Aesthetics |
Mason Yates is from a small town in the Midwest, but he now lives in Arizona, where he is studying creative writing at Arizona State University. He has worked with ASU’s literary magazine Hayden’s Ferry Review and has had works published in Dark Dossier, Schlock!, Page & Spine, The Theme of Absence, Blue Lake Review and others. |
From Your Secret Admirer
From within the shadows of his three-year-old Ford Escape, Julian gazed at the front door of his boss, Nancy York’s house with his thoughts performing summersaults and roundoffs. A debate whether to attend the Christmas party or whether to press his foot back on the accelerator raged a war inside his mind. There were often droughts of original creativity, but tonight, bouts of ideas stormed into his head. The last thing he wanted to do was sit through yet another meaningless get together with his coworkers when he could be at home writing what could possibly be the next bestseller. However, responsibilities were involved in attending the party, like making sure he did not upset his elderly boss, giving Moraine her secret Santa gift- although she would never find out who it came from because everyone agreed that this year they would keep the gifts a secret- and putting in an effort to familiarize himself with the new cute girl who worked the check-out counter.
Digging into his pocket for the pack of Marlboro cigarettes, he thought about his job at the local bookstore, a small mom and pop shop uptown. Julian liked the job enough. Not only did he get to surround himself with his passion of books, but he enjoyed talking to the customers and greeting avid readers. Lately, ever since the arrival of the new girl, he enjoyed stealing glances at her and wondering if she noticed him. Surely, she had to have noticed. Only ten people worked the bookstore, and they had talked a few times- though, it involved nothing more than a “hey” or “how’s your day?”
Julian lit the cigarette from the lighter in his cupholder and took a drag. More thoughts pounded into his head, and for a few moments, he wondered if he was having an episode of some sort. Perhaps a breakdown. Then, he realized, his racing thoughts didn’t have anything to do with the new novel idea or having a mental breakdown. The reason he wanted to go back home was because of Alice. Julian chuckled, thinking how pathetic it sounded. He was twenty-six and still nervous about talking to girls.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he said aloud. Seeing the smoke lingering in the car, he rolled down his window and fanned it out into the chilly Midwestern atmosphere. He didn’t bother to watch it disappear in the air. Instead, he kept his focus on the house. Inside the home, on the other side of the curtained windows illuminated by yellow lamplight, shadows moved around, dancing with drinks in their hands.
“You’re such a moron,” he told himself, taking his eyes off the house and turning to the rearview mirror to look at himself. “Get out of this damn car.”
He did. The faint sound of Christmas music blew in the cold breeze.
***
“Are you enjoying the cheese and wine?” Nancy asked as she took a seat next to him on the sofa. Nancy, an elderly woman with gray hair and plenty of wrinkles, leaned in and smiled. Julian smiled back, comforted by her warmness and faint perfume scent which reminded him of his grandmother. She talked above the quiet radio playing holiday tunes.
“Yeah, Nancy,” Julian told her, taking another bite of cheese. “I really am. I’m glad I could make it.”
“Me too, darling,” Nancy said, returning to her position. She reached down and took a slice of cheese off a plate on the glass coffee table in front of them. Julian watched, thanking God Nancy could calm his nerves.
“How’s your writing going?” a voice asked from the other side of the living room.
Julian took his eyes off his boss and stared across the living space to a chair in the corner. Don, one of his coworkers who helped stock shelves, sat looking at him.
“It’s going good,” Julian said with a nod. “I had an idea in the car before I came in. That’s why I was out there thinking for a minute before I walked up to the door.”
Don nodded and smiled. “What’s the idea?”
“I can’t say yet,” Julian chuckled. “I don’t want to jinx it.”
For a reason unknown to him, Julian glanced to his left, towards the kitchen, and saw Alice with a glass of wine in her hand. She was staring directly at him. Though he only glanced, Julian saw her every detail perfectly and could still see her in his mind’s eye when he quickly looked away and began to blush. He saw her slender hips, red lips curled into a smile, sharp jawline, and glowing makeup. His face grew warm- no, hot. He hoped nobody noticed.
“Oooo,” Don sounded. “So, it’s good?”
“I think so,” Julian responded.
“What genre is it going to be?” Nancy butted into the conversation again. “Are you still keeping up with your love of science fiction?”
Julian nodded again. “Yeah. It’s still science fiction, but after I write a couple sci-fi books, I’m going to try a different genre. I don’t want to fall into a certain category. I want to experiment a little.”
He flicked his eyes towards the kitchen and saw Alice had jumped into a conversation with some of his coworkers in the other room. Together, they were eating cookies. Mingled words in their conversation reached the living room, but Julian could not understand the topic. Instead of being nosy, he looked at Don, who opened his mouth to speak.
“Is it about aliens or other planets? Something like that?”
Julian laughed again, finding the stereotype of science fiction funny. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Does it involve cool gadgets?” Nancy asked.
Julian turned to her. “Maybe.”
“Whatever it is, I bet it will be amazing,” she told him. “You’re a great writer, Julian. I’ve read those short stories you’ve gotten published. When this new book is published, we’ll set it at the front door of the shop so all the customers will see it when they walk in.”
Julian found himself blushing again. “Thanks, Nancy. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Ready to start secret Santa gifts?”
Julian thought about his gift for Moraine: a few DVD’s and a scratch-off lottery ticket. It was nothing much, but then again, last week when the party was planned, everyone agreed with two rules to secret Santa: no expensive gifts, and this time around, nobody confesses to each other about who gives who presents.
“Yeah,” Julian told her. “Let’s see what we got.”
Nancy curled her lips into another excited smile. Another feeling of warmness flowed into Julian’s heart at the sight. Though the nervousness about having to be around Alice still coursed through him, he was glad he ended up getting out of the car and coming into the house. He could only imagine the hurt he would cause Nancy if he didn’t show up.
“Okay,” Nancy told him. Then, a little louder for everyone in the house to hear, she said, “Okay everyone! Secret Santa time!”
***
Nancy, since the house belonged to her and she hosted the party, stood at the front of the small crowd and stared at her employees, which were all seated either on the sofa or on the floor around the sofa. The old woman glanced cheerfully at the crowd, and she held her hands up as if in prayer. She might’ve been praying, Julian guessed with a smile, praying everyone enjoyed the night and enjoyed their gifts. Julian sure hoped Moraine would enjoy what he got for her. He would watch her face when she opened her presents to see how she responded.
“Thank you everyone for coming to the seventh secret Santa office Christmas party!” Nancy announced to the small group. “I know it’s not much, but it’s something for the holidays, even though Christmas isn’t actually for another few days. However, I think it’s good to bond with your fellow coworkers and spread some cheer.”
Nancy stopped talking for a moment to look around at the crowd. Everyone stared back, then glanced at the wrapped presents on the table behind her. Although everyone enjoyed listening to the sweet woman speak, the Christmas gifts were louder than ever, calling their names and waiting to be opened.
“Behind me are the presents,” Nancy said and motioned towards the presents behind her. “There is one present for each of you. This year we decided to make it more fun. There will be no guessing! Nobody should tell each other who gave who a present.”
“What if they can read it on our faces?” Alice piped up, her voice soft and curious.
Julian smiled and turned to look at the girl. Her brunette hair glowed in the lamplight, and her brown eyes sparkled. He felt as if he had been tugged out of reality and put in the middle of a movie- one of those hopeless romantic movies where it seemed as if the guy was destined to be with the girl. The Christmas holiday helped bloom the feeling.
“Even if you have a horrible poker face,” their boss said with a grin, “you don’t give in.”
Alice nodded, smiling. “Okay.”
“And nobody opens their present until we all get one,” Nancy said, turning around to grab a present. “Deal?”
A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd, then Nancy began to pass out the presents, calling out name after name until everyone received a gift.
***
Julian received his present last, a small gift wrapped in red hearts. When he first got the gift in his hands, he overlooked the wrapping paper, only noticing the size of it, no larger than his hand. Then, turning it over and pondering what could be inside, he noticed what covered it. The paper reminded him of what couples give each other on Valentine’s Day. Julian smiled, finding the choice of wrapping paper odd but thinking it probably didn’t mean anything.
“Okay,” Nancy said once she gave Julian his present. “Everyone can now begin opening their gifts.”
A sudden storm of ripping paper sounded from the living room. Everyone, except for Julian, began tearing away like hungry savages. Julian, instead of tearing away immediately, turned the present over in his hands and stared at the red hearts. He wondered if an old box of Valentine’s chocolate could be found inside. If so, he probably would kindly accept but not eat any of the stale candy. Finally realizing everyone was almost done tearing their presents open, he began doing it too, remembering to sneak a glance at Moraine. She appeared to be smiling on the other side of the couch.
Tearing the red heart wrapping paper off, which give him the strange feeling of destroying something sacred, the first thing he noticed about the present was the word “King” written at the top of the gift. The sight caused his heart to flutter, and he tore into the present again, revealing “Stephen” over the “King.”
A book!
Though Stephen King was his favorite author of all time- one of the Father’s of Horror, as Julian often called him- he pretty much had everything King had ever written, except for the new book which had come out a couple months ago. He made a new tear, this time revealing the title The Institute. Upon seeing this, a huge smile formed on his face.
“Whoever got me this has my heart forever,” Julian said. “This is the only Stephen King book I don’t have.”
Julian glanced around the room to see if anyone had heard him, but everyone appeared to be occupied with their own gifts. Moraine stared at her DVD’s with a smile, then began to play her scratch-off lottery ticket. Julian grinned, but he moved his eyes back to his present, amazed that of all the King books, someone gave him the one he did not have yet.
The young writer took the book out of the red heart wrapping paper and flipped it over in his hands, analyzing the front and back as if he had just discovered the Holy Grail. He glanced at King’s author photo, quickly read the summary on the back, and returned to the front cover art. A warm giddy feeling started in his stomach before it spread throughout his body. He would begin reading it as soon as he got home. For now, however, he smiled and thought about how stupid he was for wanting to ditch earlier. If he had done so, he would have surely missed out.
“Dang,” Julian whispered to himself.
He stuck his thumb under the cover and opened it. For those who are fascinated with the art of novels, opening a new book can be like discovering an ancient tomb. Julian felt like an explorer as he opened the cover page and gazed at the inside of the book, but instead of finding a list of reviews like novels usually had on the opening pages, Julian found a written note just for him. On the back of the cover page, written in cursive at the top left corner, a message read: To Julian, From Your Secret Admirer, Christmas 2019.
Another feeling of deep warmness started in his gut and moved across his whole body. His face grew red, and his smile grew larger.
Nancy, of course, Julian thought.
Upon looking up, however, the only person in the room who stared at him was Alice. Her eyes sparkled, and her lips curved into a pretty smile. Then, like it had never happened, she looked away, moving her hair behind her ear as she did so.
***
There are certain moments in everyone’s life in which a divine presence enters and fiddles with the joysticks of time and space. These are often falsely coined “coincidences,” but those who possess a little faith and an open mind can see these moments for what they really are: fate. On the Christmas of 2019, fate, put there by the hands of God, made Nancy announce to the party that they should all watch a Christmas movie before going home for the holidays. Work, she said, would resume on January fourth, giving each of them a short break to spend time with their loved ones. Due to this unexpected announcement of a movie, Alice excused herself before the movie started to take a quick smoke break outside. Julian, unaware of Alice stepping out, excused himself a moment later for the same reason.
Julian walked to the door, a smile on his face, not only because of receiving a book he wanted to get his hands on, but because he had caught Alice staring at him twice. But even more surprising was that he was almost positive Alice had given him the book and had written “From Your Secret Admirer” on the back of the cover.
As he stepped into the cold night air belonging to the small Midwestern town, he failed to see Alice sitting in a chair on the porch. The smell of her burning cigarette did not manage to reach his nose until he closed the house door behind him and started to take the Marlboro pack out of his pocket. By the time the smell did reach him, it was too late to retreat back into the house. He found himself alone on the porch with her. She glowed in the yellow porch light just as she had glowed in the kitchen light earlier that evening.
“How’s the party going for you?” Alice asked him before he could summon words.
“I… I… it’s great,” Julian stammered, cheeks flushed.
“Did you like your present?” she asked with a smile and a drag of her cigarette.
“Yeah,” Julian said, nodding. “Thanks. I don’t know how you-”
“Who said I got you the present?”
“Well,” Julian started, “I assumed you did because when I looked up you were looking directly at me.”
“Is my poker face that bad?” she asked with a giggle. Her teeth were as white as the snow starting to fall from the sky. Her lips were as red as Julian’s blushing cheeks.
“It’s not the best I’ve seen,” Julian chuckled. “How did you know I liked King?”
“Because who doesn’t?” she said, taking another drag. “Plus, Nancy told me. She knows about the whole “From Your Secret Admirer” thing I wrote. She said that would be a way to impress you.”
“You’ve succeeded,” Julian said, realizing he still hadn’t lit a cigarette. He hung his head, grabbed one out of the pack, and put it to his lips.
“You need a light?” Alice asked. She brought a lighter out of her pocket and held it up. Suddenly a flame burst from the top of it.
“Sure,” he said, leaning over. As the flame touched the end of the cigarette, Julian realized how close he was to her. He could smell her perfume, feel her presence, and hear her gentle breathing. Along with the smoke coming from her mouth, a cloud of vapor escaped while she talked.
“It’s really impressive that you’re a writer,” she told him. “Nancy said you have some things published?”
“Yeah,” Julian nodded with a smile. “Just a couple short stories in some sci-fi magazines. Nothing too special.”
“Can I read some of them?”
“I don’t see why not,” he chuckled.
Julian took a step towards her, but just as he did so, the front door of the house swung open. Nancy stood in the doorway, a smile on her face and cookie in her hand. She glanced at Alice, then looked at Julian.
“Come on you two love birds,” she said while looking directly at Julian. Her blue eyes were wide, and her nose scrunched up. Then, looking down at Alice, she said, “The movie is about to start. Stop sucking on your cancer sticks and come in. It’s too cold out here.”
With that said, the door closed, leaving Alice and Julian in silence. Laughter came a moment later.
H.R. Kemp lives in Adelaide, South Australia and Deadly Secrets, her debut political conspiracy thriller novel was released in April 2020. H.R. has had several short stories published in magazines, with two published in anthologies: ‘The Present of Presence’ in UK anthology When Stars Will Shine (Dec 2019) and ‘Reunited’ (Jan 2020) in Australian anthology Fledglings. After a long and successful public service career, spanning roles as diverse as Management trainer, Team Facilitator, Statistician, and Laboratory assistant, she completed a Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing at Adelaide University. Her original degree is a Bachelor of Science (majoring in Chemistry). Her other passions are travelling, (which includes writing a travel journal and taking copious photos), live theatre, art and of course, reading. Author LinksWebsite: https://www.hrkempauthor.com/ Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/hrkemp01 Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hrkempwriting/ Book Link Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/bzoZVZ |
HOT STUFF
Next door’s ginger cat leapt forward, drilled him with its green eyes then darted through the crisp, dry debris beneath the gum tree.
‘Bloody cat,’ Locky murmured as he swiped the back of his hand across his wet brow.
He opened his fist and again watched the sparkles dance in the light. This was his ticket to a better life. He had to stay patient, something he could barely manage. At twenty-two, his life had already trudged through too many bare minimums; barely enough to eat, barely anything decent to wear, and most of all, barely enough love to sustain him. He’d resented trying to exist on the bare minimum of the government allowance too. Unemployment benefit had been no benefit at all. Luckily he’d got this temporary job.
He scanned the sparse, drought-riddled backyard. This place was also a bare minimum. Locky had put up with this for a year. It was all he could afford although it wasn’t cheap but the hot water system was still playing up, the air conditioner didn’t work and, although he’d never use it, the oven was broken. Long cracks spread across the walls and the ants had made themselves at home in his kitchen. There was even a mouse poking around inside the cupboard under the sink. Soon, he’d be able to move into something better.
He gently rewrapped the necklace and stowed it back in the tin. In the bedroom, he lifted the loose floorboard in the corner and shoved the tin deep inside the cool cavity. His nerves prickled. She had a ring too. They were heirlooms and should be worth the risk.
He looked at the clock on his phone then hurried to put on his shirt, grabbed his things and rushed to the car. He smelled smoke in the air then remembered they’d declared a catastrophic fire danger for the hills today although, he wasn’t really sure what that meant. The car radio reported on the bushfires raging in New South Wales, Victoria and further afield. The whole country was burning.
The battered Suzuki Swift lumbered up the driveway and into the staff carpark at the elder care home. His car air-conditioner had given up at the first sign of summer heat and he peeled himself off the seat leaving his shirt clinging to his back. Showering had been a waste of time and water and his antiperspirant was failing.
He raced inside, swiping at the creases in his uniform trousers as he lunged through the door. Locky gasped at the cool air and the disinfectant smell with a hint of something else he didn’t want to think about.
It wasn’t a modern facility but practical. He often thought about his own grandparents in their rundown old cottage. They could never afford to live here. He didn’t visit them often, it was hard to listen to their grumbling about young people and how easy they had it. Locky didn’t find it easy but soon it could be easier.
‘There you are,’ the dark haired nurse said as Locky rounded the corner. ‘I need help setting up the common room.’
The room was very common, all neutral walls and furnishings. The elderly residents were often parked here, their wheelchairs jutting at odd angles around the perimeter, close enough to see each other but not close enough to talk. Most slept anyway, they slept so much Locky suspected they were tranquilised.
Kellie, the other aide, bounced into the room, full of energy. She was always so bright and cheery, it was sickening.
‘Move the exercise equipment out and get the residents in,’ the nurse said, enunciating each word slowly, as though he was thick.
Locky and Kellie worked systematically, clearing the bouncing balls and dining chairs that had been used as exercise equipment. The image of the old dears walking up and down, stretching one arm at a time or weight-lifting without weights made him chuckle.
When they’d cleared the room, Kellie charged off down the corridor, talking. She never did anything slowly and talked as fast as she walked.
‘What? Slow down,’ he called. Locky saw no reason to hurry. The day wouldn’t pass fast enough if they rushed.
‘Come on slow coach.’ Kellie laughed then hurried into the lounge area.
Locky liked Kellie, most of the time. Sometimes, however, he felt she was laughing at him not with him.
That’s what had happened at school too. The teasing and bullying had made Locky hide. In his last job, the bully had pushed too hard and Locky, struggling from overwork and exhaustion, had lost control. He hadn’t meant to break the guy’s nose, but he’d lost the job anyway.
Kellie pointed towards Mrs Zimmerman’s room.
‘She likes you,’ she said with a smile then disappeared around the corner.
Locky knocked and waited. Mrs Zimmerman didn’t like people just walking in, so he waited until he heard her clear her throat and murmur ‘come in’. She brushed sleep from her eyes as Locky approached.
‘Oh, it’s you, Lachlan,’ she said. She was the only one who insisted on using his full name.
‘I’m here to take you to the common room. Lunch will be soon.’ Locky explained.
‘I want to go into the garden.’
A brief tug of sympathy swept over him. Her family lived interstate and she was often alone.
‘It’s too hot today, you should stay inside.’ He’d prefer to stay in the cool air-conditioned complex too.
She shook her head and pouted. “No. We’ll go to the garden, just for a little while.’
He’d learned not to argue with this formidable old lady. She may look frail but she rarely backed down.
He wrestled her out of the chair and supported her bird-like frame until she was steady on her walking stick. She gripped his arm firmly with her free hand and shuffled along the corridor. As the automatic door to the garden opened, the heat burst in but Mrs Zimmerman didn’t hesitate.
‘I just want to sit here for a little while,’ she said as she lowered herself into an outdoor chair overlooking the pond. ‘I’ve lived a long time you know, Lachlan.’ Her voice croaked softly.
Locky sat down beside her, leaned forward and nodded. The faint whiff of smoke was almost overpowered by Mrs Zimmerman’s flowery perfume.
‘You have so much ahead of you, Lachlan. The world is very different from when I was growing up.’
Locky nodded again, this was a familiar routine. Reminiscing about the good old days was the old people’s favourite topic. She often told the same stories of when her children were young and when her husband was alive. It sounded like life was hard but she’d been content.
‘My parents had a big house and servants in the old country. My father was very successful, an important man, until—’
She’d get lost in memories but they always ended abruptly at the same place. Whenever he asked her to continue, she’d glance at him, eyes weepy and confused, and start another topic.
The next twenty minutes passed with her relating a patchwork of unfinished memories. Her wealthy family had lived in Europe before everything changed and her life had disintegrated in ways she wouldn’t tell. She’d told him about getting married and having children in Australia, how her husband, an educated man could only get work in a factory where he died in a workplace accident. ‘His life was expendable,’ she’d always say next. Locky could almost repeat the stories word for word.
Tears brimmed in her eyes as she talked of eking out a living, and finally, the death of her eldest son from cancer. She had suffered but Locky wondered how much easier it was when you had money and people who loved you.
Locky thought of his own self-absorbed parents, their neglect and lack of interest in his life. He’d left home as soon as he could and they hadn’t shed any tears over him. Despite that, his life hadn’t improved much. Leaving school early hadn’t helped. Nor had hanging around with what his teachers called the wrong crowd. They’d got him into trouble too often to count.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Kellie cut across Mrs Zimmerman’s wavering voice.
‘She didn’t want to go to the common room,’ Locky explained. He pulled his shirt away from his back and wiped his brow.
‘She needs to be in the lunch room,’ Kellie snapped before marching off.
‘Have you seen my necklace, Lachlan?’ Mrs Zimmerman’s watery eyes burned with an intensity her age shouldn’t have.
‘Um…no,’ Locky lied.
‘I showed it to you but now I can’t find it. Will you help me look for it after lunch?’ She didn’t take her eyes off him.
His cheeks warmed and he looked away. She knew. But, how could she? He lifted her walking stick and helped her out of the chair.
‘You will help me look, won’t you, Lachlan?’ she persisted. Her grip on his arm was leaving white finger points.
‘Of course.’ If he helped her maybe she wouldn’t tell anyone else.
After seating the residents for lunch, Kellie and Locky took a break in the staffroom.
‘A fire has flared up near here,’ Kellie announced.
‘Where?’ Locky asked. He’d smelled smoke outside but hadn’t realised it was close.
‘There’s one at Cudlee Creek, the wind has turned it towards Lobethal. Isn’t that where you live?’
Locky gasped. ‘Yes. My house is before Lobethal.’
Kellie opened the fire map on her phone and showed Locky.
‘Shit. That’s near my place. I need to get home and get my gear.’
‘You can’t. They’ve evacuated the area and no-one is allowed in. Those who didn’t leave have to move to the safe zone.’ Kellie touched his shoulder. ‘The winds have made the fire unpredictable.’
Locky couldn’t believe his ears. If he’d paid attention instead of listening to the old woman, he might have had time to collect his things. The house contents were all he owned, even though he didn’t have much, it was his. The necklace was there too.
The fires raged through the day and although the elder care home was well clear of the blazes, the residents were being moved. Locky packed necessities while listening for news. The fire was sweeping through his area, burning through the bush, razing grassland, and even charring vineyards and orchards in its path. The fire crews were battling flames on several fronts, but without more water bombers or tankers nothing could stop it. TV images of red skies and darkness engulfing towns in NSW and Victoria were terrifying. The whole country really was burning. The news featured the Prime Minister, fresh from his holidays, insisting fire crews had all the resources they needed. Locky shook his head. The fires were out of control in all the states.
Locky’s plans were going up in smoke too. He hurriedly packed the van, sweat running into his eyes. Some of the confused residents cried or protested loudly while others meekly followed directions as they were loaded into the hastily provided vehicles taking them to safety.
Mrs Zimmerman waited by the door and grabbed Locky’s arm as he passed.
‘I can’t go. I must find it first,’ she whispered.
‘You can’t stay, Mrs Zimmerman. It’s not safe. You need to get into the van.’ He pulled her forward.
‘I’m not going! I must find the necklace,’ Mrs Zimmerman protested.
He patted her arm trying to get her to lower her voice. There was no time for this.
‘The necklace…it’s special. Please, I can’t lose it. I can’t,’ she pleaded.
He’d never seen her so distressed before. Her soft, silent sobs made Locky hesitate. He’d learned how to resist screaming or wailing by closing his ears to his mother’s tactics or bear his father’s uncomplicated technique of a slap or belting, but her sobs were a more difficult weapon.
‘You go and I’ll look for it,’ Locky promised, pulling her towards the van.
‘No.’ She planted her feet and refused to move. She was surprisingly strong.
Kellie, Locky and another burly attendant finally got Mrs Zimmerman into the van. She wept and struggled and Locky lost patience. Why was it never enough? Her ring, the bracelet and the ear rings were all valuable beyond his dreams. Why couldn’t she be content with those?
As he fastened her seat belt, he whispered, ‘What’s so important about that necklace?’
Mrs Zimmerman locked eyes on him. ‘The necklace is all I have from my darling, Edgar. We were to be married, before the war. It belonged to his mother and his grandmother.’ She pulled a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘He gave it to me…before they took him…I never saw him again.’ She sobbed then added, ‘It’s all I have left.’
‘Hurry up,’ Kellie yelled, breaking Locky’s inertia. ‘They have to get them out of here. There’s not much time, and we have to get out too.’
He patted Mrs Zimmerman’s hand and murmured ‘Sorry.’
As the van pulled away Locky grimaced. She’d get over it. Anyway, he had his own problems.
***
The fires raged for days before the fire fighters brought them under control. Staying at the emergency centre was his only alternative after hearing that his house was gone. From the reports, there wasn’t much to salvage. With the gum trees still smouldering and dangerous, it was days before the area was safe enough for Locky to check the house for himself.
His throat constricted as he walked up the path to the pile of rubble that used to be a house. This had been his home. Everything around him was black or misshapen from the heat. Although he’d had little of value, it was all gone. He didn’t have insurance either. He hadn’t realised how important his stuff was; his favourite jumper, the special photo of him with his mates, the sports trophy he’d been so proud of, they were gone and irreplaceable.
Bowed roof iron crumpled across scattered bricks and charred wood. Their jagged edges barred access. Near the rear, his singed bed, buckled and black, was recognisable and he stepped around the debris, avoiding the tangled metal. Threads of smoke curled from tufts of grass or broken tree limbs, spot fires still needing attention. He lifted a block of ash-covered wood and pushed a fragment of roofing metal aside to expose the loose floorboard. His hands shook as he lifted the board. The blackened tin was covered in blistered paint but intact. He pried open the warped lid and removed the felt pouch. The treasure was safe and unharmed. Maybe his luck had changed.
***
At the emergency centre, a kind volunteer helped him complete the paperwork and apply for aid. All his life he’d scratched and scraped to get help but now it was being offered, almost pushed at him. Someone handed him a food parcel and clothes. They asked him if he had somewhere to live. Everywhere he turned, people were ready to help, even offering counselling. He was making arrangements when Kellie called.
‘At least you’re safe. We’re young. We can start again.’ Kellie’s words were small comfort. ‘They’re talking about keeping us both in our jobs too.’ He didn’t want to start again; and although he didn’t mind this job, he’d set off on a different path. He wanted much more.
When he didn’t respond, Kellie continued, ‘Anyway, we need your help. The residents are back but Mrs Zimmerman is demanding to talk to you. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know.’ He lied, conscious of the necklace bulging in his pocket.
‘She keeps repeating you’ll find it…whatever ‘it’ is.’
Locky agreed to come over straight away, hoping the old lady wouldn’t cause problems.
Back at the home, Mrs Zimmerman was sitting in her room, refusing to leave until Locky helped her. The nurse by the door scowled at Locky as he approached.
‘I don’t know what’s going on, but sort it out.’ The nurse snapped at Locky.
He shrugged and climbed into the van.
Mrs Zimmerman smiled when she saw him. ‘I knew they’d get you.’ She pointed a shaky finger at Locky and added in a whisper, ‘I trust you. You’ll help me. You understand.’
Locky was confused. Why would she trust him? He was also feeling another emotion, something he didn’t often experience, guilt.
‘I think we’ll give you something to calm you down,’ the nurse threatened and walked off down the hall.
Mrs Zimmerman’s face was pale and drawn and a sprinkle of perspiration coated her cheeks. Locky lowered her into the chair.
‘Edgar, it’s all I have of Edgar. I must find it.’
Her eyes shone with imminent tears and her face folded in on itself in grief. She lifted herself out of the chair and tugged at the drawers of her nightstand, frantically riffling through the contents. She was too frail for this and Locky guided her back to the chair and began searching through the wardrobe. She batted away his attempts to distract her with photos and mementoes.
‘Please, Lachlan, help me,’ Mrs Zimmerman pleaded.
After his own losses, Locky seemed on the verge of crying himself. Her pain was more real to him now. Over the last few hours, people had been helping him to start anew, offering a sense of hope. He still had this job, he had somewhere to live until he found something permanent and people were offering him ways to get back on his feet. A real start, legitimate and clean.
The nurse returned and he watched Mrs Zimmerman calm as the injection took effect.
‘Our residents seem to like you Locky,’ she said, then added, ‘I don’t know why,’ as she walked out of the room.
Mrs Zimmerman’s eyes now reflected pain rather than frantic intent and he held her hand. The felt pouch burned against the side of his leg.
Mrs Zimmerman couldn’t start again. She’d lost much and although she’d built a new life, it was obvious she’d never recovered from her loss all those years ago. You couldn’t always see what people had lost just by looking at them. He was sorry, really he was, but it was too late, wasn’t it?
Her eyes begged him.
Before he could change his mind, Locky carefully removed the pouch, ensuring she didn’t see. He hesitated but then leaned down beside the bed.
‘I’ve found it, Mrs Zimmerman. It’s here. It must have fallen under the bed. It was probably here all the time.’
He lifted the pouch from the floor and her eyes softened.
‘Oh, thank you, Lachlan. Thank you so much. I knew you would help.’ She patted his hand and pulled him a little closer to whisper, ‘I knew you were a good boy. I knew you could be saved.’
Those strange words wouldn’t leave him as he left her to sleep.
The Unlit Cigarette
He still had his keychain and hand as he approached the door. He fumbled while searching for the correct key and they fell. The clinging sound made him even more paranoid so he turned around and looked to see if anyone was watching. Just nerves is all. Just nerves. He promptly picked up the keys and finally found the correct one to open the office door. Inside he felt even more tense. There was an odd aura about being in a place that you shouldn’t be after hours. Yes, he had worked late nights in his youth, but never had he been in an office between three and four o'clock.
The elevator ride was one of the worst in his life. He felt uncontrollable fear approaching the seventh floor. It’s alright. Everything will be okay. Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. He was happy to have such a good lead on both the authorities and the grotesque beings from the seedy underground. In fact it was help from a grotesque authority that lead him to know people were snooping around where they shouldn’t be. Johnny Law and those goons couldn’t hurt me. He often lied to himself in fear of the real world consequences of his own fallible actions.
Ding!
Jesus Christ have mercy! The elevator door opened and he had a mini heart attack. Everything seemed louder in the silent office building. After a brief period of collecting his wits he exited the elevator and marched somewhat prideful towards his office. With the correct key in hand it opened it to find everything in order. He wasn’t methodical when it came to destroying the evidence. In fact he was quite lazy and unable distance himself from his crimes. He wanted the world to know but he also didn’t want to rot in a prison cell. After he shredded the first few papers he did feel some relief. It was as if he was starting a new life. The more he shredded the more he forgot about the world at large knowing the extent of his crimes. Time passed quickly now and he found himself shredding the last document.
Tuh! Tuh!
What the hell was that? He wandered slowly over to the window and saw something that turned his skin pale. Two men were standing outside their car. He figured that sound was the doors slamming. These men weren’t Johnny Law. This was much worse. Two grotesque beings without definable features slowly marched their way towards the office building entrance.
Fearing what to do he thought for a brief moment and then shuffled out of his office and made his way towards the sixth floor by route of stairs. It was much safer to move without the elevator giving away your location. He was careful to stop every other stair and hold his hand over his mouth. He could hear better. No one is coming up the stairs.
He decided he shouldn’t actually go on to the sixth floor, but instead to the fifth floor. There were cubicles he could hide himself in. When he got to that floor he searched for a cubicle with a desk he could fit under. When he found the perfect desk he laid underneath fidgeting. He reached towards his breast pocket and pulled the cigarette from before. He put it in his mouth. The same bland taste reached him, but he could smell the faint tobacco and it eased his nerves.
Ding!
Hail Mary Full of Grace. He stopped his prayer there in fear of his whispers being heard. It was the longest fifteen minutes of his life. He could hear the soft footsteps of one of those beings slinking across the floor. Every now and again the steps would stop and that caused more anger and anxiety in Stanley than anything. His mind began to wander. Happy thoughts. The happiest thoughts he could think about led him back here. He had conned so many people to achieve his success and it would seem that this grotesque being on the fifth floor with him was going to stiff him out of an early retirement.
Or so he thought until he heard the feet slowly shuffle towards the elevator. Once inside the doors shut and he heard the sound of the machine moving. With haste he left his spot under the desk not even thinking for a moment that it could be a trap. Luckily for him it wasn’t. Walking as if nothing happened he approached the doorway to the stairs and began his descent once again following the same protocol. Every other step, stop. Eventually he made it to the second floor but as he was searching for a cubicle he heard the elevator chime. For the fear of his life he ran into the woman’s bathroom. Thinking fast he shut all the stall doors and went in the middle stall and stood on the toilet. This way it was more likely for the grotesque being to find him. Again luck was upon his side. The being never came into the woman’s bathroom… that he knows of. While waiting for the undefinable figure to leave he looked around and saw writing upon the wall. Some of the most disgusting things he had ever seen were written upon the stalls wall. He was so fascinated by the vulgarity that he almost didn’t hear the elevator open, close, and zoom off to the next floor.
With the final floor below him he realized escape was near, but he hadn’t accounted for the other being to be waiting in the lobby. When Stan peaked through the tiny window on the door to see if the first floor was safe he was angered to see the man strolling around waiting his partner. Stan not knowing what to do decided to go to the third floor and hid in the janitorial closet. This is where he would spend the next hour or so listening to weird sounds of thumping and scratching until he heard a faint,
Tuh! Tuh!
Is it true? Have they actually left? He wandered towards a window where he could see the parking lot and peaked out the window blinds. Sure enough the two grotesque beings were in their car. The ignition turned on and the car left the parking lot. Mr. Graham, excited, made his way swiftly towards the first floor but found a startling scene. He was locked from the outside in. Desks, chairs, and the whole works. It was then he heard the fire alarm go off. He was stuck in the building with no way out. Well there is one way, but he didn’t think about it. It would have been easy to break a window, but that might alert the police. He didn’t want to answer questions. He was sick of people prying into his personal business. He sat there dumbfounded and lit the cigarette still in his mouth and awaited his fate.
Niklas Edeborg is an upper secondary teacher from Sweden. He has a Degree of Masters of Arts in Upper Secundary Education from Umea University. Teaches English and physical education. He is relatively new to writing fiction and has not yet been published anywhere else than here, at Scarlet Leaf Review. Niklas has always been passionate about good stories, regardless if they are told through books, movies, video games, or simply around a coffee table. |
F0REST BATH1NG
I just had to put the controller down and write. How do they make it look so real? Real enough to remind me of a real event at least. Such fine art. The visuals of the forest took me back to an early autumn morning. A hunting trip with my friends, who were more excited about finding and shooting capercaillie than I was. I had been in the city for so long, that just being in the forest and taking in its wonders with my senses was more than enough to satisfy me. I had recently been reading scientific reports from Japan which illustrated the health benefits of being in a forest. According to the research, people who spend time relaxing, or casually walking in the forest, do not only enjoy decreasing levels of the stress hormone cortisol, they also benefit from the aromatic volatile substances called phytoncides. These amazing phytoncides, which are secreted by the trees, work as natural killers for our cells. Basically, they help our bodies beat cancer cells. How cool is that? The scientists called this form of natural therapy “Shinrin Yuko”, which means forest bathing. I was surely bathing in impressions from the surroundings that morning.
Prologue
A lone rider with silver white hair was advancing along a gently ascending trail on a lush hill. The rider appeared to be male. His muscular and agile appearance left a solid impression. As the horse galloped, its mane bounced up and down, while the bulky equipment strapped to it hardly moved. As the rider reached the plateau of the hill, he was met with a blazing red sunset. The rider was wearing armor made of leather and chainmail, armor which he wore with ease. The armor looked to have been recently greased up, as the pink rays of the evening sun bounced its light off the chainmail, as well as the shiny leather pads. On the rider’s back there were two large swords tucked into decorated sheaths. The sheaths were so tightly strapped to the rider’s back that they seemingly followed his every movement, as if they were an extension of the rider’s body. The pummel of one of the sheathed swords looked to be entirely made of silver and had the shape of a wolf’s head. The silver pummel reflected the pink rays of the evening sun, like an ignited lighthouse.
As the rider was approaching the end of the plateau a magnificent view of a valley emerged. He pulled the reins discreetly, and the galloping horse eased to a slow canter before stopping completely. The force of the decelerating horse made a small cloud of dust to rise from the ground, emerging into a hovering state. The dust swept over the surrounding flora, which displayed a contrast of eye pleasing colors to the grass fields and bushes. The dirt trail of the plateau was surrounded by green grass of different length. Among the flora there were towering sunflowers, blooming rosemary bushes with their light blue flowers, spots of purple lavender and bright red poppy flowers. As the rider sat upright in the stiff saddle observing the magical view in front of him, a wind gust made his white hair flutter. The wind blew through the short bushes and the fields of grass, as if a green wave put the surrounding scenery in motion. The rider’s gaze appeared to be set upon the peaks of snow-capped mountains, far off in the distance. The glancing white peaks of the mountains looked completely alienated to the green landscape at their feet. Below the mountain, in the far reach of the rider’s sight, there was a colorful valley, filled with the warm sights of summer. The valley was displaying fields of grass decorated with flowers, bush covered hills, and larger parts of land concealed by dense forest. In the more open parts of the landscape there were mighty oak trees, wild vines, and cypress trees which together with the dense forest, displayed every imaginable shape of green. Rivers and streams were pouring down from the mountains, connecting several blue lakes and their white and gold colored beaches. Altogether, the azure lakes enriched the verdant valley, like colorful sapphire jewels scattered in a pile of golden coins. The view was a treasure to behold.
Amongst the pink clouds of the slightly darkened evening blue sky, a small shape was emerging. The white-haired rider dismounted his horse, detached a leather bag from the saddle and laid it on the ground. He then dismissed the horse by saying something inaudible and by making a gesture with his arm towards the trail from where they had come. After the horse was on its way back, the rider again faced the approaching shape, which seemed to be growing in size as it approached the hill. The rider did not appear to be stressed by the approaching shape in the sky as he, calmly and almost mechanically, untied the straps of the leather bag on the ground. He took out a small round shaped glass vessel and put it in one of the side pockets of his leather leggings. The leggings appeared to have been enforced with chainmail around the thighs, protecting the main artery of his legs. He then crouched down again to retrieve what appeared to be a small crossbow from the leather bag. Along with the crossbow, he also took out an arrow which he carefully placed in the crossbow’s mechanism and cocked the hammer.
He turned his head again towards the moving shape in the clouds. The shape had come a lot closer now. Despite the low rays of the bowing evening sun, it was now possible to make out the outline of a reptile like creature with big wings. The rider reached for the sheaths strapped to his back, and with his right arm, which was not holding the crossbow, pulled out the sword with the wolf-shaped silver pummel. As the sword emerged from the sheath, it was apparent that the whole blade was made of silver. There was a flash of pink sun rays that danced around the blade as he pulled it out. The creature in the sky seemed to alter its course a little bit, as if the reflections of light from the silver sword made it hesitate. As the creature changed its direction, it revealed its full shape in profile and a big razor sharp horn was visible on the creatures forehead. The horn was not particularly thick, and it was not pointy, but rather thin, like the blade of an axe lying vertically on its head. The creature’s tail was decorated with small dagger-like horns, which made the tail resemble of a fork. The fork-like tail made an explosive snapping movement, like the snap of a whip, as the creature, with what looked to be renewed determination, dived towards the man on the hill. The distance between the creature in the sky and the white-haired man on the hill had now shrunk to a mere 300 meters. The sounds of drums, violins and vocals could now be heard on the hill as the rider faced the approaching winged beast. He steadily held the loaded crossbow in one hand, and the silver sword in the other. As the creature was 30 meters away from him, he raised his left hand, aimed the crossbow for the two seconds that it took for the beast to close the gap between them to 10 meters. A terrible shriek burst out from the beast. It was an ear stabbing sound that completely concealed the clocking sound of the mechanism of the crossbow, which released the arrow. The projectile hit the beast where the wing connects to its scaled body, at the same time, the white-haired rider leaped towards a nearby bush. The impact of the arrow seemed to have put the beast slightly off course and as a result, the sharp axe-like horn missed the rider by an inch, and the beast hit the ground with a bang. An eruption of dust emerged from the ground around the beast. Its powerful legs were able to absorb the force of the impact. The white-haired rider landed on his left shoulder, rolled over on his back, and back up on his feet. Without glancing back at the beast behind him he reached for the glass vessel in his pocket and, with a single motion, turned around and threw the vessel in the direction of the beast. The beast seemed to put up its wings as a shield before the vessel hit a rock just a few inches in front of it. There was a bang and an explosion of light and fire, as fragments of glass and metal penetrated the shielding wings of the beast. The shriek of the creature was louder than the explosion. The white-haired rider sprinted towards the injured reptile-like beast with the silver sword in his firm grip. The beast made a spinning motion which sent the fork-shaped tail towards its attacker. The white-haired man leaped over the tail and swung his silver sword with both hands, decapitating the beast with a blow to its muscular and scaly neck. As the beast’s head crashed to the ground, the sound of drums and violins slowly faded away. The white-haired rider wiped some blood off the silver blade before he tucked it back into the decorated sheath.
Chapter one
Two girls were sitting on a stained and dusty green sofa in front of an old tv-set. The room where they were sitting was mostly dark, except for a thin stream of light which was pouring in from the one inch of the window that was not covered by a thick beige curtain. Some light also emanated from the old tv-set, a 55 inch flatscreen. The beaming light from the tv revealed the faces of the two girls in the sofa. One of the girls looked to be in her mid-teens. The other girl looked a couple of years older, more mature.
“Yeah! I’m getting good at this Novi! I chopped off that annoying battle music so quickly now. Too easy. Let’s call on the horse again!” said the younger girl with excitement as she looked over at Novi.”
Novi, the older girl had a more athletic and lean body compared to the younger girl whose body looked slightly softer and curvier. The older girl had straight and medium length hair combed to the left. She had a fade-cut on the right side of her head and her bangs were dyed purple. The younger looking girl had longer, dark, and curly hair, tied in a ponytail. Both girls had an olive light-brown skin tone.
“Vizima, you’re such a weirdo,” said Novi as she looked at Vizima with a bored expression on her face. Vizima was still smiling encouragingly.
“I know, but what do you think?”
“Well, first of all, what’s the point of playing this stupid old game if the music annoys you? And secondly, what’s the point of fighting those dragons when they die that easily? Remind me again why you’re making me watch this, V.” Vizima rolled her eyes and let out a sigh.
”Well, first of all, those are not dragons. They are forktails. And secondly, fighting them is not the point at all. If I could mod this game, I’d totally remove all hostile creatures right now so that we could get back to the actual point.”
“Which is…?’ Novi asked with increasing impatience.
“The vieeeeeeeew!” Vizima moaned with resignation.
”What about it” Novi replied.
”Don´t you think it’s pretty? An awsome work of art crafted in ones and zeros right?”
“Yeah, I guess it looks quite nice, so what? It’s a fantasy world, they all look nice.”
“So you do like it?” Vizima asked before continuing, “Don’t you just wish that you could be there, living in that world? Well, except for the monsters, but still, ever since I found this old game in grandpa’s stash and started to explore it, I’ve felt much more…. relaxed, sort of. You know what I mean?” Novi let out a deep sigh before she answered.
“V, it looks great and all, but to be honest with you, to me, it looks like a complete waste of time. And I don’t get how this can make you feel relaxed. If there was one feeling that was evoked in me while watching this, it’s the feeling of dizziness. All that movement, lightning, fire, dust, blood in a swirl of quick movements had me all fed up with it.” Vizima hesitated before she answered.
“Well, I guess I can understand that the battle sequence made you feel dizzy. But that was probably because you were not the one in control of it all. And besides, as I have already told you, the monster slaying is not the point of this game. At least it’s not the main point for me anymore. Could you please just try it out? Here, do some exploring and you’ll see what I mean.” Vizima handed Novi the black controller and looked at her almost pleadingly.
“V, it’s really cute that you’re so interested in grandpa’s old playstation and his fantasy game, but I’m not interested in your fantasy world. I have better and more important things to do. And as your big sister, I am obliged to tell you, that so have you. Since the Corporate Wars started there have not been many jobs available for young people like us, unless you want to sell your soul and be a slave for them, that is. We really need to do whatever we can to get by. You know that the corporation is only hiring people if they can exploit them. They’ll suck all the energy out of us before spitting us right back into unemployment and poverty. The droughts are also getting worse and worse every spring, summer and autumn. It’s April now, and you know that we have to collect, cleanse and store all the water that we can in order to make it through the heat season.”
“I guess you are right, sis, we need everything we can get. But I also think that you need to find some way to enjoy yourself for a bit. Something that can make you relaxed, that takes your mind of Neil every now and then.”
“V, you will never understand how I feel about him. He was the love of my life, and those fucking corporate bastards killed him. My way of coping is to do what I can, so that I won’t lose anyone else. We need more resources. So, turn off that stupid game V!”
“I know, sis. I just thought you’d like it and that it would make you feel good. I’m worried about you,” Vizima said in a comforting voice and put a hand on her older sister’s shoulder. Novi pulled away and walked across the room towards a table. On the table, there were clothes, packs and various gadgets.
“Just help me pack the water vessels, V! We’ve got work to do!” Novi said.
“How can you be so sure that there will be rainfall in the valley today? Is that precipitation device that Neil left you really that accurate?” Vizima asked, looking puzzled.
”Yes, it usually is. Every time that Neil and I used it before, it was accurate. Come over here, and I’ll show you.” Vizima walked to the table and stood next to Novi. “Look, here you can see that clouds are approaching from the northeast and that they should be in the valley by midday.”
“But are you sure it isn’t too dangerous? Ever heard about sandstorms, scavangers, or corporate police patrollers?’ Vizima said with a worried expression.
“Naah, c’mon! I wouldn’t worry too much about that. And besides, you know that there is a risk in doing nothing while our resources are being depleted.” Novi said.
“I know, but I think we should wait for mom to get home from that corporate bullshit job, or whatever it was that she had to do this time” Vizima said.
“We’ve been waiting long enough now, and there is no guarantee that she will come back with any resources or money. You know that. We, meaning you, need to start chipping in if we are to make it through the summer. You have to learn these things!”
“Fine, I’ll go, sis!’
“Good girl! Go get your gear ready, all of it. Novi requested before she left the room.
Vizima walked towards the tv-set and turned off the tv and the Playstation. She then carried the controller towards a bookshelf that was standing on the opposite side of the window. She opened the lid of a wooden box, which had the appearance of a big old tome, and put the controller inside it. She stood frozen, in deep thoughts, staring at the contents of the box. She finally picked up an old journal with leather covers that looked considerably timeworn. She opened it and began to read from it. After a few minutes of browsing, she closed the journal, held it to her nose, and slowly inhaled its scents with her eyes closed as she thought,
Grandpa would’ve known how to talk to Novi about the importance of relaxation. The way he wrote about his love for nature, and how he enjoyed exploring it, always makes me feel calm. Sometimes I wonder if the nature he described really existed once, or if some sceneries were inspired by the games that he used to play? The same games that now make me fantasize about unreal landscapes. Imagine a green scenery with lush hills and trees, a blue lake with a river. A scenery crowned with a snow-capped mountain.
Vizima kept taking long and heavy breaths while inhaling the scents of old paper and leather from the old journal.
To walk among such beauty, if it really existed at all, must have been true remedy to one’s mind. Your soothing words grandpa. Your soothing words.
Vizima carefully put the journal in the wooden tome-like box and closed the lid.
Chapter two
“Novi, do you think any of the Flemings saw us when we passed their house on the bike? Rumors are that the family is running out of resources. I don’t want to turn them down again, if they ask for help.”
”I don’t think anyone saw us. But worry about that if we are able to retrieve some water, not now.”
“Right, I’ll let it go.”, said Vizima as she let go of the steering wheel and paused for a few seconds.
The sisters pushed a quadbike up a sandy trail on a gradual slope. Vizima walked on the right side of the bike and held the steering wheel. Novi pushed the bike from behind, using both hands. They were both wearing leather boots and clothing of a fabric which appeared to be durable. However, the clothes still looked somewhat torn and worn-down. Vizima was wearing sunglasses and a rugged leather jacket, while her older sister was wearing a pair goggles and some kind of a Gore-Tex jacket. They were both wearing a hood over a cap, and scarves that covered their mouths. Grains of sand were ever present within the molesting wind that was blowing on the hill, which they were ascending. Both of the sisters were carrying mid-sized backpacks.
”Oh, it’s getting so warm in this sunshine. I thought the wind was going to cool us more,” said Vizima while she unzipped her jacket. “These Corp-Tex jackets are pretty good at keeping us dry and protecting us from the annoying wind, but still, they get hot.
”Getting hot is inevitable while going up like this, V. The jackets are good, trust me. I just hate it that we had to buy them from the corporation, just like almost everything else.”
“Yeah, that sucks. But it does not make it less hot Novi. Are you sure that we need to push the bike all the way up? Why can’t we use the electric engine?”
”Of course we can. We can also run out of power here in the middle of nowhere and lose all of our belongings by getting picked out by Corpos, scavangers or other vultures. Don’t you know how much power would be drained if both of us were riding the bike up the hill?”
“It used to be no problem,” Vizima answered sounding disappointed.
”Yeah, but this bike does not have the newest battery now does it? So, despite the charge we get from the solar panels on the bike’s body, I would not risk wasting power if I don’t have to.”
“Alright, alright! Let’s change places. I’ll push it up the last bit,” Vizima said and changed places with her sister.
As Novi was getting ready to steer, Vizima took a moment to study the landscape. The trail that they were ascending was surrounded by meter high bushes covered with green, brown and yellow leaves. The landscape around them was quite open, but the view of the distance was somewhat limited due to gusts of wind blowing up sand and leaves from the ground. There were quite a few hills in the vicinity and trees could be seen here and there, although, they were not very tall, and only a minority of the leaves that they carried were green. In the distance there were fields of grass and grain, which for the most part looked to be a yellow color. A few houses and farms could be seen scattered among the fields and hills of the harsh landscape. As they approached the top of the hill, Novi let go off the steering wheel and pulled the bike’s handbrake. She then opened her backpack, took out a pair of binoculars and started to scan the sky above the scenery.
“As I thought,” said Novi and continued, “Heavy clouds are approaching from the northeast. Hopefully no one else will come to collect.”
“And no Corpos,” said Vizima with a trace of disgust in her voice.
“It’s clear; I can’t see any patrols, checkpoints or barricades from here,” Novi said before continuing. “Sometimes they patrol this valley to guard corporate farms and other corporate property. During less intense rainfalls, close to the dry season, they patrol in order to make sure that no one else is collecting rainwater so that as much water as possible gets soaked up by their crops or ends up in their private groundwater systems.”
”Which means that the greedy bastards should be here any second, why are we even risking this? Vizima continued with an anxious expression on her face.
“Didn’t you hear about the rebel attacks and the riots in the western cities, V?”
Vizima did not answer, so Novi went on. “I think they will prioritize sending their scumbags over there, as they are obsessed with controlling the population. Stopping rain hunters won’t be their top priority today.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Vizima.
“And as scavengers thrive in chaos, I bet most of them will accumulate around the district, like flies to rotten flesh. They’ll likely cause turmoil in any way they can; starting fires and spreading diseases with virus contaminated darts, and then pick up the pieces.
“That would surely keep the Corpos busy. So, where would be a good spot to collect without being seen?” asked Vizima while trying to look as composed as she could. Novi picked up the binoculars once more and responded to the question without lowering them.
”Do you see that little hill over there, between those higher ones, V?”
”Yeah, I think I know which one you mean.”
”Good,” said Novi. “We should be able to collect water over there without getting drenched in a flood and while still being hard to detect.”
“Well, I guess we should get going then. Those clouds look like they can unload the rain any minute now,” said Vizima before she started walking towards the edge of the hill and the slope.
The girls reached the hill, which was located further down, on a lower altitude compared to the one which they had previously used as a vantage point. They quickly unpacked something from the backpack that Novi was carrying. It was some sort of grey tarpaulin canvas and some metal sticks. Some sort of tent. The girls started to mount it in silence, and in a few minutes, they had was set up the tent-like construction on the hill. The design of the tent was simple with only one piece of canvas. However, in the center of the piece of canvas there was a funnel that could lead rainwater right to the center of the tent, where it could be collected in the water vessels. As the tent was set up, Vizima unpacked two camping seat pads. She sat down on one of them which she had placed a rock that was inside the tent, and handed the other seat pad to Novi.
”Here you go, sis.”
“Oh great, you did not forget to bring them this time.” Novi took the seat pad and sat down on another rock. Vizima let out a sigh.
”I’ve only forgotten them that one time you know. Will you ever let it go?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m just saying. It’s nice that you brought them”, said Novi with a smirk as she lifted the canvas to have a quick look at the sky. “The rain should arrive pretty soon I’d say.”
Vizima nodded. She sat quietly for a while and fixed her gaze on a little grey rock that was laying on the ground in front of her. After a while, she could no longer tell how long she had been staring at the rock, which had been unremarkable in every way, but now had been crowned with a layer of thick snow on its tip. She could see the white-haired rider climbing the rock, which in fact had to be a mountain. The rider seemed eager to reach the snow-capped peak in order to enjoy a glorious overview of the world far below. Vizima was brought back to her surroundings when the rain forcefully pelted down on the canvas above their heads. She reached for the water vessels.
Chapter three
The rainfall was intense but brief and the sun had crept out from the no-longer present clouds and was already drying the ground around the little tent. The sisters were packing their gear when they suddenly heard a familiar and unwelcome noise far away in the distance. It was the sound of engines. Novi froze in her steps as she was about to tighten the straps of her backpack.
Shit! That could be corporate scum. How can I say this without freaking her out? Novi thought.
“V, you must not panic now, but I think that might be Corpos,” Novi said with a troubled expression on her face.
“Are you sure?” Vizima replied with trace of fear in her voice.
“It’s likely. Sounds like their standard patrol truck.”
“Oh, fuck! What do we do!? WHAT DO WE DO!?’ Vizimas expression of panic was evident. Novi however, looked considerably calmer compared to her younger sister.
“Calm down, V!” Said Novi as she scanned the environment for a brief moment. Her gaze landed on a group of rocks by the slope on the other side of the hill. “Quickly, pack the equipment and the water vessels onto the bike, then start pushing it towards those rocks over there! But leave the canvas for the rain-tent unpacked!” Commanded Novi as she was pointing in the direction of the rocks. Novi untightened the straps of her backpack again and took out some sort of device. She then threw it down the slope of the hill which was closest to them, opposite the side with the rocks.
“What are you doing Novi? Fucking help me with the bike!” Screamed Vizima after she had slammed the gear into her pack as quickly as she could.
“Just start pushing. I’m coming,” Novi said just as she had put on her backpack.
The two sisters quickly pushed the bike to the group of rocks and covered it with the tent’s canvas which they had left on the seat of the quadbike. The light grey color of the canvas was quite similar to the colors of the rocks. The camouflaging function of the canvas was no coincidence due to the type of rocks being common around the landscape. When the bike was covered, the girls removed their backpacks, dropped them on the ground and crouched behind them. Vizima laid flat on the ground while Novi was still crouching over her backpack. The distant sound of the engines roared louder.
“Get down you idiot! They are getting closer,” snapped Vizima in frustration. Novi ignored her sisters pleading. She seemed to be searching for something in her pack. ”Come on! What are you doing? Are you trying to get us killed? You do still know that the corporation forbids everyone from collecting water outside of their own land, right?” wheezed Vizima rhetorically with increasing frustration and panic.
Novi took out a handgun from her backpack, and as she was quickly ripping out something which looked like some sort of blanket, she dropped the gun on the ground behind her, close to her sister. Vizima looked like she had just seen a ghost.
”Are you insane? What is that thing? squealed Vizima in muffled shock. Vizima could see that the gun’s compartments, such as its frame, slide and barrel, looked to be made out of a black metal. The grip however appeared to be made of wood, except for the grip straps, which were the same black metal as the other compartments. There was a logo carved into the wooden grip. Vizima noticed some text, numbers and flower-like engravings on the slide along the barrel of the gun. Novi closed the backpack and brought the blanket as she laid on the ground next to Vizima and picked up the gun.
“This is an old Beretta. Shut up and stay low,” snapped Novi.
”What are you planning on doing with that thing? asked Vizima, trembling. “We can’t fight them, sis!” Novi seemed to hesitate for a second or two before replying in a commanding voice.
“If it comes to the worst, I’m buying you time to get out of here.”
“NO SIS!” cried Vizima. “Shut up and do as I say!” snapped Novi as she ripped the blanket into two identical parts and handed Vizima one of them.
“Take this camouflage blanket. It has glue on one of its sides. Rub that side on the ground and it will absorb dirt, sand and mud. Then cover yourself and start crawling in the direction of the bushes and trees down over there.”
“But what will—"
“NOW!’ yelled Novi”
Vizima looked shocked as she pulled the now dirt covered blanket over her head and her back. She started crawling away from the rocks where the two sisters had left the quadbike and the gear. Novi attached a small part of the glue covered side of the blanket to her lower leg, just above the ankle. She then held on to the non-sticky side of the camouflage blanket with one hand and pressed the Beretta to her chest with the other. Novi could hear that the corporate truck was very close now. She took one quick glance towards where the noise of the engine was coming from. As she could not yet see the truck, she started rolling sideways to the left in the direction of what looked like a shallow pit.
Novi could hear the truck’s engine roar aggressively as the vehicle ascended the hill. She continued to roll while pressing the non-sticky side of the blanket to her back, while also trying to stay as low as possible.
Suddenly, she could make out that the roar of the engine was fading. She stopped in her movement with her chest pressed against the dusty ground. She slowly lifted her head. She could now see the silhouettes of the grey and white tank-like corporate truck with its six enormous wheels rolling to a halt. The infamous bulletproof windows of the truck reflected the sunlight like an extra set of headlights. Novi had not yet reached the pit that she had aimed for, and fear sped up her heartrate. She subtly moved her lower leg in an attempt to feel if the blanket was still covering her legs. The panic within her rose even further as she realized that only one of her legs was covered by the camouflage. However, while moving her left foot, she could feel that the ground underneath her foot was softer and somewhat sticky.
It must be the pit on lower ground in which rainwater has gathered, thought Novi. As subtly as she could, she started crawling backwards towards the shallow pit. She could hear a door slamming some hundred meters away and maybe a voice of someone speaking. Novi could now feel her feet and legs submerging underneath the mud. Her rugged Corp-Tex pants and boots were keeping her mostly dry. However, some drops of water were leaking in from a rip on her trousers close to the outside of her right thigh. The cold sensation of the wet pit was barely registered in Novi’s mind. She had now managed to lower herself enough so that she could barely see the roof of the truck. More voices could now be heard. The voices grew louder, and every inch of Novi’s body froze and seized to move, except for her heart, which was still thundering like a stampede.
Vizima was crawling in the direction pointed out by her older sister. Her already worn-out clothes were getting more and more dirty and soaked as she advanced towards the bushes. Her knees and elbows ached as she crawled, and she became more wet and cold. However, her struggle got her closer to safety, inch by inch.
What if they find her? And what if they find me? They’ll shoot us on the spot. Or worse..
Vizima hit a sharp rock with her right knee.
Ouch! It hurts to stay alive. But soon I’ll be dead. Or maybe not. What if they drove past us? What if they never find our tracks? We hid everything well. And the camouflage will keep us from being spotted. Novi knows what she is doing, she has been through worse befo…
Vizima’s thought was interrupted by something which sounded like an explosion behind her.
NOOOO! They found her! Is she dead? Novi!
Chapter four
Novi lay completely still as she watched the corporate patrollers who emerged from the truck. Only one of them could be properly seen from where Novi hide. The patroller was wearing the standard water and windproof Corp-Tex corporate outdoor clothing set, which as always, was white. At least it used to be white. The standard corporate sets were more often than not spotted with dirt and stained with various substances. The set that this patroller was wearing did not look be an exception. The patroller also wore the standard corporate metal mask, with its visor and filtered mouthguard, which covered both the mouth and the nose. The mask of the corporate patroller looked to be polished and in better condition than the clothing set. Sun rays were reflected from the mask’s shining surface. However, darker clouds seemed to return to the area and the mask was no longer beaming sun light. Novi was laying so still that she could hear the patroller speaking. It sounded like the voice of a woman.
”The instruments look to be accurate. It rained here quite recently, and the last rainclouds are approaching, and could pour any time soon.” said the patroller. Novi could hear another corporate patroller replying, but she could not make out the precise words.
Have they seen us? Novi thought as she concentrated on trying to pick out what was said by the patrollers.
“I don’t’ know. But I guess we are going to find out if it was a rain hunter or not. The spy-drone registered pictures of something that could have been a tent, but I can’t see it now. Sometimes rebel hackers cause corruption to data gathered by drones,” said the patroller as she kicked her grey boots in the mud.
Oh, no. This is bad, Novi thought.
“Let’s have a quick look around.” the patroller said while dropping down, leaning on one knee, and seemed to be examining something in the mud where she had just kicked.
“Hey! I see tracks in the ground here. Footprints, and tracks from a small vehicle. Probably a quadbike. Someone has been here, recently.”
Novi’s heart skipped innumerable beats before hammering on her ribcage even more intensely than before, but she still did not move a muscle.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! They’ll find us, she thought.
Another patroller was emerging from the other side of the truck and met up with the first one.
“Let me have a look, Jane,” said the voice of a male patroller who had just emerged. He continued. “It does not look to be a corporate vehicle. Could it be scavangers?”
“I don’t know, Carl! But we should find out,” said the woman addressed as Jane.
“Alright, go and check it out if you want. But don’t you think we have more important things to attend to? Besides, we haven’t seen anyone doing anything illegal yet. I think we should move on.”
“What unit did you say you had worked with before Carl? Jane asked menacingly before continuing. “Get this. In my unit, WE don’t pass up on an opportunity to arrest rain hunters. That is why I got my promotion, and also the reason to why I am in command. Besides, there could be more resources in that quadbike. Don’t you need the little extra on the side?”
“Fine, let’s waste our time. But if we see any sign of scavangers then we should get out of here and return with backup. I’ve seen enough of them bullets and ebola darts dashing past the top of my head. I’m not risking an encounter with scavs, if I can choose to.”
Novi could hear two of the corporate patrollers arguing from the muddy pit in which she was laying.
“For fuck sake, Carl! If you want to be a part of my unit you’ve got to stop acting like a wimp. By the look of the tracks there can’t be more than two of them, possibly only one.’ Snapped Jane as she picked up a corporate gun from her holster. With a push of a button, the gun which looked like a big handgun, transformed into a rifle, complete with shoulder support and a scope. The patroller turned around and gestured towards the truck as she spoke.
“Luke! Stay in the truck and keep watch, I’m going to show this new guy how we deal with things in this unit.”
”Okay Jane, if you’re making me do this. But don’t say I did not warn you,” Carl said as he took out and mounted his rifle too.
“Pussy, you’ll thank me later. Trust me!” Jane said arrogantly. The corporate patrollers started following Novi’s and Vizima’s tracks towards the grey rocks.
No! No, no, NO! I’ve got to get out of here. I’m going to die! We’re going to die. I wish we were a pack of filthy scavangers, then we might have had a chance against these Corpos. We’re dead now. Will they find my tracks or V’s first? Oh sis, what have I got you into. They can’t find yours. I won’t let that happen. They can try, but they’ll fucking die trying. Novi carefully pulled down the sleeve on her left arm to reveal a watch around her wrist. She tapped the watch’s display three times, and lingered with the third touch. A loud bang was suddenly heard by the other side of the truck, somewhere by the slope of the other side of the hill. Novi could see the approaching corporate patrollers throw themselves to the ground.
“WHAT WAS THAT!?’ Luke, do you see anyone over there?” yelled Jane. Novi could hear a third voice, a young man, from the direction of the truck.
“I see lots of smoke over here. Please get back here!” yelled the younger man with a shaky voice.
“Carl, go back to Luke and cover us from there, it could be a little smoke bomb, I know what they sound like. I’ll secure this side of the hill.”
”Got it! said Carl as he ran up towards the truck. Jane got up to a crouch and started towards the rocks again. The approaching corporate patroller kept her gaze fixed on the grey rocks, despite the sound of the explosion coming from behind her. Thick smoke was rising behind the truck, like a dark pillar. Novi pressed another button on her watch. The alarm on the quadbike behind the grey rocks went off loudly.
“The fuck is that Jane!?’ Carl screamed from behind the truck.
“The bike. Someone is messing up behind the rocks. I think he is trying to make a run for it. I got this!” Jane replied yelling loudly.
Novi could see the patroller half running, crouched, until she disappeared behind the grey rocks. Novi was already up on her feet as the patroller was out of sight.
Get out of here V. I got this. Novi reached the rocks in a few seconds. The alarm from the quadbike was so loud that she could hardly hear her own footsteps. However, she heard someone screaming something from the truck before she got behind the rocks.
‘FREEZE! YOU THERE! HEY, JANE! THERE’S SOMEONE BEHIND YOU!’
‘What? Did you guys say something? There is no one here by the bi—' Jane turned around and was now staring down the barrel of the old Beretta.
Chapter five
“Drop the rifle on the ground now, or I’ll blow your brains out on the spot’ Novi said with an attempted sinister voice. The corporate patroller looked shocked, and she did as she was told.
“Don’t do anything stupid now girl. My crew will mince you to shreds with bullets if you kill me,” Jane said. The expression of shock on her face had now shifted to an expression of indifference. That made Novi nervous.
“Shut up, corporate scum! And tell that crew to back off. We have you surrounded, and there is no way you can win this fight.” Novi really hoped that she was convincing enough, and that her left leg would stop shaking from fear.
I have to do better. Novi thought. “HEY, GUYS! If the Corpos move an inch closer to me, rain down darts, bullets and firebombs on them” Novi yelled as loud as she could, like she was talking to people that could not be seen yet. She then walked around the corporate patroller so that she was between her and the rest of the patrol.
She took one quick glance up the hill in an attempt to see if her trick had made any effect on the Corpos by the truck. Except for aiming their rifles and shouting threats at her, they did not move. The alarm of the quadbike was still ringing loudly so she could not really hear the other patrollers.
They are not moving closer, but how many of them are there really? Someone could be flanking me already. They had better buy into my scavenger trick or I’m as good as dead.
“So, you are a scavenger, huh? The tracks I saw up there did not indicate a whole lot of you. In fact, I think you might be alone,’ Jane said with a wicked smirk on her face.
“Shut up!’ Novi snapped.
“There can’t be more than two of you I’d say.” Jane said.
“Then I’d say that you’re not so good at tracking us. You’re a fool, and it’ll cost you your life,” Novi said with as much determination as she could. She peaked over the woman’s right shoulder again, to see if the other Corpos had moved any closer. It was really hard for her to tell. Suddenly Novi could see the woman in front of her dashing towards her. She pulled the trigger in sheer panic and there was a loud bang. She could feel the force of something hitting the left side of her left elbow, which pushed the arms along with the gun to the right. Just milliseconds after, something rockhard violently hit her left side of the head, by her ear. Her world began to spin. Novi found herself laying on the dusty ground. Her ears were ringing, and she was disoriented.
Fuck! She hit me. The gun! Where is the fucking gun? Novi tried to sit up while desperately looking for the old beretta. She did not have to look long. The barrel of the old relic was already greeting her as she sat up. On the other end of the gun was the corporate patroller addressed as Jane. The female patroller who now held the old Beretta had a rip in her jacket by her left shoulder. A little bit of blood could be seen coming from the rip, but it was just a scratch.
“I got her under control guys! You can come down if the coast is clear up there,” Jane said with a cocky voice before she turned her full focus back to Novi. ‘You almost shot me you crazy bitch. I hope you enjoyed my right hook.”
No, no, no. How could I miss her? Novi thought.
Jane had a menacing look on her face.
”Listen bitch! You are going to turn off that alarm now, or I’ll shoot you in your knee cap.” Novi raised her left arm to press the display of her watch.
”Ah, Ah! Don’t try anything now!’ Jane said as she cocked the hammer of the gun.”
I’m, doing, what, you told, me,” said Novi very slowly and then pressed the display. The alarm stopped and Novi could now hear approaching footsteps. Novi could see the other two corporate patrollers approaching. Jane pulled off the grey canvas to reveal the quadbike with all of its attached water vessels clearly visible.
“Ohh, as I thought. A rain hunter, and a pathetic one at that. Now you are going to tell me if you are alone or not. And if you lie, well, knee caps,” Jane said and grinned wickedly.
Novi’s gaze went from the two approaching patrollers and returned to meet Jane’s eyes, and as they did, Novi’s eyes narrowed with belligerence.
“If I was not alone, all of you would be dead already. You steal from us, you torture us, and you won’t let us live our lives in peace. My Neil was right. I should have joined the rebels long ago, so that I at least could have had a fair chance of avenging my loved ones. I hope you get shot by a scavanger’s ebola darts, corpo scum!”
Novi looked like she could explode. The other patrollers, Carl and Luke, were now right next to Jane who chuckled at Novi’s angry outburst. Carl had picked up Jane’s rifle on the way down.
“Your rifle Jane,’ Carl said as he handed it to her. Jane took the rifle and gave the Beretta to Carl without taking her eyes of Novi. Carl was studying the old handgun and Luke looked nervously around them, attempting to scan the surroundings for any movement.
“We’ve got an angry rebel sympathizer here who tried to kill me. That is two crimes punishable by death. She is also a rain hunter, which makes the death sentence threefold. This is a perfect subject for your training, Luke,” Jane turned to the younger of the men. Luke’s eyes widened as he was looking from Jane to Novi. “You need to learn how to take lives eventually, and we won’t find anyone more deserving of an execution than this one.” The patroller called Luke looked confused as he came closer.
“Ehh, I guess not. But, ehh, but.” Luke stammered.
“But what? Are you unwilling to obey orders and unwilling to become an experienced and respected patroller for the mighty corporation?”
”No! No, I can.. do it.. I just ehh. What does the codex say.. is all I’m wondering,’ the young patroller kept stammering nervously.
‘THE CODEX SAYS TO DO AS YOUR COMMANDER SAYS!’ Jane yelled, all red-faced.
‘Okay. I mean uh, yes ma’am!’ Luke said looking pale.
He’s a fucking kid. Could be even younger than me. That could have been me.. If I had never met Neil. And if I hadn’t been born with a backbone. Novi thought as she sat in a casual pose trying to look indifferent. I just hope V makes it out of here. And that this rookie makes it quick. That’s all I want.
Luke started to manage his rifle as he was stepping a little bit closer to Novi.
”Here, let me show you which setting to use.’ Carl said as he walked up next to Luke. Carl used his left arm to turn a button on Luke’s rifle, which produced two clicking sounds. Luke looked puzzled.
“But, are you sure? Isn’t that the drug mode for..” Luke’s question was interrupted by a loud and sudden bang. Carl had raised his right hand, in which he held the old beretta, and with the pace of a striking cobra, he had crossed the right arm over his left, and shot Jane in the head. Jane fell to the ground. Carl pulled back his right arm with full explosive force, and elbowed Luke’s nose, before the young corporate patroller managed to vocalize his scream of shock. Carl kicked the corporate rifle out of Luke’s hands who was crashing to the ground. He then caught the rifle in mid-air with his left hand.
“The drug mode for arresting suspects and non-lethal threats. Exactly Luke, this is the drug mode,” Carl said and shot a dart with the corporate rifle in Luke’s neck. He then put the rifle on the ground behind him, and faced Novi who was sitting on the ground, jaw dropped. Carl took of his now bloodstained corporate mask. He looked to be in his early thirties and had a short but thick beard and wavy hair with undercuts and trimmed sideburns, framing his face. His fringe fell down two inches on his forehead, partly covering what appeared to be a scar. A scar that almost reached one of his dark brown eyes.
“What just.. happened? Who are you?’ Asked Novi as she slowly rose with her hands up.
“I heard you mentioning Neil, and that you should have joined him,” Carl said before continuing. “At first, I did not make the connection, but after I had examined this old Beretta, with the wooden grip and the flower engravings, it all became clear to me. This was Neil’s gun. The corporation took almost everything from him and his family when they found out that his family had a well of fresh ground water on their farm. The corporation made the land deed disappear, and then they claimed the land, and most of their possessions. But they did not manage to collect and discard this old relic of a gun. As a rebel, he used to pull that tactic with the timed smoke bomb and the camouflage blankets when he, or when we, got into trouble.”
“We? You knew Neil?”
“I knew Neil. And I noticed that you said “my Neil” in your angry outburst. I used to say that too. I loved that man, and he used to be my Neil, for a time. But that was a long time ago. Before he met you, I guess.”
Novi’s eyes widened.
“You are… Carl. That Carl?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Carl nodded.
Chapter six
Vizima had reached the bushes that she had been crawling towards. After she had heard the explosion, she started crawling faster and she lost the camouflage blanket. From the bushes she could see where the blanket was laying. It was hard to detect though, so she was not too worried about it giving away her hiding spot. Her legs and arms were sore from the crawling. She was wet and cold. But those feelings were numbed compared to the frustration that she was feeling about not being able to help her sister, and not even knowing what had happened to her.
Novi is a tough girl. She’s a woman. She can beat them. She will make it. She..
Vizima’s thoughts were again interrupted by something that sounded like a gunshot in the distance. Vizima flinched, and she could feel fear speed up her heartrate once again.
What is going on? Novi! Don’t leave me? I’m not leaving you. I’ll crawl back for you. Yes. I should fight with you. I’ll throw rocks. I’ll strangle them. I’ll bite them. I’ll… Tears were falling down Vizima’s face. And she started crying uncontrollably.
I promised you that I’d stay here, so that you wouldn’t have died in vain. I just, I need to know what is happening. Are you alive? Can I do something? Who are the corpos? How many of them are there?
Vizima sobbed loudly. She pushed her face in the dusty ground and tried to let go of her thoughts. She was drained of energy and felt completely helpless. Her head span, she could smell the wet mud and she had some sand in the corner of her mouth. She was indifferent to the world around her. The second gunshot did not scare her as much as the first one. It just brought her attention back to her surroundings for a moment, but the feeling of helplessness was numbing to her, so she sank her face back into the ground. Vizima did not really know for how long she stayed like that, but after some time she could hear the sound of a vehicle approaching.
Do they know where I am? How? No it’s not corpos. That sounds like… our quadbike! Novi! Vizima felt the sensation of hope return to her body, and she was somehow filled with more energy. Did Novi really fight them off? She lifted her head only to see a man in a white corporate clothing set driving the quadbike straight towards her hideout. She felt more grief than fear as she thought that Novi must have been the one that was shot. But as the quadbike came closer, she could see that someone was riding behind the man. A young woman with straight hair and faded sides, her sister, Novi. Vizima could not believe her eyes. Am I dreaming? Is this me having stress-related psychosis? The quadbike stopped 10 metres from the bushes. Novi climbed down from the quadbike but the man that had been driving remained on the bike.
“V! Vizima! Where are you!” Novi yelled.
“NOVI! I’m, uhum, I’m here!” Vizima croaked as she crawled out of the bushes.”
As soon as she got up, she ran into the outstretched arms of her older sister. Vizima was both coughing and sobbing, so Novi could not hear a word of what she was saying at first.
“What? I’m okay, sort of. Calm down, sis!” Novi said as she was embracing Vizima.
“I was so worried about you. What happened, and why is that corpo with you?” Vizima asked, and her eyes remained fixed on the man that was observing them from the bike.
“Well, you better explain it to her. But do it quickly, we need to get out of here,” said the man on the bike.
“V, this is Carl. He is a rebel who, fortunately for us, had infiltrated the Corporate Patrol unit that found us. Carl has been gathering intel in order to help the rebellion in the Western District.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Vizima.
”I trust him because he saved my life, and I’m convinced about that he must have known Neil.” Carl got off the quadbike and stepped closer to join the conversation.
“When I realized that your sister was close to Neil, I could not let them kill her, even if it meant that I had to blow my cover. I thought that if you used to be close to Neil, then you could be important to the rebellion. Or maybe you guys were just important to him. Either way, I believe it was worth saving you, just for Neil. He was a good man,” Carl said.
“That’s just wicked! But, but.. thank you! And.. what happened? Did you shoot the other patrollers?” Asked Vizima.
”I had to kill the commander. She was too dangerous to take any chances with. But I have not decided about the young man yet. I don’t really know how deeply he sympathizes with the Corporation and what his record is with them, so I drugged him and put him in the truck. Which I should go back to now asap. And you should get out of here too.”
“What about the body of the commander?’ asked Vizima.
”Yeah, this is now a serious crime scene,” said Novi as she turned and faced Carl.
“I’ll take the body with me in the truck. We need what can be salvaged of her gear as much as we could use this truck. The weather should hopefully cover the rest of the signs, the wind is terrible here.’
“And what If it doesn’t? And what about the tracks from our vehicles?” asked Novi.
“Listen, there are no guarantees when it comes to the Corporation. I would guess that they would choose to follow the tracks of the truck if they suspect that it has been stolen, but that does not rule out the possibility of them following you as well. You’ll have to be careful. We will never be truly safe from the Corporation and that is why I want you to consider joining our resistance. It’s really hard to tell nowadays which is the most dangerous path. Inaction and indifference, joining the corporation, or joining the resistance.”
Hmm, I guess he has a point. Vizima thought.
“Now get out of here!” said Carl
“Alright! V, can you manage driving the bike? I got hit in the head, and I feel dizzy.”
“Yeah, I’ll drive. No problem.”
Carl turned around and looked back towards where the truck was parked. He then turned back to the two sisters who were mounting the bike.
“Good! You two will manage just fine on that bike. But before you go, take this money. Carl said as he stuffed a bankroll into Novi’s backpack. “The money will suffice for your daily needs the coming weeks. And if you would want to join our cause, it’s more than enough money for fuel to get you to our meeting in the West District. I told you where and how to find us, Novi. But remember, you must never write it down anywhere, okay?”
”Yeah, I got it,” Novi said while pressing a hand on her left ear, grimacing in pain.
“Good. Now get out of here! And good luck!” Carl said before he ran back towards the truck.
“Is he going to steal that truck for the rebels?’ asked Vizima.
“Yeah, looks like it. Didn’t you listen?” Novi replied.
”But don’t the corporation have trackers in them as well as in their guns?”
”Yeah, probably. But I guess he’ll stop by some hacker before he drives back to the rebels.”
“I guess. I hope he makes it.”
”Can you just stop talking and drive please, my head hurts.”
”Alright, fine! No problem.” Vizima said and pressed the accelerator.
Chapter seven
Vizima and Novi were back in their living room, sat on their green sofa. There was a pot of steaming soup on the table in front of them and the light of the tv beamed in their faces. Vizima wore a stained apron and poured herself a bowl of soup. Novi had cuddled up in a woolen blanket and was holding the black Playstation controller while focusing her gaze on the tv in front of them.
“Sure you don’t want any more soup, Novi?”
”No thanks! I’m good for now. But it was very tasty, your best so far, V.”
”Alright, no problem. I’m just happy you’re feeling better, and that you’re finally playing the game. It’s fun to watch,” Vizima said.
”Yeah, yeah. I did promise that I was gonna play, since you also promised to clean our clothes and the gear from yesterday’s horrible rainhunt.”
”You mean from the day before yesterday, right? Once you got to bed that night, you were out for almost a day. I was kind of worried.”
“Yeah, yeah. I meant the day before yesterday, and don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. My head is feeling a lot better now, I’m just tired.”
”I know! I’m not worried any longer,” said Vizima between the slurping of her soup. “So, how do you like the game?”
Novi had put down the controller in her lap and reached for a glass of water. As she did, the white-haired videogame character on the screen stopped running. He stood still in what appeared to be a cold coniferous forest. The character stood on bare ground, but the evergreen pine and spruce-trees that surrounded him were partly covered in snow, and their trunks glittered with frost.
“Well, at first I did not like it. Just running around and exploring, quickly felt pointless, even if the environments were nice, as you have said. It wasn’t until I began a new game from the beginning that I started to enjoy it for myself a little bit. I like the characters, and I’m starting to get invested in their struggle in this fantasy world. It’s like, I can relate to it now. And I have to agree that the settings are both interesting and beautiful to watch.’ Novi said.
“Huh, I see. That’s interesting,” Vizima said.
”Why is that interesting? That I can relate to their struggle?” Novi asked.
”No, not that. What’s interesting is that I think it’s important to be as immersed in the world as possible in order to truly see the beauty of the different landscapes and environment of the game.”
”Right.” Novi said, raising her eyebrows. Vizima continued after a short pause.
“When you get to know the characters and you experienced their story from the beginning, you probably started caring more about what could happen to them. This made you pay more attention to the details in the environments so that you could fight off threats or find rewards that could make your character better and more likely to succeed.”
“What are you talking about?” Asked Novi with her eyebrows raised.
Oh I envy her. I wish I could relive playing it for the first time again, Vizima thought before continuing.
”I mean, just by watching you play from the beginning, I realized that it is the relationship that you develop with the characters, and the active role that you are playing, that enhances the immersion of the game. That makes the game’s environment come alive in a way that makes it more real, more interesting and even more beautiful. When I play nowadays, I find it relaxing to explore the game, even though the character that I control no longer has any motive to do so, since I’ve already finished the story. But I realize now that the monsters, enemies and the challenges of the game are not really annoying. They are necessary for the immersion, and the best way of making the game’s nature landscapes feel as enjoyable as possible. The first time that I played and experienced the game, I remember that I could feel stronger sensations of wonder, excitement and relaxation.” Novi was now looking up at the roof, as if she had lost interest.
”Right, I’m not sure if I’m THAT invested or immersed in the game. I just enjoyed playing it for a while. But I do feel more relaxed now, I guess. I might even miss playing it once I’ve gone to join the rebels.”
“That’s great!’ Vizima said and then fell quiet for a moment, staring at the steam that was rising from the pot on the table in front of them.
“V!”
”What?”
”Don’t tell me that you still consider going with me? I know that I said that there is hope, now that we know that the Corporation can be hacked and infiltrated, but that does not mean that the situation is safe!” Vizima sighed and turned her gaze back at Novi.
“I want to go too. If you think that Carl and his rebel crew can teach me how to fight back against the Corpos, then I want to go with you. I don’t want to feel as helpless as I felt when that corporate patrol rolled in. Never again! I want to be able to fight back! I want to be able to help! You should never again have to sacrifice your own safety to save me! I won’t let you!”
”V, I appreciate your concern, and it’s good that you want to help. I am very proud of you. But you can’t come with me. Not after what just happened out there, it could be too dangerous.”
“Am I really hearing you say this?”
“V, I need to assess the situation of the rebel camp before I can let you come. I was wrong about the last rain hunt. I thought there would be no Corpos, and that I would be able to protect us, I was wrong. I’m sorry, V.”
”I can’t believe this! How are you planning on stopping me? And what about your own safety?”
“V, you know that I have more experience concerning these matters than you have. I will be fine, trust me.”
“If it’s as dangerous as you say, then I don’t want you to go. Stay here with me! Teach me some more survival skills. At least until mom comes home.”
”I’m sorry, I really need to see Carl again. He.. knew Neil too, and I need to learn all there is to know about the incident in which Neil was killed. Carl might know something, I got that impression, from the short time that I could talk to him.”
”Novi, just let go! Avenging him won’t bring him back. It’ll only get you killed.”
Novi sighed, took the black controller from her lap and placed it on the table in front of them. She then stood up before she replied.
“It’s not about revenge. It’s about the strange circumstances surrounding Neil’s death.”
”What do you mean?” Vizima asked.
”I suspect that Neil was set up, or betrayed. And I need to figure out how that could happen, so that it won’t happen again to someone that I love, or anyone else who opposes the corporation for that matter.”
”I see,’ said Vizima.
”Do you understand then why I have to go?”
“I do understand. But I also want to help the rebellion free us from the Corporation’s tyranny. They own more and more, and we get less and less every year. I’m so angry, and I’m… scared.”
”I’m scared too, V. And we should be scared. It could be too dangerous, so promise me that you will stay here for now. Please, V!”
“I will promise, on two conditions.”
“Which are…?”
“Firstly, come back for me as soon as you can. I want to learn how to defend myself, and I want to fight the Corporation too.”
”Okay, I know!”
”Secondly, don’t do anything stupid, regardless of what you learn about Neil. He is dead, and nothing will change that.”
”Fine, I won’t!”
”I promise if you promise.”
”Fine, I promise,” Novi said and lay down in the sofa. She fell silent and seemed to be in deep thoughts. Vizima took the controller and started playing the game. After a while Novi started talking again. ”We’re becoming more and more like their slaves every year. Did you know that before countries dissolved, and before the Corporation bought most of the land, people could go hiking in the national parks, for free?”
“Yeah, I know that. Grandpa wrote about that in his journal. It makes me so angry that all of that has been taken from us,” Vizima said.
“Imagine if everyone could walk freely in the forests, if the forests and natural parks were open to everyone and not exclusively to corporate medicinal harvesters or corporate safaris for the rich,” Novi said.
“Tell me about it, I dream about that almost every day. From what I can interpret from grandpa’s writing, there was nature equally beautiful and pure, even in areas which were not classified as national parks,” Vizima said.
“Wow! That must have been incredible. Like you could wander off anywhere, similar to the exploration that you can do in this old game.” Novi fell quiet for a few seconds, and seemed to be daydreaming. After a short while she broke the silence once more. “My head is starting to hurt again. I think I’m getting really stressed and tired of thinking about all of this, V. Rebels, Corpos, Carl, and Neil. Everything.”
”I understand. When I feel stressed, I usually play the game you know. But I guess that’s not gonna work out for you this time. Sometimes I find it relaxing to read some pages in grandpa’s old journal. Actually, this area in the game, with the frosty coniferous forest, reminds me a little bit of a section that he wrote. Have you read his journal?”
Novi lay with one hand over her forehead, she rubbed her temple with the tip of her fingers and resp. “I’ve browsed in it a few times, I don’t remember it being of much interest though.”
“Okay, I think you should reconsider reading it. He expressed in his journal, that he used to play this game whenever he felt stressed and when he missed home. I understand that he spent some years of his life in what he referred to as the capital city. And sometimes he missed the nature and the forests from where he grew up. He referred to it as a beautiful part of the great taiga of Europe. He also wrote that playing the game helped him travel back in time in a way. It activated memories stored in his mind, memories that could evoke any of his senses. He was surprised that visuals and sounds from the game could evoke stored memories of the scents of forests that he had previously explored. Do you want me to read the section for you?” Vizima asked.
Novi nodded subtly, but kept her gaze hidden underneath her hand. Vizima turned off the game and brought the controller to the book-like wooden box in the bookshelf. She opened the lid of the box and froze when she was just about to put the controller back.
“Novi! Is this…’
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. That’s grandpa’s old handgun.”
”What is it doing here?”
”I put it there yesterday.” I kept it hidden from you and mom because I did not want you to get into trouble. I had it with me when I was running with the rebels, when I was with Neil.”
Vizima put the controller inside the box and took out the small pistol. She examined it while she listened to Novi who continued to talk. The grip was made of wood. It had a symbol carved into it that, in the past, must have looked like a star.
”I think that small piece of firearm must have even been old by the time that grandpa obtained it. It’s a Makarov. I thought that now that you also want to fight the Corpos, you should get the chance to practice with grandpa’s old handgun. I put the silencer in there too, so that you can practice without being heard.”
“But.. Are you sure you’re not gonna need it when you join the rebels.”
”Yes, I’m sure. It's better that you have it, V. I carry Neil’s old Beretta now. Besides, you seem to be more fond of grandpa’s old things than I have ever been.”
“Okay! I don’t know what to say. I’ve never liked guns, but after what happened a few days ago I might have to accept that… that I should be able to use them.”
” Sadly, it’s the reality we live in, whether we like it or not. Just be really careful with it, V. I guess you’ve forgotten about the journal now, huh?”
”What? No! I’ll read it for you. You’ll feel more relaxed, I swear.”
”You really don’t have to, V.”
”Yes I do, just listen to this.’ Vizima put the gun inside the box and took out the old journal.
“Let’s see. Here it is,” Vizima said after a few seconds of searching. “He wrote,
‘I just had to put the controller down and write. How do they make it look so real? Real enough to remind me of a real event at least. The visuals of the forest took me back to an early autumn morning. A hunting trip with my friends, who were more excited about finding and shooting capercaillie than I was. I had been in the city for so long, that just being in the forest and taking in its wonders with my senses was more than enough to satisfy me. I had recently been reading scientific reports from Japan which illustrated the health benefits of being in a forest. According to the research, people who spend time relaxing, or casually walking in the forest, do not only enjoy decreasing levels of the stress hormone cortisol, they also benefit from the aromatic volatile substances called phytoncides. These amazing phytoncides, which are secreted by the trees, work as natural killers for our cells. Basically, they help our bodies beat cancer cells. How cool is that? The scientists called this form of natural therapy “Shinrin Yuko”, which means forest bathing. I was surely bathing in impressions from the surroundings that mornin. It had been a cold night. The moss, small bushes and other plants of the under growth were still frozen in the early morning. The forest floor was mostly still green, but walking over it, produced a discrete crunching sound, which reminded me of the winter snow beneath your feet. The scent of the forest was muffled due to the cold night, and it was difficult to distinguish the scent of any particular plant. The smell of the air was just fresh, and otherwise unspecified. It was very pleasant, but not quite what I had longed for. However, as the morning advanced to noon, the clear weather with the beautiful blazing sun had softened the previously crunchy under growth. A mist slowly rose from the forest floor. The humid mist made the scenery slightly more blurred, despite the clear sunny sky. And with the humid mist rose the highly anticipated smells of the forest. At that point, I remember that I stopped walking, and just leaned my back towards a big pine tree and closed my eyes. I took long deep breaths. I felt that I became healthier and happier with every breath that I took. It was both soothing and energizing at the same time. My senses bathed.’
Vizima closed the journal. Its leather bindings made a satisfying low thumping sound. She looked towards the sofa. Novi had fallen asleep, and was breathing slowly and heavily.
Feeling relaxed already, huh? Works for me too.
Vizima turned back towards the book-like box again. She put the journal back in the box and lingered with her hand amongst her grandfather’s old relics. Her fingers touched the controller, the journal and the gun, amongst other things.
Why did you have a gun granpa? You considered fighting the injustices using violence but you found another way? You did not succeed, or you never even tried? I guess you were busy living, enjoying the freedom of exploring the beauty of nature while you could.
Vizima’s fingers found their way to the wooden grip of the old Makarov. She grabbed the grip and squeezed it hard. She closed her eyes and imagined the firm grip of her grandfather’s hand. Her breathing became slower and heavier as she drifted deeper and deeper into thoughts as she stood in front of the box. In her imagination, she could see, and almost feel her grandfather leading her along a trail. They passed a lush meadow with a mighty oak tree before arriving at an intimidating corporate blockade. They ran, hand in hand, gunning down corporate soldiers one by one. In front of them was a man who held a crossbow in one hand, and a sword in the other. It was the white-haired character from the game. He ran in front of Vizima and her grandfather, producing a protective bubble-like barrier around him that absorbed bullets from corporate soldiers. All three of them pushed past the blockade in a heartbeat.
The grip of her grandfather’s hand decreased slightly as he led her through a lush beautiful and calm forest. The terrain got less and less dense as they advanced upwards a steep slope. And then, suddenly, she saw a beautiful peak of a snow-capped mountain towering above a green and lush scenery. Having reached the top of the slope, facing the majestic view together with her grandfather, she felt fulfilled. But only for a moment. The feeling of fulfilment slowly crept away from her as she realized that Novi was not with them. Vizima turned away from the mountain, looked towards the bottom of the slope. There was Novi, on her knees, surrounded by corporate soldiers. One of the soldiers held a gun to Novi’s head. Vizima, still holding her grandfather’s hand, tried to pull him back down the slope. She could feel the grip of their connected hands decreasing slightly, as she desperately tried to get to Novi. Vizima let go of her grandfather’s hand. BANG!
Chapter eight
Vizima flinched as she heard the sound of a heavy object hit the floor in front of her feet. She opened her eyes and saw the old handgun laying on the floor in front of her. She felt chills go up her spine, and her heart beat violently inside her chest. Shit! I dropped it, Vizima thought. She then heard Novi moving on the sofa. Novi did not seem to have been bothered by the gun bumping down on the floor. She simply turned in her sleep, assuming another sleeping position.
Vizima picked up the gun and placed it in the box. Her heart was still beating hard, and she felt stressed from her daydream.
What the fuck can we do about the oppression of the Corporation? Not much, I guess. But I like not doing much, so I’ll fucking do it any way. When I’m ready for it. For now I need to relax, take my mind of these things.
Vizima picked up the gun from the floor and put it back in the box. She then took the Playstation controller and sat down on the sofa next to her sleeping sister. She continued playing where Novi had left off, in the frosty coniferous forest. She guided her white-haired character up a hill along a trail. It led to a cozy village nestled among some snowy mountains. Its villagers appeared to be hunters and fishermen. They could calmly tend to their daily shores after Vizima had fought off some giant scorpion-like monsters that tried get into the village through a narrow pass in a ravine. Serenity returned to the village and Vizima unequipped her character’s weapons and armor, and made him join some of the villagers in a steaming hot spring. Snow started to fall lightly, and a breeze made the spruce trees in the vicinity sway slightly. As her character bathed in the hot spring, she listened to the sound effects of the game; birdsong, splashing water, and wind blowing through the trees. The colors of the scenery changed slowly as twilight crept closer. When darkness fell, Vizima equipped her character with armor and weapons once more. She led him through the snow, up on one of the low mountains that surrounded the little village. She placed her character on a cliff overlooking the village and equipped him with a blazing torch.
Don’t be afraid! I’ll watch over you. I am the protector of the vulnerable, the protector of nature’s beauty, and the ones that I love.
Vizima put the controller down and observed the scene on the screen that she had arranged; the white-haired character guarding the village from the cliff with the ignited torch in hand. Vizima’s breathing became heavier and her eyelids seemed to drop with increasing frequency. She finally lay down, cuddled up next to Novi. She pulled a soft blanket over them, and quickly fell asleep. The solid white-haired character kept watching over the village in the game. He also seemed to be watching over the two sisters in the sofa, who were enjoying tranquil dreams.
The Whimsyland SoopurMart
His axe and helm, war-torn, sat propped up against the glass box he slept on, full of artifacts both strange yet common in Whimsyland.
The SoopurMart had the layout of your basic corner store. It was small, with three small aisles across from the counter, all covered head to toe in Whimsyland’s best snacks, canned meals and toiletries. The walls were lined with fridges and pastry cooling shelves, with the front door sandwiched between quarter-candy machines to the left of the counter.
The Dimension Wars had long since passed, but old Val had fought in them. He won many battles, killed many humans. Nowadays, Whimsyfolk lived peacefully alongside humans and whatever other nonsense poured in from the other dimensions. People from all sides adopted customs of the other, hence the corner store Val now manned.
It was his son, Bal-Tan’s idea to start the first little shop. It was only when it became a successful, continent-spanning franchise that Val agreed to run one himself- If there was one thing a Dwarf respected, it was money. If only that money didn’t mean turning the clan name into a marketable logo, putting eyes in the “o”’s like it were some godforsaken cryptid.
Despite the SoopurMart’s success, Val preferred being on the front lines, rather than hiring some coin-desperate young Whimsyfolk to run the place. This also meant Val got to catch up with the locals, which he enjoyed. That is, except for one.
Val awoke from his nap to the crippling realization that it was a Wednesday afternoon. Unfortunately, that meant one thing- Bob Jones would be coming in for his break-time snack. Val didn’t hate humans. But he hated how maddeningly plain some of them could be, and Bob was the perfect example of that.
With a chime, in walked Bob with his pale bald head, his washed-out blue shirt, beige shorts and Velcro flip-flops. His cologne wafted throughout the store, smelling like singed metal and dogwood. As usual, he couldn’t help but look every female Elf, Selkie and Faerie up and down, giggling to himself. He never did any touching, though Val really wanted a use for his axe.
Bob eventually came up to the counter with his usual bag of human-made chips and a bottle of human-made soda, both of which were found next to some of Whimsyland’s most interesting items-- Haste potions, fickleberry tarts, basilisk jerky. “Ah, ain’t this new world of ours great?” He said for the hundredth time in as many Wednesdays.
“Uh-huh,” Val grunted. “Cash or credit?”
“Well, actually,” Bob said. “I found this amazing block of refined ore!” He plopped a pearl-white rectangle onto the glass counter. “It fell out of one of them portals, right onto my lawn! Certainly something so amazing would be sufficient payment?”
Val picked up the block, weighing it, scanning it up and down. Then, he took a bite, the creamy taste of white chocolate caressing his tongue.
“Wh-What?” Bob said, confused.
“Must’ve been a Candyland portal,” Val said. “Cash or credit?”
But this, as usual, didn’t dissuade Bob. He shoved his plain little hand back into his pocket, and pulled out some sort of crumpled-up gold paper. “What about this, huh?” He asked. “Pure gold! Sure, it’s a little thin, but more than enough for chips and pop! Maybe even a couple smokes?”
“That stuff’s everywhere,” Val said, “Elves plaster their houses with it to ward off spirits. …Where’d you say you got this?”
Bob, of course, didn’t answer. Instead, he reached back into his pockets. The other customers, thankfully, knew poor Val was in for the long haul, so they left payment at the edge of the counter and went on with their days.
Bob threw all sorts of vaguely shiny things onto the counter—Crystals, petrified bark, even some silver fur he thought was from a unicorn. Each time, Val pointed out how common or useless the item truly was.
Nearly an hour later, Bob had finally given up. Grumbling, he paid for his snack, left his trash on the counter, and stomped out of the store.
Once Bob drove off, Val spat the chocolate he bit off back out, wiped it down, and stuffed it and the rest of the brick under the counter. Candyland chocolate sold big in Whimsyland. Too bad Bob didn’t know that.
Brian RB Wilcox is a licensed psychotherapist in Vermont, USA. He holds degrees in Transpersonal Psychology and Counseling Psychology. Brian enjoys a nomadic lifestyle with his wife and draws inspiration from his travels for his writing. He is currently working on his second novel while enjoying the winter in Picton, Ontario. Summering on a beautiful lake in the forest in Maine, USA, he enjoys hiking, cooking, fishing and riding his motorcycle. |
Jewels of Mostar
He cried out in pain, tears coming unbidden, mostly from the severe, crippling headache he had struggled with since before his grievous leg wound. He managed to drag himself the two meters to the stove and fed it some scraps of broken chair, recoiling at the acrid smell of the plastic they had burned earlier.
Old Deda, his grandfather still slept as he did most of the time when not being disturbed by the shelling and being hustled into the tunnel networks broken through the bricks of the housing blocks in the neighborhood. There was no privacy anymore, or real ownership of any space. All the citizens and fighters were at liberty to enter any safe space at any time to avoid shelling and sniper fire. The worst was just the random shooting from the troops coming in off M17, the Boulevard, to harry the citizens.
Zlatan had just elbowed his way back to his pallet and covered himself with the rug he used as a quilt when his brother Aleksandar came in from the broken section of wall.
"It's bad out there, do you hear the small arms fire?"
"I can't hear anything but the pounding in my head" the younger man said.
"How is your leg?"
Zlatan rolled over onto his back and said, "It's killing me all the time, and it feels burning hot. It's getting red streaks going up, and the stump is smelling terrible. None of that is as bad as this headache."
He did not include his feeling that he would put a bullet into his head if it were not that it would waste a round his brother might need to protect himself or Deda.
Aleksandar dipped a rag into the water bucket, rang it out, folded it and put it on his brother's forehead. Any relief was better than none, and he could see that Zlatan was in worse shape today than he had seen since the 20mm cannon round had taken his leg in January. They had done what they could for him then and it had been enough to keep him alive. Aleksander had cut away the shreds of flesh and tendon while Zlatan was unconscious. The crude belt tourniquet stopped the hemorrhage long enough to cauterize the stump with some gun powder ignited by a small steel tray heated to a deep glowing red. It was good the young man was unconscious.
#
So far, on the first of November,1993 had been the worst year any of them had ever seen. Worse than any of them could ever have imagined; the depravations and losses were beyond the scope of human endurance it seemed, yet life in Mostar persisted and continued to strive for some semblance of normalcy. The people still cooked when they had any food, they went for water every day either to the river or to the UN aid trucks that sometimes came. When the bread man came to the water stations they grabbed what they could and shared with those unable to come. They all shared what they could, especially hope and fortitude.
Zlatan, now 25 was past the usual age of marriage. Understandable considering that his fiancé Ilhana was killed by a sniper's bullet coming shrill, splitting the wind and her head while she crossed the Stari Most, the famous stone bridge of Mostar.
The old bridge of course, now loomed even larger than it ever had for Zlatan. It was a symbol of what took everything from him; Ilhan, his leg, friends, and his parents. The snipers were efficient though to Zlatan they were misguided by hate and rage. They shot at anything they felt like. Cars, wagons, people, just ordinary people trying to get water, bread, news of loved ones. The dangers came off the boulevard with random sorties by the soldiers coming and shooting promiscuously, and from the roof tops with the deadly snipers. The snipers took his parents, Ilhan, and his leg, but worst of all for Zlatan with his leg they took his ability to fight, to take revenge, to survive like a man, not a rat in a trap. They would not even be around here if it were not for the bridge, he thought.
In his rumination about the war and its poignant non-purpose in his opinion, he viewed it as a tormented man. One who cannot stand himself to the degree that he is compelled to destroy himself. In the images that came to him in his pre-sleep, before the horrible dreams came and accelerated his headaches, he saw a man bent on his own destruction, rending at himself with teeth and fingernails, breaking his own bones with fists over and over until there was nothing left of the man but teeth, fists and hate.
#
The old bridge that crossed the Neretva River was finished by the Ottomans in 1566. It was a feat of engineering that was unrivaled in its time and there was no wider arch ever built in the world. Not a particularly long bridge at thirty meters, nor very wide at four meters, it was nonetheless integral to the growth and prosperity of Mostar, connecting the two banks of the river on which the city lay for daily commerce. It was built with a fortified tower at each end of it that were know as The Bridge Keepers.
At twenty-four meters above the river at the peak of the arch, it dominated the river and captivated the eyes and imaginations of visitors to the city.
For Zlatan, it had been a constant in his life. It figured dominantly in his coming-of -age when he, like other young men of sixteen years, was obliged to jump from the peak of the arch into the clear frigid water of the Neretva. Tradition dictated that unless a boy jump from the bridge by age sixteen, his life would be an utter failure, he would never marry, never have any success in business or labor, never father children. They all jumped either through pressure of tradition and peers or from family demands. Zlatan embraced the process and his first jump was flawless.
He surfaced and looked up at the bridge shining in the sunlight, the river swirling clear and teal around him. He floated in the current for a moment, then turned and swam toward the flat stone beach where Ilhana waited for him. He came from the water and she ran to him and hugged him.
"Just wait until later" she whispered in his ear and kissed his cheek.
He went with the other boys who jumped that day and drank some tepid beer someone had pilfered and some rakja that was passed around. Aleksandar came, and had a beer with them, and clapping his brother on the back he said, "Well, you're a man now. What will you do brother?"
Without hesitation Zlatan answered, "I'm a jumper now, I will jump and take the dinars the tourists offer."
They all knew the first person known to have jumped from the bridge was in 1664. Since that time thousands of boys becoming men had jumped, but not so many jumped for a career as did a few in the 1980s.
Aleksandar did not want to dampen his brothers momentous leap into manhood and so did not try to discourage his aims to jump for money. He knew that the men who did ran a sort of ad hoc union and would not be receptive to a teen moving into their livelihood. It was not an esprit de corps that Zlatan sought. It was just the dinars, just the means to marry Ilhan and start a family of his own.
On the day of his first jump he was filled with hope and it was with the exuberance of a newly confirmed man that he left his mother's table that evening and rushed back to the bridge where he knew Ilhan would be waiting.
The sun was setting when he got to the bridge. He did not see her by the Tara Tower where she usually waited for him. But coming under the entrance arch he saw her sitting on the rail at the apex of the bridge. It was unusual. The light was illuminating the colors of the water as it eddied and purled on itself. We could drift all the way to the sea from here, he mused as he walked softly up the cobbles toward Ilhan. She sat on the rail just kicking her feet, watching the river and the setting sun.
"I'm here" he said, hugging her from behind.
She lolled her head back against him and the smell of her clean and shining hair filled him.
"It's so beautiful out this evening, isn't it?"
"You are what's beautiful."
"No, Zlatan, your jump today! That was beauty."
"It was nothing, just a little jump into the water."
"I could never do it" she said and turned a kissed his lips before he could say anything more.
He climbed up onto the bridge rail and sat beside her, neither saying anything until the sun was down and the lights of the city took the night.
"Today was a very special day for you" she murmured.
It sounded new to Zlatan, he had not heard use a tone like this before, soft, sweet but serious, not like hear usual laughter and verve.
"I thought it was fun, but I don't know why everyone thinks it's such a big deal. Just like flying, only down is the only direction," he laughed.
"It is a big thing, you are a man now. You have shown that to everyone. It is a very special day when a boy becomes a man, you know it."
"Ha ha, yes of course, but even a donkey could jump off the bridge and survive I think."
"Shhhh...you know it, and I know it."
She turned and got down from the bridge rail, and took his hand.
"Come with me."
"What..."
"Don't talk, just come."
She kept his hand in hers and the left the bridge. She lead him off the Northeast end of the bridge and down past the old tower dungeon. The trail went down river through a verdant undergrowth and she found her way with the flashlight she had brought.
She brought him along the ledges on the east side of the river. Places they had played as children, not so very long ago. Places they had thought of as their special caves, places all their own. They came to the big overhang with the grotto that was nearly big enough to stand in. Ilhana had come there earlier and laid Turkish rugs and blankets down. She had placed beeswax candles around, and the grotto smelled of the sandalwood incense she had burned earlier.
She lit the candles and turned off the flashlight.
"Tonight, you will get what a man gets" she grinned and pulled off her shirt. She wore no bra. "Do you like what you see?"
He said nothing, kissed her and held her close, his warm hands on her, her breath coming soft in his ear, their senses reeling with the scent of each other, the incense and the river.
It was a night neither would ever forget.
Although Muslim, neither family was devout. The changing social mores of the 1960s had come to Hercegovina as well as the rest of the world, MTV had come with the advent of cable and by the 1980s, no swords were drawn, no honor killings were thought of if a daughter did not come home when she was expected. Or a son. They knew and behind stifled grins they approved.
Life was good for the young couple. Each family accepted the relationship and on Sundays they would alternate between the afternoon meal and music with her family, then with his.
She found work in one of the many restaurants and her bubbly personality was an asset as a hostess.
He jumped.
As he said he would.
And every weekend with the advent of the growing tourist industry, he jumped. Sometimes if the other more seasoned jumpers were taking a break or had not arrived yet, he would bribe a young boy to pass the basket for dinars, give him candy and prop the lads up with tall tales of his jumping prowess.
After a jump gone bad from not checking upriver to scan for any floating debris, his face grew terribly swollen from hitting a solid oak burl that floated just below the surface. His four shattered teeth on his upper jaw were later repaired with gold caps done for him as a courtesy by a dentist whose son was also a jumper.
Old Deda had given him a Tisbih, Moslem prayer beads made from Baltic amber that he had been given as a boy. Deda admonished Zlatan to recite the Allah Akbar, the Subhan Allah, and the Al-Ahmadulila for strength and safety each day. "I don't need them anymore" he said, "Allah knows I am nearly with Him."
He grew a small fan base of the local street boys and began to make some money from his three or four jumps a day. After a year he was jumping daily and had been accepted into the fraternity of jumpers on the Start Most.
Ilhan and Zlatan were most definitely in love. They could not get enough of each other, both physically and emotionally. But their relationship was not dimensionless. They talked. Often and in depth. Each knew everything about the other. Each envisioned the same future together. When they talked, they kept their eyes filled with each other and in time, they knew true intimacy, the like of which neither of their parents had ever known. They were a couple of a new generation and they had upwardly mobile plans. That would soon be shattered. Shattered in a way that was so much worse than a broken face, in a way that could not be capped with gold or anything else.
By 1990 things had changed. They had changed in the way that profound changes happen. Those that happen in a way that assures that things will never be the same. Most of the older generation remembered rule under Tito. Most of them remembered the Nazi threat of the late thirties and early forties. Some of them had been in the camps in Serbia. Most had family members killed in the campaigns of that war.
Though many of those campaigns had been lesser considering the bigger conflict between the Axis and the Allies, those were split hairs that mattered little in the Balkans. What mattered was the shattering of families, the pervasive grief. And by 1990 that remembered grief was of little consequence to the mounting horrors of this new war, this new war of selves upon selves.
At twenty-two, Ilhan and Zlatan were getting by in any way they could as were their families and all of the families in Mostar. The threat the tanks brought from their unchallenged roosts on the surrounding hillsides was one that no-one could see any way out of. Those tanks could come down on the city like thunderbolts from Zeus, like the anger and curse of Allah. But why? Why? They all asked this unanswerable question. The only answer offered by the older generation was that it was inshallah, God wills it.
The younger generations questioned it, though with guilt and trepidation in possibly being sacrilegious. Question the will of Allah?
The younger people said yes, without a doubt. Question our deaths for no apparent reason, from people who are the same as us, the same language, the same customs the same heritage? Of course we question that they said. But they all knew they could not question a mortar shell, or a bullet, or a tank or the damned gangsters who were the puppeteers who built this crazy war.
They soon stopped questioning and started plotting how daily survival would be managed. And the only answer they could come up with was that it would be managed in any way they could.
The next two years were not pleasant, or bearable, but they did bear it and they bore it with a spirit that would not be eradicated.
It was true, impressing and poignant that spirit would not be eradicated. Likewise, for love and remembrance. But lives could be, families could be, and were at an alarming rate in 1992. For Zlatan, he and his brother practiced acceptance, as best they could, each in his own way. Aleksander became the self-appointed protector of the remnants of his family after their parents were killed and old Deda became more and more ill. He did it with his compatriots in vicious street fighting, desperately trying to wear down the enemy, keep them at bay in any way possible.
Zlatan had become the procurer of whatever supplies he could obtain, he kept the apartment reasonably warm for old Deda in his bed and fed him what he could make for soup, kept the house in stale bread to dip in the watery soups he was able to make. He did the same for Ilhan's parents and they both ran the significant risk of moving back and forth across the old bridge to each bank of the Neretva to care for each of their families.
When it came, Zlatan was at first unbelieving. A simple bridge crossing at dawn. They had done it a hundred times. They both knew to stay low and not to linger, but then it came. At first it was a staccato popping of small automatic rounds with some shrapnel from the bridge rail raining back on them. Zlatan and Ilhan went down on their bellies along the rail, but then Ilhan jumped up and ran for the other side of the bridge. As soon as she started down the sloping ramp of the bridge the bullet caught her and she staggered against the wall of the old dungeon, then went still in the street.
Zlatan watched in what seemed to him an eternity of unreality as her body, now totally exposed twitched twice more with the sniper's bullets. He leapt up and ran toward her, and a 20mm round blasted the stone on the bridge rail and shattered the bones in his left hand. Still he ran to Ilhan and stooped, sobbing, imploring her to get up though he could see it was hopeless. When the sniper's second 20mm round took him on the left leg he did not register pain, just the shock of the high velocity blow, then fell forward unconscious.
Two Spanish UN workers who had hidden behind a water truck waited for shelling to chastise the snipers, then came out and dragged Zlatan back into safety and tied off his leg above the knee. Ilhan was left in the street. The edict was to tend to the living, the dead were in other, greater hands.
He was later brought back to the apartment in a wheel barrow, in shock, suffering, only semi-conscious and there his brother and a friend tended his wound as best he could. The loss of the leg and the headaches still pained him grievously toward the end of 1993, but, as he fingered his prayer beads and prayed for Ilhan's lasting peace as had every day since the shooting, he knew that he was forever maimed, rent beyond repair in his soul and the ruination of his body was nothing compared to it.
In the very small hours after midnight on the 9th of November Aleksander came into the squalid apartment exhausted. He and his compatriots were sorely low or out of ammunition, outgunned and felt generally unable to do anything but throw heavy items off the rooftops and then run and duck for cover. They thought the Spanish UN troops might come with ammunition and parts for the rifles that were in disrepair after so much fighting.
Zlatan was awake. He, despite his pain stayed awake to feed the fire with the paltry scraps. Just to keep Deda warm, he told himself. But he knew from the smell of shit and necrotic flesh that there was death in the room. One death complete and one in the making.
"I'm going to die."
Aleksander looked at him with some latent tears escaping sight. In a trembling voice he said, "We're all going to die I think, it's bad. No more bullets, half the rifles won't work, we are starving. There is no help for the injured."
"Can you smell what I'm smelling in here?"
"Yes, I don't want to, but yes."
"Deda has left us. My leg is rotting and the red streaks are blazing up my thigh."
"Let me see."
Aleksander rolled the rug off of his brother and gently moved the cutoff pant leg up to see the leg. In the darkness of the apartment he had to bring the candle close. He didn't have to say anything to Zlatan. The revulsion and sorrow was said in his face.
"I'm going to die."
"I'm sorry, brother. I can't help, there is no one to help. We are all locked down here right now." The tears were coming despite his effort to hold them in.
"There is something you can do."
"No, there's nothing, nothing for any of us to do."
"The headaches are so bad. I can't take anymore. The poison in my leg is surely spreading and I know it will kill me. But the headaches..."
"What can I do?"
"I want you to take me to the bridge."
"Don't be a fool, they are shelling the bridge."
"Take me to the bridge. It's the last place I was happy, the last place I was whole. It is the last place Ilhan was...where Ilhan and I were together."
"You will die for sure. I can't do that."
"Aleksander, I want freedom from these ungodly headaches, freedom from this hell we are trapped in. I want to be with Ilhan. You must take me, let me die in a way that I choose."
Aleksander could see that his brother had thought this through. He was quiet as he watched Zlatan's face look into his, imploring him while he fingered the amber prayer beads over and over. He did not have to ask what his brother prayed for.
"When do you want to go?"
"Wrap Deda in something. We can go when you finish."
After sitting for a moment in silence, Aleksander shook his head, hard, trying to escape the realities he faced. With resolve he got up and rummaged in the old wardrobe of his parents until he found some old towels and two sheets.
He cleaned what he could from Deda's body and then wound him in the sheets. Together they said a tearful goodbye and farewell to him. Then Aleksander went outside the apartment and stood listening for a few moments. With exception of some intermittent tank rounds it was quiet. There was a lull in the street predations of the enemy. He saw the small red wagon of the neighbor's young child.
Coming back into the apartment, he said to Zlatan, "You want this? You really want this? Then who am I to keep you from it. Let's go."
The brothers made their way slowly out and onto the alley.
"Get in the wagon. Here, I will help you."
"We can't use that, it's red, the snipers will see it in a minute!"
"It's fucking dark, what are you talking about?"
For a short moment they were quiet and then Zlatan laughed. Aleksander saw a glimpse of his brother whose quick humor had amused him when they were...living.
"The joke is on you. Let's go now."
Aleksander pulled his brother in the wagon. When they got to the cobbled street of the Start Grad, old town, the bumping sent Zlatan's headache into overdrive and his leg throbbed like tympani beating a war cadence.
Halfway to the bridge he said, “Stop, stop the cobbles are too much. I can just crawl the rest of the way."
"Forget it," his brother said and took him from the wagon in a fireman's carry. When they got to the ramp of the bridge they stopped. They sat breathing, listening.
"You should go. Go and get Deda out of the room or you won't be able to even be in there soon."
"I'll stay with you."
"No, you can't, you have to stay and fight. One of has too, and I can't. Leave me now."
Aleksander put his hand on his brother's shoulder and looked into his eyes. "I won't forget," he said and turned to duck back down an alleyway back toward the apartment.
Zlatan crawled up the ramp onto the bridge and kept on until he reached the top of the arch. He sat for a a minute to catch his breath then pulled himself up onto his good leg and managed to swing himself into a sitting position on the stone rail facing upriver. His bad hand was not of much use but he was able to balance himself on his perch while he fished the amber Tisbih beads from his pocket. He sat fingering the beads, sometimes offering a prayer, but mostly just thinking about Ilhan and letting his love for her fill him and dispel any fears.
In the first gray light of the morning a shell came screaming just over his head to land on the riverbank well behind him. The concussion of the explosion nearly knocked him from the rail. A second one came soon after and hit the bridge where it joined the abutment on the western bank. Again, he nearly fell. His bad hand could not hold him by itself so he took the amber prayer beads in his teeth, clenched tightly between the gold caps and gripped the stone rail with both hands as best he could. Several more shells came in quick succession and as he raised his head in a bellow of defiance and pain the final shell came and brought down the bridge that had stood resolute for four hundred and twenty-seven years. It was the last of sixty-three shells it took to destroy it.
Alajos Soltesz had come to Mostar to dive. Not the leaping that had been done and soon would be done again, but the restorative, scuba to remove debris from the old bridge from the river to aid in its reconstruction. In late May of 2004 he, as a Hungarian Army diver came with his team.
It had been difficult for Alajos to leave Szeged, his home. He and his wife had been distraught for several months after learning that their three-year-old daughter Vasia had been diagnosed with an inoperable cancer.
He needed to be a functional part of his dive team, but his mind was on Vasia. He suited up, mentally prepared as well as he could and got into the water. They had located several large dressed stones from the original bridge on the upriver side and this morning, in the bright sunlight of a beautiful spring day they went to work to cable them up with the crane.
Alajos and his dive partner had secured a cable around a several ton chunk of the white stone of the old bridge and his partner went up to signal the crane to lift while Alajos stayed under to see that the cable stayed secured. The crane lifted and as the stone came off the bottom, Alajos thought he saw a flash of something underneath where it had lain since 1993. He waited, on the bottom, staying still until the stone had cleared the river. He saw the flash again as the current swept away the silt and mud from the bottom.
Then he saw something more clearly. He brought his dive light to illuminate it although the current was clearing fast and the sun was shining bright and strong into the water. He saw what looked like gold. He reached his gloved hand down to pick it up and it did not come off the bottom easily. He pulled a bit harder and then it came. What he saw he could hardly believe. There, in his hand he held a piece of upper human jaw with four gold capped teeth. Stuck between two of the teeth were a loop of beads. He dropped the teeth and beads into the pocket of his buoyancy control vest and surfaced. He laid back and let the current carry him the forty meters down river to the haul out point for his team.
"What were you doing down there for so long?" His partner shot him a concerned look.
"I found something, look," he pulled the find from his pocket and held it out in the palm of his gloved hand.
"What the hell is it?"
"It looks like gold," one of the other divers said.
Alajos looked in amazement and said, "It is gold, gold teeth, and something else."
"Yes, a necklace," one said.
"No, I think it is a Tisbih, a string of prayer beads, clenched in the teeth."
"Muslim, right."
"Yes, there are many people practicing Islam here, they have for centuries."
"Like you, right Alajos?" He didn't like to talk about his religion, it had been somewhat discouraged in Hungary, but with his team he shared everything. "Right" was all he said.
He spent the rest of the afternoon wondering about how what he found had come to be there on the bottom of the river under the massive weight of the old stone. The only conclusion he could come to was only partially right. It was from someone killed as the bridge went down. He could not know more, but he felt something from this, felt something profound.
In July when Alajos reached home at Szeged things were not good. The doctors had reached a point of exhaustion of treatment options for Vasia. His wife Amina was distraught, his extended family were very little help, only offering the slim platitudes of despair. Amina implored her husband to do something, anything.
The girl grew weaker, her body was taxed with fatigue and the neuroblastoma was metastasizing, the doctors told them. The cost of a chemo or radiation treatment offered some threadbare hope, but the cost was out of reach. The benefits from the army plan did not begin to cover something like this. Alajos took to walking around the town late at night, unable to bear the wounds of his wife's grief and his daughters moans of agony.
One night as he walked he was fingering the Tisbih beads, beseeching Allah, the teeth of gold still attached. And the solution came to him like a burst of light in a dark storm. He must find a Khatib, a Muslim traditional healer who used amulets to perform miraculous cures, often in hopeless cases. When he arrived home, he spoke with his wife. He had not spoken of the beads or the gold capped teeth to her since coming home. He didn't know why except that he did not want to seem like he was distracting her from her grief.
He came to her and silently held out the amber beads and the golden teeth. Since pulling the beads from the river mud he had cleaned them and saw the deep light that glowed within each amber bead. He polished them with olive oil, and the teeth and bone as well. He held them in his hand, and she looked, then looked again and took the jewels, for that is what they looked like to her, in her own hands and clutched them to her. He told her what he knew of the beads and where he found them. Then, slowly and gently he told her about his belief in this Tisbih as a powerful amulet that perhaps, just maybe with the help and love of Allah, a Khatib could cure Vasia.
"The doctors cannot they say, but Allah can and a Khatib can bring his power through this special amulet of amber and gold that a man's life left for us at the bottom of the river."
"Yes, can we hope?"
""Everything is possible with hope," he said to her and together they held the beads and each other.
"In the morning, I will find the Imam and see if he knows anything about this kind of thing," he told her and together they went to sit beside their daughter for the rest of the night.
#
In the morning Alajos went to the Makkha Mosque quite early for morning prayers. He was the only one there, and after performing his ablutions he took out the amber Tisbih and knelt on his prayer mat facing qibla and prayed in the style he had known all his life yet seldom used as an adult.
After prayers, he stayed around the mosque for some time, hoping to see the Imam. Finally he went around to the back of the mosque to the small house attached there. The Imam was sitting on a bench.
"I have prayed, and I have come to ask for advice."
"I will help inshallah."
"It is my young daughter, she has a cancer and the doctors cannot seem to help. I have recently come into possession of an object that I believe, with the help of a Khatib, can work toward healing her if God wills it."
"An object? What is the object and where did you get it."
Alajos told the Imam the story, as much as he knew of it. He described how he found it at the bottom of the Neretva, the destruction of the old bridge. But that was all he knew except that from the moment he saw the flash of sunlight upon the gold capped teeth he had felt a power in the Tisbih.
He handed it to the Imam and after a lengthy silence he looked up at Alajos and said, "It is very old. It has power, a great deal of it, but the kind of healing you are looking for is something I can't do. I know what a Khatib is, but I have never met one in my life, I would not know where to send you."
His disappointment was palpable. The Imam handed back the Tisbih and squeezed his hand, eyes filled with sympathy.
The Makkha Mosque was the only mosque in Szged, the Imam the only one. He thought about going to Budapest, or even Mecca, but he knew his commitment to the army would not permit leaving whenever he wanted to, especially for something they would regard as paganism.
He arrived home to find his wife still sitting by their daughter's bed weeping, the room dark.
"She is getting worse, she seems so weak."
Alajos told her about his visit to the mosque.
"I'm not surprised, he is the only Imam around and there is a lot of antimuslim sentiment around these days. He can't risk getting shutdown. And really, he does not think about anything outside his duties there. I made a call while you were gone."
" A call? Where, to who?"
"When you told me about a Khatib, what it is, what he does, it started me thinking. Maybe a mosque is not the place to look. I thought of another place."
"What, tell me."
"I called my cousin. The one who you would not allow at our wedding because of her husband."
Alajos felt the sting of her words. "The cigáni?"
"You know she is not, she married into a Romani family, it is her husband who is Roma. I told her about what you said, and I asked if she or anyone there around Golubac where she lives knew of such a person. She said she will ask around, but you have to make good with her husband Vano. Send him a gift. I don't know if she will come up with anything but send him a gift anyway."
"But..."
"You must!"
Fuck it, he thought, and went out that afternoon and bought a bottle of Zwack Unicum herbal spirits and a very nice gray Fedora. At the post office, he stopped and sent them to the address his wife gave him.
It was a week and a half before his wife received a phone call from her cousin. That afternoon they bundled Vasia into the car and set out for Golubac on the Danube River in Serbia.
When they arrived they were met at the old fortress by Amina's cousin. She crowded into the car and just said, "We have to go meet him, he has come from across the river. He says he has to hold the thing and see if it has the power he needs to access."
Amina and Alajos just looked at each other. Vasia still slept in her mother's lap. They had been driving all night through Serbia and were bone weary but willing to press on until the miracle they prayed for would come.
When they met they told the Khatib nothing more than how the amber prayer beads in the clench of the gold capped teeth were found, and that their little girl was gravely ill. What more could they tell him? Alajos merely handed the old man the beads, which he now thought of as an amulet.
The Roma Khatib went silent for several minutes and then said in a terse voice, "It wants another river. I must make preparations. Tomorrow night is the full of the moon. We will meet here at the old fortress at midnight." He turned and walked away.
The following night the three adults and the baby waited at the old fortress on the Danube. They waited, expecting the Khatib to arrive by the road as they did. They were surprised when he suddenly appeared behind them. "Come now." He said and turned to enter the deep tunnel that ran out into the river and under a water stationed turret many meters out into the current of the river.
It was dark, dank and they could hear the rattle and grind of sediments being born along the river above their heads. At last the sloping tunnel stopped and they were in a round chamber far under the river and at the base of the turret. They put their candles around on the floor of the chamber and the Khatib put some talismans and tools on what had been a Mithraic alter centuries past. He bade them to be silent and went to the alter. Taking some dried mushrooms mixed with other herbs he lit them in an ivory bowl and inhaled the smoke. He took the child in his arms and wafted some of the smoke over her, then began to twirl slowly and softly among the shadows in the chamber before laying her on the ancient Mithraic alter.
The Khatib took a clay vessel from the alter and drank from it. He then went to each adult and sprayed them with the rakja from his mouth. It burned in their eyes, but they remained enthralled with his process. He took up an earthenware bowl filled with a dark, nearly black paste made from myrrh. He again went to each adult and put a finger full of the paste under each of their tongues. They recoiled at the wretched taste and began to wonder at the old man's methods.
This done, he coated the child's entire body with the paste, taking great care to rub it into her scalp. He laid the girl on the floor and reaching out his arms, he again began to twirl in the Dervish style while holding the amber Tisbih with the gold capped teeth attached. He did this for an hour, directly over the sleeping child's body, never treading upon her, never leaving her proximity, never looking at her, his eyes rolled far back in his head.
"It has another river," he said. "Now it wants another life."
He left the girl there on the floor and went to the alter with the amber prayer beads. He took a crystal demitasse and with a small file he granulated much of the gold from Zlatan's teeth. This he mixed with rakja and some of the Myrrh paste. He sucked up the potion with a straw, went to the prostrate child, opened her mouth and blew the gold bearing liquid down her throat. She gagged and came awake.
To the surprise of everyone but the Khatib and the girl, she did not awaken crying, or listless as she had been for the days leading up to the healing. She sat up smiling and reaching toward her mother. Before she could take the girl, the old Khatib scraped every bit of the Myrrh paste from her body.
"She is cured."
"But, how..."
"She is well now. The amulet wanted another river, another life and it is satisfied. She will be well from now on."
Alajos went to take the beads from the alter but the Khatib stopped him. "There is one more thing," he said.
He prayed the smallest gold cap from a tooth and with a little brass hammer pounded it into a lozenge shape. He took one of the amber beads from the Tisbih, then handed the rest to Alajos.
With a penknife he opened a small slit in the back of the child's neck and carefully worked the gold and amber into it. He rubbed some rakja on the wound and sealed it with some of the myrrh paste. Without another word he left the chamber and went back up the tunnel. Alojas and Amira were dumbstruck.
Six month later, the specialists were also dumbstruck when the child showed a complete, spontaneous remission of her cancer.
Twice a year, at the full of the moon, Alojas, Amira and Vasia went to Mostar and sat on the bridge at midnight thanking the unknown benefactor who came to them from the wreckage at the bottom of the Neretva.
As Vasia grew she often drew pictures of the person they had taken to calling The Good Soldier, what she imagined him to look like; sometimes on the bridge, sometimes not but always surrounded by jewels. Neither she nor her parents would ever know that they had an uncanny resemblance to a young forgotten Bosnian youth named Zlatan Krpić
M.A. Danko is a multi-genre fiction writer and lover of all art, residing in The Great Smoky Mountains, where nature inspires her creative mind. The author has published short stories and novelettes and the novel, Gypsy Soulmate, book one in her Destiny Trilogy. The author’s style is to transform her readers to a location or situation they can relate to, and then add a twist of surrealism and magic. Her characters can put you in the story where you feel their passion and pain, root for the heroes and have a love-hate for the villains. The author says, “Over the years, I began jotting scenes that would come to me at odd times, then earnestly began writing when the characters screamed to be put on paper, and they took a life of their own. I like to make my reader enjoy the surprise endings and think… “What if that could happen?” Because we never really know!” |
PARKS REDEMPTION
Summer ‘75
The loud rumble outside the Speedy Mart made the clerk look nervously out the window. This was a familiar sound; motioning to the other man at the register to make sure his handgun was within reach. Six patched riders sprayed the well-worn gravel as they pulled into the lot. This was the only fill up station for the next twenty-five miles before reaching the town limits. In fact, it was the only building still doing business along this abandoned stretch. The pizza place attached to the Speedy Mart had long since closed and the ramshackle garage a few hundred feet further was closed more than it was open. Two of the riders, Parks and Squire gassed up first then pulled in the exit facing the roadway. Sentinels.
“Grab me another pack.” Squire’s gravelly voice yelled over his shoulder to one of the riders as he was about to enter the bared door of the building. His wiry body jittered as a hacking cough expelled from his lungs, then spat a dark liquid on the ground.
“Damn, these things are gonna kill me!” he grumbled as he took another drag off his Camel. Parks gave him an unsympathetic glance, raising his shoulder in a shrug.
“We all gotta go at some point,” then reached in his vest for his own smoke. Bending his head, cupping a hand against the breeze, he lit his cigarette. Taking a long drag he blew the smoke out watching the marts door as the three rowdy bikers headed back to their rides. Flicking ashes in the wind, he waited for Mohawk, the club president to exit so they could continue.
He had been riding with these guys for over a decade now, never having much of a childhood growing up. His father rode with this same club, and worked as a long- haul truck driver, being gone for days at a time. When he was young, he overheard things, and soon understood what the club was; a gang, and that his father wore their colors, he also learned at an early age, you did not ask about club business around the members. When they were alone his father would tell him to, stay clean and don’t get involved. He would tell him; this is no life for anyone. When he asked why he didn’t just not go and leave the club, his father would just repeat with a sad look. Just don’t ever get involved, you get in an there is only one way out,
He didn’t know then, but he leaned what he meant.
By the time Parks turned sixteen, he hadn’t seen his father home for months. Then the day came when the police came to his school, they told him his mother was found dead from an overdose. He remembered after that Squire and some of the other club members started watching over him. When he turned eighteen Squire brought him in the club as a prospect and as soon as his initiation was over, he began riding with the chapter. That was over ten years ago. A lifetime. These guys and his bike are now the only family he knows, and being on the other side of the law was his way of life. He brought his mind back as the older man next to him spoke.
“Hot damn!” Squire let out a raspy whistle and then a catcall. The other members soon followed as they saw what Squire was hooting at. Parks looked past his smoke to see a red Ford Focus wagon with a pretty blond at the wheel, it was slowing down to enter the station, then hesitating turned her blinker off and passed the entrance. The woman nervously looked at them rolling up her window and sped up as she continued down the long empty stretch towards town. Parks inwardly grinned, thinking the woman made the right choice. The group he was riding with today were bad news. Some club members were decent folks, but not this bunch. He threw his cigarette but to the ground.
“Hey Mohawk,” Squire yelled over the sound of the engines. The large man was just getting back on his bike. “Been a boring ride so far, how ‘bout we have some fun?” he jerked his thumb towards the retreating wagon.
“Game on…” Mohawk nodded and grinned giving the others the signal to move out and headed towards the retreating taillights fading in the distance.
Squire was first out, the roar of the cams was deafening as the others followed leaving a dust cloud acrid with gasoline, oil and dirt. Parks hung back. Something made him hesitate, but only for a moment, then he sped out. The clerk in the store had been looking as the gang left his lot, he knew nothing good would come of this, but living in this area, you knew that you did not get involved in biker club business, and as he turned the door sign to close, was just glad they didn’t hang around his store and cause trouble for him.
The bikes easily caught up to the wagon. At first Mohawk motioned them to fall behind, and then motioned two up on each side to slow her down. All the while, they cat called and made obscene remarks and gestures. They began to crowd the wagon off the road. The more frightened the woman’s face looked, the wilder the calls and the bikers’ antics became. They flanked on both sides and ahead of the vehicle. Parks was coming up on the left side and he glanced in the back. He saw a small girl in a car seat, crying holding a rag doll and a boy, around seven or eight lying down on the seat.
In that moment everything went deathly quiet, and a surreal event happened; time seemed to halt. Parks looked towards Mohawk, his mouth agape, his jaw baring yellowed teeth while his eyes narrowed making him appear like a hideous crazed beast. The others mouthing soundless laughter seemed almost comical. He tried to yell to Mohawk, but nothing escaped his throat, then his eyes were dragged to the boy in the back. He sat up looking directly at him through the car closed window. Huge frightened blue eyes stared at him and felt as if he could see into this child’s soul. Parks felt the fear as the boy pleaded within his mind. ‘Please mister, don’t hurt us.’ At that moment, his conscience took over and he felt an impending doom wash over him, and knew he had to stop the gang, whatever it took. There were children in the car. He had to get up to Mohawk and tell him to back off! His head cleared and the instant he squeezed the throttle, everything went back to normal and he hit the gas and moved forward. The woman was terrified and sped up. One of the bikes cut in front of her trying to scare her into pulling over. She panicked and swerved left, he saw the car coming towards him, but had no time to react as the red wagon crashed full force into his bike.
It all happened at once; he heard the screeching sound as she slammed on her brakes then felt the impact as he was flung from his bike, tumbling through the air, no thoughts other than a calm, I’m going to die. He heard the woman scream a name as the car left the road,
“Dustin…!” he saw the pavement rise, and a glimpse of the wagon flipping, then an intense bright orange flash exploded in his head. Before the blackness engulfed him, he repeated the name she said, Dustin.
CHAPTER TWO
Summer ‘05
Dustin sat in the chief’s office at the Dade County Sheriff’s Department. He had been working undercover for over five years now and finally he had a definite lead on the club he had been looking for. After six years as a motorcycle cop on the streets of Miami, he finally made detective. From drug and immigration violations to mob and gang violence, he thought he had seen it all, until he entered the world of undercover.
Dustin was a loner, he did his beat, occasionally went to the local bar, had his share of women, but never lost sight of his purpose. Everything he did was calculated to get him to this point in his life.
His Chief knew he was a good cop, and that he was driven by his past, he knew what he was looking for and when they needed another plant, he was asked.
Dustin understood it took a unique personality to go undercover, give up all material possession and any personal attachments. None of that mattered, he had always lived this way, no attachments, no permanent residence; one purpose drove him, and it was now in front of him. The chief warned, and he saw this happen to other detectives, the immersion could become to real, you could not separate the new life from your past, and the phycological effects after were rough. Then there was always the possibility that the people you were infiltrating would learn who you were, and it could be over. He wasn’t worried about this, when his opportunity came, he didn’t ever plan on returning.
Over the last few years, he had infiltrated and helped take down one of the largest gang clubs or One Percenters as they called themselves, in the ‘Sunshine State’. His purpose to go undercover with these clubs, was to observe and learn, be a mole. He had no fear, that emotion left him many years ago and was replaced with a simple desire for revenge. The break he had been working towards finally came, the location of the next bust. Without a second thought he put in his transfer to the Chattanooga, Tennessee undercover division.
Dustin was brought in the station in cuffs, cursing and fighting the officer who led him through the precinct. Another officer came over, but he motioned him away,
“I got this asshole,” and the other cop backed off. Dustin grinned, then spat at the other office in a rebellious gesture. He was pulled roughly down a hall, then when they turned the hall towards the holding cells; the officer faced him.
“Shit man!” He put his hand to his bruised cheek. Dustin looked him in the eye.
“Sorry Doug, had to make a show, you never know who is in this joint, keep the cover.” He held up his cuffed wrists so the officer could unlock them.
“I know, take care man.” He slapped Dustin on the back, then left. Doug, did know, he was one of a few officers that was aware he was undercover. Dustin waited, then turned down the other hall, making sure no one was around, and entered the office. The chief was waiting for him and motioned to sit.
“So, you’re leaving us.” Dustin sat in the chair across the desk and crossed his legs. He took off the ball cap and non-prescription glasses he had been wearing. His ponytail fell down his back. This would be the last time he would wear regular clothes for a long time, maybe even ever. He had to be careful not to have anyone recognize him, especially in the Police Chiefs office. Can’t make mistakes in this line of work. One screw up could be your life. His club affiliation here in Dade still held. He never lost his cover when the bust went down, and even spent three months in jail just to keep it up, and it worked. When released, he convinced the new club president, JR, who he had ridden with over the last three years that he needed to get out of Florida and ride with another club. JR knew the Chattanooga chapter; in fact, he used to ride with them, until things got too hot for him up north. With the invite from his current chapter and solid trading contacts, he felt sure they would let him in.
This would be his last undercover assignment. If this club went down his cover wouldn’t stand after two busts with him in both clubs. Word gets around among. Besides, it would finally be the end.
“Don, you know this is what I have to do.” Dustin leaned forward, rubbing his bearded chin. Chief Don Lamont had been not only his boss but also his best friend for years. Don also knew his past and why he went undercover to bust these scumbag clubs. Closing the folder, he had been looking at before Dustin arrived. It had the targeted chapter and known associates in the drug smuggling and arms dealing business, also photos and records of each member. There were also photos of crime scenes and victims. This club was tied to multiple unexplained disappearances and unexplained deaths in the area, some of the recovered bodies were thought to be members, but many were not.
In the folder was the information of a crime scene and photos of two victims. Dustin knew these well; it was the crash he was in twenty years ago. The case was never officially closed, too much evidence pointed to gang related. When the police arrived at the scene, they found a smoldering vehicle with two bodies burned inside, his mother and baby sister, one dead biker, with no identifying patches or identification and an unconscious young boy that was ejected before the explosion. From the skid marks and the multiple single tire tracks there were more than the one dead biker at the scene. The authorities knew the chapter that ran that area but could never pin anything on them. Until now, years later an informant leaked information about illegal weapons the club was stockpiling and planned to sell to an arms dealer. Informants are not always reliable, there was no information on when or where the trade would occur. That was what he would find out by infiltrating this club. Dustin knew these were the bastards that caused the death of his family, all these years he worked towards the legal path, but now he was so close; his family would finally get their justice, one way or the other. The chiefs voice brought his mind back in focus.
“Just don’t be stupid. Get in there but keep your cool. Get them the information. Let the law handle putting them where they belong.” He shook his head. “You’re not Clint Eastwood, and I can’t get your ass out of trouble from down here.”
“I know Don; I didn’t get this far from being a hot head. Hell, if I get made, not a damn thing you could do, they will take care of me quickly.” He gave a wry smile. However, both men knew the truth in this.
“DEA and TBI are in on this one. It could get rough for you for a while.”
“Learned my lesson last time, already been in touch with my local contact. They know where to find my credentials if I can’t get out of there before it goes down.” He got up, put his hair back under the cap, and put on the glasses. Don came around and embraced his friend.
“I’ll see you in a few months.” Dustin just nodded then left the office. The chief watched his friend leave, feeling this would be the last time.
That evening he packed a few belongings along with two handguns and his vest with his colors and club name patched on it, Steele. Then he threw a hundred-dollar bill in the envelope for the house cleaner and closed the door to his weekly rented room. Firing up the engine to his Chevy truck, he headed north.
CHAPTER THREE
A shard of light penetrated the darkness. Parks tried to focus, but couldn’t. He breathed in and listened. Not a sound.
“What the hell happened? Where am I?” He heard his own voice vibrating in his head. “Mohawk, Squire, you guys around?”
No answer. “Someone turns on a damn light!” Only the dust particles danced in the pinpoint of light. Then he heard footsteps. Boots on concrete.
“Yea man, we have all kinds of junk bikes. We also have better bikes up front. We can even give you a thirty-day return on better ones. This is the boneyard back here. You buildin’ your ride?” A man with a squeaky voice was coming closer.
“Seems that way, and I don’t need a return.” The other voice had an even tone and an annoyed edge to it. He recognized the tone. This person didn’t want any conversation, but just needed to take care of his business. Suddenly the stream of light brightened but he still could not focus.
“So, man, can I help you…” The squeaky voice was cut short.
“I’ve got it from here. You can go back up front.” It was not a suggestion; it was a statement.” Cold silence.
“Sure man, just come up when you see what you want, I’ll price it.” Footsteps retreating. Only one set. The Boots were still in the room. He was close; he had to see him. Parks spoke up,
“Hey man! Where am I and why can’t I move?” Only silence. “Hey asshole, I’m talking to you!” he heard him walking around, Harley Boots. Then a familiar sound. He flipped the kickstand on a bike, and then rocked it. What was going on, where was he that someone was on a bike? He heard the man with the squeaky voice come back in again.
“See anything you like buddy?”
Parks fought back the urge to retort to this ignorant man calling him ‘buddy’. Not worth it, not now he thought.
“This one and the one over there, these seem in pretty good shape. Why are these back here with the other parts bikes?”
“Bad karma man; owner died while riding one of them, the other one we just couldn’t get rid of up front, something about a biker’s code… one biker came in and told me....” The man cut him short again.
“They clear title?”
“Clear as you can get, owners not coming back for them!” The man gave a snort.
Parks listened then yelled,
“Hey, you two, what and who died on the bike. Talk to me!” The Boots stopped talking,
“What did you say?”
“Said the owners…”
“No after that?”
“Nothing man, must be the rats.” He snickered. The men were moving again, closer.
“Get me the keys to these two.”
“Man, they’ve been here for years, they ain’t gonna start…” the man glared at him, “Ok, ok, your time.” He only could hear one set of steps retreating.
The Boots were right next to him. He couldn’t move or see. Was he paralyzed, was there gauze on his eyes? Why would no one answer him? He tried to remember, what was the last thing he did? Where were his buddies? He saw the bright light again. Milky, dusty. Then like a flash, he remembered. The last image was of a boy in the back seat of a car. He looked right into his big blue eyes. He was scared. Then he was flung from his bike as the pavement came up to meet him. The woman screamed as the car left the road, flipped, then the explosion.
“Oh shit!” he didn’t feel panicked. In fact, he realized he didn’t feel anything. He was paralyzed or on some very heavy sedation. Ever since his mom died from an overdose, he never touched any form of drugs, but whatever they gave him was making him hallucinate. He heard the squeaky voiced man come back in.
“Here ya go man. Good luck.” There was that silence again.
“Ok, I’ll be back up front.”
He heard the Boots sit back on a bike seat, insert the key and turn it. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. If he was in a coma, then what the hell were bikes doing in his hospital room. And if he was dead… was this his hell?
His thought ended as he felt lifted, and then a heavy weight landed on him. Like a sensation of it. Someone was kicking at him, pulling on him. Again, almost like…a memory. Then he coughed, once, twice… loudly. He could see in his fuzzy vision more dust flying around. He sensed the pulling again, and coughed. Then a deep hum began within him, and he seemed to…vibrate deep in his chest.
He could barely think the rumbling he sensed was so deep. Then his shoulders were being twisted. Right, then left and finally he was kicked one more time and leaned over again, and the weight was gone. The Boots voice seemed to be talking to himself.
“I think you’ll do fine for my purpose.” The sound of steps became faint as he walked away. Silence enveloped all around him and he once again saw the hazy stream of light, almost as if his eyes had a film over them.
The man in the boots walked up through the warehouse, out of the dimly lit ‘boneyard’ through the next section of bikes in all stages of dismantle. They were categorized by manufacturer; the next room had shelves of parts that led to a well-lit front showroom displaying newer bikes. Some were in rough shape, but all of these were drivable. He wasn't interested in any of them. He found the one he needed. An untraceable machine that the owner was sure not to come after. He went to the counter where the squeaky man sat puffing on a cigarette; he was talking to a toothless coworker and looked up as he approached, grinding out the butt.
“What’s the price on the black street bike in back?” his voice was even and unemotional.
“Oh yea, she’s a beauty, good bike...”
“A few minutes ago, you were telling me it wouldn’t start and had a dead man’s curse on it, so don’t try to fuck me over on the price. I know exactly what it’s worth. I also know that a biker would never ride a dead club member’s bike. Therefore, that narrows your buyers down. What is the price?” The man’s cold look in his eyes set the other man to rethink on how much he was going to ask for the bike.
“O.k., o.k. that bike has been here for years...can’t even get anyone to take it for parts. Let’s say seven hundred.”
“I will give you five hundred and pick it up tomorrow. Take it or I’ll find something else.” His expression never changed. Then added, “somewhere else.”
“Man…your ripping me off…” The man turned and headed for the door.
“Hey, alright, just get it by tomorrow…or no deal!” For the first time the man grinned and gave a short laugh.
“You drive a hard bargain; I’ll be back noon tomorrow for pick up.” Just before he walked out the door he turned saying, “And I expect that nothing will be missing off of the bike, it will be exactly as I just saw it.” Then he left.
CHAPTER FOUR
Parks felt like he was suffocating from the silence all around him. He thought he heard a muffled voice or a sound of a tool dropping from a distance. He heard a few bikes passing the outside of wherever he was. Then clear and close, he heard a voice,
“Hey you, over there.” A deep gruff voice cut clearly through the silence. Parks had not heard anyone walk in this time.
“What? Who’s there?” A deep laughter, then sputtering cough.
“Finally, he wakes up. Took you longer than some of the others. Not that time has any meaning here.” Another voice chimed in.
“Damn straight on that. Day or night, week, month, all the same.” This voice had the same rattle raspy sound. The first voice again,
“So, what’s your story?” Parks couldn’t move his head or even focus on the voices, but his hearing seemed fine.
“First where am I, and why can’t I move or see you? I remember an accident, then this.” The second voice chuckled, and he heard the other snicker.
“Names Gutter, and that over there is Low Ball. Better get ready for this man, hate to tell you but your dead. You’re in a warehouse with the rest of us who rode and died. They call this section the ‘boneyard’ because riders come and strip our parts…” he was going on, but Parks stopped listening after the words... your dead.
“Dead! Shit, then how the hell am I talking to you? Is this a hallucination? And what do you mean strip parts?”
“Man, ain’t no hallucination, probably Hell, at least for our type. Best me and Low Ball over there can figure is we transferred into our bikes when the ‘Ol Grim Reaper came to call.
“What? I don’t believe in that crap.”
“Suite yourself, I felt the same way when I woke up here. Couldn’t cope with what was. We aren’t the smartest, but we have been here a long time, no telling how long…no meaning here. I saw you pulled in. Like I say, time has no meaning, but we tried to wake you many times, but you wouldn’t. Funny no one even attempted to take your parts. Every time that dude squeaky would send someone back here to the boneyard, people wouldn’t even come near you. Until the dude in the Boots today.”
Parks was now convinced that he was on a bad psychotic trip; or maybe he was in a coma and the drugs were causing these voices in his head. He had seen many of his buddies take bad trips. Maybe this was one, but he felt the need to talk…even if it was only in his mind.
“I still think I am in a coma and this is a bad hallucination from the drugs.”
“Yea, you keep thinkin that. You’ll come around. We all had to.” Gutter said.
“Ok, let’s say it’s not, how many of us are in here? And why?”
Well there are three now with you. Used to have a few others, but they were bought or like the chopper over there, they was completely stripped. Guess he couldn’t take no more. Just stopped talking one day. His frame just lays over there.” The voice lowered. “Low Ball over there can’t see nothing. They took his lights, blind as a bat now.”
“I can still hear you asshole!” Low Ball yelled.
“So, is that why I can’t see, they stripped my lights?” Gutter gave snort of laughter.
“Don’t think so, probably just the years of dust and grime on the headlight. Not like they care about cleaning us.” Then Low Ball added,
“And besides, not one part has been removed from you. They come, they look, and a few have even started to remove something. Then they stop, get all squirrely and leave.” He paused then spoke.
“Yea, we nick named you…ghost. We heard squeaky telling one feller that you bit it right on your bike. We figured you’d be like us, but after so long you never spoke. We figured you were just scrap.” Parks now was trying to remember details from the day of the accident.
“So, you two or three, you died on your bikes?”
“Hell no! Nowhere near my bike when the asshole rammed his knife in my gut.” Low Ball then chimed in.
“Yea and I woke up here after a really bad party night,” he laughed, “with a rival club’ old lady! Worth every minute!”
Parks was still trying to process everything. “So why only a few of us, plenty of bikers die?”
“Hell, as far as we can figure… we were loners, just us and our bikes. They were our family. Just couldn’t leave ‘em even after we bit it. Not a sole gave a crap about us. There are probably others in other salvage yards. We just ended up here at Mors Town Salvage. Hell, I used to come here when I needed parts!”
“Now we’re just, junk.” One of these days we’ll all be like ‘ol Chopper over there.” Footsteps sounded and the two men up front came in. the one they were calling Squeaky was talking.
“That uppity ass. I’ll fix it so he gets a few miles from the bike, then he can enjoy the piece of crap he bought. Try to jip me!” The other man spoke.
“I don’t know man. That dude looked serious about not messing with this bike. Looks like the type that would come after you.”
“Bullshit, he’s an uppity ass.” The man spit his chew and it splattered on Parks. “Probably a weekend warrior. I didn’t see no patches. Get over here and help me.” Parks was being lifted again. He sensed something metal on him. He didn’t like this little wimpy man touching his bike, or him. He couldn’t move but he had to try something. With all his strength, he coughed …hard… then again. He was dropped back fast but still leaning on his stand.
“What the hell!” The squeaky man yelled. Parks heard the other man,
“SHIT...you’re on your own man…I’m outa here! That thing’s possessed!” He felt the metal object hit him hard, and then both men left cursing. Laughter erupted from the other two bikes.
“Damn good show man! None of us has ever been able to get anyone’s attention! Can’t even hear us yell, let alone start our engines. Maybe you are a ghost!”
Parks thought, maybe I am.
What Gutter said was true; he had no idea how long he was here or even where here was. He just had plenty of time to think, His mother had been a drug addict and his father rode with the club, abusive and a drunk. Now he thought; how ironic I ended up worse than both of them!
He was beginning to believe he really was in hell. Stuck for eternity in a dark warehouse unable to move or even see with only a couple of old bikers. This was karma and his hell.
He figured it was morning or sometime during the day, the dust light beam was coming through. That was his only indication of time, then the sound he recognized, the Boots were come towards him. This time he heard new voice with him chuckle,
“The other guys gave me some story about the bike you wanted started on its own.” He laughed. “I gave them a couple days off, maybe even forever. So, this is the gem you want eh?” The man gave a sarcastic laugh. Tony told me you offered five hundred.
“That is my price.” Boots said coolly.
“Sounds good to me. No bring backs and no complaints, got it? Boots replied,
“Not planning on coming back.”
“I’ll get the bay door open. Pull your truck around the side and we’ll get it loaded.” The voices stopped, and the footsteps left.
“Hey, Gutter…Low Ball? Looks like I’m getting outta here.” He heard low Ball,
“Yea man, good luck with the hard ass dude. Keep him strait.” He waited for Gutter, but he didn’t answer.
“Gutter, you there?”
“Yea, yea, I’m here where the hell else am I gonna be? Hey just gotta say one thing… maybe we are here... well ya know, maybe we are here to make amends. Right a wrong, maybe you’re getting your chance.”
“Yea, maybe. If I can, I will. Keep your parts together!” Gutter gave a choked sound then,
“Yea, get the hell outa here will ya!” Then silence. He was loaded up on a bike trailer and before they took off someone took a cloth and wiped his lights clean. The bright sunlight almost blinded him, but finally he could see. What he saw shocked him. He was looking into the eyes of the boy from the car that had asked for his help. He could never forget them. The boy was a man now, the one he was calling Boots. Christ how long was he in the warehouse. His mind raced. How could any of this be? And why? The man finished strapping him on and spoke his thoughts.
“Ok, now it begins.” Parks had a bad feeling.
CHAPTER FIVE
He was out of the warehouse; he had to accept that his conscious or whatever, was now in his bike. Geeze like a creepy Stephen King movie! At least he could see, his vision was focused straight forward, he could see the road again and he was outdoors. Something was familiar about the road they were on, when he realized where he was and they turned into the trailer park, his mind froze. Boots came around and began unloading him.
Why here, of all places, he thought.
Dustin unlocked the straps saying, “Now buddy, we will get you ready for our final job.” Parks had to get this dudes attention.
“Hey. Hey man!” he yelled. The person he was calling Boots stopped, looked up.
“Yea you, listen, don’t get freaked out but I’m the bike talking to you.” The man just stood there. “I know sounds crazy, I don’t know why either, but I am in this damn bike!” The man took a step back, and then backed him off the trailer. Parks thought, he didn’t hear me this time. Damn!
“So, with you I’ll work my way into the club, and then when it all goes down you get to rest too, this will be my last bust.” At this point Parks new that Boots didn’t hear him, he was just talking aloud. Damn, the kid ended up an undercover cop and was planning on taking down his old club. He would have to find another way to communicate. He tried to cough and start his engine, but it didn’t work this time. Dustin pushed him up the drive path next to the trailer, facing out, and facing a place he knew very well. It was where he used to live with his mother. His father never even showed up at his mother’s funeral. He abandoned him. The club never mentioned him and when he first asked, Mohawk said, forget him boy. Then over time, he found out, after his mother’s death that they found his father dead in the next county. Rival gang they said. After that, the club members were the only family he had.
Now sitting outside, staring at a memory from his past he tried to forget. Why the hell was all happening? Maybe he was here to protect Boots. These guys would kill him if they find out his identity. He couldn’t protect the boy’s family that day on the road, but maybe he can protect the man he has become.
Over the next couple months, he was ridden to the club and back, and a few times to a remote area where he overheard conversations with Boots and the supposed dealers, which he figured were with the DEA. Then one afternoon he saw a familiar sight. A couple of the new club members and Mohawks son, from years ago, now showing age pulled in the drive. Squire walked over from his place down the street and joined them. Damn they looked old now, he thought. They all got off their bikes and as he remembered, left one outside before the others went inside. The dude left to guard was about to touch him.
“Back off probee!” and he let a rumble out. The kid removed his hands, backed up, and looked around. Hey, it worked this time, Parks thought. He remembered in the warehouse he didn’t want the guy to touch him and he started the engine. Now this kid was messing with him. He could turn his engine on with anger. The probee looked around wide-eyed then went back over to his own bike but kept an eye on him. He wished he could just start and ride over to him. Scare the crap out of him. Punk.
The men stayed in the trailer all afternoon and finally came out at dusk. His rider that he had been calling Boots and Mohawks son, Cappy came out last.
“So, Steele, we ride in the morning, we all set to meet your contact.”
“Everything’s set.” Squire was suspiciously looking his bike over. “How long you have your bike, looks like it has seen rough times?” Dustin thought this was a strange question. He had to keep his head; he didn’t want to raise suspicion. He sidestepped with his answer.
“Been riding a long time, don’t worry ‘bout my bike. It can handle it.” Cappy and the others finally left, except for Squire.
“Where did you get this bike?” He was now at the rear of the bike. Dustin knew that this man new something, he recognized his bike. Dustin silently cursed his slip up for not repainting over the original custom paint.
“Club member, I needed a ride, he needed money for medical bills. Couldn’t ride any longer.” He waited for more, but the older man just raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. “Familiar bike, custom.” He then turned and walked away.
Parks had been listening intently to the conversation. Something was not right, and he had the feeling Squire recognized his old bike, or him now. He just couldn’t get used to this. His bike was a custom street bike. His father had put a lot of extra work in it for him. Although Boots had given it a few additions, it was still unique. If Squire found out it was the bike his father had given him so many years ago and that Boots had lied, it would not go well. He needed a way to communicate.
Dustin came back out of the trailer and got on the bike heading to the clubhouse. “Let’s go, don’t want to let them out of my site for too long. Besides I need a few beers.”
CHAPTER SIX
Dustin was inside, sitting at the bar with Mohawk talking about riding with JR’s club down in Miami and the dealers that they were meeting to buy the weapons they had stock-piled in the warehouse. Cappy, Dog, Squire, and a couple others were outside the club standing near the bikes.
“It’s wrong; I’m telling you I don’t care if he has JR’s ok. He is hiding something. That bike he is riding.” He pointed to Parks. “I know that bike. I am sure it belonged to one of our fallen, Parks.”
“Old man, Parks bike was destroyed when he bit it years ago. There are a lot of custom bikes out there. Mohawk said it was hauled off to scrap along with the burnt-out wagon. Probably crushed.”
“Yea, besides no club member would ride a dead brother’s bike.” The person with Dog on his patch chimed in, then took a drag on his cigarette and flicked it in Parks direction.
“Exactly my point jackass!” Squire gave a wheezing cough and spit. “I’m not sure he is one of us, or any other club member. I just got a feeling. I watched him as he was moving in the trailer, no personal stuff. He kept moving the little bit of furniture around in there.”
Cappy was listening and now spoke up, getting annoyed at Squires whining, “He checked out. Rode for three years with JR’s chapter down in Dade. He got caught in the bust, spent a few months in jail. You know Mohawk would never let someone in the club he wasn't sure about. Besides we will see if he is worthy of our colors after the exchange in a couple nights.” Squire shook his head. “Don’t like it, I just think…” Cappy looked at him and with an even tone said,
“Just remember what happened when Parks ‘ol man was found out. Or when we thought he was a narc. Big bloody mess.” Squire looked at Cappy.
“Shit, that is never to be talked about asshole!” The younger man laughed. “What…the fact you started the idea that Parks father was a mole? That set very badly with Mohawk, I remember I was just about Parks age. I remember I wasn’t pampered like him. I grew up in the club. Saw and heard every nasty detail. Heard you and Mohawk talking about offing a member.” Squire got up.
“You’re a piece of shit, you don't know nothing! He split, left the club and his woman and kid.” Cappy laughed.
“I overheard you and Mohawk accusing him and he was denying everything, I heard the ruckus, then one shot rang out. I looked out from my hiding spot and saw the body lying in a pool of blood.” Cappy took a drag on his cigarette. Squire was shaking with anger. “Seems I remember you were kinda sweet on his old lady. That the reason you set that rumor up? You knew you could never have her with him around.” Squire had enough, he lunged at the man who was twenty years his junior. Cappy easily sidestepped his punch and landed one to Squires jaw and he crumpled to the ground.
Standing over him, Cappy dropped the still lit butt on him.
“Yea, we don’t talk about that, or how your guilt made you take that useless Parks into the club.” He stood for a moment looking with disgust at the old man at his feet. “So be careful what rumors you start this time old man. Cause Mohawk can’t help you again. I’m club President now.”
With that, Squire turned and headed towards his bike. Cappy hesitated before entering the bar, standing at the door he turned to Dog,
“Not that I believe what the old man says, but let’s not take any chances.” He looked over at Dustin who was talking to a member at the bar. “Search his house. If he’s lying about anything, find out.” Dog nodded, then left.
Parks was furious, Squire, the man who took him in, all his life he thought was his father’s friend, set him up, and caused his death. He wanted his mother. Now that he realized what happened he also remembered how his mother would never let Squire in the house, always told him to leave her the hell alone. Now he wondered if his mother really did take her own life or if Squire had something to do with that too. If he could do something he would, he wished he could run the son of a bitch over. Squire was the reason that his rider's mom and sister died all those years ago. If Squire hadn’t started Mohawk on the chase to harass the blond woman, then Boots would not be getting revenge by taking down clubs. In addition, he probably wouldn’t have ended up in a motorcycle for eternity! The only thing he could do was listen and try to figure a way to warn Boots.
Squire waited, then looked around and made sure no one else was still outside. He went over to the left side of the black bike and squatted down, resting on his heels by the soft tail. He put his fingers under the edge and ran them slowly towards the front. Then stopped.
“Shit!” Parks had forgotten the engraving his father had put on his bike! He had told him one day when he was old enough to ride the bike would be his and he engraved ‘Parker’ on the inside fender. Squire must have known about this, and if he found the name, he would know it was the same bike. Boots would be made; he would know he wasn’t one of them. He coughed hard and his engine rumbled setting Squire back on his ass.
“What the hell!” The older biker exploded. He looked around again, then saw Cappy coming out onto the porch with Dustin. He got up headed to the back of the club before they saw him. Dustin glanced over towards the row of bikes and narrowed his eyes. He felt something was amiss, and just caught a glimpse of Squire’s back heading around the building. Cappy waited to speak until two members entered, then lit a cigarette.
“Everything set for tomorrow night. Billy’s got the truck and we’ll have six members with you.” He faced Cappy again.
“Yea, all set, contact should be at the warehouse at ten with the cash.” He paused, “merchandise ready?”
“We got it…just want no surprises.” He was looking intently at Dustin.
“No surprises, everything is going as planned, these guys dealt with me in Dade. Quick exchange. No traces, they are invisible.”
“Good.” He took a long drag. Dustin wanted to get back to the trailer. He didn’t like the way Squire was acting. He had all his personal stuff well hidden, but he still didn’t like the feeling he was getting. It was close to bust time, and this club was going down. The DEA would be there tomorrow night. The only exchange would be the club member’s freedom for jail time. He wanted as many there as possible and then the DEA would raid the clubhouse and the back warehouse. It would be a small satisfaction for what this chapter did to his family.
“I’m heading out man.” Dustin said. Cappy put his arm around his shoulder.
“What’s your hurry, next round’s on me, or two. Nerves seem to be on edge.” His grip was tighter than needed and Dustin felt this was more than a request. He did not want him leaving. However, he could not raise any suspicion at this point.
“Hey man, as long as you’re buying - I’m drinking.” The two men went back into the club.
Parks heard the conversation and knew something was not right. He never liked Cappy, he was a punk. Mohawks son. He always went sniffing around Carly, he didn’t like him then, and he sure as hell didn’t trust him now. He saw Squire leave after he spooked him. Then he saw Dog sneak out the side, he didn’t take his bike, he left in Cappy’s truck. Pretty fast. He had a bad feeling that they may be getting nervous. He needed to get Boots attention; he needed to get back to the trailer. What could he do? He coughed but it only gave his engine a rumble. Damn! He coughed again and this time nothing. Ok what now he thought. He had to get the members out here, give Boots a reason to leave. With as much strength and concentration, he coughed repeatedly and suddenly he sprang forward. In his path was the row of parked bikes, one after another they fell like dominos causing a deafening crashing sound. Before the last bike hit the ground, the people inside were running out the door.
Cappy and Dustin were almost last out. Dustin looked directly at his bike, and for a moment, he thought he heard a voice in his head say. “Get back to the trailer…now.” Then as he watched, His bike flashed its lights twice, and then just lay down.
The event ended the night as everyone undid the mangle of metal and rubber. A couple bikes that weren’t in the mess took off down the road in chase of a rival gang they thought had caused the bikes to fall. Dustin saw his opportunity to go and took it following the others out. He road for a couple miles then turned off and headed back towards the trailer park.
“Thanks Buddy, for getting me out of there.” Dustin said aloud to his bike. “I guess now I’m crazy. I’m talking to my bike. Geez, I tell you one thing after this bust, no more for me. If I survive, I’m retiring to Naples!” He hit the throttle and headed towards the trailer park.
Parks recognized the truck as it passed them just before they turned onto the road. It was Dog. Now he knew something was wrong. From across the drive, Squire also watched as Dog left, he watched as he tried to get into the house, finally giving up and left. Squire parked his bike a few tralors down, then crept around back making sure no one saw him. he picked the lock to Dustin’s place and entered, for a moment he stood looking, he had searched the place when this dude first moved in, Squire didn’t trust anyone, and he didn’t like this guy. Something just was wrong. He didn’t find anything odd the first time he looked except he had nothing personal. Not even anything with his name on it. That was odd. This guy had no past? Tonight, he searched more intensely trying not to displace anything. He checked all the places that he thought someone might be hiding things then, he remembered where he had hidden the drugs after he had given Parks mother an overdose. She had refused his attention after he had gotten rid of the no-good husband, not meaning to kill her, he just wanted to have his way with her and mixed too many pills with the alcohol. Going over to the vent in the floor, he pulled it up, and reached into the right. Nothing, then to the left. Nothing. Then went to the next one. Nothing. He was about to leave when he noticed a wood box sitting on top of the vent in the bedroom, opening this one, he reached in and felt an envelope. He took his phone and took snap shots of its contents. There were photos of the club members, names, dates, addresses the badge.
“Shit! I knew he was a mole.” He carefully put everything back, and re-locked the door, and headed back to the club. He wasn’t planning on seeing or giving this information to the pansy ass Cappy, he was going straight to Mohawk.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dustin’s anxiety was increasing. Tomorrow night was the take down, and there were too many red flags going up in his mind. He had been sloppy on a couple things. Maybe Don had been right when he told him this assignment was to personal for him to take. However, he had waited too long, and this was the reason he became a cop. He made it his life passion to stop innocent people from getting hurt or dying because of criminals, or in his own case, a biker club. Reaching his trailer, his anxiety increased, someone had been or was inside, unholstering his gun he swept each room. No one, then he went into his room and slid the crate on the vent aside. After the last bust he learned that he should always keep his badge hidden somewhere that he could tell the DEA where it was. The last bust got him unconscious and, in the ER, before he ever made it to the jailhouse and word finally got to Don, who came to verify who he was. He opened the vent where he had his files hidden. Nothing was missing. He was just being paranoid, and this was not like him at all. He told himself to relax; it would all be over soon and went outside for air and just sit on his bike in the moonlight. Lighting a cigarette, speaking to no one. However, Parks was listening.
“I spent my entire life trying to figure out why things happen like they do. I was so full of hate and anger as a boy for these outlaw gangs taking my mom and sister from me. I wanted revenge and wanted to kill them all. Then I realized that would make me no better than the men I hated. So, I took the slow route, the legal way. Funny, I’ve fallen into the lifestyle and realized that most of these guys are just like me. Then there are the ones who aren’t. The one I saw that day out the window. His eyes burned into my mind forever. Only regret he died that day also, I would have enjoyed seeing him go down.” He ground out the butt and went back inside. Parks sat in the drive in the dark. The boy he saw that day…now the man who is his rider, never knew he tried to stop what happened. This weighed on his heart, or whatever part it was in the bike now. Didn’t matter, he was doing his sentence, and after tomorrow’s bust was over, he would probably end up at the salvage for eternity having his parts stripped until there is nothing of his soul left.
The next night Dustin got everything for the bust. If things went wrong, he had told the contact at the DEA where to find his information in the trailer. He put on his colors, loaded and strapped his handguns on, and headed out the door. This time not bothering to lock it. He got on his bike and said,
“Sorry old boy, but this will probably be your last ride; maybe mine too.” He put on his gloves and hit the throttle.
Arriving at the clubhouse, he noticed there were double the number of bikes out front, a red flag went up in his mind. A few of the members nodded to him. He thought that everyone was on edge tonight, hopefully, because of the arms exchange. Little did they know this was probably the last ride they would be on for a while, when the bust went down. The riders he had files on had a long list of felonies and a couple even had blood on their records. He went in and saw Mohawk at the bar with Squire, they just stared at him. Cappy and Dog came up and took him to the back.
“Everything ready? You seem nervous.”
“Not at all, like I said they just want the merchandise, clean quick.” However, he was nervous; it was close to being over for him. Something didn't feel right; Cappy seemed too calm tonight.
“Good, then you and Dog take the truck with the weapons; we will follow on the bikes. And we also have some scouts out there already, you know just in case something else is going on.” Dustin didn’t like this, he had planned on when it went down, riding his bike out of there. He couldn’t change the plan, or it would raise suspicion. He nodded.
“Ok, let’s get this done.”
Parks was on his stand outside at the end of the row of bikes. He knew there were far more bikes than normal tonight. There were a couple members leaning on their bikes, and then Mohawk came out and motioned to them.
“Dog will bring him out towards the truck. We take care of him before he even gets to the dump location. Goose ride his bike, that way we can ditch the bike and his body in the ravine. Probably torch it so it looks like an accident. Don’t need his cop buddies asking any questions. They will be pissed enough when they see an empty warehouse.”
Parks had to do something. Boots had been found out. They knew about everything, cover was blown. They planned to get rid of him. He had to think, he had to stop them. He couldn’t let Boots get in the truck. Cappy and Dog came outside, Dustin followed. He yelled in his mind, “You’ve been made man, get out!” Then tried to start his engine. Mohawk motioned to Goose to go get on Dustin’s bike. When the man came over and touched him, his engine roared, and he yelled again. “Get out, they know you’re a cop!” Dustin heard the voice clear in his mind, the same voice he thought he heard when he was in the bike warehouse. He and Dog looked over to where Parks had started his engine on his own. Dog’s eyes widened and he looked both ways. Parks knew he had heard him this time. At that moment Parks saw Dog take his gun out and start to aim at Dustin. Parks lurched forward, at the same time dumping his gas as he headed straight for Dog, Cappy and the clubhouse. Cappy pulled his gun and fired, as the bullet hit Parks gas tank, it exploded and the trail of gas he had let loose sent a line strait to the other bikes and they each exploded sending the clubhouse and all near in flames.
Dustin was knocked off his feet but when he got up his bike was right next to him. Then he watched as his bike, on its own, headed straight toward the truck where Mohawk and Squire were headed. Dustin heard clearly in his mind,
“Sorry Kid, I tried to stop them that day, but I will stop them today.” A huge explosion lit the area as the bike rammed into the truck’s gas tank. Then everything went black.
EPILOG- the choice
Summer ‘75
Parks finished gassing his bike and pulled near the exit where Squire was already waiting, smoking a cigarette. He kicked down the stand and stretched his back. A strange feeling was beginning to creep in his head. A hum, or more like a rumble and he had the feeling of Deja Vue. Not that he believed in anything like that, but the feeling was intense. His head snapped up as a voice in his head yelled…look to your left. Without hesitation, he looked left and saw the red Ford Focus wagon passing the station. At that moment, the air became almost electric and everything slowed down. With crystal clarity, he saw the blonde woman behind the wheel, her hair was slowly covering her face from a wind that did not seem to exist. Through the open window and in slow motion she reached up to push it behind her ears. A bee flew past his head so slowly he could see the wings move. Reaching up he realized that his movements were normal. Then he saw him. The boy in the back seat, and it all came flooding back. This time he was sitting up looking out the open window. blue eyes locked with his own, and he spoke to his mind in a clear voice. Please mister, don’t let them hurt us. Parks nodded and answered in his mind.
This time, I’ll stop it, I promise. He tossed the cigarette he had been about to light in the air and as quick as it hit the ground, everything sped up to normal. Squire began to turn his head towards the passing car.
“Hey man, give me a smoke.” Parks said loudly to distract Squire from seeing the woman in the wagon. Squire bent down to his bags, grabbed his half empty pack of Camels, and threw them at Parks. When he looked back up, he only saw red taillights heading down the road, then leaned back on his bike and grunted.
“Damn. Mohawk’s takin so long; think I’ll grab a nap.” Parks smiled to himself watching the taillights disappear down the road.
“Good idea.” He started his engine and Squire looked over.
“You in a hurry?” Parks turned his bike in the opposite direction they were originally heading. “Where you goin’?” Parks looked at Squire remembering everything, and knew where he was not going, and headed down the road alone.
THE END
Report from The Casket (1)
A skinny, hungry-looking man, he sat by himself that evening, sipped his beer slowly and watched the TV with the somber expression of someone who had just been to a funeral. Unlike Van der Fliegen, Wally was in a good mood. He was a big man, 300 pounds, his black crew-cut a flat top of quills and his eyes two chocolate chips stuck into a round hunk of cookie dough. He wore a Habs jersey and cradled a Keith’s in his lap.
“In those days,” Mr. James Chisholm told Antigonish’s weekly, The Casket, “Walter enjoyed a laugh or two with his friends. He liked to joke on occasion and he made it very enjoyable for all concerned. He was a kidder, was Walter, but he never let things get personal or out of hand.”
For example, during the second period he fired off a joke about toilet cleaners, evidently confusing the soccer club in the man's old country with the detergent. Some time in the third period and a few beers later, he yelled, “Hey Mr. Clean, you finished giving that goddamn bottle a blow job or what?”
Van der Fliegen turned around. “What you want fat man?” His voice was a baritone, surprising everyone when he spoke. "No fudge to shut your big mouth?" Somewhere in the room a woman giggled. Wally leaned forward in his chair and said, "You'll need to fill up a little if you're gonna play these games, brother." While the rest of the crowd went back to the game, Van der Fliegen downed the rest of his beer and left.
This began their long-standing feud, The Casket reported. Mr. Chisholm described that evening as a "darned shame," adding that his brother was "hardly prejudiced against having a foreign person or two in town. Gives our place an international, uh, flavour."
Seven years later all hell broke loose. The tool shed burned down to the ground one Sunday morning, walls falling in to the hungry leaping flames, smoke pluming Antigonish way. Wally and Jim stood back and made sure the fire didn't spread to the black-shuttered white house 50 yards down-wind.
They didn't see or hear him coming. Suddenly he was beside Wally chewing something as he examined the fire. He said: "Morning, boys. Wood sure go fast, eh?" He stared at the burning shed as though he'd never seen fire before, then reached into his black Levi's jacket and took out a little plastic bag. "Oreo?" he asked. Wally eyed him but said nothing. Van der Fliegen adjusted his cap, nodded and headed back to his pickup.
A week after the fire, while Wally and Jim were in New Glasgow visiting their sick sister, Betty, Van der Fliegen's new silver Chevy pickup stalled on the Georgeville Cape and had to be towed back to town. Asked about the charges filed against him and his brother, James Chisholm told The Casket that "a very unfortunate occurrence happened to Mr. Van der Fliegen. But Walter and I were wrongly accused of sweetening his fuel tank because we were away on a personal matter at the time and could not very well have done this crime."
After the charges were dismissed, he showed up at their place one morning with a silver platter of brownies his wife had baked and handed it to Wally. "For Betty," he said. "For when you go back. In your truck, I mean." Van der Fliegen was dressed in his Sunday best -- navy polyester suit, white shirt, orange tie. He looked up at Wally with that acid expression that passed for a smile. Wally stood in front of him – a foot taller and three wider, leaning back on barefoot heels, his pants hoisted by blue suspenders. They stared at each other like two people seeing their opposite selves in a funhouse mirror. Wally examined the tray as though he was weighing the pleasure of eating the brownies against the accusation and insult he knew the gift carried. He took the brownies.
When he was gone Wally sat back in his rosewood rocker with the tray in his lap. His eyes glazed over as he started eating. Later, half done, he put the tray on the porch railing, sat back and took in the view of Van der Fliegen's place. Jim ducked in to catch the Expos’ game, and afterwards brought out a couple beers as he usually did on Sundays, opened one for himself and offered the other to Wally. Wally shook his head.
Around six, Jim did some chores around the place and returned to the porch. That was when Wally went to the washroom. He came out five minutes later and sat back on his rocker. He wiped his mouth clean. His face was pale and he was sweating. After going in a second, then a third time, he dumped the brownies into the ditch and tossed the tray like a frisbee onto the road. He sat back down, said: "Watch this, brother. This oughta be good."
Ten minutes went by. The wind picked up from the east and tinkled the chimes. Bill Partridge’s black pickup came down the road, drove over the tray and flattened it into a piece of unspectacular-looking tin. Wally was still sweating when he went inside a fourth time.
So Van der Fliegen payed them another visit. Stopped by one afternoon saying he met Bob Briand and saved him the trip. He handed the mail to Wally, who checked it out suspiciously. Next morning their mailbox was flattened to the spine of the road. From the house Jim could see Wally -- a big blue shadow in the morning looking down at a crumpled rectangle of metal. For a while he turned it over in his hands then finally flipped it into the long grass by the side of the road, where Jim found it and dumped it into the green garbage box for Partridge to pick up.
Of course there was no way of really knowing how the bolts spun off into the jimson weeds on Van der Fliegen’s way down the hill at St. Martha's. His Chevy wobbled onto the tracks at the bottom. He walked around stunned until the lights came on and the bells started clanging, which woke him up and made him run around in a panic, until he realized he could still back it off the tracks in time.
And then nothing. It was as though he'd given up the game or fight or whatever it was. He was seen driving a nickel-coloured vending truck around town, working the Oland centre after football games or the Arena after Bulldog games. Spring followed fall and summer spring, and suddenly two years had gone by.
Wally changed. Started filling out, as if his body decided independently of his will to gain two hundred pounds. On a September afternoon, he sat out front in a big wooden garden chair Frank McPhee had built for him. His head was encased in a black leather and steel cage refitted from a goalie mask, locked shut on his left jaw by a little silver bike lock. He looked asleep but his eyes were open and his right hand lazily peeled bits of paint off the chair. A lemon-coloured sun hung in a pale blue sky and a sluggish seaward wind waved the grass and poplars.
There were no cars on the road. Then the soft mutter of a truck labouring up a hill. It got louder as it neared, the screech of a fan belt marking the final climb. It revved down the hill past Wally and headed towards Antigonish. Twenty minutes later it returned, this time at half-speed, slowing a little in front of the house then accelerating up the hill and around the corner. It turned up again across the road on Van der Fliegen’s long gravel driveway, dragging a red cloud of dust. The Dutchman got out of the truck, waved at the dust with his orange cap and went around to a metal shed next to the main building. He carried something out on a rod and disappeared up the step ladder.
Wally's caged head turned, his hand stopped picking at the armrest, and he held his breath for five or six seconds as though he was going under water.
Van der Fliegen went back to the shed, came out wearing red pot holders and lugging a shiny steel tray which he lifted into the truck.
Wally ticked off the minutes by flicking bits of brown paint onto the lawn. His head didn't move. The lock dangled motionlessly. Then his hands went up to his head, hooked the steel ribs of the cage and pulled on the leather strap until it snapped. He ripped the cage off his head and threw it into the grass.
A few minutes later, the truck crossed the road and skidded to a stop ten yards from Wally. Dust whipped up and hung in the air, slowly settling a reddish coat on the hood. The silver door opened. Van der Fliegen stepped out and the two of men faced each other. It was silent except for the wind in the trees. Wally's nod made Van der Fliegen come forward and take the folded bill. The tin foil went on Wally's lap, paper plate and steel cutlery on the right armrest. The smiling piglet on the rod spanned the armrests, shiny and dripping fat. Its eyes were closed tight, its front and back legs tied to the rod with wire, its tail curled.
They admired it as though it were a revelation, a rip in the fabric of things, or as though it were invested with a kind of power. Van der Fliegen stood with his pot holder hands on his hips, looking as if he wanted to eat too. Wally held a fork and knife in his fists. He could never get enough either, but on him that always showed. “Pretty fair size,” he muttered.
“Twenty-five pounds,” Van der Fliegen answered proudly.
Heat rose from its shiny golden skin and grease dripped lasciviously off its sides. “Decent colour too,” Wally ended up saying, not caring for once that he addressed Van der Fliegen directly.
“Three hours steady roasting. Round an’ round. When it’s hotter it’s faster.”
“Machine?”
“Sure, or do it by hand. But let me tell you, mister, you get a good tan thataway.” His thin sharp laugh was whisked off by the wind. In the quiet that followed, a few stray leaves summersaulted across the lawn as though they were in a hurry to get somewhere. The men looked at each other. And then they nodded goodbye.
Light was starting to fade as the pale sun slipped behind the hill. When Van der Fliegen drove off, Wally waved the hatchet, fork and knife over his head, shouted: "Hey man, you come pick these up, eh? There's no fucking way I'm chauffeuring them down to you, buddy."
The Antigonish Casket reported the death of a 520 pound local man, a day after he ate a whole piglet for dinner. Walter Angus Chisholm, 33, feasted on the pig last Saturday. The Casket reported that firefighters had to carry Chisholm out of the house. It said the man's relatives blamed his illness on the butcher who sold him the piglet. The size of the animal was not known.
Although foul play was ruled out by local authorities, Chisholm’s younger brother called on police to begin an investigation. James Chisholm accused Jan Van der Fliegen, owner of the Van der Fliegen Slaughterhouse, of “baiting” Chisholm by repeatedly driving his mobile hotdog and smoked meat unit past the Chisholm residence. He said Mr. Van der Fliegen recently attempted to reclaim the cutlery he had lent the victim.
At a press conference outside his home in North Grant, Chisholm, an insurance agent, announced a $50,000 lawsuit against Mr. Van der Fliegen. Van der Fliegen could not be reached for comment.
THE TREE
When I was a kid, my father took me to my grandfather's chacra, a small farm, to visit what should've been my family's legacy for countless generations. Back in those days, the entire town was a continuous stretch of agricultural fields surrounding a small main square.
Huaral was a beautiful place, at least my childhood memory thought so. It was a place where everything had frozen in time; you could almost feel you had traveled back, a "backward province," as people at the capital called it. "Backward," I never understood. For me, such a place made more sense than any of the big cities I had lived in. Everyone greeted each other, everyone knew each other. The streets were quieter, the criminals more merciful, the policemen more friendly. It was something you could witness when you entered any of the few establishments around the square. I still remembered my father's favorite bakery, which did everything by hand. The owner was an old, old man on the verge of dying, at least that's what it seemed to my seven-year-old self, and yet, somehow, he still had all his strength with him, more than enough to lead a group of youngsters he loved and knew by name and surname, with whom he worked all day to prepare the most delicious of pastries.
Places such as this were all around the small town, and as far as I could gather, none of them were businesses; they were a way of life. That was what Huaral meant to me as a child, an undisturbed way of living, outside the abstract sense of importance and purpose all big cities seem to chase after, or at least, it was the last remnant of a time that had come before our own, one that existed beyond time.
I learned to drive at twenty-eight, so it wasn't until I was that age that I came back to visit this enigmatic place. If my father had found out that it took me so long to master the steering wheel, he would've slapped me for the insolence, my father, who loved cars so much. It was an understandable position, after all, it could be nothing other than an offense to a family that prided itself with stories about driving trucks full of avocados and peaches during the worst of weathers, of underground races across the Pan-American Highway, and of adventures to nameless places and towns they found in their crumbling run-down 4x4's.
After a long relationship with a political magazine I worked for as an investigative journalist, I returned to my country. I had gone all around the world, digging myself into the worst aspects of human nature, the topplings of corrupt governments, and the unscrupulous intentions of so-called revolutionaries. After such a draining experience, I felt more than ready to stop by home, rest, allow the atrocities of the human world to dissipate, maybe reunite with friends, and if possible, go to the coast north of the capital. Still, before I had the chance to do any of that, an unexpected secret during a phone call pushed me into one final expedition.
This time I had to return to the chacra. I had to find an answer there before continuing with my life, an answer that would define my entire life onward.
We used to be so close in my family; now it was an ancient memory, a shapeless place, a feeling that escaped me, a beautiful abandoned garden, an ephemeral record of a clan that once was. Now there would probably only be ghosts and silent pain to decorate the walls that no one visited.
Nobody liked to talk about it.
My family went to hell while I was growing up. Everything fell apart; as children, we never understood what happened, we only saw an empire fall and its leaders become restless and unhappy until they became ghouls in suits and filled with an absent stare. My siblings and my cousins never understood.
I think that is why I left the country, to look for explanations somewhere else. Ironically, I merely found the sort of mindless suffering that turns all good souls into cynics.
The land where I grew up was gone, but I had left part of myself there. It was strange, but I always felt that I should take care of the farm when I grew up. I felt that only there I was myself, and only there where my soul could become alive.
Too many years had passed, and I had already forgotten all about the chacra and my spirit, until one day, right before I took a flight back home, my sister Cecilia, the oldest, confessed to me in a phone call I made for her birthday, that our family was cursed.
"They put a curse on us," she said hastily. I had barely finished saying happy birthday to her. "What do you mean?" I asked him, puzzled. Cecilia was a devout Catholic, but she had grown up in a world where God no longer had a place, and the supernatural seemed only possible within the delirium of the insane. It was not like her to believe in such things, "Grandma Alba left it written in her diary," she told me.
Our Grandfather had been an honest man, and more than that, incorruptible. As an immigrant, he arrived in Peru in nineteen twenty-one. Back in his land - as my old man said - everything was as it should be. Villages regulated their own members. There was no need for an official mayor and much less for any notable governmental presence, only honest and mature people working through problems. These were things my father considered extinct long before I myself considered as myths of a fantastic past. Before leaving for Peru, our grandfather decided to learn everything he could from his father, who was considered the town's wise man. When there were disputes among the neighbors, he would solve them, and when there were complex problems, he would weigh in on the situation and come up with Solomonic decisions. According to my father, he was a very just person and sagacious man, although he had only heard the stories from my grandfather, which made me wary as to the veracity of these. However, if I were fair, I would have said the same thing about my grandfather, even though I never met him. I guess, in both cases, it was just a matter of trusting our fathers' word.
"In the newspaper," my sister explained, "it said that Grandfather had an encounter with Don Ricardo Risopatrón, the landowner of the properties adjacent to our farm. Apparently, Grandfather had to defend the community of Don Ricardo and his company. They sought to take over all the farmland in the area, they wanted to mass-produce and sell in larger quantities; the Don had tried to lower his prices for a long time to bankrupt the entire Huaral community. But Grandpa, remembering his father, did what he thought was the right thing and organized all the people to avoid falling into the hands of the man who - according to his own words - was the embodiment of everything wrong with the upper class of Peru.
Cecilia continued telling me that in our grandmother's Alba's diary, she wrote that, Grandpa- month after month - had to fight with this powerful man and his corrupt connections.
The municipality of Huaral once tried to take the land property titles from him and Juan Huapaya -our grandfather's best friend and owner of the most extensive plot after that of Don Ricardo- claiming that the ownership documents did not exist and that therefore their farms had been bought by someone else. Luckily, my grandfather had been able to find an honest secretary in the municipality, who gave him the original property papers at the cost of his job, but causing the damned municipal jackals to vanish as if it was an act of magic.
"Huapaya and Grandfather worked together for years," my sister explained while I waited to ask where had she found the time to read the entire diary of a dead woman, "Risopatrón tried again and again, but the Grandfather appealed to the best aspect from the community, they said he was like an unofficial leader and Huapaya had inadvertently become his indispensable right hand. All admired the two men because they defended the well-being of the community. But this is where it gets interesting." my sister told me.
"Can't you just tell me why you think we're cursed?" I asked.
"Not if you want me to tell you," my sister replied in a tone that I recognized immediately. It made me laugh. Cecilia knew how to negotiate things well; she always had a knack for that. "The thing is one day, a man Grandpa had never seen showed up in his house. Grandmother Alba says that the man appeared around ten o'clock at night, not on the farm but the small house in town, remember? Grandfather opened the door and found an Andean man, greasy hair and a murderous look, dead but fixed eyes. The man introduced himself only as "Capataz".
"Capataz and Granpa spoke at the door. Grandfather did not let him in. The strange man had such an eerie aura that, against his best manners, Grandpa did not invite him inside his home. Grandmother Alba listened to everything because, according to her diary, she - for fear that the man was a thief - stood behind her room's doorframe, ready to call for help in case it was necessary.
Capataz cut to the chase. He told grandfather to sell his land to Risopatrón, that it was the only way to save his family. Grandfather responded by grabbing the man by the right arm and the neck, "Who do you think you are to threaten my family? Get out of here and tell the man who pays you that neither today nor ever will I sell my land to a Risopatrón." Grandma wrote grandpa's answer in her journal, apparently impressed by them. Unfortunately, there was one last reply from Capataz, "Well, it's done. I warned you, old fool. You're going to see now." The man left with a macabre smile on his face.
Grandfather was confused and did not sleep for the rest of the night.
"Cecilia, I'm on my way to the airport-" I said.
"Listen to me," my sister replied.
I didn't want to hear what she had to say, in all honesty. Anything that referred to my father's side of my family was only a problem.
"What difference does it make?" I asked her.
"You just let me finish, it's my birthday-" she said, prolonging the last word in the air with a mischievous tone.
My sister Cecilia, so smart at negotiating.
The next day, Grandfather arrived at the farm in his old truck only to find a burned circle on the ground with a couple of charred dogs, both of which were his. The ring was drawn with blood; there were feathers bathed in the blood that had survived the flames. Grandpa knew it had been Capataz. Who else could have done such a thing? He took his truck and went at full speed to the door of the fine estate of Risopatrón.
"Grandma Alba does not know much about what happened, but she knows that Grandpa told a couple of harsh truths to the millionaire, all right in front of his people. It was so brutal that whatever he said made more than a couple of Risopatrón's crew to appear that same night and offer their services to Grandpa. All Grandma knows is that Risopatrón didn't move a finger or said something back like the good coward she knew he had always been. "Money does not make a man, not even the things he can buy with it." Grandma pointed out.
A week later, a box arrived at their house's door. Grandpa opened it outside where he found it; nameless packages were never a good sign. He found a pair of crows with broken necks and blood spilled on them. Grandfather was not a superstitious man, so he was merely enraged by the bizarre and unpleasant game that the landowner was playing, so he went to knock on the door to the Risopatrón townhouse this time. Susana opened the door. She was the wife, or rather, the ex-wife of the wealthy man.
Grandfather tiredly asked the woman for explanations. "Why would he go so far? What does he pretend?" The woman did not know what to say, embarrassed, she took the dead animals and the box and closed the door without first telling Grandpa to be careful: "He needs to feel powerful, he is a very, very insecure person, Ricardo wants to show to all his group of friends that he dominates this place. Between us, he cannot keep his "thing" up for more than a minute. His fears chase him, and he tries to get rid of them by stepping on other people and their happiness. Peace only exists when the cruelty of his heart triumphs. He is an unhappy person, believe me, there is no man more dangerous than that."
Soon enough, Grandpa received notifications from the municipality about the property again. At the same time, Risopatrón, or rather, Risopatrón's law firm, sent him a notarized letter stating that he had to agree to the sale of the land or face a lawsuit. Huapaya tried again with the municipality but only found dead gazes, all of them, cowardly gazes denying any help. Grandfather had to spend a fortune defending the land that legally belonged to him. He triumphed in the end, but at the cost of most of his savings. "Persona non-grata," said a piece of paper inside a letter that Grandpa found picking up his mail. He knew it was the coward of Risopatrón.
"A month after the incident with the box of crows," Cecilia told me, "Capataz appeared once more with his cursed smile. This time Grandpa lost it. He pushed the man to the street. Grandmother Alba wrote that it seemed that he had to contain all his anger not to break the Andean man's skull; it would've not been hard, he had giant hands, remember that Dad always told us?" she asked me. I didn't answer.
"Did you receive the offerings?" Capataz asked grandfather, still smiling as if a thousand men protected him. Grandpa was not afraid to fight, but something in this man scared him.
Capataz's gaze did not change; it was the eyes of a man who had no power, but some power did surround Capataz, an aura that Grandpa felt clearly.
"Who are you?" Grandpa asked him, "Why are you doing this?"
The little man shook his head to the side, looking at him as if he were a curiosity,
"Your strength, strong man, is going to fade one day, and your children will have no one to defend them. Those lands are no longer yours, even if time has not made it evident."
The man spat into his filthy hands and started to produce a circle while speaking in a language that Grandpa did not recognize, then Capataz started walking towards him.
Capataz leaped forward, trying to touch Grandpa's forehead with the palm full of spit, but instead received a giant blow on the temple. The man fell to the ground with the part of his cheek open.
Capataz got up immediately. This time there was fury in his eyes. Grandpa had reminded him that he was just a little man. After all, the only thing that made him feel strong was that strange invisible energy that seemed to surround him, and yet it didn't seem to be able to stop simple forces like Grandpa's will.
"Strong man, your time is running out. You are running out, and you are going to leave your young children unprotected. Do you want that? Your whore of a wife will never be able-" Capataz spoke with anger in his words. A second ago, he had been untouchable, almost spectral, a magician, a sorcerer from time immemorial, now he was only a dirty man with rancor in his eyes.
Grandfather cut Capataz's words by raising his voice like a roaring animal. "COME HERE!". He yelled, his index finger pointed at his feet as he stared straight at Capataz. Neighbors began to look out the windows or go out the door to see what was happening. Usually, there was silence in the streets at that time of night, and kerosene lights burned their white fire on the metal mesh quietly, but not that night.
Capataz froze with my grandfather's voice, but his body, for some reason, required him to move one or two steps toward Grandpa. The spectral man frowned and looked at his feet in confusion. He had never obeyed the orders of another man, much less the demands of an immigrant man, even though grandfather had lived in Huaral for most of his life. For Capataz, everyone was an immigrant, all illegitimate invaders of his ancestors' land. For Capataz, nothing made him happier than to destroy such people's lives or take away their money as he did with Risopatrón. For that very reason, the man seemed stunned by what just happened. No one was ever going to tell him what to do. He was a sorcerer and had seen the secrets of the universe. He had gone through death and returned to life countless times. What power could this man have to make him move with a single word? He looked at his feet, then at the man in front of him.
Grandpa, indolent to grotesque souls like the dark shaman, called him again, or rather, he clarified his command. "HERE!" he said, and his voice echoed through the street. Capataz took two other disgruntled steps; it was as if Grandpa's voice magnetized something in Capataz's body and forced him to move against his will. Two more steps and the dark warlock had hunched up, barely facing the gaze of the man who had conjured an order he could not refuse. It was a type of magic he, the corrupted magician, knew absolutely nothing about, and that terrified Capataz as nothing had in decades.
His hatred for my grandfather had become personal, Capataz's interest in harming him was no longer a paid job but a necessity. He was the strong one. He was the witch doctor in contact with the unsuspected forces of this universe and the next, he, not the simple man in front of him.
"Go away and don't come back. I will not repeat myself." Grandfather said, "Throw me all the curses that you think can affect me. Nobody controls my destiny, little jester. Do you think that by touching mud with saliva, you can break my confidence? Why? Because you have the backing of a man with money, I'm going to obey your blackmail?"
Capataz only grunted, trying to pull away from the invisible force that drew him closer to Grandpa.
"My children will be fine. My family will be fine, go away, go where your superstitions make you strong, here you have no power over anyone. Slag, aimless vulture. You are a disgrace."
My family said that Grandpa's eyes were green and leaden and that there were red lines in his iris, thin filaments that became accented when he was upset. My father had the same eyes, so I know how the stare and menacing look of that man, a gaze that pierced your being and entered the center of your soul and made you feel the infinity of them, the power that a simple man like Grandfather, the stare of a lion.
Capataz stared back defiantly, but it was a lost fight. It was a hyena against a colossus. Grandpa turned around and started walking toward the entrance to his house. Grandma Alba was in the doorway, waiting for him. She had never loved her husband so much.
Just then, Capataz lunged at Grandpa with his outstretched hand aimed at his back, and in the other, he had produced a small dagger. In a blaze of courage upon seeing that act of utmost cowardice, Grandma Alba ran to Grandpa and moved him to the side just as Capataz tried to stab him. Grandma instinctively raised her left arm. She felt her skin open and the pain of the muscle injured by the blade's poorly sharpened metal. Her arm had saved her, the warlock removed the dagger from Grandma Alba's arm, and in a single movement, he grabbed the wound with his hand full of mud and saliva.
My grandfather got up and took Capataz by the arm right after he fell to the ground. With the sole of his working boots, Grandpa kicked Capataz on the stomach, taking all the air from his lungs. Grandpa kicked him in the face long enough so that the man could not move. Blood ran out of his nose and mouth, my enraged grandfather's boot pressing against his throat. The warlock seemed to be drowning in his blood, but Grandfather was not thinking anymore. He grabbed his right arm first, bending it backward, against its axis, and with a kick, he broke it mercilessly, then he did the same with the left. The warlock smiled as he screamed in pain. "It's done," he said almost inaudibly.
Grandpa didn't hear him. He pulled Capataz by his broken arms down the street while the man gasped through the blood.
"It's done!" he exclaimed once more, loud enough for everyone in the block to hear it.
My grandfather left him on the ground and ran to see Grandma Alba, who was bleeding a lot. Grandpa was afraid that the witcher had cut an artery; my grandmother was crying inconsolably.
The brown and red mark in the shape of Capataz's hand was imprinted on her body. She could see the man's curse on top of her wound. Grandpa ran to the house, took my uncle and aunt out of their crib, and shot out in the car.
My grandfather took Grandma Alba in the truck flying to the medical post, where they attended to her and closed the wound. They were both relieved. In the end, it had only been a threat from an insane man. Nothing wicked was going to happen to them.
When they returned, they found a police car near the house. It was Lieutenant Zapata's green Volkswagen Beetle. Grandpa walked to find a white sheet full of blood under which he assumed that Capataz was. He looked for the policeman, an old friend, they exchanged glances, turned away from the crowd, and spoke in low voices.
"Public lynching," The cop said, "They say he tried to kill you and your wife. Nobody knows where he is from or what his name is"
The policeman stopped to make sure nobody was listening, "As soon as you left, the man got up and tried to write something with his broken arms, the neighbors came out and they tied him to the pole-" The policeman pointed to the kerosene lamplight burned its white light, "He is dead, his face disfigured."
My grandfather cleared his throat, "He deserved it, Carlos," he said, "He deserved it. For the first time in my life I can say that."
Zapata looked at Grandpa in surprise, "This is the first time I've heard anything like this from you."
Grandpa turned to look at him, "Listen to me, Risopatrón is behind all this. The damn son of a bitch wants to destroy this place with his money and rotten vision. It's just money for him. He wants more and won't stop. He sent this shaman to try to force me to sell my land, he threatened me with cursing my whole family, burned my dogs for some ritual, he sent a box with dead crows, something has to be done."
The police officer looked at the grandfather for a second and then peered down.
"There is nothing you can do, people like Risopatrón-" Zapata said, looking at my grandfather's eyes, "people with that much money destroy everything. Half of the people at the station are in his pocket. Thank God I came before anyone else. No one can stop someone who follows all the rules on the outside but buys everyone under the table-"
Grandpa scoffed in anger. For a moment, Zapata became fearful. Grandpa was, after all, the son of the Wiseman of forgotten times, not a citizen, not a man either, but a reasonable animal, a pure soul full of anger.
"Are there no decent men left?" He asked, defeated, "Does everything work like this? Money? How disgusted this world makes me. People don't have dignity or principles; they don't dare to fight evil anymore."
Grandma Alba touched him by the hand, "Let's go, please. I need to rest."
"Cecilia-" I said to my sister, "Grandma's arm is the one that-"
"The one that was all inflamed, swollen! Do you remember they told us it was because of a thorn from a rare rose? Grandmother wrote that a month after the encounter with Capataz, her entire right arm filled up with water, and the left one lost almost all muscle mass, it seemed like it had dried up and died. The doctors didn't know what to say, a rare allergy they said, but she knew the truth, it had been Capataz's spell. She wrote that they had to drain her arm a few times to keep her from losing it. You don't know how sad her words sound, the constant and daily pain, the tiredness, the grief."
My sister's voice let me know she was in pain too. She had loved Grandma Alba, challenging as she had been. I didn't have that much love for her. She had hit me as a child every time I questioned her.
"Insolent," she would say before slapping me. Learning about her story made me feel a little more sorry for her.
"They found out Grandma Alba was pregnant with Dad a month later, and her date of birth marked exactly nine months from the day Capataz appeared at the house." My sister said, leaving the sentence open as if someone wants to say something with the silence that follows.
"I don't want to guess," I said immediately.
"Dad sold the farm. Do you remember to whom?" Cecilia asked me.
"Risopatrón, I assume from your dramatic tone," I answered, trying to hide how crushed I was from understanding what was going on.
My old man was the curse of the family.
"He never wanted to tell us," Cecilia explained, "I spoke with him. Dad says it took him years to figure out what was chasing him, what the curse was. His intuition is broken, he says. His instincts are all reversed. Everything he decides to trust ends badly, and everything that does him good is detestable for him, trapped between hell and failure."
"That sounds like dad."
"Don't you see the pattern?" Cecilia asked me, "An honest man throughout his life that no one remembers him, he was fired from his job for refusing to play ball in some deal. He built a company, and it was stolen too. He married Mom, and well- you know, their love dissolved as fast as the debts piled up. He says that it took him his whole life to understand but that he did eventually discovered the truth after reading the grandmother's diary." There was a small silence, the first one in many minutes, which meant Cecilia was holding back tears, "Dad told me he is convinced he should not have been born, that his simple existence created problems to every person he ever interacted with."
"Cecilia". My voice couldn't hide the discomfort, "Do you really think that's what happened? It is just another story to justify his lack of balls. I love him very much, but it is always something else except him, always. The only thing he cannot do is accept that his life became difficult and he did not want to deal with it. He shied away from the life that he got and could not cope with it."
- "Listen to me; this is different." my sister told me with a stern voice. "Dad found out about this before you were born. He also had a diary in which he wrote everything he went through. It was the way he could prove that he was right."
"Self-fulfilling prophecies Cecilia-" I was exasperated by then, my old man was a good guy, but he had an incredible denial about his life.
"Just listen," Cecilia said, softening her voice. "I'm going to read from his diary."
"This better be worth it," I replied.
"Seventeen of March, 1988. I am going to have another child, and I still have no freedom from this curse. The farm is suffering an unprecedented drought. I'm going to bet on tangerines this year, the avocados no longer grow. I can't keep this much longer, I've had to fire half the people and I'm still bleeding money all over. Risopatrón came to offer me even more money for the land, I sent him to bite the dust, but I cannot lie, I need the money. Having two children, almost three now, brings too much debt." My sister stopped for a second as I heard her flipping the pages of the diary.
"Sixteenth of August, 1988. I sold almost all the land, the baby has a cardiovascular problem, and we have to operate it," I touched my chest as Cecilia spoke, "...I have no other option, I hate having to do this, but I have no other solution. The bastard's new offer is thirty thousand dollars for eighty percent of the farm, a quarter of what he originally offered and ten times less of what it's worth. I feel like I just broke my old man's soul even if he's already dead. "Protect the land at all costs," he told me over and over as if it was the most important thing he had to share with me. Risopatrón can take care of the land better than I can. Everything is dying. Nothing grows there, not without help that I can no longer give to it. I'm so ashamed to have done this, but my dad is not here, my children are."
"Ok, I think I understand the point-" I said, but her voice interrupted me. "Two more and I'll finish," she said and started without letting me answer, "October twenty third, 1998. Eduardo Risopatrón never paid me the second half of our agreement and said he has the right to everything and not only what we agreed. He is a miserable coward. He does not answer my calls. When I look for him in his offices, nobody gives me any answers, I sent him a notarized letter, but he has lawyers who pay people in the judiciary so that my claim does not go anywhere. I was fired from my job. The company was bought by a new construction company, the owner? Sebastián, Eduardo Risopatrón's older brother. They told me that they wouldn't associate with me in this new stage due to the legal problem I have with them. It's almost as if they planned it from the beginning. I found my mom's diary and the Capataz story. I must admit that at first I found it to be delusions of a woman too immersed in unnecessary superstitions, but the more I think about it, the more I believe it. There is something about all this that screams of truth. I decided to return to Huaral to ask Don Huapaya, my old man's right hand, what really happened. At first, he denied it, but then he confessed to me that my dad grew an irrational fear about the shaman's curse, that he had done something to my mom that had no explanation or cure, that the only answer he had left was black magic, and that, if that was real, if it was black magic, then the threats carried weight with them.
I was born nine months after the curse. Do I carry with me a curse that seems to invade every decision I make? My God, I have begun to analyze my whole life, and I feel that there is something strange, a shadow that constantly haunts me and that asks me without words to fall under its spell over and over again. Every time I feel that I am deciding on my own, I am deciding what this dark force seems to want, and it can only give me defeat and shame." My sister took a second to continue. As far as I had known him, my father had never spoken about anything other than human reason and personal will. For him, magic and the afterlife were only distractions between the cradle and the grave. His thought was always a little harsh, but I never questioned him. He was a stoic man, guided by the intention of making his life the best possible without bending his will to the will of the rest. He was not very successful, but I was always quite proud of that much. Hearing his words had taken me by surprise.
"Well, tell me the last one," I asked my sister, unable to hide my curiosity.
"Sixteenth of July, 1998," she tells me, her voice stiffens. "I entered the farm through the south entrance, near the reservoir. The municipality stopped recognizing my part of the land. I can no longer take the children to visit their grandfather's land, and I can't explain the shame I feel for that. The dogs still recognize my scent, so they gave me no problems. I drove from Lima to Huaral in thirty-two minutes, supposedly it's impossible, but I woke up from a nightmare in which my old man appeared to me in the room and told me to look for him in the roots of the pecan tree near the farmhouse. I walked in the dark through the terrain. Even knowing every part of this land, I must admit that walking in the darkness, guided only by a small flashlight, is perhaps one of the most terrifying situations I've been in.
I got to the pecan tree. It was still there, as tall and vigorous as ever. I waited a while, but nothing happened. I thought I was crazy; after all, it was a dream that had guided me there. I kicked the tree as my dad had taught me, my flat sole hit the trunk, and I heard how the capsules containing the nut fell everywhere like sudden rainfall. I picked up a pair and started eating them until someone touched my shoulder."
Cecilia stopped talking. If I had to guess, I would say that she wanted to give me time to try to believe what would come after. She continued moments later.
"Seeing your dead father drives you crazy, especially if he doesn't shine with heavenly light but instead grows from the mud of the earth. Roots and dry leaves seemed to form the face of the person I used to love. There it was, I can swear to a thousand gods, born from the roots of the pecan tree as if a mound of earth had risen out of nowhere and a humanoid shape slowly gathered strength.
"My son." said the ghostly figure that undid itself at the same rate as it took the shape of my father. "You heard me."
I think I can't explain it any other way. I saw my father; I am sure of that, and that I why I broke into tears like a small child. My father was my link to life, love, and everything, so I cried inconsolably when he spoke those first words to me.
"Son. They've poisoned you." The voice said, touching my shoulder again; it burned like stunted muscles, "Oh my boy ..." he said as the mud pushed my shoulders down, "Look what they did to you."
My father, the land of the chacra, wrapped me up as if he was hugging me from behind, a gesture of a loving father that I had almost never had in life, and there I remained without saying anything back. I felt the roots and the soil squeeze my chest and arms until something was removed from them, a thick sweat that seemed to be immediately absorbed by the soil and the roots. "I have to try to get this curse out of you, even after I'm dead." the living earth said to me as it took the air out of my lungs, "forgive me for leaving you with this burden."
The mud, roots, and leaves pushed me against the pecan tree and squeezed every inch of my body until I started to vomit from the pressure. My cries had turned into screams; the living earth was forcing everything out.
"Dad, you're killing me," I said, "you're going to drown me in pain."
"Sorry, son, you have to take this risk. Otherwise, you are going to kill your family completely," the land with my dead father spoke.
I felt like I would pass out, but I didn't pass out, then I thought I was going to die, but I didn't die. It was like someone had taken my skeleton out of my body and didn't kill me in the process, but it hurt just as badly. I could see how all the sweat looked like needles and razors, cutting my skin open and making me bleed, only to close immediately as if only water had passed through the pores.
"Hold on, hold on a while longer." my father told me, but the truth is that he couldn't take it anymore.
"Hold on, son." the voice of my father pleaded. I knew I had to wait a little longer, but I dropped to the ground, my head fell on the left side.
Looking to my right, I could see my arm covered with a black tar substance all over my right hand. The sweat that I felt leaking through my body was that substance, a thick, cursed liquid full of spiritual virulence that I could not have imagined possible until that day.
My skin seemed to immediately reabsorb this last puddle of black water that I wasn't able to allow the ghost of my old man to take away.
"Oh my boy," my father said to me as the mound of mud and leaves that formed his body now crumbled, "My mistakes and sins should never have reached you, I am so sorry, I am so sorry."
When I opened my eyes, there was nothing, just the wind blowing the leaves of the trees around me. I heard a crunch and turned to see what was happening. The pecan tree was drying up while its bark seemed to fill with a dark hue. It was dying, damaged by my curse.
I escaped through the same entrance near the reservoir, there I saw, for a second, a light in the middle of the great well, a sphere of white light that hovered over the artificial pond without moving. I'm sure it was my father. I am entirely convinced that whatever little curse was left in my body, I've transmitted it to my children or multiplied it in them because the rest of my days were only more of the same.
I should have held on a little longer; I should have been stronger, I should have listened to my father, damn it. I have a perpetual sadness that accompanies me because this is true. I know it in my heart.
My family is cursed. An evil is born in our blood. In my bloodline lies something rotten that I do not know if it can ever be removed, not without killing you before.
My children, if you are reading this, if any of you are reading this, forgive me, I just wanted to protect you from living with an unnecessary cross, I feel sorry for everything, I feel sorry for absolutely everything."
The subtle sound of static seemed to fill the silence that permeated both sides of the call.
"Impossible," was the first thing I said, then I felt my chest begin to swell, "Impossible," I said once more.
The silence consumed me completely. At last, I knew I was smarter than that, but, finally, an answer that resonated in my body. This was what I hadn't been able to understand about my life. A shadow, an inexorable shadow that had haunted me since I was a child, from which I always ran and stayed as far away as possible, I was my father, again, cursed from birth.
I hung up on my sister a couple of minutes later. I went to the airport and grabbed a coffee while I waited to embark on the plane that would take me to my next location, but I couldn't get what I just heard out of my head. It was impossible, there was no other way to put it, but something in my chest was screaming at me that that was it. The story my sister had told me was exactly what I had been escaping from; it was the reason why I had moved away from everyone, to avoid hurting the people I loved.
Two months later, I couldn't take it anymore, and I decided to return to Peru to end once and for all the doubt that haunted me. I had to see that pecan tree.
As I said, Huaral was no longer the same; it had become another poorly planned city, another chaotic town, time had finally reached it. Cheap appliance stores, supermarket chains, imitation toystores, shoe venues on every block, it was all chaos. There were no more kerosene lamps; there were no more horses on the streets, there was nothing anymore, just the memory in my mind.
I parked my car outside the home of the family of Juan Huapaya, who died years ago. He was the only person, or rather, the only house that I still recognized. I knocked on the door, and it was opened by a girl of no more than sixteen years old. I asked him about Juan Huapaya's son. She looked at me, puzzled for a second. "He had no children, only my mom." She told me.
- "Do you think you could call her?" I asked her, "I'm the grandson of Don-"
- "You look just like him." She said without letting me finish, "My mom has a photo of the two of them in the living room. Come in, come in." I wasn't sure what to make of her words.
Once inside the house, the girl took me to the living room. A large old wooden table barely fitted the space. It was the same as the one my grandmother had in her house in Lince. The girl told me to wait and ran to the stairs. Before going up, she said, "There's the photo."
I walked towards it and saw two men in linen shirts tucked inside thick pants with a leather belt around their waist.
One was Juan Huapaya, the other, there was no other way to explain it, it was me, without a beard and much taller, but it was me, there was no doubt about it.
I realized I had never seen a picture of Grandpa up until that moment. I sat in a chair while looking at the photo. I always thought it would look more imposing, more prominent, less human. It was like seeing a legend in the flesh, and yet his face was so close to mine. A strange sensation began to invade my body. It was just me, in another time, not a wise man or a hero, it was just me, in another time.
A woman in her sixties slowly came down the stairs and raised her eyebrows as soon as she was able to see my face. "Oh, your blood, so strong and stubborn. Look at you, son. You have changed little in so long." I thought the woman was mistaking me for my father or maybe my grandfather.
"Excuse me; I don't know your name, I think you're confusing me, I am-"
"My name does not matter, and yours doesn't either." She said calmly, "Look at the photo and look at the mirror. You are the blood of your family, son. There's not much left to say, do not fight against that."
- "I do not fight at all-," I started saying, but the old lady dismissed me, raising her hands like someone bored of an irrelevant argument, "You are still young, and you do not understand, wait about forty more years, and you will see everything that you carry without realizing it."
So uncomfortable was the situation that I did not know what to say. I waited in silence.
"Your father came twenty-eight years ago. Just like you, with that same face, seeking help to enter your land." The old woman walked very slowly until she reached an old sofa, I rushed to try to help her, but she gently pushed me "No thanks son, I don't need help." She lay down on the sofa and exhaled deeply. "My father helped your father years ago, and now I help his son. The universe has curious ways of stringing stories together, don't you think?"
A few cigars were on a small table next to the sofa, and the old woman lit one and started smoking it.
"What choice do I have left, if not to send you as my father sent yours within the lands that belong to your family." she took another drag, "My dad told me always to help one of your family, you know? He told me that your grandfather defended this town as much as possible and that he did it only for one reason and for one reason alone; because it was the right thing to do." Huapaya's old daughter smiled at me, "My father told me that he had never met a nobler man, and that in his memory, we should always help one of you." She stubbed out her cigarette and stared at me. "I know very little about why you always end up here or what is happening. My father told me everything he knew, but even so, it seems impossible to understand why you should keep coming back to this place. There is nothing special about Huaral; it is another point on a map. "
- "It is special for my family." I told her.
- "Yes, of course, but you are the first to return in twenty-eight years son, it is not important to your family. It is important to you, speak properly. It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, I intend to help you."
"Thank you," I replied, too confused to fight the peculiar woman.
"Take my daughter. She knows more about the huariques and routes to enter the property than I do. I'm assuming you don't want to ask the miserable one who now controls the city for his permission, so I advise you to go during the night." The old lady lit another cigarette; I was concerned she was so comfortable leaving her daughter trespassing a private property during the night.
"Don't you think it might be a little dangerous to take a minor?" I asked her.
"Don't you think the only reason you tell me that is because you don't trust me?" She looked at me, smiling, "I know your eyes. It is a rare thing in these parts. Almost all men have it dead already, here and everywhere indeed. People don't remember what it means to be human. Your blood is stubborn, and you still keep a lot of your family in you, more than you think possible, that's good." Huapaya's old daughter took another drag of her cigarette, "my daughter probably has more balls than you. She gets along with everyone. Nothing will happen to her." She winked at me and made me feel like a child for a second.
"These things do not happen." I finally said. "Life doesn't work like this. You don't get to a stranger's house, and they offer-" she interrupted me again with her waiving arms and her smile.
"Ah, of course, of course, life cannot work like this. You do not knock on the door of a stranger asking for help to receive it. The world is not so easy, right? I would say you were right, and I do, life is not like that, except when it is, son. You know too little about certain things to pretend to tell me how they work, and I know you don't know them because you've come back here looking for them. Stop fighting and do what you know you should do. What does it matter why it happens? Look, I'm old, and I don't care about forms. I don't have time for formalities. You still want to tell yourself that reality is less magical than you suspect it is, and the only reason you repeat yourself such a thing is because you think you ought to not to believe in something else. Your grandfather and your father, they saw it, if you are here, you know what happened, at least part of it. This world, my child, hides more magic than there is gold inside stone, that you cannot see it is not my problem. Magic is there, whether you believe in it or not."
The old woman was serious. She looked at me without blinking, and I felt she could see my naked soul.
"Do you know what happened to my grandfather?" asked.
"JAZMIN, COME DOWN!" the woman yelled with all her strength, cleared her throat a little, and turned her gaze back to me. "All destinies are tied, tied through people's choices. My father chose to tell me about Capataz, the dark shaman. First, as a lullaby, then as a story, and then as a promise to a great friend, your grandfather. It took me years, but I found where the strange boy came from, Madre de Dios. I went there to look for those who had taught him to have those powers; after all, I was afraid of black magic, and you end up becoming what you fear, and if you are intelligent, you end up being its opposite all the same."
"You found him?" I asked.
"I never went after him. I arrived in the jungle, and then I traveled for 15 days by the river that bore the same name as the city. I crossed to Brazil and there through the Jiparaná." The young girl had come down, she had an easy smile. "Jazmín, do you know how to get into Risopatrón's farm? It is the one next to the one that macerates Pisco in wooden alembics." The girl nodded. "Now, you are going to take this young man, you are going to accompany him until he is inside the property, you are going to wait for him, you do not move until he returns. If it is dawn and he has not returned, you come back running and tell me." The girl nodded again and ran up the stairs to get ready.
"What did you find in Brazil?" I said, returning to the conversation.
"A community of indigenous people, and the magic I was looking for, the one you think is impossible to witness." She ended the conversation in one fell swoop with that sentence. I still tried to insist.
"Are you a witch? Is that what you are telling me?" I asked her, "Is it real?"
"I already told you what I had to say, boy. We can now argue for hours about how much you believe me or not, and I can try to convince you to believe me. Those conversations don't make any sense. Go and find what you have to find." She looked at me with a small, almost invisible smile. "Find out for yourself."
The girl returned to the living room and walked towards me "Let's get going, it's going to take us a while to reach it by foot; if we go by car, they will be suspicious." Jazmín turned towards her mother. "He looks very much alike," she said.
"I told you her family is like that." her mother replied.
The girl laughed and started walking towards the door.
"Let's go, I have homework for tomorrow."
I stared at the room, enthralled by its simplicity. Time hadn't entered this place, and I suspected it would never do as long as the old woman in front of me lived. I realized that I still had the photo in my hands, I took out my cell phone to take a picture.
"Don't do that." The woman said to me, "Come back, and I will give it to you as a gift so that you can take it home with you. What do you say?" She reached out and grabbed the frame and a little bit of my hand, "You are not your father, child. You are your father after your father. Remember that. We all are."
I released the frame and stared at it for a second. I did not know why, but I knew that the lady was the most powerful woman in all of Huaral, maybe even in the country.
I opened the door of my car to take out my water bottle and my flashlight. I began to look for anything that I could take with me. I saw the Swiss Army knife that I had in my glove compartment, another familiar custom that I had retained. My father always taught me how to carry one when I was out of town, and I suspected his father taught him the same thing.
Jazmín waited until I locked the doors of my car and walked next to her. She was quite a cheerful, intelligent, and skinny young girl. She started asking me why I was going to the farm, but her look and tone immediately told me that she had heard our families' story before.
"How about we pretend to be our grandfathers?" she asked with a smile after we had been walking for a while.
"Why would we do that?" I replied with a mix of curiosity and annoyance, I was not particularly eager to play nonsensical games.
"Ay, how boring you are, there has to be a reason for everything, right? Surely you don't make any decision without thinking about it three times before. You must be very bad at dancing."
I laughed. It was quite true.
"So, what do we do then?" I asked.
"Nothing, just be best friends." She looked at me with a simplicity that made me feel just like her mother had, foolish to the core.
"Your mother is old, isn't she?" About fifty-something or so?" The girl shook her head smiling.
"Yes, and I could bet you that if she wanted to, she could still have another child, but I don't think anyone wants to sign up for that mission." We laughed together.
The sun had already hidden behind the horizon when we reached the edge of the town. The farmlands I remembered now stretched out in front of me. A river separated them far into the horizon; I remembered going down to bathe there a couple of times as a child. I was pleased to see that there were still recognizable parts of Huaral. The trail that led to the farms was flattened soil and gravel. On both sides, large bushes of more than three meters rose as a naturally grown perimeter. Jazmín explained to me to whom it belonged what, and what they cultivated there. Tangerines, nectarines, avocados, mangoes, some grapes with some luck. "This is from Don Carlos, he grows oooooonly apples. Everything is red during harvest. It is very nice, sometimes I get in and steal a basket. Once, he caught me and told me not to be shameless, to take five or six, now I just take half a bag." I smiled and looked at her. This girl understood the subtext of conversations much better than most adults.
The sky was already dark purple, I knew we had to walk a while longer, but my memories failed me.
"How much more?" I asked her, as a minibus passed on the left and leaned dangerously, trying to avoid us by getting on the highest part of the trail; the girl happily greeted the driver, "Do you know him?" I asked. "No, but it's nice to say hello to everyone who lives where you live, right?" Again, foolish to the core. "We are close, twenty more minutes or so. We are going to go through the Aquise property first. They make grape macerates; their lands adjoin that of Risopatrón. We are going to enter the Aquise land first. We need to go through a wall of raspberries they have. We might get stung by some thorns, but they haven't fixed a patch of it yet, so we might pass unscathed. From there, we walk along the edge of their property until we reach the reservoir on the other side."
My heartfelt a strangely pleasant beat. Hearing about the reservoir made me see my father swimming in my mind. It made me happy, really happy. "My dad told me that at the bottom of the reservoir there is moving earth, if your feet touch it you get trapped there." The girl nodded,
"Yes, but it's pretty deep anyway, your dad must have dived deep indeed." I had no idea. We kept walking.
The girl was silent, the kind of silence that keeps a question in the air. "Wouldn't your dad like to be here with you?" she asked. I closed my eyes tight. It hurt more than expected.
"My dad, I haven't seen him in eight years. We stopped talking a long time ago." I opened my eyes and realized that I could see the trail thanks to the full moonlight, maybe with a little bit more help we could get there faster, "I'm going to take out my flashlight," I said, the girl looked at me shocked as if she realized that this was not my natural habitat at all. "You can't use a flashlight. The dogs are going to chase after you very quickly. We have to be careful. Risopatrón has Pitbulls all over the field. If they find you, you have to run towards them and grab them by the neck so they don't bite you. If there is more than one, use your knife." A stone fell down my stomach. I had not remembered the dogs, my scarred leg still remembered.
As a child, I had been bitten, and I had become afraid of dogs ever since, at least unconsciously. The fear returned with Jazmín's comment, and it began to invade me, and although I pretended to be perfectly ok with what Jazmín told me, my legs trembled a little. Thank God it was night; what a shame that a thin young girl was advising me on how to deal with a pack of dogs, and I was just scared from listening to her. She looked at me and smiled.
"Don't worry, fool, that's why I came here, that's why my mother told me that I stayed at the entrance, because it's dangerous, I can run and make noise on the other side of the property and attract the dogs They do not cross or leave, they are well trained. I'm going to give you time, don't take too long though, dogs get bored even if you screw with them." I looked at her and nodded silently.
We reached the Aquise raspberry wall five minutes later. I had forgotten how big the white thorns of its bush were, the length of a little finger each. I turned to look at Jazmín confused, there was no way to pass the meter and a half of shrubs between us and the property, she pointed me to th. You of the bushes' line.
"We're going to cut ourselves," I told her. She turned around with an exasperated face.
"Of course, what do you expect? that everything is easy or what?"
The third time I'd felt foolish. This time I laughed inside. Moments later, the girl pointed me to a bush of another type in the lower part. They had planted something different there.
"The Aquise dogs ran out through here when stray dogs passed and they cut themselves a lot, so they made a little passage with another bush for them while they were being trained. I'm one of the few people that know that," she told me with a prideful face. "We are still going to get scraped here and there, but it is better than crossing elsewhere. I'll go first, you just imitate what I do, and don't look up!"
The girl finished talking and went in without thinking twice, crawling like a snake and pushing herself with her forearms forward, like a soldier's crawl. I could never have done that, even when I traveled around the world, even when I followed revolutions on the streets. That kind of resolute bravery was foreign to me, impossible to me, and yet, Jazmín's courage infected me.
I followed her and immediately understood why I did not have to look up; the thorns stuck on my head, as I advanced my head dragged the tip through my scalp.
It took us about a minute to get to the other side. When I looked up, the girl grabbed my face and placed her index finger over my mouth, telling me not to make a sound. Barks approached us.
"We have to run," Jazmín whispered. Her face was totally serious. I nodded.
We started to run on the western edge of the Aquise property, on the other side my Grandfather's land waited. The lanky girl ran with all her strength. I understood at that moment what it was that shocked me about her. Jazmín did everything full-heartedly, she didn't do things just in case, or because she was supposed to, she did it because it was necessary and she would do her best. It had been a long time since I had known anyone like that. It reminded me of my grandfather's stories.
We reached the part were the bushes that separated the two fields was at its thinnest, the girl grabbed my hand and pushed through them, she did not mind cutting herself this time, the branches were thin, but it was practically an impenetrable mesh. We had to push with all our body to overcome the tangle of branches.
We crossed slowly, but eventually we came out on the other side, almost falling face down when we did. The howling dogs arrived seconds later. I turned around scared to the bone, but I was immediately relieved to see that they were only barking from the other side. They weren't going to cross over.
The girl got up and grabbed my arm to help me up, "Hurry up, the Risopatrón dogs are going to come for sure, I'm going to run westward, and you have to run over there, towards the north," the girl said to me while pointing with her hand straight ahead, this was where we separated. "Walk fast, don't make any noise unless it is necessary, have your knife at hand, don't use your flashlight for nothing. The tree is ten minutes from here."
I looked at her in surprise. How could she know what I was looking for? I didn't have time to ask her.
"Thank you for everything," I said, she smiled at me, and then she began to walk away.
"Remember, tonight we are our grandparents." She said, before vanishing into the night.
A moment later, she disappeared into the dark. Jazmín Huapaya. The bravest woman I had ever met.
The full moon gave much more light than one would think, especially if you have grown in the city for all your life and have never been able to appreciate its power. In front of me was the reservoir. The reflection of the moon made everything look ominous. How had I come to be part of an adventure like this? "Life doesn't work like this," I whispered to myself, "except when it does," I couldn't help but smile.
I started to walk in strides. I got away as fast as I could from the dogs because that's where the Risopatrón Pitbulls were probably heading.
The chacra was different; I had my memories, photos of it, and stories from my father. But it had changed, the natural feel to it was gone, and everything had been replaced by perfect rows of different crops, automated irrigation gutters.
I followed the earth's gutters. I assumed it was the only way to guide me. Jazmín had directed me to a large tree canopy. I did not take my eyes off for more than a second, at least until I reached the avocado plantations, where my heart stopped.
I could barely see, but it seemed the same forest where my brothers and I had grown up. They had not touched this part as the other areas had been. This part of the property had still survived the pass of time for some reason. This place, where my father and siblings had lost themselves running and playing all day.
The farm was a strange memory. At times I felt that I had walked there my entire life, and yet my father had sold the land when he was no more than seven years old. I felt it was both mine and not. It felt so close and so distant.
At one point, the avocado trees surrounded me, and my only guide left was the hope that I had not strayed too far. The pecan tree was close to the old farmhouse and the stable, but if they had finally collapsed or brought down, then I was going to look around for the rest of the night. I was tempted to turn on the flashlight, but I knew I couldn't do it. Turning it on was condemning me to be found. I had to trust Jazmín and my memory.
I passed a crooked tree, I almost didn't recognize it, but something in my head asked me to turn back one more time. The trunk had grown sideways, and the result was a beautiful dome of leaves and branches. The trunk was large and robust enough to support my brothers and a couple of cousins when we visited as children. There we had our secret meetings, away from the adults, there we planned our antics. Now nobody spoke. The years created trenches that cost too much to cross. I stared at it for a while, something so beautiful, I wished someone used it the same way we had.
I kept walking and kept looking, but nothing, it seemed that the moonlight was lost between the treetops, I could barely see, but I had to keep going. I missed Jazmín. Her confidence had been indeed contagious, and now I felt I was a man who could only depend on his strength and intelligence, and almost everything I knew was useful sitting in front of a computer, safely inside a building.
For a moment, I felt ashamed of who I was, but then I remembered that I knew quite a few other things, things that my father had taught me as a child.
I tried to remember how to go down the sloping ground with feet angled diagonally, how to make fire without matches, how to use stone to cut fiber, and suddenly, there was the answer, in the sky.
The north star.
My father had taught me as a child to find the north: the big dipper and the little dipper. Finding the big dipper was easy, then you just had to guide yourself to find the smaller star's tip and tail. A relatively simple trick, but now it was more necessary than ever. I peered towards the night sky until I saw Polaris, the north star. I knew where to go.
I started to move faster, more confidently, secure somehow. The fear left and was replaced by a sense of security that I had not felt in a long time. Something had awakened because of this place, because I had remembered how to read the sky, something about following my father's teachings, something about leaving behind the idea of who I was. I remembered Jazmín again, for tonight, I wasn't me, I was my grandfather, I was what I needed to be.
I left the crooked tree behind. I left everything behind, there were no more fears, if a dog came to kill me, I would kill it first, if Risopatrón came with his white shirts and khaki pants to prevent me from reaching the tree, I was going to break his face. I didn't know how to explain it, but something in that simple moment, something thanks to Jazmín and everything else that had happened on that day had given me back something I had lost and forgotten.
I wanted to run, but I was not going to be careless, being strong was not being reckless. Suddenly I saw a gray, unpolished cement wall. I knew what it was. It was the farmhouse's wall. I was sure, it was the same wall that I looked for as a child when I got lost in the woods.
Only that wall remained, everything else had been destroyed. There was only but a little of a memory left, but it was enough to guide me. I turned to my left because I knew I had arrived.
There, no further than ten steps away, was the pecan tree.
I looked at it and was surprised. The tree was almost dead, dry and dark, but it was still there, still holding on to life. Nothing grew around him. The tree had created a withered perimeter. Everything looked so strange, magical even.
I took a step towards it, and the wind began to blow. In the distance, I heard the barking of dogs howling. I did not know if they were approaching, I only knew that it no longer mattered. For a moment, I had left my whole story behind, and something else, something essential and so close to my being that I couldn't explain with words had awakened in me, something that needed to heal, something that existed outside of time, something that had started with my grandfather's courage and that had ended with the rebirth of own.
I took another step, and the wind increased, the dry leaves began to rise, the moon started to shine so brightly that I could see everything around me. Another step and the tree, together with the wind, whistled a wailing groan. I heard how the trunk creaked and dropped all its bark to the ground. One more step, and the tree looked new, young, reborn. One more, the earth began to move between me and the tree. One more, and the soil rose. A mixture of dirt, mud, leaves, bark, branches, and wind mixed, turning in a self-contained tornado.
A face appeared among the leaves. I couldn't help but smile when I saw my face.
"Grandfather."
"Grandchild."
"Nice to meet you."
"It is an honor, grandfather."
"Please, there is nothing special about being old. The stories embellish a lot of what one really is, your father, for the love of my memory, told you many things exaggerating details, omitting others."
"I truly believe that there is no other way to tell a story."
"I understand." The wind blew hard and left everything else silent. "Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Do not let go, let me finish what I have to do, it will try to kill you, but it will not succeed, trust me."
"I trust you."
"I thought your brothers would be here with you."
"I thought my father would be here with you."
"How long have I died?"
"Thirty-four years ago."
"Ah, it's been so long, waiting for them to come home. Look what they have done to my land."
"I'm so sorry. If I could have done something, I would have saved it."
"Don't worry, the land is inside you. Nobody can take that away from you."
"I would have liked to know that sooner."
"It was your sister who found out first, wasn't it?
"How do you know?"
"She was always his favorite. A father cannot help but love his daughters a little more."
"She didn't find it very entertaining."
"She didn't need to. Your father lived to teach you to be stronger than him, to live with a curse and never give up. He taught you to be strong while being weak, he taught you how to get here one by one, your father taught you how to be better than him, gave you everything he had, his burden, his sorrow, his weakness, everything. He carried all of it and still managed to give you that. Even if you did not understand the gift he was giving to you. In his diary, he left all of you a route to find me, a way to save yourselves."
"I would have preferred another story."
"Believe me, I would have too. For all of you, but life is not what you want from it but what you do with what you are given. We were given a bad hand, we almost fell completely, but you resisted, and look at you now, invincible. Full of fear and unafraid to accept it. Full of cowardice and pushing forward every day. Full of hate and loving everything. Words fail us, my boy. You are the three strongest people you could have been. "
"What are you?"
"A fragment. Kept here to always be with you."
"Why was my father was not strong enough?"
"Because he is not one of you. He was as strong as he could. There are curses that spread throughout the soul, curses that not even Capataz could have invoked with all his power. Some shadows destroy a man day by day without really killing him, a disease that accompanies him and tells him that it is never enough, no matter what he does, it is never enough. Your father lacked his father. You lacked yours. Look at us here, closing a circle, skipping a generation.
"From the bottom of my heart, I would have liked things not to have been destroyed."
"Open your eyes child, nothing has been destroyed. We are all still here. There is still time."
"How can I close such a large wound?"
"Let me help you."
"You are going to take a curse away from me, not the pain inside."
"You still don't understand what magic is, I see. There are no giant spells, no demons are chasing you. Demons take form as your doubts, son, your fears, your lack of pride, your low self-esteem. Curses work at the levels that they work. Nothing destroys a man more than feeling small, weak, helpless. That was done to me by Capataz. He transmitted that fear to me, fear of losing my land and my family. My offspring in danger, that's a curse ten times worse than anything else that I could think of.
"My father lost his family."
"He is not dead yet."
"I don't know how to end this."
"Let me help you, child. I am with you. I live in you."
"The witch says we are the same."
"All those who die, each part of their legacy, of their blood, all survive through the lives of those who have remembered them, through their dreams. We are all here, grandson. We are all alive, and we are all dead.
"I don't believe in these things."
"And yet you speak with the wind."
"I would have liked to meet you in life."
"Talk to your father. He is me, in another time."
"I feel like we should have protected this place forever."
"Do not worry. You, all of you, can create another kingdom. Remember that I myself had to leave my land to start from scratch."
"That's very true."
"Isn't that so? Come, boy. Let me take the dark curse out of you."
"Is it true that your father was the wise man of the people?"
"At least that's what I remember."
"My father told that story with such pride."
"We build up what we love. It is the only way to make it true. There is no other way to tell a story."
"I said that first."
"I know, it's just that you do not realize yet that I am you, and you are me, the third one of us. Come, give me your left arm."
Black oil. There is no other way to explain it. The wind full of leaves, branches, and mud from the ground began to pull something from my bones. The pain did not increase at any time. From the beginning, it was more than I could bear, but I was the son of my father, the man who lives dead, the coward who comes first, the jester that rules his world. This was going to kill me, and I was going to live again.
The wind pushed me against the tree, and there I stayed, bearing the pain that my father had not tolerated. Little by little, it extended from my arm to my whole body. I felt my back was going to break under the force of my grandfather's ghost. I could see it, the full moon was too bright not to, the mud absorbed black oil, coming out of my chest, my legs, my penis, my throat, my eyes, everything. The leaves, the branches, everything my grandfather was absorbed the black tar curse. I started screaming, and I felt like I was going to pass out,
"Hold on, grandson!" I looked up to see the warm green-grey eyes of the soul-fragment that was my grandfather.
"Go on! I will not give up! I am you, the third one".
I saw how everything came out of my body. I couldn't breathe, what little air went in was pushed out immediately,
"Hold on, grandson!"
I felt my bones break, my skin was cut, my eyes were ripped out, my body disappeared.
"A little more!" The wind began to blow so hard that the tree began to howl like a god of forgotten times. It resounded so much that the earth itself vibrated as if a thousand drums touched the ground.
"Almost!" The tree trunk began to split in the middle.
"Thanks for everything, grandfather," I managed to say, looking at his eyes made of leaves, "Thanks for everything."
The pressure on my chest increased so much that I could swear someone had ripped my heart out.
"Thank you son, for finishing this. From the bottom of my heart, thanks." The tree screamed as if it were a falling colossus, my body completely collapsed. "Thanks."
I lost consciousness and slept for a thousand years in a place where darkness knows no enemy and light knows no pain.
I woke up the next day with Jazmín's curious gaze raising an eyebrow.
"What happened?" she asked, clearly concerned about me.
"What do you mean?" I said, opening my eyes.
"Your face looks different," she said, smiling.
"Come on, Jazmín, we have to go, if they find us in broad daylight, we are going to get into serious trouble." I stood up and wiped my clothes on my hands, looking around. Everything was the same, except the tree was now broken in the middle.
"Awesome." the girl said to me, pointing at the broken tree.
"What do you mean? Come on, let's go." We started walking back through the avocado forest.
"That tree is a legend in our town, they say that Risopatrón sent it to be cut down and that all the men returned trembling, saying that no amount of money would convince them to try again, they say that the soul of an old ghost lives there, and that God himself protects him." I couldn't help but smile.
"Didn't Risopatrón try to do it himself?"
"That man? All he knows how to do is throw money away." The girl said to me. "How did you break it? That is serious magic," she told me.
"I didn't do anything, that was my grandfather." I replied, smiling again.
"I don't think it will last much longer." she said, turning to watch the tree.
"I think it has two more good nights of wind," I replied.
"I do not understand." Jazmín replied with a frown.
"What do you think if today we are also our grandparents?" I said to Jazmín Huapaya.
"Fine by me, but we must hurry, my mom will be upset if I do not return soon."
I felt free for the first time in my life. Free of everything. My family's history had returned to zero. I had gained nothing, but I had lost the fear, I had found the north that my father had sought since I was a child, the one that had been ripped from his eyes since he was young.
At last free, I understood how much courage my father had to walk without the eternal light that shines inside when one gets rid of the curses that the world throws at all families. My father endured for me what I could not have endured for my children, now I am sure of that.
Still broken, my father was a brave lion, and thanks to his strength, I had had a small opportunity, an opportunity to be reborn in my own body. I know of no stronger magic than that.
Now I understood the old daughter of Huapaya, the witch from Huaral, now I believed in what I knew I had always believed in, deep down in the bottom of my being. I could breathe well now, like I never had before. Now I understood the witch of Huaral and her words, but especially her majestic gaze. Now my name mattered little, my family, my blood, something more essential ran through my veins. Silence invaded everything, and I was that very silence.
Jazmín and I keep walking. We were already close to the reservoir when I heard someone yelling. The angry barking of at least two dogs came next. I turned around and saw a man in a white shirt, khaki pants and black glasses. Risopatrón himself, walking towards us with the peculiar haughtiness of the deluded. The dogs came running and barking, desperate to attack the intruders of their master's land.
"Let's go! We have to run! We can make it!" the Jazmín told me.
"Let me solve this first," I answered her and turned around.
I strolled towards the dogs. One threw itself at me, but I dodged it at the right time and it failed to get me, the other one stayed behind, growling at me, showing me his teeth. The first dog tried again, I dodged it one more time and kicked it in the face and in the stomach with all my strength, it ran back to its owner whimpering. The other one stood there looking at me, I looked back at it, the dog stopped growling. I approached him, bent down, and with my left hand, I let him smell me. The dog sniffed me for a long time and then, just as if he had received the message in my head, he sat next to me. Jazmín's jaw dropped.
"Don Risopatrón!" I yelled at the man. The landowner stopped on his tracks, he was twenty steps away from me by then. "I am the son of Antonio, the one who sold you these lands." The man seemed to gain confidence and walked towards me.
"You know very well that this is illegal trespassing, I should call the-"
"Oh, shut it, boy" I said, smiling at the man who was at least twenty years older, the man clenched his jaw in silence.
"I offer this as a gift" I threw my knife at his feet.
"A gift?" The man asked confused, for what?"
"To celebrate you've already lost, you just don't know it yet." I said, "time will give us justice. For now, I'm satisfied knowing your very own dogs have noticed the shift." I pointed to the pit bull standing next to me, wagging his tail as if he had lived with me since birth. The man looked at the knife and then at me, he started yelling, but I turned my back to him before he could tell me all the things he could do to me with his money.
"I give you the knife as a reminder as well that you have never been able to do anything with your own hands. You can have all the land on paper, but you cannot erase the fact that when nobody is watching, you are the one who is trespassing, and I am the owner. You have lost something more important than everything you have. I hope you find it before your children inherit it too."
I smiled at him and started to leave, Jazmín still had her mouth open. "What the hell have you done? He will make your life impossible!"
I laughed as I turned to look at the man who had picked up the razor from the ground,
"I know, but I can live with that, what I can't live with anymore is to stop doing what I know is right. This land was taken from my father; I don't know if I can get it back, the world doesn't work like that. But for today, while you are Juan Huapaya and I am my Grandfather, I am going to tell the truth as they used to tell it in other times. As long as today is today, and I intend for today to last forever, I will live as if I were my grandfather."
The girl opened the bush to get out of the farm, without dignity, without a grand finale, only two people without fear in their eyes. "What do you mean, you're your grandfather?" She said, "I thought it was just a game." I was silent, waiting for the words to come at their own pace.
"Each family is just one person, over and over again, we just move forward and grow. I am the third. You too Jazmín, that's why today you were my right arm. I think I understand your mother now. It is inevitable, the universe is more magical than we think."
The girl was looking at me with a frown, I laughed as we left the Aquise land and headed towards Huaral again.
"Tell me, what did you find there in the pecan tree?" she asked me.
I kept thinking about it. We went all the way to her house in silence. We crossed paths with another minibus going in the opposite direction, we both wave at it this time. I saw the small town rise as we approached it, I saw the old witch's house, I saw her smile. She gave me the photo, I said goodbye to her. At the door frame, as I got into my car, Jazmín asked me again.
"What did you find in the tree? Tell me. I've always wanted to know." I looked at her and smiled.
"A way to live forever."
The girl raised her eyebrow as I got in my car.
I drove my truck through the Pasamayo. At last I was returning, to my people, to my family, to my father.
with all my ancestors,
at last, I had returned.
Categories
All
ABISHEK JAMUNKAR
AIZAZ SALAHUDDIN
ALEXI DINERSTEIN
AMANDA CRUM
AMANDA OCHRANEK
AUSTIN E. OLSEN
BENNIE ROSA
BRIAN RB WILCOX
CHELSEA THORNTON
COLIN LIEBREICH
DAVID GILMAN FREDERICK
DON TASSONE
EMILY HARTZOG
GARRETT ZINK
HARRISON ABBOTT
HASSAM GUL
H. R. KEMP
IVO KISIC MERINO
JAMES MEANEY
JAMES MULHERN
JAMES ROBERT CAMPBELL
JEFF BUDOFF
JEFF DOSSER
JERRY GUARINO
JOSEPH AUSTIN
J.S CROSS
K. A. WILLIAMS
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KRISTINA BRIGHTHARP
KS MARQUEZ
LEILANIE STEWART
LINDA BARRETT
M.A. DANKO
MASON YATES
MATHER SCHNEIDER
M. CARTOON
MORGAN STEVENS
NIKLAS EDEBORG
POLLY MCCAULEY
RAFAELITO V. SY
RICHARD BISHOP
R.J. GOWER
ROBERT MITCHELL
ROBERT SACHS
RUTH Z. DEMING
SARA KIL
SAVANNAH LAMB
SEAN DEVLIN
SHAUNA GILLIGAN
TARYN GEORGE
T. F. TURNER
THOMAS JOSEPH
TONY FABIJANCIC
VALERIE STOYVA
WILLIAM KEVIN BURKE
W. LEE BROOKS
WOODIE WILLIAMS
WRITER GO HYEE
YAANA DANCER