The Chieftain's Ring - A Cautionary Tale

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, or to persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Mysterious are the ways of the desert. Secrets there are easily buried under the shifting sands of time. Stranger yet are the ways of the city. The secrets there, while not so easily buried, may still lurk in the shadows, eluding the seeker's lantern. The work of the scribe may be honest, as he sees it – but who is to say whether his vision is clouded, or who guided his hand? Thus spake the seer in the Year of the Red-Eyed Locust.

Twilight cast its blue magic over the bazaars of ancient Babel, and the torches were being lit as Assurbentophet, the mighty, summoned his chamberlain, his scribe, his general, and his chief assassin. These men, well-versed in the ways of power, awaited instructions expectantly. They did not wait long, for Assurbentophet was resolved upon action. He gazed upon them serenely beneath his jewelled crown, and thoughtfully stroked his well-curled beard.

'The time has come,' he informed them. 'The hour is ripe. The tribes of the north are weakened, distracted. The kingdom of the south is at ease. We may act to good purpose on the morrow.'

As the scribe unpacked the tools of his trade, sharpening his stylus and taking fresh clay, the chamberlain nodded eagerly. 'The wedding of Princess Hotscatsup has all the world aflutter. They won't notice anything we get up to,' he put in. 'We have what Your Magnificence might call a window of opportunity. No,' to the scribe, 'Don't write that down, you fool.' The scribe, a meek man, smoothed clay, waited.

The general twirled his moustache, and patted the slight paunch he had developed from the years of soft living in the capital. 'Your Munificence,' he began. 'The army is ready to attack the evildoers of the east. We await your signal. A thousand thousand troops stand ready. We even have stealth elephants.' Assurbentophet nodded graciously. This was what he wanted to hear.

But the chamberlain looked alarmed. 'Your Haughtiness,' he protested. 'How can we invade the east? Even with the distraction of the Princess' wardrobe, surely the news-criers will notice that we...er...' he faltered beneath his monarch's gaze,'...that we, er, have no reason to invade the east. We will look like, er, aggressors. Bad guys, in short.' The chamberlain looked down, ashamed to have mentioned this, but feeling that it was his duty.

Assurbentophet smiled condescendingly. 'That, too, has been thought of, my faithful servant.' He struck an even more regal pose as he announced, 'The kingdom will invade the east, because the east has been sheltering Harun al-Rashomon, the notorious bandit, whose raids have made Babel unsafe these many years.' His royal eyes glowed. 'This very night,' he nodded to his chief assassin, who bowed, 'Cohort VI of the Royal Liberation Assassins has, well, assassinated the villain in his lair, which they finally found after a dozen years of painful searching.' He smiled benevolently. 'They have done well, and will all receive medals.'

The general's eyes widened. 'But, oh, Plenipotency, forgive the objection, but was not Harun al-Rashomon killed? Lo, these many years ago, seven, I think, in the fighting at the Fortress of Kresh?' The others glared at him. The general, being made of stern stuff, stood up to their gaze, although the knuckles of his clenched fist were white with the strain of it. 'I'm just playing devil's advocate here,' he added lamely.

The chief assassin cleared his throat – a sound that, as always, caused the others to shudder involuntarily, as if a goose had walked over their graves. 'Your Mightiness,' he ventured, in a voice as smooth as oil on the palm of a harem girl, 'I have brought the tokens you require.' Into his monarch's outstretched hand, the assassin placed the ruby ring of Harun al-Rashomon, as well as a bracelet and torque, easily recognised by all the viewers of the Nightly News Re- enactments: these things, indeed, had belonged to Harun al-Rashomon, and had been taken at his death seven years before by the hand of the chief assassin himself. They had merely been laid by for a more convenient occasion. The general and chamberlain gasped in comprehension, as the scribe began picking furiously in the clay.

The chamberlain noticed, fortunately. 'Stop that, you imbecile!' he hissed. 'Do not write what you see.' The scribe shrugged, and re-smoothed the clay, muttering under his breath, 'Why do I bother?'

Assurbentophet grinned an imperial grin as he transferred these tokens from the assassin to the general. 'You understand now, my military friend? You have only to find a suitable corpse – I recommend a size 40, long, al-Rashomon was a large fellow – and place these tokens upon him. The rest, as they say, will be History.'

The general, the assassin, and the chamberlain bowed low – nay, grovelled – before the genius that was Assurbentophet. 'Surely, you were born to rule over us,' they enthused.

The scribe, an insignificant fellow, piped up, but cautiously, visions of the headsman in the forefront of his thoughts. 'Er, it's obvious you don't want anybody to know about this stuff,' he ventured. 'So can anybody tell me why I'm here?'

Assurbentophet beamed at the scribe. 'Why, my friend, yours is the most important task of all. When the general here finds the body of the hated, the loathed, the despised Harun al- Rashomon, may his name be forever cursed for insulting my father, and parades it in the palace square of Babel, he will of course announce to all and sundry that Harun al-Rashomon has left behind many, many private writings...outlines of his further nefarious schemes, his plans for mischief, allowing us to take action against his many, many conspirators, some near, some far...Harun al-Rashomon has been very, very busy...we will have much to do.'

The scribe gulped, and nodded. He refrained from remarking that Harun al-Rashomon, like all his tribe, was illiterate. He refrained from saying anything that might draw attention to himself. Instead, he smoothed his clay again and picked up his stylus.

'Let us write History, then, Your Elegance,' he said simply, as he prepared to take dictation.

A Change in Plans

Author's note: Don't read this story until you've read the previous one, Planning. This story is in response to angry readers. First they said they hated Robert Thigpen, who was a nasty, manipulative little so-and-so. One woman even said she'd like to hit him with a blunt instrument. Robert Thigpen is probably my most hated fictional character. Then somebody else demanded that I tell the story from Dolores' point of view. So here it is, with a shift in focus. Don't shoot the messenger. I hope it fills in a few gaps in the Thigpen saga.

She had sworn she would never become a Baptist.

But as Dolores Thigpen kicked open the bedroom door, and viciously kicked off her high heels, throwing herself backwards on the bed in total disregard for her designer dress (80% off at Dillard's, she was a killer shopper), all she could think of to say was 'gosh darn it', so thoroughly had proper verbal habits crept in.

Obadiah the Cairn terrier (son of Amos, sire of Jonah, pets of Gideons with a sense of humour) stuck a cautious nose from under the bed as Dolores heaved a frustrated sigh. In her mother's words, she was 'feeling like her name'. Too much shopping, too many ladies' coffees, too many good works filling up her empty time.

Dolores sighed again, jumped up to avoid an overaffectionate cat, and changed her dress before going into the kitchen to start dinner.

Slicing okra for vegetable soup, Dolores tried to put discontent from her mind, but without success. 37 next week, good figure...she started the broth, salted it, tasted it, nodded, opened a can of tomatoes, twisting off the Mason lid with practised strength...still healthy enough, she laughed to herself. It was...

It was what Robert had said about babies. Dolores knew what it was, had been dreading the conversation long before it happened. She had been to the doctor, knew there was nothing wrong on her side. When Robert had brought the subject up, a wistful look in those puppy-dog eyes of his...

She tossed in peas, carrots, corn, a pinch of salt and pepper...when he had mentioned babies, Dolores had just frozen up, a catch in her throat and a catch in her mind, as she had suddenly realised what she was afraid of.

He was going to mention adoption. She couldn't stand it. How could she tell that sweet, kind man who was always there for everybody, who never had a cross word for his worst enemy, that although she wanted a child more than anything else in the world...

...it had to be hers? She couldn't face him with that, so she had fluffed him off with inconsequential remarks, all the while petting Puff, and wishing that the cat were...oh, well, what was the use of wishing? Watching the pot boil, Dolores tossed her head angrily, and remembered to salt the soup before putting the rolls in the oven.

Things got livelier the evening Robert brought Geoff home for dinner. Geoff was a different kettle of fish from Robert - tall, muscular, handsome in an almost movie-star way, with a boyish charm that belied his 40 years.

What endeared Geoff Hayes to Dolores from the first was the way he made Robert laugh. Geoff, who somehow managed to make even bookkeeping seem glamorous, handed Robert some papers to sign, then studied the signature with mock earnestness.

'W. Robert Thigpen, Jr, ' he mused. 'I get the Junior. What's the W stand for?'

Robert, five-foot-five of dapper Southern gentleman, from the top of his wiry ginger hair to the soles of his size 9AAA brogans, blushed. "William.' And Geoff roared with laughter.

'Don't,' warned Dolores jocularly. 'His mother gets high-toned livid if you call him Billy Bob.'

Robert laughed his self-deprecating laugh. 'I'm too short for a Billy Bob,' he opined. 'Billy Bob is six-six, with a beer belly out to here...' he gestured, 'and a girlfriend named Towanda.'

This set Geoff off even more. 'Billy Bob,' he suggested, 'has a big ol' Ford pickup with a gun rack, and a Rebel flag on the bumper.'

Robert agreed, pouring more iced tea. 'Billy Bob's got a hound dog, and Towanda's hair was ruined by a ceiling fan...' This went on for quite a while, and Dolores' heart was won by the two of them.

They were inseparable on the weekends, and then, when Robert's printing business got busy, she and Geoff became...well, inseparable. When it started, it surprised them both, not only with the intensity of their need for one another, but for the way it all seemed...well, inevitable.

Dolores seemed to be waking from a long sleep. Geoff aroused feelings in her that she had not known existed. Where Robert was a lamb, Geoff was a tiger. Mondays, she blushed, and covered the scratch marks with makeup and long sleeves. Where Robert never raised his voice, Geoff was passionate about almost everything - tastes, ideas, plans...they shouted, threw things, kissed, made up.

And went home feeling guilty. Dolores sat smiling through the ladies' missionary meeting, but secretly winced at the Bible study of Proverbs. Proverbs 9:17 had become her verse...bread eaten in secret was truly pleasant, but was that all it was?

Christmas the three spent together, watching 'Camelot' on the widescreen tv. Robert sang along, unmusically, while Dolores exchanged what she hoped were unreadable looks with Geoff, finally having to run out of the living room for a good cry when Robert Goulet sang, 'If Ever I Would Leave You'. This she explained away as an eyelash in her eye.

Dolores almost gave it up the night of the first spring rain, when the thunder drove Obadiah under the bed in a snit, and Dolores, reminded of an event from their honeymoon, first clung to Robert, then made love to him with a passion she'd all but forgotten she felt for him. When she woke the next morning, determined to tell him the truth, he was gone.

Then came the call from the doctor, and matters were settled. Geoff had been brave, offering to break the news, but in the end it was they who were surprised by Robert's reaction.

Sitting over a farewell dinner Robert had made, Dolores looked at her ex-husband with a mixture of sadness and exasperated love.

'Why?'

Robert smiled gently as he reached across the table and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. 'Because I love you too much to hold onto you,' he said simply.

'Besides, I want to play with the babies.'

The wedding was a joyous affair. Dolores wore green to match her eyes, and thought that - to two men there, at least - she looked pretty good. But later, when they came to open the gifts, Dolores burst into tears.

'Darn that man! He would give us a gas grill for a wedding present!'

She didn't know about the christening gift yet.

Planning

The soup looked wonderful - picture-perfect vegetables from the summer garden, swimming in a rich, red broth. Robert Thigpen smiled as he inhaled the inviting aroma and brought the spoon to his mouth.

And choked, loudly, on enough salt for a bag of crisps. Extra large.

Thigpen set the spoon down in the bowl, carefully, and regarded his wife - the love of his life, his companion of 15 happy years, his green-eyed goddess - through a blur of tears. He smiled, more weakly, as he reached for the iced tea. Obadiah, the Cairn terrier at his feet, jumped up in alarm, then had to run off his excitement by chasing the two cats around the dinner table.

Dolores frowned as she tried unsuccessfully to fend off the smaller cat, which sought refuge on her lap. 'Don't you like the soup? I followed your mother's recipe, it even has that okra in it.'

Robert nodded, waving one hand vaguely as he gulped down the tea. 'Too much salt this time.' He glanced at Dolores quickly, catching the look he'd expected - disappointment, followed by the desire for explanation, followed equally quickly by indifference. She shrugged. 'I'll make you something else, if you like.'

For a long moment, there was silence in the dining room, except for the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Robert shook his head as he pushed away the offending dish. 'No, that's okay, honey. If I get hungry later, I'll make something.' He gave a light laugh and patted his flat stomach in mock demonstration. 'I need to lose weight, anyway.' Dolores shrugged again, but favoured her husband with a grateful smile as she stroked the purring cat, and went on with her meal, unfazed by its saline content. Robert grabbed a roll and a leash, and went off to walk Obadiah in the lingering sunlight.

Later, having been given a peck on the cheek before Dolores rolled over in bed and drifted off to sleep, Robert started to lie awake thinking about things. As his first thought was that tomorrow was going to be a big day at work, and that he owed it to his employees to be compos mentis, he put his ruminations off until further notice and, patting the dog at his feet, slipped into a dreamless slumber.

While showering the next morning (his own self-appointed brainstorming time, as he was not much of a singer), Robert went over the situation in his mind, a habit he had developed over the years, being a slow thinker who otherwise felt rushed in the company of others. He looked at his life, what he had to offer: good-natured guy, hard worker but not a workaholic, smart enough to bloom where he was planted, in his own Acme, North Carolina, backyard where the name Thigpen didn't make people laugh, but was a guarantee of honesty. Built his own little printing company, treated his 30+ employees like family, made a place for himself and the beautiful, educated city gal he'd snagged at college, kept the fun in things, remembered everybody's birthdays....

He reviewed the evidence: three spoiled dinners in one week, magazines and newspapers scattered everywhere, shoes in the bedroom for him to trip over...getting from bed to shower in the mornings was becoming like crossing a minefield, the arch of his foot still ached from stepping on a size seven Selby pump...the less-than-companionable silences...she was trying to tell him something...

Without telling him. That much was obvious. Whenever he'd ventured to ask, there was a shrug and that dazzling smile, and, 'No, of course I'm not mad at you. Are you mad at me?' Teasing. He'd quit asking.

Driving to work, Robert kept thinking as he waited for the lights at the intersection. They hadn't planned for children - or against them, either. They'd thought that sort of thing came naturally. When it didn't, well, it didn't. Until one day Robert had asked, and Dolores had shrugged, again, opined that there were advantages to not having to child-proof a house, and quipped, 'I'd be a terrible mother, anyway, probably scare the kids,' and continued petting a smugly purring cat.

Responsible as always, Robert had secretly visited a doctor, gotten the answer he was half expecting - although he cringed at the expression 'shooting blanks', which he privately thought would have upset his Baptist parents - and drawn his own conclusions about the relative merits of cats, babies, and clean houses.

Arriving at work, he set aside these considerations for a look at the morning's email, a round of checking up on the printing equipment (and the workers, without being obvious about it), and a conference with his investment counselor, a good-looking fellow about Robert's age who was kind enough to come by the office, rather than making Robert come to the bank.

Geoff Hayes was an honest broker, and charming (which, Robert thought, probably went with the job), but he was a lonely widower, so Robert concluded by inviting him over to supper on Friday for some company and a home-cooked meal. Robert then made a note to himself to a) warn Dolores about this, and b) get some steaks to grill. He could barbecue a mean steak, if he did say so himself, and put some 'taters and corn-on-the-cob (what his granny used to call 'roastin' ears') on the grill, and all Dolores would be stuck for would be a salad.

This worked pretty well, and soon Geoff was a fixture over at the house, sharing good food and a laugh or two, never talking shop, just mocking the world in general. They even broke out Robert's old croquet set. He'd almost forgotten how to play, but they had a good time checking out the rules inside the box, and avoiding Obadiah's attempts to steal anything as heavy as a croquet ball, barking at it in outrage when it refused to move for a sixteen-pound terrier. Summer was more fun that year, and Dolores' cooking got better.

Come fall, Robert noticed with satisfaction that Dolores a) got a new hairstyle, and b) seemed to spend a lot of time visiting a cousin over in Cary she used not to have much time for. Whenever he, a grass widower for the weekend, called up Geoff to see if he'd take in a round of golf, he was usually disappointed by the message on the answering machine, but he shrugged good-naturedly and took Obadiah to Jordan Lake with him, enjoying long walks and conversations so nonsensical that any human would have balked at them, but which Obadiah seemed to find completely satisfying.

Christmas that year was good. He bought Dolores a string of pearls, and Obadiah a new squeaky toy. He even remembered to get the cats some catnip mice. Geoff he gave the best present: a briar pipe and a seat by his fireplace, while Dolores showed them how to make popcorn over an open fire.

Robert's resolve almost slipped the night of the first spring rain, when the thunder drove Obadiah under the bed in a snit, and Dolores, reminded of an event from their honeymoon, first clung to him, then made love to him with a passion he'd all but forgotten. In the early morning light, he kissed her cheek gently and slipped out before she could waken, remembering a detail about his will he needed to call his financial planner about.

When Geoff finally came to see him, Robert pitied him for the look on his face: embarrassed, half fearful, half hopeful, and guilty, all at the same time. Robert thought that nobody should have to look like that - not for long, anyway - and put him at his ease as best he could.

The wedding took place in June. Robert attended, of course, gladly - he'd secretly wanted to give the bride away, but decided that would have been tacky, so he settled for sitting on the bride's side, behind her parents, and sending the couple a brand-new gas grill for a wedding present. He'd save the other present - the envelope in his safe - for the christening.

Coming home from the reception, Robert smiled as Obadiah came running up to him, tail wagging. 'Come on, buddy, let's go for a walk.'

Headed down the drive with Obadiah on his leash, Robert reflected that if the little dog missed those durn cats, he'd have to get him a kitten.

Robert Thigpen made a mental note to call the shelter.