Makalani: November 2020

He was a mysterious fellow, because no matter how much anyone knew about him, they still wondered who he was. The title ‘Professor of Urban History’, though tailored to match his perfect pinstripe suit and not-too-polished brown shoes, still felt out-of-stitch. Now, no one doubted that he was a Professor of Urban History, nor did anyone suspect him of being anything more. To the minds of the Chesterton neighborhood, his existence was puzzling because it had no puzzle, and intriguing for, to all appearances, there was no intrigue. He didn’t seem to belong anywhere, but made everywhere he went belong to him. There was an air of ‘I tarry for but a little while’ about his manner in everything from over-the-fence chatting, to dinner, to the way he parked his car. And that is, for all purposes, the general impression Christopher B. Ashton’s neighbors had of him.

It is little surprise that the quaint, quiet Chesterton neighborhood should make an oddity of such a mild, agreeable young man. Most of its families had moved in twenty years ago, shortly after the neighborhood’s construction, and had remained, faithfully raising their children, mowing their lawns, and minding their neighbors’ business. There had been a few people who moved in much later, whether young couples, old spinsters, or mixed-up families that couldn’t tell whose child was which grandmother’s aunt, but they had all inevitably moved out again. Some middle-aged couples with children settled in as the other middle-aged couples slowly became not-so-middle-aged anymore. These maintained the youth of the neighborhood, freshly supplying it at intervals of every eight years.

Yet never before had the Chesterton neighborhood been invaded by a young bachelor, and certainly never in such an agreeable manner. The very first day of Christopher B. Ashton’s appearance was characterized by the moment Mrs. Prattle lost her spectacles in his mailbox. This was, sadly, a very bad habit of Mrs. Prattle’s which her more informed neighbors safe-guarded themselves against by always having one person in the front yard ready to receive the mail directly from the mailman’s hands. No one had informed Mr. Ashton, but that was probably by design. The results were, as all later agreed, both surprising and satisfactory.

Amphitheatrum Flavium
(A short-essay)

It was truly the greatest theater in Rome. The Amphitheatrum Flavium rose through the clear Roman sky in arching springs of stone, like fountains pouring upward, meeting, and forming flat streams wherefrom a whole new row of bent fountains sprang. Three walls of arches rose, the first having columns of Doric make, the second, Ionic, and the third, Corinthian. A complete tribute. From the outside, it seemed to Caius as if the whole structure were built of solid stone, but he knew this was not the case. As one of the Amphitheatrum’s chief architects, his knowledge of this colossal structure went much further than the mere outside. Great walls of brick and concrete, sheathed in pale stone and marble, formed the outer-structure, with countless seats leaping up the inner walls in four vast flights flanked by great stairs. Around the Amphitheatrum’s lower row of arching wall were spaced exactly 80 enormous, hall-like doorways, marked by numerals from I to LXXVIII. Seventy-eight for public use, and two, on the farthest north and south sides, reserved as Imperial: for the emperor and his revenue only.

Caius could still remember the day Emperor Titus had entered through the Imperial door and dedicated the entire finished structure to his family-line: the Flavians. Back then it had only been three levels tall. Now a fourth rim rose above the arched-walls in which were fixed thousands of strong wooden poles. These supported the Amphitheatrum’s great awning, installed to shield spectators from the sun’s intense heat as they watched the un-shielded entertainment below. Like the print of a giant egg the central, sandy floor spread for many stadia and was, when filled with water, large enough to stage mock-sea-battles in. A fifteen-foot-high wall rose between the sand and spectators, both as a shield against any stray missile or wild beast, and as a dam to hold the water.

Wrapped around this center, like an iris around a pupil, rose four ranks of seats, numbering no less than 50,000: row A for the senators, emperor and other important government officials; row B for the nobles, tradesmen and men of some influence; row C-D for the plebeians, street-dwellers, and whoever had the stamina to ascend hundreds of steps to the top. Unlike those of the lower two rows, these stairs ran up through the very walls themselves, crossing back and for between arches like never-ending ‘z’s. D, The highest row of seats, was built of light woods so as not to put too much weight on the outer-wall of the Amphitheatrum and allow for less likelihood of collapse. All rows below were built of stone, concrete and brick, but sheathed in marble.

Gazing at the great structure above, Caius chuckled as he thought of the far greater construction below. Enormous, complex and seemingly endless levels of subterranean cells, kennels, lodgings, armories and halls, spread beneath the Amphitheatrum like the roots of a great tree. Up beneath the seats they reached for chambers, only to plunge by long, winding stairs back down into the earth again. Tunnel-doors into the Amphitheatrum’s center opened from all around its oval rim. Some of these were for animals, others for convicts, and still others had been specially built and ornamented for the issuing-forth of gladiators, chariots and boats. Along every wall, carved reliefs showed scenes of what the artists had envisioned games in the Amphitheatrum would look like. Their work was perfection.

It was little surprise that the building of such a great enterprise had taken so many years, its originator had not lived to see it. Vespasian, imperial father of Titus, had died a year before the Amphitheatrum’s initial completion, leaving the dedication to his son. Many games had since been hosted here. Many fights, hunts, battles, and always more deaths. Caius reflected on the nature and purpose of Rome’s greatest structure as he strolled out through door VII and into the street.

The Amphitheatrum was finished in A.D. 80. It was not until almost 700 years later that the name ‘Colosseum’ was introduced and widely used, due to a poem written in praise of its colossal size.

Forest and Field
(A short-essay)

When contrasting the militaristic methods of the Romans and the Celts (or Gauls), it is at once obvious what great differences their infantry had and what effect this had on their method of battle. The Romans, being of smaller and not-so-strong stature, arranged themselves in great phalanxes of men – giant squares with shields linked in front, and sometimes a roof of shields held overhead. On the other hand, the Celts were much greater and broader of stature, and so fought one-on-one, attacking their enemies not in organized groups, but in arrow-head-shaped swarms. Both tactics had their advantages, drawbacks, and origins.

Why did the Romans attack in phalanxes and the Celts in swarms? This could be due to the differences in their geography: the Romans originated from Italy and were used to battling on similar, wide-open landscapes such as those of the Middle East, Greece and North Africa; the Celts originated from the more northern areas of Europe where endless forests spanned nearly the widths of whole countries, and battle less resembled line-on-line confrontation, and more hunter-and-prey. It is small wonder, then, that the Celts seldom used formation, or that the Romans seldom broke from formation: their geography simply did not allow for the ideas.

When considering the differences between Roman and Celtic battle-tactics, dress can also be taken into consideration and partially explained by geography. Due not only to the open, sunny, windy landscape of Italy, but also the long-traditionally held brute-force methods of war, Romans were more accustomed to wearing clothes that covered the whole body, and a great deal of armor in battle. As for the Celts, being from the north they were more accustomed to wearing animal-skins for warmth, but when the seasons turned hot, to simply cast off their clothes, as the forests wherein they lived shielded them from any harmful amounts of sunlight. So descending into the much warmer Italy, they fought the Romans nearly naked, and wore little armor since their method of one-on-one fighting required more speed than brute-force (the latter of which they still had plenty of). This garb, or rather lack thereof, is recorded by the Romans to have been very striking and even terrifying.

Lastly, there is the differences in transportation to consider. While the Celtic infantry did often fight one-on-one with the Romans in pitched battle, even more frequently, the Celts are recorded to have used their great companies of cavalry against the Roman infantry line. Historians believe it was from the Celts that the Romans first obtained their example of militaristically-advantageous cavalry units, which they later incorporated into their own armies. It is certain that the great Celt, on horseback, and charging with a hundred other warriors against a Roman infantry line, posed a very formidable foe.

There are, however, two places where the Roman army trumped the Celtic: discipline and siege. Because of tribal structure in the Celtic army, they were less adept and quick-responding in an organized fashion to any Roman attack because their leaders would either have to agree on a course of action, or each warrior himself would have to decide on-the-fly which action best suited his need to survive. The Romans were much more organized, with a supreme General who passed orders down through levels of authority from units of a thousand soldiers, to companies of fifty or ten. As for siege, this is something the Celts never seriously attempted, but which has been attested throughout history as one of the Roman army’s greatest strengths.

Jeroboam, Son of Nebat

History is defined and created by every man who takes the story of his time and makes it his story. This means that a single man can change the economical, geographical, social, judicial and even spiritual fate of a nation. We see this happen often throughout history from the Muslim prophet, Muhammad, to the Jewish messiah, Jesus, to the more the modern scientists and philosophers like Charles Darwin, Spurgeon and Gandhi. One such figure in Ancient World history (B.C.) is Jeroboam, son of Nebat.

As is recorded in 1 Kings 12, Jeroboam led ten of the twelve tribes of Israel in a revolt against their current king, and set himself up as the rebel ruler of a new kingdom. His rebellion, however, did not stop there. As we read in verses 26-27, Jeroboam realizes that since the only religious center of the previous kingdom is still occupied by his rival – Rehoboam, son of Solomon, son of David – it is probable that the people who have rebelled with him will think twice and return to the kingdom wherein their temple stands. To prevent this return to the House of David and the Temple of Jehovah, Jeroboam: “took counsel, and made two calves of gold. And he said to the people, ‘You have gone up to Jerusalem enough. Behold your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt.’ And he set one in Bethel and the other he put in Dan.’” (1 Kings 12:28-29)

Any reader who is familiar with the previous events of Jeroboam’s story may find themselves, at this new action of his, quite shocked. For Jeroboam did not rebel against the House of David and the rule of Rehoboam without incentive. A few chapters previously in Jeroboam’s life, he had just been taken by King Solomon and promoted to overseer of the King’s forced labor projects for the two tribes of Joseph. One day, as Jeroboam was traveling beyond Jerusalem, he was met by the prophet Ahijah. As the text describes: “Ahijah had dressed himself in a new garment, and the two of them [this is, Jeroboam and Ahijah] were alone in the open country. Then Ahijah laid hold of the new garment that was on him and tore it into twelve pieces. And he said to Jeroboam, ‘Take for yourself ten pieces, for thus says the LORD the God of Israel, “Behold, I am about to tear the kingdom from the hand of Solomon and I will give you ten tribes … because they have forsaken me and have worshipped Ashtoreth the goddess of the Sidonians, Chemosh the god of Moab, and Milcom the god of the Ammonites … Nevertheless I will not take the kingdom of out his [Solomon’s] hand … But I will take the kingdom out of his son’s hand and I will give it to you, ten tribes. … and you shall be king over Israel. And if you will listen to all that I command you, and will walk in my ways, and do what is right in my eyes by keeping my statutes and my commandments … I will give Israel to you.” (1 Kings 11:29-38)

Yet as the first act of Jeroboam, we see him making for the people of Israel two golden calves (seemingly reminiscent of Aaron’s golden calf on mountain Sinai) and thus leading them away from the God who had given him this his new kingdom. How Jeroboam could have taken the words of Ahijah, fulfilled their prophecy and then turned his back on the God of that prophecy is hard to understand. Though one thing is certain, and that is that Jeroboam did not walk in God’s ways, keep his statutes or his commandments. Because of this, we see another prophet arise, this time to foretell not Jeroboam’s ascension, but end of his house and the destruction of his altar to the golden calves:

“And behold, a man of God came out of Judah by the word of the Lord to Bethel. Jeroboam was standing by the altar to make offerings. And the man cried against the altar by the word of the Lord, and said, ‘O alter, alter, thus says the LORD: “Behold, a son shall be born to the house of David, Josiah by name, and he shall sacrifice on you the priests of the high places who make offerings on you, and human bones shall be burned on you.”’ And he gave a sign the same day, saying, ‘This is the sign that the LORD has spoken: “Behold, the altar shall be torn down, and the ashes that are on it shall be poured out.’” (1 Kings 13:1-3)

Even after this, Jeroboam does not repent. In the next chapter, he is given a final chance as the prophet Ahijah returns to the scene:

“At that time Abijah the son of Jeroboam fell sick. And Jeroboam said to his wife, ‘Arise, and disguise yourself, that it not be known that you are the wife of Jeroboam, and go to Shiloh. Behold, Ahijah the prophet is there, who said of me that I should be king over this people.’ ... Jeroboam's wife did so. ... But when Ahijah heard the sound of her feet, as she came in at the door, he said, ‘… Go, tell Jeroboam, “Thus says the LORD, the God of Israel: ‘Because I exalted you from among the people and made you leader over my people Israel ... yet you have not been like my servant David, who kept my commandments and followed me with all his heart ... but you have done evil above all who were before you ... and have cast me behind your back, therefore behold, I will bring harm upon the house of Jeroboam and will cut off from Jeroboam every male, both bond and free in Israel, and will burn up the house of Jeroboam, as a man burns up dung until it is all gone ... for the LORD has spoken it.’”’” (1 Kings 14:1-11)

Here we see that though Jeroboam has turned his back on the God who made him king, he still seems to have more faith in Jehovah’s prophecies than any divinations of his own newly-erected gods and priesthood. But this does not lead him to repentance.

So through the act of a single man, the nation of Israel rejected the LORD their God, and served images of gold, which could neither see, nor hear their cries when, some hundred years later, they were conquered by the Assyrians and carried off into captivity. Jeroboam, son of Nebat, left behind him a terrible legacy, wherein he would always be remembered as the man who turned Israel away from the LORD.

Cover art by Asche Keegan

In Which Pointless Attempts are Made to Fix the Unfixable

“That title has got to be record length,” you comment.

Why thank you, it required a great deal of careful, intense thought.

“You know, if that were true, I’d expect it to be shorter.”

Are you saying that only short things can be carefully thought out?

“Well, it’s usually when a person takes time to condense a thought into something short and catchy that-”

Achoo!

“What?”

Something short and catchy. It’s called a cold.

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

You’re welcome.

“Twit.”

Idj.

“What?”

Nothing.

“OK, so maybe you should fill me in on this ‘he’ I’m supposed to be scared of.”

The author sighs.

“Oh, and while you’re at it, how about telling me your story?”

That is irrelevant.

“Yeah, sure, like how I had a sub yesterday was irrelevant.”

That was actually the day before yesterday.

. . .

The reader takes a deep breath, “My parents are probably panicking.”

Nope.

“What?”

When you become an author in the Inbetween, your entire past is reset so that you never existed in the World.

No, the reader leans forward and gasps, No . . .

I warned you.

But you wouldn’t listen.

There has to be a way to get it back! You look around wildly, A door out. A way to turn back time. Wait! If you can make time jump forward, you can turn it back, right?

To turn back time is to undo deeds. This is not possible.

But it wasn’t possible for us to be talking, yet here we are!

. . .

That is different.

How do you know? How can you be so sure? I have to get back home!

The author’s eyes narrow.

And so we see what you’re really made of.

What?

Don’t think for one moment I was duped by the “but I want to help!” charade. I knew you would do this. You said you wanted to help – you’ve come, and now I’m not alone, but as soon as you learn that you have lost your past, you want to leave me. You really are as selfish, fickle, foolish, arrogant-

“SHUT UP!”

The reader starts and stands, fists clenched.

“I’ll bet you wanted to go back home when you got stuck here! I’ll bet you were so desperate that the first book you wrote was actually you trying to get home!”

The first four books.

And in the fourth, I ruined someone’s life.

It is not worth it to try and return.

You’ll never get back.

The only way out, is through the Vale.

“I don’t want to die,” you shake your head, biting back tears, “Not yet. There’s so much I want to do. Why did I ever come here?”

I’m sorry.

“What do you mean?”

I shouldn’t . . . I was a hypocrite. I’m sorry, it’s my fault.

“What? No, you tried to stop me.”

No, I looked like I was trying to stop you, and all I did was bait you with reverse psychology. I brought you here. I knew what I was doing. I knew you were contrary from the moment I met you, and I used that to bring you here.

“But why?”

Hope. Despair. A cruel, bitter mixture of both which made me think maybe you were the one, and if you weren’t I’d punish you.

The author’s teeth grind.

Hate

This.

I’m sorry

I’m sorry . . .

“It’s OK.”

No, it’s not. I tricked you. It is anything but OK, and . . .

“And what?”

I know I’m going straight to hell,

When this is over;

It’s where I belong.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Stop

Pitying

Me!

I am NOT worth it!

“No one is!”

Fine

Then I am worth loathing.

And I will give you the key to revenge.

“What?”

The only a way an author can move out of the Vale into whatever path is beyond –

For me hell –

Is if their book be burned by the reader.

Thank you.

Anytime.

And, really, anytime.

I’m ready.

No, as in, thank you.

The reader smiles sadly

Now I know one way to keep you safe.

What?

“William,” you shake your head, “I’m not going to burn your book. I’m not going to take revenge, because I don’t need it. I don’t want it. This is just as much my fault as yours. We were both stupid and selfish, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t time to fix it – to fix everything. I’m not ready give up on my story, or on yours.”

You’re something else, Jess.

And the reader waits for the punch-line.

The author chuckles.

Maybe not this time.

Maybe?

Yeah, maybe.

The reader smiles and looks around.

“You ready to fix this?”

The author shrugs.

Sure.

After all, you desperately need a make-over.

“Whoa, hold on, who’s talking about make-overs?” you shake your head, “Mr. I’m-so-black-you-can’t-see-my-face.”

But mine is the perfect make-over.

Simply

Flawless.

The reader snorts.

“More like one big flaw.”

Depends on your perspective

“Here we go agai-”

Which happens to be much less experienced than mine.

“OK, but seriously, we can’t banter into eternity.”

Eh, we could.

It would be

Sarcastically

Tickling

Unmatchable

Perfectly

Intriguing

Dumb and-

“Saw that.”

Saw what?

“The first letter of each word spells ‘stupid’.”

Oh, what a coincidence!

“Yeah right.”

Shall we get started?

“With what?”

Your education.

The reader pulls a wry face

“Bring it on.”

Makalani

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