I need to apologize for not writing this past weekend, as I'd originally intended. I'd gone home for Spring break, had a wonderful time, and then promptly fell sick when the time had come for my return journey. Actually, saying that I "fell sick" doesn't really express the true horror which visited me for several days this past week. A better way to put it would be: "The mother of all Colds grabbed me by the balls and refused to let go".
Meine GOTT was I sick. I can't remember the last time that a Cold (or, possibly, it was the flu) managed to hit me that hard. I'd managed to get some pretty bad cases when I'd been teaching in Alaska; any teacher reading this won't be in the least bit suprised. Schools have a tendency of becoming germ factories in Winter, after all. But even the worst one couldn't even hold a candle to the raging infero which was the "Cold That Wouldn't DIE" (tm)
I'm going to show an heretofore unknown level of class and not share with you all of the details of my illness, lately. You don't want to hear them; they are, as I'm sure you suspect, messy. What I did want to share, however, was some thoughts that I'd had while ill.
Unable to do much of anything during the past several days, save going to class (I'd like to point out that I didn't miss a single day of class this week! Ha! Other people can skip class when they get sick; but not me!), I was left with plenty of time to think. Much of this time was spent, especially in the beginning, wishing that my Mom was there to take care of me, and wondering if there was anyway I'd be able to lure her up to Fargo to do so.
After a while, however, I realized that this was just wishful thinking. Furthermore, it was embarrassing; I'm a young man, after all, and I don't need my Mother to wait on me, just because I'm sick. Oh, it would have been NICE, no one is refuting that, but I could manage on my own quiet well, thank you very much. So, instead, I turned my mind towards matters of philosophy and life, and several things hit me all at once; and, no, none of them seem to have been brought on by the fever!
Perhaps the most startling was the realization that the Cold might well have been a good thing! You see, I fell off the "stop smoking" bandwagon after my cat died a few weeks ago, and had been desperately trying to quit again with limited success. I'd managed to whittle my way down to one or two cigarettes a day, and then stopped all together when I got home. However, I wasn't sure if I'd be able ot keep it up once I got back to town. The Cold fixed that problem for me. There was several days there where I didn't even want to inhale AIR, let alone smoke. The thought of lighting up made me sick(er) to my stomach. As a result, I'f now gone 8 days without a cigarette. Yay me!
I also realized that this cold was making the time change a lot easier on me than it usually is. Normally it takes me well over a week to get back intune with the clock after day-light savings time comes into effect. However, I was so drained of energy, and so miserable while awake anyway, that I found myself retreating to bed fairly early each day. I'm now much more used to DST than I otherwise would have been, if I'd been perfectly fit all week.
Most importantly, however, was some philosophical ramblings I had during this time. I'd spent Monday and Tuesday trying to put up a brave front to the rest of the world, in a sad effort to maintain my dignity in the face of this onslaught. By Wednesday I'd realized just how horrid my attempts had been (Note to guys: Do not, under any circumstances, try to hit on girls when you're running a high fever and your nose has turned into Niagra Falls. It does NOT go well!). The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was impossible to have any sort of dignity while ill. It just can't happen.
Even more so; everyone goes through this at some time in their life. The Prince and the Pauper both are likely to turn into shambling, oozing, sickmen for a few days each year. You take the most austere, dignified man alive, and a cold will reduce them to that annoying snotty nosed kid in about 10 seconds flat.
So, if you can't be dignified, what can you do? Well, I remembered the old teachings of the Hindus and Buddhists; you are Not your body. How true it is! Hell, you're body has a tendency of turning into a gross, oozing mess from time to time, during your life. In fact, when you look at it in that way, it all becomes kind of funny!
Funny. Humor! Now there is a life raft that I can hang onto during dark times! So I tried to look at it all through that lense; this cold was just another effort by that perenial practical joker, God, to have a good laugh at my expense and possibly teach me something in the process. Fine. I can deal with that; and if the supreme being of the universe is having a goof gut buster at my expense, I might as well get in on the gag and enjoy it for what its worth, right?
So, there you have it. I tried to laugh myself through this cold, and it seems to have worked. Oh, I didn't laugh literally; that hurt way too much. But I did try to keep a smile on my face and keep everything in perspective. Although, I will say this, if I ever track down the damn SOB who GAVE me that dread disease; I WILL kill them!
No real good dreams to report this week; all of them seem to have been caught up in my fever dreams instead. I did spend one entire night convinced i was witnessessing the birth of Yugoslavia (I can thank my Eastern European Professor for THAT one!). One fragment does stick out in my mind however, as being somewhat important.
The Dream:
I'm in a dark hospital room, looking down at an old man who's hooked up to life support and is clearly dying. It occures to me, that this old man is, in fact, ME! The older me looks up at the younger me and smiles; "So, what are you doing", he asks.
"Me? I plan on FIGHTING!" I say. The thought fills me with vigor, and I'm obviously excited at the thought.
The old me smiles again, this time rather whistfully. "Have fun", he says, "Just be careful. I fought too, and look what happened to me."
I look down at Old Me and smile myself, "Oh, don't worry. I will be", I say.
It should be noted that several days earlier I'd come to the conclusion that my recent little funk of the past few months stemmed from the fact that I'd given up fighting for anything. Alaska had battered me so bad, I'd gotten to be a bit gun shy of the world. Shortly after having these thoughts, it was like a huge weight have lifted off my shoulders, and I've been feeling great ever since.
Apparently my older Alaskan-induced mentality is passing away, and just wanted to give me a bit of a warning and a wish of good luck before he did so.
ANYWAY; this post is getting very long as it is, and I know what you are all REALLY waiting for! The next episode of the Tree Splitters: prose edition
(all two of you who read it
) I'll put it in Spoilers below. Hope you enjoy!
The Tree Splitters: Episode 9
The Battle in the Blizzard!
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
Sigismund and his band traveled for three days after leaving the sacred hollow where Winona made her home. Where as they had joked and made merry in the weeks prior, a deep restlessness had settled over the crew and its leader. All seemed to understand that the final battle with the Wendigo would soon arrive, all knew that they might not return home alive, and a deep brooding fell upon them all. This brooding was not a melloncholly, however, but was rather a listlessness; the feeling that any warrior experiences as they wait, impatiently, for the battle to begin.
For a trinity od days they traveled as storm cloulds began to fill the sky; the first great blizzard of the year was short to arrive, and all knew it. On their third day out, the clouds suddenly opened up and let forth a torrent upon the Lumbermen. Winds wracked the trees, as driving sleet and hail fell down upon their heads, coating the trees in a thick layer of ice.
The men were forced to make camp early and wait out the storm. All feared that the Wendigo neared and might take that moment to strike down upon them; but Sigismund quieted their fears. A great calmness had fallen over him, since he'd last seen Winona, and he assured his men that they would be safe from any monster attack that day.
As evening neared, the winds settled and ceased their harring of the land. By the time night had stretched its star-filled cloak over the Northwoods, the storm had passed entirely. The men came from their camp and began to build their fires on which to cook supper.
Sigismund joined them, but was continually looking up at the stars, studying them as an ancient Astrolager would have, searching for some sign. After all had eaten, his eyes caught a faint shimmer in the night sky, which quickly began to grow stronger: the great Borrealis, the pathway of souls, danced gayly above them all.
The Lumberlord knew immediately what had to be done. He called for one of his followers to go and fetch the twin chests given to him by Cheif Buffalo.
"Does the Wendigo come? Do we go to war, now?", asked one of the men.
"No", said Sigismund. "The Wendigo will come now, to my calling, that is true. But, you will not go to war; the battle that will come will be between myself and it alone."
The men tried to disuade their leader. Many begged to come with him, to protect him should the creature grab him in its claws like it had before. But Sigismund simply shoot his head. "No', he said, "Should I fail, you all will be able to fight the beast then. But, until that time, this battle is between the Wendigo and myself. I thank you for your service this past year; you have been good and true friends to a hapless orphan. But the time has come for me to face that demon myself, and so who emerges the victor."
Seeing the look in his eyes, the men all gave up thier complaints. The one who was to fetch his things, returned with the chest, and Sigismund dressed himself in the garments of war. He placed the Wendigo-hide cloak upon his back and drew forth the twin hatchets.
"Pray for my victory tonight, my friends", he said, "pray for all of the Northwoods." And with those words he began the long hike from camp.
Now, the glittering lights hung and shimmered above Timm's Hill, the highest point in all the land, and so Sigismund took that as a sign to make his stand there. He struggled up the steep sides of the craig and finally arrived at the wooded top. Waisting no time, he looked into the stars and said a quick prayer for the safety of his men, and then drew forth the vial which had been given to him by Windona. He smashed it to the ground and, as he did so, let out a battle scream.
"Come to me", he bellowed into the night air. "Come to you, you demon dancer; that creatures which creeps upon the winds. The wailer of its own name. Come to me, Wendigo, for tonight you shall either eat my flesh, or my blades shall bite into your own!"
No sooner had he spoken these words than the gentle breeze which had been caressing the hill all night, grew in intensity. Soon it was a raging gale, snapping the ice encrusted limbs and kicking up the snow to create a white fog. Through the wailing, he clearly began to hear the cry. "Wendigo", is shreiked. "Wendigo", it wailed. "WWWEEEEEEEENNNNDDDIGOOOO" it bellowed through the blizzard.
Sigismund held his ground, hefting up his weapons and awaited the inevitable. Soon he saw a figure, racing through the clouds, sending the snows hurling in all directions. Letting out a cry of his own, he lept into the air!
The two figures met above the trees, in open air they struggled. Sigismund wrapped his arms around the waist of the fetid beast and, with all of his might, threw the creature to the forest floor beflow him. The Wendigo crashed to the icy floor, digging a trench in the frozen soil, as the hero landed safely a few feet away.
The creature had been only suprised, however, not defeated. It quickly soared to its feet and launched itself at this petty fool who sought to call it, and deny it a meal. They two figures once again met in combat; but much to the woe of the Wendigo! No matter how hard it tried to tear at the chest of the hero, no matter how many times it tried rip his flesh with its teath, Sigismund was left unhurt. The creature's blades were blunted upo his hide-cloak.
Now, hunger can often cloud the mind, this is true. But oft times it can also make one more wiley and witty. The Wendigo was a beast consumed by an unatural hunger, but it had never been a fool! If it would now rip Sigismund in twain with its claws or teeth, it surely could still crush his bones and leave him dead.
Grabbing at Sigismund again, the Wendigo lept into the air, carrying its prey with it. no man, no matter how strong, would survive a fall from great highys.
Sigismund soon saw the danger he was in, and began to struggle against the grip of his opponent. He still held the twin hatchets in his hand and so, with all of his strength, he sent one down, embedding it in the creature's thigh! The beast screamed in rage and pain, as Sigismund freed his arm and struck again, and again and again.
The Wendigo had never known such pain before; so great that it even quieted the constant screams of hunger in the belly. He let out of a cry heard for miles around, and dropped the Lumberjack, throwing him to the ground, as it began to fall from the heavens for the second time that night.
Surely, Sigismund would have been crushed on the frozen floor below, had the trees themselves not taken pity on that man. The great White Pines reached out their boughs to catch the falling hero and slow his descent. As he crashed through each layer, he was slowed a bit, so that he eventually landed gently in a snowbank beneath the trees.
The Wendigo law on the base of a trees, it wailed and whimpered in a horrible firhgt; never before had it been so scared. Blood fell from its wounds and froze in puddles beneath its body, tears streamed from its eyes.
But when Sigismund saw his foe in such straights, a horrible thing occured. The old hatred which had one filled his heart returned with new vigor. Instead of pity, he looked at the creature and felt only loathing. As he walked towards the Wendigo, hatchets in hand, he began to taunt it.
"Oh! How the mighty have fallen. My Kin's slayer lies now on the floor of this forest, grounded for good. It has felt my bite, and now whimpers for mercy? How many others once cried for mercy, as this creature devoured them? How many Fatherless sons walk the land because of its cruel hunger? Mercy? You will find none in me; my heart is as cold as ice. You killed my Father, and I HATE YOU!"
No sooner were these words past Sigismund's lips, than the Wendigo lept at it with ferocious speed, digging its teeth into his unprotected calf. The hero screwed in suprise, rage and pain; unthinking he brought his hatchets down again and again, splitting the head of the creature and spilling its brains upon the very ground. Only then did those horrid teeth let go of his leg.
Bleeding profusely from his wound, the hero staggered to a Pine for support, fell into a swoon, and darkness overtook him.
To Be Continued (nope, we ain't done YET!)
