Haul 3

I traveled with McAlester’s merchant train until the age of thirteen. I was quickly paying off my debt to my owner. I had paid nearly three quarters of the price he had bought me for. I had my own wagon of goods and sold under my own name giving only a little of my profits to my master and saving the rest for my own needs and my own business. I had learned quickly the merchant trade, in doing so I traveled the known world and some parts that were not so know. The train had taken me from my homeland far to the north along the lush fertile eastern coast and where the ten Great Nations of the world were amassed to the jungles of the southlands. We crossed the narrows of the continent and followed the rough western shores, ruled in its entirety by the Samgouty nation, back to the north. About half way up the continent we crosses the lowest pass of the great mountain and entered into the deserts of the inner-lands and the tribal nations that lived their. The Folded Land, as the natives called it, was a place that no citizen of any civilized nation traveled and was a place that a merchant train was most welcomed.

I had heard he that tribal people were vicious, uncivilized people who would rather cut your tongue from your mouth as speak to you. I instead found a people deeply devoted to the preservation of their own people and kin. At first they seemed stand-offish but they were simple sizing up the new comers to get an idea of who they were dealing with. It was in my twelfth year that I first met a tribesman. McAlester had hired him as a guide for our travels in the Folded Lands. He was a short old man who had skin that was the color of the rich earth, and looked more like old leather then live flesh. But under his this skin was muscle and bone of the hardest sort. His name was Shalradie Ka Shalre. The first night he spent with the wagon train I could not help but watch him like a hawk. His movements were like nothing I had ever seen before. There distinct note of decisiveness in every motion but at the same time he seemed to flow like a liquid. The next evening I was practicing my forms with BoHalen. Shalradie watched the proceeding with deep interest. I took note of his attention and from then on I was aware that there was some invisible force between the native and me.

About three days into the Folded Lands we stopped for a day at one of the few wells in the dry dead land. I noticed Shalradie Slip away from the group early in the morning. I was never sure why but I felt the deep pull to follow him. I stayed about a mile behind him so as not to catch his attention. He moved quickly for his age. We must have covered almost twenty miles before the sun had reached its zenith. I lost his trail a number of times in this distance but every time I lost it I had this odd feeling. Like a string that connected me with the man I was following was pulling at my gut telling me which way to go. I trusted that feeling like a child trusts in the joys of life. The trail approached the base of a high cliff and ended dead. The feeling in my gut turned into butterflies that seemed to push in all directions. There was a quick flash and a knife blade appeared at my throat. Without thought one of the knives that I kept up my sleeve flashed and stopped poised to sink into Shalradie’s belly.

“You are quick for one born in the Great Nations.” It was the first time I had ever heard the soft deep airy voice of the old man. “And your hand is very steady for one your age.” He said smiling as he put his hand on my knife hand and lowered his own knife from my throat.

“I am not of the Great Nations.” I said looking into the man’s gray eyes that had both the deep cutting of wisdom and the dancing energy of youth. “I am from the Northlands.” The old man smiled as he put his knife away.

“Well NalaKala, if you want to walk with me then walk with me; do not follow behind like the wild dog follows the deer. You are no dog.” I did not catch his meaning but he walked on and I raced to walk with him. We traveled a few more miles following the cliff northward. The old man turned into a cleft in the cliff and pressing his body between the rock walls he pushed himself up I followed his lead until we reached a small cave in the side of the northern wall of the cleft. I pushed myself into it and followed that old man into the darkness. I was amazed that he was limber enough to be able to do such things. We wove threw the cavern twisting and turning until for the first time that I could remember I lost track of direction. It was a sickly feeling for me I always was sure how to get out where I was but now for the first time I was lost. My breath quickened and my stomach seemed to rise into my throat. I was on the verge of panic and just as I was about to stop we cam to a crude wooden door.

Shalradie’s eyes shown brightly in the darkness. “I would like you to meet someone.” He did not let me speak. He pushed the door open, with an unexpected silence. I saw that there were no hedges on the doors. The room inside was bright with a shaft of light coming through an opening in the rock ceiling, casting a perfect circle of light in the center of the chamber. Most of the chamber was strewn with rugs and pillows. Scattered all about were scrolls and books of all kinds. In the back of the chamber was a deep pool the disappeared into the distance under the rock of the cavern. I caught motion to my left and coolly looked to see and old woman rising form a corner of pillows and cushions.

“Shalradie, combel chesamaka dewkoshi.” It was Shalradie’s native language. I took it for a greeting but did not understand anything beyond that. The woman had eye much like Shalradie’s but her skin looked softer. The woman had a regal air about her and the way she stood commanded respect. Shalradie responded to her greeting with a similar one. I tried to pick out her name I was unable to discern it from the sounds of the rest of the language.

“The boy does not have tongue, for his benefit could we use the common tongue.” Shalradie said after a few more formalities were spoken in their native language.

“You bring on from the nations into this most sacred place.” The woman spoke in a bighting voice that was intended to shame me. The blathered on in the other language and Shalradie responded. Though his voice was soft and cool I could tell that he was defending me and his own reasons for bringing me to this place. I caught the term that the man had referred to me before, “NalaKala,” and the woman stopped her bickering and looked at me for a long moment. She said a few words in a less harsh tone.

“That is why I brought him here,” Shalradie responded so that I could understand.

“Forgive me, Shalradie.”

“Haul, this is the western Seer, Ratalia Mo Gagina Mo Toalragin.” Shalradie announced the woman with a tone of deep respect and formality that seemed very contrary to the bickering I had just witnessed. “She would like to have a look at you, if that is ok?”

“Come, my child.” The woman said in a voice that had, miraculously, taken on a sweet caring tone, turning toward that pool in the back of the chamber and with an outstretched hand for me to take. It was the first time in a number of years that I had actually felt like a child. I was use to bartering and bargaining with the men in the many markets we visited or practicing the sward with the guards. I was not use to being mothered or having somebody treat me as anything less than a young man. Taking the woman’s hand was oddly comforting.

She led me back to the pool while Shalradie stood waiting by the door of the room. “Look into the water and let the world fade away.” I was not sure what she meant but I looked into the water and did as I did when I shot a bow or held a sward. There was just the water and the reflection of myself. The reflection began to change and shift into another image. It was my face but older, much older. I had a beard and long hair and a scar that crossed from my left brow to my right cheek. The reflection changed again it became distorted and changed into something of no form. I realized that water was actually moving. It was rising up out of the pool and changing into a kind of claw. The way that it moved was hypnotizing. I was part of it and it was part of me. But it was something different something darker. As it formed more it stopped reflecting the light of the room, instead it seemed to draw light into it like a hold in a bucked pulled that water down and out. The rest of the surface of the pool started to dance and rise up like liquid silver fire.

“Shiritcon.” Ratalia shouted throwing me back from the pool shattering my connection with the liquid. The pool settled unnaturally quickly back to its calm surface. Ratalia looked at me with a deep gaze that seemed to weigh and measure both my body and my mind. “NalaKala.” She said finally.

“You will watch over him Shalradie? Teach him and build him into what he will need?” Ratalia asked.

“I just wanted the blessing of a Seer before I started.” Shalradie said with a victorious smirk cutting into the folds of his face.

“This is not a blessing it is a command.” Shalradie’s smile faded quickly. He bowed his head slightly and the formality reentered his voice.

“Yes, Seer, I will do as you ask.” He said a few word in his language and Ratalia replied. “Come Boy we need to get back to the camp before night fall.”

“Take care of yourself Haul.” Ratalia said as I passed threw the door. Her voice carried a surprising amount of wait and I felt that I would try my hardest not to let her down.

As Shalradie and I travel back to the merchant train I thought over all that had happened. We sat for time eating dried meat and drinking from water skin.

“Shalradie, what does NalaKala mean?” I asked breaking our long silence.

“You have had enough lessons for the day I will teach you that one on another day.” His answer did not satisfy me in the slightest. I knew better than to press the matter. He handed me the water skin and I took a last drink before we covered the last stretch to the merchant train.

Haul 1,2

1.
It has often been said the gods weave the events of the world like a maiden on a loom. I have never quite agreed with this. I always thought that the weavers were the story tellers and the writers of the history of the world. These are the people who have always shaped the way everybody else interoperates the world In which they live. So what then is the place of a man such as me? If my fait is not something left to the god but to the writers of history then what am I to do? How can I find my way in this world when my way will only be dictated after I have gone? Perhaps this is why the notion of the gods is so far spread and a cherished belief. Perhaps this is why wars are fought. The need to assert ones beliefs.

Historians would argue with me. They would say that no war was ever fought for gods alone there was always some economic or political driving force behind it. Wars are fought over land and money and number of other things and belief is only one of these things. And I would look at the historian that says this and I would ask what the difference between paying homage to a god and paying homage to the land or to a coin purse? Man worships all things that is what he does that is his purpose some chose to only warship this or that but in the end the fate of man rides on the placement of all things. From the fall of a coin to the position of a cloud man’s fate, though not decided for him, is not his to decide.

What, then, of a man such as I. Some would call me a warrior. Others would call me a man of the world, or a mercenary, or any number of titles that fall short of the mark. No I would consider myself none of these and all of these. I have fought my share of battles and then some, I have traveled beyond the edges of all the maps in Tarradas and my sword and arrows have been hired for the highest price. But in the end I considered myself simply a man who was looking for balance in his life. As I said above it is not my opinion that matters it is that of the writers of history. What they will say of me I do not know. They will say something if they have not already but what they say I am waiting to hear. Whether I will be a tyrant or a saint is for the future to decide. For now all I know it what must be done. For there is not else that can be done.


2.
I suppose that I should start at the beginning. Though in history there is no such thing a beginning. The world always turned and the seasons always changed and what was effects what is and what will be. But for me there always have been at least markers in my life that have given me my bearings.

From my childhood I remember only the forest. Only the deep green of the evergreens to and the steep slant of the summer sun in the north. I remember my father putting my first bow in my hands and having me shot my little arrows into the clean knots left after his saw. I remember the biting cold of the deep winter and the never ending light of the summer. I remember my mothers smile and her tears when McAlester can to take me away. I knew, even at that age, why I had to go. My parents needed the money that would come from selling me off into the services of another. They could not afford to raise me and they hoped for my better life with the merchant. I did not blame it was simple the way the world worked.

I would spend the next few years with McAlester and his Merchant train. I took lessons from McAlester in reading, writing , math and speech, the essentials for any merchant. And from the train guards I learned other things. I was already proficient with my bow and could make a better bow and arrow than any of them could. They admitted their short coming with the bow openly and readily used me to make a few coppers in any town that we entered.

“My friend would you like to wager on a round of arrows?” BoHalen the head guard said to one of the townsfolk as McAlester set up his wares soon after my talent was discovered. “Three arrows each and the closest to the mark wins.” The townsman agreed and a small target was set up some yards away. BoHalen drew the fletching to his cheek and loosed the first arrow. It sunk into the edge of the straw target. The townsman smiled.

“It looks like I have made some money today.” The towns man drew his own arrow and loosed the shaft sunk to the fletching not more than two inches from the mark. BoHalen shot a worried glance at me before drew his second arrow. When he loosed the string snapped hard against his hand. I feared a bone broke. The arrow flew far to the right of the target. BoHalen cursed.

“My hand, I think it is broke.” He exclaimed in an very convincing act. To be honest I was not sure it was all act. “I don’t thing that I will be able to shoot again.”

“It looks like I win then.” The townsman said as he stepped up and put his second arrow the same distance from the mark as hit first but on the opposite side of the target. The townsman turned toward BoHalen, one hand holding his bow and the other open expecting payment. BoHalen started to open his belt pouch and stopped.

“How about this you have one more shot. Take it and if this boy here can’t beat all three of your arrow with two of his own I’ll pay you double.” The towns man looked at me and an amused smile spread across his face.

“Done.” I was sure that I saw BoHalen wince when he shook the other man hand. The townsman stood up and drew his last arrow. An inch from the mark is what I had to beat with both of my arrows. I stepped up to the spot. As I drew my arrow to my ear the world fade away until there was nothing but the arrow and the target. Not even I existed. The arrow leapt from its place and raced to meet target. I did not look to see where I had hit. There was only one place that the arrow could have landed, not because I was confident in my ability but because there was no where else that the arrow wanted to be. I notched my second arrow, the world disappeared and the arrow moved and the world snapped back into existence.

BoHalen grabbed my shoulders, forgetting about his hurt hand, and hoisted me above his head. It was obvious that he had not expected me to be able to do it. The man who had just lost the bet walked slowly down to target and BoHalen with me on his shoulders danced alone next to him. I looked at the target for the first time and saw that I had split my first arrow in two. Though BoHalen’s pride in me should have made me happy I was saddened. The arrow that I had split had been one of the three of my fathers arrows I had left. In that moment in my own way I vowed never to let myself be perfect. Saying that now seems odd to me now in a world where perfection is a virtue if not expected. However, the idea seems right to me. The only thing that ever can from perfection was pain, suffering, and destruction.

After the day I split my father arrow, BoHalen and the other guards started teaching me the art of the dagger, the mace, the staff and the sword. I quickly became fond of the staff. KaResha taught me the most about the use of the staff. He was often quoted as saying “A shepherd with a staff will beat any man with any sword.” After some weeks of his teaching I finally worked up the nerve to ask; “If a shepherd with a staff can beat any sword why do you use a staff with a sword blade on one end?”

“Because a little steel on your side never hurts.” He replied smiling the knowing smile of an old man. He was an old man older than an of the other guards, with a gray beard and mustache and a shave head to hid his balding.

Where I was fond of the staff for it ease of use and it simplicity, I was in love with the sword for its requirement for honor and tacked and patience. The sword was much like an arrow you simply put it where it wants to be. If it wants to be between you and the other sword then put it there. If it does not then you need not worry about the other sword. BoHalen was surprised by the speed that I came to use the sword with proficiency.

“How do you do that, Haul?” he asked me one day while I was sparing with one of the other guards.

“Do what?”

“You move as if you know exactly where the other persons sword is going to be you dodge as much as you block. Most men rely on their block more than their ability to dodge.”

“Marren is bigger and stronger than me. If I were to block a full blow from him I would be crushed. Therefore, I must block only hit smaller attacks and dodge the rest.” I said matter-of-factly.

“Indeed, but how do you move like that?” BoHalen asked in response.

“I see it as kind of dance I suppose. If Marren moves one way I must move another. If I move then he must move. I listen to the swords, both his and mine, they tell me what will happen and where I must be. It is just a dance.”

“In a dance there is no winner and no loser the partners come out as equals.” BoHalen’s statement was more of a question.

“Just as a dance, the sword is about balance. If you try to beat the other person you can do nothing but push your own coins off the scales. However, if you give some of yourself to the other person and they give some to you then the scales will balance and you will be equals.”

“But there is not victor, not winner, somebody must win.” BoHalen was obviously frustrated with my answer.

“He who is on top has the furthest to fall and the most precarious perch on which to stand. Beside Marren is my friend why would I want to beat him?” BoHalen let out a deep breath in exasperation.

“I give up.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on boy lets get some food.”

Thoughts on Philosophy (to quote my brother "Mental Masturbation")

Knives and Fences
In philosophy, science and almost every other form of study we as species tend separate things. More and more it seems to me that this is a very destructive way to look at it. When it comes to philosophy I like to think of a wood carver with a very sharp knife taking off different part of the world in little slices, in order to revile some beautiful underling work of art. But always with this analogy I get this image of the carver getting frustrated because his vision for the piece of art is always changing. So he goes around and collects all the small little flakes and bit that he cut off and glues them back to gather and starts anew. He must glue and rework because he has only been given one piece of wood to make his art from. The philosopher must cut, and shave because it is in his nature and it is all that philosophy is about. The philosopher must put his knife to the world and dived and dived until he can gain an understanding of an individual piece then he looks to another piece and notes its differences. Then he realizes the the second piece of the world is not all that different from the first piece and he must put them back to gather. The philosopher does not realizes that they were together be begin with and by separating them in the first place he has weakened his concept of what they are.

I often think of the every branching web of sectioned and sub-sectioned thought as land that has been divided up using fences. They say that barbed wire tamed the west. I'm not sure that I agree with that idea. I think if any thing it put the wilderness of the defensive and it lashed out harder and harder until it broke itself. But that is a different topic. It seems to me that philosophers like to lay down fences. They like to be able to say that this is this and that is that. When in reality the fence is just a wire and all but the dumbest of domesticated animals simply jump over it or go through it or go under it. In philosophy this becomes that and that becomes this and the lines that the philosophers put down thinking they are barriers are not such thing they are simple there to keep that philosophers thinking that there are edges to what they are looking at and they need not worry about getting lost in the infinite reaches of reality. I say get lost. Let reality be wild because that is what it is.

I will admit, though, that I am not all that good at letting go of my own fences. It is hard to look at the whole when there is such a huge amount of beautiful detail. And I will be the first to admit that a great many insights come when looking at only a small subset of reality. However, my point in the above was not to forget where that chip of the world that is being looked at came from or that just because you set up a defined border it does not mean that what is in that border is the same as what has always been and what always will be.

PolyMe
I was an odd child, instead of just one imaginary friend I had five and they were all named Ron. The odd thing was that I get the feeling that I knew they were not real. I feel that I knew that they were just different parts of me and a rationalization of what my inner monolog was. As I grew older I put aside such things as imaginary friends. I'm starting to wish that I had not. Recently I taken the, abhorred, philosophical knife to my own mind and I found that there were parts of my mind that seemed to act on their own as separate entities each with different personalities. They seemed almost an internal reflection of the world and people around me. I often found my self having conversations with them within the landscape of my mind. At first I only thought there were two or three entities contributing to who I was but I quickly realized that these were just the dominant ones. In reality there seemed to be one for every brain cell and every combination of brain cells (that is a lot). When this idea and realization became fully bloomed in my mind I was a little afraid but I quick found the benefit of viewing my mind in such a way. I could work things out on my own I could talk to those who thought the best way for the job and if I did not like something I did I was not forced to hate the whole of who I am as I had done in the past rather I could hate a small part of me and love the rest of me. And I began to grow comfortable in my novel way of imagining myself.

As the philosopher often does I began to look at the individuals within my self. I began to see that just as I was subdivided into many so were they. I looked deeper and deeper into those within those within me and I got to a point where is started to see something familiar in the alien minds of my own. I began to see myself. I began to see that not only did these entities make up who I was but I made up who they were. All of the division I had made with my knife of philosophy dissolved in that instant and I began to see that the boundaries in my mind were not as impermeable as I had thought they were.

When I began to see that the personalities in my mind were really reflections of the world in which I live I began to see the world more as part of myself rather than something to be survived.

Note:
I had a long debate with myself about whether of not to share these thought for fear of being locked up as a mad man. I have heard that a person with multiple personalities don't realize that the personalities are part of them. So I wonder what happens to a person when they recognize that there are others within them and embrace the idea whole hearted. I feel like this many entity view of my own personality is something that I should be fighting against rather than rooting for it and hoping it grows.

Determinism vs. Free Will
To look as the world without divisions beings can resolve a great many philosophical debates. One such is the debate is the debate about whether a person's actions are determined entirely by their surrounding or if they have the free will to chose what they are going to do. (I'm going to do this in a dialog form because I'm tired of talking.)

Phil: This debate is easily resolved. The environment gives the person a limited number choices and then the person picks from this smaller set.

Pal: I have never like this idea it always seemed like a cheep way of avoiding the issue. It not resolve the problem because I could still be argued that the person has the choice to change the environment to give him the options that he wants or that the environment is simple allowing the person to think that he was given choices when he was not at all. The problem is not with the answer to the question it is with the question itself. Before you can ask whether environment or person dictates the course of events, you must ask what is the difference between the environment and the person.

Phil: Everything outside of the person is the environment.

Pal: What of the air that he must breath. or the food that he must eat. These thing are passing from the environment into the person by your definition.

Phil: Ok, the mind is the person. Not the brain, so you can not argue that the blood that sustains it is from that environment. I mean the mind as in the consciousness of the person.

Pal: That is reasonable. But the consciousness of the person is not something that is physical. How can something that the environment (something physical) cannot interact with; interact with the environment.

Phil: Through the body of course.

Pal: So you are saying that the person defined as the consciousness can only effect the environment by being intimately tied to the that environment through the body, which is part of the environment.

Phil: Yes I believe that is what I'm saying.

Pal: So then the obvious answer to the question of determinism vs. free will is that there is no such thing as free will.

Phil: No, where did you get that crazy idea?

Pal: Well if the body is part of the environment then its actions are the actions of the environment and the consciousness in no way can effect the bodies actions because the body is physical.

Phil: No the body acts on the behalf of the consciousness.

Pal: So the body is not entirely part of the environment but not entirely part of the consciousness either. It is a kind of medium between the two.

Phil: Yes, Yes that is exactly it.

Pal: This seems a bit ridiculous we could be here all day dividing and sub-dividing the connection between the person and the environment. Would it not be easier to completely illuminate the idea of person and environment altogether. The person is part of the environment and the environment is part of the person. Neither is complete without the other and but neither is completely defined by the other. They are part of a whole. You can not separate the person from the environment, to do so would be to lose the definition of the environment. And the same goes for the environment from the person. They can not be separated, so to define either without the other is to destroy both.

Phil: I can see what you mean and it might make things easier. But it seems to easy.

Pal: I am a lazy man Phil. I like easy.

Phil: But, Using your definition still does not resolve the question of determinism vs. free will.

Pal: I know it doesn't.

Phil: So how is it helpful?

Pal: Because the question does not even come up. By making the person and that environment one thing there is no question to ask. The will of the environment is the will of the person and the will of the person is the will of the environment. They move together like a liquids mixing, not like two solid objects butting heads.