Author: seaprepignite

Isaac MacLean-Cury ‘27

Part I

Enter Theophilos and the Coven Leader. 

Coven Leader:      Sire, not to question thy all knowingness, yet do thou knowest if this resolve shall work out i’ our favor? They hath a lot of guards, and we only hast ourself and the spirit of Namira. Would we get wiped out, we shall ne’er recov- 

Theophilos:           Silence, thou insolent leader.  Want we not be afeard of these setbacks.  We hast Namira on our side, and our abilities shall be moe than enough to conquer the lands. 

The resolve is simple.  We shall be diplomatic.  If that fails, then we shall dispatch and eat all of ’em.                                       

Coven Leader:      Yet, sire, aren’t thou at the least concerned about would they had thought of this resolve? 

Theophilos:           Yes, ay, I hast thought of all the variables.  If all else goes wrong, I shall bid upon Namira to save us. Now off with thou.  Say to the coven members the tidings.  I might now but consult Namira and canst not be bothered. 

Coven Leader exits through the side. Namira enters. 

Theophilos:           Our dearest prince.  Namira, hark me.  Say to me the tidings, and say to me our fate.  Prince of rot and decay, join to me and speak the coven’s future.                                                                                                                                                 

Namira:                 Mine child.  Mine champion.  Thou hast done well for us.  Thy resolve and fortitude are solid and unbroken.  I’ this path thou may find victory.  Execute it incorrectly, however, and thou shall fail.  Now avaunt, mine child, and take what is yours. 

Namira exits gracefully to the darkness. Coven Member enters stage left. 

Coven Member:    Gracious lord, I be so sorry to interrupt.  Yet there hath been an issue i’ planning. 

Theophilos:           Can’t thou see I was consulting Namira?  Thy insolence shall be the perpetual wink of thou. Yet what is happening? Don’t keep me waiting, thou bootless garbage.                                                                                                                                                                                

Coven Member:    Yes, mine gracious lord.  I shall be on mine wa- 

Theophilos slaps the Member. 

Theophilos:           Avaunt, thou trash. Begone. 

The Member scuttles away. Theophilos beckons the Coven Leader in. 

Theophilos:           Worthy leader, what hath gone wrong with the resolve? Say to me why something hath befell. 

Coven Leader:      Mine lord, we found a rat among the coven members. Yet to Namira I hadn’t quoth moe than diplomacy. 

Theophilos:           Good, good. Hence, we shall be good to execute our resolve. 

Coven Leader:      Yes, my worthy lord.

The Coven Leader and Theophilos exit the stage. 

Part II

Theophilos enters and speaks to a Chorus of ten people. 

Theophilos:           Good people of the coven.  We gather today to not only execute our gracious resolve, by the command of Namira, yet also to dispose of a rat. A rat who attempted to leak our resolve to the foe.  This rat can either accept his perpetual wink now, or we shall hunt thou down. 

A member of the Chorus steps forward, raises a hand. 

Chorus Member:   Mine gracious lord.  Prithee forgive mine insolence.  I shall accept mine perpetual wink with all shame and disgrace.

Theophilos:           Most well, then. So is the will of Namira: thou shall be executed and eaten. Thou shall die as a sacrifice to our cause.     

The Member switches from a mask of shame to a mask of crying happiness. 

Chorus Member:   Yes, mine lord, bring meself and mine life for N- 

The Member is silently dragged from the stage. 

Theophilos:           I apologize for that, mine dear members.  Gather round and hark close, for I shall only say this once. 

Our resolve shall be simple: we shall talk and negotiate with Markarth, and if that fails, we dispatch and take their town perforce. 

Yet now, we may enact our resolve and take what belongs to Namira! 

The Chorus cheers and shuffles offstage. With a change of scenery, the coven is making its way to Markarth when they encounter a guard. 

Guard:                   Thou.  It’s thou.  Thou be that coven from the mountain.  If thy hither, it means thy up to no good.  State why thou are headed for Markarth, or be executed hither and now! 

The Coven Leader prepares to draw his knife. Theophilos raises a hand and stops him. 

Theophilos:           Worthy guard.  Our coven is running out of supplies and food.  Want we not for violence, yet only to acquire the supplies we want.  You do now understand, yes? 

Guard:                   Ay.  Yet if thou so much as regard of causing trouble, do not regard, we won’t dispatch every last one of thou.  Now avaunt, and be warned: we shall hast a close eye on thou.

Theophilos:           Grammercy, worthy sir.  We shall be on our meetest portance. 

The Guard walks off. The coven continues to walk in place.

Theophilos:           Be patient, leader.  Brash decisions such as cutting him down would hast been detrimental to our cause, and we had been found out. 

Theophilos turns to the coven and speaks. 

Theophilos:           We are almost there.  Thou shall disperse and gather supplies and food.  Yet no moe than 50 gold shall be spent by each of thou.  Dear leader and I shall go to the Jarl to discuss.                                    

The coven arrives at Markarth, enters the gates, and disperses. Theophilos and the Coven Leader remain.

Theophilos:           Leader, say to me what we should’st say to jarl of here.  Do say to me all the detail and compose it quick.  Under three minutes, preferably. 

Coven Leader:      Lord, address him by thy graciousness and then start with casual discussion.  Then steer the conversation to our coven and how we want support.  After thou bring up that point, inquire about getting a portion of money i’ exchange thou grant ’em protection and Namira’s benison.

Theophilos:           Fine, indeed.  Fine, indeed, leader.  Thou impress me day by day with thy genius.  Keep up the good work, and I’ll cause thee mine right hand man. 

They arrive at the cave palace and enter to speak with the Jarl. A Guard meets them.

Guard:                   Thou.  What is thy business hither?  The jarl is a busy man, and may not hast the time for thou. 

Theophilos:           We are hither to discuss an exchange of sorts with the jarl.  ‘Tis urgent, and hath no time to wait. 

Guard:                   Most well; yet would he says no, I canst not doth moe for thou.

The Guard leaves the scene. The Jarl enters, carried on a throne. 

Theophilos:           Thy graciousness, we are the coven of Namira and arriveth with a proposition for exchange. 

Jarl:                       Why waste such time with a bootless coven? 

Theophilos:           Truly because we are hast the offer of protection and fortitude. 

Jarl:                       Hie on… 

Theophilos:           We do ask only 500 gold every 2 months; ‘i return we shall protect the land with Namira’s spirit.  We are content to negotiate 35 the gold amount. 

The Jarl would laugh and shake his head. 

Jarl:                       Thou might not but be soft i’ the brain to regard we’d aye grant thou 500 gold for thy bootless protection. Thou and thy coven are bootless trash and don’t e’en deserve mine time.  Now avaunt, and ne’er discover thy brow hither again. 

Theophilos:           Most well.  I am sorry I bothered thy time, thy graciousness. 

Theophilos and the Leader leave and go outside.

Theophilos:           We knew this was a possibility.  Gather the members, and we shall pate back to base an content our broil gear.           

Coven Leader:      Yes, mine gracious lord.

The Leader exits stage left. Theophilos remains, walking in place. 

Theophilos:           Dear Namira, grant us protection against this wretched town. They art not worthy of thy gaze.  

Scene change: the coven gathers in a market area. 

Theophilos:           Dear members.  We hast been disrespected to the greatest extent.  We shall take our leave now and ne’er join back.  At least not without our gears shifting and our broil armors forged!

Chorus cheers and chants Namira’s name.

Zoe Bocek ‘24

Brooklyn Welch ’25

Mason Beckett ‘27

Chapter 1

It all began in the winter. The fateful time when harsh zephyrs blew strong and thick white snow clung to the frozen ground. A small boy trudged through snow-laden fields once tangled with green vines and flowing grapes. His golden curls grew near to his shoulders and his cheeks burned pink from the icy gale. 

 A near thicket of snowy byrons surrounded the old frozen creek, and long crystal icicles dangled from the tree’s bare branches. The icicles wavered in the flurries of snow, and many dropped heavily into the powder below. The boy saw his breath emerge from his tightened chest and float in the air until it disappeared into the cloudy gray skies. His shaggy fur coat swallowed his skinny body, but was the only gift from the master of the house.

“Where are we going?” The shivering boy asked. An old man walked with a slight limp behind him. His waist was flabby and soft from pies bursting with tender meat and brimming goblets of sweet red wines.

“To the creek, my boy.”

“Why?”

“Enough questions. Let us walk.”

The boy obeyed and kept quiet as he stepped over a mounded den. It was the warm hiding place of the long-tailed fox in the hard stormy months. His shoulders brushed against low-hanging branches, and snow trickled into the pores of his coat, chilling his body.  

At last, the pair arrived at the unmoving creek. The darkened outlines of scaly plakel and trout were dotted beneath the slick ice bed.

The man stood under an elderly oak and sternly said, “Lucius Gaius Seneca, son of Remus, you must atone for your late father’s mistakes. Take off the furs and step out onto the ice. You are to be purified by a trial of water.”

Lucius gazed nervously into the man’s eyes, as a frightened piglet would. The hardening snow crunched under the man’s leather boots as he trudged towards the boy. Lucius’ quick feet began to run home towards the fields, but the man’s calloused grasp caught the boy’s shoulder and tossed him out onto the thin ice.  

The frozen surface splintered and the icy waters of the Northern glaciers sloshed to shore. Lucius sunk into the shallows as cloudy dark mud swirled around him. Panic surged through his freezing body. He searched blindly for a foothold but found nothing. Numbness poured into his inflamed arms and legs. His burning lungs screamed as he writhed violently in search of breath. The current of the melt dragged Lucius against broken granite stones, scraping gashes in his soft face. Lucius’s eyes drifted shut as the tentacles of death slithered from the world of Psyche to claim the young soul.

A figure dove into the waters and laid the dying boy upon the far side of the snowy shore.  

Chapter 2

The ancient oaks cast dark shadows to conceal beasts of Amphion. Their colorful branches dropped bright leaves of yellow and orange onto the wet grasses, trodden by quick-footed nymphs and equally quick huntsmen. The smooth grainy shaft shifted in Lucius’s trembling hands. Trickles of sunlight glinted off the sharp metal point. Many eager youths and daring men had been lost to the forest and the lurkers. Loose strands of dripping lichen swirled in the Northern winds. Lucius nervously peeked over his shoulder. Distant laughter echoed throughout the trees. A chilling creek poured down the mountainside into a lily-filled pond. Why did I agree to this? Lucius thought.  

A sudden rustle came from a crumbleberry bramble. His heart rapidly pounding and adrenaline flowing, he raised the spear up in the air and hurled it past the sweet berries. A squealof agony burst from the bramble and was followed by a large ugly boar. The matted hairs on its back bristled angrily. Its pearly tusks shone in the light. The spear had stuck itself into the boar’s flank. A trail of oozing blood followed.

Lucius knew the blow he dealt was not fatal. The boar snorted, its wet snout glistening with snot, and wildly charged. Black hooves flying, and blood staining the fresh leaves, Lucius fumbled with the leather sheath, his fingers greasy with sweat, and drew out a short-bladed dagger.

The warring beast did not hesitate for an instant. It sensed the fear in the boy’s damp breath. Shaking, Lucius stood firm. His calloused feet were unmoving in the dark moist soil. The boar yowled as its head drove into the frightened youth, knocking him violently to the ground. It reared back, and plunged a tusk into Lucius’s now bleeding side.

He moaned in fierce agony. Pain stabbed through his body. Lucius inhaled heavily and whispered desperately, “Don’t leave me here to die. I want to live among the trees and sun, with air in my lungs and soul in my body. I vow on everything dear to me, I will commemorate you in this life and the next if you hear me!”  

The boar’s once gleaming tusks were soaked dark. He listened to its deep shallow breaths, remembering the story of the great hero, Xanthos, slayer of Ariston, the silver-skin serpent; he had finished the snake with a blinding ember stake. Lucius winced painfully as he reached behind him and wriggled his fingers in search of the distant dagger. He felt the graze of metal against his hand and clasped the rough hilt.

Biting down on his lip, Lucius used the last of his strength and struck at the beast. Death soured the air. A sudden thud shook the stained crimson earth, and Lucius looked up from his wound.

Lying in the soft mud was the boar, its eyes glazed on him. A wide cut had slashed its neck, and an arrow had buried itself into the beast’s broadness.

A cool breeze glided across the forest floor, and the last breath of warm life wandered off to be lost forever. 

The End

Lucius shifted in the uncomfortable leather saddle. Bucephalus turned his smooth black head and short ink mane to eye his master, but Lucius angrily dug his heels into the horse’s flank, prodding him onward.

Bucephalus trotted quickly on the narrow-paved street, his metal shoes clinking against the smooth charcoal-smeared stones. A passing man—decorated in the clothes customary to a successful merchant, a rich cloth tunic and flowing indigo cape—stepped aside onto the sidewalk and kneeled to his new king. Lucius disregarded the merchant’s respect and goaded Bucephalus again to move past the kneeling onlookers.  

An aging woman with thin red hair and smoky gray eyes ran behind Lucius, and spoke loudly amid the silence: “We grieve with you, sire!”

The red, chafed eyes of Lucius filled with bitterness. He softly responded, “You know nothing of my grief, woman.” 

He and Bucephalus turned left onto Hali’s wide processional avenue. The rough ashen bark of the olive trees lining the clustered road warmed in the midday sunlight. A deep voice shouted at a elderly man, heavy chain shackles binding his thin wrists and burning ankles, as he stumbled on an iron grate and roughly fell to the ground. The steady line of bruised, chained men following him stopped in their tracks and shifted their eyes to the stone-laid street as the deep voice turned into the painful crack of leather against the man’s bare, scarred back.  

Eager farmers from the outskirts of the city pushed carts plentiful with baskets of plump olives and fresh unearthed kaklo hearts past smirking children tucking handfuls of sweet lavender grapes into secret folds of their tunics. An assembly of women sat upright on a prolonged wooden plank and used their nimble fingers to weave dyed threads through traditional U-shaped looms. Stacks of colorful tunics and stolas had been placed next to a shaded alleyway; bright draped sails shielded the balding heads and graying cropped beards of a few aged men who laughed and passed around a long clay pipe, incense smoke curling above. 

Mica Mamplata ’27

The word and definition are “Rehabilitation – the act of restoring something to its original state.”

Mica Mamplata ’27

The word and the definition are “Definitely – with a challenging and disobedient attitude.”

Aki Anandam ’24

Several years had passed since he left the farm, but F. Ridley never forgot the sweet scent of grapes that floated across the land. The autumn winds would carry the scent throughout the plains, and if he closed his eyes now, he could almost taste it. He was a long way from the farm now, spending most of his time in his office or apartment poring through pages of financial documents. F. had always flourished in statistics, so when the farm didn’t work out, this seemed like the most logical choice.

Being an actuary is a stable and well-respected profession, he was told. After all, someone has to reduce all the risks that big institutions take.

He glanced out his apartment window toward downtown, where he could faintly make out the silhouettes of people in the glow of after-work parties buzzing from the windows of skyscrapers. No doubt some of his clients would be in those windows, chuckling over office drama and toasting with expensive wine. F. had tried to make wine once before. The grapes tasted a bit too bitter, and he figured after that he wouldn’t be able to make it like the French. The clock above his desk read eleven thirty. Best retire for the night, he thought. His eyes were sore, and he had an early morning. He always did.

The most recent downturn had hit his actuarial firm hard, and murmurs of layoffs circled the break rooms. The looming recession occupied much of his mind, yet somehow none of his clients who gambled billions in the markets every day seemed to care.

As he got into bed, images of the farm surfaced in his mind like a submerged buoy rising from the floor of deep water. He had purchased the land just after college in a remote part of the country with most of the savings he could gather. The first couple months he spent working in the fields, mainly planting vineyards of grapes. It was back-breaking work, but he never really noticed. In the evenings, F. would watch the orange glow of the sun gradually sink below the horizon. He admired how it never hesitated, never faltered. It moved steadily, self-assured. He would wake in the morning to that same confident glow and to the choir of magnolias rustling in the wind.

F. came to the farm because he wanted to make something with his own hands. It made him feel connected to his ancestors who had farmed and hunted. He admired their self-reliance and ability to face the dangers of nature without fear, though he knew they did not have much of a choice.

The summer months came and passed, and the sun stopped rising so high in the sky. Soon the winds grew sharper, and the trees stopped singing after they lost their leaves. F. had planned for the winter months. He studied charts of historical data and ecological reports of the land so that he would know exactly what would happen. And yet he couldn’t have foreseen the storm that came in the first week of November.

The winds were strong enough to uproot some of the plants. They even knocked down F., one day. As the days passed the weather cycles grew more unpredictable, more uncertain. The farm that once rejuvenated his soul now struck terror into F. It became clear to him, crystal clear, that the farm presented too much of a risk. It was a stupid idea, he realized. He was not cut out for that line of work.

He sold most of his equipment at a fraction of what he paid, only keeping his shovel, which now stood erect on his apartment floor as a totem of his failure. F. saw himself as lucky that one of his friends from college was able to connect him with his job as an actuary.

He turned over in his bed. Maybe it was the blare of nearby taxis and nighttime parties, but he couldn’t fall asleep. F retreated to his bathroom and washed his face with some water. There, on his sink counter, nestled just below his mirror, sat a photograph of his great-grandfather.

Private Ridley left home at the age of seventeen to start his automotive repair business before being called up for service. He made a name for himself as a daring soldier who died heroically in combat after saving four men wounded in battle. Sometimes F. compared himself to him.

Not taking many risks from the grave, he thought. F. looked back into the mirror; the streetlights outside made his skin look paler. He glanced back at the photograph, holding the image at a tilted angle to capture more of the light.

And that’s when it struck him. It touched some visceral organ deeply buried within him.

His heart’s pace began to quicken.

F. was always told that he looked like the old man, but only now did he see how both their eyes sat on their faces like great blue marbles, their pupils shimmering like crescent moons in evening light.

He saw the man in the photograph, and in him he saw himself. Suddenly, a waterfall of images rushed before him: of his grandmother who crossed the Atlantic as a stowaway on a cargo ship; of his great-uncle who joined the underground resistance in Paris.

And then he saw the first humans, how they roamed the plains living one day to the next, how they confronted mammoths and beasts every day just to survive. The hunters who hid inside caves never found food. They are not who he descended from. It was not their blood that was now coursing through his body.

As F. looked in the mirror once more, he no longer felt the familiar weight of trepidation that hung just below his neck. Of all the days in a year, he used to think, no day was more frightful than Tomorrow. Tomorrow: the burden of fear, the torturous witch holding every way in which things could go wrong.

As an actuary he was always working to tame the beast of Tomorrow. To do everything he could to eradicate any and all risks that it may bear.

But now F. understood the gift of uncertainty. That from it birthed the universe of innovation and exploration, the intoxicating promise that the future need not be like the past.

He glanced back at the shovel. F. was older now, his arms not as strong as they used to be, but the years he worked as an actuary meant he had enough money to buy a larger farm, on a better plot of land. A grin started to grow across his face.

He looked out the window to see the downtown parties he cursed five minutes ago for keeping him up. But now he welcomed them.

F. needed to stay awake. He would have a long night of packing ahead.

Grace McGowan ’26

Dominic Giuzio ’24

Kyle Hays ’24