Moral Excellence – Part II

August 19, 2009 under theology

One of my favourite classes in school was a class on moral excellence.

Ooops – that’s a typo. I took a degree in Computer Engineering, and they don’t have classes on moral excellence in Computer Engineering. I meant to say, “One of my favourite classes in school was a class on computer interfacing.”

It was cool stuff, and it was useful stuff, but most of all… it was humbling.

Here’s how it would go. You would sit in the lab spending a painstaking couple of hours wiring up your breadboard with the LEDs and the peripheral components. You took your time cutting the wires to length and stripping the ends. You paid attention to how you laid stuff out. You ensured your wires were not a rat’s nest.

Not because the lab instructor would dock you marks otherwise (although she certainly would), but because you knew that if you didn’t take the care, you would spend the next two hours testing every possible connection on the breadboard to find the bum connection.

Anyway, once your breadboard was done, you’d hook it up to the microcontroller, and try and run your C code. And it would fail. Again. And Again. And Again.

So you’d spend more hours debugging your code. Once you had exhausted all your patience (and your pride), you’d ask your lab instructor for help. She’d hook up her breadboard (the one that was guaranteed to be perfect) and when it failed, she’d say,

“Try another micro-controller station.”

And so you would and it would work, except it wouldn’t work, because now that your code was actually running, you realized it was completely bug ridden.

Then you got to spend the next hours actually debugging your code (not the fake debugging you were doing before).

When it was all over and everything worked, you’d jump up and down and scream with joy, and call over the lab instructor so that she could mark it.

And she’d come over and she’d run the command and your code would start to do its stuff and it would finally come up with….

‘A’

Yes! Yes! Oh Joy! Sweet Victory! Let’s do it again!

At this point it would crash because you only tested it the first time through. But you’d throw some more time at it, and eventually you’d get it stable and running, and it would do it again.

‘A’

At this point, you’d gain some perspective. The realization would dawn that although you felt like you’d done the best thing in the world… All you’d managed to do was to get the computer to print an “A” on a computer terminal. You’d like to go home and tell your friends, but in all likelihood, they’d just look at you and say, “You printed an ‘A’ today? Very Good! Here’s a gold star! Now run and drink your juice and have a cookie.”

(An ‘A’. Woo-hoo. I’ve used 146 of them already in this post.)

Getting software to “do what it’s supposed to” is not easy. It’s actually really hard.

But it’s the bare minimum.

I think we all know what it’s like to use a computer program that only “does what it’s supposed to.” It’s painful. It’s horrific. It looks like Lotus Notes. Users know a crummy app when they see it. Hey, it works, for a gouge my eyes out and remove my fingernails definition of ‘works’. Or for a Microsoft definition. Microsoft Works… have you tried it? :-P

It’s not excellence.

To get software that goes beyond functional, there needs to be some sort of passion. There needs to be some sort of intangible quality, some verve, some vim… some pizzazz. You can’t build something that people love without some sort of love. It has to be cohesive, focused, whole.

(Hmm… this sounds like some sort of design problem. Designers talk like this. They love intangible stuff.)

The software has to be transparent. It has to be invisible. It has to get out of the way. The program isn’t important. There’s a goal or a task (which is important), and the software’s job is to acheive that, all the while reducing friction. Don’t make the user think about the software. Let them think about the goal.

That’s what excellence looks like in software.

Does it look the same in morality?

For I desired mercy, and not sacrifice; and the knowledge of God more than burnt offerings.  — Hosea 6:6

Functionality matters. Functionality is hard. Functionality is not enough.

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cummin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former.” — Matthew 23:23

People get mad over baby ducks

August 18, 2009 under curios

And the police get mad if you hunt illegally.

(Summary – Guys hunt ducks (illegally), put video up on youtube. Video gets popular, people say “Oh the poor ducks”, police get wind, say “Hey, that’s illegal, is it not?”, guys get busted, learn lesson(hopefully))

The problem with publishing stuff to the internet is that there’s this great conflict of interest going on.

The first half of the conflict is that you want people to know about it. That’s why you put it up. You want strangers to know about it, because you don’t get 60K views from just your friends. The point is to make it public.

Unfortunately, no-one is really familiar with the side effects and consequences of having everybody know about something.

We’re familar with one possible outcome (you get 15 million hits and become Internet Famous and get a book deal) but that’s probably the least likely of all possible outcomes. Unfortunately it’s the outcome we hear most about, because it’s the most sensational. This has the effect of totally messing up our assessment of likelihood, because our brains are wired to think that the more we hear about something, the more common it is.

That’s the first half of the conflict. We put stuff up to get seen.

The second half of the conflict is that pretty much the only think that makes privacy kinda maybe sorta work on the internet is that nobody cares about you.

There is no privacy. There is only obscurity. Which, of course, is the very thing that you destroy by achieving the goal of being seen.

And, of course, you can’t control the actions of other people once they notice you.

He added, however, that the matter had taken on a life of its own through the internet and that commentators, in his view, took advantage of the circumstances.

“What we didn’t appreciate,” Fraser said, “was the fact that various hunter associations and groups decided to make us their poster boy to try to make themselves look better.”

That says it all, really.

Most people aren’t famous; most people aren’t used to being famous (even for 15 minutes). Most people don’t know the costs, don’t know the benefits. By most people, I mean me. And my ilk.

Of course, we’re learning more about this stuff on a daily basis.

Make sure it’s not illegal before you post it.

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The Pea – Part I

August 17, 2009 under Uncategorized

 I’m trying out a little game I thought up. The game is to retell a fairy tale or children’s story while omitting one of the major characters.

This is the Princess and the Pea… so long as you don’t count the princess (Part I). Next Monday… Part II!

The Pea

Once there lived a prince who, as all princes do, came of age to marry. However, no princess could be found who met the prince’s exacting standards. His father arranged for him to meet many princesses: girls from near and far; plain ones; lovely ones; rich ones; poor ones… The prince dismissed them all.

In each one he would find a flaw that disqualified her completely. “She’s no true princess,” he would say, “A princess must be kind. Gentle. Noble. Regal. She must command both love and respect.”

Eventually the king grew tired of his son’s refusal to chose a bride. He became angry, and swore that if the prince would not marry, then he would not ascend to the throne, and that his younger brother should be named successor. But the prince would not budge from his stance nor lower his principles.

The king became sick, and died. Before he did so, he kept his oath and named the prince’s younger brother as successor. The younger prince had not been overly particular in choosing a bride; his wife came from a wealthy kingdom and was quite pretty.

However, the old King’s choice of successor proved to be a very poor choice, for the new King was cruel and unjust. He was harsh with the people and had no compassion on them in their suffering. To his older brother he was viciously unkind, for he was afraid that the older prince would try and usurp the throne.

One day, when the older prince was walking in the garden, he heard a voice call his name. He looked around, but there was no one to be seen. But then he heard the voice again, and so he searched through the garden until he found its source.

The voice was coming from a single pea-plant, nestled among the flowers of the garden. From the plant hung a lonely pod, which the prince opened. It contained a solitary pea.

“It is good you have found me,” said the pea, ” for I have news that you should hear.”

“As I hang here in the garden, many people walk past, and so I hear the comings and goings of all the castle. Your brother, the king, is afraid of you. He has arranged for you to be murdered, this very night, so that you might not take the throne from him.”

At this the prince was overwhelmed with grief; although he knew his brother disliked him, he had not realized that it would cause his death.

“Take heart.” said the pea. “You are not dead yet; but you must flee the castle without delay.”

“Where shall I go? What shall I do?” cried the prince.

“Don’t worry about that,” said the pea, “but take me with you, and I promise you that you shall find good fortune, just so long as you are careful to follow my advice in everything. And now, it is time to leave.”

So the prince put the pea into his pocket and left the castle. Following the pea’s advice, he did not go to his chambers for any belongings, or even to the stable for a horse. Rather, he slipped out by the servants’ entrance and so escaped unnoticed.

As he was going down the road, he chanced upon a beggar asking him for alms. But he had no money  (what use does a prince in a castle have for market coin?) and was about to pass the beggar by, when the pea bade him stop.

“If you wish to travel safely,” said the pea, “you must not appear so princely as you are. Exchange clothing with the beggar; he will certainly be grateful for some finer stuff.”

The prince was unconvinced, for the beggar’s rags were poor indeed; in odor, fit and fashion they were utterly repulsive. The pea reminded him of the stakes, however, and he eventually agreed. For his part, the beggar was more than willing. Just as the pea had said, he was overwhelmed by the prince’s generosity.

The prince traveled away from the castle in the beggar’s clothing, trying to find a safe place where he could stay. But he had no provisions of any sort, and he quickly realized that his only hope was to follow the profession of his hastily borrowed uniform, and beg.

It was not easy for the prince to become a beggar and he wasn’t naturally talented at it. He carried with him much pride, which he was force to give up, with much sorrow. However, his work was made easier by the fact that the people he was begging from mostly knew what to do and how to treat him. The good folks treated him well, and the bad ones… well, they treated him badly.

But, with no place to go, and with no other opportunity presenting itself, the prince managed to carve out a role as a beggar. He was not totally overwhelmed, for he had the pea ever at his side, and from time to time the pea would point out to him a person who was liable to be more generous than another. And so, in this fashion, he traveled across the country he once believed would be his own.

All through this time the prince learned a great deal about the world, and about life, and about his own self. He asked a great many questions, mostly starting with, “Why?” and he worked his way past his own despair and dejection at being exiled. From time to time he questioned his friend the pea, reminding him that he had been promised good fortune. To this, the pea always bade him be patient, and assured him that all good things came to those who were willing to wait for them.

One day, at the end of a particularly long and grueling day of travel, the prince was resting at the side of the road. He was utterly spent, and although he had hoped to reach some town or village, his legs would bear him no further, and so he sat in the ditch at the side of the road.

In other circumstances, he might have found himself abominably hungry, but as it was, he could think only of his thirst. The road was dry and dusty, and he had found no streams or pools on his journey that day.

And so he sat in the dust and the heat, with his head down, covered by his beggar’s shawl, to shade him from the sun.

In his preoccupation with his fatigue and thirst, he did not hear the footsteps. But he felt the hand on his shoulder, and heard the voice.

“Excuse me, sir… would you like some water?”

The prince could not really think; he could not appreciate the rarity of someone offering him something, unbegged. He was too tired and thirsty for that.

He just looked up, and met the eyes of the girl bending down over him. And when he did, he knew.

He had found his true princess.

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Moral Excellence – Part I

August 14, 2009 under theology

A few random thoughts on what it means to excel in doing the right thing.

Moral Excellence is a big topic. Daunting. Let’s talk about something else, shall we?

How about….

Fast Food Excellence!

No, I’m not talking about the Fancy Fast Food blog (although it is excellent).

I’m talking about Chicken For Lunch.

Chicken For Lunch is a little fast food restaurant in an office tower basement. It showcases the bizarre idea that excellence can exist anywhere, even in the lowly context of a junk-food lunch. Chicken for Lunch does fast food, but it does it better than any other fast food – it’s the best dang fast food you can get.

I could talk about all the various things that make it excellent (good value for money, good tasting food, family owned, superior marketing), but I’m not going to. You can read an article on it if you want to.  I want to focus on just one part of the equation: Amy.

Amy, the owner, recognized every customer and addressed each by name. She automatically served what you ordered before, so you’d better be quick if you want to try something new. The IT guys behind me in line informed me that they had once missed their regular visits for a few months. Not only did Amy remember their names and orders on their return, she’d berated them for their absence.

If you want excellence… That’s it right there.

But excellence is a relative measure – the reason that something is considered excellent is because in some way, it goes beyond the average. Amy is excellent not because she remembers people, but because she remembers people to a degree that no one else does.

This got me thinking.

What if an ordinary fast food worker decided to do the same thing? What if one day the teenager at the counter said to himself, “You know, I’m going to remember every single person who comes past my till?”

What if he were serious about it, and actually decided to do stuff in order to make it happen? You know, what if he went to the library and got out a couple books on memory, and practiced all that association muck so that people’s names and faces would stick?

What if he made the habit of finding out every person’s name? Asked the travelers where they were coming from/going to? Found out the ages of the kids?

Could he do it? What would happen?

I bet you he’d become Amy.

The remarkable thing about Amy is not that she can do what she does… it’s that she does do what she does. She does it, and no one else is doing it. And what she’s doing is a good thing; what comes out of it is excellence.

I think that’s what Jesus was getting at.

“Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he is the one who loves me– John 14:21

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven.” — Matthew 7:21

Everywhere in the Gospels, Jesus seems to be presenting something that is available to everyone, but… he right out and says that many people aren’t going to accept it.

Everyone can have it; but not everyone will.

It’s here that the concept of moral excellence breaks down, because excellence is a relative concept. It disappears once everyone achieves it; as soon as it is commonplace, it vanishes and must be re-attained.

But what Jesus is talking about clearly does not disappear when more people have it: it increases; it grows stronger.

If you’re interested in excellence… you’ve lost. You’re chasing a phantom.

I think that’s part of the reason why we fail. You can pick up a million books that talk about how to achieve excellence – how to be successful – how to conquer the world – how to get to the top. And we want excellence, because the books tell us that excellence will bring us money, power, fame…

But we’ve been sold a line, and we’ve fallen into a trap.

Excellence isn’t the thing; the thing is the thing. Whatever it is.

The truth bears this out; all the books on excellence are stocked with examples of people who cared so passionately about something else that they didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, and gave their all until they’d manifested the thing that they loved.

The thing is the thing.

I love excellence; it’s good, right? Aren’t I supposed to drive towards it? I’m supposed to instill it in my colleagues and establish it going forward.

Jesus isn’t very big on the treasures of the world.

When Jesus heard this, he said to him, “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

When he heard this, he became very sad, because he was a man of great wealth. — Luke 18:22-23

Help me… I can’t stop!

August 13, 2009 under curios, tongueincheek

But hey, it’s from 1905! That makes it okay, right?

Right?

funny pictures of cats with captions

It’s the oldest known LOLCat; click-through on the picture for a little more background.

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For all the Sudoku lovers

August 13, 2009 under curios

 I used to reserve arrogance and distain for those “sudoku solving people”.

Then I tried a puzzle and promptly became everything I ever hated.

So I guess my penance is to do a service to others.

In my daily locating a sudoku routine, I have several choices. The first is pick up a copy of one of the two free “newspapers” that carries a puzzle. The problem is, the paper is a rag, I only want the sudoku anyway, and I have to dump the paper somewhere. Not quite a service to others.

The second choice is to write a sudoku generator that prints to .pdf so I can print off sheets of puzzles. I guess this would count as a service to others.

The third choice is to stick “sudoku generator” into Google and to share what I find with others.

Yay! OpenSky is built on OSS and it generates to .pdf! Who could ask for anything more?

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A little midmorning fun

August 12, 2009 under theology

A midmorning spell of sitting on sunny steps with a cup of coffee and nothing at all to do is surprisingly pleasant.

Mine was nice, but it was interrupted.

It wasn’t a scratching feeling – just a tickle really. I glanced down to see the little black ant scampering up my shin.

The ant seemed to have all the motivation and vigour I lacked. He didn’t seem to be in a biting mood, though, so I let him roam freely through the hairy forest of my lower leg. I promised myself only that if he got too close to the entrance of my shorts I would do myself the favour of heading him off.

He was a tenacious little fellow, I’ll give him that. He tried. And when I tricked him up onto my arm, he went straight for the sleeve. Same thing on the other arm. And then back to the shin, and straightaway heading for the shorts again.

I don’t know if he enjoyed the game as much as I did, but I figured that for an ant, a change must be as good as a holiday.

I finally put him down onto the cement step, and he scurried off to the nearest crack. Was it to tell his friends and bring them all back to see? I didn’t wait around long enough to find out; my coffee cup was empty, and so I went back inside.

It’s fun to anthropomorphize ants. I don’t know why. I think it has to do with the fact that they exist at an entirely different scale than we do, and there’s more to be discovered by bringing a piece of humanity down to their perspective. I think that’s important.

I don’t think we like to anthropomorphize things that are too close to home. It’s not the same, somehow. I tried to anthropomorphize something once, and it turned out to  be Joe from Accounting. It was kind of awkward, and I’m not sure I’ll ever again be comfortable thinking of Accounting harbouring people.

But I think the real reason we anthropomorphize is because we catch a glimpse of something – a sliver of the nature of God captured in something that is not ourselves.

If a man is made in the image of God, then seeing a part of the image of God in something – even if just a part – poses the question, “Perhaps there is more of God in there than I previously thought?”

And of course, once you ask that question, it becomes nearly irresistable to dig it out.

Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise:
Which having no guide, overseer, or ruler,
Provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest. — Proverbs 6:6-8

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Seth Godin – No one cares about You

August 11, 2009 under metablogging

This is a side effect of personal publishing. Individual people, who have previously been consumers of things, are now learning what it means to be producers of things.

It’s the process of learning about that mysterious connection between an artist and his art. His art comes from him, but is not him, although it contains a part of him.

Yet people love the art and not the artist. They pay millions of dollars for the painting, even when it’s apparent to all who know him that the artist is a bum and a skeeze.

But he’s a great artist.

If you want people to love you, don’t try and blog your way to it.

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Nehemiah

August 11, 2009 under 396wordBible

A remnant’s leader, called to restore

Index

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Jack – Part IV

August 10, 2009 under Uncategorized

I’m trying out a little game I thought up. The game is to retell a fairy tale or children’s story while omitting one of the major characters.

This is Jack and the Beanstalk, without the beanstalk (Part 4). Part 1.  Part 2. Part 3.

Jack the Giant

Since the time he had left the earth, Jack had not thought about what the master shipbuilder had said. But now the words would not leave him.

“It will cost you everything you have.”

They were bitter now; mocking words.

Jack sat in his castle. He counted his gold, and played his harp, and told his goose to lay eggs. The gold glittered and the music was beautiful and the eggs piled up to the ceiling.

And he wallowed in misery. It coursed through him; it poured out of him as he beat his fists against the walls, as he raged through the castle, as he screamed out his anguish and his sorrow. His cries echoed back to him and were torment in his own ears. They rang out across his vast empty, dead land, where they also died, for there was no one else there to hear them.

In his madness he sought out the store-room where he had once cowered. He brought out the pieces of the Giant’s sword and laid them on the table of his great hall.

Every night he looked upon the shattered sword. Each night he swore that whatever the cost, he would remake it. But then the harp would play for him, and he would become calm again. Each night he left the broken shards upon the table, unforged.

One night it was too much for him. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he left. He loaded the gold, and the goose, and the harp, and sailed away in the cloud-ship.

There was no moon that night; no one below could see the lonely cloud, so like a ship, that pitched and rolled across the inky depths of the night sky.

Jack didn’t know where he was going. There was no place on earth where he could put down. And yet he sailed low, scraping the tips of trees, desperate for any contact with anything real, anything warm, anything human.

It was not for him, he knew. It could never be his. And yet he so desperately wanted – needed – to get close to it.

He stopped when he heard the wailing.

It sounded inhuman – so torn and raw. It knew no restraint, no solace – it was pure, unbounded anguish.

At first Jack thought it was his own, unbidden, voice – he’d sung that song himself so often – and so he clamped his jaw tight shut. But no! It was a woman’s voice, and, peering through the darkness, he could just make out the shape of the cottage from which it came.

Jack wasn’t thinking anymore. He wasn’t worrying about being discovered. His hand, unguided, seized the tiller and brought the ship to the cottage, nestling it gently upon the thatching of the roof.

And then… Jack reached for the harp and began to play. The music was heavenly; the sweet and tender notes hung in the air, swelling and fading, lingering and harmonizing with every chord of sorrow in the wail.

In the darkness, the woman wailed, and Jack, unseen, also wailed, and played a song of sorrow on the harp. But as he played, the music changed. It grew a softer melody, and then… the wailing also changed. It became human, it turned to weeping.

It grew into a voice, a crying out, “My son, My son, My son.”

All through the night he sat, and played, and played, and played. As dawn began to break, he put his hand once more upon the tiller. Silently, invisibly, the cloud-ship rose up into the sky, and bore him back to the castle.

At last Jack had found something that was real.

From that night on, Jack spent as little time in the castle as possible. He slept there, during the day. At night, he went sailing.

Whenever he saw a house that was poorer than the rest, Jack would bid his goose to lay. He would sneak down with the golden eggs and some gold, leaving it behind before ghosting back into the safety of the sky.
Whenever he heard mourning, or distress, or turmoil, he would dock his ship and play his harp.
Some nights he rested above taverns, drawing out the sting of anger and drunken stupor, making sure that all returned home safe to their families.
Some nights, as with the first night, there would be a death. He would play solace.
Each night, his song changed to match the story below.
Each night, he played the things he wished for.
It gave him a measure of joy, of relief, to give comfort to others.

But a Giant he remained.

In all this, there was something building inside Jack, and though he felt it, he did not know what it was; he could not put words to it. It was deep within him, pushing, burning, calling to him as he sailed across the night skies. Ever close to people, he was ever a world away.

And then one night, it came to him. He knew what it was. He must go back. He knew it, and though he told himself a thousand times that it could never be, that he could not,  the knowledge that he must was unyielding.

Worse still, he knew that he could not go back only to hide from people in some secluded cave. He had to face them. He had to stand before them as he was – as the Bandit King, as the Giant. The thought horrified him, terrified him. He swore he would never do it; he swore that he would die before he let anyone see his hideous form. But it was all a farce, a bluster to sooth his ragged nerves. He knew what he was going to do, because he knew what he must do. There was no other way.

He set down in a lonely field during the dead of night. He had the harp slung over his shoulder and the goose under his arm as he disembarked from the cloud-ship.

“I don’t think I’ll need you any more, my friend.” he said, turning back to look at his ship. He wasn’t sure how he was going to destroy it – he had brought matches, although now he was loath to light one. But it was as if the ship had heard his words, for, lo! It was breaking up into pieces on its own, disappearing before his eyes. He stood and watched as the ship slowly dissolved into mist, wafting softly away on the night breeze.

Jack turned around again and began to walk. He was taking his final journey.

It was noon when he reached the capital, but the guard at the gate was already drunk, otherwise he might never have gained entry. The guard took the cries outside the gate for a hubbub over a spilled cart or the like; by the time the Giant strode past him, it was too late for him to bar the doors or even draw his sword.

The streets emptied before him as Jack went through the city. Before long the tide of panic had swept far ahead of him; the streets he walked were completely empty. But he could see tiny cracks in window shutters, slivers of light in door-frames; he knew he was being watched. Far behind him he could hear the clatter of hooves: guards, following him at a distance.

He made his way to the city square. It was empty. He stopped by a fountain. The goose was grateful for a chance to have a drink and bathe its feet. He reached into his pocket and threw it some crumbs. His initial terror at being on the earth had faded to a numbness. People had reacted exactly as he had thought. He was every bit the monster he imagined himself to be.

“Well,” said Jack, “there’s nothing for it now, is there? I wonder when they’ll kill me. I don’t imagine it will be too long, now.”

He sat down to wait.

What Jack hadn’t counted on was bureaucracy. To a man, the guards were terrified.  They were willing to take every excuse not to confront him. The official channels channeled and notifications were sent, authorizations authorized and orders ordered. Around three o’clock, Jack heard a rumble in the distance. He squinted far down one of the alleys leading into the square – was that a catapult?

No, it was a ballista, but he was sure the bowmen that were busy trying to stay hidden on the roofs around the square were happy for the backup, nonetheless.

It was around six o’clock when the delegation approached. It had a trumpeter and a lot of soldiers, but none of them came very close. He was surrounded, they said. He should give up.

“Very well,” said Jack. “Take me to the magistrate.”

The Judge demanded to know why he had come to the city. Jack told him. Everything. He told the whole story, slowly and carefully. When he had finished, the judge didn’t say anything except, “Lock him up.”

They put him, and his goose, and his harp in a cell that was far too small. It was cold and it was damp. He took one look at the cot and knew that it would never take his weight, so he laid himself down on the stone floor. Even there he could not stretch out to full length. He listened to the whispers and the scurrying of the rats around him. He smiled. Rats! His old castle never had rats. He breathed deeply and took in the rich, deep scent of sewage. Real sewage.

He didn’t know what would happen to him now, but it didn’t matter anymore.

He was back.

That night, he slept better than he ever had in his life.

Jack woke to hear the jailor shouting  something incomprehensible. He was awake, but he felt… confused. Slow. It was as if someone had wrapped great swathes of gauze around his brain. Guards were rushing into his cell, shouting at him, yelling out demanding questions.
“Who are you?” they yelled.
“Hello.” he said. “I’m Jack. Don’t you remember me?”
“Where’s the giant?”

Jack looked down at his hands. They were big, but they were strapping-lad big, not monstrous.
“I think he’s gone.” he said. “At least… I hope he is.”

When the Judge was told the Giant wasn’t there, and they only had a peasant boy, he didn’t know what to do, and  said as much. Jack had tried to tell his story again, but he’d had a great many problems in doing so. For some reason, the pieces wouldn’t quite fit together. He was confused, uncertain, although he did his best to impress upon the Judge that he *was* the giant, or that… he had been. No, wait… He was the bandit, wasn’t he? Or was the bandit the giant?

The Judge was sure of only one thing. The boy in front of him was quite stupid.

“I’ve judged for many, many years.” said the Judge. “I’ve set some men free and I’ve sent others to their deaths. I daresay I wasn’t always right in my decisions, but I never shied from making them and I can live with that.”
“But I can’t judge this boy for the crimes of a giant and of a bandit king.”

The Judge looked at the Captain of the Guard.
“Could you execute this boy, knowing there was a Giant in the cell last night?” he asked.
The Captain of the Guard had a lean, hard face, but it was looking straight at his boots, avoiding the Judge’s gaze.

“We can’t let the crimes of a notorious brigand go unpunished,” said the Judge, “but ultimately it is the people who have been wronged, and I think they need to see this.”

They brought Jack into the city square – Jack, and the harp, and the goose. They took him to where a large platform had been erected. Jack was taken up on it, where he was told to stand just to one side of the judge’s chair.

There were many people gathered there. People from the city, people from the countryside. They had gathered at the news that the King of the Bandits (a giant, they had heard) had been taken. They had come to see justice, for there was not one among them who had not been wronged by his villainy.

An angry buzz went through them at the sight of Jack. They wanted a giant; many of them had seen one yesterday.

The judge called for silence; eventually, he got it. The crowd pressed close around the stand. They were kept back by the guards, who held a firm perimeter. The judge told the story that Jack had told him; he recounted the events of the night before and of that morning. Then he looked at Jack.

“Is there anything you want to say, lad?” he asked.

The large crowd frightened Jack. It was full of strange faces – angry faces – mean faces. They were staring right at him, and he started to panic. He looked around desperately for something that wasn’t hostile – and he saw the harp.

Jack grabbed it; he put his head down and closed his eyes and began to play. He wanted to run away; he wanted to hide, so he tried to hide in the music. He played and played. Music poured out of the harp – all the songs that Jack had played before. He played the story of his misery in the Giant’s castle. He played the songs of all his travels, and when he had played them all, he stopped.

He was calm now. He put the harp down, raised his head, opened his eyes. Every face was turned towards him, transfixed. They weren’t making any noise. No rustling, no whispering, no murmuring. Jack didn’t say anything. He just stood and looked at them.

“Does anyone have a grievance they wish to bring forward?” asked the magistrate.

A low murmur travelled through the crowd. There was a rustle, and a shift, and eventually a parting as a woman emerged from out of it.

“I heard that song the night my Jimmy died.” she said. She lifted her eyes up to meet Jack’s. “My little boy.” And then she walked out of the square.

A man came forward – a burly, swarthy man. “I was just about to put my blade right through Bob Swindall’s teeth – Hey, Bob? when that tune stayed my hand.” He gave a nod to Jack and left.

More came forward – one by one they left a story and went home. When the square was finally empty, night was already falling. The judge looked at the guards. They were leaning wearily on their spears. He looked at Jack.

“I guess you’d better go.” he said. “Do you need a place to stay tonight?”

Jack shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

The guards left Jack outside the city gates and wished him well, before returning inside the city. For a while Jack just stood there, breathing the night air, alone on the road with his goose and his harp.
The goose reached up expectantly and nibbled the tips of Jack’s fingers.
“Let’s go home.” said Jack.

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