her staff a hundred times.  “That’s enough,” I said, drawing her to me and giving her a hug.  “That’s a good first day.  Let’s begin again tomorrow.”

Baffled

UPDATE:  This post has been updated as 'Full of Holes,' and included in the recently released book, How to Play a Character & Other Essays, available for purchase from the Lulu marketplace.


The large man in armor stood upon the ledge, looking up at the cliff from which a rope dangled. The rope extended upwards some fifty feet, and showed a little movement. Someone was fighting up there. The man gave no sign that he was worried about it. He calmly paced around, gripping the pommel of his sword and letting it go again, before looking up at the cliff and the rope.

A woman in armor sat on the ledge nearby; it was a large ledge. Her back was against the cliff wall, and she casually sharpened her dagger with a whetstone. “How is he doing?” she asked.

“He must be okay. He hasn’t called for help.”

“You could help him anyway, you know.”

“I know.”

The woman did not press her point further. But she did notice when the man furrowed his brow, and so she questioned him about it.

“I’ve been thinking,” said the man.

“About?”

“Just strange things. Things I haven’t been able to put together.”

“Like?”

“Well, like my name for instance.” The man hesitated. “Xaxlan.” He repeated his name again, saying it slower. “Xaaaxxx...lan. Doesn’t sound quite right, does it?”

“Well, now that you mention it, no.”

“Exactly. I’ve been thinking about that for a while now. Why would my parents name me Xaxlan? I mean, your name is Melissa. There are lots of people named Melissa. I’ve never met anyone named Xaxlan. It sounds like a name someone would make up.”

“Someone did. Your parents.”

“Hm,” said Xaxlan. “Okay, what about this?” Calmly, he took his sword out of his scabbard, laid it on the ground, and then took his scabbard off his belt. He handed it to Melissa. “Look at this scabbard.”

Melissa took it.

“Do you see a mark on it? Any scratches? Anything that suggests use at all?”

“Well, no.”

“And neither do I. Yet I bought it more than a month ago; I’ve used it practically every day, putting the sword in, taking the sword out ... and remember, since I bought it, we’ve crossed through a forest, waded through a swamp, gone down into a deep series of tunnels and now climbed this mountain. Not exactly what you’d call a light month’s work, is it? But look at that scabbard. It’s not even stained.”

“True.”

“None of my clothes are stained. Not my backpack, not my shirt, not my cloak ... and believe me, I’ve been sweating up a storm every day. But you can’t even smell me sweat, can you? No, don’t bother to answer. I don’t smell you sweating either. Yet we are sweating. Isn’t that strange?”

“Don’t think about it so much.”

“I can’t help it.” He took the scabbard back and reattached it to his belt.

She returned to using her whetstone.

“Now that’s a thing too,” he said. “You use that whetstone all the time – and I never use mine. But it doesn’t seem to make any difference. My sword is as sharp as your dagger. So why do you use it?”

“I like to use it. It feels right somehow.”

“Okay,” Xaxlan said. “I understand that ... strangely. Still, there’s all these little things. Like, for instance, everything I’m wearing right now – everything I’m carrying – I bought it all at the same time. I remember having a big fist full of gold – a month ago – and buying all I have. Why did I have to do that all at once? I have a vague recollection that just prior I was naked ... though I’m not sure about that.”

Melissa shrugged. “I bought everything I have at the same time.”

“YES! That is exactly my point!” Xaxlan waved his finger at her. “You bought everything you have at the same time I did. Isn’t that some sort of weird coincidence?”

“Maybe.”

He paced back and forth. “Listen, I know I’m onto something here. I’m going to put something to you ... and all I want you to do is give some serious thought to it before you say anything back.” Xaxlan stared at her.

She stared at him. “Well?”

“I’m working up to it,” he said. “See, this seems wrong to me, but I don’t know why. Do you realize that we’ve known each other only a month?”

That made her stop using the whetstone. “A month?”

“Yes. In fact, it was right about the time that we both bought all our stuff. Don’t you remember?”

She nodded. “I remember. I just hadn’t thought about it being a month. It feels like longer. A lot longer, like forty or fifty weeks.”

“It does to me too,” he agreed. “But it has actually only been a month. And despite that, I feel like ... well, like I know you really well. Like I’ve known you for years. Just think about it. We never argue; you don’t have any habits that bother me; most of the time, we talk everything through and most of the time we kind of always agree. It’s not that I don’t think I can have that kind of relationship with a woman, it’s just that –“

At that moment, two large, humanoid creatures suddenly climbed onto the ledge, on either side of Xaxlan and Melissa. The two did not hesitate. There was no hint that either was caught unsuspecting. Xaxlan easily snatched his sword up from where it lay at his feet, and Melissa was on her feet in a time too quick to tell. Her dagger went through the eye of the one humanoid, though it was much taller than she was. It died immediately. Xaxlan’s sword struck the other humanoid and it died immediately as well.

They kicked the two bodies off the ledge, and went back to what they were doing.

“That was easy,” said Xaxlan.

Melissa grunted agreement. She found her whetstone and, without cleaning the blood from her dagger, went back to sharpening it.

“I can’t figure out why just a month ago that was so hard,” said Xaxlan. “Seems a month ago I had trouble even hitting creatures like that.”

“Practice,” said Melissa.

“I guess.”

The rope started to jiggle, and Xaxlan looked up. He could see Rupert skimming down the rope ... then suddenly, Rupert seemed to lose his grip. He fell twenty-five feet, landing square on the ledge, right at Xaxlan’s feet, without so much as a bounce. Rupert let out a curse.

“Are you all right?” asked Xaxlan.

“Yes, dammit.”

“You’re not hurt?”

Rupert looked around himself. “Hm. Not apparently. Not in any way I can tell.”

“How did you fall?” asked Melissa.

“I don’t know. One minute I had my hands on the rope, the next, I didn’t. It happens.”

“Really?” Melissa’s eyes widened.

“Yes. There’s nothing I can do about it. I just sort of live with it.”

“How often does it happen?” asked Xaxlan.

“As near as I can tell, about eleven percent of the time. Give or take a percent. Don’t worry about it. What are you two chatting about?”

“Oh, Xaxlan was saying we’ve only known each other a month.”

“Thirty-two days,” said Rupert. “But who’s counting?”

“You are, it sounds like.”

“Yes, but I don’t remember counting. Seems I wanted to know how long it had been and I just knew. And when I calculated it out in my head after, I was right. What about it?”

Xaxlan moved next to Rupert and pointed at Melissa. “Just this. We’ve only known each other thirty-two days. Now tell me. Is Melissa attractive?”

Rupert tilted his head. “Yeah ... I’d say so.”

“Me too. Nice height, nice weight, nice curves. And that robe is tight and she has it pretty much tucked into all the right places.”

“Oh, I agree.”

“Melissa,” said Xaxlan. “You don’t mind if we talk about you like this?”

“No. Why would I mind?”

“I just thought somehow you ought to. But forget it. I’m making a larger point. Rupert ... do you want to have sex with Melissa?”

“Oh god no.”

“And me either!” said Xaxlan. “The thought didn’t even occur to me until just now. It’s like ... somehow, she’s not exactly a woman. If that makes any sense.”

“It makes a lot of sense, I guess,” agreed Rupert. “I mean, yes, I agree, I see that she is a woman ... but she doesn’t exactly strike me the way a woman normally does. Isn’t that odd?”

“It is odd. Melissa, do you find either one of us attractive?”

“No!”

“Okay, I don’t want to bother you. It’s just that ... Rupert and I are kind of well toned, wouldn’t you say? I mean, he’s lean and at that last town, all the women seemed to fancy him ... and I’m huge and strong and women usually go for that. If you were my sister, I could understand you not wanting to sleep with us ... but we’re not related and we’ve known each other only a month.”

“Thirty-two days.”

“Right, Rupert. Thirty-two days. Isn’t that weird?”

“I guess so.”

“It seems weird to me.”

They all stood together, not talking.

“What should we do now?” asked Rupert.

“I don’t know.” Xaxlan craned his neck. “Is there a cave up there?”

“Nope, just a dead bear. Kinda hard to kill him. I’d have had more trouble last week, I think ... you know, before we found that treasure chest. Things have seemed a lot easier since then.”

Melissa stood up. “Well, I’ve got to get some rest. Got to memorize some spells before we get attacked again.”

“There, that’s another thing,” said Xaxlan. “Why is it you can’t remember your spells after you –“

“Just shut up and lead. We have to get back to the ledge where the steps lead down before nightfall. Harpix can play while you get started.”

“Harpix?” Xaxlan looked around, saw the bard with his lute, who seemed to have materialized from nowhere. “Oh, right, sorry Harpix. I didn’t see you there.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Nice robe. Where’d you get it?”

“Shopkeeper gave me a list,” said Harpix. “Are we ready to start?”