A SATUR’MORN ADVENTURE
Assad Deshay
Surely every man ever blessed with life and breath has had an adventure or two. For, truly, life is an adventure. There is no difference in the life of a Chronicler. And despite the traditional monotony of my profession, my having two energetic young sons can make any given day a bit more adventurous than a man of my nature can adequately feel prepared for.
Not being a parent of an overly strict demeanor, I sincerely enjoy the times I can spend with my children without the interference of their chores or the tasks of my employment. Most special are those light and airy spring days when we can get out into the countryside and explore as vital young boys and their fathers are wont to do.
Satur’morn was slowly blooming bright and sunny. The first rays of the day casually illuminated motes as they drifted lazily across the hazy, early morning light streaming into my bedroom window. My slow stir from sleep was hastened by my elder son, Josiah.
“Daddy, I’m awake.”
Standing blithely in the doorway to my rooms, his ability to state the obvious as if it were the purest kernel of wisdom, never failed to surprise me.
My elder son beamed the entirety of his full five years of life from bright eyes and broad smile. His long arms held in close to his chest with fingers interlaced in anticipation of the day. To watch him in these first moments of the day is like watching the excitement of the Festival of Savior’s Day Morn, when all good children anticipate the exchanging and unwrapping of their Savior’s Day gifts.
As sweet as the scene is to a parent of such a youngling, any parent with the least bit of wakefulness watching him bob in excitement would also consider the fact that expectation of the day off might not be the only reason for the display.
“I see that you are awake, Josiah.” Having hoped for a slow moving Satur’morn, I was barely able to open both eyes, let alone to emulate the bright-eyed wakefulness of my son.
“Have you visited the basin room yet?” I realized that my left eye was sliding closed as I relaxed into my current position. My son only shrugged his shoulders in response; what this gesture was supposed to mean I have no idea. I made a mental note to reiterate the importance of clear communication to my son. But that would have to wait until I had gained a greater level of wakefulness.
“Go to the basin room, son. Relieve yourself and please do not make a mess in there.”
“Okay, Daddy!” As my son literally skipped down the hall toward the basin room, I tried to shout after him, “Don’t’ forget to brush your teeth, son, and wash for breakfast.” Unfortunately it only came out as a loud mumble as the muscles of my face fought my mind for additional time asleep.
Having guaranteed myself an additional five minutes rest, I rolled over to make a final, thorough inspection of my inner eyelids for cracks. Of course, just shy of the time necessary to properly doze off, Josiah reappeared even more invigorated.
“Get up, Daddy! It’s a bright sunny day!”
Again, I had no choice but to agree with his assertion, so I resignedly rolled to my feet to prepare myself for the rigors of a day off with my two sons. Josiah anxiously followed me to the basin room peppering me with queries regarding our choice of breakfasts, our activities for the day, and when I thought it might be appropriate for him to ask for a treat.
Once I had relieved myself and washed the night fog from my senses, making sure to empty the wash water into the squat barrow and release the flow valve to empty the accumulated night soil, I turned to the room Josiah shared with his younger brother, Savoye’.
With a tendency to value sleep as highly as his father, I found Savoye’ contentedly sleeping in a nest burrowed out of the sheets, coverlets and pillows that made up his bedding.
A father learns to treasure certain moments. Treasured, because once a son reaches a certain age those moments are greatly reduced in frequency. When a parent finds themselves in such a moment, knowing its fleeting nature and rarity of occurrence, that parent can experience an abundance of emotional value.
This treasured moment lasted slightly less than two seconds. In that time, I had a complete appreciation of this beautiful cherub, his blonde curly hair, the serene repose of absolute peace in the soft, cream complexion of this face that I had a hand in creating.
I found in myself an urge to run my hand through his curls, thick as heather, soft as cashmere and blonde as the long-haired sheep of the northern hinterlands. You find within yourself a wellspring of care and concern that these moments will escape all too soon. Fleeting away swiftly before your effort to provide whatever comfort and love you can to one so dear to your heart.
Then, in the last of those two seconds, just as the sentiment births itself to life in my mind, Josiah leans in with an exuberant, “Whatcha’ lookin’ at, Daddy? Wake up, Savoye’! It’s a bright sunny day!”
Savoye’ stretched his length and lazily opened his eyes, “G’mornin’, Daddy. ‘Mornin’, Josiah.” Then, as if directed by muscle memory alone, the last of my little family headed to the basin room to ready himself for breaking fast.
Once the three of us were dressed and composed to begin our day, we left our second floor apartments for the common dining area of the floor below. In addition to the bedroom shared by the boys and that of myself, we also maintained a small office and work area for myself where I plied my trade and educated my sons in pursuits of academia; of course we also had the private basin room, a living area and a long hallway that ended in a wide, banistered stair with a center landing large enough for a full-sized settee’.
Honestly stated, our accommodations were far more lavishly appointed than I could ever have afforded even if business would have been at its best, which it currently was not. The boys shared a large, king-sized bed with overstuffed mattresses, clothed in fine cotton sheets and down-stuffed comforters, and more pillows than necessary to accommodate any nine normal beds.
The oversized closets and dressers could hold many times the volume of clothing I supplied for my sons under our current set of circumstances. Though the quantity and quality of their clothing was more than adequate, I have to admit that seeing how much unused capacity of the clothing storage areas that existed in the boys’ room intimidated me at times.
To be a parent means to constantly strive to provide the best supply, situation and surroundings you can for your children. And, while I was blessed to have the means to keep my boys fed and protected, educated and healthy, those vacant drawers and chifarobes, wardrobes and closets sometimes made me feel as if I should have been able to do more. But in my few years of parenthood, I have found that truly loving your children comes hand in hand with the constant fear that you will fail them in some way.
However, having brought my children across the open country to our current residence to begin a new life, very few could claim that I had not provided them with more luxury than most men of my class could dream of.
The long, delicate sheers that curtained the ceiling to floor bay widows of the boy’s room were fine enough for any palace, and almost overly fine for even a country mansion such as this. The higher shelves and mantles still held delicate figurines, valuable books and antiquities while those that had occupied spaces that were in easy reach of the boys had been removed and stored for their own protection.
My own room, while large and well accommodated compared to what a scribe should be able to acquire by his own means, had actually been the servants’ quarters. However, since the release of the servants, our benefactor, Ms. Mika, had removed the bunks and placed a single full-sized bed, side-tables, bookshelves and closets at my disposal. And while this level of comfort was far from foreign to me it was more than one in my circumstance could hope for.
Even our second floor basin room had a well spout in it so that we could pump the water instead of lugging it up stairs for our daily usage. With inlaid ceramic tiles and an enclosed shower with sun heated water in the summer and oil heated water in the winter, the quality of life we current
ly enjoyed over that experienced only recently was greatly improved. Every angle taken in view was filled with crystal light fixtures, lacquered wall paneling, and furnishings of the finest make. One would have to look closely to see the fine layer of dust settling on the crystal and a lack of recent polish to the shine of the furniture and paneling.
Though the home was quite lavish, it didn’t take too much observation to tell that the owner was not in possession of the same level of wealth as when the property was first developed. And, as we made our way down the carpeted hallway toward the stair, I could not help but wonder if I or my sons would miss all of this when the day came when we would inevitably have to leave.
“No running on the stair boys.”
Even though we had only lived here for a handful of months the boys had completely adapted to their new environment and readily accepted it as home. And, despite the fact that both boys had long since ceased any attempt of playing or running on the stair, I seem to have developed a quite unreasonable superstition that the one time that I failed to warn of the dangers of falling on the thick, darken oak stair would be the time they would end a routine trip up or down in a heap of broken bone and irretrievable possibility. Of course it was entirely impractical to allow the fearful image of one or both of my sons being hurt or completely perishing from a tumble down the stair, it was only one of the many daily fears I’d lived with since their birth.
You see, there is a profound secret of parenthood that parents can never fully impart to their children. The secret is that all good parents live in constant fear. To truly care for your children is to fear for their health and well being, their safety and comfort above that of your own, totally and completely from their conception until your death. And, what’s more, the more effort and attention put into assuring that your offspring do not come to an untimely end, the more worry and fear in the heart of the parent surrounding the loss of this irreplaceable investment of life, love, and care. With all that I had been through to save my boys and bring them into the tentative safety we now enjoyed, I felt that such a loss would be the end of me, utterly and completely.
“No running on the stair, Savoye’,” piped Josiah.
“No, running on the stair, Daddy,” chimed Savoye’
Somehow, the frequent mantra seemed to have evolved to a greater depth of meaning. I heard, “I love you, brother,” and, “I love you Daddy,” in those simple reiterations of my own concerns for them. I could only hope their young minds could grasp their importance in my life.
So, we made our way down the winding staircase, each holding to the rail to ensure and safeguard our loved ones’ most prized possessions, each other. Stepping into the common area of the dwelling we had come to know as, “Home, by Ms. Mika’s House,” the image of a father goose leading his two goslings sprang to mind as we passed through the main room and my call out to the back apartments, “Good Morn, Ms. Mika,” was echoed twice by my little imps in our procession to the dining area.
Ms. Mika was a delightful personality; short, sprightly and almost always smiling. We had known each other since our days studying at the Academy of the Crescent. While my focus was on the disciplines of commerce and trade, her focus was in the arenas of finance and money lending. Since those younger days of a friendship that saw us through the academy relatively unscathed, we had ended up a fugitive scribbler fathering two small children on his own and a single, landed woman letting out the second floor of her family home while petitioning for employment as a professor within the same halls of academia she had run away from so many years ago.
Without Ms. Mika’s friendship, there is no doubt that my ability to provide such a high standard of care for my boys on the pay of a scrivener would definitely be impaired. However, her tenuous hold on her family estates and her loneliness after a treacherous betrayal by her betrothed were issues that were greatly assuaged by the presence of my boys and I.
Though that friendship could never grow into anything more, it is all too likely that without it we, all four of us would have been lost.
My boys were quickly seated at the thick darken wood dining table that matched the household furnishings, fittings and accoutrement so precisely one could hardly be blamed for assuming that all of the wood throughout the home was sourced from the same tree. Ludicrous, of course, but at one time Ms. Mika’s family most certainly had attained the status and influence necessary to achieve such a feat; even if they had to hire a black market conjurer to do it
Over a cereal of oat and bran, honey and legume, my sons enthusiastically discussed the possibilities of the day. As they ate and debated ideas I gazed out the rear portico windows that opened into the rear of the dining area. I watched the Hound run through her drills. Brandi, the Hound’s name, was a bred shepherd, altered for partial intelligence so that her role as a guard and companion would be easier to attain by allowing the Hound to develop and train with little guidance. In addition, her alteration allowed her to bond readily to her owner and identify as pack-members other members of her owners’ family unit.
Always a marvel to me, knowing how much more than a mere dog her augmentation had made her, watching her was the same as watching a trained dog at play. Of course this Hound was already several decades older than myself and would easily outlive her owner. And, far from just a canine at play, Brandi ran through a complex series of defensive and attack drills designed specifically for her strength, size and stamina and the territory she was tasked with defending. More impressive was the fact that all of these drills and her resultant skill as a household protector was of her own device. But still, to me she looked like a dog, happily running around the gardens and fields to the rear of the estate.
Well, she looked like any other dog, that is until she sprang, mid drill, into the air and snatched a large black bird from the sky as it flew just a little less than ten feet above the ground.
Brandi landed with the thing in her jaws, crunched down hard to extinguish the bird’s inner light, and then let the carcass fall to the grass at her paws.
As she noticed me watching, she paused before returning to her “exercises” to project a greeting to me. Telepathy, no matter how rudimentary was something that has always unnerved me. It’s not that I feel humans and animals should not be able to communicate directly, just that I find it unsettling to receive telepathic projections from animals. You see, most animals think in a combination of images and emotions. So, a telepathic greeting from an augmented Hound could bring to mind a delightfully joyous feeling tied to the mental image of having one’s anus sniffed. This, to my knowledge, is the primary reason no Augmentor has successfully made a business selling enhanced felines. I am told that cats have a singularly disturbing and perverse thought process that makes telepathic communication distasteful at best and dangerous to the sanity of the human owner at worst.
After the initial surprise from the mental contact with Brandi, I was able to compose a welcome of my own; something more akin to an image of scratching her behind the ears. It seemed that, Brandi had elected me the Alpha Male of her pack despite the fact that Ms. Mika was her actual owner.
“Welcome to your pups, Alpha. They smell nice.” Then with a wag of the tail, she went back to her drills and guard practices which now included direct attacks on the dead black bird in the center of the yard.
Through the interchange, the boys continued their exchange between bites. I contented myself with a bracing herbal tea that seemed a perpetual fixture of Ms. Mika’s kitchen. Halfway through my cup, Ms. Mika came in to join us.
“Good Morn to all!” She exclaimed in her ever cheerful demeanor. Her smile spreading from the edges of her lips through every facet of her face. Since knowing her, she has ever been able to affect happiness in her outward presentation, regardless of any personal turmoil she may be going through. Many times in our past I’ve heard her remark with her singular courtly flourish, “Private business is named so for a reason.”
Ms. Mika seemed to float behi
nd the chairs of the boys touching each lightly on the head in passing. Josiah hurried to finish the mouthful he was currently chewing to wish a good ‘morn to our hostess before she moved on to greet his brother. Savoye’, anticipating the familiar ritual had put his spoonful back into the bowl so that he would be ready to respond to Ms. Mika’s touch with a ready, “‘Morning, Ms. Mika!”
Coming only to just over five feet tall, slightly overweight, with a chocolate complexion that denoted nothing of her true ancestry; Ms Mika shared the grace and bearing, carriage and general attractiveness of her race.
She was of the Creole Heritage, called the Chameleon Race by some in the Northern and Western reaches. Though in these times Creoles were hardly mentioned; the fact that one who was thought to be Creole could just as easily be from another of the races had helped end the violent efforts to eliminate the experimental culture.
What had helped cement our friendship over the larger portion of two decades was the fact that unbeknown to most; I too was of the Creole Heritage. So, by extension were my two beloved sons. And, despite the great cooling of emotion against our race over past generations, a known Creole was still a pariah of society. A harsh way to live on one’s own; exceedingly dangerous with two small children.
Fortunately, in my time of dire need, Ms. Mika was there for my little family. Two of whom, I noticed had concluded deliberations and were concentrating on the remnants within their breakfast bowls.
“So, have you boys decided what we should do with our rest-day?” With the last sip of my tea, I regarded my boys with a grin. Josiah tilted his head to the side. Ever the performer, he theatrically placed a finger to his chin and scrunched his eyes as if in the deepest state of thought imaginable.
“Hmmm, I think…” I couldn’t help but grin at the melodrama, “I think we should…go exploring today.”
“Yea, Exploring!” Savoye’ shouted, as if this were the first time he’d ever heard of the notion and it struck him as singularly entertaining.
“Exploring!?! Why, what else is there for you boys to explore in this little hamlet far removed from anything of particular note?” While Ms. Mika had spent a large share of her childhood here in the little township of Cedar Hills, like myself, she was a devout city dweller with a jaded perspective of rural suburbia.
The two day-long journey by horse or carriage to the nearest urban center meant there was little trade, or travel to or from and only the occasional wagon train proceeding through to the next urban center almost four days ride in the other direction. Though even if we had ready access to either, neither Ms. Mika nor myself had any interest in the local cities. Both of us longed to return to the Crescent City, the place of our birth.
“You’ve had to have seen every explore-able cranny within this hamlet,” she said smiling over her own cup of herbal tea.
We’d only been in our lavish lodgings for a matter of months, as I said, after having to hurriedly relocate to the Village of Cedar Hill due to some unexpected and hostile actions against myself had put the security of my children at risk. Since arriving and securing our apartments and workspace at Ms. Mika’s house, the boys and I had spent many opportunities venturing out close to home and throughout the village.
My sons began to banter with Ms. Mika about the merit of their idea, while Ms. Mika pretended to be in support of using the rest-day opportunity to advance their academic pursuits.
This day, however, the boys wanted real adventure. And, incredulous as it might seem, even a dull scribbler of letters experiences those times when he would relish a bit of adventure his self. A walk through the village center wouldn’t suffice this day. So, I decided that we would do more than just explore, today we would go adventuring!
“Boys,” I interrupted, “why don’t we walk along the edge of Darkwood?”
Two pairs of light brown eyes beamed up in surprise.
Darkwood was both foreboding and forbidden. The village council, in agreement with the mayor had decreed that venturing into Darkwood was officially a frowned upon endeavor and that anyone lost due to the dangers within that fell wood would not receive the benefit of the village rescue or receive aid in escaping those threats or recovering foolish loved-ones with more courage than good sense.
“My dear, Sharif! What has come over your sense of reason!?!” Ms. Mika had to raise her voice to be heard over the raucous jubilation of the children. “All these years I have known you to be a reasonable and pragmatic man. What errant demon could influence you into thinking a romp through the Darkwood would be a rest-day well-spent?
“Now, now, Ms. Mika, I never said we would go into the Darkwood. We’ll only walk the paths that trace its outskirts. We know that the Darkwood is far too dangerous a place for even the bravest of fathers and sons, don’t we boys?”
There was a brief, but wholly anticipated pause before Josiah and Savoye’ answered with a sing-songy and less than enthusiastic, “Yes, Daddy.”
“Right, then; after we clean up Ms. Mika’s lovely kitchen and dining area,” truly a matter of brushing a few crumbs into the refuse bin, “we’ll fix a few snacks and be off.”
Josiah tidied up the table and saw to the bowls and my cup while I tidied up his little brother. Then, with a “careful on the stairs, boys!” and the response in chorus, “okay, Daddy!”, I sent the boys back upstairs to our basin room to wash faces and hands and one last opportunity to relieve themselves before our walk.
To my reckoning, the edge of the Darkwood was over an hour away by foot. With snacks and water, we could explore the edge of the wood for a few hours, returning to Ms. Mika’s house for a late lunch or early dinner and, if well timed, an early bedtime for all. After all, the morrow was Saviors Day and we’d all be up early for observance.
So, in the few minutes before the boys returned downstairs, I busied myself packing oranges, cheese, and bread, and pointedly avoiding the face of Ms. Mika, conspicuously absent one smile, who evidently still did not think our adventure was a good idea.
You see, the Darkwood wasn’t always so foreboding a place. Once, well over one hundred-fifty years ago it was a vast green arboreal ocean, easily five times its current size. However, the great green forest was the vehicle of the expansion age. Many small kingdoms became great and many cities became small kingdoms with the trade of wood products and building lumber, herbs and medicants, and the trade of exotic beasts captured during the de-forestation.
As is wont to occur, the creatures of the forest, especially those with the touch of magic within them retreated as far within the safety of their realm as was possible to avoid the dangers of man’s encroachment. However, the extent of the woods and the safety they offered these creatures was finite. So, as one could expect, these creatures reached the extent of their tolerance. Fear of those who would invade and usurp their habitat became a violent unwillingness to accept their presence or encroachment any longer.
Those creatures with any semblance of semi-intelligence were clearly seen to lead other more mundane animals in daring and violent attacks on the lumbermen and their camps during the day. At the early hours of sunrise and the late moments of sunset, when their powers seem at their most potent, imps, wisps, and faeries would torment and befuddle, sabotage and prank the inhabitants of mill sites and lumber camps. Then, one night, the Grabme-gotchas began to emerge.
Not a single species, the Grabme-gotchas were a somewhat organized group of various rodent-like creatures that seem to have been somehow augmented with goblin traits. Though they only range in size from a large rat to a medium sized dog, the Grabme-gotchas were clever, would hunt or attack in a coordinated fashion and seemed to have twice the strength than should be supported by their small frames. Add to these attributes two rows of pointed teeth and sharp, dagger-like claws on paws with opposable thumbs like a raccoon and you’ve got a very big vermin problem even in small numbers. However, the largest difficulty came in the fact that the beasts seemed to multiply overnight. No effort to battle the diminutiv
e monsters seemed to have any effect on their numbers. In fact, the role and power of the force of Grabme-gotchas increased until they seemed to have become the major thrust of the counter incursion.
These defenders had little desire to cause simple mischief like imps or cause confusion like faeries. What’s more, their tactics were far more violent and malicious than the direct attacks of even the semi-intelligent animals of the forest.
Men were abducted from their cots by packs of four or five of the little beasts, never to be seen again. Some men were mutilated and clearly left as warning to others, there was even evidence of the consumption of human flesh by the creatures.
Eventually, men began to give ground and the Grabme-gotchas began to advance outside the new boundaries of the wood. Then a human baby was found at the edge of one of the embattled lumber camps that had been hastily converted to a military bulwark. The babe was tethered by the ankle to a rabbit trap. Though the child was alive, he was horribly scarred from the neck to the ankle as though the intent was to scrawl designs and crude glyphs into the youngling’s very flesh.
A thorough search of the nearby villages revealed a family of three adults and two older children slaughtered in their beds. The only empty and un-bloodied bed was a crib found in the residence.
Terrified that these creatures would come to overrun the human habitats that had sprung up within the old borders of the forest, men sought feverishly an answer to hold back the advancing numbers of Grabme-gotchas.
After months of fighting, it was discovered that common lodestone had, in addition to its magnetic properties, the ability to cause fits of nausea and headache to the little beasts. Soon a new industry had developed to supply the need of lodestone to defend camps and press the horde back toward the forest edge.
Trenches six to eight feet deep were dug with mouths eight feet wide. Broken lodestone covered the bottom of these trenches and bits of the rock were sprinkled into the earthen mounds opposite the forest, built from the excised dirt of the trenches. Unfortunately, the powers in command of the human forces were hesitant to give up complete access to the woods and its resources, so it was decided that this would not be a true moat around the forest, but that every five hundred paces a breach would be left just two carts wide and paved with lodestone. This way, infrequent expeditions could still be launched for commercial purposes.
Cedar Hills was one of the many small towns that had grown outside the lodestone ring of the Darkwood. Eventually, the very real danger of the forest and its inhabitants had been lessened in the memories of men by the passage of time and the general safety provided by the ring of stone. As a consequence, the infrequent adventurer seeking to make a fortune by capturing and trading some exotic whatnot derived from the forest would be lost without a trace.
Well provisioned expeditions would return harried and depleted, minus better than half of their number. Some survivors could only blather incoherencies; others would refuse to speak at all on what they experienced while in the wood.
Now, a general awe of the wood and a respect for its dangers existed in the hearts of all those who lived within a days’ walk of the stone ring. And only every once in a great while would treasure hunters venture from far away to brave the wood and be become victim to their own poor decision making.
So, being of good judgment and sound mind to temper my sense of adventure, I knew we could safely walk the path a full one hundred paces off the lodestone hill of the ring and be close enough to safely excite my boys with legends of the battles fought to contain the Grabme-gotchas. I would titillate them with tales of the brave men who lost their lives trying to correct the poor decision to exploit the resources of the forest without respect for those who live within it.
“We’re ready, Daddy!” Josiah said as he rushed into the kitchen.
“Okay, son.” I filled the water skin at the kitchen well spout and capped it.
“Where’s your brother,” I asked as we proceeded to the front foyer. Josiah pointed, as we approached Savoye’, patiently waiting for us with his little red and blue satchel slung over his head and one shoulder. Evidently, he expected to tote home some bit of treasure to remember the journey. Even at only three years old he looked even more ready for this adventure than I was.
Josiah snatched up his slightly larger brown satchel while I clipped on my belt knife and threw my pack over a shoulder; then out the door we all went.
It truly was a glorious Satur’morn. The weather was perfect for being out of doors. The sky was crystal blue, with very few wispy white clouds to obscure the pale yellow sun. I’d adjudged the temperature to be approximately 78 degrees with a cool, dry south-western breeze.
The smaller of the two moons showed pale pink in the sky, its position relative to its larger, light-blue brother showed that it was at least an hour or more till mid morn. So, I felt that we’d timed our start well and should be returning home by this point on the opposite side of the day.
As the boys and I proceeded down the long walk away from Ms. Mika’s house, Josiah took his customary position at the point. Of course shunning all things military, it never ceased to amaze me how certain things came naturally to young children with or without natural exposure. True that it was said that military leaning might lay in my blood line as my mother had fought in many a campaign as a commander and later as a mercenary, and her father before her had been a military engineer of the municipal corps. But I, perhaps as a result of this familial tradition, had always trended toward the academic, and had hoped that my sons would do the same.
Watching my five-year old march almost a precise, consistent distance ahead and slightly to the right of myself and his little brother, those hopes seemed to wither a little at the edges. Being so young and with little to no access to any other children of his age, I had to wonder from where were these behaviors had come from? It didn’t seem likely that behavior could be inherited, but I’ll admit watching my son did make me wonder a bit.
I will admit that physically, I may have been built more similarly to what is expected of a soldier than a scrivener. I really do deplore the stereotype of the squinty-eyed and bespectacled writer, drawn of face, thin of limb and pale from lack of sun; but I will admit to a bit of enjoyment at the looks upon the faces of many prospective customers at my initial greeting.
While not overlarge, my natural height of over six feet is a bit above the norm. The width of my shoulders and natural tanned complexion lend themselves more to a physical laborer or pit brawler rather than an academician. And I am sure that keeping my head cleanly shaven and my goatee’ and mustaches trimmed in the close fashion of those in my trade does little to overcome the deep, commanding baritone of my voice.
Not many have ever engaged my services for the first time without showing some surprise at my physical countenance. In fact, since my decision to reinvent myself as a historian and writer, I have often had to pass myself off as an intermediary for my ‘real’ employer.
I found it really difficult to convince prospective clients that I was qualified to do the work of an academic despite arms and hands that look better suited to sword word. However, when I pretend to be a “facilitator’ for an unseen professional, the mystery seems to get me jobs from much higher paying clientele. And, I have much less difficulty collecting my fees either.
In fact, this culmination of physical traits has proven valuable in negotiating my fees with both male and female clients. In addition to keeping prospective customers from trying to intimidate to a minimum, I rarely have to worry about prompt and exact payment.
As a new parent, I rarely hesitate to use these same traits to direct or correct the behavior of my sons. Though many have advised me against the usage of intimidation in the instruction of my children, I’ve found that most of these would-be advisors either have no children of their own or their children have no respect for them whatsoever. Often, such children develop poorly and end afoul of the local guard or the wrong end of a knife or sword.
Write On Press Presents: The Ultimate Collection of Original Short Fiction, Volume II Page 10
