Barrett Greenfield Chapter 3: Calvin

Barrett tossed in his sleep that evening, troubled by strange, fragmented dreams through which Lydia drifted, taunting and unreachable. Beside him in the dark, his brother Archer snored raspingly, periodically bringing Barrett into semi-consciousness. During these interludes, the events of the preceding evening came rushing in upon him, and he struggled to find solace in the deep disruption of his life.

His dreams clung to him each time he awoke, and he tasted them briefly before they faded. They were feverish - bearing confused scenarios of rapprochement or hostility, twisted and disjointed arguments with their principal players merging into one another in unlikely amalgams. Under all of the dreams was a taut sexual impulse, that spurred on incessant images of Lydia's breasts straining at her tunic. But even through the desire, Barrett always felt the claustrophobia. He was being cornered, and he knew that he would behave as any animal would. Tossing, sweating, he rode through half-aware arousal to see Lydia's face merge into the maddening stare of Calvin Applewood, to see Calvin's sneer become the drooling maw of a mad dog, and that mad dog sprout the long white locks of Dana Wolfwood.

At last, the sky outside began to lighten perceptibly, and with it he shook off the last of the dreams and came fully awake. Barrett's mouth was dry and tired, and he longed to make his way downstairs for a drink. But instead he lay still, soaking in the relief of the dawn. The thin light brought the shapes of the room into focus, the smooth white walls contrasting with the dark wooden beds, and the chests at their feet. As the oldest male child of the Greenfield family, Barrett's bed was arranged closest to the door - Barrett was to serve as both night-watchman on his brothers and as disciplinarian, preserving order at all costs. There was no need now, for his three brothers slept on, oblivious to Barrett's glances in their direction.

Barrett considered, and summarily rejected the hypothesis that dreams were a subconscious analytic process. Rather than bringing resolution, the dreams of the night had only brought a faint nausea and a persistent anxiety. But with the automatic functions of the introspective and self-defensive, Barrett launched immediately into unrelated action in order to clear his head.

Barrett rose and stripped off his nightgown. Hanging it on the hook beside his bed, he padded to the chest at its foot and opened it. The wooden-pin hinges creaked loudly in the dim room, and Archer stirred in his sleep. Barrett made no specific effort to be quiet as he selected a pair of light brown leather trousers and pulled them on. He followed these with a green tunic, lacing the neck with one hand as he rummaged under his bed for his boots.

Clothed and shod, he stood up and surveyed the room. The sun had risen over the mountains, washing the sky in a gentle pink glow. Archer eyed him from across the room, then closed his eyes quickly to feign sleep.

"I see that you are awake," Barrett said evenly.

"Let us sleep, Barrett. We had to do all the work last night."

Dell and Dale stirred, Dell pulling the covers up over his head and making a muffled groan.

"You didn't do have the work of the girls," Barrett replied, "let them sleep in. It's time we were up and readying the kitchen.

Silence followed as Archer obstinately closed his eyes. Barrett sighed, walked to the foot of Archer's bed, and pulled the covers away. Enduring his brother's glares, he kicked the foot of Dell's bed and then did the same to Dale's.

"Enough. It is Saturday morning and you know well enough that we have chores. I am hungry, and the sooner we prepare the kitchen, the sooner we eat. Now, up!"

Archer, Dell, and Dale swung out of their beds, Archer continuing to eye Barrett all the while.

"You barely slept last night, Barrett" Archer prodded. "Is something troubling you? Could it be that you have a touch of nerves where Lydia is concerned?" Archer's insight was not unexpected. Barrett knew well that he could not avoid the observations of his family, but was prepared to deal with the matter as he always had.

"It is none of your concern, Archer. Note that while I slept fitfully, I am the first to wake, first to dress, and am discharging my obligation to move you louts into action. As to Lydia, it is a matter out of my hands. The decision will be made by Father and Havoc Wolfwood."

Archer chuckled. Dell and Dale were beginning to pay attention to the discussion.

"I know you better than that, Barrett. When you find yourself assigned a task by Father you accept it and don't spend half the night turning about. Something about this is touching you wrong. Are you afraid of Lydia? Or is it that you know Calvin has eyes for her, and she for him."

"If Calvin has eyes for Lydia, he had better set them on another," Barrett said calmly, but he instantly knew he was betraying too much. Beside the complex anticipation of Lydia, Barrett knew that his next great weakness was the self-satisfied pleasure of seeing Calvin thwarted. Never mind that in all likelihood, Barrett would be exposed, and Calvin and Lydia would be united after all - at least for this moment Barrett had what Calvin wanted. But Archer's grin was apparent in the pink light, and Barrett braced himself.

"I can see why you're upset, Barrett - knowing that you'll be joined to a woman who wants another man. And heaven knows what Calvin will do. He'll drag the Greenfield name through the Court of Nature like a Tunnel Digger on display."

"That is enough, Archer. You clearly know little of the nature of men and women. Lydia is not like her mother. She is firmly in control of her mind and desires. Since Havoc and Father have designed a union, she will recognize its many advantages. Once the marriage is announced, any thoughts of Calvin will be gone. Lydia is eminently practical."

"More practical than you, for example." Archer's eyes narrowed.

"Yes - more practical than me. But not more rational, Archer, for I am a man, and she is a woman, and she will accede to my superiority in sensibility."

"Now who is it that knows little of the nature of men and women," came a voice from the door. Barrett's heart skipped as he spun around, to see his sister Clara behind him at the door to the boys' room. It had been two years since Clara had married and left the Greenfield home for her husband's, and Barrett had forgotten how quietly she moved. She was already dressed for the day, wearing a simple brown long-sleeved dress, girded at the waist with a wide green belt. The marble-stained hickory buckle was utilitarian, but somehow elegant - with an almost un-noticeable arch in the buckle's cage that lent Clara's figure a lithe air.

"Barrett, why don't you use some of your superior sensibility to get these ruffians downstairs to ready the kitchen. Unless you would like to prepare breakfast yourself. I'm overdue, and Glen will be tired of caring for little Leda if I am not home soon."

Dell and Dale laughed. Barrett turned back to Archer.

"Let this be a lesson, Archer. The mind of man may be subtle indeed, but nothing moves with purpose like a woman's feet."

Clara pulled the back of Barrett's hair in response, which set his three brothers to loud laughter. Barrett silenced them with one hand, pointing downstairs. Truculently, the three filed past him and slipped downstairs passed their parents' room. Clara stayed behind with Barrett, watching them descend the stairs. Then she walked to his bed and sat on the corner.

"I overheard much, Barrett," she began, softly, "and frankly I have the same concerns as Archer, though for different reasons. Despite what he said, he doesn't know you as well as I do. But I think he's right. I think you are.... frightened? Of Lydia."

"Think what you will, Clara. As you well know, my power to persuade this family of my own thoughts and intentions has never been sufficient."

"Nonsense, Barrett. Have you forgotten me this much? Your power to persuade is greater than that of any man I have ever met. You are successful in this because we are all such fools in relying upon only one means of observation, and casting aside all others, as if our eyes were so sufficient that we ignored what our ears told us in contradiction."

"Clara... take care in what you say!"

"I am, Barrett. But do you sufficiently understand me? That I understand you?"

"Clara, you do not understand me if you thus commit fallacious extrapolation."

"Alright, Barrett," Clara replied, visibly irritated. "You force me to come out with it. Lydia knows you as I do. Am I correct? She has made you aware of this, and this hangs like a pall over any union?"

"Interesting," Barrett replied.

"And you desire her more than you can bear. Am I correct? There is much that you can control, Barrett, but your body often gives you away. Were you aware that you were clutching the arms of your chair as if each was a bucking horse's pommel? Were you aware that your face was flushed, and your eyes strayed too often away from Lydia face, and bore too much on her father's?"

Barrett was stunned.

"Clara! Do you think they...."

"Barrett," Clara replied, her voice soft once more, "Did I not preface this discussion by indicating that the ability to use powers of observation other than bald-faced reason is beyond everyone but you, me, and Lydia?"

"And Calvin," Barrett replied. His heart was in his boots. The inevitable doom of the wedding was months away. But now he realized that his artifices were for naught. Clara might believe that only the few possessed the ability to read others, but Barrett knew that it was not an inability, but a refusal to admit that they had discernment beyond the immediately rational.

"Pah!" Clara spat. "Calvin Applewood is bent solely on Calvin Applewood. If he dislikes you, it is because you are a rival in the esteem of Grainger. Once he sees that you are to be married to Lydia, and thus will not seek a seat on the Court of Nature, he will dismiss you as a mere farmer, and you will pass from his thoughts."

"Clara, since you have these great powers of observation, I would like you to apply them carefully to Calvin. I believe that what you will see will give you great concern. As to Lydia, and her knowledge of me, she as much as said..."

"Barrett!" came a voice from the hallway. Barrett stopped short, as his and Clara's heads turned toward the hall.

"Yes Father." Barrett replied.

Bartle Greenfield eased his massive frame into the doorway, prepared to impose. But he relaxed somewhat when he saw Clara.

"Barrett - you do well to wake your brothers early. They must learn your discipline. But you do poorly when you awaken your mother and I in the process. In the future, I expect that you will show more decorum."

"Yes Father."

"Now. Clara, since you are here, you may assist your Mother in preparing breakfast."

"Yes Father."

Clara arose, and, with her back to her Father, softened her blue-gray eyes to Barrett. Despite his misgivings about Clara's naivete, Barrett felt his anxiety ease, and he suddenly felt the enclosing walls slide a little further away.

As Clara left the room, Bartle turned and went with her, leaving Barrett alone. Striding to the window, Barrett sought to regain his typical demeanor.

Why are you walking to the window?
To observe the clouds and anticipate the weather.
Why are you leaning against the window pane?
It is to keep my balance. I slept poorly and am dizzy.
Why are you fidgeting? Is it the marriage?
Again, I slept poorly.
Why did you sleep poorly? Are you nervous?
No. I was hungry at dinner and ate too quickly. My stomach was thus poorly prepared for digestion. I find that there is a cyclic behavior to digestion that can be coupled with rhythms of meal patterns to prevent acidic reaction. However, I failed to exercise restraint due to my hunger, and thus am learning the lesson again.
Do you love Lydia?
No. Love is criminal.
Do you desire Lydia?
The visceral reactions of the male psyche are to be expected, and my reactions are concordant with Lydia's bearing.
Do you love her?
No. Love is criminal.
Do you fear her?
No. Fear is irrational.
Do you fear Calvin?
No. Fear is irrational.
Is there anything that you fear?
Yes. Unreason.
Why are you still standing at this window?
The clouds are unusual. It is taking some time for me to anticipate the weather.
Are you sure you are not daydreaming?
Yes. I am sure.

Thus armored against the day, Barrett descended to the dining room to await breakfast.

*******

Barrett's thoughts returned to Clara as he made his way with his Father, Mother, and three brothers to the Rotunda at the center of Grainger. The cobbled streets were still slightly damp with dew, ever present in this northern clime, even in the midst of summer. The family's footsteps melded into the riot of steps of Grainger's best families as they made their way toward today's instructions.

It was all well and good for Clara to flirt with disaster by displaying her irrational nature. She was a woman, and some weakness was expected in them, if not condoned. And Clara was unrestrained. Her marriage had been a great scandal, and her recovery to her parents' good graces was tenuous at best. So for Clara to advise Barrett in any course of action was begging trouble, especially since Barrett was unprotected by his sex.

Still, after her visit, he missed her more. Those of his family that he walked with were cold, hard, and unyielding. The brief flash of softness in his sister's eyes was like a feast. How much he needed that! How much he longed for understanding... for... tenderness?

Weakness! He must not be seduced into the belief that his dangerous flaw was anything but a mental defect. The hunger that he felt was a lust for poison - for self destruction. To give in - to yearn for succor was to pray for exile and death. To survive! And in surviving, to banish this poisonous lust, he would gain Lydia. And there would never be that touch of tenderness, that softness in the eyes, that gentle embrace...

That a child seeks when he has injured his toe! That the unreasoning dog seeks when it muzzles your hand or lays its chin on your knee. To be a man is to recognize the primacy of the intellect - the raw fact that reality demands that we bend to its rules - and that those rules are clearly spelled out. Clearly defined. Structure! Law!

Structure! Law! There beside him, exemplified in his Father & Mother. Bartle Greenfield's shoulders bespoke sanity and reason, as unbending as logic itself. Leda Miller Greenfield strode beside her husband, not quite so stern nor so straight, but her chin thrust up, defying anyone to find a woman closer in strength to a man.

Someday, he would walk these streets, his hair graying like his Father's. And Lydia would walk beside him, proud and strong. Their children would follow; another generation of Greenfields who broke the land and pulled forth its harvests - feeding Grainger and its citizens, and sending their sons to serve in the Ministries and Courts of The Capitol.

Barrett would take his pride in his rock-hard will. Lydia would be his - as would the future.

*******

The Grainger Square was not quite full, but a large number of the 4800 residents of Grainger proper were in attendance. The muted earth tone hues of their dress blended in the rough circle that surrounded the gleaming white Rotunda, making the Square into a human vision of a forest pool, complete with marble fountain at its center.

The air was losing its pleasant chill, and picking up the humidity that had oppressed the village for a number of weeks. Already citizens were fanning themselves, especially those, like Barrett and his family, who were close to the reflected heat of the Rotunda. While it was not unknown for some townspeople to bring collapsing chairs to these events, for the most part the citizens showed their stoicism by standing throughout, even though the speeches and debates could last into the evening.

The Student's Address was a time-honored means of advance for Capitol-bound young men. The King had long ago decreed that the means of seeking entrance into the Courts was to be in the hands of those cities, towns, and villages who would send their best to serve. The means of selection would be for the citizens to select those to send for trial after the supplicants had proven their reason in a public address.

Any supplicant could call for an address - in theory. In practice, the Schoolmasters would select those they thought had a reasonable chance of success, assign them a topic, and allow them to hold forth in oratory. General acclaim in the form of a written ballot was provided by those in attendance, and if a two-thirds majority was in favor, the supplicant was sent to the Capitol for trial.

If a young man desired trial, but was never referred by the Schoolmasters, there was still one avenue open. He could challenge. The challenge was somewhat unfair for the fortunate student selected by the Schoolmasters, as he would have to debate the challenging student, rather than provide an uncontested display of wits, argument, and reason. But most often, the Schoolmasters did their jobs well, and those who challenged were routinely defeated.

Barrett stood beside his brother Archer, several rows back of the Rotunda. Two Schoolmasters sat on the wooden benches, beneath the white arching ceiling.

Directly in front of the Greenfields was the Wolfwood family, Havoc, Dana, Karen, Lydia, and the younger children, Havoc, Jerek, and Genna. After a few moments, Havoc turned around and addressed Bartle.

"No challenge today, I expect. This one will sail through."

"Applewood is quite an orator," Bartle replied. "Lydia, do you know his topic?"

Lydia looked over her shoulder at Bartle, and turned slightly. Barrett looked straight into her eyes, but she in turn looked only at his father. She was wearing a straight cream-colored dress that hung from her shoulders loosely. It's descent to her ankles was punctuated by the curve of her hips, an effect that was likely unplanned by the seamstress who created the humble garment.

"Calvin is addressing the subject of the proper ordering of the King's Lands." Her voice was steady and clear - no sign of rebukes or taunts. Just a hint of anticipation when she said his name.

"An interesting subject," Bartle replied. "Did you study it extensively in World School?"

"Yes. Though none so much as Calvin and Barrett."

"Barrett?" Bartle replied, surprised.

"Yes," Lydia answered, turning to look at him. Barrett kept his eyes straight, looking evenly from Lydia, to her father, and then to his own father.

"Yes, I studied the divisions," Barrett answered. "Nowhere is the King's will manifested so clearly as in his ordering of the land. And, indeed, the complexity of naturally occurring systems do not lend themselves to order. So it is an interesting problem."

"Well said," Havoc replied, turning back to face the Rotunda. Lydia turned back a moment later. Barrett was sure that she sensed the change in him. But she had little idea what awaited her. Let today be the day she decides.

Beside him, Barrett's father smiled. He suspected.

Perhaps ten minutes later, the Schoolmasters stood. One descended into the throng, while the second - a gray haired, thin faced curmudgeon - stepped into the center of the Rotunda.

"Citizens of Grainger! Today, by the King's Will and the Best Order of our Society, we will observe and judge the Address of one of our Young Men: Calvin Applewood."

He gestured into the front row, and Calvin strode up to the center of the Rotunda to stand beside the Schoolmaster. At two inches under six feet, Calvin stood an inch taller than the diminished Schoolmaster. His shock of reddish-blonde hair was unruly, as usual, and his brown eyes glinted fiercely, belying his rakish smirk. As he took his position, he nodded in each direction to the assembled throng.

"Calvin Applewood has been given the topic of the Divisions of the Kingdom. He may Address the Citizens of Grainger for whatever duration he requires. His Address will be in the form of Oratory, unless there is a Challenger, in which case there shall be a Debate. Is there a Challenge?"

"I Challenge!" Barrett yelled in answer. There was a collective gasp in the throng. Of all its young men, Grainger had never expected Calvin Applewood to be challenged. His accession to trial in the Capitol had never been in doubt.

"Who Challenges?" The Schoolmaster asked, completely composed despite the tumult in the throng.

"I, Barrett Greenfield, Challenge by virtue of Superior Age, Education, and Proclivity."

"Are you familiar with the subject of the Address?"

"I am."

Turning to Calvin, who glared daggers at Barrett, the Schoolmaster asked:

"As the Chosen Addresser, you have your choice of Position. The Subject is the Division of the Kingdom. What is your Position?"

Calvin lifted his head, and stated in a ringing voice:

"The King's Divisions show the Ultimate Ordering of Chaotic Systems."

There were smiles and nods in the assembled citizens. The Schoolmaster then turned back to Barrett.

"Come forward."

Barrett strode forward, ignoring his Father's glance, nodding his head once to Havoc Wolfwood and again to Lydia. Her expression was unreadable, but Havoc looked intrigued. Then, he was past them and standing before the Rotunda.

"Barrett Greenfield. As Challenger, you must take a position contrary to that of the Addresser, but not necessarily contradictory. Are you prepared to do so?"

"Yes."

"What is your counter-position?"

"The Division of the Kingdom displays a Simulacrum of Imposed Order, but is, in reality, a Semi-Ordered System Proportionately Governed by Chance Rather Than Reason."

The gasp that escaped the assembled citizens was greater than that of the challenge. Barrett had essentially proclaimed that he was challenging not only Calvin Applewood, but the very logic of the King and Courts. While a contrary position was sometimes unsettling, a position could always be found that reflected a minor variation on the presented theme. For a small town youth to proclaim that he intended to debate the merits of a system ordained by the pinnacles of logic and reason was the height of impertinence.

Calvin smiled.

*******

Standing beside his nemesis, Barrett felt fully at ease. Part of this came from his physical advantage over the smaller, more wiry young man. But most of his confidence came from his sudden recognition earlier in the day.

First: Clara was right. Barrett could argue, and argue well. He was persuasive, not despite his flaw, but because of it.

Second: This was the one path to Lydia. He saw it as clearly as he saw Calvin before him. If he defeated Calvin, Lydia was his. His challenge was not to Calvin, nor to the King or Grainger. It was a challenge to Lydia. And she had accepted.

Calvin was still smiling. But let him. Barrett turned and half-bowed to Calvin as a show of respect. Calvin repaid the gesture, but, as he leaned closer to Barrett, he whispered something to him.

"You're going to lose, Greenfield. Because I can win no matter what position I take. I learned it from watching you."

Barrett smiled back.

The Schoolmaster pointed to Calvin.

*******

Calvin's oratory technique was brilliant. He held the citizens of Grainger spellbound with his lilting, near-patronizing voice. He strode about the Rotunda, ensuring that he met the eyes on the semi-circle in front of the platform. Beyond this, there were his words and his argument.

"Let us first consider the ways in which a land might be ordered. They are several. First, a land might be ordered by historical chance. We are told that this was the case, prior to the King's Division. Second, a land might be divided according to a grid imposed on a map. Third, a land might be ordered by population density. Fourth, a land might be ordered according to terrain. For example, the natural divisions marked by rivers, mountains, and oceans may be accepted into the structure of the scheme. Fifth, a land might be ordered according to its bounty. Sixth, a land might be ordered according to its climate.

"We have considered these types of ordering, and all are clear to us, as they were to the King. Now let us consider their advantages."

Calvin's technique was familiar to Barrett. In fact, Barrett immediately saw why Calvin had said 'I learned it from watching you,' for the inclusive speech was designed to draw in the listener - to play to the ego and inculcate the sense that all were taking part in the argument. This technique was very effective, for it made the listener less likely to disagree if he thought the argument was his. Barrett saw that he had adopted this technique on numerous occasions, without fully realizing the implications.

"The First, Historical Ordering is of no value, since it happens by chance, but is unavoidable since History cannot be ignored - and thus will be present in any system. The Second has advantages, for it allows for precise coordinates to be established, which do not rely on rote memorization of names and location. The Third is tempting, but poorly suited, since it would result either in small, overcrowded regions and large, sparse regions, or in the opposite, neither of which aids in logistics or order. The Fourth is likewise tempting, since geographical features often impose limitations on travel and commerce, and thus internal constraints to a region isolated by these features should allow for relative independence and self-sufficiency. The Fifth bears similarity to the Third, in that, while tempting, it would result in a disparity between bounteous regions and poorer regions. Finally, order according to Climate is patently foolish.

"Let us proceed to the system the King has established. We are all familiar with the system, but it bears refreshing. As I often say, Repeated Often is Kept In Mind."

There were nods from some in the throng at this platitude.

"The King has divided the land into Sectorates and Protectorates. Sectorates each contain a minor city. Protectorates are composed of Sectorates, and contain a major city as the Protectorates' Capitol. The Protectorates form the Kingdom, with the King's City as The Capitol of the Kingdom. The Sectorates and Protectorates are numbered and named. The Name is Historical in many cases. Only in New Cities is there no Name, but rather the nomenclature, Capitol of the nth Protectorate, or in Sectorates, jth City of the kth Sectorate of the nth Protectorate. The Protectorates are ordered from Northwest to Southeast in a linear manner. The linearity is modified by geography. The Sectorates are ordered from Southwest to Northeast, also modified by geography.

"So, we see, when compared with our analysis of the types of divisions possible, that the system the King has imposed is a hybrid of the First, Second, and Fourth system types.

"Since the First type is unavoidable, it was wise of the King to include it. The Second type cannot reasonably exist, due to the advantages of the Fourth type, and thus, we have a modified linear system of Sectorates and Protectorates with Historical names and semi-geographical boundaries.

"It is our assertion, as reasonable citizens of the Kingdom, that the King's system is Ideal. Land, by nature of its formation during natural creation, is chaotic. It is unsuited to ordering. A land mass is not shaped, unfortunately, like a square, but rather like an amorphous globule. Imposition of a grid onto such a surface results in disparity in area. Modification of the grid to yield equal areas results in distortion of the grid. Ignoring the Historical names and placement of cities is to be unrealistic. Ignoring geographical isolation and self-sufficiency is unrealistic and dangerous. The King has taken all of this into account. We still have the names of our cities, but no Sectorate has more than one minor city, and no Protectorate has more than one major city. This is testament to the cognitive manipulation the King has used. Any citizen can know geographically where another Sectorate or Protectorate is, simply by recognizing the number, and thus, we have the advantages of coordinates.

"Any system that sacrificed one of these elements would be inferior, since it would sacrifice the advantages of that element. Any system that included other elements would be inferior, since it would include the disadvantages of those elements.

"Thus, we see that the King's system is, indeed, ideal, and thus the Ultimate Division of Land."

Calvin stepped back. The citizens applauded. They knew there was more to come, and that had Calvin not been challenged, his oration would have been in greater depth, with many more examples and digression. But it had been a masterful performance, and they felt a part of it.

But Barrett smiled. Calvin had done a great job, and was certainly aware of the many points upon which Barrett could attack. But Calvin wasn't aware of Barrett's strategy at all. Calvin thought Barrett was vying for the victory. If this was the case, Barrett would approach the oration in the same way - inclusive speech, playing to the crowd. Barrett would praise the King, harp on minor discrepancies, and try to win on points.

But Barrett couldn't care less about the Courts. If anything, he was terrified of trial before the ultra-rationalists of The Capitol. No, Barrett had a different aim - to win Lydia. And he would not win Lydia by being Barrett. He would win Lydia by being her father - Havoc Wolfwood.

Thinking back to the dinner at the Greenfield house, Barrett saw how Havoc's aggressive logic dominated Lydia's attention. If this was her model, he would win the one thing he desired.

Barrett nodded to Calvin, and then to the Schoolmaster, and stepped forward.

"Calvin has presented several types of systems, but by no means all of them. In addition, he has provided many opportunities for me to refute his arguments. However, these are distractions from the real issue. Calvin's arguments are incidental and of no bearing on the truly interesting aspects of the Division of Lands."

Barrett felt great. He had never been this confrontational in a debate. But he would have to walk the line between outright attack and discredit.

"Before I continue, I would like to repeat the subject I have selected. It is: The Division of the Kingdom displays a Simulacrum of Imposed Order, but is, in reality, a Semi-Ordered System Proportionately Governed by Chance Rather Than Reason."

"Now, I noticed that many of you were taken aback by this topic. Perhaps you misunderstood the title, and believed that I sought to attack the basis of the King's system. Far from it! The King has masterfully ordered the land. Many of the reasons Calvin cited are artfully displayed. In fact, the King's ordering of the Land was so brilliantly done, that we are deceived, as Calvin has displayed, as to its true nature.

"Let us first consider these "types" of ordering. Calvin has given us Six Types. But we can immediately complicate this by adding not only sub-types, but also complementary types, analogous types, hybrid types, that is... we can divide the dividing of the land into strata, much as we do with flora and fauna. By way of example, let me add another type to Calvin's List. Calvin mentioned Bounty as a divisional type, and dismissed it. But here he refers to magnitude of Bounty, not type of Bounty. It is clear that different regions of the Land produce different types of Bounty. I need to look no further than the fishing trade that flourishes on our coast. So you see that I have already complicated Calvin's list by considering not only the immediate properties of each type, but its subsequent quality as well.

"Next, I will address the matter of the "hybrid system" that Calvin flaunts. He begins by discarding all the bits of types that he doesn't want. But, is this really what the King has done? No. Clearly, if you consider the actual divisions rather than the general scheme, I can show that population density has played a remarkably large role in the size of some Protectorates, while the Climatic ordering that Calvin so flippantly discarded has also played a secondary role, since the Bounty, (again, rejected by Calvin), is influenced heavily by Climate, and the King has ordered divisions heavily weighted toward not only geographical self sufficiency, but also concentration of skilled labor in those primary production tasks that historically have benefited specific regions.

"So, what I have shown thus far is that Calvin's argument is both incomplete and incorrect."

"Now let me leave this distasteful banter and proceed to the point of my counter-proposal, namely, that the King's system, while apparently a paean to order, is in fact a brilliantly devised system that incorporates the more efficient natural order and uses in a minor role the coordinative system so admired by my opponent.

"First, let me point out that there is no logical or reasonable basis for the ordering of Protectorates from Northwest to Southeast and Sectorates from Southwest to Northeast. Given that there is no logical or reasonable basis, we are left with a quandary. For I know the King to be the paramount logician of our age. Does it not seem absurd for a man so schooled in logic to devise a system so lacking in it?

"It seems so on the surface, but... and I stress this... only on the surface. For the King has recognized a fundamental aspect of logic and reason - namely, that logical systems can be mutually exclusive. For example - I propose the syllogism. It is clear that the syllogism is the ultimate achievement of man. For, as in mathematics - that excellent system for representing reality in numerical form - the syllogism provides to logic what algebraic reason provides to mathematics.

"And yet, I can say without shame that algebra is well and good, but calculus is better. How can I say this? Quite clearly, calculus uses the tools of algebra for higher order manipulation. In this sense, algebra is a subset of calculus.

"This is immediately analogous to the syllogism. While a syllogism provides an algebraic structure to logic, on application to complex systems, we find that we are approximating - we must divide our actions into discrete steps. Syllogisms are static - while they contain truth and reality, they do not adequately explain the application. This is exactly the problem that the King had when considering the ordering of the land.

"A Syllogism does not tell the King to order the land with Protectorates and Sectorates inversely directed according to polar magnetic alignment. What tells the King to order the land in this way is his use of the calculus of logic.

"Now, as you can clearly see, and as I mentioned before, there is no reasonable explanation for this ordering of Sectorates and Protectorates. And yet the King has done it, the King is a master logician. There is a discrepancy. And it is that we do not understand the logic the King is using. It is beyond us. Does this seem absurd? Yes. Nothing is beyond us, and logic is logic. They are one and the same. Let me make this clearer:

"The King's actions seem illogical only if the premise with which we approach the King's Divisions is that the King is designing a logical system. My assertion is that the King designed an illogical system, logically.

"Consider what Calvin pointed out earlier: that most cities retain their historical names. He went on to imply that a grand new scheme is causing the cities to be replaced by better cities with numeric / systematic names. In fact, this has occurred only twice. Both times in the 5th Protectorate.

"I will now provide a seemingly irrelevant fact. The majority of Tunnel Diggers have historically come from the 5th Protectorate. One may assume that for various environmental reasons - the inclusion of freestanding mountains being one, the stock of the 5th Protectorate produces a disproportionately large number of irrational, unstable criminals. However, this was on the decline 30 years ago. This decline was immediately followed by three events. First - the creation of the two new cities. Second, the King's Edict pertaining solely to the 5th Protectorate that the use of city names within the 5th Protectorate by citizens of the 5th Protectorate was to be terminated. The King Advised the Administrators, Mayors, and Barons that inability to follow this edict was an excellent indication of irrationality. The third event was the dramatic upswing in 5th Protectorate citizens condemned to The Tunnel.

"Is it not clear, then, the reason for the seemingly illogical ordering the Sectorates and Protectorates? It is, devised by the King, a brilliant, inherent mechanism for confounding the few remaining irrationals among us. Here, daily, we deal with this inverse order, never commenting on the seemingly illogical - learning the system, and applying it without fail. Never realizing that we are being tested by the King each time we tell a neighbor "Grainger is in the 3rd Sectorate of the 3rd Protectorate."

"Thus, I have indicated both the dilemma and the solution. The dilemma is the seeming illogic of the King - which we now see is logic beyond logic.

"This solution removes the last obstacle from the recognition that, rather than a strictly ordered division of land, the King has instead selected an amalgam of different primary constraint factors to define the boundaries of discrete regions - and that among these constraint factors are geography, population, bounty, self-sufficiency, exportable bounty, political tendencies of the population, climate, historical consistency, and other, more numerous minor or consolidated factors.

"With this recognition, we can resolutely say that The Division of the Kingdom displays a Simulacrum of Imposed Order, but is, in reality, a Semi-Ordered System Proportionately Governed by Chance Rather Than Reason."

Barrett stepped back, satisfied. Never before had he delivered such a twisted piece of logical malfeasance. It was a desperate measure, relying greatly on the ability of the assembled citizens to keep up with the pace of his reasoning. It included fallacy upon fallacy - but also did two critical things. First, it made it appear as if failure to recognize the illogic of the Sectorate/Protectorate ordering was borderline criminal. This stopped Calvin from attempting to explain why it was actually logical (which Barrett would have liked to see). Second, it allowed Barrett to remain aggressive toward Calvin, while simultaneously praising the King, despite the fact that it was Calvin praising the King's Ordering, and Barrett tearing it to bits.

Barrett felt good about his chances, but there were the counter points to follow, and Calvin would surely attack much of Barrett's argument.

In fact, Calvin was stepping forward to do just that, when the Schoolmaster who had descended into the throng suddenly took the stage of the Rotunda. With him was a sinister appearing man with coal black hair, weathered leathery skin, and sunken brown eyes perfectly equidistant from the crooked bridge of his broken nose. He was armored in black leather, with a quiver of ceramic-tipped arrows across his back. Barrett knew exactly who this man was: Gorin Grammis - the Tunnel Warder.

Barrett Greenfield: Excerpt from Chapter 11 "Heresy"

Far in the south, beyond the Ullnich Sea, is a sparsely populated land where the people are more savages than man, living in rude huts in the midst of sullen jungles, or wandering in tents across endless desertland. Few of us have beheld these lands, for the climate is harsh and unforgiving, and the gods strike down intruders with maladies of an unconquerable nature.

But upon occasion, hardy souls will venture there by sea, or by braving the mountainous isthmus that binds the great lands together. Rarely are these journeys fruitful, and most are remarkable mostly for the wild adventures reported by those who return.

Decades past, a score of men returned from an expedition that had numbered over a hundred. The survivors were soon scattered back in the places of refuse from which adventurers are spawned, but a remarkable tale was heard from some of them.

This tale was told to them by a tribe of savages of the jungles, whom their leader had befriended and with whom they had dwelled before making their attempt to return to the known world. They passed this tale on as curiosity, little thinking of its import, for clearly it is merely an admonition to the savages own people.

Deep in the jungle, the savages say, there is a rolling land of sparsely wooded hills, where the searing humidity of the jungle does not take its toll, but the deep rains keep all lush and fertile. Why this land is not settled is never mentioned, perhaps being such an obvious implication of godless mythology that it bears no further comment, but this land is looked upon as something of an earthly paradise.

It is not the land that is so remarkable, but the event that occurs once each century in this place. From within the earth, crawling through the thick and supple loam, emerges at the first full moon a strange and alien people. Each one lies dormant for their allotted time, sustained by unknown powers, and gestating slowly in the womb of the earth. Some common signal, or some rhythm of the earth awakens them, and they crawl upward to emerge, blinking at the light.

These creatures are as like to you and me in physical form as they are different in their nature. Beings more like gods in their beauty, but childlike and naïve. Within the confines of their hidden land, they crawl one by one from their slumber, and ordered by an unknown force, they begin the construction of their civilization anew.

From the strewn stones of the valley they construct their villages, till the land, hunt the game, and gather the fruits of the jungle to sustain them. The women of their race weave beautiful cloth into garments of strange cut, while the men fashion jewelry and statuary to please them.

Once their villages are complete, and the crops prepared, all work is put aside. These people fall to an orgy of feast and copulation that is sustained, unabated, for four months, but in a strangely monogamous way, with these seemingly uninhibited people pairing in a sustained fully consummated troth. At the end of this cycle, the females lay their fertilized eggs in the central chambers of each village, and the following day, they, each with their male partner, take up the eggs and return them to the earth where they are nestled deep within the ground.

The people then return to their amusements, casting aside all relationships in an unbounded series of lustful and gluttonous encounters that continues until, one by one, their bodies begin to fail from the excesses. As they die, the fewer and fewer engage in ever more indulgent acts, until the last of them are consumed.

Peace returns to the rolling hills, and the signs of habitation sink into the earth, the bodies of these aliens moldering and feeding the carrion eaters of the jungle.

This tale is remarkable enough, but the savages added another element. It seems that one year, months after the last of the aliens had died, one more struggled upward out of the loam. This male blinked in the sunlight, as all the others had before him, but when he cast his eyes upon the valley, he was stung to the heart. All about him was the wreckage of the few bright months allotted to his kind. Skeletons and decomposition marked the landscape. The fields were barren from the last harvest, and the game driven from the woods. The trees were picked clean of fruit.

But none of this was such a blow to the alien as the wretched bodies of his race, and the landscape dotted with the buried eggs of the generation that was not to come for another hundred years.

Whether by some fluke of his own internal cycles, or some vicious trick of nature, he had awoken after life had already ceased, and now walked a cold, dead world, moments too late for any purpose he might ascribe to his existence, and decades too early for any reprieve.

The alien considered all of this, and for a long time, walked the lands about the rolling hills, picking out a miserable existence in the plundered land, fingering the trinkets of the great orgy and pondering the cruel joke.

When at last it occurred to him that by the innate logic of his nature, he had survived for over a year in his desolation, he tried to understand how this could be so, when he knew that his urges told him to work, then breed, and then die. Was his continued existence part of the torment of his fate, or were the short lives of his people a needless part of some primal urge, an urge that could be checked, leaving his race to work and breed and live to work and breed again, extending their lives beyond the brief, perfect pleasure of the few months into a glorious march into time?

He wondered and thought, and for a time was eased by this prospect, by the realization that this epiphany could save his people the agony of their brief lives. He grew resolved in his fate, finding satisfaction in the thought that his suffering and loneliness were but a small price to be paid for the immortality that his realization brought him. For many years this buoyed his thoughts, as he marked the time that the next generation would arise from the soil.

But as those years passed, a grim fear began to creep upon him. He saw his skin grow paler, and felt his strength begin to seep away. His reflection in the surface of still water showed lines forming on his face, and his hair grew thinner. Yet only a score of years had passed since his birth.

When he finally realized that he would not live to greet the coming generation with his message of salvation, he wrung his mind trying to find a way to pass the message along. But there was no way to communicate to the future. His race had never needed a written language, as all they had needed to know was bound up within them when they emerged from the earth. The concept itself took years to fully formulate in his mind. He thought of devising marks upon the stones that could be set in communal places like the sites of springs or the bases of trails into the woods, but in the end he knew that when his people returned, they would have no thoughts for deciphering cryptic runes on the stones, if they even recognized them. Their only thoughts would be to work, and breed, and die.

Within a sad year of this revelation, the succor of death came upon him. His body was eaten and rotted away, and his bones were trampled into the earth from which he came. And at the next cycle, his people emerged from the earth. They toiled upon the land, bred in their inconsistent monogamy, and drowned themselves in ecstasy.

As you can see, this story is typical of the tales of savages, for it leaves obvious questions unanswered. For example, how did this story come down to the natives at all, if this alien died alone and without witness in a lost and unreachable land. But to emphasize this is to allow for possible credulity in this story, which is obviously lacking any basis in reality. This story must be taken at its face, as a moral guide for the savages, although its meanings are myriad.

Barrett Greenfield Chapter 2: "Lydia"

Dell and Dale waited patiently in the winter room of the Greenfield’s townhouse. The white plaster walls of the room were a stark contrast to the dark oak bookshelves that ran along the interior walls. The front curtains were drawn closed, and the myriad oil lamps had been lit, filling the room with yellow effulgence.

Barrett’s two brothers sat in the high-backed chairs at the far end of the room, while his father paced near the window.

“Good,” he said, as Barrett entered the room, “Barrett. Dell and Dale were about to begin where they left off yesterday. It seems they are determined to obey this unnatural habit. Please correct them.”

Barrett nodded and looked sternly toward the two boys. Dell and Dale were alike as possible, despite their disparate ages; Dell was two years younger than Barrett, and Dale another two. Both boys shared the blue-gray eyes of the Greenfield family, but were well on their way toward reaching their father’s immense stature. Now they sulked in their chairs, awaiting their chastisement.

“Dell, Dale,” Barrett began, “When one commences a lesson after a period of reflection, one must never resume at the point of the last conclusion. Rather, one must begin the lesson with the knowledge one has mastered, before proceeding to the knowledge that is yet to be gained. If you persist in inane behavior, let this inane platitude be your guide: take a step back before setting out on a journey, to make sure your house is secure.”

“Well done,” Bartle observed, “Barrett, please begin with politics, then proceed to mathematics.”

“Yes sir,” Barrett answered, and then turned to Dale.

“Dale, define the geopolitical structure.”

Dale breathed a sigh of relief: standing on well charted ground, and stood up.

“The world is divided by the King into divisions.” Bartle frowned at this introduction, but remained quiet. Dale noticed the frown and continued on uneasily.

“The largest of these divisions is the entire Kingdom, which spans the flat part of the globe from the mountains in the east to the ocean in the west. The Kingdom is divided into Protectorates, which are at the big cities, and numbered from Northwest to Southeast. The Protectorates are divided into Sectorates, which are evenly spaced and numbered within a Protectorate from Southwest to Northeast. In some Sectorates there are Villages. In some Sectorates there are no Villages. We are in the Village of Grainger in the Sectorate of Terriad in the Gnolla Protectorate.”

“Good, Dale,” Barrett answered, “but you should use the numbers instead of the names.”

“That is…” Dale corrected himself, “we are in the Village of Grainger in the THIRD Sectorate of the SECOND Protectorate.”

“Good,” Barrett answered, and looked at Bartle, who nodded.

“Now, Dale, explain to us the Law of Domains”

“The Law of Domains states that the set of all of the dependent variable’s values is the domain of a function, while the set of all the values for the independent variable is the range.”

“Wrong!” Dell yelled, and then quieted as Bartle’s stare came down on him. “You have it backward, Dale. It’s the independent variable whose values are the domain. The dependent variable is with the range.”

“Correct, Dell.” Bartle interjected, “Now explain for us the varying Fallacies of Relevance.”

Dale sat and Dell rose.

“The Fallacies of Relevance are thirteen in number. They are: Coercion, Abuse, Circumstance, Ignorance, Pity, Demagoguery, Irrelevant Authority, Interpolation, Extrapolation, False Cause, Circular Argument, Presumptive Premises, and Irrelevance of Conclusion.”

“Well done,” Barrett concurred. “Now explain the Fallacy of Extrapolation.”

“Very well,” Dell sighed, “The Fallacy of Extrapolation occurs when what is true in a particular specific case is assumed to be true in general, without consideration of whether the specific case is in fact typical or symptomatic of the larger case that is being proven.”

“Poorly spoken, Dell” Bartle began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Damnation!” he cursed, “They’re early as always!” With that he put his marker book down and strode out of the room toward the foyer.

“When does YOUR lesson start, Barrett?” Dale asked him snidely.

“Hush. Who’s here for dinner?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Dell chuckled.

Barrett felt his gut lurch, for after the indulgent afternoon he had spent, nursing his fears and licking old wounds, this was a dangerous time to be confronting anyone dangerous. And that is exactly what he detected in Dell’s tone.

And as he heard voices at the door, his fears were confirmed. It was indeed the family of Lydia Wolfwood, come to call.

*******

She stood in the foyer, with the soft glow of the oil lamps lighting her features. Barrett exercised all of his self-control to remain unaffected. Beside her stood her father, Havoc Wolfwood, and his wife Dana. Havoc was built like Barrett’s father, shorter, but solid and deeply tanned, with a thick mane of gold hair framing a square face and determined chin. His wife, Dana, was older than her years, her hair having gone white. The effect against her pale skin was almost appalling. Dana Wolfwood’s skittish eyes bounced around the room, before falling on Barrett. A thin smile crept across her face.

“Early again, eh, Wolfwood?” Bartle almost growled as he gestured them into the winter room before turning sharply toward the younger boys and barking: “Dell, Dale, fetch more chairs from the storeroom.”

“Dana was confused again,” Havoc Wolfwood explained, as his wife lowered her eyes, “She swore we were late, and wouldn’t give me a moment of peace until we started out.”

“No trouble,” Bartle replied, “we were just in the middle of lessons for the younger boys. We’ll put them off until later.” He walked back into the winter room, Havoc following with his wife and daughter behind. As Havoc passed Barrett, he gave him an appraising glance, much as he might give a breeding stock steer. Barrett nodded in response, and smiled at Dana and Lydia as they passed him.

“Awfully late to be giving lessons, Greenfield,” Havoc said, as he deposited himself into one of the menacing chairs, “You wouldn’t have had this problem if you’d been prompt in your lessons, as we are in the Wolfwood House.”

“An interesting theory, Wolfwood, but we prefer several lessons, staggered through the afternoon and evening, so as to more fully replicate the natural occurrence of problems.”

Dell and Dale bustled in with more chairs, which they placed neatly along the walls. They exited again, and Bartle took his seat by the window, gesturing Dana and Lydia to sit as well.

Barrett studiously avoided looking at Lydia, concentrating instead on the features of her father. Havoc grinned at Bartle Greenfield’s reply, and offered curtly:

“If you want to spoil your boys, that is your affair. Still for all intents and purposes you have done a fair job with this one.” He gestured toward Barrett.

Barrett’s eyes locked into a cold, fixed glare as they guests and his father turned to examine him. He was saved from their scrutiny by the loud entrance of his mother, bursting through into the foyer with her daughters in tow.

“Already! Well, it’s fortunate we were prepared in advance! Havoc, Dana, how are you? Lydia! You’ve grown in the last two days, I swear! Come! You will have refreshment. Just tell my daughters what you would like, and they will bring it.”

Well trained, Rose, Iris, and Clara lined up behind their mother and awaited their instructions. In a moment they were gone, executing their orders as Leda Greenfield joined the guests. When she had taken a chair, Barrett finally joined them, settling onto a seat neither too near or too far from Lydia.

“It has been too long since we have dined together, Dana. I believe that we have not had the pleasure since Clara’s little Leda was announced. Still, it is not unusual with so much work to do that there is little time for the luxuries of the city. We have more to do than socialize!”

“Hah!” Havoc snorted, “You are talking to the wrong woman, Leda. Dana is of the opinion that life is nothing but the social. She neglects the other realms of being in favor of that which is least productive.”

“Havoc,” Dana weakly protested, “You know that is not true.”

“How are your studies?” Bartle interrupted, pointedly drawing attention to Lydia to divert it from her mother. Barrett’s stomach muscles tightened, preparing himself for the onslaught of her voice.

“They are going well,” she answered, “But not as well as they might. I am perhaps hampered by my devotion to disparate majorities of interest. I recognize in myself a failure to adequately apportion my time, which, unfortunately, prevents me from reaching my full potential.”

“Recognizing it is half the battle,” Dana offered, defending her daughter from this unusual confession.

“That remains to be seen,” Lydia continued, “As Barrett can no doubt affirm, our studies of strategy indicate that the plan of attack is indeed critical to success, but continuous re-evaluation and adaptation are likewise crucial.”

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Dana offered.

“Bah! Platitudes!” Havoc spat. “When a thing is done, it is done. Done poorly is done poorly and done well is done well. But I have no fears for Lydia. She merely refers to her desire to join the Court of Nature.”

“It was one of our hopes for Barrett as well,” Leda added. “But he seems to show proclivity toward economics and management. He has a rare eye for cattle.”

“Yes, I fear that only one of our mature class will reach the Court,” Lydia responded.

“You speak of Calvin Applewood?” Bartle asked.

“Yes,” Lydia answered, “although I have no doubt that Barrett could attain that post if he sought it.” She looked straight at Barrett, smiling.

I will tell them!

As the eyes of the guest fell on Barrett once more, he found himself compelled to respond.

“It is a question of maximizing one’s resources, as Lydia indicated earlier. Strategy is not decided based solely on the conditions of the battlefield, or the desired objective, but also upon the resources one has available. It is nonsense for me to seek the Court of Nature if my talents are best suited elsewhere. Where I to yield to my desire to join the Court, I would do a disservice to the Court, this village, and myself. To complete the analogy, if possible, I must seek a battlefield appropriate to my resources.”

“Very true,” Havoc nodded, “Very true. Strategy says just that.”

Barrett nodded at Havoc, and glanced back at Lydia, whose smile was as intractable and simultaneously profound.

Barrett’s sisters returned with a tray of wineglasses, which they distributed to the guests. Barrett’s next youngest brother, Archer followed, bringing two decanters of wine, which he meted out in the wake of his sisters. All were silent for a moment.

“Well then. With such weighty matters as deciding the futures of our young now briefly and insufficiently discussed, let us turn toward the table.” With that outburst Leda Greenfield rose, and gestured toward the dining room, nodding Dell and Dale toward the kitchen to bring out the fare.

*****

Barrett edged his way through the remainder of the evening, savoring each exchange with Lydia, while inwardly trying to tamp down a growing unease at the purpose of this dinner. The continuous distraction of Havoc and Bartle’s aggressive rivalry was poised against the disconcerting silence of Dana Wolfwood. Barrett fought against reverie, placing himself at the periphery of conversation with Lydia, his sisters, and Havoc Wolfwood. But he could not shake the appraising looks that the Wolfwoods gave him, nor the equivalent notice given Lydia by his parents. This was becoming frighteningly obvious, and it stirred Barrett to a near ecstasy of anticipation and dread.

When at last the meal was done, Leda invited Lydia and Dana to view the garden, while Havoc and Bartle adjourned to the winter room. Barrett was left to join his sisters and brothers in clearing the table and returning the kitchen to order.

Working as hard as he could, Barrett tried not to notice the smiles of his sisters and the smirks of his younger brothers. He avoided all efforts to lure him into conversation:

“Lydia is very attractive, isn’t she, Barrett?” Clara asked him.

“Empirically, yes.” Barrett answered, and returned to cleaning the pans.

“You know, the Wolfwoods’ land borders ours on at least eighty percent run on the western side. Doesn’t it, Barrett?”

“Actually it is closer to 60 percent, Archer, but their parcel extends on the southern border as well, and including that part of the perimeter, your figure might be correct.”

“Lydia has her mother’s coloring, doesn’t she, Barrett?”

“That is obvious, Iris.”

The assault continued unabated until Leda, Dana, and Lydia returned from their tour of the Grounds. Upon their entry into the house, they proceeded to the parlor. Leda summoned Barrett after a few minutes.

Barrett walked, stone-faced, into the parlor. Leda and Dana had drawn up chairs around the cold fireplace, while Lydia was relaxing in a stuffed chair by the rear window. Leda gestured Barrett toward the sofa.

“Let your sisters finish in the kitchen, Barrett. The boys have studies to attend to. Your father might be some time in the winter room.”

“Yes.”

“Lydia told us the most interesting story about you while we were in the garden.” Barrett’s skin grew cold, and he glanced at Lydia, who only smiled that same obstinate smile.

“Yes?”

“I had no idea you had drawn cartoons when you were in Village School.” Leda grimaced as she said the word ‘cartoons.’

“Yes, it’s true.” Barrett responded.

“Why did we never hear of this at home?”

“There was no need. It had no meaning.”

“Exactly. It was a frivolous activity, was it not?”

Dana looked embarrassed, and Lydia’s smile grew a touch harder, but Barrett eased. He had handled this in the past, and it was nothing new to defend.

“Mother, you misconstrue. When I say ‘meaningless,’ I am intending to imply that the drawing of cartoons has no bearing on anything outside of the classroom. What you infer, I believe, is that the activity of drawing cartoons is a meaningless one, which is far from the case. Allow me to provide more background, which perhaps Lydia felt was unimportant to her story.

“You are aware that the practice of artistic representation continues in Village School? I understood that it has been in place since before you attended…”

“Yes, it has,” Leda answered, “but artistic representation is quite different from cartooning.”

“Potentially, yes,” Barrett continued, “but in this instance, it is quite similar. I believe you have committed the Fallacy of Interpolation. In general, cartooning is indeed frivolous. The comic artistic representation of individuals, scenery, or animals is pointless. What has been often overlooked, however, is the practical aspect of the cartoon as a method for rapid depiction. While traditional artistic representation stresses the accuracy of the image, cartooning stresses the recognition of salient features in the target of the image. While the artistic image may convey a truer image, the cartoon conveys the essentials of the image in the most expeditious manner. The benefits are twofold. First, the exercise of cartooning helps to train the mind to quickly recognize salient features. The import of this skill is obvious. Second, the exercise of cartooning trains the hand to produce rapid, meaningful images. This practice could be of great use in communication. For example, in the study of non-stationary animals, the use of cartooning to capture the essentials of the animals mode of movement is of great use in understanding the mechanics of their motion.

“I explained all of this to the Schoolmasters, and they were persuaded by my arguments. Although I agreed to discontinue the practice of cartooning, due to my choice of several Schoolmasters as the objects of my study.”

Leda looked at Dana and Lydia with a look of triumph.

“Dana,” Leda smugly began, “I must show you the new cabinets that Bartle has designed for me.” Rising, she nodded to Lydia and Barrett, and led Dana from the room.

The queasiness returned to Barrett’s gut. He looked after his mother for longer than was necessary, for he could feel Lydia’s eyes on him. Finally, he turned and met her gaze. It was almost physically painful, feeling the dull ache of his heart in concert with the dizzy fear that his mind embraced.

“You amaze me, Barrett,” Lydia said calmly.

“How so?” Barrett whispered. Stunned neither by her words or the full beckoning lips that spoke them, but by the very unreality of both.

“Your mother is no fool, but she utterly failed to see the various fallacies in your argument. For that matter, so did the Schoolmasters.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“No. I don’t believe I am. And you don’t either.”

Barrett was silent, waiting for her to continue. He had nothing to say to Lydia that would not damn him. He wanted, above all, to throw himself at her feet and declare his love, declare that she could hurt him all she wanted, as long as she forgave him for what he was. But he could not do that. His instinct for self-preservation was paramount, even in the face of her myriad charms.

“Why do you say nothing?” Lydia asked.

“What is there to say,” Barrett answered, “when you have reached your conclusion.”

“I might be wrong…” Lydia replied, tentatively, almost fearfully. Barrett suffered an intense stab of hope, but remained composed.

“Convince me that I am wrong…”

Barrett simply stared at her, taking in her features and longing for something he could say - some way to preserve both hope and survival. But he could think of nothing, because she was right. So he sat there, paralyzed by an unquenchable desire and a resolute fear of destruction.

She might have decided for him, or spurred him to decide, but the door to the winter room opened, and the voices of Bartle and Havoc were heard in the foyer, laughing.

Lydia cast a fixed, pregnant gaze on Barrett, who returned it with cold resolve, before Havoc called for them in the foyer.

“Dana! Lydia! Come on, we’re going!”

Barrett followed Lydia out into the foyer, where the door stood ajar, and Havoc warmly shook hands with first Bartle, and then Leda.

“A very rewarding evening. We must do this again, soon.”

“Yes,” Bartle responded, “I believe we have come to understanding and have only to cement our agreements.”

“I’m so satisfied, Leda,” Dana agreed. “So satisfied!”

“Well, it’s getting late,” Leda replied, somewhat abruptly, “Dana, Lydia, I appreciate your companionship this evening. Havoc, it is always fulfilling to have you visit our home.”

Barrett muttered goodbyes to Havoc and Dana, and nodded to Lydia, who left without a word, only throwing one cacophony smile back over her shoulder.

The door swung closed.

Barrett Greenfield Chapter 1: "Barrett"

Sterquilinium

Barrett looked down at his toes, just below the surface of the crystalline stream. His back was up against an aggressive willow, crowding the bank and leaving just enough room for someone to sit between the trunk of the massive tree and the grassy lip of the streambed.

For the briefest of moments, Barrett considered looking around, to see if he was being observed. But this notion passed quickly - a remnant of the days before he had learned to cloak his actions in acceptable, if deceptive meaning.

His mind played over his ostensible justification for lounging by the stream. No, he was not idling. He was observing the refraction of the water, and considering the wave pattern made by the flow of the stream past his submerged ankle. In no case was he simply contemplating the slivers of pure white light that glanced painfully from the surface of the water. In no case was he lost in reverie.

But he would not need these excuses. He was left to himself in the crook of land through which the stream played. He could hear occasional voices, calling across the fields, and an intermittent pulsing from the mill, just downstream, but apart from these welcome but disassociated sounds, Barrett was on his own.

And he preferred this feeling of isolation, given his circumstances. He had thought through his adolescence enough to know that there was no kindred spirit for him to share his musings, at least in this village. There were others he could debate with, talk with, or learn with, but it was an effort for Barrett to filter the ideas that wanted expression. He was still struggling to maintain the mask of detachment that had served him so well for many years. He had once thought that molding his mind would be a simple thing, like setting an arc into a piece of lumber; simply stretch your mind around some structure, infuse it with desire, and wait until the mind takes on the cast of the structure. Slowly the stress should release.

But he found that his mind did not work like this. Every time he released himself from the bonds of his detachment, he would spring back to the unnatural condition in which he was born.

After his first attempts at releasing the mental constriction, he knew enough to keep this testing to himself. The last few years of farm-school had been difficult, as he was well marked from the years before he learned to control himself. But he was so successful in adopting his proscribed behavior, that now most of the village of Grangier had forgotten his earlier defects.

Except for four people, and they were the worst possible choices if Barrett was to have selected his own tormentors. The first two were his parents, who had been first to recognize the strange sentimentality in Barrett, and were still suspicious that this trait might resurface, ruining what might have been an excellent eldest son. But Barrett was strong enough to fully conceal his malady in front of his parents. Only their constant presence caused him strain.

The other two were worse than his parents were. Both of them had known Barrett all his life, and neither had accepted his “conversion” as real. The first, the most insightful and devious child of the village, was Barrett’s true nemesis. When Barrett stole off to gaze at his toes in the stream, it was the image of Calvin’s face that prompted him to recite the defenses in his mind. Cal was always peering at him, seeking some crack in his armor, urging distrust in his companions, and recalling Barrett’s strange behavior. Cal was a year younger than Barrett, but already well regarded in the village. It was agreed by all that he would someday join the Court of Nature as an eminent member.

For all the Cal’s overt threats, the last of Barrett’s torturers was more insidious. While Cal sought for cracks in Barrett’s armor, Lydia was already inside, pulling the strings of Barrett’s heart with a tormenting indifference. Barrett had longed for this girl since adolescence awakened such desires, but he could not have chosen anyone more devastating to his self. Where Cal suspected that Barrett was concealing his true nature, Lydia knew that he was. She did not prod him publicly, nor reveal his secret to the village, but her eyes told him that she knew; that she knew he was not worthy of her, that she understood deeply how lost he was, and that she would never award the treasure of herself to an individual so deeply flawed.

Still, Barrett could not avoid her glance, and could not suppress his belief that he loved her. He recited to himself the many reasons that she was a poor choice for his affections, but in fact, he was betrayed by the reality that she was, in fact, a logical match. Her family was well established, as was Barrett’s. She was the eldest daughter, and he was the first son. Their families were on good terms, both holding large farms with plenty of land to parcel off a corner for the couple. Neither had expressed a desire to leave their village, and of unions such as this were often born natural leaders and responsible citizens. Their heights were proportionate to the averages, and they were both attractive, intelligent youths.

At seventeen years, Barrett was approaching six feet in height, and had light brown hair, deeply tanned skin, and blue-gray eyes that were unusual, but typical of his family, and thus, respected. His forehead was relatively high, and he was square-jawed with an even nose that slightly offset his brooding gaze. His body was muscular, and this, in combination with the telltale signs of an intelligent forehead and detached bearing, added to the perception of him as a “well-rounded man,” being both physically and mentally sound.

Lydia was fair-skinned, with light blond hair and soft features that belied the power of her blue eyes. She was just on the edge of being a caricature of the “good-breeding stock” woman, with large breasts and exaggerated hips, but her height (just a half-hand less than Barrett) cast these features in proportion and made her the pride of her family. As a couple, she and Barrett represented the best extension of their families, which were among the best of the village.

In fact, both of their families encouraged a friendship between Barrett and Lydia, so they were often forced together. He taking a bitter pleasure in their company, and Lydia remaining expressionless except for those penetrating eyes that seemed to say: “If it happens, Barrett, I will tell them, because I cannot marry one such as you.”

Barrett’s confused longing was thus coupled with his own eventual destruction, for not only would Lydia’s confession of Barrett’s secret terminate any chance of a union, it would end any respect the village might have for him personally, and damage the respect for his family. There would be only one course of action left to his parents and brothers: expel him from the farm.

Barrett cast a last, long look at his tanned feet, submerged in the stream, but the consideration of his possible fate was motivating him out of his complacency. He pushed up against the grass below him and rose with his back to the willow. Bending down to pick up his walking stick and pack, he turned and made his way back through the brush, toward the road.

*******

The hill overlooking Grangier had always delighted him. Detouring from the deeply-rutted dirt road to climb the hill could be seen as something of a folly, but Barrett had told his parents that it was for the climbing, which surpassed the aerobic benefits of running or walking. Thus armored, Barrett could enjoy the panorama.

The village of Grangier sat in a protected dale, with verdant hills rolling up into the mountains. Behind him, the land leveled out into the tracts of rich farmland that gave the village its prosperity, but before him, beyond the whitewashed walls of the village, the hills piled upon each other until they became the vast range of mountains that continued, unbroken, from the frigid north to the frozen south. The contrast between the village and the mountains always amazed Barrett. This cluster of orderly homes and shops, centered around the village common with its solid rotunda, pasted into the sweeping grandeur of the colossal peaks.

It seemed unlikely that Grangier would have ever been born in such a place, stacked against the side of mountains that bred wicked thunderstorms in summer and deep snow in winter. But the village was ideally situated. The dale kept out most of the winds, which couldn’t be said of the exposed farmlands, and the hills that surrounded the village imposed an additional sense of isolation from the prison camp nearby, which had the misfortune of being mounted higher in the foothills, bringing an additional punishment to the convicts therein.

Indeed, Grangier wanted to push away the reality of the camp, while benefiting greatly from the largesse of its existence. The rich output of the farms found a ready market in the camp, and the tools and goods that flowed through Grangier on their way to the camp enriched the local wagoneers, merchants, hostels, and traders. Grangier had added a third mill only twenty years before, as the prison camp had demanded yet further flour.

The convicts themselves were rarely seen, which was a blessing. When they were seen, it was a boon yet again, for as part of their labors, the prisoners carted the broken rock from the Tunnel across the hills and into the fields, where they assembled the fractured mass into long, elaborate fences. Grangier was, in this, unlike any other village, for the cheap labor provided endless acres of impervious stone divisions, surmounted at regular intervals by well-built stiles.

All of this pleased Barrett’s eyes: the interminable fences, topographically defining the slight curves of the rich farmland (just now at the peak of its growth), the neat, ordered village sitting arrogantly in the dale, and the forested foothills rising tumultuously up into the snow-capped peaks. With a well-guarded sigh, Barrett began his descent from the hill, back toward the road. He needed to be at his family’s townhouse before the summer sun dropped below the hill he stood upon.

As he trudged back toward the road, he reflected further on Grangier’s unlikely prosperity. Barrett had always been an excellent student of history, that being his one great passion in world-school, but try as he might, he couldn’t make sense of the prison camp and the Tunnel.

Barrett’s defect did not usually manifest itself in his understanding of the reasons behind actions or policies. He was adept at mathematics, mechanically apt, and well-schooled in agriculture, horticulture, animal breeding, and militia strategy. But something about the historical arguments for the Tunnel didn’t sit right, though it seemed to bother no-one else.

According to the histories, the Tunnel was begun at the end of the Age of Restlessness, that long period when the men of the land abandoned reason and sought to breech either the endless sea or the pathless mountains. The conclusion of this long, futile struggle marked the beginning of the Age of Reason, and the Tunnel was often cited as the defining event in the final decimation of irrational culture. The Court of Nature had finally reached the conclusion that criminal behavior would never be eliminated. The great scientists argued that crime is inherently an irrational activity, as it benefits neither the criminal nor society. Given that crime is irrational, the criminal must be irrational as well. In the past, crime had been treated by punishment: public hanging, imprisonment, labor contracts, or other justified social responses. But, the scientists argued, was this not applying a rational measure to an irrational man? What use was seeking to teach a criminal the error of their ways, when that error was committed because the criminal was unteachable? Would they not have learned rational behavior were they capable? So what was the point of applying such measures to punish those incapable of understanding their punishment?

With great and noble restraint, the Court of Nature concluded that the punishment of the past must be done away with. Instead, they decided, the criminals must be separated from society for the safety of society, and yet must be given some purpose that would suit their irrationality. Some great thinker, his mind cast back on the recent activity of the vain (and clearly irrational) explorers, hit upon the idea of the Tunnel.

If (they argued), the irrational want to behave in an irrational activity, this was manifested best by the recent attempt to breach the mountains. As had been conclusively shown in recent geological studies, the mountains were truly endless, extending from their edge in the east of the land, all the way to the opposing shore of the endless sea. Thus, attempting to breach what was unbreachable was the most irrational of activities. Yet, this might very well be the cure for the criminal. Thus, it was decided, all criminals of the land would be gathered in one camp, in the foothills of the east, and set to work constructing a tunnel under the mountains.

This decision was greeted with admiration by the country and the King. The camp was constructed only months after the Court of Nature made its proclamation, and work was begun immediately. The villages, cities, and towns of the land reveled in this ultimate expression of criminal behavior, and the Tunnel became a great object lesson for children to be taught: first comes idle thought, then comes envy, hatred, love and jealousy, and finally, at the peak of it all, comes the Tunnel.

But for Grangier, the Tunnel brought not only The Great Lesson, but prosperity as well. Over the centuries, the supply of criminals never seemed to lessen, and feeding the convicts took more and more effort. Thus, Grangier grew and grew, and became richer and richer. As the convicts continued their pointless boring into the earth, Grangier grew softer and stronger simultaneously, exchanging its sweat for coin, and its coin for education. Grangier was represented to a disproportionate degree in the Council of Nature, with a full twenty Councilmen from a village of only three thousand individuals.

The initial promise of the Tunnel had been buoyed up further by a discovery of a lode of iron shortly into the Tunnel’s construction. Iron was precious, and almost entirely hoarded by the King and his Councils, and the discovery of the deposits seemed to proclaim the wisdom of the Tunnel. But the deposits played out within a month of mining, and further boring into the mountain yielded nothing but hard stone. The mountains were once more unyielding and taunting, yielding only little of the treasure of the earth. In the end, the land had to take solace in The Great Lesson, and forget the glimmering hope of metal.

Barrett was divided on his respect for The Great Lesson, and the strange concept of a rational society appointing an irrational behavior as a reasoned approach to teaching rationality to the irrational. He put his musing away as he approached the first houses of the village.

*******


Grangier was evenly divided along two central, intersecting streets. The first road (the road Barrett now walked) ran west to east, through the town. The Northroad ran north/south, intersecting the Westroad in the center of town, where the roads widened out to form the village common, punctuated by a fieldstone rotunda at the center of the cobbled square. The square was dominated on the southern side by the King’s House, which contained the administrator’s offices where the mayor, the militia leaders, and the communication functionaries did their daily work. The eastern side of the square was the row of schools: farm-school, village-school, and world-school. The opposing, western side of the square was a row of shops, and the final, northern side of the square was a mix of inns and taverns. Originally, many of the shops, inns, and taverns had been residences. But as Grangier grew, its citizens left the square and moved further out into the town. There was a rough division by wealth into three quarters of the city, while the fourth quarter (the northwest) was dominated by craftsmen and the farmer’s markets.

All of the buildings were roughly uniform, with plastered walls, whitewashed, and roofs of gray slate. Most every house had a small yard or court, wherein fruit trees were grown, although this was mostly for the education of the young, as orchards made up the bulk of the fruit supply.

Barrett’s family’s townhouse was located on the first cross street behind the King’s House, a district of moderate wealth. Barrett approached the great door of the house with a mixture of relief and regret, and pushed the tab on the ceramic handle to swing the door open.

The foyer was silent, but he could hear the sounds of the house muted beyond the foyer doors. To the left, he saw the dining room with dishes set and prepared. He noted twelve places at the table, which indicated that there would be guests for dinner. The inside of the house was as uniform as the outside. The interior walls were plastered to a smooth finish, and punctuated only by the single paned windows and the regularly spaced oil lamps.

To Barrett’s left, the winter room sat quiet, its high-backed chairs empty, and its library full and undisturbed. This was where he would normally find his father and whatever brothers were home at the time. Knowing that they were probably busy in the kitchen propelled Barrett through the foyer doors and into the remainder of the ground floor of the house.

The sound of a full kitchen greeted him as he passed the stairs and made his way toward the back of the house. He placed his walking stick and satchel on the hooks under the stairs, and entered the greatroom.

Barrett’s father, mother, brothers and sisters were in full attendance, which implied that only the overseers were at the farm. Barrett tried to jog his memory for the reason for this evening’s feast, but he was mortified to find that he had forgotten there was a feast at all.

“Barrett!” his mother said, as he came through the swinging doors, “you’re late. Set to the sauce, quickly! You’re far behind!” Barrett’s mother Leda was a thin, graying woman whose slight frame belied her labors in producing seven children.

“You must learn to be more punctual.” Barrett’s father, Bartle Greenfield stated calmly from the corner of the kitchen, where he carefully sliced mottled green pears into paper-thin wafers. Bartle Greenfield’s voice resonated out of his massive frame. Well over six feet tall and barrel-chested, Bartle Greenfield shared Barrett’s complexion and eyes, but Barrett would never equal his impressive build.

With a will Barrett nodded and set to the row of saucepans with speed and efficiency. Keeping his mind fixed entirely on his duties, he mixed crushed berries with flour and sugar, pinched salt and pepper and lard into various pans, hurried each to the stove top and stirred in proper order. When he had finally arranged the various sauces, and he was busy only thickening them, he turned around to investigate more fully the scope of this dinner.

It was a rare occasion for his entire family to be together. His older sisters, Rose, Iris, and Clara, were married, each with children. They had left their children with their husbands for the evening, and now joined Barrett, Archer, Dell, and Dale so that the complete family was present, with the exception of Barrett’s grandparents, cousins, nieces and nephews.

Rose and Iris were working together stuffing a chicken. The two oldest sisters were constant companions, even now that they were each married. Rose had wed a village man named Dane Cooper, who was actually a cooper by trade, a rare thing in this town where ancient surnames seldom applied anymore to one’s trade. Iris had likewise married a townsman. Her husband, Tyre Breeder kept one of the inns on the village common, which had always been known as “Breeder’s Quarters,” arousing general amusement among the farm-school boys on the opposite side of the square. The two sisters lived in townhouses next door to one another, and their children played and learned together in their adjoining yards.

Clara was near her older sisters, mashing potatoes with a mallet. She smiled over at Barrett when she saw his gaze fall upon her. Of all of his family, Clara was most like Barrett. There had been something of a scandal when she had married her husband not in the village commons, as was customary, but at the prison camp under the officiation of the prison warden. Leda and Bartle Greenfield had objected to Clara’s choice in husbands: a small farm owner named Glen Tailor. For a while, Leda had refused to speak to Clara, citing her wild and frivolous behavior. When Clara had named her daughter after Leda, however, tensions eased. Leda declared that Clara had shown proper and expected behavior in seeking to perpetuate the Greenfield influence on her future family, and that whatever her past mistakes might have been, this gesture was evidence that there was no symptomatic problem with Clara. Still, her husband was rarely seen at the Greenfield townhouse.

Clara’s departure to marriage had been something of a loss for Barrett, for while he never discussed his strange malady with his sister, he always felt that she understood the pressures he was under.

Barrett finished the sauces, leaving them to cool and set in their lading bowls. He glanced up upon finishing and saw his father standing in the doorway.

“Barrett, we’ve just time to finish Dell and Dale’s lessons. Come along.” With that, Bartle pushed his huge frame through the kitchen door. Barrett followed him to the winter room.