Khing and the Magic of Black and White: Book Two Ash Makes War

By William A. Patrick III

“Mr. Ash,” began the labcoat, “this story of yours is fascinating! I think it offers great insights into addiction. Does alcoholism run in your family?”
“My Granddad died in the gutter, they say,” Ash said.
“Also, another good definition is continued use in the face of adversity. Any DUI’s in your past, after which you still drank?”
“Two,” said Ash.
“Have you ever sworn off booze forever, only to go back in an a week, a day or even an hour?” asked the coat.
“Yes,” said Ash.
“Another is personality change, Bob’s different when he drinks, you certainly have that, correct? You not only are different, but you change worlds, you even change beings, correct?”
“No. There’s just a connection.”
“Another is the presence of a strong sense of denial, All I’m doing is having a good time, they say, and that is after the person consumes an entire bottle of alcohol and blacks out.” The labcoat said. “All are good definitions of alcoholism or addiction.”
“Can I get more meds...”
“But this story of yours, which I want you to continue, in it’s entirety, seems to explain another side of addiction,” said the coat. “This story draws the listener a different picture. It draws a picture of addiction as it pertains to the soul, as it pertains to our mortal, unfed, hungry, powerless soul, that the world today fails to satiate. This story tries to explain addiction as it resides in the heart. Would you agree with that, Mr. Ash?” Ash just sighed.
“Mr. Ash?” The coat pulled out a pad and began to scribble. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you the medication, but in return, you come every day and tell me more of the story, the whole thing-everything, the parts where you are here, in the machines land, and there, in the magic world. You tell me about the wizard, the war and the princess. You tell me about your alter ego, the other you, the one with the thirst for blood there in the land of knights. OK? Deal?” asked the coat.
“Deal,” Ash said.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William A. Patrick III
• Release date: Jun 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310268571

William A. Patrick III

William A. Patrick III resides in Tustin, CA, and travels with Linder.

Book preview

Khing

Book Two: Ash makes War

by William A. Patrick III

Copyright © 2002 by William A. Patrick III

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction; any similarities between actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

The others had heard the pop also and ran to the pair. Gwere and Erow grabbed Ash, while Gractah jumped between the two men.

Put those away, Sweetie, there’s nobody here you need to kill, breathed Mara into Ash’s ear. Relax… Relax… Relax… she said over and over. Linder moved in front of Ash, stretched out her arms, and wrapped her fingers around his blades. Blood immediately began to run down the steel.

Ash, don’t use them on us or Eye… she said. Everybody froze. The only sound was the chirp of some wayward bird fluttering around them.

Linder, slowly open your hands, Ash said, spread them open, don’t let them drag on the metal.

The whole incident lasted only a few seconds, but that was enough time to draw a crowd. The king’s men had closed around them and it seemed the whole camp was awake and saw the show. As Linder released the blades, the others drew back from Ash. He stood for a moment, as if he didn’t comprehend the situation, then he sheathed the swords and reached for Linder. With Linder’s hands in his own, he studied her wounds. They were cut, but the cuts were not deep. Breathing a collective sigh of relief, the others in the party tended to her hands, and gathered around the fire, talking in low voices.

Isuair sat by the fire and watched Ash. Ash sat by the fire and watched Isuair. The old man just sat and stared, not blinking, not moving, fixed on the him, and Ash, in return, stared back at the old man. As they stared, a messenger from the king arrived.

His Majesty requires your service, he said to Isuair.

Did I not say to tread carefully around Isuair? whispered Gwere after the wizard departed. Pick your fights, Ash, and were I you, I would pick them only with the enemy. They are plentiful enough! Gwere said. The captain waited by the fire for a moment and then moved on, saying he needed a walk. Gwere was angry, but Ash only stared into the fire. His mind raced while he watched the branches pop and burn. He had seen the wizard’s magic. Of course the wizard kept his magic quiet, thought Ash. If he himself could master a trick like that, it could mean real power. Ash had seen what the wizard had done, and more importantly, how he did it.

Ash thought the blades gave the holder some sort of ability to swiftly absorb or translate languages. During his travels among the many peoples of the land, it took him only a short while to master any tongue. What he hadn’t known was that the magic practiced by the wizard was also a language. He heard it, and though it was never spoken, it filled the air just the same. He saw the wizard stop the physical space around them from moving, which prevented Ash from moving in that space, effectively freezing him. Then he saw the wizard close the space tight around him, and that started him shaking. The black eyes, black skin and fangs seemed to be some sort of parlor trick, probably designed to make the wizard seem more daunting.

And, the wizard performed the whole show by simply thinking a few phrases in a language that Ash had heard before. He had heard it in the castle, the one he referred to as; The Castle of No Escape. But there he picked up only a few of the words. This time it was different. He had picked up the line Isuair spoke to create the freeze effect. He missed the other six or so lines of the spell, but he was sure about the one.

Ash looked around the fire, and watched the others as they moved around the camp. Gwere was standing next to Linder, talking quietly with his fair-haired friend. Rehoak, Mara and Erow were on the other side of the fire, glancing furtively at Ash, and Gractah was coming down a new path toward them. He had fetched water from the king’s men, and was walking toward the group. When Ash spoke the line, in his head, nothing happened. Gractah kept walking. When Ash tried again, he shouted the line in his head like a command, and this time something happened. Gractah tripped. Ash had frozen the air by his friend’s foot. The trick was not just the line, but how you said it. Almost falling, Gractah needed help from Gwere to stay upright. Gractah, mystified at the invisible root that caught his foot, stood, gazing around, frowning for a long moment, while Gwere chuckled at his side.

Gwere made coffee, and cups were passed. The coffee was the sweetest Ash had ever tasted. As he sipped the brew, Ash said the line over and over in his head until he was sure he wouldn’t forget it. But he said it quietly, for there was no need to send everyone tripping over invisible rocks. Isuair had done something else, something that created an impossibly thin wall between himself and the Ash, and Ash hoped he could find out what that line was. A small grin replaced Ash’s usually omnipresent scowl. If he were to master any of this magic, he thought, as he poked a stick into the fire, the battles could become really interesting.

During its heyday, Orange County had been an agricultural mecca. Immigrant farmers found the sunny climate perfect for citrus, strawberry, and avocado crops. The house on Seventeenth Street stuck out from the rest of the buildings on the block. To Ash it looked like an old mansion, the kind they used in haunted-house movies. It was one of the oldest houses in the city. Originally a farmhouse sitting alone among the orchards that once dominated the county, it now sat nestled between condominiums, apartment buildings and track homes, in a city Ash knew well. And all Ash needed to do was to get out of the house.

He knew that after this brief respite from booze that his first high would be electrifying. It would be magic. As his sober time mounted, the draw of his old life grew stronger with every day that passed. Close by was one of Ash’s spots, the dumpster alcoves behind the dime store Sav-a-Basket. But getting there would be a problem.

The staff seemed to already know that some of its occupants would rather be somewhere else. The windows were either barred or sealed shut. The rules stated that ‘members’ were to retire to their rooms by 7-pm, and all outside activities would be supervised. The day would be filled with AA meetings, group and individual counseling, and ‘house events,’ which included everything from picnics to maintenance and cleaning chores. And that was on top of the regular chores of dishes, housecleaning and lawn care.

Touring the building with his new friend Ed Shobe, Ash found the house was designed to be something of a minimum-security prison. But Ed told him that he would be happy there. If Ash got lost, Ed told him, he would; ‘Shobe him the way.’

Walking the long corridors of the creaky house with his new friend, Ash imagined mowing the lawn, getting to the edge of the grass, and bolting. He imagined crawling out a small attic window and climbing down a tall tree to freedom. He would overpower a supervisor, or creep down the halls in the dead of night and crawl out a vent. But as it turned out, his escape was much easier, almost as if it was meant to be.

He’s here! Death and despair are your lords now! He’s here! The devil, the Black Book worshiper is in the house! He who knows the magic of death walks among us! He is here! It was the other bum. The same geezer that murmured all the way to the mental hospital was now in the house, raging like a madman. It seemed a strange coincidence to Ash that the man had found his way to the same house, but Ash only cared that the whole house had become focused on their new, disruptive arrival, and the opportunity that created. The attendants approached the man with smiles and open hands, and the house staff followed close behind, completely encircling the man.

Let’s talk about this in Ed’s office… shall we Bill? said one of the men. The attendants made eye contact with each other, and on signal, rushed the man. In the confusion, Ash walked out the front door, made his way down the cement walkway and hopped over a chest-high iron gate.

After walking three blocks he began to run. After his brief run he changed directions. He made it to a long, straight street where he could see cars from afar, and which supplied ample cover for him to hide if one happened by. At the end of the street, Ash knew, was a supermarket; ‘Save-Away.’ Dressed in the ‘gift’ clothes he had just been given in the house, Ash walked in, and at the booze section, slid a bottle of gin under his light jacket. He walked past a market employee with his coat bulging and continued on. The employee turned as Ash passed, but after taking a few steps, the man tripped. Ash looked back as the man fell to the ground. Others came to his aid, but Ash just moved through the self-sliding front doors. He was not even nervous about shoplifting. This, he felt, strolling down the boulevard, was preordained. Standing at a deserted bus stop, Ash broke the seal of the bottle and took three long gulps. It was time to get moving again.

We move. We move. Muster the army! called the officers throughout the camp. They were off to the castle. Ash was still trying to finish his breakfast when Mara approached. She looked at him like she knew he was up to something, but couldn’t figure out what. Ash was packing and paused to watch her prowl around him. She paced a few steps and then took a seat close by. Staring into his eyes she began to inch near. He just stared back, perplexed and electrified by her attention. Abruptly, she grabbed his arm. Mara’s face always held a hard stare and a subtle scowl, and this moment was no different, but on occasion she would let her guard down and Ash would glimpse a soft pout, below eyes of pure mischief. This woman truly had gifts, he thought.

How’s the spy business? Ash asked. It was all the cheek he could muster. He had the last part of a stale biscuit in his mouth, and crumbs sprayed as he spoke. Mara, releasing his arm, stared at him, and responded only by shouldering her pack. With one last, long look back, she moved on with the others.

That… was very strange… said Ash to the air. The whole company was moving, and Ash saw that all but the last stragglers were already walking. He gathered his stuff and ran to catch the main body of the army. He walked among the king’s men, who seemed to ignore him. But Ash noticed a lot of whispering as they walked, and he noticed glances, faces that would turn away if he looked in their direction.

Remembering the terrain, which he had been through many times, Ash knew they could reach the castle just after nightfall if they kept moving. Ash surveyed the area. The army created quite a spectacle. The king, with Isuair by his side, was mounted on a majestic beast in full regalia. His Majesty was fully adorned with crown, scepter, and robes. Another ten or so mounted riders carrying the banners of the Royal house shadowed the king. Behind them rode the Elite Mounted Guard, huge, heavily armed knights, in neat rows, six deep, twelve abreast, all dressed in black. The rest of the party, Gwere, Erow, Rehoak, Linder, Gractah, and Mara followed behind the knight’s chargers. In front, pacing the party were protectors and scouts. Bringing up the rear was the rest of the king’s army, and Ash.

He looked back and saw that the army stretched for miles into the hills behind them. As he walked, Ash tripped a few of the king’s men, just to be sure he had the words right. After a fourth man did the embarrassing stumble, Ash contemplated changing the line, to see if more could be done than just a simple trip. As he contemplated this, he caught the wizard eyeing him. It was more than just eyeing, it was a cold, knowing, stare. The wizard had twisted in his saddle, and was studying Ash as he walked. Ash smiled and waved with sarcastic enthusiasm, and ended his experimentation with the spells. At least for the moment, he thought, since it seemed the old buzzard had pick it up on his radar.

They hadn’t gone far, when Isuair drifted back to the spot where Ash marched. The wizard had the reins of a rider-less horse in his hand, and motioned for Ash to mount the charger. Spells that conjure up horses would come in handy, too, thought Ash, as he mounted. Of course, the beast wriggled and pranced, ignoring Ash’s direction. Being on horseback beat walking, but he never really like riding much, and now he was even less comfortable under the heavy gaze of the wizard. The two rode apart from the army, and talked.

Care to revise our deal? said the wizard.

Teach me how to create an invisible wall around myself, teach me how to bring objects through the air, and also how to repel objects, said Ash. Eye, teach me real power. Teach me how to ki… began Ash. He stopped in mid-sentence, and then began anew, trying something new on the wizard; a smile. I will do your… bidding, as long as I am your student, Ash said. But the wizard just laughed.

There is so much more to those tricks than just memorizing the lines. And you seem much too dangerous already. We need to start slow. We need to build a relationship, son, based on mutual trust. Until then, I’ll need this back. As he said this, the wizard gripped Ash’s arm. The blades didn’t pop, so Ash didn’t react. It was the Mara encounter all over again. After an awkward moment, the wizard let go, smiled, and trotted to the front, taking his place once again next to the king. Ash saw the king and Isuair exchange words, and the king glanced back at Ash. Ash waved again. Ash could have sworn he saw a trace of a smirk on Isuair’s face when he, too, looked back. Just for fun, the wizard’s horse could stumble a bit, Ash thought.

It was then that he noticed it was gone. The line he had memorized was not there. He tried to remember it by association, tried to remember what it sounded like, tried to sound it out. He thought of something else and then tried again to remember. He tried to think of the sound, feel or mechanics of the line. Nothing came. He searched his mind, but it was gone. The wizard had stolen it back as quickly as he had given it.

Ash had known magic for about an hour. Feeling the rage within him begin to boil, he tried to focus on calming his being. Ash felt extremely uneasy about the wizard. In a day, he learned that the old man could, without noticeable effort, overpower his enemies, freeze them, turn himself into a black-eyed monster, divine his foe’s thoughts and then erase those thoughts. But Ash forced himself to relax. Either he would remember the spell or he would be taught it again. Magic seemed prevalent in the land. As he rocked along atop his charger, his eyes followed the backs of the knights and he wondered about the magic. The spells did seem to work just by memorizing them. All he would need was a couple of powerful tricks to use now and then. He was sure he could pick something up. If not, Ash thought, anger welling up inside him, he’ll just have another talk with the wizard. Magic or not, Ash would bet the blades against anything.

As he rode, Ash noticed a standard bearer walking on foot. Laboriously dragging his banner, the man stomped along with a fury in his eyes that made Ash laugh. Spurring on the charger, Ash trotted past the bearer, pulled the horse to a stop and dismounted. The soldier actually hugged him, to which Ash reciprocated by becoming stiff. He had an aversion to riding—horses seemed no more than moving bags of bones—and felt it was no sacrifice to relinquish the mount, but for hugging he had a genuine dislike. Nonetheless, un-reciprocated hug aside, the soldier seemed grateful.

As he walked with the rear-most soldiers, Ash noticed Isuair again watching him. Not knowing if he would understand or not, Ash raised his middle finger, drew it to his nose, and pretended to scratch an invisible itch, all while eyeing the wizard. This got a chuckle from the soldiers around him, and Ash noticed that the king himself laughed. Some things were universal, Ash thought, through a fog of familiar but foreign associations.

For the rest of the day he hung with the rank and file hoping to disappear. Though still morning, Ash was tired. Tired of trying to figure things out, tired of making a fool of himself, tired of being covered in blood, and just plain tired, tired.

Ash was tired. He was cold. He was shaking. He had pissed himself. Hard booze didn’t much care about body functions. Pushing the clammy Sav-a-Basket dumpster out of the alcove, Ash rose from his bed to find a big wet circle on the pile of clothes he had slept on. Smelly and woozy, Ash stood in the cold trying to collect his thoughts.

It was cold enough to see his breath. He tried to clear his mind while attempting to warm his hands by rubbing them together. But his mind was a blur. The last thing he remembered was the halfway house. He wasn’t even sure how he got to his old Sav-a-Basket spot. He wasn’t sure how he got any booze, nor did he know where his possessions, a large bundle of clothes, came from.

Ash tried to remember the hours after the halfway house. The only thing that came to him was that he learned something new. He remembered learning a magic trick somewhere, but one he could no longer recollect.

He stood scratching his head, between the dumpster and the dumpster’s alcove, when he spotted an employee of the department store coming toward him with empty boxes. Ash knew he had to get moving if he wanted to avoid spending the night in jail. It was likely the clerk was headed back to the store and straight to the phone. Rummaging through his stuff, Ash found a pair of jeans that were a size too small. He used a piece of rope as a belt and got the zipper half way up. He folded his coat over the top of them. Then he gathered his stuff and left the alley. He walked stiffly out into the street, trying to find his way in the early morning hours. He going to try to make it to a small park by the Santa Ana River bike trail, where there was a bathroom, and a bench where he wouldn’t be bothered, when he saw the cruiser.

Ash’s heart almost stopped when the cruiser pulled up behind him. It could be more than a vagrancy stop or a ticket for loitering; he had escaped from a court ordered halfway house and was a fugitive. But the cop never said a word about the escape. Instead he asked the regular vagrancy questions. As the officer questioned him, Ash’s eyes strayed to a dollar bill lying in the gutter. He often thought about his life, and where it could have been made to turn out different, how it could be changed so that at this very point in time, he would not be on Grand Avenue, in Santa Ana, on a busy boulevard, at 6:05 in the morning, talking to the police.

His mind drifted to the sixth grade, to a school in Nuremberg, Germany. In Germany, Ash and his parents had lived on an Army base, in barracks-like apartment buildings, in a little town that housed only servicemen. The army ran the schools. Ash remembered the math class he had in the fifth or sixth grade. He didn’t remember the teacher’s name, but he remembered the class. The teacher ran the class like a drill sergeant, with rigid order. To get the textbook, and actually learn the subject of math, you had to pass the test.

The Test of No Return, Ash called it. An overhead projector beamed fifty math problems onto a white screen. They were simple add and subtract problems; ten minus eight, nine plus fifteen, and they were projected in front of the class. To get the textbook, a student had to stand and answer all fifty problems correct in 120 seconds. Ash never got further than the first six. It just wasn’t possible to for a kid who wasn’t good at math, and who was terrified of, and repulsed by, all the others around him, to perform in public. After the first few weeks, the teacher divided the class into regular and remedial sections.

Those that never got passsed the test were put in the remedial section, with a remedial book. One day in this class, in the remedial section, Ash went to the drinking fountain and took a drink. He noticed a crisp one-dollar bill on the counter, next to the fountain. It was close enough to grab. He returned to his seat, and told his classmate about the dollar on the counter.

Get it! said the kid. Go back and grab it.

Okay, said Ash. After a nervous minute, he got up and returned to the fountain. Stealthily, he scooped up the bill as he took a pretend drink. Scooting back to the table, he handed the bill under the table to his classmate. They would split it after class. There seemed to be enough nerve in him to risk the grab with the support of his classmate, but on his own, he just didn’t have the guts. There was a good reason to get the bill. At a candy store off base, that money would buy four dollars of goods. The German stores had an exchange rate of four Deutschmarks for the US dollar. That meant a lot Gummy Bears and candy necklaces. But it was not to be. The teacher had put the dollar there to see what would happen to it. Part of the class, the students that had been in the same classroom earlier in the day for homeroom, had known about the ruse. At the end of class, the teacher stood up and made a speech.

We had a discussion, on honesty, in our homeroom today. The discussion revolved around whether your average classmate was honest or not. If your classmate found something valuable, just lying around, would he tell the class, so the rightful owner could come and reclaim it, or would he just steal it? Well, we have our answer today, at least concerning one student. Ash’s heart sank. His friend, who had been smiling so broadly just moments before, kicked him under the table and thrust the bill back into his hands. The teacher continued.

At lunch break, I want the guilty party to return the dollar he took off the counter by the workbench. We have the serial number, so I suggest it be returned. With his head down, Ash could not see if the teacher was staring at him as he spoke, but he would have bet the teacher was. He would have bet a dollar. At the end of the class, Ash returned the dollar to the teacher, thinking that maybe a crowd would have gathered by lunch.

Ash had said, I didn’t know it belonged to anybody, and left.

But the incident followed him around school for months and it took a transfer to the States, where he attended public school, for it to be forgotten. All during the rest of the year, his classmates asked if ‘he was the one.’ The subject was never brought up in class again, though the teacher did make a few more speeches on honesty during the rest of the year.

Ash, while answering the officer’s questions with slow deliberation, (it was best to make the police think you were a little mentally disabled), wondered if things like the math class shaped him in ways he was unable to change now. Probably not, he thought. He had gotten off with a warning. The cop told him to not camp in the city or urinate on any of its streets. Ash thought the main reason the cop let him go was the smell. If he were to be transported in the squad car, Ash guessed, it would take all day to get the smell out, maybe even longer. Special protector of the homeless—Super-odor, had come through for him again. Now, he just needed a place to regroup and think.

After the cop had gone, Ash picked up the wet dollar from the gutter and stuffed it in his pocket. After some wandering he found the park and the bathroom. The bathroom—a small, two room building, with facilities for the men on one side and the women on the other, would at least be a place to wash up. He could lay his clothes out to dry in the sun, and then try to find the bottle he had last night. He may even be able to bum some change from the cyclists passing by. They sometimes stopped to refill their water bottles at the restroom’s fountain.

The riders with the three-thousand-dollar bikes and all the promotional gear would probably give up some change for a down-and-out. Splashing water on his face, Ash saw that he indeed fit that bill. In the heavily scratched metal plate that served as a mirror for the little bathroom, the image that glared back at Ash was frightening. His face was spotty and his eyes were glassy. His hair was matted and kinked out in all directions. The hair that grew out of his face was not uniform enough to make a nice beard; the individual hairs grew too far apart and they stuck out in all directions. Instead, it just made him look like a crazy man. He supposed he was.

He returned to his stuff and laid out the wet pieces on a concrete bench. Then he found the bottle. Nearly half the liter bottle was still filled with the glorious magic elixir. He had walked off the chill in his bones from the previous night, escaped the cops, found sanctuary and a dollar, and had an ample supply of booze. Things were looking up. He gathered the rest of his stuff into a pile and threw himself against the wall on the sunny side of the bathroom. He started to slowly sip at the bottle. The warmth of the booze spread through him like fire, and his world began to change. Soon, Ash was well on his way to being drunk—and a morning drunk, nine in the morning to be exact, provided the most intense high one could ever experience. Waving his arms, sitting at the little bathroom, Ash began to speak. He was telling Linder about a nightmare he had. In his dream he was dying in a grotesque, gray, concrete world of machines. It was so horrible he began to scream.

Screaming broke the spell. Only coals burned in their pit but the watch-guards flung fuel on the fires to light the field. The reaction of the group to the pop was immediate—all stood, ready, weapons drawn. For a long moment nothing happened. Ash stood amid the group, blades out, shaking. His scream had pierced the night.

What happened next? Did you strike down your enemies in the machine land? Linder asked. She was just being polite. What Linder and the rest of the party really wanted to know, was what they should do if Ash were to wake, screaming in the middle of the night, with his hands full of the knives, again.

They never got their answer. With Ash, nightmares took on a whole new dimension. Who would stop him if he just went berserk, some whispered.

Nothing, I just woke up, Ash said. I was in that other world, as a man taken too much with drink and… then I was standing here, next to you, with the blades drawn, he said. Sheathing the knives, Ash felt a chill though the fire blazed close and he should not have been cold. The fact that he had been able to draw the blades itself was troubling. He should not