Crusader - novel, chapter 4

Ok, well I just read over this chapter (wrote it 5/6 years ago) and it needs a lot of work. Some very awkward sentences and word selection in there, but I like the overall tone of this chapter. It sets up the rest of the narrative and there is some imagery and dialogue in there that really captures how how I envisage the characters. It also sets up the next chapter for a major character introduction; a character I particularly like (though it takes several more chapters before Bohemond, and thus the narrative, to really recognise and feature him). The character I particularly like is not Duvaile, but he does get a couple of choice lines.

Please make you criticisms constructive or outrageously offensive. Both will be valued greatly.

4

The reverberation from the footfall of the column of men, with its irregular rhythms, carries dully on the air. As much as I have tried to comfort Charlotte since the morning she continues to eye me off with a withering combination of disapproval and frustration. The column moves past me on the windward side and I receive a baptism of dust. I almost wish a thicker cloud, one to hide me. Oh Lord, why did it all just become so hard? Here she is. Leading her horse just ahead of the baggage train. I must remember to tell Robert not to use horses to pull the wagons as they tire so much quicker than mules. Remember to tell him again I mean – and he thinks me stubborn? She’s giving me that look again. How can such a look make me feel so awful? It’s because she loves you and cares for you Bohemond, and she wants to know why you so clearly hurt. But I can’t tell her that. No. She won’t understand what I do is for the Church and God and that my pain is nothing. Charlotte stop looking at me that way. She’s drawing level with me. She has stopped, but not stopped her stare. Nothing good can become of this, Charlotte you are never coming with me on campaign again.

Bohemond dismounted his horse and held the reins loose signalling to his mount that now was a chance to browse the roadside grass. He looked up at his wife as the three horse-pulled baggage carts and the baggage-detailed soldiers drew past. Charlotte and he stood alone as the last of the marching column. Charlotte stood erect, her horse’s reins pulled commandingly taut. Bohemond waited for her questions; ones that had been born, defeated, and resurrected between them throughout the day. Charlotte remained mute, her form framed against the late afternoon sun highlighting the dissipating dust cloud. She discarded her inquisition in favour of allowing Bohemond’s clear discomfort at her stare to coax a meaningful sentence from him. From there she hoped a conversation could begin.

A shout went up from the front rank of the marching men-at-arms and Bohemond broke Charlotte’s gaze. He heard Robert call the column to a halt and saw him wheel his horse, scanning for his commander’s whereabouts. Bohemond signalled and swung into his saddle. As he glanced back to Charlotte she dropped her head, her eyes drawn and lips tight and Bohemond knew he had pushed her away too many times and far too heartlessly. He swallowed away the deep regret in his throat, hoping to have a chance at redemption later, and cantered his horse to the front of his men.

Robert was standing in his saddle shielding his eyes from the glare as he peered across the rolling plain. “Galloper. On the eastern road, just exited your keep,” he said as Bohemond drew up beside him. Bo was startled to see the grey-weathered sandstone walls and pennant flying watchtower of the Barony’s single keep as he crested the slight incline. His preoccupation throughout the day had blinded him to the usual landmarks that tripped off the distance to Liesburg keep, the Baronial residence.  He squinted against the sun and followed the line of the eastern road he was upon as it curved from due east, northward towards the keep. A lone rider, kicking up a heavy trail of dust galloped hard towards them.

“Either an urgent message is about to greet us in the next five minutes, or some rogue has just borrowed one of your horses and has no idea that he is about to meet with the significant portion of his Lord Baron’s standing soldiery.” Robert’s chuckle was pulled short as he sensed the ill-aspect of Bohemond’s mood.

“Continue the march. We will find out which of your assertions is correct soon enough.”

“Yes My Lord.” Robert turned in his saddle and reordered the march.

The column covered only three hundred yards before the rider had closed the two miles between them and the keep. Bohemond’s horse pricked its ears and pawed the ground at the new arrival. The rider pulled up short just ahead of Bohemond and Robert. His mount was exhausted, its coat sheened in sweat and foam forming around its mouth. The rider pulled away the cloth dust shield across his mouth and nose and Bohemond recognised him as one of the Barony’s two fast messengers.

Before the man could defer his position to his Lord as was expected, Bohemond asked, “Tell me Jean, what message is so important as to gallop one of the Baron’s horses almost to death to meet me when you would have had my presence in another twenty minutes?”

Jean was taken aback by Bohemond’s frankness. “Yes My Lord… Sorry My Lord. But the head of court judged the communiqué imperative, and expected that you would want those extra twenty minutes to prepare.”

Bohemond creased his forehead. “Prepare for what Jean?”

“My Lord your father, the Lord Baron, has requested you muster all men-at-arms under your command and rendezvous with his command in the shortest time passing.”

“My father wants me in Jerusalem?” Bohemond replied, clearly confused.

“Yes My Lord. I do not know details, but the head of court supplied me with the message so you may read it yourself.” Jean dropped from his saddle, ran to the flank of Bohemond’s mount and produced a roll of yellowed parchment. The Baronial signet clearly imprinted in the broken grey-stained wax seal.

Bohemond unrolled the parchment, noted his father’s distinctive heavy-handed writing, and began to read. Robert kept his mount still as he watched Bo’s eyes flick along the lines and widen in shock or dismay, Robert could never tell which. Bohemond looked up from the page and let the ends roll together around his thumbs.

“The sickly king Baldwin V of Jerusalem is dead. Guy de Lesignan and Count Raymond of Tripoli have had a falling out. Father fears civil war over the Kingdom. The land of the Heavenly Lord is in turmoil,” Bohemond announced distantly.

The soldiers within earshot of their commander kept silent but knew they were some of the very few outside of the noble courts who would be privy to the news firsthand.

Bohemond composed himself as his horse shifted its weight and brought him out of his reverie. He looked down at the messenger still standing beside him as he tucked the parchment into his saddlebags, “Ride back to the keep as hard as you did to me and inform the master of court to begin preparations, I want to be marching by mid-morning tomorrow…”

“My Lord I must…” Robert interrupted.

“Your protest is noted Robert,” Bohemond spat as he shot a savage stare at his sergeant. “Dismount Robert.”

Robert obeyed immediately, his face an expressionless mask at knowing he had overstepped the fine mark between the advice of friendship and the servitude of soldier. Bohemond turned back to assess the recently arrived mount shaking slightly from the exertion of the hard gallop.

“Jean take Robert’s mount, yours will collapse half way to the keep if you ride her.”

The messenger hesitated ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­– the hard-eyed sergeant holding the reins was at his most unapproachable.

“Now, man!” Bohemond shouted.

Jean scrambled to take the reins from Robert, foot himself in the stirrups and swing into the saddle.

“You’re lucky you’re as long of leg as me and you can sit yourself proper in the saddle, it would be a shame if you bounced yourself out while at a gallop and smashed that pretty head,” Robert growled as Jean wheeled the horse away with a look of utter distress on his face. “And if anything is merely out of place in my saddlebags, I’ll gut you and sell your sinews for lute strings to some wandering minstrel!”

Without need of further incentive Jean spurred Robert’s mount hard and thundered away in dust. Bohemond grinned at Robert, his frustration at his sergeant all but gone.

“I think he’ll ride all the harder just to put greater distance between himself and you. Thank you.”

Robert returned the grin, and with a most ungraceful bow replied, “I can do naught but serve you My Lord.”

Still smiling, Bohemond turned to his men-at-arms. “As I am sure you have all now heard from the man in front of you, the leper-king Baldwin of Jerusalem is dead and our Lord Baron has called us to his aid for fear of civil war, there being no immediate heir. I know you all deserve a well-earned rest, but there will be little for we begin our travels to the Holy Land mid-morning tomorrow.” Bohemond paused to gauge any level of dissent before continuing. “So for your labours, you will be paid an added bonus from the treasury of our Lord Baron.” Bohemond saw the faces of his men soften greatly. “And I will personally supply payment for the first round of tonight’s drinking!” Bohemond yelled as he pulled the sizable pouch of coin from his belt and tossed it to Robert. “That is if you can manage to wrestle a coin from the cold grasp of your sergeant! Let us get home!”

The men-at-arms laughed and murmured amused agreements to their commander’s assessment of the sergeant as they resumed their march. Robert offered a sly wink to Bohemond as he retrieved the messenger’s slowly unwinding mount and began walking it alongside the column. He was always impressed with Bohemond’s savvy, but above all, genuine way of placating his men in poor circumstance.

Bohemond’s thoughts spun widely as the four abreast ranks of the column moved past on his leeward side, his body clear of the dust. The logistics of the travel tomorrow were already forming in his mind, while his deeper concern of what had befallen the Holy Land encircled and intermingled with it all. He swung his vision along the men. It stopped on the solitary figure still at the end. Bohemond sat uncertain of what to do. His head was starting to ache from lack of rest, lack of water and all too much stress caused by the one person from whom he needed nothing but love. And he knew she needed that same love returned.

“Bohemond! On the crest of the road! The standard of de Montpellier!” Robert’s alarm instantly dispelled all but the thoughts of battle as Bohemond turned his horse and spurred its flanks.

“Halt column! Last two ranks draw in the wagons!” Bohemond shouted and cantered once again to the front. He looked to the crest along from the keep where the main road dropped over the steep hill edge towards the town of Leisburg. The sharp glint of twenty helms in the remaining sunlight as the fully armoured and barded horsemen trotted along the road. The unmistakable heraldry of black raven on a yellow field emblazoned on the flying standard. The dull thudding of eighty hooves carried more through the ground than the air.

“Form battle ranks! Four ranks breasting the road, front two with spears at the ready!” Bohemond drew in his mount as the men-at-arms obeyed his commands with experienced speed. “Robert, get on that weary gelding and ride to Charlotte. She is to remain with the baggage guard under the directions of de Guilies. He is to give up his life to continue her’s.” Bohemond locked eyes with his sergeant, both of them knowing the gravity of his command. Robert galloped away to the carts fifty yards behind them to relay the orders. Bohemond looked back to the twenty-strong horse company of Count Duvaile de Montpellier sedately approaching his position.

“Tighten up those ranks, I want your shoulders brushing those next to yours. You will hold your position. They will try to flank us and we will let them. On my order you will face about and present these invading swine with a belly full of spear heads! After we hold their charge the rearmost ranks will counter, lap around and encircle them. It’s just like your drills, and remember these are nobles – we’ll take full account of any surrender.” The silence of the men indicated their compliance with Bohemond.

He looked back towards de Montpellier, his knights still at a trot. Jean too had seen the rival count’s heraldry and had shown good sense by abandoning the formed roads and skirting the surrounding fields back to the keep. The freshly harvested grain crops in the fields with the remaining stubble waiting to be claimed as stock fodder by the herdsmen as the meadows closer to the woodlands hayed off and lost their goodness – Focus Bohemond!

“Bohemond?”

He had not even heard Robert return.

“Just wondering of the fields Robert.”

“My lord, have you taken too much sun and too little drink today? We must ready for battle!” Robert rose his voice just enough and Bohemond forced away his stare.

Robert looked at his commander and friend, watching his eyes narrow and jaw tighten. His response to Robert’s words a shortening of his reins and drawing of his sword. It glinted bright.

The minutes were slow and gave Bohemond’s thoughts speed.  Could I have garnered a better position? Will the men hold the charge? They do not bear lances which will aid our spears. Is Montpellier delaying for a rear-guard to advance? Charlotte will be safe? The men were silent. The cavalry quickened as they reached the slight rise in the road. Four hundred yards and still they come head at us. The cavalry broke into a perfectly executed canter – all the ranks remaining even. Two hundred yards. Wait for their call to full charge. Bohemond could feel the tension of the men-at-arms, knew the pull of uncertainty in their guts. “Steady men,” Bohemond and Robert mouthed in unintended sync. One hundred yards. There’s that bastard. Duvaile. In the front rank? Is he so eager to fall on my steel? Wait.

“Draw up your weapons!” Bohemond shouted.

“Bohemond! They are almost upon us!” Robert urged wide-eyed.

The men-at-arms stood confused; spears brought half up – undecided between trust and self-preservation. De Montpellier’s cavalry charged. Bohemond felt the hoof beats through the body of his mount. Robert looked aghast at him. Then noise stopped.

The cavalry reined in with utmost precision to halt five paces from the points of the haphazard lines of spears. The broad, pale-faced and clean shaven knight in the centre-front of the cavalry sneered as his face swept up in glee. “Well Bohemond I see you are no less the barbarian than last we met if you great all guests to your father’s Barony with steel points. Though the flaccid collection you have here is rather innocuous.”

Bohemond sheathed his sword quickly. “Perhaps you would like to test them, Duvaile, I could see to it personally for you My Lord.”

Crusader - novel, chapter 3

3

It all felt wrong when I pulled aside the covers. It should have drained away my burden. All of it should have gone. It should have drained deep within me. But instead all of that blackness stood still; motionless on my shoulders only to slide back into my head. Charlotte stood before me and saw what I never was to show her. She saw the blackness entwined within me – she saw what only God’s enemies should see and what only God can relieve on my day of reckoning. What have I done?

Bohemond crossed the three steps between Charlotte and himself and knelt beside her raking body curled upon the heavy fur rugs of the tent floor. He reached out tentatively, wanting nothing more than to hold close the woman whom he loved, but he was acutely aware of the battle accumulated mess that clung to his body. Charlotte felt his careful closeness and the hesitation in his actions. She pulled herself away from the empty embrace of the ground and looked at her husband through tear streaming eyes.

“Charlotte…” he began.

Charlotte squeezed the tears from her eyes with a long blink and watched him forming soundless words of apology. Her reply was to reach out to his still outstretched arms and pull them tight around her until Bohemond understood her need and wrapped her in the warmth of his body. Together they sat each holding the other, only moving to breathe.

The sun was reaching the lip of the hills around the camp when Charlotte and Bohemond stirred from the cocoon that had enveloped them. The reality of their closeness prodded Charlotte into full consciousness. “We need to clean you up.”

Bohemond’s eyes opened and focused on his filth crusted arms that he held around her. He stood up and looked down at his condition in open disgust. “Yes, we do. You should never have had to see me like this. And you equally should never have to help clean this,” he said gesturing with revulsion at his current state.

“Don’t be foolish Bohemond; I knew what to expect when I convinced you to bring me with you.”

He looked up at her with incredulity.

“Well fine, when I forced you to bring me with you. And despite me expecting you like this afterwards… I wasn’t prepared for it.”

She looked at his downcast face at her admission and added with a grin, “Though I certainly wasn’t prepared for the foul-smelling drivel you and your soldiers call a meal. I can smell that stuff brewing on the camp fire from here!”

Bohemond attempted to stifle his laugh and failed dismally much to the pleasure of Charlotte. “Will you ever allow me the sad comforts of my bad moods or will you forever bring me cheer?”

Charlotte grinned as she narrowed her eyes and replied, “I will do what I wish to suit me as you are a miserable bore in your bad moods and overly… amorous at your most cheerful. Keeping the balance between the two is an endless source of work for me, you know?”

“Miserable bore? Overly amorous? Endless work?” Bohemond stood in only partial mock surprise.

“Don’t look so shocked and take off you armour while I fetch some water.”

Bohemond stared in outright adoration at his wife as she let the entrance cover drop back into place, leaving him alone in the tent and missing her presence already.

Charlotte returned with two pails of water, one Bohemond could clearly see had been filled from a heated vat. She saw him observing the steaming wooden bucket as he pulled his heavy mail armour over his head and let it drop to the ground. “You would not believe how long it took me to convince Robert to let me put some water on to heat. He didn’t seem to be able to understand that I wanted it so you could bathe when you returned. He kept wanting to make a broth with it. Look there is still some cabbage left in there from his first attempts!”

“Thank you. And I can believe how difficult it was to convince Robert to do anything that would allow what he would call ‘unnecessary comforts’,” Bohemond said smiling. He chose not to add that probably all the men outside his Baronial field tent had never bathed with heated water in their lives. Firewood was a labour-intensive commodity and to waste it on heating bathing water when food needed cooking was a prospect for only the wealthy.

Bohemond finished stripping off and Charlotte began to wash his body clean as he sat on a small stool. The water collected the physical remains of the day’s battle and dropped them to the ground. With each droplet of sullied water that fell so too did Bohemond's thoughts. All of it washed away by the warmth of the water and the care with which it was administered. He dozed listlessly.

It was with slight regret that he realised that Charlotte had finished bathing him and was now standing by the entrance with a lit taper. The night had grown dark and only a faint glow from the camp torches outside shone through to light the tent. Bohemond watched her move progressively around the enclosed space; lighting the lanterns hanging from the tent frame. He traced the lines of her body with his eyes as she lit each lantern in turn and remarked to himself how beautiful she was. Her dark-brown chest-length curls highlighted by the naked yellow flames of the lanterns. Her close fitted tunic, tights and riding boots that caused such scandal in his father’s court. Her ease of movement as she navigated the crude furniture of the tent. Her deep brown eyes and heavy lashes giving a returning stare with a mixture of love and worry.

“What troubles you?” she asked as she blew out the taper.

Bohemond stood without a reply, suddenly wanting to escape this person looking at the deep recesses of his soul, the place where he held his shadow. “I have to see to the men and the camp – make sure all is in order.”

She smiled at him as she started collecting his strewn armour. “Bo, you may want some clothes before you join the men, we aren’t Greeks you know. Besides, Robert has already been to say that the men are fed and the night watch set. He said all will be ready for the march in the morning.”

Bohemond looked incensed. “When did he come?” he demanded, suddenly on edge and confused.

“Just as I put out the pails and lit the taper from the torches outside,” she replied; her eyes wide at his sudden uncharacteristic anger.

Silence fell upon them, both statuesque as they faced each other from across the tent. Then Bohemond crumpled. Tears formed and fell with rapid succession and a heaving sob brought him to his knees. What he thought had been buried deep within escaped and wrought havoc. All of the pain, violence, hate, anger and fear that was only meant to visit his dreams thundered through his waking body. Charlotte raced to him as Bohemond’s soul and mind spewed forth the pent up misery of a man contorted by actions in utter opposition to his being. He wept in her arms until exhaustion brought on sleep.

Bohemond was dragged into the sun lathered courtyard by many hands. There it lay in the hard packed gravely sand. No he cried. Again he cried no. He thrashed against his human shackles as they pulled him towards it with awkward ease. And again he cried no. He could see the dry cloudless sky as he was rolled onto his back; still suspended above the ground, and now, above it. No he cried once more. His clothes were ripped from his body until only his skin remained. Then he felt it. It was pressed hard against his back as he was thrust down by the faceless blur of pinning arms. Yet again he cried no. His arms were stretched and pulled out as his torso was weighed down without sympathy. It was still there, pressed hard against him, and more noticeable with each passing second. His legs were the only part unbarred and he pushed against it with all his terror-filled fury. Wood splinters bit and burrowed with all his exertion against it as he cried no. His legs were captured and his resistance faltered…

The clouds swept him up and encircled him, pulling him up, but out and through. The greyness of the clouds fell apart below him into their substantial nothingness. He was stood upon them by another, exalted in light. All before him was about to begin and all behind him already forgotten. He was new. Before him was the figure of light. He bowed his head and dropped his knee. He was neither worthy to behold the figure’s visage nor stand its equal in stature. You are my Warrior it told him. You will cut down those who are my enemies it told him. You are born my Warrior, it told him…

Bohemond’s eyes opened wide and bloodshot. His pupils contracted against the faint light in the tent. The ingrained familiarity of his field tent instantly dispelled his awakening disorientation in place and time. Lying still he realised that Charlotte had directed him to the sleeping pallet at some point and he was grateful for the soft furs between himself and the ground. Her slow, deep breathing rose and fell beside him and he carefully rolled away. Bohemond stood silently and mentally chastised himself as he looked at the neglect strewn around the tent.  The chain mail slumped in a mass of steel links on the ground beside discarded and dirty bracers, greaves, boots, and padded leather gambeson. Hose pants and surcoat, soiled and stained, lay stinking alongside the armour. Only the sword revealed a cursory attempt at care; clean and leaning up against the table. Bohemond’s conscience had not been clouded by feeling foolish and irresponsible in years. The memories of his father’s strict tutelage, scathing judgement, and harsh punishment for failure sparked and flared. He attempted to extract order from within his chaos.

Ten minutes later Bohemond stepped out from his tent in hastily oiled and polished armour and boots – wearing new, unblemished surcoat and hose – and buckled on his sword belt. He inhaled the sweet dawn air greedily and looked to the horizon where a tiny sliver of the sun crested the hills; lightly coating the grey-blue sky with a golden and rose film. He cast his eyes around the camp, pleased to see the assigned sentries awake and alert, and grinned inwardly at realising he had still arisen before Robert despite his rushed efforts at equipment maintenance. Bohemond again cursed himself for not completing the duties he expected of himself the night before. The night before. He instantly jumped and skipped his thoughts away from those memories; not forgotten, but avoided with every effort possible. Acknowledging what happened last night meant exposing those deep, unclean creases in his soul. And Bohemond could not do that.

He scowled and pushed all the fog and rubbish in his head back and begun turning the mental checklist of tasks that needed completing before his men could march. As he stepped away with his business ahead, Charlotte lay awake on the pallet. Her thoughts churned as she attempted to understand how a man could fall asleep in her arms, weeping for an unknown sadness; only to awake in the morning, oil his armour and leave her without even trying to share his pain.

Italian scientists on trial for manslaughter

Ah bugger, I thought I published this post before I left for a holiday in Europe in December. Oh well, here it is now... obviously.



My friend Katie, sent me a link to a news article about three months ago about the start of a manslaughter trial brought against a bunch of Italian scientists and a government official.

These people were part of an official panel responsible for advising on and communicating the risk of a major earthquake to the town of L'Aquila. On 6 April 2009 a 6.3 magnitude earthquake caused the deaths of 181 people. The predicted likelihood of an earthquake had gone from a 1 in 200,000 chance to a 1 in 1,000 chance the day before the earthquake occurred. Six days prior to this the government official on the panel rather extravagantly told everyone that there is no need worry and to go and have a glass of red wine.

The trial is brought by the local government on behalf of the townspeople. They allege that imprecise and conflicting advice was provided and that more would/could have been done had the advice been better and/or better communicated. The case was preceded by a large petition being submitted to the judge from geoscientists from around the world. Some commentators have made out that this is science on trial and other such hysteria. If the trial was that the scientists did not correctly predict the earthquake then, yes, this would be science on trial. However, the trial is specifically related to the methods of delivery of the scientific advice.
Now my knowledge of law in general and Italian law specifically is fraction less than zero (I avoid it like the plague), so I am in no position to comment on the merits of the trial in that context. But I am almost holding a "piece-of-paper-that-says-I'm-a-scientist" so I feel I can comment on it from this frame with some level of legitimacy.

Firstly, no-one can predict earthquakes with certainty. Except maybe animals, who often seem to bail out in the lead up to an earthquake. Barring the invention of an animal-human telepathy/translation device, that 1 in 1,000 chance prediction is pretty good. The fact that the odds shortened by 200 a day before the quake would be as good an indication to me that something nasty was going to happen. If I was a betting man that would look like a good horse to back (or may be not, I don't know shit about betting -- please feel free to correct me). However, if the significance of this information wasn't known in the town or made known to the town then we have a big problem.

This brings up my second point, this trial highlights the gulf between science/scientific process and the communication of said science to people without a scientific background (verbose I know, but I hate the phrase "general public"). If proper communication had occurred, people in the town would have known that when the chance of an earthquake is revised that severely, then more than likely something will happen in the near future.

No-one sues the weather man when he stuffs up the weather and we get caught in rain and our blue suede shoes are ruined. We understand that predicting weather is a complex thing and that the reported chance of rain is just that -- a chance. I think the failing in the case of the earthquake advice is that caution was not the default stance advised by the panel (or at least the government representative on the panel). If there is a less than 50:50 chance of rain I usually play the odds and bank on there not being any rain. If the chance of rain increased by a factor of 200 overnight it would suggest to me that rain was coming sometime soon and if I want to avoid ruining my suede shoes, I'd better not wear them for the next couple of days. I am being cautious. But earthquakes are not rain, they are not often just a minor inconvenience that I can get through by not wearing suede shoes. The panel should have employed a much greater Caution Quotient TM when talking to the public. That is, may be suggesting that all we need is a glass of red to kick back with and forget about the earthquake nonsense isn't the best approach.

My final point is the idea of separation between the scientific advice and the official response of governments. A scientist is generally not qualified to make official decisions regarding emergency situations/natural disasters -- that is the domain of a different set of experts. In Australia, this separation is carried out reasonably well for natural disasters (e.g. bushfires, tsunamis, cyclones, storms, etc.). The advice from the scientists is utilised by relevant authorities to make decisions about evacuations and whatnot. When scientists are the majority of an advice panel then it gives a false impression to people about the authority of the panel in forming irrefutable scientific advice ("There is a whole room full of scientists they must know what they are talking about...").

So what is there left to do but sit and wait for the results of the trial. If there is a resolution in the next five years or so I'll make sure I follow it up on the blog!
If you want to read more the link below is a long article that gives a blow-by-blow of the events and has an interesting collection of comments at the bottom. Be warned it is very long.

http://www.nature.com/news/2011/110914/full/477264a.html

This link below is a far more readable distillation of the above. I can recommend 'the conversation' as a really good example of generally excellent communication of science (and research in general). Wow, that was far less convoluted a sentence in my head. Apologies.

http://theconversation.edu.au/manslaughter-trial-of-laquila-earthquake-scientists-will-cause-serious-aftershocks-3477

Note: I don't actually own any suede shoes, blue or otherwise. But I did pick up some awesome fleece lined leather boots in Berlin recently. Take that Elvis.

ANU short story comp winners

I am writing this post in between productive (ha) thesis writing, and there will be more to come as I get more of my thesis done (*cough-bullshit-cough*). Also, please excuse me for not getting posts up in the last month or so. Busy, lazy, etc.

Not a single genre story amongst them. Except may be if the genre is called boring, bwahahaha (I'm not bitter at all). No, seriously check out some of the stories, they are mostly good (my personal preferences have ruled out a few clangers). The winning entry is very clever. Overall, they are very good at achieving an emotional response, but I'm just not sure if I find them interesting. I like my stories to be interesting, not just clever. Perhaps I have a poor attention span and I need caffeine-infused stories to keep me interested, but in my defence I've read Shogun (James Clavell) and it takes 250 pages of fine print just to set the story. Sigh. Most likely the real reason is that I am being overly critical because they were direct competition and beat me! Hehe

Please enjoy and let me know what you think

http://www.anu.edu.au/dos/story_comp/short_story11winners.htm

Crusader - novel, chapter 2

Another chapter. This one is short. One to read while doing/meant to be doing something else. Like work! Again, I take no responsibility for any crap bits.

2

I always shock myself with the apparent ease I have at coming to terms with the fact that I just killed twenty-odd men. I can detach myself from my actions afterwards like I was watching at a theatre play and then quite happily float away from that part of me. A series of instants meshed together then pushed aside. I can’t tell whether it is something I struggle to hide away because personally ending someone’s life seems so horrific afterwards, or if the clarity is some sort of divinely granted strength for doing God’s work. And as much as I wish it were the latter, the days and nights of sickly, soul-sapping fog that always follows my deeds in battle tend to suggest the former is the case. But for all the darkness that enters my soul for my actions, I in turn am removing that darkness from the world. Like all saviours of God’s children I am a martyr. And yet despite my faith, in those darkest of nights when the hungry souls of the men I’ve killed rob me of my sleep and haunt my shadows, in creeps my deepest fear – what will become of my blackened soul?

Bohemond shook away the haze that had descended across his thoughts as he passed the threshold between open field and soldier’s camp. As though he had passed some invisible line the men under his command became instantly aware of his company. A jubilant cheer arose as the men gave thanks to their leader for victory. An unbidden grin cracked Bohemond’s face and he raised a fist in salute to his men-at-arms. He truly revelled in leading these men. Men who believed in him, followed him despite what fears and gripes they may hold. For them the killing was a job paid for by their Baron and they need not appreciate him nor respect him. That the fifty men now surrounding him, most of whom his senior, were showing something close to admiration filled Bohemond with an almost fatherly love.

The cheers died off and the soldiers directed their attention to their well-drilled tasks as Bohemond’s sergeant approached him with a grin that rivalled his own.

“We got the bastards Bohemond, every last one!” Robert de Guisard said through his broad smile.

“That we did Robert, that we did,” replied Bohemond as his still settling memories rumbled and groaned at the mention of every last one.

“As I always tell you, your father would be truly proud of you today; the church is that much stronger for what you did today.”

“That’s false praise and you know it Robert, it was you and the men who won us this day for God and the Church.” Bohemond didn’t notice Robert’s grin turn wry at the comment.

“Ah I won’t try to disagree with you, we both know you’re as stubborn as a mule with sword skills that put me to shame, Bohemond, and I would hate to flare your temper when your sword is in such easy reach!” Robert chuckled with feigned fear.

“Yes, and we both know you’re too old and grizzled for wounds to afflict you as your skin is so thick blows bounce right off,” Bohemond quipped to Roberts laughter. “Tell me are their many injuries?” Bohemond asked, instantly reverting to seriousness.

Just as quickly returning from the light-heartedness Robert replied, “No, My Lord. Peter de Guilies and Adam Truthsayer both received slight wounds, nothing incapacitating as the heretics were mostly farmers, sorry Milord – peasantry – and had few battle skills or real weapons. Those that did have weapons barely knew which end to point at us.”

“It was a massacre. Their leaders were fools to believe that they could face us in battle. I pray for their souls. Are Peter and Adam seen to?”

“Yes, Milord.”

“Have the men been assigned the watch?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And the evening…”

“Yes. My Lord the broth is already on the boil, after a bit of trouble I might add. And the horses have ample feed. And the surrounding woods scouted as you ordered.”

“And…”

“Yes! For the Almighty Lord’s sake everything has been seen to and is in order you pedantic perfectionist!” Robert growled through his laughter. “Now get along to your tent, the good Lord also knows there is someone frantically awaiting your return. At my last count she had asked for you seven times! Now be off with you!”

“As I always tell you Robert, if my father had no son you would be the commander of these fine men,” smiled Bohemond as he turned and walked away.

“I wouldn’t want it anyway! Too many Baronial ceremonies!” shouted the sergeant to his commander’s back.

“And I bet you would hate it too, you scarred vain veteran,” Bohemond retorted over his shoulder and was received with chuckling laughter.

Charlotte spun around quickly from the table by the centre pole of the large tent as she heard the heavy canvas over the entrance pulled away. The view arrayed before her shocked her to silence. She never believed the stories told to her of Bohemond The Great Warrior, though she was not naïve enough to think they were not true; Charlotte just refused to join the Bohemond who was her husband with the warrior standing at the entrance. Despite all her mental efforts to distance the two facets of the man what she saw now rudely forced each hard up against the other.

Bohemond stood, holding the tent flaps aside, silhouetted against the sunlight shining in around him like an angelic figure – the reality was obscene. His tall, broad frame normally regal and gentle was unforgivingly menacing. His body was covered in blood and dirt – dark curled hair matted with it, sun-tanned skin smeared with it, and cloth surcoat stained with it. His knuckles were smashed raw and finger nails were invisible under a coating of gore. With an implacable dread she looked to his face and met his eyes. Charlotte glimpsed a single moment of The Great Warrior within his blue-grey eyes – cruel, hateful, pained and violent. With an almost instantaneous reversal that veil was drawn deep within him and her Bohemond, The Bohemond, stood again before her. With total relief her body shuddered, fell to the ground and wept.

Crusader - novel, chapter 1

So... I have been lazy haven't I? No, not really I have just been busy and despite having half a dozen things that I would like to write blog posts on there has been no time (or more correctly, I haven't made time). So while I get back on the blog writing saddle I am going to cheat and once more post something that I have already written before.

Below is the first chapter of a novel that I have been writing off and on for...<starts counting> seven years! Ah crap, now that makes the quarter of the story that I have written thus far seem a stupidly slow pace. I think it took Tolstoy less time to write War and Peace. Regardless of that slightly depressing fact, the plot of Crusader is summarised in the blurb below. Please know that this has not been closely edited so I absolve myself of all responsibility for any crap parts in advance (because of course they won't be crap when I actually finish it hahahahaha).

If you like it and/or write me some comments I might even start writing faster, but even if I get distracted from the task I have another eight or nine chapters I can post before having to commit to writing anything new. Huzzah for procrastination/resting on imaginary laurels.


Blurb (or an overly clinical/whimsical plot summary; if this was the blurb on my book I wouldn't buy it as it sounds like a massive wank -- apologies):

Crusader is set during the the years 1186 and 1187 across the lands of modern France, Italy, Israel, Palestine and Lebanon. It is the story of Bohemond of Leisburg. He is a warrior with a strong sense of honour, of duty, and of justice. He is fearful of his God and vengeful against his God's enemies. He loves his wife and hates himself. He revels in killing and is disgusted by his violence. Death offers him release but life holds all his answers.

Chapter 1:

The stench of piss, shit, sweat, and blood goes for a hundred yards in every direction from where I stand. If I could smell the souls of dead men they would be there too. All around my senses show me death. I see the bodies and bits of bodies of men who twenty minutes ago stood, thought and felt. I hear the moans and pleas of people unfortunate enough not to be killed out-right and not fortunate enough to have been spared altogether. I feel my sword loose in my fingers and the fast drying blood, turning that ugly red-brown, on my arms, chest, face, and legs. But worst of all I taste it. The taste of mass death and dying with all its assortment of flavours is the worst sensation. No that’s not true – the worst sensation is the molten leaden burden in my soul, the one that reminds me that all this death was my doing.

Bohemond stood still in the field. The pivotal point of all that lay around. The soil, grass and copses of old tired oaks surrounding the antecedent battle quickly fell into churned earth and dead or dying men. He was the focus of a circle of destruction. As he let the thumping adrenalin induced high slip from his body, images temporarily forgotten reformed in his mind.

The charge he ordered and led with his animal scream. The seventy strides that it took to reach his first heretic. The perceptible ripple through ranks of the enemy as the sprinting charge of his men was absorbed with the usual unnatural abruptness. The feeling of his sword swinging freely through empty space, cutting through leather armour, breaking a man’s flesh, and the final jarring crunch as it lodged in bone.

It was too much. The flashes of battle were too much for his fully conscious mind to take. Bohemond gasped for more air than he could ever take and fell to his knees. He used his sword to hold himself up as bile raced from his stomach and blood drained from his face. More images swarmed into his mind.

The final standing heretic, no longer armed and accepting defeat. The sickly silken feeling that mildly reverberates along the sword as it punctures then cuts through flesh. The rage that surged out through his body as he lifted the last heretic’s head away from his body with a single, two-armed, full-bodied swing. The detachment between mind, body and action as he instructed his men collect their injured, make for the camp and leave the dead and dying heretics to suffer the crows and their pain.

Bohemond heaved mightily at his last thought and dropped to the ground, his sword falling beneath him. With his face flush against the muddy soil, he knew he was the only living man lying in the field who would still be breathing tonight. Bohemond forced his eyes shut tight and willed himself away from the battlefield. He no longer saw the death, nor smelt anything but moist soil. He could hear only the wind rustling the old oaks, feel only his own warmth. The taste was now just an acidic bite. He was free. Even if only for thirty seconds the burden of a human conscience had been soaked up like the ground does the blood and he was free.

Slowly, as reality crept past his mind’s filters, Bohemond again acknowledged the day’s atrocities with open eyes. He stood with stiff knees and aching back – always amazed by the exquisite exhaustion battle brought on his body. As he reached down to collect his sword its beautiful craftsmanship held him in awe. It’s expertly fullered blade with the Christ’s Crucifix etched at its base. The plain leather bound grip and perfectly circular pommel. But as always his eyes strayed to and lingered on the inscription on the cross-guard – May This Sword Smite Our Enemies Of God. The single phrase, whose message commanded his life, controlled his actions, pained his heart, and stained his soul.

Bohemond blinked away his stare and retrieved his sword from the earth, sheathing it at his hip. He began to make his way out of the scattered bodies, showing grace to the fallen, walking around the bodies not over them. He cared no longer for their misdoings during life, now their eternal souls were before God and it was only right to respect them, for it was God who judged them now.

He methodically wended his way out of the killing ground back towards where his men-at-arms had disappeared over the crest of the hill heading back to their camp. Reaching the edge of the body-strewn field he felt a feeble grip at his ankle. Bohemond stopped still. This was what he always dreaded. Being stopped by those dying at his feet always made it worse. The days coming he knew would be filled with his usual nightmares of death, shock, pain, and killing; but now, now those he slaughtered in his dreams would have a face.

He looked down to the man at his feet, still trying to get his attention.

“Please, show mercy My Lord… End my suffering, stop my pain,” moaned the man through a pain-induced clenched jaw.

Bohemond felt the bile remaining in his stomach seethe. He knew this man’s agony and he knew he would do nothing to relieve it. “Do you repent before God? Do you renounce your heretical path you took in life along with all those around you?” Bohemond questioned.

“Yes, yes. Anything. Anything! End my life for me. You are a stranger but you do an act more kind than any could ever do,” the man pleaded with desperation.

Bohemond glanced down at the rend in the man’s side that was spilling his entrails onto the blood sodden ground. He again squeezed his eyes shut with a deep longing to be far away from himself. Not opening his eyes he asked again, “Do you repent before God.”

“Yes!” the man screamed.

“Then know that the pain you feel now will be penance for your sins against the church of God, and that our Heavenly Lord may grant your undying soul a boon and forgive you. Know that the pain of your mortal body is nothing compared to the pain of your soul burning for eternity in Hell. May this thought grant you solace in the last moments of your life,” Bohemond stopped reciting the phrase now so engrained within him, opened his eyes looking at the horizon and stepped away from the man.

“No… No! Please! I can’t do it myself! I just can’t kill myself! Please. I’ve renounced my ways, my God is false! Please!”

Bohemond walked away, forcing each step away from the man, refusing against every natural urge to go back and show him a scrap of compassion. His eyes streamed with tears as he attempted to subdue his emotions. He told himself as he always did, that what he did today was right; that he did as his father taught him – that this is truly God’s will.

* * *

Bohemond reached his camp in the mid-afternoon sun, which was thankfully still providing warmth despite the waning summer. The fifty men-at-arms that he had led six miles away and into battle in the morning were celebrating the victory. He slowed his walk as he approached the encampment to give himself time to take in the atmosphere from a distance. Bohemond wanted to settle his thoughts before he had to face several dozen rowdy, most likely still battle-charged men. And there was of course another person in the camp whom he could never face in his current state.

He unbuckled his sword belt and placed it beside him as he lowered himself with a groan onto a lichen covered rock. He slowly unsheathed his sword, the sound of metal drawing across hard leather raising the hair on his neck, and began absent mindedly cleaning the dried blood and mud from it with his surcoat. He looked up from his work and surveyed the scene around him.

The honeyed light entering the shallow valley and casting eleven tent shadows on the valley floor. The slowly snaking brook running by the camp with its borders of pebbles and low rushes. The ash-white smoke column rising from the orange and yellow prongs of the camp fire in the centre clearing. The boisterous, stress releasing sport of men in various armed and armoured states, and the collective cheers that went up when the designated wielder of the enemy's banner was finally caught and wrestled to the ground. The six sleek chestnut and buck-skinned horses browsing along their picket line. The camp was perfectly situated; clear fields surrounding it preventing hidden enemy movements, a clean water source, ample animal fodder, multiple routes of retreat…

Bohemond smirked at himself, he had managed to take in the beautiful vista around him and twist it into thoughts of the strategic placement of the camp site. He grimaced as he recalled that if his logistics teachers were here they would have reprimanded him for not immediately organising the men under his command. Of course! There were still battle debriefings, injuries to be seen to and accounted, night watchmen assigned and meals to be prepared – in that order. How could I be so lax! If only Robert was here, he would be so proud of my sarcasm.

He looked down at his now gleaming sword, checked it over for remaining grime once, sheathed it, sighed deeply and stood up. Feeling better now that the events of earlier in the day had been safely stored in the deep crevices of his mind Bohemond half skipped his way down the hill to the camp knowing that now he could face his men and the one person he longed to be with.

Upper catchment floodplain aggradation and channel incision processes - abstract to a thesis chapter

So, yes, that title is officially: boring as shit. I can't help it. If I call it "how creeks fail epically" I get laughed at. But my boring title starts to really mean something when I take the abstraction away and personify the stream -- how do streams build floodplains, what causes them to stop doing that and then cut into and wash away all that effort in a hundredth of the time it took to build. Very often we can't blame the creek for stuffing up as its how we've managed the land that is the cause.

Yet that doesn't say why we care. If the stream erodes a bloody great channel through the floodplain then we change how that system works. The main thing that changes is how the water moves through that land. It now buggers off down the channel and doesn't hang around like it did before. Since accidently killing a potted cactus, I've scientifically determined that plants tend stay alive better when they have water. So if all our creeks are leaking the water that they used to hold onto it makes things more difficult if we want to grow stock fodder, revegetate the creek banks or keep the helpful critters in the water happy.

Below is the translated version of my thesis chapter summary. Below that is (the sixth re-incarnation of) the original abstract if you wish. Though I have replaced all my references with the word REFERENCE/S to spare you a list of context-irrelevant names and years.



Chapter Summary

Where we haven't accidently stuffed the land, the creeks and surrounding floodplains have lots of variations. Although they may look different, they all have a large amount of dirt (from road gravel and beach sand size to "I swear I'm not making phalluses with the modelling clay" clay size) as a floodplain that they have built up over hundreds to thousands of years. They also hold onto a lot of water in the floodplain, far more than we see in the creek at any one time. The water held there slowly soaks out into the stream keeping it flowing when its dry.

Where we have accidently stuffed the land we see the creek chomp down and out into the floodplain making a (usually) deep channel. The channel lets much of the water that was kept in the floodplain leak out and the dirt gets washed downstream along with it. Now that we have the deep channel in the floodplain the landscape can't hold onto water like it did. So overall, the water doesn't stay in the floodplain very well, when it rains the water sprints off down the channel too quickly to be much use, and when its dry the creek doesn't flow much if at all. The creek is a bit crap basically.

This chapter of my thesis takes what everyone else has said about creeks (both when they work and when they are stuffed), puts it all together and attempts to make me look good by exclaiming "now isn't that interesting" when really everyone already knows its interesting. Also, of all the creeks in all the world I'm looking at the ones in and around Canberra because no-one would give me the money to go and look at the creeks in Hawaii, or the French Riviera, or...



Full Abstract

Lower order drainages (identified here as upper catchments) and associated floodplains broach a wide range of landscapes and morphologies, ranging from swampy meadows and chain-of-ponds, to shallow channelled streams encompassing the full gamut of fluvial features. Irrespective of the floodplain and drainage morphology, the common features of these catchments are a significant alluvial sediment deposition and a perched alluvial aquifer that may or may not be hydrologically connected to the broader groundwater system (REFERENCE/S).

Channel incision into the floodplain sediments of upper catchment drainages is a common global phenomenon (e.g. REFERENCE/S). Regardless of whether it is the result of natural landscape evolution (REFERENCE/S), land management induced erosion (REFERENCE/S) or deliberate drainage channelisation (REFERENCE/S) the result is a profound impact on the hydrogeomorphic function of these landsystems. Incision typically involves significant sediment mobilisation and transport to lower reaches, and drainage of the alluvial aquifer affecting the surface water-groundwater (SW-GW) interactions, particularly groundwater residence times and storage (REFERENCE/S). As is expected, these changes have a strong alteration of the hydrogeomorphic character of upper catchments.

This paper focuses on the unique south-east Australian context of upper catchments and channel incision and provides a review of the hydrogeomorphic processes in intact and incised upper catchment floodplains and the changes that occur in that transition.