Fred’s parents emigrated from China at the turn of the century in search of work and freedom. California gave just enough of both to make the protracted trip worthwhile. Fred was born soon after and lived in the Chinese slums of San Francisco. At that time there was a dearth of available Chinese woman because of several immigration laws that restricted their entry into this country. So Fred, especially as an only child, had very few playmates of his age and nationality. He spoke only Chinese until the age of five when he went to school and had to learn English the hard way. Along with the racial insults, his small stature and his struggle to learn a foreign language contributed to Fred being very much alone.
 Therefore Fred did what most intelligent lonely children do: he read many books, took long walks and created his own fantasy world.
 For some odd reason, he was attracted to the stories of Jack London and Mark Twain. He so wanted to be American but the outside world constantly reminded him that, though born in this country, he was a chinee. His parents were Taoists and, once a week, they would read passages from the old books they had brought over with them and discuss their meanings. So Fred imagined himself cracking a whip while driving a dog sled over the Yukon plains reciting the Tao Te Ching or drifting down the Mississippi consulting the I Ching by the dying light.
 While still quite young, he had to enter the work force. He worked at the Tenderloin slaughterhouse for sixteen hours a day for about a year. Then he found a job as a carpenter’s assistant to an Irish fellow named Shamus who took pity on him.  “I’ll give ye a trade so ye needn’t fall down before the goddamned English for a crust of moldy bread.” Shamus gave him a strange book called Ulysses and told him it’s about how people really think.
 About that time, he contracted a debilitating illness that left him weak and unusually sleepy. A Chinese herbalist friend prescribed a mixture of herbs to be taken as a tea twice a day. After a few weeks, Fred had regained his strength but he continued imbibing this tonic all his life with the result that at the age of ninety he looked and acted like a fifty year old. Also the mediation practice didn’t hurt either.
 A full story of Fred’s life would be a book by itself if he had let on more details but we know he traveled widely, became involved in diverse spiritual studies and met remarkable people throughout the world.
 Right now, he hiked a favorite trail on the farm of George and Carol Applegate. It was late august and The Sun Dogs were yipping it up somewhere on the west coast. The farm was too quiet, he thought. I sure do miss those young folks. Maybe I’ll go visit them somewhere along the line. The laurel bushes were in bloom, pink and white flowers filled the shady groves of oak, maple and elm. The sunlight peeked through the canopy dripping quivering pools of white-gold in the still dry forest. Fred placidly strolled, without intention or destination, enjoying the warmth soaking into his bones.
 Abruptly, a shadow rose up before him and then fell with a crash of leaves and twigs. What the heck, Fred cried to himself, as he jumped back.
 There, splayed out in the dirt, was a deer. A young buck, wild-eyed and breathing heavily, attempted to pull himself up by its front legs then again fell with a crash. After the initial shock, Fred inspected the situation carefully while the buck laid there frozen in a panic. No blood or arrows were readily visible. Then he found a neglected rusted wire fence close by with tufts of tan and white hair stuck to it and more recently mangled. Ah. In his mind’s eye, he visualized the buck cavorting blithely, enjoying the day in a carefree manner, coming upon the almost invisible string of fence line. The deer must have attempted a quick spring over it and then got his back legs caught in the wire. In his struggle to get free, he had broken his back. Paralyzed from the waist down.
 What a shame, Fred thought. Now what’s to be done? Could just leave him here to die slowly from fear and starvation. Probably should give him death as soon as possible, that would be the most merciful way I think. Fred sat on a log and spoke to the animal. He told him what he planned to do. In small increments the animal calmed and looked at Fred, eyes brimmed over with an anxious yet trusting appearance. Well, I’ll need some help. Let’s see who’s at the main house.

 Carol, Taylor and Melanie followed Fred up the hill. George was in New York City for a television debate with the Rev. William Power. They brought a large knife, an old purple and white Guatemala blanket, a shovel, a five gallon plastic bucket, some burlap and plastic bags. They were grim and spoke in whispers.
 The buck had dragged himself a few more feet, its hind quarters useless. The foursome sat nearby unsure of what to do first.
 “Maybe we should sing to the deer,” Melanie suggested. “He might go to sleep before we kill him.” The innocence of childhood is composed of a astounding acceptance of life and death. Melanie had seen many a slaughter on the farm over the years.
 “What song should we sing,” Carol asked.
 “Row Row Row your boat, I like that one.” So they sang around and around that simple little song.

 Row Row Row your boat
 Gently down the stream.
 Merrily Merrily Merrily Merrily
 Life is but a dream.

 As they sang, Taylor draped the blanket over the deer. The animal did not move but sat stock still, hypnotized. Taylor and Melanie laid upon the animal, tenderly holding him down. The singing intensified. Carol held back the buck’s head as Fred came around with the carving knife. They sang the song again and again. The buck did not struggle.
 The knife bit and slid through the neck like soft butter. Blood spurted out, thick red fountains splashed upon the ground. The windpipe, a Kirby vacuum hose, heaved hot breath in their faces. After one great exhalation the buck relaxed. Its life was gone.
 The small tribe rested. A hush permeated the gold-green afternoon.
 “Let’s finish our job,” Fred said.
 Hanging up the carcass on a nearby tree, they slaughtered, skinned and butchered the buck. Taylor pointed out a hemorrhage along the spine inside the body cavity where the break had occurred. As they carried the parts of the deer down the hill, Melanie leading with the rolled-up skin, they laughed and joked. It relieved their tension. Tonight they’ll have venison stew. Tomorrow, Taylor and Fred stretched and scraped the skin to make a drum. The heartbeat of that buck survives to this day in that drum.

 
Try my Best

Do I seek devotion
in a wasteland of the soul?
Do I feel the motion
of a world out of control?
 Try my best to hold you.
 Try to let you go, I don’t know.

Wait until tomorrow
or till the end of time.
I’ll play between the sorrow
and the spark of the divine.
 Try my best to love you.
 Try to let you be, can’t you see?

I’m just a curiosity
in a sideshow passing through.
You pay up front to see
and in the end I look at you.
 Try my best to smile.
 Try to shed a tear, without fear.

Sharing bitter water
with an angel on the street.
I say: “I am another
in twilight jungle heat”.
 Try my best to fly high.
 Try to stumble through, how about you?

Do I seek devotion
in a wasteland of the soul?
Do I feel the motion
of a world out of control?
 Try my best to hold on.
 Try to let it go, I don’t know.

 The Sun Dogs in Kansas Somewhere.
 Stranded in some forgotten field after being driven out of the last town by a well-organized coalition of Christians, Muslims and Jews. Odd, very odd. On the wide open plains, everybody felt exposed and isolated. It certainly was a sudden change from the snug forest land back East.
 Inka and Osha wandered far from the camp and settled down on a small knoll. The sun was setting as they sat for awhile in silence.
 Inka then spoke softly. “I wonder where Peter is. I hope he isn’t hurt. He’s been gone for so long without a word. It’s been four weeks already. I’m so worried.”
 Osha remained silent. He had already conceded his fault in driving Peter away. And he too was concerned about his friend. But what could be done? The police haven’t picked him up and for some reason Peter hadn’t responded to his veiled plead published in the New York Times article about the Central Park concert. Just keep praying I suppose.
 “Well,” Inka said, “where do we go from here? Some places love us, other places want to tar and feather us. It’s getting scary.”
 Osha watched the sunset melt like tapioca pudding. “Let’s just keep going west, just keep moving. We’ll be heard whether they like it or not.”

 It’s so boring here since everybody left, Taylor thought. He complained to his father but was brushed off. This is of no concern of yours, he said. Then dad went back to making phone calls, something about a movie deal. There was alot more work for me and mom to do. Now he’s talking about getting rid of the goats and chickens, too much bother, they keep us tied down to this land. Jezz, it’s never gonna be the same.
 Taylor wandered around his home as he speculated on the sudden changes in his life. It was rainy for the last few days and a chill clung tenaciously to his bones. None of his friends could come over and there wasn’t anyone around who could drive him out. Boring. It seems even more quiet and boring because, before the Dogs left, life was really starting to happen. Being initiated into the Dogs, dancing and playing music, and meeting all the girls who came to join the scene — that was exciting. Now… life sucks. Why did dad have to mess things up? Dad sucks the big one.
 As he passed the library, he decided to go in there, make a small fire and read a book. The flames cheered him up. Soft hot tongues licked the cedar and oak, they attracted his attention, soothed his boredom. Better than most TeeVee, Taylor thought. The library, wood-paneled and cozy, had all the walls filled with books. A few comfortable chairs, reading lamps, a potted rhododendron sat in the bay window.
 Taylor stared into the fire for the longest time. Orange white and violet flickering flames held his attention. Ah, I’ll get a book now. The warmth of the fire made him feel a slight drowse and loosened his limbs. Scanning the books on the shelf, he saw one with a strange title that caught his eye, he picked it off the shelf and, as he cracked it, open something dropped out. What’s this? Taylor picked up what appeared to be some sort of key. An antiquated key, wrought-iron and chunky. I wonder where it goes. Then Taylor noticed a slot cut into the wood panel near where he took the book off the shelf. He has seen this slot before but he always  assumed it was a mistake that no one got around to fixing. This was common around his home-made house. Maybe the key goes in there.
 He slipped the key into the slot, it eased in and fit snugly, so he gave it a good turn. The bookcase gave a ‘pop’ and swung open. He pulled open the bookcase and it eased back smoothly. Strange, Taylor thought. He was surprised that he hadn’t found this out sooner, he knew every nook and cranny in this house, or so he thought. I bet Fred had a hand in making this, he’s always talking about secret places that he likes to go and he’s a darn good carpenter to boot. Dad certainly couldn’t make something this slick.
 As he opened the door he found a passageway. He ran and got a flashlight.
 The passage was about eight feet tall and three feet wide. The walls were a rough cut stone, the floor was covered with a sandy grit. Moist and dark. Wary at first, Taylor proceeded down the passage. Hey, what’s this?
 To his left, there was a large door. On further examination, Taylor found it was carved wooden door. Scenes of people frozen in action. Some pulled awkward carts or plowed endless fields. Incomprehensible. I wonder what’s behind this door. He pushed it tentatively and it gave just a wee bit. Taylor leaned his shoulder into it, it creaked open, little by little, the rusty hinges growled then gave way and it swung in. Taylor lost his balance and fell forward into darkness.

 “Here, let me help you up, my brother.” Diego peered up and saw a small dark-eyed man dressed in a dirty brown robe. He reached up to take the out-stretched hand offered. He too was wearing the same sort of robe, thick wool and cowled. “The stairs are uneven and many of the brothers have fallen here. We should have them fixed, but, ah, we of the north can’t afford the luxuries of Rome. There, you seem well, Brother Diego. No harm done, eh?”
 Diego noted that he was in a tiny room from which several corridors led off from. He felt strange and other-worldly like waking up from a long peculiar dream. “Yes, I got dizzy for a moment. I feel better now. Which way do we go from here, brother?” Diego followed the monk through many dark and winding corridors. With each step, Diego forgot that odd moment and recollected himself. Now he was in Germany to serve as a law clerk to the Inquisitor, Heinrich Kramer. Herr Inquisitor Kramer has been busy with the pursuit of heretics and witches in this particular region. Rome required a detailed accounting of these cases and, Father Kramer has been so very assiduous in his routing out those who have fallen off the path of the righteous, that he required an assistance to complete the paperwork as he went from case to case. Also, Father Kramer was writing a book concerning the proper legal proceedings for witchcraft trials, a field unto itself. Brother Diego shook his head and felt a shiver run up his spine as the last shreds of his dream faded away. Very odd, he thought to himself, I must be more careful.
 He was escorted into a large sparsely-furnished room. Commanding the scene was a long thick wooden table surrounded by richly adorned chairs. At the middle chair sat a black-haired man hunched over a pile of scrolls and books. Diego’s new master. “Herr Kramer?” The man abruptly looked up.
 “Who are you?” he demanded.
 Diego stepped forward and presented a sealed scroll. “I am your new law clerk. My name is Brother Diego De Oro.” This man seemed strangely familiar, perhaps they met somewhere else, some other time. But how could this be?
 The Inquisitor nodded his head approvingly while reading the scroll. “Good, good. Ever since Our Father in Rome recognized the extent to which this scourge has infected our population, he has been more than generous in providing me with the necessary tools for my work. Yes, you will do. I excuse you to rest from your journey and settle down in your chambers. I will meet you tomorrow after morning Vespers in this room. Bring your pen and foolscap. We have a new case and this is an excellent opportunity for you to become familiar with our procedure. You may depart.”
 Diego was taken to his cell. A plank bed, a scribe’s desk with an oil lamp, a window that overlooked the village. Nice, Brother Diego thought, as he collapsed into bed. It had been a long journey.

 The next day Diego followed Inquisitor Kramer into the dungeon located in one of the towers. Diego had had disturbing dreams the previous night; dreams of masses of people dancing to loud and alien music, not music really, he speculated, more like thunder, or the sound of armies clashing in the field of battle. These dreams were from the Evil One obviously. He was self-possessed, learned, faithful to the Church, ambitious to excel in his field and not given to be affected by dreams. The sensation of a hairshirt under his robes kept his mind focused on piety and the job he had come here to do.
 As they walked, Herr Inquisitor instructed his young student on the intricacies of this particular line of work.
 “The Devil is always present in this world of ours. His minions are constantly at work to trick and deceive us at the slightest hesitation or moment of our weakness. Bear this in mind. We are consorting with the Devil’s handmaidens and he is jealous at our interference. Even with woman, with all their weakness of mind and gross sensuality, be assured that his demons have applied long hours of temptation and persuasion to lure and capture their body and soul. Our work is to wrest the soul away from that Prince of Lies and deliver it back to God, Our Lord.
 “So be aware if immature sentimentality arises within your heart. The Devil uses all the tools at his command to protect one of his own. His most often used tools are pity and compassion. Ah, you look surprised but don’t be. The Devil knows that these traits lie at the core of any good Christian and uses them against us. We must be determined if we are to root out the evil that does lurk in the shadows of this world. As an analogy, let’s say we were carvers of wood, we wouldn’t do a very good job if we were meek in cutting away the dross, a good carver knows that he must cut fullheartedly if he is to progress at a reasonable pace and reveal the hidden beauty concealed within the log. So must we be. We must cut out the rot in order to save the rest from getting infected.
 “In regular legal proceedings, as you are certainly aware, there are particular rules of order and evidence. These are right and proper as they have evolved over the years to arrive at truth and justice in many twisted affairs. In the cases of heresy and witchcraft however, these rules and protocols are of little use and actually interfere with the attainment of a verdict congruent with the severity of the crime. For example, normally an accused man is presented with the testimony and identity of those bringing charges or evidence against him but this wouldn’t work in the case of a witch, for she is in league with a most potent and powerful ally. If she knew the identity of her accusers, they would be in mortal danger and the likelihood of acquiring witnesses would be sore indeed.
  “It is my especial interest to clarify a set of rules and proceedings that apply to the distinctive indictment of witches and heretics. Ah, here we are.  Please keep your notes in Greek and record only that testimony that applies to the guilt of this person.”
  They reached the door to the dungeon where they were escorted in by a guard. They entered through a low door. The sighs and moans of many prisoners oozed from the shadows where they lay, chained and fettered. In one corner, the guard grabbed the prisoner and dragged her towards them. Torches wavered and the stench of feces and stale urine sickened Brother Diego. When the light of Herr Inquisitor’s lantern fell on her face, Diego felt he recognized this woman, but as through a glass darkly, her long blond hair, though tangled and matted, reminded Diego of someone. A brief flash of his dream rose to the surface, he saw her in the dream singing and shining under an obscenely bright light. Diego suppressed this image as he strove to concentrate on Herr Kramer’s instruction.
 “This, Brother Diego, is the accused witch, one Frau Muller. The case against her is particularly damning. She has been accused of causing a young cow to suddenly fall over dead and the barrenness of another cow of that same neighbor. Those crimes were what initially drew her to our attention. Upon further investigation, we found in her home mysterious vials and elixirs, strange necromantic instruments and ghastly relics of immorality which she used for her horrid craft. Apparently, her demons charmed many of the women in this area to come to her for cures and such. She also gave unctions and potions to relieve the pain of childbearing, to prevent conception and, most abhorrently, to bring on abortions.” Brother Diego wagged his head at that particular allegation.
 “Yet after repeated questioning, she refuses to admit to her involvement in this witchery and the usual machinations of her kind. She refused to believe that the Devil even exists and that it is possible for these things to occur. This brought greater suspicion upon her and when I asked: ‘Then are they innocently condemned when they are burned?’ and she answered that that is exactly what she thought. As you see, the evidence is strong against her but she denies all and shows no contrition. Now common justice demands that a witch should not be condemned to death unless she is convicted by her own confession. This is the next phase of our investigation.” Herr Inquisitor smiled crookedly, the mole on his left cheek sank into a dimple. They followed the guard as they lead the witch out of that place.
 Upon entering a chamber which was more open, well-lit and much less evil-smelling, Herr Kramer ordered for the witch to be stripped and shaved. “This is essential to discover any marks at would indicate a concordance with the Devil.” The guard proceeded with alacrity and any opposition on the part of Frau Muller was met with sharp blows. She was placed on a wide table. With a rude razor and cold soapy water, the guard shaved her from head to toe. When he was done, he dumped the bucket over her to wash off any stray hair.
 They hovered over her inspecting her thoroughly, pawing and picking at her. Brother Diego was enjoying himself, he was sporting a huge erection. She lay there like a wet dishcloth, occasionally moaning as they turned her from side to side. Herr Kramer found a small skin tag on her labia. “Ah, this demands further scrutiny.” Herr Kramer plunged his fingers forthright deep inside of her vagina. The witch screamed and the guard held her fast. “Often the most potent of their wicked tools they conceal in the fastness of their bodies,” Herr Kramer explained. Brother Diego stood by impassionately, familiar with such proceedings. Herr Inquisitor rode into Frau Muller’s vagina with his gloved hand up to his wrist. Finding nothing he pulled out his hand and had her flipped over and proceeded to explore her anus just as forcefully. Nothing. “Ah, well,”  Herr Kramer sighed, “Not every avenue of investigation proves fruitful.” Frau Muller lay on her belly, weeping. Blood trickled from between her legs. “Now, will you sign your confession?” Nothing. “Did you hear me, Frau Muller, will you sign the confession?”
 The weeping quieted for a moment. “I am not a witch.” she whispered defiantly.
 Herr Kramer shook his head ruefully. “Beelzebub gives such ones as these remarkable powers to withstand extremes of pain and humiliation. The fact that she has been impenitent up to this point gives us even more cause to suspect her guilt and proceed with the torture. I turn this phase over to hands more skilled than my own. Proceed, my friend.”
 The rack was applied unsuccessfully but after crushing both her legs with a weird device that looked like a nutcracker, she wailed and said she would sign the confession.
 Frau Muller was propped up in a chair in another room with some shreds of clothes draped upon her. Herr Inquisitor asked Brother Diego to read the confession to the poor unfortunate.
 Diego cleared his throat. “Sine tortura et extra locum tortura, I, Frau Marie Muller, do confess to these specific crimes against man and God. Firstly, for the heresy of witchcraft by which I harmed my neighbors’ persons and property, stirred up tempests, bewitching of cattle, disturbed martial fidelity, caused impotence in the local men, and increased the carnal lusts of the local woman. Secondly, for making a pact with the devil and participating in Sabbaths wherein you flew with a broomstick, joined with other witches, worn men’s clothing or none at all, kissed the Devil’s anus, sacrificed children and drank their blood, and had intercourse with the Devil, amongst other vile activities. Lastly, for providing cures and elixirs to the local woman to decrease the God-given curse of painful childbirth and to prevent or destroy the products of conception.
 “I do hereby attest to all this before man and God to be true and without error. I do repent of all that I have done and ask God’s mercy on my soul. Soli Deo Gloria.”
 Frau Muller signed this scroll without commentary.
 “Prepare her for the stake,” Herr Inquisitor ordered. “Come, Brother Diego, I would like to meet with you in my chambers to discuss some delicate matters.”
 Later, dressed in their finery, Herr Inquisitor and Brother Diego stood by the pyre. Brother Diego smiled inwardly. He was happy that his new master had taken to him so quickly. Three men with grim continence slowly pulled the cart that held those destined for the fire. They appeared to be three brothers to Diego. Herr Inquisitor responded to Diego’s questioning that these three were in fact brothers and talented craftsmen in this small village. “I’ve employed them of late,” he continued, “to organize and arrange these pyres. They have very similar sounding names and I find it difficult to keep them straight. Their initial reluctance to carry out the wishes of the Church was diminished by a bag of gold and the threat of excommunication. An inquisitor must often do what is expedient with the resources at hand.”
 They lashed Frau Muller as well as a young man to the two posts surrounded by brush and scrap wood. Brother Diego felt impelled to ask his master about this man whose curly blonde hair was matted with blood and dirt. “Oh, him. He is an unabashed heretic of the worst kind. He had spread lies concerning the teachings of Our Church and fomented amongst the population such heresies as including the Virgin Mary in the Trinity and the attainment of Grace outside of the Church. Unfortunately he attracted a number of adherents in this region; he was quite charismatic. We’ll cleanse this region of all deviant thought. See, see the blood that drips from their mouths, I had their tongues cut out so they can’t spread their wickedness in the next world.”
 One of the workers gave these two a draught which they swallowed greedily. Herr Inquisitor leaned over. “I allow the villagers to drug the accused if they so wish, the practice soothes the conscious of some of the populace in these proceedings. We’ll wait a bit till the poppy takes hold. Ah, there is the husband of the witch, I have my eye on that one and their little spawn of hell.”  Diego noted Herr Muller for future reference. Dressed in sackcloth, Herr Muller’s long black hair fell into his face as he averted his sunken eyes from the pyre leading his filthy child by the hand. He did not look back. Diego mused that this one could walk away for now but he could not hide from the righteous anger of God as represented by the Holy Inquisition. He walked over to the pyre as Herr Kramer instructed the workers and paid them for their labors. There was something about the heretic that fascinated him. The boyish beauty and well-crafted body attracted him. Too bad, Diego thought, he probably could have been a great leader in the Church. Then the man raised his head and looked fiercely at Diego. That look froze Diego in his tracks. He felt the world begin to swirl about him with this intense man being the only still point. Strange images and sounds whirled in the intersection between them. What is happening? Diego stood there slack-jawed when Herr Inquisitor passed by and snapped him back to reality.
 “I’ll be glad when this is over,” he mentioned, “there is a superb organ in the church here that I wish to play and while away the evening.”
 Suddenly the brush was lit and smoke obscured the sky. Those two, the witch and the heretic, raised their heads and screamed defiantly.
 Brother Diego stared into the flames, mesmerized.

 The fire was dying down when Taylor opened his eyes. He sat in the large over-stuffed green velvet chair facing the fireplace. Looking around he saw no hidden door and where the keyhole was, was just plain varnished wood. What happened, he wondered as he added wood to the fire, was it real, was it a dream, is there any difference?  He found the book he had picked off the shelf, but no key. What is this book?  Malleus Maleficarum , I wonder what this is about. He sat down to read as the flames leapt and danced before him.
 

Tale  Twice  Told

What has happened to my heart I ask myself
in the middle of the night I hold my breath.
Have I run too long in this little round world
am I far too gone to make love to a girl.
Yet I think of her now in a soft safe place
her eyes are bright but where’s her face?
It’s a shame to be young yet feel so old.
It’s a shame to be living a tale twice told.

It’s a feeling I get when I talk with the crow
as the trees glow golden when the sun sinks low.
Four spirits play on a windswept field
where everything's right when nothing is real.
Yet darkness falls and the air turns chill
my heart bleeds and my soul is still.
It’s a shame to have silver yet desire gold.
It’s a shame to be living a tale twice told.

Should I laugh and say that I’m always strong.
Should I pound the earth and scream I’ve been wronged.
Should I let it all go and bow my head.
Should I wake in the morning as the sky turns red.
So I dip down deep in the forest well
I whisper “love” and the echoes swell.
It’s a shame to drink thunder but feel so cold.
It’s a shame to be living a tale twice told.
A tale twice told …