The Caste System of Gender

     The condition of women in western society certainly leaves something to be desired; I only have to bring up the subject before the reader calls to mind recent events of rape, concealed sexual harassment, denial of reproductive rights, wage inequality, and, of course, all of the other examples of inequality that have been circulating around the news. When roughly half of the US political body, namely the Republican Party, is being widely accused of waging a war on women, I need not enumerate specific instances to convey the extent and severity of the situation.

     Modern society divides men and women into separate castes by gender and discriminates based on this division. This idea was developed and expanded on in Kate Millet’s 1969 seminal work Sexual Politics. As she described, men and women are raised and expected to fill gender roles based on their biological sex: a longstanding cultural institution that has bound the human race to distinct identities of either masculinity or femininity. Regardless of social status “... a truck driver or butcher always has his “manhood” to fall back upon...The literature of the past thirty years provides staggering incidents in which the caste of virility triumphs over the social status wealthy or even educated women” (Millet 36). In the face of such an absolute system of division, it may be necessary for us as a society to move beyond, not jut gender roles, but the concept of gender itself so that we may approach a society that values people for their inherent worth.

     There are many benefits to viewing gender though the lens of class and caste which provide a deeper basis for understanding both it’s history and nature, but before we can do this we must first thoroughly come to terms with the distinction between sex and gender. Sex is inherent in the biological makeup of a person – X and Y chromosomes, genitalia, and not much else. Notwithstanding, there has recently been a degree of psychological and neurological investigation into the innate differences between men and women that when viewed from the lens of gender appear to be more like physiognomy – an outmoded pseudoscience – than studies of real biological differences. The data collected by such experiments and studies isn’t false per say, but the differences they illustrate are largely rooted in gender, not innate sex. In contrast, gender is non-standard. While most cultures around the world categorize people as one of two sexes – X or Y chromosomes and one of two genitals – the cultural identity and expression of that sex varies from place to place. While being male or female – a function of sex – is a universal condition, being masculine or feminine – a function of gender – is not.

     The conception of gender – masculinity and femininity – is not a set of facts but a set of values. In modern western culture, strength, bravery, and stoicism for example define the masculine while tenderness, beauty, and sensitivity define the feminine. Our understanding of gender as a system of values culturally is demonstrated by our ability to gender even abstract and inanimate professions – the “masculine” engineer as opposed to the “feminine” nurse. Men and women are assigned a set of values and expectations of behavior from birth that often exclusively hinge on their sex. While the nuances of what it means to be “masculine” or “feminine” may change from culture to culture the separation of the two castes is virtually absolute. This separation is an essential feature of any caste system; people of different blood do not mix.

     Traditional differences between the genders are mostly a result of culture. Although this idea may seem outlandish, to dismiss it is to grossly underestimate the power that culture possesses. For example, the social obligation to community and nation in Japan is something that starkly contrasts with deeply held values of individualism and independence in the USA. Concepts like libertarianism that treat every person as their own island, a political movement that has gained traction since the 1970’s, is a concept that would be strange and unheard of in Japan. Even deeper than culture, language itself can influence how people think and even what they see, a theory known as the Whorf-Sapir hypothesis. Exemplifying this is the way color is treated within language and how that affects our ability to distinguish between different shades. In many languages there is no distinction between blue and green, specifically with the indigenous Himba people of north Sudan there’s evidence that shows it takes longer for them to be able to distinguish between blue and green, for which they don’t have separate words than other colors (Reiger & Kay 5).

     These phenomena are also not endemic to separate cultures but can show up within separate castes of a single culture. The mentality of a warrior class is very different from that of the laboring class. In medieval Europe, not just the livelihood but mindset and wold view that separated the estates. People from the peasant class were assumed to be unintelligent and uncultured in comparison to the high nobility. More significantly, women were considered to be of an entirely separate estate system from men. As opposed to the male peasant, nobility, and clergy system, women were classified instead within the feminine estates of virgin, wife, and widow. And while there were exception of female monarchs, this system largely assigned women  as having value insofar as their relationships with men were concerned. This system is no extraordinary example either as the ranking of women as a subordinate class has been observed across the world.

     As with any such system this structure fundamentally requires men and women to act within certain parameters and it is this social expectation of heteronormativity that causes women to view their self worth in terms of physical beauty and pick on the ugly duckling, and similarly causes boys to deny their emotional selves and shun those who don’t do the same. The caste system of gender holds men and women to unfair and often artificial standards creating a negative social environment even before the consideration of women's subordinate roles in society. In many areas where women are grossly underrepresented – such as politics, Wall Street, or academia – it is the very division in the caste system that promotes the domination of one sex over another. In systems such as these where power and influence are made through connections and favors, one if far more likely to favor one’s own caste or group. Similarly to how ethnicities self segregate in prison systems, people within a caste deal with and promote members of their own group. It is cultural tradition that the ruling class is white men in all of the examples I’ve given, however there is no reason the same phenomenon would be observed should it be a different group in charge.

     All of this leads to the nature of the gender caste division preceding institutionalized sexism and discrimination in that even if we manage to achieve equality of the sexes as pursued by third wave feminism, it will in actuality be nothing more than a nominal equality of gender. So long as the caste system remains we can’t hope to achieve more than separate but equal between the genders, and even then the extent of “equal” is dubious.

     Western culture, and most cultures in general, are so rooted in the gender binary that removing it from daily life would leave our world so unrecognizable that a world structured like that is nearly unfathomable. Gender gives people an easy identity to latch onto and take pride in. Male codes of honor, or any gender norm held in societal regard, are attractive things to strive for because achieving them grants one the admiration of not only their own group but society as a whole. The social reward of fitting in with one’s own gender is so powerful that one of the worst things to be accused of as a man or woman is to be un-masculine or un-feminine. Identity is held so dearly to people that it is nearly impossible to change it. 

     In cases of genital malformation and consequent erroneous gender assignment at birth, studied at the California Gender Identity Center, the discovery was made that it’s easier to change the sex of an adolescent male, who's biological identity turns out to be contrary to his gender assignment and conditioning – through surgery – than to undo the educational consequence of years, which have succeeded in making the subject temperamentally feminine in gesture, sense of self, personality and interests. (Millet 30)

When considering that gender is built into language itself, with many words in non-English languages being inherently gendered in grammar, the notion of a post gender society becomes even more distant.

     This is an illustration of the ultimate problem of how to change a culture. All social progress is difficult, slow, met with enormous resistance, takes many lives, and is more often than not only successful when the group lobbying for change have everything to gain and nothing to lose. As of now, we take situation in a case by case basis – pushing for one set of rights or another; however, this is a solution focused on treating the symptoms and not the illness. The dominance of gender identity and caste division is not a social practice to be changed but a system that needs to be, at the very least, weakened. 

     A partial solution, I believe, lies in the way that children are reared and educated. Simply raising children without assigning them a gender based on their sex is a possible start but it still leaves them with only two options. The caste system still exists and while people may have improvements in equality masculine and feminine will still exist divided and unequal. In The Republic, Plato discusses the role of women in society – arguing for what we would see as equality. While in spite of believing that women were, on average, inferior to men in most tasks, he argued that we cannot make assumption on what a person should or should not do based on their assumed nature. “By this reasoning we could just as well ask ourselves whether bald and hairy men have opposite natures and once we agree they have, forbid the hairy ones to be shoemakers if that’s what the bald ones do, or vice versa.” (Plato 119) Socrates goes on to discuss why men and women should be equal to serve as guardians, the military and ruling class of his ideal city. What makes this a potential solution is how Socrates lays out the education of the guardians. Rather than be raised by parents with clear masculine and feminine roles, they are raised communally by the guardians where their main identity is that of the guardian value system instead of being masculine or feminine. 

     While Plato certainly wasn’t concerned with pursuing such radical gender equality in practice (in fact he didn’t care much at all for social issues beyond the pursuit of justice as a form of knowledge), gender equality appears to be in some ways a byproduct of his idea of the ideal education system. This system emphasizes the pursuit of a just set of ideals and to form an identity around that; gender falls by the wayside. Educating and raising children outside the system of gender as an identity may be a legitimate path towards true equality.

     But here we are stuck yet again between theory and practice. The goals I’ve set out mimic the ideal which, unfortunately, is a direction not a destination. Change will not come overnight, nor will it come through any single education reform – if any at all. It may be that the only way progress will be made is through the spreading and understanding of these ideas throughout society so that people may willingly move towards and understand the necessity change, but even that is a tentative proposition. Combined with the widespread hostility towards third wave feminism and the unwillingness to listen to the ideas they profess, we once again arrive at a troubling prospect for the future. Until we as a society can see over the mountaintop, until we can understand the nature of sexual inequality, the distinction of sex and gender, the caste system of gender, and the negative impacts of holding people to such artificial value systems, until we understand that gender is facet of society that we can do without we will be blind and unable to know what direction to move in.

Works Cited

Millett, Kate. "Theory of Sexual Politics." Sexual Politics. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1970. 23-58. Print.

Plato, and Raymond Larson. The Republic. Arlington Heights, IL: AHM Pub., 1979. Print.

Regier, Terry, and Paul Kay. "Language, Thought, and Color: Whorf Was Half Right." Trends in Cognitive Sciences 13.10 (2009): 439-46. Web.

The Will of Words

    I’ve been wondering lately about the way the wind whistles through the chain link fence – singing as the groan of tree trunks play bass in accordance, and how there is no chromatic or harmonic to the notes of the song discernible. In fact, there aren’t any notes at all.

    I’ve been wondering lately about the way the veins of a leaf carve across my fingers and trace out impressions of trees and lightning and fifty foot men or the way their slow and pondered ramblings defy Euclid. It seems they follow no perspective of figure.

    I’ve been wondering lately about taking that box of unused dyes and dumping them down the running sink to count all the nameless colors in between the reds and greens and blues. If there is half of a half and another and another, surely I’ve created every combination there could possible be, but I can’t tell you what I saw down there or felt in the leaf or heard in the wind. I can’t concoct words to murmur music or grow ivy or animate color, or even less, to pry open my skull and hand you my eyes so you might experience qualia through my being.

    And so I sit here unable to call out the blood in my veins or the thoughts in my head.

The Oldwoods

    Another example of the rich variety of creation myths among the Native American tribes of the pacific northwest is that of the Nameless God. The tribe to which it belonged is colloquially referred to as the People of the Mist due to the fog that would form in the redwood forests where they lived; however, their real name remains unknown. They believed names to have a sacred power over their subjects and were understandably reluctant to give their’s out to westerners. Their deity has no name signifying that none can have power over it. Their reclusiveness, not only from the West but from other tribes as well, means that we know very little about them. In fact, this is the only myth of their’s that is currently know to be in record.

The Birth of the Nameless God

    Long ago before the growth of the forest, the God Which Has No Name created himself out of the strength of the earth and the life of the air. The God was the first to be born into the barren fields and for some time lived alone in peace. For many years it walked the plains, but soon the God grew weary of solitude and yearned for a companion. Out of the dust and mist, the God created the Bobcat. The Bobcat, being made as clever as it was elegant, asked the God why he was born. The God said that it was lonely and wished for some companionship. The Bobcat replied that he alone could not sufficiently entertain such a magnificent God.

    The God thought on this, and then created the Heron from water and grasses. The Bobcat saw this, and because he was jealous of the God’s power, began to plan against the God. The Bobcat said, “If you have two companions then should your creation have none? A bobcat as I is not suited for a heron. Will you make her a companion as well?”

    And on this the God thought and created the Flying Squirrel from the wind and bark. The Bobcat saw this and asked the God, “But then the Heron’s time will be split between you and the Flying Squirrel, and if you create another then you must create a companion for it as well and so on and so forth. Let me aid you. Tell me your name so that I may know your power and create alongside you.”

    And on this the God thought and decided to tell the Bobcat. With his new power, the Bobcat, in his jealousy, created demons to chase after the God’s animals. The God realized that he was betrayed, and in fear of the demons learning his name, struck all of the animals mute so that they could only crow and growl. He raised great redwoods from the ground to protect the animals and grew the forest large so that the demons would lose their way if they ever wandered inside. The God then created Man to live in the forest and keep the balance. For this, the God granted Man speech. Lastly, the God cloaked itself in darkness and hid in the oldest part of the forest where the trees scraped the clouds and destroyed his name.

–– An Anthology of Myths from the Native Tribes of the Pacific Northwest:

Anthony Hopkins

***

    The Oldwoods was, is, and ever shall be a wasteland. Usefulness doesn't really matter to us. We’re so quick to call a strip mine “barren” and “hideous” regardless of how much ore it produces because it’s all about the aesthetics – what we can visually suck from the early morning mist seeping around the redwoods. Gorgeous it may be, but I’m certain that the surreal beauty of the Oldwoods is’t ours to take.

     The name is a supposed haphazard approximation of the traditional name used by the natives. The indigenous tribe was historically reclusive and had a very isolated language. They considered the Forest’s True Name to be sacred and shared it only amongst their shamans and spiritual leaders. When they died out they took the true name with them, and “Oldwoods” was constructed from rumor and whispers.

    I’m not convinced that it resembles anything of the true name. Not enough is known about the Oldwoods tribe. It’s probably why a whole slew of new-age, nature worshiping potheads have founded so many religions based on the Tribe. I’d even go as far as to say that “Oldwoods” was their invention entirely. It’d be characteristic certainly.

    Well, I guess you could count me in with the stoners and shamanists as I found myself knocking on the door of a freshly trimmed log cabin, duffle bag in hand, not long ago. The sign above the door read “New Horizon Oldwoods Sanctuary” in a polite, hand-brushed script. The whole place could have passed for an old miners’ cabin tucked away off a bend in the gravel road out here in the middle of the woods, but on closer inspection the fresh construction gave it away. Too clean, too straight. That and the solar panels covering the roof.

    “Coming!” was the muffled shout from behind the door. I looked down at my feet. Funny how much my boots fit with the cabin – brand new hiking boots. They still had the fresh smell of factory leather. The opening door snapped me out of my preoccupation with their riveted lacing. “Ah, you must be Karl! Welcome to the New Horizon Oldwoods Sanctuary. The NOHS for short.” This he pronounced as ‘The Nose.’ “I’m Nicodemus, by the way. Why don’t you come on in?”

    The main room of the cabin was an uncanny mix of the reception area for a doctors office and ‘Little House on the Prairie.’ There was a stone fireplace set into the far wall and a small reception desk with a laptop near the door. The floor was paneled wood and the log walls were decorated with info-graphic posters about chakras and a stuffed jackalope.

    “Nice place,” I said.

    “Thanks. Here at the NOHS we, ah, cater to all your spiritual needs. Heck, we even have a sweat lodge down the way. I mean, there are a lot of different schools of New Age thought out there. We tend to focus on the teachings of The Tribe, but we certainly don’t dismiss anything,” said Nicodemus.

    “Makes sense. Given the location, that is.”

    “Oh certainly, the energy here is unbelievable. It’s no wonder that this is where the Tribe chose to live. Ah, but I don’t want to bore you with a dissertation on our philosophy just yet.”

    “Oh no, I would love it actually. Lemme fish out my recorder,” I said. He motioned me over to a couple of wooden chairs around an end table and sat down as I searched through my bag.

    Nicodemus was a very tall and very thin man who seemed to constantly shake as if he had just downed one too many cups of coffee. He had coarse sandy-orange hair and a thin goatee. A cross section of a geode hung from a leather string around his neck.

    I started by asking him for a little about himself. The piece I was writing was a pathos/ethos piece after all. He doesn’t say much though, just stumbles over a few memory snippets. He went to a college not up to the caliber he wanted but dropped out anyway; got a job working as a cashier in a New Age crystal shop; went to a Native American spiritual healer (who was really only one sixteenth Native American) and witnessed the power of ancient spirituality; saw the need for “spiritual cleansing” in people; and the rest is history.

    I finally got the idea that he wasn’t the one who handled the marketing when I asked him about the business itself. He kept tripping over his words and apologizing good-naturedly as he tried to explain the ideology behind the NOHS. It was almost disarming, and his earnest convictions about New Age made you feel like you should give the whole thing a try just for the heck of it. He finally gave up on playing public relations when I started asking about the land contract. He admitted to not being the best one to explain it and asked if I would be OK talking with his partner about that. I agreed and we set off down the road to the main campsite.

    “She’s really much better at the organization than I am. Ah, really the whole ‘business’ side of things actually. I’m more of the spiritual guide, I guess you could say,” said Nicodemus. We had just finished walking to the camp. “I’ll go inside and get her, you can sit on that bench over there if you want.”

    The camp was nice enough. A couple buildings were situated in a semicircle around a gravel roundabout and in the center was a large fire pit and some benches. Everything was framed by the massive redwood trees that consumed the horizon. It was quiet save for the background chatter of birds, silenced once or twice by the occasional eagle cry. I couldn’t see anyone walking about, but judging from the steam rising out of the wigwam-style sweat lodge I could guess where they all were.

    “Hello there! You’re Karl I take it?” said a female voice behind me. I was modestly startled by suddenness of it; I hadn’t even heard the door open. I turned around to see an average enough looking girl with an angular face and long black hair pulled back into a ponytail.

    “Yes, nice to meet you,” I said shaking her hand.

    “Well, I’m Lydia. Do you wanna come inside? Nic tells me you have some questions about the land contract.”

***

    I suppose I’ve put off explaining the land contract and why I’m in the middle of the pacific northwest for long enough. It’s a cliched story, really; your basic feel-good save-the-rainforest type deal. The NOHS managed to lease out some government land in the woods due to some odd clause in the state legislation that permits non-profit to lease such reserves for “environmental and or historical research.” They snatched it up believing that their specific patch of land was the homeland of the Tribe and the ground was therefore sacred. A plan to construct a highway through the area made it’s way onto the State’s House floor and was about to pass when the politicians realized the land was being leased. As you could imagine, this lead to a bit of an industry versus environment standoff. Looking back, I could already hear the victory cries of self-identifying environmentalists who’ve never actually planted a tree in their life celebrating when the bill was inevitably shot down. It wasn’t even that well-supported, but the public’s attention is fickle, and the magazine I was working for at the time wanted to run a big story on it. The plan was I’d stay with the NOHS for a day or so and hear them out, then I’d hike off into the center of the Oldwoods and camp out for a couple days to “embrace the nature” or something saccharine like that. I was all for it. As a fresh-out-of-college, green party wannabe working for an environmental magazine, I couldn’t get enough of the whole connecting with mother earth concept. And as a tenderfooted gullible idiot, I soaked up Lydia and Nicodemus’ garbage about the Tribe like a boy-scout on a snipe hunt.

    I won’t go into detail of my time spent at the NOHS. Nothing against them really, I just don’t find their gross misappropriation of everything from Chinese to Native American culture entertaining anymore. I’ll just continue my tale, starting with my trek into the Oldwoods.

    It is peculiar how the woods managed to swallow up sound. The moments I had spent on the porch waiting for Lydia had been misleading because as soon as the sweat-lodge session ended the camp erupted with shouting patrons. Half of them were tourists using the NOHS as an excuse to “experience” the wilderness of the Oldwoods, but here, only a mile in, everything was back to an acoustic calm. It was like a lull in a passionate rock song where you can hear your ears rushing in the silence.

    As I pushed though the damp moss and leaf litter I found that the awe at the sheer size of each behemoth tree I passed never lessened or wore off. There’s an old legend about the redwoods that says the trees used to be giants who were so tall they couldn’t see their feet. They got into an argument over who had the most toes and stood around for so long trying to count them until they all turned to wood. In that sense, I guess there is some merit to the name “Oldwoods.” It’s rumored that the oldest redwood in the world is somewhere in here. A group of scientists announced that they’d found it the other year but didn’t disclose the location in fear of vandalism. I wonder if I’ll come across it.

    Eventually, I got to where I figured was as good a place as any to set up camp. I fell asleep, and the next morning I was woken up by the light patter of rain on the roof of my synthetic blue tent. Everything was damp and muggy like waking up in a cold sweat and the sun had only just barely begun to rise. I fumbled about to my flashlight, flicked it on, and pondered over whether or not I should even bother going outside in the rain to get my food. Last night I had tied it up a branch so bears couldn’t get to it. It wasn’t long till my dry tongue in need of coffee decided for me, and I threw on some shoes. I attempted to unzip my tent even though I couldn’t quite feel the zipper with my numb fingers in the morning cold and managed to undo the front flap, only to step out to a dark shadow standing a meter in front of me.

    I froze. My eyes adjusted and I was able to see the shadow staring back. It was a bobcat. He looked at me with large grey eyes for a beat before turning his whiskered head and walking away. I don’t know why, but I decided to follow him. I guess you could call it intuition, but I think I just wanted to get a better look at a creature I’d never seen before. In retrospect, I could’ve gotten bitten for harassing a wild animal like that but I digress.

    I pulled myself free from the tent into the morning mist. It was thickest in the dawn right before the sun cleared it out. I could just make out the trunks of the closest redwoods – massive burgundy and umber pillars of wood wrapped in flaking conifer bark. I swam though the mist as best as I could in the direction I saw the bobcat go off in. My toes started to freeze as the water in the leaf litter soaked through my shoes. I tucked my hands into my pockets to ward off the ever present cold and pulled my jacket tight to keep out the rain. That pitter patter of drizzle was all that could be heard. Everything, even the birds, was silent.

    I walked on, completely forgetting about my breakfast hanging in a tree back at camp. I forgot why I was walking, even. Surely I had veered off course from the bobcat long ago. The woods was calming in a way, but the silence was uncomfortable – like I had just said something out of line at a party. I kept walking, maybe because I wanted to get away from the quiet, or possibly get closer to it. Maybe I just wanted to see the next redwood pass out of the mist like a spirit and marvel at it. Maybe I secretly liked the cold.

    I lost track of time. I think it was only a half hour, could be more. I don’t know. I walked and walked and still heard nothing. At this point the rain had stopped but the sky was still overcast and the morning sun was weak. Silence came down from the sky and grew out of the earth. I honestly felt like the entire world was being held up by the redwoods above me.

    I walked into a clearing and saw the Nameless God.

    It stood nearly fifteen feet tall, black as a panther, thin as a pine tree. It resembled a deer but with it’s back sloping up towards the shoulders so it’s slender legs were significantly longer in the front, and its head sat on a long tapered neck. The God had two pure white eyes and looked at me with an unbroken stare. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I was terrified.

    This was everything that Nicodemus tried to distill into marketable crystals; what the politicians wanted to envision in their road bill; what the hippies hope to find in the thank-you letter from the origination they donated to; what the bobcat looks for in its next meal; what the Tribe looked for in their stories; and what I was supposed to capture in writing.

    When it finally left all the feeling had gone from my legs. I don’t now how long I had been sitting there; I don’t even remember sitting down to begin with. I did notice the birds chirping again though just now. Isn’t it funny how people some people think birds sing for them?

    Whether it was a natural beast or something else I don’t know, and I never will. The next day I left the Oldwoods and told the magazine I couldn’t write the piece after all. They said they would fire me if I didn’t have it in my next month.

    I’m job-searching right now.

Seven Miles of Ice, Six Inches of Steel

    “With every second that passes, I’m more isolated than any other human has ever been.” This is what the man in the white jumpsuit thought to himself as he shot through the vacuum of space at twenty-five kilometers per second. In the past hour alone he had covered enough distance to circle the earth twice, and his mismatched hodgepodge ship, antennae and cargo holds jutting out at random ends, was only accelerating faster. Silently pushing the mechanical brute along was the faint cool glow of the ship’s ion thrusters, the pride and joy of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, ejecting ionized bismuth atoms thousands of times faster than a speeding bullet.

    Through the single window on the ship the man stargazed. With the lights turned off nothing was visible but the stars – trillions of bright specks washed across the void in a dense band like white paint flicked from an artist’s brush. From this unique vantage point somewhere in between Mars and Jupiter he could watch, unadulterated, the stars of his galaxy burning away. Each one creeping towards a supernova, consuming its hydrogen fuel in a cataclysmic nuclear reaction. From this point in space, in the still of the ship’s dormant electronics, where the planets were nothing more than indistinguishable pinpricks of light against the galactic backdrop, he felt as if he were sitting perfectly still, suspended among the stars. 
 

***

    To Rod, written in the bold letters on the front page of every news site was the best news he had ever heard in his life.

    “WE ARE NOT ALONE” read last Sunday’s New York Times. In light of the biggest discovery ever made, the Times started up its old print center to publish some commemorative physical copies of the paper – a publication that Rod immediately bought and framed to hang in his office. He sat there in his old swivel chair reading it again for the fiftieth time that day.

    “In what is the most monumental achievement of humanity to this date, the collective efforts of NASA, the European Space Agency, and the East Asian Aerospace Administration have answered one of mankind’s oldest questions, ‘Are we alone?’ Yesterday, February 24, it was confirmed that the Thalassa probe had discovered life in the sub-glacial ocean on Jupiter’s moon Europa...”

    “Rod!” Rod snapped back around from his article at the mention of his name. “Hey, congratulations on the discovery!” It was Mary, leaning on the desk in his cubicle in one of her usual technicolor Fair Isle Sweaters, this one composed of bright red and yellow bands with white and green snowflakes and argyle zig-zags densely ornamenting it.

    “It was just as much your discovery as mine. Everyone's, for that matter,” said Rod.

    “I know! That’s why I’m congratulating everyone,” she said – barely able to squeeze out the words as she hurried away.

    Rod heard Mary’s muffled exuberance of congratulations as she made her way down the cubicles of Nerd Row. Rod punched in a few keys on his computer and brought up the microscope slides of the single-celled organisms that he had patiently watched download for nearly forty-eight sleepless hours. He pressed play and the translucent globules began to move about on the screen. ‘They appear to have some sort of flagellum to propel themselves along, and those tiny dark spots floating around inside the cells could indicate the presence of some form of organelles,’ he thought to himself. As to the biochemical function of those spots Rod could only guess. The Thalassa probe was sophisticated, but not that sophisticated.

    An abbreviated message popped up on his phone with a polite ding. It was from Frank.

    “Be at the con room in 5 min. Big news!” read the text.

***

    “Well if it isn’t Dr. Robert Marino himself!” said Dr. Francis Karl as he stood up from a black leather chair to shake Rod’s hand. “Congratulations!”

    “We’ve been over this before Frank, and thank you,” said Rod with a sheepish grin.

    “Yeah yeah, just plain old Rod. You could at least take a compliment without deferring responsibility. You ran the astrobiological component of the mission, you deserve some credit!”

    “Does that mean you’ll give me a real office now?”

    “Oh, what good will that do? We both know you’d just spend your time huddled in the lab or camped out in the control room.”

    “I’ll have you know I just came from my office.”

    “Oh really? You remembered where it was?” Frank laughed. “Ah, take a seat. Take a seat.”

    “It’s good to see you kept your lame sense of humor among the top brass,” said Rod, jokingly punching Frank in the shoulder as he sat down.

    “Hey watch it, this suit looks like it could be Italian. But yeah, someone’s gotta deal with the congressional brickheads. Sometimes it feels like I’m condensing our work into picture book from so that they’ll understand enough to give us funding. Of course now that we’ve got something to rub in their faces – well I’ve already got offers for budget increases.” Frank brandished a few papers with the microscope slides printed on them and laid them on the table. They both stared intently at the familiar images. “Amazing, isn’t it. Look, I’ll bet you twenty bucks and my mother’s chili recipe that this mark here is some sort of nucleus.”

    “I’m still reeling over what their DNA equivalent would look like,” said Rod.

    “God, I know! The chemistry of the base pairs alone would revolutionize biology as we know it.”

    “So you said you had some big news?”

    “Ah yes.” Frank looked around the room. “Well, to tell you the truth, some other high level schmucks were supposed to be here for the announcement but it seems like they’re running late.”

    “Probably busy being assaulted by the press.”

    “Ah, what the hell. I’ll tell you anyways. Just act surprised when I ‘officially’ announce it later.”

    “OK?”

    “So with the apparent need for a more in depth study of Europa, we’ve decided to go ahead with a full manned mission. The details will be worked out later, but the main point is we want – no, need – to get boots on the ice over there. Or rather, under it. Given your unique experience, how would you like to be the first confirmed member of the mission?”

    Rod slowly leaned back into his chair as the full weight of Frank’s question pressed the air out of him. ‘I would be on Europa,’ he thought. ‘On Europa.’ Rod stared blankly off into space looking straight through the faux-wood paneled walls into the heavens – directly at the icy white moon wrapped in thin red fractures. He nodded.

    “I’ll do it.”

***

    A large plexiglass cylinder cracked open, letting a few tendrils of steam escape before the rest were sucked away by the ship’s filtration system to be recondensed. Water was precious in space.

    Rod ran the small vacuum hose over his thinning sandy hair before pushing himself out of the shower. He enjoyed these few moments early in the day where he could freely float about in the microgravity of the ship – suspended in the sterile air like a dandelion seed. And like a dandelion seed, he would drift ever so slowly to the floor – a product the small acceleration caused by the ship’s thrusters. Though you could only notice it if you stood absolutely still.

    Rod opened up a white panel inset on the wall a few feet from the shower. Five identical steam cleaned resistive suits hung in a neat ordered row. Rod grunted as he worked his way into the stiff jumpsuit. The arms and legs had thin posable rods woven into the fabric to make movement difficult and prevent muscle atrophy. It reminded him of the bendable action figures he had played with as a child. Teal-caped Captain Galaxy would board his star cruiser to save earth from the Martians, all with a perfectly molded plastic smile.

    “Well, first things first, happy birthday!” said a floating bust of Frank. A telecom message from central base. Rod had worked his way up to the computer room and was going through his notifications. “Hard to believe that it’s been over seven months, right? And only three more to go! There’s not much to report from here, and no, Kowalski still hasn’t compiled that spectroscopy data. Don’t worry, I’ll hide some lab mice in his desk or something. Keep ‘im on his toes. But don’t think I didn’t bring a present. The probe just discovered another ice clinger! Get this – it has what appears to be an exoskeleton. Amazing, right? Here we were thinking all the life would resemble edicarian biota but this is clearly more advanced. I mean, like, wow! Augh! It’s so nerve-wracking waiting for your slow ass to get over there and run some real tests. Anyways, I’m sending all the files on the creepy-crawly over with this message. I’ll keep you updated. Over and out!” Frank’s apparition paused for a second. His eyebrows shifted as if he were trying to remember something he pretended to have forgot. “Oh, and there’s a message from your mother. I have it attached.” With a brush of static, the hologram disappeared.

    Rod turned to the control screen and queued up the file. A grainy hologram loaded in the view box. It looked to have been shot with a smartphone and was little more than a bas-relief, not true 3D, so if you looked at it from the wrong angle the illusion broke. Sitting in the center of the box was a thin and wrinkly old woman perched on a wheelchair. She appeared to be entirely held together by the pink wool knit shawl wrapped around her body. Her white hair was barely hanging on to her head and her eyes wouldn’t focus anywhere above her slippered feet.

    “Rod?” she asked, turning her head back and forth looking for him. “Rod. They tell me it’s your birthday. I’m so sorry I didn’t get you a present.” Her words were slow and strained. “I’m so sorry. It came up so quickly. It all does. I asked them to take me out to visit you but they just keep me here. Are you all right? They’re helping me send you a message. I’m not sure how, though. Oh, you’re growing up to be so old.” Her lungs lightly rattled as she caught her breath. “They tell me you’re on an important mission. I wish they would tell me what that means. Does that mean you got that job from NASA? I know how much you wanted to work there. Oh, Rod! I forgot to get you a present. And on your birthday even. What would your father say about this? I’m getting so forgetful. I’ll run out to the store later and pick something up. It all came up so quick. I can’t believe I almost missed it on my calendar. Well, you take care dear.” Another brush of static and the image vanished.

    Rod pushed himself two feet over to the “kitchen” and pulled a thermos off a rack. He pulled a dissolvable capsule of instant coffee from a breadbox-like compartment. One of his last ten.

    It was a special occasion after all.

    He filled up the thermos with hot water by plugging it into a wall dispenser and shook it up to mix the coffee. Opening up the breadbox again. he retrieved a plastic-wrapped pastry and green birthday candle. A joke gift that Frank had insisted on sending with him. Frank had even gone as far as to tape a crudely drawn microgravity flame to the end of the candle. A tiny alien sphere around the wick, glowing in a low blue-purple hue – the way they had seen during flame tests on the ISS.

***

 

    There are no stars on Europa. At least, not on its hospitable parts. The surface is so bombarded by radiation from Jupiter’s magnetosphere that even with proper shielding, it would be too dangerous to stand around for long. It’s only beyond the seven mile thick crust of ice, submerged in the deepest ocean on the solar system, you find safety. No light from the outside world penetrates this icy vault. It’s probably why the organisms of the icy moon took it upon themselves to create their own.

***

    ‘6:55 PM’ blinked on the display of Rod’s computer. Time didn’t mean much in this sunless ether, but it helped to be synchronized with the boys back on earth. His trusty digitized clock also helped him track how long he had spent there – wherever “there” was at the moment – and it helped discern the punctuality of the various organisms he was studying. Right now the time told him that the next Migration should happen very soon, and so he laid in wait in his submarine with the lights down low to not spook them.

    Rod pressed his face up against the glass of his only window to look out into the depths. It was an engineering marvel, the sub. Powered by state-of-the-art hydrostatic propulsion, six inches of a super-light steel alloy protected him from the crushing pressure of Europa’s ocean. Clinging to the ice above was a constellation of glowing life, a galaxy of thousands of organisms each marking their existence to the world with light, juxtaposed down below by an all encompassing maw of black. Staring into the void, with the low gravity of Europa, it was easy to lose all sense of direction. Up was down, down was up and everything was black... until a tiny white prick began to emerge through the veneer. Like the first snowflake of the storm, the light slowly rose closer. It split up as it grew closer and the individual pricks became discernible. The cloud steadily grew as the pioneers of the swarm first reached the sub’s depth. Scattered at first, then rising in number and intensity, the creatures flowed on until a dense column of lights, easily a mile across, surrounded the sub. Rod marveled at their internalized punctuality. Never early and never late, wherever they were was exactly where they meant to be.'

    Rod caught a glimpse of one of the creatures as it passed in front of the porthole. Squidlike in nature, its small body, no bigger than a thumb, formed a thin teardrop, and its wings filled its outline to a rounded arrowhead. In place of a squid’s eight tentacles it had a mass of short feelers – twenty-four to be exact. It was because of these feelers that Frank had wanted to call the creature Satan’s Nose-Hair. Rod opted for Hekatonkheira, a greek mythological figure with a hundred hands. Heka for short.

    Off to the side Rod spotted a larger heka. Easily a foot long, it was the largest specimen he had ever encountered. He grabbed the sub’s controls and maneuvered it to get a better look.

    It appeared to be struggling to move. Its wings were tattered, the light at its tip had taken on a yellow hue, and it was missing a few feelers. Rod felt a certain rush of excitement at finding the dying animal. He never had a chance to observe their life cycle, and how they aged was a complete mystery. Did they continuously grow through their life? Did they have a set life span? How did they change as they develop? Rod extended the mechanical suction tube arm eager to find some answers.

***

    Rod wiped down the plexiglass window encasing the operating surface – a hermetically sealed box to protect against contamination, complete with arm length rubber gloves built right into the window. Inside the chamber was the dead hekatonkheira, bloated and swollen from decompression, medical equipment neatly laid out aside. Rod put his hands into the gloves, picked up the scalpel and began to work. He traced his knife down the center line of the creature, splitting it open like a frog in biology class.

    “OK... Notochord appears to be slightly deteriorated and the muscle wall is slightly atrophied,” Rod said aloud to the computer recording his notes. “Most other organs seem to be in place.” He began to carefully pin out each individual system. “Except...the egg sac is greatly enlarged.” He cut it open. “Oh, wow. It appears that this one was ready to deposit eggs. Large and developed.” Rod picked up one of the fingernail sized orbs. “Holy...it appears to be a fully formed fetus – almost identical to the adult. I guess that means the heka fertilizes internally. I’m setting a few aside for further study as well as taking biopic samples of the egg sac.”

    Rod pulled himself out of the gloves and sat back to look over his discovery. It was almost neo-gothic, really. The disassembled alien lying in its chamber like Frankenstein’s Monster.

    The parade of light outside was still going strong over an hour after it started. Rod thought that he deserved a coffee about now. Only six left.

***

    Rod had always been fascinated with biology. He still remembered packing his backpack up with magnifying glasses, notebooks, and granola bars before trekking off into the woods to camp out and watch the ants forage for food. A pulsing stream of skittering back dots betrayed the entrance to their hive, a sign he easily learned to pick up on. He would simply lie down on his Captain Galaxy blanket and track the individual ants as they carried bits of food back to their hive until his mother would call out to him,

    “Robby! Bedtime!” He was still called Robby then.

    Once on his way to the usual spot he stumbled across a cricket trying to disguise itself on the bark of a tree. It’s bumpy and molted brown body was enough to fool almost anybody. Robby crouched down and held his breath, slowly extending a cupped hand towards the insect’s blind spot. He didn’t ignored the picker bushes pressing against his leg as he stalked his quarry. With a swipe he managed to trap the cricket.

    Ten year old Robby picked off its legs and brought it to the ant hill. He dropped it in the ant’s path and set up shop on his blanket with a magnifying glass and juice box. The hive quickly swarmed the cricket once a forager ant stumbled across it. Quickly and efficiently they pined down the much larger insect and began to drag it back to their hill where it would be divvied up and fed to the group. The queen would get the largest portion as it was her role to produce the next generation of workers. He had read that in a book somewhere.

***

    “Twenty-four, twenty-five... and twenty-six,” Rod counted aloud, taking the number of orithyia hanging onto the underside of the ice. They had shiny black carapaces segmented into bands like a trilobite; however, their heads peeled away from their belly and stuck out into the water revealing two large compound eyes. On their backs extended two serrated arms folded like a praying mantis’ and pointing away from their legs. The creature was able to see and catch its prey while holding onto the ice with its many legs. In fact, that was exactly what it was doing.

    “OK, twenty-six total and seven still feeding.” Rob noted to the computer. The orithyia closest to him was gripping onto the remains of a heka, periodically bringing it up to its crablike mouthparts to tear off a chunk of flesh. “With the latest migration, it appears my hypothesis that the orithyia feed solely on the hekatonkheira is supported. The orithyia, it seems, feed only once every few months during the migration.”

    ‘Not unlike crocodiles and wildebeest,’ he thought to himself. Rod couldn’t help but smile as he looked back at the glossy black exoskeletoned creature demurely eating its prey, oblivious to him. There was a certain elegance to the balance of it all – birth, life, and death. The organisms here simply went about their business, they didn’t question it. How could they?

***

    “Two years,” breathed Rod as a small cryobot zipped around the sub and docked to the structure in front to him. A fully functional permanent base, assembled over the course of two years by robots. Something that Rod had supervised while conducting his research on the side. Two years under the ice living alone out of a cramped submarine and three years away from earth if you counted the time spent in space travel. Rod carefully maneuvered the sub to the docking station underneath the base.

    “Hey Rod, I got your report. Good to see that the base is in working order. One less thing to worry about,” said Frank’s hologram. Rod had given the ship a full inspection the night before and sent word to headquarters. Frank’s message must’ve come overnight. “Look, I’m not really supposed to say anything since everything about this situation is up in the air still, but you have a right to know. Washington is in another political pissing contest over the budget and we’re on the chopping block this time. Whatever happens we’ll still have plenty to get you back home but as for sending out the second crew... Well, the launch date in two months is still set and we’re going ahead unless they explicitly tell us not to. Hopefully it’ll all settle down quickly, but just in case someone decides to make a stupid decision, I’m giving you a warning.” Frank let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand. “The other thing is about your mother. I saw it in the files we’re sending to you. You know I have to preview everything and...ah, a piece of paper like that is so cold, inhuman really. The hospital says that her dementia is getting worse. They...they don’t think she has a whole lot of time left. I just thought you should get this in person. I’m sorry. If you need anything, let me know. I’ll do my best.” The hologram flickered out and all that could be heard was the creaking of the base from shifting currents. Rod leaned back against the cool plastic of his chair before standing up and walking over to the cupboard, pulling out a small capsule of instant coffee. As Rod brewed his last cup he looked at the man-sized cryopod that was designed to shuttle the new team members to and from the surface. He decided to make a trip.

***

    In three hours it would be safe. Rod sat waiting in his spacesuit, a bulkier version of the resistive suits he’d been wearing. It had taken nearly twenty-four hours to reach the surface and in a few more Europa would be far enough away from Jupiter's magnetosphere tail to be safe enough to step out of his shielded pod. Rod sat quietly as the minutes slipped by. He didn’t think much over the recent events, he didn’t want to. Soon enough, a buzzer went off signaling that it was finally time.

    With a hiss of the pod’s hydraulics, the door swung open and Rod stepped out seeing the surface, of Europa with his eyes for the first time. On the surface, ice was frozen to the hardness of granite in the extreme cold. Rod stepped across the chipped and scarred surface looking up the sky. Jupiter hung overhead taking up most of the sky, its swirling gasses of red and orange clearly visible from his distance. It shone like the harvest moon, casting Europa in a soft yellow glow – a gentle light for the frozen airless desert. Behind it were the stars, that familiar band of milky way galaxy wrapping around everything. Rod had never imagined he’d see anything like it. It was so easy to forget being a member of the human species.

    Another buzzer in his suit went off, politely letting him know he was running out of air. Rod hadn’t noticed the three hours pass. He slowly began to make his way to the pod and was about to step in before he bent down to pick up a shard of ice. He sealed it in a baggie from the pod and shut the door. Samples.

    Rod flicked the red toggle that initiated the decent to the base. Back to work.

Melodramatic

    I find it interesting that we have to write stories to show our inner selves – hide our insanities behind allegory. I find it interesting that a puppy symbolizes hope and black symbolizes grief. I find it interesting that music can convey more emotion through notes than a book of words and that the most profound truths in art are meaningless while the most mundane tasks carry the weight of the universe. I find it interesting that perspective everything. I find it interesting that I abide by nonexistent rules.

    A year ago I was walking through the woods behind my house when I came across a tree, a twisted and contorted behemoth with shattered teeth for branches opening its maw to the sky. A grey and heavy sky hovered dangerously low, just barely clearing the treetops, the air groaning under its weight. It was obvious that the tree held some sort of significance as the rest of the forest faded away into an impressionist painting around it. Blotches of green and brown glowed in the background, fell back, and curved into the clearing. Walking up to it, I put my hand out and braced myself against the trunk. The cracks in the bark were far enough apart that I could spread out my hand and feel only the smooth coolness paper. The tree smelled like earth and the earth beneath smelled like leaves. A knot twisted in the back of my mind and I pulled out my pocketknife; faint cursive lettering on the side of the handle spelled out “Buck.” In a crude imitation I decided to leave my own “makers mark” and began to hack my name into the tree. Like those lovers names carved into a trees at the park, the ones framed in little hearts, except there was no heart, no second name, and definitely no park. I finished and stepped back to inspect my handiwork.

    No, no, it was all wrong! I dug my knife back into the tree and began again. Another failure and another attempt – again and again. Sap coated my fingers and clogged the joint of the knife as I worked and reworked my name around the trunk.

    Eventually I had completely girdled the tree with graffiti. Letters folded over each other in an unrecognizable band like a profane lexicon. I stepped back to admire my work. I couldn’t decide if it was hideous or beautiful. But as any horticulturist worth his salt would know, such an amount of bark removal is detrimental. I returned a month later to find the wooden monster dead.

    None of that ever happened and I don’t know what it means. A few years from now I might look back and pretend I never did either.

 ***

    ‘Melodrama serves a purpose,’ I reasoned to myself as I prepared myself to do something equally stupid. I hadn’t slept the night before – what with the lack of thought screaming around in my head; keeping me up. I couldn’t think enough to distract myself.
    She was pretty, I guess, but explaining my attraction in terms of her red lipstick seemed superficial. The tense excitement in my gut was more than the faint scent of her perfume – a warm embrace reminiscent of freshly baked cookies – or her elegant slim figure.

    Melodrama came in the form of a passing smile, biting her lip in conversation, as we talked about the most trivial aspects of our lives. It came when I couldn’t tell what was genuine attraction and what was wishful thinking – mentally pacing back and forth until the tracks became worn into my sub-conscience. Naturally I came to the correctly illogical solution. I would make the most absorbed melodramatic gesture possible.

    “Do you think you would like to go out with me sometime?” I thrust the question out eager to rid myself of the words. Words that had been clawing that the back of my teeth for three months. The sharp chill of early winter bit down on my fingers I had shoved in my pockets. Expectantly, patiently, eagerly I waited for a response as she looked down at her feet – drawing clockwise circles with her left foot on the sidewalk.

    Needless to say she said no, and life returned to normalcy as I systematically removed my affections for her. It’s funny, but sometimes I wish that story was true as well.

This is Your Final Notice

    One after another, the keys of Craig Brunswick’s worn keyboard clicked away; arguing with people from thousands of miles away about whether or not the leaked specification for the next generation of IBM computers was accurate. These other ghosts of the internet never materialized beyond text on a screen, but that didn’t really matter as they were all “uneducated morons who weren’t old enough to remember coding in PASCAL and don’t even have a comp sci degree.” Craig looked at the clock. 2:00 AM.

    “You’re late again, Brunswick,” barked Barry O’Neil, his boss. “You’re walking on thin ice here, boy. One more slip up and you’ll be gone.”  Craig just looked on; his boss made threats like this every other week. Nobody had been fired yet.

    Barry stared him down from behind sunken eyes and thin low set eyebrows. Barry had a harsh, sallow face which was not complimented in the least by his yellow collared shirt. After he felt that Craig had been sufficiently intimidated he went back to leafing over official looking documents. And with that minimal interaction Craig walked a few feet over to his cubicle, powered up his computer, opened minesweeper, and proceeded on with his workday while absentmindedly picking at the eroded cork board next to his computer.

    “That damn bum is still sitting outside the front of the building” he heard Craig complain through the walls. “I told him if he wanted to sit there and stink up the place he could shine my shoes and I’d pay him five bucks.”

    “Mm hmm. And what did he say?” a feminine voice replied.

    “Nothing! He just sat there and looked right through me like I wasn’t there.”

    “Your sympathy for the less fortunate aside, these documents pertaining to the Cambridge account need your signature. You probably should read them as well.” There was a rustle of papers as the files were arranged on Barry’s desk.

    “I really should call the police. It just isn’t right.” He had called the police though, at least a half dozen times over the past week. Each time they said they agreed with Barry, that it was a significant problem, and each time they didn’t show up. Barry didn’t like being ignored that way, so each time he pretended it was the first time he called.

    March Rothsman walked out of Barry’s office and past Craig’s hidden cubicle. She was the brains of the building more than anything. If you asked Craig what the company did he wouldn’t be able to give you an answer. He’d just blankly stare and say he though it had something to do with logging, though he couldn’t be sure. Even Barry would struggle with the question, though he’d pass it off and jumble something together about brokerage accounts and mechanized consulting. In reality, he just signed the papers that middle aged March Rothsman, in her bright red sweater, handed to him.

    Craig checked his inbox – spam, spam, a notice about the menu change in the cafeteria, and nothing. It was presumable that his job position had once held some importance, but the title ‘Senior Assistant to IT Manager’ lost all relevance when the actual IT manager was laid off and the position outsourced to another department during a merger five years ago. Somehow his position was neglected to be erased from the files and when his job application was put in front of the toady boss, it was signed without much of a second thought.

    Not that it mattered much. GreenwichCO, the parent company, was a massive conglomerate, especially compared to the measly office space that Craig’s location held on the seventeenth and eighteenth floors of a slightly neglected office building in the city – indistinguishable from any of the others next to it. Craig sipped a cup of stale coffee and went back to playing minesweeper.

***

    “Excuse me sir, could you spare a dollar or two?” The man who said that was none other than the bum outside the building, talking to Craig as he walked out the door on his way home.

    “Hunh?” Craig was a bit startled by the encounter. The bum had not so much as looked at him in the past week that he had been staying there.

    “I asked if you could spare some change, brother,” the old man croaked in a weathered voice. “I find you can tell a bit about a person whenever they’re in the act of giving.”

    “Ok,” said Craig as he handed the man five dollars. “What can you tell about me?”

    “That you’re more generous than that skinny toad-man in the yellow shirt!” the bum laughed.

    “You mean Barry?”

    “Is that his name? Never mentioned it. Just told me to ‘move my bum ass off of his building!’” The bum gesticulated in mockery of the shaky way Barry waved his fist when he wanted to make a point. “Ridiculous!”

    “Well, you have been sitting here for a week.”

    “Oh no, I stand too. And every now and then I walk as well.”

    “That still makes you a bum, doesn't it?”

    “I’m not a bum! I’m Arnold Kepler, pleased to make your acquaintance.” The bum held out a scarred hand covered in a glove with the fingers cut off.

    “Craig Brunswick.”

    “A man of few words, I see. Don’t worry, I have enough to go around for the both of us!” The man laughed as he said this. Craig looked him over again. He had a long graying beard that began to twist into his molted scarf. He wore a scratched and torn retro leather jacket and a pair of dirty jeans. He looked to be in his 60s.

    Just then a pigeon landed next to him to peck at a stale loaf of bread. “Ah, hello again, Charlie!”

    “Is that your pet?” Craig asked.

    “More of a friend really. We both share the same cage!” He laughed at his own wit, then paused for a second. “The stars are beautiful tonight, would you like to hear your horoscope?”

    “Sure.”

    “Alright let me just...” Arnold rummaged around in his bag. “Ah! Here it is!” He exclaimed as he pulled out a newspaper. “Well, let’s see here... ‘Opportunity is right around the corner but you run the risk of missing if! Try to live freer and be wary of falling into a rut and something wonderful will happen.’ Sound accurate?”

    “Yeah, sure. But I don’t really put too much weight in those things.”

    “Really? What’s your sign?”

    “Scorpio.”

    “Oh, I’m sorry. I read you the one for Sagittarius. Guess it’s not for you then!”

    “What’s your sign?”

    “Don’t remember! I just read the ones I like best!”

    It might be worth noting that, especially in this section of the city, it was impossible to see any stars.

***

    Back to work, back through the commute, through the glass revolving door, up the elevator, past the front desk, and across the ugly carpet; Craig returned to his cubicle like every other day. He preemptively opened minesweeper and went to check his email. Ultimately is was nothing more than the useless drivel that managed to worm it’s way into his inbox. At least he thought so until he read his way to the last unopened message. It was from his boss – marked urgent. It read, “At 12:00 today, before lunch-break, meet me in my office.”

    Odd enough, it could very well be ignored. Craig could delete it and go on his lunch break as usual and Barry would probably not say a word otherwise. ‘It’s nothing,’ he resolved and proceeded to play minesweeper.

***

    “I would like to thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice, Mr. Brunswick,” Barry said from behind his particleboard desk, drumming his fingers against the laminate. March Rothsman sat on a chair in the corner of the room next to the door, passive aggressively checking her phone every now and then.

    Barry, stared intensely at the bandage covering Craig’s thumb. “How did you get that?”

    “Peeling a potato.”

    “What do you mean ‘peeling a potato?’ That’s a big bandage for a small mishap.”

    Craig, sat and considered for a moment. “Ever get so mad at something that you just lash out, even though what you do has no bearing on the outcome?”

    “I can make you a list longer than a yard of things that fit the bill.”

    “Odd, what causes those outbursts really. Last night I just happened to be peeling a potato at the time.”

    Barry gave him an odd look before averting his gaze. “Do you know what your job is?”

    “Senior Assistant to IT Manager.”

    “And do you know what that means?

    “That he gets to play solitaire professionally,” March chimed in, looking up from her phone.

    “Minesweeper actually,” corrected Craig.

    “Shut up!” interjected Barry, more than a little peeved at being spoken over. “Look, it’s probably no surprise that our days here are numbered. The ole’ mothership is still working out the kinks from its most recent merger, but as soon as they realize that this wing is extraneous they’ll cut us off and leave us to die. I’m proposing that we take what we can before that happens. Remember, they are the ones doing this to us – we have a right to what we’re owed. Of course, we’ll need your help though. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

    Craig just stared on in blank bewilderment until March clarified “He’s talking about breaking the law – embezzlement to be specific. We create a few extra employees in the record books and replace a few that we lay off. With a few tweaks with allotted expenses we can have a lot of money flowing to people who don’t exist. We pocket the money and fudge the records so nobody can tell. Then we get laid off and pretend it never happened.”

    “I assume it’s my job, being the sole remaining IT guy to create the ‘ghost’ employees?”

    “There ya go!” exclaimed Craig, trying to beat March to the punch. “Rothsman here will send you the details of what needs to be done tomorrow. Get it into the system and you’ll get a twenty percent cut. For now, take the rest of the day off.” With that he leaned back, put a cigar in his mouth, and tried several times to light it unsuccessfully.

***

    Arnold Kepler was still siting there beside the front of the building when Craig came out, feeding another pigeon “Good afternoon Mr. Brunswick,” he said.

    “Mr. Kepler,” acknowledged Craig. “What’s that pigeon’s same?”

    “Why this is Charlie!”

    “That isn’t the same pigeon as yesterday, though.”

    “Why of course not! But you can’t expect me to tell apart each and every pigeon in the city, can you? I just treat them all as my friends so I don’t embarrass myself in case I’ve forgotten meeting one.”

    “Well, that’s noble of you.”

    “I read in the paper that Venus and Jupiter will be visible tonight. I’m really excited to watch.”

    “Is that so? I’m not much of a stargazer myself.”

    “That’s sad. I can’t imagine life without the stars.”

***

    Craig’s hands sweated as he opened up the employee database. The directions were clear, all he had to do was follow them. “Thomas Johnson: Age 34...” He continued to copy the information down from March’s files creating a new person each time he hit enter. Suddenly a voice startled him from his seat.

    “You look nervous Brunswick.” It was Barry, though in reality he looked more nervous than Craig. “Don’t worry, I have this operation running smoothly. There won’t be any slip ups now, will there?” He stared at Craig, doing his best to look more intimidating than his grave face would allow.

    “Nope.” Craig went back to work, attempting to digest the pit forming in his stomach. It was almost too easy. There weren't any mishaps, nobody telling him to stop. There was no officer in his face saying, “No, you cant do that.” No officiator of the universe saying, “No, you’re not some accomplice to a ridiculous crime or stupid adventure. You’re just Craig, the man who eats too much ramen and lives with his cat in a cheap apartment.”

***

    Apparently it wan’t too easy, because after only a few weeks of attempting to ‘stick it to the man’ they got their first angry letter.

    “You took it too far.” Barry was glowering from his swivel chair. The three were sitting in his office sipping on the profane brew that the office temp had called coffee. Barry kept repeating that line, “too far, too far.”

    “In all seriousness sir, you did supersede my advice to not expand after last week,” March pointed out.

    “That doesn't matter! So I screwed up, what we need to know is what do we do about this!” ‘This’ referred to the notice from GreenwichCO that, paraphrased, politely and forcefully asked for them to stop hiring so many damn people.

    “Why do anything?” Craig asked. “I’m assuming that since they’ve taken the time to send us this letter they would’ve looked into our division and via extension of that, know that, as a whole, we accomplish jack.”

    “And your point?” glowered Barry.

    “My point is, they know we’re useless but can’t do anything about it for the time being. Through some sort of legal web we’re safe for the moment and nothing we do will change their final decision to axe us. So we do nothing. We sit on the ghosts we have for now and don’t hire more so as to not prompt a real financial investigation”

    Barry kneaded his forehead, evidently still displeased. He sighed in acceptance. March continued to fiddle with her phone.

***

    “Hello again, Arnold,” said Craig, as he addressed the old man.

    “Oh, hi there Craig!”

    “How was Jupiter?”

    “Hmm?”
    “A few weeks ago you said something about being able to see Jupiter. I never asked how it was.”

    “Oh, that! Yes, it was lovely. Actually tonight, Mercury should be in good position. I think it’ll be a good night to watch.” It was overcast at the moment. “You don’t look so good. Are you alright?”

    “Oh, I’m fine. Just drank some bad coffee.” He paused before blurting out, “Have you ever stolen something?”

    The old man pondered for a moment. “Just the heart of my high school lover!” He laughed and winked his creased, weathered eye.

    “I meant more like physical possessions.”

    “Hard to say, I remember taking things that weren’t mine by the conventional standards, but I was a different person back then. And I’ll be a different person tomorrow I suppose!” He smiled until he saw the serious weight on Craig’s face. “I don’t suppose your question is allegorical?”

    “In a sense.”

    “What did ya take?”

    “Money.”

    “Oh, well that’s not so bad. But between you and me I’m not the best with financial matters. Never quite got the concept.” Another Charlie landed by Arnold and he began to feed it some stale bread.

    A moment passed before Craig asked, “Would you call yourself a religious man?”

    “Yes, I guess you could say that. But I’m not a Christian though. I’m a Jainist.”

    “What’s that religion like?”

    “I haven’t the slightest idea! A man once told me I should be a Jainist. He seemed nice, enough so I said OK – and here I am!”

***

    For the next few months life continued on like this. All Craig would have to do was update the database records every now and then. March did most of the work, but she had managed to force Barry into agreeing to her fifty percent cut. And until the second letter, it was physically bland in spite of some emotional or moral instability.

    The second letter wasn’t from GreenwichCO though. In spite of March’s caution, the IRS has managed to smell some of the siphoned money, and were looking for their cut.

    “I thought you said that your records were flawless!” Barry angrily stated. The three once again in conference at his office.

    “I said they were good. I said they were better than good, but I never said there was no risk,” rebutted March.

    “You–” Barry stopped himself before he raised his voice too much. Through clenched teeth he then spat out, “Your job was to make sure this doesn't happen!”

    “So I screwed up,” she responded sarcastically.

    Barry then went on to pin the blame on whatever he could make a reasonable connection to, including the weather and ‘the bum outside the door.’ They continued to argue over what they should do, and how they could cover it up, without noticing Craig sink lower and lower into his chair, incredulous about the inevitable future.

    Oh, they tried desperately to throw off the IRS. They all worked overtime brainstorming ways to throw them off their scent. Craig saw less and less of Arnold, until his commute to work returned to the sleep deprived reenactment of a zombie film it once was. March grew more and more biting with her passive aggressive comments, and Barry all but lost it, binge drinking whiskey in spite of his intolerance for alcohol, sleeping at the office, and generally doing what he perceived a movie hero would do in his position.

    And yet, week after week a new letter arrived, each one less polite than the last until the final one came. It was as acidly uniform as the rest, until the very final line. It said simply, “This is your final notice.” And of course, they didn’t have anything to respond with. Craig walked home, locked the door, powered up his computer, opened minesweeper, and proceeded to do his best to forget he was anything more than Craig, the man who eats too much ramen and lives with his cat in a cheap apartment.

    When the police arrived with an arrest warrant they found him standing in his kitchen making dinner – peeling a potato.

The Greying Beard of Beowulf

    The first memory I recollect was of the rough texture of a sword hilt – the first I ever held. The tarnished metal chafed against my soft hands as I wondered how I could possibly lift the heavy weapon above my head. I had imagined myself slaying demons and beasts, drunk on the old tales of my nurse, and had subsequently begged the weapons master to teach me swordplay. When I realized I could not get it more than a foot off the ground, I collapsed on the ground and cried – my tender visions crushed. The scarred old and half-blind weapons master hit me, saying that a true man can never cry, may never show weakness, and only a true man can wield a sword. Every time after that I felt weak; I would think back to that moment, the old half-blind man frowning at me and remind myself that only a true man is fit to wield a sword.
    “Good work Beowulf, but I should expect as much from my finest pupil, then, shouldn't I?” The old master praised me after besting another sparring partner. The next challenger steps up. I blur my steel with the air as I was taught, drawing circles round the dirt in anticipation of his first move. A thrust, but too low, I manage to block easily. He thrashed about, reddening and lashing in attempt to upset my movements. In three quick movements he was disarmed. Lines chiseled onto the masters already pleated face.
    “Disgraceful Breca, you let you emotions get the better of you far too easily! You think the beasts of the forest care about your anger, the soldiers of Jutes? They will use your weakness to crush you. There is no mercy here in my school, get out and mend your mind!” I felt a pang of empathy for my fallen peer only to be overcome by the weight of my sword on my fatigued limbs.
    “Two and ten victories in succession, impressive. Were that on the fields of battle you surely would have bards writing lays for you, eh?”
    “Think I could live up to the tales of Shield Sheafson?”
    “Ha, that decrepit Dane? I should surely think that legends of a true Geatsman would sit better with me when I’m in my old age.”
    “You’re already old.” At that he smacked me.
    “I won’t be old ‘til I can no longer wield my great-sword, young pup. Still, I have a fine vision of you living up to, even surpassing Ecgtheow’s reputation.”
    “Father’s shadow seems to still sit over me then?” I jested.
    “Remember your place Beowulf, you aren’t a man yet. You’ll be sixteen winters this coming season and only then, not sooner, will you be able to challenge your late great father’s reputation.”
    Later that night I sat around the fire pit with the other trainees and the dogs, both so dirty and matted with grime that if someone should see us now, they would turn in fear thinking the beasts of the northern pines had descended. Some people slowly sharpened their weapons, others simply stared at the dancing red spirit. I joined the latter. In a moment the fire would die out and we would have to stumble through the darkness back to out lodgings, but for now we clung to what little the embers cast light on, the little we knew to be real in the night. We weren't unlike the dogs lazing around the pit. We were praised for accomplishing what we are instructed, it’s all that we knew how. “The king needs true Geatsmen!” the old master would boast. “Can you fill the shoes of your ancestors?” Such was the few truths in my life. I could protect and serve – provide for my country. All I must do was stand up tall and wield my sword.
    The king took charge of me when my father passed on. I was an infant at the time, but the ruler of a nation is a much demanded man and his attention was sparse. I took to attaching myself near the old weapons master. He instructed me about the traditions of our people, often rambling on for hours about honor and pride. To say I was enthralled would be a gross understatement. Here laid out before me were the qualities of legends and heroes. Golden pillars of men, loved, respected and feared; and I could be one. No, I had to be one. A sword in my hands fits as naturally as a hammer in a blacksmith’s. Or at least that’s what the old master said. What else could I do? Is it not a crime to restrain from putting my talents to use? I have feverently spent my youth training and waiting for the time when I am a man; the time when I will make good on my promises to the old master. For that monolith to approach so quickly, I can’t help the sensation of my feet sliding down a hill. Somehow, the gods will turn me into a man.

* * *

    That’s what I thought anyway. Now I am nearly twenty and I feel no different than I did as a child. Alone in the forest, the immaterial shadows more pressing than ever. In the night’s ink, a grotesque tale of slithering beasts is penned. Shifting from tree to tree, an oppressive malevolence seethes from just beyond my range of sight. I can’t think, I can’t feel; I can only stand there imprisioned by my own limbs – by the limitations of my own sight. The beast rears up – impossibly tall. A sword is placed in my numb hands and I fumble with the hilt, the nerves writhing with numbness. Voices pleaded, screamed! “Save us! Protect us! Die for us!” I lift my sword and hold it – trembling in my cold. Staring down the shadow – hello friend, there is no time to cry...
    “Beowulf!” I groggily pulled myself upright in the cart, shaking off the remnants of sleep. “Good, you’re awake. We’ve almost arrived.”
    “Is that all that’s left?” On in the distance lay the remnants of what once was a large fire – ashes and not much more.
    “The bastards burnt the whole damn thing down. After they drank all the mead and looted the gold no less. I don’t even know why the king bothered sending us out here. As if they’d come back to raid a pile of embers. Those rancid bandits are so filthy I’m sure they would simply rot and die of scurvy if we only left them to.” He glared out at the soot rising off the horizon looking for ghosts.
    “Chiding bandits for not bathing properly? Not everyone shares your affinity for spending long amounts of time in the water, Breca.” He punched my arm at that.
    “Oh, will you never shut up about that damn wager,” he said; coyly turning over his palms in proposition. “What you fail to see my friend, is that you are the burdened one. The expectation of upholding the champion’s title falls on your shoulders.”
    “Ha! You always have an odd way of looking at such things. It always wonders me why you became a solider, you surely could be put to no end of use as an advisor to the king.”
    “I appreciate the flattery, but I do have to start somewhere. One does not simply walk up to a king demanding he take one’s advice. And for that matter, I don’t think advising would nearly suit me. I’ve figured that when I’m old and my sword is rusty I could always take to recording the battles we fight now with a pen. No, I don’t think that life would disagree with me at all.”
    “You? A scribe! And creating fodder for the bards no less! A solider in a scriptorium, now that’s a laugh.”
    “It may not be the most glorious of endings, but I should think marking my place in history with ink would be second to that in blood.”
    “The mighty Breca giving up his glory and honor for a humble life, his sword and armor for a quill and robes! Next I suppose you will be tying yourself down with a wife and revoking mead.”
    “You may laugh now, but should my plans follow through it is I who will be recording your life for future tales, so a bit of respect wouldn’t be harmful to your legacy.” That damn fool had an answer for everything.
    For a while I sat in the cart amidst the cloud of sweat and irritability. We had been on the move for days, and now we would have to watch our arses’ grow sorer as we rerouted to the next town. The creak of the wheels groaning on endlessly. Rolling round and round.
    “Well, my eyes can’t find the bandits but my nose tells me that they wouldn’t be out of place here.”
    “Again with your whining and whimpering, Breca. You sound like a dog who’s tail has been stepped on.”
    “Still, I doubt there is much of a chance at seeing those bandits show up again. I suppose we’ll just sit around being glorious heroes in the meantime.”
    “I think that style of comment is the one that usually tempts fate. You owe me a mead should your seduction prove successful.”
    We meandered through he town for some time before I returned to camp. I sat around the fire trying to discern shapes in the smoke. My hands methodically went to cleaning my sword and armor. Methodical tasks to keep up with appearances. I needn’t even look to see where they moved to accomplish their task. Without the distraction of Breca’s banter I had a clear view of my muddied thoughts twisting like fire. ‘What fuel do they use?’ The notion amused me.
    Air hung stale over the camp – the smoke from scant fires rising directly to the stars. Tomorrow would mark our official entrance to the town; and we, the great heroes of war, would be welcomed with open arms. We, the true men among men. The faces of stone, living statues forged from the cold winter. We would be applauded for our accomplishments. We, the drinkers and boasters. Congratulated for joining the next rank of stone chiseled heroes. We, the arms of virtue celebrated for our tempered souls – our fire hardened souls. Hopefully the town air won’t prove too cold.
    I dragged mud along with my shoes as we marched into town. A river of it trailed behind the wall of our stomping boots streaming into the little town. The town itself was almost quaint. It sat between the surrounding knolls – it’s scratched wooden barrier encircling the cottages. As the gates were opened for the morning traffic, we marched in. We were applauded, congratulated, celebrated. Quickly as the throngs of bodies appeared, they then evaporated to return to their daily toils.
    “I suppose it’s time we make ourselves useless, eh Beowulf!” conjectured Breca, clapping me on the shoulder. “I caught wind of a tavern near the south end of the town that shouldn’t be too overrun with our greasy comrades.” I assented and we whisked ourselves through the crowds. A whirl of color noise and pungent odor flocked by all the way.

* * *

    “Did you notice the villagers staring oddly at us?” I asked. The tavern was old but well built. The thick oak beams sagged under the weight of the roof over the years and floorboards had paths weathered in to them meandering around the bar.
    “No, Beowulf. There isn’t any rust on your armor.” Breca slowly creaked back in his chair.
    “I didn’t mean that. I... I could swear I caught something in their gaze out of the corner of my eye.” I worked the rough tankard between my hands. I couldn’t pin down my unease. Seeing this, Breca pondered into his mug – a quizzical look on his short-shaven face.
    “Suppose they’re in league with the bandits!” he responded with sarcasm. “By the gods Beowulf! You’ve been sitting on knives ever since we got into town. Honestly, I can say the only one giving you ‘odd looks’ is that serving girl over there. (Which aren’t ones of disdain I might add.)” I hazarded a glance over to where Breca indicated. Unfailing with his note, there was a freckled serving girl with mousey braids returning my gaze. With a smirk and a blush she was back to work. Breca stared at me with expectation all the while. “Damn, how is it I can never get a reaction out of you? We finally have a break from grunting around in the mud for a few days, right? I say enjoy it until the gold counters realize how much we’re spending here on mead. Then it will be back to the mud.”
    At that point a crash silenced the room. It was the serving girl. A plate lay at her feet and one of the patrons was drenched. The room held their breath until suddenly he broke the silence – slurring something about clumsy brats and wenches. He was drunk, soaked to the bone with liquor, looking around the room for someone to lash out against. Unfortunately, the serving girl was the closest person to him. Everyone stood around watching the bullfight.
    “Who’r you? Ye’ mus’ be that Beowulf everyone’s taking ‘bout. The one who swam clear across the sea! Are you so skilled with a sword as they say you are?” I don’t remember walking over to the drunk. Yet here I was, and he insulting me.
    “Yes, I am the great Beowulf that you so speak of!” My voice growing with condescendtion. “The warrior not five and twenty and yet already one of the most skilled in the ranks! Is that how you know me?” Who is this miserable drunk to question who I am? “Not only that, but I have yet to have even come close to being defeated in combat once yet!” After what I’ve given to achieve this! “The speed and reach of my sword have yet to reach their limits, and I personally slayed beasts who’s heads now decorate the mead hall!” What does he want? What do they want from me! I have not ceased my journey since I was a boy! Not once have I let my face slip, my honor fall! “No less than ten at that! One was taller than a house, resembling some grotesque marriage of bear and ox with thousands of teeth and hundreds of claws sharper than the finest of arrowheads! But did I shirk in the face of danger as you do now? No! And it was not until he had given me this scar upon my jaw that I did manage the final blow!” So who are you to question me? Are you even a man at all? How do you compare yourself to me? How do I measure myself against you...
    My throat was hoarse as the tavern erupted into cheers. The drunkard sulked off quietly as the rest of the room returned to my vision. Everyone was standing around me and applauding, cheering, laughing. A mass of arms seething – another round of drinks passed about. I accepted what was shoved into my hands but I only drank out of respect. I had lost my stomach for mead. I was numb. I don’t know how I felt. I only remember the air being cold.
     “Hey!” I looked up from my tankard to see what Breca wanted – confused when I find the musty chair across from me to be vacant. Right, he left hours ago in a glass eyed stupor. A glance around revealed that, standing adjacent to the table was the serving girl. “Are you going to spend the rest of the night sleeping in your mead? It’s hardly becoming of the beast slayer of Geats’.” Scratching where my face had been stuck to the tankard, I groggily tried to piece the room together under the thick odor of stale mead. “Come now, groans and moans like that are no good. Try to use some words.” Were I in a clearer state of mind I might have been offended, but the fog in the room refused to lift.
    “What do you want with me?” was all I managed to mutter.
    “I suppose I wanted to show some thanks to you after showing up that drunkard, and I would feel bad about leaving you here to drown in your mead.”
    “I am not in need of your charity and I never asked for assistance, did I?”
    “If you’re so keen on return to sobbing in your mead than you’re more than welcome to continue doing so as long as you pay for it.” Her indigence at my drunken tongue pierced a nerve.
    “I am Beowulf! A solider strong and proud so keep your place girl!”
    “Whatever you say, ‘strong solider.’ I merely pointed out that you weren't throwing yourself a feast in that tankard of yours.” The room began to spin as the effects of the alcohol returned to twist over my stomach. “Hey! Beowulf...”

* * *

    A cold hook yanked me out of slumber. “And the slayer of demons awakens. You look beautiful as ever.” I tore off the drenched sheets encasing me to find I was back in my tent – Breca smirking over me holding an empty bucket.
    “What happened lat night?  I hope to gods that I didn’t manage to make a fool out of myself.”
    “I’d be more critical of your actions if you weren't outclassed by some of the other idiots in our ranks. The worst you managed to do is pass out at the tavern. Though that serving girl from yesterday had to come all the way out to camp to get me to ‘peel my drunk comrade from the table.’”
    “What an ass I’ve made of myself,” I relented.
    “I know. But there is no worry. You wouldn’t have had the guile to woo her regardless.” I turned to Breca and geld my gaze to be sure he caught full view of my frustrated grimace. “Before you say it, I too am an ass. Placated?” I sighed heavily.
    “I suppose I should find some time to thank her today. With any luck she won’t spread rumors.”
    “Now more than ever is an opportune time. It’s already past noon.” Damn.
   

* * *

    “I would like to thank you for notifying my friend last night. I can’t express how embarrassed I am at the entire situation. It isn’t like me to let mead get the better of my mind.” Inside I twisted about, disgusted at my current position.
    “If you’re really feeling apologetic than do you think you could manage to buy me a mead –  I have an excuse to sit down and talk then.” In spite of Breca’s teasings she wasn’t modest in appearances. Yet,
    “I can’t in good conscience convince a young lady to have a drink, especially at this hour.” The memories of last night now begin to return to me and with it their weight they had been pressing. Through that my voice began to dull.
    “It isn’t terribly wise to contradict the young lady in charge of distributing the mead. Though if that’s all you had to say then you are free to leave. I won’t be speaking against your heroic character, so fret not.” She directed all of this at me with a raised eyebrow, her head tilted back with a slight air of smugness. I had seen this expression before, yet framed by a soldiers helmet.
    “I’ll admit to being intrigued more than offended with that statement. I can’t say I’ve encountered a response like such from other serving girls.” I’ll respond to her challenge.
    “I assume the more average girls here were all devoured by demons... or the soldiers that hunt them.” She directed this at me with bared teeth in wolfish manner.
    “In that case I’ll order two tankards of mead and you can tell me about these demons.” In that sense I fell for her game.

* * *

    “So did you really slay a beast larger than a house?” she smirked – an askew grin on her face.
    “Well it’s possible that I embellished its size proper, but I assure you it was still well beyond the realm of normal wolves and bears.”
    She flashed her teeth in a grin. “Oh to think I had been following after an immaculate golden hero all this time only to find out he is nothing more than a normal solider slaying normal beasts! How ever will this fair maiden cope?” She twisted in a physical display of her sarcasm, which she than washed down with a swig of mead.
    “Your biting tone noted, I truly have accomplished some great deeds with my sword though.”
    “Your words fall on deaf ears, solider boy. I have been serving here long enough to have realized that which few heroes ever do. Boasts are created more by mead than deeds!” She had taken the wind from my sails there. In the few days we had been drinking together I was ceaselessly amazed at every turn of her speech. “Oh look up and stop sulking. I can’t have hurt your pride that much?”
    “No, but I can’t very well take it all in jest when my traditional methods of communicating are disrupted so freshly. My trade is divided up between two jobs, speaking with my sword and then ‘speaking with my mead.’”
    “And now that I know what you have said with your mead, what is it you have said with your sword?”
    “I...” couldn’t finish my sentence. I had rent monsters and men dead alike, but what color other than red could I paint with my my steel brush? With my finger I traced over the groves in the table from end to end disarmed.
    “If I’m not being too brash, why is it you choose to be a solider?”
    “To protect the people of Geats.”
    She shifted her pursed lips from one sider of her mouth to the other. “Should that be true I would readily accept your answer, but as it stands we are a nation at peace. You however, stand and wait for a fight. It’s not out of necessity.”
    “What about honor! Is it not enough to be a hero? I am a man, aren’t I? Is it wrong I act as one?” I stepped back, shock that I had reacted enough to have stood up. I slowly picked up my chair.
    “Had I ever given indication that I cared for heroes?”
    “And I should judge my worth on your views!”
    “How you view yourself is up to you, but note that nearly every solider here is what you would call a ‘true man’ and yet I’m currently only talking to you.” My face had become flushed with red.
    “There are certain values held by the nation. I should simply disrupt them?”
    “You speak with such fear of the faceless ‘nation’ as if they are judging you. But who are they? You do not know them! You do know me however, and you choose to keep your company there. Am I wrong?” Disarmed again. “But enough with this. I’m not so obtuse as to not notice the subject pains you. Drinking should be a merry time and we’re not yet through with our mead!” And it was like this that I managed to pass most of my time while holed up in the town of Yoits – warm, happy, and with mead.

* * *

    “So I see the young infatuated hero returns! Off prancing through daised meadows with your little serving girl, I assume.”
    “Beyla. That is her name you know. Or do you continue to irate me out of jealousy?”
    The past few days have been pleasant, even enjoyable, and Breca’s rusting quips had ceased to unnerve me. The white tent walls shook gently in the wind. How close my world had become within the last week and oddly I wasn’t bothered by it.
    “Though I can see how she would catch your eye. As unconventional as she is, her tongue is nearly as florid as mine.” He said this while lightly grazing his short beard.
    “So it is jealousy then.” I jested.
    “I would never think about stealing my comrade’s woman. Though I must ask what your plans involving the little miss entail. We are scheduled to return to the road again tomorrow and you can’t very well tie her up to drag behind the oxen.”
    “Were the circumstance different I might take her as my wife. Granted traditional courtship methods might not be so normal with her, but still. I don’t even have a house of my own, how could I settle it with a wife?”
    “And yet you are torn to see her go.”
    “Perhaps I could ask her to wait a year. Then I might have time to earn a place in the world she wouldn’t be uncomfortable with.”
    “Or you could proceed as the bandits do – dragging her off by her hair as a war trophy. But judging her, you would become ‘Beowulf, the warrior publicly beaten and shamed by a woman’ if you ever tried that.”
    Slowly a rising wave of unsettling noise overcame the calm of my tent. They were screams. A thunder erupted from the boots of soldiers rushing to the village as a horn was sounded. That sound, It called out as a raven – piercing and scratched. I didn’t feel myself move, years of training commanded my limbs to draw my sword and run with the rest of the soldiers. Running to the fires now breaking out over the town. Running to the screams.
    Huge demons writhed in a twisting dance of death over the village. Demons of fire burning in huge arching flames. The village was writhing with a living river of people flowing through the streets, struggling to escape the bandits. They ran from the fires screaming, shouting at me till their throats were flayed raw and bleeding. “Save us! Protect us! Die for us!”
    Their ears, their eyes, blood streaming. Where was I? ‘Why can’t you stop this?’ Cracks issued from the beams of houses twisting and withering in the fire – from the bandits smashing and stealing. From bones being broken in front of me. In blindness I lashed out to ply the only trade I had, and my blade quickly found flesh. The bandits were not skilled fighters.

* * *

    I sat there – dead. Staring at the charred remnants of the building in front of me. The mead barrels made the old tavern burn faster and harder than the others. So there I sat, my soul cracked from the heat, praying to the gods that this nightmare would end. That I could wake up from the pain and the ashes would be gone.
    In spite of what the survivors said, I had spent all day and night searching for Beyla. Only now have I returned to kneel here and accept. ‘She was in the building when bandits set it on fire.’ I couldn’t stop the pressure in my chest, tears began to run down my face mixing with the ash and blood.
    “My old weapons master taught me everything I know about sword play. He was as bitter as fermented herring; but still, nearly a father to me. Whenever I felt weak he always said a true man must be strong, he must never cry.” All this seemed to amuse her greatly.
    “That’s preposterous! A crying child is one matter but since when does toughness come from holding yourself up inside? To whom are you trying to be a man for anyways?” Stumped into silence again, this was the last question I remember Beyla asking me.
    So I sat there covered in blood ash and tears. Crying unrelentlessly, at a loss for how I could have let her down. How I had somehow managed to let her die like this. How weak was I? Beyla, what do I do? Where do I go?

* * *

    It has been forty years since and I still don’t have answers. I have grown old and won many battles. Defeated more foes than hairs on my grey beard, more than surpassing my fathers legacy, and I am still a solider. I live each day as a dream, with blurred awareness of the plot and an unaware control of my actions.
    “Beowulf the Great! The king has requested your presence.” So now I coaxed my aging bones to fulfill this request. The specifics of the king’s instructions were blurred to me. The throne had changed hands, but I couldn’t tell him apart from his father. I was given a battalion and my sword to fight the greatest threat to our nation yet. A dragon had appeared, burning and pillaging the villages. I was the only one who could kill it. The only hero left. That’s what they said.
    “I’m honored to be meeting you Beowulf the Great!” It was an overly rehearsed line and the boy couldn’t have been older than sixteen winters. “I’m Wiglaf, I’ll be helping serve you to slay the dragon. I really am honored to meet you sir. I’ve been training to become a solider and one day hope to come close to matching your accomplishments.”
    “Really? I can’t say I feel like I’ve done much other than grow old.” I know why he is pulling on my subconscience, he reminds me of myself.
    “Sir, modesty isn’t really suited on a hero of your caliber isn’t it? You did slay the terrible demon Grendel, did you not?”
    “That I did,” I affirmed
    “And his mother?”
    “That I did,” I reiterated.
    “And weren't you the one who felled no less than fifty bandits during the burning of Yoits?”
    “That I did.” This time quietly and somber. Why did he have to resurface my past? No more words were spoken between us or the rest of my men. We simply waited quietly till we arrived at the dragon. So we could do our job.
    When the earth shook, I knew the first toll of my death bell had begun. The dragon was enormous, an ancient beast older than the barrows themselves. Lording over the hills from his sky throne, wings blotting out the sun so the only light was from his fire. I drew my sword from it’s sheath for what I knew to be the final time. The first toll of my death bell, It weighed heavily in my hands.
    The beast looked me directly in the eyes. The rest of the world becoming consummated upon this fiery orb as I stared down my final opponent. His eyes, his soulless burning eyes, searching for anger and destruction were directly connected to my own. Silently exchanged, words without sound known only to the warriors. Hello friend, I see you too are growing old. Still lost in age.
    He twisted for my throat as I his. Claws against steel, no sounds were made as our weapons found the other’s flesh. Goodnight old friend, I wish you goodnight. Blood began to well from my chest.
    “Beowulf! Sir!” It was Wiglaf. Holding my head as he knelt by my fading body. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I couldn’t...” his face was twisted in pain.
    “Don’t worry. It seems fitting that I should die with a sword in my hand.” I tried to smile through coughing up blood.
    “No sir! You... You can’t...”
    “Why do you look as if you are about to cry? The dragon is dead, don’t worry on me.”
    “No sir I won’t. A true man never cries, I’ll see you through as such.” Such heroics...
    “Whoever told you such a thing? You have nothing to prove to a dying old man.” A disheveled dragon scale, soaked in blood, twisted through the sky as if fell above me – coming to rest on my broken chest. So this is death. “Beyla, I finally have a response. I’m only sorry it took ‘til now.”

* * *

    Away on a knoll, beside the carcass of a great dragon, lay a dead man, regarded by many as a hero. Holding him, a young solider – softly and relentlessly weeping. It is as such the life of Beowulf would be recorded by his old friend, Breca the scribe.