The greatest weapon?

When we write TLAB we draw from our own experiences or of those we have worked with in our ministry or practice. We originally set out to write a story that reflected our own hurt and healing. We did not intend to become involved in helping others initially; but in both of our lives we have helped so many that have crossed our path. The saying is: “practice what you preach.” Tom had the practice (medical) and Jon preached (in youth ministry). Therefore to “use” our story to help others is something we desire to do.

We are not experts, but we have been through great troubles and have come out the other side. Others have helped us in our personal healing journeys. To share what we have learned from—and with—them is all we can do.

The Bible says in 2 Corinthians 1:4 (NLT) “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.”

Jon worked for 12 years at an adolescent treatment facility. Some of the teens had been raped, abused by family members, or ran away and were subjected to terrible horrors. Whether it was a simple secret, or a terrible trauma, there was always that time when they had to tell someone. How did those they told respond to the disclosure?

Adults may respond with denial, active or passive anger, or sadness. Possible parental responses range from “believing the victim completely to wondering if the abuse really occurred, as well as feeling anger, blame or resentment toward the victim.”


In TLAB, we deal with this theme several times. The first time is found in what we call the Prologue. (Which eventually may become a first chapter, it is still in process.) In that first scene something not explicitly stated happens to a young man. He is seen trying to get away from someone who has hurt him. When he gains freedom from the attacker, he sits in the filth of a sewer where he has spread the smelly muck on his tunic, much like an abused person spreads his self-deprecating thoughts onto himself. While attempting to cover the memory stench, his family arrives. This is what we wrote for that first description of his family:

“The oldest warrior chuckled, his greying beard bobbed up and down. The youth caught this, and noted it, pushing it into his memory for later. Another looked not at him, but to the Roman fairway from whence they had come. His arms crossed. His booted foot tapped the cobblestones briskly. He noted that as well. The third and youngest, however, stood with legs shoulder width apart in a stance that spoke action. The man laid his hand lightly on his sword. “Where have you been, boy?” ”

The three responses represent three ways families might respond when they find out something traumatic has happened to their child.

They, first of all, might discount the situation and may even laugh it off. They don’t want to deal with it. They simply “chuckle,” and wish to get back to their orchestrated reality. This character disbelieves, denies, and discounts the situation. He even blames the youth.

Another response is similar in that they don’t want to deal with what happened. In their case they ignore it altogether. Their attention is elsewhere. His father “looked not at him, but to the Roman fairway from whence they had come.”

And thirdly, was a family member who wanted to respond with action. To destroy the attacker was his way of dealing with it. This uncle gave the young man a weapon to overcome his enemy.

Many nonoffending adults are angry and want to get back at the person who hurt their child. They may take them to court or even want to physically hurt them. This uncle went further and actually put the sword in the victim’s hands. Of course this youth is not your average teen in how he thinks. He takes the sword and literally kills the one who hurt him.

But, are these good ways of responding? We could look at the first two and definitely say, “no.” To discount, ignore, or even ridicule the victim, is never appropriate.

We would look at the third response and say, “Yes, kill the evil man!” But would giving him his come-uppance really deal with the situation and the after effects on their lives?

At the psychiatric place Jon worked kids drew pictures or hit pillows to deal with their feelings. Sometimes they would scream in a safe room, do timelines and talk to their therapist. Many times they were given meds to mask the pain. Did that help? Yes, sometimes it gave release and relief. Temporarily, it made them feel good. But in many ways it was sidestepping the problem and only dealing with the symptoms. They tried what ever worked to help them. But, did we ever give them a weapon (a sword or even a gun?) to actually kill the person who hurt them? Obviously not.

What CAN empower a person to overcome the terrible hurt and horrors in their lives that come from another person? What is the greatest weapon one can use that actually heals the hurt? What are your thoughts?

According to the enigmatic Scibonius Largus in TLAB, “Forgiveness is a traveler’s greatest weapon when venturing along a Roman road.”

Is that the answer? Is it enough?

It is our goal to explore this theme in our book.

Resources on this post might include:

1. Bold Love by Dr. Dan  B. Allender and Dr. Tremper Longman III

2. The Wounded Heart: Hope for Adult Victims of Childhood Sexual Abuse. By Dr. Dan B. Allender.

3. National Child Traumatic Stress Network article on how to respond when a child discloses traumatic events.  http://www.nctsn.org/sites/default/files/assets/pdfs/disclosure.pdf

4. Reactions of Nonoffending Parents to the Sexual Abuse of their Child: A Review of the Literature by Ann N. Elliott       http://cmx.sagepub.com/content/6/4/314.abstract

5. http://news.illinois.edu/news/11/1205abuse_TedCross.html

6. Working with Nonoffending Caregivers of Children That Have Been Sexually Abused http://www.wcsap.org/working-nonoffending-caregivers-children-have-been-sexually-abused

7. “Experiences of nonoffending parents and caretakers in child sexual abuse cases” http://www.swacj.org/swjcj/archives/8.2/Special%20Article%20fixed%5b1%5d.pdf

new first chapter

Chapter 1 - Trespass

“Your most imposing adversary defines who you will become in this land.”

—Scribonius Largus

A.D. 5

The young man escaped into the shadows. He raced through the narrow half-street past brazen firepots embossed with the grim image of the current Imperator, Caesar Augustus. Their flames flung spectral silhouettes that undulated along the stone walls.

A Roman Legionarius pursued him from the recesses of the dark alleyway.

That soldier! That barbaric savage… I’m only ten summers old.

The youth stumbled on the uneven pavement and his face smacked the wet cobblestones with a thud. He grabbed his forehead, pushed his hair back and came away with blood on his hand.

A raven chortled high above the clay rooftops. The gurgling croaks, rising in pitch and then deeper in sound from the back of the bird’s throat, mocked with its gleeful chuckle.

The soldier knocked over a terra cotta urinal vase as he rounded the corner. He darted straight for the young man and slid to a stop. He snatched his prey's woolen tunic, yanked him up from the ground into an arm-lock, and dragged the fighting youth back towards the shadows.

The youth gritted his teeth and pulled on the soldier’s arms.  He kicked the man’s shin with his bare heel as he pushed against the iron plates that jabbed into his back.

 “Pestis!” The soldier cursed and lessened his hold on the young man.

Must breathe. Get away. The youth drew in a needed breath, ducked his chin, scrunched his shoulders together and shoved. He slipped from the man's thick arms like a greased pig at a Bel-tene festival.

The soldier reached out and grabbed the youth’s tunic and turned him. With both fists clenching the woolen shirt, he lifted the youth up toward his face. Light flickered on the iron helmet. The red horse hairs of the crest rose like a flame in the dim firelight. He spewed vaporous breath-clouds of sour wine between the thick chin guards of the helm.

The youth’s stomach sickened. He spat at the shadowed face. “You will not hurt me again!” His voice echoed in the empty alley.

The soldier lifted his fist to strike another blow. “Quin taces!”

“No. I will not shut up.” Unabashed, the youth stared into the soldier’s eyes, daring him to strike.

Suddenly, the Legionarius let him go. He stepped back, raised his hands palms out, and laughed as the young man fell back. The soldier spoke something unintelligible in slurred Latin as he untied a flask from his studded leather belt and took a long draught of the vinegar smelling liquid. He laughed again and took another swig. He staggered forward a few steps, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed. His helm clanged hard on the stone street.

Surprised by his sudden good fortune, the youth clawed his way out of the shadows to the sewage ditch that bisected the dark alleyway. Behind him, in the darkness, he heard retching as the soldier vomited.

Once at the rivulet of refuse—the cloaca—he fell hard to his knees. The dim light from the alley’s firepots illuminated the pungent waste. The reflection revealed several fingernail claw-marks and a bruise on his jaw just beginning to swell. He grimaced at the mirrored blood that trickled from his forehead to his nose, and then dripped into the dark, oily pool.

 His hands plunged deep into the water to splash the image away. Beneath the surface of the sewage he grabbed a fistful of thick filth. Mollified, he sat back on his haunches, and looked at the mud oozing between his fingers. Closing his eyes, he slapped the muck over his tunic to cover up the stench of Roman garlic and wine.

He coughed, tasted blood, and spat. He wiped his mouth and face with his muddy hands. With tearless eyes darting, he scanned his surroundings.

The moon skirted the gap between the tall stone buildings showing nothing but shades of blackness. Shadows. The lack of color invaded his mind. Color is indulgence. He wished the moon away. He did not want his shame exposed.

The raven chortled.

* * *

“There you are, boy!”

Three men entered the narrow alley, and walked the hundred paces from the broad street beyond to where the youth sat back on his heels in the sewer.

With his hands grasping his soiled tunic, the youth raised his head and looked up at the bearded men standing before him dressed in colorful tunics and skins—cloth and leather like his own. Their long flaxen hair tied back. Long swords hung at their sides.

The oldest warrior’s graying beard bobbed when he chuckled at the sight of the boy. The youth caught this reaction, and noted it, pushing it into his memory for later.

Another man stood next to the aged warrior with his arms crossed. His booted foot tapped the cobblestones briskly. This man looked not at the youth, but to the Roman fairway whence they had come. The youth noted that as well.

The third and youngest man stood with legs shoulder width apart in a stance that spoke action. The man fingered his sword. “Where have you been, boy?”

“Where were you, Uncle?”

He paused and looked over to the booted man. “Where were you, Father? Why weren’t you there?”

He struggled to rise from the sewage, “And you, my Grandfather? Where were you when he violated me?”

The gray-bearded man reached up with both hands and grasped the golden torc around his neck. “Harrumph. Get up. Let’s be gone.” He turned to go.

 “That animal of the Earth held my arms! Tore my tunic!” He pulled his shirt. His hands flung outward. Muck flew everywhere. “I cannot say the horrors he did to me!” He rose to stand in front of his family. “I am a Prince of Albion!”

His grandfather did not turn back. He shrugged his shoulders, “I did not see this man.”

“Back there. In the alley!” He put a hand on his grandfather’s arm.

His grandfather swatted the touch aside and turned to face the boy.

“You must believe me!” he cried as he pointed to the shadows behind him.

“Whatever it is, you’re to blame.”

Carefully stepping around the filth, his family dragged their feet as they followed him back into the darkness.

 “There!”

In the cloacae lay the Roman that had seized him. Passed out, in his vomit. He snored in the shadows.

“Right there. That animal. That snake!” Then wrinkling his nose, “That Roman!”

 “He’s just a drunk. He can’t harm anyone,” his grandfather chided. “Let’s go.”

 The young man took a breath. He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet and doubled his fists as he glared at the men. He turned and started toward the sleeping drunk.

“Wait…” His uncle grabbed him by the arm.

An icy wind blew through the alley.  

The firepots sputtered.

Slowly, his uncle drew his long sword from its ornate leather sheath. The man touched the flat of the blade to his forehead, then, with both hands, he offered it to the youth.

“This is for you, my bold nephew.”

Without hesitation, the young man took the sword. Felt its weight. As the flame-pots flickered, he lifted it up so he could see himself in the blade. He sneered and let out a low growl.

His uncle nodded.

The youth turned to the shadow behind him and strode to where the soldier lay slumped in his shining Lorica Segmentata and helm.

The blade entered between the laminated armor plates and up into the soldier’s heart. Harsh scraping of iron pushed past iron was the only sound. Breath released from the body in a prolonged sigh.

He removed the sword with one hand and then yanked off the soldier’s helmet. The man’s eyes stood wide-open in alarm. His mouth—a silent, surprised “Oh.”  The youth spat on his death face. Then he lifted the long sword and, with much power, beheaded his attacker. Sparks sprang up as the blade cut through the neck and deep into the cobblestones.

The youth seized the scarlet scarf from around the man’s bleeding neck and wiped off the blade. He turned away from the body and said in a low gruff voice, “I hate Rome.”

Far above him, the raven fluttered away.

With head held high, holding the sword, he turned back to where his family waited for him. Not looking at them, he pushed past a few paces and stopped. He glanced behind once more at the stream of blood that flowed snakelike into the sewer. “That is the only Roman red that pleases me,” he growled and then entered the busy Roman boulevard—alone.

been forever

It has been a long time since I posted on this blog. Let me explain...no I'll just summarize. Almost three years ago my wife passed away. To survive on my own I had to cut back. That included getting rid of internet at my home. As a result, I lost my email account that was used to create the blog. Since then, I have happily remarried and, today, I googled the problem. I found out how to create a new "author," make that author administrator, and then deleted my old email as admin. Boom, I am back! http://www.blogtariff.com/2012/08/how-to-change-primary-email-address-for.html is the page that helped me! Wish I had done that a year ago!

So...now that we are back up, we have a lot of catching up to do.

The completed 98,000 word manuscript has gone out to agents for hopes of representation, changes in the writing have improved the book, and work has begun on the second book in the series.

By Jan 1st we will be making changes to the format of this blog. It will become more theme and author platform related. We of course will intersperse with scenes from the book to illustrate our thoughts. We want to become more than just authors, we want to discuss the topics and underlying themes of what we write and why we write. TLAB is not just a made up story, but a reflection of our own history and who we are. Tom will be added as a contributor so he can post as well.

We have kept fans up to date on the Facebook fanpage: https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Long-aimed-Blow/192781652077 please visit us there for what has happened and for communication. New fans arrive every day from as far away as Scotland, Britain, China, and Australia!

Happy to be back in cyberspace!

Jon Hopkins

the beginning

Tomorrow, Tom and I leave for Dallas to the American Christian Fiction Writer's conference. We have our One-page, our query letter (also one page), our proposal (14 pages), and copies of the manuscript (425 pages) on flash drives. We have set up meetings with 4 publishers and 4 agents. We have paid for two critiques from professionals and plan to make many more networking contacts in the next few days. We have read, researched and rehearsed our pitch. To get here we have fought tooth and nail, rewrote a million times, and paced outside the birthing room of this project until our souls are worn thin.  We did not get here alone. Many have struggled with us, prayed for us, and listened to our incessant telling of our story. People have given feedback, made suggestions, corrections, and praise. Thank-you. Now, it is time to pack our bags, gather the materials, and (insert some birth metaphor here that eludes me). It is all part of the adventure!

How to finish a book?

We are trying to get ready to pitch the book at a conference in September. To do that, we have sent copies to several people who have agreed to be Beta-readers. They are reading the book and making comments. In that group are people who live in England, China, and various parts of the USA. The youngest is a 14 year old. There is a psychologist, a librarian, some college students, and a few family.

We wrote to Miles Russell, the author of Bloodlines and asked him if he would be interested in looking at the book. We have gathered much understanding about Pre-roman Britain from his writings.

We are also reading resources on how to write the best book proposal.

When I started writing this book, I never thought it would involve so much. I have learned so much about writing. I have learned much about myself as well. It is not an easy adventure. It is hard work... and the work seems like it has just begun.... Jon

The End as we know it...

Note: This is not a chapter from the book.

The book is finished! After 413 pages , over 96,000 words, we wrote "the end of book one" on the last page.

It has been an adventure. with writing, rewriting, then rewriting and sometimes just deleting a whole scene. Sometimes, Tom and I really clicked and it was amazing finishing each others thoughts as twins are known to do. A few times we really struggled to come to agreement. (the fire scene took literally months to get it right!) Most of the time Tom was right, but it took a while for me to see what he was trying to do. Many times we laughed or joked about what was on the page. We made word puns and jokes about chickens and just laughed about the stupid errors that we had made.

We are now looking to taking the manuscript to a writers conference in September and pitching it to several publishers. In the meantime we have sent out ten copies to various people who have agreed to be what we call "Beta-readers". They should be able to tell us if the book will fly or should fly right into the trash can.

From now on, the blog will become more blog-like as we write about the process of getting this thing published and tell more about how we got to where we are today that will be helpful to future writers and those who read this blog.

I am looking forward to getting started on finishing book two. I am researching and gathering material that has already been written. This book goes to Greece and Rome!

A big thanks to all our friends, fans, and family who have helped and encouraged us!

Don't forget to check us out on FACEBOOK!  --Jon

Chapter 8 Still in the Nemeton

Chapter 8 - “Power”

                                

“Thought and character are powerful;
but futures are not changed by thinking them so.”
                                                            - Scribonius Largus

Caradoc’s gray eyes stared deeply into the Druid’s dark eye-holes. The warrior realized this man was not complying, but only trying to act relaxed to presume control. Caradoc would not let him gain a footing, but he knew that if the Druids would not comply, then he could not perform the sacrifice himself. He was not Druid. The sacrifice would lack power. If it were just killing, he would have already done that. However, he knew the custom, and now found himself bound by some sense of propriety.

Kenjar’s lip twitched, his body tensed and he gulped. The man looked ready to give in—to acquiesce. His shoulder relaxed in Caradoc’s strong grasp.

Lowering the sword, he stepped back, eyes sparkling, and gave a broad charismatic smile. “Tell me, oh Wise One,” he paused confident that he could still turn this back to his advantage, “What do you think I need?” He reached out to Kenjar and smoothed his robe, brushing it as though it had his last meal’s crumbs on it.

Raising his chin, Kenjar looked in the direction of the babies. In nasal monotones he said, “We can slay them for your fertility, pour their blood to the mother goddess Morriga’n, and ask for s-speedy recovery of even more children.”

It sounded memorized.

 “Daughters p-perhaps?”

 “You think I wish to give my first-fruits to the goddess? Ha! Do I look like I need a mother?” Caradoc laughed as he sheathed his sword, his hand remaining on the hilt.

“Or, uh, we could cremate them and spread their ashes in your fields. We will p-pray for you to have abundant crops this year.”

“You don’t understand,” Caradoc said, regretting sheathing his sword. He had let the man go too early. Grabbing the Druid’s shoulders, he gave him a shake and then pushed him away. He bellowed, “I don’t need help with those things. I will take care of the land. I will protect it.” He moved toward the children. “You just need to offer up these as sacrifices for ME! No gods, no fertility, just ME!” His voice roared and echoed into the dark.

A light wind began to blow again through the grove.

The children began to wake. They kicked at the dark woolen covering revealing their naked bodies. One of the twins moaned. His red face scrunched.

Just beyond the stone table in the shifting shadows of torchlight, Caradoc saw the other Druids like ethereal spirits coming toward him.  What were they doing—closing the circle on him? He needed to move this along. He turned to Kenjar and said, “These babes are not worth the time it takes your servants to spread the ashes.”

Kenjar’s head came up quickly. “The Druids s-serve the land – not the men of the land,” he corrected.

Caradoc glowered, “You and your swine s-serve me this night.”

Several Druids moved in from the shadows and gathered closer around Kenjar.

Kenjar stammered. “Is it safety from d-d-death or d-d-disease you desire?”

Caradoc raised his head to the stars and laughed. “I have no fear of peril from man or beast, let alone that which I cannot see.” Caradoc lifted his arms high into the air toward the Druid band before him. “I found you—and I stand in your Nemeton, do I not?”

They shuffled, but said nothing.

One of the Druids came forward and bowed before Kenjar. “This is true,” he said, “Even if one knew the location of the sacred grove, even the bravest would never enter it as this man has done.”

Were all these men acolytes? Trainees? Caradoc turned to face the man and watched him slink back into the crowd of shadows.

“Are you all new at this? Are you so quickly undone? Aren’t you the ones who boldly speak before the chieftains in the assembly and we all follow your council? You are highly respected and revered by the people, are you not? Ha! You do OUR bidding. Without question. I am growing tired of this. Don’t you know who I am? I am the man you should be groveling before. You should be bowing to me!” Then to Kenjar he said, “And I am NOT one to be trifled with! Bull’s balls! I only seek their death, and blessing from any god you choose. Let’s get on with it. I need to be off. The night grows as short as my patience.”

“B-b-be calm, my l-lord, we know what you say is t-t-t-truth. You are a great man. We mean no d-d-discourtesy.”

Caradoc stared and tapped his sword hilt. He watched as the man squirmed and apparently determined to leave.

“We know who you are,” Kenjar said. “We have many times s-s-seen your visage in bowls of visions and p-p-portents of the future. All the Druids know who you are.” He stepped closer, putting his shoulders back and raising his arm in a grand proclamation and sign of honored reverence. “You are Caradoc, magnified son of Cunebelinos, grandson to the Most Honorable High King Tasciovaunus—ruler of Verulamium and Camulodunon, Great Grandson of Velaunus of the Cassi who defeated Julius Caesar.”

“Finally, your eyes are open,” Caradoc said. “At least, you trainees have been taught something right.”

Kenjar wrung his robe between his sweaty hands. Beads of distress flooded down his forehead, over his eyebrows, to drop from the end of his nose. He bit his lower lip with his large teeth and then stuttered, “We c-c-can . . . direct their . . . l-l-l-life-force to, uh . . .” Caradoc saw him look at the long-sword. “. . . to your magnificent w-weapon.”

Caradoc stopped. Eyes widened. He tapped on the hilt of his sword again as he thought it over. Perhaps he could gain more from them. “You talk of my weapon. What of it?”

“It is a p-p-powerful sword, my lord, one that could unite all the tribes and bring justice and equity to the land. Given spiritual power, it could even c-c-conquer Rome itself.” Kenjar nodded, showed his teeth. He then let out a long, deep breath.

“That is more to my liking,” Caradoc said, reverently removing his sword from its scabbard. “This sword is the finest weapon in the land.” He held the anthropomorphic pommel up to his chin and then pressed the hilt to his forehead. Then he stretched it up to the sky with both hands and looked at it in veneration.

“My uncle – Epaticus, the fearless warrior—taker of many men’s souls—gave this great sword to me with his own hand,” Caradoc said.

Torch-fire made the blade shine as though it possessed its own fire. In the midst of the flame was the manifestation of Caradoc’s face. He reveled at his reflection in the blade. After a long pause he slowly lowered the blade, turned, and said, “Not the sword. Me. Transfer the power into ME!”

“Ah, now I perceive your need,” Kenjar said with more confidence in his voice, “It is POWER you seek. Hmmm, power. Yes. Great power, I presume?” He scratched his bald head as if deep in thought. “We could . . . no. Yes, that’s it,” the Druid said as he carelessly reached out to pat Caradoc on the arm. Kenjar quickly pulled his hand back as if he had put it into a boiling cauldron.

Caradoc smiled.

The warrior felt the wind as it swirled around him. Then, in the quiet stillness of the sacred grove, the Druid drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms across his chest, and spoke directly to Caradoc in a voice that was full of mystery and secrecy. “We have an ancient ritual…”

Caradoc lowered his sword. Jaw tensed. His eyes narrowed, as he focused in anticipation of what the man would say next.

“…It has not been performed for many a time and times.” He hesitated before he went on. The Druid looked pleased with himself. “It is an enchantment of—greatest power.”

As he listened, Caradoc focused his attention on the blade and polished it with his cloak.

“We can send the boys ahead of you to the black veil of shadow,” Kenjar continued, “We could place great power upon them, and they would become your spirit protectors from the other world. They would advise you, direct you.” He leaned closer to Caradoc and whispered, “And tell you secrets only they can see. This would satisfy you, would it not?”

Caradoc leaned back on his heels. “How does that empower me? I will not be sold lies!” The torc around his neck shook as he struck his chest with his fist.

The Druid’s dark eyes focused on the torc. “Is that torc not a symbol of the rope garrote we priests use to strangle those who have willingly given themselves as offerings? Is it not a symbol of great importance to the Catuvellauni, placed at the point where the soul meets the body—a place of great power?”

Caradoc saw the Druid’s eyes gleam. “What are you saying?” He looked around him at the Druids.  They gathered in a tight circle around the table and made a droning sound—a soft thrumming hymn. In the chilled air, their breath raised puffs of spectral fog into the night.

“Men only wear one torc, do they not?”

“Of course. What’s your point, goat?”

“Men have only the power of their own life force.” Kenjar reached and tentatively pointed to the torc. “Even you … my lord. The ritual can change that.”

The Druids thrummed on.

Kenjar then pointed to the table and the twin boys lying naked on the cold stone, the woolen cover kicked off, now lying in a bundle on the ground. With his other hand, he pointed to Caradoc. “You could combine their force with yours.” Then, bringing his hands together, he clapped them suddenly, “And be THREE times the man others would become.”

The Druid band let out a chanting chorus of approval.

Caradoc’s head swam with the intent of what the man was saying. Combined with the chanting, the words had an entrancing effect on him. It resonated to a need from deep inside his very being. “Three times,” he said. “Three—a powerful number to be sure.  “Yes, this is to my liking!” Putting the sword away he said, “Tell me what you require to make this happen.”

“Yes, to do this, we will need the babes, but we will need something else. We will need power. Great power to draw great power. The moon is high and full. That is good, but you must bring us power. Is there anything of value you might offer?”

The grove began to echo with melodic chanting. “Power. Power. Power.”

They repeated it over and over.

Caradoc gestured in the direction of his horse. “I think I have what you need. Come with me.”

“Yes, yes,” the man in white said, as Caradoc led him to his horse. “Something of value—gold perhaps?”

Caradoc grabbed the bridle and pivoted the horse around to remove the sack that still hung from the saddle. As he opened the bag, he revealed the severed head of a man, hair and beard matted with congealed blood.
            “Will this suffice?” Caradoc asked as he grabbed the trophy-head by the hair and held it up.

The Druid moved to examine the offering. “Ah, the head of an enemy—a soul of great power.” Kenjar reverently reached up and took the head, holding it as if it was a treasure, and said, “I’m impressed.” He then moved out of the shadows into the moonlight. “Must have been a great battle.” He slowly turned the head in his hands, “I don’t recall hearing of any conflicts.  Did you . . .”

Kenjar stumbled back, eyes wide in sudden recognition of the disfigured face. He dropped the head to the ground and stepped back making gesturing signs with his fingers. Caradoc could smell the man’s sudden fear.

Kenjar shook his head slowly, rubbed his eyes. His chin quivered. His lower lip vibrated rapidly, but no sound came forth.

Caradoc bent down and slowly picked up the bloody head by the hair.  Holding it out before him in pride, he looked directly into the unseeing eyes. This was not the head of just any ordinary man. This head had belonged to the man that the Druid had earlier spoken of with much honor—the High King Tasciovaunus. Caradoc was certain the Druid recognized who he was holding.

Caradoc wrapped his muscled arm around the little man’s shoulders and held the face of the King before him. “Are you wise enough to know the sign before you?” he said. He moved close to the Druid’s ear, “We will keep this between us, will we not?” Caradoc then pushed Kenjar away. The Druid back-tripped and fell to the ground.

Caradoc held the King’s tortured visage in front of the Druid again, and drunk in the moment as Kenjar’s face drained of color. Caradoc saw him weigh the options and watched in pleasure as the Druid looked up at him with a stare he recognized all too well.

Unable to speak, Kenjar cleared his throat, coughed, and looked once again at the severed head. Then, the man stood up, raised his eyebrows, and slowly nodded to Caradoc.

Caradoc smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my man!”

He then shoved the head of Tasciovaunus into the cloth sack and tossed it at Kenjar’s chest.

“Take the head of power. Prepare the offerings. We will have a sacrifice!”

He beamed as the Druid glided back to the sacred grove. Above the chanting and noise of preparation, Caradoc could clearly hear the sound of the twins screaming into the night.

Chapter 7

Chapter  7  “ Nemeton”

“Never fear the unknown. Fear that which is in front of you. “

--Scribonius Largus

A bracing wind came from the west, out of the forest itself, bringing with it the smell of blood and death mingled with smoke and sweet incense. In response to the putrid odor, Caradoc put his arm to his face.

His horse let out a stubborn snort, and then reared high into the cold night air. As its hooves touched the earth, the Catuvellaunian warrior dismounted, grabbed the reigns, and headed toward the line of oak before him.

The moonlight pouring into the meadow revealed very little of what lay beyond the trees. Even through the darkness, Caradoc was sure he had come to the right place. He wrapped the reigns around the nearest limb, shrugged back his thick woolen cloak, revealing a great long-sword at his side. He untied a bundle from behind the saddle, picked it up, and adjusted it until it cradled easily in his arm. He then turned toward the trees before him.

Looking at the darkness, he reverently reached up and grabbed a thick-coiled bit of bronze, fashioned so that it curved around his neck. Then he raised his face to the moon, as if he was soaking in its strength. The bronze torc reflected the light and shimmered in the moonlight. His long, flaxen hair blew wildly in the wind. He took a few long steps and breached the barrier of trees into the clearing beyond—the Druid sacred grove.

“The Nemeton,” he whispered.

Caradoc let his eyes adjust to the dark interior. He could barely make out a stone table and before it a man in a long white woolen robe staring wide-eyed in his direction. Caradoc marched up to this man, leaned in close and, trying to be heard over the roaring of the wind in the trees around the copse, he yelled into the face of the Druid.

“These are to be sacrificed. Now!” 

Caradoc shoved the bundle past the Druid and put them hard on the table. Then turning to go back to his horse, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand, “Without delay,” he yelled over his shoulder.

“But there are two of them,” the Druid gasped as he peeled back the dark woolen wrapping. Looking into the bundle placed on the altar, he declared, “Why, twins they are. Boys. Newborn.” And then softly as he examined them, he whispered, “Pure.”

Caradoc heard the word and it sounded vulgar to him. He stopped.

“Pure. That’s what she had called them,” Caradoc said.

He had listened from the doorway when she prayed.

“She was going to cut them for her god,” he sneered in contempt.

Caradoc shook his head to clear his thoughts and remembered his purpose. “No sons of mine will be given to any foreign gods. I will see to that.”

He looked to where his horse was as the man waited for a reply. “He said he would send my curs to Rome,” he recalled, “For what? To train them in their ways only to send them back to replace me? Rome will not conquer me this way. I will not allow it. To give them to my brother to train as he wishes would be just as bad.”

Without turning, he yelled back to the Druid, “Yes! Yes! Blast it! Two of them, the more life force to give to the gods, you goat! I gave you orders. Carry them out. Now, kill them!”

He continued to walk out of the clearing. When he got to his horse outside the tree line, he loosened the reins from the limb and yanked them hard. “These imbeciles, they better not foul this up.”

“What is it you seek?” someone yelled behind him.

Caradoc’s hand instinctively grabbed the hilt of his sword as he quickly turned to face more Druids filtering through the trees. They carried torches.

One of them pushed several of the others aside and stepped forward carrying Caradoc’s bundle. This man, although attired in a white robe like the man he had seen before, had a large noticeable bloody-red spot on his left shoulder.

He held up the babes, “What do you desire from such a gift as this?”  He then handed the twins to an attendant, and walked directly toward the warrior.

Caradoc clinched his fist and waited for the Druid to reach him.

“This must be the head butcher,” he murmured, “they are nothing but men-wives.”

The wind died down as he watched the man coming toward him. He walked the slow, reverential gait Caradoc had seen among all Druids, as if they were floating above the ground in their long white robes. Caradoc spat on the ground. He grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane and turned to mount his steed once again.

“Stop! Come with me. I have questions,” the Druid demanded.

The chance that someone would ask questions about the boys caused Caradoc to reconsider his course. He had made plans. He needed to keep things balanced, if he was to succeed. If he left now there was a possibility that the task would not be completed.

“It must be done tonight. I don’t have time for your questions.” he said.

“You must give me answers or we cannot do what you demand,” the Druid said.

“If you must, but, I warn you,” Caradoc fumbled with another bundle tied to his saddle, “I have much left to do before sunrise. I will return and listen to your questions – only for a moment. Make sure you do what I say.”

Hitching his horse again, Caradoc led the way back through the trees into the clearing, the Druids following.

Back in the grove, the Druid, who had spoken to him, grabbed a torch from the nook of a tree, lit it, and handed it to the warrior. He indicated that Caradoc was to stay next to the table and then walked into the shadows. He left Caradoc to wait.

“Be quick about it,” Caradoc said. He placed the torch back in its tree-perch, crossed his arms and leaned against the cool bark of the nearest oak wondering why the Druid had left. Looking at the table he saw that the Druids had once again placed the children on the stone. The little ones stirred under the woolen covering. The warrior let out a huff and turned away. “This better not take long.”

He looked around at the torch-lit oaken grove before him. There, in the flickering firelight, he saw the shadows of various victims of sacrifice and ritual evisceration hanging from the massive limbs of the trees that edged the clearing. The shadows moved as the torchlight played upon the forms making them look as if they could still be alive. In the center of the grove was a massive stone table—a large grey-speckled boulder that was flat and smooth on the top. It appeared weathered by age and use.

He turned to his left. There he saw human carcasses: men disemboweled—entrails spilled on the ground and spread out where they had been sifted through by the Druids who were looking for signs from the gods. There was blood collecting in a bronze bowl beneath a body, each bloody drop that fell from the victim’s naked feet made a distinctive plop. Heads—twisted faces of death—positioned on stakes, lined the outer ring of the grove.

Caradoc was familiar with this practice of collecting the trophy heads of those overcome in battle. They added power to the soul of the taker and gave a clear message to potential adversaries of accomplishment. He, himself, had many such heads hanging from his gate back at his hill fort—and one such trophy hung from his saddle, even now.

“The containers of men’s souls,” Caradoc grinned, “Perhaps these Druids are not so weak, but more like me after all. They kill for their gods. I kill for my own name. Nevertheless, both of us kill to gain position or power from others,’ he relaxed deeper into the tree behind him as his mood improved; “There is no difference in that.”

Across from him, in the torchlight he could see the body of a man, sitting bound to a tree. His chest raised and lowered in labored breaths as he clung to what remained of his life. A large, blackened color of a man with a thick brow and large nostrils positioned close to his lips. In the flickering light, the visage reminded Caradoc of the face of a horse. He had never seen such a man as this.

“Certainly, a man that large contains more life-force than those paltry boys of mine.”

He chuckled to himself as he entertained the idea of asking for the extra sacrifice of this horse-faced man until he noticed the man was wearing a red tunic.

“How did this man, dressed in Roman red, end up here? Auxiliary conscript perhaps?” Caradoc turned away, “It doesn’t matter. Priests will sacrifice anyone nowadays, especially criminals. Any Roman fits that description as far as I’m concerned.”

He counted the bodies of the captives in the trees. Eight. Eight in all. Good, he thought, Druids like doing things in nines. Nines and Threes. The man tied to the tree was number nine.

“Eight directions in the world

 and in their center - nine.

Nine are the Celtic Maidens,

 standing stones in a line.

Nine virgins to attend Bridgit

Nine through the fire alone.

Nine - the number of the eternal

The triple triad of our home.”

Caradoc let the drinking song flow through his mind as he waited.

“Which god do you bequest, my lord?” It was that Druid again, returning as if he just appeared from the darkness. He handed several vials and some cloth to one of the other men.

Caradoc examined the Druid in the torchlight. He was short. Body round with spindly arms. The short man rubbed the sweat from his bald head before it could run down into his hedgerow of bushy eyebrows. The eyes beneath were dark, not only the pupils, but the iris as well. They were sunken, almost skull-like. He smiled a large thin-lipped toothy smile that appeared to swallow his small upturned nose.

“What is it you want, O Great Warrior?”

“Doesn’t matter, O… Adored One,” Caradoc replied sarcastically.

“I am Kenjar; I am only a vessel for your use.” He bowed.

Caradoc snorted out a quick laugh. “Fool!”

The Druid continued, “Do you not want the children? They are strong and of your stock, I presume? Custom dictates giving sons to be raised by the brother of the birth mother. Certainly, they cannot be burdensome to you? Is the mother still alive? Did she die in birthing them?”

“Their mother?” Caradoc said, scrunching his large nose, as he motioned to the babes. “She is Jewish, a gift from Rome. Monies I paid to keep a wolf at bay only yielded a piece of worthless flesh as change.” He saw the Druid look at him with eyes wide, bushy brows raised, mouth pursed tightly.

“The birth-mother is not of our people?”

Caradoc did not want to explain. She was a slave-wife, caught up in her foreign religion, unwilling to convert to the Catuvellaunian way—despite his orders to do so. “The children are my property—not hers—to do with as I please.” He spat again as if to get a foul taste out of his mouth. “She is nothing. Her family is nothing. Yes, my eldest brother, Adminius, claims them for training. I despise him. He is weak and kisses Rome’s behind,” he wiped the back of his hand across his nose, “They will never be his.”

Kenjar motioned for another Druid to attend him and pointed to the ground where the spittle lay. Whispering incantations, the younger Druid bent down and attempted to clean the soil with the hem of his robe.

“You’re asking too many questions.” Caradoc kicked dirt at the Druid cleaning the sputum. “Get on with it!”

“We have no problem with sacrifice, as you can see. I merely need to know what ritual to perform for you. Why must we do this for you? Children are your inheritance. Your land goes to them. We have done many ritual deaths to insure a man’s family size remains small and property is not spread too thin.”

The warrior looked to the table in the center of the grove; his twin sons bundled together were asleep on the cold stone slab. A sugar-teat, made from the patch of cloth, and soaked in strong wine and honey that the Druid had prepared, kept them both quiet.

Caradoc’s face showed no care, no feeling for the children lying oblivious to their surroundings. His long mustache drew in and out with each hot breath as he considered what the man was asking. He clinched his hands till he felt the nails in his flesh. This man was beginning to irritate him. He felt the uncertainty and lack of confidence in the Druids demeanor. Stepping close to the slab, he fingered the place where blood had stained deep into the rock from years of sacrifice. “They are weaklings. They deserve this.”

“My lord, speak up. What did you say?” Kenjar said, straining to hear the warriors’ musings.

One of the boys’ lips stuck out in a tiny pout.

Caradoc’s impatience turned toward anger. It burned as he looked at the boys.
            “You’ll slay them on this stone!” Caradoc yelled and then slapped the table twice. He stepped back, drew his sword and turned to face the man. “You are going to sacrifice them – NOW!” He pointed his long blade to the young babes sleeping on the cold stone. When the Druid did not react, Caradoc pressed forward and grabbed the man’s robe where the blood-red spot met the man’s collarbone. It was not a Druidic insignia. It was blood.  He pulled the man closer, pushing the sword up to his throat. Then, between his teeth, he tersely said, “You are not the high Druid, I know this.” 

 “W-w-why not do it yourself?” Kenjar said, “Your sword is ready.”