“The Man on the Locks” (An Account at the Panama Canal)





This story you are about to read has more truth to its twists, than you may want to believe, and let me add to that, the main character, George W.G., would have said: there was a time that every American could be proud of the construction of the Panama Canal, if for anything beyond that, since America has given that away, such pride must ferment in the knowledge and information, by which the original object and purpose was attained. This story, “The Man on the Locks,” is rather simple and to the point. But first for those folks that are not all that familiar with the Panama Canal, I must give you a quick overview, and quick it will be.

The Panama Canal is a waterway connecting the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, cut through the narrow necks of land connecting the two continents of North and South America. It’s history, the land area goes back to AD 1452, and you will have to search out for your Encyclopedia to get the rest of its in-depth ancient history, but let me say, the French tried to build the Canal, and couldn’t, and then the Americans purchased the rights thereafter to do it, and completed it; it is perhaps the greatest Engineering feat in the world, surpassing even the Great Wall of China, for I have been to both, the Canal and the Great Wall.
And, as we all know, President Carter gave it away for a handshake and a smile (or a song and a dance, as they say), and hoping that would produce warm feelings between neighbors, and when I was there in May of 2006, of all the presidents America has had, he is the most worshiped, and perhaps the only one, for such a token given them free of charge; not that America per se is that well liked, but the gift is. Again I must stress these were the thoughts of the main character you are about to meet, so you will gain a kind of insight knowledge of why he did want he did, or what was done with his assistance.

We also can get political into the political arena here with past events, but I shall just say them in a flat manner, and get on with the story—; President Johnson did not carry out the policies of President Kennedy when he took office, he put many of them on hold, and that caused the city and folks of Panama to united and start an error of hostility with America over flying their flag with Americas, and lives lost on both sides because of this, to include three American soldiers in 1964, and a number of lost souls on the Panamanian side. And we will justify our own opinions and actions, until dooms day with whatever rhetoric we can gather to make our souls feel better, it all depends on what side of the fence you’re sanding on, so I am not going to get into that here, if you don’t like the story, you will have write your own to the contrary, and most like if you hate it you have already; you just don’t like this side of the fence. And I could get into prices and so forth I have them at hand, but that will simply take away from the suspense and Macabre climax you are about to read. But do not walk away and pretend there is no truth to this, because you’d only fool yourself.

(Time and Location: 12: 15 AM, May, 2006, the Panama Canal; Miraflores Lock, facts have been disturbed, otherwise there is a breath of historical fiction in the following account.)






The Account

And then dawn he bent, looking one-sided dynamically across the Canal, at the Miraflores, Locks— from the café,
“A famous bourgeois quality here on the Canal,” the security guard said to the tourist looking down and across; the canal lights from the Café could be seen from the other side.
He looked closer, a ship was coming in, and shadows flung reeling into gray corners all about. The water was rising in one canal, while lowering in the other, and with all the lights shinning, there was a golden mist, infinitely thin and transient, and fading.

For a moment, the old Panamanian security guard noticed the middle aged tourist, an American, standing to his side, close to his side he was taking in a breathless view he concluded—so often seeing that very same awe in other tourist’s faces, he thought nothing of it,
“I like the pinkness to the lights, George W. G.’s the name,” said the tourist.
What he, the Guard, didn’t see was a rowboat, and a swish of oars, and the man inside of the boat. George said to the guard, “How big is that gate?” referring to the gates of the locks which were two and in the shape of a V.
“Between 47 to 82 feet sir, depending,” said the plump and astute guard, named Carlos?
Carlos added to that without asking, “Each leaf is between 300 to 600 tons dependent upon the varying heights. They divide each lock chamber into two smaller chambers also…”
During this ongoing conversation, the man in the rowboat, with ungraceful fingers, palms and hands, rowed within those shadows, and corners that melt into the environments, grayness.
Whatever was on the mind of this rower, only he and George knew, and he was not about to tell the guard, but said in passing:
“It’s a sort of glory thing,” but he didn’t even murmur that, it was such a whisper, the guard didn’t even pick up on it.
A few other tourists came up to the window, smiled upward at the tall Carlos, and asked a question, foolish almost she thought, but she asked it nonetheless, perhaps trying to stump the guard; she was Abigail from England, and she said said, “How many rivets were put into this massive project, which to my understanding is over fifty miles long, and took ten years or so to build?”
Old Carlos was proud of his astuteness, and happy was he to give her information, “You tell me why you want to know, and I’ll give you the answer!”
“My husband works on the docks in Shipeton, New Yorkshire,” Abigail Wallace, “and rivets his main duty to inspect on the ships.”
“It required Miss, six-million for the whole operation, and I should say the gates or the locks have buoyancy, as heavy as they are, and there is no leakage, because the space between the gate and the miter sill on the floor of the lock, prevented by a seal,” said Carlos.

As Abigail Wallace, looked down into the Canal, at the locks, George knew if she looked hard enough, it would be a sigh, a benediction with an ecstatic yelp, from this youthful beauty. For another instant, George W.G., tried to sway the young girl into a conversation, by saying,
“How was your dinner?” in lack of anything else, I mean even his voice was scrambled, this gray-haired man, and even the officer now touched his revolver, not even sure why he did, but what a question for the moment.
“So,” said the young woman, dismissing George and nodding her head to the guard, slowly,
“What is the first thing a ship encounters when it approaches the locks,” this covered up George’s stupid question, and with a sigh his arms, which he expressed with, fell unwound to his sides, his neck and eyes transfigured as if far away, fell upon the rowboat in the corner of the lock. The guard glanced at him, then said,
“Good question Miss, when a ship approaches the locks there is this giant chain stretched across its path. That chain is made of links of three inches in diameter; this will stop the ship that does not want to stop. It actually rams its nose into this chain, and then course such we have such things as hydraulics …” and he stopped right there, didn’t finish his sentence—
Now he repeated back what George W.G., had said, but did it savagely, as he was looking into the canal,
“Dinner you want to know what Miss Wallace had for dinner, so this is your idea of pirates, is that your friend down there?” a man was climbing on a rope up the leaf, with an American Flag. Carlos pulled his revolver out, carelessly, said,
“What an old fool I am!” and said it quietly, and called his commander, pointing the gun at George,
“Is that the best you can say: what did you have for dinner?” and he laughed, as his commander came running up, he was the Captain Juan Palma.
George was about to say something, and Carlos said, “Shut up!” and with that he turned to the man in the Canal, he was now scaling the gates, the lock, one leaf at a time, and an alarm went off, and the two men, the Captain and Carlos looked, took an abrupt glance pulling George with them, out of the café, and down to the platform where several security personal now cornered the gate in the Canal, guns pointed at the American, now holding the American flag for all the folks in the Café to see. Evidently he was trying to make a point; he had no weapons, just a flag, and his two hands holding it.
Had George W.G., Carlos and the Captain waited an instant longer they would have seen a killing, but only heard a sound, a not so unfamiliar sound to the security guard, Carlos, that brought an almost whole-hearted amused chuck into the arm waving folks in the café, who were cheering the soldiers on, giving vent to the moment.
“Well,” said Carlos, bringing George to a lower level section to be questioned, about his so called alleged friend, now dead, the one with the boat, he said genially, “You incurable half-wit, did you think you could dishonor us so,” and he smiled confidently.

“Why— obviously,” said George adding, “I was perfectly sure you would do what you did, and that is why Abigail has taken a movie of your killing of my friend, whom you just shot, gravely for the same reasons you complained, establishing your right over the canal. I’m glad you did shoot him, I thought you would. And so many folks thought you might be put into a compromising position! How foolish they were, and how right I was.”
But this didn’t seem to faze the Captain, or Carlos, or the few soldiers now guarding the entrance into this little underground cell.
The Captain answered George, with a step forward, unsteadily manner, saying, “Mr. George W.G., our purpose was always there, to steal, or appropriate the canal from you, and the American people, you just simple invented the means for us to do it by; your arrogance we all knew one day would ignite a cause and it did, which we used. You all live in a dollhouse up there in the north, it no longer matters anymore, how we did it, got it, now does it senor? pride, honor, or glory, we have it, it’s OURS.”
George’s eyes were blue, steel, to him a black-angel was stuffing nylon down his throat, he was thinking: was this all for nothing.

(Afterward) Many have come to such a crossroads only to find an iron bed waiting for them as did George and Miss Wallace, and of course a grave for the man on the locks, in the name of pride, honor and loyalty, in the name of a flag, the American flag in this case; only to find out that people pretend with one another, seeking warmth to be your friend, often turns out to be the spring door to disorder, ruin.



Written 7-31-2008

The Fiends of Yogyakarta (Revised and Reedited 7-2008)


City of Yogyakarta, 1999, Bustling at the Market




This story takes place in Central Java [1999]; the city of Yogyakarta, while visiting the archeological sites [old ruins] of Borobudur and Pramanan nearby.


I, Dennis have very little hope that you will understand, still less, hope you will or can believe my incredible journey, the expedition I went on, and the trial and tabulations, I went through some five-years ago, or is it now six (how time does fly, writing this account down, which is in the year of 2004 now). Time soars between living the experience, then writing and rewriting, and somewhere in-between— recounting, as I am about to do in my journal notes, and its aging face—and revising it, in the process this story can become a tinge baffling (today being 31 July, 2008).
These words, this story, what happened during those days—much was written down in my hotel room, bringing home the notes thereafter, never much leaving my side since I was the only one with the inner facts to this case. Although I have an understanding—as unusual as it is, or was, it does still enlighten people that read it, because those who know, at least in Java by oral tradition, are more convincing a picture; where those who are not from Java, have a more confused tongue, in trying to convey they believe in this account, or happening. Very few suitable comments did I receive from outside visitors of Java.
It might be wise to read this account, and reread it, at your leisure, then investigated if you wish to see if it is as far fetched as you once thought it to be, one thinks best when they check out all corners of the revelation, or background. My name is Dennis, and if you check into this strange happening, you will discover with similar details, this very thing happened in the 1840s and 1880s, within the madness of Java’s jungles, and be it witchcraft, or demons playing, will be your sinister bones working out, if indeed you find out, drop me a line.

In any account, I wrote it all down on paper for I knew my memory would haunt me and I’d distort it later, had I not. For it did fade somewhat from my jittered nerves—shortly after the story took place. The events to follow being, may be considered centuries old, in that the old dark brooding foes, live in the wilds of the crumbling jungle area I was in, with its whisper-haunted shadows, which brought upon me and my friend their own ancestry and background evil deeds, from evil spirits. I often thought, being licensed in abnormal psychology, and having a large amount of information on occultism, this case should have been an open and shut case, until I lived through it. But it all happened quite suddenly, with hours of chaotic disturbance. I am getting too far into the story and leaving out the plot. But just thinking about writing the rest of this story out, my head starts aching, the same head someone was trying to bash in not so long ago.


Some say I’m quite eccentric with this story, to the point of fleeing reality, and replacing it with too much subjectivity; and when it did happen, and it did happen: I thought such myself; it was madness, for it is hard to believe this true and frightful story from any corner of the world. In any case, to those none believers who confronted me shortly after these events, namely the media, ugliness is not imprisoned, it is free like us to roam wherever it please, and it did this one day, this day I’m about to share with you.
For the sake of the story I will use my middle name, Lee: somehow it seems less out of character that way. I had gone to visit a friend in Japan, in the summer of 1999; I had met her in Istanbul, Turkey in l996. I stayed there—in Japan—for about a week, seeing most of the sites, such as a tourist would do: going to the top of the Tokyo Tower, and taking a train ride to Kyoto where nearby there was an international sumo wrestling tournament going on, to which I attended and met some of the world famous wrestlers. And of course, going to the top of Mount Fuji thereafter; all in all it was a most wondrous trip, to say the least, and perhaps the most sane: although, having MS, a disease of the nerves, my spine collapsed a few times in Japan, and I needed to seek out some physical therapy, a massage and some acupuncture, the acupuncture made it worse, and I collapsed again right on the tram. It was so bad, I slumped down, almost unconscious, until I found a chair across from me, where a young woman arose and gave it up.
From there I went to the island of Guam, stayed two days and one full night there, and getting a little more medical attention, in the form of a massage, which circulates my blood, and exercises my muscles automatically, where I do less of he work, and get all of the benefits.
At 3 p.m. the next day, I flew to Bali, my eyes wide open, my body rested, and my vision clear, for those with Multiple Sclerosis, vision can be a changing thing, my advise to those folks is keep moving, and find the sun; in any case, where I stayed another three nights, and then on to Central Java, to the city of Yogyakarta. In most place I travel, I conceal this medical issue, it seems to dominate the people around me if I do, though once removed, life goes on normal, and my eyes gazed upon this busy city with a bustling market place; everything really quite unfamiliar.

There I visited two sites, Borobudur, which is the largest Buddhist Shrine in the world (so I was told) made of somewhere around three million dark volcanic black bricks, over a natural mound. It is a marvel of ingenuity, for the world at large. And then I visited the temples at Pramanan, another breathtaking site. After two days of visiting these sites, I had three more days left. And this is where doubtful-reality may come into place for the reader—but the story cannot be changed, nonetheless; no not one iota, not to appease the media, or another’s speculative witty and aphoristic scientific mind; really is what I will produce, not science, and be it a mystery of mysteries or not, so it shall be—even if it leads away from the practical world to the unbelievable.
Thus, it was on the second free day in Yogyakarta I received a letter down in the lobby, at the main desk, in my hotel, it read:

“For god’s sake, come out to this peculiar and beastly, haunting hotel [more like a motel]. Another night like this, in this wilderness, will make me snarl, if not go nutty.”
Frank Gunderson

That was enough for me. I was known to be a traveler of mysteries, or one looking for them, or so my reputation had preceded me often times. And Frank Gunderson also from the Midwest, was a writer like David Childress, whom I talked to once over the phone concerning some books and my house in Lima, which I was considering selling—and was considering going to Easter Island with his team, but could not at the time, I had to wait because of business, but went the following month with just my wife, and there met the renowned Archeologist, Charlie Love, whom sat with my wife and I at a cozy outdoor café, and had a drink while discussing the moving of the huge statues on the island. Well, Frank was like Charlie in the sense he was always looking for the unusual, and often times found it. To be honest, I didn’t even know Frank was in country until I got the letter.
Even his speech, in the form of his awkward words, in his note, which was clumsily written in pencil, but it, had a curiously stilted quality to it, an expression (archaism) wholly unfathomable, but a seed planted with the request. Of the latter, is what motivated me though?

On the back of the note, was where I was to go, and so I grabbed my small suitcase, some shaving gear, and took a train about one hundred miles south, there at the station was Frank with a jeep, waiting, and no sooner had I disembarked the train we were both off to this hotel, a hotel I’d bestow an eldritch and macabre title to—soon. In my head as we traveled through the wild jungle, much complexity and indisputable newness was reproduced in every word Frank did not say, he was too quiet.
As we rode into the tropical forest deeper, harsh it was, like a picture of a lost world: then Frank, he babbled on about something: ghosts, fiends—devils, the macabre world, and the eldritch shadows, I dare say, what was on his mind, mystifying words for a strange abbreviation of something petrifiedly recalled. Then within forty-five minutes we were at a strange looking structure, he called, ‘The Hotel,’ a new phrase would soon begin; it looked more like a black volcanic brick low-built house, with four main rooms to it. The roof was that of wooden beams supporting some kind of jungle shrubbery and bamboo shoots covering the whole top. The stones to the building were that of the stones used at Borobudur I noticed.
Just his presence here, seemed to pull eat his physical strength, he was not by far as young as I, perhaps 60-years old, myself being 42 at the time. His hands, legs, bodily equipment in common seemed to become stiffer, alert.

(I can’t describe this story as I’d like, the horror of it is somewhat placed deep in my mind, and not as vivid as I’d like it to be. But I will write calmly, but try to patient with me as I unfold the following!)

“You noticed it yet?”
Frank said a few minutes into our walk to the an imposing edifice, more on the order of structure that might have once been a motel or club house in the jungle: parking the jeep somewhat in the woods, not sure why; then he took me around to the back of this edifice, this one story building and into each room (apartment-section that is, so it looked).
I must admit, now at least openly, I became eager for information of all sorts into this mystery, I lost interest in my personal likening for the archeological sites I had seen the post few days, as I found this case of tremendously abstruse to my mind, almost childishly, but very oddly he did not explain much, was actually somewhat casual, not specific of events to come.

I had noticed gravesites in the back of the building, some of them, they looked fresh, others had dates on them going back as far as 1840, and others marked 1880, two historical events evidently, along with a most recent one, this brought some kind of actual fright to my bones. This uncanny cemetery, in back of this stone structure, had some kind of link to their vanishment I thought, and Frank, with me along side of him walked cautiously, by the stones.
After the tour around the building and its surrounding area, we went back to the back of the building again. I kind of laughed with some embarrassment and mumbled something like,
‘What kind of a rat trap did you bring me to?’ I mean he said it was a motel of sorts, and I wanted to be permitted to know the whole story of why I was here; I really did not suffer from a lack of curiosity that was for sure.
Frank then pointed towards the window panes, two of them on the right side of the building. They were smashed, destroyed as if something had hit them, broke them into pieces: matter of fact, it had just dawned on me, that none of the windows had glass in them, not one single one, the structure itself could have been older than Frank, and rebuilt a few times, from the way it looked. And there were holes in the roof, as if an earthquake had taken place; and of course, I knew better.
“You will soon be able to take home with you information for your colleagues, the psychologists, of your time, and gain a little mild celebrity among them, and even puzzle them with your bizarre symptoms. (What Lee didn’t know, and what Frank was talking about was of course real aversions to soon take place.)
“What in god’s name happened here,” I began.
“No,” he replied, adding, “it has nothing to do with god my friend,” he said with a cool friendliness, however, I encountered some tone in his speech, that was vague with fears unresolved since we had entered this area, where resided some kind of black, hidden horror, all connected with an incalculable oddity I yet to experience.

He would not tell me completely what took place as to not spoil his pleasure, and mystery I do believe. I was dumbfounded, and curious, as he could tell in my voice, no exception, these feelings shared by Frank himself, and if it was terror and repulsion on the menu, evidently he, Frank wanted to conquer it, so it appeared. I indeed at that time felt that he was a stranger to me, for I had known him for eight years, but did not know this side of him maybe his proper self would return, but for the moment, it was glancing over this and that, in the so called ‘hotel.’
“You don’t know, you just won’t understand, you got to stay until it happens again,” he told me—repeatedly. I didn’t see in the least what he meant, and followed him dumbly into his edifice, into a room. There we sat for three hours in the mucky heat, just sat and waited for whatever was supposed to happen, not a word said. Sat in the hole in the wall, sort of room: dirt on the floor, walls discolored with mud and blood and all kinds of debris; glass all over the place, and the roof—if you could call it that, and what was left of it—had the sun shining through it in several locations. I watched Frank, and wondered over the horror on his face, what was in his mind, voice, and his expressions.

(I will not attempt to tell much of what took place this day, and the readers may glean all the outward essentials, check out the scientific journals, and you will find me not so ridiculous.)

He, Frank jumped up—it caught me off guard and shook me up a bit.
“Come on Lee, it’s starting,” he grabbed my right arm and somewhat pulled me over to the door, then opened it slightly—just enough to look out—it was as if his secondary personality was alerted—and then had me look out, standing alongside of him, but I didn’t see anything, and I was getting this endless irritation coupled with suspicion, that I wasn’t going to. And out of the sky, just like that, suddenly came a rock, then several followed right in a row: small, big, medium size boulders, all bombarding the building, one after the other. Then they came faster and faster, more and more, larger and larger. I had to duck, as he shut the door, and bolted it. I gasped.
My sojourn was disrupted, what kind of human action was taking place, my body became abnormally rapid, said to Frank:
“What kind of trick is this?”
“No tricks,” he said, adding, “the fiends [devils], the fiends, they are throwing them from out of the sky.”
“What!” I replied, feeling this was a bunch of malarkey, for I had never read any solitary study on such a phenomenal.
“The Ghoul’s are mad at me, the devils themselves, I’ve made fun of them, to get them to show their faces and this is what they do,” said Frank, now with his tangible proof—in the form of magical rocks being tossed onto a doubtless, but stimulated me.
I shook my head, but they were coming from the sky nonetheless, what could I say, seeing is believing, and I did not want to get hit by one of those boulders to minimize my disbelief, I did believe in this ugly occurrence--period.
“I, I insulted them, I did,” he repeated; “Oh yes, I was mighty good at that too.” Said Frank, with an ongoing world-weariness and unabating interest,
Then all of a sudden a huge boulder came through the roof, it must had been two-hundred pounds, then half the roof caved in, I began to display signs of anxiety, and Frank saw this.
“We got to get out of here,” I told Frank.
“What!” he questioned me, “out of here, why—we can learn from this happening, reopen the devils door, they must be huge beings to toss two hundred pound rocks through the air at such speeds, analyze it Lee, what kind of human action could this be, none, none at all, anyone with any intelligence can see the fiends are giants borne out of such makers as the fallen angelic beings of the time before the Great Flood, or perhaps those who built Solomon’s temple, or perhaps, those giants on those islands in the Mediterranean, such as on Malta, or Crete.”
Next, he started to cuss them loudly, calling them every name under the sun, and shaking his defiant fists at them from out of the window. He then threw his keys to the jeep at me, and told me to run for it, and he’d stop for a minute his cussing and that would puzzle the fiends: consequently, allowing me time to get to the jeep, so I ran like the dickens out into the bombarding environment to the Jeep, thinking as I was running, how right he was, this was not related to humans at all, hitherto mask like faces , shadows, giant shadows began the show sings of expression, in the foliage, in the deep, overhead, nothing completely visible, and I vigorously jumped into my jeep, muttered a few words as I started it up, and went like hell. In the meanwhile, I heard the rocks and boulders pounding on the building structure behind me.

I had made it back to the train station and eventually back to the city. Alas! Frank never wrote me again, I never heard of him or seen him from that day on. No one ever heard of him again to be exact. Pityingly the folks went out looking for him for a number of days, but could find no trace of him, nothing but his shoes, which he was wearing on that day. And the building was almost totally demolished; the whole structure looked like they were bombarded by heavy artillery. The inhabitants of that area say it took two weeks clearing up everything.
I do know one thing for certain; there is a grave stone behind that Hotel, among other grave stones with his name on it that says “Buried here are the Shoes of Frank Gunderson, died 1999, the only thing found of him.”


Written in July, 2004 (The Author visited this location during the summer of 1999) Revised and reedited 7-2008

Three Suspense Stories by D.L. Siluk

5

The Account of the Dogface Demon





The Dogface Demon in the Closet


It has been said, and documented, to my understanding, but I didn’t know at the time, there is a demon called The Dog Demon, once seen in the ancient land of Mesopotamia. Well, my dear friends, (whoever may be reading this) he is well and alive here on planet earth. Matter-of-fact, I can pin down the time, and whereabouts of this beast, freak, or creature of nature (meaning he is quite different than us at this very writing). Maybe he is a creature scorned by the Universe; but I have met him, I mean, seen him.

I saw him in as an apparition in a vision in l984, actually it was more than a vision, and I shall get into that in a moment. He had the body of a human, and the face of a gruesome looking dog (as often demonic beings end up having, simply because they must inhabit a physical body to operate in, and often end up with grisly looks because of birth defects in their heritage, which date back to a pre Adamic period (a time before the period of Adam and Eve, biblically, sudeocripitical speaking). He, as I call him, the Dogface demon, or simple Dogface, he could walk upright, erect, with that inhomogeneous look, a bulldog appearance, small droopy eyes, beady they were, a long fat tongue that seemed to find its way out of its mouth automatically without his even slightest intentions for having it slurp and slap and dribble all over his lips and mouth. His nose was like a pig’s snout, a chest a tinge hairy, along with his upper arms, or shoulders; I drew a picture of him in 9-2003, about a year after I had saw him.
Now for, ‘Where did I see him?’ Don’t be surprised, he was huddled up in our Nation’s Capital with a number of other demons. Oh yes, this is so. They all were listening, waiting, observing: for what?
A good question, your guess is as good as mine, perhaps better than mine. They all seemed to be, give the impression that is, to be in a closet of sorts, hiding, listening as if they came out they could be identified, seen by others, what others, is beyond me. I told myself ‘why are they hiding, they are almost invisible’ apart from them who have second sight, no one else can see them.

One of the small number of demons in the closet seemed to have a trunk attached to his face, the Elephant demon I called him at the time (in years yet to come I’d find out there was such a creature in history, and see a statue of him in Java, Indonesia, 1999); I thought at the time (1984), perhaps our National Capitol was infested with these freaks of pre historic nature, and I repeat myself, no one else could see them that I was aware of, and they were not certain I could see them, therefore, three different worlds resided in one, or spheres. I assume they could not see me in their world, in the closet yet I was there, no one said a word, but I’d noticed, they often can sense a presence yet pay little attention to it, perhaps they were aware there were others in the building that might spot them, in their world, should they expose themselves freely, otherwise why hide? So I asked, and told myself, talked to myself in essence during this time, and in the process told myself to leave well enough alone, and just observe, that was, or should be my objective. And so that is what I did.
But right after that ghostly experience—I suppose you might be saying, a hallucination—(whatever, yet I do not take drugs) I had another vision (actually the last one was not a vision, with the Dogface, but rather a happening) it again took place at the Nation’s Capitol (1984), great flame were burning in back of it, and paratroopers were landing on the monumental sites, all around (of course now, as I rewrite this, history has indicated in by 9/11, these so called visions and happenings were—if anything—were warnings, if not prophecy in the making, which again is the something as warnings.
In addition to that mental picture, or visualization, I found it was linked to another, involving, the president’s plane circling in the air. It was all documented long ago, no need to recertify it over again, and put into a book after the fact, in 2002, and given to three clergy during the draft stages of the writing it, the book called: “The Last Trumpet, and the Woodbridge Demon,” now it is called 9/11, and part of our historical past, so it was as it was a vision or happening and part of 9/11; be that as it may, and it all was part of that experience I was telling you about, that being, the Dogface Demon in the closet, with that elephant looking demonic being, and a few others, all cramped in that space doing whatever they were doing.
Thinking about it now, and assuming my assumptions are right, perhaps these forces from the imperceptible world, could see through walls, although there was no need for that I suppose they could hear, and I assume again, translate whatever language they were listening to, and I assume it was English, and so the walls were only barriers for the living. Some times demonic forces, their configurations can be seen by the nakedeye, and if one needed to be cautious (perhaps without reason, but cautious all the same) hiding would be the thing to do.

Babylonians believed rabid-dogs where demons of sorts, and sent by god to punish man. Also, ASSYRIAN carvings have been discovered with these dogs, seen as apostrophic figures. In 1984, I didn’t know much of God, or demons or ancient demigods, or such things, but it did present a challenge to learn about them after these so called visions, and happenings.
In this happening there were three, pertaining to this occurrence, the demons were simply clustered up in a tight space, as if gathering information: patient, and with smirks, and listening, oh yes, listening as if they were on a mission: or a conspiracy to be. It seemed to me at the time, they were all part of a coming conspiracy that now took place: why else would they be where they were at the time they were, and this happening was—yes was, this pre-empt strike, was planned even before Ben Laden, knew he was going to do what he did, the demonic forces only needed the face, remember I said, demonic forces have to work through the physical, and they found a willing body, one capable of financing the project, and one willing to play the demonic game, not quite knowing who was pulling the strings. I suppose Bin Laden thought he was, he thinks it is his theme when in essence he is simply going through the motions for someone else, a lot bigger than his ego, only the dynamics belong to him, not the plot or theme.

Anyhow, I asked myself, ‘why else?’ and then you get talking to yourself, so you don’t wait for the answer, you know it. Although I’m sure with the multitude of these hybrid spirits stationed in Washington D.C., would be a classical place to be. Maybe even the World Trade Centres now popping up throughout the world: by and by, Washington’s tragedy might have been part of this conspiracy; for me it is not inconceivable. Yes, yes, it has been many years now since that took place, but so long ago one can’t remember that it took some planning, and in that such things are planned from both sides of the fence, both worlds are usually involved, could be involved, most likely were involved, in this case.
Solomon, used Demonic beings to build his temple, so it has been written. He had power over them, so it has been written, that his power over these deadly spirits were so powerful, he could cast them into oblivion should he care to, or should they dare to defy him, they were scared of him, an rightfully so. And how did they build the temples? They must have used some sort of physical texture, called flesh to operate in, and he could see them. Just to point out a fact, they are here and alive on earth.
But maybe Mr. Bin Laden took a long time to put it together, like the demonic beings took a long time to put him together, like to like, they say. It is not unusually to work with both sides of the world. Do we not pray when we are sick and who to, not the demon, but some do. Not sure, if this is interrelated, but it can prove to be useful in clueing together we are being watched. And I have seen shrines in Asia, and Indonesia, all over the world, depicting demonic carvings, and figurines: in Haiti and Jamaica, and Cuba, all over the world. And I saw them in the Washington. If I was from the dark side, if I had a legion of demon assigned to me, by Lucifer, or the General Henchman of Hell, I’d assign them to Washington D.C., the heartbeat of the world, and a few to Moscow, and Beijing, it would be only prudent.
Along with the Dogface Demon, I saw the Elephant Face Demon as I have earlier mentioned: do not laugh, it is very likely, and it is more than possible, it was, I am not trying to persuade you one way or the other, just laying down an account. You can tell anyone anything you want, but if you want a truthful answer, you can get it. Just as you can see something, and you may be the only one who sees it in your generation, or neighbourhood, but let’s say there are signs around the world that what you saw, folks hundreds of years ago saw, made statues to, documented, are they and along with me, all crazy; If you said yes, they you are among a society that believes in the crazy—if Christ believed in the demons, who am I to go against a man who can walk on water, I can’t, unless it’s ice.
In Malta, I asked an owner of a bookstore if he believed in giants, since legend says, they built most of the temples over there. And he said no. In the back of the bookstore, alone, I asked him again, and to answer me truthfully, and he said, “Of course we do, there is too much evidence to the contrary, and if you lived here, not just being a tourist, but really lived here and investigated the place, you’d believe it also.” He is right; I found a giant’s foot print in stone, while visiting the Bernardo Island in South America.
But back to the demon; likewise, if you’ve seen them, no one can tell you otherwise. They can give you all the psychology tests in the world and tell you that you’re crazy, and keep on you until you agree with them, but fact is fact. If you were to go to Java, or for that matter, Cambodia, you would see the Elephant God in stone, in sculpture form all over the place. I called the one I seen the Elephant-Demon long before I seen such carvings. I saw this very one within the cluster, within the closet in Washington D.C.
‘Hog wash,’ you say, but most likely you believe in a God yet you have not seen him, most folks believe in something on that order, unless they got a head full of the devil that says it’s all hogwash. If I was the devil, I try to have you believe in nothing, not even me. Or if you believed in me, I’d try to have you obsessed with me, so you’d not have any time to look in back of yourself. Either one will work.
Atheists will love this paragraph, I have no scrap with any region, even atheists, let us all go our own way, this is just about me witnessing a situation, it just happened to be in a different dimension than what you and I are used to, when I saw it and what I think I know took place and by whom, 9/11 came about afterwards: no more no less.

I now do firmly believe in an invisible God, as much as in a materializing invisible world, a shape changing world of demon. If you were me, you’d too believe. We are not talking about falling off the face of the earth here, and reality is quite different when explored, if one dares to explore beyond the normal. Demons, ghosts, fallen angels [or angelic renegades], giants, the King of Agharti [king of the subterranean world, to come above earth prior to the Golden Age], all of the about, have all played a part in the invisible world we live in; the hidden world we live side-by-side with, and if explored so would you discover this to be a truth.
As indicated in this account, about, one I have not mentioned before is bin Laden, mentioned before fully that is: with a little substance. The reason being, I just seen him in a vision before I wrote this originally in 2002, now it is 9/2005, and I have taken this out of the mothball CD area, to update and revise. Now again in 7/2008, I am revising it. He, Bin Laden, was sitting in a chair made of precious tick wood I would guess: to the best of my knowledge. And behind him were beautiful carvings, as if he was in some grand church, or mosque or Hindu shrine. More towards the Hindu shrine area it would seem: I can get in trouble when I pinpoint things I should not pinpoint, but if it wasn’t as I said, it had the figurines of a similar nature to it (could be Pakistan or a place where both Hindu and Muslim live). He was alone. From what I gathered from his left side, either they were drawings or real buildings, but it looked like layered temples, like I’ve seen in Japan, or Bali, or India. Also the wood carvings looked Hindu: again I say that. I thought of Kashmir at the time. But I have never been there. It seemed to fit somehow. The vision took place at 1:45 PM, 1-1-02.
I am not the one to say if he will or will not be captured, I hope he is, but only that he may have the dark side on his side, and that side is helping him, and will continue to help him, until he is useless to them, we live in a complex atmosphere, believe me; but there are windows.

Note: written: January 1, 2002 (Revised/9/2005/second revision 7/2008)


6

Port of Poseidonia:
The Birth of Poseidon



Poseidon, in the Underworld



Let us not all believe Atlantis and its demonic forces did not have its secrets, and dark powers, in the Underworld, for it surely did. And this sketch will bring forth, some of them—in the depths of Hell and its boundaries. (Part IX) Here is one of the 26-Parts to this story.



Immortal Minds and Qin


(The Keepers) The sacred solar science of the ancients, understanding the effects of the sun on the earth to include affairs, fertility and personality, were the duties of the “Keepers” of this science, the immortals, once born into humanities realm [the Feathered Serpents, Qin being one of them, a shaman of sorts]. The information was encoded into the Keepers cranium and his imperishable soul at birth.

This information was concealed, to be preserved as a form of hidden knowledge, by way of numbers, pictures and stories for future times; considered mythological legends with whole civilizations, like Atlantis, who was the most worshipped, who claimed the highest god’s, to be their protectors, during those far-off days.

In the simplest sense, the eagle of Atlantis displayed the ‘spirit of the sky,’ and the serpent ‘reincarnation’ the shedding of he skin of the snake, and then we have the ‘Feathered Snake’, the perfect being, the Atlanteon, the Prophet, the Keeper, so it was thought: whom was the sun itself; consequently, this person ’The Keeper’ could do miracles, like the Moche of Peru, and other such ancient and gifted individuals.
Hence, these “Feathered Serpents,” performed miracles (prophets of sorts) and upon their death they would go to the brightest star, so it was said. This was what was handed down to the people and this was the truth for its day.

It was Poseidon’s mother (some 16,000 to 13,000-years ago), and Phrygian’s grandmother [Neuch] who witnessed a great burst of light in the sky over the acropolis of Atlantis (Phrygian was not born yet). But he was told the story many times, and remembered it quite well, that was:
Lighting lit up the whole of Port Poseidonia [that day], somehow, someone while she was asleep (his grandmother) had gotten pregnant and after sixteen-months she gave birth to Poseidon, whom could speak three languages, that had only taken him three days to learn. His birth was almost dragon like, save for his eyes. He could command demons and giants at an early age, which he did and in so doing, they helped build the Acropolis there at Atlantis, and they did just that, help build the Port of Poseidonia likewise. They say one of the Watchers, Azaz’el, got her pregnant, one of the two-hundred angelic beings that left God’s abode to live on earth. Defied the Almighty; he even invented the long cone hat for the Atlanteon, which would be worn for a thousand years to come, if not longer.
Poseidon left the kingdom well equipped for Phrygian, the city had glorious obelisks, with carve designs on them, and gold and ivory covered tips, some glorified with other precious stones. The kingdom was the glory of the known world when Phrygian inherited it.

Phrygian (once king of Atlantis) was now in the vaults of Hell wondering why he was always thinking of Atlantis, and its history thereof, I mean, every minute it was Atlantis, or Ais (his ex-wife), and sometimes his first love Lailis, he wondered where she went to, was, for she had died a early death. He had been in Hell many years now. And he could go off at times for days or weeks day-dreaming of her and Atlantis. He was looking at each detail of his life, he had the time, and matter-of-fact he could go over each detail several times without concern. He knew in Hell there were degrees; and the Hordes of Hell, the henchmen himself had no control over which area the God of the Universe commanded a soul to go to. If He said, Hell, then it was up to Commander of Hordes to put him wherever; if he said, “The Lake of Fire,” then it was there he went—the everlasting furnace of sorts.
Phrygian was not, evidently was not, as bad as some of the kings who had entered Hades realm, for they were assigned to the cold vaults where they made coats out of worms to keep themselves warm. Oh Agaliarept, the Henchman of Satan, could go there and hassle them, but who wanted to go into the cold vaults or the horrific fires. It was better by the docks of the Great River Hades, or Mount Hades, the highest mountain in hell.
He thought maybe it was about 225 BC at this juncture of time, for Roman echoes were heard down in Hell, they had a Republic; thus the Greek and Persian wars were over. The time of Gilgamesh had long past (2700 BC). So many ages had come and went, since he was poisoned with a bone in his meat, and dragged out of the waters of Hades to his abode on the docks of hell.
Qin, the Feathered Serpent, was his teacher so many years ago who taught him all the things he’d need to know in time, in life itself, yet he did not teach him about Hell.

Written 2-26-2006 Readied, 7-2008


7

The Monster Archaic
[A haunting bullfight in Lima]




(The Bullfight) I tell you this for a truth. Well, it all started out simple and my Grandfather, well—something inside his head got triggered. It all took place in the bull-ring at Lima, 1923. My Grandpapa was born in l886, and had retired from boxing long before, unwillingly, but kind of had to. Oh, he had fought the best, Jack Johnson, Sullivan, and then, well I will tell you the story. I didn’t see it happen, how could I, I wasn’t born yet. It was a mystery for many years to me and many others, but I know how he was, and the Peruvian woman he said he was in love with, fine, Latin blood she had, but she didn’t understand, I doubt anyone in Peru understood that warm hot summer day when Anatolia, the blue-eyed gringo went mad, nutty.
He was a brave man though, let no one say otherwise, six foot three, two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe a bit more than that, I can tell by his pictures somewhat, and I read his history. He was from Russia, came over to America as a youth, learned how to fight like Sullivan and Dempsey in the bars and then in the ring. I am Russian myself, in that capacity, like my Grandpa. The Peruvians laughed at him when he stood up and yelled at the capadores sitting in the arena, when he slipped and the bull gored him, a breathless moment I do expect, perhaps this was the moment the fans took notice of him, for he did it unexpectedly, and thought him a fool, oh I suppose he was more then excited, more than he wished to be anyhow, ‘it is their bullfight,’ he murmured,’ so it is said, and he sat back down.
The lovely Señorita he was with, one to be his bride someday, she hoped—was dismayed at the Gringo’s disposition on this matter. For she said something like, ‘excuse me,’ (she loved the bullfight) and looked at him. You see, he was for the bull, because the bull had no chance. None whatsoever he said, he told his beautiful Senorita as she sat in his sitting place, marked with a number, --her by his side and her friends to the right of her, of which he told them with even more venom, ‘The bull is dead the moment he enters the ring, and paces the walls trying to find his way out’. Some say, Anatolia wanted a way out of marrying the young lady, for he was close to forty, and she was close to twenty—but I don’t believe that, I think what took place was because of other reasons, enemies inside his head came out of his tongue, like the bulls, when they are thirsty, and the bull of course is filled with water to make him slow during his fight with the matador. And the banderillos placed the darts, and often times fail to place them properly (as they did this day), thus the bull gets mad and so did my Grandfather. I know he felt it was cruel and cold-blooded punishment for the animal that didn’t want to be there in the first place.
So what did Anatolia do, what you would expect, he stood up from his seat, in the hot summer high temperature, gazing, staring—hypnotically into the bullring and yelled like a mad bull himself, ‘What chance, what damn chance has the bull got!’ he yelled. His girlfriend’s Peruvian friend, an enthusiast comrade like her, that liked her, matter of fact, would have liked to marry her—had he not been married, tried to reason with Anatolia, but as the bull was enticed into charging the capadores, and the man who looked like he was to be eaten up by the bull, escaped unhurt, he again could not help himself, he yelled feverishly at the bullring. The audiences jeered at him liken to a viper, told him to sit down in Spanish, but he didn’t understand, and thus, a sword appeared and missed the heart of the bull and stuck out through the side of his ribs. But he just sat sadly in his seat—unmotivated, with hidden anger and staring, his face contorted, his teeth grinding.
Then came out the picador on his horse (I have talked to Picadors, they are brave to go into the ring on an old horse like they do, most are old and ragged looking, this poor horse was so old and skinny, good for nothing else I suppose, and this is why they use them of course, and my Grandfather knew this, like him, he was now aging, and good for what?), and the bull charged the horse, sad as it was, the horse flipped flopped about rolled over—not knowing another gore was coming and when it did, went in the air, and the picador landed on the ground, and again escaped like the capadores before; a hideous crime he thought. This bull was very strong, like a bull I saw in Mexico City—Nico, who died slowly like this one, and was strong, so very strong like this bull, they were both fighters, ones that would not go down with a blow, like in the ring where my Grandfather fought as a professional boxer. I’ve seen this same fighting instinct in the bull in Mexico City, what my Grandfather saw in the ring in Lima, he had in himself, but for him it went a little farther. I shall explain that now, for it is the horse that triggered him.

My Grandfather was in many fights like me as I have tried to explain, so I know what took place that Saturday afternoon in the heat of the afternoon, the Peruvian warmth at the bullring in Lima. It was akin to a fight in the ring, in the hot hours of daylight. When the horse fell, gored in the stomach, gored several times, his insides came out—his whole insides unfilled, bare, unoccupied there on the dirt of the bullring emptied out, the horse kicking his feet like a man down in the boxing-ring trying to get up, trying but not getting up, but let’s say is also blindfolded: told if he does get up—if he does stand on those feet of his, those limbs, tentacles, he will get his guts opened up like the horse, emptied out in front of his family, and his families guts emptied out like his; he had to take a dive in the ring, let the other man win, he had no choice. The scum of the earth made him stay down, lose the fight, like the Peruvian’s who made the horse go into the ring blindfolded, now was down; blindfolded so he could not see it coming—death coming, the spear of death; so he could not see the bull ready to gore him, trusting humanity, the nature of humanity; dumb as that might be. The horse like the fighter has no chance; that is what went through his head at that very moment—that last millisecond. It was the last fight my Grandfather ever fought, the day he lost to a smaller man, less skilled, but he had a family, and should he get up—stand up on those legs to fight this man, this puny man, they would cut their guts out, like the horse in the ring, no chance—you see, none whatsoever. But he lost his wife none the less (and that is another story unto itself), and met his Señorita, but that is all history, let me finish the story for you.
He stood up now, all wondered why he did not go crazy when the bull was killed, I should say slaughtered slowly, and dragged out of the ring by a mule, two mules. ‘Why the horse,’ people kept saying for years, still say it. As I tried to explain, my Grandfather was the horse, the audience were the scum, the boxing people who fixed the fights, the ones that humiliated him to, to such a thing as to take a dive in the middle of his life for a younger fighter, who knew nothing. He was blindfolded, kind of speaking, like the horse. The bull to him was simply a stupid animal with no chance at all, dead the moment he walked in the ring—like the young fighter. Yes, yes, my Grandfather was gored by the scum, by the stupid young man [likened to the stupid bull, he knew no better].
—So now you see why Anatolia stood up and yelled, and then when the horse got gored, like him, he lost it, hit the man beside his Señorita sitting next to her with his wife, broke his nose, and when two soldiers came running toward him—well, then the shooting started, and the crowed stood up to see what was happening. The soldiers and the crowd killed him, as he went wild hitting any and everyone who got close to him, several Peruvians went to the hospital that day, but nonetheless, he was dead from the insanity ended that day. Yes, oh yes, it was a hot day in Lima and the beast primitive came out of Anatolia, my Grandfather, what more can I say.

Benediction

Oh, I say to one and all, I am neither for the bull or the matador; as Hemingway protested, one must be for one or the other—no, I am for the champion of the brave, the glory of the arena, the ceremony of the event, its intrinsic meanings, and its blessings. So I make no judgment inasmuch as I do enjoy the bullfight, the cockfight, the ring, the karate tournaments, and the sumo wrestling tournaments. In all such events it is the grit and endurance and it all pleases me.


Note: Inspirited by Jack London, Earnest Hemingway and a bullfight I saw in Mexico, City, and the bullring in Lima, Peru, as well as the one in Seville, Spain. Also inspired by my grandfather and boxing in particular, which I enjoy watching. Written in 2005, reedited in 7/2008

The Legend of the Diabolical Rajah of Jaipur

The Sorcerer and the Rajah; in the Hall of the Winds]

The Crown of Krishna



In the City Palace, is the chamber of the Harem, its original intention was to allow royal ladies to observe everyday life in the street below without being seen, also known as Hawa Mahal, or better known as “The Hall of the Winds.” Our story takes place in Jaipur, India, in the year 1799, within these walls, they were constructed of red pink limestone, and is five stories tall, the palace has the most beautiful face in the world for a structure.



(AD 1799) Baklha, the adopted son of the Sultan of Jaipur, had a ruthless disposition by nature, was not impressed either with the luxury that his father surrounded his youthful life with. Cruel and deviant and malicious, he was, and was despised by his country men, for that very reason; and was to the contrary of his step-father, who was wise as an owl, and his son foolish like a lamb. As a result, his two sons far from complimented one another, and all the more put emphasis on the others flaws.
Rajah Baklha, like King Solomon, ruler of the Jews of a bygone era, the Rajah was a lover of wine, women, song and twilight: and let us not forget the deep roots of enchantment arts, or those mystic and ever possessing black arts better known as Necromancer. His step-father in spite of all his efforts to tame his son’s spirit, he left him alone to content with them herself, to continued and suffers on his rocky course of mendacity, and invidious behavior.

At about this time there came a soothsayer: a necromancer (he was said to have learned his black arts from an ancient Mu-man of the old continent of Lemur, in the Pacific), he came into what is known as The Pink City, for the city was all painted pink, as well as the legendary Palace of the Winds, with its beautiful façade for all to adore in the mornings, and at nights, all to curse as one stepped over beast and human bodies sleeping on the grass and roadside; for poverty was prevalent.
And so it was, the sorcerer made his presence known throughout the city, as he showed his skill in spells and enchantments, in fortune telling, and herbs, healing and philosophy, in prophecy of future events to be for; and so this was how he made his living, his, money and goods, a barter he was to included; all throughout India no other city had such a man of quality, in those far-off days. He traveled from Delhi, to Agra to Lucknow Jaipur, on an elephant’s head, and when he made his appearance, he was greeted with the most respected.
The Rajah, hearing of his arrival within the city, made haste to have his company, sending a servant to find him, and set up a meeting. The sorcerer was in his own right a warlock of a supernatural demonic class, or so it would appear, whom bore no fear of Sultan or Rajah in all lands of India, lawless or not, and he knew of the Rajah, and so he would meet his match perhaps, that is to say, the Rajah would equally be matched, in a diabolical way.

—The servant having cast his eyes upon the sorcerer, simply could not digest this, in essence, he could not fathom what a great man of his status would look like, that this is what a great man would did like, in reality for with only an imagination to go by, one builds such images, no man could live up to them: he, the sorcerer being short and plump, humble and soft spoken, with a curve to his smile, thin legs holding up that chunky torso, and a eeriness to his composure, although it was relaxed, too satiate, and astute, one might say.
With little uncertainty, the servant now within his presence, knew he was the necromancer, oh yes, yes indeed, without a doubt, it was all in his laughter, his eyes of amber, warlock eyes, vanishing as you looked at him, vanishing as if a flame inside of them were blown-out. There was also a needled coldness to his presence like a glacier—taken hold of his hand, as they greeted one another.
Said the servant, “I am the servant of the Rajah Baklha, and he has sent me here to make arrangements, and payment if need be for your services. He wishes to know what lies ahead, the future, if it be destruction or promise.”
“Oh yes! Awa, yes, I wish to serve him if infect I can; I have heard of his scarlet runaway temper, and his pan-like strains of malefic-behavior…much like mine when I was young and foolish. But I am an old prophet of long forecast and I can help him now, perhaps better than before, before being in my youth.”
Like a serpent gliding by, they withdrew to see the Rajah immediately.

Within the palace guest chamber, sat the Sorcerer and the Rajah, across from one another—it was as he, the Sorcerer liked it—wanted it to be, commented to the Rajah, in a thanking manner, that it was set up as he would have wished it to be, for it was dark and gloomy in the room, as he recited incantations, in a peculiar tongue uncommon for the understanding of the Rajah; chants that seemed to sew together spells in the air, tying vapors that appeared out of nowhere, and shifting shadows as if someone or thing was shape-shifting amongst them, ghosts perhaps, therefore, thought the Rajah: what is my future, but says nothing.

The Sorcerer seeing the uneasiness, the impatience of the Rajah, said in a smooth, slow, and calming voice:
“Three diamonds, two rubies, and one large gold coin, which will do for my payment.”
The Rajah looked strange upon the Sorcerer, for he had asked exactly what was in his pockets, and so without any a due, he pulled out the items and handed them to the seer, fascinated that he knew exactly, perfectly the correct amount and items, for he had told no body, nor given any clues to his servants on what he had in those deep pockets of his.
Moreover, both remained seated, facing one another, as they had continued in a silent manner for several minutes, watching and listening, meditating the Rajah in particular, observed a shape-shifting ghost as it fled from one corner of the chamber to another, and onto another, as it went in circles, thinking: why did this warlock bring a ghoul with him? Looking images came and left, looking images that looked out at him, and then reburied themselves within themselves.
Of the other images, he saw people being killed, city walls falling, wars going on—all such images were coming out of the vapor the ghost had seemed to produce as it went in its so called circle, producing imagery upon descriptions of future time.
But the Rajah did not manage to decipher these images, and again said nothing as if he were bored and waiting for a translator. But this was his future, had he looked hard enough.
“The shapes you’ve seen are locations within the sub-continent of India who have come and gone and to be;” said the Sorcerer with a tangy tone to his voice, waiting for the Rajah to say something. Then suddenly (again) a vapor appeared, and molded into a thulium-shadow, with forms that were—seemingly—trying to grab at the Rajah, with a shadow of a knife; it was appeased when the young Rajah leaned back into his chair, as if he was no threat. At this moment, the prince gave the seer his grievances and demanded he focus on him and his future, his empire to be. Yet the images kept coming in the form (now) of animals—attacking.
Now the sorcerer stood up, presented his petition: that should he let the Rajah live he would do a big injustice for the city, his step-father, the Sultan, of whom was to become ill, and the throne given to him, for the Sorcerer had seen this within the empires that had come and gone within the vapor-shadows the Rajah did not want to acknowledge. They were his doings, the wars to be, the turmoil in the city. Hence, the Sorcerer pulled out a knife from his tunic, unexpectedly, and he stabbed the Rajah to death; at that very moment the old Sultan had walked through the door and said, “Job well done,” and paid him a handsome sum.

And you could see instantly, the absolutely rigid body, of the Rajah, he died absolutely stiff, as if he was dead already, had been dead, as if he had died over night, laying on the floor, his legs drew up. The young Rajah, should never had known what was to be, had he not requested the Sorcerer, for the old Sultan, learned as well his legacy, should he pass it on to his son, he was watching from an unnoticeable distance, in the darkest place of the chamber,



Written Oct/Nov., 2004; Edited 7/2008, the author spent some time in Jaipur in 1997.

This story was original written for the Mango Tree Press, a literature magazine of out India, that gave the author some insight on how the story should proceed, but the magazine folded up, in the last months of 2004, this story being written, and unedited, and lost all in, October, of 2004, and dedicated to its editor at the time, it was lost since then, and found 7-28-2008. It now has been edited, and what was going to be put into the short story can no longer be substantiated, and therefore you get the story raw, and as it was before the editor responded to the author.

Eyes Out of the Woodlands ((A Short Story out of Northern Minnesota)(reedited 7-2008))

((October's Story of the Month, Sunday, 01 October 2006/Last Updated Tuesday, 30 January 2007) (reedited 7/2008))
By Dennis Siluk


[1959] He hid in the woods, watching his father and sister, what they were doing. So we heard that, that was—the rumor. Most of us felt, and all of us gossiped, that he was up to no good. Here he lived an estranged life, hidden in the thick of the deep, like a recluse.
At times it was said, you could smell his cooking of venison, or spot him driving his dilapidated 1952-pickup into town. His one room shack remained on the fourteen-hundred acres his father owned, and there he lived quietly, out of sight and out of the minds of the people in town, except for the intermit conversations, and gossip.
His sister, Victoria, remained with her father year after year, her father selling lumber to the highest bidder. He had some tourist cabins also, down by the lake for the fish folks that came up from the big city year-round, here in northern Minnesota.
Why Ambrose was the opposite of his sister no one knew. We did know though, he wanted to sell his one third of the acreage, or perhaps it was one half of his father’s land we are talking about, and only god knows what he wanted to do with the money. But the old man said ‘No!’ harshly, said ‘No!’ after he had left, once and for all.
Nine years had passed, had gone by, for nine years he had deserted his wife and kid, and went on back to that shack to wait for his father to die, and leave him the land, his share.
His sister still there, still living with her father, and the old man, he remained unforgiving, during this time, unpardonable to Ambrose—he never could, nor would forgave his son, who took a wife, had two grandkids and took them, and left them someplace, a place he’d never get to see them. But the old man just left well enough alone, and Virginia remained single.

We all said, Vera would marry after the old man died, then Ambrose would come out of the woods from his self imposed hibernation, and claim what he felt was his.
Well, nobody really knows what the other person is thinking, that’s for sure, yet we guessed at it a lot, and maybe a few of us in town did know; as they say, ‘pride comes before destruction,’ and we all could see it coming.
Vera was gentle, soft spoken, always thinking, or so she gave the impression, perchance five-foot two inches, short, and cute. She was forty-years old now, so the cuteness was leaving her somewhat, and the old man was sixty-seven, and like Ambrose, the older of the two, by two years, was moody and high spirited like his father stubborn.
“Why don’t you get married?” the old man said one day to Virginia. What ruffled his feathers I don’t know, but Vera became dumfounded. (This of course is speculation and what we put together).
“If you’re waiting for my wooded lands, you’ve got a long wait,” we all heard him mumble that as he walked out of the grocery store in town one Saturday afternoon with his daughter, and put the groceries in his new truck, 1959 (Ford I think), and headed out of town to his huge log cabin, more like a lodge (yes, a lodge you could call it), in the woods, with six-bedrooms, and five bathrooms. She did say something sitting in that front seat, I heard her, before they took off: “I have no time for a husband, taking care of you, the bookkeeping, cleaning the house; I’ve earned my share when you pass on.”
The old man didn’t say a word, he perhaps knew she’d leave; as a consequence, the shape of things would drastically change then, then what [?] That was conceivably the last he ever said on the matter to her for a spell, and she remained living her old life, her old self at the house, a mild cool mannered life, sedate, and watchful as if with long-sided cat-eyes.

I suppose if there was any respect between Ambrose and Mr. Beck, it was in that Ambrose left the old man alone; respect, or regard for the other, can and did come in that direction.
The old man must have been thinking (so we thought), Ambrose was brave enough to confront his greedy-design, whereas, Vera was willing to subdue hers, and just wait it out. Yes indeed, it was that way, and whatever was on Vera’s mind, she was not spelling it out, nor was she spending any of her own money her mother had left her; as for Ambrose, whom gambled his mother’s inheritance away long ago, had none to worry about, and we all knew that.
Then I thought, as many of us did, the old man would kick her out some day not that he wanted to, but his temper, his nature, would put her in harms way, and he’d have no choice. And that is exactly what happened, and what took place was this: the old baldheaded, bulldog of a man, Mr. Beck short and stocky, broad shoulders, big hands, solid by all means, robust in the chest, and hairy— more often than not, suggestive looking, and seldom with a smile, similar—we often thought—to a prizefighter you might say, one day opened the door and shoved her down the few steps there were on the porch, saying:
“Spend my money if you can when I’m dead!”
And she left the house, his house, just like that, so uncomplicated and nippy it all seemed at the time to us. She even kept her regular reserved composure, and mild manner, which, strange to say, but true, she was crying, we didn’t think less of her for those tears, but it didn’t quite fit. That is to say, she had never cried before, in fact I always saw her as a pillar of strength. Much in control of herself, her emotions: therefore, if she was anything, she was a much deeper fish than her brother, and perhaps equal in shrewdness to her father: I don’t know, but I’d say, a dangerous combination.

During the following years, a few years that is, two years to be exact, rarely did anybody stop to see the old man, he paid his taxes as usual; hired some help with the land, and boats he rented to visitors, and cabins he rented to the same folks: Vera now lived with her aunt and uncle about five-miles down the road. And Ambrose, well, he still lived in the woods, checking on what his father was doing now and then, perhaps more on the now, than, the then; in-between, going back to his shack (more on the order of a shanty), drinking a pint or more of that so called corn whisky he made— nightly, or getting it from someone else who made the stuff, if he was too drunk to make another batch, in any case, he had it, we all knew it, and some of us even bought a few pints from him.
From time to time (intermittently that is), the old man walked into the woods near the shack, but not too near, a glance towards it, and perchance he saw Ambrose—most likely he did, perhaps not a few of us said, but I doubt it: he’d then go kill a few animals to eat, squirrels and rabbits, small game, and paid it no more attention that that.
Then as Ambrose one day went to see what his father was up to, perhaps a coincidence, perchance by some kind of something he felt was wrong, sensed was flawed, intuition let’s call it, he went right to his father’s dwelling in the woods, in front of the road that is, he saw what appeared to be his father lying stone-still, dead on the ground, idle, as if deceased: he knew he was dead, yes of course he did, he was near the steps of the porch, it looked as if he could have fallen, must had fallen, perhaps heart failure, what went through his mind we do not know for sure, but he stood there, as if frozen in time, for a moment, next, he noticed there was Aunt Betty’s 1960-ford, it took off quickly by the fence, which was by the side of the road, some woman was driving it, and it wasn’t Aunt Betty, unless she got her haircut short recently, and she hadn’t.

The county health officer showed up, and reported to the officials it was death by accident, not heart failure in particular. He had tripped on a loose step attached to the porch; he, the officer, even fixed it while waiting for the sheriff. The sheriff talked to Ambrose at that time, and then they ended up burying old man Beck by the shack; it was where Ambrose wished it to be, and Vera didn’t care one way or the other. Vera showed up at the funeral, Ambrose did not, he kept his distance, an unapproachable distance. Victoria moved into the house shortly after, and left the door unlocked for her brother Ambrose, but he never again walked through those doors, that Victoria often stood under its arch, where she frequently looked from into the nearby woods as if Ambrose would show up, she stood in that doorway until she died of old age waiting, looking, and he never did.

Bones for Crutches (Poetic Prose)

Last night I had a dream, and I said to it this morning, “Where did you come from?...” In that dream there was a toilet, and a long yellowish fat snake, the nature of it went unexplained, I flushed it down, a demon was someplace chewing gum, watching the final aspect of the dream wove with arms together. He wants me to be like Judas, sell out Christ, you see, there punishment is over, the shame and disgrace of it anyway, now they just walk about with no blood in the face, and their grace is all used up! But as for me, they want to drop me off a high building to see, if I break like glass. Man waits for judgments, demons, those prehistoric monsters, held together by dreams and twigs, and legends, and nightmares, live in their own backyard or try to possess another’s, their necks made of iron poles, swollen limbs, heavy teeth, dead weight. They know ugliness, their ugliness is a matter of custom, get use to it they say, and in time it will qualify as fine art. I’m not sure why Judas betrayed Jesus, or why the demons chose Satan, to God, other than dishonesty is forbidden in heaven; and it can’t be overlooked or forgotten, Christ didn’t die for them. So as far as Christ goes, they are in a world of lost connections, I know they keep saying “Listen! Listen!” and so much more, and humans listen, not Christ, he gives them no time—he knows they’re not worth it, so guess what, they come to us, in dreams, chewing gum situations, with thin veins and fork necks, and bare shoulders, and odd looking toes, red hooked noses, bleeding for attention, the person who keeps dropping off to sleep, hour after hour they can play games in his head, and they do just that, then he awakes, says like me, “Where did you come from?” It’s even dangerous in saying what I am saying, you spark the rooftop of their head, open doors, I think that is what Judas did; nothing more dangerous than your head in their hands, you’ll come out on crutches, those made from your own bones. There is no translating a demon’s dream, or nightmare, they are beggars chasing mice on rooftops for attention, the more you give them, the more valuable you become to them.

No: 2416 7-23-2008 (poetic prose)

The Tale of the Jumping Serpents of Bosnia ((Revised 7/2008 and extened)(the book))


Intro


Along the coast of the Adriatic Sea lives what now is called the “poskok,’ better known as the ‘Jumping Serpent’. These creatures are some five-feet long and to my understanding can jump some three feet in the air and leap some five-feet in any direction they wish, simply by aiming at whatever, wherever. But this didn’t happen by chance, this really and truly happened by necessity. And this is the tale you are about to hear, the ‘why,’ of it, how it came about. And to be quite honest, you will be the first to hear of it.

The poskok has a macabre-hissing tone to its dynamic language, a hissing that bellows out fear, and out of fear and inborn aggressiveness, its impulses create a neurological reaction that makes it leap and jump. Again, the why of this will come out in the tale! But it is always prudent to know the background of things, and so I am equipped to share it with you. In addition to its poisonous bite, it has quite the temper, and at times it can look no different than a log or branch by a tree, or alongside a lane or road, or within a dense forest laying next to rocks and decaying wood. And let us add to its natural abode in this narrative background: it prefers—if given a choice, the natural background of trunks of trees—to live amongst.

Of Olden Times
(Advance to the story)


It was during a time when noble monarchs ruled Bosnia (and the lands surrounding, know as: Herzegovina, Croatia and Serbia)—during what was known as Medieval Bosnia (958-1463) this story takes place; a time when cold snowy winters plagued this mountainous land with bluish-purple, violent crosswinds coming from the Adriatic by way of the Mediterranean Sea, when the lands had hellish terrain for its people to crossover, such as the Dinaric Alps, and the beautiful Drina River, which flows endlessly through villages and towns, in Eastern Bosnia, surrounded by hills and mountains, and the Neretva River, which flows in the south into the Adriatic: here the Dinarides provide shelter to the old ruins of fortresses that dot this mountainous landscape, at this point is where our story begins, and ends.

Some folks have said, the old Man, Mr. Goose, came down from Mount Zlatibor, after visiting a village area known as Sirogojno, perhaps he was doing business in that area before he came to King Mon’s Kingdom, no one knows for sure, but here he was a stranger surrounded by the Dinaric Alps, and the woodlands in Eastern Bosnia, where he traveled, which was heavily forested along the river Drina; on this journey, we know he passed through Gorazed (a kind of trading settlement), the folks of that village saw him, said he seemed shackled on some idea, paid them little attention, “Keep away from us,” the country folks yelped outside of the town, others asked, “What you aiming to do around here?” it was as if this old ugly man knew something they didn’t know. They say, blackbirds followed him, stretched out their wings, and swung, stooped and shuttered as he walked by, swaggering in the Bosnian sun. Then he ended up all the way down to the Adriatic Sea to the south, to the old city of Dubrovnik (7th Century), in-between all this was a kingdom which ruled by the old Feudalism system, known as King Mon’s realm. It would seem the old man was surveying, checking the lands from the mountains to the rivers all the way to the Sea, to see the scope of his task, a task he had yet to commit himself to, but one he was seriously thinking about.


And now come and join me for my tale of tales, and think naught that there isn’t a feather of truth in this tale, for it would be ill-advised to think otherwise…:


The Tale…


Once upon a time, several hundred years ago, or thereabouts, there were a multitude of snakes along the coast of the Adriatic Sea, and within the mountainous area thereof, in a land now called Bosnia. They grew the length of the men of those far-off days, in that far-off land. These snakes ((Poskok) (Vipera ammodytes)) were a reddish-brown in color and for the most part, quite clever; that is to say, a brainy kind of breed of a snake, with sharp fangs, which were quite poisonous; these snakes also being rather aggressive for the most part.
Along with living in the trunks of trees, in lack of a better home, and accommodations, and liking the sun, these snakes slept on the side of the roads to a high extent, where often times they chummed with one another—(figuratively speaking that is); looking like dried up old branches, logs and so forth— especially in the fall season (autumn)—laying over one another like little lions. But as winter came around, back into the trunks and holes of trees they’d find themselves. And when they’d see a passerby, especially during the long hot summers, they’d play possum [dead], and when a female—in particular, would be carrying water to the nearby village or to her country residence, and if they’d walk by them, they’d twist their bodies slowly and positioning themselves just right—after that, quicker than you could say ‘help’ they’d have their fangs, in one’s leg. And the water being fresh would feed, and quench, their thirst. It should be noted, because of their aggressive temperament, even on the best of days—the best of their days, it would be hard for them not to do their dirty deeds; they seemed to be simply born with an aggressive nature (character or personality).

—Well, this went on for the longest of times—or so it seemed, and one day, during one sunlight hour, after hearing—year after year people’s complaints and protests, the King, King Mon of the region announced that whoever could rid the region of these nasty and evil serpents, he’d reward them by allowing them to marry his beautiful and youthful daughter. Ah yes, it was indeed a luring reward, and all within the kingdom’s province, wished they had such courage, if not skill, or perhaps even a spell to subdue these creatures with—to do this task, to receive this reward. But none came forward.

Fine, all is fare in love and war, so they say, thus, Mr. Goose, an old man from Croatia, whom I’ve introduced you to a while ago [eighty-two years old at this time in the story], went to the little mountainous kingdom and spoke with King Mon about his reward to be, should he clear the land of these creepy-crawling type creatures that infested every nook, tree and, oh well, let’s just say, the whole landscape, would he be allowed to take—without question, his daughter, the princess in marriage?
Said the King, with a skeptical eye,
“It would take an army I fear to wipe these hills and mountains and the coastline of these aggressive, antagonistic evil doers that have taken, killed, eaten, over a thousand-lives, a thousand lives I say, from my kingdom, my kingdom’s past of which it has been some forty-years, to now; yes, yes without a doubt, how can one man expect to do this, it is beyond me? (Plus the old king didn’t like his integrity being put in question, which the old man implied might be less than what he proclaimed.”
In a way, it would seem the king was giving up, had a loss of hope, despair, but he nonetheless, kept the reward posted throughout his kingdom, and assured his word was as good as gold, he was a king, but also a man of honor, what he said he meant, did, without question; he had integrity, and he implied he, along with his integrity should not be questioned on this matter to Mr. Goose.

Said the old man (to the king), an old man who had an odd looking hunchback and legs that looked more animalistic than human with mammalian hairs sticking out all over the place, meaning, in all the openings of his pants, where threads were loose and dangling, likewise his shirt, which had holes in it, and on his face and arms; also inside his ears looked like a bird’s nest with all its hair, and his nose had hair sticking out of it, like thin short spaghetti; in addition, he had a wide mouth, that went almost from one ear to the other; a long pointed skull (tapering towards the back), and that is to say, a very long slant it had to it, with a brow that receded back to his prickly looking hair; and quite thin it was also, and a smirk on his face, that showed he had secrets, secrets beyond our imagination perhaps, and a thin, slim, small mustache, which blended into the rest of his hairy face, and a thin bone structure, big eyes and feet, everything patchy and hairy; his fingers and toes, they were as if claws from a hawk. He also had small ears and short legs for his torso, which was longer; in a way, everything above his shoulders looked similar to a goat almost, in human form. Plus his skin was thick like rawhide, he said (Ah! but said it keenly and sharply to the King :)
“I will take your daughter for my reward, as you promised afterward, should I accomplish the mission of course, but if you want to know how I shall do this feat, it will cost you your kingdom.”

His receptors protected him from the toxic venoms of the snakes, embodied into his nervous system. Also, it should be added here, his agility and cunning, allowed him to capture snakes with little effort, and he was in his own way, witty and intelligent.

[How insolent thought the king] With a stiff upper lip, and eyebrow reaching into the air, the short and old stubby king, with his curly locks of golden hair dangling over his ears, and long golden beard, stood up in front of the beggar type looking man, who had a deep-set of eyes, big, yes big and confident eyes, that had a small and thin bridge separating them from what was called his nose but looked more like a reptilian type snout with simply two air holes—poked into his upper face, with only a small arch and slits to inhale though.
Said he, the King, said he with scorn on his cheekbones, stiff bones, perturbing bones—even through his fat:
“So be it, you will have my daughter, not my kingdom, should you achieve this task, this mission, and should you not, I advise you, you old coot, to be gone from these hills—far gone, for I will surely have you stripped and beaten to your last gulp of air, should you not accomplish this, simply for your absurd audacity to think so highly of yourself in front of me, and question my intention if not integrity.”
Ah yes, the king was feeling his oats indeed, sharp was his words, and weighty was his heart.

—There was no more to be said, the old man now had turned around and with his shifty looking dark eyes, ebony-eyes that resembled a rat’s intensity, he walked out and through the door, as strangely as he had walked in, almost silently, not looking any which way but straight.
Upon the door opening up, and the king still sitting at his grand throne, two soldiers came in with a huge eight-foot (poskok) snake to show the king their good deed, their catch of the day. They had its mouth tied shut with a rope, and carried it on a long heavy rounded polo. It must have weighed two-hundred pounds or more. As the two soldiers walked past the old man, the king started to stand up to get a good look at the snake, a closer look, a more deliberate kind of look—in the process, the serpent got a look at the old man’s eyes—it was the hiss from his mouth (the old man’s mouth), yes the mouth most certainly, like thunder erupting it was, or possibly like the sound from a volcano, the snake started hissing back, and struggling wildly, its back, head, mouth and through the whole length of the snake, all stiffened—a firm kind of restlessness engulfed the serpent; the closer the old man got to the snake, the more it hissed, stiffened and jumped as if out of some kind of uncontrollable neurological reaction—involuntary reaction.
As the old man now walked next to the snake, almost eye to eye, and shoulder to shoulder, although the snake did not have shoulders, but it did have sides, it, the poskok, seemed as if it was about to fly off that pole out of pure fright, right out of the two soldier’s mitts, trying to get free, trying to escape the old man’s presence. Matter of fact, the viper was so frantic, frenzied, and hysterical, that the snake even started to eat the rope it was bound and tied securely with.
When the soldiers witnessed this, they dropped the pole, along with the bound snake onto the marble floor within the King’s throne room, as the King looked on, on towards the snake and the old man with one glance, a glance he had given the snake, and just one little glance towards the old man, he, the King noticed the fleeting look from the old man had frightened the snake, it was him indeed, thought the king, hence, he knew this man was extraordinary, and although he wanted to, he hesitated in mind and soul to stop this potential marriage right then and now, but he had no other recourses left, the old man was it—who else was there, should he not make the deal, in consequence, there’d be no kingdom to rule in time. And the princess need only wait, time would do the old man in, and she’d be free to remarry again.
As soon as the old man was out of the throne room, out beyond its door: out of sight, the snake regained its weakened composure back to its former self-controlled, pose—it had prior to seeing this old and deformed gentleman of sorts; tranquility, or call it peace, whatever, calm was restored.
For that reason, and beyond, that is, for five-years to follow, the deal was sealed; and now the old man would walk slowly up and down the paths, lanes, roads of the valley and mountains kingdom—to and fro daily; looking in every tree trunk and nook, walking the coast of the Adriatic, and combing miles and miles of forest land, areas within the vicinity of the King’s domain, wiping out all the snakes that he could find: he ate them, like an animal eating flesh, ripped them apart like a rat to a hen. It had come to a point, as it was said, that the area had over 10,000 snakes at one time, at this juncture, that number was being dwindled down quickly, so far down, there was only ten snakes in the whole area left.

Yes, oh yes, indeed, there were only ten snakes left, almost poskok-genocide had taken place in and around this little kingdom, and these ten got together, and by way of necessity (inevitable one might say), started learning how to jump, and leap. They’d gathered by the waters, the lakes, the rivers, wherever they could and watched the frogs as they moved about, leaped, hurled, dived, then even watched the toads jump, lunge, and drop, all and any creature that skipped, hoped or jumped, they examined, watched closely, then by instinct, and need for continued existence, within a years time had learned how to leap some three feet in the air, and some five to seven feet in any direction—straight forward that is. As a result it was their way of escape from this snake-eating human animal of sorts: the old man.
Along with this new acquired skill, and with the new younger generation being born, the elders tried to explain to them the value of learning, the jumps, and leaps, and the sounds they make in the fall leaves, and when spring came they got excited to play, but they learned as long as the old man was alive, it was not safe, no matter what. And even in the winter they needed to be shrewd and conscientious where they went, the reason being, they’d leave a trail in the snow, they were told, and this was not wise, the old man would follow it. In essence, they needed to be shrewder than the old man, if they wanted to survive.
The elder snakes even reinforced the fact the new younger snakes needed to be wicked to the point not to let neither their minds or bodies decay in the winter, so they were swift in spring and summer, and light on their bellies; by and by, they absorbed all such learning’s.

—Four years had now gone by, and the old man was at this time eighty-six years old. His heart was tired, failing, and he wanted more than anything to leave a legacy behind—, but had one more year to keep the land free of these evil serpents, should he fail, he’d lose the beautiful bright-eyed young princess: and in his mind, this could not be tolerated, as the old expression goes, he’d lose ‘the goat and the rope,’ so careful he needed to be, astute, perceptive he needed to be, but this time with the king more so than the snakes.
At this, the old man found those ten snakes, all in different locations (not knowing of course they had offspring hidden away): some in trees, others alongside of the road playing dead, and others by the great waters of the sea, he’d go to grab them, and before he could touch them, they’d jump, leap right through his hands, right out of his fingers. Because of this, you could see on the old man’s, a flavor of worried triumph.

Several leaps and the serpents were gone, out of sight. Well, this bothered the old man to extremes, but he knew if he kept the snakes hidden, and busy, he’d still get his reward, or could if he was deceptive enough, a little bit perhaps misleading. And consequently, play, as if nothing had happened—he’d continue to take part in this—what he called— competition, or diversion, and the king would be none the wiser; the end result, being, the old man kept walking the mountain paths—as all the villagers saw him do, day after day after day—and word got back to the king all the roads were clean and clear of snakes.
Yet, in checking out the trees, and road sides, he occasionally found a snake or two, but it again would leap out of his presence to safety (and again I say, no one had seen snakes for a long time now, no one that is but the old man, so the king was not any the wiser to his charade). And slowly but surely the old man saw the number of snakes started to increase, but they were simply baby snakes, and the mothers kept them hidden from him for the most part, and he wanted to keep it that way, until after he received his reward that is; for he knew himself, his reflexes were not as they were a few years ago, and each year lacking more and more in the impulse reaction area; anyhow, slow they were, and with the leaping, it was impossible to catch them now; yet again, I must stress, in fear they’d become extinct all over again, they hid when they could, and jumped when they had to, or leaped to safety or some hidden area, should they become aware the old man was around.
And so again, I repeat, no one had seen them, and the snakes knew the old man was aging, and would not live forever, in consequence, if only they could out last him, out wait him—in many cases this is the only way to deal with such a menace as the old man, so the snakes concluded, and so they would out wait him. And in between now and his death, they hissed with laughter on finding a way to out smart the Old man. But as the old saying goes and the snakes did not know this saying, ‘He who laughs last, laughs longest.’


And now, the fifth-year had come and passed, the old man, had completed his task, his mission—and so, the old man went to the king to claim his reward. There in the throne room, he, Mr. Goose, stood in front of the king, telling him of his endeavors.
For the first time the princess burned with curiosity, eager to hear what the old man had to say. She leaned forward so she could see through a crack in the curtains in the throne room. At first her thoughts were thin at best, then thinking he could have accomplished the mission, she listened even closer, more attentive, her eyes closed upon hearing he did, and as the old man stared at the moving curtains, he mumbled:
“And for the love making, let’s hurry on with the wedding.”
He, Mr. Goose, was by no means, couth about the matter, rather quite blunt.
The King looking quite dreadful at his parting of his daughter gave her to the old man nonetheless— called her over from behind the curtains to meet Mr. Goose, with not much to say, and thereafter, brought forth a great celebration.
The lovely twenty-year old princess was adorned with all kinds of flowers, and jewels and riches beyond imagination. And the party went on and on all night.
Surprisingly, during this time the king noticed that he, the old man had only eyes for the princess, his daughter, not the riches she possessed. Somehow that seemed to dignify the whole matter much more, in an ugly kind of way, that is. As the bride danced with the groom, all the young bucks looked on with disgust and envy, perhaps a little more envy than disgust. The princess although in dismay, said nothing, not a word to disgrace her father’s will, like a good daughter, she kissed her husband and bid good evening to the guests, as they went into their room to consummate the marriage.

It was early evening and the moon that had been hidden behind clouds, emerged with a warm wind blowing through the castle bedroom window, and the old man now was about to seek his pleasures. There was the sound of music in the bedroom, blown under the bedroom doorway; it gently branched out, throughout the room—black shadows, raced to and fro, from corner to corner in the bedroom.
Heretofore, the love-making had tired the old man to where he was dosing off and on, starting to even snore, his arms underneath the back of his head, lying on his back, eyes closed, save, a little look at his new youthful, and beautiful bride, and wife, off and on, and more off than on as the night went on.
As the extraordinary evening went forward, the old man fell to sleep, and in the morn, the princess tried to wake her new husband up for breakfast, only to find him, lifeless, dead, deceased. She was mortified, and yet relieved, she called quickly to her father, and he called for doctor and the guards. Word had gotten out quickly that the princess’ husband had heart-failure, and she would be in mourning. But the serpents in the area were refreshed by the news, and came out bravely, back onto the pathways, and around the trees and coastal areas with their young ones, almost as if to have a fiesta.
The king now seeing this new resurrection of the snakes didn’t know what to do, but it was not half as bad as it was five-years past, and figured he’d look for another man of same qualities, and tried to find the Goose family to no avail. Then, finding out his daughter was pregnant, he got thinking, possibly, just probably, whatever the qualities the old man had inside his genes, they might be in his blood line, thus, in his grandson to be [hoping it would be a boy].
“Awe,” he said with glowing and ghastly eyes, “sure,” he said to his daughter, “should she give birth to a son, he will be the tempest for the snakes.” (The king thinking, ‘all is fair in love and war.’)

And so the king and his kingdom all waited for the birth of the child.

—And then it happened, the ninth-month, third day, in the early morn, the sun had just risen: all waited outside the doorway to hear the baby’s cry, but there was no cry, yet a baby was born; with a loud hiss!
As the doctor looked at the child, he was flabbergasted; the child was horrifying to look at; hence, in all regards, in all the days of the doctor’s life, he had never seen such a hideous looking child; deformed, long thin hanging nose, bug-eyed creature; he was simply stunned at its appearance he just shook his head, nodded his chin back and forth as if to grab onto some sanity: it looked like a ferret, yet it had human form to it. It seemed the lobes of the child’s brain extended outward, that is to say, pushed the skull like rubber to form an impression on the surface of his head, which had no hair. His eyes took up, one third of his face.
At this point, the doctor remembered what the old man had looked like: comparing child to father—or perhaps using some imagination, comparing child to when the father was a child or might had been a child, or perhaps what he didn’t see of the father he imagined, and as a result, made his own comparisons; and now thinking of the king, he pondered on what to do, for the king and the kingdom.
He didn’t show the child to anyone, not a soul (although he told the king), and ordered all to stay away, that it had the plague; and needed to get the child out of the castle before an epidemic occurred; the king concurring, like-minded with everything he said. And during the late night took the child out of the kingdom, telling all concerned, the child could be contagious (which it did not have of course any such disease), should it touch anyone, it would only kill them only to look at it—figuratively speaking again. But who could understand such ugliness, and perhaps the princess would have wanted to keep it. And so the doctor left the castle.
Soft were the dark shadows as he walked down the lane, into the forest, into the tall grass, stealthily past barns and houses, farms, and roads.
He, the doctor who cared now for the child, called the child ‘Mon-goose’, taking the king’s name and the father’s. And left it in the woods—neither one, ever to return to the castle; hence, the Mongoose was named and born.

In time the old snakes had died out, all but one, and the young snakes had now forgotten those trying years with the snake eater, the grim sights of him searching and stalking their parents. All this had been forgotten, until one day, one of the snakes, that elder snake, I just mentioned, perhaps the only one left of the bygone generation that lived through those trying days of Mr. Goose, saw a man, he looked like the old man Mr. Goose, as he resembled him, but he was much youthful, and the old snake said out loud (and other snakes nearby heard him, while stiffening his body in horror),
“The snake eater is back!” or so he said, and all the other snakes wondered, questioned him, if he really saw what he thought he saw, and the old snake just prayed it was an illusion. And said not another word, if anything, he was hoping it was an automatic reaction, perhaps to post traumatic stress.


End of the Tale