Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Chapter Three

       The Obscene World Of Flesh.  Here reside animated things made of energy, and dirt, and water.   Combined and recombined, broken down to constituents in a self refining manner, it is a flowing to the future.  This magical mix,  powered by other dimensional forces, and possessing a passive memory helix of monstrous proportion,  allow The Creator to penetrate this  reality, which is the true purpose of the Creator.  The Creator is an Engine of Construction,  a vortex program of water and dirt, a Penetrant into the World Of Light.

       The Creator is you.

       Creation is your purpose.   It is what you do.  You are here so The Creator can be here.  It cannot be more simply defined.

      Reality being what it is, many times conflict occurs, there is an uneven melding where forces collide, death happens.  Also, things wear out.  Deadly mistakes are really just deadly moments, unavoidable, they are the point where an organism, an engine, stops creating.  There is not really an end to lifes forces though.  This is much more understandable in the other world, not such a struggle to perceive as it is here.   Pain is transient, but Identity is forever.

       The other world has its charms, no doubt, but it is not the World Of Light.  In this  physical reality everything is literally made of light, even matter is made of light.  Matter is a concentrated form of energy, a densely constructed electromagnetic energy field.  Tight Light.  High Order.  Perhaps the most finely derived coherent form of matter is light, its milieu both playground and classroom for Id Entities. Identities.


      One of the men in the surveyors group had been lost, as an engine he was irretrievably broken, his identity was no longer secured to physical reality because his body was no longer capable of creating moments.  He had unwittingly walked right into a hunting camp of Seminoles, all adult males, and one of them shot him in his heart without thinking.   These were not the civilized Seminoles from around Fort Brooke, oh no no no.  These were WILD Seminoles, Johnny had seen the difference very quickly,  and the other men already knew.  These wild Seminoles were hostile combatants, unashamed of using their enemies technology against them, proud of it in fact.  Defiant, and very easy to pull a trigger.  Death Wish.

      The soldier who the indians shot discharged his weapon upon being struck by the enemy ball, but shot wild.  His name was Pvt. Roger Wolfe, yet another casualty in the seemingly endless drama of violence and conquest which so far has been the human condition.  Pvt. Wolfes hunting partner was with his body now, and quick time would be made to achieve a field funeral for the fallen man.  There would be a mass grave burial for the Seminoles.

      Dead Roger Wolfes hunting partner, Pvt. Nathan Holsum, had been walking nearby but out of sight of the Seminoles when Wolfe had been shot to death.  Holsum sniped the enemy camp, knocking down one of the Seminoles, who did not get back up.  He drew fire to himself, but was able to dodge behind a large pine tree and reload.  He took another of the Seminoles with his second shot, killed him outright.  Two more soldiers,  Rifleman Charles Holloway, and Rifleman Shane Paruche, arrived and immediately began shooting into the Seminole camp.  Ben Grierson and the Captain were last, and found good solid trees to hide behind.  The shooting became calculated and deadly.  Each of the men comprising the survey crew, from the Captain down, had fired 1000's of balls just during the last few years, and every soldier made practice on a regular basis.  Lead was cheap, flint was free, and powder was made to be used before the dampness got to it.  The Seminole who unthinkingly shot Pvt. Wolfe had rained destruction down upon his own head, and the heads of his tribesmen.  The Hounds Of Hell.  Rome reborn twenty centuries old.

      The five Seminoles who had slunk by Johnny Prestwicks position at the wagons and cooks tent had been fleeing the scene, but ran into a deadly hornets nest instead.   Johnny had gotten his two, and the three men in the Captains group had come up undetected from behind,  3 Seminoles 3 Musket Balls.  The. Obscene. World. Of. Flesh-uh.  There had been a total of 11 Seminoles in the hunting party.  Their physical loss was total.

      If it had been up to the Seminoles it would have been the other way around.

      Military training and equipment are Very Serious Things in the land of the predator,  and are not to be scoffed at.  The more wealthy a nation, the greater its military.  There is no recourse but force.  It is the law of this land, and always has been.  Any propaganda to the contrary is without foundation.  Events speak louder than words, and events have been in the very least repetitive, if not redundant.  Even banal.

      It was thought by the United States military that there were less than 5000 Seminoles in the entire state of Florida, but many of those were considered hostile because massacres of European whites were known to happen with some regularity.  It was why the military was here, it was a true state of war.  Add the fact that this was the SECOND Seminole Indian War, and one may see that not only was the military established throughout all of Florida, but it now had some years of experience to draw upon, too.   According to the Second Treaty, Seminoles either had to go west, or stay on their reservation in the Everglades.  The Second Seminole Indian War was enforcement of that.   The well established military and a burgeoning industry up north allowed consolidation of the Union to proceed at a frenetic pace, and so it did. 

      The Captain said it most eloquently as the seven remaining surveyors stood around the grave of their fallen comrade: 

      "We must try our hardest to bring about about a better world, even though our mistakes sometimes lead us astray.  Action is superior to rest, in the world of Light.  There will be plenty of time for rest and darkness later."

      Without thinking Johnny said "Amen", and the rest of the men repeated it, several emphatically.  

      During the burial of the indians it was noted that at least 2 of the "Indians" were really negroes, escaped slaves.    Johnny had met negroes in his life, on occasion finding them somewhat comical in an otherwise rigid world.  They were a large part of early America whether they, or anyone else, liked it or not.  Johnny had never really been able to comprehend slavery, though it was well established in the world, and had been for thousands of years.  The slaves were coming far fast he thought.  From a stone age hunting culture to guns and industrial machines and motors in one generation.  The indians too.  The ones that lived.  Everyone was in for a short wild ride, and the best one could hope for was to prolong the ride, get the most out of their penny.  Those dead Seminoles and Negroes, their ride was over, their penny was up.  Pvt Roger Wolfes too.  


      Camp was vacated early the next morning.  The remaining 7 men were on their way north again, though not as light hearted as they had been just the day before.   A large stone from the river was placed on the grave of Pvt. Roger Wolfe, and the Captain noted the exact location of the grave in the survey journal, for future reference, in case it became necessary to retrieve the body later.   The Seminole Indians grave had been left unmarked near a very large oak tree.

       All the men were glad to leave this place of death.  The natural beauty of the area was hidden now behind a pall of morbid haziness, created inside the mens minds, fabricated by themselves from dread and superstition, obscuring their vision from the inside out.  A dis-ease.  This pall of dread hanging over the troops would pass, but it would forever be renewed too.  Facts of life.

      Peoples memories generally sort themselves with the more pleasant to the front, and the less pleasant to the rear, a saving grace.

      About middle day the group came upon a clear spring which literally bubbled out of the earth to form a small pond below it.  The men stopped to take a rest, and to refresh the horses.    Johnny had a moment so he walked a sandy area around the edge of the pond, and he began to see flakes of stone.  He let his eyes adjust a little to the shade created by some large oaks, which grew to fantastic size near the Florida water sources.  The moss was thick in these old oaks, it looked like long grey wizards beards.  When dried this moss was a good usable commodity as cushion stuffing.

       Johnny could hear some kind of far distant but rythmic knocking noise, he wondered what it could be.  He was startled by the thought that perhaps the noises were native drums announcing the deaths of comrades....but this line of thinking was foolishness, it was not possible, and besides the knock knock knocking did not sound like drums at all, though he could not really say what it might be.   Johnny began to search the sandy area above the waters edge.  It was not long before he found another beautiful spearpoint for his collection, a collection which was growing fast and becoming almost cumbersome.   This point was pink and glass-like, about as long as his palm was wide.  He held it up to a ray of light streaming down through the oak trees.  The stone glowed translucent.  Amazing.

      Johnny had thought himself alone, and was slightly disturbed to hear a low whistle from about ten feet away, even though it was a whistle of appreciation.  He turned and looked behind himself to see Matthew Gilmour standing there, he'd been going somewhere and had walked by as Johnny held the spearpoint up to the sunlight.  Johnny felt chagrine at his secret being discovered, but immediately thought better of it.  This was The Captain, if anyone could appreciate these stone works of art for what they were it was The Captain.   The Captain waited expectantly.

      "They are weapons from a time before..."  Johnny knew it sounded funny but it was the truth.  He held the spearpoint out to Captain Gilmour, who walked forward and took  the artifact of stone with what could only be called reverence.   He observed it closely, a Hmmph here, an Ah there, as was his way, then handed it back to Johnny.   The men looked each other in the eyes and a spark of understanding  passed between them, there were no words, and there did not have to be.  The spear head spoke volumes, to people who understood certain things.  The necessity of eating.  The wild, unbridled planet, with all its beasts, and what it takes to live here.  Oh yes, volumes.

       Johnny began to tell the Captain of his discovery and exploitation of these tradeable and perhaps even saleable works of art which he had seen no where else in all his travels.  His Grandpa had taken him hunting birds out in the harvested fall fields of his home state, and there had been found arrowheads of a sort,  but crude, chunky, and made from grey and brown materials mostly.  These were still dutifully collected, because they were interesting and could be used in trade among some men.  

      "These Florida agate spearheads are the most well made and colorful types I have ever come across, " finished Johnny.

      "Well John Prestwick," said the Captain, "Thanks very much for the instruction, and perhaps I will be able to repay in kind one day soon."  The Captains eyes were already scanning the sand below their feet for shards, as Johnny had explained. 

A book in progress.
June-October 2013.

1 comment:

  1. unable to edit this from seffner public library at this time, there is disruption here by idiots i think...lot o that in tampa...b