The Lasso Way

If the Lasso way is wrong, it’s hard to imagine being right.

-Trent Crimm, The Independent (in universe)

Amidst the cynicism and division of our contemporary age comes the hero we need, not in some Marvel blockbuster, but in a three season arc on Apple TV: Ted Lasso. An American football coach in England coaching professional soccer, Lasso is the classic “fish out of water” comedy, but also so much more.

Potential Spoiler Warning!

I do not intend to spoil the show but some statements will reveal some broad plot elements.

This is a series about change and transformation, one that can cite the classic tropes of romantic comedies (in fact, a season 2 episode references Ted’s belief “in communism… Rom-communism,”and the writers pay homage through the episode to several well-known rom tropes), but also tips our expectations on their ends. We do not (necessarily) see the predictable story of meet-cute romance where the two leads we expect to end up together do so (in fact, the romance stories’ ends were different than I anticipated); we do not see clear cut heroes get their rewards or villains their just desserts (though in the end, I was satisfied).

Instead, we see stories of transformation, where squires become knights only to become villains, and where damsels in distress can take the reins to sort it out themselves. We see real change, where characters wrestle with family traumas and personal defects, and come out the better for it. As one character says sagely in the series finale:

Human beings are never gonna be perfect… The best we can do is to keep asking for help and accepting it when you can. And if you keep on doing that, you’ll always be moving towards better.

-A character I won’t name for fear of spoilers

While the Diamond Dogs are talking away the possibility of human perfection, in the end this quote speaks to our concept of “Christian perfection.” Our aim to be better tomorrow than today, more fully able to love God, self, and neighbor.

Ted’s Lasso-isms, his witty way of responding to others or of sharing human truths, are widely available to pack away and remember for an opportune time; statements like, “Boy, I love meeting people’s moms. It’s like reading an instruction manual as to why they’re nuts.”

But beyond the witty retorts and humorous quips, what I love about Ted Lasso is it’s unrelenting optimism and kindness. Integrated deep into the fabric of the three seasons are themes of transformation and forgiveness.

There are at least six stories of redemption going on in Lasso; six different characters that are changed for the better by the time the series ends. And more than once, those journeys of change involve, or culminate in, some act of forgiveness. And not just for the sake of reconciliation between people, as powerful and important as such may be. But also, along the way, Ted tells one character that offering forgiveness isn’t just for the other person’s benefit, but frees you from a burden as well. (And in the closing minutes of the series, as we return to that particular character, their final moments on screen make that advice so much more poignant.)

I have seen Ted lifted as a model for leaders(1) and as an example of a classic motif of “the holy fool”(2), and find his characterization an optimistic correction to the cynicism of the world around us. It’s well worth your while to check it out.

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Footnotes

(1) The 6 Attributes of a Highly Effective Board Chair (Joan Garry)

(2) Ted Lasso: Holy Fool (New York Times)

First chapter: Mercy Gesundheit, Monster Hunter

Another quick, first draft of something tonight that I thought I’d share. As always you’re welcome to tell me what you think!

My feet pounded along the gravel strewn roadside as I ducked around the streetlights, sticking to patches as dark as my thoughts. Each footfall helped me beat out some of the frustration at having been demeaned, again, by yet another of the old men who saw themselves as crusaders but could only see me as a fair-haired damsel. Stupid. Arrogant. Masogynistic. Hypocrite. Each word echoed in my mind as I planted a foot.

 There were other routes to take for an outdoor jog in Flagstaff, but anyone running at 2am in below-freezing temps was likely to draw attention, so I stuck to Industrial Drive behind the train tracks, away from prying eyes. The odd car flashed by on the other side of the tracks, running along Highway 89, parallel to “old Route 66.” Even so I was close enough to the “Mother Road” that I breathed in its ephemeral energy, drawing the life-force of decades of travelers who once meandered the road into my core as easily as breath into my lungs. I needed it, though it wasn’t having the calming effect I might have wished.

Archibald. Douglas. Winters. His name pounded in my thoughts as I ran. The arrogant SOB had showed up at The Museum Club hours after I had already stalked the place out, identifying an unfriendly aura radiating from within. Strong enough to be felt from across the street, that aura signaled at the very least a well-fed vampire. I was being cautious, hiding in the shadows of pine trees across the street and watching for any evidence before I tried to bully my way in. Winters pulled into the lot, parking his old beat up Chevrolet Impala halfway between the Club and the bowling alley next door. Even flooded with the ephemera of two such historic locations, he sensed me across the street, locked eyes with me, shook his head, gave me a thumbs out gesture that I took to mean “scram,” and then walked into the Club. Alone.

Stupid old man. He could have at least invited me to be backup. Hell, the last I had checked the percentages in my caught/kill/escaped ratio were better than his, even if the actual figures were but a fraction of his own.

It didn’t matter. When a captain of the Sentinels motioned you to leave, you left. So half-past midnight I ditched my backpack in a storm drain and took a jog to burn off the frustration. Ninety minutes later, I just happened to still be doing laps along a route that brought me, time and again, into view of the Museum Club and Winters’ old. Beat. Up. Impala!

I turned a sharp left and leapt, crossing the distance of the road and the train tracks that ran alongside it. Landing I spun left and ran back along a section of the Flagstaff Urban Trail System overlapped on an abandoned but memorialized portion of Route 66, back toward the Club. People had taken their time criss-crossing the country on the Mother Road, back in the days before interstates and freeways allowed for faster travel. Today’s interstates were like the mega buildings constructed fast and cheap, they lacked the depth of life that imbued them with more than the sum of their materials. Old Route 66, like many roads around the world, had been a veritable artery of the nation; a lifeblood running not with the saline solution in my veins but with the very essence of life that thundered into my chest, left behind by the memories and visions and hopes of thousands upon thousands of people that had traveled that way before me.

There was also a warren of prairie dogs along this portion of the road, currently hibernating in their warm holes in the ground. Other Sentinels did not bother much to think about the non-human world, so convinced of their superiority in the scheme of the universe. Perhaps it was because they thought less of me, too, that I noticed others they might deem lesser. The prairie dogs slept, but decades of their warrens’ life echoed from the dirt up into my core. They slept, ignored by the old men. Just. Like. They. Ignored. Me!

My sneakers were smoking, and I realized I had allowed my frustration to distract me. I slowed down and checked my fitness watch and, sure enough, it assumed I was now riding in a car since I had exceeded fifty miles an hour for the last quarter mile. I tapped it to continue, ducked across the tracks back into the shadows of Industrial Drive, and ran west, my eyes peeking over the railroad berm at the buildings running alongside the highway. The hotels were dimly lit, their front offices locked but staffed by lonely night auditors working the books. The restaurant’s neon was lit, but only partially, a couple letters left in the dark. The bowling alley was closed, its lot empty. The Museum Club, aka “The Zoo,” looked like it was winding down the night, with just a couple cars and Winters’ Impala still in the lot.

I was going to keep running by when I felt the change in the air, a pulse of dark energy that came from the great behemoth of lumber across the street. Constructed in days long past, the Museum Club had been a taxidermist office and museum before it became a country and western bar, and it was literally packed with energy. That’s the way it always is with truly old buildings that took time and human effort to construct. People poured so much into crafting them that they left parts of themselves behind; quite literally, in the Zoo’s case, as there were half-a-dozen ghosts that lingered in the place.

The energy pulsed again, and a side door flew open into the parking lot. Without hesitation, I turned right, left the tracks and the berm, and darted across the highway into the lot. Something was definitely going down, and damned if I was going to leave Winters to fend for himself, even if he was an arrogant. Chauvinistic. Pig.

Winters stepped out of the side door, carrying a large black garbage bag over his shoulder. He spied me running across the lot and lifted one hand, palm out to me. I didn’t need the addition of a scowl on his face to know that he wished me to stop, but he gave me that, as well. I paused, still a hundred yards or so away.

“Got it covered,” he growled in my direction, shaking the bag on his shoulder. It sounded much like a bag of leaves and branches being shaken. “Vamp is down.”

The hell I would.

“You sure you don’t need help?” I asked, standing my ground. I wasn’t about to move against his wishes, no one with any sense would cross a Sentinel.

“I’m good, darlin’” he muttered, nodding his head my direction before shuffling toward the back of his old Impala. No doubt he was going to dump the vampire’s remains in the trunk until he could leave them somewhere safe. Rule #3, after all: Leave no trace.

“You go on home, like I told you before,” he added as he unlocked the old boat’s trunk and dumped the bag into it. “Wouldn’t want to have to file a report on you.”

I turned on those words and jogged off, each foot expressing my still burning anger. Damn. Old. Man. How. Dare. He. Threaten. Me!

I had no doubt that his report was going to mention me, but in now way would it suggest I had expressed a willingness to be of assistance. I’d probably get word from the Division or even Regional office that if I expected to pass the entrance exam I should not be harassing Sentines in the line of duty. Neither Winters nor those spineless bureaucrats that ran the administration would ever come right out and threaten me, of course; they had too much “respect” for the legacy of my departed mother. At the same time, they made it clear they were not going to treat me as a legacy member like they did some of their sons and grandsons.

I jogged back to the storm drain to retrieve my backpack. I was flustered and distracting, letting my anger get the better of me. I wasn’t paying attention, and my speed had gone too high yet again. I slipped, tripping as the front of my left sneaker literally shored off my foot, and fell into the base of a knotty juniper.

I struck hard, my shoulder shattering a branch off the tree. Something struck me on the back as I hit the ground. I grabbed at it with my left arm as I spun onto my back.

I grasped the arm of a figure about the size of a baby, thrashing in my grip. It produced a blade and slashed at my arm, cutting a gash that sprayed my blood onto its gnarled face. Sixteen inches tall, roughly humanoid in shape, the kobold is an evil little being that springs to life from abandoned items riddled with evil. I suspected the wooden handled knife the creature held was likely its material origin, likely used by some cowboy or lumberjack a century before. The kobold struggled to get free and slashed at me with the knife, again, though I twisted and avoided it. Though kobolds are small, they are strong enough to overpower any normal human.

Of course, I’m not normal.

For all the rage I had felt in watching Winters dismiss me, I thought I handled the evil little beastie quite well. I twisted and jerked its arm as neatly and efficiently as I could, turning the blade in upon the monster itself. It slashed true, cutting a half inch deep gash into the creature’s chest. The kobold hissed a dying breath at me as its blood splayed out upon me, and then the body deflated, leaving behind a patch of black goo and the likely cursed knife.

I carefully picked up the knife and placed it in my pack. I may not have bagged a vampire at the Club, but I’d KO’d a kobold in a tree.

My name is Addison Mercy Gesundheit Clark. I am born of a heritage misidentified as the demigods of Greek mythology, the nephilim of the Old Testament, the changelings of Irish lore. I am born to be a monster hunter.

Red (short story)

There is a series in the Star Wars literary universe – “From a Certain Point of View” – that tells the stories of background characters in the original trilogy. This is me trying to play in that same sandbox. (I’m also working on Qui-Gon Jinn’s reaction to this same moment in the film…)

My mind is my own. 

I will stand at attention for hours, listening for the next command to obey, my back straight and the vibro-staff stave held firmly in my right hand. Like a loth cat ready to pounce, I am prepared for any unexpected arrival requiring me to spring into action; but such is doubtful. I have seen no threat requiring me to do anything more than walk or stand with my stave since I came into this posting. Our role is more to intimidate than to guard; we are a show, a distraction, to draw one’s attention away from the real threat in the room.

Palpatine.

If I am a cat tensed to strike, Palpatine is a Nexu hidden in shadow. The unwary, coming too close to where he hides in the darkness, are consigned to oblivion without ever realizing the danger of his claws. Palpatine is scathing rage burning without any flame to give warning. Power seeps from him in his voice and commands, and none who has met him should say they were unaware of his potential. It rumbles about him, like a loth cat’s growl. Even so, when his true strength erupts it seems incompatible with his small, seemingly broken figure.

I have seen that power lash out. Once. Some Imperial commander, who bowed before the Emperor without speaking his own name, simply uttered one sentence, a seeming trifle of intelligence gathered from the Imperial Security Bureau: “The pilot’s name was Skywalker.”

White-hot energy flared around the Emperor, an electric silhouette that might have been beautiful had it not been so deadly. It pored forth from him, then raced across the short space between he and the commander, engulfing the man. The commander stiffened, but uttered not a word or a shriek, bluish-white flames bursting from his open mouth and burning through his eyes. 

Palpatine does not hold power. Palpatine is power. Power to destroy, or to command. So I stand, and wait for which might come for me. I am not my own; I was the Empire’s, now I am the Emperor’s.

Even so, beyond all that has been taken from me, my mind is my own. My thoughts are not tethered to the Empire or to the throne as my body and will might be.

“Guards, leave us.”

The Emperor speaks, and I obey. The other guard and I move from our positions near the turbo lift, turning away from Darth Vader and the man in black he has just entered with. Our red capes billow behind us as we leave the throne room behind, a door closing us off to what happens there as we enter a hidden antechamber. We sit to the sides of the door, staves still in our hands; ever vigilant, ready to immediately return if summoned. We sit, silent, our vocal cords part of the sacrifice taken from us.

Time passes. There is the buzzing I know to be Vader’s saber, and a strange harmonic clash as it strikes… something. Something unfamiliar. I hear metal shear, and a catwalk falls. Even so, I wait.

When Emperor’s command comes, I hear it in my mind, an urgent need to return to his side. There is shock in the command, and a sense unfamiliar to any command he has ever spoken: uncertainty. The other guard and I rise in unison. Once I knew his name, but I cannot think of it any more than I could speak it now. I sense the Emperor’s surprise and his anger, directed not at the visitor, but at Darth Vader! Betrayal? I do not know if the thought is my own or the Emperor’s. 

The Emperor does not speak, and yet we both have sensed his call. The other guard makes to rush back to the throne room, but I put an arm out. I block the door. The sound from the other side has changed. There no lightsaber humming, no metal being sheared, no laughter or language coming from the other side of the door now. I hear Vader’s broken breathing unit and a crackling sound like an overloaded power converter, a sound I have only ever heard once before. There was no spoken command to enter, just the compulsion in my mind that I should rush in to the Emperor’s aid. 

The guard pushes against my arm to reach the door’s control. I shift my stave to block him. I fight the same urge he feels, the need to rush into the room. But my mind is my own, and I will not cede it to the dark, hooded figure.

Through the door, we hear the distant sound of the Emperor shrieking. The scream lessens, it sounds almost distant now. There is a flash of light through the cracks of the door; a wave of power, of anger and hate, washes over us.

Then, it is quiet. 

There is no pressure, urging me to act. I feel no compulsion to enter the throne room. Indeed, I find I no longer feel any obligation or loyalty to the Emperor. It is as though the strange wave that crashed against me has washed the fearful charisma of Palpatine away.

The other guard drops his stave and tears the helmet off of his head. His eyes are wide. He drops them, to stare down at his hands. Perhaps he, too, wonders what they have done in the years we have served in the guard.

My thoughts relax, and the pressure in my shoulders releases for the first time in many long years. I drop my stave, then my helmet. The other guard sinks to the floor, but I step through the hidden antechamber’s door. I turn the corner just in time to see the turbo lift’s door close, the young man in black pulling Darth Vader into the lift behind him. Perhaps he has the same idea I have. Perhaps he is making his way toward the bays of ships below, perhaps even toward where the Emperor’s Lambda shuttle sits quiet. I wait for the lift, my mind free to wonder where I might go if I can get to that shuttle.

I close my eyes, and forgotten thoughts of suns and skies far away fill my thoughts. I remember laying in the hay of a barn, a loth cat purring in my lap. Fire from Imperial ships claimed the barn and the farm, and I realize service to the Emperor clouded their very memory; but now they return to mind. I remember speaking and laughing with others; those I promised to keep safe, those I left behind when called to serve.

Eyes closed, I wait for the lift to return. I think of returning to that planet, far away.

And I feel something I have not felt in the Emperor’s service. 

I feel at peace.

Whatever may come, I am free.

First Chapter: “Rooster and the King”

Just for fun, here’s a rough draft of the first chapter of my third Rooster Vegas novel (for middle grade youth).

1

The GMC motor-home shuddered as wind kicked up around it. Like a long green beetle it rumbled and rambled along the road, crossing the desert landscape. Two figures sat in its front seats, pensive and silent since passing through the Painted Desert hours before. The King drove; his friend and hairstylist, “Guru,” sitting beside him. Clouds billowed up over the mountain peaks to the west, their forms changing as winds ran through them and shadows and sunlight played across them. Guru was concerned for the King, anxious that they were running late, and apprehensive about the new movie they were heading to California to film. 

Both men had their eyes on the clouds when it happened, and so neither saw the figure of a young boy come running from the desert up to the shoulder of the road as the motor-home passed him by. Had they seen the boy, they might have seen that combination of fear and determination in his face that is the sign of courage. Instead, they were captivated by what was happening toward the horizon. There in the sky, just above the snow-capped peaks, the clouds suddenly formed into the distinct image of a face; a face that turned and looked down upon them. 

“Whoa!” the King cried out. “Do you see what I see?”

Guru’s eyes were fixed on the face in the clouds as the King slammed on the brakes. The big motor-home shuddered to a stop as the King pulled it just off of the pavement of Route 66 and onto the gravel of the right shoulder. The King practically leaped out of the driver’s side door, running around the front of the motor home with his eyes fixed on the clouds above as he weaved his way through the low-growing cacti and mesquite. Guru was slower to open his door. The face disquieted him. It was as clear and distinct as any person he had ever seen! In fact, it seemed familiar, though he couldn’t quite place who it was.

“Do you see it? Do you see it?!” the King was crying out in wonder, as Guru stepped down from the passenger side of the vehicle and into the desert alongside his boss. 

“Is that… is that Joseph Stalin?” Guru said aloud, though his voice came out in just a whisper. The features of the face above him were sharp and, as much as the features of a face could be, mean-spirited.

Winds shifted, and the face changed. And it moved!

The face looked down upon them, then past them, as though it was considering the path they had just travelled together. Then the winds changed again and the face disappeared as the clouds broke up. Light streamed down upon them as sunbeams broke through the clouds. Guru noted the chill of the winter air.

“It’s God!” the King cried out again. “It’s God! Did you see it?”

“Yes sir, El,” Guru called after the King, who was now on his knees. As soon as he spoke Guru knew he shouldn’t have used the shortened moniker; the only member of their so-called “Memphis Mafia” that got away with that was Gene! But in that moment, kneeling in the desert, the King didn’t notice or mind. Sunlight illuminated the tears breaking out in the corner of the dark-haired man’s eyes, and Guru spoke again. 

“Yes, boss, I saw it.”

“It’s God,” the King said, getting back up to his feet and turning his face toward Guru. “And God is love!” The King walked over and embraced Guru.

“Can you imagine if my fans saw me now?” the King asked as he wiped a tear from his eye.

“Excuse me?” a young voice called from nearby, startling both men. They turned to see a boy in the distance, a red tuft of hair jutting from the top of his head in a high curve not too unlike that of the King himself. The boy was walking along the shoulder of the road, headed their way.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sirs,” the boy cried out, drawing nearer, “but I wonder if you might be able to give me a ride into Flagstaff?” He waved his arm forward, apparently recognizing the mountain peaks that lay ahead of them and beneath the strange clouds.

As he moved closer, the boy startled at who stood before him. He would not have recognized who Guru was, of course, but the young man with the high dark hair was well-known, even in the boy’s time.

“You’re Elvis Presley!” Rooster Vegas cried out, wonder in his voice. 

The King nodded, wiping the wetness from his left eye as a smile broke out on his face. 

“Yes, yes, sir I am,” the King replied, warm cheer in his voice. “Come on up, young man. We’d be happy to give you a lift.”

Rooster smiled as he shook the King’s hand, and the head of an orange cat peeked out of his knapsack. Guru felt a chill run down his spine, and though it was cold outside he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not quite right about the moment. 

*

Rooster sat on a couch behind the driver’s seat of what he recognized to be an old style motor-home, though it was brand spanking new. He felt a bit uneasy sitting without a seatbelt, but there didn’t seem to be any on the couch. Besides, neither the driver, a man named Larry who Elvis routinely called “Guru,” or Elvis wore a seatbelt. Elvis Presley sat in the passenger seat, swiveled around to the side to directly engage Rooster and Larry in conversation about the wonder they had just witnessed. He paid little, if any, attention to the orange cat that was curled up beside Rooster.

If only Elvis knew how hard it is for you to be quiet, Sphynx! Rooster thought.

Yes. Quite amusing, the cat replied, also in Rooster’s mind.

The cat’s very thoughts conveyed tone, making it clear he was less than thrilled with their current situation, particularly his inability, as a cat, to talk with their newfound traveling companions. After months of hiding his time traveling abilities from his great-uncle, Rooster had not wanted to argue when Uncle Jed insisted Sphynx remain a cat for the duration of this journey. So Rooster had agreed to the request, and convinced Sphynx to abide by it. Thus Sphynx appeared to all as a small orange tabby, instead of either an overly-large cat, or his preferred human disguise as “Professor Jordan” alongside Rooster’s “Mr. Kinkaid.” To the King and Guru,  Rooster appeared simply as himself, a pre-teen boy, traveling with his pet cat. They had no idea of the cat’s frustration.

“That is strange,” Elvis was saying, in response to Larry’s description of what he had seen in the clouds. “I thought it was the face of Joseph Stalin, too. I figured it was some projection of my inner self and, if that was so… Well, Guru, I don’t think I could continue living if that were what was inside me. But then, just before it dissolved away, the face changed, and it smiled. It was the face of Jesus, Guru, and suddenly I knew that my life could have more meaning than it does.”

“What do you mean by that?” Guru asked.

“I’m not sure, yet,” Elvis replied, “but I’ll keep thinking on it. How about you, Rooster? What did you see?”

Rooster knew immediately that he couldn’t tell Elvis the truth of what he had seen. Though Rooster thought he knew the forces actually at work in the clouds, he was reluctant to dissuade Elvis Presley from recognizing the moment as a divine experience. When Rooster had stumbled out of the desert and onto the blacktop of Route 66, he had seen in the clouds the face of the antagonist that routinely wrecked havoc on his and Sphynx’s travels through time and space: Sphynx’s brother, Set. Stepping through a thin place near Two Guns, Arizona, in 1998 in search of clues to his mother’s current whereabouts, Rooster and Sphynx had emerged in the desert. They had also been immediately chased by a pack of coyotes, no doubt manipulated by Set to wait and watch for the strange traveling duo.

There was something special about Route 66. Notations in his parents’ guidebook had suggested as much, and then been born out in his experience over recent months. Some mystical energy accompanying the road seemed to block Set’s ability to find them. So hearing cars passing by and knowing he was near the highway, Rooster had run to the road’s edge. Once there he knew they would be safe from the coyotes’ pursuit. That was why, he thought, the face formed in the clouds. It was Set, looking for him, even after the coyotes had lost him.

I must be getting close, Rooster thought to himself. He hasn’t appeared directly in ages, not since Fort Defiance, anyway.

You have certainly grown in wisdom and caution these last few months, Sphinx’s voice replied, his agitation finally diminishing. I must admit that I, too, am beginning to feel a degree of confidence in your search.

“I sure don’t know what that was,” Rooster said aloud to the two men in the front seat, “but it was incredible, wasn’t it?” He had sensed that Larry was uneasy with some of the conversation about the face in the clouds, and didn’t want to contribute to the man’s discomfort. Larry was, after all, helping him get to Flagstaff; from where Rooster knew a safe and direct route to his own time.

“My stop isn’t all that far into Flagstaff,” Rooster said, trying to change the subject. “There’s a music club in an old taxidermy shop there on the east side of town.”

“I think I’ve been there before,” Larry commented. “As I remember, it’s a bit of a rough spot. Are you sure that’s where you want us to drop you off, young man?”

“Oh, sure,” Rooster replied. “It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be. The owners are making it a music club now. Anyway, I won’t go in. My Uncle Jed is close by; I’ll just need to give him a call.” Rooster was grateful to be able to speak the truth, even if it was a bit misleading to the men.

Larry’s unease didn’t exactly disappear, but he and Elvis pulled in to the parking lot of The Museum Club right around dusk, and let the boy and his cat out. Rooster waved at them as the green GMC motor-home pulled back out of the parking lot and onto Route 66.

Elvis Presley on Route 66, Rooster thought, an American icon traveling along an American icon.

Perhaps it is best to leave your meditations of wonder until later, Sphynx replied in Rooster’s mind, his body shifting to become more comfortable in the canvas backpack Rooster held slung over one shoulder. We need to find our way back home.

Little America isn’t that far from here, Rooster thought back. Tightening his grip on the backpack, he crossed to the other side of the road and began walking.

What year is it? Rooster thought. Although he couldn’t see the cat, he imagined Sphynx sticking his tongue out, to taste the air.

Around 1965, came the cat’s mental reply.

Rooster nodded, thinking of conversations between them and Jed. There was a stable pathway near the Little America hotel in Flagstaff, one that Rooster had utilized three times now to return from other decades back to his own time of 1998. Jed had made sure to drill into his mind that the hotel was not built until 1973. Which meant that Rooster would be walking out into virgin pine forest to find the doorway. 

It is amazing the difference that can happen to a person over a few months’ time. The Rooster Vegas hiking along the south side of Route 66, passing drivers generally ignoring him, he was a far cry from the boy who had stumbled into a sinkhole on his great-uncle’s farm just seven months previously. Since that day – since first discovering that he was a WayFinder, a member of a family that could travel through thin places in space and time – Rooster had experienced a variety of adventures through such places. He had travelled on the steamship Explorer up the Colorado River, even meeting Edward Beale’s camel corps as they surveyed for a wagon road that eventually became the very highway he was now walking alongside. Rooster had even escaped the firing squad of Kit Carson, a cowboy who had come under the negative influence of Set. 

More recently, he had travelled along a number of pathways where, until today, he had not encountered Set or any of his minions. Christmas break had been the best vacation from school he had ever experienced, traveling with his Uncle Jed and Sphynx between Santa Monica, California and Flagstaff, Arizona, choosing to explore backward the pathways noted in his parents’ ancient Guidebook to Highway 66. Now that school had resumed, these trips were less frequent, but this weekend he had crossed through time on a pathway just outside of Holbrook, Arizona. He hadn’t found his parents, but he had checked off another possibility.

Next up is Tucumcari, New Mexico, Rooster thought, running through the list of cities he had memorized.

No, Sphynx replied as Rooster made his way off the shoulder of the road and began to cut through the forest. Next up is your big presentation. With your friend. Mercy. The cat’s tone changed on the last word. Rooter would not have described it as belittling, but the cat was definitely emphasizing his friend’s name to imply something.

We’re just friends, Rooster thought.

The cat laughed aloud, at that.

“Don not try that with me, young man,” the cat said aloud, his head poking out of the backpack. “I can read your thoughts!”

Rooster walked on in silence, his face beginning to grow red as he followed a thin golden thread that only he cold see to a pathway in time only he could walk.

We’ve found a witch!

I sat on a couch in the front parlor, looking out the vast window to the courtyard beyond. A number of homes surrounded this particular yard, their front doors and windows all opening out in to it, but there was no activity outside. No children playing, no families outside. I was disconcerted.

“Hey, baby,” the beautiful woman between me and the window addressed me. I looked down at her, my eyes adjusting to the darker room and the backlight on her. “You’re welcome to look, but you have to pay. House rules.”

“Yes, thanks, sorry” I said, stammering a bit. “I’ll, um, just go in there.” I motioned to the room off to the side, and made my way there. Hospitality was hard to find in this particular town, and only the madam of this particular… establishment had welcomed us. The room off to the side of the front parlor, well hidden behind a single door, had a couple beds and a couple couches. There were piles of things present on the few counters in the room, and my bag and another next to the two couches. Apparently the house had a cook with a son, and he lived in the room, as well. But we hadn’t seen him. Yet.

I kicked back on the couch, my feet up on the end table, and pulled out a book. I started flipping through it, but couldn’t find my place and knew I had already read the section before me. I could read it just fine, but it all became jumbled in my head. Confused.

The boy walked in, then, no doubt alerted to our presence by his mother.

“What’s it like, outside?” I asked. He looked at me, not quite understanding. “I mean, how did you feel outside? Normal? Warm? Cold? Disturbed? Did the hairs on your neck stand up?”

“Um… well, now that you mention it, I did feel a bit sick. Nauseous, maybe?”

I nodded my head, and heard some noise. I looked out the small window and saw that there was a family walking out into the square, crossing it to another home. A second group of people was out in one corner of the square, chatting and playing. 

“What changed?” I said out loud, scanning. “Ah, yes,” I said, as I saw Jason now standing on the porch looking out on the courtyard. He was still wearing his parka, the furred hood drawn up over his head. I hopped up from the couch and went through the parlor – the woman on the couch watching me as I passed – and out the front door. I stepped up directly beside Jason, who was more learned than I.

“What am I seeing?” I asked, nodding toward the courtyard. Jason didn’t turn his head, but looked at me sideways and nodded. Then, looking forward, he drew a square in front of him. I knew, from his perspective, he had just drawn a line around the courtyard before us; a simple conjuration, to provide clarity of sight.

I watched, and as I did so a group began to materialize walking at an angle across the yard, bisecting it into two triangles. Two youngish women led what was a large group, at least eight people wide and many, many long. As they became more clear, I realized that beyond the two young women at the lead, they were all children; different ages and different heights, but all children.

The families that had been on the square rushed off, and I heard doors slamming. I don’t know that they could also see what Jason and I now saw before us, but they no doubt stopped feeling the courage Jason’s presence had provided and bolted.

I set the book that was still in my hands down on the porch, and stepped forward. The crowd of children wasn’t looking at us, just ahead as they slowly walked across the courtyard. I grinned, and snapped my fingers loudly. The children’s heads all turned toward us.

“Now you’ve done it,” Jason said beside me.

We both stepped down off the porch, and began to walk toward the group of children. I headed toward the girls at the lead, at first, but noticed that Jason hadn’t. He was moving more toward the back of the bulk of children before us, so I adjusted and moved toward the front but not the young women at the lead. Things were never as easy as they seemed, even with clearer sight, so I realized that the women were likely not the cause of this situation.

“Good morning, children!” I called out as I walked toward, and then among, them. They circled around me, crowding me. “Hello, there! Good to see you! It’s a holiday, today, you know?”

I kept calling out jovially, without making any clear declaration of what I was doing. But I was scanning the children. Finally, thinking I saw what I was looking for, I moved in that direction. I continued to cry out jovially, hoping to also catch Jason’s attention, “Well, children, there’s some one I’m looking for. She would be about this high,” I held my hand next to a child beside me, up to her hairline and about the lower part of my chest. “But, she’d be older than all of you. Yes, someone like…”

I scooped up the short, old woman before me. “You!” I cried, grasping her tightly around the waist. She wore a kerchief over her head, but her aged, wrinkled face betrayed her age. As did her right leg, which was an old, moldy branch of wood to just above her knee. She struggled, but I had surprised her and held her fast.

I heard Jason’s voice come from across the children, the sound of a smile in it as he affected an English accent. “We’ve found a witch! May we burn her?”

“Burn her?” I replied, also affecting a (bad) accent. “How do you know she’s a witch?”

“She’s made of wood!” he replied, and fell to laughing at his own wit. He snapped his fingers, and I saw off to the corner of the courtyard a wood pile that suddenly caught fire.

I would have laughed, too, but realized that the children had all turned to face me. And they weren’t laughing. Indeed, some of them had their eyes narrowed in anger. I pulled the witch close to my side, but perpendicular; it reminded me of carrying a log, or an extra long football.

The children rushed toward me. I dodged and weaved, like a quarterback breaking free of an oncoming rush of… not-quarterbacks. (Yes, I know that’s now what they would be called; but sports were never my strong point, even before I took up wizardry.) The old hag’s face looked up at me as I ran, and scowled at me, revealing sharp fangs. “Ewww,” I said, knocking an overanxious small boy to his bottom and breaking free of the crowd.

Just ahead of them, I dashed toward the fire. The hag began to let out a high-pitched cry that made the hairs on my neck stand up. Oddly, while they were still charging behind me, the children never made a sound.

I neared the now-raging bonfire, and tossed the witch into it, the momentum of my run helping hurl her into the flames. She caught on fire, instantly, flames engulfing her and then exploding out of her in a bright blue fireball.

I weaved to the side of the fire and turned to face the children I thought were still behind me. But I saw they were all standing still, and many of them were fading away. Half a dozen children, some seemingly well and some famished and emaciated, stood in the courtyard. 

There were gasps and cries all around, and doors swung open, hitting stops. We watched as women and men rushed out into the courtyard, wrapping some of the children in enormous, weepy hugs. Others kneeling down beside them, taking their hands, nodding and trying to lead them elsewhere.

Jason strolled through the happy reunions toward me, his eyes on the fire. When he neared me, he nodded. We then walked back toward the whorehouse we were calling home for the night. 

 

(both a _quick_ free-write, and a recap of the last dream I had last night)

Her Majesty’s Constable (pt. 1 [of 4?])

H.M. Constable

’Tis a dang’rous act, this tale I propose.
Much that would amaze, magick and wondrous
hast been forgotten, ‘ere these days we live
for the fear such wonders wouldst also give.

-William Shakespeare, “Love’s Labors Won”

1. The Forest

It was almost dusk, the sun setting low, when the first villagers saw the man with the long blue coat journeying the road toward their town. He travelled by foot, but slowly, a child walking wearily alongside him. The child carried little but a stick and a small bag slung around his shoulder, while the man with the coat had a larger bag over his shoulder and a second down by one side. They walked the King’s Road, its once great path was now aged and worn as it had seen the passing of time but few travelers in the decades since an almost forgotten king had extended his reign to this northern land, far from the kingdom’s center. The villagers were still loyal, of course, and once or twice a year someone would travel by their way to give them news from elsewhere in the kingdom; and rarer, still, the visit of a tax collector to receive some meager payment from the village’s mayor on behalf of its humble townsfolk. All visitors to the village would return home, southward, remembering little of note of their visit and remarking of it even less.

Yet the site of any visitor was a novelty, so as the man and child walked the road past the first few outlying homes, children peered through windows and adults stood at doors watching their progress. The man in the long blue coat, its large lapels standing up just over his ears, would occasionally turn his head to nod and smile at the villagers as he and the boy walked past. His brown eyes were wide, with wonder or laughter one couldn’t tell, but his countenance was that of a man of mirth and peace. The boy tended to keep his head down, his eyes on the road, or his feet, or the stick that he would occasionally swing around before him. Though none could see them, his green eyes appeared as though they burned with light from within, and a small shock of bright red hair hung beneath the simple cap he wore.

As they walked past the two market stalls that butted the road and marked the beginning of the village proper, a large raptor, perhaps a hawk, dived inward to the village from the forest beyond, swooping low over their heads before disappearing in an arc behind one of the larger houses toward the center of town. The man and boy walked on, toward the fountain at town center, which by long custom was where visitors would gather to seek hospitality for a night or more.

In those days, showing hospitality to others was a critical way of life. Man, woman, or child never knew when circumstances in their life might lead them to have to take a trek to some distant village or town within the kingdom, and at such times one would depend on the hospitality shown by others. So it was customary, when a visitor gathered at a town’s center, which was usually marked by a well or fountain, that some members of the village would offer a night’s lodging and meal.

By the time they had reached the town’s fountain, several villagers were there to greet them. The mayor of the town, who enthusiastically and bombastically welcomed them to the Village of Farhaven, graciously invited them to join he and his wife for dinner that evening. A villager inquired if the two would give he and his wife the honor of staying at their home, pointing to a small house near one of the market stalls. He shared that they currently had the luxury of an empty room in which the man and his squire could be very comfortable in.

The man in the blue coat bristled at the term. “While I am grateful for your hospitality and will gladly accept,” he said, his speech a bit more refined than that of the villagers,” “this is my son, not a squire. He is a freeman just as I. Perhaps free-er, in some ways,” he mused, rustling the cap on the boy’s head. The boy, who had until then kept his eyes on his feet, looked up then, smiling at his father. The villagers around saw the intensity of his green eyes, and many of the women marveled at how incredibly handsome he was, even at such a young age.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the villager replied, “no disrespect was meant, I assure you. We will be glad to have you, after you’ve supped with the mayor.”

“Nonsense, Demetrius, you shall join us, too,” the mayor, a man named Baum, declared, “and your wife, of course. I would show you the same hospitality you show these visitors to our fine village. Please, come by in an hour, and we shall be ready to receive all of you! For now, perhaps good Demetrius would show you to where you can safely store your belongings.”

“I’m Demetrius, and my wife Glinda is over there by the doorway,” he said, pointing toward the home where a young woman stood watching them. “Please, you are welcome to join us for the night.”

“Thank you,” the man in the blue coat said, hoisting his packs once again. “We are deeply grateful to you for your hospitality. The trip has been long, and if it is not an imposition we hope to stay and rest in your village for a few days before resuming our journey.”

As they continued walking toward the house, Demetrius inquired, “It is rare for people to come this far north, lest they bring us news or come to collect taxes. Are you here for such a purpose?”

The man in the blue coat laughed, a deep chortle that sounded like mirth wrapped in a blanket of baritone. “No, no, dear sir,” he replied, “nothing of the sort. No, my son and I are…” He paused for a few moments, long enough that Demetrius stopped to look at the man, worried what the answer might be. But the man continued, as though he had just sought he correct word, “…collectors on behalf of the Queen, but we bring no news nor do we seek taxes. But we travel, seeking out the stories and curiosities of our kingdom to share with her majesty.” As he took another step, his coat lapels shifted enough that Demetrius spied an ornamental pin tucked on his inner jacket. it was a shield, with an arrow with some letters.

“I pardon, sir, but I spy your badge; if you are not a tax collector, what sort of official do you be?” Demetrius asked.

The man stopped, just short of a small vegetable garden afront Demetrius’ cabin, Glinda smiling and looking on, unaware of the conversation. The man turned to face Demetrius, and the boy stepped back, a quick glance to his father and then to the doorway where Glinda stood puzzled.

“My good host, Demetrius, I suppose I should properly introduced myself.” His left hand, free from carrying a bag, gripped the side lapel of his long blue coat and pulled it open, to reveal the badge pin he wore on his inner jacket. The badge was indeed a shield, with an arrow, it’s shaft running at an angle from bottom left to top right; the point just poking out over the edge of the shield. To the left of the arrow were the initials H.M. and to the right and below, C. “I am Her Majesty’s Constable,” the man in the blue coat continued, “and for reasons of security, I often travel under many names. You may me Smith,” he finished.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Constable Smith,” Demetrius replied, and then to the boy, “and young Master Smith. You are welcome, too.” The boy looked up at Demetrius, who marveled at the boy’s green eyes and smile. Smith and his son walked into the house, greeting Glinda and marveling at some ancient clockwork on the fireplace mantle that she had inherited from her father. Made of copper, there was a clock face standing on top of the shape of a great tree stump, with doors where its roots spread down to the base. Glinda shared how when the clock struck the hour, the doors opened and a beautiful eagle slid forward and flapped its wings once per hour as the clock chimed. Indeed, the clockwork began to turn and chime just as she shared this, and an eagle of gold emerged from the bronze doors, flapping its wings six times as the hours struck.

“We’ve been invited to dinner at the mayor’s,” Demetrius shared with Glinda, “in about an hour’s time. Would you show our guests, Her Majesty’s Constable and Master Smith, to their room for the night. I will go draw a bucket of water for us so we can all freshen up.”

About half an hour after being shown to their room and leaving their bags upon the four post bed that lay against one wall, the man was sitting on a small chair a the front of the house, watching his boy wander the garden, wondering at the stalks of asparagus and the blooms on chives. As the boy played happily, a middle-aged man came walking up the dark path to the house. Constable Smith saw that he, too, wore an ornamental pin on his lapel, and as he came closer saw that he bore the insignia of local officers of law within the realm.

“Good evening, sheriff,” Constable said as the man walked up toward him. Again lifting his left lapel, he showed his pin to the sheriff and said, “I am Her Majesty’s Constable, Smith. I am not here on any official business, we are just traveling through, collecting the stories of our queen’s great kingdom to share with her.”

The sheriff smiled, and leaned against the house, facing Smith. “Good, good. Well met, friend,” he said. “I’ve heard of Her Majesty’s Constables, of course, but have never met one. Do you not usually guard her majesty’s person?”

“Yes, generally that is our duty,” Constable Smith replied. “But due to our loss, my son and I have been granted leave by her queen to travel. She asked only that we return, as I have said, with stories from her realm, that she might better know the far lands she has risen to reign.”

“Then we are well met,” the sheriff said. “I am Sheriff Slater, and I have been our lawman here for almost twenty years.”

“That is a good and lengthy time to be an officer of law!” Constable Smith declared.

“Yes, well, the people of our little provence have all generally lived well and in peace. Until recently, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” Smith replied, true concern in his voice. “What has happened?”

The sheriff glanced at Smith’s son, playing in the garden as the last light of day brought a purplish hue to the eastern horizon. He glanced at the horizon, his eyes tracing over the trees of the nearby forest, before he replied. His voice grew quiet, almost a whisper, as he spoke to Constable Smith, “I would just warn you,” he said, “to be careful if out at night. We had a mysterious death in the woods last week, and some of the village are still a bit uneasy. A young man, brash by nature in town, was found dead among the trees. We think he might have been hunting, as he had his bow and quiver. we found several arrows had been loosed, but they were a distance away, embedded in tree branches or the ground at an odd angle. There was no sign of deer or any other game, but the poor man had been cruelly eviscerated by something, Or someone.”

“That sounds dreadful,” Constable Smith replied.

“Yes, it was,” the sheriff replied, “and his father has been agitated since, vowing he would find and punish those responsible.”

“Well met, Sheriff Slater,” a familiar voice ringed out, “though I wonder if perhaps you should be here, when there clearly is a dangerous foe somewhere in our community you should be seeking.” It was the mayor, walking through the garden toward the house. Demetrius and Glinda appeared in the doorway, then, and called “Young Master Smith, Constable Smith, it is just about time.”

“Yes,” the major continued, “and I thought I would come and walk you to our humble home. We are glad to have you four for dinner, but I am afraid, my dear Sherrif, we did not set an extra place for you.”

“That’s quite alright, sir,” Sheriff Slater continued, “as I should go patrol the village’s entryways before retiring for the night. Good night, all,” he called as he walked off.

“A good man, no doubt,” the mayor declared as he turned and invited his four dinner guests to follow him, “if perhaps a bit unsuited to the task of investigation. Alas, we’ve no one else at the moment, so I must rest my hopes on him to discern what happened to my poor son…”