“It’s a bad idea Jack.” Said Marcus. “Now isn’t the time to go on some fool crusade.”
“What’re you talking about dad? You fought the Germans in World War II. You were over there, doing what you needed to for your country. How is this any different?”
“You want to know how it’s different? We haven’t been attacked. Do you even know what you’re fighting for?”
“Do you know why you stopped fighting?” Read more
“Hey Cy,”
“Thomas!” Cy shouted the greeting like he always did. “What brings you here?”
“Well, I had some questions about Native American beliefs and I was hoping you could help me.”
“What do you want to know? Not your ‘Indian Name’ or some such bullshit I hope. Last white guy asked me for that ended up with the name ‘walks with shit-filled pants’.” Cy laughed and grinned.
Cy was like the oldest 12 year-old boy Thomas had ever met. They’d been on good terms most of his life and the family even let him hunt on their land, in exchange for him ploughing the snow off of their driveway once in awhile.
“I want to know about Coyote.”
“The animal? There’s plenty you can find on coyotes, why have you seen one around?” This was an important question, because Coyotes can be a danger to pets and livestock.
“No, not coyotes, Coyote. I want to know about Coyote, I had a dream about him yesterday.”
“Huh, really? Pretty strange him appearing to a pale face like you there.” That was Cy’s sense of humor alright. Make light of the terrible history of White People and Native Americans with corny dad jokes.
“Pale face, really?”
“Well, you are. You look like you haven’t gotten enough sun lately. Anyway, yeah, stop by later on and I’ll tell you what I know. I got to go, big client.”
“Okay, later Cy.”
“Later.”
That day, Thomas had a difficult time deciding what he should do. Should he keep quiet about his new adventures, or tell someone? I mean eventually. For now, he decided that the best thing for him to do was to see what he could learn before letting anyone in on the secret.
There were only a few ways this could go down as he saw it:
Of the three options that occurred to him right away, number 3 seemed to be by far the best option.
The day seemed to stretch out forever as he waited and waited to go home. As soon as he got through the door, he rushed upstairs and dove into bed, hoping to fall asleep. Unfortunately, he was still a teenaged boy and was therefore… hungry.
Thomas did what most teenage boys would do. He went foraging in the fridge for leftovers. There didn’t seem to be much in that way that appealed to him in the refrigerator, so he took a look in the freezer. There in all of its plastic-wrapped glory was a thin crust, supreme pizza. Perfect for a growing boy’s needs. He pre-heated the oven, popped it in and just over 20 minutes later, he was happily munching on something so cheap and delicious it was a wonder people ever ate anything else.
A bit bored, he decided to turn on some cartoons and was pleased to find an old roadrunner cartoon marathon on cartoon network. It was good, nice short cartoons with a cartoon canine who despite his high intelligence was unable to save vs. dumb luck at every turn.
The pizza and cartoons started to have their effect on him and after the 13th or 14th anvil dropped on the coyote, he nodded off to sleep.
*Ahem*
It wasn’t spoken, but was instead held on a cartoon placard by the coyote.
“Yes?” Thomas asked.
*We need to talk.* (another placard).
“We do?”
*yes*
“Alright, so talk.”
*You’ll have to invite me in.*
“Please come in.”
As the coyote came in through the television screen, which was now for some reason an old tube-style television, rather than the flat screen his family had had for years.
“Thank you.” the words came into Thomas’s mind, deep and sonorous, not unlike Johnny Cash.
“Great,” thought Thomas, “Now I’m imagining a Simpson’s episode.”
“Not so fast,” came the words of the coyote. “I’m much older than either of the incarnations you know. I’m Coyote.”
“I know you’re a coyote,” said Thomas, “I recognized the rocket skates before you came out of the television.”
Coyote winced, “That was a deal I made with another dreamwalker. And I’m not a coyote. I’m Coyote. Like Madonna or Cher or any of the other would-be goddesses who pretend to divinity these days.”
“Pretend to… Oh I see. The worship and adoration they get from their fans. I see where you’re coming from.”
“No. You don’t. But you are not as blind as most. I am here to teach you, just as I taught the first dreamwalkers, just as I taught the first men who I made when the world was young.”
“I’m sorry, but didn’t evolution create man?”
“That too.”
“But how-”
“It doesn’t matter for the moment young one. What does matter is that you learn to use this power well before you get into real trouble. Do you know why the medicine men use peyote and eat the mushrooms that bring visions?”
“Because it’s fun?” Thomas wasn’t stupid, but he was a teenager and this definitely colored his views.
“Heh, well I imagine there is a part of that too. However, there is another reason. They do this so they can learn to walk in dreams. Most cannot really travel in dreams as you do, and yet you are able to move from place to place while asleep. Do you know why?”
“Just lucky I guess.”
“Ha, luck. Luck is just a word lazy people use to avoid responsibility for their misery. No. You are a walker.”
“Yes. That’s my name. Thomas Walker.”
“Yes, you are Walker, as I am Coyote. You must learn to be a Walker, or you will stumble into dangerous places. When next we meet, we will walkabout and I will teach you some of what I know. Now wake. Your pizza is about to fall off the couch.”
Thomas woke with a start and as he jerked up, he knocked the remaining pizza to the ground. Before he could react, the dog got to it and managed to eat his last piece.
“Damned Coyote.” Thomas thought and he went to clean up the mess on the floor.
The strangest thing happened to young Thomas Walker. Starting at the age of 19, he would occasionally, just occasionally wake up in a different place than he went to bed. The first time wasn’t such a surprise. He woke up in his chair in a desk. The fact that he’d been up late working and had a dream that he’d been working at his desk let him write it off as either having half-woken up or possibly sleep-walked his way there.
The second time was less easy to explain. Fortunately the night had been cold and he was wearing sock and pyjamas to keep warm. He’d been dreaming about having soup with long-forgotten monsters from children’s stories. Jenny Green-teeth and redcap and all sorts of other bogies and boggarts from the better class of fairy tale. When he woke, he found he was at the local soup kitchen, eating a hearty chicken soup and holding a piece of bread in his left hand- much the same as he would have done had he been eating at home.
The people around him weren’t surprised of course as the patrons of the establishment were used to unexpected appearances of things and people who turned out, very often, to not have been there at all. The volunteers didn’t notice either. They were used to people showing up in all manner of dress and coming out of the “ether” as it were in the middle of meals. It was the sort of thing they hoped for and their greatest chance of a “Road to Damascus” moment as the head volunteer referred to it.
She was a large foolish woman named Prudence, whose headstrong nature and enormous girth had garnered her the fear of her subordinates as well as the large copper ladle she used to dish out the soup. Unfortunately, as there had been no bright light and of course, young Thomas was not persecuting Christians either. In all, Prudence was about as good at noticing strange occurrences as she was at theology and analogy. In other words, not great.
Thomas sat there in the soup kitchen, muzzily eating his soup and trying to make sense of the world around him. Now he saw that Jenny Green-Teeth was merely a homeless woman with stringy hair (and greenish yellow teeth), while redcap was a Vietnam Veteran who had been an adviser to the Vietnamese troops. His beard and teeth were stained with nicotine and his breath reeked of cheap liquor, but he was an amiable sort of fellow and the soup was surprisingly hearty.
The trouble began when he tried to leave. The volunteers stopped him, saying that as he’d had their soup, he would have to stay for the sermon and sing-song and would he like to accept Jesus as his personal savior.
Thomas tried to explain that No, in fact he already had a personal trainer, a guy at the local gym named Chip, or Dash or something with broad shoulders, a tight waist and teeth that were altogether too white and too straight. He then went on to explain that he would rather have had Vanessa, who was a bit too pretty, even though she tanned too much and persisted in wearing white shorts, which somehow never ended up looking less than freshly laundered and bleached, despite a major feature of her job being to get relative strangers to sweat and grunt and move heavy bits of iron about.
It was at this point that Thomas realized he’d been rambling and he shuffled off obediently to the gymnasium in the room next to the cafeteria they were eating in and glumly wished for home.
Glum was a good word for it. Sort of a mix of Grim and Humdrum that was being helped by the torrent of rain outside. It was, in fact, a dark and stormy night. He smiled to himself as the minister or preacher or reverend took the podium do deliver his message of good news or possibly brimstone to the stoned, sobering, or sometimes insane members of his flock.
The minister was not a cruel man, but what he lacked in basic intelligence, he more than made up for in religious fervor. He was built, Thomas noted with a yawn, rather like a quail egg balanced on top of a duck egg. He giggled inwardly to note that there were some splotchy birthmarks on the deacon or whatever he was that did rather look like a quail egg.
Fortunately, the pastor was not good at public speaking. He was a dull speaker. So dull in fact, that in later years researchers would attempt to see what combination of words, affect and intonation were used that had such a profound effect, and whether they could use them to help cure some of the more hopeless insomniacs in their care.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t get accurate results as none of the researchers had been able to watch the speaker or the footage of the speaker without falling asleep in very short order.
This however would help our young Thomas walker, who shortly fell asleep and being quite scared and homesick was able to travel home and awoke in his own bed.
He would have written the whole thing off as just a very strange dream, were he not still holding one of the religious pamphlets given to him by the volunteers who wouldn’t let him leave. He looked down and saw with some surprise that the address of the soup kitchen was in Chicago, Illinois! How could that be? That was almost 15 hour drive from his home in Denver, Colorado. It made no sense.
Somehow though, he got the idea that maybe it wasn’t impossible, just very, very unlikely. He remembered having read in a book one time that “The impossible often has a kind of integrity to it which the merely improbable lacks. How often have you been presented with an apparently rational explanation of something that works in all respects other than one, which is just that it is hopelessly improbable? Your instinct is to say, ‘Yes, but he or she simply wouldn’t do that.”
Thomas decided that this must just be one of those things that must’ve happened. For otherwise, the other unlikely explanation is that someone he knew had written to this organization, gotten a pamphlet mailed to them, broken into his house, stuffed it into his hand and caused him to dream about this particular subject. That simply wouldn’t happen, especially since Bill was away at college. Also, the bit about the causing him to dream of that exact place.
It would bear investigating. In the meantime, he resolved to go to bed fully dressed, with his wallet, passport, money, shoes and a jacket. After all, who knows where he would dream of next, or how difficult it would be to get back home afterward!
Marcus woke up to a layer of winter snow 8 inches thick covering the land as far as the eye could see. Some cold had gotten into the cabin, which he chased out by stirring the coals in his fire and adding some wood from the pile nearby. He had a propane heater of course, but the company didn’t come by often enough to fill it for daily use and besides, he liked the exercise.
Seeing the pile had dwindled to the last two or three split pieces, he put on his coat and hat, his boots and mitts and went out to the wood pile. The snow gave his footsteps a muffled quality that seemed to absorb sound rather than make it.
Marcus unfurled the canvas log carrier he’d made from an old Duluth Pack that had done it’s years of service and was now enjoying a mostly dry retirement by the fire. He conscientiously knocked the snow off each one before before placing it into the sling. It was this noise in the otherwise silent forest and the snow that muffled the approaching footsteps behind him.
Someone cleared their throat. “Mr. Marcus?”
He turned around. There in front of him was the girl who he’d rescued from the Snowmobile accident on his land at the beginning of the winter. She was dressed in a red fur-lined down parka, snow pants and snow shoes and had a small green canvas back on her back. and “It’s-“
“Jessica, yes.”
“Even at my age I’m not likely to forget.”
“I suppose not.” she said.
“Well, what can I do for you? I don’t see any downed snow mobiles, nor do I see any wolves chasing you. To what do I owe this visit Ms. Jessica?”
“Well actually, I wanted to thank you for your help the other day.”
“No need for that. I just did what anyone did.” He hoped his voice wasn’t too gruff but wasn’t sure. He attempted to put a twinkle in his eye under the stern expression.
It must’ve worked, because the tension broke with her smile and Jessica asked, “Can we go inside?”
Marcus nodded his assent and they headed back in muffled silence to the log cabin with the smoking chimney.
Once inside, they stamped off the snow from their boots and hung the coats on the back of the door. Jessica pulled up a footstool by the stove and warmed her hands. Marcus gave her time to get settled before either of them spoke.
“Thank you Mr. Marcus, I really don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come by.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. He very kindly did not point out that they both knew what would have happened if he hadn’t happened by.
“Well, I know it’s not much, but I brought you this.” From her pack she brought out a pie and a thermos. The pie appeared to be still warm, having been wrapped in a box and a towel to keep out the cold.
Marcus raised an eyebrow in pleased surprise. “Well this is a surprise. Usually, isn’t it the grandmother who receives the goodies and is saved by the woodsman at the last minute? Not that I’d mind being rescued by a grandmother, assuming she was a stout handsome woman.” He held his grave expression before breaking into a grin. “This is very kind, but unnecessary Jessica, you didn’t have to go to the trouble.”
“It was no trouble, I needed to use the last of the Rhubarb we froze this summer and there wasn’t enough to make preserves. Besides, I heard it was your favorite.”
“From who?”
“From the waitress over at the Chocolate Moose. She says you come in once a week when they have it and order a a coffee with cream and sugar and a slice of rhubarb pie, with a side of ice cream.”
“hmph.” he said and then immediately brightened as she brought out a small container of ice cream. He got up and set to the task of setting the table, bringing out red and blue Fiestaware dishes, saucers and mugs. The forks for the pie and spoons for the coffee were real silver, old, but serviceable. Out of the drawer, he pulled a second place mat and cloth napkin and set it down opposite his own.
After they’d eaten, he wiped the last crumbs out of his beard and focused on the girl.
“That was the best pie I’ve had in a long time.” He said, “Do you know why?”
“Lard in the crust?” she asked. He smiled.
“Good company. But yeah, the lard in the crust helps too.” He sat back quietly for a moment and thought a bit before getting up to stoke the fire. “What is it you really want Jessica?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, it occurs to me that you’ve come some way out here with something on your mind and it’s more than just bringing an old man some pie. So, what’s on your mind?”
“Well… I’m not sure how to say this, but I’d like to be like you.”
“What do you mean? Old? Cantankerous? Keen on pie?”
“No, it’s just that most people I know wouldn’t have known how to help me, or might not have noticed that any help was needed. I feel like it makes sense that if I can learn how to be that person, I should be that person.”
This opened a wound in Marcus that he’d managed to ignore most days. It was Jack’s words coming back to him from the mouth of this girl.
“Oh I don’t know about that. Lot of meddling foolishness helping people. I was just being neighborly. I don’t go out of my way looking for trouble.” he said.
“I’m not so sure that’s true. And even so, I want to learn the skills it takes to help people who are stuck in the woods, or need help somehow. I’m not taking about becoming a cop or joining the army.” Another pang.
“Hmph, that would put you in the role of young apprentice and me in the role of old hermit. Not sure I relish becoming the old hermit. Too many of them die before the hero is properly trained.”
“Then don’t die,” she said. “I’m sure you had no plans to before I came by this morning. I don’t see why you should change them just to give me drive to accomplish things on my own.”
“What’s your dad think of all this?”
“He hasn’t said anything against it.”
“Because he hasn’t heard anything about it, am I right?” Jessica looked away a bit sheepishly.
“I did raise kids of my own, you know. I’m older and meaner and craftier than you, so don’t think you can pull one over on my missy.” he remembered to but the ‘kindly old man gleam’ in his eye at just the last minute. “Normally, I believe that it’s customary to make a would-be apprentice wait outside in all weather for three days and nights to test their resolve, but as it’s winter in Minnesota and you’ve just brought me pie…”
“Yes!”
“… I’ll have to meet your dad and get his approval. I’m not so sure most dads would like their daughter hanging out with some old guy they’ve never met. If- and I mean if, you get his approval, you’ll start out helping me around the place and I’ll pay you for your work. If you can handle the work, you might just learn what it is that makes me, me. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes sir!”
“Good. Now I have one more question for you,” he said gravely.
“What is it?”
“Would you like another slice of pie?”
As a young child I had a lot of problems dealing with bullies and rumors and kids at school. That’s not a revelation unique to myself, I realize. Most people have. But I was lucky in one major respect. That is that my dad had a technique for helping me to cope with these situations, while at the same time instilling a love of wrestling for me.
Enter: Benji the Wrestler.
Benji was a kid who wrestled. He was a lot like me. He was so much like me that it seemed a strange and amazing coincidence every time I heard a story about him. (Okay, I’m gonna level with you- he was me.)
Every time I seemed to be going through something tough- a bully trying to beat me up, or turn my friends against me for whatever reasons motivate people to be awful to each other, there would be my dad. He’d come to my room at bedtime and tell me a story.
The story had three main parts:
1) the problem (the bullies, the “mean” teacher, whatever it was that was making my life hard to deal with as a kid),
2) the “Problem-solving part” This almost always came in the form of my dad asking me something like “Sounds pretty tough Luke, what do you think Benji should do here?” afterward we’d workshop any solutions, no matter how sensible or senseless or emotive and he’d treat me with understanding. He also never talked down to me as a kid and I really appreciated that. Heck, I still appreciate it.
3) The action sequence. This was super important!
A) it served to give me time to absorb what we’d talked about, all while preventing the stories from becoming lectures or preachy.
B) it indoctrinated me into loving the sport and associating a difficult pastime with positive memories
C) It showed that even a kid with problems at school could (with hard word and determination), be the hero. It would be a challenge, sure, but since Benji never gave up, no one could really beat him. (Even if he lost a match, he wasn’t truly defeated so long as he maintained a good attitude).
I miss those stories. In retrospect, I miss how these insurmountable problems could be faced and I could take the time with someone who cares about me to work through options together rather than having to face them alone. I miss the reminders of how you can work around any problem if you find the right solution rather than just reaction to it. Not surprisingly, I also miss wrestling.
When I am traveling and cannot get to the wilds and the quiet places, I must remember to cultivate the quiet place within myself. To find the space and center in myself so that I can find peace and clarity, even when surrounded by the din and clamor of the city.
To find grounding in the bustle so that I’m able to think, and write and be.
Here is the first-draft outline of a story I’d like to write about Jack, a young man whose magic ability mostly manifests in his ability to travel long distances.
Jack is a freelance courier and through a case of mistaken identity ends up being chased by two groups who want a magical object a prospective client wanted him to carry. The only problem is that he didn’t take the job. Now, to survive, he’ll have to outrun the bad guys, outwit the good guys and find the object before anyone else can get their hands on it. That’s the easy part. What the hell is he supposed to do if he gets his hands on it?
Working title: The Walker
Genre: Modern Fantasy
Tense/POV: Present Tense, First Person
Setting: Modern world, various settings, mostly urban.
Part One
Inciting Incident: A small man comes to the door asking Jack to courier a package to his brother in Wales. He turns the man down, who offers him money to think about it and then leaves, promising to call back again.
Internal Initial Conflict (call to action): Jack wants to be out of the line of fire and back to a life of being paid little attention. He can’t have this because the small man was seen leaving his apartment and the guys watching assume he’s taken the job.
External Initial Conflict (call to action): Jack wants to survive.
Woven-in Backstory, Vital Information: Jack works as a freelance courier for the supernatural world. Awhile back, he rescued a Kitsune (fox spirit) from a trap, who decided she owed him her loyalty after that and would help him to achieve his potential, whether he likes it or not.
Part Two
Internal Conflict (obstacles): Jack grew up in a rough neighborhood. One where escape and escaping notice from the predators in the waters was the surest means of survival. Escaping the bullies at school was how he discovered his powers in the first place.
External Conflict (obstacles): He can’t give the package to the guys who want it, because he didn’t take it. They won’t accept his assertion that he doesn’t have it.
Internal Higher Conflict (obstacles heighten): Threats go from verbal to property damage with threats of bodily harm if he doesn’t get it for them. He can’t turn back because if he does, they’ve threatened his life and the life of Kitsune.
External Higher Conflict (obstacles heighten): An enemy of the mooks who are after him want him to deliver the package to him instead. Unfortunately, the small man is nowhere to be found.
Internal Highest Conflict (obstacles intensify): The small man is found dead and the object is said to be somewhere only Jack can find it.
External Highest Conflict (obstacles intensify): While backtracking to find the obstacle, Jack is abducted, hooded and tied up by the villains. When the hood is revealed, he sees that Kitsune has followed and is in the shadows. An attempt to free him fails, leading to her capture.
Internal Point of No Return (stakes): He realizes that they will never be safe, so long as the groups think that he is in possession of the MacGuffin and that he’s really the only one who can save her.
External Point of No Return (stakes): The fact that they know where he lives and will come for him if he runs.
Darkest Hour: The idea of being broken, alone and unable to escape. Being trapped in the earth.
Turning Point: Buried alive, he knows that he has to find a way to get out. A way to get Kitsune freed with him, before they run out of air. Picturing the location with no visual or tactile aid. Finding an out. Realizing that the small man was a liar and the answer was right at home.
Part Three
Internal Climax: They can travel by visualizing where they want to go, rather than by seeing it, or having an object linked to the place. How to reach into the inbetween with less energy than before. His fear of confrontation.
∧∨ (preferably simultaneous) ∧∨
External Climax: By pointing the gun at his own head and opening a portal at the last minute so the bullet hits the antagonist instead.
Resolution (external): It shows his willingness to fight back in a corner and leaves the antagonizing group leaderless? They are in disarray and start turning on each other.
Character Growth (internal): Now, no longer afraid of confrontation, he leaves with a new-found sense of purpose and some guilt about ending the confrontation with violence.
