A Tale Of Doings

by Philip Quense

  Life in the village resumed as normal. It was the planting season. A month passed, and there was no sign of Sir Drane. Jillian, with the help of Phel, restored the village to its former glory. They rebuilt the barn, regrouped the villagers into a productive community, and trained the war band for the days to come.

  The wind howled one spring night, Jillian and Phel drank ale before the fireplace. The smoke filled the room with a pleasant aroma. It reminded him of the warm winter nights in his family’s poor cottage. “Jillian, do you think my people will return? Lord Meldz’s recent letters indicate that forces are gathering, and we should be prepared.”

  “They are not your people anymore, Phel. You showed that when you saved the village a month ago. You killed Charler, the princess’s guard, and the other Sonz knight. A noose is all your people would give you if you returned.”

  The truth hurt; Phel swallowed hard and shifted from the topic of his betrayal. Guilt ate away at his confused soul. Most nights it was hard to sleep; he had wanted to be Charler. “Drane will return soon from his secret mission?”

  A worried reflective pause. “Phel, I’m beginning to think that the bastard Meldz sent Drane to his death.”

  “Why would Meldz send his ally on a suicide mission?”

  “Meldz has always jealously guarded his power. Who knows what is going on in his dark spirit?” Jillian replied, standing suddenly and twirling her mead glass in a flirtatious manner. “What do you have to say about the princess of yours?”

  “What princess of mine?” Phel and Jillian had begun playing this game, as they’d become bonded.

  “Drane will return. He always does…The bear of battle.” Jillian came close and kissed Phel’s neck. “Are you sure the hero of Waver Town wants his competition back so soon?” She seemed to enjoy that the two would have to fight over her when Drane came back. Phel knew his fling with Jillian would end when Drane returned. He cringed inside. He was betraying his friend, but the unexpected companionship helped him feel alive. It kept him from drowning in his internal torment. His guilt kept him up at night. He had nightmares.

  How had he become such a divergent confusion of creeds? What was his path forward? He often asked the night sky.

  His dreams of being a hero for the princess of Alexoria had been crushed because he had killed Charler and fought for the Moonz. He had fought for Jillian’s life, not necessarily the Moonz. He knew this. His lips found hers again, more passionately.

  His fingers fidgeted on the sword that meant the world to him. It was his Sonz sword, but the handle now had a moon reworked in gold on the hilt. Drane had gifted the sword to Phel and publicly announced him a member of the war band. Phel warned between breaths and kisses, “Drane is my friend, and we should take care.”

  “Drane has always known he’ll have to compete for me. Neither of us would have guessed it’d be you. What is the fun of rolling over and giving him what he wants?”

  His Sonz sentimentally did not have an answer to her reasoning.

  “Besides, I’m growing fond of the dog of Waver Town.” The past month there had been much bonding between Phel and Jillian. “Someone’s come a long way since being the pooper-scooper.”

  “He is still the town pooper-scooper.” Felina poked her head up from behind the back of the leather couch, taking a break from the map in her lap.

  “Meldz thinks I am a fraud, Jill. Don’t you think it’s odd that Drane was punished on his suicide mission after he publicly made me a warrior?”

  “I don’t doubt that Meldz is up to something. He does not share his counsel with his warriors. Meldz is certainly punishing Drane, or maybe he just used that as an excuse; Meldz is complicated.”

  Felina’s head bobbled up again. “Pooper-scooper, don’t give yourself too much credit. You are simply a pawn in politics a simpleton like you would never understand.”

  Jillian tossed an empty mead jug playfully at the couch. “Let him be, Felina, darling.”

  “Has Meldz always been like this?” Phel asked the women.

  “Meldz is jealous of Drane’s command of men and of the respect he’s earned.”

  “Meldz is a maniac.” Felina went behind the map again. “Or there is some agenda we don’t know about. He is the direct report to King Eddard.”

  Felina stood, put the map on the table, and pointed a knife at it. “He probably was sent on a mission to the Markets.”

  “We need Drane to complete his mission to the Markets,” Phel said.

  “What do you think of Meldz’s new secret initiative, Phel and Felina?” Jillian referred to the letters from Meldz ordering Waver Town to send two dozen villagers to an undisclosed location. Meldz would have had Jillian’s head if he’d known Phel was reading them too.

  “If Meldz comes and orders more of our farmers to leave with his division and takes members of their families for the Creator knows what…” Phel was frustrated at having to dig more graves for his countrymen who died resisting Meldz because they hadn’t wanted to leave with the intimidating lord.

  “Meldz’s new project is quite mysterious. He discloses nothing.” Phel looked at the shovel with fresh dirt on it that rested against the wall.

  Jillian rolled out another map on the wooden table in front of Felina that showed the forces of the Moonz. A new camp had been set up. It was marked in black on the map. But Meldz hadn’t told Drane or Jillian what the purpose of the camp was. The location was not a good staging point for an attack on the Alexorian capital. But it was well hidden and near many highways that connected different peoples. It was far in the south.

  Jillian kissed Phel again; despite his inhibitions, Phel readily returned the favor. “The only reason I like you, Alexorian, is that Lord Meldz hates you. It must mean you are doing something correct!”

  “Or because you know I saved you and proved I am not a worthless.”

  Felina said from behind them, “You still smell like the shit buckets you carried for so long.” The women giggled.

  “You know your new friend Drane will demand a fight to the death over me.” Jillian smiled in her mischievous but innocent manner. “I would fight a rival to the death if I felt a prize slipping from my grasp.”

  Phel frowned. He knew she was correct.

  She hummed and said, “Warriors of the Driston don’t let a prize such as me go without a fight to the death. You will honor him by this challenge. Two men died over me already.”

  “Two?”

  “The first, an elite, killed the second. I killed the elite.” She shrugged at the glare from Phel. “His left eye twitched funny like. It bothered me.”

  Looking at Jillian, he said, “I will not betray Drane. I won’t fight him to the death. It is not my way.”

  “He will fight you nevertheless.” She pointed at the capital of Alexoria. “It is our way.”

  Felina chimed in. “Is it the Alexorian way to sleep with another’s partner and hide it from the world? A warrior earns what he desires.”

  “Is it betrayal if it remains hidden?” Phel asked.

  “Where is your integrity, sir? The princess would be appalled.” Jillian laughed in a teasing manner.

  “Do knights from your people slink about in the dark to keep their names honorable?” The women loved to jest about the Alexorian honor system.

  “He will never know. We will figure another way out.” Phel had attempted to explain it clearly, but his code of reasoning never seemed to be understood.

  Jillian smiled at him sympathetically, which told him she thought he was naive and foolish to believe what he believed. He hoped it would not come to a fight. But he did not know how to avoid the inevitable.

  Chapter 22

  Barstools

  Quarter 1, Day 9

  “By the holy human stock!” David said aloud to the empty street. “Management was tough.” Working through the difficulty of tough relational situations, the menial and repeated relational grinding work that managers had to endure was tiring David out. “Ther
e is always a price to be paid for profit.” This was expected.

  “Sandpaper ministry,” Mind Doc Gus had said, describing the singularity of relational strain a respectable manager shouldered for the benefit of his company. “Managing people, even disciplined, hard-working people, will grate and grind and saw away at your spirit. Add two or more people to a team, and you invite discontentment, drama, and sometimes strife. A good manager jumps in and micromanages all relationships.” The man in the yellow monk robes had pounded his hands together and rubbed them against each other as if he was warming them. “Visualize two rocks moving in such a manner, grating and grinding. The surface of each will lose bits of sediment. The remaining faces will be smoother and cleaner. But something is lost.” Before stepping into his management role, David would have thought the image to be insightful, if a bit far-fetched.

  David had told his Mindmonk, “Being a manager means prestige and power; it doesn’t mean sacrifice or pain.” There was no cost—at least he had foolishly believed that.

  The golden-robed wise man, with a trimmed full beard speckled with occasional white, had continued. “And, Twenty-Three, you also lose a bit of yourself by getting stuck between the grinding affairs of your team. Yes, indeed. Sandpaper ministry.”

  David looked over his shoulder as he walked. “I believe you now, Doc.” Bright-green deciduous buds were springing forth from the plentiful trees arranged decoratively on the perimeter of the Nnect campus.

  The stress had driven David out of the labs. One memo from Grandpa Greg complained about David’s poor leadership quality. Then another threatening memo from Grandpa Greg declared he was going to hack David’s files. It went on and on. Grandpa Greg was making David pay for some unknown slight. “Damn defect.”

  He had slipped out of Lave Labs to recover his constructive temperament. Peace. If he could find renewal and recharge, he could tip the scale over the emotional fulcrum and reach a happier place. A brief respite would help him reclaim his central positivity after getting frustrated with the ongoing confrontations.

  David wandered away from the campus, through the bustling ironbound streets, to a secluded cozy spot beneath a glorious leafy king palm tree in the empty Clock Park. He sat down and lowered himself into the hot sand and wispy grass, feeling the soft distortion of the sand beneath him. He closed his eyes, bathing in the warmth of the sun. It was refreshing. He sought a happier spiritual composure. A renewal for doing. He thought of his life’s work and smiled. He opened his eyes and stared at his arms.

  For some reason time seemed to sit motionless beneath these trees. And as he watched the lazy breeze rustle through the branches, time also seemed to wander with it. No one would know where he was for several hours. It was brainstorming time for the team leaders, so he would not be missed. And he was hidden. The long days of testing human being slaves had tired him out emotionally and physically. He stared at his blue arm, then at his invasive platinum armband, which peaked out from under his sleeve. Trying to lead the opinionated and brash executives was straining David to the limit of his mental faculties. It almost fragmented his being.

  The explanations for why it was hard to prevail over the others stretched as wide as the sky reached above the park. The three managers knew more about everything than David; he was still playing catch-up. The others had known about the existence of the rest of humanity, these human beings; David was still trying to wrap his mind around this new reality, while at the same time trying to figure out this whole career change.

  “Fire it all! Opportunity is exhausting.” He let out an exasperated sigh. David sat and hid under the tree, despite his brand’s intuitive urgings to be about doing. His mind and heart and body shrieked at him with so many varying emotions, new feelings, just desires, and unhinged mind-sets. But he hid from the responsibility of doing for a moment, trying to catch his breath, calming his heart rate, and preparing to reenter the fray.

  He glanced around the park, leaning on his elbows. “Why the Clock Tower Palm Park?” David asked the trees. He decided to let the palms in on a secret. “I came here because it was the spot where I met my Gayle.” He thought about the meeting. The trees seemed to be reproachful of his motivations for sitting in their palmy shadows. He could sense it in the way the leafy branches waved at him.

  So he screamed at his heartless accusers. “I didn’t ask to meet off the grid. She wanted to meet off the grid. Oh yes. The beautiful damaged one endeavored to trick me with her wiles.” Shifting blame was an effective coping mechanism of his. “Gayle offered me the fruit of involvement in some counterproductive illegal group. A temptress.” The trees continued to wave their condemning branches at him. A coconut dropped on his leg with a thud. He winced at his attacker, knowing it would bruise. “Ouch. I obviously didn’t agree with her. I’ve every right to sit under your leaves. It means nothing to no one.” It was the only place he could think of that allowed some solitude and hiding from others.

  I don’t need to let the trees know my motivations. David knew he was blameless. The rising guilt needed to be shoved down deeper before the damn trees saw his internal confusion.

  And there was something else bothering his conscience and his body. After two days of frantic working and no time for hygiene, the “cursed gift” on his arm was itching fiercely. Hidden under his sleeve, the illegal armband waited to expose him, like a shark under the surging ocean surface, waiting and dangerous. A heretical curse from a crazy old freeman. “No one can know about you,” he spoke to it. It gleamed, shiny and innocent. “You’re not innocent!”

  He tried to block “the gift” from his mind, but his attempt to dislocate the thought did not work; it was like trying to keep his tongue from touching a cold sore in his mouth. David was hiding this reprehensible gift on his right arm. The old man from the Gravetless had cursed him. That smiling, kind old man had tricked David.

  “Kindness is always a guise for scheming.” This truth had been forgotten foolishly; now he was suffering for an unknown agenda.

  He could picture in his mind’s eye the man’s long, haphazard white beard and goofy, friendly grin; he could still see the QC captain guiding the cursed oracle away on the train. David could hear the old man’s words echoing in the silence of the glade: “Freedom is a responsibility.” The old man and his hide-and-seek game.

  “Screw abusing your freedom to torture me, old man. I swear by the sacred CEO himself, I will remove this curse.” But here it still was. A mark of heresy, mutiny, and blasphemy with the deepest, darkest connotations. A mark of the old man’s curse. It was the antithesis of the goodness of the brand on his left arm.

  Suddenly David’s left arm sent a convulsion of justified fear through his body. “Turn yourself in to QC, and explain what happened!” the brand seemed to scream at him. Fear clenched David’s heart. Too late for that. He would be punished. He stood up and screamed and then fell on his face, convulsing as his body struggled fiercely with his tattoo. Thirty minutes later the convulsions temporarily ceased, and David regained a semblance of composure.

  He glanced around. In the near distance, he saw the glorious city of Xchange. Solutions aren’t always found in one day. The working man must be at times merciful to himself and at other times taxing as a punishing whip. Discern prudently which is the moment’s remedy, he remembered his Mindmonk saying to him.

  “Well, I’ll find a way to get free.” David stared at his left arm and spoke to it, the blessed arm that was always exposed to the world.

  David began to think about all the good things that had happened in his career in the last week. The old man’s ill-humored curse was not going to get him down. With this change in thought and attitude, the Nnect brand was stronger, blessing him; the tattoo warmed David with confidence and comfort. David focused on his birthright brand instead of the heretical mockery.

  As the sun centered itself above David, he carefully rolled down his right sleeve and wandered out into the world. His mind was still reeling from all the emo
tional stimuli from the last hour. He didn’t choose his steps but meandered without realizing or caring where he was going. He just walked as his brain regained control of the situation. Tears were still drying on his freckled cheeks from the fear-induced convulsions.

  “Wandering is wasting.” A trainer from his fifth year had beaten that quote into them. Thinking about life outside of the corporate structure led one toward a lack of productivity. Wandering, wandering. I am wandering and wasting time. His mind began to come back to reality.

  One careless step after the other carried him forward. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to go back and face the very real threat of Grandpa Greg’s vendetta. At first David trod on clean and respectable pathways, but as his haphazard wandering continued, his feet took him onto filthy roads. The shiny streets and walkways gave way to streets covered in grime. Normally his subconscious mind kept him away from degraded streets, which were interwoven throughout the body of the city like a cancer, but his wandering moved him away from the sterilized and sanctioned sections of Xchange.

  “Wandering is wasting.” The voice of his teacher screamed from the past, like a dying swimmer locked behind an impenetrable sheet of ice, attempting to break into the open. Yet David continued to wander. His thoughts were a distraught and tangled web. He felt a growing need for the comforting stimulus of his brand, but it was acting less and less consistently these days.

  “Maybe the armband or this managerial stress is hurting the connection with my tattoo?” He mused.

  David kicked at a dead bird on the polluted street without realizing what it was. The bird flopped lifelessly through a steel grate and disappeared into the underbelly of a forgotten underground labyrinth of subways and gutters.

  He walked on. Maybe he needed some sort of deeper healing. Some deeper connection with himself. He didn’t know. But relaxation reset, it wasn’t unheard of to be pulled by a manager and sent to such a mental retreat. This was a treatment for stress. A lack of serenity plagued his normally stalwart career mind-set. His heart waged a war with the need for something that he could not quite identify or understand.