fantasy

The Longbow

/ jlambright / 1 Comment

I’ve had a thing for traditional weapons for a long time. I think it was an outgrowth of my old trade. I wanted to understand the tools of the past, to handle them, to know how they feel, to appreciate their pluses and minuses. Of course, this has helped me with my books, and it has helped me “feel” the books of others.

Honestly, I blame this on SM Stirling. I found his book “Dies the Fire” in a free deployed GI library; it was great. Reading it, it dawned on me that I knew nothing of the fighting styles and tools of the premodern era. So, upon my return to the States, I looked into it and bought a few things.

One of the items was a genuine English longbow made of yew, which is the style used at battles such as Crécy and Poitiers. I learned to tie a bowyer’s knot, and I taught myself the art. Well, a little. A real archer makes me look sick, but I’m probably better than 99 percent of those living, who have never put string to cheek. I guess that makes me weird, but I had fun doing it.

Recently, some friends have talked about teaching kids to shoot the bow and arrow, so I decided to look on Amazon and see if I could find a decent unit for cheap.

Don’t buy “cheap.” Buy inexpensive. There is a difference.

Well. Today, the bow arrived; I unboxed it and assembled it. I picked it for its simplicity, and I thought it was attractive and simple. I don’t like complex things. Complex things break. This bow, an underpowered version of what they used at Crécy, is a traditional longbow, materials excepted. I say underpowered because it has about a forty-fifty-pound draw weight, and proper warbows were over eighty. However, I guarantee you I can take a deer with today’s arrival, and under no circumstances would I want to be on its receiving end.

It is a weapon, and nothing but. It is not a toy.

It consists of two steel staves and a very comfortable central grip. The staves are bolted to the grip. Then, you mount the string using your legs and a quick flip of the string loop. Once you know how to do it, getting the string in place is easy. The string that came with this unit is a bit odd. I’ve never seen anything like it. It is many strands of thin nylon rope with a thick casing over the place where you nock the arrow. Also, the loops are coated, which certainly helps you when mounting the string. It’s an unconventional arrangement, but it works.

As an aside, I have a very old aluminium sporting longbow. I think it was my dad’s. It’s been mounted for many years with a chunk of 550 cord, and it works just fine. Today’s bowstring reminded me strongly of parachute cord—it should last forever.

It was time to test the rig out. I took a cardboard box into the back yard, walked ten yards away (it’s been a while since I tried my hand at archery), put on my brace (you don’t want string burn on your forearm), and nocked an arrow.

I tested the draw; it felt smooth. I eased off the string and brought it to bear in one motion. As always, I concentrated on the business end of the arrow, held over, and loosed. Too high, but not bad for the first time in a decade. Plus, the bow shot flatter than I thought. I tried again.

Whap! I nailed the box off-center and started to enjoy myself. Observe.

Not exactly superb marksmanship, and my draw was erratic, but I got the job done. I moved back to twenty, and did it again with decent results. Minute-of-man, we called it in the trade. I was confident in the bow, and I liked it a lot.

Here in the States, it’s a bit of a race against the clock to pick one up like this because it’s made in China. But for my readers outside of tariff-land, you have all the time in the world.

Try it, it’s a good product and a potentially useful skill to pick up.

I have no regrets.

In other news, this was probably the first truly enjoyable thing I’ve done in a long while. There’s a lot going on with this guy, and I’ll try to do better on this page going forward.

The Best Turkey I Ever Had

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No, this isn’t the same turkey. But it strongly resembles it.

You know how to spot a bullshit story, right? It starts like this—”Well, there I was…”

This Thanksgiving Day tale begins like that. Except that it really happened, Thanksgiving Day, 2011, Camp Kilaguy, Baghlan Province, Afghanistan.

Some background. I think I’d just been promoted, and I was hurting. Most of the team was. Hacking, smoking too much, deadened. It’d been busy for a while, and we just came off a major, stupid thing out in some dive. Duststorms, cold weather, gray skies. A bright spot was that the new victims showed up, replacements from the States. We began the “right-seat ride” process, or orienting the FNGs to the area of operations.

I didn’t expect much, that Thanksgiving. But a crusty-ass NCO rode to the rescue. Sort of.

This guy, I’ll call him Toad, was a leather-faced thief and the author of a thousand tall tales. He was a veteran of the First Gulf, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Maybe other shit, I don’t know. But he had been around. Typical Air-borne 82nd dude, he was fond of mocking guys with a standard airborne badge, “Five-jump chump motherfucker. Cherry,” as he flicked his cigarette.

Toad was a gifted scrounger, which is the polite Army way of saying “thief.” On one occasion, I witnessed a spectacular act. Me and the Colonel were out on a thing, not sure how long. When we returned, we noticed a group of Joes or whoever cavorting in a hidden corner of the motor pool. What the hell was this, we wondered. The Colonel and me, still dusty and gross from the road and the field, wandered over.

There was a fucking swimming pool in the motor pool.

Army motor pools are not intended for literal pools, and to this day I have no idea where the pool came from. The Colonel said nothing, but I watched as his lips formed that dangerous grim line. We walked away, no comment made, and I went to clean my weapons like usual. The Colonel sought our Team Sergeant, the redoubtable Mike.

The pool disappeared like magic. No trace remained. I guess it was fun while it lasted, though.

That Thanksgiving, I didn’t care about anything other than going home, preferably not in a box. But Toad, the crafty, long-service NCO, had a plan to improve our day.

You see, Toad, while at times the epitome of a “leadership challenge,” could back up his bullshit, mostly. No one was better at taking care of soldiers, and he always took the mission seriously, even if nothing else—especially not petty things like Army regulations or the origin of stuff we needed, or just wanted.

Toad knew what we needed that day, and he delivered.

He appeared with a turkey, origin unknown. He had a plan to cook it using scarce, dubious and unsafe resources. You see, in Afghanistan, wood is precious. This is why for day-to-day cooking, people generally used dried sheep shit patties; this was why roadside kebab always had a tang. His plan was to use trash and ammo dunnage for cooking—the stuff that keeps munitions from rubbing together or being exposed to hard shocks; not exactly Kingsford charcoal, but it’s what Toad could get.

Toad executed. I’m not sure what I did that day, but I wasn’t involved with the dubious turkey prep. When not in the field, I had administrative duties or leadership BS. It was nonstop. A good guess would be briefings, training, or written order generation. Maybe weapons or vehicle maintenance, I don’t know anymore. However, at sunset, all of us came together in the supply shack (probably being used these days by the Taliban as a goat shed or something) to eat Toad’s spread; a well-done turkey with a chemical trash-fire tang, and T rat or purloined fixin’s, prepared as well as possible.

It was crowded, I remember. All twelve of us, maybe some replacements, I dunno, and definitely our adopted Air Force guys, the JTACs, or forward air controllers. Those guys! Nicknamed Fucks and Butter, they had gone full Colonel Kurtz and had bushy beards. However, they were real pros in the field, and had delivered for us. They belonged, and we awarded them the Army Combat Action Badge.

Even though one time I pee’d on Butter’s head. But that’s another story.

It was the best Thanksgiving turkey ever. Even though it tasted of burned toys, it was great.

A couple of weeks later, I boarded my freedom bird, never to see the Box again.

Happy Thanksgiving, readers. For all of this, I am grateful.

-Jason

Fun In Writing

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This image is apropos of exactly nothing except a source of great amusement around here, the wonderful BirdBuddy, which sends us pictures and videos of the denizens of our bird feeder. All we have to do is to supply bird feed and sunlight, and we get a series of pretty darn funny pics.

No. Today, I’d like to talk about a new writing direction I’m thinking about, and for which I busted out a short on a grey and gloomy day.

You guys know I’ve struggled lately; it’s been a real pain. But it’s OK; that’s life. I’ve taken some steps to alleviate my funk—this has helped. Yesterday, while imagining my extracurricular project, I suddenly wanted to write. The weather outside of my window seat was ghastly. It looked like a winter sunset at 1400—gray and sodden. Not the thing to lighten up one’s mood, but we went for a long walk, anyway. Movement and exercise are important. 

Upon return, I mulled over a potential future project. I had an idea. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the Roman Empire. This is partially due to Doc Wetsman’s books and “Pax,” an excellent non-fiction by Holland. In addition, thanks to my distant bud, I’ve been mulling over possibilities in fantasy and alt-history. 

I started “Pax” because I needed a little help with antiquity. This has never been a strong part of my knowledge base. I’m OK with the broad strokes of history, but I tend to focus on certain eras. Therefore, some reading was a must. I don’t adore the Roman era or think it was some ideal part of history. Actually, the times we’re living in are MUCH better than the era around the birth of Christ. 

Even deep within the “civilized” world at the time, a party of soldiers or bandits raiding a homestead for plunder and rapine was routine enough to be utterly unnoteworthy. Anybody could be enslaved for the slightest reason. Slaves and criminals were crucified. Crowds screamed in pleasure at the sight of hundreds meeting gristly ends, along with any wild animal that could be found. Entire regions were put to the sword, and no one batted an eye.

This was Rome and the Pax Romana. The “Peace of Rome” was frequently the peace of the grave, and those who idealize it are fools. 

However, it’s fascinating. Also, I guess the Roman Empire was better than squatting in some miserable mud hut and selecting an unpopular villager for the annual sacrifice to the sun. This happened every year around what we know as Christmas (The Church was GREAT about stealing ancient holy-days; see Ostara, otherwise known as Easter. Her symbol, the fertility goddess, was the rabbit.)

Like it or not, we still see the modern world through our ancestor’s eyes. Those muddy villagers who kept pigs in their huts? Yeah, that was us. The centurion who shrugged and put the slave on a cross? Both the crucifer and the crucified, us, too. The person who crouched and knapped flint by the treacherous Great Lake? Us. The courtesan in the Eternal City? Us. The long, sun-blackened, and endless pursuer of game, who could run a gazelle into exhaustion, us as well, somewhere back there. 

These are our archetypes. They inform us today, whether we like it or not. I think this is what draws people to fantasy. Times in our deep past, when the fae were real, and owls carried the spirits of the dead. We want to touch those dark and endless forests as we recline on our nice warm couches. We want to shiver in the cold, while wrapped in fell dread. We wish to chant with our cousins (who were also our mates) while passing the horn filled with holy-day mead as the Chosen roasts on the pyre. A part of us wishes to cry havoc and unleash the dogs of war. 

Unfortunately, we still have those desires in a time when war could easily mean our extinction. This creates real problems. 

We are, for the most part, divorced from the reality of mortal, daily danger. This is why this sort of fiction is so popular. It’s an escape to a time when our ancestors scoured the woods in search of anything edible, but they wouldn’t touch a fairy ring of delicious mushrooms; for the revenge of the fae would be dreadful. 

Better to starve.

With this in mind, I created a writing sample yesterday. It was a joy to write, but I won’t publish it here. It lets too many cats from the bag; but it was great fun, my first foray into fantasy, that most popular of genres. It’s just below romance—laughs, count me out, there. Not that I don’t enjoy a good love story, I do. It’s just that I cede the field to those with more talent. See Outlander and Bridgerton, and their respective, juicy successes. 

When our current reality descends into madness, bleakness, and actual horror, it’s incumbent upon those of us in the “creative class” to provide escape. Yesterday, I provided my own.

Cheers,

J