Pain of Love Part Two- III

Grayne looked up at the hand-painted sign that hung over the door to the shop. Though he could not read the words he recognized the map of Westeros on the wooden sign and knew he had come to the place he could purchase a map.

Grayne took a moment to look at the other shops to make sure there wasn’t anything else he needed to purchase for his journey home. Standing in front of the mapmaker, his good eye scanned the businesses that were open on the quiet overcast afternoon. He had warm clothing, weapons and armor. Even a horse was stabled for him. He caught his own reflection in the mapmaker’s window. The northerner had put on weight now that he was eating regular meals, and more than a year of cross-country travel had redeveloped his muscles. He took a moment to readjust his eye patch over his right eye so it covered more of the scar. Even though he was what any but the most scrutinous observer clean-shaven, he felt his own face for stubble and was displeased to find some. His years in a stagnant windowless prison had left him with an unquenchable thirst for cool air and no tolerance for facial hair. He stopped to shave no less than three times each day.

In the window’s reflection he saw a figure exit the weaponsmith’s shop across the street. He noted the figure carried an unsheathed blade in his hands and was armored in chain mail. Grayne turned to get a better look at the fighter.

Horrible recognition crashed onto his face like waves upon the shore.

Grayne knew the man, though he couldn’t make out his face from across the street. The armored man had long blonde hair tied into a ponytail that told Grayne he was not a commissioned soldier, for no military in Westeros would allow their men to have such long hair.

The figure watched with trained interest as Grayne strode determinedly toward him. As Grayne walked, he drew his sword in a swift, almost angry motion. The blonde soldier did not move as Grayne approached. The soldier’s naked blade remained loosely held across both of his hands. Grayne stopped a few feet away, close enough for a sword swing and stood there, his sword at the ready. Several people stopped to watch, paralyzed and uncertain of what was happening or what to do.

The blonde man simply asked Grayne, “Have I wronged you in some way, ser?”

Grayne scrutinized the man for long moments, long enough for him to doubt his actions. How could this man be the man I think he is? It is insanity! I am three-hundred leagues and a year from where and when I encountered him. I never saw him clearly, yet I know it is him!

A single voice shouted for the guards, yet Grayne and the man never took their eyes off one another. Finally Grayne spoke. “You took my eye.”

The man smiled sheepishly and said, “How do you know it was me?”

“I know not. But by the Gods old and new, I know it is you.” And with those words, Grayne attacked!

With both hands on the hilt of his greatsword, Grayne brought the blade down in a downward strike, fully intent on cutting the warrior in half from crown to crotch. However, the pony-tailed warrior had other ideas and sidestepped Grayne’s blade easily and tapped the greatsword with his own blade to create a perfect ping of metal on metal.

A woman shrieked.

Grayne stood before his opponent with his larger sword before him in both hands. The other man simply held his blade in one hand with his body facing sideways. The men began clanging their blades together as Grayne sought to cleave his enemy in two, while the other man kept Grayne’s larger blade at bay, while seeking an opening himself. The two circled one another while the sounds of their grunts and the clanging of their blades rung through the city streets. The melee lasted for a minute with neither landing any serious strikes, when a pair of city guards approached with swords drawn. “Halt!” they commanded.

The blonde fighter deflected another of Grayne’s furious attacks and said, “Lest ye wish to spend the night in the city jail, we’d better change our tactics.” Grayne backed away but did not take his eye off his opponent, his two-handed sword at the ready.

The guards approached the combatants cautiously, “Throw down your blades!”

“Men, men”, said the blonde warrior thrusting his sword point in the ground so that the blade stood straight up harmlessly. He held his hands out palms first in surrender. “My friend Grayne and I were just testing the balance of my Valarian steel blade I just had re-hilted.”

Grayne looked quickly at the man and back to the guards. “Yes, sers. My friend…”

“Talbit”

“…my friend Talbit, and I were just practicing.”

“You!” a guard shouted at the man with the Valarian steel sword. “Kick your blade over to me.”

Grayne saw several more reinforcements running down the road to assist the two guards. He said to the blonde man, “Our situation worsens. We cannot let them take us. You will never see your Valarian sword again.”

The man nodded and said, “And I suspect you have had enough of prison cells. “

Grayne laughed for the first time in a very long time as the five city guards encircled them. “More than enough.”

The clang of steel and the sounds of combat lasted less than a minute.

“Who are you?” Grayne asked seemingly to his empty ale.

“Talbit,” said the blonde warrior, patting Grayne on the back. “Innkeep, two more ales!” he said with a shout.

The bartender came quickly and refilled both of their mugs. “Sers, you have had twenty-two ales between you. I must insist on settling your tab before I can let you continue drinking.”

Talbit flipped a gold lion to the man and said, “Keep them coming every ten minutes until one of us passes out.”

The innkeeper greedily snatched up the coin and said his “yes sers”, and became obsequious again.

“It is you, isn’t it? The knight on horseback.”

“Oh, aye.”

“Eye?” said Grayne standing up. “Is that some kind of joke?” he said, pointing at his eyepatch with feigned anger. His legs became tangled in the stool and he fell over to uproarious laughter from Talbit and the other tavern patrons. Talbit leaned over and with a mighty pull, yanked Grayne unceremoniously to his feet.

“Let’s get some air,” suggested Talbit as he firmly pushed Grayne toward the door.

The two stumbled from the stuffy, smoke-filled bar and into the cool night air. Grayne lifted his face to the sky and relished the cold air on his face. The two men clumsily walked with arms around each other, each trying to remember the words to a Marbrand drinking ballad.’♫…in flaming fields, we praise ye ♫” they ended the song in separate keys, neither of them correct.

“Grayne, I want you to have this,” said Talbit.

Grayne didn’t turn his head to look at his new friend and teased him saying, “I told you, Talbit. I’m not drunk enough to look at your tiny shillelagh. Save it for the tavern wenches.”

“No, you drunk idiot. My sword. I want you to have my sword. For my remorse. For your eye.”

Grayne stopped and slowly turned. Talbit held the naked blade before him as an offering. Grayne put his hands on the smooth, almost blue steel of the Valarian steel broadsword. The metal came from a continent far away and only the richest men carried a weapon of the finest steel. Many lords and knights would sooner lose a son than a Valarian steel blade.

“’Tis the finest weapon I have ever seen.”

“Take it. I want you to have it.”

“I am not worthy. I am not the swordsman you are. I am a three-legged horse compared to you.”

“I can teach you. You have what no other man I have ever seen has. You are the toughest man I have ever met! Or even heard about. Even the mighty Bjorn the Indomitable of the Age of Heroes would have been lucky to carry your codpiece. When that soldier hit you over the head with the flat of his blade and his sword broke! I thought he was going to shit himself!”

Grayne chuckled and smiled at the memory of the fight they had been in hours before. He turned away from Talbit and the blade. “I haven’t the time for lessons, Talbit. Nor can I take on the responsibility of such a weapon. After what I have endured, I simply don’t have it in me to care for such a fine weapon.”

“What is it, Grayne? Where do you have to be?” Talbit asked with sincere concern in his voice.

He turned back to face his new warrior companion. Grayne opened his good eye wide, smiled, and said, “I am trying to get back to Summer.”

Fast Times at N.G.A.

I can hear them as soon I open my car door; the barking and rooing (a combination of howling and singing that is the trademark of the breed) can be heard through the walls and carries across the parking lot. I have arrived for my turnout shift at Northern Greyhound Adoptions in St. Albans, Vermont. Walking to the entrance, I pass an iron and wood bench engraved with the name Donald Westover.

Donald and his wife Dorothy founded the kennel in October of 2001. For years, he could be found spending his weekends introducing potential adopters to dogs and answering questions about life with sighthounds. His passion for the breed was evident: his enthusiasm was infectious, and many hounds found homes because Donald went the extra mile to make adopters feel comfortable – about the dogs and the adoption process.

Those who met him remember Donald fondly. He was a big man with a big heart, and he continued to carry the torch for NGA even after being diagnosed with emphysema, often attending adoption events with an oxygen mask in tow. His first priority was always the dogs, that was never in question.

He remained active with the non-profit as much as he could, even as his health deteriorated. He made it a priority to bring a greyhound and a donation bin to a local pet supply store every week. Now that he has passed, his devilish charm, his ‘hound companion, and most importantly his donation jar are absent. NGA is feeling his loss in many ways. They need your help and mine.

I am here to let the ‘hounds out of their kennels, in groups, and by themselves for bathroom breaks. This is one of four daily chances for the retired racers to stretch their long legs and for their mini-apartments to be cleaned. While they frolic in the yard and take care of their doggy business, I check their impromptu dens and change their bedding when necessary.

It’s a busy shift letting the forty-two dogs out and keeping the process steadily moving along. I know how cranky I would be if I was dependent on another being to allow me to go to the bathroom. The number of dogs in need of permanent homes swells at times, to as much as seventy. As tracks close all over the country adoption centers like this one must meet the demand of the increased number adoptable dogs.

This humble kennel in northern Vermont has never turned away a greyhound in need.

I have just added another function to my volunteer service; that of a member of the board of directors. A wise woman I know said everyone should sit on a non-profit board of directors. I am now privy to the financial aspect of the non-profit and often I wish I weren’t. The charity runs on the generosity of others, through donations and the other fundraising endeavors of the operation. The coffers are always low and the kennel seems to run on a month to month basis. Rent, utilities, and vet bills take their toll on the threadbare finances and I wonder if some catastrophe would push the charity to the breaking point. The weekend yard sale that lasts throughout the summer has ended, and the long cold winter approaches. The board has frequent meetings to discuss fund raising strategies in order to survive the cold months. The financial survival of the non-profit is a constant struggle.

I gain strength from the dogs. The mental burden of my role as a board member fades and my excitement rises as I take care of these beautiful animals. My worries and fears diminish as I look into the face of the first greyhound I let out of his apartment. I take a minute to scratch Mallow’s enthusiastic white face. I lean close and say to him, “I missed you, buddy.” He leaps out and runs around the kennel with wild abandon and I have no doubt he missed me too.

Donations can be sent to Northern Greyhound Adoptions, 999 Fairfax Road/Route 104, St. Albans, VT 05478 or online at http://www.Northerngreyhoundadoptions.org

Just a Pinch

It is said that split-second decisions can change your life. I didn’t understand how true that statement could be until the winter of 2006. I worked for Macy’s in the cosmetic department. I was a unique feature there; I was a heterosexual male. Therefore, I should have been on my guard.

As I squeezed my way past Marie, I impulsively pinched her squishy, 60-year old tushy with my thumb and index finger. I imagined her silent outrage as I walked away without acknowledging the maneuver, a smug smile on my face. I imagined myself quite the little trickster.

I knew Marie quite well, and she knew me. At least I thought so. We both worked in the cosmetic department at Macy’s, she at the Elizabeth Arden counter, and I in the fragrance department. Our areas of responsibility were close by and we would often help each other unpack shipments and deal with customers, if the other needed assistance. Such camaraderie often brings people closer. Friendships are created, not unlike those that serve in combat. Stress brings people together. I felt we were close enough that the pinch would be considered a funny prank. Hell, I had been to her home! We drank wine and she said I could stay over if I didn’t think I could safely drive home. I certainly didn’t think that was a sexual advance, just as I didn’t imagine she would think my innocent pinch could be interpreted any other way. The innocuous squeeze was meant to be a joke, a cute bit of fun during a boring workday at work. I expected she would chalk it up to typical Jan shenanigans. I liked to call them “Jananigans.”

My youthful exuberance was not always interpreted as such.

I had been in the store manager’s office on many occasions. I was, at one time, a night supervisor and reported directly to him on all things related to my duties. These duties included closing the store during the week, as well as the responsibility of supervising all the associates. The other managers and I called him simply “Matt.” He and I would talk casually about associates and fellow managers, sharing details of my previous evening’s shift. Sometimes we would even get off-topic and talk about movies and music. It was a business relationship, but he made the situation seem to be friendly and professional at the same time.

This time I didn’t sit in front of his oak desk that was cluttered with knick-knacks. Instead I sat at the small, round conference table off to the side of that desk. Instead of his smiling, goateed, forty-something face, I looked into the face of a more serious, almost somber, store-manager. Gone was the good-natured boss. Replacing him was the very severe, store manager of a national conglomerate.

To exemplify this, he was not alone. Sitting next to him at the conference table was a woman I had never seen before. I couldn’t guess her age if you put a gun to my head. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and consequentially the skin on her face appeared to be pulled tight. She could have been twenty five, or seventy-five. She wore a knee-length wool skirt that did not give a hint to her figure. The things I could determine about her was that she was thin, Caucasian, and serious.

“Jan, this is Eileen Scrimshaw. She is from the corporate office in New York,” said Matt, introducing the thin, serious Caucasian.

“Mr. Campbell, have you read the employee handbook?” she asked, getting right to the matter. There would be no back-and-forth in this duel. She was out for blood!

“Not in some time. Not since the turnover,” I said, referring to the Macy’s buy-out out the previous department store Filene’s, the year before.

“Specifically the two pages on sexual harassment,” she said.

My heart began to beat faster. Blood rushed to my face and I was dizzy like I had just been sucker-punched. She had indeed drew first blood.

“I guess,” I confirmed vaguely. I attempted a parry and quick counterstrike. “It’s bad, right?” My attempt at a joke pulled a dry chuckle from Matt but otherwise there was complete silence.

Ms. Scrimshaw cleared her throat signaling that this was not the time for levity. “Mr. Campbell, Macy’s takes very seriously accusations of sexual harassment and must investigate all claims of such activity.”

“Of course,” I agreed sheepishly.

“You work with Marie?” she asked.

I closed my eyes as the confusion I felt withdrew and understanding advanced in its place. “Yes,” I confirmed.

“She has written a complaint that on October, 11th, 2006 you pinched her on the rear-end while on the selling floor. Specifically, behind the Estee Lauder counter,” the details landed on me like a series of well-placed punches to my stomach. I struggled to breathe. “True, so far?” she asked.

I took a deep breath and said “Yup.”

She placed a clean white piece of paper in front of me and said “I want you to write your account of what happened. Just leave it on the table when you are done.” She and Matt stood up and quietly left the room, leaving me to find the words to detail an incident I had not thought of since it happened.

Ms. Scrimshaw poked her head back into the room and said, “Also, you are suspended until a decision is made regarding your employment at Macy’s.” She was gone again, leaving me cut up and wounded. I had lost the duel.

I felt very alone. Suddenly I was very angry! Why did Marie do this to me? We were friends; she knew I was only playing. Did she think I was coming-on to her? I mean, really! My self-righteous indignation was boiling to meltdown proportions!

I struggled to find the words as I detailed the short encounter. I made sure to indicate that I was friends with Marie and in no way was I making a sexual advance. I made a point to indicate how bad I felt about the incident. It was true, that I had not been overtly sexual to Marie, but I was lying when I said I felt bad. In fact, my only remorse was the fact that it had come to this. My excuses took up more room than the description of the incident.

It was a nerve-wracking couple of days, and the powers-that-be decided that I had not committed an egregious enough offence to lose my job. I suspected they thought I had learned my lesson by having to fear for my job for a couple days.

“What did I learn from my experience?” I ask myself. I learned to choose my words carefully. I learned that a single event can have multiple interpretations, and what may seem innocuous to one, may seem hostile to another. I certainly learned to be professional in my actions, while at work. Most of all, I learned to keep my hands to myself.

A History of Violence

I never knew my father. Alone, my mother raised me, but I lacked a male role model; a man who would teach me about girls, fishing and fighting. I had four older brothers who did have a father, but most of them had a penchant for violence that often got them into trouble. This violent history even got my oldest brother killed, so maybe it was best that I didn’t know my father. I believe violence has its place in the world, but there is a time and a place for fighting and there is a skill in knowing when and where.

My earliest role-models were the super heroes of four-color comic books. The modern age of comic books is filled with strong men and women who do not avoid the dangerous world of vigilante violence, but most avoid killing at all costs. Pop culture is filled with admirable, powerful heroes who punch first and ask questions later. However, super heroes do not actually risk much. Despite the risk to their social lives, the heroes usually win, and even when they die, they come back after a short hiatus.

“C’mon, kick his ass!” I was in a foster home at age seven and one of the first things my foster brothers and sisters wanted me to do was to beat up a local kid who was about my age. For some reason, they thought he deserved to be beaten up, but he was younger than them, so, by schoolyard rules was untouchable. I didn’t want to fight him, so I walked away. Perhaps I had failed an initiation test, but I didn’t care. That kid had done nothing to me, and I wasn’t going to fight someone else’s battle.

“I’m going to beat the shit out of you!” Nate Mason, a much bigger kid whispered to me in fifth grade math class. He was so much bigger than me that I didn’t doubt he had been held back once or twice.

I didn’t know what I did to warrant his aggression. I was quiet, but did well in math class and participated often. Only now do I realize how that might make a slender kid with glasses and a girl’s name the target of bullying, a term often used today, but hardly ever at the time.

All day he threatened me as we moved from class to class. “Jan, I’m gonna kick your ass after school!” I was terrified. I could have gone to the teacher, but that may have made things worse. In my frightened twelve-year old brain, the thought just didn’t occur to me.

The final school bell rang and I rushed out the front doors of the school. The door’s hadn’t closed behind me when I heard a familiar voice from behind me say, “Jan!”

Batman never called his mommy.

I spun and he was there- leaning against the brick wall next to the double-doors was Nate Mason, a full foot taller than me. Before he could say anything, I attacked him. With the strength of the Incredible Hulk and the rage of Wolverine I grabbed him by his heavy winter jacket and shoved him against the wall. Lke the Flash, I began to pummel him with a million punches. Only the shouts of the bus ladies brought me to my senses and I threw his broken body to the ground.

Perhaps that story is dramatized, but the details are true. What I learned from that incident and from the one before it was when to walk away from a fight and when to stand up for myself. The knowledge that it is sometimes important to fight my own battles is valuable. Over the years, I have been involved in figurative fights and literal ones. I have fought solo and alongside allies. And for every battle I won, I lost two. And every time I lost a fight, I learned much more than from the ones I won.

Toby goes home.

Hi, my name is Toby. I’m a retired racing greyhound and I lived at Northern Greyhound Adoptions in St. Albans, VT for years. I had a home, but I was surrendered because my owner didn’t have time for me. In the past few years, I have had two families adopt me, but they brought me back because I have “issues”. Evidently me tearing apart the house and barking for hours when left alone is “frowned upon.”

The kennel isn’t bad. I see many dogs come in and spend months, or even years, there before they pick someone to take them home. It gets loud sometimes, but I’m used to it. There are people that come to the kennel and let us out into the yard for bathroom breaks. Sometimes people come to take us for walks around town.

I have known this one guy for three years. He comes to the kennel once or twice a week and lets me (and everyone else) out for potty breaks. If it’s hot out; he’s there. Cold out; he’s there. Snow, sleet, hail and lightning don’t stop this guy! He always brings treats, and sometimes I even get a special chewie. He’s a pretty good guy.

I often thought he’d make a good person to live with, but he already had a dog. I could smell the boy-dog on his clothes. I always thought this dog was very lucky to have such a loving owner. I was content to enjoy our weekly time together.

Then one day, this guy takes me out of the kennel and into his vehicle. We go to his home and I wonder if I will get to meet Andy (that’s his dog-friend’s name). We arrive and I explore his house. We sit on the couch and eventually go to sleep in his big bed! It’s a dream come true and I wonder when it will end.

Everyone brings me back eventually.

I met the two cats that live there. They seem nice, but a bit nervous. Days pass and I don’t see his dog. I smell him everywhere; the couch, the floor, the bed, and all over the yard. Sometimes I see the guy and his face gets all red and water pours out of his eyes. I know he is sad, but there isn’t much I can do. He simply pets me and sometimes he hugs me, and he stops being sad.

I feel sad sometimes when he leaves. I cry a little, but he has always come back in the past. Even if it takes days, he has always come back. In his house he is only gone a few hours and he leaves the televison on for me. I feel more relaxed than I have in the past. I have yet to tear the place up.

It’s been a week and he doesn’t seem to be as sad as he was. He did seem upset when I pooped on the rug, but he just laughed, shook his head, and cleaned it up. Maybe he will learn the subtle nuances of the cues that I need to go out.

He helped me by taking me home with him. I feel good living in his house and sleeping in his bed. As much as I’m glad to be home and that he made my life better, I can’t help but feel like he needed me more than I needed him. Silly, huh?

Thanks, other-dog, wherever you are. I’ll take care of him until you can see him again. I know I’m finally home.

Loss of a friend

It is with a heavy heart that I announce the passing of my dog-pal Andy. He lived thirteen and a half years and was active almost until the end. He suffered a sudden onset of cancer in his leg and survived much longer than expected.

Even when walking was painful, he often insisted on going for a stroll around the block. Most of the time I was unprepared, wearing a t-shirt and shorts in the cold winter air for what I thought was a quick bathroom run. I couldn’t say no to him, so most of the time we went for a very cold (for me) walk.

It is often customary to talk about the good points of the deceased and my instinct is to say he was a good dog, but that’s not the truth. Like many of God’s creatures, he had his good and bad sides. People often blame the owner for a dog’s bad behaviors and Andy took after me in many ways. He played rough with other animals. Those weaker than him often got unintentionally roughed up. He never backed down from a fight, even when seemingly outmatched and outsized. He was protective to a fault and would bark furiously at everyone who crossed the barrier of his home territory, whether it was prowlers, the mailman, the landlord, a guest, or just a stupid cat. He played rough despite himself. I know he wanted to be friends with Proton. I could tell this by the way he wagged his tail while roughing up the dumb cat. Once, he attacked a skunk and clearly lost the fight. I could tell by the claw marks on his face and the overwhelming odor. He would have killed the skunk despite being squirted right in the face. I never got a thank-you from the skunk for pulling the dog off of it.

He wasn’t what anyone would call “well-trained”, but Andy knew some commands, such as “nevermind”, and “game over” when playing tug-of-war. He loved to go for rides in the car and go swimming in the pool. He would always wait for my signal to go in the pool and would obey my orders to “take a break” when doing laps. He even used the ladder to get out, a feat which would delight guests.

Although we were never certain of his lineage, we were certain of his character. Like me, he was stubborn to a fault. Diagnosing his ailment was very difficult because he refused to show where it hurt. He kept trying to do all his normal activities despite the fact that something was clearly wrong. He was loyal to his friends and those he loved, and sometimes played too rough with potential friends.

He had a sister at the Humane Society location where we adopted him. They were only three-months old when we went looking for an older dog. My ex-wife fell in love with them as they were behind the front desk when we arrived. The humane society seized the pair from a drug house and suspected they were rottweiler/pit-bull mixes. I think he was actually pit/lab, but that was open for debate. I wish we had adopted his sister, too. We could have named them Luke and Leia. I wonder where her life took her.

He could be called a foodie, though he was active enough to never have an ounce of fat. He loved to play ball indoors and out, swim, go for walks and play tug of war. He loved all food, including his crunchies, canned doggy food, pizza crusts, cheese, and in his weaker moments fell victim to the urge to sneak a fresh piece of kitty poop- litter and all.

There are too many memories to share, but some stand out to me. When he was just a puppy, he growled at a pair of earmuffs on the floor of my car. He always barked at thunder, and in later years I realized it wasn’t because he was afraid, he was warning “the pack” of danger as he did when any car pulled into the driveway. More than once I came home to the trash can having been destroyed in the hunt for some tasty tidbit.

Andy was a good dog and a bad dog. He had personality and even had his own Facebook page (for some reason he had friends that I didn’t even know). He was my first dog. but definitely not my last. There will never be another dog more annoying, vicious, loving, or stupid while simultaneously showing glimpses of brilliance. I just can’t imagine life without that stupid mutt. He was always a rock; he was a stoic figure of constancy during the good and bad times of the past thirteen years. The world will be a little less without my dog-pal Andy Campbell We both love you, you big dummy. I hope you’re barking viciously at the mailman who tries to deliver mail to the pearly gates.

I write this watching him devour the last rawhide chewie he will ever eat. I hope there’s a God, because I know Andy would be patiently waiting for him to finish his pizza, so he could have the heavenly pizza bones.

Good dog.

Pain of Love Part Two- II

“Can you do it?” Raven asked the question pleadingly. “We have travelled so far and I owe him so much.”

The old hag they had travelled so far to see just stood there and let Raven plead her case. Long moments passed and Grayne felt he could actually hear her dying. The sound he heard may have only been the creaking sound that emitted from her withered form. Aside from that, the room was silent.

The woman finished contemplating and her words seemed to creak out of her. “Raven, I can do it, that’s not the question. The question is; can he survive the process?” She breathed the words and they hung in the air like swamp air- toxic and heavy.

Though the woman’s eyes had lost their luster perhaps decades ago, Raven looked into them with the seriousness of stone. She said, “If there is any man alive who can, it is this one.”

Grayne stepped forward and also met the ancient woman’s stern gaze. His eye narrowed as he examined the hag. With sudden forcefulness he pulled Raven out of the grass thatched hut. He leaned over and in hushed but forceful tones said, “This…”, he struggled for the word, “…woman is veritably ancient!” In response to the look that came upon Raven’s pristine face, he said, “I know you said she is a miracle worker, but I don’t know…”

From the hut, the crone breathed, “I may be old, but my ears are as keen as any bird of prey.”

“It’s her eyes I’m worried about,” Grayne mumbled.

“Grayne, please! I know it sounds hard to believe, but I have seen her handiwork before. She can save your jaw!”

Grayne looked skeptical. “You’ve seen her replace teeth in someone’s jaw before?”

Raven lowered her head and spoke at the ground, a response Grayne had become accustomed to in the months since they had escaped the torture chamber of Farzan. “Well, no; only the reverse.”

Grayne was about to grab her and run as fast and as far as possible away from this place when suddenly the hag was beside him. She made no creaking as she sneaked up beside Grayne, but her putrid breath hit him like a fist of rotting foods. He wondered how this woman whose mouth smelled like dead things could perform a procedure on his own mouth.

“Grayne, though I have never done the procedure before, I have seen it done. Not with actual teeth, mind you, but with Dragoncalc, a stone that has the same hardness and structure as real teeth,” the hag spoke at Grayne.

He looked down at the woman, who was more than a foot shorter than her and shook his head in silent acceptance. After all, he could not present himself to Summer, the woman he loved, in his current condition. After a deep breath, he asked, “What can I offer you in payment? We have a few gold Stags, but perhaps I can…” Grayne looked at the hut for chores he could perform, but it seemed in good working order. The roof, though made of grass and sticks seemed strong and the wooden walls seemed in good repair.

She looked at him and with a smile that had two more teeth than Grayne’s said, “I am an old woman, and it has been years since I have known the tender touch of a man. Though I am old, I do have needs.” The words lingered in the air with fetidness.

Grayne staggered back from the impact of her statement. Though he had faced many terrors over the years that had hardened his mind making him effectively fearless, terror struck him in the gut and his stomach flipped.

The old hag began to cackle! “You should see your face. Don’t worry, Grayne. I wouldn’t fuck you for all the crowns in all of the Lannisters’ vaults.” She turned and walked back into her hut breathing a final cloud over her shoulder, “You’re too ugly!”

Pain of Love- Part Two- I

Grayne woke with a start. He threw off the blankets that covered him and struggled to stand. A pale-skinned woman with curly black hair stood from the chair by the fireplace and rushed over to him.

“Grayne, you need to take it easy,” she said urging him to return to the bed.

“Who are you?! Where am I?” he demanded from a crouched position. He looked ready to spring and his single good eye scoured the room. He acted like a wild cornered animal although he was still emaciated and could barely stand. In fact, he looked as if he might topple.

The black-haired woman spoke in a soothing voice. “Grayne, we are at the Cardinal’s Roost, an inn in the town of Falnook. We left Farzan and the Citadel weeks ago. I am Raven. Do you remember me?”

Her words seemed to take the fight out of him and Grayne fell backwards onto the bed. “Yes, I do remember.” He put his hand over his damaged eye and felt a patch covering the grisly opening. He struggled to remember and said, “I am so very tired.”

“You have been asleep for twelve hours,” Raven said as she moved over to the table near the door. She brought a tray and set it on the edge of the bed. “I have apples and milk.” She held out an apple segment for him to take. “I didn’t think you’d want bread,” she said lowering her eyes bashfully.

Grayne snatched the apple piece from her hand and ate it voraciously. “Go slowly,” she warned. “You will make yourself sick. You need time to adjust.” She handed him another piece of apple and took the knife from the tray and began to cut more segments.

Grayne ate the second piece more slowly, but he still eyed her suspiciously, like a wild animal, as though she might take the apple away from him. She handed him another piece and began to pour milk from a pitcher into a metal cup. As she handed it to him, she asked, “Who’s Summer?”

Grayne’s eyes narrowed. He threw the cup full of milk aside and it splashed onto the wooden floor. With strength borne of anger he grabbed Raven by her black hair. She screamed and he took up the apple knife and placed it against her neck. A line of red trickled down her porcelain neck.

Desperately she cried out, “You said her name in your sleep. Please, I meant nothing by the question.”

He let out a guttural noise from his toothless maw. “What is this? Is this a trick?” Years of physical, emotional and psychological torture left him with the belief that even this could be part of Farzan’s cruelty. “Answer me, or by The Seven I will cut your pretty throat without a second thought!”

“Grayne! No, this is no trick! Farzan is imprisoned by your house.” Grayne tensed up at hearing Farzan’s name. “I swear to you, I only want to help you.”

“Why?!” he asked as the blade pushed deeper into the flesh of her neck.

“I…I,” she stammered. “I want to repay you for what I have done to you. For the years you lost. For…for my role in..” she trailed off.

“I don’t need your help!” he shouted as he pushed himself off her while still holding the blade at his side. “I don’t want your help,” he said just above a whisper.

“Grayne, I will do anything to save you. Please, you have to trust me.”

He turned back, and in a flash was back upon her. “I have to?” he asked with a pink gummy smile. His single grey eye bore into her skull before he pushed her away.

“On the table there is a small leather bag. Please look in it,” she said short of breath.

Grayne looked at her for long moments, searching her face for a clue as to her motives. Finally, he rose off her and moved unsteadily to the desk. He lifted the brown leather bag and looked back at her. The bag was light. He expected it to be filled with coin, perhaps a consolation for her participation in the years of torture he withstood. He looked at the bag and back at her.

She looked down at the floor as she said, “Go ahead. Open it.”

Grayne pulled the bag open and peered inside. He squinted as he looked for several long moments, trying to comprehend what was inside. “Is this a joke?” He threw the bag at her, but Raven did nothing to defend herself from it. She simply let it hit her in the face. The brown bag flopped onto the floor and its contents spilled out onto the oval rug underneath her.

Splayed across the floor were thirty-two teeth.

Pain of Love 10 (End Part 1)

Grayne heard the distant sound of horns and wondered if they were part of his dreams. He dismissed the idea, because he rarely slept deeply enough to dream.

He remained still and listened.

Again he heard them. His muscles were weak and his body was bruised and mangled, but his ears were sharper than they ever were. He spent most of his days listening to the sounds beyond his prison and imagining the forms those sounds belonged to.

He listened for the return of Farzan.

Minutes passed and several times he heard the sound of booted footsteps running outside his prison. He remained lying on the floor, listening to the thrum of troop movements, feeling their unified booted footsteps passing on all levels of the keep he had been a prisoner within for almost five years. He felt a feeling he had not felt for as long as he could remember.

He felt hope.

That hope suddenly washed away as the heavy wooden door to the ten-foot chamber he lived in opened with a clang. Farzan entered the chamber with a rapid clack of his heavy boots. In a flash of motion, Farzan stood above the withered form of Grayne with a blade at his neck.

“You win, Grayne. I know not how you have survived all these years, much less resisted giving me the one thing I wanted from you. Troops from your family house are here and it is likely that they will take the keep. That is why I have decided to kill you.”

From the stone floor, Grayne looked up at his torturer. Though he lacked the strength to resist the sword-wielding man standing over him, his one deep blue eye continued its defiance. The other was milky white and bore a deep scar from the top of his right cheek across his eye and to his forehead.

Grayne’s toothless smile grinned up at Farzan. His ghastly mouth and grotesque eye seemed to mock his torturer. “You almost had me. I was planning on saying your lover’s name later this evening,” Grayne mocked him. “Let’s make a deal. If you can hold the keep until the Hour of the Wolf, I will say his name.”

Farzan was not amused. “You won the game, northerner.” The black-bearded masochist prepared to thrust his blade into Grayne’s exposed throat. Grayne did not resist. He could not stand much less defend himself.

Grayne’s lethargy turned to action and he suddenly yelled, “No!” Suddenly a hooded figure was upon Farzan, but he sidestepped and managed to avoid a fatal strike. Instead, the blade jutted out of his left breast. Blood poured from the wound as he pulled himself from the blade and his attacker.

Stumbling away, he dropped his sword and turned to see the hooded form of his female assistant. She was defenseless, but he was too stunned to attack her. He just stood there as soldiers entered the room.

Three men of house Marbrand entered the torture chamber with blades barred. One pointed his sword at the robed woman and another prevented Farzan from fleeing. The final warrior approached the beaten form of Grayne and started to cut him down. His sword wouldn’t cut the thick chains, so he began to look for keys.

In seconds, the soldier found the keys and freed Grayne. He slid off the torture rack and the soldier struggled to keep him upright.

“Why, Grayne? Why did you save him?” the hooded woman asked.

Grayne answered her with a question of his own, “What’s your name?”

“Raven.”

“Raven, this man’s life is mine to take. I will kill him in time.”

The soldier that freed Grayne unsheathed his dagger and held it out to Grayne. “Go ahead.”

Grayne looked for long moments at the man who had tortured him for years. He stared with his one good eye at the now-powerless Farzan and slowly shook his head. “No. Not like this. One day, when we are both at full strength.” He smiled a horrible toothless smile and said, “I need him to fight back.”

Pain of Love 9

“Wake up, my love. Happy nameday!”

Grayne propped himself up on one arm as his three children stormed into the bedroom and leapt onto the mattress stuffed with goose feathers. The two black-haired boys wrestled with their father as the youngest girl, his red-haired daughter, smiled by the foot of the bed.

He looked past the battle and standing there, hair aflame in the sunlight was Summer, his devoted and beautiful wife. “Boys, boys, let your father eat his breakfast!” She shooed the boys away and presented Grayne a tray overflowing with meats and breads. “I will be back with juice and beer.”

“Thank you. Thank you, all,” he said wrapping his arms around both boys. “It all looks so delicious! It’s a good thing, because I’m famished!”

Grayne awoke with a start. He was curled-up and shivering on the stone floor, and as usual, naked. His unkempt brown hair was shoulder-length. His skin had a yellowish hue, a combination of lack of sunlight and a lack of nutrition. The deficiency of appropriate foodstuffs was evident in his frail frame. The once heavily-muscled, young man in the prime of his life and in peak physical condition now looked like a man three times his actual age.

He never slept well and was prone to frequent interruptions of his sleep pattern. He awoke to a noise and was instantly on alert. The sound of a key in the heavy and rusting iron lock of his metal prison cell roused him from his fitful rest. His eyes squinted at the light originating from the lanterns that seemed suspended in mid -air. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the shadowy forms of the armed and armored guards. His eyes opened wide in surprise at the figure behind the soldiers. Farzan’s boots made a clacking sound with which Grayne was all-too familiar.

“Farzan-the-Mighty! Long time no see, old friend,” Grayne cackled trying to stand.

One of the guards ended his attempt to rise with a kick to the jaw that rattled his teeth and sent him crashing into the stone corner with a thump.

Farzan strode past the guards and stood before Grayne’s crumpled form. “Every time I return from the field I half-expect you to be dead.” He crouched down in front of the naked bruised man, his leather armor creaking as he moved. “However, I am pleased to see you alive. It means our fun is not at an end.” He motioned to the soldiers and they picked up the naked prisoner roughly. Grayne mumbled something and Farzan urged him to speak louder.

Grayne struggled to speak. “I said, I would like to see the manager of this inn, the service is terrible.” He smiled a crooked smile as the soldiers strapped him to the cold steel table that was already stained with his own blood.

“I grow tired of this,” growled Farzan.

“Then why don’t you let me go?” Grayne asked. “We will call it even. Months of torture as payment for the death of whats-his-name…Rodderick!”

Then he saw her. She walked into the cell quietly enough and hidden by the shadowy illumination of the lanterns resting on the floor. He knew not her name and had seen little of her form beneath the dark hooded robes. He had caught glimpses, and his brain filled in the gap for what his eyes could not see.

She strode quickly and quietly, and stopped beside Farzan. Grayne saw she carried something metal, and before she lifted the lid, he smelled what was inside the metal serving tray. The enticing smell of cooked goose wafted from the metal lid and he almost lost consciousness.

Farzan said, “Smells good, doesn’t it? I am giving you a choice, old friend.” Farzan punched the last word with a sarcastic blow and held out a small metal item. At first Grayne thought it was a dagger, but upon further inspection saw it was a dental tool, a small metal item used to pull a rotten tooth from its socket. As a child, he had been a victim of a tool similar to the one before him, and the memory of the shooting pain it brought caused him to close his eyes tightly.

“You have three choices. You may stay here in this cell and continue with your diet of toilet water every other day and moldy bread twice a week.” Farzan paced dramatically. “Or, you may have a bite of this succulent goose,” he said with a flourish and the robed woman lifted the lid to reveal the fresh cooked goose. Grayne gazed wide-eyed and the scent overwhelmed him and he began to drool.

Farzan turned back to Grayne suddenly, and said, “But, the food comes with a price. For each bite, I will take one of your teeth.” Farzan raised the dental tool. “Or,” the torturer took a deep breath before continuing, “You can say his name and I will grant you the sweet release of death!”

The robed woman coughed quietly as Farzan’s words lingered in the air with the smell of spiced cooked goose and dried blood. Seconds passed as Farzan waited for an answer.

Grayne mumbled something.

Farzan punched Grayne in the forehead. He leaned in so his face was almost touching Grayne’s. “Speak up, boy! What shall it be? Delicious cooked goose?” Farzan paused and then he said, “Or death?”

Long moments passed as Farzan breathed heavily on Grayne. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I was this close to a man. The last one was a bit lower. He had my sword and scabbard in his mouth, if you catch my meaning. What was his name?”

Farzan reeled back in fury as the soldiers rushed forward. “Hold him tight, men. Keep his mouth open.” Before Farzan went to work brutally extracting Grayne’s teeth, he whispered, “You could have had goose.”

Grayne closed his eyes tightly as his mind drifted to his imaginary family. Though his illusory reflections distracted his mind, they did not eliminate the pain of the removal of each and every one of his teeth.

Jan-Ives Campbell

Autobiographical and fiction stories as well as random nonsense.

Author: Jan-Ives Campbell