Matt Posner's Blog: You've Been Schooled - Posts Tagged "school-of-the-ages"

Pleased to present a draft sample from School of the Ages 4: Simon Myth. This is from a chapter near the end. Simon is speaking, and his team is assembled in his grandmother's house in Mumbai (Bombay).


It was hours later when the doorbell rank. The naukar* admitted a small man in a tattered gray suit with a wilted flower in his boutonniere. He was about fifty and had wet brown eyes and pouty lips and was holding a cane made of rosewood with a bronze cap.

“That is him,” said Devi. “Bakshi, this useless excuse for a jaadugar*.”

“Useless?” Bakshi countered. “Madame, I protest. Things are difficult. They take time. With patience, we will be able to…”

“A refund,” my father said. “The full amount, minus one month’s fee as a courtesy. Write a check.”

“Absolutely not,” said Bholenath Bakshi. He wrung the ends of his stick. “There are no refunds from jaadu*. I have been paid for ceaseless efforts to…”

“To what?” Goldberry interrupted.

“My dear,” said Bakshi, lifting his cane which he shook like a wagging finger. “You must leave this matter to the…” He mouthed ‘experts’ but then he looked at her with broader recognition. “Oh, well,” he recovered, “I see I must acknowledge you as a junior colleague.”

“Oh, you see that, do you?” she pressed. “What else do you see?”

“I see that when you mature, young woman, you will understand better the true nature of…”

“Rubbish.”

Bakshi gripped his stick tightly. “In time, you will know the…”

“She knows the ten rimzas, the secret seals of the planets,” I said.

“All well and good,” Bakshi said, noticing with a glance that Rocco and Balaram were now standing behind him. “The ten rimza seals are useful in some conditions, but…”

“There’s only nine of them,” Rocco said into his ear.

“Keep your distance, boy!” Bakshi blurted. He raised his cane in a warning pose.

“Thanks,” Rocco said, and snatched it from his hand.

“Give her a refund,” I told Bakshi. “We offered you one month as a courtesy, even though you don’t deserve it.”

“You fake,” Balaram added.

Bakshi made a grab for his stick. Rocco, taller and sprier, easily evaded him.
“You have one more chance to accept these conditions,” I continued.

“There are no refunds for jaadu,” Bakshi insisted.

“You didn’t do any jaadu, yaar*,” Balaram said. “Right. You just took the money and spent it on what? Liquor? Gambling?”

“Give me that!” Bakshi snarled as he grabbed for his stick. “Do not test me, for I am Mahamayakar*, Mahaabhyosi*. I am Sarvajna, all-knowing! If you challenge me, you shall…”

“All-knowing,” said Rocco. “Okay. What’s my name?”

Bakshi thought about it. “Cretin,” he answered.

“Yep,” said Rocco. “He’s good. Mr. Moore, can I kick his ass?”




* naukar (Hindi): a house servant. pronounced like "knocker"
jaadugar (Hindi): magician, wizard.
jaadu (Hindi): magic
Mahamayakar (Sanskrit): A great wizard
Mahaabhyosi (Sanskrit): A great spiritual aspirant. Clumsily used, indicating what a phony he is.

Simon Myth update. Today I had some time to work. Here's what I did...

I typed up the end of Chapter 32, which was already drafted in my notebook. A few improvements.

I finished a first draft of Chapter 39. I don't like what I wrote, but I may change my mind when I get some distance.

I cancelled Chapter 40. The book's too long and my ideas for it are too vague. I can always do a short story another time with that material.

I added some material to Chapter 41 (all the chapter numbers will be redone).

I cut half of Chapter 26 and pasted it into Chapter 43, which gives me half of chapter 43 but I need to fill in the gap in Chapter 26.

This is really a lot of noise but not much production. However, it means something to me because I am getting rid of nagging problems. I'd been sitting on an unfinished Ch. 39 for something like six months. Plus, cutting Ch. 40 was momentous since I did a lot of research for it. You know how it is when you have to work on something a lot in order to realize it's no good. There's a certain satisfaction that comes from getting rid of something you are attached to. It makes you (or me anyway) feel virtuous. But overall, I just want this book finished. I have never been so "over" a book as I am "over" this one. I feel like it's the hardest book I ever wrote. And I haven't even started cutting the opening section, which is in a mess. And still a lot of the end part isn't written yet. ARgh.

This is from Chapter Thirteen. Mr. Tinker (Goldberry's father) is a guest teacher.



“You’re to learn advanced concealment,” said Mr. Tinker. “Should have been taught to you second year, but..." He paused. He knew a criticism would not be well-received. “Well, then. Advanced concealment differs from our general concealment magic mainly in its force. Advanced concealment hides you from the notice of even fellow magicians unless they are searching for concealed individuals or are extremely alert by nature. There is only one student present in this building who I expect to become able to hide from me or the Dean, and no one has ever been able to evade the attention of Maestro Morgan. As for Rabbi Horn, he has a set of magic cuff links.”

I assumed Mr. Tinker meant Rocco when he named the superior student. Rocco was and always had been expert in going unnoticed, and had developed a spell for total invisibility, although it had an unacceptable side effect.

“A simple tactic was used in my day to intensify focus on concealment as required. To become and stay concealed under the conditions created by the tactic, you will in some way, particular to you, break through to a deeper level of presence of mind. I need a volunteer.”
Rocco raised his hand.

“Good. Leave your hand up. Spread your fingers wide.” Mr. Tinker seized the upraised right hand. “Between each finger is a web of skin of varying size. Grasp the web between ring and index finger, so.” He clamped his fierce fingers in that spot on Rocco’s hand. “Now pull vigorously.”

Rocco winced, yelped, then settled into the pain.

“Now, turn on power of concealment,” said Mr. Tinker.

“I can’t hide while you’re holding onto me,” Rocco protested.

“Make me forget that I am holding onto you.”

“Can I make you let go of me first?”

“That’s not the goal.”

Rocco gritted his teeth. “Maybe I need to practice first.”

Mr. Tinker lifted his hand still higher. “When Cornelius Archer did this to me, I lost feeling in my hand for a month. I’m being gentle, boy. Turn on power of concealment.” He then began to tell us a story about breaking a man’s kneecap on the rugby field and then throwing the man’s sister into the River Mersey after the game. “Proved to me that cows don’t float.”

Then he went to the front of the room and discussed a spell to make mold grow in a butter dish. Then he rubbed his hands together. “Turn it off!” he announced.

“Turn what off?” asked Rocco, who was standing next to him at the podium.
I hadn’t seen him follow Mr. Tinker to the front of the room. My classmates conferred and we concluded no one had noticed when Rocco became concealed, nor had we seen him during the off-color rugby story.

Rocco returned to his seat and was rubbing the sore spot where Mr. Tinker had been pinching him.

“You have one week to master this,” Mr. Tinker declared. “Practice with your partners. When the class assembles next Tuesday, enter concealed. I’ll have a guest in the room. Anyone who is spotted by my guest will get six hours of scrubbing the floor of Conjuration Room C without knee pads. Go away and practice. Rocco.”

“Yes, boss?”

“If Goldberry can’t do this in three days, I’ll go and tell the cabala school seniors you’re a Palestinian.”

“You sodding well will not,” said Goldberry.

“It’s okay,” Rocco said. “We got it covered.”

It was true that Goldberry and I weren’t getting along well, but we could still work together on school work. What did he mean, assigning Rocco to work with her instead of me? I stayed after class to confront Mr. Tinker.

“Goldberry doesn’t need Rocco’s help,” I told him. “I’ll do it with her. Don’t you think I can learn to do this?”
“Of course you can.”

“Then why did you assign Rocco to help her? Am I not good enough for her all of a sudden?”

Mr. Tinker turned his back to me.
“Don’t play games with me,” I said.

That was a mistake.

He came around suddenly. “Or what, boy? Or you’ll thrash me? Or go whining to the Dean that I hurt your feelings? Or curse me into the shape of a hobby-horse? Just what will you do?”


If you liked this, please go and buy all my novels. I guarantee they are all full of adventure, romance, tragedy, and beauty.

Here is an out-take from Simon Dusty Duringer's interview at my School of the Ages site.

Tell an interesting story from both your writing life and other.

This is one that covers both your questions; within yet not quite within my writing life. I apologise for amalgamating the two… but you readers may appreciate it as this is a fairly long story in its own right.
This 100% true story reinforces the words of the English Author Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who in 1839 coined the phrase; “The pen is mightier than the sword”.

Furthermore, perhaps it may offer hope an alternative to fists for those who have found themselves, through no fault of their own, to be the subject of bullying…

I joined the Royal Air Force much older and (I thought) wiser than most other recruits. I had completed what you might call my first ‘tour’ in life; I was married and my eldest son Jonathan was a toddler. I had been a multi award winning salesman and experienced various degrees of success in the world of business.

Prior to joining I had researched what is expected of recruits during training and felt well prepared for the challenge. I set about doing my best from Day 1…

What I had never considered was that my evaluation might have been flawed and in actual fact the measure of a good recruit was not by being competent from day 1, in fact quite the opposite, it was by demonstrating continuous improvement, regardless of actual ability throughout training. Therefore by starting off firing on all cylinders with a bucket full of knowledge had actually been a real and distinct disadvantage.

Looking back, it was probably for my own benefit that, instructors appeared to concoct inefficiencies and discrepancies with my work. This would enable them to report a gradual improvement in my performance. But, I was naïve of this possibility; I wasn’t having any of it. I mean, I was either going completely bonkers or I was being set up. My first few weeks during training were therefore about as miserable as they could possibly be. Things came to a head when I was called to the Sergeant’s office….
I entered, approached the Sergeant sitting behind her desk and brought myself to attention. But, within moments a hefty corporal who had stood behind the desk approached me. He became up close and personal. The proximity of the man’s face to mine set me slightly off balance at which time; his temper became apparent, his pitch became a squeal, and he ordered me, though I wonder to this day given the volume of the order how many recruits stopped abruptly in their tracks around the base and followed the order, back to “Attention”.

Now, fear affects different people in different ways, I couldn’t afford to fail this training, but for me fear, in the short term anyway, certainly did not help my cause.

Firstly, my brain engaged with the “Attention” command, I raised my leg high and brought my foot down hard, figuring to make as much noise as I could when my boot made contact with the ground, and achieving just that.
As my size 9 boot slammed against the wooden floor with an immensely gratifying crack, the expression on the corporal’s face changed. Not the change I had anticipated. Rather a brief look of surprise, quickly reverting to the bulging bloodshot eyes and most fierce of war faces…. Now standing to attention and at a loss for words I completely froze. I stood there waiting. I think he might have taken this as a form of challenge and for several moments neither of us retreated an inch.

But he had clearly breached my airspace, any closer and his immaculately cropped moustache might have tickled my top lip. I was confronted by a man drunk, nay paralytic, on the power of his chevrons, and whilst he appeared to be in a battle of stares, I was simply frozen to the spot, terrified to move…

To this day I don’t know where, why or how this situation gave rise to a wandering mind… But, I was suddenly reminded of all manner of big screen, stereotypical, drill instructors; Heartbreak Ridge and Full Metal Jacket were in there somewhere before my mind finally came to rest with some characters from the legendary U.K. television comedy called Dad’s Army.
Now, hindsight is a wonderful thing…
I know now that I should have recognised immediately that once my mind had drifted off into this chain of thought, that one way or another, I would be doomed. Perhaps then I might, whilst I still had an opportunity, have launched some sort of ‘thinking’ counter measure. In my defence I do recall, the more I tried to dismiss the thoughts, the worse my predicament became, until eventually, I simply couldn’t contain myself. My tugging and flinching stomach muscles had forced all the air to my mouth, which in turn was already beginning to make my face twitch involuntarily, the corners of my mouth rising inappropriately.

I was sharing airspace with a corporal whom had complete control over my fate and the only ‘uncontrollable’ thought I could muster up was that of one of the most hilarious wartime comedies I have ever seen. I did what any individual drowning in panic might have done in that situation really…. I attempted to relax my body muscles as best I could. But as the tension in my facial muscles dissipated a huge smirk began to replace the look of pain and any hope that the pressure of the air would disperse gently disappeared. It didn’t happen. In fact it was like the opening of an over pressurised valve. Things got incredibly worse, very quickly, and as the pressure of withheld laughter grew to an uncontrollable level I bowed my head to avoid further eye contact and let the air splutter out as I tried to catch my breath and gain control of myself….
Now you’d be forgiven for thinking that was the end of this escapade…

Surely nothing else could go wrong, indeed nothing else needed to go wrong, yet sadly that’s not the case. What I noticed next reversed all previous evidence of laughter or smiling from my person. Indeed, I felt such powerful shockwaves through my body that I do believe I was experiencing a panic attack. It was as though the used and exhaled air, that moments previous had fought to escape my lungs, had now appraised the situation outside my body and quickly decided it might be safer returning from whence it came and, without any element of oxygen it previously carried, it re-entered my body as Carbon Dioxide, creating an impasse; no air in, no air out! The cause of this sudden reversal in expression and subsequent panic attack had been that as I had bowed my head, my eyes had naturally followed and on seeing the floor realised that my right size 9 toecap was perched on top of where his left, meticulously polished toecap should have been.

Running out of ideas and realising I was about to experience the effects of napalm up close and personally, and in a last ditch attempt to get out of the office in one piece, I remembered the proverb; “Attack is the best form of defence” and I purposefully stood back up and locked eyes with the corporal to divert his attention, knowing full well if he looked away first he would lose face yet simply terrified of what would almost certainly come next. It kinda worked, temporarily anyway.

I was ordered out of the office by the sergeant who had remained silent throughout. So, with no explanation as to why I had been summoned in the first place, the corporal marched me out of the office, slamming the door on my back as I went.

For all of about 5 seconds I actually convinced myself that might be the end of the matter, but before I had got out of sight of the office, I am guessing the beast that remained within it, must have caught sight of his irreparable toe cap, and he immediately, and very audibly, erupted….

Whilst I could go on to explain what took place next and over the coming days, perhaps I should save that for my memoires! But all in all I think you have the gist that I was in big trouble and remained so for a number of weeks until I was called back into the Sergeants Office. She had with her some paper of mine and it made me scared…. The paper was a first draft of a short and satirical story about life as a recruit. It took on a very light hearted and sarcastic viewpoint of training and the characters I had met during training so far. But to my incredible surprise and relief the Sergeant brought me in to the office not to discipline me, yet to inform me that she had confiscated the story which would be published within the Halton Gazette! A number of months later it was also published nationally….
As a result of the article, rightly or otherwise, the instructors changed favourably towards me, I actually enjoyed the remainder of my training and went on to design the flight shirts and win The Best Shot Award…. So, it really does go to show that Edward Bulwer-Lytton was right:

“The pen is mightier than the sword”.

In Level Three’s Dream, this passage appears in the U.S. edition, but not in the India edition. My editor (where editor = person who deletes a lot) removed it by stating that it is gibberish. I understand the statement, but actually, it’s not gibberish, but is a carefully crafted text. Mermelstein and Lorena have just met H.D., a giant egg sitting on a wall, and asked him his name. He replies:

“H.D. may stand for Humpty Dumpty,” he said, “but there are many additional names. Clearly I am not Hilda Doolittle. But in Looking-Glass Land, I am called Ytpmud Ytpmuh; in Spanish, Humpito Dumpito; in French, le Umpe-Dump; in Latin, Umpetis Dumpetuum, in the dative. And in Hawaiian I am called Uameapea Duapemialoa, and in Afrikaans, Dumpaas Humpaas; the Japanese call me Houmdoumichi-chan; and in the Bronx Homie-Dope; but the Russians dub me simply Fat Vanya. The Elves named me Ilyanto, or on formal occasion Antoparlima; in Georgia I am Humptiydumptiyvilli; in Arabic, al-Maji-Waji, after my son. Shakespeare called me ‘that pressed moon, that upon a wall doth sit sequestred, and doth issue such girth of prattle as may match its girth withal.’ Never grasped that one. To the Poles, I am Humpiszcz Dumpiszcz; to the Czechs Jan Hump; to the Germans, das Ei-das-auf-der-Wand-trägt-eienen-Gurt-und-tag-und-Nacht-spricht-sitz; and the Chinese do not name me. In Airstrip One I shall be called Doubleplusegg. In Italy I am Il Huevatore; and there are those who call me Tim. Aye, why did H.D. cross the road? To get away from a chef.”
“What happened to your son?” asked Lorena.
“He hatched into a cockatrice,” said H.D.

Looks like gibberish? Actually, it’s a lot of rather complicated humor. Perhaps it should be excised, as its inclusion is not really necessary, and another way could be found to meet my goal for the passage. However… Well, let me explain.

“H.D. may stand for Humpty Dumpty,” he said, “but there are many additional names. Clearly I am not Hilda Doolittle.

The poet Hilda Doolitle published her work using her initials, H.D.

But in Looking-Glass Land, I am called Ytpmud Ytpmuh;

Actually, in Looking-Glass Land, it wouldn’t be spelled backwards, but viewed in a mirror reflection, but I couldn’t put that into the text. This makes an OK substitute.

in Spanish, Humpito Dumpito; in French, le Umpe-Dump; in Latin, Umpetis Dumpetuum, in the dative.

These are jokes about the sounds and patterns of the languages. Spanish adds –ito as a diminutive, meaning someone or something is small, cute, or beloved. French might sound like that to a non-speaker. That name is not real Latin, nor is it dative case, which shows that H.D. uses false erudition, pretending to know more than he does.

And in Hawaiian I am called Uameapea Duapemialoa, and in Afrikaans, Dumpaas Humpaas; the Japanese call me Houmdoumichi-chan;

More jokes about the sounds of the languages. Hawaiian language is mostly vowels; Afrikaans has double A’s; and the Japanese use –chan as a diminutive for something beloved or cute.

and in the Bronx Homie-Dope; but the Russians dub me simply Fat Vanya.

A joke about hip-hop language that would have been more current in 2002, when the novel takes place. Homie, obviously, is short for home boy, a term that was still actively in use at the time to mean “good friend” or “person from the neighborhood”, and “dope” means “the truth.” As for Fat Vanya, it is a reference perhaps to the commonality of using Ivan. nickname Vanya, as a hero’s name in Russian folklore.

The Elves named me Ilyanto, or on formal occasion Antoparlima;

I used an online glossary of Tolkien’s Elvish to create these names. Both of them have something to do with eggs, but I forget what exactly.

in Georgia I am Humptiydumptiyvilli; in Arabic, al-Maji-Waji, after my son.

A joke on Georgian names; some Arabic male names are based on sons, where the man is referred to as “father of …”

Shakespeare called me ‘that pressed moon, that upon a wall doth sit sequestred, and doth issue such girth of prattle as may match its girth withal.’ Never grasped that one.

Okay, I can’t write Shakespearean language that well, but I can duck the blame and instead blame it on H.D. He doesn’t understand it because it’s a joke on the average person’s difficulty with Shakespeare. The meaning is, pressed moon, because an egg isn’t spherical and might have been squeezed to get its shape; doth sit sequestered upon a wall, is on a wall away from others; and doth issue such girth of prattle – runs his mouth so much – as may match its girth withal – that his language is always as big as his big belly.

To the Poles, I am Humpiszcz Dumpiszcz; to the Czechs Jan Hump; to the Germans, das Ei-das-auf-der-Wand-trägt-eienen-Gurt-und-tag-und-Nacht-spricht-sitz; and the Chinese do not name me.

Here, respectively, we ahve joke on Polish spelling with sz for the sh sound, and cz for the ch sound; on the Czech preference for the name Jan, which anticipates a Czech character with that name in the next novel in the series; and on the German tendency to make really long words. It’s “the egg that sits on the wall day and night and talks.” The “Chinese do not name” him because I couldn’t make any jokes about Chinese language.

In Airstrip One I shall be called Doubleplusegg.

A joke based on Orwell’s 1984, where Airstrip One is England and bad things are

“doubleplusungood”

In Italy I am Il Huevatore;

A joke on the Italian opera title Il Trovatore.

and there are those who call me Tim.

A direct quote from the character Tim the Enchanter, who appears in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Aye, why did H.D. cross the road? To get away from a chef.”

A variant on the old kids’ joke: “Why did the chicken cross the road? To get away from Colonel Sanders.”

“What happened to your son?” asked Lorena.
“He hatched into a cockatrice,” said H.D.


Medieval bestiaries state that cockatrices hatch from chicken eggs.

...

Again, I am not disputing that this material might be unnecessary to the plot. I don’t even question the assertion that it should be cut, as there is a strong case for doing that. The counter-argument, however, is that in Carroll’s original, there were a lot of scholarly jokes that young readers could not unpack without help, and for me to have a few is in the spirit of the original book, which it was my goal to reproduce.