(1) The Obelisk

Summary: Three part story of old vs. new. Each part is told in its own style and through a different character. The language is kept within the context of the setting, therefore lending to a more formal approach to tone and diction than the second example.

Quick Examples: The following are excerpts from the parts below:

Part 1- Before speaking, the Elder glanced to Titus, who kept at his work, “A word alone, you mean?” Levi nodded. The Elder stepped aside so Titus was clear in Levi’s view, “Levi, if you cannot trust Titus, the man whom, if memory serves-and forgive if it doesn’t-made at least half your armor, then how can you feel secure, or how can any of us feel secure? If the craftsman is not trusted, commerce cannot be held; if the smith cannot be trusted, coalitions will surely fail. Trust him, Levi, or else we three Elders have gathered for naught.”

Part 2- Levi wanted to fail, he wanted another to take his place, he wanted another to represent the three clans; but here, before him, was something that said otherwise. Had Titus’ words gotten to him? Or, was it that he wanted someone of better skill to take his place? That a part of him wanted to lose due to the other’s merit, and not his cowardice? Or maybe, perhaps, it was just frustration, it was the youth he so hated in himself, that others mistook for passion or focus.

Part 3- Jeremiah drew his longsword, keeping it at his side, “With cheers a youth is offered. Levi, may you be of the few to die in this dispute.” Slowly the King raised his sword, matching it with Levi’s, while keeping a relaxed stance. With a shout from Acheus, the duel began. Levi struck, Jeremiah blocked, letting his wrist seem weak. The boy pushed Jeremiah back with his attacks, passing through the dividing shadow, drawing the two closer to the line of royal guards.

Part 1

Betwixt the grains of sand the darkly spire rose. What winds had it weathered, what torrents and gusts, what decades had wounded those crafted edges? Above the dunes it stood, catching the sun and holding the moon. Though time had left insults, so too had swords and spears and axes carved their testaments. Battles, wars, and soon again a challenge to the King the tired obelisk would see.

As the sun set, long stretched was the shadow that touched the Elder’s tent. Creased eyes ceased reading a scroll, and thick robed Acheus rose, with crack of bone and shift of iron. While one hand held the tent flap, another brushed aside his gray hair. Acheus walked through the quieting crowd, standing himself before the obelisk, and watching the craftsman raise a hand.

Clang, the chisel slid; clang, the chisel scuffed; clang, someone was standing behind him. Titus turned his head, his knee slipping upon the mounded base. Elder Acheus caught him, “Steady, Titus, I am not here to berate you.”

“I did not think you were, Elder.” Titus leaned against the obelisk, hammer and chisel still in hand, “Though, if I may be honest, you caught me by surprise; this stone has not been generous.”

Half hidden by his robe, a faint smile appeared on the Elder, “You are a fine craftsman, Titus; but, if the stone will not yield, it will not yield.”

Titus gripped his tools and turned back to the obelisk, “It will yield, Elder.” The hammer rose, the chisel struck, and down again the smith’s arms slipped. Again the hammer stood, again the chisel charged, and again his arms slipped; thus, again and again, as he later would throughout the night, the smith stayed at his work.

Acheus watched the craftsman, watched as his arms worked, watched as his salted hair shifted with each blow. When had age touched this child? How quickly the decades piled up, like the sand beneath the obelisk; how quickly youth was hidden, and how easy age seemed to approach. Acheus smirked, and then turned, hearing footsteps coming behind him.

More than smith, sweat covered the approaching young man; more than Elder, iron weighed him down, peering from between his robes and scarves; and more than all, his feet depressed the sand. Quick blade Levi pulled the cloth from atop his mouth, “Sir Elder, I saw you left your tent. If, if I may, I would like to have a word with you.”

Before speaking, the Elder glanced to Titus, who kept at his work, “A word alone, you mean?” Levi nodded. The Elder stepped aside so Titus was clear in Levi’s view, “Levi, if you cannot trust Titus, the man whom, if memory serves-and forgive if it doesn’t-made at least half your armor, then how can you feel secure, or how can any of us feel secure? If the craftsman is not trusted, commerce cannot be held; if the smith cannot be trusted, coalitions will surely fail. Trust him, Levi, or else we three Elders have gathered for naught.”

No pause was made between hammer and chisel; Titus kept at his work. Levi replied, “I trust him, but I trust not whoever might hear him. For, Elder, your words have hit true, I do not feel secure. I have no wrinkles, I’ve fought no wars, I’ve won no battles: Elder, who am I to duel the King?”

“Already you have heard my endorsement, and each day-it feels-I have spoken it to you in some way; thus, you need not my word, but another’s.” He grabbed the craftsman’s shoulder, “Titus, have you advice for Levi?”

Titus kept at his work, speaking betwixt the strikes, “Tomorrow, the sun will rise.” Clang. “Tomorrow, what needs to be done,” clang, “will be done.” Clang. Titus adjusted his chisel. “Fear dwells within yesterday,” clang, “it makes long the wait,” clang, “it wastes our thoughts,” clang, “and it gnaws upon both the-” clang; Titus adjusted the chisel again, pulling his arm far back as he spoke, “-both the imagined and inevitable.” Clang. Titus leaned back, a single letter now showed on the stone, ‘H.’ Titus grinned, adjusted his chisel, and struck again, clang, “Levi, you are an honorable man,” clang, “you will face the King,” clang, “and you will keep your word.” Clang. Titus paused, then laid down his hammer and chisel. He drew a tent in the sand, taking time to draw the ropes and tent pegs. He turned and

spoke, enunciating with finger upon the drawing, “Though doubt and fear buffet your tent, those nails of character, those measures of honesty, truth, and integrity, those pegs set in you by Elder and parent, they shall keep strong your tent.” Deep and smeared were the drawn pegs now.

Levi bowed, “Thank you, your words have helped.”

The craftsman turned back to his work, “Aye.” He picked his tools up, aimed his chisel, and struck again the stone.

Part 2

The chisel worked throughout the night, the hammer mined beneath the stars, and Levi, like many others, let the rhythm lull him. Though in truth, it was exhaustion that put him to sleep, while anxiety ruffled his sheets, and fear kept at his ears, waking him at the first sound of others talking. Levi rose, placed on his armor, and left his tent into the ending night.

The sun had yet to wake; but, around the campfire’s dull embers, the group had already begun to form. They were old and veteran, they were young and trained, and all had wasters-practice swords-upon their hips. Several held unlit torches, for the group kept their voices low, caring not to wake family or friend or Levi. Their champion approached them.

Levi said nothing to them, but motioned towards the dune. They went behind his tent, climbing the sand, silent as they topped the hill. Their torches were now lit. Levi entered the middle of the forming circle, drew his waster, and waited for his first opponent. He needed to practice, he wanted to practice, he wanted to fight: he wanted to lose. The winner would take his place; it was logical, it was simple, and it was best for everyone.

His first opponent approached; their match began. The thought to lose had come to him in the night, right before sleep. He was grateful for it, truly; though, still, he feared what the others might do or say. The best fighter needed to be their champion. He wasn’t that fighter, he was just lucky. Levi beat his first opponent, striking the man’s sword down and then hitting him upon the neck. He didn’t need to lose to his first opponent: maybe the second or third or fourth.

The second opponent approached. An older man whose waster was chipped on the edge. Levi paired his waster with the man’s and the match began. From right to left the first swing went, meeting near the middle; Levi pressed in, causing the swords to straighten up as the man fought against him. Then Levi turned his blade, sliding it up the opposing sword, aiming for the chip in the wood. Levi’s blade caught the chip and he pulled his blade over his shoulder, causing the man’s waster to fly into the air. The second was too easy, so maybe the third could beat him.

As the third approached, Levi began to distract himself by studying his waster. The wasters were made of a hard wood, solid, light, bruising; yet, before Titus, they had still lacked the weight of a normal

sword. Titus had chiseled the wasters of the sparring group, imbedding pieces of iron within them, granting that more realistic weight. The young opponent fell, gasping as Levi landed the third blow.

First to three hits, that was the rule, and now the fourth opponent approached. Another young man, an apprentice of another Elder’s son; this would be a good choice. Yet as the match began, as he landed a hit, as the boy landed a hit, as both got to two, Levi felt the crowd’s stare. The boy looked wide awake: most likely, they had woken him early. The sparring group hadn’t woken Levi. They hadn’t called him. They hadn’t nudged him awake. They always said they were gathering the others, or checking their wasters, or letting him sleep. The latter was the truth of it. He had believed the others too often. If he was to be their champion, he didn’t need sleep, he needed practice; if he was to be their champion, he didn’t need kindness, he needed experience; if he was to be their champion, then why did they insist on treating him like this!? The fourth cried out, blood leaking from beneath his eye.

Levi wanted to fail, he wanted another to take his place, he wanted another to represent the three clans; but here, before him, was something that said otherwise. Had Titus’ words gotten to him? Or, was it that he wanted someone of better skill to take his place? That a part of him wanted to lose due to the other’s merit, and not his cowardice? Or maybe, perhaps, it was just frustration, it was the youth he so hated in himself, that others mistook for passion or focus.

The day passed by. Tomorrow was the duel. Yet this day saw no good challenger. They were all too old, too slow, or too, too foolish. He was their champion. There wasn’t another to give it to. He was the best in a duel. Why though, why him? Was he truly strong, or was he actually just average: were the others simply weak? At evening time, Levi watched from his tent as Titus went to the Obelisk, as the smith sat down with hammer and chisel, as he aimed and struck the stone. He listened to the work, watching the steady hand rise and fall, hearing and remembering that tomorrow would come, no matter what fear said. It was fate, it was stone. Levi could either shed his fear, or breakdown a coward; either way, the duel would happen. Tomorrow would be the day, tomorrow would be the day, tomorrow-oh gods above, tomorrow would be the day.

Part 3

The Hand of Order, the First King Jeremiah approached the nomads’ camp. Clad in steel, adorned with gold, and lined with silver the royal guard seemed to outshine their King: he was dressed for war. Steel covered each limb, with strips covering the joints, connecting the pieces. A single scarf wrapped round his collared armor. Like burnt blood it dripped behind his back, waving in the morning breeze, offending the sky’s waking eye.

Thick robed Acheus stood next to the champion, quick blade Levi. The King approached them, with the obelisk’s shadow marking the sand between the groups. Jeremiah spoke, “Olden Acheus, I offer you leave one last time: command these clans to come under me. Spare the sand this man’s blood.”

“What you would have me do with words, you would shackle with laws and taxes uncommon to our nation. You have abandoned the ways of our forefathers; you have washed away tradition, replacing iron with steel, tent with house, and family, clan, with state. Thus, why should I believe you honorable, when you curse your own father?”

“Do you mark me as a hypocrite? How now can you deceive yourself when here I stand? Do I not obey tradition by coming here? Do I not obey the sleeping ages by dueling this man? And again I ask you, all of you, why do you ascribe our identity to these tents, to this rusted iron, to this outdated way of life? Conquerors challenge us. The nations laugh at our name. They invade as they please, they march through our sands at their leisure; why wait, why risk the day when they might sift us like the chaff?”

“Our fathers fought those nations and our fathers’ fathers fought them too: our time is no different. Blood may spill, but our ways will stand. Our people are the desert, the shifting sand; more than any we know the blade, more than any we know the long march and waited ambush. But metal, metal is not the simple change you say it to be. It is the broad districts I have seen, it is the bricked buildings, the tall billows: it is the chaining of our people to a single place, to a single will. Here we roam. We debate and go to where the majority desires. We eat what our hands have made, what our hands have shepherded, but for this your cities pay others. How then are they connected to land and nature? How then do they understand the ways of sand and clan? It is one of the whole and the individual; but you, you desire that all people be under you. Jeremiah, I ask you the same, how can you deceive yourself, how can one man represent what twelve Elders once did?”

“One man? One man can do naught! Yet what words will you hear, what explanation will satisfy!? Nothing, nothing but death! So bring on this young champion; and, though it greaves me, may his death break your will.”

Levi stepped forward, “Elder’s son, Jeremiah, here I will defeat you! By the quick blade you will fall, by Levi, champion of these clans, no more will you threaten our freedom!” His clansmen cheered as he shouted, as he drew his blade with a flourish. Levi raised the blade and entered a ready stance.

Jeremiah drew his longsword, keeping it at his side, “With cheers a youth is offered. Levi, may you be of the few to die in this dispute.” Slowly the King raised his sword, matching it with Levi’s, while keeping a relaxed stance. With a shout from Acheus, the duel began. Levi struck, Jeremiah blocked, letting his wrist seem weak. The boy pushed Jeremiah back with his attacks, passing through the dividing shadow, drawing the two closer to the line of royal guards.

He could win. The King was weak, feeble, inexperienced: he could win. Levi struck at the King’s leg, the blow glanced his armor. The King faltered, and Levi began to hammer the man’s blade, striking repeatedly from overhead, bashing, causing his blade to lower, aiming, hoping for that hit upon the head. Lower, lower the King’s blade fell under the onslaught; and, right above the head, the King dropped his blade. Levi yelled, striking once more. With his right arm the King blocked, pushing the blade up, pushing it up near effortlessly. Jeremiah grinned.

The Hand of Order, with his blocking arm aimed downward, pressed a switch within his palm. A blade slid out from his armguard, running parallel to his palm. With a jerk, Jeremiah pushed up and forward, running the blade across Levi’s throat. The women yelled, the children cried, and the men looked on, unbelieving. The boy fell to the ground, gasping, clawing for blade, and losing vision. Jeremiah looked to Acheus; the Elder did not cry, he did not yell, he did not scream or grasp his face, but he stared at Jeremiah, eyes full of focus.

The King beckoned to a royal guard. A small bow, a crossbow held in one hand, was tossed to the King. Jeremiah turned, aimed, and let loose the bolt, piercing thick robed Acheus. The many had cried, now all wailed at the sight of the Elder. Jeremiah threw down the crossbow, “How now does iron stand against steel? How now does the past face the future!? Here I have killed two men, here I have ended two lives with a flick of wrist and a pull of finger-what more evidence do you need!? What more proof do you require that your lives are lived at the whim of others more advanced than you? Here,” Jeremiah raised his hand and all the royal guard drew their crossbows, aiming at the crowd, “here I could kill all of you, every one of you. Your armor would not save you. Your marching, your ambushes, your skill of sword, they all mean nothing! But here, “Jeremiah pointed his sword at Levi’s body, “here I have upheld your values: our values. I have dueled, and I have won. If your creeds are so dear to you, if tradition was enough to offer up this man for slaughter, then honor this loss, honor your word. Either come now or in a month’s time, for that is what I give you all.” The crowd stood still, looking at one another. Titus stepped forward.

Tired was the craftsman’s gaze, tired from his labors, tired from hammer and chisel, tired in spirit, “King Jeremiah, if you will have me and my family, I will join you today.” Several men glared at the smith.

Jeremiah sheathed his sword, “Then I will take you, and you and yours will be honored this day; but, tell me, what is your name and station?”

“I am Titus, a smith and craftsman, I have made and fixed whatever my people desired. I made their iron armor. I made their weighted wasters. I made that boy’s dueling blade: and you have laid waste all my work. Thus there is none better to know the truth you speak, to see the difference between ore and alloy.”

Jeremiah walked closer, “If so clearly you see this, then why join me now? What caused this wait?”

“Honor. Hope. You are clansman and have done the best for your clan, you have advanced them, revolutionized them; but mine, mine is here, so here I stayed, working my craft night and day to make them stronger.”

“Yet Titus-no, all of you, how can either any of us realize true strength apart?” Jeremiah pointed to the obelisk, “It was all twelve clans that dragged this stone; it was all twelve clans that dug its base; and it was all twelve clans that raised it up. So let us join together, let the twelve bind together, and form again a nation that withstands the rushing winds!” Titus nodded and stepped forward, his family following behind him; after a few moments, several other families-either father or mother first-joined the King and Titus. A third of the group left with the King. The remaining nomads broke camp and left.

Thus alone, again, stood the obelisk, watching the people march off. No scars of sword or ax had marred it this time; but, a few words were etched below, a few words that the rising sun would always read, ‘Here the freedom of a people was decided.’