A useless organ

Histology of human appendix - Wikipedia commons (Jatheesh Mohan)

 

For many years the appendix has been considered a useless organ, a hangover from our evolution; believed at one time it might have had a function, but is now vestigial.

Yet according to a report published by a researcher of the Midwestern University in Arizona it is suggested that when the gut is affected by unwelcome bacteria the appendix can help good bacteria to grow and recolonize the digestive system. It seems the appendix has a higher concentration of lymphoid tissue, which is vital to the immune system. So, it isn't useless, after all.

In the middle of last century there was a minor trend to whip out the appendix for the slightest excuse; the same applied to tonsils and adenoids. Over-zealous surgeons preempted any risk of appendicitis, since that had the potential to cause fatal infection.

In the 1970s I wrote a science fiction story that extrapolated the above trend, in effect anticipating the discovery that the appendix isn't useless but dormant until needed. The story was p

osted in my blog over two days, here:

Gifts from a Dead Race part 1

Gifts from a Dead Race part2

Saturday Story - 'The sandstorm'

A horror story...           
                                  

THE SANDSTORM

 

Nik Morton

 

'Shut up whining, you spoilt bitch!' Burt growled and slapped Alice's face. With the force of the blow her head of long blonde hair jerked back, momentarily obscuring Zeke's view through the rickety pickup's windshield.  A red weal appeared as she choked on her sobbing.

            'Cool it, Burt' Zeke shoved her back onto the hot cowling that vibrated between them. 'This storm's bad enough without you making it worse.'

            Burt squinted at the virtually impenetrable Arizonan sandstorm. Wind rattled the truck's loose and rusted bodywork; air screamed in gaps and crevices; sage-brush scored the windshield.  'Zeke - we gotta find shelter soon...'

            Unexpectedly, as though an apparition, an adobe building loomed up out of the swirling dust clouds. 'There!  Pull in!'

            The engine cut out in front of the shack. Wincing against the savage, pummeling sand, they bundled Alice out of the cab and pushed her towards the door.

            The choking sand tore at them, cutting faces and lips.  Tumbleweed rustled past, cart-wheeling. An eerie wind-howl pounded in their ears, whistling round the building's smoothed corners.

            'Dammit!' The thick wooden door was locked, the windows boarded up. Covering his mouth with a spotted bandanna, Zeke hammered his hairy fist on the paneling.

            'Anybody there?' But the wind snatched his words away.

            Dressed only in a flimsy blouse and mini-skirt, Alice's topmost skin had already been flayed off in places, leaving her red-raw, stinging unbearably. She cringed in the shallow doorway, partly shielded by Burt's quarterback bulk.

            Stubble chin digging into her neck, Burt rubbed suggestively against her. She was nearing hysteria when, without warning, the door's lock clicked open and she almost fell inside. Burt steadied her, his strong hands taking swift advantage. It was as though his stubby fingers had not only hurtfully squeezed her breasts but had lanced deep inside her body, churning her stomach. He had repeatedly tried pawing her since the kidnapping two days ago. If it hadn't been for Zeke...

            'Can I help?' A frail-looking old woman, graying and wrinkled, held the door open a mere crack.

            Zeke instantly thrust his revolver into Ethel Becker's parchment face. 'You've got guests, Ma!' he snarled above the wind's howl.

            As he thrust the door wide Ethel Becker released a plaintive shriek and stumbled backwards, aging eyes alarmed and watery. Burt followed them, roughly dragging Alice in a viselike grip.

            The door slammed shut. Wisps of sand and dust scattered and swirled, fell to the floorboards. The sudden contrast with the outside was haunting: so quiet, the storm a dim memory.

            A welcoming black metal stove stood in the far corner, its rusted funnel stretching through the mildewed rafters. Coffee and stew warmed on the hotplate; the smells permeated the place. Furniture was scarce: a tallboy, bed and table, two chairs, a rug and stove.

            Zeke helped himself to some coffee; the warm strong black liquid drooled down his dimpled chin. 'That's better! Jeeze, that sand gets everywhere!'

            At this, Burt laughed obscenely, hands tightening on Alice's arm.

            'What kind of a place is this?' Zeke queried, eyes wandering.

            Having regains some of her former composure, Ethel pointed to the windows' iron bars, shuttered outside. 'Used to be a jailhouse when the West was Old,' she remarked. The only door was sturdy, Zeke's bruised shoulder testified to that.

            Just then, Burt set eyes on the rusted iron bedstead on the opposite side of the room, its rugs and blankets patchy and unkempt. He licked his parched lips, leered. Alice didn't like the hardening sensation against her buttock, or his rancid breath. But his grip was unshakable.

            At that moment Ethel stepped forward, took Alice's hand. 'Here, girl, I'll treat those nasty cuts.' And she boldly led Alice to the tallboy, away from the astonished Burt. 'You people lost or something?' she asked, breaking out a small first-aid tin.

            Alice moved back a pace, gripping the crochet shawl that covered the old woman's narrow shoulders. 'They - they kidnapped me!' she cried, her whole body trembling.

            All pain was forgotten in her renewed fear. What could she hope to achieve by telling this old woman? Her heart pounded as Burt purposefully strode across the suddenly hushed room, the floorboards occasionally creaking. Unconcernedly, Zeke continued sipping his coffee by the stove.

            Now, Burt towered over the two women.  Mercilessly, he pushed Alice to one side, against the rough-hewn wooden table. Gasping in shock, she stumbled and fell and some of the crockery smashed to smithereens on the bare boards.

            Burt was no respecter of age, either. A backhanded slap sent Ethel crumpling onto the soft bed, its springs squeaking.  'We're out to fleece her rich ol' man, y'see, Ma? So, mind your own business, do as you're told, an' we'll let you be.'  His cold emotionless blue-gray eyes glared meaningfully. 'Okay?'

            Wiping the blood smear from the corner of her mouth, the old woman nodded. With an effort she raised herself.

            'Now, how about some grub, eh?' Zeke said as if nothing had happened.  Rubbing his belly which overlapped the belt of his filthy jeans, he added, 'Smells like some damn' fine stew's on the hotplate.' He then lowered himself at the table, expectant.

            By now Burt had hauled Alice to her feet. Apart from the flayed skin and bruising, she was chalk-white. 'You okay? Don't want the merchandise broke, do we?'

            Abruptly, before she could get her breath or reply, he swung her round and twisted an arm painfully up her back. She let out a scream, to no avail. He wrenched even harder until she stopped struggling, drained of any responses at all as his lips lowered, slobbering hungrily over her throat and chest, bristles aggravating her torn skin. His touch was enough to send her insane; it was like some grotesque nightmare - but for the waves of pain, which increased, gyrating her stomach, tearing her insides apart. She felt faint, sensed the bile rising...

            'That's enough!' Zeke yelled, slamming the rattling coffee-pot on the table, its contents slopping over. 'I want her alive and in one piece - leastways till they pay up. Now, let's eat!'

            Scowling darkly, Burt released her with some reluctance, his glare freezing her blood. He joined Zeke at the table. 'Sure - plenty of time...' he said, wiping his fleshy mouth with the back of his hand.

            Fingers distractedly fumbling with her torn blouse, Alice sank onto the decrepit bed. Wordlessly, Ethel had watched the whole incident. Now she offered a quick reassuring smile and hobbled over to the stove.

            Scooping thick steaming stew into two large pewter bowls, Ethel carefully carried them on a tray to the two seated kidnappers. Then she tipped the tray into Burt's lap.

            Jerking upright, almost screeching, he swore and flung his chair back and almost overturned the table.  The stew was scalding hot. Tears welled in his screwed-up eyes. He frantically lowered his soaked, steaming trousers, baring skinny hairy white legs that were already covered in red blemishes.

            Paralyzed with dread, Alice sat on the bed. The old woman couldn't win.

            Zeke had jumped up, but Ethel was ready for him as well. She swiveled round, spraying the spilt stew from the tray directly into his eyes. As though flung with an electric shock he jack-knifed backwards, a rabid scream on grimacing lips.

            Dropping the tray, Ethel hurried over and grabbed Alice's arm and led her dazedly to the door. 'Use the truck - there's a phone a mile up the road!' she barked, indicating the general direction to follow.

            'Wh - what about you?' Alice stammered.

            'I'll be all right. Now go!'

            Obediently, without pausing to argue, Alice slid out into the savage blasting sand. The appalling force of the storm nearly swept her feet from under, snatching the breath from her. Faintly she heard the door crash shut, the lock click. Bracing herself in the doorway, reluctant to bare herself once more to the storm's full fury, she saw the large metal key scrape under the door, between her feet. The old woman had locked herself in with them.

            She could not hold back any longer now and stumbled towards the gray shape of the truck.  The pain earlier on paled to nothing compared with the agony now of the whiplash of sand-spicules. Her cuts and grazes inflamed anew, joined by fresh lacerations.

            Shaking violently, she fell inside the truck's cab and struggled frantically to close the door. As the metal clanged into place the hellish noise outside diminished a little, enough for her brain to start thinking again.

            The keys were in the ignition - fortunately, they'd been in too much of a hurry finding shelter to remember them.

            The old engine stuttered then fired. She must get help, save the old woman.

            As the rickety truck trundled onto the turnpike - marked by askew telegraph poles - she heard two loud reports, unusually clear in the noise of the storm.

* 

Sunset slashed the barren landscape with reddish hues. The turnpike stretched as far as teh eye could see. Not a wisp of wind; the sandstorm had abated two hours ago, leaving the desert with a new and unsettling silence.

            Parked slantwise outside the adobe shack was a State Police station-wagon. The patrolman leaned inside the open window, unlatched his radio-transceiver. 'Patrolman Kent reporting.'  Static, crackle. 'Dammit!'

            Wrapped in an Aztec-style blanket, Alice stared vacantly from the shack's doorway. Slowly, her face quite blank, she closed the bullet-riddled door. 'The woman - where -?'

            A stomach lurching sensation writhed within her. At the moment that she had entered the shack, against the orders of Patrolman Kent, she had felt strangely giddy, her chest constricted, abdominal muscles tightening unbearably. And then she had seen Zeke and Burt...

            Instead of feeling revulsion as the patrolman had feared, her thoughts were sanguine, objective. Impassively, she had watched the pair of them, dangling upside down from the rafters. They had been stripped naked - and Burt had been stripped of more than clothes. The coagulated blood was black between his thighs. Deeply incised crosses glistened darkly upon their foreheads. Otherwise, the place was empty, laden with dust and cobwebs and skittering spiders. The vile, sulfurous smell pervaded the place, entered her nostrils, made them twitch involuntarily. Dimly, as though from a dream, she half-remembered alien voices, foreign words, like incantations, as thought the sounds came from the very walls of this adobe shack.

            The patrolman threw down his microphone. 'Must be a storm interfering.' He shook his head in bewilderment. 'Lady, are you sure you got your facts right? This place has been deserted fifteen years now, didn't you know?'

            Alice closed her eyes, briefly, nodded slowly. A swirling sensuousness warmed her body. 'Yes, patrolman, I know...' Tingling pleasurably, she walked to the car. The cop opened the door for her and squinted at the incipient dusk. She didn't miss the quick glance he gave as her skirt rode high up her thighs. The upholstery was warm, soft. 'Yes, now I know,' she repeated.

            Patrolman Kent started. 'What - what'd you say, lady?'

            She smiled. 'I know this place was closed down when Ma Becker was mysteriously murdered fifteen years ago.'

            'How'd you - wait a minute! - you said before - '

            Alice sidled further inside the car. 'Come in where it's comfortable,' she whispered. 'And let's you and me forget all about this dreadful place...'

            He hesitated, but only for a moment. 'Just as you like, honey,' the cop said, unbuckling his gunbelt.

            And as she possessed him, the first of her new disciples, she smiled archly. Ma Becker's will gained increased strength from the coupling, enabling her to crush the last vestiges of decency within the mind of Alice. Domination was complete. Fifteen years was a long enough to wait for rejuvenation, she thought, and the body of Alice would serve her very well.

***

Previously 1975 Published in NEW WITCHCRAFT, 1975 under the byline Platen Syder

Copyright Nik Morton, 2014

 

My collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat, features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye.

He is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection, Crooked Cats’ Tales.

 

 

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback for £4.99 ($6.99) and much less for the e-book versions – UK or COM.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton

 

 

Return of the wolf

It’s a controversial objective; reintroducing species to a habitat they roamed before being exterminated. Wolves were reintroduced in Yellowstone National Park in January 1995 and January 1996 – 66 in all. Now, the estimate is that there are over 1,000 wolves in the northern Rocky Mountain. A similar programme has met with success in Arizona and New Mexico. A livestock compensation system is in place.

The idea of reintroducing wolves to Scotland and Wales has been mooted…

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolf_reintroduction

Iberian wolf

 

Here in Spain, the wolf is back from extinction without recourse to reintroduction. There are about 250 breeding groups and more than 250 individuals in Spain’s mountainous regions. There has been an increase in reports of attacks on animals, rising to almost double the 1,500 figure of 2005. Conservationists express surprise at how fast the wolves have multiplied, which seems a little odd since they’ve had the North American experience to draw upon.

Until the 1900s the Iberian wolf inhabited the majority of the Iberian Peninsula. Franco’s government started an extermination campaign during the 1950s and 1960s that wiped out the animals from all of Spain except the north-western part of the country, where there is still a fairsized population in Sierra de la Culebra.

Today, the hunting of wolves is banned in Portugal but allowed in some parts of Spain. There are reports of wolves returning to Navarre and the Basque Country and to the provinces of Extremadura, Madrid and Guadalajara. A male wolf was found recently in Catalonia, where the last native wolf was killed in 1929; however, this animal was found to be an Italian wolf (Canis lupus italicus) migrating from France! Tourists everywhere...

The Spanish wolf figures in my short story ‘Cry Wolf’ featured in Spanish Eye, 22 cases from Leon Cazador, 'in his own words'. Here is an excerpt:

Fernando Lopez was what you would call, in English, a poacher turned gamekeeper. A cunning rather than a clever man, he had been a hunter of wolves—a lobero—for many years, learning the tracking skills from his father and his father before him.

When I was fifteen, our parents brought us to stay in Spain for almost a year. “Family problems,” Mother said. And during that time, my brother Juan and I often left Pilar behind and went into the mountains to track wild animals and bring home a brace of rabbits. During one of these escapades, we stumbled upon forty-year-old Fernando who was setting a trap to catch a lone wolf. That was thirty years ago. Wolf traps are now illegal.

Fernando was taciturn but somehow we three got along. Perhaps our youthful enthusiasm and respect for his lore was appreciated. Anyway, he asked us to join him on a wolf hunt the following week. Although we knew we would have to concoct some innocuous story for our mother to cover our absence, we couldn’t miss this opportunity, so we agreed. Our friendship grew from that time on.

Thirty years ago, the wolf was regarded as a pest. “The wolf must be exterminated as its continued existence is a blemish on our standing in the civilised world,” the mayor of Fernando’s town had declared. “Spain appears to be a Third World country. We must get rid of the wolf plagues, as Britain and France have done, so we can be civilised.”

The government of the day offered bounties for dead wolves and even supplied strychnine to landowners and the peasants who worked the land. It would be interesting to find out whether the incidence of new widows and widowers increased from this period.

- Spanish Eye, p74

Paperback available post-free worldwide from here

E-book available from Amazon.co.uk here

E-book available from Amazon.com here

 

 

FFB – The Outsider, Frank Roderus

Ex-buffalo soldier Leon Brown has saved money for fifteen years and now has a spread of his own. He’s about to see it for the first time, land and ranch just 15 miles outside Kazumal, Arizona. But he’s in for a shock. Some of the promises made in the realtor’s sales pitch are full of air, it seems. Still, Leon’s just pleased to have a place he can call his own. Without a horse, without his bride-to-be, he’s all alone. But he’ll make good. If only he can combat the prejudice, the beatings, and the rustlers, and the thieves, and the Apaches…

Published in 1988, this is my reprint copy of 1995. It’s a moral and simple well told tale about a man’s self-belief. Leon won’t give up, he won’t rile easily, and he will do the right thing, no matter what the cost. The characters are believable, both good and bad, and sing of the human condition.

I came away from this book feeling that I knew Leon – and to a lesser yet as important degree, the half-Apache, half-Mexican Manuela, the popish priest Felipe and the neighbourly Jud Ramsey. I can believe that the west was built by people like these, one day at a time. It’s moving and amusing and just plain satisfying.

Book of the film: Hondo

‘A man ought to do what he thinks is best.’ – Hondo Lane.

‘Hondo Lane was a big man… with the lean hard-boned face of the desert rider… His toughness was ingrained and deep, without cruelty, yet quick, hard and dangerous. Whatever wells of gentleness might lie within him were guarded and deep.’

Hondo and his trusty dog Sam are being stalked by two Apache warriors. He chooses the time and place for the showdown. This action-filled beginning is dropped from the film. Shortly afterwards, deprived of his horse, he wanders into a deep fertile basin and a lonely small ranch. This is where the film opens – and it works. Hondo meets up with Mrs Angie Lowe and her young son Johnny, both struggling to keep the ranch going in the absence of any man. Hondo befriends them and helps out. He warns them that Vittoro is on the warpath but Angie says they’ll be fine, they got along with the Apache. Hondo was half-Apache so understood; he borrowed one of Angie’s horses and left for the fort with despatches. It was a sad leavetaking because there was strong affection between them.

There is the complication of Angie’s husband and in the film this sticks closely to the book. L’Amour also wrote several pages about the Cavalry Company C, the lead up to their massacre; this was neatly discarded in the film script, Hondo simply pulling from his saddlebags the Company’s flag which he took off the Indian braves he killed (before the film began!)

Additional complications arise when Vittoro turns up wanting to adopt young Johnny as his son. He also declares that Angie must take a wife – an Apache brave. She has till the planting rains come to decide which warrior she would accept…

How the drama is played out between the pioneer woman, the gunman and the Apache warrior makes for tense reading. This is such a good yarn that it’s quite humbling to note that it was L’Amour’s first novel, published in 1953. He went on to produce over 120 books with sales in the 300 million range. The film, starring John Wayne and Geraldine Page (making her film debut), was made in the same year. Other actors included Wayne’s pal, Ward Bond and pre-Gunsmoke James Arness. Hondo’s dog Sam was played by Lassie!

Hondo has great characterisation, powerful visuals of the stark Arizona land and moments of understated tenderness. The book could have been written for Wayne as Hondo exemplified the star’s values – honesty, loyalty, bravery, self-reliance and independence. As the Duke’s son Michael said, ‘What you see on the screen is what John Wayne was off the screen. It is how he lived his life.’

L’Amour honed his craft by writing many short stories before embarking on a novel-length tale. Sadly, there is no longer such a good market of pulp magazines for new writers to supply, where they can develop and improve their writing.

On a few occasions, L’Amour jumps character point of view between Hondo and Angie, Hondo and Ed Lowe etc in the same scene, but it’s forgivable because the characters and story smoothly move you on. Even if the viewpoint is omniscient, I found those particular jumps jarred a little. I also felt that the fast-paced ending seems a little rushed but it’s satisfying nevertheless. It was interesting to see that the film’s final confrontation between the Apache and the settlers and cavalry was lengthier than in the reading; much of the violence wasn’t actually shown in any graphic detail, which probably had something to do with the film code of the time.

It’s quite understandable why this book marked the beginning of L’Amour’s successful career as a novelist. You know and feel that L’Amour, like his character Hondo, has integrity and honour and it shines through. As Angie’s thoughts emphasise: ‘… this also her father had given her: reserve of judgment, and to judge no man or woman by a grouping, but each on his own character, his own ground.’

Wayne was already a big box office star. This film did his career no harm at all and the Hondo Lane character can rightly join the Ringo Kid, Ethan Edwards and Rooster Cogburn in the Wayne hall of fame. Bearing in mind this film was released in 1953, its treatment of the Apache was honest and sympathetic – as was L’Amour’s.

L’Amour states in the Foreword: ‘I do not need to go to Thermopylae or the Plains of Marathon for heroism. I find it here on the frontier.’ As do we, his readers.