The Themes of Heart of Darkness Essay Example for Free

The Themes of Heart of Darkness Essay â€Å"The Heart of Darkness† by Conrad is one of the great novels of English literature. This novel exposes the greed, malice and selfishness of the European men. They exploit the wealth of Africa in the name of civilizing the natives. They take away their ivory and in return gave them hunger, destitution, poverty, degradation and death. The English men of this novel lack morals and conscience. Conrad observed the hypocrisy of his country men and exposed it in a marvelous way in this short piece of art. Feder (1955) is of the view that Heart of Darkness is an allegory that takes into account the souls journey through purgatory and hell to salvation, and that expedition is analogous to the pursuit for the Holy Grail or is equivalent to expedition of Dantes Inferno. (p. 290) Conrad major objective in writing a sea-voyage is best expressed in one of his letter that manifests that his major concern was that the public mind fastens on externals, on mere facts, such for instance as ships and voyages, without paying attention to any deeper significance they might have. (Jean-Aubry, 1927, pp.320-321) The theme of Imperialism: â€Å"The Heart of Darkness† is another expose of imperialism like Conrad’s â€Å"An Outpost of Progress†. In â€Å"Heart of Darkness† Conrad vehemently denunciated imperialism and racialism without damning all men who through the accident of their birth in England were committed to these public policies. According to Eloise Knapp Hay (1963), â€Å" to a man for whom† â€Å"race† meant â€Å"nation† more than â€Å"pigmentation†, and for whom â€Å"nation† was a sacred image, the nineteenth century civilization of racialism as a means of commercial profit through tyranny was history’s most agonizing chapter. In conveying the effect upon his mind, he could only imagine the worst torments of hell invoke Virgil and Dante who had seen as if hell with their own eyes†¦..and add to their testimony what he had seen with his eyes in the Congo. Yet, like Virgil and Dante, Conrad lived in   a historical moment †¦everything that was good in England had been thrown, along with the bad, into the â€Å" competition in the acquisition of territory and the struggle for influence and control†, which, according to William Langer, â€Å"was the most important factor in the international relations of Europe† between 1890 and 1910. It seemed that when Conrad actually began the writing of â€Å"heart of darkness†, he was deeply absorbed in two questions: his loyalty, both as man and as writer, to England, and his acute mistrust of the way the â€Å"civilizing work† was being accomplished by the European powers in south-east Asia and in Africa. In this novel he brings before us the nature of â€Å"western superiority† in primitive lands. Reading this story repeatedly, we know that the dark English coast before him recalls for Marlow the darkness of modern Africa, which is the natural darkness of the jungle but more than that the darkness of moral vacancy, leading to the atrocities he has beheld in Africa. This moral darkness of Africa, we learn later, is not the darkness of the ignorance of the natives, but of the Whiteman who blinded themselves and corrupted the natives by their claim to be light-bearers. Talking of the roman conquest of England, Conrad says, it was â€Å"just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a grand scale, and men going at it blind-as is very proper for those who tackle darkness†. What Romans had done in England, the English did in South Africa. Marlow admits that English conquests, like all others, â€Å"means the taking away it from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves,† though Kurtz went to the African jungle with an idea to civilize the natives; he saw his mission in Africa as that of torch bearer for white civilization. But very soon he starts extracting from the natives human sacrifices to himself as god. Finally, his hatred for the natives plunged to the depth out of which came his prescription of the only method for dealing with primitive people: â€Å"Exterminate the brutes!† Marlow will establish in his more lucid moments that what is black in Africa is what has a right to be there. If whiteness finally emerges as moral vacuity, blackness finally appears as reality, humanity and truth. The matter is more complex still, for along with the physical blackness of men and the metaphoric blackness of unchartered regions of the earth; the darkness Conrad has been suggesting all along is the forced expulsion of whatever is displaced by â€Å"light,† whatever is displaced by civilization-the expulsion of Africa’s native virtues by Europe’s self-righteousness. The European Whiteman in Africa is parasites; they are hollow; they have no personal moral vision of their inhumanity and folly. They are also collapsible, because their society’s institutions are incapable to hold them up. Ivory has become the idol of the foolish run of European pilgrims; and Kurtz is no exception.† all Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz.† Criminality of inefficiency and pure selfishness: Walter Allen (1955) believes that, â€Å"The Heart of Darkness of the title is at once the heart of Africa, the heart of evil- everything that is nihilistic corrupt and malign – and perhaps the heart of man†. (p. 122) According to Conrad (1958) himself, the story of â€Å"heart of darkness† is about the â€Å"criminality of inefficiency and pure selfishness when tackling the civilizing working Africa†. (p. 37) In the story Marlow makes much of the inefficiency and selfishness he sees everywhere along his journey in Africa. But it is the criminality of the civilizing work itself that receives the heaviest emphasis in the novel as a whole. J.W.Beach (1932) believes that Kurtz is the representative and dramatization of all that Conrad felt of futility and horror in what the Europeans in the Congo called â€Å"progress†, which meant the exploitation of the natives by the white men. Kurtz was to Marlow, penetrating this country, a name, constantly recurring in people’s talk, for cleverness and enterprise. But there were slight intimations, growing stronger as Marlow drew near to the heart of darkness, of traits and practices so abhorrent to all our notions of decency, honor and humanity that the enterprising trader gradually takes on the proportion of a ghastly and almost supernatural monster symbol for Marlow of the general spirit of this European undertaking. On his journey up the Congo, Marlow comes across the forsaken railway truck, looking as dead as the carcass of some animal; the brick maker idling for a year with no bricks and no hope of materials for making them; the â€Å"wanton   smashup† of drainage pipes abandoned in a ravine ; burst, piled up cases of rivets at the outer station and no way of getting them to the damaged steam boat at the Central Station; the vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope- all these and many more are the examples of the criminality of the inefficiency. Wilson Follet believed that in this novel, â€Å"the European is shown drained, diseased, a prey to madness and unutterable horror and death†¦Ã¢â‚¬ Ã‚     This proves that the white men over there, except the company’s accountant, are inefficient and selfish. They themselves do nothing, whereas on the other hand they exploit the natives to the maximum, they extract the maximum workout of them and pay them three nine –inch long brass-wire pieces a week, which are insufficient to buy them anything. As such most of the natives are starving and dying. This novel is a very faithful accord of the cruelties and atrocities perpetrated on the natives of Africa by their European masters. The Historical theme: In Elizabethan times the Drakes and Franklins sailed from the light of England into the darkness of unknown seas, returning with the â€Å"round flanks† of their ships bulging with treasure. Nineteen centuries ago the incoming tide brought the Romans from the light of Rome into the darkness of England: the roman conquest of England was an aggravated murder on a large scale. Modern imperialism-represented by Conrad in â€Å"heart of darkness†- is not different from the ancient; the civilized white men of Europe have entered the blackness of Africa, and have united the natives. The white men come as imperialist traders but in reality for the sake of ivory they loot and plunder. For the sake of ivory the whites robed the natives of their very identity and existence. Their lives and their culture were destroyed to the maximum extent possible by the so called civilized men of the world who declared their task as â€Å"white man’s burden†. Works Cited Allen, Walter. 1955. The English novel; a short critical history. New York: Dutton. Beach, J. W. 1932. The Twentieth Century Novel; A study in Technique. New York:   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   Century Co. Conrad, Joseph. 1958. Letters to William Blackwood; ed. W. Blackburn. Durham N.C.;   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   Duke University Press. Feder. 1955. Marlows Descent into Hell. 19 Nineteenth-Century Fiction. 289-292 Hay, E. K. 1963. â€Å"The Political Novels of Joseph Conrad†. Chicago: University of   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   Chicago Press. Jean-Aubry, G. 1927. Joseph Conrad: Life and Letters; Letter to Richard Curle, July 17,   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   1923.

Race Relations in Modern American Society Essay -- Papers

Race Relations in Modern American Society Race relations are an ever prominent issue in American society. Controversies focusing around race are a commonly seen smeared across the front page of the newspaper or headlining on the evening news. The opposition is usually between a minority group and "The Man," a colloquialism used by many Blacks to refer to the overwhelming power stemming from white racist tendencies. This racial tension can sometimes can cause the oppressed to band together against the oppressor. Many times, the most prevalent link is between the African American community and the Latino community. Here we find two groups of people with very similar lifestyles who find camaraderie between themselves when dealing with America’s racism. Although the specifics may differ, the experiences of Blacks and Latinos, specifically Mexican Americans, has impacted the two communities very similarly. For example, many sociologists agree that the slavery experience is the cause of many problems Black America has today. Things such as "Black on Black" crime, broken homes, high poverty levels and drug problems are believed to have links back to slavery. Much like Blacks, Mexican Americans have problems in their communities today that stem from their dealing with immigration in this country. Their problems still exist greatly because immigration is still going on between Mexico and America. The affects of slavery and illegal immigration began many years ago, continued throughout history and continue into today’s culture. In the late 19th century and early 20th century, Blacks were oppressed with the use of Black Codes followed by the implementation of Jim Crow laws and segregation. These acts of racism have since be. .. ...welfare, those who are gang affiliated, the drug users and those that live in run-down, crowded tenements who suffer from tuberculosis and depression. It forgets the many who are forced to work in sweatshops and live below poverty level. Secondly, the Model Minority Myth is a dangerous concept because Asian Americans are alienated from the majority race as well as the minority race pool. They are still perceived by white America as outsiders yet are set up for resentment by other minorities. This makes life hard for the Asian American that achieves because he is almost forced to turn against his other brothers and sisters of color. This is detrimental to the well-being of the Asian American in this country. This concept should not be used to describe the modern Asian American and should be recognized as a stereotype like any other in our society.

A Game of Thrones Chapter Thirty-seven

Bran A light snow was falling. Bran could feel the flakes on his face, melting as they touched his skin like the gentlest of rains. He sat straight atop his horse, watching as the iron portcullis was winched upward. Try as he might to keep calm, his heart was fluttering in his chest. â€Å"Are you ready?† Robb asked. Bran nodded, trying not to let his fear show. He had not been outside Winterfell since his fall, but he was determined to ride out as proud as any knight. â€Å"Let's ride, then.† Robb put his heels into his big grey-and-white gelding, and the horse walked under the portcullis. â€Å"Go,† Bran whispered to his own horse. He touched her neck lightly, and the small chestnut filly started forward. Bran had named her Dancer. She was two years old, and Joseth said she was smarter than any horse had a right to be. They had trained her special, to respond to rein and voice and touch. Up to now, Bran had only ridden her around the yard. At first Joseth or Hodor would lead her, while Bran sat strapped to her back in the oversize saddle the Imp had drawn up for him, but for the past fortnight he had been riding her on his own, trotting her round and round, and growing bolder with every circuit. They passed beneath the gatehouse, over the drawbridge, through the outer walls. Summer and Grey Wind came loping beside them, sniffing at the wind. Close behind came Theon Greyjoy, with his longbow and a quiver of broadheads; he had a mind to take a deer, he had told them. He was followed by four guardsmen in mailed shirts and coifs, and Joseth, a stick-thin stableman whom Robb had named master of horse while Hullen was away. Maester Luwin brought up the rear, riding on a donkey. Bran would have liked it better if he and Robb had gone off alone, just the two of them, but Hal Mollen would not hear of it, and Maester Luwin backed him. If Bran fell off his horse or injured himself, the maester was determined to be with him. Beyond the castle lay the market square, its wooden stalls deserted now. They rode down the muddy streets of the village, past rows of small neat houses of log and undressed stone. Less than one in five were occupied, thin tendrils of woodsmoke curling up from their chimneys. The rest would fill up one by one as it grew colder. When the snow fell and the ice winds howled down out of the north, Old Nan said, farmers left their frozen fields and distant holdfasts, loaded up their wagons, and then the winter town came alive. Bran had never seen it happen, but Maester Luwin said the day was looming closer. The end of the long summer was near at hand. Winter is coming. A few villagers eyed the direwolves anxiously as the riders went past, and one man dropped the wood he was carrying as he shrank away in fear, but most of the townfolk had grown used to the sight. They bent the knee when they saw the boys, and Robb greeted each of them with a lordly nod. With his legs unable to grip, the swaying motion of the horse made Bran feel unsteady at first, but the huge saddle with its thick horn and high back cradled him comfortingly, and the straps around his chest and thighs would not allow him to fall. After a time the rhythm began to feel almost natural. His anxiety faded, and a tremulous smile crept across his face. Two serving wenches stood beneath the sign of the Smoking Log, the local alehouse. When Theon Greyjoy called out to them, the younger girl turned red and covered her face. Theon spurred his mount to move up beside Robb. â€Å"Sweet Kyra,† he said with a laugh. â€Å"She squirms like a weasel in bed, but say a word to her on the street, and she blushes pink as a maid. Did I ever tell you about the night that she and Bessa—† â€Å"Not where my brother can hear, Theon,† Robb warned him with a glance at Bran. Bran looked away and pretended not to have heard, but he could feel Greyjoy's eyes on him. No doubt he was smiling. He smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand. Robb seemed to admire Theon and enjoy his company, but Bran had never warmed to his father's ward. Robb rode closer. â€Å"You are doing well, Bran.† â€Å"I want to go faster,† Bran replied. Robb smiled. â€Å"As you will.† He sent his gelding into a trot. The wolves raced after him. Bran snapped the reins sharply, and Dancer picked up her pace. He heard a shout from Theon Greyjoy, and the hoofbeats of the other horses behind him. Bran's cloak billowed out, rippling in the wind, and the snow seemed to rush at his face. Robb was well ahead, glancing back over his shoulder from time to time to make sure Bran and the others were following. He snapped the reins again. Smooth as silk, Dancer slid into a gallop. The distance closed. By the time he caught Robb on the edge of the wolfswood, two miles beyond the winter town, they had left the others well behind. â€Å"I can ride!† Bran shouted, grinning. It felt almost as good as flying. â€Å"I'd race you, but I fear you'd win.† Robb's tone was light and joking, yet Bran could tell that something was troubling his brother underneath the smile. â€Å"I don't want to race.† Bran looked around for the direwolves. Both had vanished into the wood. â€Å"Did you hear Summer howling last night?† â€Å"Grey Wind was restless too,† Robb said. His auburn hair had grown shaggy and unkempt, and a reddish stubble covered his jaw, making him look older than his fifteen years. â€Å"Sometimes I think they know things . . . sense things . . . † Robb sighed. â€Å"I never know how much to tell you, Bran. I wish you were older.† â€Å"I'm eight now!† Bran said. â€Å"Eight isn't so much younger than fifteen, and I'm the heir to Winterfell, after you.† â€Å"So you are.† Robb sounded sad, and even a little scared. â€Å"Bran, I need to tell you something. There was a bird last night. From King's Landing. Maester Luwin woke me.† Bran felt a sudden dread. Dark wings, dark words, Old Nan always said, and of late the messenger ravens had been proving the truth of the proverb. When Robb wrote to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the bird that came back brought word that Uncle Benjen was still missing. Then a message had arrived from the Eyrie, from Mother, but that had not been good news either. She did not say when she meant to return, only that she had taken the Imp as prisoner. Bran had sort of liked the little man, yet the name Lannister sent cold fingers creeping up his spine. There was something about the Lannisters, something he ought to remember, but when he tried to think what, he felt dizzy and his stomach clenched hard as a stone. Robb spent most of that day locked behind closed doors with Maester Luwin, Theon Greyjoy, and Hallis Mollen. Afterward, riders were sent out on fast horses, carrying Robb's commands throughout the north. Bran heard talk of Moat Cailin, the ancient stronghold the First Men had built at the top of the Neck. No one ever told him what was happening, yet he knew it was not good. And now another raven, another message. Bran clung to hope. â€Å"Was the bird from Mother? Is she coming home?† â€Å"The message was from Alyn in King's Landing. Jory Cassel is dead. And Wyl and Heward as well. Murdered by the Kingslayer.† Robb lifted his face to the snow, and the flakes melted on his cheeks. â€Å"May the gods give them rest.† Bran did not know what to say. He felt as if he'd been punched. Jory had been captain of the household guard at Winterfell since before Bran was born. â€Å"They killed Jory?† He remembered all the times Jory had chased him over the roofs. He could picture him striding across the yard in mail and plate, or sitting at his accustomed place on the bench in the Great Hall, joking as he ate. â€Å"Why would anyone kill Jory?† Robb shook his head numbly, the pain plain in his eyes. â€Å"I don't know, and . . . Bran, that's not the worst of it. Father was caught beneath a falling horse in the fight. Alyn says his leg was shattered, and . . . Maester Pycelle has given him the milk of the poppy, but they aren't sure when . . . when he . . .† The sound of hoofbeats made him glance down the road, to where Theon and the others were coming up. â€Å"When he will wake,† Robb finished. He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword then, and went on in the solemn voice of Robb the Lord. â€Å"Bran, I promise you, whatever might happen, I will not let this be forgotten.† Something in his tone made Bran even more fearful. â€Å"What will you do?† he asked as Theon Greyjoy reined in beside them. â€Å"Theon thinks I should call the banners,† Robb said. â€Å"Blood for blood.† For once Greyjoy did not smile. His lean, dark face had a hungry look to it, and black hair fell down across his eyes. â€Å"Only the lord can call the banners,† Bran said as the snow drifted down around them. â€Å"If your father dies,† Theon said, â€Å"Robb will be Lord of Winterfell.† â€Å"He won't die!† Bran screamed at him. Robb took his hand. â€Å"He won't die, not Father,† he said calmly. â€Å"Still . . . the honor of the north is in my hands now. When our lord father took his leave of us, he told me to be strong for you and for Rickon. I'm almost a man grown, Bran.† Bran shivered. â€Å"I wish Mother was back,† he said miserably. He looked around for Maester Luwin; his donkey was visible in the far distance, trotting over a rise. â€Å"Does Maester Luwin say to call the banners too?† â€Å"The maester is timid as an old woman,† said Theon. â€Å"Father always listened to his counsel,† Bran reminded his brother. â€Å"Mother too.† â€Å"I listen to him,† Robb insisted. â€Å"I listen to everyone.† The joy Bran had felt at the ride was gone, melted away like the snowflakes on his face. Not so long ago, the thought of Robb calling the banners and riding off to war would have filled him with excitement, but now he felt only dread. â€Å"Can we go back now?† he asked. â€Å"I'm cold.† Robb glanced around. â€Å"We need to find the wolves. Can you stand to go a bit longer?† â€Å"I can go as long as you can.† Maester Luwin had warned him to keep the ride short, for fear of saddle sores, but Bran would not admit to weakness in front of his brother. He was sick of the way everyone was always fussing over him and asking how he was. â€Å"Let's hunt down the hunters, then,† Robb said. Side by side, they urged their mounts off the kingsroad and struck out into the wolfswood. Theon dropped back and followed well behind them, talking and joking with the guardsmen. It was nice under the trees. Bran kept Dancer to a walk, holding the reins lightly and looking all around him as they went. He knew this wood, but he had been so long confined to Winterfell that he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odor of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant cooking fires. He caught a glimpse of a black squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak, and paused to study the silvery web of an empress spider. Theon and the others fell farther and farther behind, until Bran could no longer hear their voices. From ahead came the faint sound of rushing waters. It grew louder until they reached the stream. Tears stung his eyes. â€Å"Bran?† Robb asked. â€Å"What's wrong?† Bran shook his head. â€Å"I was just remembering,† he said. â€Å"Jory brought us here once, to fish for trout. You and me and Jon. Do you remember?† â€Å"I remember,† Robb said, his voice quiet and sad. â€Å"I didn't catch anything,† Bran said, â€Å"but Jon gave me his fish on the way back to Winterfell. Will we ever see Jon again?† â€Å"We saw Uncle Benjen when the king came to visit,† Robb pointed out. â€Å"Jon will visit too, you'll see.† The stream was running high and fast. Robb dismounted and led his gelding across the ford. In the deepest part of the crossing, the water came up to midthigh. He tied his horse to a tree on the far side, and waded back across for Bran and Dancer. The current foamed around rock and root, and Bran could feel the spray on his face as Robb led him over. It made him smile. For a moment he felt strong again, and whole. He looked up at the trees and dreamed of climbing them, right up to the very top, with the whole forest spread out beneath him. They were on the far side when they heard the howl, a long rising wail that moved through the trees like a cold wind. Bran raised his head to listen. â€Å"Summer,† he said. No sooner had he spoken than a second voice joined the first. â€Å"They've made a kill,† Robb said as he remounted. â€Å"I'd best go and bring them back. Wait here, Theon and the others should be along shortly.† â€Å"I want to go with you,† Bran said. â€Å"I'll find them faster by myself.† Robb spurred his gelding and vanished into the trees. Once he was gone, the woods seemed to close in around Bran. The snow was falling more heavily now. Where it touched the ground it melted, but all about him rock and root and branch wore a thin blanket of white. As he waited, he was conscious of how uncomfortable he felt. He could not feel his legs, hanging useless in the stirrups, but the strap around his chest was tight and chafing, and the melting snow had soaked through his gloves to chill his hands. He wondered what was keeping Theon and Maester Luwin and Joseth and the rest. When he heard the rustle of leaves, Bran used the reins to make Dancer turn, expecting to see his friends, but the ragged men who stepped out onto the bank of the stream were strangers. â€Å"Good day to you,† he said nervously. One look, and Bran knew they were neither foresters nor farmers. He was suddenly conscious of how richly he was dressed. His surcoat was new, dark grey wool with silver buttons, and a heavy silver pin fastened his fur-trimmed cloak at the shoulders. His boots and gloves were lined with fur as well. â€Å"All alone, are you?† said the biggest of them, a bald man with a raw windburnt face. â€Å"Lost in the wolfswood, poor lad.† â€Å"I'm not lost.† Bran did not like the way the strangers were looking at him. He counted four, but when he turned his head, he saw two others behind him. â€Å"My brother rode off just a moment ago, and my guard will be here shortly.† â€Å"Your guard, is it?† a second man said. Grey stubble covered his gaunt face. â€Å"And what would they be guarding, my little lord? Is that a silver pin I see there on your cloak?† â€Å"Pretty,† said a woman's voice. She scarcely looked like a woman; tall and lean, with the same hard face as the others, her hair hidden beneath a bowl-shaped halfhelm. The spear she held was eight feet of black oak, tipped in rusted steel. â€Å"Let's have a look,† said the big bald man. Bran watched him anxiously. The man's clothes were filthy, fallen almost to pieces, patched here with brown and here with blue and there with a dark green, and faded everywhere to grey, but once that cloak might have been black. The grey stubbly man wore black rags too, he saw with a sudden start. Suddenly Bran remembered the oathbreaker his father had beheaded, the day they had found the wolf pups; that man had worn black as well, and Father said he had been a deserter from the Night's Watch. No man is more dangerous, he remembered Lord Eddard saying. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile or cruel. â€Å"The pin, lad,† the big man said. He held out his hand. â€Å"We'll take the horse too,† said another of them, a woman shorter than Robb, with a broad fiat face and lank yellow hair. â€Å"Get down, and be quick about it.† A knife slid from her sleeve into her hand, its edge jagged as a saw. â€Å"No,† Bran blurted. â€Å"I can't . . . â€Å" The big man grabbed his reins before Bran could think to wheel Dancer around and gallop off. â€Å"You can, lordling . . . and will, if you know what's good for you.† â€Å"Stiv, look how he's strapped on.† The tall woman pointed with her spear. â€Å"Might be it's the truth he's telling.† â€Å"Straps, is it?† Stiv said. He drew a dagger from a sheath at his belt. â€Å"There's ways to deal with straps.† â€Å"You some kind of cripple?† asked the short woman. Bran flared. â€Å"I'm Brandon Stark of Winterfell, and you better let go of my horse, or I'll see you all dead.† The gaunt man with the grey stubbled face laughed. â€Å"The boy's a Stark, true enough. Only a Stark would be fool enough to threaten where smarter men would beg.† â€Å"Cut his little cock off and stuff it in his mouth,† suggested the short woman. â€Å"That should shut him up.† â€Å"You're as stupid as you are ugly, Hali,† said the tall woman. â€Å"The boy's worth nothing dead, but alive . . . gods be damned, think what Mance would give to have Benjen Stark's own blood to hostage!† â€Å"Mance be damned,† the big man cursed. â€Å"You want to go back there, Osha? More fool you. Think the white walkers will care if you have a hostage?† He turned back to Bran and slashed at the strap around his thigh. The leather parted with a sigh. The stroke had been quick and careless, biting deep. Looking down, Bran glimpsed pale flesh where the wool of his leggings had parted. Then the blood began to flow. He watched the red stain spread, feeling light-headed, curiously apart; there had been no pain, not even a hint of feeling. The big man grunted in surprise. â€Å"Put down your steel now, and I promise you shall have a quick and painless death,† Robb called out. Bran looked up in desperate hope, and there he was. The strength of the words were undercut by the way his voice cracked with strain. He was mounted, the bloody carcass of an elk slung across the back of his horse, his sword in a gloved hand. â€Å"The brother,† said the man with the grey stubbly face. â€Å"He's a fierce one, he is,† mocked the short woman. Hali, they called her. â€Å"You mean to fight us, boy?† â€Å"Don't be a fool, lad. You're one against six.† The tall woman, Osha, leveled her spear. â€Å"Off the horse, and throw down the sword. We'll thank you kindly for the mount and for the venison, and you and your brother can be on your way.† Robb whistled. They heard the faint sound of soft feet on wet leaves. The undergrowth parted, low-hanging branches giving up their accumulation of snow, and Grey Wind and Summer emerged from the green. Summer sniffed the air and growled. â€Å"Wolves,† gasped Hali. â€Å"Direwolves,† Bran said. Still half-grown, they were as large as any wolf he had ever seen, but the differences were easy to spot, if you knew what to look for. Maester Luwin and Farlen the kennelmaster had taught him. A direwolf had a bigger head and longer legs in proportion to its body, and its snout and jaw were markedly leaner and more pronounced. There was something gaunt and terrible about them as they stood there amid the gently falling snow. Fresh blood spotted Grey Wind's muzzle. â€Å"Dogs,† the big bald man said contemptuously. â€Å"Yet I'm told there's nothing like a wolfskin cloak to warm a man by night.† He made a sharp gesture. â€Å"Take them.† Robb shouted, â€Å"Winterfell!† and kicked his horse. The gelding plunged down the bank as the ragged men closed. A man with an axe rushed in, shouting and heedless. Robb's sword caught him full in the face with a sickening crunch and a spray of bright blood. The man with the gaunt stubbly face made a grab for the reins, and for half a second he had them . . . and then Grey Wind was on him, bearing him down. He fell back into the stream with a splash and a shout, flailing wildly with his knife as his head went under. The direwolf plunged in after him, and the white water turned red where they had vanished. Robb and Osha matched blows in midstream. Her long spear was a steel-headed serpent, flashing out at his chest, once, twice, three times, but Robb parried every thrust with his longsword, turning the point aside. On the fourth or fifth thrust, the tall woman overextended herself and lost her balance, just for a second. Robb charged, riding her down. A few feet away, Summer darted in and snapped at Hali. The knife bit at his flank. Summer slid away, snarling, and came rushing in again. This time his jaws closed around her calf. Holding the knife with both hands, the small woman stabbed down, but the direwolf seemed to sense the blade coming. He pulled free for an instant, his mouth full of leather and cloth and bloody flesh. When Hali stumbled and fell, he came at her again, slamming her backward, teeth tearing at her belly. The sixth man ran from the carnage . . . but not far. As he went scrambling up the far side of the bank, Grey Wind emerged from the stream, dripping wet. He shook the water off and bounded after the running man, hamstringing him with a single snap of his teeth, and going for the throat as the screaming man slid back down toward the water. And then there was no one left but the big man, Stiv. He slashed at Bran's chest strap, grabbed his arm, and yanked. Suddenly Bran was falling. He sprawled on the ground, his legs tangled under him, one foot in the stream. He could not feel the cold of the water, but he felt the steel when Stiv pressed his dagger to his throat. â€Å"Back away,† the man warned, â€Å"or I'll open the boy's windpipe, I swear it.† Robb reined his horse in, breathing hard. The fury went out of his eyes, and his sword arm dropped. In that moment Bran saw everything. Summer was savaging Hali, pulling glistening blue snakes from her belly. Her eyes were wide and staring. Bran could not tell whether she was alive or dead. The grey stubbly man and the one with the axe lay unmoving, but Osha was on her knees, crawling toward her fallen spear. Grey Wind padded toward her, dripping wet. â€Å"Call him off!† the big man shouted. â€Å"Call them both off, or the cripple boy dies now!† â€Å"Grey Wind, Summer, to me,† Robb said. The direwolves stopped, turned their heads. Grey Wind loped back to Robb. Summer stayed where he was, his eyes on Bran and the man beside him. He growled. His muzzle was wet and red, but his eyes burned. Osha used the butt end of her spear to lever herself back to her feet. Blood leaked from a wound on the upper arm where Robb had cut her. Bran could see sweat trickling down the big man's face. Stiv was as scared as he was, he realized. â€Å"Starks,† the man muttered, â€Å"bloody Starks.† He raised his voice. â€Å"Osha, kill the wolves and get his sword.† â€Å"Kill them yourself,† she replied. â€Å"I'll not be getting near those monsters.† For a moment Stiv was at a loss. His hand trembled; Bran felt a trickle of blood where the knife pressed against his neck. The stench of the man filled his nose; he smelled of fear. â€Å"You,† he called out to Robb. â€Å"You have a name?† â€Å"I am Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell.† â€Å"This is your brother?† â€Å"Yes.† â€Å"You want him alive, you do what I say. Off the horse.† Robb hesitated a moment. Then, slowly and deliberately, he dismounted and stood with his sword in hand. â€Å"Now kill the wolves.† Robb did not move. â€Å"You do it. The wolves or the boy.† â€Å"No!† Bran screamed. If Robb did as they asked, Stiv would kill them both anyway, once the direwolves were dead. The bald man took hold of his hair with his free hand and twisted it cruelly, till Bran sobbed in pain. â€Å"You shut your mouth, cripple, you hear me?† He twisted harder. â€Å"You hear me?† A low thrum came from the woods behind them. Stiv gave a choked gasp as a half foot of razor-tipped broadhead suddenly exploded out of his chest. The arrow was bright red, as if it had been painted in blood. The dagger fell away from Bran's throat. The big man swayed and collapsed, facedown in the stream. The arrow broke beneath him. Bran watched his life go swirling off in the water. Osha glanced around as Father's guardsmen appeared from beneath the trees, steel in hand. She threw down her spear. â€Å"Mercy, m'lord,† she called to Robb. The guardsmen had a strange, pale look to their faces as they took in the scene of slaughter. They eyed the wolves uncertainly, and when Summer returned to Hali's corpse to feed, Joseth dropped his knife and scrambled for the bush, heaving. Even Maester Luwin seemed shocked as he stepped from behind a tree, but only for an instant. Then he shook his head and waded across the stream to Bran's side. â€Å"Are you hurt?† â€Å"He cut my leg,† Bran said, â€Å"but I couldn't feel it.† As the maester knelt to examine the wound, Bran turned his head. Theon Greyjoy stood beside a sentinel tree, his bow in hand. He was smiling. Ever smiling. A half-dozen arrows were thrust into the soft ground at his feet, but it had taken only one. â€Å"A dead enemy is a thing of beauty,† he announced. â€Å"Jon always said you were an ass, Greyjoy,† Robb said loudly. â€Å"I ought to chain you up in the yard and let Bran take a few practice shots at you.† â€Å"You should be thanking me for saving your brother's life.† â€Å"What if you had missed the shot?† Robb said. â€Å"What if you'd only wounded him? What if you had made his hand jump, or hit Bran instead? For all you knew, the man might have been wearing a breastplate, all you could see was the back of his cloak. What would have happened to my brother then? Did you ever think of that, Greyjoy?† Theon's smile was gone. He gave a sullen shrug and began to pull his arrows from the ground, one by one. Robb glared at his guardsmen. â€Å"Where were you?† he demanded of them. â€Å"I was sure you were close behind us.† The men traded unhappy glances. â€Å"We were following, m'lord,† said Quent, the youngest of them, his beard a soft brown fuzz. â€Å"Only first we waited for Maester Luwin and his ass, begging your pardons, and then, well, as it were . . . † He glanced over at Theon and quickly looked away, abashed. â€Å"I spied a turkey,† Theon said, annoyed by the question. â€Å"How was I to know that you'd leave the boy alone?† Robb turned his head to look at Theon once more. Bran had never seen him so angry, yet he said nothing. Finally he knelt beside Maester Luwin. â€Å"How badly is my brother wounded?† â€Å"No more than a scratch,† the maester said. He wet a cloth in the stream to clean the cut. â€Å"Two of them wear the black,† he told Robb as he worked. Robb glanced over at where Stiv lay sprawled in the stream, his ragged black cloak moving fitfully as the rushing waters tugged at it. â€Å"Deserters from the Night's Watch,† he said grimly. â€Å"They must have been fools, to come so close to Winterfell.† â€Å"Folly and desperation are ofttimes hard to tell apart,† said Maester Luwin. â€Å"Shall we bury them, m'lord?† asked Quent. â€Å"They would not have buried us,† Robb said. â€Å"Hack off their heads, we'll send them back to the Wall. Leave the rest for the carrion crows.† â€Å"And this one?† Quent jerked a thumb toward Osha. Robb walked over to her. She was a head taller than he was, but she dropped to her knees at his approach. â€Å"Give me my life, m'lord of Stark, and I am yours.† â€Å"Mine? What would I do with an oathbreaker?† â€Å"I broke no oaths. Stiv and Wallen flew down off the Wall, not me. The black crows got no place for women.† Theon Greyjoy sauntered closer. â€Å"Give her to the wolves,† he urged Robb. The woman's eyes went to what was left of Hali, and just as quickly away. She shuddered. Even the guardsmen looked queasy. â€Å"She's a woman,† Robb said. â€Å"A wildling,† Bran told him. â€Å"She said they should keep me alive so they could take me to Mance Rayder.† â€Å"Do you have a name?† Robb asked her. â€Å"Osha, as it please the lord,† she muttered sourly. Maester Luwin stood. â€Å"We might do well to question her.† Bran could see the relief on his brother's face. â€Å"As you say, Maester. Wayn, bind her hands. She'll come back to Winterfell with us . . . and live or die by the truths she gives us.†

The Values Of Hard Work, Family Unity, And Frugalness Have...

The values of hard work, family unity, and frugalness have shaped my family’s lifestyle. One of the insecurities I have had in my relationship with my father is feeling like his love was conditional. In nonverbal ways, he would demonstrate to me that I would need to work hard at school, receive great grades, and always be on my best behavior to earn his love. Now, as an adult, I know people should love me solely on who I am as a person. Yet, it has been challenging for me to have this new point of view in my relationships with my family, friends, and God. Despite my challenges in receiving love, I have always appreciated spending time with family. I appreciate little memories, including sitting with my maternal grandfather in his rocking chair even though I was tall, baking cookies with my grandma, or having a Wii bowling tournament with my father’s family. My desire to help people build their families as an adoption or pregnancy counselor derives from the strong sense of family my parents instilled in me. The value of providing for one’s family with meager financial resources has influenced my spending as an adult. My mother rarely purchases an item at the full price. We both use coupons and save money for bigger expenses. This value somewhat contradicts the adoption principle. Some biological parents place their children with families who can better provide for them financially. Even though my passion for adoption differs from my family’s view of providing for one’s own