​When I moved to Salt Spring Island twenty years ago from the city, I thought the locals were so out there. There was this strange old woman who lived up the coast, sheltering under a boardwalk that looked out to the harbor. If the tide was out far enough, she burned fires on a patch of beach and warmed whatever food she could find to eat that day. She lived with this guy with weathered skin and his hair looked bleached, although it was hard to imagine that he did such a thing.
Often, from my car, I still see him walking along the main road. I don’t know where he sleeps nowadays. Their encampment was cleared away by the police when it was overrun with rats and the old woman moved off-island. The couple’s misfortunes were documented in the local newspaper. I felt connected to them somehow, as if they were our homeless, as opposed to the drifters that camped every summer, often teen runaways looking for adventure, romance or escape.
I sympathized with the couple because we too were overrun with rats once. Ours was a new house, but the plumber forgot to screw down a metal screen on a drain. A rat couple made their way in and hid under our stove until we went to bed. I woke up to the grinding of teeth on wood, chewing through whatever scrap of sleep I had that night. In the morning gnawed hollow in the pantry door propelled us into the village to buy traps.
The rat couple proved elusive. They bred 10 babies which we eventually trapped one by one, leaving them for a good long time before disposing of the trap and body in a garbage bag. If I attended too eagerly after the sound of the snap, I might see the animal in its death throes, dragging the trap behind it in an uncomfortably human way. Just when we thought we were done with them a gray blur would whip out from under me to disappear beneath the chest of drawers by the kitchen. Now we seal all our pantry goods in clear containers, like a health food store, only one that stocks Frosted Flakes.
Rats are a downside of island life. Some people find island life irksome, taking the ferry to the city for specialist appointments, especially as you get older, or being snowed in for extended power outages. That loses its charm if you can’t shovel your own way out, or walk through snow drifts to get milk. I can still light a fire to warm myself, however, and heat up any food at hand. I might follow the old woman to the city, but I’m not there yet.
A brief encounter with this woman happened like this: we were cruising the thrift store, a small and crowded shop that supported the local woman shelter when– no, come to think of it, we were in the drugstore, in the makeup section. She looked straight into my eyes and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare twenty, would you?” I turned to her, surprised, and mumbled an embarrassed no. She had never approached me before. Shrugging, she limped off into another aisle.
Her voice contrasted with the slurred or affected speech I expected. Because her clothes were theatrical: large, tilted hat with straw fruit adorning its brim, full skirt and a bright red coat. She sounded just like any other neighbor. It struck me that I might be as recognizable to her as she was to me. An old guy who lived in a derelict boat collected litter in the village with a spiky stick. Accepting donations for his service, I often gave him a twenty, grateful he was tidying up the place. Had the trash collector spoken to the old woman about me? Other unsettling thoughts about her seeped into my mind. I would be applying blush at the mirror and falter: is this the same blush she uses? With few drugstores on the island, there were only so many blush options to be had. Like her attire, her makeup was of the stage, with bold circles of rouge, overdrawn lipstick smeared on her mouth and thick black eyeliner curling up at her eyelid corners.
When my hair started going grey, I wondered if I should let it come, or move into old age with a falsely bright head of hair. Then I’d think of the old woman’s hennaed head, how she must have dyed her hair in the public restroom at the park, or perhaps a kind hairdresser did it for her. I realized that she had dealt with this grey hair problem just before me. (My father-in-law solved it a by using raspberry mousse, tinting his hair an unnatural red.)
Rifling through the thrift store racks, I’d disentangle some hippie jacket with cheerful patterns and think can I pull this off? Slowly I’d lower the hanger back on the rack. I might look like I was dressed for the stage, like the old woman, with her floppy hat and Bohemian clothing.
The coat would be useful as a spare in my studio, to be honest. The other day I nipped into the Post Office during a brief but furious windstorm. Unprepared for weather, I swept a pink blanket around my shoulders in what I hoped was a stylish wrap. And then there was the time I attended a party at my neighbor’s, looking down to discover I’d kept my slippers on. Their ratty fake fur trim peeked out from my trouser bottoms.
I thought I had a brief encounter with that old woman, but now I see it was more a passing of the baton. We gazed at the same choppy water, shopped in the same shops, warmed by the same fire, fought the same marauding rats. Technically, a neighboring fire and neighboring rats. Her ex chats in front of the grocery store just as my partner often stops to do. For now, I’m the old woman who lives on the island. And I’m gone, baby. I’ve gone island.

 Lorrin Johnson is an Early Childhood teacher, she's an up-and-coming writer. She graduated from Davenport University with a degree in business and a diploma as a Nurse Aide. Lorrin enjoys spending time with her family, cooking, and traveling. She enjoys writing - it's a wonderful form of expression.

​June 21
 
I have never done this before. I have no idea how to do it.
Writing a journal has never been my thing. I prefer medical blogs and articles rather than wasting my time in writing daily chores in a diary, or as in this case, a journal. Ah, well, I guess everybody needs to evolve in life. In any case, life is all about changes. That was what Professor Bloombelt used to say.
The reason for me writing this journal happened in the morning today. I was in the hospital when--
Oh, I am sorry. Even though this is my personal system, I should introduce myself here. So, here it is. I am Dr. Aarnay Mitra. Not a surgeon, a cardiologist, or neurologist, mind you. I am just a Psychotherapist. Most people back in India do not even think of Psychotherapists as real doctors. I was born in Kolkata, India, but most of my life has been spent in the US, at least since I started college at Columbia University in 1990. And for the last thirty years, this country has been my home, twenty of which has been in my current apartment in Merrifield, Virginia. Now, I cannot even imagine myself living anywhere other than this place.
Life has changed a lot. When I first came to the US, I was a young guy with a lot of energy. Now, as I look into the mirror, I see a frail middle-aged man with a fully shaved round face and similarly curved glasses donned on his eyes. The matching gray hairs around the temples and thinning hair in the middle is just another add on to my miserable aging body. Running a couple of miles every morning doesn't seem to do much good.
Oh, I am deviating from the main topic. I should write about the unusual thing that happened today before I diverge again.
So, at 10 in the morning today, literally twelve hours ago, his son made the appointment, and an hour afterward, I met them.
'Hi, Doctor.' The younger person, around thirty, tall, handsome, blond with gray eyes, entered my office. 'My father had an appointment at eleven.'
'Is that Mr. Peter Young?' I said, looking at the system in front of me.
'Yes.'
And then I saw him. Peter Young, sixty, with white and thinning hair, pale skin, a bit hunched, and similar gray eye as his son. He came up timidly behind his son, looking at me with, shall I say, hopeful eyes?
'So, what is it that you want my help with?' I asked the son.
'Yes, Doctor.' He said while helping his dad sit in the chair opposite me. 'My name is Bill Young, and he is my dad, Peter Young. We live in Montgomery Village.'
'Ok.' I nodded and urged him to continue.
'Yeah. Last week, while driving to the supermarket, dad lost control of the car and hit a tree near the sidewalk.' He looked at his father, who seemed to be miles away from our conversation. It looked like he has found something of real fascination outside the window of my office on the fourth floor of the George Washington University Hospital. I know there was nothing outside other than the skyline of the Washington DC, something I have already been bored of seeing.
To my experience, he looked to be suffering from Schizoid Personality Disorder, a medical condition that involves disengagement of social relationships.
But before I can conclude that, I needed to know all the details. Therefore, I waited for Bill to go on.
'They took him to the hospital then and there, and the treatment started. There was a lump on his head-----'.
I had already noticed the bandaged area on Peter's temple and guessed as such.
'--and the doctor said that he had a minor concussion. They treated him for three days and released him just a couple of days back.'
Bill wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead before continuing. With the air conditioning in the hospital working fine, there could only be one reason for him perspiring. I just waited for him to continue.
'But once he came back home, something had changed inside him.' The young man said. 'He has been speaking about absurd things and---'
'What kind of absurd things?' I asked, stopping Bill, who shifted in his seat, looking uncertainly at his father and then at me.
'I... I think it is better if you hear from him.' He said and then touched Peter's shoulder gently, who seemed to be startled and---
'No, no, Don't.' The sudden shout echoed throughout the office as the older person jumped out of his chair and looked at his son with red-rimmed eyes, shocking even me.
'What happened?'
My secretary Helen opened the door with her eyes wide, looking at the room. I guess she heard the commotion and must have thought that someone attacked me.
'N....nothing, Helen.' I assured her and urged her to leave us as I stood up to take hold of my patient.
'This is a glimpse of what has been happening with dad for these two days, Doctor.' Bill said, nervously looking at his father, who was back to being calm again. As he sat on the chair slowly, I caught his eyes darting left and right rapidly, as if reading things from thin air.
Clearly not the Schizoid Personality Disorder. It is more like Paranoid Schizophrenia.
'Yesterday, he tried to attack my son, who, according to him, was something called 2001119 and 846.' Bill continued once I sat back on my chair.
'9920.' My patient suddenly said in a grumpy voice. As I moved my eyes towards him, I found him staring straight at me.
'What's that number, sir?' I asked, curiosity driving me now.
'2110.' He said again, now bearing the trembling index finger of his right hand pointing straight at me. '9920 at 2110. BOOM.'
The whole thing looked very unusual to me. I have seen people with Paranoid Schizophrenia, and this patient exhibited all the symptoms of that, but something seemed to be out of place. Something clicked on the back of my mind, but I couldn't place what it was.
The person in question implied to have lost all his energy as he started sweating profusely, and his chest heaved. For the next ten minutes, I checked him physically. Except for his pulse being high, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. Peter Young seemed to be completely fine if you ignore the bandage on his head.
I recommended a few tests and some medication that will help the older Young to sleep well at night. Right now, there is nothing else I can do without the reports. I asked Bill to come next week with the results so that I can decide on the next course of action.
Even though I was busy with other patients the whole day and the Doctor's Conference in Washington DC for the evening, I couldn't bring myself to forget about Peter. There was something distinctive that has been striking the back of my mind, specifically about his numbers. Those digits kept on reiterating in my head as I drove towards my home at night.
What would that figure 2001119 mean? Perhaps one of his bank accounts, or maybe a voucher number? It could even be something else, or probably nothing.
As I was pondering over those numbers, my eyes were briefly off the road. As a result, I jumped a signal and brought the disaster on myself.
A car that came from the right and grazed--
I praise my good luck that it was just trying to turn and accidentally hit my car on the right. If it was any different, I might not have been here to write this journal today. It took more than an hour to complete all the formalities with the patrolmen and the insurance before I could be back at my residence. With the dinner done at the conference, there was nothing left for me to do, except to start reading one of the novels I bought last weekend.
But that was not to be.
As I started taking a hot shower, suddenly something struck my mind. And in a flash, I found out what it was that had been bothering me about Mr. Peter Young's numbers.
The figure he told me while pointing a trembling finger. It was......it was my car's license plate.
My license plate read: BJS 9920. Can it be a coincidence?
As soon as I remembered that, another thought hit my mind. Without bothering to dry myself off or wrapping the towel, I came running to the living room and rummaged through my wallet. I took out the thing that I had thought of just a moment ago and checked it.
And there it was, the receipt of my fine to the cops. I double-checked the time. Sure enough, the time of my accident was 21:10, written clearly by the cop.
And then I thought about the first number Mr. Young said in the morning.
2001119, and 846.
20:01:11:19? No, it does not add up.
It took me ten more minutes, standing in front of the table with a notebook and doing permutations for the number before I understood what it was.
2001/11/9 at 8:46 AM.
It was the date and time the Twin Towers got hit. The darkest day in the history of the United States.
Even though the date was well known to the whole world, the exact timing was not something everybody knew. I even had to Google it to get a specific time.
How could he know the exact timing of the attack? Moreover, how could he have known about my accident at that specific time?
That was when I decided to keep a record of this unusual incident here in the journal on my laptop.
I must check more on him once he is back next week.
 
June 29
 
I am writing the journal exactly after seven days today, and that too for a justified reason.
I had promised myself to record only the special events in this journal, so not writing anything in between the week should not bother me. Anyway, before I deviate again, I should write down the events as they occurred.
As discussed, Bill Young came today with his father and the respective test reports in the morning. Checking those, I became sure there was nothing more than a glancing blow on the Occipital Lobe of Peter Young. There was no internal damage, no clots, nothing. It's supposed to be a happy thing, though I didn't feel the same. If there were any injuries, at least that would have explained the reason behind Peter's newfound abilities. But now, the mystery of his numbers remained hidden, unsatisfactorily.
'The reports are fine, Bill.' I told the younger person sitting in front of me, while his father seemed to be miles away from our conversation, like the day we first met. 'There's nothing unusual with Peter at all, at least not from any internal damage.'
Bill sighed as he tried to grin. But his smile faded as soon as his father started to speak.
'04071030'. Peter whispered as he tried to focus on the ceiling of my office.
'This has been continuing for the past week?' I asked his son.
'Yes, mostly. Dad has been uttering random numbers frequently. Mostly 623.'
'And the rest of the time?'
'He hardly speaks with anybody among us, Doctor.' Bill sniffed. 'He is always confined to his own thought and in his room.'
'Hmmm.' I nodded as I took another look at the person in question.
'Bill.' I exhaled and looked at the younger person in the room after observation. 'I would suggest you keep him in the medical ward here. I want to keep a close watch on him for a few days.'
I tried to be as reassuring as possible. After all, it would be good if Peter stays here on my watch. I needed to figure out what was happening with Peter.
'That's....that's completely fine with me.' Bill smiled a bit, the first actual one since we have met.
I asked him to complete the formalities and get Mr. Peter Young in the hospital by the afternoon.
It was 2 PM when Peter was admitted here into my care, in bed number 623, surprisingly, as that was the only one left unoccupied. But Bill seemed oblivious of his father's abilities. Am I the only one who noticed the numbers Peter has been muttering about and their uncanny relation to something or the other in the real world?
Anyhow, with all the patients and work in my hand, I barely had time for Mr. Young before leaving in the evening.
'What's happening to me?' Peter asked, whimpering as I neared his bed before retiring for the day.
'Nothing Peter.' I replied, smiling, trying to calm him. 'How are you feeling?'
It was the most normal I had seen him since we met.
'I......it feels weird.' Peter blinked. 'I can see numbers randomly jumping, somersaulting, running around me, everywhere. But sometimes, a few numbers come together and glow in front of my eyes.'
'Oh, is it?' It is needless to say that I was intrigued as I sat on the chair. The incident with my car last week has been an eye-opener for me.
'38.89.' He suddenly said, looking somewhere behind me.
I turned back to see the door behind me and nothing else. Peter can probably see the numbers again.
'What is it, Mr. Young?' I said, my breathing hard now as I tried to take his hand.
'38.89.' He stopped for a second.
'-77.009.' Peter said again.
Negative numbers? What the--
'-4.25.' He muttered, this time looking at me. 'And -2.5.'
'What are you----'
I could not finish my words as I suddenly understood the meaning of the last numbers. I unconsciously pulled my hands away from him and took the glasses from my eyes, looking at them and then back at him, unable to breathe.
What Peter had just told me was the power of my glasses. They were -4.25 in the right eye and -2.5 in the left.
How does he know?
I had called the hospital just fifteen minutes back, and as expected, Peter was sleeping. But till he went to rest, it seemed he had been muttering numbers. Asking about which numbers, the person gave me a list of them.
38.89.
-77.009.
04071030.
19651030.
And a few more.
I tried to understand what these digits mean, but nothing came up.
But the biggest surprise came as soon as I opened my laptop. Like thunder striking, I suddenly understood the meaning of one of the uttered figures.
19651030.
That is my birth date and year.
1965/10/30.
How could Peter know about my birthday?
 
July 2
 
The last few days have been busy for me. Due to a seminar on Psychiatry in New York, I had been away from Washington. It was tough to keep my curiosity on Peter's case aside and go to New York, but there was no way to avoid it. As a notable Psychotherapist, I was among one of the speakers in the seminar. Apart from the respect they provide me with, these seminars also help me get in touch with some of my old friends. And I didn't want to miss that.
Anyway, when I came back last evening, my priority was to call the hospital and check on Peter. A perfect combination of abilities like — Precognition, Remote Viewing, and Retro-cognition was too rare a thing to miss. And in this case, more so because all this ingenuity is related to numbers.
'He was a bit agitated this afternoon, sir.' The attending nurse said in an irritated tone. 'But a small dose of Zolpidem helped him to go back to sleep.'
'Ok, let me know if anything happens.'
Criing. Criing.
Still, groggy from waking up, the first thing I noticed was the clock. Messaging the kink on my neck, as I tried to determine what woke me up at 2:30 in the morning, I heard the phone ringing again.
Who the hell was calling me at this hour?
As I noticed the caller, all my uneasiness disappeared in an instant. It was from the hospital. Damn, what happened there?
'Hello.' I said, my voice trembling. 'What happened?'
'Doctor. You asked me to call as soon as there was something up with Peter.' The shrill voice of the night nurse came from the other side.
'Y... yes. What is it?' I was fully awake by then, with all traces of sleep gone.
'Doctor, please come here. Quickly.' The nurse said hurriedly in a frantic voice. 'Peter suddenly is acting too much strangely. He is repeating the same numbers over and over. I.......tried to stop him, but Peter.......he attacked me. I tried to give him a dose of sleeping injection, but he threw it away. Please hurry.'
Without delay, I hung up the phone and started getting ready. It hardly took me more than fifteen minutes after the call to get into the car and reach the hospital. By the time I reached the third-floor medical wing, I could hear a commotion coming out from the far left room.
Peter's room.
I quickly came through the door and entered the room to see--
'04071030.'
'It’s fire there. People died. DEAD.'
'38.89.'
'-77.009.'
'04071030.'
‘00378.’
The shouts were easily heard, and all from Peter, while the nurses tried to keep him in check.
'EVERYBODY DEAD.'
Peter's shouting has increased tenfold since the last time I had seen him more than two days ago. He always seemed to be calm to me, so I have not thought of restraining him or giving him shock therapy. But seeing the incident in front of me, I wished I had done exactly that.
'Oh, God.'
There was blood strewn everywhere, droplets of blood all over the bed. The red stains on the white sheets of the hospital bed and the carpet looked like bullet holes in a naked body. Instantly my eyes went to the source of the blood. 
It was nothing other than Peter's wrist. He somehow got hold of a knife and tried to cut his wrist.
'Intermittent Explosive Disorder.' I whispered as I approached.
It was ten minutes later that Peter drifted down to his sleep, courtesy of the injection I just gave him.
'What was he muttering about?' I asked as my patient finally slept.
'No idea, Doctor.' Marie, the head nurse, said, shaking her head. 'He slept around 10:00 PM but woke up suddenly at 1 AM. From then on, the guy has been yelling those numbers and ranting about death and fire. When we tried to stop him, he attacked us. He got hold of the knife and said that he wanted to die rather than seeing people dead and doing nothing. If we had not intervened, he would have already been dead.'
For the last few hours, till the time I reached home at 5 in the morning today and even now typing the things in this journal, I have only a single thought.
What do those numbers mean that Peter even wanted to die for?
 
July 4
 
My life has always moved in a straight line: my studies, job, and home. My days have revolved around these three things. I love to read books on diverse topics and also travel a lot. Most of my travels are either related to some Medical Conference or solo vacations. It may be because I am a less adventurous person than most, or it might be because I am a private person. I don't like to speak with unknown people much outside of my professional work.
But after the last two days, I cannot say that.
Things have drastically shifted in my life in these two days. Even now, my head pains making me still remember --
No. Let me start from the beginning.
In my last note, I wrote about the call from the hospital and the lunacy of Peter. Once back at my home, after handling the cops and all, there was no way I could sleep anymore.
My mind was full of the details of all the numbers Peter was saying. It was clear that each figure he was uttering had a broader meaning. It was not by coincidence that he could smoothly tell the power of my glasses, my birthday, or the timing of my accident. And if that is the case, then it was also clear that the other digits also had some meaning.
But what? And how to verify those?
As the morning progressed and I scribbled all the numbers one by one told by Peter in my notebook, it seemed more and more complex to solve.
You are just trying to find meaning in something where there is none.
And I won’t deny it. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe, I wanted to ignore the fact that Peter is a mentally ill patient who needs treatment, not my confirmation to attest his numbers. And after that night's incident, it was probably time for a shock treatment.
A look at the clock told me it was 8 AM. I sighed and took my phone out to dial the hospital.
'Yes.' I said as someone on the other side picked up. 'Please cancel all my appointments today. I will go to the hospital to oversee treatment in the morning, but I won't be able to see any new patients. And please call Mr. Bill Young, son of Peter, and ask him to see me at 10 in the hospital today.'
Giving a few more instructions, and once confirmed, I hung up, getting ready for the day.
In the hospital, there was only one thing of note that happened.
'I am fine as long as dad recovers soon.' Bill said, taking a deep breath when I told him my decision to start the shock therapy.
It was when I introduced shock therapy that the incident took place.
'Doctor.....' Peter suddenly said as he was getting transferred to the therapy room. 'Save...s...save them. They will die.'
I neglected the comments and continued with the procedure. But, as the therapy ended, Peter's blurting started again, figures this time, as usual.
'38.89.'
'-77.009.'
'04071030.'
‘00378.’
He was repeating the same four digits from last night.
Ignoring the numbers, I ensured that he was taken to his cabin and given lunch before he drifted off to sleep.
Once he was asleep, and with no more patients to see, suddenly the fatigue caught up with me. And along with that, yearning for Blueberry Pancakes and Indian food. It was when I was striding through the corridors of the hospital that I suddenly recalled a place. It was the Eastern Market in Washington, where both of my cravings can get fulfilled.
It took me 20 minutes to reach my destination and half an hour more to fulfill my hunger.
With my day off and nothing else to do, I had time to visit the Library of Congress to check some new books on Psychiatry today. With Peter's numbers still playing in my mind, I opened the door to my car and started the Google Maps for navigation.
And suddenly, a thought struck me as I entered my destination there.
What if--
Without delay, I entered two of the four figures that Peter was repeating.
38.89.
-77.009.
Can they be latitudes and longitudes?
In my parked car, I started doing permutations and combinations as scores of people came and went into the Market for the next fifteen minutes. Using a Geocoding conversion app and the numbers, I finally found two options if these were really latitudes and longitudes. The first one is Antarctica, and the second one is the United States Capitol, the north-eastern part of the building.
With one of the options just five minutes away from my current position, I decided to follow my instinct.
By the time I completed a full tour of the United States Capitol, my first in three decades, it was already evening outside. The sun was about to set on the horizon, behind the Washington skyline, turning the sky a shade of yellowish-orange that I always enjoyed as a college student. For a minute, it felt like I was back to my youth, as I watched the sun fully set.
With the thought of House Chambers, The Apotheosis of Washington, and the Crypt lingering fresh in my mind, I started the engine of my car. Still, I was not sure if it was the place Peter wanted to signify, but he did me a favor anyway. Without searching for the coordinates, I might never have visited the Capitol.
Just as I was about to reverse my car, something caught my eye.
A car crossed me from the parking and turned slowly towards First St NE, with two people inside. It was not the passengers or the vehicle itself that seized my attention, but the license plate. It read DJS 00378.
Keeping the car still in the parking lot, I quickly rummaged through my bag as something struck my mind.
Can it be.....
Yes. There it was, in my notebook.
I opened the page where I had been scribbling in the morning all the numbers that Peter was uttering.
38.89.
-77.009.
'04071030.
00378.
And I saw it. The last number in the list. It was the same as the license plate of the black Nissan that just crossed me a couple of minutes ago.
I have never been a risk-taker in my life and thought of leaving the wild goose chase behind.
But another part of my brain wanted me to pursue the mystery of Peter's numbers. And so I did.
Without delay, I quickly reversed and floored the gas. My car shot off the parking and jumped onto the First St NE, the same street where the other pickup had gone. Without thinking, I veered my vehicle left and right, crossing the cars and trucks on the track, before quickly turning left on to the Northeast Dr. And then I saw it.
The other car was just a couple of hundred yards away from me as it moved casually. I could see the bald driver and the blonde passenger talking to each other as the car moved at a speed of 55 mph.
What the hell am I doing?
Ignoring once again my inner voice, I followed the black Nissan that was just a little more than a hundred and fifty yards away.
A Hundred yards.
Fifty yards.
And then it happened.
Without warning, suddenly, the lead car started speeding. I saw the blonde passenger looking back at my car and say something to the driver. The next second, the vehicle veered left and accelerated.
I could hear a distant siren somewhere as I followed the vehicle. I have to save whoever might fall into an accident in that car.
But I was not ready for what happened next.
Bam. Bam.
It sounded like thunder as I saw a flash of light from the Nissan. The next moment, my windscreen smashed, and the car started skidding. The wind rushed inside my car, screaming into my eyes, as I tried to slow down.
But the car has already lost balance.
Am I going to d...
Boom.
And everything went dark as my eyes closed.
White light exploded as I opened my eyes for a second and forced me to close them again.
The next time I opened them, the intensity of the lights was less. But another pain forced me to close my eyes for a moment.
'Aahhh.' I held my head with both hands, trying to lessen the ache.
'Please. Please don't get up.' A soft feminine voice told me from the side. 'You are hurt.'
'Where..... Where am I?' I asked, trying to take in my surroundings.
It seemed like I was in a hospital cabin, on a bed with my head wrapped with a bandage. A young female doctor stood by the side of my bed, her brows furrowed together. The beeping of the heart and pulse monitor made me aware of their presence in the room behind me. There was another person present in the room, but I could not focus on him at first. My head seemed to be on fire.
'In Hospital.' Someone else said from the door to the cabin on my left, in a smooth but firm voice. 'You have some minor scratches and a concussion, but it looks like you are fine.'
I focused my vision on the owner of the voice, squinting my eyes. It was a man in a black suit, tall with pale skin, somewhere in his mid-thirties. He had a smile on his face that instantly made him likable to anybody.
'Hi, I'm Agent Jacob Farris.' He said, extending his hand to me, still smiling. 'FBI.'
'Hi.' I said, stunned.
What has the FBI got to do with me?
And then I noticed the other person in the room. He was also similarly attired like Farris, just a bit older with salt and pepper hair. His badge read Klowal Jed.
'Can you tell me exactly what happened?' Farris asked, taking a small notebook out of his hands as Jed neared my bed.
'I.....I....' I started, as the pain intensified a little, making me keep my head still and rested on the pillow. 'I was following the car and.......'
And then I recalled. Oh, God! It was.......
'Oh, my God!' I yelled, looking at the Agent. 'I....they fired a gun at me.'
The Agent seemed unfazed by this revelation. Almost as if.....
'The two people in that car were from the Jihadi Movement.' Farris said, increasing my curiosity. 'The traffic cameras have picked their identities as Ali Ansari and Zubeidar Khan. Two of the most wanted terrorists suspected to have links with Al-Qaeda.'
I gulped, trying to understand what he was saying. Al-Qaeda? But why would.......
'Why were you following them?' Jed asked in a gloomy voice, looking at me, all the while under the watchful gaze of the doctor.
'I....I...' I tried to find an answer to the question. Inevitably an FBI agent was not expecting to hear the story of a Psychotherapist chasing a couple of terrorists based on a number told by one of his patients in the streets of Washington. 'They seemed suspicious to me. They were looking at the......'
And it struck me. The actual meaning of the numbers that were told by Peter last night. The figures for which he was ready to die. But then......
'They....they seemed to be looking at the Capitol building while driving.'
I had to control my impulse, to tell the truth to an FBI officer. I need to be sure first.
Farris furrowed his eyebrows for a moment and exchanged a glance with his partner before looking back at me.
'I see.' He said, noting things down in his little notebook while tilting his head. 'Anything else?'
'Ummm....nope. Nothing else.'
‘Thank you.'
Did I just now lie to a Federal Agent?
My heart thumped in my chest as I kept staring at the card he left me, thinking about what I have done just now. But there was nothing I could do except verify my theory.
For the next few hours, I waited eagerly for my release from the hospital. Finally, when I got discharged, I nearly ran to the street to get a cab to my home.
I was not even sure if whatever I was thinking made any sense, but I had to check. The whole way, I was silent, till I entered home and sat down on the couch with a notebook and my system in front of me.
Are you crazy? My mind screamed at me.
'You'll see.' I whispered to myself as I started scribbling something on the notebook and went back, typing into my system.
It took me five more minutes to find out what I was looking for on the laptop.
'YES. Yes. Yes.' I yelled, punching the air for a moment as I sat up straight, shooting a stab of pain in my head. I looked at the laptop once and then back at my notebook. There, I had written something like this -
38.89 N
-77.009 E — The Capitol Building.
04071030 — 4th of July at 10:30 AM.
00378 — DJS 00378 — Ali Ansari and Zubeidar Khan's car — Al-Qaeda.
Fire — Everyone Dead — Bomb?
If I was correctly deducing whatever Peter wanted to convey, it meant that he was talking about the coordinates of the northeast wing of the Capitol Building, the Independence Day of America, and the car of two Jihadi terrorists. If I add my patient's shout about everyone dying and fire, only one thing made sense.
'Oh, fuck.'
If everything was as I interpreted, it suggested that there would be a bomb blast waiting to happen on the 4th of July in the Capitol Building at 10:30 AM.
I took my phone out and dialed a number.
 '1934.' Peter said, his eyes wide and red, as I sat with him the next morning. '1...19..34. Yes.'
I came out as Peter went to sleep while the Congressmen started the arrangements in the Capitol Building for the Independence Day on the eve before the actual celebration.
 'Hello, Dr. Mitra.' Agent Farris said, his face pensive, as I reached the Capitol Building. 'You are five minutes late.'
I looked at my watch and saw it pointing at 10:05 AM of the Independence Day of America, the 4th of July. I have already seen the celebrations happening throughout the city as I came by cab.
'Yeah, Agent.' I said, smiling. 'My car seems to be in pieces and giving a hard time to the insurer. It might take some time before I can drive my own.'
'That's fine.' Agent Jed replied. 'So, this patient of yours? You really think you're onto something?'
'Let's find out.'
As I spoke the words, I, Agent Farris, Agent Jed, and at least ten more field agents moved with purpose towards the Crypt. The place looked serene as we entered the Crypt of the Capitol Building. Originally created to be the tomb of George Washington, but never fulfilling that purpose, the Crypt was a central attraction for all tours in the Capitol.
'So, we have captured the two terrorists early morning today.' Jed said as we looked around in the Crypt. 'Both Ali Ansari and Zubeidar Khan have been seen in and around this place for the last three days. The security cameras have picked them up with different makeup each time. We suspect that they want to do something big here, but we don't know what or where. But they haven't given us anything yet.'
The Agent stopped for a moment and looked at me, while Jed moved inwards, admiring the marble statues.
'We have Psychotherapist Dr. Aarnay Mitra here, who thinks he is onto something.' He smiled, shaking his head. 'But, we need to be cautious. So, everybody fan out and keep in radio contact. Anything unusual, raise the flag then and there. Go. Go. Go.'
As the agents fanned out in different directions, I could see the Congressmen moving into the place, getting ready for the celebrations.
'I have risked getting you here.' Farris whispered. 'I don't know what story you are cooking, but if there's anything you can help us with, now is the time.'
And he left me.
As I roamed around the Crypt, only one thing was going through my mind.
1934. That was what Peter had said to me in the hospital. It must have some meaning. I saw the Magna Carta replica and the case, I noticed the thirteen statues all around the area, and then I noticed the Compass Star that marked the four quadrants.
More than thirty people here, if I don't count the FBI agents and the security guards.
Think. Think fast.
I looked at my watch. 10:15 AM.
Not good.
'1934.' I whispered to myself. 'What could it be? A fresco number? A particular column details? Or another coordinate?'
As I moved to the northeast section of the script, my mind only tried to make sense of the number.
And then I saw it. The statue of Caesar Rodney looming above me. The white marble statue was a work of art beyond measure. I tried to remember all about him from my last visit just a couple of days ago.
Caesar Rodney was born in Dover, Delaware, on October 7, 1728, and died on June 26, 1784. Nowhere near the number I was searching for. I tried subtraction, addition, and even multiplication of the digits, but nothing came close to 1934.
10:22 AM.
And then I remembered. Yes, of course. This statue had something to do with the year 1934.
This statue of Caesar Rodney was given to National Statuary Hall Collection by Delaware in 1934. As I recalled that, the blood suddenly inside me started to boil.
There must be something here. For the next couple of minutes, I searched near the statue, but without any result. There was nothing, simply nothing, anywhere near the sculpture or its base.
Am I wrong? Maybe.
But what if I am right? And I didn't find the bomb planted by two terrorists? It would be a disaster, with me in it.
And then I saw him. A man, wearing the same suit as those of the congressmen. Nothing was alarming about the person, except his eyes. They darted left and right, before settling on a person wearing a black suit. I tried to keep an eye on them while trying to find whatever it was near the marble statue. The black suit seemingly ushered the person to come with him, and they were gone from my view the next minute.
10:24 AM.
Shit. Just six minutes left.
I frantically searched everywhere around the statue, as Farris reached me and put his hand on my shoulder.
'Found something doctor?' His eyes seemed to humor me.
'N....no. Not yet.' I replied, my voice trembling a bit in anticipation. 'But I.......'
I stopped mid-sentence as I saw the newcomer and the black suit approach the statue where I was standing.
And my eyes fell upon the hands of both the black suit and the newcomer. And I scr......
Swoosh. Swoosh.
The next moment, even before I blinked, Farris was thrown forward flying, and I heard something whooshing past my ear, missing me just by a centimeter. Before I understood what happened, instincts and adrenaline kicked in.
'BOMB.'
I shouted and ran at the same time.
My sudden shout seemed to stun both my attackers for a second as they stood rooted to their place, giving me the precious time to slice through the air and hit straight into the midsection of the newcomer. A jolt of pain coursed through my head as we collided and fell in a heap. I ignored the agony, as I sensed it was not muscle and tissue that I had smacked. It was something else, a little harder below his jacket. We both tumbled to the ground, but he was quick on his feet.
He sneered at me and kicked hard on my face, causing my lip to split and bleed. The black suit pulled his silenced gun and pointed it straight between my eyes.
'May Allah have mercy.' The newcomer cried out loud as he lifted both his arms, the right one holding a silver tube with a red button on top of it that I had seen a moment ago along with the gun in the black suit's hand.
I closed my eyes as the man lifted his thumb to put pressure on the red button.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Thud.
I opened my eyes just in time.......
To see the lifeless glassy eyes of the newcomer looking back at me, just a few feet away.
And I fainted.
'Welcome back to the world of the living.'
I opened my eyes and saw a bandaged Agent Farris sitting cross-legged in front of me. His eyes were glinting while the whole place was ablaze with activity. Cops ran around, the two body bags getting removed, and so on. A look at the watch told me I was out for nearly ten minutes.
'Welcome back, Doctor.' The Agent said as I slowly got up. 'If it is not for you, the suicide bomber Jahir Abbas would have turned the place to dust. And I believe it was because of your scream that Agent Jed was not able to kill me. So, thank you for saving an FBI Agent, and the Capitol.'
'Who....who killed them.' I asked, my throat dried up.
'One from me and two from a couple of other FBI agents.' Farris replied, his face twisting in pain as he tried to stand slowly. 'Your shout helped us. I had never thought that Jed could be helping the terrorists.'
'That actually makes sense.' I said, thinking out loud. 'That bomber Abbas must have needed someone inside to get the bomb and the vest in through the Capitol.'
'Yes.' He said as he stared at me with a smile on his face. 'You know what doctor? I had thought that old doctors were never fit enough to take care of themselves. But your running and tackling Jahir today changed my view. I will keep an eye out for any young doctors aged around 55 next time.
And that bullet just grazed my shoulder. Jed was always a lousy shooter, thank god for that.'
And we both laughed together.
It finally took me more than a couple of hours to come back to the hospital, with my energy absolutely drained.
'Doctor.' The hospital called me as soon as I sat on the couch in the living room, feeling exhausted.
'What is it?' I whispered.
'You should come and see Peter.'
Hearing the worry in the nurse's voice, I wasted no time driving back to the hospital.
'Thank you, doctor.' I heard Bill say even before I saw him. He sounded happy and beaming, as was, interestingly, Peter.
'Thank you, doctor Mitra.' Peter said grinning, happily. 'Without your help, I might not have recovered back.'
'What...what do you mean?' I could not wrap my head around the fact that Peter was speaking normally to me, without uttering a single number.
'Yes, I felt fine after my breakfast today.' Peter replied in a completely normal tone. 'The numbers were not there anymore. I could see and think clearly.' 
This was unbelievable.
I wanted to observe him for a day more, so I asked Bill to wait till tomorrow. But I think Peter will be fine.
I cannot explain the phenomenon of Peter getting better, but my mind was telling me something else. Peter had the duty to stop a terror attack in the city during the Independence Day, and he has fulfilled that. Maybe, someday when something worse is about to happen, he will regain his power of numbers.
I don't know, but I hope he doesn't have to.
 
************************THE END************************

​Everybody knew the boy was dead, long before his tiny body hit the ground. I remember it too well, that odd arching spiralling in absolute silence, no scream. Brains scrambled with the force of the turning, over and over. In that little hilltop village where I spent one day of my trip, so meticulously planned, to take in the holy capitals of the ancient world, I watched with the villagers as he dented the earth with his withered, burned form. The screaming had begun then, and the curses. The odd, scraggy-bearded, red-skinned Irishman who turned up just as the sun disappeared, to ask for water in blind arrogance, speaking a language that was not theirs, and not even his own.
My trip began with a train-ride from Rennes, where I enjoy a comfortable existence as an English teacher, gourmand, and village drunk, to Lyon via Paris. I had explored Brittany and the Norman coast enough in the previous years to have any desire to cycle those old roads again. Once you realise that there are no real rules (in France at least) with regards to bringing bikes on trains, it is far easier to overlook the stupefied and insulted expression of conductors and remove the front wheel and shove everything into the luggage compartment. The French hate rules, but they love making them apparently. One rule I try to set for myself was only to cycle roads I’ve never taken before.
From Lyon the most physically demanding part of the trip unravelled itself over the space of a week as I negotiated the French, Swiss, and Italian Alps. I spent one night in a very expensive lodge at the foot of the Eiger where, in the clear morning, I borrowed a pair of binoculars from a very amused Bavarian chap, and looked up at the north face where Tony Kurtz and his companions had died, less than ten metres from safety, in 1936. I traced the white spider, the Hinterstoisser traverse, and the traverse of the Gods. These little stretches of ice and rock stained with a history of young men seeking glory, or whatever it was they thought lay at the top of that mountain. I think it dawned on me then how the latter might make a neat title for a travel blog entry, though I hoped my trip wouldn’t prove quite as fatal as that of Tony Kurtz and his young friends.
The idea of writing a travel blog always seemed a bit cheap to me, even if it could help me pay my way. I’ve never really had the desire to share my experiences with anyone, let alone complete strangers online. And I bear no small amount of contempt for those who post evidence of their uninteresting tourism so wantonly and with such transparent narcissism for the sake of assuring themselves that they are in fact alive. Just look up at that mountain, and imagine yourself clinging to a shelf of ice while a storm blows in. You’ll feel perfectly alive, and won’t be in much of a hurry to tell anyone about it, I assure you.
People sometimes ask me why I don’t raise money for charity on my cycling trips. The simple reason is that while my trips are challenging and I thoroughly enjoy them, I do them for myself. The idea of other people paying for my holiday while I take credit as some benefactor of mankind, brings a guilt I can really do without during the long hours on the road where I have only my thoughts for company. I hasten to remind these people that they can simply donate their own money to their own charity, in their own name, in their own time, and tweet about it as much as they like. I don’t owe anybody anything by going on cycling trips.
These familiar ruminations on the ethics of travel blogging kept me occupied as I coasted downhill into Lombardy, eating my weight in gnocchi. Ten days later, I was crossing the Ionian on a boat from Brindisi to Patras. There were mostly tourists onboard and I struck up a conversation with some young Italian newlyweds who were cycling the Peloponnese.
They had met while training to be a priest and nun, and were amazed when I told them my plan to get a ferry from Athens to Izmir in Turkey, and horrified when I told them of my plan to cycle south into the holy land.
“Is through Syria, no?” the woman said.
“Yes”.
“You cannot do that,” said the man.
I tried explaining to them that in my experience “unsafe” places are usually far less dangerous than is made out, and the people there are usually more friendly and accommodating than those in supposed cradles of civilisation like Paris or Rome. The only city where I truly feel unsafe at night is my native Dublin as a matter of fact.
“But that is crazy,” the man said, as they both looked at me wide-eyed.
“We’ll see,” I said.
They continued staring at me, and I made some excuse about going to my cabin to stretch. As soon as I left, they started raging at each other. I had met with this kind of response from nearly everyone I’ve shared my plans with. Sometimes the responses scared me and made me second-guess my itinerary, but I always have to remind myself that people are more or less decent wherever you go and that hospitality usually means more to people in poorer countries than in rich ones. I planned my route to avoid active trouble zones, and told myself that commercial airlines fly into and over “dangerous” places all the time, and no-one was the worse for it. However, something about this couple did spook me. Maybe it was the fervour with which they spoke, a remnant from their more religious days perhaps. I spent the rest of the ten-hour trip thinking about the passage through Syria and Lebanon and whether it might be best to get a boat from Athens directly to Egypt and approach Jerusalem from the south. I needn’t have worried so much since I never made it to Jerusalem.
The Italians avoided me for the rest of the trip, but while we were disembarking the young man, whose name was Emidio, pulled me aside and urged me to reconsider my plans. I was halfway through telling him I would take care of myself and not to worry, when he forced a small wooden cross into my hands. I looked down at the thing. It was crudely shaven as though Emidio had whittled it down himself, and was made of some thin, unyielding wood. It felt almost weightless in my hand. I saw Emidio’s wife watching us from down on the jetty, not even pretending to look away when I caught her eye. I didn’t want to be rude to this man, a complete stranger, who had taken such a such an interest in my safety, so I thanked him, wished him and his new bride a lovely honeymoon, and told him I would think about what he said and make a decision once I got to Athens. He seemed pleased by this, but still eyed me as though he thought I was completely out of my mind. I wasn’t entirely convinced a wooden cross would do me much good in the places so charged with religious and political tension, but I slipped the little thing it into my bag nonetheless. I have a rule about not accruing random crap on the road, but the cross was so light I didn’t think it would matter.
We parted ways as they headed south and I headed north over the Rion-Anterion and made one-hundred-kilometre cycle to Delphi. After that, it was another two-days to Athens where I stayed with a friend who was doing an internship.
The boat for Turkey left the next morning, and I don’t know if it was the voice of Emidio ringing in my ears, or all the alcohol and weed I shared with my friend, but my original itinerary suddenly seemed out of the question. The next boat to Egypt left in two days, giving me more time to relax and take in the sights. I told myself I needed time to pack as much energy into my body as possible, and ate approximately five gyros per hour.
After saying goodbye to my friend, I boarded the ship for the four-day trip to Alexandria. Up until that point I had been well within my comfort zone. I’d been cycling around Europe since my early twenties and had a pretty good command of most of the languages. I felt that I knew Europeans quite well, and had developed an almost instinctive knowledge of their different sensibilities and customs. But now I was moving into the unknown. I could probably pass as a local in most places I visit, so long as I didn’t open my mouth, but Egypt wouldn’t be one of them. I didn’t speak Arabic, and I didn’t really know what to expect from the people there. I spent most of my time on the boat checking and re-checking my new plan, making sure that the distances made sense.
I would be taking a roughly seven-hundred-kilometre route from Cairo straight through the Sinai Peninsula to the gulf coast before heading north towards Jerusalem. I hoped I could make the trip in one week, as opposed to the forty years the ancient Hebrews had managed, and chose my particular route primarily to avoid Gaza, which wasn’t somewhere I felt I would encounter friendly locals. Taking this longer path meant I would have to ration supplies and water carefully. Up until now, I was able to stop at shops and restaurants to ask them to refill my water bottles, but I wasn’t sure how possible this would be in the desert. East of Suez, there’s really nothing except the odd gas station, and no app or google map will tell you where there is water or a good place to stay. Dehydration and heat stroke were now real possibilities and if I collapsed in the middle of the desert it would be curtains.
Negotiating the roads of Cairo was hell. The drivers were all murderously insane, but the heat was worse. After one hour I felt as if I had done six, and I was sweating so heavily I had to dose my water bottles with little sachets of salt to keep my muscles from seizing. The experience really hammered home how difficult the desert would be, and I made the immanently simple decision to cycle only by night, which was something I hadn’t done before.
Suez was far calmer than Cairo, but I had a hard time explaining to the hotel manager that I needed a room for the day, and not the night. Eventually we agreed I would pay half and he even threw in a free lunch and dinner. I slept for ten hours, waking only to get my meals and keep myself hydrated. At eight o’clock in the evening I checked out, and made my way to a nearby bar-café to wait for nightfall. The glare of Cairo was visible even before the sun had set, but the eastern horizon over the desert was dark and still. The journey across Sinai itself would be about two-hundred kilometres, which I felt I could manage in two nights, all going to plan.
Between Suez in Egypt and Eilat at the coast in Israel, is a town called Nekhel which marks a very rough halfway point. When the sun finally set, I triple checked everything and cycled off into the desert, with my mind fixed on reaching Nekhel before dawn the next day.
That first night was everything I’d could have wished for in a desert crossing. The farther I cycled the brighter the sky became. The stars and moon were enough to light the way, and the solitude and cool air made the going incredibly easy. I was making such good progress that I stopped and walked a lot of the way, taking in the surroundings and munching away at some bread I’d bought in Suez. Two or three cars passed me in the night, but it was so quiet that I heard them coming from miles off, and stood in the sand with my lights off until they passed.
The sun was just beginning to rise as I saw Nekhel emerging at the desert horizon. I knew it would still be a few hours before the town woke up so I found a little nook near a rock to pitch my tent and get some sleep. When I woke the sun was up and I could already feel the heat. The streets of Nekhel were still mostly empty, but by the time I reached the petrol station where I hoped to buy some more water and supplies a little crowd had formed around me.
The locals had some basic understanding of English and were very amused to learn that I was Irish, and amused further still by the trip I was making, “for fun”. They seemed happy I was there, though a few of the older residents regarded me very sceptically. The children in particular were excited by my presence, and the stupid idea that I was like Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey while children laid down palm trees came to mind. My imagination didn’t allow that ass-like analogy to stretch to its grim conclusion, at least not yet.
I was expecting to find a few bottles of water somewhere in the gas station but there were none. I had to settle, in the end, for an ancient looking bottle of coke which probably still had cocaine in it. Back outside, three bearded middle-aged men were waiting for me, all smiles. They gestured to their mouths with their hands asking if I wanted something to eat. I showed them the handful of snickers bars I had just bought, and they all laughed. Without much say in the matter I was led away to one of their houses where they assured me my bike would be safe unchained outside. I chained it anyway, hoping this gesture of mistrust wouldn’t go down too badly. Despite my ragged, dusty appearance, I still undoubtedly appeared like some rich westerner, and fair game for extortion.
Inside the house they gave me bread and some meat. I assumed this had all been prepared by the women of the house, but they were nowhere to be seen. The men poured out some fruit juice too, the kind you get in plastic bottles everywhere in the world. After that they all knelt on the floor and prayed while I sat on the couch awkwardly, wanting very much to lie down. While they knelt, my mind slipped to negotiating the next one hundred and fifty kilometres to Eilat. I could make it in one push if I started just as the sun was setting, I thought. Eilat would be crowded with tourists and I could book a good hotel for three days and even have a swimming pool. All it would take was one hellish all-nighter. The only thing I needed was three litres of water and a place to sleep until night-fall. This couch would do quite nicely, I thought.
Once the men had finished praying, they all looked at me and I smiled back at them. They laughed when I gave them the thumbs up, not knowing what else to do. I think I even bowed to them at some point.
I had learned the word for water of course, in preparation for the trip. Ma’an, which is pronounced more like Mah-on. I said it to them gesturing to the empty bottles hanging from my bag. They all nodded, and I thought they would go to some tap in the kitchen or behind the house and fill my bottles for me. Instead, they retreated to a smaller room and returned with a map. Using an old pencil whose brand I recognised from my school days, they circled a location some ten kilometres north of Nekhel, where I came understand there was a well. I smiled and thanked them, not thrilled that twenty kilometres had been added to my already overextended itinerary. Twenty kilometres may not sound like much in the grand scheme of things, but it had to be at least forty degrees outside by now, and I had planned on using this time to rest. They let me keep the map, and I thanked them again for their hospitality. One of them told me to “keep it cool, dude”, as I unchained my bike. I smiled and assured him that I would.
It was unbearably hot outside and I felt the energy being sapped out of me with every pedal stroke. The coke had given me water and sugar but the sweetness left my mouth feeling clammy and dehydrated anyway. I was thankful at least that this smaller uphill north road was in good shape, though it was littered with here and there with small rocks. I wove between them as carefully as I could. A puncture was the last thing I needed.
After about seven kilometres the tarmac gave way to gravel and the going became even harder. My wheels couldn’t get traction on the loose rocks and it felt like the slope was becoming steeper. At last, dehydrated and exhausted, I came to a small village which seemed roughly the place indicated on the map. When I say village, there were four off-white squat rectangular buildings, all flat-roofed and dilapidated looking. A few cattle and some goats were resting in the shade of the buildings, and behind them, in a sort of clearing, was a circle of tents with ornately patterned rugs draped around and over them. The scene was dominated however, by a large rocky outcrop, maybe fifty metres high, that loomed up above everything else. I had been pushing so hard on the bike that I hadn’t noticed it until just then, and I realised that I had been steadily climbing this same hill since leaving Nekhel. This last part was just a summit of sorts; a towering pile of rocks marking the end of the way. Among the smooth undulating landscape of the desert the thing looked like a rogue wave breaking in the middle of an otherwise calm ocean.
There was an old man leaning against the closest building whipping at flies which a long thin reed.
“Ma’an?” I said, walking my bike over to him. “Ma’an,” I said again, gesturing to my mouth.
He gaped at me wide-eyed and sort of straightened up. He looked me up and down at least four times before I got close enough to show him the map. He regarded it intently, and with an almost panicked look as though it was telegram bearing bad news.
“Ma’an?” I repeated, making some odd slurping noises, hoping that he got my point.
He looked directly into my eyes with his own small brown ones. I saw clumps of dust and sand in his long coarse hairs of his face. His forehead wrinkled as his eyes flicked between each of mine. A smile suddenly broke across his face.
“Ma’an,” he said, “Ma’an”. He repeated himself as though instructing me on how to pronounce it properly. He laughed as I tried to mimic the sound, and patted my shoulder with his hand. I nodded and smiled, then pointed back to the map. The man turned and pointed up at the rocky hill. From this vantage point in the shade I saw some trees sticking out here and there, which meant there had to be water up there somewhere. It didn’t look like the type of thing that could be climbed easily however, even without dragging a bike along too.
I thanked the man anyway and gave a little bow, he took one of my hands into both of his and shook it, still smiling. When he released me, I turned to the hill, cursing the fact I’d have to climb in this heat when I was supposed to be conserving energy. I hadn’t noticed till then but the little village had suddenly become quite crowded. I couldn’t quite figure out why, but they didn’t seem like the friendly type. They looked somehow different than the men in Nekhel, as if they were from a different tribe. They didn’t seem at all interested in striking up polite conversation or feigning friendship in exchange for money.
Before I realised it, I was surrounded, and the kind man who had given me directions had disappeared. I remembered some forum I’d read about jihadis controlling mountain ranges in the Sinai. At the very least the villagers probably thought I was some gun-toting American coming to lord it over them. A few younger boys started pulling at my bike and arguing with me, presumably about giving them a go. The bike had cost me about two-thousand euro, and I had spent another fifty disguising to look like it cost twenty. A much older gentleman, wearing what I can really only describe as a long grey rag, began shouting in a very strained gravelly voice. The others went silent at this, though the children did not stop trying to prise the bike from my grip. Not knowing what else to do I started swatting their hands away and driving my knuckles into the backs of their hands to get them off. I remembered the swiss army knife in my bag which I used sometimes when camping. I always felt it might one day get me out of a dangerous situation, but now that it came to it, I wasn’t at all convinced stabbing my way out was the best option.
Penned against the wall of the building, I tried to push against them and make my way towards the rocky hill. They didn’t like this, and took up shouting at me with renewed rigour. I just smiled back at them and waved, thanking them for their hospitality. But soon I was seizing fistfuls of cloth and pushing them out of the way with my free hand. Then a few of the older men raised their arms to the sky and started screaming and chanting as though beseeching their God to rid their village of this unwanted visitor. I freely admit that this was a bit unnerving, but what concerned me more was the man who jumped on my back and wrapped a skinny arm around my neck.
I tried to hit his face with the back of my head while keeping a firm grip on my bike. I thought I felt my skull connect with his nose and his grip around my neck loosen a bit. When I looked, I saw that they were now brandishing stones. I raised my hands instinctively just as the stones hit my arms and torso and went pinging off my bike and against my exposed legs. This is what everyone had warned me about, Emidio and all my friends back home. I was finally being repaid for my cockiness and ignorance of the real world. I gripped the handlebars, lowered my head and ran as fast as I could towards the hill, too desperate to notice my shadow disappearing from the golden sand in front of me.
Even now, it feels like I slipped out of consciousness for those moments. Or that some passing desert mirage had swept over the scene, and trapped us all momentarily in the eye of it’s grim echoing vortex. Just as I passed beyond the circle of tents, feeling more stones against my back, a chill fell over the desert. I heard the screaming growing louder, though the rocks and sticks had stopped flying. The violent desert heat had been instantly replaced with a cool darkness, and it was this I think that finally stopped me in my tracks.
Out of habit I wiped the dust from my watch and glanced at it. 10:11. I turned to look at the villagers who had stopped screaming by now. Then I saw the moon, huge and black, casting the sun in a blinding crescent in the sky. I covered my eyes without second thought.
As the moments passed, the darkness deepened and I chanced another glance upwards. But for little beads of light poking out around the sides, the eclipse was total. I was transfixed by the sight for a few moments, but the villagers seemed utterly bewildered. Many had fallen to their knees in apparent prayer and some had begun chanting again, this time in reverent, supplicant tones. Still others ran for the shelter of the houses and tents.
These moments allowed my panic to subside a bit, and I realised that the heat of the desert would return in a minute or two, and presumably the full fury of the villagers along with it. Part of me wanted to warn them not to look directly at it, but then, they had all wanted me dead only a few moments ago. In that moment I figured the more of them that were blind the better off I would be.
So I started running again, pushing my bike over the sand, feeling the empty plastic bottles bobbling around awkwardly behind me. I was just about to disappear from view around the back of the tents, when a great booming noise and wind swept down, as though out of the hill, towards me. I shielded my eyes from the dust and sand feeling it cling to the insides of my nostrils and mouth. I struggled to take a breath amidst the whirlwind but almost as soon as it had arrived, it had passed. I looked back at the townsfolk just as the wind hit them. It was in that moment I heard the faint whirling and whooshing noise somewhere above me and the villagers pointing up at something else which had appeared in the sky.
I saw him then, the little boy, ten years old maybe, spinning horribly through the air. Spinning so fast and in such an oddly contorted way that it made his limbs splinter out and crack in horrible directions. He hadn’t fallen, it was as though he had been thrown, more like catapulted. Being where we were, I immediately thought a bomb might have gone off somewhere, or that some long-dormant landmine had been unwittingly unearthed. But that didn’t make sense. The boy had descended from such a height and with such force that his body disappeared from my view amid a cloud of sand and dust as it slammed into the desert.
A moment later my bike lay abandoned behind the tents, and I gathered around the small crater with the villagers. When the dust settled, I saw the boy’s arms and legs jumbled haphazardly in around his body. His head hung back so unnaturally his neck was surely broken. I could see thin white bones sticking out through the skin at his joints. There was a faint hissing noise coming from his body too and the acrid smell of burnt hair was dense around him. In another moment fresh blood began to seep out of him into the surrounding sand.
He was known to the crowd. Of course he was a local, why else would he have been there? And the shrieks went up from the villagers in piercing, skin tingling-tones. Mini-avalanches of sand cascaded down around the body as the crowd struggled closer. I was pushed aside and fell as the strength in my legs gave way. A man who must have been the boy’s father flung himself down into the pit, wailing horribly.
I lay there on the sand not knowing what to do. It felt wrong to go fetch my bike and head for the hill even after they’d tried to stone me to death. Nor did I feel I should intervene in the scene in any way. But before I could even begin making up my mind, two men approached and dragged me roughly to my feet. They marched me towards the hole, and gestured down to the boy. At first, I thought they were trying to blame me for what had happened, but then it seemed as though they were pleading with me. Others turned towards me too with desperate expressions on their faces. These villagers thought I might be able to help the boy, presumably with some advanced western medicine which I, being white, had full knowledge of. Cognisant of the fact that I knew nothing about medicine, other than how to treat blisters and saddle sores, I knelt down at the hole while the father was led away.
The boy was so obviously dead it felt wrong to even look at him. I had known he was dead before he hit the ground, as did everyone else. The blood that had leaked out of him, now forming a horrible black cement with the sand, was all that needed to be observed, not to mention his neck. But feeling the gaze of the villagers on me, and not wanting to do nothing, I looked under each of his eye-lids at the vacant brown eyes beneath. I held a hand against his throat and wondered how long you were supposed to wait to feel anything. His skin was hot to the touch, hotter than a fever, but no obvious signs of burning were upon him. I hoped my disturbed look didn’t give the villagers hope that the boy might still be alive, because they all went silent. I waited, looking down at my watch. I let twenty long seconds tick away before I looked up at the men who had held me, and shook my head. I lifted one of the boy’s tiny limbs and let it fall limply back to the sand. I told them I was sorry and they seemed to get the picture. Everyone was silent then, even the boy’s father.
Somewhere in the minutes that followed I remembered the cross Emidio had given me on the dock in Patras a week previous. I went to my bike to fetch it, and gave it to the man huddled over his son. He looked so detached from his surroundings that I doubt he knew what was going on or what I had given to him. It became immediately clear to me that I might have just made some horrible blunder and offended them. I assumed this tribe was Muslim, though I knew there were some Christian Bedouins on the Sinai, but I hoped they would take it as a gesture of inter-faith goodwill either way. Some of the other men still eyed me suspiciously, but the anger was gone from their expressions. Then, in unison, they sank down to their knees in silent prayer. Not wanting to be the only one standing, and not even thinking about slinking away to the hill any more, I sat down in the odd twilight of the eclipse near the hole where the boy lay.
Their prayer lasted a long time, and I noticed the intense heat returning to the day. I looked just in time to see the last piece of moon traversing the sun. I could feel my skin instantly burning but didn’t dare fetch the sun cream from my bag. It was just becoming unbearable when the men slid upright and stood. They walked up one by one to place conciliatory palms on the fathers back. I followed suit, hoping I wasn’t interrupting the crucial step of some holy rite. I watched with the others as the father lifted his little boy from the hole, and with two men flanking him, carried him off to one of the houses. The rest of the men began filling in the hole where the boy had landed until the scene was just as it was when I had arrived. Then they too retreated off to their tents and houses to get out of the heat. They had forgotten all about me it seemed. I took this as my cue to get to the well, get some water, and get the hell out of there.
The hill turned out to be far larger than I originally thought. It stretched back a couple hundred metres and it’s sides were so steep that there was no straight route to the top. After twenty minutes of walking I had circled it twice, and still felt as though I hadn’t gone very far. The heat was becoming too much, and as much as I hated thinking that I had managed to deplete my energy when I was supposed to be resting, I finally had to admit to myself that I was exhausted. I collapsed beneath the first copse of trees I found, and finished what was left of the coke which was hot and flat. I tied the empty bottle to the others, cognisant as I did so, that I was now completely out of water. I didn’t let myself dwell too long on what would happen if I didn’t find water, but I could hardly believe how badly things had gone in the space of only a few hours. The beautiful calm of the desert the previous night seemed a long way away.
After twenty long minutes I started walking again, and around a corner, I saw a little alcove where the cliff was over-hanging. On the lip above, stood a tall acacia tree, its roots running down through the rock where I saw the sand had darkened. I stooped and drove my hands into the wet cold sand past my wrists. I felt my temperature dropping almost instantly. As I crouched, I could hear the faint trickle of water running somewhere inside the cliff. The well had to be close-by, and sure enough, after my next circle, I saw it, a little circular jumble of rocks near the base of another tree.
I had never seen a well so abundant with water, and was very glad that I didn’t have to fashion a rope out of my shoelaces to lower the bottles. I set about filling all of my bottles and spent a good half an hour in the shade, sipping away until I had drunk half a litre. Having finally secured water, my mind turned to finding a place to rest until nightfall when I could start cycling again. I really didn’t fancy going back out into the sun, and I thought the little overhang below with the cold sand would be an ideal place to catch a few hours of sleep before setting off again.
I made my way back down and unclipped my bag from the pannier and pulled out my towel. I laid it down and placed my bag as my pillow at one end. It was nearly three o’clock by now so I set my phone timer for seven hours and shut my eyes. I fell asleep to the faint sound of running water and the pleasant idea that I still stood a chance of crossing the peninsula that night. The next thing I remember was opening my eyes and feeling like my heart was exploding out of my chest.
I drew myself up onto my elbows staring blankly at the side of the little cliff face. The image of the boy spiralling down out of the sky, and his broken body bleeding out into the sand thrust to the forefront of my mind. I could taste the fresh lamb the men in Nekhel had given me on my breath, and could feel the first sting of sunburn I had so diligently avoided until now. I remembered giving the little wooden cross to the boy’s father. I remembered all of these things. Had they all really just happened? The evidence of all my senses suggested so. But then what on earth had happened to that boy? I felt as though the layers of my adult brain were being stripped away as each tried and failed to rationalise what I had seen. I was gripped with a horrible, yet familiar childish fear, one of those things you are very glad to bid farewell to as you grown older. There was something deadly nearby.
I clawed at my memories of the scene, seeking out holes and vulnerabilities, looking for a thread of logic that would explain how and why the boy had died. Instead I realised, with redoubled panic, that the boy had emerged from somewhere over my head somewhere near the hill, probably from the hill itself. Whatever it was that had caused his death wasn’t too far from where I was lying right now. He had spun so fast, had been broken and twisted so irreparably, I could think of nothing that could have caused it. It was as though he had tumbled straight out of the sky after fighting a family of bears, or after spending a week in a cement truck. But the blood had oozed out of him so freshly, so hot. I could still feel the heat of his skin in my fingers and the limp weight of his arm as I had lifted it. He was freshly dead. Perhaps had still been clinging to life as he spiralled downwards.
I felt dizzy and my vision spun in front of me. I grasped at a bottle of water, downed half of it and emptied the rest over my head, hoping to clear my senses. Clumsily, and barely keeping my balance, I shoved my towel back into my bag and hooked it back onto my bike. I took a moment to close my eyes and steady myself before prising my bike from the wall and beginning the winding descent.
My hands and feet were numb, and my shoulders and arms shook as I tried to navigate the narrow path. It was all I could do to focus on putting one foot ahead of the other. The voices of all my concerned friends spun into my head. Emidio’s concerns were loudest of all. I remembered the panicked expression on his face, and it seemed to pitch my own panic somehow even higher. I was alone, sunburnt, sleep-deprived, probably on the verge of cardiac arrest, on some random hill in the middle of the Sinai Peninsula. I shook my head, and promised myself I would never do anything so stupid ever again. If I ever got off this hill I would cycle to the nearest airport and fly home, abandoning my bike if I had to.
Keeping my eyes focussed only on the next metre ahead of me, I managed two circles of the hill, but as I was moving around into the shady side once more, there was a deep crumbling sound from somewhere behind me. I flinched instinctively imagining a hail of rocks and rubble sliding down. After a moment had passed and feeling nothing but the hammering of my heart, I opened my eyes. There was no cascade of rock, but when I looked, I saw a cloud of dust rising from somewhere up above, as though something had been dislodged. I made my way as quick and as light-footed as I could. This was easier said than done however, as my bike laden with all my supplies clanked along, and my clumsy feet slid awkwardly on the loose rock. My head was still spinning, making the walking ten times harder. At times I nearly forgot about the steep drop-off to my left, and felt my bike skid and slide down before I yanked it back up with trembling arms.
I had barely gone twenty metres further when there was another disturbance in the hill up above, and this time I heard the unmistakable rumbling and cracking of loose rock. I braced myself against the wall. It was hot to the touch, even though this side of the hill was in shadow. I swallowed, my ears trained on the air above, waiting for something to move. I stood frozen, gazing upwards, waiting for the rocks to come spilling down into my field of vision when a horrible hissing and spitting noise began from somewhere close-by.
There were snakes in the Arabian desert. I’d known this before I’d left, but I didn’t think I’d be so unlucky as to encounter one in the wild, let alone in such a precarious position. But when I looked down, expecting to see a black coiled thing baring it’s fangs a few feet away, there was nothing. The narrow path before me was quite empty. I breathed a little easier, hoping this somehow signalled a change in my fortune. It was then I noticed dark patches on the wall where it met the sand, as though steam was percolating up and wetting the cliff face. Then, a small crack in the rock began to sputter and hiss as steam and little streams of water began bubbling out of it.
At first the steam came with a weak hissing, but soon it was coming in large sputtering jets, and not just from a tiny sliver in the rock, but from what now seemed like a wide fault line running up the entire face of the hill. I staggered backwards against the heat, watching as a wall of water sprang outwards from the cliff.
When I regained my balance, I gripped a little nook in the rock and leaned out over the edge of the path. Beneath me was a five-metre vertical drop after which the terrain levelled out to a rocky slope. If I caught the start of the slope the right way with my feet, I felt I could make it, but I doubted my bike would survive the fall without some more delicate part getting mangled. I thought for a second of dangling it over the edge and letting it slide down as gently as possible, but thankfully a part of my brain that was still working overrode this.
The fissure continued to spit and hiss, and I could feel it’s heat again as I inched closer. It was too hot, hotter than water and steam should be. I could feel it radiating through the wall. I sized up the drop on my left one last time, before gritting my teeth and setting my sights on the path before me. If I timed it right, I could slip past the fissure during a temporary lull in the stream. Then in five or ten minutes I’d be back on the road with my bike still intact. I waited for the next big burst of water to subside, then strode along as quickly as I could, squeezing the handlebars of my bike with a death grip.  
I seemed to have picked the right moment, and even felt a stupid little thrill at what a proper adventure this was, when something caught my eye, and I stopped moving. I was level with the fissure now, and thinking back, I still can’t imagine how dazzling the thing must have been to stop me there and then, directly in the line of fire.
A pale light was emanating from somewhere inside the hill. It was as though someone was shining a torch back out at me, but the light felt richer somehow than torchlight. It was like starlight. It’s furnace was lit with some rare primordial element which burned with a hue no human eye had ever seen. The gap in the rock was quite narrow, narrow enough maybe for a small child to slip into. Without thinking, I crouched and leant in closer to the rock placing my hands against it and squeezing my face inside. I felt the heat of the rock against my face, but I didn’t care. If a jet of steam or water had come at that moment I would have been blinded and badly burned, no question. But all thought of danger, exhaustion, or really any thought at all, had vanished.
As I looked, I saw that the light had a white goldish quality about it. I could feel it vibrating the rocks beside me and causing the little bits of dirt and gravel around me to dance and jitter back and forth. I realised then the source of the light, somewhere in the heart of the hill, was making a noise. A noise so deep and otherworldly that I could scarcely make it out. It was like the deepest growling of a long dormant giant in the mountain, it was barely at the limit of my perception. I squinted harder trying to see deeper, to put some definite shape on the light, but I couldn’t. I even wriggled one of my hands inside, but I couldn’t reach. My eyes began to sear with the brightness, worse than with the eclipse which had fallen over the little boy. I felt the air on my face grow hotter, and a maybe little bit of sense crept back into my brain. I pulled out for a moment and blinked my eyes to get my vision back into focus. I had every intention putting my face back into hole when I felt the rock beneath my hands begin to shake and become so hot it was unbearable to touch. I took a step back. One step too many.
I fell, feeling every horrible empty inch of the drop as I went. I fell amid flecks of shattered rock, boiling water, and steam, feeling tiny patches of my skin beginning to scald. I remember a moment later landing on my bike, the steel of the frame digging horribly into my back and knocking the wind out of me. I remember sliding down the slope while above me the hill continued to spew steam and chunks of rock flew out into the air. By some miracle the larger stones seemed to fall around me, though one struck horribly into my right shin and the another thudded against the soft flesh at my right shoulder. I remember being circled in a cloud of dust feeling every bit of pain, ten times worse than the worst bike crash I’d ever had.
 I don’t remember passing out, but when I came to, the dust had settled and I was staring back up at the hill, noticing the wide streak through the rubble I must have made as I slid down. I don’t know how long I lay there after rolling painfully off my bike, but by the time I felt I could get up again, night had fallen. I found was able to walk more or less fine, though my back and knees ached horribly. Breathing was painful though. I had broken at least one rib, that felt certain, and the rest were badly bruised. But my bike seemed to have survived the fall unscathed. Some spokes on the rear wheel had been bent but miraculously the rim hadn’t twisted. One of my water bottles had been punctured and its contents had leaked out around me as I lay, but I still had three bottles to get me through the night.
I remember standing beside the hill, seeing its dark shadow silhouetted against the stary sky. A little bit off were the faint glowing lights of the village. All was still and calm. It occurred to me that the villagers were performing the requisite rituals and rites for the safe passage of the boy who had died only a few hours ago. As I walked my bike past the village, I saw one of the little buildings was crowded with people, all turned and focussed on some central point, where I knew the body of the little boy lay.
When I had walked well past the village, and the hill itself had disappeared into the night, I drew a deep quivering breath of the cooling desert air and let it out rapidly in one great puff. I hadn’t decided what I would do with regards to sleeping, though I figured I’d at least head back to Nekhel to stock up in the petrol station. I hoped it wouldn’t be closed.
In the easy downhill ride, while part of my brain was taking care of all practical matters, I was also mulling over what I had seen inside the hill. Maybe it had been some miniature volcano or some new fissure that had been torn up because they were digging for oil somewhere close. There had probably been an explosion, a mini-eruption which killed the little boy, and I had been hit with the aftershocks. This explanation made some sense but it really didn’t sit right with me. Leaving aside the fact that the water I got from the well should at least have been a bit hot if it was near an active volcano, the light I had seen inside the hill was not the dim orange glow I would have associated with lava. There was no earthy, burning, sulphur smell at all, and the light had been golden white. As I got settled into my regular cadence, I reminded myself that in my panicked, semi-delirious state, I had probably missed some little piece of evidence that would have made the truth of the matter perfectly clear. Either that, or some exceedingly rare natural phenomenon had happened which I had no knowledge of. This would suffice for now.
I leaned against the wall of the petrol station tearing into a snickers bar and downing as much coke as I could swallow. Nekhel was as quiet now as it had been when I’d first rolled in that morning but it felt utterly changed, as though ten years had passed. The western sky was the darkest shade of purple while the east was entirely black. After its dramatics during the day, the moon had disappeared off behind one of the horizons. The sky was full of stars and no wind disturbed the frozen sea of the desert sands. I made one last check of my bags and supplies before setting off once again, planning on cycling as far as I could then finding somewhere to sleep before finishing the journey to the gulf the next night.
Thirty minutes in, I felt completely alone again. It was just me, my bike, and the empty expanse of space above and around me in every direction. Whenever I look back, these times of utter solitude are the ones I remember most fondly. Though I may, in some lonelier moments, post a picture online just to see the likes ticking up from the people I know around the world, the real treasure of my trips, as in most things I’ve done, are the moments I’ve shared with only myself. Moments for which there is no proof they’ve happened at all, except my own memories, in whatever form they may take. Sharing moments like these always feels crude in some way, like telling someone about a good deed you did. There is a far deeper satisfaction from doing the good things anyway and telling no one.
The darkness stretched on and on into the small hours, and my body was faring better than I’d expected. But somewhere deep in the heart of the night, my solitude was broken.
After I’d ticked over one-hundred kilometres, and it seemed like the lights of the stars were finally beginning to fade, I saw a figure on the road up ahead. When you cycle in near complete darkness you sometimes see things, like the colours and patterns that spring up when you close your eyes, but I saw the young boy then, as clearly as when I’d held his arm and felt the thin lifeless skin of his neck. There was no blue glow, or transparency. The boy walked quite plainly along the opposing hard shoulder, wearing the same loose clothes he had died in. He turned his head and our eyes met, blue on brown. He didn’t smile, but his face was not expressionless. There was a hint of curiosity there, but above all was an odd sort of aged certainty. The comfort of a great secret shared only by dead things.
In the next moment we had passed and my hands, a little numb from the cold, struggled to tug on the breaks. I came to a jerking stop and nearly lost control and toppled into the sand. When I looked back, I saw only the white the soles of his feet disappearing into the night, like the pale flames of two candles slowly flickering out. Then they were gone. I looked all around me, suddenly afraid, as though expecting more people to be there, but there was no one. For a little while I considered cycling after him, just to be sure that he had really been there. But at some point, I must have gotten back on my bike and continued cycling east, for when I finally came to my senses, the sun had risen before me and I was approaching the Red Sea and the border crossing at Taba.
The Israeli guards looked at me, astonished. I must have looked like a ghost myself, pock-marked from the boiling water and covered in a thin film of dust. After checking my passport, they turned my bag inside out, and inspected every inch of my bike. Then, after pouring out all of my water bottles, and without a good enough reason not to, they stamped my passport and let me in.
The short stretch of coastline to Eilat was like any other seaside tourist destination, and was so different from the desert, that I had an odd disjointed feeling as if my immediate experience was being channelled through somebody else’s eyes. I passed large convoys of tour buses and at least seven resorts on the road before I got to the city. Signs for restaurants and hotels popped up everywhere. Lightheaded and still wrestling with the thoughts of everything I had seen, I checked in for a three-night stay at one of the first hotels I saw. After receiving assurances that my bike would be safe in the store room, I went to my room and dumped all my gear in to the cupboard. Then it was a long cold shower, over-priced room-service, and sleep.
It was bright when I woke up, and checking my watch I saw that I had slept through the night and well into the next day. The pain from my fall and the full night of cycling had caught up with me, and my body ached everywhere. In the end I checked in for a further two days, and spent most of my time in the pool trying stretch out my muscles and get them ready for the next push north through the holy land. But by the fourth night, after I had time to think everything over, I decided to cut the trip short and booked a flight back to France.
Often, it’s the idea of avoiding failure that helps me through the longer trips, but I didn’t feel like a failure for quitting early this time. The thought of going through “less safe” areas like Syria was off-putting enough, but more than that, I felt more exhausted than I had ever been in my life, and the five days I spent lounging around the hotel had done nothing to help. Dodgy border-crossings and the odd resurrection, these standard events when traversing the middle east, were more than enough experience to justify taking the trip, I decided.
Thankfully, there were direct flights from Eliat-Ramon airport to Charles de Gaulle, the only trouble was my bike. I ended up having to purchase a full row of seats, in accordance with the rules of the French airline (you know the one), only for the flight crew to store my bike in the hold free of charge anyway.
When I finally got back to my apartment in Rennes, I flung my bike and bag into the basement not wanting to see or touch either of them for a long while. I spent the extra two weeks of my holidays sleeping in my apartment and drinking beer in the main square. I told the few friends who’d messaged that everything had gone mostly fine but that in the end I’d decided against cycling through Syria. They wanted to know all about my trip though Egypt and the Sinai but I just told them it was a beautiful but harsh place with kind people.
A month or so later, after I’d gone back to work, and the narrative of the journey began its slow transformation from near-lethal death-trip to epic adventure in my brain, I felt the urge to return to the road. In the basement, I found my bike looking like an old crusty relic, and it took a full day to wipe the sand and dust out of each crevice. The derailleur had been cracked too, probably in the fall from the cliff, and would need replacing. But other than that, the bike was in perfect working order.
I opened my bag and found, among the mushy remains of a forgotten snickers bar, an old battered map of central Sinai. Nekhel was clearly marked in the centre of the map, and a faded circle a few centimetres above marked an apparently empty stretch of desert where the village and the hill had been. I traced the faint circle with my finger, as though trying to trace the outline of the events in my head. It was dream-like, but the map was there, and everything I had seen was still sharp in my head. At the bottom of my bag I found a roll of clean, unused white socks, and had to laugh to myself.
Back upstairs, I turned my bag inside-out, threw everything into the washing machine, and flicked all the setting to maximum. I was about to throw the clean bundle of socks into my cupboard when I felt something hard rolled up inside them. Probably some errant rock or long-lost bike tool I thought, but when I pulled the socks apart, a small wooden cross sprang out and landed on the bed. I looked down at the thing for a few minutes, as though it were some intruder, or a grenade that had fallen from the sky. I held the thing in my hand remembering the boy and his father, and I could see them quite clearly again. I could even smell the seared hair and flesh of the boy.
Without thinking, I hurried to a little drawer in the sitting room where I keep old notebooks, plans, and any artefacts I find on my travels. The cross looked awkward sitting there on top of everything so I covered it with some photographs and crumpled pieces of paper with distances and elevations marked in faded ink. I went back to the bedroom to fetch the socks and threw them into the machine, before sitting down to plan my next trip.
I really meant to forget about that cross. But those trinkets and things locked away in drawers always have a way of surfacing again. The more things I pile on top, the more these deep things bubble up to the surface of my brain. Ideas and images of old places and old roads, of little nooks in hills and memories I tell no one about. Pictures of Swiss mountains marked with death. Forbidden hills frozen in desert time. Where for brief moments I’ve seen the shadows of those who have traversed the narrow ledges and crevices, seeking treasure and shelter in the places our world keeps her Gods. It’s this search, I think, that keeps me coming back to the places I’ve never been.

Gordon White is both a short story writer and poet living in Southeastern Michigan. His poetry and prose has been published in Thin Space and he works as a professional journalist. When not writing, he can be found reading literary classics, singing along to musical soundtracks, or strolling outside. 

​I killed the Nobel laureate Miriam Lucia.
The morning of her death, I stepped out of the Village Gardens Correctional Facility with my assets: $150 gate money divided into tens and twenties; discharge papers crumpled in my back pocket; a bus ticket to Paynestown, Michigan; jeans and a plain black tee; decreed freedom.
The VGCF, that colossal brick painted the color of skeletons, had vomited me out onto the liberated sidewalk. A guard leaned against its body and smoked.
“How's it feel?” he asked with a stifled laugh. Without answering, I stuck my middle finger up at the VGCF and walked away from the monster that consumed the past six years of my life with little more than a burp.
If there were bluebirds chirping liberty in the surrounding dogwoods, or an awakening sun streaking the sky with molten metal, I noticed neither. I felt only a chilled, slumbering morning, muted and colorless, dimmed by a lingering, wispy fog. I started toward the bus stop.
The VGCF resides in a busted town west of Nashville. I reached the main road within two blocks, and the lonely morning drivers, accustomed to a city of tattered men roaming from alley to alley, would not have considered a man recently released from the federal prison as unusual.
On my right, the Jim Turlette Hospital rose seven stories, the only building taller than the VGCF in the area. A decade of disuse had shattered its windows, devoured its innards, and repainted its entire body with obscene graffiti. Three years prior, my cellmate escaped and hid in the condemned building's closet for three days before his recapture. He told me that he found dusty cans of tomato sauce that he drank for his meals. Without Emile, with nowhere to settle, I would have escaped to that hospital and decayed into a forgotten vermin tucked away in a city cranny.
During my stint, Emile Liza-Boyette mailed a letter every six months and visited every twelve. Always composed in sloppy handwriting, the letters told of tedious busy work at his father's investment firm — Edward never trusted him with real money — and repeatedly reminded me that I had a place to stay upon leaving the VGCF. When he visited, the thirty minutes we had were spent discussing what we'd do together when I got out: binging the television series he had discovered, basketball and mountain biking, road trips to the west side of the state, and joining him as a grunt at the firm. 
Emile was the type of guy who popped like popcorn. Wherever he was, his exuberant spunk leaped up and bucked, most like a naïve pup jumping against a fence far too tall to be hurdled. He constantly spoke about “defeating the system,” and I never learned quite what he meant by it.
In high school, we snuck into a nightclub on the south side of Paynestown. As we sat at our table and drowned in the thumping music under icy blue halogen lamps, he leaned in close. “Dude, Jonah. This is what I'm always going on about. These people just dance and drink and laugh, but they're all so empty. It's the system, right? But we're different. We see beyond it. We're gonna get out of it. Defeat the system, you know? Overcome the hands that reach up from the ground to pull us down.” His gesticulations typically held my attention more than his words. He had pounded the table like a dictator when he declared our freedom from the system, and he had grabbed my hand and nearly dislocated it when talking about the need to overcome the grave-people.
On another occasion, in lieu of playing basketball, he proclaimed with an adamant speech that it was time to “defeat the system” by bringing a ladder to the park. He toted it under his arm to the asphalt, stood it up beside the basketball hoop, and climbed. Then he shifted his weight from the ladder and plopped himself on the rim of the basketball hoop, whooping about how the system wasn't going to tie him to Earth.
“Yeah?” I said. I pulled the ladder away. He looked down from his ten-foot throne, dangled his legs, and then gymnastically slid through the hoop so that he was hanging from it, grasping the rim with his hands. He dropped himself to the ground and landed on his feet, wincing at the shock.
“Two points,” he said. “The system loses.” That was Emile, and after my six years of exile, we would reunite.  
Before reaching the bus stop, I detoured into a McDonald's. A man with sagging eyes and tangled white hair squinted at me from behind the register and frowned. My tattoos — a skull on my left arm and an inverted gothic cross on my right — branded me as creature of danger in the free world. Standing six feet and six inches tall added to this image.
I strode to the front counter and grinned at the old man.
“What would you like?” he said dutifully.
“A sausage biscuit and a medium soda.”
“$2.48.”
The old man took my five dollar bill as he squinted and frowned at my bankroll. He gave me my change and an empty soda cup before retreating to the kitchen with a grunt. I filled my drink at the soda machine and he delivered the sausage biscuit in the typical paper bag. He disappeared to the kitchen and I took my food to a greasy table in the corner. With two hours before I needed to meet the bus and only ten minutes to walk, I sipped the soda and chewed the sandwich without rush, watching the man come out to refill the ketchup dispenser and attend to other tasks. He spoke with someone in the back office. 
As I ate and my eyes followed the employee moping back and forth within the kitchen, I remembered, faintly, the day in third grade when my parents had awarded me a burger to celebrate my first soccer goal. And I remembered the single letter they sent me during my stay in the VGCF: Jonah, we are moving from Paynestown. Written between the lines: Do not contact us. After what I did to my cousin, I understood.
Two police officers marched into the fast food joint. They were pygmies compared to the titans I had acclimated myself to in prison. They did not order, but strode directly to me.
“The sign says all stays should be limited to thirty minutes,” the first officer said, pointing at a paper sign taped to a window. She was a bit shorter than the male officer, and her dry coffee hair had been pulled back in a ponytail.
“I hadn’t read it,” I said. “But I’m the only guy here. I’m sure its fine.”
“This manager would like to know why you’re just sitting here. He says it's been forty five minutes,” the second officer added. Body odor oozed from his belly's flab. 
“The sign says all visits should be limited to thirty minutes,” the woman included.
“You already said that.”
“Don’t you think you should leave?” mister police officer said.
“Why?”
“The sign says…” he began.
“Says thirty minutes, yeah, I know.” I slurped the final dregs of my soda. They kept standing there. “Am I doing something wrong? And don’t tell me what the sign says. The restaurant’s empty.”
“Do you have ID?” fat man said.
I handed him my prison ID. Miss officer took it from mister and inspected it with squinting eyes. 
“Congratulations on your release,” she said flatly. She gave the ID back. “You can stay if you’re just waiting for your bus. But a word of advice — being a bit nicer to us officers might make your life a bit easier. I’m sure you don’t want to end up back where you came from.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You guys do a lot of good. Kicking people out of fast food restaurants and all. Keep at the noble work, officers.”
The two of them spoke with the manager at the counter, who had emerged from his office to watch my interrogation. The manager crossed his arms and nodded, lips pursed. The old man eavesdropped, and I smirked when he glanced at me. He shifted his gaze and grunted.
As they spoke, I stood up and walked to the exit, leaving my assorted trash on the table. “Have a great day, all you.” I slammed the door as I left and went to the bus stop.
I waited the remaining hour alone. The morning fog dissolved as the air heated into a mild, stale warmth that announced the sweltering afternoon to come. At 8:53, eight minutes late, the flat-faced bus drove up gurgling engine coughs and parked with an exhale. The bus driver, a scrawny man with thick-rimmed glasses, opened the door and examined my ticket as I stepped on. The bus reeked as if a dead animal were decomposing within it, and only about half the seats held passengers. 
“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice submerged under a potent German accent. “We should get to Paynsetown on time. About eight hours.”
“Thanks, bud.”
“Ah. That is where Miriam Lucia is from, yes?”
“Yup.”
“Ah, yes. She is visiting her hometown, I hear.”
“Thanks, bud.” I walked to my seat.
In ninth grade, I flattened a kid to the floor with a single punch. After the punch, a girl cursed at me and then went and bent down next to the boy. She had braided her hair into two pigtails, and I recognized her face — plain and not quite attractive — as the cheerleader who always danced out of step with music at the football games. She wrapped her arm around him and lifted his weight, and then knelt, grabbed his glasses, and put them on his face with a strange timbre of intimacy.
I only learned the girl’s name, years later, when I saw her on television during my stay at the VGCF. She spoke to a news anchor about the effect of some African conflict upon Sudanese refugees. Sometime between high school and that interview, Miriam Lucia founded the International Organization for Supporting Displaced Peoples, which raised more money in one year for aiding refugee populations than the world had donated in the previous decade combined.
Six months before I left prison, Time Magazine declared Miriam Lucia the Person of the Year in the same month she received the Nobel Peace Prize. I saw the cover: She was standing in a Pakistani refugee camp, with refugees meandering amongst the tents in the background. She held a malnourished newborn and spoke to the mother, a small, bony woman in a missized t-shirt and baggy athletic shorts. The mother smiled candidly as she looked at Miriam Lucia, who gazed back with an expression that blended compassion and grief. She was thirty-two in the photo, but looked much older, mature and austere. Not pretty, but venerable. I never cared that her hometown was the same as mine.
The bus rattled over the highway, and several hours after our departure, the German accent boomed and crackled over the speaker, the volume misadjusted. “Attention, passengers. We’re going to take our mandatory stop a little earlier. Ah, everything is fine, and you have no need to worry. We’ll be stopping at the next gas station, and you may stretch your legs.”
 
The bus pulled off the next exit, which brought us into a modest town with its gas station perched on a hill, overlooking the highway.
“Alright passengers, we’ll be stopping here for a half hour. Be back on the bus at 12:35.”
I bought two hot dogs, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter, and when I walked outside of the station, the bus driver had popped the hood of the bus and was telling onlooking passengers, “Ah yes, everything is okay. Engine just needs to cool a little.”
I walked to patch of grass, protected from the mumbling that inevitably arises when public transit reminds passengers of its fickleness. Benevolent clouds blocked the sun while a flickering breeze tempered the heat.
I went through my hot dogs and two smokes, stomping the dead stubs into the dirt as I watched the interstate rush below. A bus passenger, with a black biker jacket and a thick moustache curving up into handlebars, approached and wanted a cigarette.
“Got a dollar?” I asked. He paid me and started smoking beside me, watching the freeway flow beneath us.
“What stop you getting off?” he asked. I told him a town east of Lansing, and he said would be getting off around Fort Wayne. “Family up there?”
“I'm going back to my hometown. Just got out of prison.”
The man didn’t react. “Village Gardens? I spent a few years locked up there a decade or so ago and rode this same bus. Same driver too.”
I told him it was the Village Gardens.
“Sammy Glenn still the warden there?”
“Yeah.”
“Still thin as a stick? Ugly black hair?”
“Still thin. He’s bald now.”
The biker told me that his name was Jeremy, and I told him mine was Jonah. He paid for a second smoke.
“How long were you with Sammy Stick?” he asked.
“Six years.” I added that I was in for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.
“You didn’t miss much. Turn of the millennium. War in the Middle East. Tax cuts for rich people. That's about it.” He looked at his watch and noted that we should probably return to the bus.
 
After we sat down in our separate seats, the driver entered the bus, switched on the coughing engine, and proclaimed over the loudspeaker, “Ah yes, we are good to go. Everything with the bus is fine; the engine just needed to cool down.”
 
Around three and a half hours later, when the bus stopped at Fort Wayne, Jeremy exited. As he passed, he dropped a $50 bill onto my lap, along with a business card that said Jeremy Carlisle: Biker, pastor, friend. On the opposite side, Jeremy had written Thanks for the smoke. Transition back to life can be tough. Call if you need some help. I stuck the $50 in my pocket. I shredded the business card and it fluttered to the bus floor like dead butterfly wings.
 
 
At 6:32, twenty-six minutes late, the bus squealed into Paynestown.  “Ah, Paynestown,” reported the driver. On my way out, I slapped him on the shoulder with a “thanks, bud” and stepped into my hometown.
On the north side of Paynestown, families hold cookouts and race in Mercedes and ride lawnmowers over pristine lawns. The south is straight poor. The areas are linked only by Turtle Road, which is lined with restaurants and offices and mechanics and schools, all of them growing imperceptibly in quality as one moves further north. 
“It’s like a rainbow!” Emile had once announced. In retrospect, I think he meant the way that violet slides into red across the sky mimics the spectrum of wealth, but at the moment, I was so surprised that his sentence didn’t include “the system” that I didn’t process his attempt at an odd metaphor.
The bus stop was on the poor, violet side. Emile, his family, and my childhood home were in the far north, on the crisp edge of the red. The pavilion sat awkwardly behind a deserted grocery store, hidden from the view of the main street. Growing up, my parents drove me to the bus stop in Lolima thirty minutes away, rather than risk the stop in south Paynestown.
When I stepped off the bus to the bus stop, a repurposed park pavilion with a few splintered benches, the one person there started. The college kid wore a blue baseball cap and a pristine orange backpack, and he began tapping his foot and bouncing in eagerness for his bus to arrive and carry him to safety.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
“What?” the boy said.
“I asked what’s your name, kid?” I growled.
He stuttered out that his name was Elijah.
I strode up to him and stared him in the eyes. He looked down. The kid, lanky and with spaghetti arms, was visibly rattling with fear, frozen. His face only reached my chest. “You from the north side?”
He nodded.
“Now, I’m going to say this once, Elijah — hand me your wallet or phone, or so help me God, I will beat you up here on the spot.”
Elijah started crying as he reached into his pockets and handed me what I asked for.
“Don’t cry kid. I’m not going to hurt you if you just listen.” I thumbed through his wallet and stole his $218 dollars, returning the emptied wallet. I put his phone, a cheap gray flip phone, into my pocket. He was still crying. “Dude, suck it up.” As he was putting the wallet in his pocket, I shoved him so that he tumbled backward to the ground. I jogged away, turning a corner and vanishing from his site. I got a cab on Turtle Road with no concerns that traumatized Elijah would remember me well enough to track me down. The cabbie dropped me off at my childhood home in its suburb.
My old home is a federal colonial constructed of cobblestone, with splashes of western red cedar for color. The body is symmetrical — a square central body with two wings, one on each side. My parents, who made $341,000 collectively, took the west wing and allowed me to rule the east side like I owned it. All for myself, I had a bedroom with a vaulted ceiling; a video game room; a room with foosball, ping pong, and pool; and an “office” that became an extended closet for superfluous junk that didn't fit in my room. 
I beheld the home and its sprawling yard, the sun arcing toward the close of day behind the building. Two women chatted in the driveway beside an Aston Martin and a toddler kicked a mini soccer ball in the yard. Eying me, one of the women called the child to her. I left.
It took four minutes to walk to Emile and his parent’s home. 2810 Roseville Court, Paynestown, Michigan.
The home was neoclassical, with a full portico over the front door, and a gazebo beside a Japanese maple in the front yard. Their fine dining room was tucked away on the fourth floor, with a glass dome opening to the sky like an observatory.
I stepped onto the lawn and said, under my breath, “Freedom.” My soul exhaled, as if it had held its breath since this morning and only believed in its liberation upon reaching the Liza-Boyettes. Sanctuary. Deliverance. Home.
I moved to the portico and knocked on the door as my eager heart raced. For the first minute, nobody came. I knocked once more and rang the bell. A moment passed and the door swung open. I smiled the widest I had in six years.
The blank face of Edward Liza-Boyette stared at me. His eyes were lifeless, empty, unfeeling.
“Hello, Jonah,” he said, in a numb tone of professionalism. He turned inside his home and said, “Honey, it’s Jonah Turner.”
He returned his gaze to me. His unfeeling face reminded me of a corpse. “Please come in. We’ve just finished dinner.” He spoke it as if he were reading off of a script.
I stepped in. I recognized the interior of the house, but an alien fog, like the one I had seen that morning outside the VGCF, hung upon everything like dust. Juliette, Emile’s mother, stopped her dishwashing and came to me, standing with the kitchen table between us. Her face was as dead as Edward’s. I looked around for Emile and his sister but saw neither.
“Please sit down,” she said, handing me a glass of water.
“Hard to believe it’s been six years,” I said, keeping my voice pleasant and floaty, trying to massage friendship into the conversation.
“Yes,” Edward deadpanned.
“Is Emile here? I’d love to see him.”
“Emile is dead,” Juliette answered. Her words were toneless, in the way someone might declare objective facts: Two plus two is four, the capital of Michigan is Lansing, Emile is dead, Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel.
“Oh.” I bowed my head. “What…what happened?”
“A car crash four months ago,” said Edward. He paused for fifteen seconds, then turned to Juliet and asked, “Should I tell him?” But Juliet shook her head.
“What? What should I know?”
“It’s no bother,” Juliet said. “We’re sorry for the loss of your friend.”
“Yes,” was all I could say. Edward and Juliet said nothing else, and after two minutes of sitting in desolate silence, I looked once more at them, at their hollow souls echoing with misery, and stood up to go. They remained sitting, saying nothing as I let myself out of their house and closed the door behind me.
I took labored breaths, like gasps. My soul choked and I lingered under the portico’s safety. Where to go? Back to the hospital? Ignore my parents’ note and find them, wherever they hid, and plead for their protection? I left 2810 Roseville Court, slogging from the promised security that had been torn from me. 
Two minutes after departing, after beginning my meandering into nowhere, a voice called out from behind me. “Jonah!”
I turned. Emile’s sister, Rebecca, jogged up to me. She was five years younger than Emile, 23 years old, and was adopted from Iran as a newborn. Thick eyeliner masked her eyes, and her ebony hair stretched to a few inches above her waist. Her eyes flickered with a semblance of life, like a frail heart recently resuscitated, whispering.
“I was sitting on the stairs inside,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything.” 
“I understand. I’m sorry for your loss.” Rebecca and I would flirt when we hung out with Emile together, but a friendship never grew beyond our mutual connection to her brother.
“I’m sorry about my parents, Jonah. They have changed. More than you can image.”
“His death hit them hard?”
“Harder than you can believe. Listen, four months ago, my parents would’ve offered you a room and a job. I know Emile promised that. But they really aren’t ready.”
“I know.”
Rebecca remained there for a moment, and then began whimpering, like a puppy deserted in the wickedness of night. She rubbed her eyes, then sobbed. I hugged her and she placed her head on my chest, crying for several minutes. I did not say anything. The woman from my childhood home walked by with her toddler in the stroller and watched us in confusion, beholding a grieving sister embracing a criminal who had assaulted his own cousin with a knife.
Rebecca sniffled, and as she wiped her eyes again, eyeliner spread down her face with the memory of tears, she thanked me.
I asked her, gently, what her parents had considered telling me.  
“I shouldn’t say.”
“Please,” I begged.
“Are you sure?” She bit her lip again and looked to her feet.
“I’m sure.”
Still she thought, as if the words were a heavy burden. “My parents — they are trying really hard not to blame you — but they can’t avoid it. Emile was driving to see you, a surprise visit, when he got in the crash.”
“Oh.” She and I stood there for another minute as I chewed her words.
“I hope you do well, Jonah.” She touched my arm as she said goodbye. She returned to her home, shrinking in the distance as the sun crossed the horizon behind a curtain of colorless clouds.
As twilight darkened, I purchased a pack of Budweiser, Emile’s favorite alcohol, from a gas station. I took the drinks to Paynestown Community Park.
The park held the basketball court where Emile had climbed the ladder, along with a jungle gym, swing set, and sand volleyball court. A track encircled the plot, and a woman’s silhouette traced around me. The park’s east side bordered a forest crowded with vegetation, and the west side opened to Turtle Road. A few lonesome crickets chirped.  
I sat on a bench and drank a can of beer, then another, a third, and a forth. The alcohol did not shrink my grief. I shut my eyes and saw Emile in the nightclub, pounding his dictatorial fists. And I saw my cousin, his eyes bursting with terror as he wheezed,  "Jonah...please...I didn't mean to...you don't know what you're doing...stop...please" as I held him down, blade in hand, and screamed that, inebriated or not, he should never have kissed my girlfriend.
The pain swelled into wrath as I understood why the second memory had floated to my mind. My cousin murdered Emile. Atonement for a stolen life is not cheap, and my cousin — who I guessed was still living with my parents — would reimburse me for my anguish. I could search him out.
I flipped open Elijah’s phone. 9:12. Unwilling to suffer the abasement of sleeping outside, I stood up to walk to the Paynestown Motel. My legs struggled to keep me upright. I moved across the park, shadowed in the blackening evening, and stepped into the road to cross. In the middle of the lane, I remembered the leftover alcohol remaining on the bench.
I turned to retrieve the drinks, and two headlights blazed into my eyes. My legs gave way and I collapsed like paper crumpling into itself, my body slamming the concrete. Two arms — thin and supple — heaved me off the road and shoved me onto grass. The air shattered with the noise of squealing tires and two thumps, the first thud far louder than the second.
I lifted my face from the grass. The pickup driver glimpsed me, and then rushed to attend to my savior, who lay on the road. I crossed the park on swaying legs, running off kilter like an animal that has lost a leg. I vanished into the forest. Sires whined in the distance as a I escaped deeper into the lightless wood, finally sliding down onto the trunk of a collapsed tree, exhausted.
That night was longer than my six years in prison. I did not sleep, but shivered in the abyss, swatting away the galaxy of mosquitoes that spun around me. Elijah’s phone vibrated in my pocket and I crushed it with a rock. Over and over I heard the sound of the car squealing and thudding into a mass of muscle, and I heard the lifeless words echo, “Emile is dead. Emile is dead. Emile is dead.” I did not cry. I stared out into the cloaked forest and prayed in groans to Jeremy’s God that I might blink my eyes and find myself back in my jail cell.
And a wrath smoldered. Because all that had happened in the past eighteen hours, the many stubborn threads weaving death and ache, all joined in one undisputable source: My cousin’s small act six years ago. I would serve justice.
***
NOBEL PEACE PRIZE WINNER MIRIAM LUCIA DEAD AT 32, STRUCK BY CAR declared headlines.
The morning following her death, I left the forest. I did not emerge by the park, but a mile south, where the wood line touched the sidewalk off Turtle Road. I entered Paynestown Pink’s Coffee & Tea, a beanery painted bright pink on the inside and decorated with a myriad of lilies, lilacs, and orchids. 
“Hello,” said the barista, a girl my age with two brown pigtails sticking out of a pink company hat. “What would you like, sir?”
I perused the menu of teas and pastries. My stomach craved nothing. The smell of roasting coffee mixing with flowers kindled the nausea already present in my belly.  
“Sir? What would you like?” I had been standing there, blank-faced, for at least thirty seconds.
“Umm…green tea.”
“Size?”
“Any size is fine.”
“What size?” she answered, thinking she had misheard me.
“Whatever you think,” I said as I threw a ten dollar bill onto the counter and lumbered away. I sat at a distant table in the empty bistro, slumping my head into my hands. How can a body hold so much agony and not explode? The two thuds resonated throughout the cavern of my soul. Emile was dead, and I was not. And no justice could change that. 
“Here you go,” floated the barista’s voice as she laid the green tea mug lithely onto my table several minutes later. She put the $10 bill next to it. “It’s on the house. Your day will turn up.” I didn’t look up at her. The grace of the money scalded me, the pink optimism burning my eyes. I took one sip and gagged.
Two women walked in several minutes later.  
“Medium mocha, please,” the first woman told the barista, paying with a credit card. She wore too much makeup, her lipstick a bit too red for her pale face. “Having a nice Sunday?”
“Only been up for an hour,” the barista chuckled, “But yeah, I am. Thanks for asking. You?”
“With this warm morning, how can’t you? Gloria, what are you getting?”
The second woman, who wore a wide-brimmed red hat, marched up and said “medium green tea” as if she were commanding a servant. The barista took the order without noticing the condescension, and went back to make the drinks.
Gloria and the polite woman took their seats across the coffee shop and sat down at a pink table.
“I don’t know why they put these plants here in the middle of the table,” Gloria said, sighing. “You can’t talk to one another, they just get in the way.” She moved the baby orchid so that it sat on the windowsill, bending its petals. The other woman faced away from me and was inaudible.
“Do you know how Derek is doing?” Gloria asked.
The other woman said something I couldn’t hear.
“That’s good. I’m glad he’s doing better. He always looks so unhealthy, like he’s just about to break apart. I don’t know how his parents don’t notice and take him to the doctor’s.”
A police car pulled into the parking lot. I sipped the tea again but it tasted no better than before.
“You heard what happened on Turtle Drive last night, right? No?” Gloria said. “You won’t believe it. I saw it this morning on the news. Laura, Miriam Lucia is dead. You know, the Peace Prize winner? Hit by a car on an evening walk.”
Gloria paused when Laura responded, then answered, “No, not the driver’s fault. Some drunk stepped into the street in front of car. She threw him off the street but got hit herself. Collapsed lung, broken ribs, internal bleeding. Died a few minutes before midnight.”
Glass shattered. Laura turned around to look at me, and the barista rushed out.
“Oh, don’t worry,” the barista said. “I’ll get this cleaned up now. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you another. You must be having quite a day, right?”
I gazed at the fragmented corpse of the mug, absent-minded. After fifteen seconds, I registered that the barista had spoken, and that the mug had broken when I flinched upon hearing of Miriam Lucia. “Something like that,” I muttered. The barista silently cleaned up the mess as I stared out the window.
When two police officers walked in, she said she would take their orders and then clean up the rest of the mess.
Gloria and Laura were still talking.
“Yeah, the news anchor said that she had told her body guards she didn’t need security in her hometown. And you know what makes it worse, Laura? They couldn’t get a hold of her son. He learned about his mom’s death on the news, I think. Said he got robbed before getting on the bus to college. What a terrible coincidence.”
The two officers looked at me, but their gaze passed over me like prison yard spotlights that see nothing of interest. They had nothing on their minds but scones.
“Saving a drunk. Can you believe it? I hate to say it, but…but should she have done it? She must’ve known what a saint she was. She should’ve just let it happen. Is that bad to say?”
Laura spoke, saying something I couldn’t hear.
“No, I get it,” Gloria answered. “But a drunk? The sucker’s probably fishing in trash cans right now. Probably already forgot last night; doesn’t even realize what happened.” Gloria paused to listen to Laura, and then said, “Yeah, they brought that up. They said that Miriam Lucia always sent her son to the south for the bus to save money, and because she didn’t want her son to fear people who were different from her. It makes sense given her refugee experience, but I think it’s a poor parenting decision.”
Laura responded for a long time, and the barista began cleaning up my mess again. I wanted to apologize, but all words were frozen in my throat. The police officers sat at a far table and moved their plant to the windowsill.
“Right, sure,” Gloria said. “Every life is worth something. And I know it feels wrong. But she did so much good. Think of how many lives she could’ve saved. I just hope the loser who got her killed gets what they deserve.”
Laura talked again, and Gloria asked if the mocha was tasty. Their topic changed.
“You okay?” the barista asked as she wiped the final amounts of glass into a dustpan and began drying the floor with paper towel. I nodded without speaking.
“Well, it’s not my business, but you’ve just been sighing and hanging your head. I don’t like seeing unhappy people.” I nodded again, and she gave me a sorrowful, understanding smile, and left.
I stood to leave. The color drained out of the world, bright pink sliding to deep gray, my vision narrowing as my legs lost strength. I slipped and fell to the ground, vomiting beer and tea onto the floor of the coffee shop. When my eyes opened, the two police officers were looking down at me.
“Are you okay, sir?” the first one, a woman with short blonde hair, asked.
I couldn’t move my body and vomited a second time, though the nausea and torture within me did not ease with the regurgitations. Instead, the sickness ballooned greater and greater, until I was sure my stomach would burst open on the floor of that café. But the anguish knew only one way to exit, and I could bury the lie no longer.  
“I…I….I am the drunk who killed Miriam Lucia. I…I killed Emile Liza-Boyette. I tried to murder my cousin and I only got six years in prison. I took $218 and a cell phone from Miriam Lucia’s son. I stayed longer than thirty minutes at a McDonald’s. I robbed six people before I went to prison and never got caught. I attacked four. I raced down Turtle Drive and hit a trash can into a shop window once. I drank alcohol ever since I was fourteen, I…”
The police officer looked down at me and grinned, and the other officer chuckled.
“You’ve got a lot on your mind there, don’t you? We can figure out what to do with all that,” she said. “But let’s get you cleaned up first.”  

​ 
     "Here comes Brownie!" said the little boy, looking through the screen door. At the same time Ed Rawley turned to look, so distracted he let up on the mower's safety handle and it stopped. Several other people peered out their windows, smiling as the little dog trotted down the sidewalk. Two pre-teens standing on their front lawn bent down to pet her but missed as she scurried along, just out of reach. Just two months old when she arrived here, the neighborhood's newest resident was a tan, short-haired miniature Dachshund, whose gait suggested a long box supported by pogo sticks on all four corners. If there was a sound associated with her movements it would have been "Boing!" "Boing!" "Boing!" as her squat body bounced along, her long ears flopping, whiskers waving in the breeze, her wet nose carefully attuned to each scent. She turned her head this way and that as she walked, alert to every sight and sound.
 
     The street was Kenwood Terrace, a quiet lane in the shape of a boomerang that ran four blocks between Biltmore and Lexington Avenues. For the most part only residents walked or drove on this street, past the small single-family homes with their neat yards. That was why the place was about as quiet and trouble-free as any neighborhood and why Brownie's owners didn't mind the family's new addition exploring on her own, besides the fact that she wouldn't approach strangers unless they were tiny kids close to her own size. She padded down the sidewalk, carefully avoiding cars when she crossed one of the side streets on the way to Biltmore, where she turned and trotted the four blocks back to Lexington before turning around and heading for home. Her routine was so regular she usually had an audience: housewives in the morning, kids home from school in the afternoon, whole families on evenings and weekends. Residents told their friends and by the end of her fifth month on earth Brownie was a local celebrity, whose reputation went far beyond Kenwood Terrace. Unknown to her owners, someone called a local TV station and said there was a human-interest story their "fluff reporter" might want to cover. A few days later the TV station called Brownie's home and talked to the surprised Lorton family.
 
     The following Saturday morning a brightly-painted green and white van parked in front of the three-bedroom rancher Brownie called home, prompting the entire family to come out to talk to the reporter and her crew. Brownie, out taking her morning constitutional, was at that moment forced to walk around several kids who were a little too big for her to trust. She passed Mr. Greene, who looked down and said "Hello, your puppyship." On the next block two tots stooped to pet her and one said "Bwownie," attempting to imitate what he heard others call her. As she approached her home Brownie slowed when she saw strangers on her family's property. "That must be her," said the attractive blonde reporter. A few seconds later the TV camera followed her movements along the sidewalk, up to the front porch and into the house. Inside, she snuggled in Mrs. Lorton's lap as the reporter and TV taping crew made a fuss over her.
 
     That evening Brownie was at the corner of Kenwood and Lexington, about to turn around when a small, dark colored car came screeching to a halt in front of her. She hesitated just a moment as she surveyed the rude stranger who jumped out, and by the time she turned to run it was too late. A young man picked her up under her front legs and jerked her into the car. He had red hair, just like Mr. Greene, he was bony and he looked older than the Lorton kids, who went away every morning and came back in the middle of the afternoon. He wouldn't let her go even in the car and she squealed as his hands dug into her underside. She'd never felt this sensation before and struggled to get free.
     "Stop it!" the young man shouted at her, hitting her on the top of her head with his hand. Brownie squealed some more and tried even harder to wriggle away, but he was much too strong. Finally, the man who was driving the car said "Easy! It's still a baby," and the boy who was holding her let up. She was still uncomfortable but he didn't hit her any more. Instead he took her collar off, looked at the metal tag with her family's name and address on it and threw it out the window.
 
     A short time later the car stopped on a street she couldn't remember seeing from her rides in the car with the Lortons. There was uncollected garbage in the street and the smell was foul. The house they stopped in front of was small, like the Lortons', but it wasn't pretty like theirs and the grass was very long. She was hand-carried in the front door, with the boy not supporting her under her back and with his fingers digging in under her front legs just as he did in the car. She squealed again but it did no good and by the time he put her down both her back and her underside hurt. The room they were in smelled moldy, she could see dust balls on the floor and the only things in it, besides her and the boy, were two chairs and a sofa, one of those strange boxes with moving pictures in it and another set of boxes with long wires coiled coiled behind them on the floor. The boy walked over to the latter boxes and turned on loud music, which hurt her ears. After a while the man yelled at him and he walked over to the boxes again and made the music much quieter.
     "We'll sell her," said the young one with red hair. "Back to the owners."
     "And who's that?" Said the man. "You threw her dog tag out the window." There was a long pause then the older one said "And don't be stupid, they'd call the cops ... probably be waiting for us when we brought her back."
     "I know a couple'a people'd love to have a dog like this - they cost a lot, don't they?"
     "Maybe we'll just keep her."
     "I need the money, dad."
     "Let me think about it."
    
     Besides the fear caused by her rough handling and new surroundings, Brownie was starting to feel a hunger she'd never known before. The Lortons always fed her after her walk, which was hours earlier. She'd never felt this bad or this weak. Long after it got dark her drowsiness was overcoming her gnawing hunger when the man said "Don't forget - we got to feed her."
     "We got nothing to eat around here," said the younger one, "except some milk."
     "Give her that then."
     The red-haired one got a carton from the refrigerator then looked around.
"We got no bowl," he said.
     "Put it in a pan," said the man.
     The boy poured the milk into a frying pan then put it in front of Brownie, who could tell from the smell there was something wrong. She backed away from it.
     "Lick it up, damn you!" yelled the boy at her, as he grabbed her, forced her head to the pan and pushed her nose into the milk. She choked and sputtered with the milk in her nostrils and the boy let up. He held her tightly enough to hurt her and raised his other hand as if to hit her and she decided lapping up the foul smelling, rancid-tasting milk was better than drowning or being hit.
     A few minutes later she threw up from the spoiled milk, prompting the young man to yell "Bitch!" as he kicked her and knocked her over.
     "I shoulda never let you grab that dog!" yelled the father as he grabbed a towel and mopped up what Brownie had coughed up from her stomach.
    
     The man said "Here!" and motioned toward Brownie, who was afraid to go to him. He finally walked over and she dived into a corner, cowering. At least he picked her up gently, supporting both ends of her and carried her over to a blanket, where he set her down.
     "We'll get her some dog food tomorrow," he said to the younger one then they both walked into other rooms, closed the doors behind them and weren't heard from again that night. Brownie was still sore, hungry and now feeling sick, but she knew she had to get away from this place and these people before they hurt her any more. In the dark she explored the entire house, coming at last to a screen door. The door was locked, but the screen was loose and she prodded it with her nose and then her paws. Finally, she pushed enough of it away from its frame to squeeze though, but only partly. She found herself stuck, her rear legs unable to get through for what seemed a long time. She used all the strength in her tiny front legs, eventually dragged herself through the screen and found herself in the dirt, facing a small back yard she could barely see. She made her way to the edge of the property, where a ramshackle chicken wire fence barred her way. Without out knowing why she started to dig in the dirt. It just came naturally to her, so she kept at it until she'd made a hole under the fence. Gradually the hole got bigger and though she was weakening from fatigue and hunger she felt her very existence was at stake and that drove her on.
 
     At some point her weariness made her stop digging and in the few seconds she closed her eyes she drifted off. When she woke the distant light was coming into the sky. The sickness wasn't as bad now but she instinctively knew she had to get away before the strangers got up and found her. She returned to digging and as the sun came up she squeezed under the fence and ran along the side to the front of the house, where she faced a big decision - which way to go. Neither direction looked promising, but anything beat staying where she was, so Brownie headed in the direction the sun was coming up, as fast as her little legs could take her. She was so afraid to be caught again she didn't even stop to look for food in the garbage that was left at the curb.
 
     A while later she found herself in a busier part of town. There were taller buildings and they were much closer together, with no front yards and no space between them. People were coming outside, opening up stores, walking around and getting in their cars. To continue her journey she could see she'd have to jump curbs and cross the streets, something she was loathe to do, as she'd only gone across the little side streets that crossed Kenwood, where there was hardly any traffic. Now there were cars coming and she was more afraid than ever, but summing her courage, she jumped off a high curb, made her way across the street and started to run when she heard tires squeal close to her. She bounded up the curb on the next street, the hunger tearing at her belly the way the bad milk had. She wasn't sure how much further she could go when she came upon a man all in white. As she stopped to watch he raised a big wire mesh that covered his store then unlocked the front door, from which she could smell all kinds of food inside. He had on a pointed hat and she didn't know why exactly, but he looked kind. He looked down at her and didn't try to pet her or pick her up, which she found reassuring. Instead he went inside and came out a minute later with a bowl in one hand and a carton in the other. He poured fresh milk into the bowl, set in it down, then backed off, so as not to frighten her. Her hunger made her daring and she approached the bowl. The milk smelled sweet and she lapped it all up then looked at the man, as if to say "Give me more!"
 
     The man went back inside and soon reappeared with a small can, which he opened up and put in front of her. The Lortons had been feeding her a special food for small dogs with delicate stomachs and this food was nothing like that, but it smelled delicious and it was chewy. After she finished it she wasn't sure she could hold it down, but her ravished little digestive system handled it and she looked up again, for the food had made her thirsty. The man understood and he poured her another small bowl of milk, which she lapped up hastily. He squatted down but didn't move toward her. She'd never been bold enough to approach a stranger before but she inched up to him, licked his fingers and let him pet her. Soon she was bounding down the street in the direction she hoped her home was, her strength renewed. People looked down as she carefully stepped between them on the busy street. Several people tried to pet her but she kept moving as quickly as her little legs would take her. Dire necessity forced her to learn quickly and now before she jumped off curbs, she waited for people to come - for they seemed to know when it was safe to cross - and she went with them.
 
     Finally, she was past the busy part of town and in a neighborhood like her own. This one was a decided improvement over the slovenly place she'd been held kept captive in and it didn't reek of garbage. She trotted toward a yard with a boy and two dogs in it. The boy was younger than the one who'd taken him away from his home but older than the Lorton kids. Neither dog was large but they were full grown and a lot bigger than Brownie. One looked like a much larger version of herself: barrel-chested, long and low to the ground and colored black and tan with short hair. It didn't growl but it looked mean and she was glad for the imposing wire fence which stood between them. The fence wasn't like the loose screen she'd been able to tear away from the door or the flimsy chicken wire she dug under; this wire was heavy stuff, held up by thick, sturdy-looking silver poles that looked like they were buried deep into the ground.
 
     "Look mom!" yelled the boy as Brownie approached the yard. She heard the front door open then looked over to see a woman around Mrs. Lorton's age coming outside.
     "She doesn't even have a collar," the boy continued to yell, followed by
"I'm gonna get her!"
     "I don't know," said the mother too late, for her boy was over the fence in a jiffy and chasing Brownie down the street. She ran as fast as she could, but she was still a baby and the boy caught her and scooped her up in his arms. He brought her back to the yard, opened the gate and presented her to his mother, who only said "I don't know ..."
     "Look, no collar," said the boy, "nobody owns her - I'm gonna keep her. Can I, mom?"
     The mother looked perplexed for a minute then said "Oh, I guess so" and went back inside, followed by the boy. He didn't dig his fingers into her sides or hit her, but she knew she was in trouble again.
     "Maybe she hasn't eaten," said the boy, "Let's feed her."
     "She can wait till the others eat," said the mother.
     Brownie couldn't understand what they were saying but she wasn't hungry in any case. The boy carried her over to the sofa, where he set her down then proceeded to pet her. He was gentle and he seemed genuinely fond of her.
 
     When it was finally time for the dogs to eat Brownie was hungry again. The lady put three bowls of food on the floor. It was food Brownie hadn't tasted or smelled before, not horrible like the sour milk and not tasty like the pungent-smelling treat the man in white had given her. It was edible, though and by the time Brownie had stopped smelling and tasting it the other dogs had wolfed theirs down and turned their attention to Brownie's dish. They pushed her aside and devoured her food. She'd only gotten a few bites and it was only the meal from the man in the street that kept her from going hungry like she had the night before. The bullying and stealing her food were bad enough, but it was only the beginning. The big Dachshund was named Fritzy and immediately after eating Brownie's food he seemed to need some exercise, which he got by using his head to knock her on her side. She wasn't hurt so she unwisely got up and was immediately knocked down again for her trouble. This time she stayed down and Fritzy glowered at her, as if to say "Just try to get up again."
 
     "Fritzy, you're being bad," said the boy, who picked up Brownie and set her on the couch again. She thought she was safe, but the other dog, a true mutt by the name of Sammy, jumped up before the boy could stop him and bit her on the ear. When Brownie yelped the boy knocked Sammy off the couch, yelled at him and at the mutt ran away. The rest of the day was spent alternating between the couch, trying to find places to hide and exploring the front yard, where the three dogs were allowed to roam several times a day. As expected, Fritzy knocked Brownie down over and over, daring her to get up and Brownie was afraid she wouldn't even be allowed to relieve herself, but sooner or later something always distracted the bigger dog and when he turned his attention elsewhere Brownie ran into the bushes next to the house, where she could both relieve herself and attempt to hide.
 
     The second day in this place was a repetition of the first, except there was no delicious breakfast given by a kindly man in white clothes. Brownie just managed a few bites of food before the rest of it was "liberated" by the other dogs, who seemed to delight in her abuse. The boy was protective and he managed to fend them off quite a bit of the time, but he went out a lot and then she was on her own. The mutt had bitten her ears several times and they stung. She was desperate for places to hide, but there didn't seem to be any safe ones. The times she was left alone in the yard by the other dogs she made her way to the fence, which she tied to dig under, but here it was rough going. The crab grass went right up to the fence and it was so thick she could barely tear through it. Any time she started to make some headway along came one of the other dogs, which sent her scurrying away as fast as she could, to no avail. They always caught her within seconds, at which point she had one of two options: fall down and stay down if Fritzy caught her or if it was Sammy, squeal before and during the inevitable ear biting and hope the boy was home to grab the mutt and make it stop. She learned it was pointless to expect help from the woman.
 
     By the third day at this house Brownie was feeling as weak from lack of food as she did the morning after she was taken. But this day the boy stayed home and he gave most of his attention to her. He put her on the couch and looked at her, like he was concerned. He'd been chewing from a soft brown-colored stick of food, which he took out of his mouth and gave to her. It was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted but even that little bit of food gave her strength. He looked closely at one of her ears and touched it, which made her yelp, as it stung from all the bites.
     He yelled toward the back of the house: "Mom, you should see her ears - we got to do something about this."
     "What?" came from another room, sounding far away.
     "Her ears, they're all bit up. The other dogs musta done it. She doesn't look so good ... I think she's sick."
     "What?" came again from somewhere in the house.
     "I think we should take her to a vet."
     That brought the woman out to the living room. "The vet? You think we're made of money?"
     The boy answered "We don't want her to die, do we?"
     The woman looked pensive "Oh, she'll be all right - dogs are tough, especially puppies. She'll mend OK."
     "Look at her ears - there's blood. She really got bit - she's in pain. I just touched 'em and she screamed. And I don't think she's eatin' - look at her."
     "Well, let me look." The woman grabbed one of the injured ears, prompting Brownie to yelp as she never had in her life.
     "Stop it - you're hurtin' her!" yelled the boy.
     "No, I'm not, let me see," said the woman, reaching for the other ear.
 
     The boy was too quick for her. He knocked his mother's hand away, jumped up with Brownie in his arms and headed out the front door, followed by Fritzy and the mutt.
     "Come back here," his mother yelled as he opened the gate and ran down the sidewalk, the other dogs taking advantage of the open gate to run off in the other direction.
     Apparently, the boy was as perplexed and frightened as Brownie, for he just kept running, so far and so fast she felt like she was getting a ride in a car. Finally, he stopped and looked around to find himself in a neighborhood with huge houses surrounded by spacious, well-manicured lawns. The boy carried Brownie up to an enormous white house, set her down in front of the door and rang the doorbell. She looked around at the large wooden porch, with its rocking chairs and small tables and colorful plants hung everywhere. She could smell food coming from inside and looked up at the door and noticed a huge brass knocker and small windows above it. She'd never seen a house this big, which momentarily distracted her from the pain in her ears and from the boy who'd just risked his mother's wrath to save him from a house of horrors. She turned to see him running away at a speed she didn't think humans were capable of. Within a few seconds the boy was down the block and out of sight.
 
     "Well my goodness, what do we have here?" came a kindly-sounding female voice from the door, which had opened when Brownie was studying the disappearing form of the boy she could only regard as her savior. In other times she would have run at the sound of a stranger's voice, but now she was so frightened and weak from lack of nourishment she just sat there, looking up and hoping for better luck in this new place.
     "Francine, come here, quick," said the lady, who appeared to be quite a bit older than Mrs. Lorton. Soon a younger lady appeared and quickly bent down to look at Brownie.
     "Look - her ears are bitten up," said the younger one.
     The older one said "She's not wearing a collar - I don't understand. She's a Dachshund, isn't she? Dachshunds are pedigreed - now who'd let a dog like that run loose without a collar?"
     "She's been mistreated, you can see that," said the younger one. "Let's take her in. I hate people who abuse their dogs ... let's feed her, poor thing looks like she's starving."
     The younger one carefully picked her up, one hand under the rear legs, the other under her chest and soon they were all in a large kitchen, where Brownie was gently set down on a throw rug as the two women ran around looking for food.
     The older one said "We don't have any dog food - can she eat what Rani does?"
     "Cat food? I don't see why not," said the younger one, opening a small can of food that smelled exactly like what the kindly store owner had fed her on the street. "Here, baby - this is tuna," she said. "It's good." She put the contents on a plate and Brownie devoured it in seconds. She started to cough and choke, not from the food but from eating too fast.
     "Oh, I forgot, she'll still a puppy, maybe that's too heavy for her," said the young one. "Let me think ... we've still got some baby formula in the house; I'll give her that."
     "Good idea," said the older one, who retrieved milk from the refrigerator, put it in a pan, mixed in the formula and heated it up. A few minutes later the three were on a couch, with the younger woman holding Brownie in her arms and feeding her the warm mixture from a baby bottle. Her ears still hurt, but it was the first time she'd felt safe since having been stolen. As she sucked the liquid, she started to feel her strength come back. After draining the bottle, she fell asleep.
 
     She was awakened by the sound of older woman, who was talking on the telephone. "That's right, she's a foundling. We opened the front door and there she was, just looking up at us: dirty, her ears all bitten up, looking like a starved and abused child." There was a long pause and then she said "OK, we'll clean her up then bring her over."
     A few minutes later Brownie was in a large pan in a bathtub, feeling warm water wash over her. The water contained soap, a smell she remembered coming from a certain room in the Lortons'. Some of the soap got on her ears, which made them sting, but she wasn't afraid anymore and felt these new people were caring and loving, like the Lortons. The two women dried her off with large towels and were careful not to rub her ears. The younger woman carried her out to the car and held her as the other one drove. A short time later they came to a one-story brick building, inside which other people were sitting with their dogs. She was set down by the younger woman on a long bench, where she fell asleep.
 
     This time she was awakened by a man's voice. He was all dressed in white, like the kind man in the city who fed her. He gently picked her up and carried her into a large room, where a girl looked her over and petted her. Brownie felt a pinch as the man inserted a needle into her. It was like the ones she'd received before being taken home by the Lortons. Next, he put something wet and cold on her ears, which made them sting again, but she was starting to mind the pain less and less, as she instinctively knew the two women and this man were taking care of her. Finally, the man and the girl brought her back into the waiting room.
     "I think she'll be all right," said the man. "I don't think the baby formula hurt her, but I'd give her this - just follow the directions on the cans" he said, handing over a good-sized package. The older woman took some green pieces of paper from her pocket and gave them to the man.
 
     She soon found herself back at home on the sofa, where she fell asleep again, this time for much longer. When she woke it was dark outside and the two women were watching the box with the moving pictures inside it. Brownie had a feeling the pictures were only meant for the humans but she could follow them too, even though they kept changing and sometimes didn't make any sense. What confused her the most was that it could be night time outside like it was now, but the box showed people in the daylight and sometimes it was the other way around. This time the box showed first a man talking and then a woman and they were both seated at desks. It wasn't the most exciting thing she'd ever seen, but the two women who'd taken her in seemed engrossed in it, so she figured what the people in the box were saying must be important. She was about to doze off again when a small dog appeared in the box. It was long and short with tan hair and appeared to be a baby, like her. Her sore ears picked up when she heard her name, "Brownie," coming from the box. She jumped up and squealed at what she saw next: the Lortons, all four of them, right there in the box. She was so excited she jumped around the couch and barked, making her new parents look at her. Finally, the young one said "That must be her home - she's the one they've been saying was stolen along Lexington Avenue."
     "I hate that area," said the older one. "So many crummy people around there."
     The younger woman got up, ran over to the black thing on the table that people talked into and came back to the couch with a sheet of paper and a small, thin stick. "We've got to call her family," she said.
     Now the box had funny lines on it, which made the younger woman touch the stick to the paper many times, after which she walked to the box and touched it to make it silent. Next, she walked back to the black thing, picked it up and spoke into it. Then Brownie heard the familiar name again: "Hello, Mrs. Lorton?"
 
     A short time later she was getting another ride in a car, being petted and fussed over in turn by all four of the Lortons, who seemed awfully glad to see her again. No matter how glad they were it couldn't approach the way Brownie felt. Soon she was back home and in her little basket with the blankets, where she slept for the longest time she had in days. When she woke it was daylight and she felt the twin needs to eat and to relieve herself. She expected to be let out the front door and proceed on her walk the way she always had, but this time things were different. Her mommy put another collar around her neck, tied a leash onto it and took her for her walk. It felt funny, not being able to go wherever she liked and at her own pace, but she felt safe and after her ordeal that - and the love of her family - were all that mattered.
 

The mountains were what made them, but also what kept them down, moulding the souls of those battling its gifts of frost and sleet to etch a poor living out of its infertile shoulders. But as time stretched, so did the ever-rising temperatures, changing the mountains and the world. Now the mountains kept them safe from whatever raged beyond.Blades of grass, still glazed over with frost, quivered under the footsteps of winter boots behind Ivan as he swung his axe one last time. This pile of logs will have to be enough for the committee; the firs and spruces which had taken over the ski slopes, now almost bare of snow, were already steeped in shadow.
‘Emma,’ he said in a swirl of ashen steam, the hope in the question-statement shaded by fear. But why? He could pick her signature shuffle—half army private, half weekend charity volunteer—out of an acoustic line-up of footsteps, if anyone bothered to capture them in a recording. In the days when they could still use something to record.
‘They’ve come today.’ Her shrill soprano was commanding, earnest; she was always the first to know.
‘They didn’t find anything,’ Ivan said. Which was true.
They entered the wooden hovel with the sloped roof they called home. Stella, their daughter, was still asleep in their only bedroom. Emma cast off the crimson scarf which belied her rank in the Citizen’s Committee and snatched a sack of lentils from the half-empty pantry.
Lentils, cornmeal, a cup of broth; their daily ration, year out, year in. If they got lucky they could add a sprinkling of wild herbs, or mushrooms after rainy days. But always no more than a handful: the rest would need to go to the chapel, where supplies were stored. Emma insisted on that.
The passes had been sealed for years now; first by avalanches when the glaciers started to melt, then by staves planted in the defrosting soil, on orders of the committee, when the few outsiders—they were already called that—brought harrowing tales from the valleys. By then, even those sturdy delivery vans weren’t making their uphill trek anymore.
The only way left to get in or out was through the mines, their shafts tunnelling through the rock to resurface in the valley. The committee kept the mountainside entrance under lock and key, although villagers did leave, from time to time, to search for food or supplies to bring back. Few returned.
‘When did they come?’ Emma asked, counting the lentils in her hand.
‘In the afternoon,’ Ivan said, fumbling with kindling by the fireplace. ‘I opened the door, showed them in. They checked our pantry, had a look around, and left. They were very kind about it.’
‘As we all are when doing our rounds. Did they say anything?’
Ivan shook his head.
Emma filled a rusty kettle from the barrel used to collect snow melt. There was always more of it these days. ‘Nothing about why they came here?’ she asked.
Of course, they wouldn’t tell her; even her.
She shivered. ‘It’s cold today. Why isn’t the fire on?’
‘Wanted to save, didn’t I?’ Ivan said, striking a match.
‘You had it on yesterday and it wasn’t half as cold.’
Ivan shrugged.
Emma’s eyes narrowed as she spotted the mound of smouldering embers in the middle of the fireplace, away from the burning pyramid of twigs and dry leaves Ivan had delicately assembled against its left-hand-side wall.
‘It died when I went outside,’ he said.
‘No wonder we’re running low on matches,’ Emma said, arms aloft. ‘Why did you let it? Why light it at all, if you were going outside? Ivan!’
Ivan kept nursing the timid flames, careful to keep them against the far wall, averting his gaze. ‘Don’t know,’ he squeaked. ‘Didn’t think.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Ivan swallowed and let out a burst of nervous laugher. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘You avoid looking at me, you don’t answer my questions—‘ Emma squatted, hands again on her knees, peering at the flames. ‘You said you opened the door for them.’
‘Why?’
‘That means you were inside.’ Emma stopped Ivan from throwing on a bigger log.
He froze.
She grabbed a poker and prodded the fireguard lined up against the fireplace’s right-hand-side wall. There was a clink of metal on metal. Emma’s eyes flickered to Ivan’s hapless face. Using the poker’s wrought-iron hook, she latched on to the fireguard, pulled it towards her, and let it clatter to the fireplace’s floor. A pile of cans and sacks stood behind it.
Ivan grabbed hold of Emma, but she shoved his hand away.
The flames were losing tempo. Ignoring them, Emma knelt to retrieve the cans.‘So that’s why the inspectors came. Cornmeal? Beans? Meat?’As she spat out each word she let the item in question drop onto the crooked table. Ivan winced at each thud.
Emma was shouting.‘Just what were you thinking? Why on earth didn’t you give this in to the committee? Our citizens are at risk of starvation and this is the example we set?’
Ivan called her name, his hands ensconced around her crossed arms, aching to sooth her. ‘I didn’t save this for me. I saved it for us. For our future. For Stella. What if something happened and we were left to fend for ourselves? What would we give her?’
Emma stepped back.‘I can’t even look at you right now. You lied to me, you lied to the committee, you lied to everyone. And you’re not even ashamed of it.’
‘I did it for our own good,’ he said, raising his voice in turn. ‘It could save us.’
‘You don’t even know what good is.’
‘Isn’t it what’s best for my family? Our family?’
Emma shook her head. ‘It’s the common good, Ivan. The community needs it; some people more than us. The rules are clear. No hoarding. Only that way we can make sure there’s enough for everyone.’
A child’s cries reached them. Stella’s.
Ivan’s eyes wanted to accuse.
‘I’ll go check in on her,’ he said instead.
Ivan returned to see Emma filling a crate with the cans recovered from the fireplace. His cans. No, their cans.
‘What are you going to do now?’His question was injected with alarm.
‘I’ll bring them in, to the chapel. Where they belong.’
‘What are you going to tell them?’
‘The truth. Something you’re not used to.’
#
Ivan walked down the muddy central road—the high street, they used to call it, when the cement still held—to the four-story wooden building, crowned by a sloped roof like all the others, that used to be the hotel. The committee had turned the ground floor restaurant into a people’s canteen.
An old metal desk had been squeezed onto the wooden porch by the front door. The handwritten cardboard sign advertised for volunteers for the mines. There was no queue.
The old man with the red scarf manning it wore an optimistic smile. ‘Want to do your bit for the community’s future? Go down the mines, see the world beyond the mountains, come back with the supplies we need. You’ll have the committee’s gratitude forever.’
Ivan passed on. That didn’t chime with what he’d heard from the couple of miners who made it back whole, in body and in spirit, as they retold their story in hushed tones and with dilated eyes. The people outside will kill you for your boots, they said; if they’re friendly, they’ll infect you. Health systems couldn’t keep up with a boiling world.
The canteen was packed. Here the queues were perennial; Ivan waited in line for his ladleful of gruel with his cornmeal and his lentils. No one said a word, but all the grim stares were on him as he searched for a free place. No one moved aside; spare seats were filled with scarves and caps.
As he scanned the packed wooden benches, the burly man who used to be a butcher before the mass extinctions drove his broad shoulder into Ivan’s. The bowls slid off Ivan’s tray and emptied their contents onto the hardwood planks.
Ivan grovelled on the floor, scooping up his lunch with his hands. No one offered to help, not even the red-scarved committee men stationed by the door.
Everyone knew everything in the mountain towns. Everyone knew that it was thanks to Ivan that the committee had issued the new regulations; it was thanks to him that their homes were searched top to bottom, and all their food relinquished; and thanks to him they could only ever eat here, cheek-by-jowl, at set times, under the watchful eyes of the committee.
Ivan got back up, balancing what he could salvage on the tray. But the spilled broth had made the planks slippery. Ivan slid and fell with a cry of pain. He lay on the floor, nursing his backbone, eyes welling up as he witnessed his lentils gathering dust on the sodden floor. He had been so hungry.
Emma ran from the committee’s bench, leaving their daughter on the lap of her neighbour, and came to him. She grabbed the mangy piece of cornmeal from the floor and placed it on his plate.
‘Come on!’ she said. ‘You’re still my husband, after all.’
Ivan didn’t have the strength to grasp her outstretched hand.
Emma turned towards the diners. ‘How about some help here?’ she asked.
But they kept eating, eyes cast down on their bowls.
Emma slumped down next to him, cross-legged on the floor- She offered him her bowl of lentils, watching him as he licked it clean. When he returned it to her, her gaze was chock-full of empathy.
Ivan looked away. Hunger had given way to shame. She used to feed him with soup, like that, when he was sick. And he would do the same for her. Now she had fed him, and he hadn't done anything for her. Or for anyone else since he remembered.
He glanced around. The diners in the canteen had returned their eyes to their bowls, but the pity and scorn clung to his pathetic self like the duct tape they used to mend things with. Was he broken without repair? Ivan hoisted himself up, ignoring Emma’s helping hand. No, he wasn’t.     
He had enough of their pitiful looks, of his weakness, of Emma’s judgement. He wanted to tell them that they weren’t better than him, that he didn’t just care about himself.
But he didn’t say a word to anyone, not even to Emma. Instead, he strode towards the desk on the porch where the red-scarved man sat.
#
The snow-ridden slopes were flooded with the greyish amber glow of the freezing alpine dawn. In a hard-hat and with pick and chisel dangling from his belt—all courtesy of the committee—Ivan set out along the narrow dirt trail which led from their home to the mine’s closest entrance, keys in hand.
It wasn’t long before Emma caught up with him.
‘Wait,’ she said, out of breath, trying to grab him, blocking his way. ‘Think about it one more time. I beg you.’
Ivan sidestepped her and continued walking.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ she asked, chasing after him. ‘You have a daughter. Think about her!’
Ivan halted and lowered the handkerchief wrapped around his nose and mouth. ‘So? Isn’t the community more important? You taught me that!’
She gave him a crazed look. ‘Ivan, this isn’t a tin of canned meat we’re talking about. It’s about life and death! You can’t leave your wife a widow and your daughter an orphan.’
He grabbed her arm. ‘I love you and I love my daughter. But I love this place too, for good or ill. And it won’t last long without fresh supplies. We both know there’s only one way to get them.’ Ivan resumed his march before he finished speaking.
Emma was taken aback.‘It doesn’t mean you have to go! There are others who can do it. Others better suited, unmarried men...’
‘Emma, there are no volunteers,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I need to do my bit.’
Emma burst into tears.
Turning around, Ivan put an arm round her shoulder.’You’ll need to be strong,’ he said in a more conciliatory tone, ‘for our daughter.’
Emma, drying her eyes with her elbow, at length managed to speak, in between the hiccups and sobs.‘Are you sure you’re not doing it just for me?’
Ivan stiffened.‘It’s for the common good.’
He pushed her back, gently but firmly, and set off again, towards the mines.
THE END

​Despite a disagreeable incident between us I loved my mother’s sister Isabelle and was sad to hear of her death at the age of one hundred and three.  Growing up I thought of myself as her favourite niece since I looked so much like her. Yet she was so different from anyone else in my family, tall and slim, with sapphire blue eyes. She had an aristocratic air about her, heightened by the expensive French perfume and the jewelled brooches she wore. As a young girl I wove all kinds of glamorous fantasies around her that involved imperious aristocrats, struggling artists and exotic locales. I have a fond memory of her visiting our home and indulging me by bringing along a Wigwag chocolate bar.
“There you go sweetheart.” She grinned, patted me on the head and handed me my favorite treat.  She was still a small town girl then, before she embarked for Europe for the first time.
My aunt was remarkable in many ways, some of which only became clear to me recently.
Isabelle was an accomplished painter. Just before the Second World War broke out she had been studying art in Paris. Suddenly the congenial spell was broken and panic took its place. Her Italian boyfriend urged her to leave. She had to scramble to get out of France before the Wehrmacht marched in. She packed the best of her paintings into a steamer trunk and boarded one of the last ships out of Le Havre. Six days later she disembarked in New York and then took the train to Toronto. To this day many of the same canvases hang on her relatives’ walls all over Canada. Of course, I own one.
The themes are always bucolic: woods, rivers, wild flowers. The painting I was given features a majestic Holm oak. In its thick roots, where they meet the soil, grow poisonous, destroying angel, or amanita virosa, mushrooms. At first I mistook them for young Portobello mushrooms, they look so much alike. In the canvas’s background a lovely brook flows. The details of the watercolour are so exact one could mistake it for a photograph.
My mother and her siblings, including Isabelle, grew up in Port Ryerse, Ontario, on the north shore of Lake Erie. The lake is magnificent in summer, surrounded by Eastern hemlock, oak and maple. Cormorants, yellow warblers and marsh wrens make their homes in the area. Lake effect snow in winter turns this beautiful scene pure white but makes life onerous.
Part of our family can be traced back to Empire Loyalists who moved from New York to the area in 1801. They were involved in shipping and fishing before the building of the railroads. The shipping business died and Port Ryerse shrank from a bustling village to what is now a mere hamlet. During prohibition in the U.S., rum-running in small boats across Lake Erie allowed some people to prosper but that ended in 1933. Today the community’s existence depends on cottagers and sports fishermen who stroll along Young’s Creek or take to Lake Erie. There is no downtown, not even a grocery store. The only building of note that’s left is the Memorial Anglican Church where for generations our family’s children have been baptized and married. A small white building of no aesthetic value, the church draws only locals and the odd lost tourist.
Between 1912 and 1961 my grandfather owned a hardware store in Port Ryerse. He sold the usual nails, saws, and shovels, as well as fishing gear. My grandmother bore eight children; all survived. In the early years the community and the store flourished but by the Dirty Thirties, that was history. The little community offered few opportunities and the children moved away as soon as they legally could, including Isabelle and my mother.
Having avoided the German occupation of France, Isabelle was left penniless. She was forced to return to the family home, something she resented. The bleak hamlet was no more inviting than the day she had left it for Paris.
My mother’s second oldest sibling was Arnold. When Isabelle first returned to Port Ryerse, she discovered he had moved himself and his young bride into the family home which the couple now shared with his parents. Arnold was a short-tempered man and made things difficult for everyone in the house.
I have only the vaguest memory of Uncle Arnold. During a visit in Port Ryerse, I recall him screaming at his wife, upset she had not properly sewn a button on his jacket. My mother, Aunt Isabelle and I hurried out of the house; that was the last time I saw him. Three months later he was dead. The family was told he died of a heart attack. After collecting Arnold’s life insurance, his young widow didn’t wait long to find someone to replace him. She moved to Cleveland where she and her second husband ran a tobacco shop.
Isabelle once said to me that living with Arnold had been impossible. It drove her to marry the first available candidate, a man ten years her senior by the name of Ralf Biglow.
“I had to get out,” she said to me. “He almost ruined my little wedding but was civil enough to hold off dying till the day after the nuptials.” She lowered her voice. “The man was crass and a bully, like all the men in this family. I won’t miss him. I don’t know who will.” There followed a long pause. “Why did he have to be so stupid?” Her face clouded over.  She wiped a tear from her eye and walked out of the room wringing her hands.
Isabelle had met Ralf because his family owned a cottage near Port Ryerse. They quickly married. The couple moved to Toronto where Ralf’s father owned a dairy that supplied milk, cheese and butter to half the city. Whispers among my relatives said he was a drunk and a brute who slapped poor Isabelle around. I only met Ralf a couple of times. He died unexpectedly a year after he married Isabelle.
Isabelle’s second husband, Oscar, was a short, robust man with a thick black mustache and a square face that suggested a capacity for violence. As I discovered, he was in fact a gracious and kind man. Very entertaining, he told funny anecdotes and jokes.
I recall him telling the story of a talking horse that walked into a Toronto tavern.
“Are you hiring?” said the stallion to the owner.
“No,” replied the owner, “but try the circus they might have work you.”
The horse looked puzzled. “Why,” said the horse, “would a circus need a bartender?”
Whenever he visited any of our family he brought the most beautiful flowers, and the finest chocolates and wine. His only bad habit was gambling. Oscar would disappear for a day or a week and return with a pocket full of cash; sometimes two pockets full of cash. One spring afternoon he came home accompanied by two large thugs.  He looked terrible, his face scraped, his jacket torn. The brawny men walked him to the safe in the basement. He emptied its contents and handed over all the money.
The event terrified my poor Aunt Isabelle. According to my late mother when Isabelle asked him what happened to bring about this shocking intrusion, all he said was, “You win some, you lose some.”
His gambling sojourns went on for years, then one day he didn’t return home. After going missing for a month, his body washed up on the shore of Rotary Peace Park in New Toronto. This same park, ironically, was a place where Oscar and Isabelle often picnicked with their young son. Oscar had drowned, the police said. Isabelle decided not to remarry. She had wisely invested the money she received from her first husband’s insurance and had also squirreled away some of Oscar’s winnings.
The family lost sight of Aunt Isabelle when she moved back to Paris with her young son, Ted. I learned years later the boy grew to be a man much like his father, gambling, drinking and womanizing. At age twenty-nine he was dead from some sort of seizure.
In the summer of 1975 my husband, little daughter and I visited France. We dropped in to see Aunt Isabelle. She was living in the 16th arrondissement in a beautiful apartment and teaching art at the École des Beaux-Arts where she was held in high esteem.
My aunt welcomed my husband, daughter and me warmly. We sat in the drawing room where Isabelle regaled us with stories of her siblings when they were growing up in rural Ontario. Her maid brought in coffee and delicious pastries. In surveying the room I noticed a Rodin figure standing on a column of red marble. With the exception of a few abstract watercolours, the place looked like it was straight out of the nineteenth century. Persian rugs hugged the floor and paintings in elaborate frames hung on the walls. It was as if my aunt was hoping Claude Monet or Edgar Degas would walk in and she wanted them to feel at ease.  She noticed my eyes scan the room and gave me an approving smile that soon disappeared. It was then that Isabelle turned toward me and pointed to my daughter.
“What is wrong with her,” said Isabelle.
“Oh, you mean her foot. She was born with a club foot and for now has to wear a special corrective shoe. But the doctor expects she’ll be okay in a year or so.”
“No, it’s ugly. Poor crippled child! I can refer you to a doctor here. I have excellent connections. They’ll fix her up in no time.”
“Thank you, Aunt Isabelle, but she’s getting great care in Hamilton. She’ll be fine.”
Isabelle seemed to take my remarks as a rebuff because her face turned red with anger.
“Are you sure?” she said coldly.
“Yes, but thank you for your concern.”
The mood had changed and we all fell into silence. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her furtively tap on her diamond watch.
This was apparently a signal for her maid who quickly reminded my aunt, “You have a meeting with Andre Allar in thirty minutes, Madam.”
My husband gave me a knowing look and the three of us said our goodbyes to Isabelle. Irritation was written on her face as she escorted us to the door.
The Bois de Boulogne was just down the street so we walked among its trees and along the shores of Lac Inférieur for some time trying to shake off the unpleasantness we had left behind in Isabelle’s apartment. We soon found a park bench among the oak trees and watched as our little girl made faces at the ducks on the lake.
I can recall saying to my husband as we looked out at the water, “It seems my aunt’s offer of help had more to do with her than our daughter. She was trying to impress upon us how far she’s come up in the world; that she now has important friends. We took away her chance to show us how influential she’s become.”
He nodded. “Maybe she’s worried when we look at her we don’t see a grand dame but the daughter of a middling hardware store owner from a no-account town?”
A couple of weeks later I found a letter from Aunt Isabelle in my mailbox. In a precise hand-written note she apologized for the disagreeable ending to our meeting in her Paris apartment and urged me to come visit her again soon. Astonished, I stared at the message for a minute then tossed it into the trash.
The following year I gave birth to twin boys. I received gifts, cards and phone calls from my extended family but nothing from Isabelle. In the years that followed I had no news regarding my aunt and indeed almost forgot she existed. My own life went on with its ups and downs. I became a science teacher, my children grew up and I divorced my layabout husband.
Late one evening last October I received an email from a nephew informing me of my aunt’s demise. For a moment I thought it was a joke. I could not believe she had lived to the age of a hundred and three!
In her will she left the older members of the family money and mementoes. Three months after her cremation, I received sixteen thousand Euros and yesterday her Edwardian oak accent table was deposited at my front door. I spent some time trying to find a place for it. The antique table is small so I moved it several times before I was satisfied. It seemed to fit nicely in a recess in the hall. I’m not young myself so perhaps that’s why only hours after it arrived I clumsily knocked it over. That’s when a hidden drawer not half an inch thick slid open from its back. Inside was a small book bound in green leather. I was of course surprised and immediately opened it up expecting to find a gossipy diary of some kind. A faint scent of lavender rose from every page.
But it was no diary. On alternate pages I found, in flowing longhand, recipes for mushroom concoctions including Creamy Wild Mushroom Pasta, Mushroom Frittata and Wild Mushroom Tart. Facing those pages Aunt Isabelle had drawn wonderful likenesses of people. There were renditions of her two husbands, Ralf and Oscar; her brother Arnold and her son Ted. There were also portraits of two women. One woman I did not recognize but the other was of me. In the portrayal I look to be about thirty, the age when I last saw my aunt. With the exception of my likeness, under each picture, in tiny precise print, Isabelle had noted the dates she had poisoned each person.
 

​For the very first time, she knows how it feels to be the prey.

Following years by the side of her Matriarch, never had the clan turned on their second-in-command. As the second highest-ranking female, never before has she found herself on the receiving end of the males’ scheming whoops. The call to attack spreads out from all angles amidst the brush.

Bounding through the tall grass with none of the grace of the gazelles her clan often hunts, she darts through the darkest areas of brush to avoid the prying eyes of the pack.

While the idle voice at the back of her mind warns of lions bound to be lurking in these parts, she trudges onward through the scratchy fronds. The entire way, she resists the flashes of memory that flood forth – her newborn cub at her feet, destroyed by the Matriarch she had come to admire as both mentor and companion.

A speck of light up head shatters her agonized reverie, limited illumination contrasted against the streaks of lightning gracing the dark skies above.

It is no secret that her current path leads to the Two-Leg village at the eastern corner of the clan’s roaming territory. Indeed, various members of the pack – namely the more witless males – have even investigated occasionally, reporting back on the caged lions and generally docile Two-Legs who strangely avoid threatening her kind with their thundertubes.

Unbeknownst to her Matriarch, she has even strayed once or twice to the firm, sharp material enclosing the kept animals. Few Two-Legs dwell around the area, the constant being a tall male. Intrigued by the Tall One’s size compared to the males of her kind who tend to be smaller, she finds herself oddly unfazed by his presence behind those wires tonight.
 
As she emerges from the brush in a slinking fashion that maintains the urgency of her escape, she knows enough not to alarm the Two-Leg. Still, he rises to his feet, dark eyes never leaving her gaze.

All around them, rain begins to fall. As the cool water drips down between her legs to sting the fresh changes there, she wants to growl at how everything seems to remind her of the cub she just birthed. She can only hope the fresh rain will mask her scent from the hunting party.

She makes sure to calm her breathing as well as the frustrated tittering she has fought to quell the entire trek through the underbrush, attempting and failing to forget the loss of her cub and her Matriarch’s betrayal.

“…Hyena!” the Tall One bellows, presumably to another Two-Leg inside the tree bark dwelling behind him.

That word - she recognizes the term as the name for her kind among some Two-Legs. Just now, she can’t help but notice how this enclosure before her seems to have expanded, fresh soil turned up around the bark dwelling. So then it is true. The Two-Legs are encroaching onto clan territory.

Still, no matter how much danger the path ahead might hold, she has no choice but to press on--

The flash of light confuses her senses. Feeling no pain with adrenaline flooding her veins, she blinks to see the bright assailant gone. The sounds of the Tall One shouting to his stout male companion are the first to reach her ears, as both Two-Legs swim back into focus.

She gathers bits and pieces of their dialogue, understood from context of observing their previous interactions.

“Hurt?” the Tall One bellows.

“No. …Hyena?” the shorter one says.

“Don’t know…no. Woman,” the Tall One answers.
 
The Tall One’s eyes meet hers again, as she idly becomes aware of the dry grass clumped between her paws. No, not paws…

Glancing down at the bizarre way the fronds feel on her flesh, she realizes why they scratch so much. Her paws have elongated and are no longer covered in fur.

The raindrops trickle along the skin of her face in much the same way – too moist, with no fur barrier. Where has her fur gone?

As she lifts a hand to feel a smooth cheek, her eyes fall on the stout man with the sunset-colored head fur - who has a thundertube cocked in her direction.

“No!” shouts the Tall One, placing his hand on the weapon to lower it.

“”But…hyena…” says the other male. “Out there with her.”

“No, she’s alone,” replies the Tall One, with an air like her Matriarch uses to inform the clan whether a pack of antelope is grazing too close to lion territory and therefore, off limits to the kill.

Her instincts compel her to cringe, as the tall Two-Leg opens the wired trap with a screech.

Never letting her gaze leave his approaching figure, she forces her breathing to slow as he kneels before her. With any luck, she can hide away tonight with the Two-Legs to avoid her rampaging clan mates. Already, all senses apart from smell have dulled and she struggles to choke down the rising panic of being stuck in this strange form.

“Help? …you hurt?” the Tall One thankfully refrains from touching her. “Where…your clothes?”

She calls up all words she has learned during her brief eavesdropping sessions of Two-Legs speaking this way and moves her mouth to see if she can communicate. While she has heard the sunset-furred stout Two-Leg mention a term for family, she has little expectation that the word will mean anything coming from her.

“…Clan. Kill.”

The noise of her own verbal utterance in this new form sounds strangely quiet to her ears, a far cry from the usual whoops and titters that can carry across many fields.

Another flash of lightning mars the night sky, illuminating a grove of trees behind the Two-Leg dwelling. Still, she holds the Tall One’s gaze, as his companion speaks up.

“Clan. Don’t think there…many clans…here,” says the stout one.

“Not Scottish clan,” the Tall One still eyes her, gaze finally falling. 

He lightly touches her arm. Instinct kicking in, she snaps her jaws at his fingers.

“She been attacked?” the stout male asks, as the Tall One’s hand falls to his side.

It only takes a moment for her to follow the males’ gazes to her bare legs – dark rivulets shine in the dull lights of the Two-Leg dwelling, drying on her inner thighs.

No – these Two-Leg males must not think her weak enough to have been attacked. They must know the truth.

Struggling to keep her limbs steady, she raises her hands to symbolize the form of something small.

She hopes the Two-Legs will understand she means offspring.

“Looks like she may have just given birth,” the Tall One surmises, and she wants to sigh in relief when he backs away from her.

“But who’s after you?” the stout one asks, and she’s beginning to notice a difference in lilt between him and the Tall One.

At least their speech patterns are finally starting to fall into place a little more easily for her.

She glances from the stout male to the tall Two-Leg and repeats the sound she has heard his kind make in reference to hers. “Clan.”

Another rumble of thunder sounds in the distance.

“Hospital?” the sunset-furred male asks.

The Tall One ignores his companion and gestures to himself. “I am Shaka. What is your name?”

Name.

She just stares into those dark eyes for several moments that pass as slow as the sludge of a muddy slope. She figures he must be seeking a way to identify her. Wracking her brain, she recalls the term she has discovered to mean after-one among Two-Legs determining the size of tree bark while building dwellings out on the brush.

“Two,” she murmurs.

“Two, like the number?” comes the stout one’s question.

Her gaze flits to the shorter Two-Leg before resettling on the Tall One, still studying her curiously. She points to herself.

“I see,” he inclines his head. “Two…where is your baby?”

Baby – another new Two-Leg sound with some meaning she doesn’t know. He gestures to her legs, and she supposes he means the wounds from birth.

She lets her gaze fall.
 
These sounds are foreign to her ears and yet, the sorrow of the situation still strikes now that these Two-Legs seem to know what has taken place.

A glimmer of surprise flashes across the Tall One’s gaze. 
 
“I…I’m sorry,” he finally replies, and her muscles relax a touch from the calming tone of his strange sounds. “Come inside with us? The rain is heavy, and we just want to help.”

When he points toward the dwelling within the cage, she rises to her feet in a shaky, cautious motion. Drawing a deep breath, she trudges after the two males into their dwelling to escape the males of her kind whose whoops are already reaching her ears on the wind.

Despite the humid rain outside, the air in the Two-Leg dwelling is even warmer.

“Come with me,” the Tall One gestures for her to follow him through a tight stretch of wooden floor and walls.

When they emerge out into a larger yet still small space, the tall Two-Leg motions to what looks like a sleeping place filled with grass.

“You can use this bed,” he tells her, then disappears for several moments.

He returns with a moist, soft-looking material and drier material of a darker color.

“Thank you for not lashing out again,” he smiles, handing her the soft gift, before gesturing toward the left side of the room. “The washroom is to the left out in the hall. Feel free to use this to clean your legs and the robe to wear. You’re safe here, no one will hurt you. May I touch your forehead?”

He gestures to her face, and she stills. Slowly, he touches a hand to her forehead, letting his fingers fall again soon after.

“No fever. Very good. I’ll leave you to yourself now. Sleep well, Two.”
 
 
Overhead, thunder rumbles, as she struggles and fails to sleep in this strange, dark space.

Her cub – a rare survivor in a birth that kills most firstborn offspring – mauled seconds after coming into this world. The rage that had filled her body at the sight of her dead offspring pushed her to do the impossible. She had attacked her own Matriarch. Everyone knows challenging a Matriarch sets one up for death.

And yet, here she is.



When the chill in the room sends shivers across this new bare flesh, she pulls on the darker large material, dropping the wet one to the ground after dragging it gingerly over her inner thighs.

Lying back on the soft surface at the corner of the space, she closes her eyes in an attempt to calm the tiny shakes that wrack her body. Soon enough, she loses track of time to the patter of rainfall outside.

The noise of Two-Leg voices draws her from her fitful stupor. Rising from the soft pad on the floor, she ignores the ache between her legs and creeps toward the sound of the voices. Making sure to stay in the shadows, she listens.

The sunset-furred one speaks. “Shaka, the development team arrives tomorrow morning. You don’t think our guest will be a wee bit alarmed by their machinery?”

“No, Nick,” replies the Tall One, Shaka, “she stays for now. Something isn’t right. Before that lightning hit, that was a hyena standing out in that field.”

“So then, where’d it go?” Nick wants to know.

“Better yet, where’d that woman come from?” Shaka says.

“Well,” Nick answers, “I always heard Savanna park ranger work was more entertaining than working with Highland sheep, but never did I expect a magic lady to turn up my first week on the job.”

Fatigue finally seeping into her limbs, she turns away from the unintelligible voices and succumbs to the comfort of the strange soft pad. The darkness of sleep falls entirely too soon.
 
 
The third Two-Leg who comes to look at her the following morning has a large front, as if he has just eaten a hefty meal. He examines her, thankfully not removing the dark materialfrom her figure.

“Looks good,” says the Two-Leg. “She seems calm now, but if she’s shown violent tendencies, no need for a full exam today.”

“I felt her head,” Shaka says from the doorway. “Doesn’t seem to be a fever or anything.”

After the large Two-Leg leaves, Shaka offers her food, which she refuses. The stuff smells like meat, but is far too brown, as if burned under fire.

About to return to the sleeping space, she discovers something – herself. Or rather, her reflection. The Two-Leg female stares back at her from the wall beside the basin, wide eyes set in a furless face with skin the color of the dark spots of her natural coat.


At least fur still grows on top of her head.

Having seen her reflection before in lake waters and puddles, she hears her breath hitch at the utter stranger looking into her eyes. This confirms her suspicions – she has somehow become Two-Leg.
 
The loud sound that erupts from outside makes her jump.

A low rumble that shakes the earth sends her rushing toward the dwelling entrance in search of the two male Two-Legs she knows.

To her relief, Shaka stands to greet her as Nick exits the dwelling.

“It’s all right, Two. Some people are just here for the day to build. It’s a lot of noise, nothing more. You can go back to your room…”

Glad she can still hear him well enough to pick up on his calming tone, she steels herself to hide the tremble in her limbs. Dominance is the key to survival. She will not leave this space out of fear.

Yet another Two-Leg male enters the dwelling behind Nick. Immediately, she observes the tense body language between Shaka and the new arrival.

“Shaka,” the male inclines his head, grey fur covering the lower half of his pale face. He throws her a fleeting glance before focusing again on the Tall One. “You said we’d be able to start early today. What’s the holdup I’m hearing from Nick?”
 
Shaka subtly widens his stance before responding. “We have a visitor. Also, the hyena calls are pretty close at night these days. It may not be safe for your team.”


The new male scoffs. “Orders say we start today.”

He eyes her on his way out, gaze leaving a creeping feeling in her gut. That light, clear gaze reminds her of a lioness’s focused stare moments before going in for a pounce.

Within seconds, the rumbling and shrill shrieking outside continues.

“So,” Shaka says, steeping closer to her, “are you hungry yet?”

He withdraws some meat from his pocket that she soon realizes is…wrong. Far too try, as if left for days in the sunlight. Her nose wrinkles.

“Understood,” he replaces the meat in his pocket. “So, are you happy to tell me where you’re from or…”
 
Once again, the strange male enters the dwelling. “Shaka, what’s this Nick’s saying now about the relocation plans? You won’t move this building?”

“Henry, I own this plot of the park,” Shaka says. “That means I have to sign off on any changes you make from the original plan. So unless you plan on buying the land from me, we’re going to have a problem.”

This new male Henry stares down Shaka for a long moment, and she finds herself reminded of the challenging gazes of her own kind.

“Sure, Shaka. We’ll just get started, then.” With that, Henry leaves.
 
Shaka stares after the door. “He is growing pushier these days.”
 
“Think he’ll invite in poachers or the like?” Nick asks.
 
Shaka shakes his head. “Any fool in these parts knows how seriously the law comes down on poachers.”


Eventually, she eats the meat. The taste brings to mind smoke, but it will do to fill her belly.

While eating, she stares in as much comfort as she will allow herself, as the Two-Legs speak to her.

“I came out here after my daughter died in a car crash,” Shaka says, and she wonders at the low tone of his voice. “She always loved being around animals, so I finally quit the police force to do something a bit…quieter.”
 
Sitting at the set of seats surrounding the round piece of tree bark in the front area, she licks her lips. When Shaka’s eyes meet hers again, she sees a hint of vulnerability.


Shaka and Nick again leave her in peace that night. Though she hears the roars of several kept lions from a short distance away, she knows they cannot harm her in here.
 
No storm falls this night, and she actually begins to relax - until the loud rumbles start up again early the next morning.

“You hit one?” comes Nick’s shout from the front area. “We told you, no development beyond the tree grove.”

“What happened?” Shaka asks.

Entering the front area, she sees the same man Henry from the day before.

“Damn hyenas,” he shakes his head. “Why do you even care?”

“This is a national park, damn it,” Shaka has evidently caught on. “The striped hyenas are already endangered, and the spotted get closer every day. They need some sliver of territory to call their own.”

“Sure, Shaka,” Henry inclines his head, handing Shaka a white object of some sort, similar to the items she has seen strewn about in some areas of the shrubbery where Two-Legs pass through. “I hate to encroach, but business is business. Management wants a local museum here. So just take a look at the plans, it might not put you out too far.”

That’s when a scent strikes her nostrils clearer than anything she’s smelt since losing her natural form. Danger.

Shouting wordlessly over the deafening drone from outside, she yearns for the volume of her kind’s sounds.

As she goes to snatch the white thing from Shaka’s hand, Henry bellows, “Shaka, I was told only you and Nick were…”

Successfully grasping the offending object from Shaka, she wants to snarl at Henry. This Two-Leg has just tried to poison his fellow clan member. Amidst the buzzing from outside, she is determined to inform Shaka.

“No,” she recalls the words she has often heard Two-Legs shout at one another in panic, hoping this will convey the message.

Judging from the way Nick turns on Henry even faster than Shaka, she figures both males understand. 

“Poison?” Nick seethes. “What is it, anthrax? Plan to steal this plot of land, do ya?”

“Are you mad?” Henry shouts back. “Are you accusing me of attempted murder?”

Meanwhile, Shaka has already crossed the room to use that talker machine. “You are not taking this land.”

“That’ll be the police he’s calling,” Nick backs Henry up to the front door, despite the former’s shorter height. “I’d hightail it out of here if I were you.”

In the next moment, Henry is gone.

As soon as Shaka sets down the talker, he glances back at Two, bewilderment written across his features. “How did you know?”

Not wanting to bother again with trying to find the right words, she simply raises her fingertips to her nose.

“You could smell that?” Nick asks, perplexed.

“Hyenas…” Shaka trails off. “They’re resistant to the stuff.”

“Damn massive coincidence,” Nick whistles.

Shaka walks over and looks down at the white flap concealing the poison.


That night, she tosses and turns, sweat beading on her flesh as she dreams of her clan. The rain and lightning outside do little to quell her nerves.

In truth, she’s surprised the two males haven’t yet ousted her from their dwelling, especially if they know the truth. Not that she isn’t grateful.

A particularly close flash of lightning either strikes the ground right outside her window or penetrates the surface without shattering the stuff it’s made from.

Sitting bolt upright, she starts at the sound uttered from her own mouth – a frustrated titter.

Her natural form has returned.

Acute hearing regained, her ears pick up the muted voices of Shaka and Nick from the front area of the dwelling.

“So, you’re actually thinking she…was the hyena?” Nick asks.

“You tell me,” Shaka’s low tone replies. “You’re the biologist. Could it be?”

A lengthy pause ensues, before Nick speaks up again. “Don’t quote me on this, but it could have something to do with the humans encroaching on their land. Perhaps an enhanced method of communication to reset the balance, though the spontaneity of it is bewildering.”

“But how?” Shaka wants to know. “Because we were close to her at the time, out in the storm?”

“Who knows, Shaka.” She can picture the sunset-furred male shaking his head. “Why was she here when we needed her? To keep you from dying? That’s another question all in itself.”

Another stretch of silence passes, as she shrugs off the now useless cloth.

“Best not bother her tonight,” Shaka decides. “We owe her one. Let’s check on the lions.”



Once the voices die down and the dwelling falls silent, she decides the time has come to set off on her own. Away from these unexpectedly docile Two-Legs as well as the ire of her own clan. Best to start now while the mud is fresh, and she can escape beneath the enclosure. Armed with the knowledge of these Two-Legs’ dwelling place, she will find a new clan and earn their trust with the news of a safe region to roam.

With a stealth that is easily lost to the patter of the rain, she noses open the unlocked, covered opening of the dwelling’s entrance and plods out into the warm night.

​The sun rose on the small mountain-straddling town of Motta-San-Giacobbe, and Domenico is awoken by thin rays creeping through cracks in the wood-shuttered window of his bed chamber. He sat up when he heard his father working. The clunking of firewood being thrown into a brick oven reverberated up the building and into Domenico’s clenched teeth.
Why do I have to be a baker? Domenico thought, wondering where he would be if his father were something more interesting, I could make horseshoes, or wine. Standing, he dressed and pushed open the shutters of the bedroom. He rested his elbows on the cold, plastered-brick, and stared up at the ancient church tower looming above. I could work with Sebastiano… I could see him every day… he continued to contemplate working in the church, a smile crossing his lips as he dreamt of spending his days with his cherished, and secret, love. Climbing down the narrow stairs to the lower level of their home, Domenico’s father smiled warmly upon seeing him. Domenico gave his usual shrug and yawn, stretching again.
“Signora Pelicanó brought a pot of honey, the first of the season,” Domenico’s father said.
“What are we going to do with it?”
“I thought you would be interested in baking honeybread.”
“That would be nice. Where is mamma?”
“At the market again, head in the clouds while bartering for some flowers.”
Domenico nodded. He rolled up his sleeves and went to the oven, with massive pots of flour and water adjacent. Reaching under the attached wooden counter, he pulled out bowls and got to work on the first loaves of the day. Thinking of his closest friend Sebastiano, the priest’s son came every morning to purchase bread for his family and for the day’s communion service. He quickly and easily prepared the dough. Forming the dough into rounds, he turned and placed them into the oven. Removing his arm, he accidentally touched his skin to the hot bricks, giving his wrist and forearm a painful burn. He jerked his arm back.
“Damn!” He grabbed his wrist in pain.
His father turned from what he was doing, “What? What’s the matter?”
“I—” He couldn’t force the words out.
“You must be careful when working with in oven, she’s a feisty one… like your mother.”
The jest took Domenico’s mind off the stinging. Seconds later the church’s bronze bell tolled. Its deep sound echoed through the town from its throne-like tower on the hill high above. It gave Domenico another reason to smile. He knew Sebastiano was awake and well. It was his job every day to ring the bell. Sebastiano’s father, the priest, was a kind and gentle man, but didn’t approve of Sebastiano’s friends. Especially not Domenico and his distracting of Sebastiano from his studies.
“You should pay more attention, Domenico,” his father’s voice interrupted his fantasizing, “All this will be yours one day.”
Domenico looked at his father, who had his back to him and had begun whistling an old ballad about some maiden in a castle by the sea. What if I don’t want to be a baker? What if I want to be with Sebastiano? He kept mulling over his thoughts, most of them about his friend.
Sebastiano’s sweet voice echoed in his head “The next time we can, we should climb the tower. It is so beautiful up there!” Domenico snapped out of his daydreaming and began preparing the honeybread, knowing exactly what he would do with it. While kneading the dough repeatedly he poured in the sweet and floral honey, almost getting lost in his own daydreaming while thinking of his friend. He formed the rolls into hearts and put them in the oven, close to the wood as possible.
A few minutes later, all of the bread in the oven was done. He pulled everything out and put it in a basket for Sebastiano. He made his way up the hill and stared up at the entrance, the door already open. Engraved above its arch was “Chiesa del San. Sebastiano”. I always wondered if Sebastiano was named for this place he thought. Before stepping in he broke a roll of the honeybread and held it to his nose, breathing in the sweet scent. He shoved it in his mouth and tried to chew quickly, picking apart every taste like an expert chef. “Signora Pelicanó’s bees really love their roses”, he mumbled to himself while chewing roughly and admiring the beauty of the church. The bread melted in his mouth, tasting primarily of the mouth-watering spring blossom honey.
Domenico quickly swallowed and entered, calling out to his friend “It’s great to see you.”
“Sì, Domenico, it’s always a pleasure!”
Domenico gestured to the basket “I brought the bread,”
“Ah, grazie mille, they look lovely!” Sebastiano peeked in the basket.
Domenico placed his hands over Sebastiano’s. He lifted up the larger sourdough rounds to show him the fresh honeybread rolls, still warm. “First of the season.”
“Oh! They look delicious” Sebastiano’s eyes grazed over the hearts, trying desperately to hide a soft blush creeping over his face, his friend’s proximity certainly not helping. “Oh… Domenico… what did you do?” the boy said, gripping his friend’s hand once he noticed the burn.
“It’s nothing… I was going to quickly,” he said.
“Why aren’t you worried about it?”
“It happens all the time,” he said, shrugging.
Sebastiano produced a soft cloth. “Here…” he wrapped the burn in the cloth, tying it firmly in place. “You should purchase some gloves from Signore Niccolò”
Domenico wasn’t paying attention, focused on his friend’s eyes which sparkled in the heavenly-tinted light of the stained-glass windows. They bathed the nave in a glow unlike anything he had seen before, his friend always said they rivaled the most beautiful windows in Florence and Rome. He was jerked from his thoughts as Sebastiano pulled him down the aisle between the thick wooden pews.
“Wait! Where are we going?” Domenico asked.
“To the tower silly… Signore Domenico Medici, testa per aria,”
“My head is perfectly on my shoulders and grounded, altar boy,”
His friend ducked into doorway and disappeared up an ancient stone staircase. “Hurry! We only have a few minutes before I have to ring the bell again,” he called down the stairs.
Domenico placed the bread down next to the stairs, and shoved a roll in his pocket. Huffing his way up the steps to meet his friend, sitting on the thin ledge between the stairs and windows. “I— knew you would share with your father… so I made one for you” he smiled weakly and produced the honeybread from his pocket. Sebastiano took it and split with him. Placing the sweet bread in his mouth he smiled wide, chewing on it for a few seconds.
“You really know what you’re doing Domenico, you sure you don’t want to be a baker?”
Domenico shrugged. Leaning in for a kiss, their lips just grazed before he pulled back and blushed rose red, and awkwardly smiled at the bell.
“Oh… the bell is kind of loud, you should cover your ears. The tower is too narrow to ring it from the bottom,” Sebastiano said with a chuckle, breaking the awkwardness. He shifted so he could see the sun, waiting for the sun. When it was fully above the horizon, he swung the bronze clapper. Domenico didn’t mind the loud clanging, not while something much more important held his attention.
Being a baker isn’t so bad… He thought.