Travis Chapman's Blog

“We are always falling in love or quarreling, looking for jobs or fearing to lose them, getting ill and recovering, following public affairs. If we let ourselves, we shall always be waiting for some distraction or other to end before we can really get down to our work. The only people who achieve much are those who want knowledge so badly that they seek it while the conditions are still unfavorable. Favorable conditions never come.” – C.S. Lewis

Read this from one of my favorite thought leaders, Cal Newport, as I’m struggling with overwhelm/overload across multiple fronts. It’s easy for me to want to punt as a means of resolving circumstances, but I also recognize, after a few decades of experience, that a change in circumstances rarely makes a lasting impact. Bloom where you’re planted, as we told many a midshipman.

https://www.redbull.com/us-en/videos/from-avoriaz-with-love-speedriding-valentin-delluc

For those who were having a hard week as well, a little pick-me-up. I feel better already!

There is in many parents a striving to control their children, and to make of them, if not precisely automata, yet beings as fully subordinate to the will of their procreator as the characters of a novelist are to their creator. On the other hand, there is in the human creator a parallel desire to create something that shall have as much free will as the offspring of procreation.

– Dorothy Sayers, The Mind of the Maker

Fantasy and The Sword of Truth Author Terry Goodkind Has Died

I've had this tab open in my browser to remember and think more on what I wanted to say. When the news of Terry's death came out, I was transported back more than 20 years to a critical season in my life and the memory of The Sword of Truth being a lifeline. I’ve had this tab open in my browser to remember and think more on what I wanted to say. When the news of Terry’s death came out, I was transported back more than 20 years to a critical season in my life and the memory of The Sword of Truth being a lifeline.

I grew up reading fantasy novels from my early junior high years, mostly the Dragonlance series by TSR and books in that orbit. I enjoyed my share of JRR Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, perennial favorites, but toward the end of highschool had gone into a fantasy/fantastical dry season. I was preparing for the next season of my life, college, and the pile of traditional books required by my English teacher to finish up my coursework. I was reading more about submarine life, the career field I was anticipating going into, and read many biographies and military-fiction books in preparation.

I started at the U.S. Naval Academy (USNA) in the summer of 1998 and finished up my basic training, known as Plebe Summer, by August. The pace of Plebe Summer is such that there is little time (or opportunities) for personal reading, only trying to keep up with the vast amount of professional knowledge (ProKnow) that our upperclassmen expected us to memorize. For a farm kid from Cochranton, PA, it was quite overwhelming.

As I entered the fall semester of my Plebe (freshman) year, I struggled. I was doing some of what I loved: playing in the Drum and Bugle Corps (D&B, Mello Life Forever!), learning naval history, building some of the early knowledge and skills that would serve me later in my Navy story. Yet, it was also extremely challenging. English, one of my favorite subjects throughout highschool, was the opposite: all my earlier “gold stars” meant little and I had to grow immediately after getting my first F’s and D’s. I was tired all the time (like all Plebes!) and just felt overwhelmed. My “fun” activities like D&B were time sinks that, while a lot of fun, were also tapping into my emotional power tank and draining it slowly. I had decided to continue reading submariner biographies as a leisure activity, but it wasn’t leisure at all; it was just an extension of the military lifestyle I was being inculcated into.

Within a month, I realized that what got me here won’t get me there, and I needed to do something different. My mental resiliency was too strained to be sustainable. I was walking through the on-campus Mid[shipman] Store, and I saw a rack of novels as I was looking for school supplies. I saw a dragon.

Somewhat on a whim, I picked up Terry’s first novel in The Sword of Truth series, Wizard’s First Rule. It had the great fantasy covers we grew to love in the 90’s. It was thick for a paperback. Since I was taking in a whopping $50/month of stipend, a $7 novel was a relatively big purchase, but I jumped on it. It fit in the front pocket on my soft-side blue and gold midshipman “briefcase” that I took to class, bulging just a bit, but whatever. I credit that book with changing the trajectory of my story.

I sure folks understand the difference between reading for pleasure versus for school. No matter how much I wanted to like Ivanhoe, it wasn’t the same when papers and analysis were included. Wizard’s First Rule was nothing like that. I made a commitment to take care of myself in small moments: whenever I had a free period between classes, I would set aside 10-15 minutes to read a few pages of Terry’s writing. I read before falling asleep at night after a marathon of calculus homework and essay writing. I grew to appreciate this as a midshipman (and much later as a faculty member) that there are plenty of places to sneak away, sit in a chair or couch next to some piece of naval history (cannons, battle flags, and marble all play a prominent role at USNA) and get a few chapters in.

I resonated with Richard Cypher (Rahl). I grew up running around the woods that surrounded our farm in Pennsylvania. Like most kids, I wished for the opportunity for an adventure popping up in front of me, pulling me into a world of danger and heroic deeds. To use John Eldridge’s words, I longed for “a battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to rescue.” Reading the story drew me into the world of D’Hara, into the struggles Kahlan and Richard faced, into an epic struggle bigger than any one person. Truly, Wizard’s First Rule was a portal and gateway to a wild, beautiful, and wonderful place that Midshipman 4th Class Chapman could escape to.

My 6 weeks grades were poor. Not a surprise for new freshmen who are learning how to do college. By 12 weeks and the end of the semester though, I was getting back on track. My spring semester was excellent. My resilience was building itself back up. I kept going with Stone of Tears and beyond, finishing the series well into my active duty Navy career.

Terry’s work wasn’t without controversy. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. I’ve matured in my reading and interests and such. I’ve tried to go back and reread but my attention has been drawn to different works these days. That’s life and how we are as people. Yet, I know for a fact that had I not picked up that novel in the fall of 1998, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Maybe things would have worked out as well, maybe just different, maybe much worse. No one is ever told what might have been. I know I was living in an unsustainable rhythm right at the very beginning of my college life, and I credit Terry with helping me break out of that rut and getting on a more sustainable path. For that, I’m thankful and privileged. I benefited from his creativity and diligence to produce excellent work. He’s an example and guide for authors like me!

(My sister Katie and I enjoying a day in Brugge whilst on holiday back in 2018. Holidays…)

Good morning friends! I’m feeling behind on sharing with everyone who follows “Author Travis,” who is being impacted by all the things “Other Travis’ ” are busy with. 2020 was both a year of challenge, like it certainly was for everyone, but also a year of overwhelm with a career shift in the midst of all of that. Sadly my writing was something laid on the altar of sacrifice for the time being.

In the meantime, two things I’m enjoying myself and want to share with you:

Steven Pressfield’s The Warrior Arch e type

This video series by legendary (I’ll use that word) author Steven Pressfield has been a great opportunity to noodle on a favorite subject: archetypes. I am a fan of The Virgin’s Promise and Iron John, both on the subject of archetypes, and think there are solid ties to how we frame the world around us, let alone structuring novels. Steve’s short videos (usually 5-7 minutes) are full of interesting thinking and a welcome relief in the week.

A Collection of Unmitigated Pedantry

Each week Bret posts thoughtful pieces that analyze popular culture representations of the ancient and medieval world through the lens of a historical scholar. His multi-part pieces on The Lord of the Rings are excellent, both as an information resource for writers and as a means of enjoying another aspect of the films. Each piece is generally pretty long, but that’s part of the goodness: he really dives in deep.

With a new laptop in hand, let’s hope that 2021 provides some more opportunities for me to write (at least, to write less technical content…) and to share what’s on my mind. I have a personal goal of both “more” but equally important is “more consistently” in my writing. I’m going to be honest with myself that I’m not likely to produce something publishable this year; other activities are going to take precedent and I need to be available to my family too. But, this whole writing gig is supposed to be an outlet and fun, and I know it can bear fruit!

Strength and honor – Travis

(Photo credit: Brigette Chapman)

The Poisonous Cult of the Military Hero

To all of my fellow veterans, brothers and sisters in arms, thank you for every sacrifice you’ve made. To the public we serve, thank you for your trust. I appreciate this evergreen post from Myke Cole and enjoying reflecting on it each year about this time. I hope you enjoy it as well!

I was turned onto the Elliot Society this spring (thanks Brenna!) when I attended a lecture on C.S. Lewis at a local school. Their newsletter is brilliant and full of excellent art glorifying God. I found this video so beautifully made!

Making Good

I hope this finds you well and sustained in this season, and may the work of one artist bring a smile to your face to day.

Friends,

First, I’ll invite you to watch a short clip that provided my inspiration and read along!

More for your reading pleasure. In the vein of Stephen King, I imagined this story opening up with a handful of montages to show the world of the Circus of Souls. This is probably my favorite of the three:

Part 1

The Circus

Alina held her new mother’s hand like a lifeline. Occasionally, a flexing of muscles would remind her to loosen her grip for fear of cutting of circulation. Her new father struggled to manage conversation while keeping up with the pair. This was far beyond Alina’s level of acceptable conduct. She was heading into the village, and the village meant people.

A lot of people. 

A lot of people meant stares.

Alina brushed her cheek without thinking. The reaction was so natural, so rote, she didn’t think of it anymore. She didn’t need to think of it, for her attention was focused like a prism’s light toward the spectacle before her. 

The village commons rolled down a shallow hill toward the deep stream that bordered New Hope. The lawn was close-cropped from the dozens of sheep and goats that meandered like ships across its verdant waves. The animals were all congregated at the far end of the fields, closest to the water, for an evening drink and to lie with their herdsmen. The commons were well protected in the best of times, and the water provided a natural fence against predators. That didn’t stop may of the sheep from bleating nervously though. They had good cause.

Alina pulled her mother’s hand as she caught sight of the strange array of bestiary being walked about. The commons closest to the village was filled with people coming out in the twilight hours to see the circus and its wonders. Alina dodged between slack-jawed adults toward her goal. Not one to shy away from a challenge, unless it was those stares, she walked right up to the biggest creature of them all.

“Good evening lass. Would you like to touch it?” The man before her was tall and lean, stripped to the waist and bearing a collage of color across his chest. Bright reds and deep greens laced together in beautiful tattooed patterns that complemented his physique. Baubles of purple and blue dotted his upper arms and gave way to a woven screen of intermixed symbols running down to his wrists. His face, handsome in the fashion of Chebori men, bore a horizontal line of black and blue filigree across his cheeks and nose to indicate his heritage and tribe. 

Alina stared for a few moments before nodding in silent assent. If the man was strange, his charge was stranger.

The beast rose up at least twenty feet, easily able to reach into the second story of any of the village’s ancient homes. A soft fur covered it from snout to horse-like tail, but it was significantly more bulky than any horse Alina had ever seen. Its face was closer in appearance to a sheep than anything else she could think of, with a long upper lip licking at the tops of the maple trees bordering New Hope. She ran a hand down a massive foreleg bigger than any tree trunk she’d known. She doubted she could even wrap her arms around it!

The strange man spoke, “Do you know what this is?” Alina shook her head before he continued, “It’s a therium. One of the last wonders of the Garden of the Dawn Children. He came south, all the way across Chebor, and fought with my people in the great wars. He was very brave. Now that we are no longer at war, he just wants to enjoy as much food as he can get. Now he travels with me in the circus.” 

Alina’s new father stared hard at the man, but eventually his look gave way to lowered eyes and a nod of respect. Alina knew the man had fought in the war, but on the other side as the Chebori. Everyone here in the Pledge knew that. Alina guessed her own parents had been involved before they set out for the Pledge and a new life. 

As she brushed the therium’s leg it continued to graze on tasty leaves far above her little blond head. The looks between the Chebori tribesman and her adopted father made her wonder at the past few years. The memories of her real parents were fading more and more each day. She knew they were seeking a better life, a life of freedom, a life away from the stigmas of Gilead’s old kingdom people and the remnants of life left after a failed war. The journey to the Pledge was a flight toward hope, toward a new life. Yet a flight not without its perils.

Alina brushed her cheek again and a tear trickled down. It was her fault they had been killed. She knew it was her flaw that made others fear her, and her parent’s paid a price for that fear. Thankfully she found a new home with Fionna and Terval. They were good to her, though they didn’t know how to help her with her sorrow. How could they? They couldn’t take this away. 

Alina looked up at the Chebori and smiled. “He’s really nice. I like how soft he is. Are they all this soft?”

He smiled back at her, lifting the colored marks on each cheek. “They are all this soft, though many are scared from battle and from fighting among each other. But that’s the way of things. Sometimes we find ourselves out of sorts with those around us, and sometimes others hurt us. It’s not always intentional. Sometimes it just happens. But even through the scars, there is a touch of grace and gentleness. Isn’t that right?”

Alina nodded and squeezed Fionna’s hand. She smiled down at Alina, probably relieved to see her happy for once. There had been so many reasons for Alina to be sad.

The Chebori continued in his clipped tongue, “I must stay here with my friend, but you should see some of the other animals here. My tribesmen will be happy to let you see any of them up close. But I think you should go to the green tent.” He smiled up at Terval and Fionna. “You’ll find something there that is just for you.”

Alina said thank you and her parent’s followed suit. Her parents. Alina was still getting used to thinking that way.

They saw the peak of a green tent at the far end of the commons and made their way toward it. They passed by several other specimens of Chebori fauna, including a juvenile creature called a pangoling that was the size of a small wagon, a pair of fire birds in a rolling cage, a golden kestrel perched atop of a raised pike, no less than three of the great pronghorned mounts of the Chebori outriders, and a brace of silk water serpents each easily twice the length of Alina sprawled out and stretching her arms. She watched each in a moment of amazement, ignoring the stray looks from the villagers who moved out of her way ever so slightly. Fionna said nothing and simply looked down. Terval looked angry but was resigned to the reality of their life with Alina.

Finally they reached the green tent. The coloring was too vivid to describe in words. It was like liquid light was trapped in the fabric and shimmered through the weave, changing from deep verdant hues to the softest of colors to match newborn grass. Little motes of light appeared to race along the piping and arced toward the pinnacle, a carved figurehead of a woman dancing below a double moon.

Alina knew immediately who this tent was for. This was the tent of a magus. 

A young woman stepped out. She wore a black velvet gown that, Alina was sure, was at least as soft to the touch as the therium had been. Its texture absorbed light and bent it in ways that mesmerized Alina. Small stones were sewn into the bodice and a thin trace of silver wove through the sleeves and hems. The dress wasn’t the only thing that caught Alina’s attention.

The magus has a shock of bright red hair, like metal on fire, that lay piled up atop her head. The contrast of colors was so sharp that it felt like artifice. The twilight rays of the twin suns reflected off of her hair and cast an aura, surely not due to natural effect alone. Like one of the Dawn Children themselves, her minor halo framed a well-proportioned face with high cheeks and a curvature that said she enjoyed a few treats when she could. Beautiful and real. 

That wasn’t what made the magus beautiful to Alina though. It was the mark.

A deep wine stain ran down the left side of the magus’ face. Starting just below her eye, it reach all the way down to her bodice. Rather than cover it over with her hair, it was as if she wanted everyone to see the mark. Alina knew this was no tattoo, no painting, but part of who the magus was. She didn’t just show it, she practically flaunted it before the crowd. A crowd that didn’t turn away, but stared in awe at the beautiful woman performing before them. 

No one said anything as she began to weave words into magic. Bright images of paradise birds and multi-colored fish, of battle charges and single combat, began to take shape in the air over the spectators’ heads. She sang the words to make the images move, and told a tale of wonder and myth, parts of which were known to all of Tryon’s followers, and others they had not yet heard in this fashion. The crowd grew as she added more and more effects into her visual storytelling. When people whispered, it was to wonder if the sounds were real or imagined? Was this all illusion, or had she conjured up the ghosts of ancient heroes?

Alina saw through all of it. What she saw was special.

The villagers weren’t staring at the magus for her mark. They were absorbed in the story. They didn’t shy away from her in fear. They didn’t accuse her of having the Crimson, of being a pestilence and curse-bearer. They didn’t threaten to drive her away before she infected others, or claim that was the mark Tryon gave to those who failed him. 

Alina saw someone just like her. Someone who bore the same imperfection. Someone who chose not to hide it, but to live past it.

She squeezed Fionna’s hand and leaned in, nestling her head against her new mother’s hip. She looked up and smiled, then looked back at the magus, who smiled right back. 

Alina saw someone just like her.

Friends,

I’ve been remiss in getting you some good Thorium website content! As we all adjust to the new normal I’ve been focused on finishing my U.S. Naval Academy tour well, preparing for what’s next for the Chapman’s, and managing our situation. I haven’t gotten my work-at-home disciplines all back in place (I worked from home fulltime from late 2015 through 2017), and writing has taken a backseat unfortunately.

But….

I shared some early draft material of this story with a superfan, and I want to get it out to the wide world! If you are looking for a break from the news cycle, your cat staring at you incessantly, or just need a break, then I encourage you to read along. In my next post (Saturday) I’ve also got a YouTube video that was the inspiration for the Circus of Souls, the main characters of this story. Stay safe out there!

Prologue

The steady rumble of rolling wains cut through the stillness of the plain. The golden ocean shifted as the afternoon wind teased across its surface. The tapestry shifted, undulated, like so many waves. Through the crests of grain a deeply gouged trail led from the outpost toward either horizon. In one direction, a crisp purple sky hearkening the twilight hour. In the other, looming mountains covered in a veil of dingy snow.

Two men stood beside the stone outpost. Its square shape showed a utilitarian genesis. A platform of weathered wood rose from the roof to provide a crow’s perch. No one needed to stand watch atop it, for the scene was never changing. Day after day, cart after cart, sometimes in dozens, sometimes in pairs, sometimes a single wagon or handwain. Breck Longmane and Filian Carrsman fingered spears as the caravan approached. Mostly from boredom.

“How many is this today? Eight? Nine?” Breck leaned against the smooth stone behind him as he mined for silver. His left nostril could always be counted on to bear a load, what with the dry air and dust in the wind. He only ever used his right forefinger, a habit conditioned since young. No better way to kill time than minor annoyances like itchy noses.

Filian stared at Breck’s mining ambitions in awe. How could one man pick his nose so much? He’d spent hours, days, Tryon’s eyes, months with the man as he unearthed little treasures, admired, then discarded them. You spend so much time with someone, you’d think you knew them. 

Filian snorted. “Must be. I stop counting after four.”

“How do you keep up the ledger then? You know the Lord Ranger wants to know. For taxes and such.” 

Filian turned his head as the first pair of wains emerged from the curve in the path. “I make it up. Who cares if it’s four or fourteen or four hundred? Rangers’ going to collect whatever taxes they want, and you know it.”

“Of course I know it. How do you think we get paid? Largess? Donations?” Breck found a particularly special find and rolled it between dirty fingers before flicking the little ball into the dirt.

The train rolled along over the rise and approached at a glacial pace. The high wheeled wains stirred up dust along the worn track. Animals lowed as drovers prodded them along. The large bow oxen common among settler trains pulled their burdens with the expected bovine complaints. A flock of sheep and goats paced themselves while seeking green shots below the golden grains. Young boys and girls kept watchful eyes on their charges. Breck could hear the sound of crying children amidst the party, just one more animal to the bestiary heading their direction.

“Ho! Where’s the master?” cried Filian. Weary faces stared back at him as the wagons rolled to a stop before the house. Spears in hand, he and Breck circled the dozen or so families that populated the train. Dogs and children barked in harmony at the intrusion. Like a basket of apples overturned, the various parts settled to a stop across the area before the watch tower.

A tall man stepped forward, hand raised in salute to Breck and Filian. “I’m Theil. I lead these folk.” 

Breck sized Theil up and found himself a little defensive. Breck was a big man to many, with shoulder thicker than average and only a minor gut from drinking ale among the guard. Theil stood a full head taller and was just as corded with muscles. He was likely a little leaner too, given how often these caravans ran short on food. His eyes were hawkish but did not feel angry at the pause.

Theil stared down at Breck doing his own sizing up. He wore dark grey trousers over brown leather boots. Both were dusty from the trail. Beneath a leather vest his plum shirt had sleeves rolled up and the collar unlaced, revealing a crop of curly chest hair. His matching black mane was pulled back into a queue and tied with a plum-toned leather thong. A silver chain hung about his left wrist, another around his neck with the steel sun pendant of Tryonists. The suns had clearly done their work at weathering his skin, but there was a remnant of youthful anticipation in his look. The look of adventures had and yet to be had. 

“G’day Master Theil. I’m Sergeant Breck and this is Corporal Filian. We’re charged with keeping watch over the road in these parts. Where you from, where you go’in, and what’s your business? Also, how many tattooed men?”

Theil shook his head. “We have no smiths with us, at least, none of the true smiths. Only enough skills to shoe horses and repair tools.” 

Breck nodded. Worth asking. You never knew what you’d find in these caravans.

Theil reached into his vest and pulled out a small wallet of tooled ox hide. The burned scroll pattern indicated the work of Gilead. A royal charter. He handed it to Breck for inspection as Filian walked among the remaining travelers. Theil watched through the corner of his eye, but said nothing.

Breck opened the wallet and inspected the contents. Thick vellum held a bold stroked message containing the warrant and commission for Theil to lead this band of settlers across the Pledge. It offered both permission and penalty, though the high seat in Gilead was along way from Sergeant Breck and the Pledge’s rough justice. A very long way.

“We’re bound for New Saelem. Our charter gives us a grant farther into the Pledge than most, but that’s to our liking. There were several groups of like-minded pilgrims that are bound in covenant with one another. I believe we’re likely the fifth you’ve seen, if my counting is correct. We’ve overtaken two groups already and haven’t been overtaken by any others in our party. We’ve a mind to build a new town in the hills to the south, below a place called Chaebol Golan. Maybe we’ll build on the bones of what’s left. Tryon’s Eyes, we’ve seen enough so far.”

Breck nodded as he stared at the paper. He understood enough of the words written here to understand the gist of the matter. “Still doesn’t answer all of my questions. Who else have you come across since entering the Pledge? You must have come through Peak? Have you met the Rangers yet, friend?”

“Is there a problem, Sergeant?” Theil smiled down at Breck like so many did. Theil saw Breck for what he was, a weasel. A weasel with teeth, but a weasel nonetheless. Breck didn’t like that at all. 

“No problem. Just want to make sure you understand the ways things are here. I know you have maps. You wouldn’t have traveled this far without them. You’ve heard of Pol Kalel and Chaebol Golan, so you must have them. Those maps, see, they help you understand where everything is in relation to something else. You got a bearing to follow, right, and you know about how far one thing is from another?” Breck’s easy smile showed a missing tooth and little friendliness.

Theil rolled his eyes. Breck knew the look all too well. Too many caravans to teach, too many freedom seekers to initiate into the reality of the world.

“What other maps might a wary traveler need in these parts, brother?” Theil asked. He smiled through his frustration. Good on him Breck thought.

“Not another map, per se, but just an understanding. Those maps don’t show you how the Pledge is administered. Sure, King Rowe says you can come out here and make a new life for yourself. That there charter says so, don’t you believe it? Who am I, a mere sergeant, to question that? But the King’s justice is far away from here. Filian and I have been here, what, four years already?’ Filian happened to be standing near enough to overhear and issue a nod of assent before Breck continued, “I’d say at least four years, and I think we’ve seen a Pledge Warden maybe twice in all that time. Ain’t never seen one of the companies pulling duty in the full. Only a few men-at-arms, maybe a small wain to carry their taxes, and little else. Who do you think protects those who travel through this region?”

Theil nodded toward Filian. “I suspect it’s men like yourself.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Breck said as his bowed his head solemnly. “Ain’t it Tryon’s truth my friend. We’re just doing a job here, all in the name of the Rangers and them in the name of the King. Doing our part to keep everyone safe in these perilous times.”

Weights and measures tumbled through Theil’s mind, though his only outward sign was a slow closing and opening of his eyes. Though Breck and Filian were just two louts assigned to this particular way point, Theil knew what crossing them would do. At worst, it would end in a fight, them dead, some of his own injured and maybe dead, and two bodies to deal with and the likelihood of someone on their back trail. He knew more than enough about the Rangers and knew they wouldn’t brook that kind of disrespect. 

The Rangers. Just another of the vigilante bands who roamed the Pledge in the name of justice. Justice that Theil knew was a very long ways away. In gaining a charter from Gilead he as much as agreed to forego anything resembling authority and safety in exchange for his people’s freedom. Freedom to do as they pleased and to worship Tryon as they desired. None of the state politics and authoritarian regime that Gilead had become. None of the over population and crowded cities. Yet, that freedom came at a price, and the price was graft. 

“How much would the Rangers require to ensure our safety were assured?”

Breck nodded and looked toward the wains and livestock, not revealing any gleam in his eyes. This one was well practiced in his role of tax collector. Theil simply hoped the taxes were reasonable and maybe, just maybe, would actually amount to something. 

A young child was crying now. The children were uneasy with the delay and games had begun. A solid lines of boys and girls were busy linking arms for a run of Iron Jaen’s Gauntlet. A burly boy took off at a sprint to break through the double line of defenders, scaring some of the flock who were nosing through tall grasses. Parent’s admonished the young but did little to stop them. 

Filian looked rather nervous. Was it getting on too long? Did he doubt the situation remained in hand, or that the train of settlers would pay their due? He approached Breck while waving at a seated couple a few wains back, “Get those children under manners! I mean it.”

Theil stood steady at his approach. Filian rounded on Breck, who remained quiet as he assessed the train. Finally Filian’s hand grabbed the sergeant’s shoulder and shook him. Breck didn’t look pleased. 

“What do you want? Don’t you see I’m counting. Just go and watch them.”

“Something don’t feel right.”

“What do you mean? It’s just another bunch of dreamers. No different than any other.” Breck  stared hard at the man. His nose twitched in anticipation of the mining yet left to do. Not long now.

Filian looked about. His furtive gaze lingered on the horizon surrounding the watch station. He took in every detail as best he could. “I’m not sure, but something isn’t right.”

Breck snorted, dislodging a particularly fine specimen that he observed jettison itself like a ballista bolt. Another treasure gone. “Not sure what’s the matter, but we’ll be free in a few moments. I’m sure I know what’s about right here.”

“Master Theil, you are in good luck today. Tryon bless you. We’ve had a number of groups come through the last few days, so our pens are already pretty full. Yet, the Rangers should have a few troupes returning and we’ll want to satisfy their hunger when they arrive. I feel that four sheep would make a generous offering toward the safety these men are providing you right this moment.”

Theil’s eyes grew slightly, but he maintained composure. Four sheep? The last two way stations had only demanded two a piece. What could these men possibly do with four sheep? 

Turning to the setting suns he made a decision. He’d normally haggled much lower, but he knew they needed to be on their way and settled in before much longer. He’d wanted to make it further along that they’d made it today, and the prospect of camping beside these men didn’t sit well with him. “I believe we can spare three sheep, though one must be a lamb. But as you say, you are welcome to them with Tryon’s blessing.”

Breck stuck out his arm to seal the arrangement when a horn sounded from the watch tower.

The sergeant and corporal both looked up at their companion and then to the west.

Theil turned his gaze as well. He noticed the entire caravan turning their attention to the setting suns. Limbed against the twilight sky were dozens of black banners. At least, they appeared so. Those banner hung from lances with jagged cross bars, and those lances were held by soldiers. 

Soliders like none Breck had ever seen. The sergeant counted two campaigns fighting the Chebori before joining the Rangers, a company of free soldiers determined to make their own fortune in these uncertain lands. He’s fought with Gilead, fought alongside the Ophirans of the northern deserts, the black-skined Batu Sorati of the lowlands, and the pale-faced men who peopled Sevelin and the southern holdfasts of Mamre. Yet he’d never believed what he saw before him could be anything but nightmare.

The vanguard of soldiers had crested the hill west of the way station. Every man was mounted, most atop large black horses. A string of remounts, many of them fierce war horses, followed in their wake. Lines of footmen followed behind and in a single file to the side. These were neatly arranged between halbardiers with hooked pikes and archers with bows longer than Theil was tall. Each man had a small fountain of color erupting behind him in the form of his arrows, cached together in leather quivers yet stick up two heads taller than any of them. 

Yet it wasn’t the weapons that caught Breck’s attention. It was the armor. 

It was as if a hundred beetles had stood upright and faced them. 

Each man wore an intricate set of plates, neatly overlapping one another to form a dark carapace. Even their gloves were covered in scales of the same material. Most frightening were the helms. Each was a beautiful collection of curves that mimicked an insect, including four sets of painted eyes to augment the pair of openings for true sight. The plates were satin hued in an exotic blend of black, blue, and gold trimmings. A tall mane of blue-dyed horse hair framed various symbols in black iron that topped each one.

Filian lost his meal as the scene grew worse. Two riders followed the vanguard riding insect-like creatures larger than the watch station itself. Each must weight as much as a dozen horses or more, and the riders, mounted high up on an extended carapace, could see eye to eye with the tower’s watchman. Four pairs of flexing claws clicked in sickening symphony. The noise filled the air and almost drowned out the screams. 

Theil was terror-struck and unyielding, yet had sufficient will to turn toward Breck. “Sergeant, what are those things?”

The air filled with the tinge of urine. Breck’s pants grew dark as he, too, stood transfixed while his body reacted. 

“I have no idea. But I believe this is hell.”

I had a chance to do a little catch-up this weekend and enjoyed something in my movie queue for a while now: They Shall Never Grow Old.

I honestly can’t recall where I’d heard of it before, but I’m sure the combination of Peter Jackson, World War I history, and something or another caught my attention. I watched in two sittings and finished with Peter Jackson’s commentary on the making-of process.

Highly recommended!

I think some of my recent motivation was three-fold. First, 1917 was just released and I’m kind of excited to see how it turned out. Second, I’ve always been interested in the intersection between J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis (and their contemporaries) and service in/exposure to the Great War. Lastly, my current work in progress lifts some combat experiences most closely drawn from WWI, so source material is keenly on my mind.

The film was produced as part of the centennial of the armistice, and is based on over 100 hours of original film, some still format artwork from magazines of the period, and over 600 hours of recorded interviews with WWI veterans. The film was amazingly restored in quality and much of it colorized (the commentary does a brilliant job of describing that challenge!) Jackson and his team also needed to distill the audio and make it a coherent story, and they chose to follow the general process of young British men joining the Army, processing through training, joining the front, some examples of trench raids/combat, and a little bit on the return home. There is no historical narration or real commentary other than the opinions of the soldiers on their lives and conditions.

Speaking as a veteran who deployed but did not see active combat (Africa), I found their stories to be beautifully honest, frank, and authentic. A lot of mundane life stuff. At first glance, many of their circumstances feel awful, but I can appreciate how one becomes numb to living conditions and falling into routine, so that felt true to my own understanding. Some of the film is graphic, and it was hard for me sometimes to process emotionally. You see violence in movies and sometimes on the news, but I had to stop and tell myself “That image, that shot of horses or men…that really happened. That’s a real trench, in a real Belgium, with real men who had hopes and dreams and concerns and problems and friendships and whatnot, and you just watched them get hit by artillery. Feel something.”

I found the film to be better than a narrated historical documentary, but also understand it’s not a cinematic film like 1917 or War Horse or Wonder Woman. That certainly wasn’t the intent! But if you like the period and want a story that captures veteran’s experiences, I think it’s a great opportunity, especially for writers.