About fifteen years ago we produced “CoPay,” a short movie shot in Osceola with the cooperation of just about everyone in this city of 5,800…5801 if you count Tony, which we do.

After bolting together a few short films, our friends, Jim and Mary Ellen Kimball, long-time Osceola residents, instrumental in producing “CoPay,” suggested we make a feature film in town. So, I wrote “Restoration Osceola,” and…that’s as far as the project got. Sadly, the Kimballs died, and the screenplay sat in a cyber-drawer gathering e-dust.

I’d forgotten about the project until finding it while searching for something completely unrelated. So, here are the opening scenes to a movie I wrote but never produced.

Close your eyes, turn on your mind movie projector…although I guess you’ll have keep your eyes open to read. Whatever. To quote Hyman Roth: “So, enjoy.”

“Restoration Osceola”

by Paul Berge

© 2012, Paul Berge

WGAW 1564883 (working title: "Thine Other Infirmities")

1. INT. LAKESIDE CASINO, FRIDAY AFTERNOON - DAY

Black: Casino sounds--slot machine bells, cocktail glasses, muffled voices, roulette wheel, exaggerated card shuffle. Up from black we see (CU) a man’s hands below rolled up sleeves on a blackjack table as two cards are dealt. The left wrist has a watch. No wedding ring. Fingers barely expose the cards--two 10s. The hands split the tens, turning them face up and placing chips on each to double the existing bet. Two more cards are dealt face down, one on each. Hands peel the cards up slightly exposing an 8 and the other a 7.

Cut to CU of MIKE, 55-60, a handsome. He wears a dress shirt, tie loose. His eyes react to the cards as he glances at the dealer’s hand, which shows a 7 face up, other card face down. Mike has a small stack of chips and a half-empty beer at his side. He looks at the DEALER, female, 25-45, and indicates his hands are good. DEALER flips over down card--a 4--and takes another card--6--for a total of 17. She stands on 17 and pays MIKE’s winning hand and collects the other. MIKE reacts with a sardonic I-can’t-win grin.

The sound of a slot machine paying off causes MIKE to glance over his shoulder at happy gamblers watching coins slosh out. MIKE turns back shaking his head, glances at his watch and gives an oh-I’m-late look, stands, swigs his beer and tips the DEALER a chip before leaving. She smiles with a hint of flirting and points a finger pistol at him. He smiles weakly and leaves. She stares admiringly at his retreating figure until another GAMBLER sits and she turns to him.

2. INT. MIKE WALKS THROUGH CASINO - DAY

MIKE walks confidently through the casino, past the restaurant and out the front doors. Patrons ignore him, although a WOMAN tugs at her HUSBAND’s, arm as MIKE passes. She obviously recognizes MIKE as a celebrity, but the HUSBAND shakes his head, no, and continues into the restaurant.

3. EXT. CASINO ENTRANCE. - DAY

MIKE exits the casino and hands a parking ticket to the VALET, 59, who runs to retrieve the car. MIKE squints against the bright summer afternoon sunlight and slips on his sunglasses. He glances around at the scenery--lake, boats, hotel, happy patrons. The VALET drives MIKE’s car (a worn out Jeep) beneath the canopy, and climbs out as MIKE passes him with a quick smile, tips and climbs into Jeep. The VALET smiles and gives MIKE a friendly finger pistol gesture, which MIKE ignores as he puts the car in gear and speeds off.

4. EXT. MIKE HEADED TO WORK - DAY

Ten minutes later. MIKE’s Jeep, top up, drives along a two-lane country highway toward a small Midwestern city. We hear instrumental jazz/blues playing on the car radio. His Jeep, a remnant of his former celebrity, needs a bath and the bumper is held in place with wire. He passes an intersection and glances at a road sign that reads AIRPORT with an arrow pointing down a crossroad.

5. INT. MIKE’S CAR MOVING. - DAY

MIKE’s car enters city limits. The car’s interior is cluttered with burger wrappers, coffee mugs, cigar butts, half-eaten doughnuts and much unread mail--some labeled PAST DUE, DELINQUENT, SECOND NOTICE, FINAL NOTICE--on the passenger seat and floor. From inside the car we see the OSCEOLA WATER TOWER go by, followed by the CHIEF OSCEOLA STATUE. The music rises, and the drum beats loud as a DOG (GARBANZO) with a bright red collar runs in front of the car, and MIKE brakes sharply, looks around and in the rear view mirror, doesn’t see the dog, shrugs and drives on.

6. INT. MIKE’S CAR. MOVING - DAY

It’s a short drive through Osceola to an industrial building that houses the TV station. MIKE glances at his watch--5:52 PM--as he pulls into the TV station parking lot and stops at his parking spot labeled with his faded TV name: Dr. Mike.

Car stops.

7. INT. MIKE PLAGIARIZES. - DAY

Same time. MIKE tunes the radio, pauses briefly on a religious station. Voice of REV. JIM BILLY

JIM BILLY

(high energy, evangelical) ...and Paul sayeth unto Timothy, 5:23, "Drink no longer water but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake and thine other infirmities..."

MIKE

(mutters)

Sound advice--

MIKE continues tuning radio and stops on a news-talk station, reaches for a pen and reading glasses inside his shirt pocket. He glances around to make sure he isn’t being watched and then dons the glasses and rummages in the mail pile for something on which to write. Finds an envelope addressed to him--Michael J. Crowley--return address is a law firm. MIKE considers it and drops it on the pile. He chooses a greeting card envelope that protrudes from the bottom of the pile. It bears his name and address. Pauses, seems to know what’s inside. Flips it over, clicks open the pen and is poised to write while listening to the RADIO NEWS ANNOUNCER finishing reading the financial report.

RADIO NEWS ANNOUNCER

(VO) ...making five straight days in which the broad-market index has closed below last quarter’s lows. (pause) And looking ahead at the weekend weather, our staff meteorologist, Kurt Curtano, says to expect clear skies tonight...

MIKE scribbles: "Friday night Clear..." and copies the weekend forecast as it’s read.

RADIO NEWS ANNOUNCER

(cont’d) ...with light winds, a few clouds for Saturday but otherwise clear skies and seasonally warm temperatures. Looks like a perfect weekend to get to the beach or catch up on a few things around the house. (pause)

MIKE copies "perfect weekend to get to the beach..."

MIKE

(mutters, happily) Thank you, Kurt Curtano. You make my job easy.

RADIO NEWS ANNOUNCER

(cont’d) ...Coming up, Spike Keenan with sports and her ongoing investigative series: "Is there any hope for the Chicago Cubs?"

MIKE flips radio back to blues station as music ends, and PUBLIC RADIO ANNOUNCER speaks in a smooth, dull voice.

PUBLIC RADIO ANNOUNCER

(VO) That was "Billionaire’s Lament" by The Foreclosure Blues Band, and you’re listening to 99.1 KSOI, listener-supported public radio, made possible by you, so take this moment to make your pledge….

MIKE clicks off the ignition, killing the radio.

He removes his glasses and slips them and the pen into his pocket, rips the plagiarized weather forecast from the envelope and sees that inside is a sympathy card. He hesitates, stares, doesn’t open it.

MIKE

(mutters) Been almost two years, folks, give it up, already.

MIKE tosses the envelope remains onto the floor and exits the car.

8. EXT. DELIVERY TRUCK. - DAY

MIKE pauses after exiting car to stare at the ratty TV station--NewsTeam 15. He hates the place but takes a deep breath, and then looks up as the sound of a small RED AIRPLANE passing overhead distracts him. He squints, watches its progress, his face hints at some loss/longing.

MIKE looks away, forces a smile, squares his shoulders and walks briskly toward the entrance. A DELIVERY PERSON in brown shorts, brown shirt, exits building, passes MIKE and waves.

DELIVERY PERSON

(happy) Hey, it’s Dr. Mike! Got a killer forecast for us this weekend?

MIKE forces a happy response without slowing down.

MIKE

If I told you before air time, I’d have to shoot you!

DELIVERY PERSON laughs as MIKE twirls like a gunfighter unholstering a pistol, makes a pistol with his forefinger and thumb, fake shoots the DELIVERY PERSON who fakes getting hit, laughs, stumbles into his delivery van and drives away. MIKE, loses his smile, points the fake finger pistol to his own head, fires. He pulls a security card from his pocket, swipes it through the reader and enters building.

End Scenes 1 through 8

Ask any transplanted kid from New Jersey what the two basic food groups are, and you’ll hear, “Diner breakfast” and “Pizza.” A real chrome and vinyl eatery along Route 17 in Paramus forms the base of the NJ food pyramid, and at the top is thin-crust, hand-tossed three-ingredient pizza—tomato sauce, dough, cheese. Anything else is fancy distraction. When I was real kid in the 1960s, I could buy a slice at one of three pizza joints in Westwood, NJ for fifteen cents. It’d hold you until supper. And, yeah, we called them joints. And, no, real diners don’t sell real pizza.

Since leaving Westwood at age 18 to join the Army in 1972, I’ve been searching the world for an honest pizza. No luck. It’s still in NJ and perhaps, New York City. Likewise, diners, although in recent years, I’ve discovered some emerging possibilities.

My wife, Kathy, and I have lived in Indianola, Iowa for forty-two years, and trust me, there’s no real NJ pizza here. I make my own but doesn’t come close to what I remember from childhood. And as unforgiving as I am about pizza, I’m even more inflexible on diner food. I usually order a veggie omelet, no mushrooms, fried potatoes with onions, dry rye toast, coffee with half-and-half and none of that plastic creamer crap. I only drink coffee at diners, so it doesn’t have to be great, but there should be endless refills. Without asking.

In all my novels—the ones I’ve written—I’ve always included a diner or café scene. In Niland Corner that moment occurs in Crouse Café in Indianola, Iowa. Opened in 1946, Crouse is a classic Midwest café. Big meals, lots of meat, breakfast all day, pies, and great staff. In the novel a friendly waitress chats with the protagonist, Matt, while absently swinging a coffee pot close to his head. In early drafts she was anonymous, but at publication I named her, Julie, after a wonderful Crouse Café waitress by that name, who died too soon. We miss her.

Two doors west of Crouse is Mishmash, a small place known for its “serve fresh, made from scratch” menu with a great breakfast burrito. Further west, just before you reach the town square — which now has an ugly modern public building (resembles a misguided Lego project*) where once a real courthouse stood — is Savor the Rise. Each of the three restaurants offers its own style. You sample and choose. I’ll focus on Savor the Rise, since they recently added dinner hours. Kathy and I have frequented Savor The Rise for several years. It ain’t Crouse, and there’s no breakfast burrito, but of the three cafes it has the best coffee, although it’s serve yourself.

Being a fussy vegetarian, I usually order the avocado toast with a poached egg. The toast, which is excellent but requires a sturdy knife to carve, is baked on the premises. Baked goods here are excellent, so I always walk away with a fresh loaf of rye bread. Sometimes I even remember to pay. As with pizza, real rye bread is tough to find west of the Delaware River, but Savor comes damn close. No, they don’t do pizza. Not even on their newly offered dinner menu, which Kathy and I recently tried. In short, it was superb. You can see the menu at savorftherise.com. Met the chef afterwards; nice guy, although I’ve forgotten his name. We’ll return to find out.

One thing Savor The Rise lacks is a wine/beer license, so bring yer own. They charged a $15 corking fee, which I can understand and am willing pay, but, honestly, the cheap stuff we brought was screw-top, and I cranked off that lid without sommelier assistance.

There you have it, three fine café/diners within one block, just off the Indianola, Iowa square, a short drive south of Des Moines, which has an excellent diner called Drake Diner, but maybe more on that another time.

*Yeah, yeah, the old courthouse was outdated and couldn’t serve anymore, but as Butch Cassidy said, “Small price to pay for beauty.”

© 2005, Paul Berge

Like blackened teeth in the lower jaw of a long dead titan, the mountain ridge northeast of El Paso, Texas blocked what I’d thought would be a shortcut to Carlsbad, New Mexico. But whatever I’d thought in my former life before departing on this 4000-mile biplane ride rarely matched what the mountains and deserts viewed from an open cockpit had to teach. In short, there was no way I was getting over that ridge without a serious handshake from the ghost riders dancing among the craggy peaks.

It began two weeks earlier when I left Iowa in a Marquart Charger headed to Watsonville, California for its annual Memorial Day fly-in and spaghetti fest. I’d worked at that airport in the 1970s, and this was my first return flight. Doing so in a biplane seemed the perfect way to fly across both miles and time, only I didn’t realize how broad both spectra were. The miles, I could measure on charts that ripped apart in the cockpit’s wind, but above landscapes so wide the mind was sucked into unseen horizons that reworked all concepts of place and time. Looking back, now, the journey plays out as a mind movie where the reels are run in no particular order—a mountain landing in Ruidoso, New Mexico with density altitude at 10,000 feet shares the screen with a hellish fire bog called Blyth, California where triple-digit heat on a deserted airfield made me feel as though I’d flown off the planet and into a place where rattlesnakes complained about the heat. Still, when all these disparate images are raked together, sorted, and laid end for end, the trip begins with a cool morning take-off from a small grass strip in Iowa and ends 45 flying hours later on the same turf but with a changed pilot re-educated by a truly amazing biplane.

About the Biplane

It’s a Marquart Charger (MA-5) and was designed by Ed Marquart of Riverside, California’s Flabob Airport and built 25 years ago by Dr. Roy C. Wicker of Quitman, Georgia. Not many were built over the years, perhaps a hundred, but at every stop on my trip, someone would slowly walk toward the biplane with that respectful I-think-I-recognize-it look.

“Is it a Skybolt?”

“Nope, Marquart Charger,” I’d answer while unbuckling the four-point harness and pulling myself out of the cockpit by the handles on the upper wing, a maneuver that, by itself, makes owning a biplane worthwhile.

“Marquette, huh?”

“No,” I’d say and swing first one leg then the other over the rim to climb down the wing. “Marquart—‘quart,’” and spell it out to drive the name deep into the stranger’s consciousness. After that, I’d list the specs: “Four wings, four ailerons, two seats, but I’m using the front seat for baggage,” pointing to the metal lid with the compass on top covering the front cockpit.

“Aerobatic?”

“Yeah, but I’m lousy at it.”

“What’s it got for an engine?”

“Lycoming O-360,” and I’d pop the cowling open, so heat rolled past us. “Hundred and eighty horsepower, swinging a McCauley fixed-pitch prop.”

“Inverted fuel?”

“No.”

“Smoke system?”

“Only where oil leaks onto the exhaust.”

“Fast, is it?”

“For a biplane, sure, but speed’s not the selling point. Cruises about a hundred and five knots at sixty-five percent power, faster if you wanna burn more gas, which since it uses hundred octane costing more than single-malt scotch, I don’t always wanna do.”

“Burn about twelve gallons an hour?”

“More like ten, stop-to-stop,” I’d say. “Makes the math easy enough even for me.”

I’ve never liked math, so round numbers work best, and in round terms the Charger flies at Cessna 172 speeds—the old straight tails, not the stuffy new ones at a quarter mil each--while burning Cherokee 180 fuel rates with the advantage of having only half the Cherokee’s range and load capabilities.

Advantage? Absolutely, because with a Charger you make lots of stops, and if you arrive in Lordsburg, New Mexico in a Cherokee no one walks through the ramp’s furnace to ask you about your airplane. They don’t stand beside it while their sneakers melt into the hot pavement and stare at the stacked wings laced together with shiny flying wires and bug-crusted struts. They don’t ask the Cherokee drivers where they’re from, are they mad, or what’s it like to ride across the sky with nothing above their brains but a coat of SPF 500 sunscreen and a canvas flying helmet?

When I landed in Kansas after dodging Toto-eating thunderstorms, the owner of a Hawker bizjet that’d landed behind me rushed over to circle the biplane in awe saying how much better it must be to see the world from my machine than from his kerosene tube-o-comfort. I offered to swap him even, but guys who own jets and wear dreamy dot.com smiles have more sense than biplane pilots like me who’ve been too long in the air and are in need of a bath, real food, and a clean rag to wipe the oil leaks dripping from the cowl. He smiled, climbed into his jet, and ordered the two pilots up front to whoosh him back into his world where, no doubt, that night over white wine in Aspen he’d retell his friends about the gray-haired, smelly bi-winged bum he’d met in Kansas, “Pass the brie, please, Clarissa…” and the Marquart would fade from his memory.

For 25 years this Marquart—built from plans, no kits—has turned heads and brought smiles to flyers and non-believers alike. Ed Marquart apparently spent years designing what was for him the best of all biplanes, and I’d say he got it right. Walk around one and study the shapes. As your eyes pass the images to your brain you’ll see a Great Lakes Trainer, or perhaps just a hint of Bucker in the swept wings. Many see a Steen Skybolt until the Charger owner explains how Rubinesque in the waist and tail Skybolts are by comparison. Others see Starduster or Hatz—all gems in their own ways, but in the end this biplane with so many influences in its pedigree is a unique item—it’s a Marquart. It’s a funny name to say (sounds like the Aflack duck clearing its throat), but it’s a good biplane to fly.

Structurally, it’s nothing exotic and that adds to its charm. Wood wings—spars and ribs—with a welded steel fuselage lined with aluminum stringers form its Lauren Bacall waistline above a tight tail, all covered in cotton and dope that’s still tough after 25 hangared years. N645’s US Navy paint scheme is a tribute to its builder’s (Wicker) wartime career as a Naval Aviator.

The tail looks too small, and in that momentary transition from tail-high wheel landing to tail-down taxi, it feels briefly inadequate especially in crosswinds. While it wheel-lands as sweetly as a Citabria, Aeronca Champ, or Cessna 140, it’s easy to overreact to the turning tendencies at slow speeds—at least in this Charger, I can’t speak for others.

Since I routinely operate from a 2200-foot grass strip in Iowa, the mile-long runways so common out West seemed like child’s play, but at the higher density altitudes—routinely above 5000 feet—my touchdowns tended to be hard. Until I got the hang of higher altitude ops an embarrassing whiff of burning rubber accompanied each arrival. With faster touchdown groundspeeds and the lack of soft grass to correct my sloppy technique, landings were, well, spirited at times. Where I’ve been used to a soft rumbling touchdown on dewy turf followed by a short roll as the tailwheel acted like a hook in the grass, the heat-soaked pavement in Benson, Arizona squealed as scrub raced past, runway lights threatened to clip the lower wing tips, and coyotes ran for the hills.

The temptation is to bring the tail down too soon, which simply increases the angle of attack, adds lift, and makes the arrival even squirrelier. Full-stall landings might be better, but, hell, I like wheel landing. The secret is to trust in Ed Marquart’s design and allow the biplane to roll without too much pilot-induced interference. Properly rigged and aptly flown—meaning don’t get too aggressive—the Charger rolls straight. Thankfully, it has the old Goodyear brakes, which are so crappy there’s little chance of aggravating the situation with amateurish braking.

Take-offs can be a directional challenge, too, at high altitudes with full fuel and light winds. That little bit of extra runway needed before lift-off gives more exposure to stupidity (aka: Pilot Induced Stupidity Syndrome). The trick is to feed the throttle in smoothly and anticipate the left-turning tendencies both from normal torque and p-factor as the power increases and from the gyroscopic left-turn tendency induced as the tail rises. Then, gently correct with the merest breath of right rudder while holding aileron against the crosswind—all basic stick-and-rudder technique used at sea level but magnified somewhat by heat, altitude, and the self-induced anxiety of knowing that a thousand miles from home is a dumb place to drag a wing tip.

The Marquart was never over gross even with two on board, and with many of its 180 horses available on take-off (assuming you lean properly), if all else fails just squeeze back on the stick to coax the whole bundle of wires, wings, and sweaty owner clear of the ground. Lower the nose into ground effect, and as the speed nudges 85 knots, climb away. Once clear of the taller cacti, oilrigs, and cowboy hats, a 95-knot climb gives descent cooling but never good forward visibility.

Although never over gross, the CG does shift aft with weight, which aids cruise speed but took all nose-down trim from the biplanes screw-jack trim system. While stalls in this swept-wing biplane are somewhat benign, practicing them at low altitude when fully loaded isn’t advisable, so close attention to airspeed and coordination—as in any airplane—is a must in the pattern.

Limiting Factors

The Marquart is blind over the nose to the rear seat pilot in command. My beginner’s tendency was to lower the nose too much for cruise. The result was a 200 foot-per-minute descent—good airspeed, but down you go. Properly trimmed you won’t see much past the cowling in level flight so occasional pitch dips or gentle banks are in order throughout cruise to spot traffic and TV towers. In a Cherokee or other traveling machine this might be considered a design flaw, but the biplane mind knows that straight-and-level is not a goal here. In fact, it’s nearly impossible to travel more than two minutes without rolling left, then right, while tilting your head back to watch for Fokkers, or to gaze over the cockpit’s rim in envy of the buzzards circling through nearby thermals.

The biplane’s mission is to fly not to travel. Getting to a destination is a happy byproduct of the adventure. Before taking the biplane plunge you have to ask yourself, “Do you want to get somewhere or do you want to be somewhere?” In open-cockpit, you’re always somewhere even though it might be nowhere near your intended destination. Time, somehow, loses its earthly grip in flight.

Still, my destination was northern California along the Monterey Bay, and en route I stopped in Van Nuys to pick up Curtis Kelly, a friend who’s also a tailwheel pilot. From Van Nuys, where I’d irritated just about every air traffic controller with my microphone-in-the wind voice, to Watsonville, Curtis rode in the front seat while I discovered how miserably windy it gets in the back when the front hole is open. The problem is the windshields.

A quick look at the two cockpits shows each with a windshield equal in size. Both were transplanted from a Ryan PT22—classy but that front screen generates hurricanes in the back. Picture the slipstream flowing along the fuselage when the front seat is buttoned up; it hits the rear screen and coils into space leaving the solo pilot grinning in relative calm. I can fly alone from the back seat wearing a baseball cap turned ‘round and a pair of sunglasses without fear of losing either. But when you open the front seat for guests and tack on the forward windshield things change. The wind now smacks the front glass, which, because it stands so tall, deflects the blast into the underside of the upper wing where it ricochets down onto the rear pilot’s head. The sensation is like losing an hour-long pillow fight. The front-seater, meanwhile, sits in comfort, confused why the guy behind him is so punch drunk on landing. The solution, I’m told, is to cut the front windshield down by a third to reduce that deflection. Since I can’t bring myself to damage a 60-year-old airplane part, I’m having a smaller windshield made from Lexan. We’ll see how that fits and report back. Either that or you’ll see a Lexan windscreen for sale on e-Bay in a month.

Despite the backseat pummeling, I found that by wearing goggles throughout the flight with a front seat passenger I could survive with only minor brain damage, which my neurologist assures me isn’t permanent…isn’t permanent...isn’t per…(Thwack!).

I’m fine, really.

Engine heat was another issue even before the journey. With the Lycoming turning money into power, a lot of heat needs to escape and usually through the firewall and into the fuselage, where with the front cockpit sealed shut, it quickly flows to the rear seat to cook the pilot’s feet. Being open cockpit does nothing to cool things below the belt. In fact, the open cockpit acts like a chimney drawing heat onto the pilot. A pair of NACA vents at thigh level brings in some air, but still the heat persists, and knowing I’d be headed to places named Death-By-Heatstroke, Arizona, I cut two vents into the boot cowling and padded the firewall on the passenger side. The results were good; heat was greatly reduced. Still, near the surface on scorching days it’s bloody hot in any airplane.

Sadly, in winter that heat isn’t there, so you’ll freeze your butt in the Marquart in January. Its detachable bubble canopy helps on sunny winter days, but the key word is detachable. On a particularly cold morning I tried to taxi with the bubble canopy partially latched only to discover how easily it becomes detached from the airframe, taking rivets, eyeglasses, and my choicest swear words with it.

All the comfort issues from wind and heat were minor and in no way overrode the tremendous joy this open-cockpit biplane offers. I’ve been flying and teaching in tailwheelers such as Champs and Citabrias for years, but the step into the biplane life unlatches and demands a whole new appreciation of the sky.

Biplanes are made for grass, but the Marquart mixes well with the big stuff. Returning to Van Nuys from Camarillo, the tower growled at me to proceed direct to the end of the runway and keep my speed up because a jet was to follow. Debates over shock-cooling aside, the Marquart can give ATC good climb and descent rates and a decent speed to short final, where with power back you gently lift the nose to bleed off speed to make the runway and a reasonable turn-off.

Several times when wheel-landing at towered airports, I had to ignore controllers asking me to make a turn-off while the tail was still in the air. Landing at Salina, Kansas, for instance, the tower controller—swamped with two airplanes—harped at me to make the first intersection, but with one wheel barely on the ground at that point, I ignored him (I’d been a controller for 17 years, so I know how to ignore authority). When he repeated the request and told me to “expedite my taxi,” I lowered the tailwheel and politely explained that unless he wanted to call the wrecker, I’d need to be a little more cautious in ground ops.

Inexperienced line personnel exhibit a similar lack of understanding when directing tailwheel airplanes into tie-downs. They’ll signal me to a spot and then wave at me to taxi directly toward them until I can no longer see their arms. They get the message and step aside when the spinning prop keeps coming despite their signals to stop.

Endurance

The Marquart Charger, like many biplanes, isn’t known for its range. It’s designed to run about the sky on pretty days while having fun. Cross-country trips are best planned with the knowledge that you’ll make lots of stops. The Charger holds 28 gallons, 27 of which are usable, divided among three tanks. The main holds 17 gallons in the fuselage forward of the front cockpit. It has an electric fuel gauge on the rear instrument panel and is accurate to within 15 gallons. Two five-gallon aux tanks are in the top wing. Each tank has a tiny filler neck, so the airplane was regularly flushed clean with avgas at each refueling. Reaching the upper tanks is an awkward balancing act when standing on a stepladder’s warning placard: Do Not Sit Or Stand….

With 27 gallons burned at ten gallons per hour, the Charger gets roughly two-and-a-half hours range if you don’t mind landing in the desert. I planned one to one-and-a-half-hour legs, netting from 100 to 200 miles depending on winds. Drinking bottled water en route assured that I wouldn’t be tempted to stretch that, although, over Santa Barbara when that extra cup of morning coffee called ready to leave, I seriously considered standing up to relieve myself while Curtis flew.

The fuel selector is located in the rear cockpit. I’d normally take off on the main tank, climb, and then level off and set power and mixture. Then, I’d switch to aux and hit the timer. Fifty minutes later—about one hour into the flight—I’d switch back to main where I knew I had at least an hour left plus a few gallons sloshing around in the upstairs tank. The longest leg I flew on this trip was 1:40.

I did run a tank dry over the Oklahoma panhandle. It’s surprisingly easy to do when you’re not paying attention and, instead, staring at a wind turbine farm below. The sound of coughing silence, however, gets the message across and with boost pump on it was only a few agonizing seconds before the engine growled back to life. A few more and my heart did the same.

The Route

Headed across country you’re going to cross mountains at some point. I chose the southern route for several reasons, but mainly because in years past I’d flown two northerly routes via Interstate 80 and even further north along Interstate 90 through Missoula, Montana. Foul weather blocked these routes for the entire trip this time.

The southerly route from Lubbock, Texas (home of the WWII Glider Pilots Museum) through El Paso, Lordsburg, Benson, Arizona, Tucson, Phoenix, Palm Springs, Banning, and across Los Angeles offered lots of fuel stops, easy-to-follow Interstate 10 (a comfort if the engine quit), plus lower terrain when compared to routes through Wyoming or even via Albuquerque along the old Route 66. High temperatures were a concern but just a few thousand feet above most terrain the air was smooth, and wearing tee shirt, shorts, and cloth helmet I was comfortable.

The scenery from up there was mind-bogglingly stark yet beautiful, and I’ll admit at times it felt intimidating since I was used to lush green Iowa. I carried lots of water, but I’d made the mistake of not drinking regularly on the first legs and found myself dehydrated—a syndrome that’s not automatically recognized but easily prevented.

Unto the Maw

So, somewhere northeast of El Paso, Texas, after a week and a half in the Marquart Charger, I followed a highway across a vast expanse of dryness leading to Carlsbad, New Mexico my next fuel stop. On the map, the road bowed to the right but looking around the biplane’s nose I saw a wide valley dotted with green circles from pivot-point irrigation. The desert literally bloomed through here and beaconed for me to shave a few miles off my safety route along the highway and go direct. I veered away from the concrete ribbon and felt good following the lily pads across this sea of brown. To my right was a giant salt flat, a place that would drain all traces of moisture from any ill-fated traveler who landed there. To my left were miles of a New Mexico that routinely ate up conquistadors, silver prospectors, and Iowa lamebrains like me with no respect for its harsh immensity and our own insignificance.

Ahead, the lily pads quit at the base of a mountain ridge where at the south end the blackened teeth of the long dead titan offered a foreboding specter. I checked the gas gauge and timers knowing I had plenty of fuel, especially with the tailwind, but the closer I came to the hills, the louder the ghost riders laughed until the lily pads disappeared and I saw I’d need to climb even higher to cross the last few dozen miles of earth that looked as though it hadn’t softened since whatever volcanic heave that created it had cooled millions of years before. And it was then I chickened out and turned toward the highway I’d abandoned miles back.

Green gave way to salt flats and then climbed into the rugged teeth of a ridge that loomed well above my head poking out from my tiny biplane shell. The wind pushed me along at groundspeeds over 150 knots, amazing for a boxy old pile of cotton, wood, and wire. As I paralleled the ridge headed for the left turn that would reconnect me with the relative comfort of the highway the thought dawned that whatever wind pushed me so smoothly along this ridge would likely prove amusing when I made the turn to the leeward side.

It was then the ghost riders laughed, and the wind hooked me around the mountain’s point like a scrap of litter swirling down a storm drain. Still smooth, the air seemed to reach a giant enveloping arm that turned me over the highway, and as I accepted the shove, I felt the biplane sink—and not just a little.

The VSI pointed down 500 feet per minute and I cracked the throttle, which only amused the mountain, as the winds now tumbled in a wave across the ridge and sat like a crushingly soft weight on the biplane. No lenticular clouds, no dust, no mobile homes swirling past, just a blue sky dying over me, taking me toward the desert floor despite the biplane’s now full power climb and prayerful utterances from the cockpit.

Finally, when the ghost riders were fully amused and I’d turned to the safety of the flat lands to my right, the sky seemed to wink, as in, “Got yer attention, now, didn’t we?”

And I nodded politely toward the toothy ridge, giving a quick salute from a sweaty palm, and said, “Hey, I’m just learning.”

And the mountain let me, and the biplane, pass.

It would be three more days of dodging Kansas thunderstorms, scud running beneath foggy decks, and turning back when I was only 30 miles from home before the journey decided I’d learned enough….

For now.

The End

© 2009, Paul Berge, All rights reserved

Aired as a radio play by Paul Berge in 1997 on Rejection Slip Theater

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue are fiction. All characters in this book are creations of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real or imitations of real persons living or dead, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be reproduced or performed without the expressed, written permission of the author or his agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

(translate to English from the original):

Estes libra arbitos fictatio. Cuantas incidantus et dialectus arbitos fictatio. Cuantas persona a libra estes libra aven imaginatio de scribnor et etse pas ne construtes de constructif o psuedus-constructif a personum virto vivite o morte, et sonomente resembante a personum virto vivite o morte este fantasmo sonomente. Pas ne portios a son arbito ere reproducionete o dramatico pas-avec ne a permissio scribnus a il scribnor o iles agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

Black Knight of the Soul by Paul Berge

Act II, Scenes 2 and 3

Persons Represented:

KING EDGAARD

SIR ELLIS (formerly Thane Ellis)

LADY WENDERAAL—disguised as COMMONER and as LADY

The Baron, SIR THOMAS KYLE

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

SERGEANT JON BARKLEY, a king’s soldier

CROWD (soldiers and wenches)

GORM ELLIS, 19th Earl of Dergaenmoor—modern day narrator, old and slightly batty storyteller

“Black Knight of the Soul”

ACT II

“The Shifting Image”

Scene 2

(Edgaard wanders alone in an empty, darkened hall, torches on the walls)

EDGAARD

What remains of this king when night covers so black that even my own hand is masked? Alone and in darkness, this king is no more than a blind beggar— Powerless to defend himself against those he cannot see and against, what, he knows not.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Is that the talk of a king? (low laugh)

Or do I hear the squeak of a mouse in the corner?

EDGAARD

What voice torments me in darkness? Who speaks?

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Who speaks? Why I’d think you’d know my voice, Edgaard.

EDGAARD

I know that voice as it once belonged to the cardinal, but it cannot be.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

No?

EDGAARD

I know you to be dead.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Dead, indeed, King Edgaard.

You held my head in your hands.

There is yet my blood on your sleeve-hand.

EDGAARD

Then, how do you speak?

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Oh, but many routinely speak without a head on their shoulders.

EDGAARD

Show yourself, spirit, that I might run you through with my sword.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

(laughs) What? Kill me again?

No earthly king possesses that much strength.

No, Edgaard, I am dead; you saw to that.

I cannot harm you. You have defeated me and released me.

I bow to your strength.

EDGAARD

Why do you come to haunt me? I fear you not.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

No, of course not, but you may have need of me.

EDGAARD

You murdered my father and mother!

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Only to bring you along.

Had they lived you would not be king, and Delberry Cue could not move forward into the light of the Nizamiyan dawn.

EDGAARD

You confuse me, spirit, by speaking of the Nizamiya.

It was the Lady Wenderaal of the Nizamiya who aided me in defeating you, so that I might rule.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

So that we might rule through you, Edgaard. Are you so vain to think you rule on your own? No king rules unaided. You are an instrument of the Nizamiya to use as they used me. Accept them. Accept us and accept your fate, Edgaard. It is your duty as king.

(Edgaard slowly draws his sword)

EDGAARD

I see you, now, in the moonlight that pierces the window above. Your head is once again on your shoulders. Move closer that I might see your face.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Put away your sword, Edgaard.

EDGAARD

My sword is my arm and both attach to my soul and, by it, I swear I will strike at you, apparition or not.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Very well, if you wish to see me.

—or what you believe to be me—

I will move closer.

(Wind blows; ghostly Cardinal, face shrouded, appears)

EDGAARD

Shadow yet covers your face.

Are you afraid to show yourself?

Hath shame removed your features, Cardinal Baskill?

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

You are so slow to learn, Edgaard.

What matters what form I take?

You need only heed my words.

EDGAARD

Speak then, ghost, and I will listen where I choose.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

You have many enemies, Edgaard.

I am no longer among them.

(amused) Perhaps, I am your only friend.

EDGAARD

One more than I require. I trusted you more as my enemy.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

That was easy.

EDGAARD

A true fight I can understand—man against man with iron and muscle to claim the outcome. But intrigues within shadows on faces that constantly shift, I cannot grasp. Would that I could grasp you, though, and cut you down!

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Revenge hath locked your soul. Leave that to the others, the fools.

EDGAARD

But revenge I can understand! Others, such as your brother, the bishop, yet lives and will doubtless seek revenge, will seek my head!

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

My brother hides now in the convent of St. Talick, disguised as a nun. They will soon tire of him and turn him out. Without me to protect him he is a puppy.

EDGAARD

Puppies grow into dogs.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Then, kill him if you wish. Your true enemies sleep closer to you inside these walls.

EDGAARD

I have spared the life of Sir Thomas. Perhaps I erred? He is my prisoner. I could kill him yet.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Sir Thomas Kyle would serve you better alive. You were wise to spare him. You would be wiser, yet, to embrace him, seek his counsel.

EDGAARD

Embrace your servant?

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

All men are servants. Pay him well, and he will serve you the same. Remember, Edgaard, you are king. It is time to think like a king. Not like a man.

EDGAARD

Why should I heed your counsel?

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Look upon me as I remove my hood.

(Cardinal’s ghost removes hood. Lady Wenderaal appears)

EDGAARD

This night has too many shadows, and all confuse my eyes.

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

Do not look too deep, Edgaard. What you see before you is true.

EDGAARD

But I see in you...the face of the Lady Wenderaal!

No beauty exists to compare—

Yet, your foul voice is of the cardinal’s.

You are two—both demon that I loathe

And the woman that I love!

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST & LADY WENDERAAL

Wrong, Edgaard!

You look and do not see.

EDGAARD

Lady! Speak to me in a voice that carries that face or be gone from my eyes!

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST & LADY WENDERAAL

King Edgaard, put down your sword and follow the way of the Nizamiya.

EDGAARD

Lady, why do you come to me in the shape of my enemy?

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST & LADY WENDERAAL

Declare yourself the defender of our way, and all shapes will become one in you, Edgaard.

EDGAARD

What trick be this riddle that blinds me?

Although I see the Lady before me and hear that voice I long for, I know there is more. You appear to me as devil and as lady. Declare your true form!

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST & LADY WENDERAAL

Declare yourself to us and you will know.

EDGAARD

You are devil!

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST & LADY WENDERAAL

Declare yourself, Edgaard!

EDGAARD

I declare this, devil—take my sword and be gone!

(Edgaard swings, and sword blade hits stone as Lady/Cardinal disappears)

EDGAARD

Do I strike at ghosts?

Where have you gone?

Oh, Lady, Lady, I meant no harm!

Leave me not alone!

SIR ELLIS

(calls in distance) Your majesty! Your majesty! Where are you?

EDGAARD

(softly in madness) What’s this?

In darkness you now take shape as Sir Ellis to trick me again?

SIR ELLIS

Your majesty, where are you?

EDGAARD

I will play your game.

(calls) Ellis! I am here.

(Edgaard hides in shadows as Ellis arrives with sword and torch)

SIR ELLIS

Sire, I heard you speak as though you were attacked. Where are you?

EDGAARD

Here! And by the light of your torch I see you approach your king with sword unsheathed? Do you mean murder?

SIR ELLIS

I would defend you, sire. But I see no assassin.

EDGAARD

Oh, my enemies are here, Ellis, here in the darkness. Raise your torch and tell as you see.

(Edgaard emerges raising his sword)

SIR ELLIS

As the light moves, I see shadows and my king with his sword raised.

EDGAARD

And I see the image of good Ellis come to my rescue or, perhaps, come to kill me?

SIR ELLIS

Your majesty! I could never—

EDGAARD

The true Ellis could not, but in shadow, I must wonder which form you take, now.

SIR ELLIS

I am Ellis, knighted by you this day as Earl of Dergaenmoor.

Your majesty, I am your servant!

EDGAARD

(complete paranoia)

Servant and ghost sent to destroy the king,

But your hellish mission dies at my sword!

(Edgaard stabs Ellis)

SIR ELLIS

(screams)

(Ellis dies as Edgaard realizes his mistake)

EDGAARD

What evil unveils?

You are not apparition at all but human form.

Real blood flows from your side.

Oh, Ellis! Sir Ellis, what hath been done?

SIR ELLIS

Sire, you kill me and....and I cannot say why— (dies)

EDGAARD

(soft) As the torch dies and shadows weaken,

I see the light remove from your eyes.

Forgive me, Ellis. I could not know it was you.

LADY WENDERAAL

More will die, Edgaard.

EDGAARD

Then I must be the next and fall upon my sword!

LADY WENDERAAL

That we cannot allow.

EDGAARD

You cannot allow?

You are no more than voices in my head.

(roars) I am king!

A thorn pierces my black heart, and I say I must die for killing the innocent Ellis.

LADY WENDERAAL

Innocent of what?

And what wouldst thou kill?

EDGAARD

The enemy within.

LADY WENDERAAL

Thou hast enemies all around.

But I, alone, am sworn to protect you.

EDGAARD

Protect me at what cost?

Nay! My sword is my protection,

And now I thrust it into my own breast and die!

(Edgaard stabs self)

EDGAARD (CONT’D)

(gasp, gurgle)

What death awaits a king?

Pray, Lady, what awaits this king?

LADY WENDERAAL

A lover’s arms await this king,

Who, now, escapes the crown he wore

So light upon his head—

But could carry not.

EDGAARD

I see you, Lady.

(calls) At last. I see you true!

LADY WENDERAAL

Nay, poor man, you see yourself,

And die, sweet in the belief

Of your reward.

Although so close, you could not

Conquer the blackened night of your soul.

Sleep, King Edgaard.

Your crown falls

As you join the Nizamiya.

LADY WENDERAAL, CARDINAL, SIR ELLIS

(in round)

Sleep, Edgaard; sleep in the Nizamiya....(repeat)

Sleep, Edgaard; sleep in the Nizamiya...(repeat)

Sleep, Edgaard; sleep in the Nizamiya...(repeat)

Scene 3

Music up

(Set: interior castle, dawn)

JON BARKLEY

Wake up...Sir Thomas, wake up....

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Huh...who’s there?

JON BARKLEY

T’is merely your aide, Sgt. Jon Barkley.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Barkley?

JON BARKLEY

Aye, Sir Thomas.

Come to wake you as per ordered by yourself, sir.

We wouldn’t want to be late on such a fine and important day as this, now, would we, sir?

SIR THOMAS KYLE

(wakening) Ah, no, sergeant, we would not.

(stretch; yawn)

SIR THOMAS KYLE (CONT’D)

Oh, what dreams die with the dawn.

JON BARKLEY

Sir?

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Is everything in readiness?

JON BARKLEY

Aye, sir!

The bakers have been working all the night.

The wine maker has set out fifty plus barrels of the finest claret.

One hundred lambs are butchered and roast on spits.

(inhales)

Ah, you can smell the aroma, now, sir, rising through the window....(inhales)

SIR THOMAS KYLE

I see....

And the court jeweler?

Hath he reported yet?

JON BARKLEY

Aye, that he has, sir!

And, if you will excuse my immodesty to yourself, sir.

This will, indeed, be the most beauteous of crowns for a king, sir!

And, no doubt, the greatest coronation

Delberry Cue hath yet seen!

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Great enough to expel the memory of Edgaard, dead these many months?

JON BARKLEY

Dead and forgotten, sir.

And as your name hath brought prosperity to the island,

No doubt, your subjects will sing your praise.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

And, no doubt, you, Jon Barkley Will consume your portion of the wine and sing fondly with the ladies? (laugh)

JON BARKLEY

As you command, sir...or should I say, your majesty?

(Door opens; Lady Wenderaal as Commoner enter)

WENDERAAL AS COMMONER

What’s this?

Half the day spent

And still the future king lingers in bed?

JON BARKLEY

Mark how you address your king, madam!

WENDERAAL AS COMMONER

Mark yourself and fiddle a tune, Jon Barkley.

Sir Thomas is naught a king unless that crown is placed upon his head by the bishop, himself!

So, until the choir sings

He’s nothing more than a man what needs a good kick!

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Lady, I defer to thee and know my place!

And when the crown is placed upon my head,

Still, I will bow at your feet.

This I pledge, always, my Lady!

WENDERAAL AS COMMONER

As it should be,

As it should be, indeed,

Your majesty!

(cast freezes in medieval statue poses, Gorm Ellis appears)

GORM ELLIS

And, once again, everything is as it should be ….

And should you return, again, one day

I should tell you more of these islands where shapes refuse to obey, and nothing is ever as it should be.

Then, again, what should be is not what made The Hero of Delberry Cue .

(music)

THE END

Notes

Black Knight of the Soul (known in the UK as The Hero of Delberry Cue) by Paul Berge, first aired on WHO-1040AM radio in 1997. The radio drama series was produced at Avatar Studios in Des Moines, Iowa by Joseph Pundzak and directed by Paul Berge. Michael Meacham was the Technical Director, and Linda Blakely was the Associate Producer. The original radio cast included:

King Elgaard: Richard Choate

Cardinal Baskill: Ed Weiss

Sir Thomas Crowley: Michael Cornelison

Lady Wenderaal: Morgan Halgren

Bishop Baskill: John Busbee

Thane Ellis (also Sir Ellis): Greg Anderson

Sgt. Jon Barkley: Dean Stevens

Gorm Ellis: This character did not appear in the radio version.

Crowd: Everyone hanging around Avatar Studios during the recording session.

Morgan Halgren also sang The Ballad of the Black Knight, lyrics by Joseph Pundzak.

“Patrenat om Nizamiya” ©1104, Brother Colus Portus ASCAP (Arcane Society of Chanters And Prelates) All rights reserved; unauthorized use will result in warts.

(a cappello; moderate chant; male voices)

Patrenat om Nizamiya

Patrenat om Nizamiya

(lower)

(female voices over male voices still humming first part)

Rache bahn du Wenderaal

Rache bahn en Edgaard dea
(repeat refrain; faster tempo; harmony)

Patrenat om Nizamiya

Patrenat om Nizamiya

(repeat second part in staggered harmony; first male then female pick up)

Rache tach du Wenderaal

Rache tach en Edgaard dea

(strong repeat--all voices together--first part; end slow)

(fast) Patrenat om Nizamiya

(slow) Patrenat om Nizamiya

(close)

Amen (repeat, repent)

(Music)

Aired as a radio play in 1997 on Rejection Slip Theater

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue are fiction. All characters in this book are creations of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real or imitations of real persons living or dead, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be reproduced or performed without the expressed, written permission of the author or his agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

(translate to English from the original):

Estes libra arbitos fictatio. Cuantas incidantus et dialectus arbitos fictatio. Cuantas persona a libra estes libra aven imaginatio de scribnor et etse pas ne construtes de constructif o psuedus-constructif a personum virto vivite o morte, et sonomente resembante a personum virto vivite o morte este fantasmo sonomente. Pas ne portios a son arbito ere reproducionete o dramatico pas-avec ne a permissio scribnus a il scribnor o iles agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

Black Knight of the Soul by Paul Berge

Act II, scene 1

Persons Represented:

KING EDGAARD

SIR ELLIS (formerly Thane Ellis)

LADY WENDERAAL—disguised as COMMONER and as LADY

The Baron, SIR THOMAS KYLE

CARDINAL BASKILL’S GHOST

SERGEANT JON BARKLEY, a king’s soldier

CROWD (soldiers and wenches)

GORM ELLIS, 19th Earl of Dergaenmoor—modern day narrator, old and slightly batty storyteller

“Black Knight of the Soul”

Act II

“The Shifting Image”

Scene 1

(Set: Post-battle merriment in Castle Dergaenmoor; enter Gorm Ellis amid dice game; music; drunken CROWD interrupts where necessary; Crowd is muted while Gorm speaks.)

GORM ELLIS

It would seem our play is at an end now that King Edgaard has soundly defeated Cardinal Baskill’s forces, liberated the cardinal of his head and captured the severely wounded baron, Sir Thomas Crowley.

But this is Delberry Cue, where images and realities frequently shift. And if the gods have taught us anything, it’s that peace is merely the bridge between wars, a brief space to honor the victors, bury the vanquished and tally the spoils.

Personally, I rather enjoy peace, as it brings a chance to open the wine casks and stuff one’s belly full of whatever the foe has left behind.

So, join me, now, won’t you, to honor these brave warriors, soldiers of King Edgaard’s victorious army, as they relish the sweet illusions brought on by war’s end.

(Gorm joins the crowd. Crowd erupts in drunken reverie. Sgt. Barkley bangs his cup on the table for silence)

JON BARKLEY

Hear me well, my fellow victors of Dergaenmoor!

CROWD

(drunken roars)

JON BARKLEY (CONT’D)

Battle is over; the dead offer themselves up to the ravens....

CROWD

(laughs)

JON BARKLEY (CONT’D)

And now that your purses are lined with coin (tosses coins in his hand),

And your minds liberated with drink,

Who dares roll the dice with your comrade-in-arms, Sergeant Jon Barkley?

Cast your lot and make fortune come begging!

Oh, I detect the gods smiling down upon you.

Not a loser in the bunch.

And, as I am a man of...good conscience…

CROWD

(razzberries)

JON BARKLEY (CONT’D)

…and of good sport, I shall cover all wagers!

CROWD

(cheers and rush to wager)

JON BARKLEY (aside)

And now, brothers, with wine flowing to your empty heads, I shall have your treasures before midnight!

What better way to control men’s hearts

Than to control their pockets?

(aloud) Who wagers what war hath provided?

CROWD

Arghh! I’ll take that wager! Etc.

(coins flow, drinks spill)

JON BARKLEY

Place your bets, lads! Good fortune runs in your veins. The cardinal’s archers could ner defeat you and, now, too, the dice will roll like the cardinal’s own head and smile on every player who wears the king’s crest!

(heavy door opens; enter Thane Ellis)

SIR ELLIS

Pray, tell me, Sgt. Barkley—is this how the king’s guard honors the dead?

JON BARKLEY

Oh, Thane Ellis, why speak of the dead while victory is yet sweet in our nostrils?

SIR ELLIS

What better time to speak of the dead, than while they are yet sweet?

JON BARKLEY

Speak too high their praise, Ellis, and I fear the dead may seek you as well.

Come! Forget the dead and cast lots with the living for the spoils of war.

SIR ELLIS

Wagering is for fools.

JON BARKLEY

Then cast your lot with the fools who this day defeated the cardinal’s armies without the loss of a single man on our side!

CROWD

(cheers)

JON BARKLEY

And on the morrow we shall certainly be knighted by a grateful sovereign.

A title to every name that carried a sword for Good King Edgaard!

CROWD

(cheers “...for Edgaard! Three cheers...”)

SIR ELLIS

We may wish to thank the patronage of the Lady Wenderaal of the Nizamiya more than our own prowess, sergeant.

JON BARKLEY

T’was more than mere witchcraft that secured this triumph.

T’was courage and blood and more courage again!

Thane Ellis, if I weren’t so drunk as to not find my sword, I swear, I’d run you through for doubting my courage and my loyalty to King Edgaard!

SIR ELLIS

Your loyalty has never been suspect.

JON BARKLEY

Great praise coming from the king’s lackey.

CROWD

Oooo!

(enter King Edgaard)

EDGAARD

Oh, but I insist, Sgt. Barkley, that you refer to Ellis as Sir Lackey from this day on.

CROWD

(whispers) The king, the king....(holy shit)

JON BARKLEY

King Edgaard...I...I meant no disrespect to yourself—

EDGAARD

And none taken. I am certain Sir Ellis—as I have knighted him this day—also forgives you. Do I speak true, Sir Ellis?

SIR ELLIS

There is nothing to forgive, sire. Everything said here was in the spirit of victory, embraced in the brotherhood-of-arms, I trust.

JON BARKLEY

(nervous) A more correct statement could not have been uttered by myself....ah..., Sir Ellis.

EDGAARD

There! Friends all once again. Might I join your games, gentlemen?

JON BARKLEY

Most certainly, your majesty. Please, sire, take my place; it is yet warm.

EDGAARD

Casting lots? Pray, sergeant, say the prize?

JON BARKLEY

Anything at all, sire: Wine from the late Cardinal’s cellars, meat from his larder and, if your majesty throws the dice just so, I pray, you may have your turn with one of his grace’s abandoned ladies. (laugh)

CROWD

(bawdy roar)

(enter WENDERAAL disguised as a COMMONER)

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

Not unless you wish to carry your manhood in your scabbard, you won’t!

JON BARKLEY Oh, this one’s a lively sprite, sire!

I think she softens to my entreaties.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

As your fap head softens to the plundered wine!

JON BARKLEY

Woman, you will find little that’s soft in my ways.

EDGAARD

(sarcastic) Dearest lady, as your king, I trust no man hath offended thee.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

(sarcastic back) Oh, yer majesty, what so-called man among you could possibly not offend?

EDGAARD

A twisted response to be certain, madam,

But, say the word, and I shall order the villain be sent to the kitchen to fetch and mend for the lowest serving wench.

CROWD

(laughs)

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

As an army, they may fight well—brave and true soldiers all—

CROWD

Aye! Hear-hear! Etc.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

But, your majesty, I say, as men, I’d just as soon cast my lots with the bishop’s choir.

JON BARKLEY

Likens me to a choirboy, does she?

EDGAARD

Careful, Sgt. Barkley, the choir may be offended and come out of hiding to seek revenge, rather than sing my coronation Te Deum.

JON BARKLEY

But, your majesty, have we not fought this day into the castle?

EDGAARD

True and bravely so.

JON BARKLEY

Then, is it not by rights ours to take what is free to the victors?

SIR ELLIS

If I may remind Sgt. Jon Barkley of the king’s mission—

CROWD

(groan, Here we go.....mission statements, moan…boring)

JON BARKLEY

I know my mission, Sir Ellis! And it lies with the ladies of this castle, beginning with this pretty raven, here!

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

(goosed) Mind your hands, Jon Barkley!

I still have a way with a carving knife!

CROWD

(bawdy cheers)

SIR ELLIS

Gentlemen!

We come not as conquerors but as brothers and protectors.

Delberry Cue is released from the nightmare of Cardinal Baskill’s reign.

Let not the king’s honor be fouled by dishonoring those we have freed!

EDGAARD Heed him well, sergeant. Our task, now, is to mend wounds,

Not to offend in my name.

What good to replace one evil with another?

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

If yer majesty means true— (aside) and I have my suspicions—

Then your subjects shall praise thy name.

EDGAARD

I do, indeed, mean true

And accept your praise, dear (beat) Lady.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

I fear you may praise the memory of war

When forced to rule this lot.

EDGAARD

I am king.

When I speak these men obey.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

As all men should.

EDGAARD

(becoming annoyed) Then we are of like minds, Madam.

Now, just who are you to speak thus to your king?

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

Just a lady of the house, yer majesty.

Nothing more.

EDGAARD

Well, then, gentlemen, I give you, the Lady Nothingmore!

CROWD

(Shouts drunken courtesies)

EDGAARD (cont’d)

And I decree that, within these walls, she reigns above all others.

Now, m’lady, I see fighting men without drink.

If you would please—more wine for these heroes of Delberry Cue!

CROWD

(Cheers)

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

Kingdoms rise and fade,

Wars burn, and soldiers die,

But the lot of woman is untouched.

You honor me with a title, and yet, my duties remain:

More wine for heroes;

More wine from the slave.

EDGAARD

Wouldst the lady prefer to take up arms for her king?

Or perhaps, take her king into her arms?

CROWD

(raucous cheer; guy stuff)

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

Beware, sire.

Arms that enfold can easily let go—

As the lover’s embrace can strangle the lovers as well.

By your majesty’s leave, I will bring more wine

So, these heroes might sustain victory’s glow.

EDGAARD

(ponders) Oh, Lady, what riddle lies within thy shape?

Is it comfort or the cold blade of fate?

You cut so close, I feel as though I know thee already.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

(moves away)

Aye, your majesty knows me, but not as you think.

Nor as you desire, my good and gracious lord.

(exit Wenderaal)

JON BARKLEY

Oh, your majesty, I pray that I might have your way with the ladies.

She but swoons at your feet!

EDGAARD

And I, Jon Barkley, I pray that I might never have my way with any of your ladies, lest I swoon at their feet.

JON BARKLEY

Thank-you, ...sire...? (huh?)

EDGAARD

Now! I believe I interrupted your games.

JON BARKLEY

That you did, sire. We were about to place wagers and throw the dice.

EDGAARD

I fear, gentlemen, you wager far too small a prize.

JON BARKLEY

‘Tis coin of the realm bearing the likeness of the cardinal himself. (displays coin, turns it over)

Begging your pardon, sire, perhaps we should display tails, instead.

EDGAARD

I have had enough of the cardinal’s head.

To entice a king’s hand requires a king’s ransom.

(turns) Ellis!

SIR ELLIS

Your majesty?

EDGAARD

I wish to place a wager.

SIR ELLIS

In coin, sire?

EDGAARD

What good is coin to a king?

Should I lose, I could simply order more.

Nay, I wish to place my wager in flesh.

Summon the prisoner, Sir Thomas Kyle, to this game.

SIR ELLIS

But the baron is at the cusp of death from his wounds.

The surgeons bleed him, but, strangely, he recovers not.

EDGAARD

Then bring him quickly before his mark expires,

And the devil alone collects!

Go!

SIR ELLIS

Yes, your majesty. By your leave, sire.

(exit Ellis)

JON BARKLEY

Begging your majesty’s pardon. Am I to understand, you wish to include Sir Thomas—the traitor—in our game?

EDGAARD

(threatening) With my wager it becomes my game.

I will include the players that I choose.

You would allow your king to play by the king’s rules,

Would you not?

JON BARKLEY

Sire, it is not for me to declare!

For I would follow you through the rings of hell if you should order.

Only, what could we possibly wager that your majesty could want?

EDGAARD

(paces, thinks) What, indeed?

‘Tis true, I once again have gold and silver.

This castle now bears my crest.

With the wave of my hand, I command every horse and hen to gallop or cackle.

What, indeed, could I hope to win?

Ah!

Perhaps, your counsel, your fellowship or possibly even (pause) your life.

As your sovereign I lay claim to all three.

(Barkley recoils as Ellis approaches with GUARDS and Sir Thomas Kyle in chains)

EDGAARD (CONT’D)

But I shan’t collect soon, for, behold, Sir Ellis brings the prisoner, Sir Thomas.

Let us make way for the cardinal’s finest general.

(hails Ellis)

Ellis, the baron looks ill.

Loose his chains that he might lie by the fire.

SIR ELLIS

I fear he is close to death, your majesty.

EDGAARD

Not so close that we cannot conclude our business, I trust.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

(weak) Pray, tell me, Edgaard, do your surgeons keep me alive that you might bring me to this game and kill me? Is that how a king behaves?

JON BARKLEY

Speak the word, sire, and I shall find my sword and cut off his head, sever his tongue and pluck out his eyes while he is yet secured in chains!

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Oh, fear not! He will give the command, for this king would enjoy the sport himself. Spilling blood is his way, his only way.

EDGAARD

Gentlemen, there will be no murders in this castle.

JON BARKLEY

And no punishment suitable for traitors, sire?

EDGAARD

I did not speak thus.

He who raises a sword against me will, of course, pay,

But only after a just consideration.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Oh, a trial before you murder me, is it?

EDGAARD More than your former master, the cardinal, would have afforded you, Sir Thomas.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Few among us may choose his master—

But a soldier must always obey.

I am a soldier first,

Loyal to my sword and unafraid of those who know not the honor that lies therein!

Kill me if you will, Edgaard,

For, on my honor, I have served Delberry Cue well—

And will continue to serve, if only to the worms that now await my remains!

EDGAARD

Well spoken. Well spoken.

(claps) (calls)

Sgt. Barkley!

JON BARKLEY

Aye, your majesty?

EDGAARD

(cool) Hand me the dice.

I wish to place Sir Thomas Kyle’s life as my wager.

JON BARKLEY

(laughs) Oh, I like that, sire. Shall I send for a pig’s bottom to cover that bet?

EDGAARD

No. I wager Sir Thomas Kyle’s life against fate.

JON BARKLEY

Fate, sire?

EDGAARD

Fate.

With these two dice, I now hold up to the gods as witness,

I pray that justice might guide my throw.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Oh, show courage and murder me direct, Edgaard.

Why this mockery?

You think me a traitor because I served the cardinal and now, you talk of justice and cast my life on one throw?

What mock you make of justice!

EDGAARD

As the righteous gods guide my arm; as, indeed, they guided it today in battle, I now pray that with one throw may they signal your fate, Sir Thomas: Evens, you live; odds, you die.

(dice rattle; CROWD murmurs)

EDGAARD

Evens—life; odds—

(Edgaard throws dice; Lady Wenderaal (as Commoner) enters disrupting his throw, dice bounce away)

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

Move your lazy carcasses, you filthy swine masquerading as men!

JON BARKLEY

Woman, what now? You interrupt the king’s throw!

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

And I’ll interrupt the next one of you who speaks back to me!

His Majesty called for wine, and, therefore, wine I bring.

That, gentlemen, is my lot! Now, move aside!

(Wenderaal sweeps dishes, cups from table; everyone recoils)

JON BARKLEY

Your majesty, this woman disrupts the game!

But fear not, I will recover the dice so you might cast again and seal this traitor’s fate. Then, I will wake the hangman myself and bid him rig the gallows for a royal snap!

EDGAARD

Sir Thomas, what say you? Doth the woman interfere?

SIR THOMAS KYLE

A woman’s touch hath brought you thus far, Edgaard. Why do you now question the sex?

EDGAARD

Come, Baron, lots have I played.

Somewhere in this chamber they hide their number declaring your fate.

Shall we search?

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Do as you please, for I fear—odds or evens—you will murder me.

EDGAARD

A man of honor honors his word.

(calls) Everyone, search the floor.

Find the dice and say how they have fallen.

(Everyone searches. Wenderaal points toward dice)

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

You mean these filthy things here?

EDGAARD

Yes, Lady. Speak what number shows and say this man’s fate—odd or even?

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

(laughs) What? You trust me to declare a gentleman’s fate?

Well, you’re all daft.

I’ll have naught to do with this, and I throw them where they belong—into the fire.

EDGAARD

No!

(Lady tosses the dice into the fire; flames whoosh; thunder; crackle)

SIR THOMAS KYLE

(amused)

Oh, woman, I fear thou hast doomed me. For now, Edgaard will surely slit my throat having satisfied his pretense at justice.

EDGAARD

Into the flames has this woman cast your fate, Sir Thomas.

Neither odds nor evens—a draw.

I am powerless to do anything but concede.

What say you, now?

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Then (pause) you spare my life?

EDGAARD

It is not I who spares you, Sir Thomas.

(closer) Were it for me to decide, I would gladly open your belly with my blade and feed your entrails to the dogs while you still breathed. But, for whatever reason, the fates have chosen this woman to intercede on your behalf, and, yes, you shall live.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Madam, I thank thee and declare my allegiance.

Please, speak thy name that I might honor thee.

WENDERAAL (as LADY WENDERAAL)

You speak of honor and allegiance, Sir Thomas.

Those, truly, you must give to this king alone.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

So be it!

For you, Lady, I pledge both my honor and my allegiance to this king though much blood be on his hands.

But, Lady, pray, say thy name that my true heart might serve thee.

WENDERAAL (as LADY WENDERAAL)

My name, sir?

Why, I am called by many names:

Woman, servant, slave, wench, she-dog.

The king hath named me Lady Nothingmore.

Do I tell the truth, King Edgaard?

EDGAARD

I am merely king.

Therefore, it is not my place to question—

(becoming suspicious) But, I suspect other forces at play.

And might call thee, the Lady Wenderaal of the Nizamiya,

Were I not merely king.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

Nizamiya?

No being of flesh and blood lays claim to the Nizamiya!

Why, to speak the name in jest, by a king, even, upsets my soul.

EDGAARD

T’is a night for souls in torment,

And you are wise to fear the Order of the Nizamiya.

Nonetheless, I sense more to this game

And hear familiar notes in your voice.

I feel your presence more than I see your face.

You seem to change appearance even as I stare.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

His majesty hath drunk too much wine.

EDGAARD

This king knows you!

Declare yourself to me as the Lady Wenderaal,

Who this day helped me defeat the cardinal in battle on Dergaenmoor!

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

With this face? Me? A mystic lady of the sword? (laughs)

EDGAARD

There! You see everyone?

She changes again before our very eyes.

Sir Ellis, do you not see the shadows change within her?

SIR ELLIS

Sire, I would gladly see what you command, but this woman makes no change in my eyes. She is a servant and nothing more.

EDGAARD

Then, perhaps, you are nothing more as well.

You there, Jon Barkley. You are a man of keen eye. You’ve followed me these last two years in battle.

JON BARKLEY

And proudly, sire.

And would follow your majesty to the tallest mountain or the ocean’s bottom if you so commanded, sire.

EDGAARD

Whatever. Just tell these fools how this lady changes shape.

JON BARKLEY

With pleasure, sire—

(aside to Edgaard) Only, I know not what you mean. Exactly.

EDGAARD

Her face! Her shape!

Damn your eyes, man!

She changes as we speak—

Hair from straw to gold;

Eyes from the deepest green to the blackest night.

Tell them!

JON BARKLEY

Yes, sire.

Ahem. (pause) I wish to announce that the king informs me that the lady present changes her appearance, and His Majesty commands we should all agree to see the same.

EDGAARD

No! The king commands not!

JON BARKLEY

Sorry, your majesty. Did I misquote?

EDGAARD

Say as you see, man! Speak the truth!

JON BARKLEY

And....that would be how, your majesty?

EDGAARD

Oh, curse you for a drunken sod!

Am I the only one who sees her change?

(turns to Sir Thomas)

Thomas! Your life was spared by this woman.

Surely, you will admit she changes her form?

SIR THOMAS KYLE

I am the one with wounds so deep I may not live the night, but it seems the king’s eyes may be in need of change for this woman’s shape has not altered one wit, while your appearance, Edgaard, shifts into rage and discomfort.

What effect hath this woman on you?

EDGAARD

Although she admits not, this is the lady who holds my heart as she did the cardinal’s head.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

King or not, I’ve heard too much already. I must go—

EDGAARD

Leave not, Lady! Pray, tell me why you disguise yourself?

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

If you’ll excuse my saying, sire, you confuse me with another.

EDGAARD

No other but you.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

Strike fear into your men, sire.

But never into me.

Pray, let me go!

EDGAARD

No, stay!

And say it is you, Lady Wenderaal.

Show your true face to your king.

Pledge your allegiance to me.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

The king leaves no subject untouched.

Even the lowest serving wench has cause to fear this bloodied monarch’s grasp.

EDGAARD

Leave, then, you silly woman!

I have no need for you.

WENDERAAL (as COMMONER)

As you say, your majesty.

(Wenderaal exits)

EDGAARD

(stammers) That wench disguises herself, Thomas!

She harbors inside the power of the Nizamiya.

Before my eyes, she changes from commoner to queen, and none of you can see this?

SIR THOMAS KYLE

We have not the vision of a king.

EDGAARD

I see enough to know I am not afforded the respect a king deserves.

JON BARKLEY

Oh, not so, your majesty.

EDGAARD

Ellis!

SIR ELLIS

Yes, your majesty?

EDGAARD

Ellis, put guards on the wine cellar and make certain none of these fools touches another dram.

CROWD

(grumble party’s over)

EDGAARD

Merriment goes to their heads while my kingdom goes unprotected.

SIR ELLIS

But the cardinal is dead; you are king.

What possible threat remains?

EDGAARD

I am threatened by blind incompetence.

I have fought too hard and too long to be undone by fools.

SIR ELLIS

You misunderstand, sire—

EDGAARD

Your king misunderstands nothing!

I sense a disregard for my position.

If those in this room cannot heed my word,

What, then, lies outside?

SIR ELLIS

Your majesty, the entire kingdom has awaited your return. What do you fear?

EDGAARD

Fear? Not a word to be used with my name!

Perhaps others should understand its meaning, though.

Come the morrow we march into the countryside to secure my claim. I will put my mark in every village on Delberry Cue so that all will know who rules!

SIR ELLIS

Yes, your majesty.

EDGAARD

The moon is high,

This day is through.

Good night to you all!

(exit Edgaard)

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Behold. The great king leaves the hall, his men-at-arms forgotten. Tell me, Sir Ellis, the king now occupies the cardinal’s castle, but doth the cardinal, somehow, seek revenge and occupy him?

SIR ELLIS

I do not understand, Sir Thomas.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

Perhaps King Edgaard can only fight with sword and shield and knows not how to rule. Perhaps, he is ruled by another.

SIR ELLIS

Mark how you speak, Sir Thomas. You live yet by his majesty’s grace.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

As do all on Delberry Cue. As do all.

SIR ELLIS

Sgt. Barkley!

JON BARKLEY

Aye, Sir Ellis?

SIR ELLIS

Take your men and escort Sir Thomas to his quarters. Make certain he is comfortable and then lock him in.

JON BARKLEY

Aye, Sir Ellis. Come along, lads. Festivities are ended. There’s the king’s own work to be done.

CROWD

(grumbles; shuffle off)

SIR ELLIS

And return the keys to me.

JON BARKLEY

Aye, Sir Ellis.

Come along, Sir Thomas.

Take my arm; seems you’ve accomplished enough for this evening.

SIR THOMAS KYLE

I sense my welcome is worn through.

Still, my neck connects shoulders and head—

That is a victory.

And a soldier takes victory

Where victory surrenders.

Farewell, Sir Ellis.

(exit Sir Thomas, Barkley, et al, leaving Ellis alone)

SIR ELLIS

What madness overtakes this castle?

What doubt invades my soul?

I fear Sir Thomas speaks closer to the truth than he knows.

King Edgaard may fight without fear,

But to rule he must first conquer himself,

And that battle he may lose.

This has, indeed, been an evening of shifting image.

Perhaps I would be wise to befriend Sir Thomas should fortune shift and the king find himself, once more, removed.

But to even think such thoughts is treason!

May the gods forgive me and share not my concerns with mortals.

I go to serve my king and pray my black heart be forgiven this breach!

(exit Ellis)

(Lady Wenderaal hovers in the corner)

LADY WENDERAAL

Go, Sir Ellis.

And walk lightly, for your king, too, shifts his image.

Loyalty ends at the blade of his sword

And that blade hath no vision and no heart.

(Music)

End Act II, Scene 1

© 2009, Paul Berge, All rights reserved

Aired as a radio play, by Paul Berge, in 1997 on Rejection Slip Theater

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue are fiction. All characters in this book are creations of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real or imitations of real persons living or dead, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be reproduced or performed without the expressed, written permission of the author or his agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

(translate to English from the original):

Estes libra arbitos fictatio. Cuantas incidantus et dialectus arbitos fictatio. Cuantas persona a libra estes libra aven imaginatio de scribnor et etse pas ne construtes de constructif o psuedus-constructif a personum virto vivite o morte, et sonomente resembante a personum virto vivite o morte este fantasmo sonomente. Pas ne portios a son arbito ere reproducionete o dramatico pas-avec ne a permissio scribnus a il scribnor o iles agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

Black Knight of the Soul by Paul Berge

Act I, Scene 6

(Battlefield. Mist lifts. Thane Ellis enters, approaching Edgaard, who stands amidst enemy dead)

THANE ELLIS

King Edgaard, the enemy surrenders, but I fear the cardinal has escaped.

(enter Lady Wenderaal with Cardinal Baskill’s head)

LADY WENDERAAL

Fear not, Thane Ellis.

EDGAARD

Lady, what bloodied thing do you bring?

LADY WENDERAAL

It is Baskill’s head. For you, my king. Take it, and you retake your crown.

(Edgaard slowly takes the bloody head, studies it)

EDGAARD

At last, my cousin weighs more heavily in my hands than on my heart. Note the face, lady. The cardinal sneers at me even in death.

LADY WENDERAAL

Then close his eyes and avert his gaze. Even the dead snake can yet strike.

EDGAARD

Take this accursed head, Lady. I am through with him.

LADY WENDERAAL

Can you be certain?

EDGAARD

His forces now surrender to my name, and I shall retake the throne. I shall lead the triumph into Castle Dergaenmoor. Word will travel of the cardinal’s death, and all of Delberry Cue will rally to my cause.

LADY WENDERAAL

And the cardinal? Is this to be his eulogy?

EDGAARD

(thinks) Nay! This be his eulogy: Do what you will with the cardinal’s head but never let it in my sight again! I am through with him! I, King Edgaard, declare this business at an end!

LADY WENDERAAL

As you will, my gracious sovereign, but as power returns to your veins I pray it does not flow too quickly to your head as it did to the cardinal’s.

EDGAARD

You confuse me, Lady—neither my advances nor my commands do you take seriously. How, then, should I take thee?

LADY WENDERAAL

Heed my words, Edgaard—though you are king, this is not yours to declare at an end! Only fate knows that tale—Your (beat) Majesty.

(sfx: wind)

Music

(Lights down on Edgaard, Ellis and Wenderaal; up on Gorm Ellis)

GORM ELLIS

Legend has it, King Edgaard ordered my ancestors to throw the cardinal’s body over this cliff into the ocean.... (sfx: seagulls; surf) Piece-by-piece, in small enough morsels for the tiniest of fish.

The Lady Wenderaal took the cardinal’s severed head and disappeared into the mist. She was, after all, from the Nizamiya, an order that takes commands from no earthly king (pause), and some day, maybe, I’ll tell you that story.

But I feel a wind coming across Dergaenmoor. Yes, weather changes quickly in the islands—one minute, warm sun, the next rain, snow and who knows?

Alas, my recollections of Edgaard fade from thirst. I do know of a tavern not far from here. Perhaps you will join me in a pint of stout...perhaps, even, you will buy.

(Music)

(Lights down)

Thus ends Act. I

Intermission. Light refreshments, courtesy of Mrs. Bucket, served in the lobby. Cash only bar.

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© 2009, Paul Berge, all rights reserved

Aired as a radio play, by Paul Berge, in 1997 on Rejection Slip Theater

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue are fiction. All characters in this book are creations of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real or imitations of real persons living or dead, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be reproduced or performed without the expressed, written permission of the author or his agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

(translate to English from the original):

Estes libra arbitos fictatio. Cuantas incidantus et dialectus arbitos fictatio. Cuantas persona a libra estes libra aven imaginatio de scribnor et etse pas ne construtes de constructif o psuedus-constructif a personum virto vivite o morte, et sonomente resembante a personum virto vivite o morte este fantasmo sonomente. Pas ne portios a son arbito ere reproducionete o dramatico pas-avec ne a permissio scribnus a il scribnor o iles agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

Black Knight of the Soul, by Paul Berge

Act I, Scene 5

(Battlefield in mist. Cardinal Baskill in battle dress stumbles about)

CARDINAL BASKILL

Sir Thomas! Sir Thomas, where have you gone? I am lost in this impenetrable fog! Thomas!

(enter Sir Thomas, also stumbling blindly)

SIR THOMAS

By your side, your grace.

Although in this fog, my eyes, too, are blind. I say withdraw to the hilltop and await the sun to burn the mist!

CARDINAL BASKILL

I will not retreat!

SIR THOMAS

Then your army will stumble in blindness inside these woods. Withdraw, now, your grace.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Any fog that blinds us blinds Edgaard as well.

(Offstage: screams; battle; horses panic)

SIR THOMAS

Edgaard attacks!

CARDINAL BASKILL

But where?

SIR THOMAS

Our cavalry cannot maneuver, nor see. They slaughter one another!

(more screams, panic)

CARDINAL BASKILL

Give the order for the archers to shoot!

SIR THOMAS

At what? I see no targets inside this gray shroud.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Shoot at the shadows if necessary but shoot now! Loose your arrows!

(arrows, screams, soldiers stumble and fall in the forest mist)

SIR THOMAS

We shoot at ourselves! Our own men die.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Then, die they shall! Now, shoot again!

SIR THOMAS

Cardinal Baskill, Edgaard is not here!

(enter Edgaard)

EDGAARD

Wrong, Sir Thomas! Edgaard—your king—is indeed here!

SIR THOMAS

Then, I draw my sword and strike in blindness to cut you in half.

(Thomas swings blindly)

EDGAARD

(laughs) You miss!

SIR THOMAS

(strains) I hear but cannot see. (swings)

Damn you, ghost! Damn you!

EDGAARD

No, Sir Thomas.

Damn you.

(Edgaard swings and strikes Thomas)

SIR THOMAS

(screams)

EDGAARD

(struggles) More than an ear this time, Sir Thomas; I feel flesh and bone against my blade.

SIR THOMAS

Cardinal Baskill! I am struck.

Run! Save yourself from this fiend.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Courage, Baron!

I leave the field.

LADY WENDERAAL

Not with your head still on your shoulders, Cardinal Baskill.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Lady Wenderaal! At last, I find you.

LADY WENDERAAL

And I, you.

CARDINAL BASKILL

But in mist, I cannot see.

Surely you would not strike me down without first showing yourself.

LADY WENDERAAL

Wouldst thou have the courage to look upon me again, Baskill?

CARDINAL BASKILL

I would not have the courage to die without a glimpse of what was once mine.

LADY WENDERAAL

For you, I lift the fog and show my face, so you may look upon the knight....

CARDINAL BASKILL

Oh, lady! Please, remember....

LADY WENDERAAL

...who takes your... (swings her sword at Cardinal Baskill) ... head!

(Cardinal Baskill collapses in the mist, head rolls across the floor. Lady Wenderaal reaches and picks it up as lights go dark)

(Music)

End Act I, Scene 5

Stay tuned. More to come….

© 2009, Paul Berge, All rights reserved

Aired as a radio play in 1997 on Rejection Slip Theater

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue are fiction. All characters in this book are creations of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real or imitations of real persons living or dead, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be reproduced or performed without the expressed, written permission of the author or his agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

(translate to English from the original):

Estes libra arbitos fictatio. Cuantas incidantus et dialectus arbitos fictatio. Cuantas persona a libra estes libra aven imaginatio de scribnor et etse pas ne construtes de constructif o psuedus-constructif a personum virto vivite o morte, et sonomente resembante a personum virto vivite o morte este fantasmo sonomente. Pas ne portios a son arbito ere reproducionete o dramatico pas-avec ne a permissio scribnus a il scribnor o iles agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

Act I, Scene 4

(Set: Edgaard’s camp; Edgaard in shadow ponders the dawn. Muddied Thane Ellis enters looking for him)

THANE ELLIS

(calls) King Edgaard! Your majesty!

EDGAARD

Here, Ellis. Pray tell, what news?

THANE ELLIS

The cardinal’s forces are on the move. They approach, a hundred times our numbers—archers, knights, infantry with lance and sword....

EDGAARD

(calm) Where is Lady Wenderaal?

(Lady Wenderaal appears)

LADY WENDERAAL

At your side, Edgaard.

EDGAARD

Oh.... (surprised, amused) As always, you arrive without first announcing yourself. You have seen the cardinal?

LADY WENDERAAL

(coy) He lives, he breathes, and he attacks with numbers far greater than yours, Edgaard. By my estimate, you will be dead in one hour.

EDGAARD

Ellis!

THANE ELLIS

Your majesty?

EDGAARD

You see, now, why I adore the Lady Wenderaal. She knows the words that strike my soul and fears not using them. In short, she is woman.

THANE ELLIS

That she is woman, I can plainly see. That we shall live past the hour I, too, question.

EDGAARD

Oh, lady, should I survive past that hour, wouldst thou have me?

LADY WENDERAAL

Not after this hour, nor after all the hours yet to come.

EDGAARD

Do not be swift with your answer; I am a patient man.

LADY WENDERAAL

You are the king, and a king cannot marry a Sorceress of the Nizamiya.

EDGAARD

Then, what good to be king? Would that I could be a simple peasant I would stand at least a chance at winning you.

LADY WENDERAAL

If you were peasant, you would be awaiting the king’s order of battle this moment and not cooing with a lady.

EDGAARD

Good point and well taken. (turns) Ellis, sound retreat!

THANE ELLIS

Before the battle has commenced?

LADY WENDERAAL

Doth the king retreat without cause?

EDGAARD

The king, my dear lady, orders retreat that his forces may be spared. The king, alone, will advance upon the enemy this moment.

THANE ELLIS

And surely die! Pray, sire, give the order, and all will follow you.

LADY WENDERAAL

Perhaps the great king is tired of living and seeks the blanket of death.

EDGAARD

A blanket, true, but without the lady it would be a cold bed, indeed. Perhaps you would be so kind as to cover my body with that blanket once I am dead? Nay, this king attacks to win. By your leave, lady, I go.

THANE ELLIS

And I with you, my liege! And all others who cherish the memory of your father and curse the name of Cardinal Baskill!

EDGAARD

I fear all who follow me will surely die, and their widows will curse the name of Edgaard after this day is through. For lacking a miracle, we are done.

LADY WENDERAAL

Then, a miracle you shall have.

(Lady Wenderaal waves her arms and does mystical magical stuff)

LADY WENDERAAL

For Edgaard, son of Jhamish, I order the mist in the valley to blind the eyes of the cardinal’s forces.

Edgaard, you and your forces will move among them like ghosts unseen. In this guise you will have one hour until the clouds part and your enemies may see again. During that spell, the cardinal’s army will be at your mercy.

EDGAARD

Ellis!

THANE ELLIS

Your majesty!

EDGAARD

The lady provides!

Play not retreat but sound the advance so as to rally the dead! This day the cardinal will die, and this day, I will lead whoever will follow me out of this swamp and onto Dergaenmoor.

Let those with courage alone in their bellies make one final thrust at the enemy, that we might awaken Delberry Cue from the long black night of its soul—my soul!

(Edgaard and Ellis exit; trumpets)

(Music)

End Act I, Scene 4

More to come….

(C) 1987, 1995, 2003, Paul Berge

1987

The double beam from atop the control tower cut through the frozen gloom in tireless strokes--green, white; green, white....

Yellow flashes from the hazard lights on the snowplows moved slowly along the runway.

Vernon had just slid his car off the access road in front of the cargo terminal when he pushed his sleeve up to read his watch--1:38 a.m. Except for the handful of snowplows, the airport was quiet. The last airliner would have landed at midnight, and the nightly cargo flights, a collection of just about anything with engines, wings and a vacuous hole for cargo, would arrive around 3 a.m. The pilots were all young. They hauled everything from canceled checks to lobster tails. It was aviation at its most raw. Vernon, by contrast, hadn’t flown since losing his medical certificate on his 66th birthday.

It was a short distance to the terminal--the old terminal, not used for passengers since the early 1970’s. There was a newer one made of glass across the field for the airlines. Vernon worked in the old brick terminal, now used exclusively for cargo.

After trying the car door, held shut by a snowdrift, he crawled over the gearshift and brake handle and out the passenger’s side. He slammed the door, catching his coat and lost his balance on the ice.

“Whaaa....Umph!”

His right elbow struck the frozen pavement with a sharp jab of pain, and he wallowed in the slush, tangled in his overcoat, spitting venom.

Vernon pushed himself to his feet and walked stiffly toward the old terminal. The snow changed back to sleet. By the light of the streetlamps he saw his reflection in the glass doors. A stocky old man in a baggy overcoat, he thought, then squared his shoulders and moved the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.

His elbow throbbed from the fall, but the rest of his body felt strong. Watching his reflection through the rain, he remembered the first day he had walked up to the terminal, decades earlier. Recently discharged from the Navy after two years in the Pacific, flying Martin PBM flying boats, he was just another pilot looking for a job. The offer of $30 per week and a room had brought him to the Midwest. Fifty years of life since then had kept him there.

He pushed the door open and shook the sleet from his hat.

“Evening, Vern,” a sleepy voice from behind the dispatcher’s counter called.

“Hmmm,” Vernon grumbled. The room was warm, stuffy warm. The smell of coffee and cigarettes made it lonely.

“Is it snowing yet?”

“Started to,” Vernon answered. “Mostly sleet. Got stuck in a snowbank.” He waved vaguely at the parking lot.

“One of the plows can pull you out later.”

“Umm,” Vernon grunted. A radio played music somewhere in a darkened corner. Vernon stepped around a pile of cinder blocks and boards in the center of the room.

“Haven’t they started remodeling in here yet?” he asked looking around at the gutted old building.

“No, just deposited more junk.”

He ignored the answer and went into the men’s room. Looking at himself in the cracked mirror above the sink he decided his face was the same--the same one he had brought in 1947. There were more lines, of course, and parts sagged where once they had been tight, but it was the same face staring back. He ran his hand across his short wavy hair.

“Cab Calloway’s hair,” he said and laughed.

Suddenly, a toilet flushed behind him, and a stall door swung open with a long squeak. “What’d you say?” One of the mechanics emerged buttoning his insulated overalls, an amused smirk on his lips.

“Huh?” Vernon started. “Oh, my hair.” He pointed, embarrassed. “My wife used to say I had Cab Calloway’s hair.”

“Who?”

“Cab...never mind.”

The mechanic left, and Vernon glanced around at the battered tile walls, steam radiator and heavy porcelain fixtures. “Old,” he sighed. “All old and worn out.” He rubbed his sore elbow, then tossed the cold cigar butt into a urinal and strode out. He glanced down the long dark hallway, past the empty stalls where Frontier, Braniff, and Tri-State Airlines had all had their ticket counters. At the end of the hall was the empty operations office and the old flight school; all long gone.

“The Mitsubishi flying 321 is stuck in Omaha. I thought I could get the Cheyenne on 308 to swing over there from Kansas City and...”

Vernon cut the dispatcher’s voice off with a wave. “Give me ten minutes,” he said and disappeared into his office, a tiny room across from where the hangar had been. He closed the door behind him and stood in the dark, staring out the window.

He missed the hangar--missed it terribly. He missed many things. He missed his wife. He missed flying. He missed being a child and listening to the mail planes fly over his house toward the night beacon, flashing steady white every ten seconds.

He massaged his elbow. The control tower’s rotating beacon swept green and white overhead. He looked out where the hangar had been. It was almost completely gone now, only the one wall remained, and as soon as the weather cleared it, too, would go. A bulldozer sat posed, waiting. He flicked on the light. A cluttered desk, a single file cabinet, the radiator and a phone--these were his tools. On one wall were two photographs. He lit another cigar. Blue smoke rose toward the ceiling. He stepped closer to the wall and stared. One photograph showed the nose of a Martin PBM towering above a small cluster of young men in casual Navy uniforms. Everyone smiled, including the short officer with the wavy hair dressed in tee shirt and cap and cigar clamped arrogantly between his teeth. Someone had scrawled: “With Love, From, Iwo Jima—1945” across the picture.

The other photograph had been taken beside the now demolished hangar outside his office. It showed a pair of Aeronca Champs drawn nose to nose and a wedding party in tuxedos and gowns arranged in a crescent in front of the planes. All the faces were young and happy, including the young groom with the black, wavy hair and his bride.

“Chief Pilot and Squaw--June 1948”

The door swung open behind him, and the aroma of coffee flowed in with the dispatcher.

“I go home now,” the dispatcher said. “I sent 308 to Omaha to pick up 312’s load; your first flight’s due in at 3:16 a.m.; 308 will be in at 3:45; 312, when they fix it, will go back to Kansas City; the runway’s been glycoled; I hear one of Night Express’s went off the runway at Minneapolis--so much for the competition; the coffee’s fresh; we need sugar, and there’s only three thousand gallons of Jet fuel, more should be delivered tomorrow if it doesn’t snow. Good Night.”

Vernon followed him out.

“What’s this?” he asked picking up a dusty black book from the counter.

“That? Oh, one of the construction workers found it this morning when they tore out a wall.” He pointed toward the old hangar. “It’s someone’s logbook--old, real old. I was going to toss it out.” With that he left.

Vernon turned the logbook over slowly in his hands. The binding was dry and cracked. It opened with a gentle rustle. The musty smell of the years rose to his nostrils sending a sharp pang through his emotions. He read the name: Charles S. Dansig. It meant nothing. The wind blew suddenly, rattling snow against the plate windows like thousands of tiny claws. Vernon looked up and reached for the thermostat, turning it a notch higher. He took the logbook into his office. He sat at his desk and read the name in the logbook again: Charles S. Dansig. It was taking on a familiar ring. He thought, staring out the window past the bulldozer now fuzzy with snow. A thought. He glanced at the two photographs on the wall. He moved from behind his desk to the wall and lifted the Navy picture from its nail. The light was pale, so he twisted the desk lamp’s neck, pointing it at the wall.

“Dansig,” he mumbled. “Charlie Dansig, I’ve heard that name, I know it…”

Turning the photograph over, he fumbled with the staples holding the cardboard back to the frame. One of the staples was brittle and snapped, making a neat incision in his right index finger. A drop of blood soaked into the cardboard.

The photograph slid easily from the frame. He moved closer to the lamp and turned the glossy print over. The same fountain pen that had scrawled across the picture’s face listed the crew’s name, starting with the plane’s commander, Vernon L. Ackerbach, Lt., USN. Vernon scanned down the list, but the only name close to Dansig was, Charles “Charlie Horse” Danbury, a gunner. He set the print down on the glass frame and stared into the snow. The green and white arms of the beacon swept through the dusty night. He turned back to the wall, looking at the wedding photo. One by one, he examined the party, naming the young figures.

“Harold Reynolds, Susie Hickok, Trevor Hedges....” He paused briefly and stared at his late wife, her round face smiling and bright; the white lace cascading across her dark hair. He said her name, “Peggy.”

Suddenly, he looked to the end of the line and saw a tall, older man, dressed in a tuxedo the same as the others. The figure smiled like the others, but Vernon had forgotten his name. He flipped the picture over and tore the photograph from its mount, reading the back. Again, the names were listed, but nothing even close to Charles S. Dansig. The forgotten man was, Daniel Jones, a pilot Vernon had known and forgotten long ago. Dejected, he sat behind the desk and pushed the dismantled frames away. Their presence in the old building across from the old hangar depressed him. He watched the snow, then turned back to the desk, adjusted the lamp, and reached for the logbook.

With little interest, he flipped through the yellow edged pages reading the entries. They began in 1929 and ended abruptly in late 1931. Several blank pages followed the last entry. Vernon leaned over the desk. This was apparently Dansig’s second logbook. He estimated him to have almost 2000 hours when it terminated in 1931; almost a thousand of that coming in the last two years. The entries were scribbled, some in pen, others in dull pencil. Daily entries had been abandoned at the very beginning of the book, the owner choosing to lump weekly totals together in single line entries. It as apparent Charles S. Dansig flew the mail. Almost all the logged time was in a Boeing 40 biplane, one of those huge mail carriers Vernon remembered seeing as a boy.

He recalled sneaking off at night with his brother, riding double on the bicycle, to the airport in Salt Lake City to watch the mail planes come in. Nobody had bothered them as they stood in the dark arguing over which was better, the open cockpit Boeing 40’s or the great model 80’s, the tri-motors. His brother leaned toward the latter, while Vernon argued the merits of having one’s head out in the wind where one could feel the sky. A stab of loneliness rocked him, thinking of his brother. He tried not to think of the dead, but the memories came flooding back.

Slowly, he reached for the photographs, choosing the wedding picture. He stared at the group, the two Aeroncas, and the date, June 1948. He remembered how the wedding had been delayed a year after his brother’s death. He wanted to cry but refused. He slid the photograph away from him and picked up the logbook again.

“Well, Mr. Dansig, how did you manage to lose this?”

Suddenly, he noticed the radio was silent, the music gone. A low hum of static hissed through the halls. He glanced at his watch, 2:30 a.m.

“Must have gone off the air,” he mumbled and stood. Outside the office he snapped the radio off. At the far end of the hallway, where the flight school had been, a fluorescent bulb flickered, trying to die. Wind rattled something deep inside the building. Vernon shivered from the cold.

“Impossible to heat this damn place,” he said.

He walked down the long empty hall toward the flickering bulb, his own footsteps sharp against the cold stone floor. Looking at his hand, he noticed he still carried the logbook.

“Mmm,” he uttered and reached for the light switch outside the old flight school office, and hesitated.

The school had been gone since 1951 when he last instructed there. Since then, it’d been used as an operations room, a maintenance office; an insurance company had even leased it for two years. Lately, it’d been used for storage. Vernon peered inside and snapped on a light -- four walls, all yellow, and a mop and bucket. Nothing remained of the hundreds of young men who passed through on the G.I. Bill. There was no trace of the maps, the training aids, the posters. Vernon stepped inside. He turned to his right, to exactly where the counter had stood, where Peggy had stood. He saw her. At least he felt as though he could see her.

“Hello,” he said shyly. The cold walls stared back. “New skirt? I like plaid...Doing anything after work? No? I just got paid, care to...You would? Great! I have a student, now,” he said aloud. “I’ll see you when...” He heard his excited voice echo in the empty room and froze. He turned abruptly, leaving the room after smacking the light switch off. The fluorescent bulb still flickered as he strode back along the empty hallway toward his office.

“Stupid,” he mumbled. “Forget them…Gone…They’re all gone!”

He rounded the corner into his office and gathered the photographs in one hand trying to take the frames as well. He still carried the logbook. Smash! The two glass frames hit the floor and shattered, the shards dispersing under the desk and chair. “Ahhh…” He bent to pick up the broken frames, then stood.

“You can stay there!” he shouted. “You belong there!”

He turned toward the snow and felt his eyes swell. “You left me here,” he said quietly.

A light poked through the snow. It moved toward him, sweeping its white beam from left to right, as though feeling its way in the darkness. Vernon stared. He looked at his watch, 2:40 a.m. The first arrival was not due for at least a half-hour. The beam continued to search, moving closer. The outline of an aircraft appeared, a large plane, a taildragger. The green and white beacon from the tower flashed overhead, and the deep rumble of radial engines vibrated the windows. All the company planes were turbines. Nobody used radial engines around there. Other companies still used DC-3’s, but none came there. He watched the light, thick in the blowing snow. The airplane took shape, a twin engine with two rudders--an old twin Beech. The radial engines sent a deep throb into Vernon’s insides. He remembered the same twins hauling passengers from that very terminal forty years earlier.

The twin swiveled around, blowing snow in a great cloud toward the glass. Vernon left his office, ran down the hallway, and through the door. Once in the snow he moved quickly toward the airplane. Snow blew in cold eddies around him. He wore no coat but ignored the cold. He carried the logbook.

“Peggy, remember the Twin Beech we took to Florida?” His voice was happy. He started to run and slipped, recovered and continued. The green and white lights washed above. The Twin

Beech shut one engine down, and a cargo door swung open. A vague face looked out from the darkened fuselage.

“Hello!” Vernon called. No one answered. “Have you come for me?” He stopped in front of the open door. The face leaned out.

“What?” It was a young face on a young man dressed in blue jeans and a nylon parka. He needed a shave and chewed gum nervously.

“Did you come for me?” Vernon asked again, feeling something was wrong.

“You from Federal Express?” the pilot asked and kicked at the doorframe to keep his feet warm. “I’ve never flown in here; normally go into Cedar Rapids, but it’s closed. There’s supposed

to be a truck meet me here. You it?”

Vernon shook his head slowly and stared at the plane. The one radial, still running, ticked evenly.

“If you’re not it, I’m closing the door. It’s cold out here. Where’s your coat?” the pilot asked.

Vernon suddenly felt the cold. “I... What year is this?” he asked.

The pilot was already reaching for the door. “This? Ah, I think it’s a ‘48, ‘47 or a ‘49. Hell, I don’t know. I just fly it.”

“No, I mean what year is it now?”

The pilot tilted his head. “Look, I think you’d better get inside or get home. You can’t be standing around in the cold like that. Why don’t you go on. The van’s pulling up now.”

Vernon turned. A large van pulled through the gate and past his car still perched on the snowbank. He walked back to the terminal, his elbow beginning to ache again. Before he reached the door he turned. “Is your name, Dansig?” he called. “Charles S. Dansig?”

The pilot shook his head and waved the delivery van back toward the airplane.

Vernon walked along the hallway and back into his office. He sat. Emotion drained from him, leaving only emptiness. The Twin Beech fired its other engine, and Vernon listened to it taxi away, then, silence. He sat, unmoving. He felt foolish. He glanced at the photographs.

“Ghosts,” he said. “I wanted ghosts.” Planting his elbows on the desk, he rubbed his face with both hands. A white light flashed through the window, moving his shadow momentarily across the wall where the photographs had been. He glanced over his shoulder. The control tower’s beam pulsated once, white, and then seconds later, white again, no green. He barely noted it. Another plane taxied toward the terminal, its light searching through the snow. A large piston engine shook the windows again. Vernon chuckled. “Not one of mine,” he said.

He kept his back to the window. The plane’s landing light poked through the glass again, keeping Vernon’s shadow on the wall. He held his head in his hands. The engine ticked at idle behind him, and a strong wind shook the building. He glanced up. The flicker of the fluorescent bulb was the only movement in the hallway, but he felt something.

“Baloney,” he said, still leaning on the desk. But something was moving, moving toward him. He listened and heard nothing other than the snow against the glass and the airplane’s motor outside. His shadow barely moved beside the doorframe. The hallway light flickered. Suddenly, someone appeared in the doorway, filling the frame.

“You have something of mine,” a deep voice said. He stood in shadow, the light from outside not reaching him. Vernon sat frozen, his shadow unmoving. The figure raised an arm into the light. It was coated in thick leather, its hand in a heavy gauntlet. A finger pointed toward him.

“There, on the desk.”

Vernon barely moved his eyes, looking where the figure indicated. The logbook.

“No need to be surprised,” the voice said, now almost friendly. “You’ve been looking for me. I felt it, so I came.”

Vernon spoke, his voice a thin creak. “Dansig? Charles S. Dansig?”

“Charlie. I need the logbook. I never filled in my last flight, you know.” His hand opened slowly.

Vernon picked the book from the desk and started to hand it to him. “I...I suspected there might be...things...like you.” The hand still reached out waiting for the book. “Are there others?”

“Yes.”

Vernon glanced at the wedding photo, the Navy photo. “All the others?”

“Somewhere.”

“Do you know them?”

“Some.”

“Can you...can I...?”

“I cannot, but you can.”

“How?”

“You found me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but...”

“Find them.” With that, the figure stretched its hand even further. “Please, I must go.”

Vernon looked outside at the airplane, a biplane, a Boeing Model 40, mail plane. A steady white beacon light flashed--no green. He remembered the old airway beacons flashing solid white

when he was a child. He looked back at the figure, still in shadow. He stood and moved closer. The nearer he got, the more indistinct the figure became. He could almost see through it to the hallway.

“Please,” the voice said.

Vernon placed the logbook in the outstretched hand. The fingers closed, and the figure vanished almost instantly along the hallway toward the flickering light. Vernon ran to the window. The solid white beacon flashed and the Boeing 40, under a blast of power, swiveled its tail and disappeared into a cloud of twisting snow. The beacon from the tower flashed white..., then green. Vernon sat at the desk and picked up the wedding photograph. A lightness overcame him, and he ran his fingers over

Peggy’s face.

“Just find them,” he said. “Find them.”

***THE END***

© 2009, Paul Berge All rights reserved

Aired as a radio play in 1997 on Rejection Slip Theater

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue are fiction. All characters in this book are creations of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real or imitations of real persons living or dead, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be reproduced or performed without the expressed, written permission of the author or his agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

(translate to English from the original):

Estes libra arbitos fictatio. Cuantas incidantus et dialectus arbitos fictatio. Cuantas persona a libra estes libra aven imaginatio de scribnor et etse pas ne construtes de constructif o psuedus-constructif a personum virto vivite o morte, et sonomente resembante a personum virto vivite o morte este fantasmo sonomente. Pas ne portios a son arbito ere reproducionete o dramatico pas-avec ne a permissio scribnus a il scribnor o iles agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

Act I, Scene 3

(Set: Upper moor, Gorm Ellis reappears)

GORM ELLIS

Dreadful business…Now, where was I? (thinks) Oh, yes, Cardinal Baskill—whom you’ve gathered, by now, is a nasty piece of work—has sent out his Black Knight of the ambassadors to King Edgaard’s camp in hopes of persuading the king to surrender or face certain destruction by dawn.

Edgaard, however, has other plans. And none include surrender to his cousin, the cardinal.

Oh, the sweet delusions of those who plan. Personally, I never plan a thing. I prefer, instead, to wait and see what arrives.

You, on the other hand, wish to know of these plans that now unfold, so let us go to the cardinal’s bivouac on Dergaenmoor, atop that ridge overlooking the valley, where in the mist death stirs with the approaching dawn.

(Cardinal’s camp. Cardinal Baskill at planning table. Sir Thomas—bandaged ear—enters)

CARDINAL BASKILL

(happy) Good morning, Sir Thomas!

SIR THOMAS

Good morning, Your Grace.

CARDINAL BASKILL

By the morning star, I see the gods have given us a clear sky under which to fight.

SIR THOMAS

But for a small patch of fog in the valley below, where Edgaard’s rebels hide, Your Grace could not ask for a better day to campaign.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Fog is merely a dream that forgets to wake. The sun will burn through.

Assemble my knights-in-arms; have the archers form in line on my left; infantry abreast by companies.

SIR THOMAS

Your troops take their positions as we speak, Your Grace.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Already? Perhaps, now, with one less ear you hear even before I speak. Do I detect miracles or ambition, Sir Thomas?

SIR THOMAS

I merely anticipated the execution of your plan of battle as laid out so carefully last night.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Revenge motivates you. Perhaps, I should have all who serve me remove one ear.

SIR THOMAS

I cannot give such a plan my heartiest support.

(Bishop Baskill, in ecclesiastic finery, approaches with acolytes)

CARDINAL BASKILL

Then, I shall ask the bishop, who now approaches. (aside) How odd, though, so near to danger. (Calls) Good morning, Bishop. Do you and your choir join us in battle?

(Bishop and acolytes kneel before the cardinal)

BISHOP

Good morning, Your Grace. I bring spiritual aid for the men.

I trust you are well.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Well enough to ride forth and have done with this vile pretender, Edgaard.

Oh, do please rise. You tend to bow far too low. It’s unconvincing after a point.

BISHOP

(rising) Edgaard will bow, too, before the sun reaches noon.

SIR THOMAS

Edgaard is yet outside our grasp. As the mist in the valley below still covers his army, we can only guess what schemes are masked therein.

CARDINAL BASKILL

One need not see the rat beneath the cloth to crush it with an ax, Sir Thomas. Never fear what you cannot see.

BISHOP

Your Grace, with your permission, I have a special blessing prepared for the forces; would you do us the honor of delivering it yourself?

CARDINAL BASKILL

(flattered) Myself?

SIR THOMAS

It would mean so much to those about to die.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Oh.... if you wish.

SIR THOMAS

Captain!

CAPTAIN

Sir?

SIR THOMAS

Inform the men, the cardinal wishes to bless them before battle.

CAPTAIN

Aye, sir. That shall certainly bring great...comfort, sir. Great comfort, indeed.

(exit Captain and quickly returns with troops, who quietly grumble for being forced to assemble)

CARDINAL BASKILL

Well, Bishop, show me this blessing, I don’t wish to delay the battle any more than necessary.

BISHOP

Oh, yes, Your Grace...I have it here.

(Bishop hands cardinal a document. Bishop quietly reads along over Cardinal Baskill’s shoulder)

CARDINAL BASKILL

I see.... (paces, reads mumbling) …. “Quosatium de frativiium....”

Uh-huh.... “diectum en patrenates...en patrenates?”

BISHOP

(reading with) …diectum en patrenates...Yes.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Well, shouldn’t this be, diectum du patrenates?

BISHOP

Your Grace?

CARDINAL BASKILL

You’ve changed tenses in mid-sentence.

See here, diectum en patrenates....

It were as though fate had declared allegiance to me and then inexplicably changed its mind. (laughs)

BISHOP

Can fate do that?

CARDINAL BASKILL

As readily as you can change into a scholar!

SIR THOMAS

Your Grace, I suggest you simply bless the forces and allow them to continue to march. The sun almost rises over the hills, and I fear Edgaard may stir.

CARDINAL BASKILL

You can’t expect me to just mouth what this idiot has scribbled without reading of its proof! The battle can wait; its outcome is certain.

SIR THOMAS

Edgaard may be assembled as we speak, ready to attack.

CARDINAL BASKILL

With what? That handful of ragged peasants waving pitchforks and empty wine flasks?

SIR THOMAS

They have more substantial weapons, Your Grace.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Perhaps their women will attack us with sewing needles and muffins?

Although, from what I understand, their most recent meal was at the expense of your mount, Sir Thomas.

SIR THOMAS

Sir, I—

CARDINAL BASKILL

Silence! I shall decide the progress of this battle, not Edgaard!

Besides, as I look into the valley, I still see the smoke from cooking fires rising through the mist. No doubt Edgaard is asleep, yet, with one of his whores, their stomachs filled with horseflesh.

CAPTAIN

Rider approaches! Rider approaches!

(all look off stage)

SIR THOMAS

A rider approaches, Your Grace. (suspicious) It rides like an apparition from the mist of Edgaard’s camp.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Bringing word of his surrender, I trust.

BISHOP

One presumes the sight of your grace’s army hath struck terror into their hearts.

(cowers) Although, as I look upon this ghostly figure, I fear terror lurking in my own breast.

CARDINAL BASKILL

You are both as skittish as sparrows. Bid the rider welcome, Captain!

CAPTAIN

Aye, sir!

BISHOP

That is no peasant on horseback.

SIR THOMAS

He wears the black armor of the court of St. Talick, Edgaard’s court. Note the crest of ravens and thorn.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Edgaard, the raven; perhaps he wishes to fly away.

BISHOP

(laugh) Very good, Your Grace. Well said.

CARDINAL BASKILL

You would think so.

(calls) Hello, the rider! I am Cardinal Baskill, by grace of the gods, Lord Protector of Delberry Cue. Dismount in my presence, you impious cur, and state your business. Do you bring word of surrender from Edgaard?

LADY WENDERAAL

I do not, Your Grace.

(crowd surprise)

SIR THOMAS

A woman speaks!

BISHOP

The raven is the devil, Your Grace!

CARDINAL BASKILL

Devil, perhaps, Bishop, but let us give this she-devil an ear....

(aside to Thomas) Sorry, Sir Thomas.

(calls) Approach and lift thy face shield that we might see who addresses me so.

(Lady Wenderaal approaches in shadow)

SIR THOMAS

I do not like this. As she moves, the fog seems to follow. I feel cold, yet she gives off black light so blinding.

BISHOP

(whispered) Order the guards to surround her now. Disarm her and, quickly burn her, before she beguiles the forces.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Without first asking her name? I see, now, why you remain a bishop. And celibate.

(calls to Lady) Tell us your name!

LADY WENDERAAL

I bring word from Edgaard, King of Delberry Cue—your king!

BISHOP

(whispers to Baskill) I say, burn her, now!

CARDINAL BASKILL

(calls) The issue of who wears the crown is settled, and I have that honor. But of more import, I wish to see who addresses me thus. Approach closer. Your face is hidden in light and armor, although your voice is familiar.

LADY WENDERAAL

Edgaard, your king, offers one more chance for you to surrender.

CARDINAL

Your name, dear! I didn’t quite catch it.

LADY WENDERAAL

If you surrender before the sun crosses the ridge, then you shall be spared.

CARDINAL BASKILL

Edgaard is generous, but I still wish to know who address me in such sweet tones.

Are you (pause) of his bed, my dear? Or just a wench he plucked from the straw at some stable and now dresses in a knight’s armor to deliver ultimatums?

(crowd laughs)

LADY WENDERAAL

When the sun clears the ridge all of your army—archer, lance, knight, page, cook and clerk (pause) will die.

BISHOP

Burn the witch! Take her and burn her!

CARDINAL BASKILL

Bishop, silence!

SIR THOMAS

She removes her helmet!

(Lady Wenderaal removes her helmet, revealing a beautiful woman. The crowd gasps in awe.)

SIR THOMAS

That face is more beautiful than any I have ever seen.

CARDINAL BASKILL

As I feared—that is Lady Wenderaal of the Nizamiya. She is indeed a witch! Take her! Take her!

(wind roars; crowd panics)

LADY WENDERAAL

Your time dies, Cardinal Baskill! Surrender, now! Surrender or die!

(Lady Wenderaal vanishes in smoke and other cool effects)

CARDINAL BASKILL

Wh...where did she go?

BISHOP

She’s gone.

SIR THOMAS

Captain, send out cavalry on both flanks. Find that woman!

CAPTAIN

Aye, Sir Thomas, but she’s vanished into the mist!

SIR THOMAS

Do as you are told!

CARDINAL BASKILL

Capture her and bring her to me! Although, if the lady retains her powers, we shall search in vain, and if she befriends Edgaard we face doom lest we act now!

BISHOP

(panics) We should have burned her for a witch while we had the chance.

She has cast a spell over our eyes and escaped. I...I shall return to the chapel and offer prayers!

(Bishop lifts his skirts, exits with acolytes in terror)

CARDINAL BASKILL

Spell or no, Edgaard shall have my answer! We march into the valley and slaughter every single traitor in our path. Go!

(Sir Thomas, Captain and others charge off, leaving Cardinal behind)

CARDINAL BASKILL

(calls) But I want Lady Wenderaal—alive!

(music)

End Act I, Scene 3

Stay tuned for Act I, Scene 4

© 2009, Paul Berge

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue are fiction. All characters in this book are creations of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real or imitations of real persons living or dead, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be reproduced or performed without the expressed, written permission of the author or his agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

(or translated)

Estes libra arbitos fictatio. Cuantas incidantus et dialectus arbitos fictatio. Cuantas persona a libra estes libra aven imaginatio de scribnor et etse pas ne construtes de constructif o psuedus-constructif a personum virto vivite o morte, et sonomente resembante a personum virto vivite o morte este fantasmo sonomente. Pas ne portios a son arbito ere reproducionete o dramatico pas-avec ne a permissio scribnus a il scribnor o iles agent, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC.

Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC

11872 G58 Hwy Indianola, Iowa 50125

rejectslip@aol.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

4. INTRODUCTION

5. OFFICIAL RST SLOGAN (use by members only)

6. CAST of Act I

7. BLACK KNIGHT OF THE SOUL, Act I, “The Hero of Delberry Cue”

42. CAST of Act II

43. BLACK KNIGHT OF THE SOUL, Act II, “The Shifting Image”

86. Notes, the back story, original Rejection Slip Theater cast list and production credits

87. Patrenat om Nizamiya, 12th Century chant

Introduction

The idea for Black Knight of the Soul came from Shakespeare and Joe Pundzak. Mostly from Joe, because in 1997, at a Rejection Slip Theater recording session, Joe said to me, “Hey, Pauly, I got a story idea.” I leaned forward waiting for the pitch, and he said, “Black Knight of the Soul.” And when I didn’t react, he added, “And it could be either Night or Knight.”

I had to admit it was a great title* but hanging 10,000 words below it might prove troubling. Rejection Slip Theater, however, was all about turning troublesome thoughts into radio plays, so I took Joe’s somewhat cryptic vision and wrote the radio drama, Black Night of the Soul.

The first draft was mostly about darkness without much in the way of characters. Luckily, I’d recently seen Shakespeare’s Richard III and Henry V, so I changed Night to Knight, and King Edgaard burst forth. And then, by tormenting him with evil forces and mystically hot babes, the other characters evolved.

Due to the creative wizardry of our Technical Director, Michael Meacham, the medieval battles and soirées were easy to stage for the ear. Easy for the writer, anyhow. When a first-class cast (see pg. 86) was assembled, Black Knight of the Soul came to life and was aired in parts over several weeks on WHO radio in Des Moines, Iowa.

As you stage your performance of Black Knight of the Soul let your imagination roam freely across the foggy moors. Sets can be medieval or completely abstract, whatever suits your creative dreams. Have fun, act well your parts and write when you find words.

—Paul Berge

* The 16th Century mystic, St. John of the Cross, had a big hit with “Dark Night of the Soul,” so we knew were on the right path.

“Quosatium de Frativiium....”

—Nearly Right Reverend Janus Baskill, Bishop of Delberry Haven

Act I

Persons Represented:

KING EDGAARD, the usurped

THANE ELLIS, his aide

CARDINAL BASKILL, the usurper

LADY WENDERAAL, a mystic

JANUS BASKILL, the bishop of Delberry Haven, a fop and dandy cleric

SIR THOMAS KYLE of Crowley, brave warrior, baron

A CAPTAIN in Cardinal Baskill’s army

GORM ELLIS, 19th Earl of Dergaenmoor—modern day narrator, old and slightly batty storyteller

“Black Knight of the Soul”

Act 1

“The Hero of Delberry Cue”

Scene 1

(Dergaenmoor, misty, night. GORM ELLIS enters, walking across moor. Ellis is dressed in English country gentlemen tweeds, carries a walking stick.)

GORM ELLIS

Hello! Hello there! Be right with you! (winded)

They said we were having company; so glad you could make it. Whew, need to catch my breath, such a long walk up the path across the moor.

(big breath) There now, my name is Gorm Ellis, 19th Earl of Dergaenmoor. I’ll be your guide on this journey.... I suspect you’ve read my book, The Hero of Delberry Cue? No? Remind me to get you a copy before your leave. We sell them in the gift shop; I should, of course, be happy to autograph it for you. But I’m getting ahead of myself; I’m often accused of that....

Ah, where was I? (thinks, refers to notes pulled from pocket; walks about)

Oh, yes! Welcome to Delberry Cue—largest island in the Delberry chain. The other Delberrian islands are fairly insignificant, but Delberry Cue, ah, this one was home to the legendary, King Edgaard.

It was my great, great, great, something, something grandfather—the First Earl of Dergaenmoor who fought alongside King Edgaard on those very hills we see now below us.

You know the legend of King Edgaard, do you not?

No?

Well, my friends, you cannot possibly understand Delberry Cue without, first, hearing the tale of this warrior king.

Oh, but where to begin? Where, indeed? Time prohibits me from telling you all about the royal family that ruled these islands for so many centuries. Nor, could I do justice to the dark intrigues of Cardinal Baskill who overthrew and murdered the beloved King Jhamish, Edgaard’s father.

No, that would take far too long, although you may wish to purchase my book on the subject in the gift shop.... Hmmmmm, let me think...where to begin...where to begin….

Ack! I know!

I shall begin—in the middle! From the middle one can always journey confidently in either direction knowing how to safely return to the starting point without losing sight of the end.

So, here goes: “In the middle of time, the good King Jhamish—most beloved by his people— was murdered by his most trusted advisor, Cardinal Baskill—remember that name, Baskill. He figures deeply in this story.

Now, Baskill managed to kill both King Jhamish and his queen, Essinaar. A most beauteous woman, we are told, and most loved by her husband, Jhamish. Got that? Jhamish married to Essinaar who begat Edgaard. Good. Now, then....

Baskill loved neither king nor queen and mercilessly slew them both as they slept in each other’s arms. He, then, tossed their bodies into the sea—not him personally, but some rather large assistants, one would assume. And then he declared himself Lord Protector of all of Delberry Cue.

The various lords and ladies of court quickly allied themselves with the cardinal after a few conspicuous assassinations cemented relationships.

Unfortunately for the cardinal, he overlooked Prince Edgaard, the king’s only son, who had escaped with the help of the Nizamiya into the forest where he waged war against the cardinal’s forces—losing miserably I might add—until all that remained of Edgaard’s army was a ragged detachment of loyalists—more starved than alive.

These few pathetic stragglers were surrounded in a swampy glade just below where we now stand. You can barely see it through the haze.

See where I point?

A nasty place, that.... Dismal, cold. Not the place for kings, but, possibly the place for...the return of kings.

(Gorm Ellis disappears in fog, wind)

GORM ELLIS (CONT’D)

It was winter—a time of rain and mud when Edgaard faced the cardinal for the last time.

(Music)

Black Knight of the Soul by Paul Berge

Scene 2

(Edgaard’s encampment, dark, a lone figure, Edgaard, roams the camp, stops at a guard post)

EDGAARD (Calls)

Baskill! Cardinal Baskill, if your body still be attached to your accursed soul, then show yourself to your king!

(thunder, enter Thane Ellis)

THANE ELLIS

Sire, messengers approach from the cardinal’s camp.

EDGAARD

They bring word of Cardinal Baskill’s death, I trust. Nay, I pray, instead, as you should, Thane Ellis, if you wish to see another dawn on Delberry Cue.

THANE ELLIS

If the dawn is all we have, then I pray, sire, the night never ends.

EDGAARD

You may, yet, have your wish.

THANE ELLIS

By your leave, sire, I will bid the messengers welcome to your camp where your majesty might hear word of the cardinal’s intentions.

EDGAARD

After two years of war, I think I know the cardinal’s intentions! He is a traitor who wishes only to see his king deposed, and that, preferably, with my head deposed of my body and displayed at the end of a pike on the battlements of Castle Dergaenmoor. (shouts) Oh, come out and fight me, Baskill! Fight me here!

THANE ELLIS

It is the cardinal’s own skull that needs protection, lest his scarlet cap be displayed at the end of a pike intended for yourself.

EDGAARD

Spoken like a true supplicant, Ellis.

Now, go. Bid the cardinal’s messengers welcome. Extend all the courtesy due their rank.

THANE ELLIS

Yes, my liege.

(exit Ellis)

EDGAARD

With nothing remaining of my kingdom, except that which I keep in my scabbard, I, Edgaard Garnett, son of Jhamish—who was murdered by the Cardinal Baskill—I await the crown that is rightfully mine while all around the tears of jealous gods mock me!

(sfx: thunder)

Oh, do growl at me, please, you worthless heavens. I’ve no longer need of you and your simple magic! I have cracked your envy and breached your charms. You have taken all and, therefore, no longer inspire fear in me, and, without fear— What is a god?

But I will not waste anger on you as I hear riders approach with word from my dear cousin, Cardinal Baskill.

(Ellis, Sir Thomas, Bishop Baskill and aides approach)

THANE ELLIS

Your majesty! May I present the Baron, Sir Thomas Kyle of Crowley....

EDGAARD

Sir Thomas.

THANE ELLIS (CONT’D)

...And, His Eminence, Janus Baskill, the Bishop of Delberry Haven.

EDGAARD

A knight and a cleric. The cardinal overplays his hand.

SIR THOMAS

His Grace, Cardinal Baskill, sends his greetings, Edgaard, and inquires after the Lady Wenderaal.

EDGAARD

The cardinal is most gracious. As for the lady, she is, I trust, still a lady, although I know not of her condition nor her whereabouts.

SIR THOMAS

So say you.

BISHOP

Under the banner of truce, we bring word the cardinal wishes to treat with you this night.

EDGAARD

Under truce, you say? (chuckles) Well, good gentlemen of honor and....property—my property—I bid you welcome. Do sit...please.

Ellis, see to the horses, then draw these ambassadors of the noble cardinal two flagons of hot mulled wine.

Oh, though I do fear, gentlemen, our rations are nearly exhausted, and I can only offer heat and little spirits.

BISHOP

We have not come for spirits.

EDGAARD

If not spirits, what, then? Blood, perhaps? My subjects have given so much already. Doth the cardinal demand more? Has his appetite for the crimson no end?

BISHOP

His Grace, the cardinal, wishes to end this war.

EDGAARD

As he would end a feast—by having consumed all at the table?

SIR THOMAS

The time has come to put aside your arms and recognize Cardinal Baskill’s claim to the throne of Delberry Cue.

EDGAARD

That is good of the cardinal to think so (pause) highly of me, that he requires my blessing.

BISHOP

I do not think the cardinal seeks your blessing, Edgaard.

EDGAARD

Certainly, he does not act out of fear? Look around. As you can plainly see, I am in less than luxurious conditions. My army, once 10,000 of archers, 20,000 of the finest infantry, plus, 5,000 knights-inarms—of which you were one, Sir Thomas! This army, now, hides, surrounded, in these woods, clad in the rags of defeat, reduced by war and famine to but a few hundred, and they all but spent.

SIR THOMAS

Then, it is time to treaty.

EDGAARD

I am willing.

BISHOP

(sigh) A wise decision, Edgaard. Now—

EDGAARD

How, then, does the cardinal propose to surrender to me?

BISHOP

S....surrender?

SIR THOMAS

Surrender? Surely, Edgaard, you misunderstand! It is you who must surrender!

EDGAARD

I…?

BISHOP

For the welfare of your remaining followers, the cardinal offers full pardon (beat) with certain understandings, of course.

EDGAARD

Gentlemen, understand this: It is a short while ‘til dawn pierces this black night of my soul, but I assure you, pierce it, it shall.

BISHOP

Your language approaches blasphemy.

EDGAARD

Oh, good bishop, my soul has long since breached the blasphemous walls of your contempt!

SIR THOMAS

Be realistic, Edgaard. You have nothing. No army, few weapons and no escape come dawn!

EDGAARD

On that I agree, Sir Thomas—I have nothing and, therefore, nothing to lose.

SIR THOMAS

Then, for the sake of the Island of Delberry Cue surrender, now, Edgaard. Declare yourself to the cardinal and surrender!

BISHOP

Embrace the cardinal’s goodwill and kiss his robe while you still have a chance, for on the morrow, you will be attacked and destroyed; your few remaining followers either put to the sword or enslaved. Choose surrender and, by my word, they live!

SIR THOMAS

Heed the bishop’s good counsel, Edgaard! Listen!

EDGAARD

Listen? One needs an ear to listen, and you seem to listen not, Sir Thomas! Therefore, I request you surrender your ear!

(Edgaard draws a sword and cuts off Sir Thomas’ ear)

SIR THOMAS

(screams) You....fool! You’ve cut off my ear!

EDGAARD But a portion of your head, Sir Thomas, and you were not using it to listen. Be grateful I do not take more.

SIR THOMAS

(anger, pain) Do you mean to add to your treachery and kill us now?

EDGAARD

Oh, no, no, no, not now. You are emissaries of the cardinal.

BISHOP

(terrified) Emissaries you have attacked without cause!

SIR THOMAS

You have taken my ear!

EDGAARD

You may have it back. Now that I have your attention, I have no further need of it. You do listen well, now, I trust?

SIR THOMAS

I fear we have no more counsel this night. The cardinal awaits your reply.

(Edgaard walks about, musing)

EDGAARD

But how to phrase my reply. That requires some thought.

SIR THOMAS

Your reply is written upon my bloodied head!

EDGAARD

Well said, Baron. Here, take this cloth and staunch the bleeding.

SIR THOMAS

I take nothing from you!

(Calls) You there, Ellis! Bring my horse!

THANE ELLIS

Horse, Sir Thomas?

SIR THOMAS

Yes, you twit, my horse. Where have you taken my horse?

EDGAARD

I have better use of your mounts; my forces have gone hungry these many days....

(OS: horse scream).

EDGAARD (CONT’D)

Fresh meat will strengthen them before battle—do thank the cardinal for his generosity.

BISHOP This is unspeakable!

EDGAARD

Then, speak not of it until you are safely back within the folds of the cardinal’s robe. Until, then, gentlemen, walk gently, and lift your skirts, Bishop, the road is deep. As for us...we shall dine on the cardinal’s charity. And on the morrow I shall hold the cardinal’s skull in my hands!

(sfx: thunder)

SIR THOMAS

Come, Bishop. To treat with mad tyrants is to flirt with insanity itself.

EDGAARD

Mark thine own words, Sir Thomas. For on the morrow, thou, also, shall wish for insanity! Now, go and bid the cardinal...sweet dreams...sweet dreams.

(exit Thomas and Bishop)

BISHOP (OS Calls)

May the gods have mercy on your retched soul, Edgaard!

EDGAARD

The gods no longer have anything for me, Bishop, Unless they know how to draw a bow or swing an ax. But I’ll mention your good intentions nonetheless. Farewell, dying men. Farewell until the dawn.

(thunder)

(Music)

End Act I, scene 2

Stay tuned for

Black Knight of the Soul by Paul Berge, Act I, scene 3…etc.

On a muggy afternoon in 1960 a man stepped off the commuter train from New York City onto the station platform in Westwood, New Jersey. Nobody there knew his name; and no one paid him any mind. He looked like all the other men stepping off the commuter train that day. To the world he was just another dad home from work.

Like hundreds of other dads arriving home from the city, his white shirt stuck to his skin; his hat was pushed back on his head. His right hand carried a briefcase, his left a suit jacket. In a mob of other dads, he trudged toward the parking lot where his station wagon had been baking in the sun all day—the windows rolled up. Like the other dads he had one thought in his head—beer.

Only, on this day, this one man’s thoughts pushed beyond the pilsner glass with foam running down the side, and he stopped to stare at all the other sweating, miserable, glassy-eyed dads flopping into station wagons and swearing at the blistering vinyl seats. And in that moment, as the Erie Lackawanna train pulled away from the station, giving one long blast from the horn, this man decided that Westwood needed a big municipal swimming pool, and thus was born the Westwood Pool Club.

This man, whose name no one remembers, worked tirelessly for months and then years. He attended town council meetings, met with planners and raised money. He formed a board of trustees, but he never took a seat on it. Everything he did was in the background, in the shadows.

He gave the town an idea and set the machinery in motion, only stepping in now and then to unstick the gears when they occasionally jammed. In New Jersey, the gears often get stuck until someone applies the grease to the right palms.

Eventually, the land was bought—ten acres behind the warehouses on the east side of town. Bulldozers knocked down most of the trees. Cement trucks arrived in convoys like army trucks shuttling ammunition to the front.

For weeks, Artie Azzetti and I would ride our bikes out to the construction site and check the progress. We watched them gouge out the earth and pour the concrete. We watched the painters walking through the empty pool spraying blue paint, then, white stripes where swimming lanes would be.

“Hey, look,” Artie said. “Here come the diving boards.”

“What do you think they’re made out of?”

“Gotta be made out of rubber so they can bend and not break.”

“How big do you think the high-dive is?”

“Gotta be at least fifty feet up.”

“I hear you gotta be in the eighth grade before you’re allowed to go on the high-dive.”

“Nah,” Artie said. “All you gotta be is in the fifth grade, but you gotta wear a jock strap.”

“How they gonna know if you got one on?”

“The lifeguards are gonna do spot checks.”

As the days grew longer, and summer approached, the empty pool became a mirage, this distant hope of watery salvation. By early May, the landscapers arrived and laid the sod, instantly converting the mud slopes into green. Patio tables with umbrella stands sprouted like giant mushrooms. It looked like a stage was being set, and any day the actors would arrive. Only, we knew we were the actors. And just like actors, we envisioned the whole stage would be to ourselves.

Opening day finally arrived, Memorial Day weekend. A week before they filled the pool. Half the town showed up to watch the water level slowly rise.

“Think it’ll hold?”

“Doubt it; they didn’t let the concrete cure long enough.”

“You ain’t kiddin’; did you see who they got to pour the concrete? Gabrittzi brothers, for crying out loud.”

“Gabrittzi? Antny Gabrittzi? You kiddin’? He couldn’t pour cake batter let alone concrete for somethin’ this size...”

But the water level kept rising, and the walls held, until the water lapped at the edges and stretched before us that Sunday afternoon at 2 pm—after everyone had been to mass—was a T-shaped sea of sparkling blue water.

Representatives of the three major religious groups in town offered their blessings on the waters. Mayor LaFredo gave a dull speech about civic pride. And, finally, he announced: “I now declare the Westwood Memorial Swimming Pool open.”

LaFredo’s original suggestion was he’d smash a bottle of champagne across the high-dive rail and then do the first cannonball into the water. The city council liked the idea until some janitor asked who’d clean up the glass. So instead, LaFredo waved vaguely at the water, perhaps expecting it to part and then cut a ribbon made of knotted-together beach towels, which proved surprisingly tough to cut.

It was like the Oklahoma Land Rush. Everyone ran across the fresh sod, staking out little patches of earth with beach towels. The more aggressive ones grabbed the patio tables, threw down their coolers, popped open umbrellas and switched on portable radios where Roy Orbeson sang Pretty Woman as Mrs. Palsnik, who was anything but, screamed at her husband, Ed, to “Run back to the car and get the Coppertone. I forgot the Coppertone; it’s on the dashboard. And get my cigarettes, too. See if you can find an ashtray. How comes they don’t got no ashtrays on these tables?”

Ed, dressed in cranberry Bermuda shorts and white terrycloth shirt, black socks and sandals shuffled back through the gate, looking as though his whole life was one long errand for Mrs. Palsnik. Years later Ed Palsnik was hauled off to prison for shooting Mrs. Palsnik. Everyone felt sorry for Ed, because she didn’t die and insisted upon visiting him in Rahway Prison.

Artie and I surged with the crowd and followed the men into a locker room that smelled of fresh paint, chlorine and disinfectant. Three minutes later we were back in the sunlight with visions of swimming long laps across an empty pool or making swan dives from the high board. Unfortunately, reality had beat us to the water’s edge, and we pressed our way through the hordes until we overlooked what had once been a vast expanse of blue sea but was, now, a boiling cauldron of screaming humanity.

“It’s crowded,” Artie said and looked for a place to dive into the water.

A whistle blew, practically in my ear.

We turned.

Just above us a lifeguard, with a white painted nose, shouted, “Hey, kid, don’t even think about diving in this section; you do and I’ll bench ya!”

Lifeguards were like nuns. They made up their own rules and could dish out punishment with a blow of the whistle and, “Hey, you, outa the water; twenty minutes on the bench.”

Getting benched was like getting detention. If you got benched more than three times in a season it went on your permanent record. I lived in constant fear of getting anything on my permanent record.

Artie glowered and stepped off the edge into the churning waters. He disappeared and resurfaced between a couple of girls in flower bathing caps who were just bouncing in place with their hands over their heads.

I sat on the pool’s edge and slipped into the water.

It was cold. Someone knocked against me. Someone did a cannonball off the high dive and water gushed as though a mortar round had exploded.

Someone tried a swan dive and belly-flopped, instead, with a stinging slap. And somewhere a whistle blew.

The pool was grotesquely over-crowed, but we were from New Jersey, so we accepted that.

I found Artie, and he shoved my head under water, and I popped back through the surface and lunged toward him only to land flesh-against-wet-sagging-flesh with Mrs. Palsnik who—like a rhinoceros too long in the sun—had slipped into the watering hole to cool off.

I remember the experience as one of massive softness followed by a great deal of screaming as she slapped me away only to plow into a pack of 7th graders who were playing U-boat Patrol, an underwater game, wherein the object is to submerge as a pack and sneak up on unsuspecting swimmers to pull down their trunks. This was an age before girls wore two-piece bathing suits, so they were relatively safe.

One of the packs must have tried to torpedo Mrs. Palsnik, because she was pounding the waters with depth charges while screaming, “Ed! Call the manager! Call the manager!” Ed pretended not to hear her from behind his Wall Street Journal.

That first day of the Westwood Pool Club seemed to last forever. The sun was brilliant and moved slowly across the sky. The Good Humor ice cream man arrived and made the first of many fortunes selling ice cream in the parking lot.

And Artie Azzetti and I swam until our bodies were exhausted and our skin was burned to pink.

By late afternoon, the crowd was thinning. Barbecue sets were lit, and that delicious aroma of summer—a mixture of chlorine, lighter fluid and scorched animals on the grill drifted across the water.

I was in the water trying to balance on the lane ropes, while Artie sat on the edge of the pool redirecting a water jet, so it sprayed onto Mary Jane Berings who sat in a deck chair complaining, “Artie, cut it out; Artie, cut it out…” When, right about then, we first heard it—a sound that only exists around swimming pools: “Marco (pause) Polo.” A call and response from two unseen loons.

I turned.

“Marco (pause) Polo.”

I looked around.

“Marco (pause) Polo.”

Artie stopped bothering Mary Jane and slipped into the pool like a crocodile sensing an intruder.

“Marco (pause) Polo.”

“Hey, Artie, what is that?”

“I don’t know. Where’d it come from?”

We looked around.

“Marco (pause) Polo.”

Artie dove underwater and swam toward the deep end and resurfaced.

“Marco (pause) Polo.”

His head snapped around, and he swam to his right. I swam toward the other end of the pool.

“Marco (pause) Polo.”

Where was that coming from? I looked toward the lifeguard who stared into the sunset glare on the water, his whistle poised on his lips, ready to blare the instant he discovered the source of that odious phrase.

“Marco (pause) Polo.”

Artie and I patrolled that entire pool from one end to the other and never found the source.

What did it mean? Who was doing that? I shivered and swam toward the wall and climbed up the ladder. Just as I was about to pull my left foot from the water, I heard it, again, far in the distance, “Marco (pause) Polo.”

I turned, but no one was there, just empty pool reflecting the late afternoon sunlight.

Artie followed me out of the water, and we sat on a bench dripping and feeling good about swimming, good about summer arriving and good about being hungry.

The lifeguards blew their whistles, and the last few swimmers left the pool. Artie and I walked up the hill toward the locker room. Mrs. Azzetti drove into the parking lot. Artie called through the fence, “Be right there, Mom!” Then we pulled our jeans over our wet bathing suits and sneakers over bare feet and walked out the gate.

Before we climbed into the car, I looked back at the Westwood Memorial Pool, the water now empty and still as a single lifeguard climbed the ladder of the high dive. He was about to about to dive alone into the sunset waters, when Mrs. Azzetti put the car in gear and pulled away.

I couldn’t see the dive.

And the other thing I couldn’t see was a lone figure with his hat pushed back on his head, a briefcase in one hand and suit jacket in the other—the man who had stepped off that train two years before and decided Westwood should have a swimming pool. His dream had come true, and he turned away and moved on to the next town.

And who was that man?

“Marco (pause) Polo.”

####

Age 18, Labor Day, 1972—three weeks before I reported for Army basic training at Fort Dix, NJ, I was driving my VW bug along Kinderkamack Road in Oradell, NJ from my home in Westwood, NJ—why is irrelevant; everything at this point in my young life was irrelevant—when a white cat darted from the curb and was smacked by a car heading opposite to my direction. Its body spun several turns on the asphalt, and the offending car didn’t stop. Perhaps the driver didn’t know.

I stopped. As did another car behind mine. Others merely avoided the white body in the busy two-lane.

I removed an old beach towel from my car, shook out empty beer cans and lifted the warm but unresponsive cat from the pavement, while the other guy waved cars around us. At the road’s edge we stared at the white cat, which was alive but immobilized with blood around its face and ears, its breathing was shallow.

“I’m a cat lover,” the other guy said. He’d always be ‘the other guy’ in my memory. Then: “I might have a hammer in my car…we should put it out of its misery,” and he mimed hitting the cat’s head with the hammer. The worst Beatles song ever, “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” popped to mind. I might’ve even hummed a bar. I hesitated and didn’t want to kill this stray cat, even if it was the humane thing to do.

I don’t recall if I said, “No,” as I lifted the cat into my VW and — on a holiday weekend when everything was closed — drove off to find a veterinarian who could less violently euthanize the stray cat. I was miserable. Three weeks from the Army, stressed about possibly going to war in Vietnam, and I was worried about a half-dead stray cat on a New Jersey road.

I found a vet clinic and pulled into the parking lot between two cars. The front door was unlocked, and ignoring the CLOSED sign, I pushed inside and called, “Anyone here?” A veterinarian, a man maybe age 35, appeared from the back and said, “We’re closed.” Pointed at the sign. Didn’t matter. I explained the hit-by-car and asked him to “put the stray cat down. “It’s not mine,” I added but offered to pay. The doctor pursed his lips and said, “Leave it.” And he returned to another holiday emergency he’d been attending before I’d arrived.

I left.

Next day, Tuesday, I called the clinic to ask about the stray cat and to arrange to pay the bill. The receptionist said, “You can pick him up.”

I stuttered, “It’s alive?”

“Yes. That’ll be thirty-five dollars.” And “What’s the cat’s name?”

“I dunno.”

“Ayedunno?”

“No, I don’t know the name. It’s a stray,” I said and realized I’d adopted a cat and was out thirty-five bucks. My starting pay as an E-1 Army private would be $178 per month, before taxes. I was about to lose a fifth of my first month’s take-home on a damn cat.

Later, I drove to the clinic, paid for the very healthy stray cat, now named, Stray, because that’s what the vet had scribbled on its invoice, then I drove home to Westwood, where my parents—already dumfounded that I’d joined the Army during “Nixon’s stupid war” — now had a young, healthy, white cat named Stray to take my place as I headed for basic training and gods knew what else.

The Army took me several places — not Vietnam—during my three-year stint, and I never returned to live in my hometown, but Stray, the cat, lived a long life at 191 Lexington Avenue, Westwood, New Jersey without getting hit again by a car. He was never really my cat, and I have no idea if anyone in Oradell, NJ, went looking for him that Labor Day, 1972. Also, I never knew what happened to ‘the other guy.’

Life’s occasionally like that. A cat finds you, and everything else is beyond your control.

©2026, Paul Berge

Stray. Photo by Paul Berge ©1975, the year I returned home after leaving the Army. Stray live many years without me. And, yes, the negative could’ve used a dusting off

When Kathy and I bought our Iowa home 42 years ago it came stocked with piles of old country music magazines, sheet music, and KMA Grand Ole Opry swag from 1949 through the 1950s. Most are long since recycled, but –for reasons forgotten– I saved a boxful of musty gems (see photos), which I recently found while cleaning my office, something I accomplish every four decades, whether it needs it or not. I have no appreciation for these items and offer them to anyone willing to take and store them in their house...or your house. Price: Free. You arrange shipment. The ghosts of Tex Ritter and Minnie Pearl will thank you. As will I. Send a message if interested. Send Minnie if she’s been hiding in your attic. Thank you.

I’m a cat lover; always have been.

Age 18, Labor Day, 1972—three weeks before I reported for basic training (Army) at Fort Dix, NJ, I was driving my VW bug along Kinderkamack Road in Oradell, NJ from my home in Westwood, NJ—why is irrelevant; everything at this point in my young life was irrelevant—when a white cat darted from the curb, and in horror I watched it get smacked by a car heading opposite to my direction. Its body spun twice on the asphalt, and the offending car didn’t stop.

I stopped. As did another car. Others merely avoided the still white body in the busy two-lane.

I removed an old beach towel from my car and lifted the warm but unresponsive cat from the pavement, while the other guy waved cars around us. At the curb we both stared at the white cat which was alive but unmoving; blood around its face, breathing was shallow. “I’m a cat lover,” he said,” in near panic. “I might have a hammer in my car…we should put it out of its misery” and mimed hitting the cat’s head with the hammer. My own misery was peaking. I didn’t want to kill this stray cat, even if it was the humane thing to do.

I don’t recall if I said, “No,” but lifted the cat into my VW and — on a holiday when everything was closed — drove off to find a veterinarian who could humanely, and less violently, euthanize the stray cat. I was miserable. Three weeks from the Army, stressed about possibly going to war in Vietnam, and I was worried about a half-dead stray cat in a VW on a New Jersey road.

It took a while, but I found a vet clinic and pulled into the parking lot holding two cars. The front door was unlocked, and ignoring the CLOSED sign, I pushed inside and called, “Anyone here?” A veterinarian, a man maybe aged thirty-five, appeared from the back and said, “We’re closed.” Didn’t matter. I explained the hit-by-car and asked him to “put the stray cat down. “It’s not mine,” I added but offered to pay. The doctor pursed his lips and said, “Leave it.” And he returned to another holiday emergency he’d been attending before I’d arrived.

I left.

Next day, Tuesday, I called the clinic to ask about the stray cat and to arrange to pay the bill. The receptionist said, “You can pick him up.”

I replied in mild shock, “It’s alive?”

“Yes. That’ll be thirty-five dollars.” And “What’s the cat’s name?”

“It’s a stray,” I stammered and knew I’d adopted a cat and was out thirty-five bucks.

Later, I returned to the clinic, paid for the very healthy stray cat, now named, Stray, and drove home to Westwood, where my parents—already dumfounded that I’d joined the Army instead of going to college during “Nixon’s stupid war” — now had a young, healthy, white cat named Stray to take my place as I headed for basic training and the gods knew what.

The Army took me several places — not Vietnam—during my thee year stint, but Stray, the cat, lived a long life at 191 Lexington Avenue, Westwood, New Jersey. He was never really my cat, and I have no idea if anyone in Oradell, NJ, went looking for him that Labor Day, 1972.

Life’s occasionally like that. A cat finds you, and everything else is beyond your control.

©2026, Paul Berge

Nine years ago, Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC released the 30^th Anniversary Edition of Bootleg Skies. I know! I wasn’t invited to the publisher’s Manhattan (Kansas) party, either, but I did snag a hardbound promotional copy of the novel that Dorothy Parker dubbed, “That book on the coffee table.” And she should know. Except she died long before it was first published by Performance Publications (Joseph Pundzak, publisher, friend, and chief pilot), and therefore her review should be viewed with suspicion. The book, though, survives. Not on a coffee table but high on a shelf in my office, placed horizontally so the cats can sleep on it.

Breakfast occurs late in my mornings, usually around noon, a time others might assign to lunch. I’ve never been a fan of that meal, so breakfast it is at noon. And today’s meal consists of one egg atop fried – in olive oil – onions and green peppers, liberally doused with chia seed, freshly ground black pepper, plain Greek yogurt (Greeks are anything but plain so it was tough finding that), a corn tortilla, and chopped lettuce with sunflower seeds and balsamic vinegar. I usually add turmeric, because you’re supposed to for memory health, but today I forgot. I also like to add a healthy spritz of Tapatio Salsa sauce. But we were out, so I tossed in a slug of Farmers Bootleg Salsa, made in Iowa, where salsa was discovered in 1804 by Lewis and/or Clark (Jerry Lewis and Roy Clark).

Finding good salsa in Iowa isn’t easy. Likewise good bread, especially kosher seeded rye. Kathy and I have lived in Iowa for 41 years and recently visited our daughter and husband in the Hudson Valley, New York where rye bread is understood and weak imitations are put on a flatbed to the Midwest. The Iowa bakers of the barely rye toast illustrated here won’t be named, because it was disappointing, but they don’t know any better. The salsa, though, was quite good. Could’ve been chunkier and definitely spicier. The store only offered Mild and Medium grades.

The novel, Bootleg Skies, is—I believe—about smuggling illegal Canadian whisky into the Midwest in 1929 during Prohibition. Based on true events that I inflated way beyond reality, it was a fun book to write, and I hope one day to have equal fun reading it. If it’s been made into a movie, I’ve yet to see it. All this segues to a proposal for enterprising modern-day gangsters to use Bootleg Skies as a template, not to smuggle booze but, instead, real New York Jewish rye bread into the caraway-starved Midwest. There’s money to be made, and I’d be happy to serve as an advisor on the Netflix series.

So, until then, enjoy….