Which side?

I heard a piece of wisdom. Can't remember where I heard it. It went something like this:

One way to discern a man's intelligence is by observing which side of his face he shaves first.

I have lain awake for many nights, pondering this. What could be the connection between my intelligence, and the side of my face I choose to shave first? I am still stymied as I write.

The very fact that I don't see a connection, I think, clearly marks me as a man of lesser intelligence. Were only I more intelligent, I would understand why it matters.

I stand before my mirror, shaving, and think to myself, but I am going to shave my whole face.

No matter where I begin, the end result is the same: I am clean shaven.

Perhaps the statement implies a hypothetical interruption. Perhaps an intelligent man, knowing that shaving a couple days worth of stubble can take some time, would begin shaving the side of his face that absolutely must be shaved, just in case he is interrupted and must run off, mid shave.

But what side would this be? The left side? It seems to me that unless the man in question is a magazine model (or rough equivalent), and one who only has pictures taken of his left side at that, anybody talking to him face-on would think he looked ridiculous. I doubt that walking around in such a state could do anything to bolster estimations of his intelligence.  

I wondered if perhaps the saying referred to different parts of the face, drawing an implied distinction between areas: neck, chin, cheeks, and upper lip. This makes some sense. An intelligent man (or a vain one) would know the areas of his face that look the best if he is to be only partially enstubbled. For example, I know that my moustache area, of all the places I grow facial hair, looks terrible. Thus, I always shave my upper lip first. So, if I am called away early, I can rest assured that I stride from my bathroom with a visually pleasing partial shave.

Sadly, I am forced to throw out this hypothesis, because the saying clearly states "side" of the face, and not "part" of the face.

In my consternation, I've also pondered the relevancy of right- and left-handedness, electric and straight razors, the presence of shaving cream, the time of day, and whether the man in question is single or married. None of these avenues have supplied a reasonable answer. So, I remain an unintelligent man, resigned to choosing randomly the side of my face to shave first, in the hope that I might accidentally stumble upon the correct answer, and greater intelligence. Today, hmm, let's see. I think I'll start with...the right side. Hey! Wait a sec...

Ash-Marked

What follows is the opening for a story I came up with after reading The Eye of the World. I am doing something a little different with this one, and not trying to plan anything. I'll just write and see what happens to the characters. The fundamental idea is that in many fantasy stories, the characters do remarkably stupid crap all the time, and none of their companions ever say "Maybe we shouldn't pull this random lever in the basement of the haunted castle," for example. I'm hoping this will turn into a fantasy adventure where the characters already have a working knowledge of how fantasy adventures tend to work out. 

Eltin and Garna faced the entryway to Ashmark Temple. The evening sun was slipping behind the valley’s high peaks, leaving the structure half in shadow. Closing rays slanted through the air’s meandering Puffcat seeds, causing the two friends to squint up at the temple through the glare. Soon the sun would dip beneath the mountains completely, leaving this part of the valley in an early dusk.

Eltin’s favorite parts of the valley were where he could stand and watch the evening shadows racing towards him across the grass. In the ending minutes of a day in late summer, he could feel the glowing air expand and mix to create a kind of unfathomable wistfulness. It was the same feeling Eltin got when he admired one of Elder Penti’s impossibly ornate card houses, or a speckled Robin’s egg in the spring; it was the experience of something beautiful, deep, fragile, and fleeting.

Garna’s favorite parts of the valley were the parts he wasn’t supposed to enter, which was why he and Eltin were standing in front of Ashmark. Eltin was gazing serenely at the last visible speck of sun disappearing behind Moth Peak, and Garna was gazing at Ashmark’s open archway with the anticipation of a child come gift time on New Year’s eve.  

Winding vines twisted themselves through imperceptible fissures in the grey blocks of the temple’s walls, which were broken in places by centuries of weather and the persistent pressure of thousands of tiny roots. Large piles of dead leaves lay trapped where the wind had pushed them, piled into mounds where the temple’s walls came together in awkward alcoves.

The temple had a distinctly dusty feel, and all of this, the leaves, the broken stones, the ivy, gave the impression that no one had tended to the temple in centuries. Eltin supposed that this was probably the case, if his village’s stories held any truth. Two gigantic, stone griffins stood on their hind legs to either side of the opening. The text on the statue’s bases had long since worn away, but Eltin felt that the griffins’ poses could only be meant as a warning.

            Actually, Eltin thought, “temple” really isn’t the right word at all. Temples were supposed to be small and modest. This was more of a cross between a mine, a sanctuary, and a palace. Eltin could see the steps at the entryway disappearing below ground and into a dim twilight that hid most of the inside from view. There were no windows at any point along the walls, and the walls themselves ended only once they ran into the cliff-face behind.

            “Right,” Garna said, his voice displacing the stillness, “we’re here, now in we go!”

            Eltin crossed his arms against the sudden chill in the wind. Fall was coming. He shuffled from foot to foot. “Garna, I thought we agreed. Just a look, then we’d leave.“

            Garna was indignant, which was predictable. “Not again, Eltin. I’ve already seen the outside. Mara and I walked around the walls. But she wouldn’t go in either. Don’t tell me you’re a little scaredy girl.” Garna gave Eltin’s shoulder a tiny shove.

            “Mara’d kick your ass for that,” said Eltin, accustomed to his friend’s provocations. When he and Garna were younger, it took only the span of a jape for Eltin to fall on him, punching and biting and kicking. The two would roll around, throwing up dust and tearing their clothes, only stopping once an elder doused them with a bucket of water. But friendships between boys can be odd things, and all their little brawls only brought them closer. Now, both being fifteen, they knew that they could cause serious damage with that sort of thing. At least, Eltin knew it. He wasn’t sure if Garna cared. Eltin gave him a rough shove back, and said, “She wouldn’t go alone with a fifteen-year-old boy into a dark, secluded place? Gee, I wonder why. You want her father to tan you?”

            Garna rolled his eyes, and made a gesture that indicated what he thought Mara’s father could go do. “She was scared, Eltin. She said so.”

            “You know, in this case, I don’t think there’s much of a difference between fear and wisdom,” Eltin replied, hands on his hips.

            Garna just shook his head. “You sound like a textbook. Like always. An old texbook.” Garna turned and walked a few paces towards the Temple’s archway, stopping next to one of the griffins. He put a hand on one of its outstretched claws.

            “Just look how marvelous this is!” Garna said. “And it’s just the entrance. Imagine what’s inside!”

            “Yeah. I’m so excited. Some crumbling, wooden furniture, a bunch of empty, dark, stone rooms, and a few altars. Plus, oh, I don’t know, traps, cursed relics, and angry spirits from long-dead monks. The elders tell everyone to stay out of Ashmark for a reason.”

            “Yeah. They say it’s sacred, and we shouldn’t piss off the Gods. I think Elder Penti hides his collection of naked drawings in there, and he’s just afraid someone will find them.”

            “Ok, Garna, seriously. We have no torches, no map of the place, and the warnings of our entire village that it’s off-limits.”

            Garna threw his hands in the air. “Are you kidding me? I just want to see what’s at the bottom of the stairs. That’s not gonna hurt anyone. Besides, I promised Mara that I’d bring her something.”

            “Did she even say wanted you to do that?” Eltin asked, exasperated.

            “Well, no, but I could tell she liked the idea.”

            “I bet what she actually said was,” Eltin cleared his throat and pitched his voice slightly higher in imitation, “Garna, stop being such a bloody fool.”

            “No, her actual words were ‘bloody show-off’,” Garna corrected, fingering the point of a griffin’s claw. “It’s not what she said, though, but how she said it.”

            “How did she say it?”

            “You know that cute little half smile thing she does when she’s teasing you, and her eyes kind of light up like they’re filled with fairy dust, and she plays with the seam on the side of her dress, and—”

            “You don’t know the first thing about girls,” said Eltin, cutting him off and shaking his head.

            “Oh, like you do,” returned Garna.

            “I know she wouldn’t want you to risk your life doing something stupid and dangerous, just to impress her.”

            Garna laughed at his friend. “That’s where you’re wrong, Eltin. That’s precisely what she wants. Trust me.” With that, Garna turned on his heel and walked straight under the temple’s arch, and started descending the steps.

            Eltin cursed under his breath and took a few steps back towards the village, then stopped and took a few steps towards the temple, not wanting to abandon his friend, stopped again, and rocked back and forth on his feet, trying to decide what to do. Finally he broke into a slow run after Garna, calling out, “Fine, but just to the bottom of the steps. Then I’m turning around.”

            He found Garna waiting for him fifteen steps down, leaning against the wall. Even at this short distance, little of the failing evening’s light reached them. Despite the detritus and verdigris that littered the ground and covered the walls outside Ashmark, not even so much as a single leaf could be seen on the staircase. In fact, the steps themselves seemed as though they were cut from the mountain only yesterday, and by people whose apparent skill made the work of the village’s best rock smiths seem the result of a child’s wild flailing.

            Each step was a perfect replica of the last, and the rock’s surface was as flat and smooth as the blade of a knife. The walls were carved with equal skill, and though his eyes couldn’t see well enough to be certain, Eltin could feel not even the smallest fissure in them. He thought this more than a little odd, given the proliferation of ivy only just outside.

              The two friends descended another twenty steps, before stopping to let their eyes adjust. Once they could see, Eltin realized that the steps ended on a small landing, a few hundred feet below, but he couldn’t discern what happened beyond.

            “That’s a long way down...” Eltin began.

            “The end of the steps. That’s what we said.”

            “That’s what you said.”

            “That’s what I still say.”

            “I think we should go back. This doesn’t feel right.”

            “You always say that.”

            “Garna, this is how children in stories always get in trouble! They go somewhere stupid they’re not supposed to, something goes wrong, and they wind up almost dying, or getting horribly maimed, or locked into some ridiculous adventure that neither of them wanted in the first place. You know that epic about Roderick and Medina? How did the tale start? With the two of them entering a forbidden temple, and finding an enchanted sword. If they’d just stayed home, Medina wouldn’t have lost her hand, and Roderick wouldn’t have had to watch his parents tortured and killed.” The volume of Eltin’s voice steadily rose as he spoke, and when he’d finished, the word “killed” echoed up and down the staircase.

            Garna just put his hand on Eltin’s shoulder, looked him square in the eyes, and said, “Stop being so dramatic. That’s just a story. That kind of stuff doesn’t happen to actual people. Besides, you left out the part about Medina and Roderick falling in love, and Roderick becoming a wise and powerful king.”

            “But they were actual people. That’s my point.”

            “Allegedly.”

            “Allegedly what, exactly?” asked Eltin.

            “It’s an old fable, Eltin! You really think all that stuff actually happened? What is it you’re always saying?” Garna’s voice took on the tone he used when imitating one of his teachers. “Don’t listen to old fables too closely. Years of telling and re-telling have introduced exaggeration and outright falsehood.” His voice returned to normal. “There. How was that?”

            “Yes, but,” Eltin stopped suddenly, and looked around him. “Wait, look around. We can still see.”

            Garna shrugged. “The light from outside, obviously.”

            “No. Look back.”

            Garna peered back up the steps at the faint rectangular outline of the entryway. The opening stood out, darker than the walls of the staircase. It was night.