Hero Nation
by Christopher Sly gratefulseeker.com witches-rock.com
Copyright 2005 by Christopher Sly
This eNovel is licensed under a Creative Commons License
You must give the original author credit. You may not use this work for commercial purposes. You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. No liability is assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contain herein. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.
For my mother and her prayers for peace.
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Act I Departure
"O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man." The Taming of the Shrew, by William Shakespeare
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Chapter One – The Call to Adventure "This first stage of the mythological journey - which we have designated the "call to adventure" - signifies that destiny has summoned the hero and transferred his spiritual center of gravity from within the pale of his society to a zone unknown." The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell Present day I awake naked and shivering on a lonely mount, curled into the soft embrace of my mother's grave, surrounded by the barking of the hounds rising from the kennel of the king. With a swollen tongue I wet cracked lips. I blink eyes still scratchy from the smoking depths. "Once more, dear friends, into the breech." I sit unsteady beside a tilted jug. The first swallow is a challenge. Six more loosen tongue and limb, and I push erect with jug in tow. I stumble, almost falling, and catch myself in comic pose. "Thou art a fool who spills his seeds upon the barren soil of a selfish heart. Why play this role, this idiot's tale Yonder king has not spent a single beat beneath uneasy crown." I drink and blink, drink and blink. "But if you cut him, does it not spill a human's blood What iron maiden drove such wit into the passion fire Or was it our father, whose bruise I wore that fateful day when light first touched this newborn skin What fault or favor, to be the one that tragic follows, or he that blessed leads Who tied this knot which will not sever, and on which even patient fingers bleed " Blink. Drink.

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