Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

SHE HAS A GIFT Michael stood as their guest crossed the threshold. He’d been seated at the family’s breakfast table – dressed, ready for school, saddlebags waiting by the front door – his father raised an eyebrow at the early morning rat-tat, tat – “Dana?” Michael asked, glancing to the narrow door to his left, the one where a loaded .22 rifle lived. “She has a key,” Linn replied quietly: he glided toward the front door, silent on sock feet, interrogated the computer screen, smiled. He opened the front door without hesitation. A tall man with a little hair fringing around the back of his head, a lean, tanned soul with a staff in one hand and the other extended and gripping the Sheriff’s, stood at the doorway, his lined face wrinkling into a delighted grin. Michael rose, breakfast forgotten. Victoria had no such polite reserve: she scampered across the intervening floor, ducked around her Daddy, seized the white-robed guest in a happy hug and a delighted, “Woom Coffee!” Abbot William laughed, knelt, handed his staff to the Sheriff and hugged the delighted little girl (who wasn’t nearly so little anymore!) – he slacked his embrace, looked up at the Sheriff, looked at Victoria and said “Your pardon, my Lady, I was looking for a little girl of my acquaintance. Her name is Victoria, but you cannot be her, for you are much too grown!” She laughed again, and he hugged her again, and she felt him take in a long, shivering breath, and let it out. The Sheriff saw this, too, and saw the man’s eyes close against the sadness Linn knew he felt. William knew what it was to bury a daughter – that was part of the reason he became a Religious – and every time Linn saw that unhealed grief in his old friend’s soul, he swore he would never, ever, take any of his children for granted! William rose, looked across the intervening space at Michael, standing beside his chair: William cocked an eye at Linn and murmured, “Permission to come aboard, sir!” “Aboard, hell,” Linn laughed, “we’re settin’ down for breakfast! I’ll get you a plate!” “I won’t turn you down,” the Abbot smiled. Breakfast finished, the four adjourned to the broad front porch to wait on the school bus. The twins scampered down the gravel drive when they saw the big yellow school bus turn off the main route, start down the side road: they, and The Bear Killer, were at the end of the drive just as the bus choo-choo’d to a stop with the unmistakable hiss and sigh of air brakes: Linn waved from the front porch, The Bear Killer turned and galloped happily back up the driveway as the bus pulled away. Linn picked up his rifle where he’d parked it beside the front door, opened it, stepped aside to let William and The Bear Killer enter first, then followed them in. Linn and the Abbot sat at one end of the table, Linn at the very end and William on his right. Linn already had the breakfast dishes soaking in soapy dishwater, he’d poured William another mug of coffee – the Abbot soaked up coffee at twice the Sheriff’s rate of consumption – Linn sat, looked at his half empty mug and smiled quietly. “Abbot,” he said gently, “are you sure I can’t get you anything more?” The Abbott patted his flat belly, smiled. “I’m full as a tick,” he said. “Bacon and eggs are always better with good company!” “Victoria was glad to see you.” The Abbot laughed gently, nodded. “I remember when she was … younger.” His voice was soft, the voice of a man sharing something cherished. “She… her voice was excited … and she could not frame to pronounce ‘William.’ “It came out ‘Woom.’ “ The Sheriff nodded. “I remember.” “But she could say ‘Coffee.’ “ They laughed, they nodded, the Abbot looked speculatively at the Sheriff. “Dana.” Linn looked at his old friend: his expression did not change, but the Abbot could feel the change in the man, and he knew the Sheriff was listening closely to whatever words he was about to utter. “You know she sings with the Sisters.” Linn smiled a little, nodded. “I’ve heard her sing.” “She is quite the Bible scholar. She’s the equal of most seminarians I know.” Linn nodded again, took a short snort of coffee, swallowed. “She came to see me, Linn.” “Confession?” “No. Well, yes, but not …” Abbot William leaned back, his fingers flat on the table: he looked away, looked back, a look of amusement on his expressive, weathered face. “Linn, your daughter has both a strong sense of history, and a flair for the dramatic!” “I see,” Linn replied, affecting his best Innocent Expression. “She’s become an actress!” “Oh, she’s been that, for years,” William waved a dismissive hand. “She can become someone else or something else – do you remember when your mother discovered that long lost series of portraits, those … those glass plate treasures?” “I remember, yes.” “There were photographs of our early Monastery, of the Brethren ranked on one side, the Sisters on the other, how two chickens in the front looked like they were long and blurry because of the long exposure?” Linn laughed. “I remember those chickens look like they’re three feet long or better!” William leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingertips steepled. “Do you remember your mother describing how Sarah Lynne McKenna became an Agent of the Church?” Linn stopped and looked very directly at the Abbot. William waved a hand again: “No, no, Dana isn’t an Agent, don’t worry, the Holy Mother Church isn’t stealing her away to do clandestine investigation!” Linn raised an eyebrow. “From your introduction, I was beginning to wonder.” “No … but your daughter does have a penchant for disguise.” The Sheriff turned his head a little, as if to bring a good ear to bear. “Sarah Lynne McKenna became one of the White Sisters. She sang with them, and so does your Dana. Dana has not become a Religious, she does not wear the silver ring of Sisterhood, but when she is among us – when she comes to the Monastery – she assumes the Veil and she is indistinguishable from the Sisters.” “I see.” The Abbot removed one elbow from the table, gripped his lean chin between thumb and forefinger. “Linn,” he said softly, “she has absolutely the purest, most magnificent singing voice I have ever heard in my life!” Linn nodded. “She went back East on vacation. She felt it wise to go in disguise, after the … excitement … here locally.” Linn nodded again. “She has a love for a good pipe organ and she sought out one of the oldest working organs in the country, a Congregational Church in Massachusetts.” Linn tilted his head, favored his friend with a curious expression, clearly very interested in the man’s words. “She said it was one of the most powerfully beautiful experiences of her life,” the Abbot said softly. “She wept for its beauty.” “There’s something you’re not telling me.” “Ever the investigator, eh?” William smiled, nodding. “She had me write an introductory note, in case there might be resistance in admitting a Catholic Nun into a Congregational Church. I served on the Leyte Gulf with their chief pastor.” Linn nodded. “When she went in disguise, she went in a very old disguise.” “Old?” Linn frowned a little, his brows puzzling together as he did. “She came to see me afterward. It seems she took a cosmetic brush and nonflexible collodion, and painted an awful looking scar – from the corner of her eye, diagonally down and across her face, another across her throat.” “Sarah McKenna used that dodge, back when.” The Abbot snapped his fingers, pointed at the Sheriff. “Bingo. She said she raised the veil and said in a hoarse whisper she used to sing opera.” “Distraction technique. All the witness will remember is that awful scar and the husky voice.” “Your daughter could make a good living on Broadway, with the skills of disguise and that lovely voice.” “Her choice,” Linn grunted. “Now you’re holding something back.” Linn looked long at his old friend, as if weighing a decision. “Abbot, some things are not fit for the confessional.” “I’ve heard things, Sheriff. I’ve heard the blackest of stains on what the world thought were good men’s souls.” Linn leaned back, considered, his eyes tracking across the newly-painted ceiling. “Abbot,” Linn said quietly, “Dana does have an angel’s voice. I didn’t know she was into disguise as well, but I’m not surprised. Marnie …” The Abbott listened intently: he knew Marnie was recruited to Mars as their second Sheriff, he knew something happened to the Colony, there was almost no word about it these days. Linn slid his mug away from him, leaned forward. “Abbot, the Mars colonies are alive and well,” he said in a quiet, confidential voice, “and Marnie is quite the dancer. She was in disguise very recently, she danced the Can-Can with a professional troupe. I am trusting you with this information. There is considerably more that I cannot say, and what little I’ve given you would cause great … difficulty … if it were made known.” The Abbot nodded, frowned. “I’d feared them dead. There’s been almost nothing …” “Many of them were killed,” Linn admitted, looking away. He let an uncomfortable silence grow, then looked back. “Dana painted on a scar and said she used to sing opera.” The Abbot nodded, and Linn chuckled a little. “I knew Sarah Lynne McKenna would shake her trotters on the boards. Apparently my daughters have inherited some of her talents!” “ ‘Shake her trotters’?” the Abbot echoed. Linn grinned. “Slang for dancing on stage.” “Ah.” Linn’s eyes widened a little – it was rare for the man to be surprised, but that’s what the Abbot saw in the man’s expression as a memory came into focus. “Well I’d be sawed off and damned,” Linn said slowly. The Abbot raised an eyebrow, waited. Linn looked at him. “Dana. She’s been taking classes in the City. Dollars to doughnuts that’s been voice training!” “Encourage her, my friend,” the Abbot suggested. “She has a gift!”

Incurable Lead and Brass Scrounger here!

Mama called these a "Genuine Australian Go-to-Hell Hat!"

Snowed twice last week. Yesterday there were still fist sized snowballs where I got mad and shoveled the stuff off my driveway. Last night the idiot neighbor mowed his lawn. I went out back and checked to make sure my back yard was still there, and we have standing water in the low places. As much cold and freeze as we've had here of late I doubt me not we've more snow on the way!

Hardware store will fax anything I need for a quarter a sheet. Does just fine for renewing my nursing license. My last printer had fax capability, until it quit printing. Now it's sleeping in the basement ... somewhere ...

MIRIAM Parson Belden was a man of routine. He’d put a morning into cutting and stacking wood – Parson or not, the cookstove needed fuel and so did the pot belly – he’d washed his hands and his face, he and his wife ate together, talking quietly, laughing a little as they discussed the stir that scandalous trick rider caused, riding through town all gussied up and doing handstands and summersets on that gaudy saddle, and the menfolk watching her with their tongues hanging clear down to their belt buckles – husband and wife each built on the other’s exaggeration, until both were laughing too hard to push the ridiculous further. The Parson finished his meal and withdrew to work on his sermon. As too often happens with men of the cloth, his desire to come up with something inspiring, informative, encouraging, and spiritual, was far greater than his ability to come up with something inspiring, informative, encouraging, or spiritual. He stared at the blank sheet under his hand; he turned the knife-whittled pencil in his fingers, remembering other clergy who would doodle or write random words, trying to prime the mental pump – he did neither, for he was a thrifty man, and wished not to spoil a perfectly good sheet of paper with anything but useful information. He sighed, parked his pencil: he rose, he knotted his necktie, he kissed his wife and settled his hat on his head and commenced to walk. The Parson had no particular destination; he trusted the Lord would guide his steps, would guide his thoughts. Sunshine was warm on his shoulders, the backs of his arms, his legs: he stopped, turned, looking around, relaxing his mind, listening for that Still Small Voice. He thought about talk he’d heard, talk of building a better structure for their Irish Brigade: he’d understood the Sheriff’s green-eyed wife invested monies she may not’ve actually had, in the building of a brick-works, and using the bricks to build the firehouse as the first showpiece of this local product. His mind wandered further: there’d been talk of building a hospital – their Doc had an office upstairs, in the Silver Jewel, which was fine if you had strength enough to walk up the stairs, or strong men to carry you up – the Parson’s mind went back to their own Irish Brigade. He knew there’d been a private effort to raise funds for a fire engine, for men to operate it, horses to pull the Steam Masheen and the ladder and hose wagon, and this was accomplished – how, he wasn’t entirely sure: he knew he’d find out, eventually, he always did. He thought of their little whitewashed Church. He wasn’t the first Parson here, but this was the town’s first Church: it wasn’t terribly big, it was built – as he’d said in a letter to an old friend, back East – on the New England Meetinghouse style: it was a rectangle, simple, functional, the only thing fancy about it was that the doors opened on the back corner instead of on a back wall or a side wall. The only other building of note he knew of, that opened on a corner, was a saloon back in Corning, the one where Froggy Schlingermann got punched so hard he flew backwards out the batwing doors and landed colder’n a foundered flounder in the gutter – never mind that ol’ Froggy deserved it, given the nature of his insult to another man’s wife. Tricky thing, that, he thought: honor was a touchy thing anywhere, even back East: here in the West, talk like that might earn a man bed space in the local boneyard. Pride, he thought: I might find a sermon in … pride … The Parson raised his eyes toward the town’s cemetery as he thought. The Sheriff’s son was riding off Cemetery Hill, toward him. The Parson stopped, admiring how well Jacob Keller sat the saddle. The Parson was a man who noticed things; though not a horseman himself, he could recognize one, and he knew the Sheriff’s son was very definitely what the French called a Chevalier, a “man of the horse,” if he understood the term correctly. His quick mind sidetracked, attracted to the word like a compass-needle to native lodestone. There were connotations of good breeding and good manners attached to the term, and as the Parson looked up at this lean-waisted, pale-eyed Chevalier, he considered that these qualities, too, fit Jacob well. “Howdy, Parson,” Jacob grinned, touching his hat brim. “Visiting a memory?” the Parson asked. Jacob frowned a little, then dismounted. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I would counsel with you.” The Parson was struck by his phrasing: this was something he would expect a man of breeding to say, a man of education: Jacob’s few years precluded his being a University man, what little the Parson knew of him, would not lead him to think Jacob the son of means or wealth. This intrigued the sky pilot. “I am very much at your service,” the Parson said gravely. Jacob took a long breath, turned, looked back toward Cemetery Hill. “Parson,” he said, “I was just up there lookin’ at a tombstone.” The Parson nodded, slowly, listening carefully. “Her name was Miriam.” “Ah, the blind girl.” “Yes, sir.” Jacob frowned again. “Sir, she could play the piano … very well indeed, and she danced with me, and danced well.” “She was blind.” “Yes, sir, stone blind. Her eyes were bulged out some and that’s what killed her.” “I remember being told …” “That she died hard, yes sir, she did,” Jacob interrupted, looking away, clearly troubled. He looked back, his jaw set. “Sir, that wasn’t right. She’d done nothing to deserve that. She’d … she was decent and she helped her Mama as best she could when their wagon broke an axle and her Mama went a-laborin’ and I birthed her baby right there beside the wagon trail, and Miriam did the best she could in everything she did and she … “ His voice ground to a halt: he looked away again, controlling himself: he was silent for several long moments, his eyes closed, then he opened his eyes and looked back at the Parson. “It was not right, sir. I’ve been tryin’ to figure why things like this happen.” The Parson nodded again, once, carefully, his eyes never leaving Jacob’s serious young face. “Parson, I’m not the brightest candle in the chandelier, but I can’t see the Almighty causin’ these things to happen. Even when Job was deviled, ‘twas the devil doin’ those things to him, not God. I don’t reckon God causes the bad to happen, but I can’t help but … notice … He is not a’tall bashful about usin’ ‘em to teach lessons.” Jacob looked away again, smiled with half his mouth. “On t’other hand, Parson, if I know so much, why haven’t I made a fortune already, eh?” The Parson considered this lean waisted son of that pale eyed Sheriff, his expression thoughtful. “Jacob,” he said gently, “you have a greater wisdom than most grown men.” Jacob laughed – an easy, good-natured laugh – “Well, Parson, I’m glad you think so, ‘cause sometimes I don’t think I know straight up from go-to-hell!” The Parson’s wife looked up as her husband came through their door. He hung his hat on its peg, went straight to his desk and began to write. Mrs. Parson smiled a little as she kneaded the bread dough. She heard her husband’s pencil scratching purposefully, steadily, on good rag paper, and she knew this meant he’d found the subject for his Sunday sermon.

To quote the previous century's wise old sage: "To err is human. To really screw it up beyond belief, use a computer!" (Been there, done that, felt like the north end of a south bound horse afterward!)

NEXT STOP, HOME! Dana Keller saw the wreck happen. One car passing another, cut in too fast, too short: one vehicle spun out, stopped in the median: the other spun, hit the heavy I-beam of a roadside sign. Dana saw the spray and knew the gas tank just ruptured. She nailed the brakes, steered onto the shoulder, felt the antilock vibrating against her bootsole: her hand swung through empty air as she reached for the microphone that wasn’t there – she seized her Stetson, punched the seatbelt release, shouldered hard against the door, bailed out. She ran, ran with the desperate knowledge that the vehicle was going to light up, a tank of gas sprayed under hard impact, vapors, hot engine – Habit alone got her Stetson on her head and out of her hands, she ran for the driver’s door – Gasoline was a broad, shallow stain flowing toward her, two crumpled metal jerry cans on the tailgate draining fast – Dana saw the fire roar into life and come right at her. She clenched her teeth, lowered her head, ran into the river of living fire, and disappeared. Interviews were conducted, shaky phone videos were examined. All anyone knew was that someone stopped in a Jeep, maybe a Sheriff’s deputy but with a funny uniform, someone who ran into the flames and through them, someone who got the driver out and then a child from the back seat – whoever it was, ran right through those flames to get to them, got ‘em out and ran that way, away from the fire, uphill, on the shoulder of the road, laid ‘em down in the edge of the grass and stayed with them until the squad pulled up. No, it was a woman, everybody started showing up and she went back toward the burning car. That’s when the fire department showed up. No, she got in that Jeep and turned around on the shoulder, she ran the ditch line back and got across the roadway and across to the other side. No idea where she went after that. Dana Keller waited until the medics arrived, then ran down the bank, back past the burning car to her rented Jeep: she got it started, hauled the wheel hard right as the fire truck came in behind her: she doubled back, climbed the bank, shot across the eastbound lane, across the median into the westbound, and took the first exit, hung a left and ran a State route she’d seen on the map earlier that day: she went through the county seat, headed out the Appalachian Highway to the Ohio University airport. A Lear jet was only just fueled up: she wheeled her Jeep across the little airport’s cattle guard bridge within 30 seconds of her estimated arrival time. Her father’s old friend loaded what little luggage she had, into the Lear; they both took the opportunity to offload some second hand coffee before taking off, and Dana purchased a couple extra bottles of water from the machine, for the trip. The pilot gave her an appraising look as she handed him two sweating-cold water bottles. “Miss Dana,” he said, “if you’ll forgive me, you present as professional an appearance as your grandmother always did!” Dana laughed and stopped at the foot of the short stairway. “Flattery,” she smiled, “will get you everywhere!” It was not until the Lear began its takeoff roll, not until Dana was belted in, settled comfortably into her seat, not until she’d stowed her water bottles in holders built into the armrests, that she rested a hand on her belt-mounted magazines, laid gentle fingertips on the finger’s-width-thick rectangle on her belt. I will have to thank the Ambassador, she made a mental note: I’ve never had to test it against gunfire, but this field generator is sure as hell proof against a gasoline fire! The pilot turned, looked back, grinned. “Like to come up, Miss Dana? Quite a sunset we’ve got tonight!” Dana released her seat belt, stood: she took a bottle with her, settled into the copilot’s seat, laughed. The pilot looked at her – he was an older man, with the quiet confidence of a veteran pilot – “Something funny?” Dana looked at him and smiled, looking less like a Deputy Sheriff, and more like a happy girl. “A friend of Gammaw’s flew bomber in the Second Disagreement,” she said, her eyes slowly crossing the crowded, complex instrument panel. “Gammaw told me his favorite entertainment after the War was to fly commercial, when they only had a curtain between the passengers and the cockpit – he’d poke his head through the curtain and look around and roll his eyes and say ‘My, look at all those clocks!’ – and they’d look at him like he had a fish sticking out of his shirt pocket!” The pilot chuckled, nodded. “Somehow, I can believe that!” He looked at her with almost a fatherly expression. “Like to try flying her?” “Oh good Lord no!” Dana exclaimed, shaking her head and shuddering. “Give me my horsepower under a saddle and I’m happy! Give me something like this and … well, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and I know just enough about flying to get into an awful lot of trouble!” They laughed; they relaxed; Dana did not realize she’d fallen asleep until she heard a quiet, fatherly voice say “Next stop, home!”

So many, many times I've wanted to post this as a glorious affirmation to something posted here!

WE REMEMBER YOU A rented car was parked in front of the cemetery, well off the pavement. A young woman in uniform came out of the rented Jeep: she placed a uniform Stetson on top of her head, pulled down the back strap: she went through the chipped, weathered, silver painted front gate, eyes busy, obviously searching. She knew the tombstone she was looking for. She’d looked it up on Find-a-Grave, she’d studied the picture, she knew what she was looking for, and she knew what she sought was likely in the old section of the cemetery. She knew what she was looking for. She’d just never seen it in person. It took her a while to find it, but find it she did. HOWARD, it read, large and bold letters, suitable for the man’s stature in the local history. In smaller letters, also in relief in good Vermont granite, CLEM HOWARD. She stopped at the foot of the grave, her eyes busy: she studied the garden of stone ahead, then to her right, her left, she turned and frankly, openly, studied what was behind her. She turned again. “You confronted the wanted man,” she said, her voice quiet. “He’d shot someone in the head and you and the Constable figured the man you found was the killer. “He fell back and cut loose on you both. “You were hit and you still put six into him.” The tombstone made no reply. “What happened to you killed you in two days’ time.” Her voice was quiet, she swallowed hard, remembering, her eyes squeezed shut for a long moment. “We use what happened to you, and how you responded, in training.” She came to attention, raised a hand in salute, held it for a long moment. “Clem Howard, Chauncey Marshal,” she said. “We’ve used your lesson in training, and your name is spoken with respect.” She lowered her hand. “We issue body armor nowadays. If it were possible, I’d go back through time and fit you with a good Second Chance vest.” Her left hand rested on a slim, almost unnoticeable rectangle that rode her belt, a rectangle on which four pistol magazines sprouted, ready to hand. She herself wore no bulky armor under her military-creased uniform blouse. The rectangle on her belt, under her hand and behind the long boxy pistol magazines, was the miracle of Confederate technology that served as so much more than simply, incredibly effective, whole-body armor: what she wore just to the left of her belt buckle protected her against any known projectile weapon, any known energy weapon, fire, cold and hazardous atmosphere, and it did so silently, invisibly, and completely unobtrusively. “My Gammaw Willamina was a deputy marshal here,” she said quietly. “If you see her, tell her Dana says hello.” Deputy Sheriff Dana Keller, on vacation from Firelands County, Colorado, raised her hand in salute again, lowered: she executed a correct, military about-face, paced off on the left, departed the quiet, springtime Garden of Stone, by the same weathered, oxidized pipe gate through which she’d entered. Just before she opened the rented Jeep’s door, she hesitated, looked back at the tombstone. She smiled a little as she saw it. A single red rose, fresh cut, with drops of morning’s dew shining on the petals. “Thanks, Gammaw,” she whispered, then she reached up, removed her tan Stetson, scaled the hat over onto the passenger seat, climbed in. Deputy Sheriff Dana Keller looked back at the rose on the old tombstone and smiled, then she stepped on the brake, checked her mirrors, pulled the shifter into gear. “Time to go home.” I’ve put an awful lot of experience into many of the things I’ve written. No, I’ve never ridden a Twisthorn, nor have I opened an Iris and stepped between universes as easily as stepping through a doorway. I did serve under the Town Marshal who bought a cruiser shotgun and went for the cheap – a used High Standard from the gunshop without trying it out first. That’s the gun I’ve written about that would only cycle if it were held upside down. I proved this miserable point in the manner I described in one of my earlier stories. Additional, by way of history: Marshal Clem Howard, whose tombstone Dana sought out, was Town Marshal for the village of Chauncey, Athens County, Ohio, and was killed in the line of duty April 14, 1913. He and a constable, with two deputized citizens, went after a man who’d just shot another in the head. They stopped an individual, believing him to be the perpetrator. Marshal Clem Howard was right. Dead right. The perp fell back and opened fire. Marshal Clem Howard was hit and hit hard, but he managed to empty his pistol into his murderer, who had the courtesy to die a few minutes later. Clem was gut shot. It took him two days to die from his wounds. It wasn’t until after the Great Chauncey Shootout* that the village saw fit to provide an issue sidearm for its lawmen. Below is one of the very first village-issued pistols, a Colt New Police, in caliber .32 Smith and Wesson Special. The badge is one I wore while a lawman for the same jurisdiction. *The Great Chauncey Shootout is local legend I have reason to believe, may be more fiction than fact. That will be discussed in the near future, when a pale eyed father and his pale eyed young talk about where Dana went on vacation.

I can just see Sarah Lynne McKenna dancing this one!

... and here I sit laughin' too hard to come up with anything intelligent ... ... Forty, being told to behave? ... a half century old memory floated up between my ears (no, it warn't a good healthy belch, that was a half hour ago), 'twas the memory of our senior class singing "The Impossible Dream" at high school graduation. Forty, bein' told to behave? Attair is yer Impossible Dream, and thank God for it!

Ya beat me to it ... and you're exactly RIGHT!!!

BEFORE THE ALTAR OF THE LORD Dana Keller, the pale eyed daughter of that pale eyed old lawman with the iron grey mustache, didn’t step into an Iris with her siblings and take advantage of her mandatory, post-shooting administrative leave, by going on vacation offworld. She set her course eastward instead. Dana was a singer, and a good one. Her voice was remarkable in its range, her vocal control was phenomenal, she’d been encouraged to become a professional singer. She preferred to hide her voice among the many in the Firelands Church Choir. There was an ache in her – when she realized how beautifully she could actually sing, she had a need to release the beauty she contained. She found that release in her grandmother’s closet. She found a white nun’s habit, a veil. This used to fit. I wonder if it still does? It did. A pale eyed nun smiled quietly at her reflection in her Gammaw’s tall, oval mirror, then slid the white silk veil in place, completely hiding her face. Nuns don’t giggle. I’ll have to work on that. Dana read in her Gammaw’s handwritten Journal, where the pale eyed ancestress used disguises of various kinds, just as had the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna: after Dana and her sister had the line of duty shooting, where each of them punch malefactors’ tickets to the Hell-Bound Train, after each was given the mandatory leave after such a shots-fired incident, Dana picked up a Sheriff’s Office phone and called a number, arranged to have a friend of the Sheriff fly into the local mountaintop crash patch – which they jokingly called Firelands International Airport, one barely long enough to accommodate a C130 with a damned skillful pilot at the controls – and she departed Firelands County via the Lear jet her father used on occasion. She flew to the East, toward the rising of the sun, with a disguise in her suitcase and a desire to see, and experience, one of the oldest pipe organs in existence. It was not unusual to have visitors in the Barrington church, especially with its restored, and completely functional, Roosevelt organ. It was, however, rather unusual to have a Catholic visitor in the First Congregational Church. It was even less common for the visitor to be a nun … a nun in an all-white habit, a habit that included a white, silken, full face veil. She bore a letter of introduction from someone known to the Senior Pastor there, a wartime associate whose name opened the doors and bade this silent Sister welcome. Her visit was timed with the rehearsal of a noted organist, one who could bring the full, soul-gripping strength of the organ’s thousand voices into passionate, powerful reality. It was not until the deep and majestically-voiced rhythm filled the mostly-empty Church, not until the few visitors’ souls were stirred, powered, impassioned by the driving rhythms sung in notes so low many were felt, rather than heard, that this visitor, this solitary, veiled, White Nun, rose. The other visitors sat in the very rear of the Church, furthest from the magnificent organ with its shining, hand-burnished flutes. She sat in front, as close as she could get to this magnificent instrument. She’d glided up the aisle, she’d knelt and crossed herself before the Altar, after the custom of her Order: she’d seated herself slowly, carefully, gracefully, in the front pew, her expression hidden by the white silk veil. She’d sat with head bowed, hands hidden in her sleeves, until her soul was filled: as the music compelled the listeners in the back of the Church to joy, it compelled this White Sister to dance. A woman, a Sister, silent, danced: she rose, she turned easily, silent on the balls of her feet, one arm rose, pointed toward the Heaven she hoped to attain, the other arm down, pointed to the Earth where she served: her dance was simple, she moved in perfect rhythm with the music: beauty there was that day, as the sun slanted colorful beams through the stained glass, as music soared and lived, joyful life in audible form, and a solitary figure danced before the Altar of the Lord. She spun with a slow majesty, she swayed: her dance was simple, stately, graceful, an expression of the consuming joy she felt, the joy she heard, the joy of the music that moved through her, that powered her very soul, and when the organist came to the final bars, so did her dance: her final turns were perfectly timed; she finished, facing the Altar: she knelt, she crossed herself: she bowed her head, her shoulders were shaking, and she bent lower, until her forehead was on the hard floor. She wept. A kindly old clergyman came up, knelt beside her: he gripped her shoulders and she fell into him, still weeping: she cried as if a terrible wound were burst open in her, and its contents spilt out in sorrow and in tears: the old man, having just heard music more glorious than anything this side of the Heavenly Choir, having just seen an earthbound angel dance more beautifully than he knew any human possibly could, held her as she buried her veiled face in his shoulder. He looked at the Altar, and he felt helpless: he had absolutely no idea how such profound, concentrated, distilled grief, could be contained where there’d just been such utter and absolute beauty. The Sister – who had spoken not one word thus far – slipped a kerchief from a sleeve, lowered her head, lifted her veil enough to blot her closed eyelids. “My dear,” the gentle old man said softly, “what brings you such sorrow?” The young woman lifted her veil, revealed a face that had once been beautiful: he saw a reddened, puckered, terrible scar, from the corner of one eye, diagonally across her face, another across her throat: he saw her swallow, she chewed on her bottom lip before speaking. “Forgive me,” she whispered in a husky voice. “I used to sing opera.” She lowered the veil, dropped her head back onto his shoulder: he held her and rocked her a little, the way he would a sorrowing child, a kindly old man who did not realize she wept, in order to heal. Her wound had to be opened. She’d known this. Her strength would not let her open it, for she would have to see it again. Her pale eyed soul was too strong, too proud in its strength, to admit to its hurt. It took this beauty, it took the stress of this continent-wide journey, it took the disguise, the pilgrimage, it took the surging, flowing strength of this audible joy, to break through her hard-walled reserves, and so a pale eyed young woman, whose wounds were soul-deep and festered, sought another means to reach through walls and wards and defenses she’d built to keep the horror at bay. Dana wept for the cleansing, this sudden emptiness: she’d put so much work and so much effort into containing a monster, to confining the festering evil that she knew would eventually insinuate through her walls and her wards and would silently, secretly steer her with its poisons, its subtle evils that escaped her guard. Brutality and force had done this to her. She could not defeat it with brutality and force in return. She wasn’t that strong. She sought sunlight through stained glass, she sought joy in audible form, she waded into a powerful river and danced in its singing waters: the organ’s voice shattered her own defenses and, like surging whitewater shoving boulders before it and washing away any puny obstruction that thought it could stop a river, blasted away a terrible black flood with color and with rhythm and with harmony and with melody, and now she was weak, she was spent, she was utterly without strength, her wet face pressed into a stranger’s shoulder as surrendered her strength, surrendered the efforts that had so utterly exhausted her, as the memory and the blackness and the infection washed away in that powerful river of a Roosevelt organ’s deep-voiced, compelling song.

Neighbor of mine navigated with a knee scooter for a while. His opinion of the device was remarkably similar to your own!

TWISTHORN An apple-cheeked girl screeched with childish delight as her mount drove, all hooves and thunder and speed in the cold wind, leaned out in a full-on gallop across a high mountain meadow. Hooves and pink nose and shining white tail, a denim skirt and healthy pink cheeks and even teeth, and an absolutely delighted expression: there is genuine magic when a rider is well matched with her mount, there is a melding of spirit and of will and any fortunate enough to witness such a moment, can genuinely appreciate the belief of natives – upon first seeing mounted Spaniards – that this was a new creature, neither man, nor horse, but one living flesh. A pale eyed girl’s delight brings the heart to rejoice, but such delight is too often short lived, and this was. Her mount looked mostly like a horse. Where the Appaloosa she’d ridden, back home, had a head beautifully sculpted and perfectly proportioned to their bodies, this one had a shorter, stronger neck, the head was larger, with a twisting ivory horn driving out from its heavy, bone-armored forehead. Victoria did not know it, but she was astride a stallion that forgot entirely about the young life on its back: a more primitive fire raged in its neo-equine heart: it turned, suddenly, then turned back, reared, screaming, hooves slashing the air, an invitation to war. Across the meadow, another of its kind, as large, as fast, and behind it, a clutch of mares: the stallions had fighting fangs and spiral horns, the mares had bony nubs: challenger and defender screamed, postured, shook their heads, threatened with a display of shining-black forehooves. Victoria clung to the saddle, her eyes big, a look of expectant delight on her ten year old face. She had absolutely no idea why her white horsie was acting like this. All she knew was, he was fast, he was powerful, he was fun! “Where’s Victoria?” Linn looked around, frowning. Their guide looked to the corral, opened his mouth. “Sheriff,” he said, “I think she’s in trouble.” Linn’s eyes went dead white. Linn turned, looked at his daughter, nodded. Marnie lifted her wrist-unit, tapped a command, spoke quietly: an Iris appeared, the Sheriff strode through it, disappeared. Marnie looked back toward the empty corral, the barely-open gate, looked at their guide. “A stallion, you said?” The guide nodded. “I thought she’d just ride around inside the corral.” “What lies beyond?” Marnie thrust her chin toward the high country. “The herd.” “Herd?” Marnie echoed, took a step closer. “Mares?” The guide nodded. “And the Herd Stallion.” The guide’s eyes shifted toward the Iris as something big, gold and fast moving emerged from the black ellipse, something big and shining, something with a pale eyed man astride, bent over the stallion’s blond mane. Sheriff Linn Keller came out of the Iris at a dead-out gallop, his stallion grunting with the effort: they ran past the corral, cast back and forth, the Sheriff’s pale eyes looking at the ground. “BEAR KILLER!” Something big, black and fast moving streaked past the Ambassador and the guides, something moving like the Black Arrow of Doom: the big mountain Mastiff threw his grey-muzzled head up, sniffed, looked up at the Sheriff, took out at run. The golden stallion didn’t have to be told to follow. Victoria stood up in her stirrups, hands flat against her big white horsie’s neck: she slitted her eyes against the wind, against the long white mane whipping in her face: joy fired her young heart, she rejoiced at the feeling of power, of speed, at the sight of her big white horsie charging another big white horsie. Until the two stallions reared, rammed one another chest-on. Victoria grunted, fell hard against her stallion’s broad, solid neck. Her saddle lacked a saddlehorn, but its front ridge drove into her flat belly: her knees were tight, her boots were still in the stirrups, she was still mounted, she had a double handful of long, white mane, and she was sticking to her stallion’s back like a burr in a hound dog’s coat. Shining-black hooves seared through clear mountain air as as the two stallions swung their heads, slashed at one another’s chests with their broad-based, spiral-ivory horns, slammed the sides of their heads into one another. Sheriff Linn Keller drew his rifle, curled his lip, whistled, high, shrill, as he cranked a round into the chamber. He had no wish to drop either of these magnificent creatures, but he was DAMNED! if he’d let ANY harm come to HIS LITTLE GIRL! Hijo del Sol had his own ideas, as did The Bear Killer. The golden stallion screamed his own challenge, charged: The Bear Killer bayed like the gates of Hell themselves were opening, he launched himself at the stallions, yammering his own ivory-fanged challenge: Linn raised his rifle’s muzzle, fired, fired again, blasting holes in the air. The warring stallions drew back, confused, dancing: “BEAR KILLER! HOLD ‘EM!” Two stallions who’d never seen a mountain Mastiff, who’d never seen a war-bred, flesh-ripping, blood-spilling canine warrior the size of a young bear, backed up, sizing up this new opponent. Hijo del Sol charged. The twist-horn stallion turned to meet the charge, but his attention was divided: the big golden Earth-stallion rammed him, hard, swung, kicked the challenger in the chest, hind-hooves driving through cold mountain air like steelshod lances: he reared, twisted, his own blood up. Victoria kicked free of her stirrups, fell backwards, slid off her stallion’s fur-slick rump, landed on her feet, ran to the side. A confused tangle of white fur, ivory horns, black war-dog – Linn pulled hard on bitless reins, yelled “BACK! BACK, DAMN YOU!” – Rey del Sol backed, turned, drove forward, behind the saddled Twisthorn. Linn leaned down, Victoria reached up, the golden stallion surged forward, a little girl’s hand seized the sleeve of her Daddy’s coat as her Daddy’s big strong hand clamped hard around her arm and PULLED, a little girl in pigtails and a denim skirt soared up and behind her Daddy. Rey del Sol was moving now, and moving fast. Victoria swung up behind her big strong Daddy and seized his coat with a grip you couldn’t have broken with two sticks of dynamite and a prybar. A golden stallion, two riders and a shining black mountain Mastiff turned, ran from the fight, leaving a saddled, twist-horn stallion and a herd-stallion watching their departure in some apparent confusion. The saddled Twisthorn grunted, trotted after the departing challengers; victory secured, the herd-stallion sang triumphantly as he trotted back to the clustered, restless mares, his supremacy secured. The guide lowered his binoculars, breathed a quiet, heartfelt and rather profane whisper of thanks to the Almighty. His saddled, twisthorn stallion was following the golden stallion and whateverthehell that big black thing was, and that was a good thing, the saddle he’d stirrup-shortened for that little girl was expensive and he’d no wish to have to pay for it, was it lost or busted.

The Ninja were the most feared warriors of their era. They could still weep at the sight of a glorious sunrise, a beautiful maiden, a perfect, flawless, porcelain cup. I have grown watery of the eyes with some music, and well played pipe organs evoke a deep sentimentality for some screwy reason. I suspect something in a past life. The Sheriff's daughter Dana must be similar ... that one will post in a few days, but here's what I delighted in most recently!

Dag-GONE, I know whereof you speak! That hurts to THINK about!

I've led a deprived life (tired sigh and sad shake of head) The only single shot shotguns I've had or handled, were the H&R Topper variety with enough drop in the stock to rattle the fillings loose in my teeth!

ANOTHER NIGHT AT THE OPERA The original opera house was constructed with more good intentions than expertise. Two more arose on the foundations of the original, each one a little better designed, a little better made: architects learned from mistakes, from failures, from a partial collapse, most of a century earlier: this was the most recent version, three stories aboveground and two, belowground: it was home to presentations, theatre, orchestra and stage performances, and tonight it would feature a presentation that time, and changing tastes, had largely forgotten. The music was vaguely familiar, at least to those whose profession was music: its seminal tune was from “Orpheus in the Underworld,” but the music was part of a dance performance. French in nature, if memory served, or so conversations went: originally four women on stage, at least in its original presentation, though tonight's performance would involve many more than this meager performing population. Lively, bouncy, energetic, with flashing, stockinged legs, colorful layers of petticoats, ruffled layers thrown vigorously left, right, and otherwise, and distinguished guests for tonight’s performance, guaranteed a packed house. These particular guests included dignitaries from Offworld. The obligatory hover-camera swung to the private box: an Ambassador in her trademark McKenna gown, a well-known Nurse, looking quite lovely in a matching McKenna, an honest to God Earth-Western Sheriff, dignified in an iron-grey mustache and a severe, black, carefully tailored suit, and two equally well-dressed children, pale-eyed and unsmiling as they stood beside their father for the floating camera’s silent inspection. These distinguished guests held properly solemn expressions, at least until the camera was off them: protocol dictated that, once so viewed, they would not be subject to the intrusive eye again. Linn turned, looked at Marnie. “You’re not going to, are you?” he asked quietly. Marnie smiled: she turned without rising, ducked and was gone. “Don’t worry, Daddy,” Angela said. “You know what she’s like.” “Yeah,” Linn sighed. “I know.” It took a few more minutes for the theatre to finish filling, for the lights to lower: the conductor looked young, eager, energetic: his baton came up, as did his free hand. The entire theater held its breath. Victoria’s eyes were big, eager, anticipating; Michael, on his father’s left, reached into his own tailored black coat and brought out a compact set of binoculars, raised them. Linn saw his young fingers turn the focus wheel, saw his son’s face change as he smiled. Michael always smiled when the image came into focus. Angela felt Victoria’s breath catch as the music started, as the full power of a skilled orchestra filled the theatre, as Angela felt her spirit caught up in the bright, bouncy, energizing Can-Can. The InterSystem normally paid little attention to local cultural efforts, save only if there was something unusual or interesting. The attendance of both an Ambassador, and the most famous nurse in thirteen star systems, plus their genuine Western Sheriff father, all at the same time … well, that was unusual, that was newsworthy. The long, burgundy curtains shivered, withdrew to thunderous applause, the hover-cameras floating down, stopped. The dancers were already on stage, dancing as they ran: they flowed from left to right, turned, formed a living oval of motion, smiling and swinging their petticoats as they did. The hover-cameras made a several second long, left to right pan of the stage, of the dancers in feathered glitter masks and voluminous, colorful petticoats, of high-kicking, stockinged legs. It was the first time the Can-Can was danced on this Confederate world, and it was met with an absolute roar of approval as the entire audience rose, pounding their palms together in delighted approval. The members of the reserved box seats rose as well, applauded: Angela put two fingers to her lips, whistled: Michael’s binoculars went back into his coat pocket so he could applaud with both hands, and Victoria bounced happily on her toes, eyes shining as she pattered her gloved palms together. It was not a lengthy performance, but it was a very well executed performance: the dancers were vigorous, at once graceful, and athletic: the dignitaries in the reserved box seats studied the smiling glitter-masks, seeking, wondering: it was not until the performance was ended, not until Marnie’s return to the box by some invisible means – flushed, breathing deeply, obviously pleased with herself – that any there knew with certainty where Marnie actually was. The performance continued; there was more music, there were more performers, but the success of the initial number, the enthusiastic approval of the audience's applause, guaranteed it would be performed again. Those watching the InterSystem afterwards, saw the distinguished guests as they departed: laughing, relaxed, having very obviously enjoyed the show, they mingled briefly with a designated few of the dancers in the reception area, drinking from delicate crystal, long-stemmed glasses, laughing. None thought it out of the ordinary that the youngest of the dignitaries, the little girl in a knee length dress, carried one of the glitter-masks as if she’d been given a grand treasure.

AN UNEVENTFUL NIGHT AT THE OPERA-HOUSE Men in fine suits and ladies in fine gowns filed into the opera house. Outside, carriages pulled up under the gas lights: one carriage saw a tall man, lean-waisted, with an iron grey mustache, disembark. Most of the men there waited for a lackey to run up with a step-stool for the lady to use: this man reached in, took his wife under the arms, hoist her easily up, and out, and swung her around, and down, her skirt flaring as he did. A green-eyed beauty gave her husband a look, open, unashamed: he raised her gloved hand, kissed her knuckles, and for a moment, only they two existed, and those women who saw this, felt envy, or jealousy, or disappointment: the look they saw pass between a red-headed woman in a fine gown, and a pale-eyed man in a tailored black suit, was the kind of look a woman dreams of. Husband and wife turned, walked with a stately pace into the grand and very well appointed Opera House. Ahead of them, a commotion: an individual who was not quite as well dressed, pushed his way between couples, obviously in a hurry: behind him, a shout: “STOP, THIEF!” A pale eyed man’s hand shot out, seized the runner by the throat, squeezed. The fleeing felon stopped, grabbed the coat-sleeved arm, clawed at the hard hand strangling off his wind, trying desperately to dislodge the grip empurpling his face and hazing his vision. A uniformed carriage-driver raised a tubular silver whistle to his lips, blew, then swore at his startled horse. A woman’s despairing cry, a wailing, “My necklace! My brooch!” A uniformed police officer ran up, saw a man being strangled: the city policeman raised his wooden truncheon, stopped when a hard arm took him around the neck, as a knee drove into his back and pulled his spine backward into a painful curve, as something cold and alarmingly hard drove into his ear, as something thunderously loud and distinctly metallic went clickity-click-clack-click-CLACK and he realized someone just screwed a pistol barrel into his ear and brought the hammer back to full stand. The lean-waisted man with a handful of another man’s throat, spoke quietly to his wife, turned: he reached up, turned his lapel over to display a six point star, with the word SHERIFF hand-chased across its equator: he turned a little more, shoved the choking man into the policeman’s arms. The arm released from the officer’s throat, the pistol barrel was withdrawn, a woman ran up, bristling like a Banty hen, screeching “THERE HE IS! THIEF! YOU STOLE MY NECKLACE, YOU SEIZED MY BROOCH!” – she snatched something shiny from the coughing, choking prisoner’s slackened grip. A well-dressed young woman with an elaborate hairdo and pale eyes, stepped back from where she’d had an arm around the officer’s neck: she turned, slipped her bulldog .44 into a concealed pocket in her voluminous skirt, and disappeared into the gawking, neck-craning crowd. Those present, those staring folk in fine clothing and startled expressions, moved aside as husband and wife continued on into the opera house, continued as if nothing was the least bit out of the ordinary. As they entered their reserved box seats, the woman looked at her husband with admiring eyes and murmured, “I did so want to do something enjoyable for your birthday, my dear.” Sheriff Linn Keller smiled, raised his wife’s gloved knuckles to his lips: his eyes were a light blue, and smiling, something few people save his beautiful bride and his children ever saw: she felt his lips press warm and firm against the gloves’ thin material, heard his gentlemanly murmur. “My dear, I do so enjoy an uneventful night at the opera!”

The reworked version I heard sung brought a laugh to all who heard it. It was at a Medieval re-enactment event: all were in garb and in character. The King's Peace is a lance, upright, with a glove surmounting. Someone sliced the head off a Barney doll and impaled it on the pike in place of the glove. The headless remainder was strategically thrust through the grille of a nearby sedan. Oh, yeah, the reworked version, sorry about that, I sidetrack myself easily ... "I hate You, "You hate Me, "We're a Dysfunctional Famileee!"

WHEN CAN WE START I’d seen my Mama do that. Mama had a gift with the young, a gift my Pa lacked entirely. Mama could sit down with anyone’s child, didn’t matter who, she could talk with them and regard them as seriously as she would an adult. Children need that. Children need an adult that can let them be a child. They also need an adult who will recognize when the child is not being a child. Marnie was doing that, as was Angela. Neither one used that saccharine voice, that artificial smile, that condescending attitude that is too often laid over children like a stifling pastel blanket, holding them down, keeping them in their place. I did not find out for a little while what this earnest conversation entailed. I am not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I am not entirely unintelligent. I know Victoria was troubled, and I know when the ladies drew apart and held a feminine conference, it was time to stay the hell out of their way. Michael and I retreated to a lonely place, a place where he and I ran pistol drills, reaction drills, where we both worked on transition drills, moving from one falling plate to another, clearing a rack of plates fast enough the first hadn’t fallen clear over before the sixth was beginning to fall. Michael and I practiced something new, something different: targets close in, on the ground, as he’d never been faced with such a practice run as he’d had to handle when those rock snakes came at him. Michael and I made discreet inquiry with the local constabulary, we asked their help in what I called a minor investigation, strictly unofficial, off the record: they were able to confirm that the Warden who’d described his daughter’s demise, after she was bitten there by the falls, where Michael and Victoria had been playing – that yes, he’d had a daughter, yes, she was dead; his daughter had indeed been bitten by a rock snake, it had bitten high up on her thigh: I reviewed the coroner’s report, and it did indeed corroborate the man’s story. I handed the report back, thanked the file clerk for her kindness. The constabulary, of course, already knew about our little adventure, and to a man they told Michael and I both that we were just pretty damned lucky Michael was able to brainshoot the first one, the one that was launching to bite Victoria. They also said, and it ran cold water right down my back bone when they did, that the only place to put an effective pistol shot, was a one inch by inch-and-a-half depression on top of their skull, two-thirds of the way back – draw a straight line across the broadest part of their coffin shaped head, then strike a line down the midline – where the two cross, you’ve a spot the size of two thumbnails where you can slip in a bullet. I did not inquire the construction of their bullets, nor their velocity: it’s possible our duty ammunition penetrates better – but when it counted, just as the rock snake was ready to flip its head up and drive forward for a killing bite – Michael was able to put lead through its brain and stop the jaws from opening. Michael was silent through most of this. His eyes told us he was listening, and listening intently, but he offered no spontaneous comment, confining himself to very brief, very polite answers if directly addressed. Michael did tell me later that one of the constables offered a quiet-voiced opinion to his fellow that he – Michael – was someone he – the constable -- would not want to face, as Michael had already killed a man and worse than a man, and under greater pressure than the speaker faced in his entire career. We returned to the ladies, just in time for the noonday meal. As guests – as diplomatic guests – we were afforded a rather elaborate meal: we ate with a good appetite, we ate with good company, and if you have an old joke but a new audience … well, I stood and asked Victoria for “a good Baptist blessing,” and she stood up and confidently declared, “Okay, Daddy. I speak fluent Baptist!” It was after the meal, after the obligatory but mercifully brief speeches, after I expressed our personal thanks for the hospitalities and kindnesses we’d been shown, there was one of the inevitable, spontaneous lulls in conversation, just as someone beside me offered a comment, and what was intended as a personal remark was inadvertently magnified. A dignified older man shook my hand and said approvingly, “Sheriff, you have a truly remarkable family!” I looked at my daughter, the Ambassador, known and respected throughout the Thirteen Confederated Star Systems; I looked at my daughter, the Nurse, the most famous nurse in all of the far-flung Confederacy; my youngest two, made suddenly famous through no desire of theirs: I looked at all them, and they looked back at me, and I swallowed kind of hard as I realized this man was right. He was right. I thanked the man and told him that yes, and I am pretty damned proud of them, and the man beamed his approval: not an hour later, in the privacy of the diplomatic shuttle, Victoria sat beside me and gripped my hand. She was frowning a little, the way I’d seen her Mama frown when she was arranging her thoughts. I waited. “Daddy,” she finally said, “Michael kept me alive.” “Yes, Sweets,” I said gently. “He did.” “Daddy, if Michael hadn’t been there, I would be dead.” I felt my other daughters’ eyes on me as I replied quietly, “Yes, darlin’, that’s true.” “Daddy, I don’t want to be helpless like that ever again.” Marnie spoke up just as Angela opened her mouth to reply. “Victoria, you’re ten now?” Victoria looked at her big sister, nodded. “Angela, how old were we when we started training with the Valkyries?” Angela considered for a moment. “I think I was ten.” “I know I was.” Marnie looked at her youngest sister. “Victoria, would you like to learn how to really fight like a girl?” I would honestly have felt better if Victoria’s face would have brightened with delight, if she’d have clapped her little hands together and jumped up and down and declared “Goody goody gumdrops!” like a normal little girl would. She didn’t. My littlest girl looked at me with pale eyes and then looked at her sisters with pale eyes, her expression as serious and as unexpectedly mature as her voice. “When can we start?”

A STATEMENT I reached under my coat tail and pulled a loaded magazine free, handed it to Michael. “Trade ya.” Michael blinked pale eyes, swallowed: he reached into a hip pocket, pulled out a magazine. I traded him my full mag for one that was two rounds shy of empty. “Michael,” I said quietly, “you asked if you could bring a pistol, and I told you no.” “Yes, sir.” “You disobeyed me.” “Yes, sir.” “You action was deliberate and willful.” “Yes, sir.” I looked past him, at the still-moving forms of multiple rock snakes, the smallest of which was the diameter of Michael’s thigh. I looked my ten year old son very directly in the eye. “Michael,” I said quietly, firmly, “you did the right thing.” “Yes, sir,” Michael agreed solemnly. “I did.” Things had been … strenuous … back home. Marnie and Angela both suggested we take some vacation time. Unwind, relax, see some sights, meet new people. Relax. Shelly shooed us along, telling us she’d enjoy having some peace and quiet around the house, she’d have the usual suspects clean horse stalls and tend feed and other chores, go on, get out from underfoot, and so we did. We rode a vast and grassy plain on a planet with a green sky, rode what looked like horses, if you ignored their fangs and their the spiral fighting horn growing out the middle of their heavy-boned, slightly-oversized heads; we climbed mountains not so different from the mountains back home, pulled lumps of gold from streams – fist-sized lumps so common as to be ignored by locals, lumps we carefully squirreled away and sent back home – we sat for speeches and receptions, we ate food flavored with absolutely foreign spices (to their credit, my children did not “Yuck Patooey” when encountering something completely new to them!) – and finally we stood on a poured-concrete overlook that gave us a genuinely frightening, absolutely breathtaking view of a waterfall that made the famous Niagara look like a leaky faucet – both in river’s width, and in the depth of its plunge. The noise alone was truly spectacular, more felt than heard, as if all of Creation were cascading into an eternal, infinite abyss. I stood in awe, gazed at the falling waters, the rising mists, reveled in this raw, natural POWER!, and I honestly felt pretty damned small, leaning against that grey painted pipe railing and watching this magnificent cascade, with a big idiot grin on my face. Michael and Victoria, typical ten-year-old children, looked at it, accepted it, then scampered back away from the circular viewing area: they gripped the bottom pipe rail, did an acrobat’s dive to the coarse rocks below, ran toward the water’s edge. Two laughing children, looking out over the smooth, almost oily surface of the water, the artificial smoothness that only occurs right before a waterfall: Michael found a flat rock, hauled back, skipped the stone across. Victoria chose a smaller stone, threw it harder, got six skips to Michael’s five. Marnie stood beside me, leaning forward, her eyes closed: she told me later she imagined she was at the prow of a great and powerful ship, blasting its way through hostile, dark waters on some vital mission. We barely heard the first two gunshots. I turned – automatically I turned to cover what was directly behind me, my hand knifed under my unbuttoned coat, I was cussing myself for relaxing, for letting my guard down, I never do that, I NEVER do that – a warden was running toward us, shotgun in hand, looking out over the rail: he started to raise the gun, hesitated. From the look on his face I knew there was trouble and plenty of it, and I was right. Michael’s arms were driven forward, he was firing steadily – I remember how the fired hulls spun, golden in the sunlight, then he swept Victoria behind him with his off hand, swung, fired again: Victoria ran a hand under his coat tail, grabbed the back of his belt: she went forward, toward us; he walked backward, firing: Victoria was his eyes, Michael was the tail gunner, as they exercised a strategic retreat from multiple approaching enemy. The warden swung his shotgun, fired, fired again: I was over the railing, landed on the only flat rock available, jumped from one to another, snatched Victoria up and turned. I don’t remember levitating but I got from that big heavy rock fill up onto the platform in a tenth of a second or less. Still have no idea how I got under that bottom rail with Victoria, but Marnie tells me that’s what I did, some kind of a twisting dive: she seized Victoria, pulled her up onto the broad, textured cement walkway. Michael continued to back toward me, pistol in both hands again: he swung, fired, lowered his aim, fired again. Something broad and dark moved close to his right boot: his hand dropped, he fired twice, quickly. His hand went under his coat, came out with a boxy black pistol magazine: I watched as he dropped the partly-empty mag into his hand, thrust in the full replacement, thumbed the partial into a hip pocket. He turned, looked at me, swept his eyes across, then in one smooth, well-coordinated move, he holstered, jumped, grabbed that bottom pipe railing, swung his legs up and thrust himself onto the concrete walkway. The warden swung his shotgun down and fired where Michael had just been, and blew a bloody hole in something flat, black, and coffin shaped, with a charge of heavy shot. I grabbed Michael around the waist, Victoria around hers, surged to my feet, and I did my level best to make Jesse Owens look like a cripple. Marnie ran with us. I did not have to look to know she had a weapon in hand, that she ran half-sideways, her own pistol pointed behind us, covering any danger that may seek to follow. The warden ran backwards, shotgun up and at the ready: we made it to the paved parking area, stopped. “They won’t leave the rocks,” the warden shouted over the waterfall’s roar: he thrust his gun at Marnie, dropped to his knees, snatched up Victoria’s skirt: “Are you bit?” It is not a usual thing for a stranger to lift my little girl’s skirt and regard her leg closely, and to this day I do not know why I did not try to kick his head off his shoulders. Maybe it’s because he shouted “DID IT BREAK YOUR SKIN?” in a voice little removed from a full scream of utter panic. Marnie went to her knees beside him: she looked, bobbed her head left and right, turned Victoria a little, looked again, then lowered her skirt, gripped the warden’s shoulder. The man had no color left in his face, his lips were white, his eyes looked like boiled eggs, he swayed a little and nearly fell. We got him back to the steam-brougham before his legs failed him altogether. Michael stood facing the waterfall, pistol in hand. Marnie had his shotgun held at the ready: she paced to the side a little, pale eyes busy. The warden half-sat, half-fell back against the steam-brougham’s front tire. I handed him a flask and he tilted it up, took a long swallow, another, then he handed it back, seized my wrist. “The girl,” he shouted. “Is she bitten?” I shook my head: his hand tightened, then released, his chin dropped to his chest and the hand that had seized my wrist, clapped itself over his face, and he abandoned himself to the racking sobs of a man suddenly plunged into an abysmal, soul-devouring grief. It took us a while to get the story out of him. His daughter had been Victoria’s age. His children were only newly arrived to this continent. Nobody thought to warn them to stay off the rocks here: rock snakes grew to the thickness of a man’s thigh, their poison was potent and irreversible: his daughter, being a happy, laughing child, was skipping rocks as mine had been, when the vibration of jumping from one rock to another brought out the hungry predators. His daughter had been bitten. He described how it poisoned her blood, how despite immediate transfusion of her entire blood volume, it had not been enough; how the poison was not only hemotoxic, but also neurotoxic, how it attacked the nerves behind her eyes first, and then her spine, and then the brain itself: he blamed himself for her death, and when he saw Michael reacting to the emergence of a huge snake, when his first two rounds went into its coffin-shaped head just as it drew back into a fighting S to make its strike – the snake’s head swung forward, as if bowed in a prayer of gratitude at this easy meal -- but with two rounds through its brain, all it did was raise its head and knock Victoria off her feet – the Warden ran up at the top of his lungs, and he and Michael both fought a rear guard action as more of the venomous vipers came out of the rocks, looking for an easy meal. Michael and I had a talk afterward. He’d asked me about bringing his pistol along on this vacation trip. I’d told him no – he could bring his rifle, as it was a well engraved presentation piece, and it might do to show off something of the kind, but the idea of what many would see as a child, with a sidearm, might not be well received. Michael disobeyed me. Michael intentionally and deliberately disobeyed. His disobedience meant his sister was alive – his disobedience probably meant he was alive as well. We sat together and talked quietly, once we’d returned to guest quarters, and I told him that – under law – it is not illegal to refuse an unlawful order, and that sometimes the right thing to do is to disobey. “My Mama told me American soldiers are some of the most effective in the world, because when they see an opportunity, they take it,” I added. “Other nations’ militaries will follow orders, they’ll advance to a location and stop and wait for orders to advance again. If a bunch of hell raising Americans get to the stop point and they can take another objective – or they can strike a critical blow – they’ll do it on their own hook.” I pulled Michael’s mostly depleted magazine from my hip pocket, looked at it. “Two rounds left,” I said. “Yes, sir.” “I don’t think you missed any.” “No, sir.” “Michael, I want you to remember my handing you a full magazine and trading you for this mostly empty.” “Yes, sir.” “When you become a man of authority, you will have need to express confidence in someone.” My voice was quiet, the voice of a father in a teaching moment. I could have raised hell with him for his disobedience. I could have lowered the boom. I chose instead to teach. “You will need to show them you trust them, in spite of whatever happened.” “Yes, sir.” “I did that when I gave you a full magazine, and did not demand you surrender your pistol.” “Yes, sir.” Michael did remember that day, and he did have occasion to express such confidence in someone under his command, but that was not for many years, in a place far from where father and son sat, talking in quite voice, two pale eyed men wearing tailored black suits, two men who wore a discreetly concealed sidearm as naturally as they wore their trousers.