*************************************

They were formed some time in the far distant past.  Just a legend to many, their existence was known to only a few; those who had seen one or more of them materialize out of the shrouded woodland surrounding some small settlement, defend the rights and lives of the occupants, and then melt back into the fog-cloaked forest.  No one knew exactly where they lived. Or how.  All that was known was that in times of need, they would somehow know, and come.

There were Eleven ‘Watchers’.  All agreed on that fact.  Though no one knew how their numbers were maintained or where they once called home.  They could be identified by their shiny black and crimson armor, though they usually covered themselves from head to black boot-top with thick grey cloaks.  Their horses were said to be majestic animals five hands higher than most anything found in your common town or village.  They carried sword, axe, and bow and were said to be masters of each.  And there was more.

They carried weapons that could kill from a distance with fire, or smoke, or light.  They could reach out with their amazing talismans, it was said, and kill a standing man before that man could hear or see the finger of death that took him.  They could destroy strongholds in thunder and acrid smoke.  They took no pay.  Asked no more than an occasional meal or place to sleep.  They followed some unknown law or code seemingly known only to themselves.  And were to be carefully welcomed wherever they chose to appear.  There had been fakes before, it was said, that tried to take advantage of this or that town, but they disappeared into the night leaving any of their ill-gotten gains in a pile at the outskirts of the town they had duped.  Few tried to impersonate them.

Every Longest Day in the summer at dusk, each home would light a candle in a window to their shadowy protectors’ health, and recite a verse passed down through untold generations:

“Lonely warrior in black and red,
Lacking friend, home, or bed.
Watch over us and keep us safe,
Protect rich man, poor man, thief, and waif!”

This would be followed by a feast by the household, unmatched at any other time of the year.  Bonfires would be lit and families would gather together from great distances to drink to the lonely warriors’ health and well being deep into the night.  Even though some no longer believed in these mythical figures of legend, especially in the larger towns, they still lit the candle and muttered the verse under their breath if nothing else.  Every mother drilled that Four line ward into the hearts and minds of every child so that they would never be without it.

It was also said that when a steading reached a certain size, one of these legends would appear and speak to the Head man in private and leave him with a way to call for help, though no one would say what that might be.  Stories told of wooden tripods set up near troubled homes with something odd on top, but no one would say or really wanted to know what it might be.  After all, their lives were hard, and they were content enough to know that such a thing might exist for their protection.

*****************************************************

Terrace was such a Steading.  Not really big enough to be called a ‘town’, Terrace was made up of a cluster of a dozen or so houses and outbuildings with a population of 43, mostly children.  Add to that the three dozen head of cattle,  some pigs and chickens, and what used to be several score of cats and dogs.  That was the way of things in Oldan these days.  People only lived thirty or so years before they were cut down by accident, infection, or some unknown internal ailment.  So people, like the animals they herded,  had children. Lots of them.  Other steadings had grown into proper towns this way. It was not unheard of.

Summer had been good for the steading. Hotter than normal, the rain had come in abundance and the crops and animals blossomed in abundance as well.  Harvest was heavy and plentiful.  Unlike some years in the recent past, no one would go hungry this winter.  The people celebrated the end of harvest with dancing and home-brewed liquor and actually looked forward to the fall and first freeze.  The men had plenty of time to gather and split firewood and kindling and by the time the first skiffs worked their way down into the valley, all in Terrace had a warm, well-stocked place for the next two seasons.  Morale was high.

But Terrace had a problem.  A very serious one.  Something was hunting the occupants.  It started with a few missing cats.  Then dogs, missed more because they were used to keep wild animals and wandering cutthroats at bay and to warn the steading-folk of things moving in the dark.  At first folks just thought the animals might have just wandered off.  It happened sometimes.  But then the cattle started dying.  Not in the way one with old age might lay down and refuse to get up, but rather by something sneaking into their pens and tearing them to shreds, leaving naught behind but some pieces of hide or chunks of flesh and pools of blood.  One animal was taken every four nights.  Without fail.

The men of Terrace set up patrols and guards.  It was quickly found that the remaining hounds would refuse to leave their pallets after dusk.  If dragged out into the night, they would crawl whimpering against the foundations of whatever building was nearby and refuse to move.  Knowing that the loss of their cattle meant the deaths of their families, the men could not do the same, even if many of them wished to.  Some families had even taken to sleeping with their cattle in the barns.  It made little difference.  Every fourth night another animal suffered the same grisly fate.

Then, about two months into the nightmare, the first steadsman was killed.  Young Bakerson was a father of only three young boys and had only a few head of cattle to his name and a plain, but loyal wife.  He had so little as it was, he could ill afford to lose anything to this beast. Or whatever it was.  Night after night he armed himself with his father’s ancient blade, an earthenware pot of hot drink, and stood watch outside his holding. Then, one morning, he did not come in from his self appointed watch.  His wife, concerned, looked for him, but only found his jug broken near the cattle pen and his sword covered with sticky black blood on the grass.  Not the blood of sheep, goat, cow or man, but something noxious and foul smelling.  Something evil.  The adults and children searched the nearby fields for him, but there was no sign to be found.

It was just after dawn the next day that the Head Man called the other six men left alive into his home.  He sent the women and children out of the single-roomed structure and, when they were gone, pulled a small object out from a small iron-bound chest under his bed.  Wrapped in green cloth, it barely fit in his right hand. He brought it over to his rough-hewn table and gently set it down.

“Last fall, during harvest, I was alone in the north pasture checking on the new lambs near sunfall when I noticed a dark figure standing just inside the tree line.  I approached and asked what he was doing waiting out in the cold when fire and food waited so close.  He said nothing until I was almost within arms’ reach.  Then he threw back his dark cloak and revealed his armor and sword.  The chain-mail gleamed red and black in the setting sun.  On his hip was the finest sword I had ever seen.  This man moved with the grace of a deer on the run!
There were gasps and exclamations at this revelation, but the headman continued, “He asked the number in our steading, to which I replied truthfully.  He seemed to think on something for a few moments and then he reached into a pouch on his belt and took out this!”
With that, the headman uncovered the object with a flourish.  It was a cube, a hands-span wide and tall, grey on the sides and glossy black with faint tan lines on the top.
“He told me that if there were ever anything beyond our strength, beyond our knowledge, or illness that took more than a quarter of us, that I was to mount this on a tripod of six tall poles in a place that caught the sun all day.  He said if I did this help would come.  It might take time, but it would come. “
Almost as afterthought, the headman added, “ He also warned me about using it for any other purpose.  He said each steading was given only one and I was only to reveal it to another only in utmost need or when my own life was in doubt.  These deaths, I think, fit what he said.”

After answering their many questions and describing the stranger again, he silenced the others and sent them into the nearby forest to cut down six tall, thin pine trees.  They returned a short time later, two to a pair.  These were taken slightly out from the buildings and sunk into the earth with their tops bound together.  The strange grey box was fixed to the top with a piece of red cloth, left long to wave in the wind.

All they could do now was wait….

One of my favorite songs has the line
“If I cannot Give you Comfort, then at least I give you hope…”
Hope.
Isn’t that the only ’real’ thing we all really have?
Hope that we will be better off financially…
Hope we will somehow get ‘better’ physically…
Hope those we love will stay close and safe….
Hope….

This year has really put me through the ringer.  I had my hopes up and was a hair’s breadth away from getting employed again after a decade.  This was something that I had hoped for and feared for a very long time.  I could almost taste it!  The fear?  That I would NOT be able to do it after all!

Turns out I have been secretly sick for some time.  So sick that the doctors had no real hope that I would make it to Thanksgiving.  Or Christmas.  Yet I persist.  Knowing the hurt my being gone would cause those I so dearly love, I hang on every single day.

Not that I get to ‘choose’ my passing, mind you.  But I do all of the things the doctors recommend to stick around.  For the most part, I get the feeling they are , themselves, just guessing.  But I persist.  Every day.

Through the pain, the heartache, the dull routine of breathing and heart beating, though I haven’t yet figured out all of the reasons to do so.  After all, there are 6 BILLION other souls on this mud ball.  Each and every one believing they are some kind of “special snowflake”.  When, in reality, we are all VERY much the same.  We hope. We dream. We hurt. We cry. We give and receive solace. Love. Pleasure.

Perhaps, though, that’s all I really have to do, persist.  Hang on hopefully for some sort of miracle or change in circumstances that will free me from my poverty or pain or health issues.  Persist in the belief in and the love I share with my Most Needed Person.

Some days, that has to be enough, I guess.

He came in the door looking at charts, tests, and notes.
“Hmmm.” He said.
“I see.” He intoned.
Never once looking in my direction.

When he finally did look up,
He said those words that over the years
I have learned to fear,
“For your own good…”

I patiently explained why cutting my pain relief
Was NOT a good option.
(Especially considering that the tests show
The things we are doing have absolved the problem.)

He appeared to listen,
All the while going over his golf handicap
Or the latest score of his favorite team.
“Just in case.” he said.

I reminded him of the walking corpse
That made it to my first appointment with him.
I discussed quality of life or lack thereof.
He nodded and agreed.

Then he mumbled a few more choice oaths like,
“Just letting you know…”
He then re-assured me that there wouldn’t be any changes
Until the first of the year at the earliest.

He swore.
He said not to worry about it.
It probably wouldn’t happen anyway.
Have a nice day!

…

I got the letter less than two weeks later…
Same words, Same reasons,
Less pain relief.
“For your own good.”

I H.A.T.E. Those four F&*^#NG words!

_____________________

As some of you know, I went into the hospital on Oct 8th with severe pneumonia. At the time, it was so severe they didn’t think that there was any way I would survive to see Sunday, much less several weeks! (We have such a great God!!)

Whilst in the hospital, they found that my doctor(s) had missed a few minor health problem I had apparently developed over the past ?year? or two; namely Congestive Heart Failure, Full blown Type 2 Diabetes, Polycythemia, A Severely enlarged heart, and various other less important issues. These were all related, to a greater or lesser degree, to the fact that my daily diuretic had failed. Over time, water had built up and water-logged my tissues preventing my meds from working, and making it nearly impossible for my heart to push O2 through my system. Of course smoking like a chimney for 20 years didn’t help.

So I’m sick. Very. (Though I feel better than I have in months.) If I make it the next month or so, we can look at trying to fix some of the major issues. Until I finish getting all of the water out/off my system, there is no real point in starting anything else.  One of the doctors gave me slightly better than 50/50 odds of making it to November 15th due to stored chemicals in my tissues, the size and weakness of the walls in my heart, and underlying other issues.  That was kind of a shock and hard to hear.

As you can probably tell, Shawna and I are and will be facing some scary issues over the next few months.  I’m sorry if we have been out of touch, or haven’t spoken to some of you in private, but it is all we can do to face each day without crying.

Shawna has been GREAT. But trying to go on like everything is ‘honkey-dory’ is tiring and difficult on the best of days. (And there have been few ‘best’ days of late.) It doesn’t help that we are facing some of the leanest times financially that we have had over the past 10 or so years. Every penny is taken before it arrives, That on top of the medical exams and tests on my poart, and the college classes and learning on Shawna’s, has us pretty well exhausted well before it is time to go to bed every day…

Also, thank you all for your individual and group offers of sympathy and help. Right now, other than money for bills (which no one has in this economy) mostly what we need are your prayers. And kind thoughts. Please continue to keep us in your prayers this fall as we battle whatever comes up. Like the Apostle Paul, to lose (my life) is gain, ’cause I know where I am going and what awaits me when I get there. (I WIN!!)

______________________________________________

I’ll put up more when I find the time and energy….

-Dave-

I’m not going to go into many details, don’t worry.

Aparently after arriving he began to undergo hazing from the regulars.  Not the “Ha ha, you have a sign on your back!” kind of hazing.  More like the broken ribs, broken wrist, black eye, split lip, bruised, tell-everyone-that-you-fell-from-a-truck kind of hazing.  They repeatedly beat and humiliated him at every opportunity.  They hurt him.  Not just physically (which is bad enough) but emotionally.

One early example:  On his 3rd day, several of the “men” gave him a cup of coffee.  He thought they were being nice.  They weren’t.  It was laced with exlax.  When he went to sleep (before it took effect) they plastic wrapped him to his bunk and placed him out in front of his tent for the next five or so hours. While he shat himself.  And they laughed.  They finally cut him loose and let him wash, then punished him for being late to formation.  It just got worse from there…

He asked me,” How could these guys do that to me?  They were supposed t o be my brothers.  Instead they….” and his voice dropped off as he began to weep. Again.

All I can do is hold him and cry.

And inside my heart a fire burns hot and hard.

(The War Crimes part coming up soon…)

The very first thing I noticed was a searing pain in my left side when I drew my first conscious breath.  I reached to feel it and discovered that apparently someone had broken all of the fingers on my right hand in my sleep.  And my left as well.

Sometimes being numb can be a blessing.  I almost wished for a moment that I couldn’t feel them at all.  It was all I could do to press against my balled fists of agony to roll myself out of bed and onto feet apparently embedded with shards of glass.

The day was NOT starting well.

I had crashed around 10pm, and awoken around 1:30 am.  Pretty standard stuff.  My Lovely awakened at around 3:30am with a pinched nerve in her shoulder, and so we spent around 45 minutes getting that back under control so she could finally rest.  She went to bed.

I stayed up for a while.

Eldest son had a chance a a new construction/roofing job starting at 7am, so I stayed awake long enough to make sure he would be able to do so.  It’s amazing how entertaining old action movies can be at 5am.

Around 6:15am I crashed again, knowing that I had to be up around 9:30am to get ready to drive Middle Daughter to meetings at 10:30am and Noon.  This worked out okay because I was due for meds around then anyway.

The real problem is that I am short of meds. Again. (Andagainandagainandagainandagain.)
Two weeks ago I over-used my meds to maintain a schedule that was, for me at least, VERY demanding.  Activities and hours of driving each day followed by meetings, BBQ’s, and dinners.  WAY more than I am used to.  So I ‘boosted’.  Repeatedly.

I came into this week with enough standing meds. (60mg Morphine ER every 8 hours.) But I was totally lacking the breakthrough meds. (30mg Morphine IR on demand.)  Naturally, I planned a week of light movement and LOTS of naps.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!1!

R-i-g-h-t.

Somehow the rest of the world didn’t get the memo.  I have driven for no less than an hour and up to three hours a day.  And cooked. And went to a concert. And washed. And stayed nice.  And listened. And encouraged. And advised. And reminded. And……

God.  Some days I feel like a hollow wooden shell of what everyone else sees.  I look out with my dead eyes and just want to get in Guinevere (my Buick) and DRIVE.  No destination. No speed limit.  No planning.  Just my Most Needed Person and I.  Driving.  With the sunroof and windows wide open, tunes blaring from my high def car stereo.

But every time I think I am just going to drive past the driveway and keep going until I run out of money, gas, or road, I hit the brakes and pull in.  I sit there with my hands trembling in the dark and wonder what it used to feel like to be young, pain-free, and alive…..

Then I shut off the car, painfully climb out of the cockpit, and stagger inside; remembering to paste a plastic smile on my face for the family before I make it through the second door.  

After all, can’t go letting them think I might actually be handicapped, can I?

*sigh*

Days and nights flow like water;
Cold, thick, discolored streams
Wrapping their icy tendrils around my
Throat, wrists, and eyes.

I’m blinded to the warmth and
Brightness around me.
Plunged into my own private hell
Of guilt, pain, and cracked memories.

Like a broken glass figurine filled with sand,
I watch the essence of my dreams
Leak through the shattered fingers
Of my half dead hands.

And I weep.

Every ounce of who I am,
What I dreamed for and
Broke mind and body towards
Is now almost within my grasp.

And yet…..

I hesitate.
I stammer and delay.
Somehow unable or unwilling
To reach out and grasp
That which I have so longed for.

What is wrong with me?
Over a decade spent in the silent dark,
And here I am on the freezing edge of sunlight,
Unable to step across the line into the warmth.

My hands sweat with the
Anticipation of controlling something
In this realm of broken dreams and
Shattered hopes.

My legs shake with the adrenalin rush
Of leaping forward to seize what is rightfully mine.

Perhaps I dream too big?
Perhaps this is all just some cruel trick
Designed to torment me yet again,
Screaming out my worthlessness and fail.

And so I wait…
For a signal, a sign.
Some indication that this is the right thing to do.
Some way of knowing it is all not just some
Cruel, Cruel masquerade.

That fiery orb of blame that
Merely exposes my weakness and inability to everyone
Still willing to be near me everyday.

The sky is a bright, clean blue…..

Which works to highlight
How sloppy and unkempt I normally am
And how difficult it is to be
That snappy young stylist I once was.

There is a soft, breeze blowing….

Carrying my stench of fear
And utter failure across the lit landscape.
Warning everyone that I am nearby so they can hide.

The grass is green and the trees are in flower….

Reminding me that I have survived
Another black winter of pain and agony
Without finding a way to fix it or the strength to end it.

Children and small animals laugh and play nearby….

Oblivious to the spectre of death and pain
Seated morosely in their midst.
If only they saw past the mask, they would hide and scream.

I sit in a wooden chair on the first day of Spring….

I miss you.
The sound of your voice, The smell of your hair.
The lingering touch of your skin,
The warm glow of your heart.

Each day together,
We filled our hearts and minds with
Those things sought out by mankind through the ages;
Trust, love, belonging-ness…

And now I am alone again.
lost in the mazes of pain and uncertainty.
Never again to find that certain feeling
Being safe.

And you are …… gone.
Swept into the night without warning or desire.
Once again pawns to Destiny’s fickle
Sense of humor.

But as long as I draw breath,
I’ll hold the sound of your voice in my heart.
And wait for the day in another life and time,
When we will be together once again.