Tag: life

On the material side the life of the feudal class was rough and uncomfortable. The castles were cold and drafty. If a castle was of wood, you had no fire, and if a stone castle allowed you to have one, you smothered in the smoke. Until the thirteenth century [C.E.] no one except a few great feudal princes had a castle providing more than two rooms. In the hall the lord did his business: received his officials and vassals, held his court, and entertained ordinary guests. There the family and retainers ate on trestle tables that at night served as beds for the servants and guests. The chamber was the private abode of the lord and his family. The lord and lady slept in a great bed, their children had smaller beds, and their personal servants slept on the floor. Distinguished visitors were entertained in the chamber. When the lord of the castle wanted a private talk with a guest, they sat on the bed. The lord and his family could have all the food they could eat, but it was limited in variety. Great platters of game, both birds and beasts, were the chief stand-by, reinforced with bread and vast quantities of wine. They also had plenty of clothing, but the quality was largely limited by the capacity of the servant girls who made it. In short, in the tenth and eleventh centuries the noble had two resources, land and labor. But the labor was magnificently inefficient and by our standards the land was badly tilled. Not until the revival of trade could the feudal class begin to live in anything approaching luxury.

— Mediaeval Society, pp. 30-31

Emphasis mine.

I wasn’t thinking about a murder. I was thinking about killing.

The Japanese martial dojo is a training hall remarkable for its beauty. Clean lines. A lack of clutter. The warmth of wood and the stateliness of ritual. Don’t be fooled. Look closely at us as we move in that space. We watch each other warily, alive to the sudden rush of attack. We’re controlled and focused. But there’s a murderous ferocity running like a deep current in us all. It gets exposed in many small ways.

Most dojo are big spaces. Sound bounces around in them in a jumble of shouts and thuds. But if you have enough experience, you can hear things distinctly. Asa Sensei was a kendo teacher of the old school. When you find a really good group of swordsmen training together, you can hear things in the quality of the noise they make. We were in Asa Sensei’s dojo, and the chant of the swordsmen was fierce, a pulse of sound generated in a circle of swordsmen that rang throughout the cavern of a room. It created an energy that I could feel as I swung my sword and shouted along with them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see both Asa and Yamashita standing and watching us. Their dark eyes glittered, but beyond that, they could have been carved in stone. My teacher’s shaven head sat on his thick body like an artillery shell. Asa was thinner and had gray hair swept back from a wide forehead. But the way they held themselves—the thick, muscled forearms that were visible beneath the sleeves of their indigo training tops; the dense, rooted silence of both men—made them seem almost identical.

They were watchers, those two. It’s how you must get after a while. They drink in their surroundings until they can feel it on their skin, taste it in their mouths. Until the breath flows in and out in the rhythm of what surrounds them. And then, when ready, they strike.

When you see them as they truly are, these men are frightening. They hold so much back, measuring you, judging you. They dole out knowledge in grudging bits, forcing you to struggle for each morsel. Looking back, you reluctantly admit that maybe it was necessary. But while you eventually come to trust them, it makes you wary.

I struggle with this. Yamashita is my teacher and I had once thought him perfect. I knew better now. He was still my sensei, but the relationship had changed. He looks at me with flat, emotionless eyes. And sometimes, I look back in the same way. I’ve learned a great deal. Not all of it is good.

The first time I stood across from Yamashita, any confidence that a black belt in two different arts had given me vaporized in the blast furnace of his intensity. Yamashita knows what you are up to before the nerve flash of your latest bright idea leaps across a synapse. As far as I can tell, he is without technical flaw. And without remorse. With Yamashita, every time you step onto the training floor, you are being tested. Over the years you accommodate yourself to it, but it’s still a reality that hovers just out of sight, like a prowling animal, both feared and resented.

— Deshi, chapter 2

With the practical disappearance of the [Japanese] central government went disintegration of the old social order, a process that had long been accelerating as the Ashikaga shogun grew weaker and weaker. In the Age of the Country at War many ancient families were reduced to poverty or exterminated. Those that took their place were often headed by upstart soldiers with little or no aristocratic background. They did not owe allegiance to any great spreading clan like the Taira or Hojo of an earlier day; their families were families in the modern sense, groups of people closely related by blood or marriage, and the ambition of every man was to increase his immediate family’s wealth and prestige as much as possible.

This preoccupation forced many social innovations, one of which was a kind of primogeniture. During the stable Hojo regime in the 13th and 14th Centuries a landowner had dared to make a will dividing his land among all his children—including the daughters. Even if each received only a little land and therefore had few retainers, the firm power of the Hojo government would protect him in its enjoyment. But under the now-powerless Ashikaga shogunate such evenhandedness was no longer prudent. If there were too many inheritors, they might not be strong enough to defend themselves individually from greedy aggressors. They might lose their land, and the family as a whole might sink to a lower social level. This was to be avoided at all cost.

So a new custom developed. A father willed the bulk of his property to one of his sons, not necessarily to the first-born but to the most promising, or even to an adopted son if none of his own sons seemed likely to maintain the family prestige. Daughters were left out almost entirely because they were not considered able to keep land in the family. By the start of the Age of the Country at War the subordination of Japanese women, which went to such extremes in later ages, was already well advanced.

Along with these new inheritance customs, a new and more mature kind of feudalism developed. The rules and relationships were no longer imposed from above as they had been in Hojo times. The ghost of a central government in Kyoto had no power to impose anything. Instead, each daimyo in possession of a self-governing territory made his own laws, which usually combined traditional customs with new regulations to fit the times. Most of these family codes were rigidly autocratic, permitting few rights to anyone except the daimyo, but their regulations were seldom obeyed literally, and the picture of life they present does not give an altogether accurate view of Japanese society as it really was.

Actually, the Age of the Country at War was something of an age of freedom for Japan’s lower classes. In some provinces the small landholders banded together, swept aside the laws of the daimyo and got full control of the local government; in others the ji-samurai (rural landholders of warrior descent) were so numerous, well armed and belligerent that their wishes, not the daimyo’s, had to be respected. Artisans, too, were often better off than they had been; in spite of drastic laws intended to keep them at home, many of them fled their native fiefs for the growing towns, where their skills were better paid.

As the new feudal system took shape, growing from below, Japan came to be divided into many compact, independent domains with well-defined though sometimes shifting boundaries. At the head of each was a warrior daimyo, who may have inherited his position, or won it or increased it in war. Since there was no central power to back him, as in Hojo times, his strength and security now depended altogether on the support of the lesser families holding land in his domain. He defended them and watched over them carefully to see that they did not combine against him or fall under the influence of another lord. In some fiefs the daimyo managed to reinforce the power and prestige of his own family by keeping control of every sale or division of property and every marriage, not only of samurai but also of lower ranks. Lesser families did the same; every smallest decision was made by the head of the family, always trying to keep the family’s position as high as possible at the cost of its individual members. Thus, while the Age of the Country at War brought some measure of class freedom, it took away individual freedom; within a family little initiative was possible for anyone but the leader.

For most young men such a system would have been unbearably oppressive except for the outlet of war. Most of the great landholders, and many of the lesser ones too, were forever on the prowl, hoping to catch some neighbor at a disadvantage and swallow his territory. And the predatory enterpriser, a chieftain with a reputation for successful aggression, never lacked adventurous young supporters. Not all such recruits were of samurai rank; the gorgeous mounted knights of ancient tradition had given way to larger units that included many foot soldiers armed with spears or other comparatively inexpensive weapons. The warrior barons who led these armies no longer exposed themselves recklessly, as the knights had done, in romantic single combat. The best of them learned to marshal their forces and take advantage of terrain. When they noticed a soldier among their lowborn followers who showed talent for this kind of fighting, they might raise him to officer status or even to high social rank. This would have been almost unthinkable in earlier ages, but now there was no power in Japan to tell an independent daimyo what he could or could not do.

When there was no war on land to occupy them, the young fighting men of Japan could find an outlet for their energies in piracy, which was now thriving once more. In the second half of the 15th Century fleets of hundreds of pirate vessels were crossing the East China Sea and attacking the whole coast of China. The marauders not only pillaged seaside towns but also penetrated far inland to raid the country around Nanking, 150 miles from the sea.

— Early Japan, pp. 104-105

“What’s the world’s greatest lie?” the boy asked [the mysterious old stranger beside him], completely surprised.

“It’s this: that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of what’s happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. That’s the world’s greatest lie.”

— The Alchemist, Part One

Once the sun set, Angira could become bitterly cold. [Lord Bhima] noticed, however, that the dozen sinha [warriors] made a point of ignoring the cold as they waited for his orders. He studied his young charges and decided that they really thought they were the same stuff as the heroes of the old legends.

They were young, he told himself, and allowed such madnesses. But try as he might, he could not remember a time when he had been quite that mad. Still, they had performed superbly, running through the badlands like so many lean hunting hounds. Even now, despite a night and a day of double-timing, they seemed ready and even eager to push on.

The young lieutenant slipped through the rocks, followed by a second warrior. “I have great news,” he announced proudly. “The offworlders are in the valley. And the prince must be posing as their bodyguard.”

Lord Bhima stood up, trying to stamp the circulation back into his legs. “How do you know they are down there?”

“We caught a peasant. The fool was supposed to be mounting sentry duty against bandits.” The lieutenant gave a contemptuous chuckle. “But we had no trouble sneaking up on him. He almost died of fright.”

Lord Bhima frowned. “Did he say what village they were in?”

“Yes”—the lieutenant was a bit slow to add the last word—”Lord. It wasn’t his village, but he’d heard it was Guh.”

That had been Bibil’s old village. Lord Bhima gave a contented grunt. “Then the prince probably is with them, but in disguise. Were the offworlders treated as captives or as guests?”

The lieutenant hesitated as if slightly embarrassed. “I don’t know, Lord.”

“Didn’t you think to ask the peasant?” Lord Bhima glared.

“We were trying to persuade him to tell us that, but he died at that point.” The lieutenant drew himself up to attention. “I take full responsibility, Lord.”

Lord Bhima drew his heavy eyebrows together angrily. “Just how were you persuading this peasant, Lieutenant? At dagger point?”

The lieutenant looked at Lord Bhima defiantly. “It is against the law for a peasant to take up arms. This whole valley must be a nest of rebels.”

“There are bandits all around.” Lord Bhima found himself shouting in outrage. “They might just be defending their homes, you fool.”

“Lord!” The lieutenant stiffened indignantly.

Lord Bhima curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword. “There are over four thousand peasants down in that valley. If they are only protecting themselves, we do not want to turn that many peaceful, honest folk against us and our cause. That is your first mistake.”

The officer swallowed, not liking the look in Lord Bhima’s eyes. “Yes, Lord.”

Lord Bhima decided with a certain smugness that his skill with a sword was enough to intimidate even a brash young sinha. “But even if they are organizing for a rebellion, our prime objective is to capture the prince, not exterminate rebels. That is your second mistake.”

“Lord, I will make amends.” The young officer started to pull out his dagger to plunge it into himself.

Lord Bhima knew that the lieutenant had been working himself up to this moment. The sinha were not only as strong and healthy as fine hunting dogs, but they were also just as predictable. However low the officer might hold Lord Bhima, his sense of duty would drive him on to one final conclusion. And so Lord Bhima’s own hand was ready to draw his own sword from its sheath.

It was as simple and fluid a motion as it was deadly. Years of practice had compensated for his loss in youthful reaction time so that no one in all of his years had ever been quite as fast as Lord Bhima.

And yet, despite all those unbeaten years, there had always been a certain doubt tightening his stomach that perhaps this time he would find himself overmatched. It lent a certain fear and excitement to the moment when he reached for his sword.

It was almost as if he was matched not against some real opponent, but the Lord of the Shadows himself in some fleshy disguise. The Lord had come to claim him many times and there had always been that fraction of a second when he had felt his own life balanced on the edge of his sword, ready to tip one way or the other. And his confidence had not been helped any by the ease with which Rahu had knocked him out. Was it a fluke or was Lord Bhima truly slowing down?

But then, when he knew he was going to win again, he had felt an immense relief rushing through him and a sense of release that he had beaten the Shadow Lord once more.

And though the stakes were not nearly as high this time, it was still interesting to watch the young officer’s eyes widen in surprise and fear as Lord Bhima whipped out his sword and brought it down in a quick slash, halting the edge just above the lieutenant’s wrist.

Lord Bhima was still the swordmaster. The lesson had not been lost on either the lieutenant or his men.

Lord Bhima could not help smiling in satisfaction as he raised his sword. “You will die when I say so. Not before. This is neither the time nor the place for me to find a new second-in-command. That is your third mistake.”

The lieutenant bowed his head with genuine respect now. “My life is in your hands, Lord.”

Lord Bhima sheathed his sword. “Well, it can’t be helped. Make his death look like the work of Lord Tayu’s men out for revenge. Strip the corpse and mutilate it. Then we’ll move on.”

— Shadow Lord, Chapter 7

Another factor that strengthened the unity of the early village was the temple and its service. The immigrants from the north either brought with them or developed not long after their arrival an abiding faith in one special deity as the protector of their settlement, and with the building of their first houses they also erected a home for their divinity. For example, underlying the ruins of Eridu, one of Sumer’s most venerated cities, archeologists unearthed a mud-brick temple built on virgin soil by the original Ubaidian inhabitants. It was a small rectangular shrine, about 15 feet long, and its furnishings consisted of nothing more than a crude altar and an offering table. But as the villages prospered through agriculture and expanded into sizable towns, such humble shrines were enlarged into elaborate structures each set atop a lofty mud-brick platform, a prototype of the future ziggurat, or temple-tower. Each temple served an entire community, rather than an individual family or clan, and thus generated and intensified local patriotism, pride and effort.

Nor was the temple merely an edifice of lifeless brick and mortar; it was a holy place that had to be tended and cared for every day, year in and year out. Hymns and prayers had to be composed, formalized and recited; rites and rituals had to be performed; sacred festivals had to be celebrated. And so a specialized priesthood came into being, starting no doubt with the selection of one or two individuals noted for their learning and spiritual powers and proliferating in number and function over the centuries. In the course of time the temple and its priestly coterie naturally became the intellectual center of each community, and it is therefore not surprising that it was in the temple that writing was later invented and developed.

— Cradle of Civilization, pp. 33-34

Ankokuji Eikei…had his hiding-place revealed by a Ronin, who bore him a grudge for turning his former master out of his fief…. How gratified [Tokugawa Ieyasu] was may be gathered from his presenting ten pieces of gold to the Ronin, who at first emphatically refused to take it, declaring that his motive was only the very proper one of revenge, and that he did not wish to profit otherwise. But Ieyasu would not take a refusal, and so he received this quite large sum, but distributed it among the people of his village in true recluse style.

— Shogun, Chapter 23

The complexity of human and horse interaction reflects the fact that every horse, like every human, has a distinctive personality. Horses have strong likes and dislikes—particularly of some other horses and of certain people, as any pair of riders who have tried to ride two horses holding a grudge against each other will know. Horses are social animals in a way that other herd animals are not. They cooperate, compete, and play with one another, much like us. They live comparatively long lives, twenty or thirty years, and their life phases correspond to some extent to our own. They form enduring bonds with other horses, and are capable of forming such attachments with humans. This social aspect of horses is closely studied today, since many urban owners leave their horses alone in stables, ride them rarely, and discover later that the horse suffers from isolation, not only from their owners but also from other horses. They lose their social skills, and can be quite difficult or even dangerous to ride. Similar concerns are rarely expressed about the social skills of sheep or goats. Put another way, as the relationship between horses and humans evolved over the prehistoric centuries, the bond between the two became essential for the well-being of both.

— Raiders, Rulers, and Traders, Chapter 1

No animal has had as profound an impact on human history as the horse. The journey begins in prehistory, with a small, shy animal that humans hunted for food. Hunters domesticated the horse in order to ensure a supply of meat and, later, mare’s milk, which is more nutritious than cow’s milk. This was a watershed event for both species, transforming the horse from an animal fleeing at a gallop from the mere smell of humans into the most valuable of their livestock. The horse’s need to roam far and wide for pasture prompted the horse herders to spread out across the Eurasian steppe. Then herders learned to ride horses in order to keep up with their far-flung herds….

— Raiders, Rulers, and Traders, Prologue

Prehistoric hunters’ enthusiasm for horse meat had a solid basis in nutrition, too. In the cold, harsh environment of the last Ice Age, horse meat proved to be high in protein, and rich in fatty acids essential for health and growth. Compared to other meat, it contains less saturated fat. Humans can digest horse meat more easily. Partly for this reason, today’s Mongols favor horse meat to wean toddlers off mother’s milk. The rarity of horse meat in European and American cuisine reflects an eighth-century [C.E.] ban by the Catholic Church, in an era in which the newly evangelized Germans consumed horse meat as part of their old pagan rituals. How else to explain the disappearance of this delicious and nutritious food from Western diets?

— Raiders, Rulers, and Traders, Chapter 1

Thought Admiral Kethas epetai-Khemara had deep wrinkles in his knobbed forehead, hair very white at his temples. He was fifty-two years old, an age at which Klingons of the Imperial Race should be dead by one means or another, yet his eyes were clear and sharp as naked stars.

…

“Shortly you will be ten years old,” Kethas said, a figure of gold and darkness—but no dream, [Krenn] knew. “It will be time for you to choose what you will be. Have you thought on this?”

“The Navy,” [Krenn] said instantly.

Kethas did not smile. “You know that I do not require this of you? That you may, as you wish, be a scientist, or an administrator—or even a Marine?”

“I know, father. And I would not be anything else.”

Then the Thought Admiral smiled. “And so you should not….”

…

[Human] Dr. Tagore said, “I believe I once told you I had a theory, about the Klingon observance of death.”

“You did not say what it was.”

“Well, it isn’t popular among my colleagues…. At any rate, when one of our race dies, we hold a ceremony, sometimes simple, sometimes very elaborate.”

“You celebrate a death?”

“Commemorate, rather.”

“And the one dead appreciates this.”

Dr. Tagore smiled thinly, said, “That depends on the culture. But the practical function is to allow the survivors a vent for their grief, a time when emotion may be released, shared.”

“Sharing diminishes the…grief?”

“Such is our experience.”

Krenn said, “We do not do this.”

“I know. And I wonder what happens to the energy, the stress…. I think it helps to drive your culture. To expand…to conquer, if you like.”

“Nal komerex, khesterex [That which does not grow, dies],” Krenn said….

“I know that, too. And your environment is hostile, and your life-cycle is short and rapid. As I say, my hypothesis is not popular.”

…

Dr. Tagore sighed [to Krenn]. “I still have not lived among Klingons long enough. I still think of you as aging as we do…you must be, what, twenty-five?”

“Nearly so.”

“And I will be seventy-nine on my next birthday. And still we aren’t so far apart…we both have twenty or thirty years left, if we avoid violence.” Krenn was not insulted by that. “Maybe even longer….”

…

Meth was correct: information was power, secrets weapons. Krenn thought how strange it was that this secret, that he was not the son of Rustazh, had made him even more the son of Khemara; given him exactly the weapon with which Kethas had tried to arm him. The weapon of patience, against which Klingons had no defense.

— The Final Reflection, Chapters 1, 2, 6, 7, & 9

This novel was written in 1984, and the Star Trek novels have never been considered canon lore. In 1994, A Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode set the canon that Klingons live longer than Humans. Personally, I find that Dr. Tagore’s theory better explains the Klingon psyche.

In southern Holland there appears to have been a taboo against placing weapons in graves, which occurs but very rarely, perhaps indicating that weapons were less a personal possession than held on behalf of the group…. This changes in the Early Iron Age, after about 800 BCE, when male graves with weapons do occur more frequently…. Swords in graves have often been altered, in ways that require considerable skill, such as fashioning them into a circle or folded, concertina-like, which has the side-effect of putting them out of use as swords; bending swords in this way without breaking them requires at least as much skill as making them in the first place….

— Magic: A History, p. 225

Good luck using that (magical?) sword you looted! 😀

Alpine travel was difficult. Much of it was conducted on foot up steep slopes or, if a person had some money, by mule or ass. Mules (a cross between a male donkey and a female horse) have a lot going for them. They are intelligent, sure-footed, calm animals, strong, adaptable, and with greater endurance than horses. They live longer and can travel up to 50 miles (80 kilometers) per day and are much cheaper to keep than horses. The horse had snob value—a bit like traveling business or first class—but usually only rulers, the wealthy, or important couriers used horses because they were expensive to buy and maintain. Their advantage was speed. Carts or coaches were rarely used for alpine travel because of the deplorable state of the infrastructure; the roads and bridges were often just the remnants of Roman originals or rutted, muddy tracks. Summer and fall were the best times to travel because there was less likelihood of extreme weather—although it could still get very hot in midsummer. Sensible people avoided alpine travel in winter.

To talk about the night watch, we first have to talk about night itself. In a pre-industrial world, artificial light was expensive. Candles of tallow and beeswax are animal products, so can be produced only in limited amounts. Firewood, peat, and dried dung are labor-intensive to gather and prepare. So too is olive oil or flaxseed oil for lamps. Before gas and kerosene, you could light the night if you really wanted—but it would cost you. Consequently, nights stayed dark. Most Europeans were home by twilight, barred their doors, and stayed indoors. In the Middle Ages, many cities imposed curfews: only a select few were permitted out after dark. This cut down both on burglaries and people breaking their necks falling into open cellars.

But having an entire city asleep posed its own problems. The biggest was fire! Medieval European cities were tinderboxes. Entire city blocks burned down every year. And if no one was awake at midnight when someone’s improperly-banked coals set their house on fire, the blaze might spread to multiple houses before anyone even noticed. Plus, you had the problem of crime: if no one else was about after dark, that gave thieves full run of the night. The solution to these problems (and honestly more the former than the latter) was the night watch.

Many night watches began as citizen’s brigades, with each able-bodied male resident assigned to patrol the streets so many nights a year. As early as 1150, the guilds of Paris were on the hook for providing the city’s watchmen. Sentinels sat in the tallest church steeple in town to watch for fires. (Amsterdam was big enough that the watch manned four separate steeples!) Other watchmen patrolled the streets alone or in pairs watching for fires and thieves. Your beat might cover the whole city or just your own neighborhood. If you saw a fire, you set up a cry so sleepers could awaken and help put it out. If you saw a burglar, you tried to grab him so he could appear before a magistrate in the morning. For worse crimes, you also started the ‘hue and cry’ to summon your sleeping neighbors to help. This watch system, while practical, was unpopular. No one much liked being a watchman. If you could afford it, you hired a substitute to take your place….

— Tangling With the Night Watch – Molten Sulfur Blog

Author’s emphases.

Dr. Zaius:

Read to him the Twenty-Ninth Scroll, Sixth Verse [of Ape Law].

Cornelius:

[reading]

“Beware the beast, Man, for he is the Devil’s pawn. Alone among God’s primates, he kills for sport or lust or greed. Yea, he will murder his brother to possess his brother’s land. Let him not breed in great numbers, for he will make a desert of his home and yours. Shun him. Drive him back into his jungle lair, for he is the harbinger of death.”

— “Planet of the Apes” (1968)

The Cat:

No cat out of its first fur was ever deceived by appearances, unlike human beings, who seem to enjoy it.

— “The Last Unicorn” (1982)

Southern Spain is one of the most famous horse-breeding regions of the world. The area from Seville to Jerez de la Frontera is renowned for its breeding farms. In addition to the area’s private breeding farms, monks also bred horses, concentrating their efforts on one of the finest lines of Andalusian horses. This order of Carthusian monks (Catholic contemplatives) began pursing their passion for horse breeding when Don Alvaro Obertus de Valeto gave the fathers of Cartuja a sizable piece of ranchland in 1476 [C.E.]. They continued this horse-breeding endeavor until approximately 1835. The monks not only significantly contributed to breeding Andalusian horses but also preserved a coveted bloodline within the breed called the Cartujano, which has a strong resemblance to the Baroque horse. The Cartujano was bred for its concentration of genes from the early Barb, which came to the Iberian Peninsula before the birth of Christ.

Achieving harmony with all of creation was one of the main goals of these monks. They not only bred magnificent horses, but they lived, learned, and prayed with their animals. One thing that makes this breed so sensitive to humans is that their specific job for centuries has been tending to the human soul—truly taking the role of the anam cara, or soul friend. On the walls of a Carthusian monk’s stable, an inscription about the horses reads, “Leap into Heaven.”

— Horses and the Mystical Path, Chapter 2

Akira:

The gods are pleased with you! They will watch the battle.

Conan:

Are they going to help?

Akira:

No.

Conan:

[whimsical]

Well, then tell them to stay out of the way!

[They laugh.]

— “Conan the Barbarian” (1982)

…Travelers had to depend on inns. The quality of accommodation and services varied greatly. As a profession, hoteliers had a bad reputation, and just like today there were upmarket and downmarket establishments. Many had names like The Crown or Lion or Black Horse or Three Kings and were situated wherever there was a constant stream of travelers and traders on the road. Accommodation was usually in dormitory-like rooms, often with a number of people in each bed. Everyone slept naked. Bed linen was not changed regularly, so these lodgings were often filthy, uncomfortable, and dangerous. Skin diseases and fevers spread rapidly, and body odors were omnipresent, although many would not have noticed them because they had smelled them since birth. Latrines were basic, with no sewerage, and…baths were few and far between. Available food was restricted to bread, cheese, and, perhaps, some soup.

— The Birth of the West, Chapter 1

“Listen to me, Junah. All sport is holy, for it embodies the objectified search for the subjective experience of yoga, meaning union, union with the divine. But golf is supreme because it more closely mirrors the Reality of the way to Self-realization. Listen and I will tell you why.

“In other sports the opponent is regarded as the enemy. We seek by our actions to disable him. In tennis our stroke defeats him; in football our tackle lays him low. This is not the way to salvation, or, more accurately, it is at one remove. The golfer on the other hand is never directly affected by his opponent’s actions. He comes to realize that the game is not against the foe, but against himself. His little self. That yammering fearful ever-resistant self that freezes, chokes, tops, nobbles, shanks, skulls, duffs, flubs. This is the self we must defeat.

“Consider the golfer’s relation to the Rules, Junah. This too differs from every other sport. In baseball a batter, knowing a pitch to be over the plate, will argue vociferously with an umpire to the opposite effect, trying to avoid having a strike called on him. The tennis player will bitterly contest a line call he knows to be fair, the footballer vehemently declare his innocence of a penalty he knows he committed.

“In other words they will lie. Deliberately. To gain selfish advantage.

“It is only in golf, Junah, that players routinely call penalties on themselves. Look at [Bobby] Jones, striding there. Do you remember the ’25 Open at Worcester? That great man, your foe this day, lost by a single stroke, the result of his calling a penalty on himself in the first round when his ball moved accidentally. Jones finished tied for first and lost in the play-off. Take away that selfenforced penalty and he would have won outright.

“The greatness of this is that it mirrors Higher Reality. There can be no cheating in the dimension in which the Self resides. There every action inexorably produces its result, every thought its consequence.

“Therefore, Junah, love your opponents. When I say love, I don’t mean hand them the match. I mean contend with them to the death, the way a lion battles a bear, without mercy but with infinite respect. Never belittle an opponent in your mind, rather build him up, for on the plane of the Self there can be no distinction between your being and his. Be grateful for your opponents’ excellence. Applaud their brilliance. For the greatness of the hero is measured by that of his adversaries. In this too the etiquette and honor of golf reflect the Reality of the Field. Those new to the game often cheer an opponent’s misfortune, but the player of wisdom who has entered into the soul of the game schools himself to feel and act the opposite. This too is the greatness of the game.

“But all this you know, Junah. I repeat it now only to focus your distracted mind under this excruciating pressure. To return you to the imperative to act.”

Here Junah, who had been listening with as much attention as he could muster under the circumstances, bridled and pulled up in midstride. “I don’t understand you, Bagger,” he said. “You order me to win, as if I could, but in the same breath you tell me to love my opponents. Please be clear. I need to understand what you’re telling me.”

“Act, Junah, but act without attachment, as the earth does. As I do. The rain falls, with no thought of watering the land. The clouds roll, not seeking to bring shade. They simply do. And we must too….

— The Legend of Bagger Vance, Chapter 16

— The Day the Universe Changed, Episode 4

Even in an RPG campaign world with magic, this is how most news would and should spread. This provides the perfect reason/excuse for bard (classed) PCs and NPCs to travel far and wide. This is their trade and purpose, after all.