by Kevin Olson
Ravi coughed and sat up. He looked about the interior of the small tank, observing Kellen’s lifeless body and the Green Lama in a serene pose of meditation.
“Jagmohan!” the boy exclaimed. “What happened?”
The Green Lama opened his eyes and looked at the dead mystic. He shook his head. “Something that should not have happened.” Taking the mat from the floor, he began to weave the hair together into its ring shape. “Strength unfailing, I should not cause it to occur again.”
Ravi watched the Lama reform the ring. “I have been sleeping.”
The Lama nodded. “Indeed, Ravi. What did you dream?”
“I dreamt of a turtle flying through the air,” Ravi replied. “I am to help the turtle to find its way.”
The Green Lama nodded as he stood and twisted the wheel on the tank. “I saw your dream, Ravi. You have far to travel and will do much good in the turmoil to come. Your mother will tell you more about it.”
Ravi and the Lama ducked to avoid the rotatank’s still propellers. They climbed out, seeing Pari walking with Twin Eagles toward the Nazi war machine.
“Ravi!” Pari shouted as she ran toward the tank. Ravi ran to his mother. “Mother!”
Pari hugged Ravi. “How is it you are alive?”
Ravi looked over his shoulder at the Lama. “I do not think I know, and I do not believe the Lama will tell us.”
The Green Lama smiled broadly. “Ah, yet there you are wrong, Ravi. You are alive because you are meant to be. You are purposed to aid the turtle to fight against injustice.”
The End
NOTES
1. During World War II, the British government contracted the M.L. Aviation Company to develop a Rotabuggy and a Rotatank based on designs by Raoul Hafner in 1942. Planning for the project started in 1940, though the conception may have been much earlier. The military tested an operating version of the Rotabuggy, an ordinary jeep converted to fly with an overhead propeller, with limited success. In early flight tests, the wild, rotating motion of the control stick made the pilot’s job quite harrowing. Improvements made to the Rotabuggy’s controls and tail fins added eventually made operating the odd craft “highly satisfactory”, according to official records. Plans for the Hafner Rotatank, an ordinary Valentine tank outfitted similarly to the Rotabuggy, never made it past the concept stage. The V.T.O.L. (Vertical Take-Off and Landing) abilities of the Rotatank made it unique among flying-tank projects, which more often utilized traditional glider or propeller-driven airplane technology.
Here we see an example of German ingenuity beating the British ‘to the punch’ as it were, based on earlier designs likely stolen from Spanish gyroplane inventor Juan de la Cierva. While the records of this project have yet to surface, it is verified with film footage that the Nazis did manage to launch single-man gyrocopters from the decks of u-boats, planning to insert covert agents into enemy countries. That display of Nazi technical prowess in gyroplane engineering supports the validity of the claim by Jethro Dumont in his private journals, although his word is more than adequate for this commentator.
Paths of Green
Working with a character like the Green Lama is something I’ve wanted to do for some time. Being a dabbler in religion and philosophy a story about the Buddhist superhero held a natural attraction. How can a man dedicate himself to a non-violent religion and still use violence to fight crime? Certainly, this seems a perennial difficulty with lessons for the adherents of many religions.
Gandhi, perhaps the most recognizable example of one against violence, once said, “Between violence and cowardly flight, I can only prefer violence to cowardice.”1 It is likely that our western culture places values on matters distanced from us by time, culture, and geography. This is not so much a criticism as an observation. In all matters, we make judgments. If I may be so bold, we make prejudgments. This seems to me to be where we come from in our most primal state. As cavemen we see a threat and judge its danger and value. This prejudice causes us to attack, welcome, or flee, or just ignore depending on the prejudgment we arrived at.
It is to be remembered that long before civilized society and those myriad issues that receive so much finger-pointing even existed, homo-sapiens murdered Neanderthal men. That is if the archaeological findings hold true. Violence has been with us since before organized religion. It predates governmental and structured economic systems. It likely arrived before the shaman and holy men first stepped into the paradoxical pool to try to understand and explain the world around them. This was the concurrent birth of magic, religion, and science. Sir James Frazier does a fine job describing this evolution in The Golden Bough.
Men use violence for ill-gotten gain and lord over those with limited defense. So how does a man live up to non-violence when faced with the abuse of innocence and freedom by violent men? I really think this is the most important question an individual like Jethro Dumont faces every day. Jethro, as Twin Eagles reminds him in the story, is not from Asia. He is a well-to-do American. Without the background offered a childhood in India, he would be sorely tempted to fall back on the belief that the individual holds power over himself, is a free agent answerable to no man unless he chooses, and is responsible to create an atmosphere where others can be free as well. This would naturally give him an understanding unlike that of a Buddhist raised in India, for example. This is not a comparison of the two culturally-influenced paths or a judgment of one over the other. It offers a window to view into Jethro’s very soul.
In writing my story, I wished to remove Dumont from the later stories and see him in his primal state. I therefore started before the beginning to examine an encounter before he began fighting crime in America. In the retold origin story from the Green Lama #1 comic, creator Kendall Foster Crossen (writing pseudonymously as Richard Foster) says the Green Lama took on the appellation after arriving in America. It seems there is no exclusion of the possibility of the Lama being called the Green Lama before arriving in America, just that he took on the name after. A slight distinction that further material may prove impossible. Until the material presents itself, I took the liberty of making the assumption that he was called such before coming to America. It seems the name could well be a title he earned, and this I suspect is true.
For the story itself, two characters that were back-ups in the Green Lama comics appear; pilot Rick Masters and his Seminole partner Twin Eagles. This is before Masters and Twin Eagles began their air-transport business, and before Masters’ injury in WWII caused his honorable discharge. It seemed appropriate that Twin Eagles might object to Jethro’s presentation as a Lama; a presentation the Seminole saw as disingenuous and thus preposterously insulting. The two come to an understanding in the story and become friends.
I have little more to say aside from the surprising turns the story took for me as a writer. The Green Lama as a character took on a life all his own, though not to my mind significantly removed from his pulp and comic representations. He is still attempting to discover his place as a Lama and struggling with the non-violent identity which he would like to maintain. Like Gandhi, Jethro abhors cowardice more than violence.
1.) GANDHI LIVES: by Marc Edmund Jones
Author Bio:
KEVIN NOEL OLSON - lives with his wife in Butte, Montana where he serves as Castellain of a Masonic building. He writes children’s adventure novels, various articles, and sundry material. He enjoys reading old books and watching old movies. A daily constitutional to retrieve a cup of regular coffee is often a requirement. Perhaps equal to oxygen.
the
Green Lama
in
The Menace of the Black Ring
by Nick Ahlhelm
Green
Lama
Mike Washington clutched the two packed paper bags under his arms as he walked away from the local grocers. The early morning air
was cool despite it being almost May. The streets were still empty; it was too early for many to even be awake. While the dawn was well under way, the last shadows of night still held on the city.
He started down the six block hike from the grocers to the small apartment he resided in. He was thankful for the small furnished room in a time when many didn’t live in more than a shack. His job as a line cook wasn’t much to write home about, even if he did have any family, but it paid his bills well. That’s all one could hope for in the Depression after all.
Though he was still young, barely into his thirties, he walked with a limp, an old sports injury. It slowed his movement a bit, but allowed him to take in more of the early morning city. He was only a block from his home when he heard it.
The shrill scream cut through the air and stabbed into him like a dagger. Mike raised his head, suddenly attentive of the sound. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but someone needed help. Something told him he should be the one to do so.
He glanced down a connecting street and saw the source, three young unkempt men hassling a young well to do woman out far too early in the morning without an escort. She appeared to be Asian, a rarity in this neighborhood, but her clothes marked her as coming from money.
The hooligans tried to get her purse from her shoulder, but she struggled against their attempts. The pushing and pulling had spilled the contents of the bag onto the cement sidewalk. None of the would-be thieves were much over twenty and the youngest looked barely into his teen years. The oldest, a scruffy man in a bowler, pulled his hand back and slapped the woman across the face.
Washington looked down the street toward his apartment building. It isn’t my business, he reminded himself. I’m a cripple, not a fighter. I could get hurt if I interfered.
He gently placed the two bags on the ground. He pulled the glasses off his eyes, tucked them in his shirt pocket. He walked across the street ignoring the limp that slowed his gate.
I cannot let this stand.
He sprung on them with speed well past a normal man, let alone one with a bad knee. He didn’t even know how he moved like he did, but it felt right and real. He threw his body at the man pulling at the purse. The ruffian fell down under his weight.
Washington delivered two sharp blows to each of the man’s shoulders. The blows were carefully aimed at the nerve cores of both arms, sharp stabs that would disable the hooligan’s hands and arms for several minutes. It would cause no lasting damage, Washington knew; though he wasn’t sure how he knew that.
He turned as the other man came at him from behind. The glint of metal flashed toward Washington, but he rolled out of the way. It seemed the ruffian was not just the kind of man that would hit a defenseless woman. He was also the kind that would attack an unarmed man with a blade.
The thug leaned in again with a fierce stab. Washington’s hand shot out, much to his surprise as well as the hooligan’s. It struck the man in the wrist and forced the blade up and away, even as Mike moved in to deliver a blow to the man’s forearm. The knife shot up into the air as Washington spun around and delivered a hard kick straight into the hooligan’s solar plexus.
The would-be robber stumbled back. Washington’s hand shot out in front of him and wrapped around the hilt of the mugger’s blade just as it came down out the air. His hand flashed up as he charged the criminal.
He stopped just short of severing the man’s head from his shoulders. Washington held the blade to the thief’s throat.
In all, his attack on the men lasted only about thirty seconds. Washington didn’t quite know how or where he learned to fight like this, he was just glad for his and the young woman’s sake that he did.
“Perhaps you should apologize to the young lady, sir?”
The mugger nodded, clearly in fear for his life.
“Say it,” Washington demanded.
“I’m sorry! Lady, I’m sorry! I won’t never do it again, I promise.”
“Good. Get up.”
Washington pulled the knife away from the other man’s throat. He reached down and yanked the man around. He reached into the back pocket and yanked the man’s wallet free.
He flipped it open and was taken aback to see a star inside. The worlds United States Secret Service were emblazoned on the badge.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “You were robbing the lady, but if you’re Secret Service. Is this some kind of test?”
He turned back to the young woman. In her right hand, she held a Colt .38. The weapon was standard issue for local police agencies, if not the Secret Service. Mike wasn’t sure where he gleaned that fact from, but it did little to assuage his confusion about this whole situation.
With her free hand, she pulled her own wallet from her purse. She flipped it open to reveal her own Secret Service badge.
“We are with the Secret Service, Mister Washington. And we think you’re a man we’ve been searching for since February. It’s been a long search, but we’re not the only ones that want you found.”
Washington lowered the knife and looked both ways down the streets. They were empty accept for a few straggling cars driven by workers on their way to an early shift.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, miss, but I don’t like this entire set up. I’m just a cook, a guy working to earn a living in bad times. I’m just a bit luckier than most, especially all the guys with a leg like mine. But if you wanted to talk to me, you could have just come to my house. My shift doesn’t start until eleven. We can talk about it over coffee.”
The “mugger” met his victim’s eyes. “What do you think, Sun?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, but we aren’t going to find out here. Might as well take Mister Washington up on his offer.”
fff
Mike Washington lived in a two room apartment on the second floor of a five story apartment building. The apartment was basically a bedroom connected to a kitchen with a small bathroom off to the side of the bedroom. It wasn’t much, but it was more than a broken down box.
The neighborhood outside wasn’t the best. A lot of people were out of work and a lot of crime came with that. Gambling was a major problem in this neck of the woods, often housed in old speakeasies the cops either ignored or still didn’t know about almost half a decade after Prohibition. Some of the poorer women had turned to prostitution, often using private rooms in apartments like Washington’s as makeshift brothels.
The apartment was sparsely decorated, just a twin bed with a throw, a small bed stand and a single chair. A small, partially used bookshelf sat to the opposite end of the bed as the stand. The kitchen seemed bare and almost unused.
Washington watched the two Secret Service agents take in his home as they entered it. He said nothing as he walked past them into the kitchen. He opened up the cabinet and pulled out three mugs and a coffee pot. He set the water to boil on the stove and went to put the groceries away.
He focused on his current task, but he kept his sense tuned to the actions of the two federal police. They both seemed impatient as they waited for him to finish. They wanted to talk to him and didn’t want his daily chores to get in the way.
He was more than comfortable making them wait and stew for a bit. He put his life at risk for this woman, only to have her act like he was some criminal on the lam.
The woman, Sun, cleared her throat. “Mister Washington, I know it’s an inconvenience to you but we really must talk.”
Mike continued to put his groceries away. “Then talk.”
The male agent took over. “My name is Perry Turner. This is my partner, Sun…”
“Just Sun will be fine, Perry. Mister Washington doesn’t care about our names anyway. He just wants to know why we are here.”
“I suppose so,” Perry said. “We’ve come to you with good reason, Mister Washington. We
believe that you might be in grave danger.
Mike paused with a can of tuna in hand.
“I doubt that highly, Mister Turner. I’m just a cook. No one is interested in me. And it seems I turned out to be a better fighter than I thought if today was any indication. Do you think I really have anything to worry about?”
Turner stuttered, lost for something to say in response. Sun spoke for him.
“I think you do, Mister Washington. Tell me, does the name Black Ring mean anything to you?”
Washington stopped and stared at Sun. The words Black Ring echoed in his brain as though they were something he should know, something he desperately needed to remember.
“Why are you here? How do you know me?”
“I’m going to give it to you straight,” Sun said. “Your name is not Mike Washington, though this is a disguise you have used in the past. Your real name is Jethro Dumont. You come from a wealthy family and after graduating from college, you left the country for a decade to travel to Tibet. You stayed away for a full ten years, studying the path toward enlightenment in the Buddhist tradition. You returned as a Lama and a master of mystic arts that Western America can’t even begin to explain. You kept your identity a secret from all but your most trusted confidants, but those men and women have all disappeared with you over the last few weeks. For the first time, you came under attack by someone that knows you, knows how you work and wants you out of the way.”
Mike listened intently, still not sure what she was getting at.
“Does any of that strike you as familiar, Mister Washington, or should I say Dumont?”
