Shaken, Still

It was December near Christmas time. I had flown home from Davis, near Sacramento, to my home in Lakewood (near Long Beach/L.A.). I was thrilled to be home, and to be enjoying the holidays with my friends, family, and a girlfriend who has stayed with me and been good to me, even with 400 miles between us.

My first night home, we watched a movie at my parents' house. It was probably around midnight when the movie finished and I walked her out to her car. It was a long goodnight, as is to be expected after those months of separation. I was about to send her on her way when I noticed three people walking on the sidewalk toward us. They set off one of those sensing lights. I remember being nervous, but dismissing it. Lakewood is a quiet city with reasonably low crime rates, and I assumed the best about the three: they were on their way somewhere and couldn't drive. It was another three seconds or so before their behavior made it obvious that I was mistaken. They spread out, two in the street, one on the sidewalk, and continued to walk toward us.

I knew what was happening before he said the words, before they pulled out their guns. I calmed myself, resolved to keep my composure, and give them no reason to do harm.

"Money, wallets. Now. Don't make no noise, and I don't wanna see no cops, or we come back and shoot up the block."

I told them I had no money... I remember thinking (even then) that it was funny that I told them so in the same way you might tell a bell ringing Santa or a beggar outside of a grocery store. It was true. I was broke. I even showed them, but they took the wallet anyway. They took my girlfriend's purse, with maybe $200 and a three day old iPod nano. The speaker had a big gun. A revolver, black, with an obviously larger bore than his two silent and nervous cohorts. I don't know very much about guns, so I'll say no more than that.

Then he rifled through my pockets. I don't care about the stuff, but he put his hands in my pockets with the gun against my chest, right in front of my house.

In addition to the purse and wallet, he got my digital camera, but that's really not important. I didn't mind canceling all my cards that night. I didn't mind going to the DMV to get a new license. I didn't even mind that I lost my favorite toy.

They took my sense of security. They took my sense of safety. They took my positive outlook, and they took my trust for others. I was shaking and seeing hooded black men watching me in every car that passed that night as I gave my report to the officer. I was sure I was going to be shot right there by the patrol car every time a car rolled by. (I didn't know what they were driving, because after they finished they ran off around a corner, presumably to a waiting car).

I had been a mildly paranoid... or strongly cautious, take your pick... person before, but now I am on constant alert, day or night, everywhere. I imagine being car jacked. I imagine break ins in my home. I imagine random shooting and shadowy figures emerging from the night.

It kept me up many a night, and still does on occasion now, eight months later. I imagine what else I might have done. I imagine, as unrealistic as I *know* it is, disarming the first and killing the others. Or sending my girlfriend driving on first sight of them. Or at least following them around the corner to see what they drove.

But mostly, over and over again, I imagine blowing them away with that big gun that had pressed so cold against my own chest.

The Job

“Bulls eye!” whispered a dark looking man as he lowered his longbow. “I shot it right out of the sky! I only wish I could go find it so we could cook it. You’re sure he’ll come this way, right Vern?”

“I’m sure, Harl.”

Two men, heavily cloaked and deeply hidden within the woods along side the rode stared intently toward the horizon, waiting.

“You’re positive, Vern?”

“I’m sure, Harl.”

The man named Harl shifted his weight uncomfortably and wrapped his cloak tighter, trying to ward off the pre-dawn chill.

The night before, Vern and Harl had been camping further back in the forest. Bandits by trade, the proposition that followed was rather unusual. A well dressed man found them, stealing his way into their camp, and joining them at the fire without asking. Vern and Harl were on the verge of cutting his throat when he proposed a job. How would they like to play assassin for a day, instead of lowly brigands? Yes, if the price is right, of course they would. And so gold changed hands and the two men began breaking camp. The bedrolls were rolled. The fire was put out. The area was cleaned and made as pristine as it had been before they had arrived. They might be bandits, but they were no slobs.

“Did you fill the latrine?” Vern asked

“I think so… Can you believe how much he’s going to pay us? I can’t believe it! We could almost retire! Do you suppose it will be hard to kill him? He said nobody had managed it yet. Something about Karma or some garbage…”

On and on Harl babbled about the money and the job. He had never been so excited. That is, until the chill set in. Then the work became decidedly less fun.

Some distance from the road and the two shady men, there was taking place a gut wrenching scene. A great hair beast, built much like a Bulbar and looking much like a gorilla, only a great deal bigger than either, was swinging its tree-trunk like arms at a young deer. Flecks of saliva spattered everywhere as the great monster sought to bring down his next meal. Now, in many stories, such adorable, innocent creatures are able to escape such predicaments through some absurd deus ex machina. This story is no different. High above the tragic scene, a duck died in mid-air, an arrow shooting straight through its fragile body. It fell like a rock through the air. The dead poultry struck the great hairy monster with staggering force, giving the fortunate deer a chance to flee. It did not escape unscathed, however. As it passed the monster, a single flailing arm caught its side, and the cracking of ribs was audible.

Not too far away, an elderly mage was kicking awake a much younger looking man.

“Get…up,” he said gruffly, punctuating the works with swift kicks.

The younger man groaned and rolled over, and swiftly received a foot to the kidney. With a gasp of pain he jump to his feet. A flash of anger danced across his eyes, but the old mage did not appear concerned.

“Go gather some firewood. Its cold in here.”

The younger man looked as though he would have liked to object, but he sighed hopelessly and grabbed a fur-lined cloak. He banged the door open loudly and stormed off, muttering something about an evil old codger.

A few yards away, a druid was awakened by the labored breathing of the fleeing, injured deer. Silently he rose, and walked toward the sound. It was not long before he caught up with the crippled animal, which was on the verge of collapse. Rushing to the deer’s side, the druid began tending to the poor animal. His hands were quick and able, and the air seemed to buzz with the silent magic of Amja as he worked on the deer. Sweat broke out on his brow, beading and running down his face, but he continued to work on the young animal. At last, he sat back in exhaustion with a weary but satisfied look on his sweat drenched face. The deer stood up slowly, testing its newly mended body. Realizing that it was healed, it nuzzled the druid in thanks and trotted away.

Our story follows the deer for a bit, as it comes upon the two shady men who had unwittingly saved its life. Curiously, the deer stepped toward them. Startled, one of the men leapt to his feet, his eyes wide with fear. Upon seeing the source of the noise, he grew angry. Scared by a harmless deer! He would show it who was boss! Stooping down, he picked up a rather large stone and hurled it at the poor beast, which fled at the prospect of another confrontation.

Not terribly far away, the young mage’s apprentice was carrying an armload of branches to be used as firewood, still grumbling and calling his master malicious names. He was in a terribly foul mood, and the cold of the early morning was not helping. He cursed loudly as he fumbled numbly with a large, precariously balanced branch. Just then, the unfortunate fawn bolted out of the brush, running headlong into the foul tempered man, who was bowled over and dropped his large pile of branches. With a scream of rage, the young man hurled a bolt of fire at the ill-fated beast, who failed to dodge and was struck down by the arcane incendiary. Screams of pain and the smell of seared flesh filled the air.

“You little piece of filth!” A voice came from the trees. “You will pay dearly for this crime.”

The druid who had labored so hard to mend the little deer stepped into the open. His face was as dark as a thundercloud, and his eyes were filled with a raging fury that threatened to engulf the stunned young man. Without another word, the druid went to work, hurling burning seeds into his opponents face. The echoes of the screaming man and the groaning deer mingled with the stink of the burning flesh of both. The druid’s rage wasn’t sated by the burning attack, however. He quickly forgot the magic and began swinging his large fists into the younger man head. An animal panic crept into the young apprentice’s eyes, and he began yelling out an incantation. A practiced mage would recognize the words as belonging to a simple Shocking Grasp, but a practiced mage would also recognize the mistakes the amateur mage was making. I am no mage, myself, and cannot tell you what exactly went wrong. But I can tell you that the mistakes sent a shockwave ripping through the clearing. The fabric of the young mage’s very existence was torn to pieces, and the druid, the deer, and all the trees for yards around were completely obliterated.

“What was that, Vern?”

“I don’t know, Harl. It came from where we camped last night, though. I reckon—SHH! Quiet!”

Vern pulled Harl deeper into their hiding place as a large group of curious villagers began walking cautiously toward the racket.

“What do you suppose it was?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we’re coming to check isn’t it?”

“But what could it have been?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Conversations drifted through the now quiet air as the villagers found their way to the epicenter of the blast.

“Noisy buggers, aren’t they Vern?”

Vern only nodded.

Apparently, they WERE very noisy buggers, because they managed to attract the attention of a rather large, rather hungry beast who had already lost one meal that morning. The great hairy monster heard the voices as well, and made his way toward the babbling feast. He would not lose breakfast again. He would kill them all before they could run.

And he did.

There were twenty dead villagers, and an angry beast loose in the local forest. The King had to react. It was the easiest reaction: send a whole lot of soldiers to slaughter the beast.

And he did.

The soldiers swarmed on the great monster who was much slower and less deadly after eating its fill of villager flesh. Swords slashed and shields rang and the bowmen prepared to strike the killing bow. The knocked an arrow, drew, and fired. Nearly all found their mark, and the hairy beast fell to the ground, extremely dead. Now, you might have noticed that I said ‘nearly all’ arrows hit. There was, in fact, only one that did not hit. It was fired by an unseasoned bowman, a fresh recruit to the kings rank. The miss could not be blamed entirely on inexperience. The poor boy had stepped forward to draw his bow, and stepped in a rather foul smelling hole. Falling, the bowman let fly his arrow, praying it would find its mark.

It didn’t.

It sailed through the air, arcing gracefully back to earth. The bowman didn’t see it come down. Neither did Vern. Neither did Harl. The two latter might have seen it, considering the close proximity in which it landed. To say it landed close is actually an understatement. The stray arrow, being the long kind that longbowmen shoot had gone through Harl’s neck, and gone halfway through Verns back, where it most certainly pierced his heart. And down the road came a whistling, smiling man who walked with a definite spring in his step. He was dressed like a commoner, though his grooming suggested a higher rank. On he walked, past the dying men who stared at him with unseeing eyes.

Who was he? It doesn’t matter. What was the point of the story? I’m not entirely sure. I’ll let you gather what lesson you will, but I learned to fill in your latrine before breaking camp, or you might step in shit.