Yeesh! Well, this week was a fail, no? Where the hell was I, anyway?
As it happens, I was in Phoenix, Arizona, traveling on business. The hotel was extraordinarily nice, except for its wireless Internet, which was extraordinarily bad. Like, “timeout errors checking Gmail” bad. Blogging was not in the cards.
Anyway, I’m back in fabulous Ohio and reconnected to the fabulous IntarWebNetz, so let’s do this thing. Links are sparse this week due to the aforementioned epic fail, but we’ll do what we can.
Just this morning, I learned that Australia lost one of its Prime Ministers. As in, he went swimming and they never found him again. Learn more about the 1967 disappearance of Harold Holt.
Be sure to check out the Johnny Cash Project, a collaborative online effort to build a music video for “Ain’t No Grave (Gonna Hold This Body Down)” by having different people create each individual frame separately, and then voting on favorites. The result is pretty much as strange and cool as you’d expect.
The gerbils in charge of running on wheels to power the local wireless connection have evidently had a few too many mint julips. I’ll be back when I can.
Ray Bradbury, the legendary author of Fahrenheit 451, died this week at age 91. I never read much of his work beyond Fahrenheit, but that was enough. His dystopian image of a human family living in a room where every visible surface is a television screen, will stay with me forever. Bradbury never went to college, and called himself “completely library educated…I discovered me in the library.” He will be missed.
A few weeks ago I discovered Delanceyplace, and I’ve been hooked ever since. The concept is simple: you subscribe (as easy as typing in your e-mail and clicking a button), and then they send you a short passage every weekday that explores some new and fascinating topic. The topics are wildly eclectic – today’s was Nietzsche, and yesterday’s was about how most soldiers in battle deliberately miss when they shoot at real people. You can browse the archives for free. Give it a try!
You may have heard that you can make yourself sneeze by looking at the sun. But did you know that it’s a genetic trait, which only about 20-30% of the population has? Or that it may also be triggered by eating a big meal? It’s called the photic sneeze reflex, and it’s far more interesting than I ever suspected.
This Dilbert strip dates all the way back to 1993, but it’s one of my favorites of all time. Sometimes the simple jokes are the best.
TIME this week reports on a bizarre new national golf tournament. Bizarre because it takes place in the most secluded and autocratic nation in the world, North Korea, which only has one golf course. In the entire country.
“What…” Dyriel’s heart faltered. “What do you want?”
“I want nothing, child. But a spell like this won’t run on good wishes and pixie dust.”
Her smile deepened into something unreadable. “You must offer me something in exchange for the laws of the universe that I am about to break.”
“I’ll die,” said Dyriel, without hesitation.
“Balderdash,” snorted Amagoso. “Stuff and nonsense. Your brother’s in danger, not you. It’s a harmless spell. Now, tell me what you’re willing to sacrifice.”
“You’re not listening. That’s what I’m willing to sacrifice.” Her toes tingled and she felt lightheaded, real and yet utterly unreal. “That’s how the forest magic works, isn’t it? Tooth for a tooth, life for a life. I know that’s what you want. So take it. Take my life, and save my brother.” Amagoso only stared at her. Didn’t she understand? “Quickly, before I lose my nerve!”
A grim grin crept over the hermit’s face. “You have some strange ideas about death, girl. Suppose the duke finds out his only daughter was murdered in the forest by tree people? Forget about the baron, it would be a whole new war, and your brother would lead the charge all over again. No, we’ll have no talk of anyone dying in my realm today.”
Dyriel saw the soldiers silently loosening grips on sword hilts, and only then did she realize how true the hermit’s answer was. “But if you won’t accept that…”
Amagoso waved a thin arm at her, dismissing the question. “You said what you said with the truth in your eyes. You’ve made your sacrifice. Let’s do what needs doing and get you out of my hair.”
The old woman produced a piece of parchment and a goose-feather quill. “These will save your brother.”
“Ink and parchment will save my brother?”
“You may have had a strange feeling these last few hours that your choices were not your own. My spell will simply restore that balance by giving you more choice than usual for a brief moment. Here, the quill is already inked, just read the words and circle your decision.”
Bemused, Dyriel read the question on the parchment. “How should the story end?”
But she allowed herself a slow smile when she saw the first choice:
The captain’s men set their hands on their swords as the golem boomed a reply. The situation was spiraling rapidly. She had to do something quickly – but what?
“Golem!” shouted Dyriel, and the creature fell silent to let her speak. “Golem, I beg asylum! Grant me your protection and give me safe passage to the hermit Amagoso, and I swear I’ll disturb no one in this forest. And I swear likewise,” – here she tried her best duchess stare on the captain – “that I will return to the castle this very day, of my own accord.”
The captain’s face turned purple with rage. “You dare give your allegiance to a foreign power, against your own father?”
“My allegiance is to my family!” she yelled. “No one else has lifted a finger to save my brother, so I’ll do what I have to!”
“Men died defending your brother on the field of – ”
“More will die yet if we do not – ”
“ENOUGH!”
The golem smashed his stone palms together with the sound of sudden lightning. Not only Dyriel and the captain, but all the wide forest fell silent: the songs of sparrows, the endless drone of insects. The horses, well-trained, did not rear up or panic, but several backed away uneasily.
“No one will fight in my forest today,” said the golem. “This girl will return to Glenhaven Castle in peace. But first, I will take her to see the hermit. It will be a short journey.”
The golem’s legs shrank, grew shorter, till his massive gray hands brushed the dirt. Except the hands were less massive now, losing their granite texture. The armor melted away, the eyes became less perfectly round, the face softened and took on the appearance of flesh. In a matter of moments, the giant had transformed into an old woman in a crude burlap dress, her white hair pulled back in a tight bun, her wrinkled face stern but not unkind.
The woman turned to Dyriel, whose mouth was still open in astonishment. “I am Mafti Amagoso Lecruscio,” said the woman, “and I can rescue your brother.” She glanced back to the soldiers, wispy eyebrows upraised. “That is, if these fine young gentlemen can spare a few more minutes of their time, for the sake of Lord Danson.”
Their captain frowned, but nodded mutely, seemingly impressed by this display.
Dyriel fell to her knees, nearly weeping in relief. “Thank you, Amagoso!”
“Oh?” A wry smile crinkled the edges of the old woman’s mouth. “I haven’t done anything yet, child. I said I can save your brother. But I’ve yet to hear what you might offer me in return.”
“What…” Dyriel’s heart faltered. “What do you want?”
“I want nothing, child. But a spell like this won’t run on good wishes and pixie dust.”
Her smile deepened into something unreadable. “You must offer me something in exchange for the laws of the universe that I am about to break.”
“You do not belong in the forest,” said the golem. “You must turn back now, or else you must die.”
Dyriel took a long breath, remembering what her mother the Duchess had always said about negotiation: If you can see yourself through their eyes, you are halfway there. What must she look like, a tired, sweating, seventeen-year-old girl, wearing breeches like a boy, covered in the dust of the road, wandering into someone else’s territory?
She drew herself up to her full height – admittedly, this wasn’t much – and tried for that elegant poise her mother so easily managed.
“I have no wish to violate the pact with the tree peoples, or any other law. I will disturb no one. I am here on business.”
“What business?” Like a mountain crashing down.
She gambled that she could be more persuasive if she didn’t lie. Besides, who knew if golems had the truthsight? “Personal business. I need to find the hermit Amagoso, who lives in the forest. He’s the only one who can help me.”
The golem stiffened – if such a thing was possible for a creature of living stone. Carved eyebrows narrowed over huge round eyes. “What business can be so important that you must disturb the holy seclusion of Mafti Amagoso Lecruscio? You want a philter, I suppose, to make some brawny lad fall in love with you?”
Dyriel ground her teeth in anger. “My brother, Lord Danson, was captured alive at the Battle of Ellsworth, and will be executed this very night if my father doesn’t agree to the Baron’s terms. This he will never do.”
“And what has any of this to do with a simple hermit of the forest?”
Simple? He didn’t sound so simple a second ago when I was disturbing his ‘holy seclusion.’ “Amagoso has deep powers. The tree peoples know this, and I know it, even if most in the castle don’t believe. I believe in my heart that he can save my brother.”
The golem seemed to be considering this when she heard the tramping of hooves and the clatter of weapons. Half a dozen of her father’s mounted soldiers pulled up sharply, and their captain came forward. “Dyriel,” he demanded, “by order of the duke, you will come back with me now.”
“No one from Glenhaven Castle may take arms into the forest,” said the golem, placing himself in front of Dyriel.
If the captain was intimidated by the living stone giant, he didn’t show it. His blue-and-white tabard stirred with a sudden wind. “We’ll be happy to return to the castle, and take our swords with us,” he said evenly, “just as long as this troublesome girl comes with us. And I would not call it wise to stand between the duke’s soldiers and his daughter.”
The captain’s men set their hands on their swords as the golem boomed a reply. The situation was spiraling rapidly. She had to do something quickly – but what?
Dyriel ran down the dirt path, lungs heaving as she pushed herself ever deeper into the forest. Each step took her further from home, from her family, from the comforting strength of Glenhaven Castle. She’d been running for – how long? The first rays of sunlight had begun creeping through the branches around her, so it must be at least an hour now. Her throat burned, and sweat glued her long black hair to her skin, but she dared not slow down.
She was on a mission.
No signs of pursuit so far. Her governess wouldn’t be awake yet, and everyone else would be too busy with the war effort to pay her absence any mind. She guessed she had half a day, at least, before they’d finish hunting the castle grounds and send out a search party.
And when that happened…
Her stomach turned. Her father, the duke, had fallen under such a grim mood lately. She didn’t know what he would do.
Dyriel ran faster.
These thoughts so distracted her that she didn’t see the golem till she had almost run into it. She cursed, jumping back.
She had never seen a golem in real life before, though she’d heard the stories. The creature was vaguely man-shaped, but twice as tall as any man she’d ever met. It was a massive, moving statue, its flesh and armor alike made of rough gray granite. It was unarmed – as if it needed a weapon – and it watched her with strange, inhuman eyes as big as apples.
For the space of three long, ragged breaths, Dyriel and the granite giant merely looked at each other, still and silent. Then, in a voice like an avalanche, the golem spoke.
“You do not belong in the forest.”
“I’ve as much right to be here as anyone,” she managed, more bravely than she felt. She glanced around quickly, weighing her options. Turning back was useless; there were no other paths. Outrunning the golem would be impossible, as she’d heard from the stories: its massive bulk belied the speed in those six-foot strides.
“The duke’s authority does not carry here. The tree peoples have honored the pact for over a century. If the duke seeks to spread his war to their borders, we will teach him otherwise.” But even as he said this, the giant frowned, as if doubting whether a lone girl in the forest could be a harbinger of war.
“My father – ” she began.
“You do not belong in the forest,” it said again. “You must turn back now, or else you must die.”
The SpaceX Dragon capsule splashed down in the Pacific yesterday, marking a flawless victory for the first-ever privately-run mission to the International Space Station. I’ll go on record right now – this is the start of a new era.
Big congratulations to Snigdha Nandipati, an 8th grader from San Diego who scored a flawless victory of her own. Just yesterday, she won the National Spelling Bee with the word “guetapens,” meaning ambush or snare. (No way I would have gotten that one!) Indian-Americans have won the last five National Spelling Bees in a row, and 10 of the last 14, setting up quite the dynasty.
Fractal Recursions is simply the most gorgeous and varied gallery of fractal art I’ve ever seen. The thumbnail above is from this image. Another of my favorites is here. Each page comes equipped with a “Random Fractal” link that should keep you enthralled at least through your lunch break.
Brian D. Buckley 