Artemus Ch. 1

Her name was Holly. She was as wild and free as the tough red flowers that flourished in the woods. But like the flower, she became bitter when plucked from her home and chewed. And that was precisely what happened on that chilly autumn evening.

David and I had gone out to the woods for sword practice, as we often did in the evenings. I was still not entirely confident about my fighting skills and preferred to practice in privacy, where the other knights couldn't mock me.

"Don't put your foot there," David instructed, demonstrating its consequences as he thrust the point of the foil, the blunt practice weapon we used, into my chest and made me loose my footing, "See? You lost your balance." I rubbed my bruised chest, wondering how many hits he'd made just in the last hour. A hundred? Two hundred? This was hopeless. I was a scholar, not a fighter. Not a knight. I'd never make it.

I straightened and returned to en garde position to start again, not out of willingness or determination, but because I didn't have the option not to. It was too late to turn back now. I'd taken the invitation to the palace, and lost the chance to return to my old life forever. As much as I regretted to admit the fact, there was only one path for me now: to become a true knight.

I wondered if I'd ever learn. I usually learned things easily, but the way I learned involved stacks of yellow-leaved books, and did not involve thwacks and hits with a long thin pointy metal thing.

Distracted by my rambling thoughts, I sloppily lunged to attack, but David parried the blow by bringing the thick end of his foil to the thin end of mine, pushing the blade away. Undefended, I couldn't block his quick attack, and he jabbed the blunt tip of his weapon into my ribs.

 I'd learned quite a lot since moving to the castle, the most prominent being: blunt does not mean soft, all those mythical dragons I'd read the legends of were very, painfully real, and to never ever under any condition allow Sir Quellin access to rotten tomatoes. I learned all of that the hard way. Unfortunately, none of what I'd learned so far had enabled me to win a fight against David.

I wiped my brow with the back of my hand, glancing up at the darkening sky. The already chilly air was quickly cooling. I was grateful David when decided, "It's getting late. We should head back." I just nodded, too tired to speak. David grinned and caught my hand. Shaking it good-naturedly, he commented, "Good practice today, Bert."

The guys all called me Bert or Bertteis, a nickname inspired by the famous ancient Mondecen philsopher Rexon Bertteis . I didn't mind it. I'd always admired Rexon Bertteis. And anyway, I doubted any of them knew he had once beaten the famous ancient fighter Sir Drexel in a joust, which made me pretty okay with the nickname.

Just then, something caught my eye in a tree behind David, and I studied it, cocking my head.
"What?" David frowned and turned around to find what I was looking at, his alert grey eyes scouring the foliage of the woods.
"Tree," I muttered under my breath, low enough that only David could hear. Belting out "There's a person in that tree" didn't feel exactly like the thing to do, but I was unsure how to communicate this information to David otherwise. Fortunately, he understood.

In his bold captain-of-the-royal-guard voice, David declared, "In the name of the king, I order you to descend from the tree at once," and drew his practice weapon. The foil itself did not seem very threatening, but David had this way of doing things that made you forget he couldn't actually hurt you. And besides which, David could still do some pretty nasty damage even with a blunt foil.

The shape in the tree shifted, but did not respond or obey.
"In the name of the king, come down at once! Or I will have to force you!" David ordered, the swell of his elegantly accented but powerful voice filling the woods.
Again the dark shape moved, making the plump green leaves quiver, but did not come down.
In a quieter voice, David ordered, "Artemus, over there," and pointed to the tree trunk. Not knowing what he was doing, I obeyed without question.
David called up into the tree warningly, "I'll give you one last chance. Come down NOW."
We waited, but this time the shape didn't move at all. I looked up from the trunk, trying to get a better look at the person, but the sun had nearly slipped below the horizon, so all I could see was a dark mass hunched on a large middle branch.
"Very well," David said like he regretted it, and launched his weapon up into the tree. It traveled so fast it looked more like a streak of lighting than a thrown object. This was why David was the Captain.

A high shriek pierced the cold air, and the shape crashed messily through the branches of the tree toward the ground. Understanding then that I was meant to catch it, I rushed forward and threw my arms under the shape just barely in time. It was surprisingly light, though I almost slipped as the weight fell on me. That's when I realized it was a girl, around my age or perhaps a little younger. She'd been struck unconscious, and there was a nasty bruise swelling on her forehead. David's foil shot through the tree and came out on the other side, hissing as it sliced the air apart, then impaled itself in the ground behind the tree.
I wondered aloud, "Do you think she's a spy?"
David gave me a darkly confirming look, but only commanded, "Take her back to the palace quickly and see that she receives medical aid."
"Yes, sir."

I nodded a hesitant bow and stumbled toward the castle with the girl, as David went to retrieve his foil. I wondered vaguely as I ran whether David's mercy had more to do with his gentlemanliness or good sportsmanship. There was nothing that said that someone should be granted mercy just because they weren't yet condemned: people were guilty until proven innocent— especially people suspected of espionage. And espionage was generally punishable by death. Yet here was David ordering that the girl be taken to receive care.

I rushed her up multiple flights of stairs to the chambers of the royal physician, and after a little arguing with the stubborn old man, and repeating, "Those were my only orders, sir" multiple times, she was finally taken away by two palace nurses to be cared for.

That done, I went to find food.

What else would be the appropriate course of action after discovering a possible spy and breaking the most basic implied code of international relations than to get food?
So I headed down the southeast spiral staircase to join the other knights and knights-in-training in the Lesser Hall for dinner. As I was moving through the East Corridor, I passed a group of men arguing in low, earnest voices. Among them was David. None of them acknowledged me, so I figured I didn't need to bow, and kept on walking until I reached the Lesser Hall which was at the end of the corridor.
I found a spot near the middle of the third table to sit down.

"Evening, Art!" Max greeted with a cordial grin from across the table.
I nodded and returned, "Evening." Max was the only one who used my real name or at least something like it, which was Artemus.
"What took you so long?" demanded Landon with a mouth full of food, "We were getting ready to send out a search party." Dinner had only just started. However, I had a reputation for always being the first one through the doors. Tonight I was the last.
Trevor, sitting on my right, elbowed me in the ribs, and teased, "Find a nice girl did you?"
"What?" I was surprised. How had they found out about the girl already?
"Well when you hadn't shown up," Landon explained between bites, "we figured you'd either been killed or seduced—"
"About the same thing, really," Hentin muttered from my left.
"—because the only things that could keep a true man from his food are death and beautiful women."
I grimaced at Landon's and Trevor's unseemly guffawing.
"Don't mind them," Max said good-naturedly, "Anyway, what really kept you?"
I shrugged, helping myself to a generous portion of meat. "Practice ran late with David." Not entirely a lie.

 I wasn't sure what David was planning to do with the girl, but I figured it wasn't such a good idea to start blabbing the news of a potential spy to everyone.
"Oh yeah! How's that practice going?" Trevor asked, sneering, "Can you lift the sword yet?" Trevor and Landon laughed.
I shot Trevor a glare but decided the pork of my plate was worthier of my attention than Trevor at the moment. I could always punch him later. I couldn't always eat steaming roasted pork later.

"What's tomorrow?" Sylvester asked from a little further down the table, "Archery? Or horseback riding?" Sylvester asked that question every day. He was nice, and unbelievably strong, but he had the worst memory of anyone I'd ever met.
"Jousting," Max corrected, taking a big gulp of water, "And more sword practice."
Landon hit Max's arm with the back of his hand, and demanded, "Did you see Nicoli's new Escallbir 500 blade today? That thing is massive!"
Landon, Trevor, and Max fell into an eager discussion about the latest sword models, so I took the opportunity to scarf down my pork and head off to find David.

The East Corridor was empty by the time I'd left the Lesser Hall, so I decided to try the armory to see if he was there. He often hung out in the armory in the evenings, sharpening his blade himself, and refusing to let the servants do it for him.
One of the greatest things about moving to the castle was how much room I now had. After years of living in a tiny shack, squeezed together with seven siblings, the infinity of space in the palace was paradise. On the other hand, it got to be annoying at times because you could never find anybody when you needed them. I checked the armory, the stables, the kitchens, the library, David's chambers, and even the physician's chambers, but couldn't manage to find him. Exhausted, I finally headed to the West Tower, where all the knights resided, and crashed, determined to talk to David about the girl the next day.

Poem of the Day: The Great War Between Privilege and Truth

Different is not wrong.
Different is not wrong.
I must say it to myself again.
Different is not wrong.
I say it,
but do not feel it.
I wish I did.
I wish I understood.
I wish a lot of things
that never come to light.
Different is not wrong.
There is no north or south
in the universe, in space.
No top, bottom,
down or up.
There is no "upper class"—
not in the way they think of it, anyway.
"Upper-class" is just another word,
a noun.
A name used in place of a listing of people.
Not an adjective.
Different is not wrong.
Upper-class doesn't exist.
I am above no one.
Yet still, I do not feel it.
So I'll be saying it for all of eternity.
Different is not wrong.
Different is not wrong.

Challenge of the Day

Use this in a piece of writing: "The bruises and broken bones don't hurt anymore, but the thoughts do. Cuts and scrapes fade away, nothing more than a whisper, but the scars of our past are forever etched into our memories. A broken record playing over and over again."


The bruises and broken bones don't hurt anymore, but the thoughts do. Cuts and scrapes fade away, nothing more than a whisper, but the scars of our past are forever etched into our memories. A broken record playing over and over again. We are criminal.

We thought it would fade with time, this definition. This is the real punishment: the infinity of reputation. The infinity of memory.

But even if we had known, would we have done any different? Would knowing memory is inescapable make us change our minds about the acts which we were about to commit? Oh course not. The pain of memory is one so acute it can only truly be feared by one who has experienced it. We were naive. We knew nothing of time or space.

We thought we knew. But we were bound to the limits of the physical world. We had not enough experience yet to know that time and space is formed from a whole new material in the memory, one that cannot even be explained here, in this mortal universe.

So we sit here, behind these grayed bars, and think. It is all we can do.

And it is exhausting.

We are criminal. We were criminal before we knew that we were. And we will still be so at the end of time and space. No punishment has succeeded to, does, or will surpass memory. There is a curse on every blessing.

Challenge of the Day

Use this in an excerpt: "You just don't get it do you?" His eyes burned with fire as he came closer. "It's too dangerous—" his voice softened to a whisper as he reached out for me. "It's too late," I said. And ran.


For the first time in my life, my hands looked old.
"Dan, stop staring at your hands and get over here," Michael ordered.
The five of them were gathered in the kitchen around a scruffy little card table. I slid off the couch and squeezed in beside Susan and Lily, who straightened the my blue hair-bow in her motherly fashion.
Michael had his hands splayed out over the ragged papers covering the table. "Look at the map, Danielle, and tell me what you see."
"Lines. And dots."
"Danielle—" Michael warned.
"Relax, Mike, she just woke up from her nap," Lily commanded, placing a pacifying hand on my brother's arm.
I hadn't actually been sleeping, but I appreciated Lily's protection.
Michael exhaled and stared at me impatiently, but said nothing.
I tried harder. "A mountain? Uh. . . a river. . . towns. . . and— wait!"
"What is it?" Michael demanded.
The red misty ink that no one else could see blossomed suddenly on the map. It curled itself in an ominous coil around the little black star, then proceeded to slither around the mountain and weave through the small towns of the central valley.
"They're coming," I breathed.
Gregory and Micheal exchanged a look.
"Where are they now?" Michael questioned.
"Dixon."
Susan's hand flew to her mouth. She looked about ready to cry. But she always looked like that, these days.
"What do we do?" Peter asked Michael, his hand already sitting on the sword at his hip. Peter had his older brother Gregory's blue eyes and his older sister Lily's curly blonde hair, but the similarities stopped there. Peter had none of his sibling's rationality or tranquility. He was reckless, headstrong, and constantly itching for a fight.
Everyone looked to Michael, the leader of our underage refugee gang. Even though Gregory was already 17 and Michael wouldn't turn 17 for another month, my brother had inevitably assumed the position of leader. He was always leading things— president of his high school's student council, captain of his soccer team, and dictator of the house when Mom and Dad (private detectives) left on a case.
Michael said nothing for a long time, staring intently at the map, as though he could see what I could see, even though I knew he couldn't.
"We'll have to stay here, barricade the house. We covered our tracks pretty thoroughly once we got into town, plus Gregory and I can keep them busy for a while to throw them off. If we're lucky, we'll get a window of time to escape unnoticed, and let them waste their time sniffing around here."
"And if not?" Gregory wondered. Michael gave him that look and Gregory's gaze fell down on the maps.
* * * * *
Lily, Susan, and I worked on homemade grenades in the kitchen while the boys moved furniture to block the windows and doors. It was the first time in a while I hadn't been assigned some nasty task by myself. Michael had arranged an age hierarchy to designate tasks. Being the youngest, I always landed the worst jobs: taking out the trash, peeling the potatoes, and being used as bait in our trap to catch the mondrankons on our tail (that was no party).  I was glad for the company, and glad to be making makeshift bombs. But my hands hurt and I told them so.
"Let me see," said Lily, taking my hand in hers. She frowned in concern. "Danny, what happened?"
"I got cut," I told her, though it was perfectly obvious, "And burned."
"How?"
"Fighting the mondrankons yesterday."
"Has this happened before?"
I pressed my lips together and avoided her intent eyes.
"Danielle—"
"Yes. But it's never been this bad. That was the most I'd ever fought."
She squinted her eyes at me, thinking hard. "You did this to yourself, didn't you. Your own powers burned your hands."
I said nothing.
"You can't fight again," she decided firmly.
"What?" I cried, a thousand protests lining up at once, "But you can't—"
Lily was already gone. I hopped off my creaking chair and scampered after her into the living room old the abandoned house we had commandeered, where she was beginning to speak earnestly with Michael.
"Don't listen to her!" I cried, racing toward them, "I can fight!"
"She's not ready, Mike," Lily was insisting, "She can't control her own power, and it's hurting her. Look." Lily caught my hand gently but firmly, and showed it to Michael.
Michael took my hands and examined them. My tiny white hands that had always seemed so babyish to me, looked old now— reddened and scarred with burns, worse than any of the light burns I'd ever gotten before.
"You're not going out to fight again—"
"But—"
"And that's final. Gregory, can you take care of Dan?"
Gregory sat me down on the couch and looked over my hands while the others went back to work. Closing his eyes, he rested his hands very gently on my palms. The familiar blue light began to envelop my hands, and the cool, tingling sensation of healing spread through them. I watched as the bumpy red sores on my palms began to recede, then at last, fade away entirely. I thanked Gregory and he sent me back to the kitchen to work.
* * * * *
I sat moodily on the broken kitchen chair, pouting over the fact I had been forbidden to fight with the others. So what if my hands always started to burn when I used my powers? I didn't see why it mattered. We needed every fighter we could get. I'd rather have hurt hands and still be alive to run from the evil Master Drakus's minions (called mondrankons) one more day.
It wasn't fair.
We all had powers. Gregory could heal. Susan could disappear. Michael could bend water. Lily could create light between her bare palms. Peter could make it snow, make paper cranes fly, and talk to koalas (don't ask how we figured all that out— it's a long story). But I was the only one who could fight with my powers: I could exploded things, and make them burn. And this somehow related to being able to see a red mist representing danger on maps when nobody else could.
That was when I saw it.
"Danny, if you keep fighting and burning yourself, you'll only make things worse. It drains Gregory to heal, you know," Susan was pointing out in her soft-spoken way. Sometimes I wondered whether Susan's real power wasn't reading minds.
I didn't have time to comprehend Susan's words, because at that moment, my gaze had randomly settled on the big map on the table. Red was swirling around an unfortunate black dot.
I gasped.
"What is it?" Lily asked.
"They're here."
Lily dropped the bomb she was had just started constructing and ran to the living room, shouting, "They're here!", and total chaos broke loose.
Amidst the commotion of last minute preparations and scrambling for weapons,  I managed to weave my way to the front door, and opened it. I was going to fight, no matter what anyone said. I didn't need a sword, a bomb, or a gun. I was the weapon. They were all wrong. I was ready.
A strong hand caught my arm. It was Michael. I wrenched my arm free.
"You just don't get it do you?" His eyes burned with fire as he came closer. "It's too dangerous—" his voice softened to a whisper as he reached out for me.  "It's too late," I said. And ran.