For Butt

They reached the peak of the hill just before midday. The mounts stood motionless in pools of the mingled sweat of man and horse that collected in puddles beneath their hooves. The armor so well designed to protect the men's bodies from the weapons of enemies now worked with the sun to exhaust them; encasing their bodies in metal ovens and draining them of all strength and moisture.
The fortress lay below them, teeming with starving Creatures. The inner courts, only just visible over the summits of the outer walls, seemed to move as if the fortress itself was a living entity of flesh, blood and fur. The very air seemed to wash over the men with a nearly tangible sense of anger and unending hunger. Aiden's stomach soured. Something had happened here.
The sun, nearly finished with the day's work, bathed the small band of warriors in its final rays, making it seem to the Creatures as if a vast army hovered above them, waiting to pounce. The flurry of activity that had not ceased since midday last rose in ferocity. In nearly hysterical excitement, they prepared.
The men slid from their mounts to their knees and from there allowed gravity to pull them the rest of the way to the ground. The horses eagerly nosed the water bags slung over their shoulders, licking the drops that escaped from the loosely tied ends.
Anders came to stand at Aiden's stirrup. "Aiden, we have to make camp for the night. We can go no further this day."
Aiden didn't take his eyes off the fortress. "Something has got them riled."
"All the more reason to take our rest now."
Aiden didn't respond.
Anders took his arm. "We all but have her, Aiden. She's just down there. Let her rest tonight. We will have her tomorrow." He shook Aiden's arm. Aiden looked down at him. "We will have her tomorrow, Aiden. Now come."


This time they didn't bother to hide the fire. They piled as much timber and twigs on the flames as they were willing to brave the dark for. When they were finally satisfied with the blaze, they lowered their aching bodies to the ground and sat in silence, waiting. From time to time they glanced at Aiden, but he remained motionless, staring out at the silhouette of the fortress lying in wait below them. For hours the only sound that broke the uneasy silence was the shuffling of horses trying to find a decent place to lie down. Some of the band slept, but most just lay on their backs and watched the flames slowly consume the kindling. Their eyes, gleaming orbs framed by shadow masks, held vacant expressions that hid the fear behind them.
Light was just beginning to spread across the sky when Aiden finally stirred.
"We proceed as before."
They all sat up and watched him.
"Anders, you take squad one and circle around to the rear entrance. Solomon, you take squad two and approach the west wall. When you have engaged them on both sides, I will take the main force to the front gate."
Solomon and Anders exchanged a glance.
"You know we haven't the force to launch such an assault with any kind of affect," Solomon said. "Had we the full two thousand we started out with I would gladly support your plan. But twenty battle-weary men could not make the smallest indentation in the Creatures' numbers. Their archers would fell us before we saw where they perched."
"And even were we to reach the gates, our numbers are too small to fell them or to take the inner courts were we to get inside."
"We will not have to fell the gates, nor will we be divided when we launch the main assault. A watcher squad patrols the outside of the fortress. When they see an attack from such a small band, they will rather handle the problem themselves then share the meat with an entire battalion. Anders, as soon as your squad has engaged them, move to Solomon's position on the west field. The watcher squad will pursue and you will break in opposite directions in great disarray. Smelling a fresh meal, the Creatures still inside will open the gates and attempt to round you up. I will come in with the remainder of the force and join up with you. We will then punch through them and make straight for the cells on the upper levels."
"Once we have gained the inner courts and, gods willing, the upper levels, how are we to escape?"
"We don't."
They stared at him.
"We don't?"
"No. Once we have Gabriella, we will make for the stables where they keep the captured horses. Five of the surviving men will ride out with her, not pausing to fight or to assist anyone in any way. Their priority is to get Gabriella out. The rest of us will do what we can to get out. But I will not deceive you; the chances of our survival are almost non-existent."
They looked at each other, the fear no longer masked.
"Each of you agreed to come with me under the assumption that there was a hope of returning. I tell you now that there is no longer any such hope. Because this is the case, any who wish to return now are free to do so. No man here will think less of any man who so chooses and you will leave here with your honor. Be there any who choose to leave, do so now."
One man turned and was quietly sick. No one else stirred.
Anders slowly stood and began to make his way to the horses. "First squad, on your feet. Get your gear ready; nothing heavier than your sword. Get your mounts warmed up. Be prepared to ride out by sunup."
The moment of terror passed, the camp was a flurry of activity as each man chose his weapon and made ready his horse. Shortly after sunup the three groups split up; Solomon through the trees to the west, Anders to the east, the remainder behind the crest of the hill overlooking the battlefield. Like he had done on countless other battlefields across the Kingdom, Aiden prayed and waited for the first blow.

Shadows

The door swung in on its rusty hinges, crying out as if in pain as it slowly opened up into a room that somehow seemed darker than he remembered it. A flip of the switch failed to illuminate the room, and he began to run his hand along the cieling to the center where he knew a lightbulb should be. With a sharp intake of breath, he drew his hand back and licked the blood from his fingers. Brief flashes of lightning bounced off the jagged edges of the remains of the lightbulb. Swearing softly, he searched his pockets for a box of matches and lit the candle in the corner. The bench along the opposite wall still held the remains of someone's lunch--a stale sandwich and an empty bag of chips--but the rest of the room was bare. The sounds of dripping water coming from the bathroom behind him were the only sounds that could be heard between peals of thunder and blasts of wind. He didn't like that all this had to go down in this filthy little building, but it would have to do. Any mess made here could easily be masked.
He walked to the small window in the door and looked out at the park grounds. The basketball court had become a small pond, the drops of rain relentlessly pelting the surface in waves. Unfortunately, there was no chance of the shindig being called off because of a small storm. They would still come.
He set his coat and hat on the counter and stretched out on the bench to wait. He removed a brown paper bag from his satchel and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. Normally he didn't drink when he was on a job. But this was not his job. He downed about a third of the bottle and idly watched the glowing end of his cigarrette slowly make its way up the shaft. His hand floated a few inches in front of his face as he traced a name in the air with the trailing smoke. The lights around the edge of the basketball court filtered in through the dirty window and cast his shadow on the wall in front of him. He watched the outline of his mouth seep out smoke until the haze made the beams of light seem almost solid.
After what seemed like hours, his shadow disappeared as a set of headlights danced across the wall. Slightly apprehensive, but not especially scared, he wiped the ashes off his vest, sat upright facing the door, and waited.
They entered slowly; first their shadows, then the rest of them. No one spoke at first. They filled the room, lining up against the wall and the door. Their hats blocked what little light was coming through the window. The dying candle failed to reveal their faces, but he knew them. He recognized their stances, their shapes, the sounds of their coughs in the uneasy silence. He knew every one of them.
"Evening, gentlmen. Fine night for visiting old friends, isn't it?"
They stirred uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry we have to do this, but we have our orders."
"Yes, of course. Must follow orders, musn't we? Tell me, Lucius, how much are you getting for me?"
Lucius remained still. "It isn't a question of money. It's a matter of principle."
"Sure. Next you'll tell me it's not personal, it's strictly business. You watch too many movies, Lucius."
"Sit down."
"I'd rather do this standing, actually."
"Suit yourself. Is there anything we can do for you?"
"Yes, there is."
"Name it."
"I want you to tell Abby that the answer to her question is 'all the time.'"
Lucius nodded. "I will. I'm sorry, Aiden."
Aiden looked at him for a long time. "I know, Lucius. So am I."


The storm had moved on by morning. After three straight days of rain the clouds parted and the sun saw earth again. It slowly spilled into the little room, casting a filtered light on newly bleached cement and whitewashed walls. The remains of an interrupted drink sat under the bench next to an empty package of cigarretes. The light filled the room, but it couldn't dispel the shadows.

Story Corner

I spent spring break with my roommate at his house in Indianna. It was both a blessing to get out of Iowa for a while and a bit of a trial being away from so many of my friends for that long and being in a new place with new people and feeling like I was imposing on them every time I had to use the bathroom. (Hooray for run ons!) But I came away from the experience with a new appreciation for my roommate and a few cool knick knacks that now clutter my desk. My favorite part of the trip, however was when we took a detour on the way home and stopped by his grandparents house in Wisconson for one day and two nights. They treated us wonderfully--loading us up on all kinds of delicious homemade food and such, trying to make us fat with his grandfather's fantastic cooking and his grandmother's formidable baking, and letting us sleep in their apartment-like basement. But the thing that I liked the best was listening to their stories.
It's amazing how everybody tells a story in a different way. Some people sit there and take their time to remember every detail like what they ate that Sunday that Gladys said something funny, or how old the dog was when they took a trip to Washington. Others will just tell you the key points of the story with all the embellishments that their imagination will allow them. What's even better is when you have an elderly married couple that has one of each such storytellers. That was Adam's grandparents.
They had been married for well over fifty years and you could tell. They fulfilled each other completely while at the same time they remained two different people. When the news wasn't on or we weren't reading a book they liked nothing better than to sit with us and tell us the stories they had made over their liftime.
Adam's grandfather had been a pastor for many years. Before that he was in the navy and he had gone to clown school at one point. He met his wife at college and she supported him in everything he did. He, in turn, supported her with all the same love and respect that she showed him.
My biggest goal in life is to become a great storyteller. But as we were sitting there listening to them and they tried to figure out on what day of the week this particular story happened, I remember thinking, "Gosh, I hope I never get to where all I have to look forward to is telling my grandchildren what I did on the sixth of April, 2006. I want to be out making the stories until I drop dead on a set like John Ritter (hopefully I'll be a little older than he was) or I die while in the midst of making my very own rescue story in which I'm actually the hero." But as the stories progressed I realized that they were far from being finished with making their stories. For them every day held the potential of being an account of love, hate, excitement, fear, and hilarity that would be retold every Christmas with the same desired reactions from their audience each time. They were not done making their stories. They just couldn't wait until the end of their lives to tell the ones that they had. It was then that I did a complete one-eighty and said to myself in extreme excitement, "I want that to be me. I desperately want to be able to sit down with my wife and tell my children's children exactly what happened on the sixth of April, 2006." For an aspiring storyteller, what would be better than living a life that is one fantastic story after another? What would be better than sharing each and every story up until the very last one in which I meet whatever end God has for me?
The moral of this revelation is to remember your own stories and never take a single day for granted. Yes, it's cliche and it's said in every kid's book known to man, but when you are old and you have seen many things that others haven't, you will want to tell others with confidence exactly what you ate that Sunday that Gladys said something funny. You will use every bit of imagination and selective memory you have to embellish each story almost to the point of disbelief.
Now go make some stories, then come find me. I want to hear every one of them.