savage island 2

It’s a tradition

Like every eldest male in his family, Bill had wanted to join up, to serve, to contribute, and to honour his family’s military history.  Since records have been scribed and portraits hung, the Cuthbursons had dutifully fought for king, queen or country.   The family had prospered and suffered equally for their resolve and Bill sensed that weave of events and actions had bound him to continue the history.   He took a sip and reflected on the remembrance day four years ago.

The sun that day glinted pride off the medals the old soldier had pinned to his blazer pocket.  The crowd watched respectfully as he’d pushed through his pain on the march, up the rise and into his village square.  Bill could see in his grandfather’s set face that the tears in his eye were not born from forcing his seized joints to step forward again and again, they were the tears from the grief of lost sons, dead friends and broken marriages.  There was however, behind the pain, still that steely resolve locked into that wizened countenance.  A resolve burning him to march with his last breath, with honour and without regard to self, all for the glory of victories past and the fight for right.  It was this paternal exemplar that drove the continuing Cuthburson legacy of militia enlistment.  Bill’s son Will had stood beside him that 11^th day, at attention, his parade uniform pressed and his unadorned chest swelled with bravado.

Not for this latest William Cuthburson would be the rat-putrid and fetid trenches of Europe, nor the ocean-locked solitude and tactical blundering of the Falklands.  No, young Will would be forever aware of the ditch or mound beside a desert road, cautious of a welcoming resident, permanently watching the back of his buddy and command.  A degree course in paranoia locked in an oven of discontent would be Will’s lot, and Bill knew it would scar the lad and taint his life forever.   

The memory of that 11 November morning in 2008 was today playing on Bill’s mind as the BBC news banner rolled across the screen.  11/11/08 was the last time the three warrior Cuthbersons had shared a drink at the local, the old man quietly lamenting the loss of his eldest son, the young soldier espousing the invincibility of technologies in modern warfare, and Bill was there, caught between a sense of pride, of loss and with a gnawing fear for his son’s wellbeing.   Their parting was cursory after a few drinks, the old man was taken back to the home, young Will put on the bus back to barracks and Bill had wandered home to his dank flat to ponder again through a whisky clouded cut-glass lens.  All of them had shared a hug and a ‘see you soon’ back at the pub, knowing that they would.  

But they had not.

The old man had passed in his sleep and young Will was posted to Kabul on the same day.  Bill received a voicemail from his ex-wife saying she was sad to learn of the old man’s death and despite her fears, she wished their son well. There was a soft kindness in her words Bill had no idea how to respond to, so he didn’t. 

 What he did was have a drink and remember.   He remembered the fear of exocets and the scream of air support as he had hunkered down in the grasses with the winter wind whipping his kit .  He remembered the mortar thud vaporising half of his sergeant in the ditch beside him and he remembered vomiting as he charged forward to the next hillock, closer to the enemy but away from the mortar’s sweep.  It was the only memory he could still be sure of from his service, the drugs and the abuse he had delivered on himself and his wife had in time erased those Falkland horrors.  He wasn’t sure if he drank now to remember or to forget.

Through the whisky the elaborate paintings of Bill’s grand forebears looked down incongruously from the stained walls of his tiny flat.  His eye fell once more to the painting of the young be-medalled officer who had been his father, a man he’d never known other than from stories told by others.  The husband who his mother could not speak of without grief choking her words.  The father whose memory he had idolised and on whose behalf Bill had gone to war to deliver a Cuthburson retribution on a different enemy.

There was no logic in warfare, the Germans had killed Bill’s father, the Argentinean’s would die.  

But they did not suffer at his hand.  It was not the war won on the field, it was his battle lost at home.  For every life stolen in trenches, on beaches, in air and water there are ten at home destroyed by loss, or worse, by the return of a cracked and broken sub-hero.  Bill’s father, he thought, was in that way lucky to have caught a friendly cannon round in Ypres.  The fight when Bill returned home was much longer and less clearly defined than the mission away, the lessons learned in strategy, defence and attack, meaningless in the lounge room.   The families of veterans may expect to be beaten or ignored but they can not expect normality from a returning warrior.  There is no rule, no school, the soldier shall cope. 

The soldier will most likely return to war where his skills are more attuned.  Bill was not fit to return.

This last November, 2011, in the icy rain, young Will had worn the old man’s medals proudly on his right.  Father and son shared a gentle ale before Will returned for his fifth tour, a double back to back.  The young Major Will Cuthburson prefers active postings to the alternative, and he has a legacy to honour.

So today, a warm July Monday, Bill slumps in his armchair, drinks his whisky re-reads the banner headlines.  He is not shocked, not awed, not even convinced.  He hears how it was that Syria has had the  Weapons of Mass Destruction all along. 

Nothing has changed.

Every horror or conflict near or far, every economic or moral cause still exudes the same nationalistic call for loyalty.  With fervour and outrage, a sense of decency, for the sake of the monarch, for peace and the rights of all humans, Bill’s country will voice its stake.  This small and savage island will again and forever send it’s best to serve, to suffer, to die, or worse, to return home.         

Savage island

It’s a tradition:

Like every eldest male in his family, Bill had wanted to join up, to serve, to contribute, and to honour his family’s military history.  Since records have been scribed and portraits hung, the Cuthbursons had dutifully fought for king, queen or country.   The family had prospered and suffered equally for their resolve and Bill felt the weave of events and actions bound him to continue the history.   He took a sip and reflected on a remembrance day four years ago.

The sun that day had glinted pride from the medals the old soldier had pinned to his blazer pocket. He’d pushed through his pain from the march, up the rise and into his village square.  Bill could see the agony in his grandfather’s set face, the tears in his eye were not born from forcing his seized joints to move again and again, they were the tears from the grief of lost sons, dead friends and broken marriages.  There was however, behind the pain, still that steely resolve locked into that wizened countenance, a resolve burning him to march with his last breath, with honour and without regard to self, all for the glory of victories past and the fight for right.  It was this masculine exemplar that drove the continuing Cuthburson legacy of militia enlistment.  Bill’s own son had stood there, that 11^th day, at attention, by his side, parade uniform pressed and his unadorned chest swelled with bravado.

Not for this latest Cuthburson would be the rat-putrid and fetid trenches of Europe, nor the ocean-locked solitude and tactical blundering of the Falklands.  No.  Young Will would be made forever aware of the ditch or mound beside a desert road, cautious of a welcoming resident, permanently watching the back of his buddy and command.  A degree course in paranoia locked in an oven of discontent would be Will’s lot, and Bill knew it would scar the lad and taint his life forever.   

The memory of that 11 November morning in 2008 was today playing on Bill’s mind.  11/11/08 was the last day the three warrior Cuthbersons had shared a drink at the local, the old man quietly lamenting the loss of his dearest son, the young soldier espousing the invincibility of technologies in modern warfare, and Bill was there, caught between a sense of pride, of loss and with a gnawing fear for his son’s wellbeing.   Their parting was cursory after a few drinks, the old man was taken back to the home, young Will put on the bus back to barracks and Bill had wandered home to his dank flat to ponder again his ruined marriage through a whisky clouded cut-glass lens.  All of them had shared a hug and a ‘see you soon’ back at the pub, knowing that they would.  

But they had not.

The old man had passed in his sleep and young Will was posted to Kabul the same day.  Bill received a text from his wife saying she was sad to learn of the old man’s death and wishing their son well.  Bill had no idea how to respond so he didn’t.   What he did was have a drink and remember.   He remembered the fear of scuds and the scream of air support as he was hunkered down in the grasses with the winter wind whipping his kit .  He remembered the mortar thud vaporising half of his sergeant in the ditch beside him and he remembered vomiting as he charged forward to the next hillock, closer to the enemy but away from the mortar’s sweep.  It was the only memory he could be sure of from his service, the drugs and the abuse he had delivered on himself and his wife had in time erased the Falkland horrors.  He wasn’t sure if he drank now to remember or to forget. Through the familiar lens the paintings of his grand forebears had looked down incongruously from the stained walls of his tiny flat.  Lowering the glass his eye had fallen to the painting of the young be-medalled officer who had been his father, a man he’d never known other than from stories told by others.  The husband who his mother could not speak of without grief choking her words.  The father whose memory he had idolised and on whose behalf Bill had gone to war to deliver a Cuthburson retribution on a different enemy.

There was no logic in warfare, the Germans had killed his father, the Argentinean’s would die.  

But they did not suffer at his hand.  It is not a war won on the field, it is a battle lost at home.  For every life stolen in trenches, on beaches, in air and water there are ten at home destroyed by loss, or worse, by the return of a cracked and broken sub-hero.  Bill’s father, he thought, was in that way lucky to have caught a friendly cannon round in Ypres.  The fight when home is much longer and less clearly defined than the mission away, the lessons learned in strategy, defence and attack are meaningless in the lounge room.   The families of veterans may expect to be idolised, abused or ignored but they can not expect normality from a returning warrior.  There is no rule, no school, the soldier should cope.  The able soldier will most likely return to war where his skills are more attuned.

November, 2011, in the icy rain, young Will had worn the old man’s medals proudly on his right, before returning for his fifth tour, a twelve month back to back.  Major Will Cuthburson prefers active postings to the alternative.

So today Bill slumps in his armchair, drinks his whisky and listens to how it was that it is Syria that has had the weapons of mass destruction all along.  Nothing has changed. Every horror or conflict near or far, every economic or moral cause still exudes the same nationalistic call for loyalty.  With fervour and outrage, a sense of decency, for the sake of the monarch, for peace and the rights of all humans, his country will voice its stake.  This small and savage island will again and forever send it’s best to serve, to suffer, to die, or worse, to return home.         

Mr Power - the hunger for education

Mr Power,

 We have moved away from friends, distanced ourselves from family support networks.  The grandparents are stoical and despite trying to hide it, quietly saddened at the distance now between them, their grandson and their soon to be granddaughter.

But Sophie and I agreed, we had to move here, for the kids, for their future, so they had the best possible chance in life.  The chance we never had to be accepted into the most desirable of all schools.

 Our postcode now places us in the heartland of three academic institutions.  We are a little out of place I have to admit, our 57 reg. family wagon does not match up and I can see sympathy in their polite smiles as the neighbours view the accommodation we can afford on my salary .

It’s the eleventh of July and we were scheduled to meet at the school at 13:15.  We stand, unsure, in the gleaming entrance, the large chrome doors hushed shut behind us.

He strides down the hallway and breezes into the foyer smiling with the well-fed pomp and purpose of a man controlling a desirable asset. 

‘Welcome to our little piece of Britain’s future.  Mark, Sophie, I am so pleased you have chosen to come and see us.’    He enthused, projecting a fleshy hand to me and his eyes to Sophie. ‘I understand you have a lad you are thinking of entrusting to our educational process,,, and I can see,’ changing his smile to a knowing grin, ‘You are planning another attendee?’ He released his grip and with a gracious backhand indicated Sophie’s tightly constrained mid section.

‘Yes, a little girl, due in two months.’  Sophie pre-empted ,  keen to get on with the business at hand.

‘Oh delightful, I am sure we will enjoy her here enormously too, should you elect to enrol her.’ He drew breath  as he continued. ‘But Please excuse me, I must apologise, of course I know all about you from your application, I’m Gary Power, Chief administrator.  I am your greeter and explainer and it’s my role to simply show you around and impress you with our facility. Oh good, I see you parked in the visitor’s bay.’  A vast executive saloon stood gleaming near the entry.

‘ Well, no actually, we walked. Yours is the closest of the three possible schools to our home.’  I was pleased to be able to get a word in between his practiced patter, and to indicate we were still quite undecided about our options...  This wasn’t the case as Sophie had told me repeatedly this was the best of the three schools and we had to ensure we presented ourselves professionally.  I was on the tightest of her leashes.

‘Excellent, I am pleased we are so convenient for you.  Come, let’s begin the tour!’  And without pausing he turned and headed off, glancing over his shoulder to say,  ‘It is timely that you should be looking this term,  we rarely have vacancies now but, I can say, if you do decide to enrol, a place may be made available’

‘Oh? Really? How come?’ Sophie was almost unable to contain her professionalism.

‘Oh, there are ways… but if it makes a difference in your selection decision, I can guarantee you a place here.’  And a  grin creased his podgy countenance as he led us on an exploration of the classroom and sporting facilities, regaling us with academic achievements and recognition attained by the school and the students.   He also explained an initiative where the school enrolled homeless local children and, as he put it, processed them through the system to ensure they could contribute to the school and community.  Sophie was growing more convinced of the school’s suitability and as we passed by the kitchens, redolent of sumptuous meals, she advised Mr. Power of our desire to formally enrol our lad.

‘Excellent! Let me congratulate you both on your wise decision!  We look forward to processing your son through our education.’  He again shook my hand and offered a smile and an open hand to Sophie. ‘Oh, look, given the timing,’ glancing up at the nearest wall clock, ‘Would you like to join the head teacher’s table for lunch?’

‘That would be great, thank you.’  I accepted perhaps too willingly, my nose driving my sudden appetite.  The luncheon was delectable,  the pork stew a keynote and we were enthralled by the informative chat and camaraderie of the staff who showed a special and common bond.  

‘This meal was delicious’ mouthed Sophie as she swept the gravy with a piece of crusty loaf.

‘Well, thank you, we are quite famous for it you know, we pack and sell this particular stew nationally , the income supplements school fees so we can better provide the facilities you have seen.’

‘Oh, I’d love to see the kitchens.’    Sophie was a food tech in her pre-parent career but was to be thwarted at this time.

‘Regrettably, due to OH&S you understand, that will not be possible but you do join us on a rather special kitchen occasion.’  Mr Power grinned.  ‘Today we confirmed a huge re-order so we can now enrol a lot more youngsters!’ 

I could see Sophie had as many questions as I did about how that all worked but the other teachers wanted to know about our lad and to describe the school’s approach to their higher sciences.  Towards the end of a most interesting hour Mr Power rose and excused himself saying he had some details to take care of, said he would process our documentation and gave us directions back to the foyer.
Passing by the kitchens again Sophie couldn’t resist sticking her head through the door to have a quick look.  It was the large pile of neatly folded school uniforms that initially puzzled her but what put a gnawing ache in the pits of our gut were the small well-washed bodies slowly moving along what looked for all the world like an abattoir line.   

Define a new word - Medistration

Medistration; 

 I have become aware that my body has deteriorated.  Not through misuse, although to be fair there has been a sufficiency of that, but mainly through the unsympathetic lottery that is my genetic inheritance.  This fatal genetic lottery is compounded rather than addressed by formulaic responses of the medical profession.   I have been advised by experts, that while some lifestyle habits do go a long way to shortening a lifespan, there is also just the dumb luck of being born without the bodily compounds that provide some people longevity.

 Lets take cholesterol as a for instance.

The humanoid has generally developed over the millennia from being an opportunistic consumer of available foodstuffs. Trial and error in tasting these foodstuffs had rather defining consequences which, while regional, were quickly observed and slowly communicated between tribes of wanderers.  Such gradual development and learning has resulted in our ability to identify, consume or avoid a wide range of consumables from animal to legumes, fruits to fungi. 

If you were to set out to determine the genetics of your inherited human lineage you would find the compounding of copulation over millennia so complex it would confound solution.  There is no chance of determining if, for example, an individual’s prehistoric genetic forebears were mainly meat eaters or gross vegetarian.  One thing for sure is that the tribes who were mainly meat eaters and consumers of fermenting foods developed so that their fatty, ethanol spiked diet could be tolerated by their uniquely efficient liver enzymes.  Gatherers, grazers and gross vegetarians had little need for what we now know are the cholesterol breaking compounds.  So it was that by regional resources and the subsequent dietary division, humanoid tribes developed or did not develop a cholesterol tolerance.

With infinite cross-breeding, and after tens of thousands of years some of us humanoids won the cholesterol tolerant lottery and some of us did not.  This would be fine if the tribes had stayed where they were and kept eating what they had always eaten.   Globally though, tribes have integrated and the food chain has long since altered to present everyone with access to commonly desirable foodstuffs, and to satisfy the enduring delight for alcohol.  

Regrettably, for those who did not win the genetic cholesterol lottery there is the inevitable prospect of what is now blanket-termed, heart disease.   Heart disease is any number of things but mostly relates to the fact the heart can’t do what it wants to do, it wants to pump blood as needed.  Most typically the diseased heart can’t pump as well as it wants to because cholesterol  and  nicotine, but that is off topic, have a way of gradually, irreversibly hardening and coating arteries, veins and chambers of the heart.  Vessels become affected by a fatty crust that restricts flow, flexibility and function.  This is not a pleasant thing to look at in a corpse, especially if you are the corpse. Especially if there was a choice in your lifestyle.

All humanoids have an enduring desire to continue to live, an ability to reason how to ensure they do, and the intelligence to invent and develop change.  So it is that we all now live in a population of chemically altered existences we term ‘on medication’, some self-subscribed, most prescribed.  You never know if the person you are dealing with is effected or unaffected by chemical compounds.   

Who hasn’t benefited from pain numbing analgesics or from a mood enhancing substance or some equally benign and preferable chemical reaction?  There is an underlying human presumption of individual invincibility, in one’s own ability to overcome.  And so it is, if presented with an option of a shorter lifespan, we opt for treatment and medications which may extend our time of reason.  

 In the case of heart disease we are provided various chemicals to relax the vessels, to lower cholesterol, to slow the heart, to calm the mind, and to reduce adrenalin. 

Problem is medical practitioners are just not that clever.  Because we are not all from the same blend of genetic forebears the chemicals we use are at best designed for a presumed average response but at worst they are intolerable for the individual.  Treatment becomes a trial and error between chemistry and the individual’s willingness to accept the side effects of generalised chemical solutions.

Again the variety of responses is vast and the willingness of the individual to adapt and accept is a mercurial thing at any time.  What we end up with is a large raft of our population being medicated for longevity but diminished by chemical side effects.  Given the current obesity, alcohol and eating trends, people from twenty to eighty years of age are consenting to chemical cholesterol treatment.  These treatments invariably have side effects which manifest in altered movement and mindset.  It is wise if you consider this in your daily dealings with the general public, acquaintances and even friends and family.  It is wise to wonder how many people you deal with are not partially or totally stoned out of their normal state of reason.

No-one wants to rely on chemicals to live but the dilemma of choosing longevity with side-effects over a limited future results in a frustrating medicated existence.  I have termed this medistration.

Thankfully because we are such a developed life form, the patient is told of the chance of side effects , not really so they can decide, there is no decision, but so they are aware that they may suffer, for example; swelling tongue,  breathing difficulty, memory loss, skin peeling, depression,  muscle weakness, loss of feeling, blurred vision and a long list of other behavioural and experiential changes.  Again, it’s a lottery, but the person should expect to notice some of these in some form.  As will you when you meet them.

Better than being dead. 

But it does leave feelings of reduced capacity, of regrettable compromise, the inability to rationalise an alternative, a defeat, or a grudging acceptance.  A sense of medistration that is apparent in conversation, recollection or attitude.

Describing a place - The Polje.

CHAPTER 3a

The Polje.

Hafyen wandered off retaining his smile but as his journey extended his thoughts focused on other matters and as the countryside began to change, he paused in his long journey.  Looking from where he was now, he saw his feet were braced on a weathered boulder sunk into the crest of this jagged hill.   He gazed down at the rugged and fertile landscape, everything he could see ahead, behind and far, far beyond is known to its inhabitants as their world and they call it the Polje.  

Hafyen has a fortunate history of travels which have shown him the geographical limits of this Polje, to the east and the west his adventures have been terminated by the mountains soaring mightily beyond their clouds.  To the far north he once visited ice-bound cliffs rising to unfathomable black heights, starting at the east cliffs and running unabated to the west they gradually melt their waters through glacial valleys down into humid jungles then drain into the lakes and seas of the more temperate, populated regions.  The Polje variously climbs and rolls tens of thousands of miles southwards until vast forests again meet the foothills of cold, impenetrable southern mounts.   

Hafyen had been to the known limits of the Polje.   In these remotest of places and on his travels between, Hafyen met the peoples and exchanged learning as he could.  He probably was, in all the history of the Polje, it’s most unique traveler.   

From where Hafyen stood now he could see just a tiny speck of this huge locale, this place he wandered through with fixed purpose. Just here small towns were laid out before him, in the distance a city stood clearly defined by its rigid edifices puncturing the horizon, its roads thinning as they weaved their way further from the centre of population.  Streams, hills and plots of land - green, brown, and grey, farmed, fallow or developed, - bordered by woodlands or fences, all made up the muted palette of this bit of the Polje that Hafyen now stared at.   

Hafyen could not see to the western cliffs from where he stood, but he knew them well.  From within the Polje, people can never sight their edging summits.  Billowing clouds permanently hug the cliff’s craggy heights obscuring vision and wetting the rock-face.   The cliffs are hard, smooth and seamless.  No one has been able to scale their soaring heights.   

Although everywhere above the landscape huge winds prevent navigation at higher elevations, Hafyen was a frequent traveler on the Polje’s sonic zeta-jets, the fastest aircraft, which flew just below the perpetually tormented elevations.  He frequently elected to take the three days necessary to fly to the northern most runways of the Kunqua towns from the southern reaches of the Buliez outskirts.  Hafyen enjoyed the thrill of rapid flight, the ability to be as high as possible flying over this land, to see the vast and varied vista roll beneath him as the colours of day and the lights from cities at night bought a constantly changing experience.   

There is much land past the populated north and south regions and most of it is yet to be explored.  The Polje holds more lands and peoples than an individual could hope to explore in one lifetime.   Hafyen is perhaps the only person ever to have been there and done that.    

As a recent distraction, or critical investigation, he hadn’t decided which, Hafyen had been noting down the theories and beliefs of people he met and how they thought the Polje came to be.   He enjoyed learning of the many beliefs and ideologies and he felt privileged to have been introduced to these fervently held truths by people who were mostly shy of their beliefs.  He was equally interested in those who too willingly tried to berate others into their particular theory.  Hafyen was amazed at how popular a topic of debate the creation was, and how readily he could incite discourse. Many a drink was consumed in discussion and many a fight has resulted from divergent beliefs.  No substantive conclusion exists around whether the people of the Polje are an evolved product of environment, or a spirit-created life form.  There are even different omnipotent spirits in every region to discuss and disagree about.  This variance of beliefs and the attempts at convincing others is the garden of prejudices, fears, ignorance and fatal disagreement.  Hafyen has always had his own ideas and they typically collided with popular consensus.  On matters of belief he gained more insight by being the witness than the judiciary.   

At one end of the debate are the academics, the theorists and dreamers who Hafyen meets in his travels.  They are typically frustrated in that they cannot escape the confines of the Polje to find comparison.   These pragmatists are putting forth exploration plans, and from time to time expeditions are funded to scale the Edge Cliffs or to build craft to penetrate the atmosphere.  Billions have been spent in efforts to defeat the physical boundaries and while most attempts fail spectacularly, a small number attain greater and greater heights. 

Unfortunately no significant insights have been gained.   

The populations keenly absorb reports, digital images, simulations and multi-media representations from un-manned missions.  Educated people have a clear picture, within the limits of technology, of the entire Polje, a solid comprehension of their weather systems, their geology and of the visible solar systems. But no one has a comparative vision of what exists or doesn’t, outside the Polje.  Simply because of this absence of a comparison, everyone shares the fascination of leaving the Polje.    

Hafyen has argued that; ‘It may not be necessary to escape the Polje, because we have all we need to live here.  All we really need to do is overcome objections and challenge obstacles.  The more objections we address, the more frequent the resolution.  The bigger the obstacle we challenge, the sweeter the reward.  Surely living among frequent sweet rewards is sufficient? ’ 

When delivering this speech Hafyen came across a few folk who understood that avoiding obstacles may shorten your life. These were the people who rejoiced in seeking new obstacles.  They knew the experience of failure is equal to the exhilaration of success and that both must be equally savored. 

Hafyen had also said that ‘no failure is complete and no success total’. 

He remained amazed, as he stood looking over the land, how few people in the Polje are yet to understand this simplest of truths.  He wondered if it mattered. 

For now, he had a specific obstacle to resolve, so he turned and strolled cheerily into the landscape before him.