On Google drive I have the word processing documents for at least some of the first draft.  These are the more-or-less originals (although maybe something was lost by converting 1999 word documents to 2017?--But if so I haven't noticed the glitches yet).
Chapters 1- 14:drive, docs, pub
Chapters 15-24 :drive, docs, pub
Chapter 25-27: drive, docs, pub
Chapter 25-31: drive, docs, pub
32-37--Can't find the original computer disks.  But the chapters are below on this blog.

First Draft Chapter 1

My mind is clearer now.  At last.  All to well I can see where I have been.  And what it means.
The recent death of a good friend served as a sort of cleansing.  All the clutter in my mind was put into sharp focus.  It was given meaning.  He was more than a good friend; he was the best friend, the best human being, I ever knew.  He was one of the many victims of the violence that has been all too prevalent.  He was one of too many.  His name was David.  I knelt by his torn body as he passed away; I felt the last links to my childhood disappear.
I took a trip abroad from which I have just returned.  It was nice to get away from Urbae if only for a little while.  I doubt I shall ever get away permanently, although I long to.  I was more than surprised about how little they knew abroad concerning what had happened in Urbae.  In fact I was absolutely shocked.  At the time it enveloped my whole life, and the rest of the world had been oblivious to our plight.  It was suggested to me by one fellow I encountered abroad that I might undertake to write down what actually happened.  I have decided to undertake this task.
Being a central figure in the events that have unrolled, my account will be essential to those over seas seeking to understand what happened to Fabula.  I have dreamed often as a child that I would be remembered forever by history.  What child has not? Now, that I have undoubtedly achieved those dreams, I feel as if I must construct my account most carefully.  In addition to my memory, I have faithfully kept a journal since I was very young.  I have also saved all the correspondence I have kept with friends and other acquaintances over the years.  A stack of letters written to me is sitting on my desk.  Copies of letters that I sent out are in the desk drawer.  I always make copies.
Anyone who has kept a journal, a detailed journal, for an extended period of time, as I have, can tell you what a time commitment it can be.  Each day, I try and write down the events of my life, trying somehow to fight against time.  Trying to hold onto the memories of when I was young.  But I digress.
I flip through the journal.  The journal goes all the way back to when I was twelve, and my memory goes back much further.  And my memory teems.  In my mind are swarming over each other legions of people.  Not names, but people.  People I have loved and cared about, and laughed with, and laughed at, and have been angry at, and have betrayed, and on and on and on.  However, I fear, as all writers fear, that they will become simply names on paper to my reader, and not the people I know so well.  I wish the reader could know these people as well as I knew them, as individuals.  That is, of course, impossible.
I sit down to write, and as I search my memory, I arouse it.  And once my memory is aroused, it bursts forth with people I have known fighting with each other to achieve prominence on my paper.  They cry out to me in the -- In the hundreds even? Yes, in the hundreds they cry out.
"Do not forget me!"
"What about me? Do I not deserve to be mentioned in your story?" And yet, cold hearted I must cut them out.  I could never include them all.
Another question assails me.  Again, it is a dilemma that all writers face.  I have so many stories to tell.  So many stories that are really only one story.  So much excitement that I am confident the overseas readers will be thrilled with.  And yet, none of it will make sense with out the set-up.  And what part of the story is more boring then the set up? I must describe who my father is, and what he did for a living, and what kind of a world I grew up in.  I must describe the relationship I had with all of the people who will soon be so prominent in my story, and how I met them.  Must I even describe the political system I grew up in, and the history of Fabulae? I think I must, for I discovered when I was abroad how little everyone knew of Fabulae.  My story would not make sense without any of this, and yet I am fully aware that it is the most boring section a reader can hope to come across.  The dreaded set-up.  It is boring for me to even write about it.  I can not risk losing the reader so early in the tale, lest they become bored with my set up and close my book, and then it does not matter at all how interesting the rest of the story is.
And so, I look for an exciting point to begin.  And I find one all too easily.

In the beginning were the police.  And the police were with the state.  And the police were the state.
I was fourteen.  The world to me back then seemed incredibly small compared to what it would become.  I was bubbling over with something.  Was it anger already? I was not confident.  In fact, it was at a time in my life when I felt less confident than ever.  At the same time, proving to everyone that I was confident became of the most extreme importance.
I remember the day distinctly.  It was a summer day bursting with energy, the kind of day one only experiences when one is young.  It is not uncommon for us to have summer hot days in Urbae, but this day was different.  Cool.  A breeze, but nothing too much.  The kind of day that just makes you feel like running.
Ah, but even here I can not get away from the set-up.  The reader must understand about the police.  Police is a generous term.  That is not what we called them.  In my experience abroad, I encountered a much different view of the police force than I had in Urbae.  The police in other nations are often a benevolent institution, there to protect the people from the thieves, tramps, murderers, and the desperate.  The Urbae police existed, and no one was confused about this for a second, to enforce the order.  The police were there to keep you in your place.
Granted the police in Urbae would go after the thieves as well, and beat the murderer and the tramp senseless, but they always did it out of a sense of maintaining order.  Their order.  They and the Duke were on top, and they made sure no one forgot.
Strat.  I shutter to think.  Do those abroad not know of Strat, whose name every schoolchild in Fabulae would recognize? I must not make that assumption though, they know so little about us overseas.  Strat was one of our past leaders, renowned for his cruelty to his own people.  He loved the police, and to this day they have retained his name.  Strates, we called them.  Never to their face, for even they are ashamed by the cruelty of Strat.  (At the time, the police did his bidding quite willingly, but history has shown him for what he really was.  Those who refuse to learn in the present have no choice in the light of history).
But was that too much set up? Forgive me reader, I hope you are still with me.  I promise more excitement to come, just stay with me.
I passed the Strates’ station.  Was it anger at the Strates that surged up in me then? That was part of it, no doubt.  I was only fourteen though, much greater was the desire to see the awe of my classmates.  One of the Strates was standing outside.  He nodded his hello to me as I passed by, and I mechanically nodded back.  He took off his hat, and set it on the window ledge next to him, and ran his fingers through his hair.  He was tired.  He walked over to a bucket hanging from a string, and began to drink from it.  He knew he was a Strate, and I was not, and he never dreamed I would dare defy him.  I stared at the hat.
What did the hat look like? What does it matter reader? What does it matter if the hat was like a helmet, or like a cap? What it looked like is not central to my story, let it look like what ever you, dear reader, want it to look like.  Know only this, that it was black, and the mere sight of it terrified me.
You must understand the fear these people inspired in me.  I was deathly afraid of them as a young child, as if their touch would end my life.  By the time I was fourteen, I was beginning to realize there was flesh and blood underneath those uniforms after all.  Human beings, and human beings are fallible.  And now, I had to test that fallibility.  I had to prove to myself I could beat the Strates.
I would have loved to sit there forever and debate with myself the advantages and dis-advantages of my intended action, but I had no time.  Water gushed from the bucket into his mouth, it spilled down his cleanly shaved chin and onto the cool brick road.  It was a long drink, but it would be over any second.  I sprang into action.
I snatched the hat and turned and ran.  Ran.  I'm not sure at which point he noticed me, but I could hear his heavy footsteps pounding behind me soon enough
Imagine, if you will, the humor in the situation.  I am running as fast as I can, knowing that if I get caught I will be horrible beaten.  My fourteen year-old legs are taking me with all the speed they have in them.  I am small, skinny, squirrelly and quick.
But he is running as fast as he can too.  He knows if he doesn't catch me, he'll have to report to his superior he lost his hat.  He'll be held in disgrace.  It will go on his record.  Maybe his pay will even be cut.  They are very strict.  He is probably about twenty-five.  His legs are much longer than mine.  He is faster than me, but I had the head start.
I am running wild, my arms are moving faster than my legs, as if that could somehow speed me up, and out of his reach.  And out into the main street I burst, and I turn and run, and I've got so much momentum I can hardly turn, and he is right behind me.
I can't even feel my legs anymore, and I am terrified, and it is the greatest feeling I know.  My numb legs carry me through the street, and past all the set up shops with merchants selling fruit and meat and clothes, and he is getting closer.  Every second he is getting closer.
And up ahead I see my salvation.  The road comes to an end.  A building on each side of the road, and a wall between these two buildings.  A brick wall, but it has space underneath it for the sewage to run.  It is a small space.  I am still small enough to fit through it.  He is not.
There is filth, sewage, and who knows what underneath the wall.  It is disgusting, but I can slide on it.  I go under on my back, keeping the hat next to my breast, careful not to soil my prize.
My relief is cut short on the other side.  He has found a way to climb over the wall, and I have bought myself time and that is all.
And we resume.  I am running as fast as my fourteen-year-old legs can take me, and he is pursuing, and he is gaining.  And I am terrified, and it is the greatest feeling I know.
In a desperate attempt, I turn off main street, not knowing what I will find.  I am running down an alley, and at the end of the alley is another wall, a wooden one this time.  There is no way under this wall, only over it.  Boxes of trash lie near it.  I leap onto the boxes.  I fling the hat away to free up my hand, not having time to reflect on what I have lost.  Escape is all that matters now.  I spring towards the wall.  My hands grab the top of the wall, and the sharp points cut into my tender palms, but I don't even notice.  I am pulling the rest of me up, and I can see the other side of the wall.
Then I am stopped.  He has his hand around my ankle.  Instinctively, my other leg swings out, and my foot strikes his head, and the rest of my body twists as it follows my foot.  I lose my grip.  We both fall.
He falls into the trash, on his back.  I land on my feet and run.  I am almost out of the alley before he even gets up.  Then I stop, and go back.  I know it's foolish, but I can't lose now.  I grab the hat, and start running again.  He is up now, and he swings at me with his club.  I dart out of the alley.  He takes another swing and I continue running.  And I am terrified, and it is the greatest feeling I know.  But he is not following me.  I look back and see him limping from his fall.  My young fourteen-year-old body trembles with excitement, and the thrill of victory.
Now where to go with my new prize? David of course.  There was always David.
David lived only slightly away from the heart of the city.  His house was a little off of main street, packed in with all the businesses.  It would appear to the casual observer very much like David's house was just another business front.
I side passed the door to his house like I always do, and went around to the side to rap on a small window.  David's room was located in the basement of his house, with a little window on his wall that was level with the street.  I knocked on the window, David looked up from his desk, and he climbed onto his bed so he could reach the window.  He pulled open the window, and I climbed down into his room.
"Hey Dave, how are you?" I asked cheerfully.  I had never felt better.
"I’m good" David was in that sort of a mellow mood he was always in after he had been reading for a while.
"What are you reading?" I nodded towards the book.  To be honest, I couldn't have cared less, but it seemed like the polite thing to say at the time.
"Nothing" David said, as he closed his book up and put it away.  "So what brings you here Jon?"
I had the hat hidden in my shirt.  With a very deliberate motion meant to build up the suspense, I slowly removed it.  David's face reflected his surprise.
He gasped in awe at the hat.  Neither of us said anything.  And then, finally, "You're insane."
I could see the admiration in his face.  I could hear it in his voice, although he fought to keep a scolding tone.  I had done the impossible.
"You're crazy," David said again.  "How did you--what if--" David cut himself off in silent admiration.  Then his face broke into a smile.  "You are incredible man".
I returned the smile and slapped David on the back.  I had proved the Strates were human.  Everything was doable now.
'This is nothing, man.  I'm going to get myself a whole uniform."
"Hey, watch out," David warned.  "You got lucky this time.  Next time you may not be." In his voice even then there was a different message.  With his eyes he said, "Man, you know you can do it."
I was excited.  I was a hero.  The excitement was too much for me, I couldn't stand still anymore.  I shouted and we were out the door and into the street, running and shouting to each other.  We were fourteen.  We were still boys really.  We desperately wanted the world to change, wanted any kind of change, good or bad.  At the same time, lurking in the back of our minds was the belief that things would never change.  They had not changed ever, as far as we were concerned.  Why should they change now?
I arrived home at ten.  The day had been well spent with David, and I was exhausted.  My house was walking distance from the city, but still a little bit removed.  In contrast to the brick roads and business buildings that surrounded David's house, my house was surrounded by grass, trees, a lake and a stream that trickled into it.  Well manicured bushes stood side by side.  A small flower garden existed, with every flower perfectly in its place.  It was a lawn stinking of order.  I hated it.
I took the stolen hat, and carefully hid it in the tool shed.  It would be safe their for a couple days at least, before my dad went out there.  In the mean time, I could move the hat back into my room sometime when he was not home.  Or better yet, I could bring out a book sack to put the hat in, and bring it into my room right under his nose.
I went inside.  I was hungry.  There was mud caked on my face.  I was exhausted.  I walked down the hallway into the kitchen.  The light from the kitchen attracted my father.  He snuck up behind me.  "Home late again, Jonathon?" I jumped, startled.
And now I can postpone it no longer.  And so, dear reader, what I have saved you from at first must now be revealed.  The dreaded set up.
Fabulae is the country I live in, although I have seldom traveled outside of Urbae.  Twice, I think.  Twice had I traveled outside Urbae by the time I was fourteen.  I hate this dreadful prison.
Urbae is the capital city of Faulae, where all our wonderful democracy takes place.  Ah, what a joke.  It would almost be funny, if it hadn't turned out to be so horrific.
Yes reader, what took place in Urbae was not a democracy, although it once had been.  How did it crumble? What economic and social factors lead to its demise? Reader, I think I speak truthfully when I say neither of us cares.  It is only important to know we were once a democracy, and now we are not.  We have not been for almost one hundred years.  All the structures and names remained the same.  We had a Senate elected by the people, consisting of one hundred members.  And these Senators every year elected a President from among themselves.  And these Senators had absolutely no doubt in their minds each year that if they did not elect the Duke, every one of them would be killed with in the week.  The duke held all the power.  The Duke was supported by the army, the navy, the Strates, all the institutions which held power.
Of course, "the Duke" was not his real name.  It was a rather affectionate name that came from his father, who was a Duke by tittle.  We called him Flash, as in "Old Flash".  The Duke was not terribly old, only slightly over fifty.  As children, that seemed old to us.
And what was Flash's real name? To be honest reader, I never found that out.  And it doesn't matter.
My father was one of the Duke's men.  His fourth in command, to be precise.  Was I proud of my famous father? No, I was not.
My father was forever submitted to the Duke.  He did whatever the Duke wanted him to do.  In my view, my father had no mind of his own.  It was, I thought, as if the Duke had two bodies, having taken over my father's body as well.
And I was next.  And I hated that.  I was supposed to follow my father's footsteps in service to the Duke.  Everyone knew that.  My father knew that and continually reminded me of it.  The Duke knew it and would sometimes talk to me about how he couldn't wait to work with me when I got a little older.  I did not want to work for the Duke.  More then anything, I resented having my future planned out for me.  However, at the same time I knew it was the only job with a future available to me.  I resented this job all the more this, but I could not get away from that fact.  Serving the Duke, that was my future.
"Home late again, Jonathon?" Yes reader, we have come crashing back into the story.
I am too tired to debate the point.  "I'm sorry Dad.  I lost track of time.”
I braced myself for it.  The onslaught that always accompanies my misbehavior.  The "You better shape up and learn how to follow directions.  You're going to be with the Duke some day." None came though.  My father must have been too tired as well.  He sat down wearily in the chair, and invited me to come and sit at the table with him.  "School starts pretty soon now, doesn't it?"
I sat down next to him.  "Yes, Monday."
"Are you ready for it?"
"Yes."
My father reached for his alcohol underneath the table.  He brought it to his lips and slipped it.  I always marveled at how he could keep a straight face drinking that stuff.  My face went into all sorts of violent contortions as soon as that alcohol entered my mouth.  My father had a taste for strong drinks, and what I didn't realize then was the years my father had spent building up a tolerance to that stuff.  It was not pleasant for him at first either.
"Am I going to have to meet with your teachers this year?"
"No sir."
My father took another drink.  "Good, because I'm mighty sick of that.  You stay out of trouble this year, okay?" I nodded.  He drank again.  "I don't know why I even bother.  We had this exact same conversation last year and it didn't seem to do you any good.  You realize why this is important, don't you?" Ah, here it comes.  How foolish it was for me to expect I would get out of this speech.  He took another drink, this one longer than the first three.  "People know who you are.  You realize that don't you?" I nodded.  "And when you persist in making a jackass out of yourself at school, it reflects badly on me, reflects badly on the Duke.”  There was silence.  Another drink.  "You realize that, don't you?"
I was annoyed at having to answer the same question twice.  "Yes."
The annoyance had forced its way into my voice.  My tone of voice caused my father's head to turn angrily towards me, interrupting the flow of alcohol into his mouth.  "Well maybe you can act like it this year then." We sat in silence as my father took another drink, put the cork back in the jug and replaced the alcohol under the table.
"So how was your day" he asked.
"Good."
'What did you do today?"
"Nothing."
"You didn't do anything today?"
"No."
Now he was fed up with me, and I knew what was going on in his mind.  He was thinking to himself, "I try so hard to have a relationship with this kid, and he doesn't want to have anything to do with me.  The ungrateful welch."
But I had just had my behavior reprimanded, and was in no mood to spill out my soul to this man who had been scolding me seconds earlier.
He stood up.  "Well, do you have anything you want to tell me before I go to bed."
Feeling sufficiently guilty now, I volunteered something in the way of conversation.  "I hung out with David today."
My father stretched.  "Oh, and how is David doing these days?"
"Good."
"I haven't seen him in a while.  You should bring him over here more often."
"I'll try.  We live kind of far away from everything though."
"Yeah, I know."  And that was adequate.  Neither of us wanted a long conversation.
"Well, I'm going to bed now," my father said, putting his hand up to his face as if to indicate how tired he was.  "I have to get up early tomorrow, unlike some people."  I didn't reply.  I didn't know a reply was expected.  My father turned back when he was at the stairs.  "Right?" he prodded.
"School starts Monday" I said defensively.
"I know.  Don't sleep too long tomorrow.  I've asked Abel to wake you up somewhat early, so don't stay up late."
He meant well, but I was planning on going to bed soon anyway.  The fact that someone was now telling me to go to bed only annoyed me.  "Good night," I called back.

First Draft Chapter 2

"Wake up Jon.  Wake up Jon."  The cheerful voice of Abel was like a dagger into my ears.  What time was it?  Seven?  Seven thirty?  No one slept late in this house.
"Wake up, wake up wake up!" he shook my body.
"Go away," I grumbled.  My hand made a tired swing backwards.
“Dad said I wasn’t supposed to let you sleep.”
And at this point I knew it was useless.  I sat up.  Abel opened my window.  The room was bathed in sunlight.  It was then that I had the pleasant realization that it was another day free to fill up as I desired.  Ah, summer.
I stood up, welcoming the new day.
“What are you going to do today Jon?” Abel asked.
“I don’t know.  Something.”
“Can I come?”
“Of course not.”
“Please?”
“No” I said angrily.  I felt like I went through this everyday.
Abel picked up a shirt lying on my desk and threw it against the wall.  “I hate this house.  I hate it!  I hate it!  I hate it!”
“Will you quiet down?”
“I sit here everyday by myself.  There’s nothing to do.”  Well the kid did have a point.  We lived away from everything.
It was a luxurious house by so many standards, but to us it was a prison.  It was isolated.  Not many other houses were around.  The houses that were there were filled with old people.  No one our age.  I was old enough to strike out on my own, butAbel was only eight.  Everyday that I left he stayed home by himself.  Our mother had been dead since he was two years old.  He was too young to remember her.  I was not.
At this point, I decided to take Abel with me.  “We’re going to have to hang out with my friends.”
“I know.”
“Do you think you can keep up with us?”
His face lit up, because he knew this meant he was coming.  “Yes.  Yes I can.”  No, no he can’t.
“And your not going to get tire and whine?”
“No, Jon, no!”  Yeah right.  Of course he was.  But I didn’t have the heart to tell the kid he was staying in this place all alone.
“Well, come on then.  Get ready.”
It was about an hour walk into town.  I usually biked, but Abel did not have a bike, and so we walked.  And with Abel slowing me down, it was probably close to double that hour.  No matter.  No one else was up at seven.
Instinctively I headed towards David’s house.  I met David before I got to his house though.  David was with Simon.  The two of them were walking down the street.
“Jon” David called out.
“Dave, I was just on my way over to your house.  Hello Simon.”
“Whose the small fry?” Simon asked.
“This is just my little brother, Abel.”
“He’s cool” David reassured Simon.
“So how have you been Simon?”
Simon leaned against the wall.  “Oh, I’ve been okay.  Hey, I’ve been hearing stories about you, Jonny boy.”
David blushed.  Of course I was not upset.  I wanted to be talked about.  That’s why I took the hat.
“I’ve been busy,” I said with a big grin.
“So where is this hat?”
“I’ve got it in a safe place,” I said, my chest bursting with pride.
“What hat?” Abel asked.
“Nothing Abel.”  I gave him a patronizing pat on the head.
“Your brother stole a Strate’s hat,” Simon volunteered.
I could not believe the nerve of Simon.  Had I not made it perfectly obvious I didn’t want Abel to know?  My hand flew out and smacked the back of Simon’s head.  “Are you brain dead Simon?  He’s going to tell my Dad.”
“No I won’t.  No I won’t.”  Abel jumped up and down by my side.
“Hey, don’t touch me man,” Simon said, angrily advancing until his nose was almost touching mine.  Somehow, David managed to squeeze himself between us.
“Hey, cool guys.”  That was all David needed to say.  His voice was sweet and soft.  His eyes were bright and gentle.  It was impossible for either of us to stay mad.
“You took a Strate’s hat?” Abel asked me.
“He put it down.  I just outran him.”
“You are too much” Simon said in admiration.  “David says you’re going to get yourself a whole uniform,” Simon pressed.
“I’m working on it,” I said proudly.
“You out ran a Strate?” Abel said in disbelief.
“It wasn’t easy either.  Those fellows are quick.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Simon said.  There was a silence in which everyone gazed at me in admiration.
“So what are you boys up to?” I asked.
“Just hanging” David answered.
Just then, Simon nudged me.  A Strate was heading our way.  The boys all looked at me, and I knew what they were thinking.
“Hello officer.  Lovely weather today, isn’t it?”
The Strate glared at me.  Who was this cheeky young man who dared to talk to me, his eyes said.  “Yes, quite” he answered gruffly, and continued on.  We smiled at each other, and as soon as he passed the corner we burst out laughing.
“Yes, quite” Simon said, in an excellent imitation of the Strate’s voice, imitating the shocked impression as well.
“Oh, he didn’t like that at all,” David exclaimed with glee.
“You talked to him,” Abel said, his voice filled with awe.
“Come on, let’s go to the hills” I said.  Four boys ran off to the hills to hike, climb, and play swords with the branches lying around.  Simon accidentally hit Abel to hard with one of our make shift sword, and Abel started crying until we all comforted him.  We took off our shoes and waded in the stream.  Eventually, we all got hungry and went back into town.
“I’m so hungry” I exclaimed, upon arriving back by the merchant’s booths.
“Let’s see how much money we have,” David said.  We all dug into our pockets and produced handfuls of coins.  Abel did not have any money, so we agreed to pool our money and all buy the same thing.  All we could afford were four apples.  We did not expect much more.
We sat down on the curb to eat.  A Strate passed by on the street opposite us.  The boys expected me to do something.  Without really thinking, I lobbed my half-eaten apple at him.  It hit him in the back of the head, knocking his hat into the mud.
“Wow Jon!” Abel said.
“Shut up Abel.”  David’s voice was worried.  He quickly took Abel’s apple and dropped it into the sewer.  Simon followed David’s example.
The Strate picked up his hat and angrily looked around the street.  He didn’t see who threw the apple, but he had a pretty good idea it was the group of boys.  He strode over rubbing the bruise on the back of his head.
“You’ve gone to far now Jon,” David said under his breath.  He was really worried.  You can’t be worried.  It’s a sure sign of guilt.
The Strate came over, stood in front of us, and took a deep angry breath.  “Alright boys, which one of you threw the apple?”
Abel looked at the ground.  “Was it you, son?”  Abel shook his head, without looking up.  The Strate knelt down.  “Was it you?” he asked Simon.
“No sir” Simon answered.
“Alright boys,” the Strate said, standing up.  “Alright, if no one wants to come forward, I’ll knock everyone’s head in.  How does that sound?”
Abel started crying.  David flashed angry eyes at me.
“Sir, we didn’t do it,” I said.
The Strate reached down, grabbed me by the shirt, yanked me to my feet, and shook me.  “Are you telling me a lie to my face, boy?”
“Get your hand off of me” I said, pulling to free myself from his grip.  “Let go of me.”
“He didn’t do it,” David said.
The Strate let me go with a push.  “Then who did?”
“Another boy,” David answered.  “He ran off as soon as he threw the apple.”
“Just ran off like that?”
“Yes sir.”  As if by divine providence, to prove David’s point two children only slightly younger than us ran through the street.  In a flash, they had turned the corner and were gone.
The Strate stepped back.  He was rethinking things now.  Perhaps we weren’t the culprits after all.  He rubbed the bruise on the back of his head.  He had to take his anger out on someone.  He became even angrier at the prospect that we might not have thrown the apple, then at the prospect that we had.  It meant the culprit had gotten away.
Abel continued crying.  The Strate’s composure snapped.  He brought his face down so that it was level with Abel’s.  “Shut up!” he yelled loudly.  Abel immediately became silent, and gazed back at the Strate with wide frightened eyes.  Abel scooted back, away from the Strate.
I was still standing.  “Sir, don’t talk to him that way.”
The Strate stood up as if someone had just pricked his bottom with a pin.  “What did you just say to me?”
“I said don’t talk to him that way.”
The Strate was dumbfounded that someone would dare talk back to him.  David glanced at me with a face that was a mixture of anger and horror.  “Don’t mind him sir.  He’s just stupid,” David said.  Only a tense silence followed.  “He’s not thinking right” David volunteered to break the silence.
“Is that true, boy?” the Strate asked.
I glanced down at David, then back at the Strate.  “Yes sir,” I replied.
“You boys better watch it,” the Strate commanded, looking at each of us as if his eyes could pierce through us.
“Yes sir,” we all answered in unison.
“See that you do,” the Strate said before turning to leave.
I let out a sigh of relief, and was then hit.  Overcome by anger at the last minute the Strate had turned back to me and hit me with his club on my side.  I doubled over in pain, and the Strate’s hand hit me in the head.  My body spun around and I landed face first on the ground.  The Strate kicked me twice while I was on the ground, and his foot stamped my back.  He brought back his club to hit me again, but David inserted himself between the Strate and me.  “Sir, he’s just stupid sir.  Don’t pay any attention to him.”
The Strate took a deep breath.  Beating a fourteen year-old boy had made him feel better.  He smiled at David, patted him on the head, and left saying, “You kids are going to get yourself in some serious trouble someday.”
“Yes sir,” Simon and David answered.  They watched the Strate in silence until he was out of sight.
I was already sitting up by this time.  Abel was hovering around me, making sure I was okay.
“Don’t get up,” David cautioned.  “Stay there until you’re sure that you’re alright.”
I felt my face with my hand, making sure there was no blood.
“I’m alright Dave,” I said, standing up.  I leaned on the wall of the neighboring building to help me stand.  My side sent me a sharp pain to protest to my activity, and my face reflected it.  David and Simon rushed to help support me.
“I’m alright.  I’m alright.”  I maintained, but they insisted on helping me to my feet anyway.
“Let’s get him out of here,” David said to Simon.  “Your house is close.”
“Yours is closer” Simon responded.
David shook his head.  “Are you kidding?  My parents would freak out if we carried him in like this.  They’d wanta know everything.”
“Well so would mine.”
“Simon, your parents are never home.”
“Guys, really” I interjected.  “I can walk.”
“Are you sure?” David asked.
I gently separated myself from my two supporters, and took a couple steps forward.  “See?  I’m fine.”
David looked at me, then Simon, then back to me.  “Alright,” he said.  “You can come to my house.  But Jon make sure you don’t fall down in front of my parents.”
“Dave, I’m alright.”  And I was.  My body was sore, but I knew the Strate could have hit me a lot harder if he wanted to.  I would be sore for a couple of days, and then I would be fine.
David and Simon insisted on supporting me while we walked the three blocks over to David’s house.  As soon as we got near the house, they both parted and I walked into the house on my own.
“Gentlemen, welcome” David’s dad called out.  “Simon, how are you doing?”
“Good, thank you.  How are you?”
“Good, good.  Jonathon, always a pleasure to see you.  And little Abel, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”
“I’m eight years old,” Abel protested.  David’s father laughed.
“Of course.  My you boys look dirty.”
“We went to the hills again,” David said.
“Well, feel free to wash up.”
“Thanks Dad.  I think we’re just going to hang out in my room for a while.”
“Aren’t you going to help your mother with the dishes?”
“Dad, I’m busy now.”  David’s voice was annoyed.  His dad just laughed as he stood up and came around the table to us.
“Of course.  You’ll help tonight then?”
“Yes.”
David’s father looked at me curiously.  I’m not sure what tipped him off.  Perhaps my tired expression.  Perhaps the scratches on my face from where I contacted the road.
“Are you okay, Jon?” he asked.
“He’s find Dad,” David answered quickly.
“I’m fine.  I just fell out on the hills.”
David’s father looked at me strangely, then evidently decided to let it go.  “Well, you should at least clean up.”
“We will Dad,” David replied, and herded us down into his bedroom.  “Just stay here,” David commanded.  He left and returned with a bowl of cold water, soap, and a wash cloth.  “Alright, Jonny,” he said.  “Let’s get you cleaned off.”
I winced at the cold water as David applied the wash cloth to my face.  Simon crossed the room to look at David’s possessions, then returned to us.  “Man Jon, that was about the coolest thing I ever saw.”
“What was?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“The way you just stood up to that Strate.  He was so shocked you talked back to him.”
“Don’t encourage him,” David said.  “Jon, your lucky he didn’t hurt you any worse then he did.  You realize that, don’t you?”
“Yes” I answered to placate David.  I wanted to hear more of what Simon had to say.
“Listen to me,” David pleaded.  “You’re really going to get yourself hurt someday if you keep this up.”
“All right, all right Dave” I said, but I didn’t mean it, and he knew it.
Simon, I’m sure, felt like he should say something.  “Yeah Jon, be careful.”  But I could tell I had his admiration.
Once I was cleaned up to David’s expectations, and he was satisfied that I was not seriously injured, the conversation shifted to other things.  We hung out in David’s room till late, and his mother even came into bring us food.  At this point, David remembered that he was supposed to help his mother with the dishes, and excused himself, and I decided it was unwise to arrive home late two days in a row, and I knew my travel would be lengthened with Abel by my side, and so Abel and I parted company with Simon.
On the long walk home, I impressed upon Able the necessity of keeping his mouth shut about the day’s events.  “If Dad asks anything, just tell him about the hills.”  It was a loose end.  The kid has a bad track record of not keeping secrets.  He seemed pretty sincere though.
“I promise I won’t tell.  You can trust me Jon I promise.”
I was worried despite the promises, but at this point he knew, and there was nothing I could do about it.
We arrived at my house before dark.  “Can I see the Hat?  Can I?” Abel pleaded.
We were still out in the yard at this point, but I was seized by an irrational fear that my dad, who I knew was in the house, would over hear.  “Not so loud!”  I glanced around nervously.  “You see what I mean Abel? You’re going to blow everything.
“No I won’t” Abel protested, distraught at how easily he had become under renewed suspicion.
I hesitated.  On one hand I was uneasy about taking loose lipped Abel to the scene of the crime.  One the other hand, what damage could it possibly do?  He knew everything already.
“Alright, come on,” I said, putting my finger to my lips to indicate silence.  Despite the fact that I knew my father was in the house, we still conducted ourselves as if we were in a war zone.  I kept low to the ground and hid in the shadows.  Able followed my lead.
We arrived at the shed.  With great deliberation I opened the door.  Abel, not willing to wait for my dramatic introduction, rushed in.  I was annoyed that my ceremony had been disrupted, but chose not to say anything.
With Abel jumping up and down by my side in anticipation, I removed the hat from its hiding place on the shelf.  I held it out.  Abel’s mouth dropped open in awe.  A ray of light shined through the window, illuminating the hat.
All right, I made up the part about the ray of light, but in both of our minds it existed at the time.  Just as both of us could have sworn we heard the faint voices of singing angels.
Abel reached eagerly for the hat.  I was appalled by the sacrilege and jerked the hat away.  “What are you doing?” I asked angrily.
Abel immediately assumed a penitent face.  “I just wanted to see it,” he said timidly.  I looked at the hat, protectively.  “I won’t hurt it.”  Abel’s voice was so quiet I could hardly hear it.  I handed over the hat.
Abel carefully took the hat from me, very aware of the importance of what was in his hands.  “Wow,” he whispered.  The hat balanced loosely in Abel’s hands, as if he was afraid he would damage it by holding it firmly.  “How did you get this?”
I shrugged.  “Just like I told you.  A Strate took it off.  I grabbed it.  I outran him.”
“Tell me,” Abel pleaded.
And so I told him the whole story, probably in more detail then I have recorded for you, reader.  I might have exaggerated things, or over dramatized the whole event.  In fact I’m sure I did.  It’s so hard to remember everything exactly.
Abel interrupted me frequently with questions.  Finally, when my epic tale was completed, Abel and I went into the house.
Our father came over to greet us as soon as he heard us enter.  “Hello boys.”  He was clearly surprised that we were together.  “Have you two spent all day with each other?”
I nodded.  Abel bubbled over with information.  “Yes.  We walked all the way into town, and then we met David and somebody named Simon, and we went to the hills, and played swords, and Simon hit me but he didn’t mean to, and Jon bought me an apple.”
Involuntarily, I cringed at the word apple, but Abel stopped there.  The kid was doing good.
My father looked over at me.  “Well, that was nice of you.”
I didn’t know quite how to respond to that.  I certainly did not want to make a habit of taking Able with me everywhere.
Dad turned back to Abel.  “But you didn’t get any reading done.  School starts soon.”  Abel is a slow reader.  Dad put him on a reading program so he wouldn’t fall too behind in school.  Abel loved it, reading about all sorts of mythological heroes.
“I’ll do it tomorrow.  I really don’t need all those books anymore though.”
“Oh, you don’t?” My Father’s eyebrows raised.
“No, I’ve got a new hero now.  Jon.”
My father wasn’t quite sure how to react to that one.  (Nor was I for that matter.  I felt my cheeks blush, and I just kind of looked at the ground).  “I think you need to find a new hero,” my father said in a stern voice, but I could tell he was pleased.  “It’s late Abel, you should get to bed.”  My father led Abel to the stairs, stopped, looked back at me with a curious expression, and walked Abel the rest of the way up to his bedroom.

First Draft Chapter 3

“Hey!  Hey!”  Before my eyes could even focus, the image of an angry red faced man flashed before them.  My father’s face was two inches from mine.  “What are you still doing in bed?”
My mind was still groggy from sleep.  I just stared back blankly.  “Do you want to make us late for church?”
“No, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to—“
“We’re leaving in five minutes,” my dad said, as he left the room.  I leaped out of bed and hurriedly put on some clothes.  No time to wash up this morning.  Oh well.
It had been three days, reader, since you saw me last.  Rest assured that the time was spent the best way a fourteen-year-old boy can spend it.  I spent the time in play with David, and my other friends, arguing and running and wrestling and all sorts of other things.
I groped around my floor, looking for a clean pair of socks.  I could hear conversation from down the stairs.
“Do I have to go to church?” Abel whined.
“Of course you do,” my father answered without pausing.  “Jonathon, hurry up!” he shouted.
“I’m coming,” I shouted back.  I had learned long ago that it was pointless to argue against church.  Abel had not yet learned this.
“But I don’t want to go.”  Watch out Abel.  You’re on fragile ground here.
“You’re going anyway,” my father’s voice answered firmly.
“But I don’t even like church.”
There was a silence, in which I can only assume my father was giving Abel a disapproving look.  Then, in a stern voice he answered, “Abel, church is where we go to worship God.  When you talk about church, you talk about it with respect.  Is that clear?”
“But church is boring.”  Shut up Abel.  Shut up, shut up shut up.  “I hate church.”
I heard the sound of a slap, followed by Abel’s wailing.  “Are you ready yet Jonathon?”
I pulled my shirt over my head.  “I’m coming,” I called back down, as I opened my door.

Reader, allow me to be blunt.  I think I can successfully summarize my attitude towards church back then in two words: church sucks.
The particular church we attended was only a ten-minute walk from our house.  Very convenient.  It was made up of all sorts of other elites who could afford to live outside the city.  The Duke himself attended.
It was pure torture to sit through.  The service was seldom over an hour long, but if someone had asked me back then I would have sincerely told them that the service was between two and three hours.  It was drudgery.  Adjectives, dear reader, fail me in my attempt to describe how hard the service was for an energetic boy to sit through.  The stale music, the irrelevant sermons, everything.  How I hated it.
I was not alone in this.  Most of my school fellows hated church as well.  Their objections will be recorded in due time.  For now they must stay silent though.  They all attended church in the city.
Very few children attended our church.  Two boys, who were Abel’s age, named Cain and Seth, with whom he would frequently run off with after church attended, and one girl who was my age: Bernadine.  She was a classmate of mine at school.  A very intelligent girl, a very energetic girl, with wild eyes and a piercing gaze.  I deeply regret the fact that I never got to know her back then, but I would discover later how powerful she was.
I should mention here that there were rumors that the Duke also had a son my age.  Although no one had even seen this legendary son, these myths continued.  You will be glad to hear, reader, that I never believed them.
We approached the church.
I am suddenly beset by a little nagging voice that urges me to describe the church.  “What kind of an author are you if you don’t give vivid descriptions.”  The voice has power.  But reader, surely you know what a church looks like.
Picture it reader, for it is all there in your mind.  Do I even need to mention the white steeple?  The big tan doors?  The stained glass windows?  The rows of parishioners, all dressed in their finest clothes of the week.
Yes, I should include this now.  I hate those dress clothes, that I was forced into every Sunday.  I hated the tight collar, the stiff pants, and the shoes that always seemed just a little too small.  Perhaps my greatest pleasure out of the whole church experience was tearing those clothes of when I arrived home.
We entered the church.  The very staleness of it assaulted my senses.  I coughed involuntarily from the feeling of staleness.  Angry eyes flashed from all sides, upset that I would dare cough in the house of God.  My father, whose hand was already on my shoulder, tightened his grip.
We sat silently in one of the pews.  The service had already started.  My father was somewhat embarrassed, although it was not unusual for our family to arrive late.  My father knew how disrespectful it was to arrive late to the house of God.
We were not the only ones who were late however.  Shortly after the service started, another figure slipped in the pew quietly next to me.  He patted the side of my leg in a friendly manner.  I looked over.  It was old Flash himself.  Flash was no stranger to my family.  In fact, he had dined at our house once.  Or was that twice.  It’s so hard to remember the finer details.
Flash smiled at me, and I returned his smile.  Flash, as busy as he was, never failed to attend church.
Rest assured, Reader, that with Flash sitting next to me I was on my best behavior for the entire service.  After the service, when the benediction was given, people began to talk to each other again.
The Duke patted my leg again.  “So Jonathon, it has been a while since I’ve seen you.”
“Yes sir it has.”
“My, my.  And how old are you?  Sixteen?  Seventeen?
I assume old Flash was just flattering me.  I am sure I did not look sixteen or seventeen.  “I’m fourteen.”
The Duke raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.  “Really?  Only fourteen?  Well, Jonathon, you’ve got a lot of growing up to do then.  Are you eager to grow up?”
What an odd question.  I wasn’t sure how to answer that.  “No, not yet.”  It seemed like the appropriate thing to say.  The fact was I couldn’t wait to grow up, but I knew if I said that it would open up all sorts of new questions.
The Duke smiled.  “You’re a smart boy.  Of course, you know when you do grow up, I’ve got a nice job waiting for you.”
“Yes sir,” I answered, faking as much enthusiasm as I could.
Flash bought it.  “That a boy.  I can’t wait to work with you, if you’re even close to being as clever as your father.”
At this point I realized my father had been standing behind me the whole time, listening to the conversation.  He placed his hands proudly on my shoulder.  “He’ll be a lot more clever.”
Flash laughed.  “I don’t know if I could handle that.  I might have competition for my job."” My father and Flash both laughed at the comment, but there was a sinister truth hidden behind it.  The Duke dealt harshly to anyone who might be a rival to his power.
“Well, how are you Paul?” Flash asked.
“Its been a tough week, but I survived,” my father answered.
I had no desire to stay and listen to this conversation, so I slipped out.  I went outside to enjoy the weather, although basking in the warm outdoors only made me all the more conscious that I had spent the morning in its absence.  Abel ran by with his two playmates, Seth and Cain.  I was hot in my clothes.  I longed to be home already and to fling them off.  I moved about stiffly in my clothes.  Bernadine and her parents walked out of the church.  Bernadine was a pretty girl, I thought.  I waved, somewhat timidly.  If she noticed, she chose to ignore it.
I waited and waited and waited.  Eventually my father emerged from the church, still talking and laughing with old Flash.  Our family departed.
We walked in silence for a while.  Eventually, my father turned to me.  “So you were talking to the Duke?”
“Yeah.”
Well what else was there to say?  It was not a deep question.  My father reacted in frustration.  His face became tight.  He took a deep breath.  “You know, I really wish that you could communicate in more than one word answers”.
I thought this was unfair.  I was asked a yes or no question.  “What?” I said annoyed.
“Like when you were talking to the Duke.  You only gave him one word answers.”
“What was I supposed to say?”
“Just be friendly.  Talk to the man.  Elaborate.  Ask him questions.”  The prospect of having a long conversation with old Flash did not thrill me.  It must have reflected on my face because my father took it upon himself to convince me further.  “You know you’re going to be working for him someday.  You might as well get on good terms with him.”
Now I knew better, but I acted without thinking.  “What if I don’t want to work for the Duke?”
My father stopped in his tracks.  He turned angrily towards me, his hand grabbed my arm.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Abel smiling.  Like all siblings, Abel delighted when I was in trouble and he was not.  I silently resolved to get him later.
“What are you talking about?” My father yelled angrily.  I didn’t know what to say so I simply remained mute.  “What else would you do?”
A million answers flooded into my head: write, teach, draw, sculpt.  Travel.  Just travel.  Just get out of here for once.  Be an athlete.  A merchant.  Anything.  Just ever-loving live.  Just live!  Nothing.  None of these options I could make a suitable living on, and I knew it.  “I don’t know,” I answered.  “Something.”
My father glanced away and then back at me.  “Okay, listen to me.  Are you listening?”  Of course I was listening.  What else would I be doing?  I nodded silently.  “You are a very privileged boy.  You know that?  You know how many people would love to have the opportunities you have at your fingertips?  I’ve worked hard my whole life to get into this position, and you’re going to be able to slip right into it.  Do you appreciate that?  Your life couldn’t be easier.  You’ll never find another job that is this good.  Do you understand?  Do you?”  I nodded.  “Alright, so don’t do anything stupid then.  You’ve got everything you need already.”  Of course I did.  I felt everything closing in on me.

First Draft Chapter 4

All right reader, beware, for my narrative is about to explode into a stream of characters.  Each one must be introduced and described, while I must be careful not to let the thread of my story be forgotten.  Hang on.
It is the first day of school.  In years past, I had to walk Abel to school with me to make sure he arrived safely.  This year I began classes much earlier in the morning, and so my father had arranged for Abel to walk to school with his two friends from church.
I biked into school, and arrived while light was just beginning to pierce the sky.  It was the first day, and my enthusiasm was as high as it would be all year.  I arrived a half-hour early.
Most of us were early.  David and Simon were standing outside the school, as where a host of others.  The other names are important, but they are not important right now.  I joined Simon and David, and talked to them.  With only ten minutes left till class began, we were joined by another.
I grimaced when I saw him approach.  He was fourteen, like the rest of us.  He truly could have passed for sixteen or seventeen, however.  He was tall, and well built.  For as young as he was, his body still seemed to bulge with muscles.  His face was spotless, without a single blemish.  His hair was perfect.  His clothes were always in style.
Ah, but I haven’t even begun.  He was an athlete, and what an athlete.  Star of the football team.  Star of the basketball team.  Star of the Baseball team, star runner, star swimmer, star wrestler.
And sports weren’t all he excelled at.  He was gifted in music as well.  He could sing with a voice like an angel.  He played several instruments and played them well.  And he was smart.  A genius really.  His grades were always top notch.
He was smooth.  He always knew the right thing to say.  He was charming.  He was funny.  He was loved by all, and there wasn’t a girl in our class who didn’t dream about him at night.  He was like a bright light, like a morning star.  He was lucent, like a son of the morning.  His name was Orion.
Orion seemed to be on some sort of quest to make my life miserable.  Ever since we were young boys in the beginning grades, he took it upon himself to destroy everything I was proud of.
“Well, well.  Hello Jonny,” his voice boomed.  “I’m glad to see you’ve made it today.”  His voice was louder than usual.  He wanted everyone to hear.  The crowd realized this, and quieted down.  There were probably only about fifteen or twenty others there.
“Hello, Orion,” I said cautiously.
“I’ve ah” Orion turned to face the crowd, “I’ve been hearing little things about you Jonny.”
“Really?”
“I hear you’ve become quit a rebel.  I hear you stole a hat from a Strate.”
“You heard right.”  I answered proudly.
“I don’t believe it.”  Orion’s voice was challenging.
I had the hat with me in my book sack.  I reached behind me, and produced it proudly.
My fellow students immediately crowded around Orion and me, jostling each other to get a closer look.
Orion’s eyebrows raised.  “Impressive Jonny, Impressive.  You’re quite a hero, aren’t you?”
I nodded.  Orion’s tone was condescending, but so far he had only increased my popularity.  I didn’t understand.
Orion swung his book bag off of his shoulders.  He reached in.  The crowd leaned forward to see what he would pull out.  I caught myself leaning forward as well.  Orion pulled his hand out to reveal – a Strate’s hat.  My jaw dropped.  He had one too?  How?  I saw a Strate take his hat off and leave it.  Could the same thing have happened to him?  That would be too much of a coincidence.  But how else?
“I grabbed it right off of the Strate’s head,” Orion said proudly.  “The sucker couldn’t even get close to catching me.”
Of course he couldn’t.  Track star Orion probably could outrun all of the Strates.  Orion grinned at me proudly.  “Now, how did you get your hat?”
I was tempted to make something more impressive up, but I knew Orion probably already heard the whole story.  “The Strate took it off.”
Orion’s grin turned into a wide smile.  The bell rang and we flooded into class.  A crowd of adoring girls followed Orion.  Orion went into one class, I went into another.  I sat by David as I always do.
And there were other people in the class too.  Can I delay the ejaculation of knowledge any further?  Streams of description long to burst forth.
Clodius and Joshua.  Yes reader, I grew up with both Clodius and Joshua.  Those are now household names in Fabula.  I was deeply shocked to find out they are unknown overseas.  The fact that I knew both Clodius and Joshua in my childhood, a fact which I took great pride in, became meaningless overseas.  Now I must describe them to an audience who has no idea who either is.
Clodius was the son of a prominent lawyer.  His family was certainly middle class, but not wealthy by any means.
But how best to describe Clodius?  This is somewhat difficult because I was never particularly close to him, and at that age I largely ignored him.  He wasn’t really quiet, and he certainly wasn’t shy, it was just that he was interested in none of the things we were interested in, and we couldn’t care less about the things he was interested in.  While we congregated to play basketball, or while we ran through the halls creating trouble, Clodius preferred to sit in a corner and read.  He loved to read.  And nothing I would have been interested in reading either.  He read a lot of history books, of all things.  In fact, I still have an image of him sitting under a tree on a fall day, where he spent the entire afternoon engrossed in a history book.  And philosophy.  He loved philosophy, probably even more than history.  He checked out volumes of philosophical works form the library and just devoured them.
As may be expected, Clodius was academically inclined.  However, he was far from the teacher’s pet.  That work that he chose to do, he did excellently, but often he would choose not to do an assignment.  He only did homework that interested him, and so the terrible grades he received masked the brilliant mind that acquired them.
And the questions he asked.  Understand reader that Fabulae, for all its liberal sounding rhetoric, ceased to be a free state long ago.  The schools were a state owned institution, reporting directly to the Duke.  Even as children we knew that.  One had to be very careful about the questions one asked in a school setting.  Clodius must have known this.  He chose to ignore it though.  I remember one class (and I forget exactly when this was.  It could have been as much as a couple years earlier.  Clodius was a precocious young boy), when Clodius asked why our history book still insisted Fabluae was a democracy despite the fact that current events obviously showed otherwise.  I still laugh when I picture the teacher’s shocked face.  Clodius was quickly escorted out of the classroom where I can only assume he was taken to the principle’s office and a futile attempt must have been made to instill some common sense into him.  It didn’t work.  The inappropriate questions continued, and the teacher’s did their best to keep Clodius out of more serious trouble.
I can picture Clodius in my mind. He usually had a thoughtful expression on his face.  His hair was pitch black and curly.  I want to say it was long and out of control and he constantly had to brush it up to keep it from covering his eyes.  At this age though, it was still short and relatively controlled.
Still with me reader?  Can you handle another description?  I still need to introduce Joshua.
Joshua was a bastard, literally speaking, meaning that the man his mother lived with was not his father.  No one, including, I believe, Joshua’s mother, knew who Joshua’s father really was.  In the conservative setting of Fabulae, this was quite a stigma that poor Joshua had to grow up under.  Orion in particular I recall bugged Joshua about this relentlessly.
And what is there to say about Joshua?  Like Clodius, I never really got to know Joshua when he was a schoolmate of mine.  It is well known that all sorts of myths have sprung up in Fabulae about Joshua.  Some of these myths, in varied form, have even made their way overseas.  I would like to once and for all put these myths to rest.  Joshua was just like everyone else.  He was ordinary.  There is nothing about him that even sticks out in my mind when I attempt to describe him.  He was just ordinary.  Ordinary, ordinary, ordinary, I can think of no better description.

Okay reader, still there?  Let us return to the narrative.  Clodius and Joshua were both in the room and both will be featured in my story later, but for now it is just me and David.
The class was assembled, and everyone was talking while we waited for the teacher.  I leaned over to David.  David knew what I was thinking.  “Tough break, huh?”
“It was incredible.  He’s got all the attention now.”
“That’s probably what he wants.”
Way to go for understatement of the year Dave.  “That’s exactly what he wants.  He’s always trying to ruin things for me.”
David always wanted to see the good in people.  He had a hard time imagining someone who was up to no good.  “Do you think you might be a little paranoid Jon?”
The teacher entered the classroom.  “Good morning class,” she chirped.
“Good morning,” the class unenthusiastically repeated.  In fact, it was like her greeting was being returned by a chorus of grunts.  None of us were happy about being there.  The teacher was not a novelty to us by any means.  It was the same few teachers that taught at the school every year.
“How is everyone?” she asked.  Again, the grunts repeated themselves.  Well, no need for long introductions here, everyone knew each other.  The teacher began.  “Today, we’re going to look at the early stages of Fabulae history.  Now does anyone know what economic conditions lead to the beginning of the resistance?”
Clodius’ hand shot up.  No one in the class even bothered.  Why compete with Clodius?  He knows this stuff cold.  The teacher, however, was hesitant to call on Clodius.  One never knew what kind of an answer Clodius would give.
“Kevin, do you know?”
“No Ma’am.”
“Katie?”
“No Ma’am.”
“It was unavoidable.  “Clodius, you have an answer for us?”
Clodius beamed at being recognized.  “The nobility was no longer able to exploit the poor with the new Imperial legislation, so they decided to break away from the empire.”
Now reader, I realize that you have no knowledge of Fabulae history, but what Clodius was saying was not orthodox history.  It was not a direct attack on the Duke, but it was not a patriotic answer either.  It was not the answer he was supposed to give.
The teacher shifted her weight unhappily.  “No Clodius, that answer is incorrect.  Please see me after class.”  I can only assume that after class the teacher would try and convince Clodius of the foolishness of his answer, and make a doomed attempt to get through his thick skull the dangers of expressing such opinions publicly.  The teacher would also want to know where Clodius had come across such information, since any history book expressing such an opinion would surely have been banned long ago.  The teacher did not realize what a bright boy Clodius was.  He could read behind the lines of a history book very well.  It was quite possible that he had formed that opinion on his own.
“Would anyone like to tell me what really happened?”  Silence.  It was like pulling teeth.  Didn’t she realize none of us cared?  Just give us the answer and let’s move on.  “Matthew, what about you?”
I hate history.  Five minutes into the period and already my mind is moving to other things.  I leaned over to David to finish off the conversation that had been broken off earlier.  “You don’t understand Dave,” I whispered.  “He’s been on my case forever.”
“Huh?”  David’s face was confused.  It took a few seconds for his brain to remind him that this was what we discussed earlier.  “Oh.  That still.”
“I mean, everything I ever had he’s got to ruin.  Do you remember second grade?”
“Yeah.”  David was answering my questions to be polite, but he hated talking to me in class.  He was always afraid we were going to get in trouble (which we frequently did).  His face was always worried, and his answers were brief.
“You remember how he ruined my presentation?  He had it in for me even back then.  And in third grade.  And in fourth grade.  In all the grades he’s always hounded me.”
“He must have a reason.”
Now this was the part I could never get David to understand, so I watched my voice carefully to make sure it stayed at a whisper.  I didn’t want to get carried away here.  “No, see Dave, that’s just the point.  He has absolutely no reason.”
“He must have some reason.  Have you done something to him?”
“I never did anything!”
“Jonathon!  David!”  We’d been caught.  Did I raise my voice too loud on that last statement?  I’d like to think I’m more cautious than that, but I suppose in my enthusiasm my voice could have gotten away from me.  More likely is that the teacher caught us whispering out of the corner of her eye.  “Will you two please shut up and listen to the lesson?”
“Yes Ma’am” we both answered.  She did not look happy; but then, she was never happy.
I, of course, was inwardly outraged.  I was talking about something important here and she has to intrude on us.  Who does she think she is?  I mean, really, what gives her authority over me?  I’m only in this classroom because I have to be, and I’m not disturbing the class I just want to talk to my friend.  Is it a crime to talk?  And now she was seeking to bury my relevant material under a sea of meaningless names and dates that couldn’t have applied less to me.
She glared at us for a couple more seconds, then addressed the class again.  “Now, after our founding fathers secured the coast, there still remained the problem of blah blah blah blah…”
I hate this class.  Why am I in this class?
I leaned over to David again.  “The only thing I can think of is that making fun of me makes him become more popular.”
“Jon, shut up.  You’re going to get us both in trouble.”  The teacher, who was still keeping on eye on us, I think saw the exchange but chose to let it go.  All we got was a dirty look.
I sat through the rest of the class period in silence, with my attention running all over the place.  After fifty minutes, the bell rang, and we packed up our stuff.
“What’s with you?” I asked David.
“Jon, listen, it’s the first day of school.  Do we have to get I n trouble on the first day?”
“But I was talking about something important.”
“We can talk about it at break,” David answered, as he swung his backpack over his shoulder.  David exited the room while I was still packing up my books.
The next two classes I spent without David.  As I sat in class, I sorted things out in my mind.  Orion had beaten me.  He had effectively taken all the glory.  What was my recourse?
My immediate response was impulsive.  I had to out do Orion.  If he had stolen a hat, I must steal a jacket.  Ordinarily at this point David would have chimed in.  “What are you, crazy?  How are you going to get a Strate’s jacket?  Jon, promise me you’re not going to do this.”
But David was not here now.  It was just me and my thoughts.  I was forced to come to that conclusion on my own.  There was no outdoing.  the very prospect of obtaining a Strate’s jacket was ridiculous.
So what was there to do?  Again, if David was here he would have answered, “Nothing Jon, just let it go.  Just forget about it.”  My fictional David was again correct.  Orion had outdone me, victory must be conceded.
I met David at break.  The hallways were flooded with students, and it was hard to hear anything over the thunderous din of hundreds of conversations all taking place at once.
“Okay Jon, what did you want to talk about?” David asked.
“Nothing Dave, I got it figured out,” I answered.
I was later to find out how Orion really obtained that hat, and then I was certainly glad I did not try to out do him.

First Draft Chapter 5

My mother died when I was eight years old.  It was, without a doubt, the hardest part of my childhood.  It left me with only my father.
I have heard it said before that every child goes through certain stages in their relationship with their parents.  In the first stages, the child develops a kind of hero worship for the parents.  The parents can do no wrong in the child’s eyes.  If I was ever in that stage, I don’t remember it.
By the time I was eight, I remember being very critical of several things about my dad.  By the time I was fourteen, they had multiplied exponentially.
The first event that really changed the view I had of my father was the Tramp incident.
When you last saw me, reader, it was the end of summer.  Now fast forward to the winter of that year.  I was still fourteen, though in a couple months that would change.  David, being a few months older, was already fifteen.  Nothing had changed though.  It was becoming a theme in my life I could not escape, the staleness of an unchanging world.
I suppose I should explain what the winters are like in Fabulae.  Fabulae, especially Urbae, is one of those pleasant temperature zones where nothing really ever changes.  Was my child like mind frustrated by the boring consistency, that I lived in a place where even the weather conspired not to change?  I can see where you would think that reader.  However, until I learned what other climates were like, it never occurred to me that the weather could be any different.  Our summers were warm, our winters were cool.  Hot and cold we never knew.  Of course these are relative terms.  Until I discovered what cold can mean in other places, I thought our winters were quite cold indeed.  Sometimes, I would wake up and see the lake outside our house was frozen.  We would even get a light snow once in a while.
Anyway, it was in the course of one such winter that our house received a visitor.  Abel and I were home studying when there was a rap on the door.  It was very unusual for us to get unexpected visitors, especially after dark.  Our house was near to nothing.  Abel and I, filled with curiosity, raced each other to the door.
Our father had heard the rapping as well.  He had brought his work home, as was his habit, and had been working in his study.  Consequently, his study being away from the main part of the house, we beat him to the door, but he was equally curious.
With child like minds, I don’t think it ever occurred to either Abel or I that the person behind the door could be a thief, or an assassin, or some other character which wished our family harm.  I can see now why my father bolted from his study to try and catch up with us.
I grabbed the doorknob eagerly.  Abel, who had wanted the honor of opening the door, protested by my side.  I flung the door open.  Abel and I both stared at the figure it revealed.
He was a tall man.  My eyes were immediately drawn to his clothes.  His pants were so covered with mud it was impossible to determine what their original color had been.  On many areas his skin showed through where the pants were ripped or worn away.  He had no shoes, but his socks, which I assume where once white, were caked with mud as well.  His shirt was muddy also, but a distinctive shade of green was still visible.  The shirt was worn away at the elbows, revealing bare skin.  His hands were without gloves, which was unwise in this weather.  They were purple from the cold.  My eyes moved further up.  His neck and face were caked with mud.  He had a big brown beard, which hid much of his face from view.  His lips and cheeks were obviously chapped from the wind.  His hair was long and tangled and matted with mud.  He smelled funny.
Abel let out a cry of surprise and jumped backward at the sight of this man.  I was shocked as well.  I had never scene a man who appeared like this one.  “Timothy!” my father exclaimed.
“Paul,” the figure said back.  “You’ve got to help me.”  The voice seemed somehow cracked or broken, as if the every word was an effort.
“Tim, I can’t I—“ my father started out, then stopped.  “Alright Tim, get in.”  My father practically pulled Timothy into the house then shut the door.  “Did anyone see you come here?”  Timothy shook his head.  My father smelled the air.  “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you Timothy?”  Timothy didn’t answer.  My father turned to us.  “Jonathon, Abel, I need you two to go to every window in the house and close the blinds.”
“But why?” Abel asked.
“Just do it,” my father snapped back.
Dutifully, Abel and I scoured the house, closing all the blinds.
When we returned, Timothy was at the kitchen table.  My father was making soup for him.  Timothy was munching on bread.  My father’s back was to us, so he didn’t even notice at first when we entered the room.  “Well, when was the last time you even took a bath Tim?” my father asked.  “You smell horrible.”  Tim did not answer.  My father turned to serve him his soup and saw Abel and I standing attentively.  “Excuse me for a moment Tim,” he said, leaving the stranger with his warm soup.  My father ushered us into the other room.
Abel was unable to contain his curiosity.  ‘Who is the strange man?  Who is he?”
“He’s a friend of mine.  Listen, I need the help of both of you, okay?  I need you two not to tell anybody that he’s here.”
“But why?”
“Because I said so Abel.  I need you two to promise.”  All right, fair enough.  If I was my father I wouldn’t trust Abel with any extra information either.  I assumed I would find out later who this strange man was.
“I promise,” I said.  Abel mimicked me.
“Okay, thank you.  Now, it would really help me out if you boys would just go to bed now.”
“But I have homework,’ Able protested.
“I’ll write your teacher a note.”
Abel wasn’t prepared for that response.  Having homework was ordinarily a free ticket to stay up.  He desperately tried his other arguments.  “But I don’t want to.  I want to stay up.  It’s not even late yet.”
“Abel, bed!”  That voice meant business.  I watched to see if Abel would be foolish enough to contest it.  Abel reluctantly began to walk toward the stairs.
“How come I have to go to bed and Jon gets to stay up?”
“Jonathon is going to bed too.”  Now this I couldn’t understand.  Send Abel to bed, but I’m fourteen, almost fifteen.  I’m old enough to handle anything.  Besides which, it was insanely early to go to bed.  It had only been dark outside for about an hour.  It wasn’t even my curfew yet, let alone my bedtime.
“What?”  Not very elegant, but I think it summed up all my arguments.
“Jonathon, please.”  My father’s voice was much more of a request than a command.  He was trying to be nice to me.  I rejected it.  No matter what his tone of voice was, he was out of line by trying to send me to bed.  At the same time, I knew it was fruitless to argue with him.  I grabbed my books, went upstairs, and studied in my room.
The next day I woke up for school.  I went downstairs, wondering what I would find.  Although I looked all over, I did not find the mysterious figure.  That meant he was probably sleeping in my dad’s room.  My dad, not yet gone for work, was probably still in the room, and I dared not go in for fear of his wrath.
I biked into school with curiosity stirring in me.  First hour as always I sat next to David.
I soon lost interest in what the teacher was saying.  “Hey, David,” I whispered.  “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What?”
“I can’t say it here.  It’s top secret.”
“Well at break then?”
“Yeah.”
“Jonathon!  David!  Do I have to send you two to the office yet again?”
“No ma’am,” we quickly answered.
“Okay, then be quiet.  Now, I’ve got your stories graded already.  They were pretty good for the most part.”  The teacher patted the stack of papers next to her.  “Katie,” she handed Katie back her paper.  “Well done.”
“Thank you ma’am.”
“Kevin.  Where’s Kevin?  There you go Kevin.  Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“Joshua.  You’ve got a good story, but you need to work on your style.  And add more details.  Sally, here’s your paper, good job.  Alison, beautifully written.  Clodius, see me after class.  David.”  The teacher paused by David.  “You’ve really got a nice writing style.”
David blushed slightly.  “Thank you.”
The teacher’s face turned to a frown as she looked at me.  “And Jonathon, you still haven’t handed in your story.”
“I know ma’am.”
“Can I expect it anytime soon?”
“I’ve got better things to do ma’am.”
All right reader, that last line was a lie.  I had enough sense not to say that, although I was certainly thinking it.  I mumbled something about how it was almost done, and she intensified her glare and then moved on.  “Matthew, good job.  Icarus, excellent paper.  Arthur, decent story, but you’ve got to be careful about putting words in the mouth’s of historical figures.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Molly, great paper.  Sue blah blah blah blah…”
David reached over and tapped Arthur on the shoulder.  “Hey, can I read your story?”
Arthur was surprised at the interest in his work.  “Sure man, if you want.”  Arthur handed his story to David, who put it in his folder to read later.  The bell rang and I was off to my second class.  I met David at break.
Reader, do not judge me too harshly.  It wasn’t that I was intentionally defying my father by telling David about the Tramp who inhabited our house.  I just thought it was assumed when we promised not to tell anybody, that David did not count.
At break, David and I went into a classroom.  They were empty during break, and I described the strange visitor that had surprised us last night.  David was curious, as was I, to find out who this stranger was.  I made sure David was sworn to secrecy, then we went back out into the hall.
After school got out, curiosity had all but torn me apart.  I hopped on my bike and raced back, not even taking time to socialize.  My father would still be at work when I got home, so it was my chance to discover this stranger.  I biked so fast my legs felt like jelly when I finally arrived home.
I ran into the house.  The stranger was no where to be seen.  I flung open the door to my father’s room, and there was the Tramp.
I don’t know what he had been doing in that room by himself.  Staring at the wall?  He was just sitting and staring blankly ahead.  He looked at me without speaking and I looked back.  I was still trying to catch my breath, and we probably stared at each other for at least one minute without either of us talking.
“Who are you?” I said still breathless, made bold by my curiosity.  He just stared blankly back at me.  I noticed for the first time how old he looked.  Much older than my Dad.  I knew he could talk; he was not getting out of this question.  “Who are you?” I repeated.  Again a blank stare.  I became infuriated.  “Answer me!” I yelled.  He must have been shocked that a young boy would speak so harshly to an older man.  It registered on his face.
“I’m a friend of your father’s” he answered.
“My name’s Jonathon,” I volunteered.
“My name’s Timothy.”  This much I had picked up last night, but it was a good step to getting him talking.
“Why are you here?”
“Because I have no where else to go.”
What did that mean?  “How come I’ve never seen you before?  Why doesn’t my father want anyone to know you’re here?”
“Do you know where your father keeps his alcohol?”
That wasn’t exactly an answer to my question.  “Yes, I do.”
The tramp licked his lips.  “Can I have some?”
“If you answer my questions, I’ll give it to you.”
“Can I have a drink first?”
No way buddy.  These questions have been eating at me all day.  I shook my head.
The tramp sighed.  “What do you want to know?”
“Who are you and why are you here?”
“I’m a friend of your father’s.  We were friends all through school.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged.  “Nothing happened, we just grew apart.”  He saw a blank look on my face.  “You’ll understand when you’re older.  We both went off to the University and made new friends there.  And why am I here?  I’m here because I’m cold, I’m hungry, I’m out of money, and I need a place to sleep for a few days.”
“Why doesn’t my father want anyone to know you’re here.”
“Because I’m a criminal.”
My father?  Harboring a fugitive?  It was unbelievable.  My interest could not have been higher.  “What did you do?”
“I was hungry.  I stole some food.”  Wow!  A criminal, in my house.  “Can I have a drink now Jonathon?  Please?”  I led Timothy to my father’s alcohol.  He guzzled it down.  “You want some kid?” he asked.
I made a face of distaste.  “I can’t stand the stuff.”
Timothy smiled.  “You’ll grow to like it someday,” he said, as he took another swallow.
Abel arrived home not long after.  Leaving Abel to entertain the visitor, I studied in my room.  My father arrived home a couple hours later.  I was made aware of this by an angry rapping on my door.  I opened it.
“Did you give Timothy my alcohol?” my father asked fiercely.
I was surprised that I was in trouble for this.  “He wanted some,” I said defensively.
“Don’t you ever, ever give that man anymore alcohol.”  My father was furious.  I didn’t even know I had sinned.  “He’s had far too much of that already.”
“But he asked for it.”  After all, I was just being a good host.  Why should I get chewed out for that?
“I don’t care.  He can’t handle it anymore.”  My father turned to leave.
“So he’s a fugitive?” I asked, very curious to get my Dad’s perspective.
My father stopped and turned around.  “Yes, yes he is.”
“But you’re hiding him anyway?”
“He was my friend.”  I couldn’t believe it.  My father was flat out disobeying the Duke.  It was a side of him I had never seen before.
“Like me and David?”
“Oh no.  No nothing at all like–“ My father stopped himself and thought.  “Well, yes I suppose.  Maybe we weren’t all that dissimilar from you and David.”
It was a rare moment of closeness with my father.  Just for a little bit I was beginning to see what made him really tick.  “And then you just gradually grew apart?”
“No.  No that wasn’t what happened at all.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He’s lying.”
“Then what happened?”
My father stood up.  “I don’t want to talk about it, Jonathon.”  He walked towards the door.  “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said.  I agreed.
At dinnertime I left my studies to return to the kitchen.  Timothy was not there, however.  Able asked where the strange man was, and my father flatly answered that Timothy would be eating by himself.  After dinner, Abel and I did the dishes.  I retired to my room to finish my studies until, weary of homework, I decided just to go to bed.
I had only climbed into bed and the light was just out when my father came into the room.  He apologized for intruding on my sleep and offered to come back later and I assured him it was all right.  He wanted to know everything Timothy had told me, and I told him.  “Lies,” my father said.  “Those are all lies.”  My father then preceded to tell me what really happened.
According to my father, he and Timothy had not drifted apart gradually, but had a decisive fight that had ended their friendship.  My father refused to tell me what the fight had been about.  Timothy did not become a wanted man for stealing food, although my father remarked that “he had probably done that too.”  Instead Timothy, in a drunken rage, had attacked one of the Duke’s men.  The Duke’s second in command to be precise.  Angelo, Flash’s right hand man, had tried to clear Timothy from the streets and gotten punched because of it.  Because of that, Angelo wanted Timothy’s head.
Timothy, my father told me, had once been a promising young man who at the university showed every sign of brilliance and looked like he was well on his way to success.  Unfortunately, Timothy had become an alcoholic, and drank his way into apathy and poverty.  Timothy’s alcoholism, my father asserted, had been his downfall.
My father seemed very bitter towards Timothy still, but risked his whole career to shelter him.  I was astonished.
The last time I talked to Timothy before he left our house was the following afternoon.  I arrived home after school.  Timothy was eating food out of our kitchen.  My father had apparently decided there was no need to hide him in the bedroom anymore.  Timothy didn’t even look up at me when I entered.  He just kept eating, sitting at the table.
“You lied to me,” I said fiercely.
He looked up, stuffing his mouth with more bread.  “What are you talking about,” he said with mouth full.
I pulled out a chair and sat down at the other side of the table.  “My dad told me what really happened.”
“What did he tell you?”  His mouth was still full.
“He told me you two had a fight.  He also told me you’re a fugitive because you attacked Angelo.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s for sure.”
“How do you know he’s right?”
It was a simple question, but I was not expecting it.  I was silenced briefly before answering, “because I trust him.”
“But you don’t even know me.  You don’t know if I’m trustworthy or not.”
“Are you trustworthy?”
“You’ll have to make that decision.  But don’t make it until you know me.”  I didn’t know what else to say.  We just looked at each other and then he went back to eating our bread.
I was motivated by a desire to say something.  The silence was awkward for me.  “Do you work?” I asked.
He shook his head.  “I can’t hold down a job.  I can only work for about a week or two before I start showing up drunk.”
I didn’t understand.  “Why don’t you just not show up drunk?”
“Why don’t you shut up kid?”  His tone had a distinctive edge to it.  I had angered him without intending to.
“I’m sorry,” I said.  At the risk of getting snapped at by this touchy man, I gave into my growing curiosity.  “Where do you stay?”
“I don’t stay anywhere.”
“I mean, where do you sleep?”
“On the ground.”
This was unbelievable to me.  “In this weather?”
He became irritated again.  “Well, where else am I going to stay?  Nobody will give me a bed I can afford.”
I was silent again.  In the back of my mind lurked the question I really wanted to ask.  I was afraid he would explode.  Bracing myself, I asked anyway.  “Dad says all your misery is self-inflicted.”
“So?”
“So what are you complaining about?”
His eyes hardened.  “So that gives everyone else the right to treat me like scum?”  I shrugged.  “You have no idea what it’s like.”  He looked away from me and continued eating bread.  Not wanting to anger him any further, I retreated to my room.
When my father arrived home, he knocked on my door.  After we exchanged greetings, my father asked where Timothy was.
“Isn’t he downstairs?” I asked.
My father shook his head.  “He’s not in the house.”
A thought hit me.  My heart beat faster as I thought about what I had done.  “I think I might have offended him.”
“You think he left because of something you said?”  I nodded, worried about what trouble I would be in.
“Good,” my father said, without changing his tone or his expression.  “I’ll see you at dinner Jonathon.”

First Draft Chapter 6

I have just been looking over what I wrote.  What an odd feeling.  Reading one’s own words is like listening to one’s own voice.  If only we weren’t so used to reading our own words, then I’m sure it would shock us a lot more.
I notice, reader, that I had promised to tell you about my classmates and their view on church.  I had a specific instance in mind when I said that, and now is as good a time to record it as any.  I’m not entirely sure where it fits into the chronology, but I believe it was after the Tramp incident.  I am fairly certain.  And so I believe I was still fourteen, but I could have been fifteen by this time.
Now, as I have already mentioned, with exception of Bernadine none of my classmates attended the same church I did.  There was, however, compulsory chapel at School.  Daily.  It was right before lunch.  Attendance was taken viciously.
Believe it or not reader, I did not mind Chapel.  Does this surprise you?  As much as I hated church, I hated school more.  Chapel to me was a break from school where I could just turn my mind off and daydream.  Sometimes I could even get away with sleeping in the pew.  Not everyone felt the same way.
It was just after fourth hour.  Our class was preparing to join the rest of the school at Chapel.  If I remember right it was Clodius who began the discussion. Yes, that would have made perfect sense.
The teacher was in the front of the room.  “Now, I know we’ve had some issues of behavior before in Chapel.  I want you all to be on your best behavior this time.  When you do that you show respect to the speaker and you show respect to God.  Is everyone clear on that?  That means no talking, no sleeping, and no doing your homework during chapel.  It is a time of worship.”  I could feel myself become the focus of attention.  I was a repeat offender on all three crimes.  Pairs of eyes began pointing my way.  As if that wasn’t enough, the teacher had to point me out by name.  “Is that clear, Jonathon?”
“Yes sir,” I answered my face red with embarrassment.
“Good, now the rest of you have also been rather lacking in your chapel conduct lately blah blah blah blah…”
I felt a tugging at my sleeve.  I turned around and it was Clodius trying to get my attention.  “Hey!  Jon!” he whispered.  Was Clodius’ hair out of control by this point?  I don’t thinks so, but my memory refuses to cooperate.  Even though I know the wild hair did not come until a couple years later, my mind will not let me picture him otherwise.  So how to describe him here?  What I know is accurate, or what my memory is telling me?  Or perhaps literary descriptions are worthless.  Picture him how you like reader.
I leaned back.  “Yeah.”
“Don’t listen to him.  They can make us go to chapel, but they can’t make us pay attention.”
This man was speaking my language.  “Right on,” I replied.
“I still don’t believe how ridiculous this is,” Clodius said.  “That they force us to listen to this nonsense everyday.”
“It is boring,” I agreed.
“It’s more then boring.  It’s blatantly fake.  They’re feeding us lies.  Propaganda.”
This was going a little far for my tastes.  My objection to church was that I found it boring, not that I fundamentally disagreed with what was being said.  I mean, I liked to have fun but I didn’t want to go to hell.  Clodius was on his own for this one.  “I don’t know about that,” I said in response to Clodius’ statement.
“Oh don’t tell me you actually believe their lies.  I thought you were smarter than that Jon.”
Reader, I was absolutely shocked.  I had never heard our religion openly criticized before.  It was not the first time I had doubts, but it was the first time I had heard some one else vocalizing those doubts.
Is this possible?  Could one make it to fifteen without hearing criticism of religion?  Was I just incredibly sheltered?
Well, that was part of it.  Most of my classmates were not as shocked as I to hear Clodius’ ideas.  However, the religion was very powerful in Fabulae, and especially in Urbae.  The religious community enjoyed a very symbiotic relationship with the Duke.  The Duke did everything he could to encourage religion.  Religious institutions were not only free from tax but received healthy checks from the government.  No public criticism of religion was allowed.  In fact, membership in a church was obligatory.  Those citizens who were not members of a church were liable to harassment by the Duke’s men.  In return, the Duke and his policies were constantly supported from the pulpit.  We were constantly reminded that God had appointed the Duke, and so it was our religious duty to obey him.
And so, for those reasons, Clodius’ comments took me by surprise.  Hearing his out right disdain for religion caused me to doubt it as well.  I stammered for a few seconds, before saying, “I don’t know.  I think I believe it.”
Christopher, who had been listening to our conversation, came to my defense.  “Lay off of him Clodius.  Don’t listen to him Jon.”
“You’re a bigger idiot than I thought you were Chris.  People like you make me sick.”
“At least I’m not an enemy of God,” Christopher said back to Clodius.
Clodius laughed disdainfully.  “God.”  The very word was uttered from his lips with contempt.  “Tell me Christopher, why is it so important to God that I not have sex that he spends one chapel a week reminding me of it, but God has apparently forgotten about all the homeless in Urbae.  When was the last time God dedicated one of his chapels to helping them?  Why does God spend millions of dollars to build churches and can’t feed the hungry?  How come God keeps telling me how evil it is for me to drink alcohol because I’m only fifteen, but God doesn’t mind that my forty-year-old father comes home drunk every night.  God doesn’t make sense Christopher.”
“That’s not God.”  A new voice entered the discussion.  It was Joshua.  “Don’t confuse what God does with what people do.”
Clodius turned sharply on Joshua.  “Oh, really?  Well what do you think of chapel Joshua?  Do you like Chapel?”  Clodius’ voice had a very accusing tone to it, as if liking Chapel was the worst crime imaginable.
Joshua tilted his head in thought, then responded, “I like God.”
“So you think Chapel is a good idea then,” Clodius pressed.
Joshua shook his head.  “No.  No I don’t.  I don’t think you can force people to worship God.  And I don’t always agree with everything they say, or everything they do in Chapel, but I love God.”
I could tell Clodius was becoming uncomfortable.  Clodius was used to arguing with Christopher, and Christopher could usually be counted on to say the exact opposite of what Clodius’ believed.  With Joshua, Clodius wasn’t sure where to go.  He didn’t like the concept of a God, but that concept became harder to hate when it was in the hands of Joshua.  Clodius was wishing he could return to arguing against the God of Christopher.  Clodius changed his tactics.  “Don’t tell me you actually believe in God.”
“Very much.”
Clodius leaned forward eagerly.  “How can you believe in a God when there are so many hungry people?”
Again, Joshua was forced to think, before he meekly responded.  “I have love in my life.  How can there be love without a God?”
“How can there be hate with a God?” Clodius quickly countered.
“Hey, will everyone in that corner shut up.”  It was the teacher.  Actually, I was surprised he let it go that long.  “Alright, now everyone be respectful in Chapel, and I’m sure we won’t have any problems.”  The class filed towards the door in reverent silence.  I fell into line, but found my way blocked by Orion, who had been sitting on the other side of the room during class.
He got right in front of me and just stood there, a leering smile on his face.  I moved, and he moved with me, preventing me from going forward with that stupid smile.  My right hand tingled and I envisioned my hand slamming into his face and knocking him over.  I didn’t dare though.  He was stronger than me.
“What do you want?” I said at last.
“Oh, nothing.  I’m just here to see my favorite group of philosophers.”
Apparently he had overheard our conversation.  “You’re going to make me late for chapel Orion,” I said.  Behind me were Clodius, Joshua, and Christopher, also blocked by Orion.
Orion laughed.  “What a pity, Jonny.  I know how much you enjoy chapel.”
“Hey, this isn’t funny Orion.  The teacher hates me already.”
Orion pointed to himself innocently.  “What?  Do you think the teacher is loves me?”  Now this was an interesting question because as far as I could tell the teacher loved Orion.  Everybody loved Orion.  It was one of the reasons he was such a problem.
A voice piped up behind me.  “You’re a bright boy Orion.  What do you think of Chapel?”  I could hardly believe my ears.  What was Clodius thinking?  Was he trying to get Orion involved in a philosophical discussion about Chapel?  That would never work.  Nothing Orion did had reasons, and he didn’t need it to be reasonable.
At least Clodius took the pressure off of me.  Orion walked right past me and got up close to Clodius.  I could have, I realized later, probably sneaked of to Chapel at that moment if I really wanted to.  Even if it had occurred to me though I wouldn’t have left these three sheep with the lion.
“Chapel,” Orion whispered to Clodius, “is the perfect distraction.”
“Get out of our way Orion,” Christopher declared.  “We’re missing Chapel.”
Orion was surprised that Christopher was talking to him.  “Who are you?” he asked.  “You don’t know who I am.”
Rather suddenly Orion turned on Joshua.  Joshua was one of his favorite victims.  “Of course you know all about me, don’t you Joshua?  Why don’t you tell the rest of these boys what I’m really like?”  Joshua did not answer.  In frustration at Joshua’s silence, Orion grabbed Joshua by the hair.  “Say something Joshua!” he demanded harshly.  He lifted Joshua up by the hair.  Joshua’s face squirmed with pain, but he did not resist Orion.  We all grimaced.
“Let him go Orion,” Clodius demanded.  Orion ignored him, looking intently at the pained face of Joshua.  “I said let him go.”  Clodius punched Orion in the face.
Now reader, I knew Clodius was fiery, but I still could not believe his audacity.  Orion was bulging with muscles.  Clodius had arms that reminded me of spaghetti.  Orion’s head jerked backwards in the direction of Clodius’ punch.  One still had to admire Clodius’ bravery.
Orion dropped Joshua.  His powerful arm swung out wildly and impacted Clodius.  Clodius fell backwards, hitting a desk on the way down.
Orion wiped his mouth to make sure he wasn’t bleeding.  He looked with satisfaction on the fallen Clodius, then turned his attention back to Joshua.  “You little bastard,” he said with contempt.  Orion grabbed Joshua’s collar and pushed him up against the wall.  “Who is your father, Joshua?  Where is your father, Joshua?”  Joshua remained silent.  Orion hit him in the stomach, and walked away as Joshua fell to the ground.