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.

Footsteps - short story

I entered this in the 2011 ANU short story competition. I didn't win. But I did get a very nice email telling me that my story and 170-odd stories from other people also didn't win. I don't feel solace in that companionship. So here it is, slightly changed from the submitted version (I left in a typo damn it). It is a genre piece but I was hoping I might earn points from the judges for integrating a Gaian (as in the Greek goddess and James Lovelock global ecosystem theory) undertone to the horror genre that may have been too subtle, too over-worked, or too crap. I should also mention that it is a reimagining of a story I wrote for an assignment in Year 9 (or maybe Year 10). Let me know in the comments what you think.

Footsteps

Nathan Weber

The blizzard unleashed its fury on the isolated hut. Inside the single room the woman shivered. Snow drifts sauntered under the door breaching the threshold of the sanctuary. Shadows whispered and shouted at the walls and ceiling from the mouth of the hearth. Sputtering orange prongs flared from the damp logs and the woman sidled closer to the warmth. She willed that warmth deep into her flesh and gently fanned the flames with carefully placed breaths.

Outside the wind screamed frustration at the hut's refusal to prostrate itself onto the rocky snow covered surface. The muffled howls and barks of the dogs wended between the cladding in a constant, discordant wail against the storm.

The fire consumed more of the wood and the shadows were calmed and quietened – still. The woman fed another log to the engorging coals. She smiled and released the tight embrace of her legs as the hut began to heat. She wished that the man had not laughed at her when she had asked him whether the dogs could come inside to help keep her warm. His reply after the laughs stopped was to imitate a growl and bite. Then he rolled up his heavy fur pants and showed off the puckered, pink-brown scars that made up the remainder of his left calf. And that explained his limp.

The woman ignored the little bit of foolishness she felt from the memory, stretched back onto her hands and luxuriated in the surplus thoughts that could return now that her body had escaped the chasing cold. Toasty warm now. You could probably write a paper on how the cold is as much of a predator eliciting as much of a fight or flight response as a wolf at your heels. Though maybe escaping the cold is preferable to outrunning the not-so-distant ancestors of the animals outside. Oh well, the hut is almost oven-like now and the vicious, leg-chewing dogs can stay out there. In here is close enough to tropical paradise as the imagination can fathom.

The dogs screeched and the tempo of barks suddenly exploded. The woman looked up lazily from her ankles. She had warm toes again (far too infrequent lately) and now food would be along with her returning guide. Even the fatty, gamey meat would be welcome tonight after all the hiking that was done today. She expected to hear the man's awkward gait on the rocky path and a raspy growl over the wind, commanding the dogs to shut up (they even listen sometimes).

The dogs yelped. She sat straight up. She had never heard them do that before. She could hear their claws scratch at the rocks between the snow heaps, hear their choked whines as they struggled against their tethers. That is fear, that is attempted flight. Only a bear could frighten a pack of sled dogs like that. The cosy hut morphed from a tropical paradise to a lonely island.

The woman stood quickly and scrutinised the hut. The door was latched (only Velociraptors know how to use door handles, right?). But where is the bloody gun. She lunged across the four steps to the backpacks in the corner and pushed them over, out of the way. Point two-two-three, bolt action, Czech made, four-times zoom scope, zeroed at two hundred metres... Shit. Yes, I have been out here that long. She hefted her rifle to the crook of her shoulder, worked the bolt open and chambered a bullet. The safety switch clicked off. Just try to get me now you fucking bear! Maybe Spielberg can make a film about bears instead of dinosaurs. Ones that learn to open doors too! Then I can shoot the fuckers dead and the credits can roll! Damn it, I'm out here in the fucking wilds protecting one endangered species and about to kill a different endangered species. Even if it does want to eat me, the irony is painful – try getting your head around an allegory for that Spielberg! Shit. Take a breath. Stop being hysterical. It is probably just the guide coming back and the dogs are having a hissy fit for no reason.

The woman shook slightly and rocked gently back and forth against the weight of the rifle aimed at the door. The storm retreated and the dogs were silenced. She heard with minute clarity the scrunch of a footstep on the rock path; heard the lighter scuff of stones as a foot was raised. She waited desperately for the shuffle and plod that would signify her guide as he limped on his unsteady, partial left leg. Limp damn you. Was that it? Or did the bear just tread in snow. One, two... damn it! Three! Three steady footsteps – no limp! I'm being terrorised by a bear! The footsteps drew nearer.

One of the dogs cried out pathetically and a sickening wet snap followed immediately. The animals made no sound. Seven more grotesque breaks rang with malicious clarity inside the hut. The storm was silent. The woman stood paralysed in the hut at the lip of a cliff face on the lonely island. A sheer drop into terror.

Dear God, I know what the cervical vertebrae sound like when they snap. Too many afternoons necking chooks with Dad in the shed to be able to forget that sound. Bears don't break dog's necks like they are picking flowers. Bears don't walk up paths steadily on two feet like they are strolling home for tea.

Stillness embedded itself in the hut. The storm still blew snow ferociously under the door, though the wind's anguished bluster had evaporated. Even the fire paused its crackling. All of the island waited. The woman could not move. Her tongue sat cemented to her jaw and blinking required immense effort. Suddenly her eyelids fluttered, she blinked hard and breathed deeply. I still have a deadly weapon that I don't need to get within neck snapping distance to kill with. Thank fucking Jesus Christ for that. She shivered and hot sweat ran down her back. She stood still in the hut, backed away from the precipice and climbed to the top of the islands lone peak. She took another deep breath and committed herself to battle.

“I've got a gun and your head will be splattered against the wall if you come in here, you sick bastard,” she yelled against the inertia that had descended. The island hut exhaled – the waiting breath was released and the first battle blow had been struck. Let's transcend any language barrier shall we? The gunshot was offensive and the instantaneous puncture in the thin-skinned timber wall was graphic violence. The hut held motionless – wounded. Waiting for the final death-grip.

Footsteps. Right next to the wall. He's leaving, taking those neck snapping hands away, no match for a nine hundred metre per second chunk of lead.

The footsteps passed the door, turned the corner and paced the perimeter. Marching out a war chant. The woman could see nothing pass the plum-sized hole she had manifested in the wall. The footsteps reached their starting point near the door and stopped – defiant in their casual pace. The woman dropped her chin and sighed angrily. So that's how it’s going to be is it, you prick? She opened the firing chamber and deliberately let the empty casing drop to the ground. The brass bounced and chattered loudly on the floorboards. Another round was chambered from the magazine. I know where you're standing, don't tempt me. Still not leaving? The woman fired from her hip and blew open another hole near the door. The footsteps moved out as if it were a starting gun. Hurriedly this time. Again they traced the hut, circling the island.

Rage overtook the woman's thoughts at the mocking, droning footsteps. She fired wildly; reloading three, four, five, six more times. The magazine was empty and gun smoke still rose from the bullet shells on the floor. The woman panted in ragged, deep breaths. Her sweat was chilled to freezing, biting splinters by the drafts blowing through the eight holes in the walls. She pulled a fresh magazine from the pack at her feet and slotted it into place. The footsteps stopped abruptly. She waited.

“Who are you?”

The demand swarmed into the hut, originating from everywhere. The woman gasped and dropped to her knees. The gun muzzle dipped and she struggled to breathe. Her thoughts scattered. What is that? The footsteps started stamping out their impatience at not being answered. Violent and urgent – anger incarnate. Each pass of the footsteps eroded the woman's island, her strength washing away as silt and sand.

“No, damn it,” she said aloud to herself. The woman forced herself upright. The embittering chill of the storm was overcoming the homely warmth of the fire, but the woman felt no cold. The storm was still silent. She glanced out of the bullet holes, seeing nothing but swirling snow glinting in the fire light. The footsteps continued their battle march. “Who are you?” she screamed out. The footsteps stopped, considering the validity of being questioned. The fire waned and shadows shrieked from the hearth.

“I am all and I am nothing. I dance amongst the shadows and scream out a silent whisper in the dead of night. Who are you?”

The response reverberated in the timbers. The woman still stood on her mountain, her toes dangling over nothingness and her rifle clutched tight against her chest. She attacked again, “Where is the man who left here?” The thought of camaraderie somewhere out in the storm returning to aid her comforted the woman standing on the lonely peak inside the fragile, bleeding hut. No response. The footsteps started once more. The woman broke and screeched, “Enough! Answer me, you freak!” The footsteps halted in shock. The hut groaned and the wood grain frayed and snapped. The woman stood resolute. Utter silence.

“I consumed him. And now I will consume you.”

The storm roared, the fire extinguished, the island collapsed and the woman was swallowed deep into the black ocean. Save us.

The showdown. Or, why I'm writing a blog.

Galileo Galilei: astronomer, philosopher, mathematician, physicist, inventor, heretic, father of modern science.

Anton Chekhov: playwrite, artist, physician, short story writer, pince-nez aficionado.

Nathan Weber: none of these things.

But I am an almost qualified scientist (PhD is due to be submitted July 2012) and I count writing as my favourite spare time activity. I love writing. Creating stories and characters, compressing a complex of feelings and objects into a line on a page, and embalming a new world in pen and paper.

Hard alongside the writing I have my science. I love science. Investigating and disentangling the observations and results, admiring the efficiency and complexity of systems that make up our world, and the logical progression of thought, theory and application.

You can see I have a dilemma, a dichotomy of wills. I wanted to be the writer all trench coat and stylishly unkempt hair, an encylopaedia of the written arts, and maybe even some pince-nez and a bowtie. I wanted to be the scientist all lab coat and hiking boots, publishing the solution to our environmental woes in Science and Nature (why settle for just one), and declining to give invited keynotes at international symposia just because I can. But really I never wanted to fully encapsulate either of those paths. There is too much wankery at the far ends of the scales. Too much self importance surrounding the industries and not enough time taken just accepting the enjoyment of reading or applying the science for real benfit outside of academic snobbery.

Which brings me to the title of my blog. Galileo was known as a scientist and Chekhov as a writer but they integrated both their creative and their scientific spirits in their lives. This blog is an attempt for me to do the same, to not only balance the competing halves but to synthesise them. To harness the creative in the logical and the methodical in the artistic. So I will be posting short stories, parts of my thesis, parts of larger stories, cool science that has interested me, random steam of conciousness writing that may get me committed to the mental health ward, and maybe (if I feel brave enough) some poetry (the biggest sissy of the creative writing world).

Please feel free to pull me up if you think I am writing shit or dropping into self-indulgent wankery (that goes for both halves of the blog). And don't feel you need to be polite about it (though that would be appreciated), but please make a convincing argument. I once spent four days arguing for the science of climate change with naysayers on Barnaby Joyce's homepage, everyone else got bored and I was posting to myself. I won't attack you but if I disagree I will politely make my case. You may convince me otherwise or we may argue for the life of the blog (or agree to disagree). As you will see I can be malleable or a stubborn bastard -- another dichotomy.