Travel Log

As I said before I'll keep you posted about my travel plans. Today, I'm keeping my promise.
I finally got around to starting the journal that, I hope, will accompany me around the world.
General thoughts will now go down here while anything to do with my trip will be recorded there. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Tobe E - Unfinished Business

Been around a lot lately. On the prowl. Hanging around shady city streets by day and by night. Only come to my office to catch a few hours of shut-eye and to shave. Even gave my secretary the week off. She accepted it gladly. At least, now she can paint her nails in the peace and quiet of her own home. Funny, the office feels empty without her.
Almost as empty as the city streets at this time of day. And in this weather. It's about as nasty as the average Margarita you get this side of town. It's cold and damp, a chilly breeze blows up from the river and scatters the fine rain drops like cheap perfume. The chill creeps up on you like a bad premonition. I pull my coat around me tighter. It should be warm and sunny this time of year!
I make my way through deserted streets. I should be out here on a job, making money. Should. But no, this is personal.
Keep it professional, Larry admonishes in my head. Probably for the thousandth time. For a real pro there's no such thing as personal business. It's a waste of your skills, your energy and your time. Larry had always been a man of simple principles. This was his personal Zen. That's why he had been so good.
Maybe I should start to listen to his wisdom. Like this I'd just catch a cold. Or worse. Why was I doing this anyway?
I remind myself. I'm staking out a man. Not just any man. This one's got a history. We go way back. Me, him, two others. A gang of four. Used to do quite some business together. That was before I changed to the good guys. We used to call him the Russian. Because he was half Russian. Also had a lot of connections that way. Importing, he called it. The kind of import that doesn't go through customs but crosses the border tucked behind the back seat or beneath the car. Did good business, the Russian. Probably ended up owing lots of people. Some of them sure were the kind of people you don't want to owe even a penny.
Then one day he announced he had to disappear for a while. Lay low. So it had come to that. When I went to check up on him he had already gotten involved with some new boys. Extremely shady characters, the lot of them. He was clearly afraid. Didn't even trust us anymore. Anyone can be bought, I remember him saying. His new business partners had the power and connections to protect him. He was sure of that. From their looks I didn't have much faith in them. They weren't the types to work for people, only for wallets. But there was no talking him out of it.
Then he disappeared. Moved house, changed phones, changed habits. Professional like a KGB agent. We managed to locate him once more but soon enough he moved again. Didn't seem to want to stay in one place for too long. Word was that he was constantly on the move. Then people even stopped talking about him.
Years went by, things changed. Our gang of four doesn't exist anymore. But now that I'm back in town his spirit haunts me again. I wonder what he got himself into that he had to disappear so quickly. It turns out that a lot of people who used to know him also went missing. But that's not good enough for me. I want answers. That's my job. So I ask around. But no luck. As soon as I mention his name people close up like clams.
Then one evening, in one of his old hang-outs, I run into one of his former business partners, a small-time con man. Of course, he doesn't remember me. Quarter of an hour and a bloody nose later his memory has returned. He spits out an address where the Russian used to do his business from a year or two ago and swears by his mother's virginity that he doesn't know more. I let him go. Small crook like this can't do much harm.
When I finally find the address he's given me there's someone else living there already. They've been in there two odd years. Didn't know the previous tenant. The flat completely cleaned out before they moved in. This is where the trace ends. I've spent the last few days staking out the place. Maybe he's still around. Changed names or uses the place as a front for his business. I ask around but there's no lead. Nothing. Place is as clean as a nun's underwear. Maybe the little bastard lied to me. The thought has shot through my head a couple of times already.
Of course, there's still one more possibility. The one I've been avoiding so far. Maybe whatever the Russian was running from caught up with him in the end. I turn the thought around a few times inspecting it like a dead fish. That would explain things. Maybe I should ask the coroner? No, I know better than that. Those types wouldn't be the kind to leave evidence behind. Not a nice way to go.
Now, standing in the drizzle under a tree, I've got to face it: there's nothing here. I've followed up all my leads. I've been waiting around for almost a week and no sign of him. He's either dead or moved on. One way or the other I'm too late. Nothing more to be done. How I hate giving up!
I shoot one last glance at the house entrance through the wet haze. Then flipping up the collar of my coat I turn to leave. I turn my back on history. Somewhere in the distance a police siren wails. There's work to do.

Change of Direction and New Start

Haven't posted for a long time. I've been busy. Busy with what, you ask.
Let me share it with you:
Well, busy with plans - Big Plans. A complete change of direction. And only two weeks to go until they are finally put into practice. And now I'm beginning to feel the weight, the impact of what I'm about to do.
I've already quit my job, that was the first step. I've left UK and I'm now back in my home country of Germany. But that's just the beginning. I've been wanting to leave Britain for a while now, anyway. No, I've decided to do something with the money I've earned other than settle down and have a family (something that, scarily, some folks my age have already done - good on them). I've decided to stop working again for a while and do what's gone into popular culture as a gap year. Or as I prefer to think of it: "gap time". Committing to a year one way or the other seems silly. The money might run out before or it might last a month longer.
But what to do with all that time? Here's how the dream evolved.
Obviously, like most people that do this kind of thing, I want to travel. I've been wanting to do that ever since, after finishing university, I wasn't sure what to do with my life. A common question, I hear. Then, my girlfriend said to me "why don't you do a gap year?". At the time I didn't know what exactly that was but she explained patiently and I listened. And almost immediately ideas started popping into my head of seeing far-away places, leading a free life of some adventure, not knowing where I might wind up next week. There was only one big disadvantage to the plan: it would cost money. A whole lot of money! A considerable amount of money. Well, you get the idea. And after being a student, kindly sponsored by my parents, the amount I could scrape together from savings was just about enough for the trip back home from campus and a pizza for dinner. Thus, the choice between a gap year and work was an easy one.
But the idea was sowed and it grew on me. Sometimes it wasn't easy being patient - like in the song by AC/DC: "it ain't no fun waiting round to be a millionaire". A couple of times I announced my plans to my friends but somehow I couldn't let go, didn't have enough money and just stayed. Several times I got frustrated with my work and was tempted to throw things away and just go and see how far I got. Still, somehow under all that ranting and pipe-dreaming the idea managed to keep me focused and determined enough to hang on. In the end, of course, people stopped believing me saying I'd never actually do it. Sometimes I myself thought I wouldn't, that I'd got too attached to my life in UK despite my strong dislike for the place.
And so several (how many? Three?) years went by but some time around my last birthday this January something audibly went "click". I realised I had said it would be this year like I had said it would be last autumn and last spring. I had never really made the move to do anything about it. Now was the time. Either leave now or admit I was stuck in UK. So, the decision was made. It was now.
Which brought me back to the original question: what to do with all that time?
After being to China and Malaysia I wanted to see more of East Asia. China and Southeast Asia are natural choices for backpackers because of rich culture and low prices. Of course, I dream of finishing off Asia with a visit to Japan or Korea. So, get a Round-the-world plane ticket? Well, after my trip to China last year I had told myself the next time I went there it would be by train. Not because I hate flying that much but rather because I love going by train, travelling old-school-like. I used to do it a lot as a child, loved watching the scenery go by. And on my trip to China I discovered that you can meet some interesting people on the train, as well. The Trans Siberian railway then. I had even met two Swedes who had done it and loved the experience. That was it then. And I wanted to see a good friend in Beijing for the May holiday.
So, it was that I almost rushed off in a great hurry in March. Fortunately, I came to my senses in time to realise that what I had planned there - to leave UK and be off to China within little more than a month - was impossible. Rushing though countries like Russia and Mongolia, just seeing them fly by the train windows would be very foolish, too. So, I delayed and rethought things again. I also wanted to improve my Chinese when I returned to China to be able to communicate in the country I wanted to spend most time in. I had also had the fantasy of actually *living* in Beijing for a while and seeing the local perspective of the place. How better to fulfil these requirements (and in a useful way) than to study there, to learn Chinese. Universities and language schools offer short-term courses, say one semester. Bingo! That was it.
Thus hatched the final draft, the design that is now about to be set into motion. It would be stupid to rush through a country as big and culturally rich as Russia so I will spend three weeks there. Make the most of your visa I say. This is followed by some two weeks in Mongolia. That country has lots of natural sights which are difficult (and expensive) to get to when you're alone. After that I start my studies in Beijing, which will take until end of January next year. After that things become a bit more fuzzy. I want to spend a few months travelling in China, north to south and east to west. Then cross the border to Vietnam, going on to Cambodia, Thailand and Malaysia spending about two to four weeks in each country. Finishing line is in Singapore where I'd then like to look for a job. My favourite part is that I will do this trip without setting foot on a plane, travelling half-way around the world the old style, by train and by coach. I'm also doing a slightly different kind of gap year to many people who only *start* in China. The way is the goal.
This goal is to see and absorb as much as I can of people, countries, details and at the same time find a clearer idea of what I want, find myself in all of it. Sounds like a cliche? Probably is. Better not read too much into it yet. For now I'm just beginning to look forward to one hell of a ride.
I'll keep you posted.

It's Almost Unreal

I think the line from the old Roxette song describes it so well. It's all done and dusted and I hardly noticed it happening in the end. I've left the country, my flat, my job, my friends. A few days ago it was still "I will leave" or "I am leaving" and now it's a simple and sober "I've left". I've quit my job, terminated all my bills, said goodbye to everyone. That's actually what I thought would be the difficult part: saying goodbye. After knowing people for years and being quite close to some I had ... certain expectations. But, in fact, it still went the quickest while settling my accounts seemed to take ages. Time flies when you're enjoying yourself and, so, the moment I wanted to savour the most - looking everyone in the eye, shaking their hand or giving them a hug - was over in a flash. It was like always. With everyone busy at work I would often only see them every odd weekend (at most). Saying goodbye for a few weeks was not unusual. I actually struggle to use "was" here instead of "is". It takes some time to sink in that I may not see some of them again, that past tense is the appropriate form here.
And then, before I realise it, everything's packed and I'm at the airport checking in, passing security, taking my place on the plane. Again, it's something I've done so many times that it seems completely normal, a routine. This time, however, I only have a sinle ticket.
And so, the next day, I wake up again in the realm of the 19-year-old that left for UK almost seven years ago. The room is like a time-capsule and the last seven years like a dream. A few odd items and the long list of MSN contacts are the only reminders that it's not. Things feel very unreal. An entire chapter of my life has come to it's conclusion in a single hectic final day. And at the same time, very quietly, unceremoniously, a new one begins. It's not a "fade out, fade in" but a quick "wipe to".
As my good friend MY said: "this is not the last time we have dinner together before you leave but it's the first time we have dinner togther in this new chapter of your life." So, since we're here at the dawn of the new day, the new life, on the first page of a new chapter let me begin with the acknowledgements and special thanks:

I'd like to thank you all for your inspiration and support, input, help, advice and encouragement. Without you I wouldn't be where I am today - and I mean that in every best possible way. You've enriched my life and without you my time in the UK would have been unbearably boring. I wish you all the very best. I will meet new people on the way but I will not forget you!

Now, watch this space.

Country of Heroes?

I still know painfully little about the history of China. It is, unfortunately, something that is not taught at school in Germany. I'm only slowly starting to piece things together from friends' accounts, museums, books and a trip to the country.
Recently a confusing realisation hit me:
The Chinese relationship with the Japanese is defined by their common history. Many Chinese will only remember the Japanese war crimes against China, including the most infamous incident known as the Nanking Massacre at the end of 1937. Japan, they say, has never adequately attoned or even apologised for the attrocities committed. More still, Japan stands accused of trying to "white-wash" their history to their own people by failing to mention these event in their recent history books. I have met quite a number of Chinese who harbour a strong dislike for Japanese because of this.
At the same time, it seems to be a common dream among young Chinese people to come to Britain to study, to learn the English language. Girls have told me of how good-looking the British males are. Many would like a British boyfriend - preferrably to marry them and secure their future in the UK. Were they dealing with Japanese this would often be unthinkable.
But what of the British crimes against China? I'm only beginning to see the big picture of this but what I see is just preposterous. The British systematically corrupted China by getting its people addicted to opium, smuggling it into the country while it was still illegal by Imperial law. When China attempted to stop the sale of opium there was war - the Opium Wars - leaving the Emperor to agree to open ports and eventually even legalise opium - the probably only case in history where the sale of a drug was forced on a country at a national level!. The British demanded compensation after compensation - treaties that left China at severe disadvantages. One of the items was the (then) small port town of Hong Kong for which they demanded ownership for 100 years. They returned it about 50 years late! China was repeatedly humiliated by the allied European nations and I am ashamed of the German involvement to subdue the Boxer Uprising. Still, it is probably safe to say that the British played a major part in the eventual downfall of the last dynasty even though other nations were involved. If it is any indication, their military presence was by far the strongest comparing 10,000 British troops to a mere 900 Germans. And what of the countless thousands of death caused by wars provoked by British Imperialism, the bombardment of cities including Beijing itself and the deaths that followed in the wake of opium addiction? What of the misery caused to millions more?
Of course, the reasons were claimed to be promoting civilisation, spreading the word of God, protecting British interests. All this serves as an extremely thin cover for a nation whose entire history has been motivated by one thing: greed. How could the British claim to bring civilisation to an Empire that had civilisation before Bitain
even existed? Sadly, China and the Imperial court made some severe mistakes when first dealing with the foreigners and they paid dearly for them. The final insult came only recently when Hong Kong was at last returned to China: Charles, the Prince of Wales, called it "the great Chinese take-away". The insolence knows no bounds! Was it not plain theft that brought Hong Kong into the possession of the British in the first place!? Ignorance and arrogance, both qualities that the British have always excelled in, united in a single phrase.
The British have white-washed their history. And more of it than the Japanese. Not only have they never regretted the troubles they brought to their colonies, they are proud of being the great Imperial ruler and wish they still were. "Rule Britannia" they sing. It makes me furious watching their politicians point their dirty fingers at others while wearing a vest of blazing white. Thy sit on their little island like a fat, ignorant slug knowing - or at least appreciating - as little of their past crimes as the Japanese are accused of. They are taught that they once were a great Empire and their press sometimes behaves as if it were so still. They wail about the influx of foreigners that take away their jobs and their space and their money. Surely, that must be what it feels like being a colony.
The name for Britain in Mandarin Chinese 英国 (Yingguo) can loosely translate to "Country of Heroes" or "Brave Country". Honestly, I think they may have picked the wrong character.

Scape goats breaking even...

I should really have seen it coming. But when it did I still wasn't prepared.
Remember my post about violence in the media and the follow-up? I mentioned that there's already a lot of violence in classic literature and mythology. In the follow-up I quoted a kindred spirit from slashdot pointing out how full of violence even religious texts like the Bible are (think of the Old Testament "an eye for an eye"). Little, I imagine, did either of us know at the time that German researchers were already looking into the matter, as this article shows (sorry guys, only in German but Babelfish can help). "The Bible causes aggression", they conclude. "Does God [now] have to be blacklisted?"
I delight in the sweet irony that the crusade against videos and games is now coming back to haunt those same conservative social messiahs that initiated it. "The Bible is a book of wisdom, teaching us how to lead our lives", affirms a Christian online magazine. Well, tough shit, guys, "conclusive evidence" has shown it makes people aggressive and contains adult material. So, I guess that means we'll slap a "Warning: Explicit Lyrics" sticker on it and a (15) tag. I find it hard to contain my mirth. I should really congratulate these industrious spirits for finally being consistent.
I say: Screw common sense! Censor it! Ban it! Put a black bar across it! Not that I hate the Bible nor religion as such. But if those ultra-conservatives find that I can live with cuts to my favourite movies then I find they can live with cuts to their favourite book. Fair is fair.

Nur fliegen ist schöner...

A German phrase about the magical attraction of aviation: "Only flying is better/more beautiful." It's an old advert slogan for Opel cars gone into common usage. Still, it pretty much sums it up in my opinion.
There may be countless reasons and advantages to travel on the surface. In many countries it's cheaper than flying - sometimes much cheaper. It's often still the preferred means of domestic travel. It definitely allows you to see much more of the local scenery than just flying over it at 30,000 feet - and that assumes there are no clouds and you have a window seat. If you're lucky you might even make some local contacts on a coach or train. At least, you'll get more of an idea of how everyday people travel. On top of that, you can get up whenever, stretch your legs, take a walk and maybe even open the window. The list goes on.
And yet, despite all this, there's something about taking the airplane that makes it more exciting, something that goes far beyond the vague fear of heights at 10,000 metres. Funny enough, on the train I quoted the absence of foreigners as a plus but on a plane it's their presence that makes it attractive. It is as if you were already getting a taste of your destination. And then, when you arrive and step out of your craft, it's not a gradual change like on a train but with a single bump and screech of brakes the entire world around you changes. As if the great metal bird that speeds you away somehow removed you from your reality and then set you down in a different one. It carries you majestically across a sea of clouds and then a new world materialises around you.
Even arriving at the airport feels exciting. It starts with the electrifying feeling that I'm going somewhere. And if it hadn't before the feeling sure as hell hits me here. Then there's the environment: airports are the main hubs between different parts of the world these days - more so than train stations which used to have that role. There's always a busy coming and going. People from all walks of life, nationalities and cultures can be found here. They say tearful goodbyes, waving until the last moment. At the same time, it's the place where friends and families reunite after being apart, open arms, all smiles and laughter, hugs and kisses. In between, businessmen make last changes to their presentations and children look forward to their hotly anticipated holiday. The air is full of countless languages, a cacophony of announcements, the roar of engines and sometimes even the smell of kerosene. The whole place is filled with an energy that is hard to put into words.
And so the excitement hits me anew every time I get off at the terminal building, every time I walk through the gates. It's almost a magical place. All that Leonardo dreamed of and much more.

Valentine's Day - My 2 Dollars Worth

It is that time of the year again. The day when couples around the world have to love each other more - more than on any other day of the year. They even have to show it publicly. Why? Because the consumer industry says so. We have to buy huge, ugly plush toys (in pink, holding a bright red heart saying "I love you"), have to buy over-priced flowers and greeting cards (also in red and pink), spend unethical amounts of money in restaurants, shows and on holidays that offer special "Valentine's rates" (approx. normal rate times 1.5). I watch with a certain amazement how this day and the run-up hype of adverts, TV and web coverage, etc. manage to make half the human race (a safe estimate, I'm sure, since the phenomenon has long since spread from the US to Europe and even Asia) behave like a huge flock of dumb sheep. All in the name of love? No. Mainly, to earn big businesses big money.
It's actually quite well staged using more than a little psychology. Reverse psychology, even. The immense coverage it receives makes it seem that everybody is taking part. Now, if you don't treat your sweety to something special on this day you're clearly an arsehole and not treating him/her well. Because everybody else is doing it, so, why not you? Or maybe you don't love him/her enough and that's why you refuse to spend money on him/her?! So what, if everything is more expensive than usual - you've got to show your partner that you care more about him/her than about such material things as money. And how to best show that? By spending lots of it. You can almost visualise retailers, travel agents and restaurant owners rubbing their hands greedily. After all, that's how rose vendors make a living in places like Paris and Venice: they shove a flower in the girl's face so that her man buys it because he doesn't want to look like a cheap-skate.
And, in the end, it's all hypocrisy! If Valentine's Day is the only day of the year that I take my girlfriend out for dinner or give her flowers or treat her well then I clearly do not deserve her love. But if it is not then what makes this day so special and different from the other 364? It's like the fools that only go to church on Christmas Day: If you don't love God the rest of the year going to church on that one day will not make you a good Christian.
The only visible effect Valentine's Day has for me is that airports are busier, restaurants and shows are awfully crowded and everything costs more. Heart or flower shaped merchandise stares at me from every shop window until I feel sick. Even the local Thai restaurant has a Valentine's Day special menu. What's special? It's an expensive set menu. On any other day you can order whatever you want - on Valentine's Day you have to eat what they give you. Not that other restaurants were any better, mind you. Worst of all, in my experience if you plan to have a great, flawless evening full of love and happiness something will go wrong, anyway. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try but why must we try on this very day?
So, if I take her out one day later or earlier, or a week, or a month, I will not love her any less. If I treat her well and tell her that I love her every day I don't need to make a big fuss about it today. On the contrary, we might actually be able to have a quiet evening in our favourite restaurant at a reasonable price ordering what we want to eat. So, why follow the herd?

And why is this my "2 dollars worth" , shouldn't it be my "2 cents worth": 2 cents are too cheap. It's 2 dollars because I know I'm right.

A Journey into No Man's Land

With another passport or security check I'm back in no man's land. I'm almost at home here these days. In some airports this can be a sizeable territory with shops and eateries. In others, like this one, it's a narrow strip of ground between here and there, arrival and departure, home and abroad. A nameless place where all that people do is wait, wait for its gates to open to a better place. It's a surrealistic place to be sure. Like a country within a country and the border is a pane of glass and an imaginary line between desks. Heavily policed, too. No visa relaxation to be expected here. Entry only by invitation, i.e. valid passport and a valid ticket. A oneway street, like the ticking clock; you come in by one door, you leave by another. It's a continuous transit: nothing stays except maybe the vague feeling of excitement for leaving or going somewhere or coming back somewhere else. After doing my time here I am discharged with a hiss of compressed air and a roar of engines.
After being hurled through the free stratosphere I touch down in no man's land a second time. Its gate keepers eye new arrivals suspiciously. Their watchful eyes scrutinise me and my credentials. Data rushes down optical fibre cables in search for answers. Do we want this man here? Then no man's land spits me out at the other end. I have completed the circle but I am bound to return here. These days no man's land is never far.

The Lady Hawk

After my take on scary stories here's something different, a fairy tale. Inspired by the beautiful and magical film Ladyhawke. Even after many years and countless viewings it never fails to enchant me. Enjoy.

Once upon a time, in a far-away world, in a far-away kingdom, there was a boy called Navarre. He was the son of the man-at-arms in the service of a noble man. Being an old soldier, his father was a strict man, hardened by war and life. From an early age he taught Navarre the ways of war and how to overcome your enemy with sword and bow. Still, for all his father's tutoring Navarre was not like him. He was kind of heart, still unspoilt by hardship or toil.
One day it came to pass that Navarre's father received a gift from his lord for his many years loyal service. The gift was not gold nor land but a hawk because Navarre's father enjoyed hunting. It was a beautiful bird with shiny brown feathers on its back and wings and milky white plumes on its belly. Most of all Navarre was struck by its keen eyes and piercing gaze. Navarre's father named the bird Aquila, the ancient word for hawk.
So, in the months that followed Navarre's father began riding out for the hunt with the bird. He also began to train Navarre in handling it for he said: "Hunting, tracking down your enemy, leaving him no escape and then overcoming him is the art of war. The most important lesson you must learn, son." Navarre obeyed his father's wish but it pained him to see this noble creature of the skies held captive on the ground. And there was something else that was curious: The bird was difficult. More often than not it would ignore the commands Navarre's father gave it or do something else. Navarre's father grew more and more furious with it. Time and again he swore that he would give it one more chance before he would wring its little neck. In these moments it was Navarre that took care of the bird, that assured his father that his lord would be displeased if he found his expensive present with a twisted neck. And so it went on.
Then one night Navarre had a dream. Later he could not remember the details of it. He recalled he had dreamt of a woman, the most beautiful woman had ever seen. She had had rich, auburn hair and milky white skin. But it was her eyes that had enchanted Navarre. They had been green and mysterious, so keen that they could pierce him like a spear yet so deep that he had felt he could lose himself in them and never find his way out. Framed against the sky she had looked down on him and it had looked as if she was flying. She had spoken soft words to him of kindness and love and many things he could not recall. He only remembered her name: Isabeau. Navarre had never been in love but from that moment he was, for, as he used to say much later, he had gazed into face of love itself.
The next day, Navarre went to tell his father about his strange vision. His father was training with Aquila again and, as usual, he was in a sour mood because the bird was obstinate.
"Father", Navarre said, "I had a very strange dream this night. I dreamt of a beautiful woman. I don't remember much of it but-"
"If you don't remember much of it, then what good does it do you", his father interrupted, "you should not be musing about some damsel but keep your mind on the moment. Otherwise you'll turn out like this bird: useless."
"But father", Navarre exclaimed, "she was not some damsel. She had a name: Isabeau."
His father took a deep breath for a harsh retort but it was never uttered. The moment Navarre spoke that name the hawk perked up, spread its wings and before Navarre's father could stop it flew to Navarre's arm and perched there. At first Navarre was too surprised to speak, then he stroked the hawk's chest as he often did.
"Is that your name", he asked gently, "Isabeau? Do you want to be called Isabeau?" The bird did not reply but perched there nursing its feathers.
"Go back to father, Isabeau", he whispered, "don't make him angry."
And again the bird spread its wings and obeyed his wish.
From that day on, Navarre spent most of his free time with the bird. It continued to be difficult with his father but as soon as Navarre appeared and called it by its name it would fly to him. In the end, his father grudgingly gave up on it and the hawk became Navarre's. The name Aquila was never spoken again.
It turned out that the more time Navarre spent with the bird the more he grew to love it. On some days he would spend all his waking moments with it. Over years Isabeau became Navarre's friend in ways his father never could. He told the bird about his dreams, about the beautiful woman of his dream that was also called Isabeau. He loved watching the bird groom its feathers, perch surveying the horizon but most of all he loved seeing it fly, drawing majestic circles in the sky. He felt that in those moments Isabeau was freer than he could ever be in his father's service. And as Navarre grew into a man a new dream grew in him. He wished to fly only once like a bird, to join Isabeau in the sky.
When his father heard of this he was cross, as was his way. "An idle phantasm" he called it. "Fly like a bird", he scoffed, "many have tried that. They now all lie crushed at the bottom of some deep ravine - and good riddance. You'd need some powerful magic for tricks like that. And there's no wizard I ever met that could work such a spell. And besides they are all greedy bastards. For such a powerful enchantment they would make you pay more gold than you'll ever see in your life. You may as well give it up now."
"But then it is possible", Navarre insisted.
At this and without warning his father slapped him in the face - something he had not done since Navarre had been a boy.
"You will stop your idle star-gazing this very moment, boy", his father snapped, "all this time I have let it pass but enough is enough. I have toiled hard all my life to earn my keep. I will not have a moony scallywag for a son. This fancy of yours ends now and to start with I will wring that useless bird's neck - something I should have done years ago!"
At this, Navarre's blood turned cold. With a single step he blocked his father's way.
"You will not touch her", he said with a firm voice.
His father's face darkened.
"How dare you speak to your elder like this! Must I put you in your place again?"
"I have honoured you all my life, father. But if you harm that bird-", his voice trailed off.
"Then what? Will you raise your hand against me? Me, your father?"
Navarre lowered his head. "I do not know what I will do", he mumbled.
"You will do nothing! I have brought you up to be a soldier, so you will heed my command. Now, make way, I say."
But Navarre did not move. He stood, his feet planted firmly, blocking the door. With a snarl his father tried to shove him aside. Navarre caught him, pulling him back from the door. His father was a strong man. He lunged at Navarre pinning him against the wall. His eyes were ablaze with fury. But Navarre had also grown into a strong man. With a cry he freed himself pushing his father back and in the heat of the moment he took a step after him and struck him hard across the face. The older man tumbled against the wall, his eyes wide in surprise, his hand clutching his jaw. This time, though, he made no move to retaliate, he just stared at his son. Navarre recoiled to the opposite wall, panting, his heart in turmoil. It was to late for regrets - what was done was done.
That moment Navarre's mind was made up.
"I am leaving you, father. This very night I will. You know you cannot stop me - I am not the little boy I used to be. I will go and find the wizard that can make my wish come true and I will earn every gold coin it takes."
With that Navarre took his armour and his sword. At the door his father stopped him once more.
"You will fail. Because you're a fool. This fancy will lead you nowhere - only to grief and pain and misery. But don't you come back to me then. Once you walk through that door it will be closed to you. Forever."
Navarre looked his father in the eye, not a boy looking up to his father but a man steadily holding another man's gaze.
"Farewell, father", he said calmly but with a hint of sadness in his voice and closed the door behind him. That was the last time he saw the old man. He took his father's best horse, then he went to fetch Isabeau and together they rode into the night.
Many years passed as Navarre and Isabeau travelled the land, low and high, near and far. They met many a wizard on their journerys but it was as if his father's prophecy was to come true. Most merely told them that such an enchantment was beyond them while others smirked cunningly and demanded many thousand gold coins for such a favour. Slowly, Navarre despaired. He earned more gold and the next time he asked for the price it had risen again.
His only companion and friend was always the hawk. Navarre talked to it, confided in it and people thought him a madman. He became known only as the Lone Wolf. Still, his heart was as kind and pure as it had been when he was a boy. It was the love for Isabeau, he would later say, that kept him alive and on his feet.
Then one day, he met an old man on the road. He looked almost like a beggar, dressed in thread-bare robes, leaning on a gnarled staff, carrying only a small satchel. Still his eyes were clear and keen as their gazes met. Navarre hailed him and offered to share his traveller's lunch, as was custom. The old man gladly accepted. Imperius, he said his name was as they ate. Then he noticed the bird perching on a nearby tree stump.
"What a beautiful bird you have", he remarked, "and you do not keep it on a string? What if it flies away and never comes back?"
Navarre smiled. "Isabeau is my friend. She would never fly away."
"Isabeau? Such an unusual name for a hawk. Most nobles call their birds Arrow or Slingshot."
At that Navarre told him his story. He had longed to tell it. He cared not if another old man thought him a fool. But Imperius only listened and nodded never interrupting until Navarre had finished his tale.
"A bird that knows its own name? A bird that chooses its owner", he wondered, "most unusual. But I have travelled far and wide and have seen many unsual things."
With that he produced a small crystal from his robe and gazing through it studied the bird. Then his eyes went wide with amazement and his jaw dropped.
"That is no bird", he exclaimed, "it is a woman. She has merely been transformed."
Navarre looked at him sadly.
"Don't toy with my feelings, old man. Don't tread on my dreams. They are all that I have left."
Imperius drew himself up to his full height.
"I do not lie, young one. I have the power to see things for what they truly are. For I was once Imperius the Great. My magic has served kings. And normally I would ask a kingly reward for my services but your story has moved me. Let me amass my power and tomorrow at dawn I will turn her back."
So it was done. The next morning Imperius said his incantations, waved his staff through the air and with a flash and a shower of sparks and feathers the hawk was gone. In its place there stood before them the most beautiful woman they had ever beheld. Her hair was auburn like the feathers on the hawks back and her skin was as milky as the feathers on its belly. But her eyes were as dark and green as the heart of the forest. It was the woman from Navarre's dream.
He fell to his knees before her and tears were in his eyes as she looked down on him gently.
"All my life have I looked for you", he said, "all my life I have sought but you. Never have I loved another woman but you. Maybe in truth my life never had another meaning but this quest. I regret not dreaming idle dreams nor being called a fool many times over just to be with you. Tell me your name so I may at last call you my love."
And she smiled and laid her gentle hand on his cheeks.
"But you know it already, my dear Navarre. You have always called me by that name. I was enchanted so long ago I can hardly recall and have been a hawk ever since. I had almost forgotten how it is to be human. But you called me by my name and cared for me and showed me nothing but kindness and love. You made me feel human again. You let me remember. You made me feel alive when the last bit of me had almost died. And now you have saved me again. For that and so much more I loved you and I always will. I am Isabeau."