Cautionary Tales (3 page)

So what does this have to do with root pruning? That is the subtext. My technical history is only a shadow of my emotional history, as is the case with every human being. You see, the beginning of my memory is not with my parents, but with the nanny who cared for us. She was the one who was with us, who took us to the park, who did everything for us. When my parents returned to pick us up and take us to Spain, they were on the verge of being strangers, just two identities on my horizon. The nanny was the prime nurturing figure of my life. When I lost her, I lost my heart. The damage didn't show, because it wasn't physical, but I had been emotionally orphaned. I had been root pruned.

My sister and I survived in Spain, getting to know our parents, cared for by other nannies, and we started to learn Spanish. Then came my father's expulsion, and we came to America. Again we had to start over, with a half-new language and a whole new country. Then my parents' marriage strained and foundered, and I was in that limbo of severed attachment. I took three years and five schools to make it through first grade. I wet my bed at night for several years, and developed assorted nervous tics, such as jerking my hands or tossing my head every few seconds. I stopped growing, and in 9
^th
grade was the smallest member of my class, male or female. I never lived more than two years in any one place until I went to boarding school, 9
^th
through 12
^th
grades. It was another root pruning. I used to daydream of waking up and discovering that it was all a bad dream, and I would be back home and happy in England with the nanny. It never happened, and finally I came to terms with America. I separated myself emotionally from my fracturing family and forged my own identity. I became a heavy reader, losing myself in the idealized worlds of fiction. Some folk sneer at escapism, but for me it was vital. The bed wetting and tics faded, and I grew most of another foot.

It was in college after two years, when I was required to decide on a major, that I pondered a day and a night and realized that I wanted to be a writer. It was like a guiding star turning on, and from that time it has been my beacon, as my subsequent career shows. I never thought of being a writer before then, and never wanted to do anything else since then. Writing defines my life, and now, in my 70's, I know I'll never retire. I'll always be writing, until I die, halfway through a great novel.

So what motivates me? Yes, I was well educated and can express myself well, as this essay should show. Yes, I have discipline, so that I can complete projects I undertake without the crutch of a regular paycheck or a boss looking over my shoulder. Yes, I am strongly independent in thought and inclination. Yes, I got key breaks that enabled me to make it; luck is a potent career force for any writer. But no, I am not mentally disturbed, though I was once ridered (that is, excluded) by my insurance for all mental diseases. That was a false alarm; when I complained of chronic fatigue and my doctor couldn't find anything physically wrong with me, he concluded it must be all in my head. It was thirty years later that they discovered my thyroid imbalance and treated it, easing my fatigue and depression. What I am is an ordinary, smart, motivated, imaginative person who was jolted out of my satisfied life, thrown into emotional badlands, and who discovered in the realms of fiction and fantasy a type of salvation. I no longer depend on the emotional framework crafted by others; I craft my own. I am most truly alive when I am writing.

And I think that's the key. Truly dedicated writers are likely to have been thrust out of their comfort zones and required to generate their own realities, which can become better than what fate otherwise offers. I doubt I am unique in this respect. I suspect that if you delved into the backgrounds of other writers, you would discover a similar emotional pattern, though the physical and intellectual details might be quite different. They have been root pruned—and survived.

Note:
From time to time I get asked questions about what it takes to make it as a writer, and I answer as well as I can, trying to be reasonably original within an essentially unoriginal framework. I wrote “Root Pruning” in 2006, I think for an amateur magazine.

Caution: Jesus cursed

3. Cartaphilus

Then he met Leyla. At first he thought she was just another luscious young woman, to be used and thrown away. He was mistaken.

Not about her appearance. She had a cute sultry face, wild short purple hair, delightfully massive thighs in tights, and a tattoo of a flying bat on her back, eighteen inches across. The rest of her was in proportion. It had been a century since he had seen her like.

He headed for her, forging through the throng at the night outdoor party. But a beefy young man cut in between them, closing on the girl.

So? He put his left hand on the man's shoulder from behind and hauled him back. “Mine,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? Listen, you fake barbarian—”

Suddenly the sharp tip of his spear was nudging the man's throat. “Yeah. Don't try my patience.”

“Hey, you can't use a weapon here? It's not allowed.”

“Too bad.” His left hand blurred as it slapped the man's face hard enough to smash his nose and knock him to the ground. The man considered a moment more, blood welling out, then concluded that retreat was the best option. That probably saved his life.

The woman had not flinched. She seemed intrigued “You sucker punched him.”

“The hell.”

“You can't do that with me.”

She was asking for it. Sometimes a woman he wanted cooperated. Then he was reasonably gentle. Sometimes she didn't. Then he wasn't. Regardless, she was his, once he decided. This one had a bad attitude.

His left hand moved—and missed her face. She had pulled back just enough. That was odd, because few people had enough speed to escape even when they saw the blow coming.

He whipped the spear around to touch her throat. Only it didn't. She had moved again, slightly but enough.

“My turn,” she said. She jumped toward him.

He flung himself back, in an automatic battle reflex, but somehow she followed. One of her evocative legs got tangled between his, and he fell backwards to the ground. She landed on top of him, her remarkable breasts against his chest, her sweet mouth against his. She kissed him, then lifted her head, smiling faintly.

“What the hell?” he asked, amazed. No woman had ever done that to him before.

“You can't escape me,” she said. “Now shall we adjourn to somewhere more private?”

She wanted him! “Yeah.”

Soon they were sitting in a cheap rental tent, one of many pitched around the fringe of the party site. It was barely large enough to accommodate the two of them, sitting or lying, but that was enough. Token privacy, that others would honor. Tents were part of the appeal of such gatherings. “Before we do this,” she said, as she removed her tight halter, “there must be two things.”

“Yeah?”

“First, an introduction. I don't screw with strangers.” She smiled, and he had to smile with her. “I am Leyla. I am a witch. Do you have a problem with that?”

A witch! That explained a lot. They could govern their forms, to a degree, so tended to be beautiful. They also tended to be lusty. “No.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Who are you?”

“Cartaphilus. I am cursed.” He waited for the inevitable question.

She surprised him. “Aren't we all!”

Maybe she had never heard of him, so didn't care. Witches did have powers, usually minor. She might think his curse was a perpetual hangnail.

He was eager for the culmination. “What's the other thing?”

“I need to satisfy you that you truly can't force me. Anything I do with you I do because I want to. My will governs, even when I cater to your will. Are you satisfied?”

There was that attitude again. It needed to be expunged. “No.”

“Then make your move, barbarian.”

She was referring to his costume, which really wasn't a costume, but passed for one at parties like this. “I am not a barbarian. I am a Roman soldier.”

“You're stalling, Cart.”

That did it. He lunged for her, grasping for her shoulders to push her to the ground. And missed, hitting the ground himself. He wrapped his arms around her torso—and missed again, his arms clasping nothing. He dropped his body on hers—and missed once more, landing beside her. Somehow she was always not quite where she was supposed to be.

“Perhaps you should stop fooling around and get serious,” she suggested insolently.

He lurched into her—and crashed through the side of the tent, bringing it down on them both. “What the hell!”

“Hell has nothing to do with it,” she said.

He worked to put the tent back in order. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you'd never ask. I told you, I'm a witch. I have magic. Specifically, I am aware of what is about to happen to me, within about five seconds. I can avoid it if I choose. With that warning, I can move as fast as you can. You can't hit me, slap me, choke me, or even kiss me unless I choose to let you. It's an automatic response; I don't have to think about it. Now are you satisfied?

“Yes.”

“Then let's do it.” She removed her tights, baring the lower portion of her body. She was every bit as splendid nude as clothed. Her pubic hair was also in the shape of a bat. It was a nice touch.

Cartaphilus quickly stripped, setting aside his spear, Roman armor, and lion's mane cloak. He got over her, his hard member poised.

“On my leave,” she murmured.

“The hell.” He held her in place and thrust.

Her hips bucked up to collide with his. His member was squashed painfully between them, entry impossible. He grunted and fell back, grasping his injury.

“Perhaps you didn't hear me say ‘on my leave,' Cart,” she said, sitting up.

“I heard.” Speech was difficult at the moment.

“Then it seems you were not satisfied when you said you were.”

“Right.”

She reached forward to touch his member. “And so you suffered this.” She tweaked it gently.

“It's healing. I heal fast. It's part of my curse. I can't even be killed.”

“So I see. But if you lie to me again, Cartaphilus, you will have more healing to do.” A knife appeared in her hand, the blade touching his member. “And you will never see me again. Do we understand each other now?”

“No,” he said, impressed. “You're a lovely mystery, witch. But I get it that I can't force you, and you don't like lying.” As talents went, hers was a good one. If he wanted her cooperation, he would have to cater to her whim. To a point.

“Then you have my leave.”

He hesitated. “This lying ban—it's two-way? You won't give me leave, then cut me?”

“Astute, Cart. Yes, I will not lie to you. But I will make demands, in due course, and you will obey or lose me.”

“I obey nobody!”

“They will be reasonable demands, such as to leave my coven alone. You will not find them onerous. There are constraints on me that will necessarily apply to you also.”

“Okay.” Then he clasped her, and this time there was no disconnect. She met him eagerly, and in a moment he was in sheer bliss within her.

“I think we shall continue to associate,” Leyla said while they remained engaged. “You're a lot of man.”

“Yeah,” It wasn't just her physical beauty; it was the way she understood him and handled him. She was a woman who compelled his respect: the first in centuries.

“Now I suspect you want to know more about me,” she said as they lay half clasped in the aftermath. “It is simply told. I am a witch in a coven run by a man named Emmanuel. I do not go against his will, and neither will you. This is for self protection, as we are a hunted species.”

“Hunted?”

“Do you know of the Templars?”

He spat to the side. “Damned religious hypocrites. I thought to join them, several centuries ago, but they won't have me. Claimed I was a psychopath.”

“But you are, aren't you?”

“Yeah. But from them it was insulting.”

She smiled. “Just being a witch is an insult, from them. They seek to kill us, and they never relent. They will know how to disable my limited magic and burn me at the stake. There may come a time when I need your protection.”

Burn her? Already he felt horror. “You got it!”

“And the coven?”

“You tell me, I'll protect it.”

“That will do. Now do me again, and tell me about you.”

“Again already? I don't heal
that
fast.”

She put her hand on his member. “Perhaps you do.”

She had the touch. He surged to readiness, and clasped her again. What a woman!

Then he told his own history, half expecting her to be horrified and break it off immediately. But he had agreed not to lie to her, and he did want her to know the truth.

“Today's crucifixion,” the centurion said. “Some faker they call the king of the Jews. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yeah. There is no king of the Jews. Rome governs us.”

“I mean, you being Jewish.”

“I don't give a shit whether he's Jewish or a Baal worshiper. Criminals are crucified. I'm a Roman soldier doing my duty. I don't like fakers anyway.” This wasn't morality, which he lacked, but the knowledge based on experience that the truth was bound to leak out some time, and it was better to deal with it at the outset. He was establishing that he was Roman first, Jew second.

The centurion nodded. “See to it.”

Cartaphilus intended to. The Romans recruited locals for much of the dirty work, but they watched them. If he made any mistake, he could lose his position, and with it the chance to legitimately bash heads for good pay.

Later in the day they marched the faker up the hill to the crucifixion site. He was a slight man, bearded, long-haired, in need of a bath. He called himself Jesus of Nazareth, and it seemed he had somehow managed to gather some followers. Some fools would follow any fool. It was his job to carry his own cross up there; it was part of the punishment.